The baby squalls in his mother's arms, birthmark purple and angry on one clenched fist.
"Shhhh…" his mother whispers, guiding him to her breast.
"He's adorable, 32," Rose coos, brushing the baby's fine hair with one finger. He ignores her, but 32 smiles.
"Thank you, Huntsgirl." A mischievous flicker dances in 32's eyes. "Maybe in a few years you'll have one of your own."
Rose lets a giggle escape her, briefly picturing a head of thick, black hair in place of the baby's light brown tufts. "Maybe."
32 waggles her eyebrows and kisses her child's head. The Huntshospital room is dark gray despite the too-bright lights, and it's sterile, with hardly a decorative object in sight, the red 'H' on the east wall excepted. Ever devoted to the rules, 32 is still wearing her dark purple mask despite the dark splotches of drying sweat gathered around the forehead and jawline. Everything is silent, apart from the occasional pacing of the doctor in his office, directly above 32's room, and the air is cool and dry. It feels more like a prison than a maternity ward (but then Rose has felt more entrapped than at home in the various Huntslairs for a long time now).
Rose's pager beeps.
"Hunstman?" 32 surmises.
Rose pulls out the blade of her staff, and a hologram of the Huntsman glows bright green against the metal surface. "Huntsgirl."
"Master."
"88 and 89 have uncovered some interesting information regarding the American Dragon. Please, join us."
She nods, trying to ignore the sweat that has sprung into her palms, slick against the blade. "Yes, sir." Rose bends down and presses a quick kiss to the baby's head. "I'll come back tomorrow, 32. With something to brighten this place up."
32 chuckles and nods absently. "Go on; I can call a nurse if I need anything."
Rose slips out of the maternity ward and breaks into a sprint. She'll be back. Maybe tomorrow she'll bring 109 a toy staff, just to get him used to the shape. Or a toy dragon, if she wants to frustrate his parents.
Number 109. Dylan. A smile breaks across her face as she relishes the secret. Dylan, 21 hours old, perfect, sweet boy. She wishes he hadn't been born with the birthmark, that he could have been given to a nice, normal family who wouldn't raise him to be a killer, but there will be time. He'll make it out. Rose has been designated his secondary guardian, and it's an opportunity she won't let pass.
She takes a minute to catch her breath when she reaches the Huntman's chamber (office? It was easier to put words to things when they pretended to be real people with real lives. Now it's all subway tunnels and technological oddities). As she composes herself and the bright red begins to fade from her cheeks, her breathing evens, and she slides her sweat-sticky mask away from her face and steps through the whooshing metal doors. "You wanted to see me, Master?"
"Huntsgirl. How nice of you to take time out of your busy social life to see me." He bows dramatically, and the bite in his voice hits her like a wrecking ball.
"What?" Her heart pounds in her ears and her stomach jumps into her throat as the Huntsman presses a button, and an image of her, without her mask, and the American Dragon erupts on the screen in damning black and white.
.
.
.
The Huntsman follows her as she leads him into the electronics shop, blasting things as he goes. 88 and 89 vandalize what's left, gleefully throwing TVs and radios on the ground and debating whose fault it was that they forgot spray paint. Lao Shi's safe is no match for the staff of the Huntsgirl, and she pulls the three skulls out and presents them. Rose cannot (will not) look in the direction of Fu's security camera, will not acknowledge that she knows these people, will not show any doubts or remorse. Her parents can't defend themselves. They would melt like the metal of the safe she's just ruined; their existence would be blown away like sand and ash. It will be as though they never existed, just as she's never existed.
Can she resent them for never looking for her?
Can the Huntsclan erase someone's mind?
"Well done, Huntsgirl," he growls when they've returned to the helicopter.
"You got your skulls; now tell me where my parents are!"
"Not until my plan is complete." He turns his head away from her, looking out into the sky with what she's sure must be a smug, satisfied expression. The Huntsman loves every minute of this, every torturous, awful moment of her betrayal. Enjoying it so much that she wonders if he felt it when she betrayed him.
But then he's never felt anything. Certainly not any love or loyalty for her, as much as she might have wanted it once.
