#left to bask in the environment of wrath which is what put her there in the first place. endless cycle

[terminalkisser]

gabriel does not Have 'catholic guilt' he GIVES other people it. namely the ferryman

[mutantsrisingrpg]

Congratulations DAISY! You’ve been accepted as NIX.

I did my waiting... twelve years of it... until we finally got our Nix! Daisy, let me start this off with how happy I was to see an app for Luke in our inbox and that happiness only grew when I read through it. At the very end of your details section you said that Luke is contradictory to a fault - which is the very much something I was looking for with him. Luke is a danger, yes we all know this, but regardless of that he wants to protect his family and he has everything as his fingertips that could make him “holy.” I’m so excited to see where you take him! 

Welcome to Mutants Rising! Please read the checklist and submit your account within 24 hours.

Out of Character Information:

NAME/ALIAS: Daisy

PRONOUNS: She/Her

AGE: 24

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: EST // I work a few part-time jobs, so my free time is mostly reserved to the evenings and weekends, but once I have muse for a character and find a great writing community, I really commit to the rpg! I would give myself a 7/10, with some weeks dipping down to a 6 just because of work schedules and such. If there’s ever a time I can’t be on for longer than usual, I’ll definitely let you know!

In Character Information:

DESIRED ROLE: Luke Espinosa / Nix

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cisgender male & he/him

DETAILS & ANALYSIS: This is where you show us who the character is to you! The format of this doesn’t matter, whether it’s in bullet points or in para form, and can be as long as you’d like it to be. Feel free to get creative!

Luke — “light giving” / Espinosa — From the Spanish word, “espino,” which means “hawthorn”

It’s an irony that’s not lost on him, a simple name bestowed on him by a simple man, yet perfectly matched to his own particular talents. Privately, he smiles at the memory of his mother calling him ‘Luca,’ a nickname he’s revealed only to Isabel. (Naturally, she’s the only person he’d allow to call him that now.) Still, there’s a certain saintliness to the name that he feels is an ultimate disconnect to the man he believes himself to be: hateful, spiteful, and altogether brutal — in other words, totally undeserving of anything remotely ‘holy’. The hawthorn tree is often thought to symbolize love and protection, and are often beloved by birds for their many branches and fruits to aid in nest-making and hatchling development. Personally, I feel as though Luke wouldn’t give much thought to his surname, given the memories of the man who gave it to him. Still, I can’t help but think that this last name suits him exceedingly well, especially when I consider the arc I’d like to see him go through. Currently, Luke is someone full of anger; he’s bitter, rages often and relatively indiscriminately, and rejects responsibility out of semi-unfounded fears. He’s a weapon even though he wants to be a shield, too destructive to truly protect anyone from the wrath of the world — or worse, his own. He’s not a simple man, per se, but the outside world would be forgiven for thinking him little more than a bad-tempered, ill-mannered creature of habit, forever searching for something to destroy whether through punch or power. And yet, he manages to be more than all the red that typically surrounds him, and rather evidently, too; there’s rarely a day that he doesn’t return to the apartment if only to whip up a quick boxed dinner for Isabel and Isaac and bask in their company, sharing a laugh over Isaac’s latest mishap. He’s someone who will fight for his family, die for his family, even though he never wanted, expected, or asked for them. He struggles to balance the undeniable need to protect them against his utter lack of faith in himself and the world around them. It’s not that he doubts his powers; truly, he knows exactly how dangerous he can become, how all-consuming his light can be when his internal state reaches somewhere overwhelmingly dark. So, on the days he truly needs to get away, it’s not in the boxing rings of The Jungle or the bar at The Green Mill that call to him, but instead the rooftop of some nearby building, as close to the sun as the smokey city will allow, recharging and resetting in silence. Within the Blackburn Syndicate, he’s tough, some might even call him brave — and it’s partially true, though not because of some gallant side to his personality usually cast aside in favor of sulking in the shadows. Rather, his bravery displays itself largely in times of fear; scared for the safety of someone else, he’ll often volunteer to be put in harm’s way, though not without throwing some wayward remark about the other person’s inability to handle their job. Luke knows he’s an asset, a machine, a means to an end for the Syndicate. He’s quick to protect by means of a fierce onslaught of attack — which happens to make him the perfect weapon. He’s built his career, if not his whole life, on being menacing, on instilling fear into a person in any way he can and beating whatever’s left, out. Simply put, it’s just what he knows.  In terms of truly unleashing the full extent of his powers, there are so few lines he’d be unwilling to cross. Still, when the question of family comes up, it’s not hard to imagine him setting the world alight just to keep them safe. In short, although the baseline of his personality could default to a simple ‘angry boy’ trope, I think Luke is so much more than just that. I see him as someone so craving of stability, that the fear of not having it makes it impossibly easy for him to run away; someone with the power to absorb light, yet utterly incapable of providing it for himself; a shield with no defense — contradictory to a fault. 

