Welcome to Gaia! ::

Sinter was drowning in paperwork. A rebel operative had not only successfully infiltrated the Chittentown military base, but had also managed to make off with a crate of supplies and a goddamn motorcycle. The fact that the only damage done to the thief had been done by Sinter was a point in his favor, but it didn’t negate the principle of the situation. The thief had gotten away.

Sinter had been bodily pulled from the chain link fence at the security’s arrival and questioned ever since. He’d recounted the scenario so many times in both speech and writing Sinter was beginning to feel himself forget the details. The symbols and sounds seemed to blur together. The sweet song of failure.

Sinter gripped the pen in his hand even tighter. His writing was, as always, crisp and even, but the letters he wrote were sharp and dug into the pad of paper. His superiors weren’t any more cheerful. Even if stopping the intruder wasn’t Sinter’s job a failure was a failure. This failure resonated all the way up the chain of command. Sinter just happened to be the most direct link.

By the end of the report processing hellstorm, Sinter was all but locked back in the radio tower. Shifts were being rearranged and volunteer posts were being reevaluated. Aandes had been reassigned somewhere else and Sinter had been given very explicit instructions not to leave his station without permission, and especially not without a replacement. He was clearly only good for one thing and one thing only. Typical redblood.

Sinter signed off on his most current set of notes and tore the top sheet of the notepad off. He slid the paper into the dish labeled “Outbox” along with the thirty other identical pages. Sinter liked this work when it was of his own volition. Now it was just a punishment. He hoped Aandes wasn’t placed in a similar predicament, having run off as well.

Sinter jiggled the radio dial and sifted through the static. The thick forests the field agents had been slogging through hadn’t been making Sinter’s communications job any easier. They were out in the middle of nowhere surrounded by trees that may as well have been made of lead. Sinter heard a blip in the white noise and quickly began to dial back.

”-lo? T… or… our…”

Sinter narrowed his eyes and twisted the dial slower and more carefully.

”-amiya Aiguma… orting from Fou… Fronds. Seeking a frequency to… nnect with Sinter Heili…”

Sinter’s mouth and stomach dropped as his shoulders raised. Wrenching the microphone down on his headset, he immediately began flicking switches and turning knobs.

”This is Tamiya Aiguma reporting from Four Fronds.”

”Tamiya! Tamiya, come in! This is Sinter!”

Tamiya sounded so different on the radio, Sinter noted. It was most definitely her—there was no doubt about that. It could have been the poor reception, but she sounded higher-pitched. More delicate. It didn’t help to soothe Sinter’s nerves when coupled with Tamiya’s frantic babbling.

Once he was certain the staccato talking was Tamiya and not the radio tuning, Sinter took time to process what he was hearing. The troops had pursued the rebels all the way out to Four Fronds. He’d been doing his best to chart the scouts’ paths through the wilderness, but the swamp was a nightmare terrain. It was far too murky to make much progress on foot, and the trees were too thick for aerial exploration. It was no surprise that the rebels had managed to lose their tails, but at the same time, it was equally likely that the rebels had ended up completely stranded in the bog as well.

The fire Tamiya spoke of was far more pressing. Four Fronds was a highblooded mecca. It was as well-protected as Alternian locations got, both from the elements and other trolls. Woods or not, that place did not just catch on fire. Tamiya sounded about as informed as Sinter on the situation.

After a second of dumbfounded silence, Sinter remembered to press his talk button and respond. ”Tamiya,” he began, gently, to remind Tamiya he was there and to buy himself time to string together his words. ”Tamiya it’s going to be alright. There are other groups out there, and the rebels—the rebels are worse equipped than we are. If you’re having trouble imagine what that ragtag band is going through. If you don’t get to them, the swamp will. It’s only a matter of time. These things… they always work themselves out in the end, right? Natural order and all?”

Sinter felt himself stretching at that last bit. He wasn’t particularly fond of fate. History had not been kind to lowbloods as far as what their “fates” tended to dish out to them. It was Tamiya’s backbone, however, and she clearly needed the support. Even if the principle of Sinter’s words didn’t sit well with him, there was a concrete precedent of rebel factions failing spectacularly. Sinter released his talk button and breathed deeply to further calm himself. He wanted to keep talking in hopes of stumbling onto the right words to soothe Tamiya, but the medium of radio communication made such a tactic impractical. He nervously waited for Tamiya’s response.