"You promised!" She leans closer to him, tense in her seat.
He doesn't look at her. "And you promised your allegiance."
So she did. But what's the allegiance of a child?
"I promised you allegiance when I was eight years old."
He brushes her off. "You've always been advanced for your age. You knew what you were doing."
"You brainwashed me."
He laughs sharply. "Brainwashed you? Foolish girl. I told you the truth. Dragons are vile creatures, and you know just as well as I do that until last year, when you seem to have lost your nerve, you dreamed about skinning a dragon you had killed yourself."
"They're people!"
"Bah. They assume human form."
"Unless they're humans who assume dragon form."
He breathes out loudly. "Be silent, insolent girl."
"And if I don't?"
He looks at her, brown eyes staring deep into her. "Number 32 would be devastated to learn that she'll have to choose someone else to raise her child, should anything happen to her in the field."
"You assigned me two months ago. It's not a loss to me." A lie, but he doesn't need to know that.
"You can't raise any child if you're dead, Huntsgirl. And without you, there's no one to keep your parents out of harm's way."
That's the end of the discussion, then. He holds all the cards.
She doesn't question it when the helicopter hovers above the Pantheon building. Just her luck that her normal life and this life would collide. Again. (Which is which?)
.
.
.
She's never really wanted to die. Stop existing, maybe, live a different life, absolutely. But she's never wanted to die, and an eternity in a vortex was never an option she'd considered. Plenty of time to consider it now, as she's floating into the sky by a force she can't feel, leaving Jake on the ground, staring up at her with those heartbroken, angry black eyes.
Her drift upward is slower than it was for the others, though maybe that's just how it feels when you're headed into a vortex. It gives her more time to think than she'd expected. When she closes her eyes, Rose can hear the cries of the others as they rise into the sky and vanish, and it doesn't seem painful, only terrifying. She hopes it's not painful. She hopes it's peaceful, or at least none of them feel anything. But then they've all done terrible things, and not one of them has ever shown a modicum of remorse, so what of it if it's a whirling, agonizing storm? Rose closes her eyes, inhaling deeply through her nose and exhaling through her mouth, trying to let go of the questions. She's only thirteen. These aren't the things that should be on her mind (but then, neither should death, or the politics of a dragon slayer cult).
She can hear Jake arguing with his grandfather about something, but that's nothing new. It's probably about her. He probably wants to save her (he'd regret it. He'd curse himself a hundred times if he knew everything she'd ever done with the Huntsclan, all those things she'd never had the courage to tell him). It's better for them both with her gone, probably. No more blood, no more suffering, no more secrets. She wonders, briefly, what "destruction" means to the Aztec skulls, and why it involves vanishing into the sky. Will she float above the city, wrestling with her guilt with nothing to distract her?
88 and 89 demand their resignation, and she smiles a little as they trip over each other (could she have resigned? Probably not. She wasn't in the habit of carrying the bylaws in her uniform. Something begins to tug at her skin, not so much that it hurts but enough that it sets her on edge, and something inside her stings.
Then, in the stillness, there's a baby's cry.
No. No nonononono no no. No. She hadn't thought of the babies. She hadn't even thought of 88 and 89, harmless children who don't know any better. Rose twists in the air desperately; she has to get down, has to get down right now and fix this before all the babies are sucked into the punishment of blood-soaked adults-
"I wish Rose had never been taken by the Huntsclan!"
Everything stops.
.
.
.
Her head feels like it's floating as the world spins around her, and the nausea hits her in waves. It must show on her face because Courtney leans over and puts her hand to Rose's forehead.
"Rose, you okay?"
Rose forces a grin. "Fine. Just lightheaded."
Raising one eyebrow and crossing her arms, Courtney studies her for a moment. "You want to head home? Dances are lame anyway."
She's never known Courtney to leave a dance early, but then Brad, errant boyfriend, has been pointedly ignoring her all night. "Only if you're ready to go."
Her friend snorts loudly, pushing up from the chair and swinging her purse over her shoulder. "Let's get ice cream on the way. Oh, when does the DVD rental place close? We should get a stupid movie."