BIO:

[ TW for violence, death, marital/family abuse, alcohol ] Fighting had always been in his blood, and he knew it. When he closes his eyes, he still remembers coming home from school to find his precious mother, still heavily pregnant with his unborn sister, bloodied and battered on the floor, bruises formed all over her body and cuts marring her pretty face. And his father, gruff and hulking, liquor evident from his smell and the arrhythmic steps of his heavy feet, ordering the young boy to help clean up – i.e., get rid of – his fatally wounded mother. He was nine then. A boy by all measures, but the ‘monster’ within claimed his youth, clawing from the depths of his grief as he clung to his mother’s life-drained body. At a moment so dark, his body emanated light and heat, overwhelming and blinding as his tears shed freely until the world around turned black with ash and fear. At ten, he was a child trapped in a plastic prison hundreds of feet underground, blocking out all sources of natural light after enough tests determined he drew his power from the sun. His body grew weak — no, he was made to be weak, forced by human powers greater than his own — though his appetite for destruction only augmented with each passing day. When the scientists deemed him feeble enough that he’d have little chance of full-powered recovery, he was placed into a foster home with fellow mutants. Fortunately for Luke, they vastly underestimated his body’s ability to  At best, their foster parents saw each of them as little more than the monthly check; at worst, they saw their ‘children’ as nightly entertainment, watching with eager abandon as the kids with control of their powers beat up the ones whose powers hadn’t fully manifested. Unlike some of the other kids, it wasn’t the pink hair he’d seen first, nor the trembling fingers he’d recognized all too well — a trademark of someone not fully in control of their powers, yet still grasping at some invisible force in the hopes they would come back. He saw the fear in her eyes, the silent plea for help in a moment of desperation, and on instinct, he stepped in front of Isabel, shielding her from the cruelty of kids competing for a love they wouldn’t receive from ‘parents’ who were anything but. They weren’t fast friends, exactly, but something deeper: family. In a world where choice had been so quickly taken away from them simply by the nature of their genetic makeup, this act of protection without care, of love without thought, was the loudest kind of rebellion two kids confused by the world around them could muster. Soon enough, their powers grew in harmony, working with each other to learn new tricks that complemented each other’s skills. And at twelve, after enough foster homes to last a lifetime, they arrived in Chicago with nothing but a backpack between the two of them, holding little precious trinkets they’d collected or — in Luke’s case — stolen along the way. Isabel caught notice of the Blackburn Syndicate shortly after they’d settled in the snow-strewn streets. He was hesitant and prideful, believing he’d be able to provide for the both of them through whatever means necessary. He knew his aptitude for fighting could land him some money, even if it meant getting some teeth knocked out every now and then, but when he saw her knowing fear and constant shiver, he conceded once more, letting her dreams dictate their future. His apprehension for yet another home claiming to welcome them and treat them kindly remained even after Alma agreed to take them in; the distaste only grew when it was clear ‘impressing’ the woman came in the form of Isabel fainting from over-exerting her powers and an altogether destructive showing of his own. Isabel assimilated quicker than he did, finding her footing well before him; half-scared to commit himself to this new environment and half-terrified that he’d lose her if he didn’t, Luke accepted menial jobs within the Syndicate as he worked on mastering his powers. When he turned eighteen, he took an under-the-table job at The Jungle, taking and encouraging bets for certain fighters in exchange for proper lessons. Here, he studied the best of the best until he was ready for the ring himself, and by twenty-four, he carved a reputation for being quite the fearsome fighter. “The Silent Striker,” the crowds dubbed him, when his quick but quiet fighting style emerged supreme against fighters twice his size. For the past few years, he’s kept the extent of his fighting a secret from Isabel and Isaac, telling them that he liked to go just to watch, or because he was on a special assignment from the Director. It’s not that he doesn’t trust them — on the contrary, he trusts them a little too much and believes that admitting to liking, perhaps even needing The Jungle as a form of release and rush would scare them away or cause them unnecessary concern. As much as they were his saving grace, they could also be his undoing and, in turn, his desire to protect Isabel and Isaac often meant shielding them from the truth of his being — the harsh cruelty he inflicted on others in order to make sure they’d all be taken care of, outside of the confines of the Syndicate. After all, the havoc he wreaked with just his hands was nothing compared to what he could do if he let light consume him, and when all was said and done, it was safer to have them wonder, “What is he doing?” rather than “What won’t he do?” Then again, when the question of family comes up, it’s not hard to imagine him consuming the world in order to keep them safe. 

