Welcome to Gaia! ::

He’d been listening to other messages at the time, scrolling, deleting. Wondering if he to get a job that paid anywhere between $500 and $800 a day? Or up to $1600 a week! And he couldn’t math the math very well— but whoever Ashley, Annie, and Rosie were? They really needed to lose his number. It was maybe time to get a new one, to snap another burner phone and chuck it into the next fire pit before scrawling an all new Haymitch approved number on some non-burnt dumpster’s side…

He really was starting to wonder how much it would cost in the city exactly to replace the things. But also not really. Someone out there paid taxes, and the issue he started was far more their business than it ever would be his. The good citizens…the residents who feared the IRS and made yearly claims…or some other bullshit….

‘Kiss me through the phone—‘ kicked on and he picked up on instinct. Hit the little answer button, but hadn’t even drawn a breath before a voice was coming at him through the line. Some chipper, crisp something or another with too right annunciation of words.

“You soooo did not ********’ hear that…” Shock and awe coloring his speech, almost affronted with it. His mouth on autopilot as his brain was scrambling, his heart flying off at light speed. He realized how insane it was for him to call the first person in a million who sounded like they knew s**t a liar!!

“The hell even is this?” Oh, s**t, he hadn’t meant to say that part out loud. He wondered if the caller on the other end of the line could hear him, getting up, moving out of his room, fast with it. Slamming the door behind himself and not looking back to lock it. The way he stepped out the house he planned to soon move from (he’d outgrown the modular a year ago and was only admitting it to himself the last few weeks) and started walking in no particular direction. One hand in his pocket, fidgeting, ear on the phone like it’d melded there.

“Wait-wait-aah—“ He reminded himself to breathe and ******** *try* to sound polite!! “don’t hang up! Please?! Just — because yes — and you can — I just…” He wondered how he looked, come to a complete and sudden stop in his stride, stood dead center under a street light that seemed to be attracting all manner of flickering bugs, rainbow fireflies, moths, what have you. His whole stride paused on a cracked up causeway, with the nearest lit up thing being the neighbors a mile down. The abandoned gas station that a person could still see the church from lay in the complete, opposite direction.

“Is this the sort of conversation where I come to meet you — or is this the kind where we just talk? Askn’ for clarity of how urgent this is…the part where you’re offering help? If you mean right now..or..“ He sounded breathlessly curious to his own ears. Not knowing what insane thing had snagged his spine, regular at the base of his skull, making him think the person on the other line offering help, actually had his boy with him? Surely there would’ve been more screaming, or sounds of fire or—

Maybe the person would’ve put them all on speakerphone? Maybe Fauatite was right there in the room?! Not that Waru could hear ASL? But he liked to believe in himself more often than not —

That if Faustite were somewhere? Anywhere. He could sense it within a certain distance, like a metal detector.

Like a dog.

Heard ‘youma’, thought ‘bugs’, felt his vision color with red sepia overtones as he stared up at all the glittering nothings alighting the sky the same as they had so many summer nights before. The way fireflies used to be a carefree summer past-time; the sort taken home in jars and released under heavily shaded trees. He clutched the henshin in his pocket til he felt it creak in his fist, releasing the powerful item with a sigh.

Maybe just talking for tonight? Maybe whoever this was would call again— and that next time? Ohhh— the next time he did they’d absolutely meet. He wouldn’t do himself or Faustite any good like this though, would he? Running off half cocked and loose headed.

Like his house was on fire — instead of the man he was looking for —-

“S’the only way anyone would even know for sure I died, I think? The silence that’d follow……” He chuckled grimly, open tease at his own expense and self deprecation all rolled into one.

“N’when you say skillful little fireflies?” There, he was open to talk, they were definitely talking!! But before he opened his mouth to utter another sentence he needed more. Something to solidify the picture before he strangled himself on the details with a devil's ******** — I’m making Ei’ rename the buggy b*****d ‘migraine’ after this is done.’

‘Some things that happened during the—‘ N’wasnt that the understatement of the ******** century? Waru chuckled into his end, wry crackle and static, unable to help the way his words were tinged with a tired sort of amusement.

