#OC: Wren

[friend-of-giants]

•●Wednesday Wrensday●•

The stars have aligned, I'm finally here with a little something to share! Since finishing that dreaded dragon fight chapter, I've been able to work some on the aftermath. It's at a choppy stage right now and needs some refining and editing, but I've put words on the page and I'm happy with that.

Tagging... @theoneandonlysemla @skyrim-forever @umbracirrus @silly-little-diary @heavy-metal-dick @chiqita @labskeever and anyone else who sees this. It's been a while and I forget who I usually tag lol

For those of you who haven't caught up with my fic, the black, hollow eyes is one of my own lil headcanons. I don't want to spoil it, but it just means something ain't right (and it ties back to Miraak, lol)

The dragon appeared to be dead, its massive body lying limp on the damp earth.  Its neck and most of its head were burnt black, its scales split apart and oozing blood.  Just behind the slain beast stood the Dragonborn, and she was alive.  Teldryn felt his heart beat thunderously, though as he began to stumble toward her, dizzy with relief and adrenaline, it became obvious that something wasn't quite right.

Thick gray smoke billowed from her gauntlets, bringing with it the unmistakable stink of hot metal.  Scattered in the dirt at her feet lay dozens of shards of ebony and a smoldering strip of leather—all that remained of her prized axe.  But most worrisome was the look in her eyes, or a lack thereof.  With a gaze as hollow and dark as the Void itself, Wren stared ahead at the dead dragon, her mouth twisted into a sinister grin as she awaited its soul. 

Teldryn stepped aside and watched it happen.  He wasn't sure what to focus on, the way the dragon's flesh melted from its bones and turned to light, the shimmering golden strands rushing from its corpse into her body, or how absolutely pleased Wren looked as she absorbed the light, but somehow he managed to witness the entire experience with equal amazement.  

He had to wonder how it must feel to absorb the life force of something as powerful as a dragon.  Did it hurt, did it burn?  Did it feel good, or did it make her feel, just for a moment, that she was the one with wings? 

As the last of the dragon's soul disappeared into her, Wren's body shuddered, and she dropped to the ground with a weak groan.  It was almost identical to what he had witnessed in the Skaal village when she returned to Nirn after slaying Miraak, but this time he hoped she wouldn't be unconscious for a whole damn week—or worse. 

Restraining his panic, Teldryn rushed to kneel at her side, found the clasps of her still smoking gauntlets and hastily undid them, then pulled them off.  He drew in a breath of shock at the sight.  Her skin on her palms and fingers were reddened and blistered in a familiar web-like manner that he often saw on aspiring mages who hadn't quite gotten the hang of casting electric spells.  It was nothing he couldn't mend with a stronger healing spell and some burn salve, but to see it on someone who often struggled to light the hearth with her own magic?  It filled him with more questions than he might ever get answers to. 

What in the blazes have you done?

[nixmori]

Okay, some real art! I made this.. some months ago and never got around to sharing. This was drawn for the Overlapping Lines Zine over at DBTR. The theme was fairytales and folklore and I chose sleeping beauty. Astarion and my Durge.

Link to the zine: https://downbytheriver.fun/overlappinglines/

[an-albino-pinetree]

Here’s my oc Wren! From @sm-baby ‘s new ‘The Eyes Of Cats’ story!!

Yes, I’m aware this just looks like a more feral Tree in a jacket- (this is essentially just Tree, but in TEOC), but I wanted to give her a name, and an “apocalyptic” personality, to separate her a bit. <:]

“Cat breed”: Blue Somali

When people say “Oh, my cat is a real mouser” that’s the kind of “cat” she is. She has a very high “prey drive” (She came from/grew up in, a big hunting family, before the apocalypse)

She’s very skittish and defensive, personality wise. Untrusting and flighty.

Pros: Highly skilled in survival/street smarts/hunting.

Cons: Trust issues/doesn’t get attached readily. Will possibly screw you over, if it means she gets to remain safe.

[sheerricetorrent]

❤️❤️❤️My beautiful bog girl

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ──| “Lots of Firsts” |── *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*

Characters \\ Atlas (he/him), Wren (they/them)

The room is silent. 

Atlas lays stiff as a board on the bed, turned away from Wren, his muscles cramping from his tense position. He’s still trying to put as much distance between the two of them as he can, refusing to get close to them by any means necessary. He’ll do anything to avoid them, even if it means filling the room with a suffocating, thick atmosphere. 

He hates it here. 

The bed is nothing like his inside his dorm, this one so smooth and plush, his weight seeping into the mattress. It’s soft — too soft. He misses his cot, with its familiar sturdiness and thin starched sheets. He misses his dorm room, the same pale gray walls meeting him every morning, all of his belongings placed carefully in a row, exactly where he needed them. He misses its silence, without Wren’s ear-grating snores to disturb his peace. He doesn’t want this life, all twitchy and jittery, floating mindlessly with no clear direction to go. 

He would go back to the warehouse in an instant if he could. He’d do anything, as long it meant he could return. Come home. 

“Ungh.” 

Wren’s grunt comes from behind him, yet again cutting through his attempts at some sort of calm — the familiar kind of quietude he would have in the mornings at the base. Back when his routine was respectable and orderly, what you would expect of a proper soldier. Not this complete disarray that comes with living with Wren, each morning beginning in another new, bizarre location, the day's plans completely done on impulse. He couldn’t hate it more. 

Atlas can feel Wren’s eyes on his back, but he doesn’t move. No, not a single inch. He’s still, rigid, just as he was trained to be. He doesn’t really want to talk to them ever again, but especially not after last night. He can only pray that they feel the same. 

The thought of facing them leaves him burning with shame. 

A beat of incredibly tense silence passes, and Atlas hears them moving, standing, unzipping the bag that was tossed towards the end of the bed, near their feet. “We should leave soon,” they mutter. They don’t prod at him to answer, don’t check if he’s heard them, don’t wait for a response. They don’t do anything. They simply turn on their heel and pass him, the bathroom door shutting closed behind them with a gentle click. The sound of running water quickly overwhelms the quiet. 

Atlas allows himself to lay there for a moment before slowly standing up and walking over to the doorway, standing straight, shoulders tilted back, gaze level, as he waits for Wren to finish. There’s something familiar about it, his uniform tight against his skin, the fabric gentle, welcoming. It gives him some sense of… belonging. Of what’s right. 

Something to cling to. 

Wren is quick to rinse off and redress, carefully stepping out of the bathroom with their typically fluffy hair now flat and sopping, water droplets pattering their shoulders. They regard Atlas for a miniscule moment, their mouth drawing into a tight line. “Let’s go.” 

Atlas doesn’t give them any sort of acknowledgment, not daring to look in their eyes. At this point, he’s not sure he’s able to. Silent as ever, he follows them out, glad to be finally getting out of here. 

The ride down the elevator is long, silent, and painfully awkward. Atlas makes no attempts at trying to talk to Wren, to break the ice, as some would say; he doesn’t even spare them so much as a glance as they make their way down to the car. He’s not quite sure what’s worse. The previous day where all he encountered was their needless, irritating questions. Or now, with this suffocating silence burning a pit of shame into his chest. 

He thinks he’ll have to run away soon enough. There’s no possible way he thinks he’ll be able to endure any more of this torture. 

“Sorry about the bathroom!” Wren’s walk is brisk and their posture sharp as they rush out the door. They give Atlas a sidelong glance, lowering their voice to mumble, “Gotta get out of here before they see what you’ve done to the bathroom.” 

Atlas has the decency to look thoroughly embarrassed as he follows them to the van, quickening his pace. He wishes he could forget last night entirely, wishes Wren wasn’t a constant reminder of all his complete failings, of his betrayals to himself. He’s above all of this — of sleeping in a dingy, deteriorating environment, each new location worse than the previous. Of allowing himself to be carted around by a grime-covered delinquent, each of their comments pricking at his weakening resolve. He knows better than to lose his temper, he knows better than to throw a tantrum. 

Everything about this is wrong. He shouldn’t be going along like this, shouldn’t be turning his back on the very principles he’s carefully curated his persona with. They’re the foundations of who he is — he’s afraid of what will happen if he allows himself to lose more of the rules he’s built his entire life around. 

And yet, even with every last sensible thought inside his skull begging him to do the right thing, to take back all of this treachery before he goes too far, he doesn’t stray from Wren’s side, sliding into the passenger seat beside them as they speed out of the parking lot, tires screeching upon asphalt. 

They glide out onto the road, the sun beating down against the car as Wren pulls them down along the street. “We’re only going a city over today.” They say, eyes flickering momentarily towards his. 

Atlas doesn’t bother with even giving them a nod of acknowledgment today, his gaze drifting towards the street just outside his window, where blurs of brightly-decorated shops, cars, and early morning walkers with a dog or a stroller to accompany them pass them by.