EXPANDED CONNECTIONS: 

ISABEL ACOSTA: He might never say it out loud, but she is most definitely his saving grace. She’s more than a friend, more than family. Isabel is the first person who chose him, who saw him for what he was and didn’t shy away from it but instead welcomed him — hell, even needed him. He might not have known it at the time, but he needed her just as much, and certainly needs her now. When push comes to shove, he will follow Isabel no matter the consequence, no matter the reward because he knows there is no greater advantage than having her by his side. In terms of future ideas, I’d of course love to explore the depths of his relationships with Isaac and Isabel more. The concept of ‘found family’ comes with the territory of choice, which, for a man shuffled from one house to another and utilized as a weapon for about as long as he can remember, is something precious, if not nearly divine. I’d love to see these relationships tested and tried, and really pull and poke at the bonds those characters share just for Luke to realize the depth of his choice and see the lengths he’d go to ensure their safety. I’m a sucker for angst and tension and, naturally, would love to see Luke’s faith in his family falter, to play out possible betrayals or missteps if only to see him inevitably find his way back home. 

CAIN DOUGLAS: The great shame of any fighter’s life is knowing that fighting is simply in their lifeblood, something they can’t escape and something that they won’t necessarily accept, either. When he enters the ring to fight Cain, it’s exhilarating, enthralling, and ultimately exhausting. Each match between them is an excuse to learn and train, each new bruise and bloodstain practice for the ultimate fight that’ll come between the two of them, somewhere outside of The Jungle and upon the unending concrete of the city. In my head, Luke wears some sort of mask/head covering when he fights in order to separate this exceedingly brutal side from the calmer, safer person he needs to be around Isabel and Isaac. The only reason that Cain knows his identity is because he once bested him in the ring and part of his reward was unmasking the other man. From that moment, Cain’s known his identity, which pushes Luke to train harder and harder until he can defeat the man both in and out of the ring, potentially with the intent of silencing him forever. He knows that The Jungle is mostly safe for mutants, but it’s the threat of exposing his family to something so dark, so uncontrollable, so all-consuming that scares him to his core.

EXTRA: Here’s my insp tag for Luke! (The second post in that collection gives me such Luke vibes.) And here are some headcanons:

For obvious reasons, he’s weakest in the winter. During this season, he spends most of his free time around plants, which have their own special way of storing energy from the sun, as limited as the exposure is. Luke was born and ‘raised’ in a veritable ghost town somewhere in the southwest United States, and still speaks with a kind of southern drawl. He has a sweet tooth like no other and regularly starts his day off with a hot chocolate, add two sugars. Luke doesn’t know how to drive and typically relies on Isabel to get him anywhere that the city’s transportation system can’t reach.

ANYTHING ELSE: None, thank you! But if there’s anything you need to discuss about my app, please feel free to contact me @nfwmb !!

[theeurekaproject]

Fratres in Armis

“You’re late.” “I know.” T sunk back into the crowd, trying to blend in with the rest of his cohort. He wished mess dress allowed for the use of helmets; he stuck out like a sore thumb when the TB-class soldiers faces were uncovered. He didn’t need to receive any more comments about how strange it was that he resembled the Imperatrix so closely, almost as if he was her brother. The people who pointed and gossiped were mostly conspiracy theorists whose obsession with uncovering the secrets of the Imperials bordered on insanity, but T had no intention of making anyone aware that the observations they’d dismissed as fringe lunatic nonsense were more accurate than anyone thought.

