(Cover art by Kitsoa_Kit on Twitter)

TWELVE - SATURDAY - PART I


Preposterous. Yet the word itself fell on a dead tongue. Link shook his head nonetheless, denial plastered on his face as the Shade finally relented its grasp.

"I cannot help but understand your reluctance, Hero. I too was just as uncertain, apprehensive." The Shade's derelict form stood and its single red eye brightened. It cast the world around them in a hue of ugly crimson. Ripples, touched with red, broke along the dark water's surface as the edge of its cloak followed after its footsteps.

It walked away from the rock it had perched on and turned so that its back was to him. "But I surpassed it with egotism, with hubris. I found myself invulnerable, timeless , because even if I perished, another Hero would take my place."

Another… "Wait, you were-" Link paused, his eyes widening.

"Yes, and I was to be the last. You see, legacies such as ours can only live on when our purpose meets its end. When the time comes, we as Heroes must do our duty and die alongside it. I was insolent, brash, and I let it get the better of me. I went astray, and paid the price. I died before the prophetic sun could set."

"Our destiny is supposed to be a hero of some kind, right? Protect and serve. So how did you stray from that? Dying is inevitable." Link asked.

It turned its head to him, "Let us leave such things in the past, for my mistakes and failures are my own to bear and they should neither influence you nor aid you. As for our destiny, it is not something that can be simplified with a single word. We, as Heroes of Time, are to protect the balance of this world, its people, and its holy-and even unholy-artifacts."

The balance… his gaze dropped from the Shade to peer down at the waters beneath them. It all still sounded like something out of a fantasy novel. And yet he'd lived with the tumultuous dreams for as long as he could remember.

He'd contemplated the dreams' meaning as well as his sanity, and now that he found himself accepting-trying to accept it-he found himself exhausted. Instead of answers, a sense of closure, or a moment of reprieve, he felt an even greater weight. One that seemed to add to the many burdens that pressed against his shoulders. Like the constant nightmares and worries, it was never-ending. There always seemed to be something else, and he was tired of it.

Despite that, the acceptance that it could be real felt sombering. Maybe you aren't as mad as you thought. That alone seemed to ease the tension in his shoulders, if only a little. It summoned a part of him that was so incredibly done with everything that maybe, just maybe, he could finally, finally move forward.

Link relinquished a sigh, "so this balance is disappearing?"

"Yes." It turned its head away, looking off into the abyss that enveloped them. "It began to languish a decade after our legacy was discarded. I feared it would break and unleash the chaos it had unleashed all those years ago, but I believe its development was slowed by the presence and residual power of the two Triforce shards, Power and Wisdom. Regrettably, its Chosen-the wielders of those shards-cannot control it for they have been cursed since my end. Consequently, your birth has appeared to stop any effects the shards had, which is why I attempted to reach out to you for all these years."

"I was able to communicate with you most when your birthday loomed, but I was never able to physically communicate as we are doing now… until recently. It is possible that your retrieval of the Master Sword has aided us in this."

Link's brows furrowed. "This is a lot to take in, but let's say I am tracking all this… can the balance be, I don't know, restored?"

There was a beat of substantial silence, and it prompted Link to move toward the Shade, ready to repeat himself. The shade turned bodily to him, its red eye somehow more expressive than it had ever been as it pulsed with vibrancy. Light that shone from its eye settled into a slow rhythm, "I pray."

"You, what?"

It shook its head solemnly, and replied, "I do not know. I pray that it can. If it cannot then there is no future, only an end."

It spoke quieter, and Link felt as if he had to lean forward just to hear it. The words struck a familiar chord with him, bringing forth a bitter dread that tasted hollow, empty. It tickled along his arms, plucked at each vertebrae in his spine, and settled deep into his gut.

Hopelessness.

No, he'd felt that many times during his law enforcement career. This was something beyond hopelessness, undefined and raw. Something that felt ancient, distant even, despite the sting that it left within him.

Despair. An oozing, rotting sort of darkness.

"So that's it…" just like the Shade's, his voice was barely a whisper, and yet it heard him all the same. He kept his eyes on its head, watching it reply with a deafened nod. "You've tormented me for my whole life , and when I finally listen, try to accept it, you tell me that this impending doom cannot be stopped?"

"Without you, it cannot be stopped. If you do not take up the Sword then there surely is no hope left in this world."