The better half of an hour is spent like this. In silence, the air rigid around them. Wren slumped in their seat, letting out the occasional sigh which Atlas supposes means they want him to say something — though each one of their groans is strictly ignored. Atlas is still, unblinking, inside his own seat, hands folded neatly in his lap. Perhaps if he stays like this, an echo of what he was inside the base, the pain aching in his chest for each mile they cross will reduce. Maybe this will somehow make life inside Wren’s van somehow easier. 

It’s Wren that finally breaks the silence, pulling Atlas from withtin the depths of his melancholy. They speak, their voice a soft grumbling sound as they say, “Is your hand okay?” 

“Yes.” Atlas doesn’t move, his voice a lower tone than usual as he focuses his gaze on a specific car beside them. Its a sleek silver, small and rectangular, with a sharp sort of shape. A woman sits inside, fair hair, sharp cheekbones, pale lips. One hand pressing a phone similar to Wren’s to her ear, the other resting loosely against the steering wheel. 

Atlas wonders what she’s saying, who she’s speaking to.

Wren’s eyes are fixed on the road in front of them as they clear their throat, continuing. “If you reach back in my bag, there’s some numbing ointments and disinfectant. Should be bandages back there somewhere too.”

“It’s fine.” Atlas answers gruffly, subconsciously rubbing his fingers along his reddened knuckles.

Wren spares a glance over at Atlas’s hand with a slight frown before shrugging. “Just there if you need them.” 

And silence fills the car once again, neither of them with a will strong enough to fight against the tension that is slowly swallowing them whole. 

Thirty more minutes pass and Atlas watches as the city they had once resided in blends into another, this one seemingly smaller than the previous, with less attractions to occupy the streets. More people are out and about, as the morning spreads into day, bringing along school children and their nanny’s, stressed businessmen and women clambering into their cars. 

Wren licks their lips, chewing down against a dead piece of skin. “I’m sorry about last night.” They state, the sentence coming out with more of a hesitance than their previous comments. Atlas is unsure of what to make of it. 

He’s never heard an apology before. Afterall, soldiers never recieve apologies. They exist to listen and obey. They hold no power over their superiors. He blinks, registering their words slower than he normally would, almost confused. Then their statement settles, and he’s quick to dismiss them entirely. “No need to apologize.” He tells them begrudgingly. 

He can feel Wren quickly glance over him, their eyes back to squinting at the road within seconds. “There is. I was uncool last night. Sorry.” 

“Okay.” Atlas manages, no less tense than before their apology began. It’s almost unbearable. 

Wren hums and nods slightly, seeming to be satisfied enough with that answer. “Do you want to stop anywhere?” They say, quickly switching the topic. 

Atlas shakes his head. “I don’t know where to stop around here.” He says in the same monotone voice as before.

Wren shrugs at Atlas’ words. “There’s probably fast food places if you want to try more stuff. I know there’s a thrift store. We should probably get you some more clothes.” Their gaze travels towards his uniform, sticking out like a sore thumb amongst their surroundings, the Eden insignia a bitter reminder of everything he’s abandoned. 

Atlas nods. “Okay. We can do that.” 

His willingness seems to come as a surprise to them both, the sudden itch along his skin pulling him from making any sort of protest at replacing the only clothes he’s ever owned. 

Just past the next exit and a couple minutes down the road Wren finds the thrift store, a short red-bricked building that stretches out along the plaza, other quaint stores tucked alongside it. Wren parks the car, cracking their knuckles and unbuckling their belt. “Let’s go.” 

The inside of the thrift store is stuffy and stacked wall to wall with racks of clothes and bags, random trinkets and pieces of furniture joining the piles. Signs hang from the ceiling, directing customers to men’s and women’s clothing specifically, different gaggles of people filling out the rows, hangers scraping against their posts. The smell is musty and the lights overhead flicker dully, not providing as much light as they should be, yet Atlas has to stop and stand in the entrance as he takes it all in, awestruck by it all. His eyes widen and he glances around to all the different areas, his head buzzing as he witnesses the pure amount of everything that has been fitted inside. 

This has to be just about the most wonderful place he’s ever seen.

“Why don’t you go pick out some things from this section,” Wren suggests, tugging on his sleeve and directing him to a thick rack of clothes. It’s overflowing, different colours sticking out from the almost bursting row, what is probably hundreds of shirts all organized into one section. Atlas steps forwards, tugging at the different materials, immediately enraptured by the clothes as Wren wanders over to an aisle just across from him, sifting through shirts of their own size. 

“See anything you like?” They ask, holding up a baggy white shirt with neon colours splashed upon the front, examining it closer under the light. 

Atlas picks through the clothes, appearing to be a bit overwhelmed. There’s so many items… he has no idea on which ones to select. What would be the proper wear for a homeless runaway? “I’m not sure what to pick.” He murmurs, pulling out a coral polo shirt before quickly placing it back on the rack. 

Wren hums, making their way across the aisles to stand beside him. “Well, you like red.” They state, leaning over to shove some of the shirts aside. “What about this? It’s kinda cool.” They ask, holding up a baggy black t-shirt with jagged red lettering that Atlas can’t exactly decipher. 

Relief floods through him at the direction and his fingers tentatively find themselves around the material, holding it up carefully as he inspects it. It’s not like anything he’s worn before, something that he’s sure Cato wouldn’t disapprove of, the edges of the clothing slightly worn down. But without Cato here to sway his decision, the word no never makes it past his lips. 

He folds it tightly into his arm, turning his attention back to the shirts as he begins to search for similar items. “Let me know if there’s anything you’re not sure will fit you so you can try it on. Or we can just check out when you’re ready.” Wren says, clapping him on the back and turning back to their own leisure browsing, leaving him to his own devices.  

Atlas nods, picking up more items and inspecting them, easing up a bit with the more clothes he finds he likes. Or at least, he thinks he likes. He’s not entirely sure yet. All of this is still too fresh, too overwhelming. He doesn’t even know if he’s picking the right things, if Wren will find his selection satisfactory. Does he even want them to? 

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, a neat but rather bulky pile of clothes now gathered in both of his arms, he wanders over towards Wren’s side again so that the two can both check out. 

Wren has their own little pile of clothes, brightly-coloured things with flashy designs or weird little cartoon characters Atlas doesn’t recognize, and they lead him over to where the cashier is with a small smile, fishing out a tightly-rolled wad of cash from out of their jorts. 

There is a ding from the cash register, the payment going through, and the next thing Atlas knows he’s carrying several plastic bags stuffed to the brim with clothes. They thump along his legs as Wren leads them back to the van, sliding the back door open and tossing their own bags inside. “You can change in the back if you want,” they say, clambering inside. “Or you can wait until we stop again.” 

Atlas nods. “I’ll change in the back.” He mutters, carefully placing his clothes down inside. There’s a relief to it, as he slides the car door shut, a weight off his chest at having so many new clothes to wear. The knowing that he can finally shed off his uniform. 

But he can’t help feel a pang of guilt that washes over him at the thought, another reminder of the duty he has abandoned, as the uniform that had once provided him comfort now provides him nothing but a foreign despair, no longer home against his prickling skin. 

How much more will he allow himself to lose?

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────── · ·

Wren has just pulled back out onto the street when the boy clambers back into the front, buckling his seatbelt without hesitation. He’s shed the nasty green uniform, opting instead for a baggy band tee and oversized black jeans, a cheap little silver necklace they’d scored from inside the thrift store now hanging from his neck. 

Sitting here now, with his tattoos on full display, dark ink designs swirling up and down his forearms, he looks completely different from what Wren had initially taken him for. If they didn’t know any better, they’d say he was just a regular teenaged boy, not some super soldier from inside the depths of one of Eden’s warehouses. Any sign of the soldier they’d met a month ago is easy to miss, the only thing giving it away being his rigid posture and closed-off expression. 

They give him an approving nod, gaze settling back on the road. “Looking good.” 

“Thanks.” He mutters, hands fumbling with a loose string attached to the knee of his jeans. He stares out the window as they come to a stop at the lights, eyes flickering to where an elderly couple passes the crosswalk ahead of them. 

“So,” Wren drums their fingers against the steering wheel, following along to the beat of the current song they have on in the background. “Wanna tell me your name now?” 

“No reason to.” The boy responds, squashing all their hopes at some sort of trust between the two of them. He simply stares out the window, following the same routine of every single damn time they’ve gotten into this van together. 

Wren throws their head back with a dramatic groan. “Rats.” They grumble, chewing at the inside of their cheek with irritation. 

The boy doesn’t care for their dramatics. And if he does, he doesn’t show it. “Where to next?” He asks, brushing past the topic altogether. Wren can’t help but notice he has a tendency to change the subject whenever a topic he’d rather avoid pops up. It’s rather annoying. 