“So you were there, huhn?” Feeling out the softness of the sounds thrown his direction, the way he imagined an angelic lamb, hands tied, curls of blond. How the imagery his own mind conjured got ******** sideways by the hairs on end of being robbed via switchblade of good intentions. He was hook, like, and sinker for the little orphan Annie bullshit.

He was desperate—-

For anything, anything, anything at all!! If whoever it was hadn’t sounded so curious about Headache?? Bane of existence, eternal enemy, unkillable b*****d buzzing under his eyelids every damn night. He swore the ******** was whispering right in his ear as he slept sometimes…

Not that I can prove it, but!!!

The thought made him shudder, left him sucking a breath and clawing for focus. Right here. Right now. Talking to a stranger who knew too much and not enough all at once. Someone in power— somewhere — he could work with that!

“It really was…the whole thing…some kinda ********’ mess, wasn’t it?” Easily agreeable, he wished he had the metal tips of his dreads to play with like fidget toys. “And m’surprised you’re interested in the pile of bugs, considering what a headache they can be….creatures not mine t’command, mind you.”

He wished he wished he wished oh gods did he wish!! He would’ve killed several thousand birds with only the one stone! Sent headache wherever in a million different ways. Would probably have Faustite back already, actually? Come to think of it…

Best not to think of it for all the ways it made him seethe.

“But you sound like you should know that already…” Sounding understanding, because for this? He could be. His boy was always a lot, on fire, off duty, whichever way these two had met? He could only imagine; aura, and flames, and personalities colliding. How adding headache to any situation only made it that much more. “and if you don’t?”

“Well…s’okay…there's not a lot I mind answering at this point.” He’d already knelt for ******** Schorl, hadn’t he? An approximation of her was close enough in his own mind. He couldn’t tell Cassian *that* — some s**t deserved to be private — some shame his very own to master. Like playing b***h to heel and meals on wheels for Headache? Bartering with b*****d bugs wearing his boys blessed face—-

“So long as what m’getting in exchange for it is right?” What more was this? What lower section of slide, all greased at the ready, and why bother resisting when his goal was already the lowest floor?

“Cause if you ask me how long he’s been missing, officially? I’d say since Harold got chained to the end of forever in the ******** zone…” He tskd, eyes downcast, watching weeds sprout from cracked concrete. “Unofficially? A few weeks at best…I’m not privy t’everything…” He wasn’t sure who was, whether or not, he wanted to know that information hinged on who it was specifically. It would’ve hurt his heart to be wishing death on someone he knew personally for keeping important s**t from him. “M’not all the way up there with rank n’file, yanno? S’why the trash-fires…S’kinda…incognito…yeh? Like — only the people who know will know?”

The streetlight blaring above his head left spots in his vision. He shuttered his gaze to it, looked askance down the road till it ended and all he saw was black houses against a black background of sky. Until the words ‘professional interest’ and ‘similar magic’ ceased to rub him wrongways and backasswards. He breathed past the ‘eww’ that wiggled in his veins. It was fine. He was fine! He told himself the mantra as he skipped over the strangers request entirely, like it was lava spilt on the floor.

Too hot to handle, moving on!

“He’s made of different stuff, yanno? Metal n’fire. Magic n’flesh.” He didn’t know another being on the Earth made the same, had only ever known Faustite (Eion!) in the ways that were ever-changing. By Waru’s own estimation? Eion never came back exactly as before. Physically? Sure. Only sometimes. But in every way else that counted? Always, there was something new to catalogue in the aftermath; a new scar, a new hurdle, a new mindset to arrange himself to or overcome alongside the man filled to the lungs with ******** chamelon, my love. Keeping me on my toes…

Keeping him guessing. Always that! Oh, the ******** whiplash of it all. N’he lived for every car accident, sideswipe, and near death defying instant that followed! His hum for the other man was reflective in its agreeance, a mirror image of understanding. He didn’t doubt the stranger was there anymore than he doubted the sun hung in the sky. N’yet?

“Or were there so many other half-youma out there playn’ lightning-rod that you missed this one in particular.....Talkn’ bout him in title…real respectful-like…so you must know….” Hedging all his bets haplessly, he couldn’t count cards, had no hidden aces. But this wasn’t poker, it was blackjack. Which almost made it more dangerous to play for all its simplicity.