Link shook his head vehemently. 'Without him?' No, he didn't want yet another burden that felt far too heavy, another worry that felt far too cold, another task that felt intangible. The woes crippled the festering despair, overwhelming it.

Why-I can't. He shook his head again. Anxiety welling up inside him.

"Time has done a number on you it seems, and for that I am sorry. But this is your duty, this is your purpose. You are the Hero of Time. There is no mistake. And you cannot turn away from that fact. You must accept this. Especially when the world and its people need you."

"Then tell me. How do I take up a sword that I already have ? How do I even start ?"

"I do not know, but… find the–."


A faint hum echoed along the kitchen's countertops, accompanied by the soft simmering of sausage patties and bacon strips. Malon retreated from the cast iron, running her fingers through her damp hair, and turned to the peninsula behind her. It was there that she caught Link trudging from their bedroom. Her gaze brushed over him, and she noted that his blond hair was in disarray, his shorts rested cockide against his sharp hips. She swept her eyes back up, analyzing his face for any tells of lacked sleep. His eyes met hers then, and as always, they were more telling than any word that could be said.

The color in his eyes was less vibrant somehow, smaller even, as his lids obscured the baby blue irises by more than half. Even as their eyes met, his lids failed to react. They appeared heavy, weighed down by both exhaustion and stress.

He ambled to the opposite side of the peninsula, moving almost cautiously, warily. When he stopped to stare across from her, she took in the crescent bruises that dusted underneath his eyes. A long and winded yawn cracked along his mouth, momentarily breaking the spell and hiding his lips which he'd kept pursed and thin.

Her humming stopped. "Didn't sleep well?" She spoke softly, soothingly as she reached across the counter and flexed her fingers toward him. He reciprocated, a ghost of a smile resolving the yawn, and reached for her hand with his own. Her fingers trickled along the back of his palm, briefly tangled amidst his fingers, before running along to his wrist.

"More or less." His voice cracked with fatigue, speaking volumes.

Malon couldn't help but frown. Couldn't help the concern that touched her features. He must've seen it, the way the edge of her lips slightly fell and the way her brows creased, because he moved to grasp both of her hands. He produced a smile that, for a moment, caused her to beam back at him. "I'm okay, Mal. Stop worrying."

Her smile faltered, forgotten concerns returning tenfold.

Why did he do that? Why did he blatantly lie like that? Did he think it made him lesser if he admitted that he wasn't okay, because he clearly wasn't. Why could she so easily pour her heart out to him when he, in return, seemed unable to?

Is it trust? Malon pulled at her hands, and he released them. Is it-did I do something? Does he not trust me?

"Mal?"

She shook her head, mirrored the recent smile he gave which appeared fake and forced, "No, just thinking."

"About?" Link tilted his head, his eyes running along the smile that didn't fit with her words.

"The interview today at Lon Lon."

It was strange how the sound of breakfast sizzling in the skillet seemed to fall deathly quiet. Stranger still how she felt the temperature in the room drop. But just before she could really notice it, catch onto how abrupt yet subtle it was, the sizzling sausage and bacon returned and the apartment's temperature crawled back to a comfortable warmth.

She watched as the shadows across Link's features darkened. "Right… do you have to?" He averted his eyes and instead looked over to the oven. Watched the timer on the oven's face as it counted down.

"What?"

"It's a Saturday. Is Lon Lon really operating on a weekend?"

She shrugged. "I was told it was today. You're against it?"

"If it's what you want, then you know I'll support you." His words and expressions didn't quite match.

The oven timer beeped, drawing Malon's attention away as she moved back toward the skillet. She shut the eye off with one hand, her other teaching for the spatula to flip the sausage patties one last time. "It's not what you want though… I don't get why. It pays more, it opens up more opportunities for me. Sure, my schedule might be a bit hectic but I don't think it would affect us much considering your own sporadic schedule. It's like you don't-hmm." She stopped herself. Link heard her unspoken comment though, loud and clear.

It's like you don't want me to succeed. That can't be true... But that's what I'm feeling right now.

He rounded the peninsula and reached for her then, wanting to rein in the anxiety that that quiet comment had brought to life, and pressed up against her back. Link's arms coiled around her front, and he hugged her, burying his head against her neck. As soon as it had been felt, their shared anxiety vanished.