"Yeah. Sounds good." And it does, even if she feels awful and just wants to go to sleep. Brad doesn't notice them leave, for which Rose thanks God, her lucky stars, and the benevolence of the universe (even if she can't say it aloud lest Courtney pout at her-the girl is completely in love with him, gag).
A low fog has settled over the city, and thick clouds above it block the moon and veil the bright flashes of lightning in the distance. The street lights are dim, flickering against the dark. They're walking tonight, each with one hand on their pepper sprays and one hand on their bags. It's quieter than usual, apart from the two almost-naked boys meandering around the streets, arguing about something. One kicks a can, and it clatters down the sidewalk and bounces off a lamp post.
"What do you think happened to them?" Courtney whispers.
Frowning, Rose watches them as they shuffle around a corner. "I don't know. Sneaking out, maybe?"
"In their underwear?" There's a hint of amusement in Courtney's voice, but a tug in Rose's brain is getting more insistent.
"We could ask them."
"Are you crazy?!"
Rose admits that she could be, but maybe they need help, and Courtney (eternally practical) reminds her that one does not simply stop boys in their underwear in New York City in the dark and start a conversation. She's probably right. Just the same, Rose is left feeling generally unsettled, and she tries not to think about it as they make their way home.
Relieved, Rose collapses into the couch when they finally make it, pulling off her shoes and rubbing the red spots she knows will swell into blisters by morning. Her parents have gone to bed early; Dad is trying to avoid jet lag after they move to Hong Kong, and the girls are quiet as they slip into Rose's bedroom. The movie they chose is some nameless comedy, a movie they'll watch for a few minutes and by the end forget they were watching it in the first place, more concerned with the flavor of the popcorn and whether Rose's sister's cat has gotten his hair in it already.
They fall asleep before the movie ends, and they don't see the silhouette of a dragon against the moon when the clouds break, or feel time crack apart and knit itself back together as the terrified middle schoolers scuttling home from the ruins of the Pantheon building become the sounds of light laughter echoing through one of the city's museums. The gargoyles knit back together in a wave of green tinged energy.
New York City awakes the next morning with a splitting headache.
.
.
.
Rose groans as another wave of nausea hits her. Something has felt off since last night, but she's starting to think it was the Homecoming food since everybody else is feeling horrible too. So focused on the churning of her stomach and the feather lightness of her head, she doesn't notice the boy until he's slammed into her, sending her nausea roaring into the back of her throat and her books out of her arms.
"Oh, sorry, I-hey, there…" And there it is, that moment when he's realized he's bumped into a pretty girl and loses his head.
"Hey yourself," she replies, oddly automatic.
They pick up her books, and she wants to leave, go home, take a nap before she has to finish packing-the fight she'd had to put up to stay in New York long enough for Homecoming, ugh- but there's something niggling at her. Something about those dark, sad eyes.
"Do I know you from somewhere?"
It must be her imagination, but she swears he's about to say she does, and they were partners on some science project last fall or something stupid like that, but he doesn't, and he says she doesn't know him and those dark, sad eyes somehow look even sadder, an odd contrast against his smile. Rose thinks there must be some girl out there who doesn't miss him as much as she should. He looks like someone drama follows, the way his head is thrown back over the slightly deflated shoulders, defiance in the midst of abject misery. A strange posture for somebody who can't be any older than she is.
Then she realizes she's both been staring at him too long and writing his life story, neither of which are a good look.
He shifts on one foot. "So I guess I'll see you around sometime?"
Maybe she needs a boyfriend. That's the best explanation she can come up with for the hope she hears in his voice. She's lonely.
"Actually, you won't."
She does, but that's another story.
.
.
.
A/N: I think it bears mentioning that I've taken some obnoxious license with how I'm conceptualizing the art. I'm envisioning Rose much as she was in Season 1, but the Huntsclan itself is Season 2. Is this annoying and/or confusing? Let me know and I can pick one and go with it, or just be more descriptive.
That animation style change really messed things up for me, haha.