“Though? There was a helluvalot goin’ on at the time. N’he’s real hard t’get up close n’personal to…” More truths surrounded by a shrug of sound, the sighs slid along his senses, same-song welcoming, off-putting all at once, a juxtaposition of not quite right but ******** if he could place his finger on it. “M’sure you were busy as the rest of us were though, yeh? Savn’ the world…dying to do it...” A cooo of noise, of empathy swaddled in false applause for how brave, how brave! How nice–– for someone who wasn’t himself, for the person on the line to have died and been brought back whole! How like a burr wedged deep beneath his own skin, the way it set him to pacing as if spurred on by the utter unfairness of the revelation. The list of people he was glad were safe, sound, alive right now! Bodies long, wordy. The way his boys undoing seemed a separate sort of hurt entirely. Nothing to do with the bracelet or its absentee maker. He had proof of neither…

But had watched his haybaby disappear and re-materialize in a heart-crushing smattering of particles and sound, and that meant something, right?

Faustite hadn’t gone out like that, it was different, this was different, he came back different..…

“Sometimes?” Like it was a secret to carefully tread around, to whisper as he felt the crunch of dead bugs beneath unlaced boots; tongues out, barely staying on, because he’d been in such a rush fleeing his own door. “I wonder what that’s like…it's never me…s’just something m’always circling, like a dance? Death n’it’s weird ********’ kinks. Hah! Never met an essence with a penchant for edging?! But! Bringing people back right, whole, the same as before? Idunno…” As though ‘if you say so’ could’ve been shoved down the throat of another, singular word, and dragged out into a question. He pressed the phone between shoulder and ear, dragged his pen from his pocket with surety, powered up. Thinking— thinking— thinking—

That this was someone from Order, maybe? Someone who knew Faustite, and that list was ********’ innumerable, myriad, about as many people alive as Headache had pests in it’s most blaring, beehive form! His boy had become any number of things on the field, and a storm of fire was hard to miss. That whoever this was knew Faustite…

But not me. Not Albite.

He doesn’t know my voice…I don’t know his…we’re not friends with each other…but this isn’t someone I hate enough t’know over the ******** even someone I like enough t’know over the phone? Or whatever the hell Nikki was? Or if Cryolite had powered up and somehow…ohgods…no..nope..no…

He absolutely wasn’t thinking about that.

So the stranger remained a stranger still. He wasn’t sure how much to peg on the disconnect being due to glamor, or the cheapness of the disposable technology sitting hot in his hands? All the ways certain things were oh so very telling, and yet not? For he n’his boy had traded any number of sessions bitching about one enemy or another, one friend or another, one traitor or another!! The same ways he always asked after ‘who caused this scar’, just as intensely as he asked about ‘who left this bite mark’, ‘this bruise’, ‘this purpling on the inside of your thigh’. And it had become easy for him to tell after a time; beneath the black on blacks worn shiny purple. Which was the mark of an enemy, the mark of a friend. Whether Ei’d had a good enough time of it to claim that ‘gentleman didn’t tell’.

Waru swore he could taste it! The number of things he could tell…by sight…by scent…once they sat between his teeth. Like whether the blood caught in the rivets of Ei’s metal corset, his bronzed ribs, was his boys very own or someone else's? The way lightning lancing up a spine only seemed to tarnish the flesh, but not the steel, ********, magically!!

This isn’t someone Ei didn’t want me ******** with…

N’not th’kinda enemy worth naming….

Not some single…multiple…evenings ******** me where you are? I’ll come and introduce myself.” Nice as ice cream on a summer's day. Save for how not a drop of it would’ve melted on his tongue. “I’ll even bring the migraine inducing pile’ah pests with me…you two trade notes.. kiss for all I care? Whatever’s needed in learning how t’be more capable...” Because this was a tip line, wasn’t it? Not an ask line. Not an advice column. There was no exchange rate, and though he was willing to barter a helluvalot? To do so for someone who might not’ve known jack all…

“In serving Faustite.”

For someone who knew his boy enough to talk about him like royalty…order knight…order senshi…another agent? No. ********> He wasn’t sure which one’d give Headache a lick of their time? Which one Headache would bother feeding into the ego of instead of eating on sight?