Sinter’s face was rigid with concern. Even if he did know the proper words to say, Tamiya had applied some kind of death grip to her radio. Sinter could only listen helplessly to the scratchy relay of retching and stumbling. He pressed his free hand to his own mouth, sympathetically. ”Tamiya…” he whispered in spite of its futility.

Sinter rocked at his desk, wishing for Tamiya to speak again—to say anything to replace that god-awful static pulsing through the speaker of his radio. It was likely the combination of stress and sleeplessness, but the tense, empty noise felt painful, physically, even emotionally. The static spoke of Tamiya’s absence, Sinter’s isolation, the combat he’d done so agonizingly little to assist with. Sinter was struck with thoughts of Kabukidad of all creatures. Where was he? Wasn’t he supposed to be protecting Tamiya? Sinter massaged his temples roughly. No, no, he was gone. He- He wasn’t there in the first place. Sinter couldn’t register if this was a good or bad thing. Tamiya needed to snap out of it. For both their sakes, Tamiya needed to. Wake. Up.

Tamiya’s broadcast cut out, and like that, the air of the radio room seemed to break apart. Sinter found himself gasping for breath, like he’d been caught somewhere between running for his life and smothered under a pillow. He pushed his hair away from his face, finding it limp and stringy with sweat. Sinter wasted no time in trying to reconnect with Tamiya. He didn’t know what was going on, but he was terrified for her all the same.

”Tamiya!?” Sinter stabbed down on the button, lest Tamiya unintentionally cut him off again. ”Tamiya, wh-” No, Sinter couldn’t ask Tamiya what was going on. She had already made it abundantly clear that she didn’t know. Pressing wouldn’t help either of them. He was the intelligence troll between the two of them after all. Sinter, eyes burning and throat tight, readjusted his mindset for moiraillegiance.

”Tamiya…” he rasped. ”Tamiya shoosh. Shh, shh, shh shh. It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay. Just do what I say, alright? I’ve got your back. Tamiya, listen, you need to fall back and regroup. I don’t want you to be alone. Do you know where the other operatives are?”

Sinter reluctantly released the button on his radio.

Sinter was torn. He wanted to desperately to know that Tamiya was okay, that she’d heard him. At the same time he feared what was to come. He didn’t trust Tamiya to be doing well at all after a few frantic shooshes from him considering her last correspondence. Sinter tried to push his migraine away with his forefinger and thumb against his brow ridge. What was she even doing over there? She didn’t sound like she was in combat. At least… not with any physical assailant, Sinter despaired.

He should have been there. His crowning achievement at the Chittentown base was letting a thief escape and not being there for his moirail. Sinter was a failure. He was weak. He talked a big game, but when it came down to it, Sinter

n̡̟̈ͭ͗̚e̦͌ě͋d̳̫̪͔̏̋̀e̝̰̻͔͙ͭ͆ͪ͋͌d͌̆̃̐͆ͮ̕ ̞̥̯̜ṭ̼̦̹͕͌̓͐̿́̄ͦ͘o̮̳̥̤͕̳͗̆̕ ͕͎͕ͧ͒̑͘b̖̺͓̃͞e̢͛̋ͩ̚ ̨͕̞̱̜̍ͮ̅̄́p̄͡u͉͉̩͊͑́̓ͅn̥̙͒͛ͫ̚ḭ̘̬͗̆ͤ͒̌͆s̶̫ͥ̐̂ȟͭ̾͏͎̩̮̱̗̯͔ë͓͌͑̏d́


The radio clicked with Tamiya’s sign-off, but Sinter didn’t hear what she’d said. Whatever her words had been were so loud they were echoing all up inside Sinter’s thinkpan!

Sinter rocketed forward in his chair, folding in half. His eyes were wide, his spine quaking, and his shirt drenched through with sweat. What was happening..!?