“Outskirts of town,” they reply. “We’ll stay there a few days and go through all the files we’ve got. I want to get it properly organized.” 

The boy nods, continuing his people watching with no further comment, curious eyes flickering to each shop and restaurant they pass. 

They make the rest of the drive in silence but unlike before, it’s not nearly as tense. There is still a certain weight carried between the two, but Wren feels that it’s significantly less awkward than the morning, where the boy’s high emotions seemed to bleed onto them, tainting the space with his frustration. Now he seems to almost tolerate their company, something Wren almost feels glad for. 

With only a few minutes left of their drive, it’s Wren that speaks up for the third time. “You don’t have to stay with me, you know.” They say, turning down a new road, this one uneven and smattered by pebbles, the car rumbling and bouncing as they move further away from civilization. “I’ve got my information, you’ve got your safety for now. If there are things you want to pursue, I won’t stop you.” 

The boy is silent, unmoving, something Wren has come to expect. With each question they fire at him, the longer it seems to take for him to compute and properly digest it. They guess it’s foreign, all this new territory. He’s probably unused to it, growing up so sheltered from the world. They’re sure it isn’t easy, leaving everything you had grown up with behind. Being with them definitely isn’t helping the transition, either. 

They wait patiently for an answer, only prodding him again when the silence begins to grow uncomfortable. “Do you want to? Leave, I mean. I doubt it would be safe for you. But it is your choice.” 

He bristles at those words, his fingers twitching from where he has them tucked inside his lap, grip tightening just slightly. His face is ducked away, out of view, so they can’t attempt to read him, but when he finally responds, they can hear the discomfort in his voice. “This is fine.” He mumbles, scratching at the inside of his hand — a nervous tic. 

Wren leans back in their seat, surveying him slowly. “Oh, okay.” They say, offering nothing more as they near an abandoned parking garage with graffiti smeared across almost every inch of cement. They park in a tucked away corner before shutting the van off, climbing into the back without another glance towards their companion. 

Settling down into their corner stuffed with pillows, they stretch, relaxing into their little set up with a small groan. “I’m gonna eat and then take a look at those files,” they say, pulling out two granola bars from out of a plastic bag and offering one to the boy, who has followed them and now sits expectantly, almost as if waiting for instruction. 

He’s almost like a baby duck, Wren thinks, watching him closely as he gingerly unwraps his granola bar, almost like he’s holding something valuable. Unable to make decisions for himself, always checking with them on how to act, what to do. It’s strangely unsettling, paired with the fact that he hates their guts — or at the very least, doesn’t respect them. Yet he’s compulsive about it, always giving them a sideways glance to double check, even at times where he doesn’t seem to realize it. Wren isn’t sure what to make of it. 

They wonder if they’re all like this. So mindless that obedience is just second nature to them, always bowing down to whoever they deem in charge. What kind of life is that, with no thoughts of your own? How long was he forced to live like this? 

Wren crumples up their wrapper, finishing off the rest of the granola bar in one big gulp. “What was your life like before Eden?” They ask, propping themself up a little straighter. “Were you a student?”

The boy straightens at the mention of his life before Eden, twitching fingers reaching up to pull on a strand of his hair, instantly averting his gaze from theirs. His answer is short, voice clipped. A simple, “No.” 

Wren notes he seems more agitated — or perhaps nervous? — at this than any of their previous questions, and they hum, pushing on. “Younger, then? Did you grow up in Eden?” 

“Yes,” is all he supplies, not going into any further details of his childhood. 

Wren leaves it be, deciding to not push him further than he’s willing to go. “I was a student. Before I started all of this.” They say, changing the topic. “Dropped out though.” 

The boy offers them another nod, holding his empty wrapper firm in his hands as his eyes dart from them back to the van floor, suddenly timid. No matter what they do, all kinds of conversation leave him with some level of discomfort. 

They sigh, continuing on. “Middle school was never really for me anyways though so I’m not too bummed about it. I was glad to be out of there, honestly.” 

Their eyes flicker back to him, and they notice that he’s focused on them now, leaning forwards slightly, as if truly interested in them for the first time since they’ve parted from the warehouse. It gives them the courage to go on. 

“I’ve actually only been on my own for a few months or so. It’s not all bad though. I mean I've got my van. I’ve got ways of getting money. The worst part is the weather. It’s getting colder and colder and so I can't exactly leave the van running all night.” They lift their rolled-up sleeping bag and pat it. “That’s why I’ve got this baby.”

He nods, almost unblinking with the way he’s staring at them. He doesn’t try to offer anything to the conversation, sitting in silence as he absorbs what they’re saying, his eyes curious as they explain. Although Wren had initially found it off putting, there is a sort of calm that comes with someone so willing to listen. 

On that note, Wren pushes the sleeping bag out towards the boy. “You can use it tonight. I doubt you’re used to sleeping somewhere with no air conditioning. We’ll have to get another one soon,” they ponder, running a hand across their chin.  

“It’s fine. ‘A soldier must learn to adapt to their surroundings, no matter what.’” He recites, gently pushing it back towards them. “Keep it, I don’t need it.”

Wren eyes the boy with a skeptical look, crossing their arms and letting out a small humph. The sleeping bag sits between them, neither daring to reach it. “Dude, you don’t have to act like that anymore.” Wren huffs, indignant. “You’re allowed to want to be warm.” 

“I’m more comfortable without it.” He states, levelling his gaze right back at them. 

They watch him for a moment before reluctantly nodding, allowing him to win, just this once. “Alright.” They sigh, resignedly grabbing the sleeping bag and stowing it back away in the corner. “Okay, wanna grab my laptop out of that bag?” They ask, leering over to shuffle through the bag of files and flash drives they’ve collected from their mission at the warehouse. 

The boy does as they instruct without question, quickly passing over their laptop and scooting closer beside them. He watches over their shoulder as they boot it up, their Vocaloid homescreen flashing for him to see in its full glory. They rummage around in their bag some more before their fingers close around the first hard drive they’d acquired, and they are two seconds from sticking it inside and sorting through all the evidence when a new thought occurs to them. 

The contents within these files may be rather triggering to their ex-Eden companion, given the circumstances. With the knowledge of what his superiors had planned for his own fate, they’re sure seeing the same cruelties and torture placed upon others wouldn’t help much with his already conflicted, distressed emotions. “Uh, you don’t have to look through these with me if you don’t want.” 

The boy stares at the blank computer screen for a second, his expression unreadable. “It’s fine.” He tells them. 

“Alright.” Wren shrugs and inserts the drive, opening the file and scrolling through the list of names. “You’re not going to like, kill me for leaking these anymore, right?” 

The boy’s expression darkens, his unrelenting gaze still fixed harshly upon the screen, eyes flickering over all the names of the Elites of the past. Wren can’t even try to decipher what he may be thinking. 

“No,” he decides. “I’m not.” 

They study him for a moment, searching for any sign of a lie. Perhaps the tightness of his posture, or his avoidance of their gaze. But after a second, they realize there isn’t much of a point to it. Even if he is lying, they doubt they’d be able to tell. He’s probably been trained out of every “tell” in the book. “Alright.” They shrug, turning their attention back onto the files. 

They scroll through the list, eyes scanning through it for a moment before they make a copy, saving it to their personal files. They grab another flash drive — this time the one with the videos. Opening the file, they grimace as a video, debatably worse than the last they’d seen, pops up onto their screen. 

It pictures a girl, much smaller than Wren themself, curled into a corner, as if trying to disappear altogether. She is bare besides for the remnants of what may have been a green uniform such as the boy’s. Though there’s not much to it now, the fabric worn and faded, ripped in such a way it can’t be classified as more than tattered rags upon her figure. She is trembling, staring up at the camera with tear-stricken eyes. The source of her pain is evident to be the contraption fixed upon her head; a silver, clunky thing, with entangling wires spindling around the base of her skull. Tubes run under the thin, pale skin upon her head, hair shaved off in harsh chunks, leaving only pale red patches behind. 

The camera shifts slightly, as a long, green-panted leg appears into view. “Again.” 

“No,” the child moans, the word broken, said in a half-sob. Her voice is hoarse, crackling, rasping against the air. It breaks Wren’s heart. “Please, please no more, I can’t—”

“Again!” 

The girl jerks as a sharp beeping noise cuts through the scene, the contraption on top of her head lighting up with a sort of terrifying brilliance. The girl screams and Wren watches as she collapses, twitching and seizing in uncontrollable motion, as pleas escape from her lips with complete desperation. 

The device only burns brighter. 

Wren sharply clicks out of the file, putting an end to the senseless destruction before them with a quick, press of a button. They spare a glance at the boy, mouth twisted up into a grimace as they stare at him for a moment, finding no words to properly cut through what the two just witnessed. 

