#330 - Rise
IOU
Breath is fire.
*
Charity has lost track of where she is now. It doesn't really matter, since she's carrying a Key and every door takes her back to the Tower, and the Tower to the Citadel on Genosha where, hopefully, her mother still thinks she's asleep or partying or anything except out slaying despite direct orders not to. Still, it would be nice to know. Then maybe she could find the right language to yell "Stop running away!" in at this last damn vampire. English isn't working, after all, and damn but the bastard is fast, even for a creature of the night.
(Heh. Creature of the night. That's never going to stop being funny.)
He loses her for a moment in the alleys and she's too experienced now to keep chasing; one too many headlong rushes into ambushes teaches you the value of caution, even if it means losing a target. The second rule: stay alive. The first, of course, is do no harm or, anyway, no more harm than you have to. Cautiously, then, and keeping her eyes moving, her sense open, Charity stalks forward, near-silently through the night. Not down this alley. Not down that. Not hiding up on that roof. Not--
There's a crackle from somewhere close, a scream, and she's running, fast and true, darting around the curve to see him, her vampire, stake up and "I owe you--" on her lips, except the vampire is-- He looks like death warmed up, she thinks, and it's the stupidest, most apt thought. The man is shaking, clutching at himself, sucked thin, face flat, teeth blunt.
"C-cold," he says. "So huh-hollow. Hollow inside."
"Right," says Charity, edging around him. There's a flickering light further round the bend, yellow, gold.
"Tuh-took it. She took it," the man gasps, and doubles over, clutching at himself and making keening noises. A flailing hand brushes her ankle and Charity dances away, further round the corner. There's another man, a yellow man, with gold eyes, looking at her with gold eyes and thin wire lines fading into his skin. Then the vampire -- the ex-vampire -- is grabbing at her again. "What am I? What am I now?"
Charity pushes the sobbing man away, but the other is gone. No tracks. Just gone. "Damn it!"
"F-freezing," the man wails.
"Yeah, alright mate," Charity mutters. "Keep your whatever on. I just -- what the fuck is going on here? I'm pretty sure vampires don't stop being vampires unless you stake the bastards and you--"
"She took it." The man tries to grab for her again, falls; she catches him automatically. He weighs nothing. Like paper. And he's wailing, "She took it out -- and she ate it!"
*
Fire is life.
*
The wind howls across the tundra. There's snow here, now. It's winter, perhaps, or spring. The air is sharp. The tundra splits. Gold lines the fault.
*
Breath is fire.
*
"We shouldn't be here," Paras says, arms wrapped tight around himself.
"This whole place shouldn't be here, Indy," Maxine spits. "Who puts a graveyard in a fucking school?"
"Don't swear," Paras snaps back, and she flips him off.
"It's better here, Max," Estelle says. "You know what they're like out there. They-- They'd dig them up. Desecrate them."
"Don't--" Paras starts and Esteban waves him to silence.
"I told you," he crows, pointing. "I told you he wasn't lying!"
"That's Laurie's grave," Estelle whispers.
"Someone's dug the shit out of it," Maxine says. "Well, I'm convinced." Esteban glares at her. "Oh, you want some, shorty?"
"Someone's disturbed Max's too," Paras says. "You really think he's been here?"
"He said, didn't he?" Esteban asks, not looking away from Maxine. "I'm telling you, I can feel it. They're back."
"Then where are they?" Maxine sneers.
"Akkaba," Estelle says. The others look at her and she shrinks back a bit. "W-well, it's where we were going, right? Before they locked everything down and coded us out of the Blackbird--"
"--which pipsqueak could have in no way piloted," Maxine cut in.
"Stop it!" Paras yelled. "Just stop it! These were our friends!"
"They are our friends," Esteban insists. "You'll see. And he'll send someone for us, or we'll find a way. He will. We've just got to keep cool until then."
"They'll see the graves," Estelle says.
"People don't come out here as much as they used to," Paras says dubiously.
"Are you kidding?" Maxine laughs. "This is the favourite brooding spot of half the school."
Esteban ignores them all, closing his eyes. The air begins to move around him, a breath, a soft breeze, a gust. Grass bends, then the trees. Paras powers up without meaning to. Blue sparks drip off the edges of his purple armour, triboluminescence, the death-lights of dust and pollutants in the air ripped apart under psychic stress; white-blue light bursts from Esteban's eyes as they snap open, as the pressure of his own powers pushes him up off the ground. Maxine swears and Estelle is suddenly a flock of birds scrabbling up into the air and away from the earth liquid shifting beneath them, until all the graves are restored, renewed, reformed.
"Goddamn shorty," Maxine says.
Esteban drops to the ground, panting heavily. The light fades, and the breeze stills. Estelle's flock settles on the ground and transforms back into a sheepishly smiling girl.
"Good as new," Paras says dubiously.
"Yeah, someone totally saw that, you know," Maxine says. "Glowing ain't real subtle."
"We should go back," Estelle agrees. "Please? Can we go?"
He nods, pushing himself back to his feet, but he lingers a little while they set off, looking first around him and then up into the sky as if he could see right through the grey clouds and up and out, into some perfect blue future.