“Did you at least—“ “Yes, I gave her the chip.” T fidgeted uncomfortably, trying to shield his face from the onlookers. “We should stop talking about this.”

“Then what do you want to talk about?” Ace asked, clearly bored.

“How about how incredible it is that our glorious Imperatrix has taken her rightful place on the throne of Eleutheria?” T replied loudly, making sure he was in earshot of their centurion.

“Yes, let us bask in her glorious presence.” Ace rolled his eyes, though based on the way he was looking at Acidalia, he didn’t mind “basking in her presence” as much as he claimed he did.

The men around them whispered amongst themselves. It was technically a breach of decorum, but nobody seemed to mind—the noise of the cornicenes was loud enough to drone out any errant rumors. Still, T could hear scattered fragments of conversations, words like bastard and Martian and filia nullius. Momentarily, he wished he could inform them who they were speaking to. They’d shape up real quick if they knew the man in front of them was the son of Alestra Cipher.

But to reveal his heritage would be foolish, and it would only fuel the rumor mill to give hints and implications, so T didn’t bother to try to stop the conversation. He’d long since made his peace with the fact that high society would never see his sister as legitimate, and Acidalia most likely had, too. When the revolution came, these haughty scandalmongers would be outnumbered by the people they oppressed, and T would have his justice then.

Until that moment came, though, he would sit and let the nonbelievers complain.

Acidalia was making a speech again, another meaningless sermon about how very thankful she was for the mother who’d never been anything but violently abusive for the entirety of her life. Alestra stood next to her, a mocking caricature of a proud parent. To the untrained eye, she appeared harmless and maternal, but T didn’t need his enhanced vision to see that her eyes were anything but loving. Behind them was Aleskynn, bored and annoyed, twiddling her thumbs in between posing extravagantly for the cameras. Later her picture would be on the newsreels and splattered all over the Internet; she knew that the media favored photos of her over photos of Acidalia.

Aleskynn was a classic Eleutherian beauty, and once she grew up, men would be bending over backwards for her favor. If marriage as a concept still existed on Terra, she’d probably have a thousand proposals from soldiers each more wealthy and powerful than the last. She was only 13, but that didn’t deter anyone. T had nearly killed a man behind a bar in Appalachia for saying something that involved Aleskynn’s name and the age of consent; T had never met his little half-sister, but it didn’t take much for the big-brother instinct to kick in. Everyone else had dismissed it as an act of drunken violence, and he’d gotten off with a slap on the wrist, which was no doubt because he was a TB-class immune and the other man was an O9-class miles. Pulling rank almost always felt wrong, but that time, it was far more gratifying than T would have liked to admit.

T worried about Aleskynn sometimes, though Acidalia assured him that she’d be fine. She was no doubt the favorite daughter; her birth was what convinced Alestra to repeal the one-child law she’d passed in a fit of rage one night when some advisor had implored her to do something, anything, about Eleutheria’s dying environment. It took quite a lot to make Alestra change her mind, especially when it didn’t benefit her in the least. She didn’t have to listen to her own rules—it was generally understood that noblewomen, especially the Imperatrices, were excluded from nearly all legislation they passed. So going through the process of rewriting the law so that mothers could have multiple daughters was uncharacteristic. Alestra was extremely attached to Aleskynn—so much so that they practically shared a name—and perhaps that attachment had finally let her see the joy she was preventing other mothers from experiencing. (It was attachment, not love—T was convinced that Alestra was not at all capable of love.) He still remembered the night when Principissa Aleskynn was born, though he was only four years old at the time. They’d all watched the announcement, clustered around the screen in their home base. Alestra lifted her up like something out of Leo Regem, and the crowds below cheered, like the birth of a princess affected them in any sort of positive way. Maybe they just liked cute children with dazzlingly pale skin and golden-yellow hair. So they cheered for their new Principissa, and Alestra made a lovely speech about how sometimes when things go bad, you just have to start again anew. T was eight when he realized that it was nothing but a thinly-veiled way to make fun of Acidalia in front of the entire nation, and eleven when he realized that not only was she effectively disowning Acidalia, she was disowning him, too (if it even counted as “disowning” when she never acknowledged his existence in the first place.) His blood had boiled, then, and it continued to boil now, red-hot anger coursing through his veins as he watched the rest of the crowd stare rapturously at Alestra like she was God Himself.