Finally, they settle on what they hope isn’t too antagonizing: “Wanna look at these later?” 

“You don’t need to coddle me.” He states. He still hasn’t met their gaze, eyes focused on the exact place where the girl had once been displayed, now replaced by rows and rows of digital white files, just sitting there, waiting to be sorted. “I may have not known about this,” he continues after a moment, voice unwavering. “But I’ve still been more than prepared to not be affected by videos like these. I’m fine.” 

Wren can’t help the guilt that crawls through them at his words. Even they were made sick with each video they opened — and he’s claiming to not be affected? Whatsoever? They eye him for a moment longer, waiting for just a tiny crack to appear inside his steely cool exterior, but they are met with nothing. Of course they are. From the looks of it, last night was the last time he would express his true emotions with them. Wren isn’t sure if they should be relieved or disappointed. 

“Alright man, whatever you say.” They shrug, turning back to their laptop with a slight sigh, pulling at more of the files. 

The following minutes that ensue are tense, silent, as Wren clicks away at their laptop, the boy peering steadily over their shoulder with that same petrifying gaze. Wren forces their eyes to remain on the screen, not turning to give their companion another pitiful glance — for both of their sakes. 

Their face hardens into a glare with each new file they sort through. Anger churns in their stomach and they can hardly get through the videos and documents that each new hard drive reveals. Children stolen from their homes, memories manipulated, different experiments played out; replacing flesh with mechanics, power enhancing drugs, abuse when the results are of disappointment to the scientists. It’s all absolutely disgusting. They’re quick to save each onto their laptop, refusing to look deeper into the evidence they’ve collected. It’s enough as it is, already. Much more and they think they’ll hurl. 

“It’s terrible,” Wren mumbles, gritting their teeth and slamming their laptop shut, shoving the thing away as if it's too hot to touch. “I hate seeing those videos.” 

They inhale and exhale rhythmically, forcing down the building bile within their throat. It’s horrific, everything they’ve seen come from this investigation. The files, the documents, the secrets buried within — all of it is more disgusting than they could have ever imagined. The rumours did nothing to do the true terrors justice. 

Wren glances over at the boy, who they find already has his own gaze transfixed onto them. He blinks at them, face blank, and Wren wonders for the millionth time what must be running through his head. Does he recognize any of the children in these videos? Did he train with them, take lessons with them? Is he truly as unaffected as he proclaims he is?  

“You good?” They ask, raising a brow. 

He nods, not a flicker of emotion peeking through. They study him, trying to find an angle that may reveal what he’s feeling, something to give away his personality besides the guarded, quiet one they’ve come to know over the past day. There has to be something more to him. But of course, they find nothing, the violet of his eyes dark, unrelenting. They sigh, leaning back against their little pillow corner and tucking their arms behind their head. When they had thoughts of a companion, they’d always imagined someone to fill the space, stealing away the suffocating silence and gaping emptiness the van took on in all those long nights by themself. This boy seems to have the opposite effect. He’s so… boring. 

“Hey,” Wren glances over at him again. “You ever play a video game?” 

He tilts his head slightly at them, confusion wrinkling his stone-sculpted features. “When would I have the time for that?” 

Wren blinks at him. Figures. Of course the evil power-hungry organization also banned video games, humanity’s best invention by far. They sit up, leaning over to their bag and digging through it, producing a little blue Nintendo DS. They flash it in front of him with a proud grin. “Ta-da!” 

“What is that?” The boy asks, staring at the device in their hands with a curious look. 

“It’s a DS. You can play games on it.” Wren explains, scooting closer as they turn it on so he can see the screen. “There are little cards with games on them and you put the cards inside. Here, I’ll show you.” 

The boy looks infinitely more interested as the stolen files are replaced by Wren’s DS. He watches intently as Wren begins to navigate the game, demonstrating how to play. 

“You take care of the animals in the zoo. Look, I just got giraffes,” they say, making their little avatar walk around. “And you get little alerts when your animals want to play or take a bath. And you have to remember to give them food and water.” They add, showing it off. The boy is enraptured as they push their avatar to walk beside the giraffe, holding a cartoonishly large leaf up to feed it. The giraffe bounces happily and little hearts appear above its head. “You can tell how happy they are too.” 

Wren glances over their shoulder towards the boy, whose eyes are locked on the screen, filled with a certain childlike wonder. The expression is similar to the one he wore when they were in McDonald’s, taking in all the new sights. Wren finds it to be sort of wholesome. “Want to try?” 

He nods excitedly and Wren swears that they’ve almost managed to get a smile out of him for the first time since the two crossed paths. The thought almost makes all their awkward tension from before worth it. They shoot him a small grin and place the DS into his hands. “Use those two buttons to move around.” 

The boy nods, shifting to tuck his feet under his lap as he moves the little avatar around the island, a light present upon his face that wasn’t there before. Wren wonders if this is the first time he’s actually done something for fun. It makes them feel strangely sad.

They watch him for a long moment as he plays the game, almost instantly absorbed in it. He looks content almost, maybe even close to happy. That’s more than they could’ve expected from him for the past 48 hours, so Wren declares it a definite win.  

With a hum, they lay back down again and close their eyes, allowing themself to relax now that the boy is preoccupied. The only sound inside the van is the gentle clicking of buttons from the DS, the gentle heat within the van enough to lull Wren asleep. For the first time in a long while, they feel perfectly at peace. 

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────── · ·

“Fun?” 

Atlas has completely lost track of himself by the time Wren’s voice cuts through the van once again. Cato and Ira are no longer present on his mind, this new addicting game pushing away all worries momentarily. He looks up towards Wren, rubbing their eyes and smiling lazily at him, and offers them a quick nod. “Would you like it back?” He asks. 

Wren shakes their head and puts a hand up. “No, you seem like you need it. You’re good to keep playing if you want.” 

“Okay.” Atlas nods, turning his attention once more to the vibrant game. It’s not like anything he’s seen before. A simple premise, really. No true objectives to the game, nothing for him to strive towards — no enemies to defeat. Yet he couldn’t enjoy it more, something calming filling him from going through the rounds of caring for the digital animals. It’s a sort of funny thing, how something so mundane can be so fulfilling. 

Silence fills the van again, though it’s only brief this time around. Atlas has only been clicking away at the button’s of Wren’s DS for a few minutes when their voice interrupts him again. 

They let out a slow exhale. “…You know they probably won’t just let you go, right?” 

Atlas stills, slowly meeting their gaze. This was the one conversation he’d been dreading the most. The one thought that has been repeating inside his head incessantly all day long. The very thing that rests heavy inside his chest now, anxiety seeping into his bones. They’ll be searching for me.   

Wren frowns, propping their chin on their elbow with a sigh. “Just be ready for that. I don’t know how long we’ll have before they decide they want to get you back.” 

Atlas shifts uncomfortably, the DS forgotten in his grip. He can’t believe he was so stupid, so reckless. He knows better than this, has been warned maybe a thousand times about the consequences of ignoring his responsibilities. Deserters were dishonorable, shameful. He’s thrown away all hopes of a respectable life.

He should’ve thought this through. He’d just been so upset, all he’d wanted to do was get as far away from the warehouse as he could. He wasn’t thinking clearly. No— wasn’t thinking at all. Anyone with a sliver of sense could see that this plan of Wren’s is destined to fail. He’s doomed himself, following them. 

But where would he go? He doesn’t know who he’d turn to, outside of Eden. He hasn’t ever even left the warehouse by himself, up until now. Cato is probably so disappointed in him, abandoning her during Evaluation Day, the day she’d spent the last decade preparing him for. All those hours spent, tirelessly whipping him into shape, turned to waste with one horrible choice. He doesn’t even want to imagine what she’d do to him if he tried to return. 

And Ira…

“They won’t find us though, okay? I’ve been doing this for a while. I’m good at hiding. We can go underground until they lay off.” Wren pipes up, perhaps noticing Atlas’ calm exterior begin to slip, his despair clouding his eyes. Despite it, Atlas doesn’t feel any reassurance from it. Nothing Wren has said up until now has managed to calm his thoughts. 

He stares at his hands, wondering if he made the wrong decision. It was the first time he had truly picked something for himself, without it being laid out for him by one of his superiors, steered in the correct direction. He’s never truly picked something for himself, not in any way that mattered. And this one, life-shattering decision was done without a second thought. 

He hadn’t dared to think about what would happen after he left. What people would think, what it would feel like. If he was even capable of surviving without Eden’s warmth and guidance. He was being so completely stupid. Now he hadn’t just cursed himself, yet Wren too. The small steps they’d made in achieving their impossible dream would be erased within seconds, once Atlas led Eden straight to them. As much as he didn’t like them, he didn’t want someone so innocent to get hurt for his sake. 