"I'm sorry." He began, quietly, "I'm just scared."

"Scared of what?"

Everything . "A lot of things." He admitted. "I'm scared of how chaotic and mismatched our schedules and time will be. Not to mention that you're going to a renowned powerhouse that has just as many bad rumors as it does good."

"Changes can be scary, so can time apart, but we ," her hands found his and she leaned her back into him, "can do this. We've done it before during college and through the Academy . We can do it again." Her optimism felt short lived as she pressed on him further, the back of her head pressing against his shoulder. "I feel the same way though, but I've been trying to not let it get me down. Besides, there's no point in worrying about something that hasn't even happened yet. It's just an interview, nothing permanent…"

They stayed there, pressed up against one another, for what felt like hours. Both finding solace, refuge, an anchor in each other's warmth. It was the sound of a rumbling stomach that grounded them and broke them apart.

"I hope you're hungry. I'm sorry it's not much, being your birthday and all–"

"You don't normally make breakfast so it's already special." He cut in as he reached into one of the cabinets overhead for two plates.

They piled the plates together with breakfast, and sat down side by side on the couch. Whatever channel Malon had turned the television to was never registered by Link as he numbly chewed on sausage patties and crisp bacon strips. Her words often calmed him, but the Shade's words still ran amok in his head.

Every dream that involved the Shade, every hallucination and every word, somehow made sense. As if someone had wiped clean a window covered in mud. And yet… what was he supposed to do now that he'd accepted it? He had an allegedly magical pen-sword, an ancestor's ghost haunting him, and a time bomb that was counting down to the final days. A bomb forged from unruly, unsealed artifacts left behind. How could 'balance' be restored with a ballpoint pen?

The artifacts and the Hero were from a mythological religion, weren't they? Well, Link supposed it wasn't categorized correctly anymore. Myths were for dead, nonexistent he supposed the Triune could still be considered as such. They'd turned their backs on humanity after all.

Why? So what if the people grew restless. They were still descendants of the goddesses. It was like abandoning a child on a doorstep or in a parking lot because they didn't listen when you asked them to pick up their dirty laundry. Surely there was more to it than that. Maybe they were angry since the Hero's legacy had apparently almost crumbled into nothingness. But that too seemed far too extreme. After all, here he was, a descendant of the Shade's lineage.

Wait… there are three triangles that make the Triforce… Three shards, three chosen Heroes , messengers, or whatever the Triune titled them. One for Power, the other for Wisdom, and the last for… Courage. So if he was one of the three, then the other two… maybe they knew where to go from here? The Shade had said they'd been cursed, but what did the curse entail? And the shards held powers, would the powers restore the balance if the three of them were together?

Malon's hand against his thigh drew Link back to the cold sausage patty in his hand. She'd leaned toward him, eyes questioning, "You alright? Is the sausage too overcooked… or maybe not enough?"

"No, not at all. Why would you-"

"You had a really strange look there. Kind of had this look like it'd offended you." A hint of a smile danced in-between her words, and she moved in until she was a mere inch away before taking a bite of the patty. A look of brief distaste flashed over her as she drew back, chewing slowly. "I don't know what's worse, cold sausage or Pipit's cooking."

Link cracked a grin and vehemently shook his head. "No way, Pipit's cooking is hands down the worst thing on this earth."


He kissed her forehead a second longer than usual before she left. She even noticed how he lingered, his hand seeming to follow her the rest of the morning until the front door closed at her back. Malon stood there with her back to the door for a few quiet moments, letting the morning air slip underneath her soft brown jacket. If she'd had to explain his mannerisms to another, she would've said he looked lost and afraid. Was it because of the Lon Lon opportunity? Did her success mean so little to him, or was it really the changes that concerned him? That didn't sound-didn't feel right. If the interview went well then the changes that would follow would benefit her and, in the end, both of them.

Why couldn't he see that?

A sigh of exasperation moved her forward and she trudged to her car. The sight of the clunker was a good distraction, a solid reminder that one of the changes would be replacing it. That is, if it even survived the drive today.

She got into the driver's seat and whispered a "please start for me" before turning the key in the ignition. The first attempt sunk, but the second hit him. Her car sputtered to life, and its body trembled against the cold. Its radio buzzed, seeming to reply to her plea, and on came Aretha Franklin's "Respect." Malon scoffed, laughing as she switched her car into reverse, and she carefully pulled out of the driveway.