But even Aleskynn being the favorite child didn’t save her from anything. Celestia was reportedly Alestra’s favorite sister, and that didn’t help her make it past the age of 7. It would only take one small thing, one little slip up, for Aleskynn to feel her mother’s wrath. And even if by some miracle she managed to avoid the brunt of Alestra’s insanity, she was still growing up in a horrific, cutthroat environment where innocent people were mercilessly slaughtered for crimes they didn’t commit on a regular basis. That was no place for a child to be.

Not that T had had a particularly wonderful childhood himself. At least they didn’t put underage immunes into combat; lower-ranking men had it even worse.

He used to wish he’d been born with an X chromosome; then Alestra would have no choice but to acknowledge him, and he’d be second-in-line. Perhaps then he’d actually know Aleskynn, and perhaps he and Acidalia would have been able to spend their childhoods together. But then he’d have the responsibilities of leading a planet, and he wasn’t sure if he could ever handle politics as seamlessly and perfectly as Acidalia did. Legitimate or not, she was practically made for the job, though T thought she could use a little more self-preservation.

Eventually Alestra’s voice stopped, and the crowd cheered again, mostly. The few servants scattered throughout the flock just looked at one another. T didn’t blame them; they had no reason to like Alestra, or anyone else in the upper class, for that matter. Then Acidalia started talking, and it was just another version of their mother’s meaningless, droning, scripted speech. She spoke like she was filled with emotion, but when T looked at her face, it was blank, empty. He started to doze off again, lost in his own mind, then suddenly something jerked him back to the present.

“You okay?” Ace asked under his breath.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” T shook his head. But there was something bothering him, some gut feeling that told him there was a problem. He scanned the men around him quickly—other than Ace, he didn’t trust any of them very much. Still, none of them seemed to be saying or doing anything incriminating. The man on his left stared at Acidalia mindlessly, no doubt ignoring her speech like T had been, and most of the others seemed wrapped up in a whispered conversation about bets they placed on the outcome of this year’s Winter Olympics. They all seemed relatively innocent. So what, then…?

Then he caught it. A woman stood a ways behind Acidalia, finger on the trigger of a very well-concealed laser pistol. His heart raced for a second and he tried to convince himself that he was being paranoid, that someone else would have noticed such a blatant assassination attempt, then he remembered that nobody else would have noticed at all. High-ranking supersoldiers, or at least the young men who would one day become supersoldiers, were the only people with accurate enough vision to see the woman from here, and T was the only supersoldier who was paying attention to Acidalia whatsoever.

Silently, he elbowed Ace, who looked at him curiously. He nodded towards the podium and Ace’s bright brown eyes suddenly displayed a look of recognition, and—

And then a million things happened in about one Planck second.

T tackled the woman to the ground without a second thought. She shrieked and set off the gun, though thankfully not in his direction—the laser went flying through the crowd, scattering Aleskynn and her ladies-in-waiting, who ducked for cover under chairs and behind their mothers. Behind him, Ace had Acidalia pinned to the ground, and luckily she had the sense not to move. T heard only her panicked “Quid—?” before she too realized the events that were unfolding, and she pulled herself out from Ace’s grip, darting off into the crowd and leaving Ace clutching at the remnants of her torn organza skirt.

T’s momentary distraction allowed the woman to wrestle out of his arms and fire another shot, which he easily dodged; she was clearly untrained, and he wondered if she’d ever even used a gun before. The laser ricocheted off the ceiling and hit someone in the audience, sending an emergency services crew that appeared out of nowhere sprinting to attend to her. Desperate, T hit the woman across the face, and blood flew across her white ballgown, leaving thick, scarlet-red stains. She fell back, dazed, nose bleeding, and T grabbed the gun out of her hand and kicked her to the side. He looked at the Imperial Guard, who stood behind Alestra dutifully, but they didn’t even seem to notice him. Of course they wouldn’t—half of them were probably in on the plan.

God damn it, Acidalia, he thought, what did I tell you? He spared a glance at the bleeding woman he’d just knocked to the floor. Though she was covering most of her face with her gloved hands, he recognized her immediately as Cassiopeia, last of house Generalis, one of Alestra’s favorite followers. Then he had the abrupt revelation that to anyone in the audience, this would look very, very bad. He and Ace had just tackled the Imperatrix to the ground while shots flew in indiscernible directions—to the innocent members of the court, they probably looked like assassins, and to the Nova conspirators, they were criminals for stopping their plans from coming to fruition.