Cato was not a merciful woman.

He’s scared to think about what she’d do if she found out Wren was the one to push him to leave. What she’d do to them.

Wren sits up, sliding closer to where he sits. They’re quiet for a moment, biting down on the piercing dangling from their lip, before taking a deep breath, beginning to speak. “Look uh…” they cough out, wringing their hands. “It’ll be okay. I mean it probably sucks right now. But eventually it might not suck. We’ve got loads of granola bars. And you know what a DS is now.” 

They lift their hand, as if to rest it against him, before quickly withdrawing it before contact can be made. Atlas barely registers it. 

Wren's words have fallen on deaf ears. Now that they’ve pointed out all the gaping holes within his plan, or lack thereof, he can’t push his terror back down. He thinks about all the different ways Eden can track the two of them down, all the technology they have access to. How far will they even manage to go, in one tiny, clunky van? Did they really have any chance at this from the start? 

He’s never even heard of a soldier running away — no, escaping, but maybe there’s a reason for that. What if…

“Hey.” Wren’s voice is firm as they lean in close. “Look at me for a second, will you?” 

“Yes?” Atlas asks, voice quieter than usual as he glances up at them, hoping they can’t read the fear screaming within his mind — or notice the shake in his hands. 

“Look, you’re going to be fine. Well, not actually, like, fine. But they’re not going to get you. We got you out of there and you’re going to stay out of there.” They grasp his shoulder, grip harsh, yet just the kind of pressure he needs to ground himself. “Later on we can go somewhere further if we need to, so stop worrying about it.” 

For a moment, Atlas almost believes them. There’s a sort of confidence that they carry themself with that makes it almost believable. Almost. 

And then reality sets in. 

“If you truly believe that, you’re way in over your head.” He states, staring dead into their eyes. His hands tighten into fists from where they lay upon his lap. 

Wren releases Atlas, slumping back. “I might be.” They mutter, fumbling with their fingers as they avoid his gaze.

Atlas continues to stare at them, almost unblinkingly. “Eden has more resources than you’ll ever have in your entire lifetime. Just the Task Force alone has warehouses spread all over the country, some, I think, have even started opening up in neighbouring countries. It was foolish of me to follow you. I’m only putting a target on your back.”

Wren tilts their head. “You only made the target bigger. I’ve had a target on me for a while.” They retort, crossing their arms defiantly. “It’s fine.” Their eyes soften just slightly, and they offer him a small, pitiful smile. “I don’t regret getting you out of there, you know.” 

Atlas tries to ignore the way their comment slices into his chest, a foreign feeling enveloping him with its strength before he quickly shoves it down.

“That’s not the point.” He huffs. “You don’t seem to understand what Eden is capable of. I don’t either, not fully, but I do remember about what we were taught from my training. These soldiers are born to be ruthless.”

Wren sighs and shifts their gaze upwards. “Yeah I know. But I’m going to stop them anyways. Or die trying,” they add with a dry smile.

Atlas furrows his brows. “Why would you want to get involved in this? Your life sounds like it was really… nice.” 

He thinks about going to school and being able to do all these things all the time. Fast food restaurants, video games, the freedom to pick what you’d like to see, or wear. And then to give it all up to be homeless, dirty; alone. It doesn’t make sense to him. He’d do anything to have a life like that. To be born without expectations, without the cruel realities of life thrust upon him. To have something quiet. He’s always dreamed of exploring, of experiencing more than the same four gray walls inside the warehouse. Wren had all that, and a million times more. And then they abandoned it without a second thought.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand them — how could someone give all that up?

Wren sighs and drags a hand down their face, closing their eyes. “It was nice. It was. But we can only live peacefully among humans for so long before things get complicated. And I can’t sit by and act as if nothing’s happening,” they explain, folding their hands in front of them. “It’s just not right.” 

Atlas nods, accepting their answer, as much as he can’t see himself ever truly agreeing. “I see.”

Wren purses their lips and then puffs a big breath out. “You know, that freaky ass cult is next. If you’re interested in beating their shit.”

Atlas nods. “Okay.” He mumbles, reaching up to fiddle with his hair again. He wishes to have nothing to do with the Congregation of the Chosen, or anyone associated with it. Not now, not ever. There’s nothing that could ever make him feel prepared to face that. But he doesn’t dare to express it. If Wren is set on exposing their lies as well, then he has no choice but to follow. 

Afterall, he has nowhere left to run. 

· · ──────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ──────── · ·

The boy doesn’t speak after that, and Wren leaves it at that for a long while, simply sitting, basking in his company. They’re unsure if they’ve done much to dull his nerves, but they hope they managed to give him some sort of comfort.

The silence has settled between the two of them for a long moment when they finally bring themself to speak again. “So what’s your name?”

“That’s not important.” He dismisses them almost immediately. God, he really is stubborn as a damn mule.

Wren tosses their head back with a groan, flopping back onto the floor. “You’re no fun.”

“I don’t see the point in giving you my name. We aren’t friends.” The boy says thoughtfully. “Everyone at the base either referred to me by my surname or my number.”

Wren crinkles their nose at the mention of his number, disgusted that he’d even suggest they refer to him by that. It’s bad enough to have seen it plastered upon every page inside his file, so… so dehumanizing. They could never bring themself to call him by it. Even “the boy” was a million times better.

They glance over at him. “Well, you know, it would be nice to have something to call you by, obviously. And something that’s not a number. We may not be friends but we are stuck together now. You gotta give me something, dude.” They point out, before adding with a slight groan, “And I’m not from the base. Those rules don’t apply anymore.”

He shrugs. “It’s not like you’re going to be talking about me to anyone. I don’t see when you’d have to use my name.” He points out, not budging.

Wren lifts their head to properly glare at him, eyes narrowed as they stick out their tongue. Then they let their head thump back against the wall with a pout. “That makes no sense.”

“I think it makes perfect sense.” The boy declares.

“You’re impossible.” Wren grumbles, and they swear they almost catch him smirking.

Masterlist || Previous || Next

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★ Send an ask or dm to be added or removed from the taglist ★

A big thanks to @ohagiwrites for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

Apologies for the (checks notes) two month hiatus! Ohagi and I just got caught up on life for the most part, but we’re hoping to bring back our more frequent posting schedule. Thanks for understanding, and being so patient with us（´∇｀''）

O.A. .ᐟ

[captainderyn]

Another sketched pulled from art block purgatory, of Wren during a pivotal moment of her and Aramys’ (who belongs to @lumielles ) storyline

[oros-ash3s]

⋆˚࿔ Kokoa and Kau’i Kalawaia ｡𖦹°‧

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

Introductory || Kokoa and Kau’i are two of the more important main characters inside The Chrysalis, and are introduced in the fifth arc, titled “The Alliance of Magicae”. Just like the title says, they are apart of the Alliance of Magicae, and are actually the leaders of it after their uncles passing. They soon become very important figures inside Wren, Atlas, and Alastair’s life, introducing them to a whole different world that the three couldn’t have even tried to imagine.

Basics ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

Kokoa ||

★ He/him

★ 19 years old

★ Magicus

★ Aromantic + pansexual, though he usually likes to say he’s “undefined by labels”

★ Hawaiian

──★ ˙🍓 ̟ !!

Kau’i ||

★ She/her

★ 19 years old

★ Magicus

★ Lesbian

★ Hawaiian

Fun facts ₊˚⊹ ᰔ

The two are twin siblings, though Kau’i was born about eight minutes prior to Kokoa. Everyone always assumes that Kokoa is older than her though, something that annoys the hell out of her.

A song that fits the two of them very well is Balloon by Tyler the Creator.

Kokoa is 6’4” while Kau’i is only 5’6”, something he mocks her for mercilessly.

They both have pink hair.

Atlas had a big FAT crush on both of them for a while. (They were his awakening no joke.)

They’re in a band called “Motion in Space”. It was a four-person band before two of the members left, but Kokoa and Kau’i kept it going. Atlas joins the band later on, when he is around 19.

Kokoa is in a homoerotic relationship with his best friend.

The two are quite literally inseparable. You can’t find one without the other, one of them always close by.

Kau’i was a scene kid, if you couldn’t tell. The “phase” never fully wore off.

Kokoa is scared of dying.

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮

“So…” The boy leans down, now face-to-face with Wren. His eyes are dark, glinting mischievously, and with Atlas out of commission, their gun out of reach, they can’t help but feel intimidated by his presence. So close, too close. “Are you guys with Eden?”

Wren levels their jaw at him, brows furrowed in a thin line. “What’s it to you?”