Saturday traffic was horrendous when matched with endless red lights, panicked drivers, and inadequate signals. But she'd somehow made it to one of Lon Lon's parking garages with time to spare. Time that she reveled in by tapping her fingers along the steering wheel, humming along with the songs on the radio in an effort to calm her busy nerves.

When the spare time dwindled to a few minutes, Malon stepped out of her car and turned to the driver's window's reflection. Her red hair was still smoothed, the bottom strands curled slightly at the ends, and her makeup was nearly spot-on. "Like a cockide eyeliner wing will make you fail an interview." She grumbled, but she still swiped at the left wing's tip in an attempt to shorten its length.

With one final brush of a hand through her hair, she gave her reflection a thumbs up, and turned in the direction of the parking garage's elevator. All the while her heart struggled against her chest, her body thrumming with painless electricity. And it seemed that the closer she got to the garage elevator, the worse her nerves got. A frustrating fact that she scowled at as she searched among the panel of buttons for the Ground floor.

This isn't my first rodeo. I've had plenty of interviews in the past. Had plenty of rejections too.

Yet this one, this interview, was different. Though a job was a job, this one had a lot more opportunities, a lot more benefits. Not to mention the pay, the hours. But that only added to the unease.

The elevator felt as if it was descending down a mile long shaft, but that too was her nerves and her impatience. Even the crosswalk that parted the sea of concrete right between Lon Lon's main building and garage, seemed much longer than it really was.

It drew her to a stop. The toes of her black ballet flats edged the sidewalk, and her gaze trailed along the unrealistically long crosswalk to the towering building before her. Lon Lon's sign stared back, and beyond it glared a series of black-tinted windows. Her eyes paused on the sign, the company's motto coming to life in her thoughts.

Where futures–my future–is made.

That thought alone was empowering, and it quelled her anxieties. Yet she couldn't dare take a step forward even as the pedestrian lights flicked on overhead. No, instead she stood and stared at the red accented sign. She swept her eyes across the building's glassy facade, and felt a new, undefined unease.

There is no light here.

Malon startled, and she nearly tripped over the sidewalk's edge and onto the road. Her eyes reeled back, searched her surroundings, looked for the source of whoever or whatever had said that. Because that had not been thought of by her.

Or… had it? No. What kind of observation was that when it was clearly daylight?

"Stress must be getting to me." She relented and shook her head. "But… I got this. I can do this."

But waiting for the pedestrian crossing light to turn on, stepping one foot in front of the other, and crossing the expanse of sidewalk felt like an eternity. Each footstep was heavier, slower than the last as if something was pulling her back. And all the while she looked up at the building before her, constantly noticing the eerie lack of sunlight.

The sun is behind the building, Mal. Of course there's no damn sunlight. Just get through the door, go to the bathroom, and splash some cold water on your face. Makeup can be touched up. You have extra time to spare.

She reiterated her thoughts until she stepped before the building's main entrance. With an audible intake of breath, she made her way through the revolving doors, and as soon as she moved into the lobby she was struck by an icy tidal wave of wicked, vile, thick darkness.

The feeling was something that she could only describe as "pure agony." As if her skin was being melted off her bones, abruptly and slowly all at once. It crowded her, clung to her until she was forced to her knees. Every sense burned to ash as her touch became dead, her vision became black, and her hearing became deafened by what she could only imagine was her own screaming.

Come see the ruin and power only I can provide.


Lanayru prefecture's park offered a moment of reprieve from its cityscape's morning noise. It was likely thanks to the tall spruce trees that encompassed the park grounds in large clusters, providing a semblance of noise reduction. Though Link surmised that there was more to it then that.

Originally, he would've found the anomaly to be a figment of his imagination, but now he knew better. When he rounded Lanayru Park's pond, there was a thick silence. If he strayed away from it then his ears fell victim to the incessant noise of traffic and the bustle of city life. The hallucination he'd had before, or what he thought was a hallucination, was most likely real. Though it was strange, he couldn't find himself to be in denial of it.

He stopped next to the bench he'd sat at before and looked over the small waterscape. Its watery surface was eerily calm despite the breeze that lurked within the park, and he found his gaze gravitating to where he'd last seen the white snake.