He spared a second to look for Acidalia, who was easy to spot in a crowd of pale blondes. Her curtain of black hair wavered behind her like a flag—or a target. Then he jumped off the podium and made a beeline for her, taking advantage of the chaos surrounding him and the fact that nearly every other man here was dressed in the same uniform he wore. Ace followed, vanishing into the crowd of identical soldiers and leaving a trail of organza and satin fabric behind.

Acidalia sat near the entrance with her gun drawn, looking like a complete wreck. Her dress were coming apart at the seams where Ace had torn it, exposing at least half a dozen petticoats and a very uncomfortable-looking cage crinoline. One sleeve had fallen from its place on her shoulder, revealing a bright purple bruise, and her entire bodice was drenched in Cassiopeia’s blood.

“I never knew House Generalis had such a grudge against me,” she mentioned casually, like everything that had just preceded the conversation was completely normal.

“For Christ’s sake, Acidalia, what are you doing?” T groaned. “Get the hell out of here. I can handle it.” “I don’t need you being in any more danger than you already are. I can handle myself.”

“No one woman can ‘handle herself’ in a room where everyone else wants to kill her, Dalia.” “Neither can one boy.” “They aren’t specifically targeting me!” T yelled, exasperated. One of the girls, a gray-eyed Scientia who didn’t exactly look like she belonged here, stared at him in fear. “Look at these people,” he hissed at Acidalia. “Cassiopeia almost killed you, and the two noblewomen beside her most definitely saw, but they didn’t do shit. That means they were almost certainly in on it. Our mother’s a complete sociopath—she wants you dead more than anyone else—and even if there is a single other sympathetic soul in this room, they’re probably too afraid of her to do anything. I’m also reasonably sure that at least one of Aleskynn’s friends is a spy. Face it—this is not a good location for you right now.”

Acidalia looked at the crowd hesitantly, then lowered her gun. “You’re right,” she admitted, “and I hate it. This place is going to become a bloodbath in a few minutes, and it’ll all be over me. I do hate leaving wars I started.”

“Stop taking responsibility for things you weren’t involved in. You didn’t make any of these assholes join the Nova.” She looked at him, her eyes forlorn. T knew what she was silently saying—maybe she hadn’t intentionally started any wars, but her birth and subsequent ascension was the catalyst for years of tension coming to a head. But she couldn’t control where she was born any more than a common Cantator—the Ciphers liked to pretend they were hand-picked by some vague immortal god to rule over the Empire, but that was all a sort of pseudotheology limited to propaganda, and Acidalia knew that better than anyone else ever could. She had no reason to feel guilty.

“Dalia,” T said again, “go. I know you want to stay here and protect me, but you’re in so much more danger than I am right now. Please, just leave.”

Acidalia bit her lip, but she lowered her gun. “If I listen to you and run right now,” she said, “you need to promise two things to me.”

“Anything,” T said. “Cross my heart.” “One: tell Artemis I’m alive at some point. She doesn’t deserve to spend the next few days panicking about me; she has her own issues, and we certainly don’t need anyone else in the court picking up on the fact that she seems inordinately concerned about the bastard Imperatrix they’ve all decided to kill,” Acidalia said. “Not that they don’t have enough evidence against her already, but, well… I’d rather have them be suspicious than certain. Understood?” T nodded. “Makes perfect sense to me, though I might have a difficult time convincing Ace. He and Artemis don’t exactly love each other.” “Ace’s petty squabbles with his superior officers are irrelevant. Please promise me you’ll at least tell her.”

“I will. I swear.” That was easy enough—barely even a mission. “And number two?” “When I leave, you leave too,” Acidalia said firmly. “No staying behind to investigate new assassination plots or interrogate potential spies or do anything else you weren’t explicitly assigned. I am not letting you put yourself in more unnecessary danger.”