The snark comes off instantaneously, pure instinct at this point. Even in near-death situations when keeping their big mouth shut would do them some much-needed good, they can’t help it. Avoiding the question, spitting back the first thing that pops in their head — that always seems to be the answer. Even if it lands them in more trouble than not.

The boy snorts. “Is that a no?”

Wren huffs, scowling. From the smirk tugging at his lips, they can tell he knew the answer from before he opened his mouth. This was simply a test, to see what they would say.

“No, I’m not with that fuckin’ crazy-ass organization.” They grunt, eyes narrowed. With the boy so close, Atlas and Alastair held hostage, they don’t attempt to reach for their gun. They can’t let the two of them get hurt. Atlas’ words of wisdom repeat in their head, ordering them to think first, take action second.

Make a plan.

“No?” The boy smiles, standing straight. He moves towards Atlas, frozen in his spot. His eyes are focused straight ahead, hand gripping the gun so tight his knuckles have gone white. His finger is just seconds away from the trigger. A mere moment faster, and he would’ve had them. “Because your friend over here is definitely an Eden soldier.”

He pushes the gun down, forcing Atlas’ arm to aim at the ground instead. The Eden symbol tattooed on his hand is now clearer than ever, flashing up for the both of them to see. The boy glances over his shoulder at Wren, curious, as if to see their reaction.

Wren’s frown deepens. “He’s not.” They snap. They hate this interrogation, hate their helplessness. They’ve become too dependent on Atlas. Without his calm reassurances and level-headedness in their ear, they feel lost again. And the boy isn’t helping, standing so casually, smiling as if they’re old-time friends.

What is he playing at?

“He sure fights like one.” The boy muses. “Almost put a bullet through my sister’s head, the little rascal.”

“I said he’s not.” Wren takes an unsteady step back. They just need to stall. Stall the boy, figure out what he’s here for. Figure out if these two are dangerous or not, and how to get out of here, if so.

The boy hums, examining Atlas’ face. It’s pulled tight, eyes squinting just barely, an expression of pure concentration. A look Wren has seen too many times to count, a look Atlas always gets when they’re in trouble. Only this time, he isn’t conscious enough to protect them.

“Who— who are you?” They blurt, eyes beginning to glow. They don’t like this one bit. They need to get out of here. Fast. “What the hell do you want?”

“The name’s Kokoa,” the boy answers calmly, turning to face them again. “And I have a proposition for you.”

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[queenofthedork]

Wren

Haunting vocalist of some music group

[ohagiwrites]

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* Sick Of It *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

“What the fuck is she doing here?” Wren’s voice is cold, as they spit sharp words.

“Aw, nice to see you too, Wren.” Daphne, the wrinkled old hag, blows Wren a kiss and their glare grows harder.

“She has an apartment. You two couldn’t do this shit there?” they ask, with a wide gesture to Atlas, leaned back on the couch, Daphne straddling him, one hand combing through that awful green hair of his, her other hand lazily lifting a cigarette to her lips.

“She’s allowed to be here, Wren. She’s part of the AOM too,” Atlas replies casually.

Wren narrows their eyes. She’s an informant. She barely even counts. Just like that freakshow “scientist” that fucked up Alastair. “Yeah, well this is a public space, so just, like, don’t eat each other’s faces on the couch everyone sits on.”

Daphne snorts. “You could always try and find someone for yourself Wren. Might make you a little less lonely.” Daphne’s tone is sickly sweet but her eyes are malicious.

That old witch. Wren grits their teeth, manually unclenching their fists. They look to Atlas, eyes searching his but he averts his gaze quickly. Of course. When has he ever stood up to Daphne?

“Whatever. I’m getting something to eat.” They make their way towards the kitchen, pausing when Atlas speaks up.

“Wait, you wanna hang out for a bit?”

His eyes look almost hopeful and Wren feels an odd satisfaction at the way Daphne’s expression immediately sours. They huff and move to sit in the armchair across from the long couch, not wanting to sit anywhere near the overly affectionate couple.

Wren pulls their knees up and tucks their feet under them in the chair, leaning against the arm rest. They shoot Daphne another sharp look as the woman shifts to sit sideways in Atlas’s lap before they speak.

“I was talking to James yesterday. He said he’d let me borrow some of his Superman issues if you wanted to read them together tonight,” they suggest, fixing Atlas with an expectant stare.

Atlas opens his mouth to reply but Daphne’s voice cuts in. “Sorry babes, but he’s coming to my place tonight. You know, for some quality time. It’s been a while since we’ve had a romantic night in. Can’t wait.” She gives Atlas’s hair a little tug and Wren fights back a gag at the flush on Atlas’s cheeks and the sheepish smile he gives the hag.

Atlas turns his gaze on Wren again and offers an apologetic look. “Yeah. Sorry. Maybe tomorrow?”

Wren clicks their tongue. “Yeah, I guess. Whatever you want.” They’re sick and tired of this. Atlas is a whole different person around her. He’s a trophy for her, just a toy she walks around with and he’s completely fine with it. How long will they have to wait for him to realize what a troll she is? How long until he has time for them and Alastair? Jesus, Alastair. The thought of the weird mess between those two makes their brain hurt. They miss when things were simple. It used to be fun being around Atlas.

They push their legs out from under them and lean back, crossing their arms as they sink further into the armchair. Sending Daphne another look of disgust, they switch topics. “I saw a flier for a music festival in the park. Tickets are pretty cheap. I know that’s not really Alastair’s thing but I was thinking you and I could- Jesus Christ, will you cut that out.” They swat the air violently, waving Daphne’s cigarette smoke out of their face, restraining their coughs.

Daphne only shrugs. “I can’t control where it goes.”

Wren rolls their eyes. “You’re blowing it at me.”

“Oh, you’ll get used to it. Atlas has.” She turns and cups Atlas’s cheek, planting a wet kiss on the side of his face. “Isn’t that right baby?”

Atlas nods dumbly. “Yeah, Wren, it’s not so bad.”

They huff and sneer at Atlas. “You smoke too now, of course you’d say that.”

The woman lets out another cloud of smoke directly aimed at Wren.

“Oh my god. Atlas can you get her to fucking-“ they pause when they look at Atlas. His eyes are trained hard on something behind Wren, his cheeks pink, lips pulled into a thin line.

Wren turns in their seat and sees Alastair lingering awkwardly in the doorway. His shoulders are slumped, his head ducked down, pointedly avoiding anyone’s gaze. Wren notes that he’s still covering every inch of skin except his face. No surprises there.

“Sorry,” he croaks and the sound of his voice, after however long it’s been since they last spoke, stuns Wren. “I’ll go.”

Hearing the way he sounds now still leaves a buzzing in Wren’s head but they suppose they should be grateful he speaks at all after everything.

“No, it’s okay babes, stay.”

Wren’s eyes snap to Daphne when she speaks. What is she trying to do?

Alastair visibly hesitates, looking down the hall as if it’s his chance at freedom.

Daphne persists, waving him over. “You can sit next to me.” She pats the space beside her. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite. Not you at least,” she giggles and nudges Atlas. “He knows what I’m talking about.”

Wren groans loudly and buries their face in their palm.

Alastair very reluctantly crosses the living room to sit down.

Wren watches Atlas, his brows furrowed as his eyes track Alastair’s every movement. Wren rolls their eyes. Idiot.

“Alastair, I never see you around,” Daphne says with a fake pout in her voice that makes Wren’s blood boil. “Why is that?”

Wren wants to stand and smack the woman because that bitch knows the exact answer to that question.

“Um.” Alastair doesn’t look up, leaning slightly away from Daphne and Atlas. He swallows audibly, rubbing his gloved hands together. “I don’t-“

“Oh well, it’s no harm done. It just sucks that I haven’t gotten to know you like I have Wren.” She gives Wren a cheeky smile and Wren squints.

“Ah,” is all Alastair says. He glances to Atlas, his gaze shooting away from him again almost immediately before he looks to Wren, letting his stare linger a little while longer as if pleading for help.

Just then, Daphne makes a big show of waving her hand through the air between her and Alastair. “Oh god, this stuff.” She fakes a cough and continues to bat away the shadowy smoke emanating from Alastair despite her actions having no effect. “It’s a little distracting isn’t it?” She fake coughs again. “I mean, I know you can’t help it but geez, how do you deal with this stuff following you around all day?”

Wren’s eyes are wide and furious. They shoot to their feet, fists clenched. How dare she? How dare she?

Alastair stands abruptly. “Excuse me,” he mumbles, rushing past Wren and out of the living room. Wren moves to follow him but by the time they reach the doorway, they can hear Alastair’s door down the hall shutting and the lock clicking.

Taking a deep breath, Wren whirls around, Throwing their hands up in the air. They storm up to Atlas, glaring down at him. “And you? Do you have anything to say about this shit?”