As soon as Malon had left for the day, his worries, his fears, and his crushing doubts conquered him. Though he couldn't stop her from entering the mouth of the lion's den, maybe he could figure out how to silence the lion. Though how a pond smackdab in the middle of a park would answer his questions or resolve the problems bestowed to him by the Shade… he hadn't a clue. Still, it's all he had.

I hope I'm right… Because if he wasn't, what then? How could he proceed?

He walked to the overhand that reached above the water until he was toe-to-toe with the edge. It hadn't been that long ago when he'd first heard it, the snake's words. Though most of it he had forgotten, as if the very encounter had been a dream, he had remembered it'd called him a Chosen Hero of the Triune, just like the Shade. So hopefully…. hopefully…

With his left-hand he reached into his jean pocket and pulled out the magically enhanced pen. What if, after all this… He clicked the pen, the sound seeming to echo, and it morphed into a glistening blade with a purple hilt. The sight of it materializing still startled him just as the feel of it did in his hand. Just like the first time he'd held it, Link noticed that its weight felt old and familiar, like it belonged there in his grip as much as his hand belonged on his arm. It was a feeling akin to bittersweet nostalgia.

The intricate carvings of a triangle seemed to glow a ruddy orange underneath the sunlight. While the jewel at the center of the hilt pulsed above his palm. Both were strange, unnatural, and he turned the blade in his grip to examine the other side. Instead, a crisp splash of water shifted his attention, and he moved the sword defensively in front of him with a foot dragged slightly back behind him.

Before him the pond was no longer an imitation of death. Ripples sporadically broke upon the water's surface as tendrils of gold intertwined with murky blues and dim grays. The tendrils were coming from the center of the pond, and were spiraling outward like velvet ribbons. They twirled and snapped, seeming to separate from both the water and reality as they blurred in and out of visibility.

"I am honored to see that you have returned, oh Hero Chosen by the goddesses." The words were spoken in the strike of a troubadour harp's first octave, brassy and ruddy. It urged Link to look for the source above the water and behind him, and he found nothing, no one.

"I apologize, Hero, for I no longer have the strength to look upon you in my physical form." The voice spoke from all around him, causing him to cringe, but he eased his defensive stance by a fraction.

"Are you…" real?, "What are you?"

"I am saddened that you do not bear memory of myself or my brethren, but it is as I surmised. Time has stripped you of your deeds, and of your power. But to answer your question, I am the Light Spirit, Lanayru."

"Pray tell, why have you returned when there is much to do and little time to waste?"

Link straightened and let the blade rest at his side, its blade tip pointing downward. He honestly hadn't expected anything to work, but now that it did, he wasn't entirely sure how to continue. Once again.

"Before, what did you say to me?"

"Before? Hero, Link, we have not spoken since the skies were covered with the dark of Twilight."

"No, when I was here last you said something about a princess. Something locked too, I think."

"I apologize, Hero, for I have no memory of this. Though I have seen you many times, we have not spoken in many, what you humans call, centuries."

Link grimaced. Had that all been a figment then, after all? Maybe–

"Is it possible that you saw a Remnant or a Vision? After all, you are the Hero of Time… a vessel for a soul that has taken on many lives, many memories. Again I must say how honored I am to speak with you, but the more I look upon you… the more I see it. You are the Hero, the Chosen, but you are in pieces. Even the mark which should be upon your hand is absent. Stranger still, you do not know who the princess is, after all this–your–lifetime? Why, it's as clear as day."

Link searched for the speaker amongst the vibrant gold streams and the murky waters incessantly as it spoke. Its words felt true, natural, a different sort of familiarity unlike the nostalgia with the sword. So it was possible that not every nightmare and hallucination was something or someone trying to communicate with him? They could have merely been figments from another life?

Every encounter that wasn't the Shade then? That's probably worse if that's the case. How will I know what's real and… fake? The past or present?

He shook his head. It didn't matter, not right now at least. What mattered was the princess. Maybe they knew how to restore balance? But what did it, the disembodied voice, mean when it said that? In his lifetime. "But there hasn't been a princess, let alone an heir to the throne, for a while now."

"Why would there be when she has yet to be touched by time?"

By time… "She's one of the other Chosen Ones, isn't she?"

"Of course, the wielder of Wisdom. She has been its warden since time immemorial. Her soul exceeds yours in time and memory, but that is most certainly due to the curse."