"They're coming back," Esteban breathes. "My sister-- Everyone. Just like he promised. They're all coming back."
"Come on, shorty," Maxine yells back.
Esteban runs after them, laughing wildly.
*
Fire is life.
*
Scum froths on the surface, collecting against the grill while, under it, slow water slinks out in slimy trails to spill into the deeper darkness beyond. In the sudden flash it sickly-shimmers, turbulent oil caught in slow motion by an enduring bolt of gold, lightning frozen in perfect connection between the lower surface and the over-arching curve of the sewer roof.
*
Breath is fire.
*
Flourish and Botts is crowded -- the Easter holidays are over and the kids are doing the last minute rush before going back to school -- and Mike manages only three minutes at Draco's side before he has to mumble apologies and push his way back out into Diagon Alley. It's not any better here, really, but he finds a side-street where he can stop in the shade, lean back against the cool brick, and carefully build his psychic shields back up, one iridescent layer after another.
(The air warms and cools around him, warms and cools, warms and cools.)
There's a girl crying, two boys playing keep away, throwing a toy between them over her head. Mike sighs and gives her a nudge, lifting her jump enough for her to get her hands on it. The boys yell and give chase and promptly trip, sprawling into the crowds and earning sharp rebukes. There's a tut and, when Mike looks, Draco beside him in a swirl of green.
"What?" Mike asks.
"You really can't help yourself, can you?" Draco says, and he sounds exasperated, but he's smiling, not where it shows, but just under that, where Mike can see it. Where Mike can always see it.
"Of course I can," Mike says, smiling openly back. "It's -- wait! Some strange, unknown force is drawing me towards you! Can't. Resist. The. Hug."
Draco snorts, but he hugs Mike back, brushes a kiss against his cheek. "You're not going to distract me from my shopping that easily."
"I know," Mike agrees cheerfully as they step back out into Diagon Alley. "I was going to wait until you were buying clothes and then jump you in the dressing room." He looks up, startled, as a whole swoop of owls come flurrying past, rushing towards the Post Office. Something prickles at the back of his head, an odd feeling, like a something numb waking up, psychic pins and needles. He frowns around them. "Do you--?"
Draco waits, gives up, prompts, "Do I?"
"I thought I felt--" Mike shakes it off. "Ooh, Fortescue's! Ice-cream!"
"Clothes," Draco counters, digging his heels in when Mike tries to drag him.
"Ice-cream," Mike insists and sweeps him off his feet, laughing at Draco's indignant squawk. "Come on! I'll owe you!"
*
Breath is fire. Fire is life.
Breath is fire.
*
Charity has lost track of where she is now. It doesn't really matter, since she's carrying a Key and every door takes her back to the Tower, and the Tower to the Citadel on Genosha where, hopefully, her mother still thinks she's asleep or partying or anything except out slaying despite direct orders not to. Still, it would be nice to know. Then maybe she could find the right language to yell "Stop running away!" in at this last damn vampire. English isn't working, after all, and damn but the bastard is fast, even for a creature of the night.
(Heh. Creature of the night. That's never going to stop being funny.)
He loses her for a moment in the alleys and she's too experienced now to keep chasing; one too many headlong rushes into ambushes teaches you the value of caution, even if it means losing a target. The second rule: stay alive. The first, of course, is do no harm or, anyway, no more harm than you have to. Cautiously, then, and keeping her eyes moving, her sense open, Charity stalks forward, near-silently through the night. Not down this alley. Not down that. Not hiding up on that roof. Not--
There's a crackle from somewhere close, a scream, and she's running, fast and true, darting around the curve to see him, her vampire, stake up and "I owe you--" on her lips, except the vampire is-- He looks like death warmed up, she thinks, and it's the stupidest, most apt thought. The man is shaking, clutching at himself, sucked thin, face flat, teeth blunt.
"C-cold," he says. "So huh-hollow. Hollow inside."
"Right," says Charity, edging around him. There's a flickering light further round the bend, yellow, gold.
"Tuh-took it. She took it," the man gasps, and doubles over, clutching at himself and making keening noises. A flailing hand brushes her ankle and Charity dances away, further round the corner. There's another man, a yellow man, with gold eyes, looking at her with gold eyes and thin wire lines fading into his skin. Then the vampire -- the ex-vampire -- is grabbing at her again. "What am I? What am I now?"
Charity pushes the sobbing man away, but the other is gone. No tracks. Just gone. "Damn it!"
"F-freezing," the man wails.
"Yeah, alright mate," Charity mutters. "Keep your whatever on. I just -- what the fuck is going on here? I'm pretty sure vampires don't stop being vampires unless you stake the bastards and you--"
"She took it." The man tries to grab for her again, falls; she catches him automatically. He weighs nothing. Like paper. And he's wailing, "She took it out -- and she ate it!"
*
Fire is life.
*
The wind howls across the tundra. There's snow here, now. It's winter, perhaps, or spring. The air is sharp. The tundra splits. Gold lines the fault.
*
Breath is fire.
*
"We shouldn't be here," Paras says, arms wrapped tight around himself.