His heart sunk. “But—“ “Listen to me. You are seventeen. You have so much life left to live, and if you stick around here for any longer, you drastically increase your chances of being captured or killed. I never thought I’d tell you this, but please, for all that is holy, find Ace and proceed to your assignment in the Underground. You’ll be much safer down there.” T almost voiced a protest, but Acidalia’s expression said clearly that she was not in the mood to argue. She was scarily good at forcing others to bend to her will, and, like the rest of the planet, T was prone to forgetting all thoughts of resistance the minute he looked at her face. She was so domineering, every bit the empress she was born to be, and even though he knew, logically, that she would never so much as lay a finger on him, it felt unwise to even try to oppose her.

“Okay,” he said finally, hoping he wouldn’t regret it later. “I promise. Now run, please.” Behind them, he could already hear more shots firing—laser guns were quiet, but not silent, and if he listened closely, his enhanced hearing could just barely pick up on the whoosh of laser bolts over the sounds of screaming.

“It does sound like the calvary has arrived.” Acidalia spared a glance over T’s head. “I love you. Don’t do anything stupid.” “You know me.” T smiled reassuringly. “Now go.”

She looked over at him one last time, as if to ensure that he was still standing there, then tore off down the hallway, leaving a trail of fabric and diamond dust. Even after all these years, it still shocked T somewhat to see how careless she was with money. Lab-grown or not, diamonds were expensive, and the amount of precious stones that had been on her ruined dress could probably have fed a family for months.

Not that he really blamed Acidalia for being clueless about value and worth. Alestra hadn’t exactly given her the world’s best education regarding economics.

He stood there for a few seconds, making sure she’d actually left. She was almost always truthful with him, but there had been isolated incidents where she’d lied for his protection, and, uncommon though they were, they’d taught him to never really trust anything she said about her own safety. Acidalia wasn’t dumb, but she was dangerously selfless, especially when it came to her loved ones. T had seen older boys with that same magnanimous altruism. They usually didn’t make it past twenty.

Ace caught up to him just as he finished sweeping the hallways, which were, evidently, clear of Acidalia (though he wouldn’t put it past her to be sitting someplace up in the rafters acting like a royal sniper.) At some point, the torn pieces of her skirt had come apart, and they stuck to Ace with static cling. Strips of fraying lace dangled from his uniform, catching on pins and wrapping around badges, leaving behind tiny white threads that made him look like he’d been caught in one of Eleutheria’s famously rare snowstorms.

“You look like you have dandruff,” T said flatly, reading up to brush some of the white debris off of Ace’s shoulder.

“You look like you have heatstroke,” he retorted, his voice equally as deadpan. “Where’s your sister?”

“Gone.”

Ace frowned. “I was hoping to meet her.” “Not a good time for her to schedule an audience. And don’t call her my sister, you don’t know who’s listening.”

Ace rolled his eyes. “Like anyone here will put the pieces together.” “Alestra would. We look very alike.” T and Acidalia could easily be recognized as siblings if they were stood side by side; they both had Alestra’s slender face and high cheekbones, coupled with their father’s deep brown eyes, brown skin, and pitch-black hair. The combination of “noble Eleutherian” and “penniless Martian” was not common, and it wouldn’t take a genius to see that they were more than strangers. Alestra had given birth to T, even if she’d have liked to forget it, and she was no idiot—she’d be quick to realize their relationship. T didn’t know the ramifications that would have, but considering his mother’s dislike of Acidalia, he had a feeling that it wouldn’t end well.

“We still can’t risk it,” he said, not wanting to argue with Ace any longer. “We need to get out of here. We have to go to the Underground at some point, anyway, and it’s too dangerous to stick around much longer.” The fighting behind them had mostly stopped, but it would probably not look very good if a Magistratus rounded the corner to see Acidalia missing and Ace clutching at the remnants of her torn clothes.

“Ironic, isn’t it? Who’d have thought that the Underground is safer than nice, pretty uptown Appalachia.”

“Sometimes it’s better to be in a place where nobody has any idea who you are.” T glanced one last time at the crowd of diplomats and the police trying to keep them in line before pulling Ace down another hallway. He knew this place like the back of his hand—he and Acidalia had spent their adolescent years hiding from Alestra in these stark white corridors. It wasn’t unusual for soldiers to be seen around the palace, especially high-ranking immunes like Ace and himself,  but they’d always been cautious, just in case. The stakes were too high for them to let their masks slip. The planet had never been closer to a civil war, and T didn’t want to be the harbinger of a new era of violence—that was, if it wasn’t already written in his DNA.