“Th’person we’re both looking for? Real hard t’miss. Being…ah…kinda on ******** fire…N’really? Y’should’ve found him before the dumpster…” A friendly suggestion, offered in clipped tones. “Tho? Y’wouldn’t be calling me if you didn’t want him found…” Friendlier still, a pause between thoughts offered up aloud, an entire question more for himself than the other man. “N’less you’re just ******** with me…” practically pouting at this point, “which’s real unkind t’do to someone you wanna meet cute with. Even if what you actually wanna meet cute with is a Sovereigns youma?” He didn’t want to ‘yuck’ anyones ‘yumm’, he wasn’t the judgemental type! But!?

Because I am mad—- the hatter, hare, chipped teacup. A whole party unto himself. But not at you, not yet, not until I know I’m supposed to be! It was very much a ‘see the whites of their eyes’ and ‘wait for the red flag to drop’ kind of anger. His being the kind that needed somewhere to go, a face to put itself upon—-

It was useless otherwise. The same way doing alllll of what he had been was useless, ultimately; screaming into nothing, scribbling on the sides of burning trash bins and dark brick walls, doing everything *besides* waiting for calmer, saner, better operatives to do their jobs first. It was poor coping skills and useless comfort measures, a ******** ton of nothing that felt like something to him!! But was ultimately useless in the exact same way the way the man on the other end was —

Useless, and maybe scared? ******** if that didn’t draw Albites steps up short. Didn’t help that as he stopped he found he didn’t quite remember putting on the heels and tassels — the bells and whistles — walking the streets in seething green — or powering up at all.

Was this the little one all over again? The baby shamrock page, standing brave atop a roof, seeking a crime and a villain. A real one, someone black n white n concrete; like cops and robbers on a cartoon Sunday. Offering to help. Asking only for answered questions in return. They hadn’t even gotten to the question of Faustite before he’d started running.

Was he running? Again —-

‘Am I scared? Is it me?’

The mention of a prince? Ice water, static, the slow motion right before the other car hit. A hissed inhale and much slower sigh, the silence had lapsed and grown hungry, he’d let it, even if it was hard to stand the prickly teeth of quietude nipping at his heels. But what he’d thought was a puddle when he stepped in it, turned out to be glacially deep, terribly cold.

All his rage simmered, doused beneath it.

‘A prince — a deal — the ******** — ‘

Drowned. As he found himself on territory so unfamiliar that it might as well have been the surface of the Moon. He didn’t know anything about any of this, not really, and suddenly it felt like he needed to ******** educate himself. Fast. The realization of that fact? A desperate gasp for much needed oxygen, involuntary panic, and how many divers did that kind of thing kill? From an unexpected plunge, from a familiar route. The way being tossed off a boat could sign a death certificate just as easily as swimming along the same space one had a thousand times before…

There was no bottom here. He was stupid and hypoxic. Drunk on his own rapture of the deep.

‘I’m going to get us all killed—-‘

“Right now? I’d promise you anything.” He meant that with his whole chest, didn’t know if he was promising the truth? A lie? Agreeing to a meeting, or? To kill god, demons, princess, and all manner of punching above his pay-grade for the sake of x outcome. Whatever meant getting his boy back, he supposed? An eternal war started for the sake of a husband—

‘If I knew he was safe, or happy, or truly whole out there somewhere?’

It’d quickly stopped being enough to know that Faustite was simply ‘alive’, it was only more heartbreak, really. The way he couldn’t be happy for it, not until he knew he was supposed to be. Not until Faustite told him so!!!

“Try me again in a few weeks…a different number…the dumpsters change…n’it takes time t’wrangle together a million fireflies into the one jar.” He ended the call abruptly, felt plastic, metal, and glass creeeaaaakk until it snapped between his hands. The phone, instead of his henshin pen (He loved haymitch too much to make his boy do all that work!) the two halves of which got chucked as far into oblivion as his burning muscles would ******** might need to find Headache, again. To offer to feed him. Again. To ********.

Suddenly a thousand other places to be, the burning urge to educate himself, the desire to hit something bloody and then feed it to the buzzing, writhing, pile of ill intentioned maggots infesting his lover's office. Maggots some mirror ******** wanted to ********. ********. ********. ********>