Link sighed, finalizing the connection he'd made between the scattered dots of his mind. How in the world was he going to get an audience with the damn Queen of Hyrule, him a lowly FCPD drug investigator? Though if she had been alive all this time, making some of the conspiracy theories around her and the Royal Family true, then maybe she too would recognize him? Much like the Shade and the snake–er–pond.

"One last thing, before I go and try my luck, do you happen to know of a way to restore the balance?"

There was a momentary exhale of silence. In it, the light that tangled underneath, above, and in-between the waters began to dwindle ever so slowly. Its twirling tendril faded in gentle wisps of smoke and left in their wake a dark waterscape. "I cannot withstand this communication for long, Hero. The balance that you speak of wanes my brethren and I. We are of Light, after all. I do not know what can be done to save us or our vile counterparts." The remaining lights shifted, materializing in and out like a buzzing light.

Unfortunate, but somehow Link had expected that. He nodded, "That's fine… thanks for… answering." Thanks for not speaking cryptic bullshit like that Shade. He proffered a small wave with his right hand before moving his right index over the edge of the blade. The blood that oozed from his finger regressed the Master Sword, and it dematerialized in the blink of an eye.

As soon as the small pen appeared in his palm, the pond settled and quieted, and the noise of the cityscape around the park reached his ears.

Ever since Zelda's Hero had fallen, ending his legacy and sealing her fate, there had not been a single vision that was solid from beginning to end. Sure, the occasional dream could be translated, but most of her dreams revolved around the Hero. Granted, she supposed that was cruel of her. As if he haunted her dreams only because she could not let him go. Not yet.

Unlike Ganon, she would not allow herself to forget so easily.

But today was different. The night had been dreamless, almost peaceful, and she'd even attended a council meeting that had, for once, finished without much of a fuss from either party. And as she stood underneath her favorite tree, telling the aged bark how her day had gone well… for once… the vision came.

It came in static, a thousand needles that pricked her senses, and washed over her in ice cold water. Both of her hands sought the tree trunk for an anchor as the vision bombarded her in words. Each word burned into her eyes, as if the text was written in her gaze.

'I am honored to see that you have returned… ,

The voices collided, sounding off everywhere around her, undefined and chaotic.

' Oh

Hero

Chosen

By

The

Goddesses… ,


Every day in Lon Lon Inc. was the definition of mediocrity. There was nothing fun about assisting with faulty security cards, putting any stray, self-entitled medical staff member or an IT technician in their place, or acting as Ganon Dragmire's errand boy. Though Ghirahim had to admit that he did quite enjoy his last excursion. The Twilight Mirror had been a lovely sight and an even lovelier traveling companion. It'd talked his ear off by promising sweet, enthralling power in sensual whispers. He'd found a thrill in that, a thrill in the sick temptation and the idea of restoring his power tenfold.

Then there were the occasional "muscle gigs" as he called them. Chances to let loose his hidden desires, his confined bloodlust, but lately that too had been a drag. Though he had the Mirror and its strange concoction–Pitch–to thank for that. Ganon had wanted to test it, and so most interrogations, most punishments, or most collections and reminders had involved the tainted opioid. Using the drug, especially Pitch, in a muscle gig felt like cheating.

It made him miss the old days, pre-curse, pre-Hero-death.

He'd paced along the hallway by Ganon's office, humming endlessly, hoping to derive some irritation from his master. Fully expecting to be turned away, ordered to do a humdrum task was certainly below his expertise and paygrade. But as he'd poked his head in the door of Ganon's office, the red-headed man looking up from his computer screen to glare, did the lights turn off.

That wasn't incredibly strange as there had been times when the power had gone off, the generators taking a few minutes to kick in. No, what was beyond comprehension was the glow that substituted for the lack of overhead lights. Every artifact that Ganon showed off in little glass cases, on wooden shelves, and on intricate pedestals in his office glowed . The light was so bright that it forced both Ghirahim and Ganon to shield their eyes, but just as the foriegn light had come, it vanished.

Overhead, the lights came back on, and as soon as Ghirahim opened his eyes, peeking between his fingers, he watched Ganon stand up from his desk and beeline to one of the glass cases. He noticed the cracks in the glass casing well before Ganon traced it with his ring finger.