Atlas’s eyes are also wide but rather than angry, he appears shocked, concerned almost. He stares up at Wren before glancing sideways at Daphne who’s staring at him intently, a brow raised in a silent challenge. Atlas says nothing, hanging his head with a grimace.

“No,” Wren scoffs, speaking quieter now. “No, of course not. You never do.”

Daphne sighs, tipping her head back over the arm of the couch. “Wren, I think you’re overreacting. Always so angry about something, poor thing.”

Wren bares their teeth, voice raising again as they jab their finger in Daphne’s face. “No, I've had it with you. You need to keep your mouth shut.”

Daphne gawks but quickly recovers, scoffing with a mocking smile.

Wren ignores her, leaning past her to stare directly into Atlas’s eyes. “You’re not slick. You and I both know what’s going on here and it’s getting pathetic. I’m sick of it.” Their voice is low and harsh as they grit their teeth. When they stand up straight again, they shoot Daphne another look, eyes narrowed, nose wrinkled, upper lip curled. Wren looks to Atlas again. “If you ever fucking bring her around him again, I’ll throw her out myself.” Wren turns and storms from the room, disappearing down the hallway.

Atlas’s eyes stay glued on Wren’s retreating figure as Daphne scoffs. “Come on babe. Let’s go back to my place.”

She stands and walks towards the exit. Atlas follows.

Daphne and Atlas are owned by @oros-ash3s and Wren is co-owned by him :p

[bonzybonztea]

I did this quick cause I want to do this prompt list sooo bad and to try and keep up so

Day ONE: Enchanted

[narianders-gt-hell]

Hey how did you get up there. Is that safe.

[friend-of-giants]

Just a lil portrait

It's been a while since I drew my girl Wren, so I whipped up a quick doodle and gave it some color. Far too lazy to fully render it, so have a sorta colored sketch.

I've changed some things about her appearance over the years, most notably her hair, and thought I should do an updated drawing of her :) I also just keep making her prettier as time goes on lol

[breezypunk]

just two nomad travelers who were destined to be bff's :3

wren belong to @togepies <3

[gilsart]

wren (they/them) is my durge, for reference

[sheerricetorrent]

Oc relationship chart i made for artfight!

[chrysalis-thestateofchange]

＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙* ── | “Snapped” | ── *•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*＊

Characters // Atlas (he/him), Wren (they/them)

Atlas surveys the streets below, sure he must be dreaming.

Taking up the entire back wall of the hotel room is a long, shiny floor-to-ceiling window.

A window.

He can’t remember the last time he’d seen one. The warehouse, despite its many floors and levels, didn’t have any. Not ones that led outside, anyway. And definitely not ones as grand as this one. It was nothing but the same steel-gray walls along every hallway, stretching on endlessly, inescapable no matter what room you turned into. His bedroom had been like that too: four bare, gray walls, not a single window in sight.

But here — here he can see it all.

The darkened streets stretch out below him, bustling with cars and people. It isn’t as crowded here as it had been when he’d first drove with Wren this morning, less people around to watch. Still… It’s beautiful.

Outside. He can really see outside.

Wren’s van sits out in front of them in the parking lot, the pale white of the paint glistening from the streetlight overhead. Wren had slid into the parking lot only fifteen minutes prior, flashing a sleek credit card in his direction, proclaiming it was for “emergencies only”, before leading him inside the hotel. It’s a nicer place than the rest of the buildings he’s seen today — much cleaner than the McDonalds — with shiny elevators and smooth marble floors, a few people bustling around in the hallways; kids and adults alike, smiling and laughing with each other. 

Now settled in their hotel room, he can spot a few men gathered on the corner of the street, little wisps of smoke drifting up into the night air around them from their cigarettes. They’re laughing loudly, throwing their heads back, mouths spread out in a grin. Atlas wonders what it’s like, to laugh like that.

He stands there in silence, simply taking it all in, eyes flickering towards every person that passes by on the street, to every car in the distance. They are all but blurs of colour in the darkness of the night, the illumination of streetlights casting a dull glow over everything, the lights from nearby shops slowly starting to flicker off as the day falls to a close.

Atlas is pulled away from the serene view at Wren’s eyes on him.

They look up at him from their spot criss-crossed on the floor, face curious as he meets their gaze. They pat the spot beside them, expectantly waiting for him to sit.

He hesitates for a moment, scanning their expression for any hint of hostility. He still isn’t sure what to think of them. They’re brash and rude — not to mention stupid — but then again, they’d genuinely tried to help him, hadn’t they? Slowly, he obliges, taking the seat next to them.

Wren fixes their gaze back onto the street below, pressing their forehead into the glass. “How old are you?”

Atlas bristles at the question. “You first.”

All day they’d been asking things like this, trying to… get information out of him. He guesses it’s what anyone would do, he is a practical stranger, after all. But a part of him can’t help but feel on guard at it. He isn’t supposed to tell people about himself, isn’t supposed to give anything away. Especially to someone from outside of Eden. Though, he guesses, he isn’t a part of Eden anymore either, is he? Those rules don’t apply to him anymore.

Not after he left them.

Wren sighs, but for once doesn’t push, instead opting for answering his deflection. “Fine asshole. I’m fourteen.”

Atlas falls quiet at their answer, weighing his options. Eden’s rules don’t technically apply to him anymore, but that doesn’t mean he really cares about Wren, either. It isn’t like they’ve ever been nice to him before now. Still, it isn’t like he’s going to gain anything from being so prudent with them. And telling them his age can’t be that bad….

“I’m fifteen.” He relents.

Their head jerks towards him at his answer, eyes going wide in shock as they mumble, “You’re just a kid.”

Atlas’ gaze doesn’t leave the window, his face still a perfect mask of calm, the only movement coming from him being his eyes as they scan the different buildings outside. “I’m older than you.” He points out.

Wren clicks their tongue loudly and shrugs, tearing their face away from the window again to glance at him. “Yeah. I’m a kid too.”

Atlas focuses on a particular car — a deep maroon in colour, with a dent in the side, little chips along the paint. He places all his attention on it, taking nice, even breaths, holding back his urge to scream at them. He’s never felt so miserable, so helplessly alone, in his entire life. “My age doesn’t matter.” He responds, voice clipped. So just shut the fuck up already.

Wren rolls their eyes, huffing out a breath of frustration. “Yeah. Did they tell you that too? Did they tell you it doesn’t matter that you’re a literal kid?”

Atlas stiffens. “That’s none of your concern.”

Wren sighs and leans back on their hands, still staring out the window. “Fine, whatever.” They go silent for a long moment before a thought suddenly occurs to them. “What’s your name? Do you have a name?” They ask, glancing back towards him.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” He says coldly, unable to hold the exasperation from leaking into his voice. Wren seems to have that sort of effect on him; he never feels quite so defensive or angry as he does when he’s around them.

Wren huffs, sagging forwards and resting their forehead upon the glass once again. They seem unable to sit still for more than a minute, constantly fidgeting and moving around. Atlas has never found something quite so irritating. “Look, I know you don’t like me. That’s fine. But we can’t do anything unless you trust me a little. At least enough to give me your name.”

“I don’t need to give you anything.” Atlas replies rigidly. He decides that he in fact isn’t going to tell them anything. He’s out of Eden now, so that means he can choose. There are no rules against that, not anymore. And Wren is definitely not his superior. He likes it better this way. That way they can’t use anything against him. That way he still has the slight upper hand.

Wren lets out a long, hard sigh, rocking for a minute before flopping all the way back, lying flat on the scratchy carpet. “Okay. Whatever.” They mumble, closing their eyes.

Atlas doesn’t move.

Wren thumps their feet on the floor rhythmically, disturbing Atlas’ peace. “Fine, I don’t need to know your name. Do you have a favourite colour?” They ask, glancing towards his hair, a shaggy mullet with burgundy streaks littering throughout it. “Is it red?”

“Is yours blue?” Atlas counters, still annoyingly refusing to answer any of their questions. He can’t stand it — can’t stand sitting here, with them, can’t stand their constant chattering. He wants to be at the warehouse, with Cato, with Ira; wants to be in his dorm room, curled up on his cozy bed. Wants to be training, the familiar feeling of his staff in his hands, strength surging through his core. He wants to be at home.

You left that, remember? He chides himself. That isn’t your home, not anymore.

“Very clever. Did you figure that all on your own?” Wren asks, pulling him from his thoughts.

“It doesn’t take a genius.” He grunts, not once glancing toward them to meet their gaze.

“Sarcasm.” They mutter. “You dye it yourself?” They gesture vaguely towards his hair.

Atlas answers with nothing but a curt nod, hand subconsciously raising to fiddle with his hair, a dark red strand twirling around his fingers. 

“Me too. I’ve spent too much money on box dye.”