’It’s not safe here, it’s not safe here, it’s n͝o҉t ̸saf҉e h̨e͠r͏e̛,͢ Ï̻̺̠̣̮̲T͈̝̯̄ͅ'͍̠̙̿ͯ̊ͬ̀̏ͤ͡S̳̠͎͔̰͈̰̾̓ͤ̊͐̐́ ͔̋̈́ͬ̑̇̚N̜͕͇͖̣͙͒̇ͩ̽ͦȎͪ͌ͫ̾̈́͠T͈̺̘̬͓͂ͤͫ̓ͪ̈́͋͜ ̖̼̫̤̖̰S̵̹̭͙̗̻̘̦ͤ̽̒͋ͣ͑A̫̘ͪͮ͋̈́̐͘ͅF̟̻ͩͭ̂͋̅̂E̽͝ ̺̗̙ͫH͙͇̝̝̤̼̃̍͑̃̑͡E̝̫̲ͦ̅̑̄̋̌͘ṚE̴͕̬̻͇ͫͭͩ,’

Sinter gasped and tore the headset from his hair, damaging the appliance as he tangled its cord around his horns. He couldn’t be tethered down. He couldn’t be trapped. Sinter fell to the floor in his struggle, landing sharply on his tailbone. He looked out on the room wild-eyed as though he’d been pushed by an invisible assailant.

It took all of Sinter’s willpower not to force himself into the narrow space under his desk like a spider. He needed to hide, to run, SOMETHING!

But Tamiya. Sinter’s eyes cautiously landed on where his handheld radio had fallen. Sinter needed to make sure Tamiya was alright. That radio, though. Sinter couldn’t bring himself to touch it. He had no idea what was happening. There was no basis for the way his instincts were alight, telling him to fear for his life, that he needed to kill those that would do him harm. The fact that he didn’t understand these overwhelming feelings did nothing to change their reality, and only served to further disorient him.

Sinter avoided the radio like it was on fire. The simile gave Sinter pause as the thought of fire immediately overwhelmed him with images of an all-consuming red sky. His eyes stung and burned with tears that may as well have been caused by smoke, and Sinter cried for a home and possessions he’d never lost. Covering his eyes and bowing his head against the floor only made it easier for Sinter to imagine himself within a burning forest. Visions of Four Fronds cascaded into memories of the woods surrounding Old Hemisect and back again. Licks of flame or red blood spilled on dirt. It all looked the same.


Sinter didn’t know how long he’d spent weeping on the floor of the radio tower. By the time he came to, he was thoroughly dehydrated and it hurt him to blink. Sinter groped mindlessly across the floor in an attempt to gain his bearings. He found the legs of his chair and used it to support him in a kneeling position.

He took several large gulps of air, practically savoring the stale smell of printer paper over the haunting memories of burnt wood. Sinter could feel his heartrate lowering, but his stress levels remained steady. He cast another wary look at the radio, still where he’d tossed it on the floor.

”This… couldn’t be…”

Sinter knew what had just happened to him.

”No…”

Sinter spent what felt like a very long time collecting himself off of the radio tower floor. He eventually pulled himself up back into his chair—nearly slipping on his own sweaty palms. Gingerly, he picked the radio off the linoleum.

The radio crackled to life and Sinter dropped it again in a panic. He skidded away from the device in his wheeled chair and knocked into the table behind him. Tamiya was speaking. She sounded better—more alert. The static wasn’t nearly as bad, either. The clarity of the call left a crisp ringing in Sinter’s ears. Finally registering Tamiya’s words, Sinter snapped the radio off the floor once again.

He held the plastic device tightly in both hands. Tamiya had stopped talking, but Sinter was having a hard time bringing himself to respond. Did Tamiya- Did she even know what happened? What she did? Tamiya sounded hushed and nervous as ever, but her quick cadence told Sinter that she didn’t. He wondered if she’d pick up on the gravity of what had just happened to him if he told her. Tamiya had just used the chucklevoodoos on him. She’d instinctively performed the dark act of the subjuglators themselves. By accident. On her moirail. Sinter questioned whether or not telling Tamiya would help the situation at all. It certainly wouldn’t change the fact that Sinter had experienced waking dayterrors under the alleged safety of moonlight.

No. Tamiya didn’t need to know. Not now. Tamiya being frightened and overwhelmed clearly benefitted no one. Sinter shuddered out a bitter laugh. Tamiya needed a moirail now more than ever. They both did.

Sinter hit the call button on his radio. ”I’m here. I-I’m here.” He felt like he hadn’t spoken in sweeps. ”Are you in any immediate danger? If it can wait, I want you to receive medical attention first.”

Sinter released the call button with stiff joints and collapsed over his knees. Just a little while longer and he could go drown himself in some military-issued sopor.