"This whole place shouldn't be here, Indy," Maxine spits. "Who puts a graveyard in a fucking school?"
"Don't swear," Paras snaps back, and she flips him off.
"It's better here, Max," Estelle says. "You know what they're like out there. They-- They'd dig them up. Desecrate them."
"Don't--" Paras starts and Esteban waves him to silence.
"I told you," he crows, pointing. "I told you he wasn't lying!"
"That's Laurie's grave," Estelle whispers.
"Someone's dug the shit out of it," Maxine says. "Well, I'm convinced." Esteban glares at her. "Oh, you want some, shorty?"
"Someone's disturbed Max's too," Paras says. "You really think he's been here?"
"He said, didn't he?" Esteban asks, not looking away from Maxine. "I'm telling you, I can feel it. They're back."
"Then where are they?" Maxine sneers.
"Akkaba," Estelle says. The others look at her and she shrinks back a bit. "W-well, it's where we were going, right? Before they locked everything down and coded us out of the Blackbird--"
"--which pipsqueak could have in no way piloted," Maxine cut in.
"Stop it!" Paras yelled. "Just stop it! These were our friends!"
"They are our friends," Esteban insists. "You'll see. And he'll send someone for us, or we'll find a way. He will. We've just got to keep cool until then."
"They'll see the graves," Estelle says.
"People don't come out here as much as they used to," Paras says dubiously.
"Are you kidding?" Maxine laughs. "This is the favourite brooding spot of half the school."
Esteban ignores them all, closing his eyes. The air begins to move around him, a breath, a soft breeze, a gust. Grass bends, then the trees. Paras powers up without meaning to. Blue sparks drip off the edges of his purple armour, triboluminescence, the death-lights of dust and pollutants in the air ripped apart under psychic stress; white-blue light bursts from Esteban's eyes as they snap open, as the pressure of his own powers pushes him up off the ground. Maxine swears and Estelle is suddenly a flock of birds scrabbling up into the air and away from the earth liquid shifting beneath them, until all the graves are restored, renewed, reformed.
"Goddamn shorty," Maxine says.
Esteban drops to the ground, panting heavily. The light fades, and the breeze stills. Estelle's flock settles on the ground and transforms back into a sheepishly smiling girl.
"Good as new," Paras says dubiously.
"Yeah, someone totally saw that, you know," Maxine says. "Glowing ain't real subtle."
"We should go back," Estelle agrees. "Please? Can we go?"
He nods, pushing himself back to his feet, but he lingers a little while they set off, looking first around him and then up into the sky as if he could see right through the grey clouds and up and out, into some perfect blue future.
"They're coming back," Esteban breathes. "My sister-- Everyone. Just like he promised. They're all coming back."
"Come on, shorty," Maxine yells back.
Esteban runs after them, laughing wildly.
*
Fire is life.
*
Scum froths on the surface, collecting against the grill while, under it, slow water slinks out in slimy trails to spill into the deeper darkness beyond. In the sudden flash it sickly-shimmers, turbulent oil caught in slow motion by an enduring bolt of gold, lightning frozen in perfect connection between the lower surface and the over-arching curve of the sewer roof.
*
Breath is fire.
*
Flourish and Botts is crowded -- the Easter holidays are over and the kids are doing the last minute rush before going back to school -- and Mike manages only three minutes at Draco's side before he has to mumble apologies and push his way back out into Diagon Alley. It's not any better here, really, but he finds a side-street where he can stop in the shade, lean back against the cool brick, and carefully build his psychic shields back up, one iridescent layer after another.
(The air warms and cools around him, warms and cools, warms and cools.)
There's a girl crying, two boys playing keep away, throwing a toy between them over her head. Mike sighs and gives her a nudge, lifting her jump enough for her to get her hands on it. The boys yell and give chase and promptly trip, sprawling into the crowds and earning sharp rebukes. There's a tut and, when Mike looks, Draco beside him in a swirl of green.
"What?" Mike asks.
"You really can't help yourself, can you?" Draco says, and he sounds exasperated, but he's smiling, not where it shows, but just under that, where Mike can see it. Where Mike can always see it.
"Of course I can," Mike says, smiling openly back. "It's -- wait! Some strange, unknown force is drawing me towards you! Can't. Resist. The. Hug."
Draco snorts, but he hugs Mike back, brushes a kiss against his cheek. "You're not going to distract me from my shopping that easily."
"I know," Mike agrees cheerfully as they step back out into Diagon Alley. "I was going to wait until you were buying clothes and then jump you in the dressing room." He looks up, startled, as a whole swoop of owls come flurrying past, rushing towards the Post Office. Something prickles at the back of his head, an odd feeling, like a something numb waking up, psychic pins and needles. He frowns around them. "Do you--?"
Draco waits, gives up, prompts, "Do I?"
"I thought I felt--" Mike shakes it off. "Ooh, Fortescue's! Ice-cream!"
"Clothes," Draco counters, digging his heels in when Mike tries to drag him.
"Ice-cream," Mike insists and sweeps him off his feet, laughing at Draco's indignant squawk. "Come on! I'll owe you!"
*
Breath is fire. Fire is life.