"What on earth…" his master grumbled. Delicately, gently, as carefully as if he were picking up a newborn, Ghirahim watched as Ganon picked up the glass casing and reached for the artifact underneath. Even from his position near the doorway, he could see the red carving of the Eye of Truth. It was one of Ganon's older and more obscured relics from the Triune religion, having many forms and likely more lore and lost records than the rest of the ancient items. The Eye's pupil, a usually dull gold that failed to glisten even underneath the brightest lights, was pulsing.

He watched with mild interest, but his gaze caught on the way his master's eyes narrowed, interest cutting across the man's chin in a wild grin. As the Eye of Truth wasn't the only one affected. No, every item that had been collected and placed so delicately, so carefully into cases and on shelves was showing some sign of life. A pulsing light, a tainted glow, a different color or symbol all together, it was a strange spectacle as each varying hue, each varying light cast the office in a whirlwind of color.

"Surely this is a sign." His master laughed aloud. It was a maddening sound, something Ghirahim hadn't heard for many many years, and it lit a thrill down his back.

"Is it the Hero? No…" Ganon placed the Eye of Truth, the white mask, back underneath the protective casing. "Something else. But what?"

"Mr. Ghira!" A voice from the hall drew Ghirahim to step out of the archway and look for the speaker. He locked eyes with one of his rookie subordinates as they ran down the expanse of corridor, their uniform issued cap nearly falling from their head as they stopped just a foot away from him. "A woman's collapsed in the lobby."

The thrill fell from his bones, as if the sensation had been liquid. "And?" He didn't hide his displeasure as he folded his arms over one another. "This concerns me how ?"

There was an uneasy pause, but the shorter man replied, "It's just–we don't know who she is, and as soon as she walked in the power in the lobby got really weird. Not that it might be–just a strange coincidence."

Ganon seemed to perk up. Or at least, that's what Ghirahim surmised as he felt the presence of his master right at his back. "See if it's Zel."

Zel. He cringed at the name that fell from his master's lips. Grimaced at the fact that his master sounded worried . Oh, what he wouldn't give for the two of them, for his master and the royal wench, to stop sleeping together. Why couldn't they just have a one night stand and be done with it? Express their frustrations, get one off, then return to how things were.

He most certainly missed the olden days…

" With pleasure ." Ghirahim grumbled curtly, and with a wave for the subordinate to follow, he led the way to the elevator. His boots echoed against the long walls, resonating with his anger, and as soon as they'd stepped foot on the elevator he'd turned his anger on the subordinate.

The rookie security guard had only a second to see his boss's hand strike him from his peripheral. There was a split second of a struggle. The shorter man grappled, shackling his hands around Ghirahim's wrist, but Ghirahim was taller, stronger. "If," the side of the subordinate's head cracked against the control panel of the elevator, the grooves of the button biting into his face, "this collapsing bitch happens to be Zel ," Ghirahim applied pressure, grinding the man's face into the cool metal, "then you should've just tossed her ass into the busy street."

He yanked the man back only to slam him against the panel again, repeatedly. It was either the first drop of blood or the last ding of the elevator that was the rookie's saving bell. Regardless, as soon as the elevator doors opened, he was shoved one last time and then left behind as Ghirahim stormed out.

Hastily, he rubbed at his stinging face. Fingers traced over the button impressions, feeling the angry skin and the hint of bruising. "Damn, Zelda. Could've warned me about his attitude." He ground out through clenched teeth. Giving his face one last check and wiping away at the small trace of blood from a nick in his lip, the rookie security guard followed after Ghirahim.

There was a small crowd of security near the main entrance of the lobby. They'd originally considered taking her to Lon Lon's infirmary, but they were hesitant. There had been a majority decision on notifying Ghirahim, a just-in-case, as the infirmary wasn't normally for civilians. That and what if she needed medical attention? The infirmary didn't come equipped with nurses and doctors, and the building was only full of guards, scientists, and technicians. No one was really suitable in the event the unfortunate woman happened to consider a lawsuit. Though at the sight of Ghirahim they all quickly parted and drew back, sensing his ire. His arrival was abrupt, and the way his gaze cut through them told them that perhaps they should've just gone with their gut. Infirmary and potential lawsuit was much better than facing Ghirahim's or the CEO's anger.

"Sir, should we take her to the infirmary?" One, a senior security guard, asked uneasily.

Ghirahim said nothing as he stopped and crouched beside the woman. She was lying on her stomach, her head pointed off to one side, and her hands splayed above her. Red hair spiraled out around her, red as vibrant as firelight, and… what is that?

He reached for her forehead, brushing her bangs to one side with a thumb. Right below her widow's peak was what appeared to be a tattoo. A single triangle, small and black. At first he thought it was a birthmark with how small it was, but the lines were too crisp. That and the splattering of freckles were cut out from the triangle.

Strange I didn't… I'm sure I've seen this woman before… "Malon." He spoke her name aloud, brows furrowing. He'd seen her hair tied up, her bangs pulled back, and never once had he seen the tattoo.

Well, it didn't matter. What mattered was why she passed out on Lon Lon's welcoming mat. It was most certainly bad for business. Especially right now. "She had an interview." He recalled.

Of course, it wasn't going to be for the position she'd applied for. It wasn't even a real interview. It had been his master's idea to bring her in, promising sweet benefits and a big, fat check. All a ruse to put her in their metaphorical cage, draw the Hero out. Though his master hadn't thought that far. It wasn't like back then when people didn't question as much, when they didn't grow so easily suspicious, when they'd thought everything and everyone was safe which meant unlocked doors and opened windows, and when technology wasn't as rampant and successful as it was now. But this… he could work with this.

He picked Malon up, a hand under her knees and another under her head, and stood. "Someone notify Mr. Dragmire that the woman who collapsed is an interviewee." His order drew a handful of security men to disperse.

Ghirahim turned and the remaining guards parted to let him pass. But he'd barely taken a step forward before the subordinate from earlier appeared beside him.

"Do you need any assistance, sir?" He couldn't help but raise a brow at the rookie, slightly surprised. Usually when he'd had an outburst, his victim would instinctively avoid him for weeks. It was such a common thing that he'd expected it now. Yet this man seemed at ease despite the episode he'd endured. Even now Ghirahim could still see the ghost of button impressions that had dug into the man's face, the bruises that were already showing from the repeated bashing of his face against the elevator wall.

"Yes, check Malon's resume for any listed contacts. We'll give them a call, let them know where she is and to pick her up."

The rookie nodded, looked down at Malon for a moment, and then made a beeline for the lobby kiosk while Ghirahim headed for the elevator. As he lifted Malon's body up higher in an effort to push the elevator call button, he mused at his subordinate's nametag.

Rusl Ferlaway .

He'd have to remember that next time.

It was only when Rusl, the newly recruited security guard, heard the telltale of the elevator ding that he looked up from the corded phone and its chunky keypad. It'd barely been three weeks, but already he found himself reveling in the idea of taking a phonebook to Ghirahim's skull. Maybe he should've demanded a pay increase because this… that man was impossible . Truly a monster in disguise. Though perhaps he should be thankful he was having to put up with Ghirahim, the minion of the true monster. With a shake of his head he finished the dialed phone number.

"Lon Lon Human Resources and Time Keeping, how may I direct your call?"

"Hey Cinds, this is Rusl Ferlaway speaking, I have a request. That scheduled interview with a woman by the name of Malon, she collapsed in the lobby area. Mr. Ghira has requested for any contacts listed on her resume so that we can notify someone and get her picked up."

"Oh, that's awful. On your interview day too… well, it's not really common for us to give out details even if they're about an interviewee, Rusl."

"Right, I get that, but it's an emergency. What if she's diabetic, had an allergic reaction, has seizures."

"Then Lon Lon should be escorting her to a hospital. Where is she anyway?"

"The infirmary. I don't think it's anything serious, but we can't have her staying here after hours."

"I suppose if Mr. Ghirahim requested the information, I could at least tell you the roommate she listed. It's Link Geroy. His phone number is…"


CLASSIFIED - Shadow Priority

Something strange occurred today at 11:15am. The power of the entire building went out after a person of interest walked in, and the items in the room of interest appeared to be reacting. I could not get enough details. I was turned away. The person of interest is named Malon O'Hara. Her point of contact is Link Geroy. I brought up Geroy's information, and it appeared to pique the targets' interest.

I have suspicions. The more I looked into it, the stranger things appeared. There is no position available for the one the woman applied for. In fact, this position was already filled two months prior. Additionally, the target over security is handling the situation. This is an abnormal procedure.

SA Corr

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