Atlas hums. He still remembers with perfect clarity the first time Ira came over with box dye and helped him with his hair — almost as if it was just yesterday.

He had been twelve. She’d swung into his dorm room with a small grin, waving the box around like it was pure gold. It had been, to him. He remembers, up until then, he’d barely even had belongings to himself. No books beside his textbooks, no notebooks or paper besides the ones supplied to him for his lessons. No souvenirs, no nothing. His room had genuinely been bare. Just a bed and a small desk pushed into the corner. Wren had commented on the absolute emptiness of his room, but it was nothing compared to back then.

So when Ira had offered to dye his hair, he’d been over-the-moon. For as long as he could remember, her hair was always done up in some interesting way. A streak of colour, or ombré, or jaggedly cut in a way that Atlas wished he could pull off. He remembers how excitement coursed through his bones as she helped him chop off his ordinary, plain black locks for the shaggy mullet that he then kept for the past three years. That pure, child-like excitement… it was the best feeling in the entire world.

Wren doesn’t take his lack of a response as a sign he isn’t in the mood for a conversation, simply continuing to talk. They might as well be talking to themself, for all that it matters. “The first time I dyed my hair, I bleached it without instructions. It was so bad, it started falling out of my head.”

Atlas still doesn’t react, simply winding his hair around his finger, over and over and over again. Its soothing, almost. Something to focus on. 

Wren continues. “I had a big bald spot on the side of my head for the entire first part of 6th grade. My mom bought me this hair growth stuff for bald guys. Didn’t work at all.”

Atlas doesn’t give them a second of his attention. He stares out the window, watching out into the streets below, half-forgetting to blink. He wants to be out on those streets, walking. Free. It has never been a thought he admitted — not in full extent — but out of everything in the entire universe, that has always been his dream. To go out, by himself, no watchful eye of his commander or the judgemental gaze of a scrawny insufferable rebel. Just him and the quiet of the night, the chill of the breeze cooling the back of his neck. Calm, contented peace. 

Wren’s gaze doesn’t leave him as they sit up, scooting closer to his side. “Hey…?” They ask, leaning over slightly and waving their hand in front of his face. 

“Hm?” Atlas hums, his piercing gaze falling upon them. This is the closest they’ve dared get to him, only inches apart. “What is it?”

Wren furrows their brows at him. “You went all zombie on me.”

“I was listening.” Atlas says dismissively. What he really wants to say to them is “shut up, I do not want to talk to you right now, or ever, for that matter”, but he holds his tongue. He wants to do many things — shove Wren away from him, scream at them, beat their annoying face until it’s black and blue, run away from them and never come back — but that does not mean that he can actually do them. He’s stuck with Wren, as much as he hates it, so the best he can do is try to tolerate them. For now.

Wren frowns but shrugs, brushing past it. “Okay.” They say, leaning away to resume their position of resting their forehead against the window, letting out a heavy exhale as they do so. “Is there anything you want to know about me?”

Atlas focuses his attention back upon the window, watching outside in silence for a second. If he was to be honest, he’d say that he really couldn’t care less if Wren told him anything about themself. But he knows that’s not what they want to hear. “Whatever you would like to tell me.” He says with the slightest of shrugs. We are not friends. He thinks. And we will never be friends. There’s nothing you can do or say that will ever change my mind on that.

Wren rolls their eyes with a loud and dramatic groan. “That’s not how this works. I’ve told you plenty and you won’t even respond.” They say, shooting him a scowl.

Atlas hums. “What would you like me to say?” There’s a reason I didn’t answer, you dunce.

“I dunno man. Usually you’re supposed to acknowledge what someone’s saying.” They say with another loud huff. “Whatever, you get a free pass because you got brainwashed.”

Don’t fucking speak to me like that.  

“I’m not brainwashed.” Atlas mutters, side-eying them.  

Wren clicks their tongue and scoffs. “I’m not saying it’s your fault or anything, but you kind of are man.”

Atlas scowls. You’re a naive, stupid child that thinks they know everything because they managed to steal a few fucking files. You’ll never amount to even a sliver of what I am right now, even if you spent your entire life trying. Pull your head out of your fucking ass.

“You don’t know anything about me. Stop acting like you do.” 

Atlas’ words only cause Wren to shrug. “I mean, I knew a lot more than you.” They point out matter-of-factly.

Atlas is so sick of Wren’s constant comments, their know-all attitude. Their audacity. All he’s had to deal with this entire day is their snarky quips, poking and prodding, rubbing salt into his sore wounds.

He should’ve known better. They’re a rebel, after all. Rebels are cruel, apathetic. Why would they care about what he’s lost, what he’s sacrificed, leaving with them? A homeless middle schooler with a clunky, dirty van that barely operates on its own. And he’s supposed to just be grateful, accept their treatment with the same grace he always holds. 

They don’t have a single clue about what his life was like, the hardship and struggles he’s had to endure. They don’t know how much he gave away, just to join their shitty little grandiose delusion of “revolution”. They make him sick.

Fuck, I’m so tired. 

He gives them a hard glare. “No, you didn’t.”

Wren narrows their eyes at him, giving him a skeptical glance before sighing. “What-ever.”

This finally snaps Atlas’ resolve.

It isn’t their dismissal that does it, more an accumulation of the last day. He should know better than this, should know better than to snap at them like he does, but suddenly the burning anger that has been boiling, slow and steady, in his chest all day is exploding out of him, hot as flames. Unrestrained.

“I hate you.” He spits, whipping around to glare down at them with pure hatred shining in his eyes. “At least Eden treated me kindly. At least I belonged.” His voice shakes, emotion slipping through in a way it hasn’t in — he doesn’t even know how long. Years? A decade? Forever? “At least I wasn’t stuck with an insolent child.”

His words come out quick and sharp, a part of him almost too scared to even say them. He can’t remember ever speaking out against someone in his entire life. He isn’t supposed to — it’s against the rules. He’s supposed to keep his feelings in check; a soldier who can’t keep control over themself is as good to Eden as a ticking time bomb. Soldiers are polite. Soldiers are obedient. Soldiers don’t voice their own opinions. Soldiers don’t have opinions — don’t have emotions. For all of his life, he has been this: The perfect soldier.

But what had that gotten him in the end?

“You don’t know anything about what it was like.” He says coldly. He has to admit to himself, actually voicing what he’s been thinking the entire day…. It feels kind of good.

Wren’s eyes widen slightly, a look of shock that gives Atlas the slightest hint of satisfaction evident on their features. They slowly tilt their head up to look at him again, the words hanging lowly in the air between them, turning the atmosphere thick with tension.

Finally, Wren breaks the dreadful silence. “Yeah, I get it.” They say, pausing for a moment, as if they were for once going to put in a sliver of thought before they spit out some crude insult at him. “I don’t expect you to like me. And I don’t really care if you do.”

Their face is calm, voice even as they speak. It feels as if they are addressing an explosive child, not a boy who has spent the last fifteen years of his life carefully pushing down his true feelings for what matters, who always does what he’s told without questions, who works and works and works. Who doesn’t know what it’s like to experience true relaxation — true peace.

“I may not know what it was like,” they say, the slightest bit of exasperation in their voice. “But I know what would’ve happened if you stayed.”

It’s like a slap to the face. Atlas pales, the thought of the files — the videos; the horrific images of torture, torture that he would’ve endured, torture that Eden had been doing on its own soldiers for years — causing his mouth to instantly snap shut.

The smug feeling dissipates just as fast as it comes. There is no rebuttal to their statement. Although he never would admit to it, both he and Wren know that they are right. What had been waiting for him after today….

He doesn’t even want to think about it.

In one swift movement, Atlas jumps to his feet. His hands are shaking as he roughly turns on his heel, stalking out of the room and making a beeline for the bathroom. For the first time in his life, he feels the careful control he has over his emotions slip through his fingers, anger burning in his chest fiery hot, flushing his cheeks red.

He fucking hates it here.

The door slams behind him with a sharp bang.

He is shaking as he enters the bathroom, his entire body trembling, the weight he’s been holding upon his shoulders for too long finally cracking away at his perfectly poised exterior, slipping him under the waves of unconstrained emotions he has tried so hard to dull. His control is dissipating faster than he can manage, the short rapid breaths through his nose doing nothing to cool the fury within him. 

The stress of the past 24 hours — no, the entire past month — have taken their hold on him, sending him spiraling down a well of no return. He is untethered, boundless, suffocating in the infinite unknown of space. And there is not that usual rough calloused hand to pull him back to safety, reassurances of warmth and belonging easing him back to reality. 

His reflection glares back at him, only inches away. The boy in the mirror is a shameful thing, cheeks all blotchy and red, flushed by his rage; eyes glassy and tinged with tears, squinting with a determined will to force them back; his chest is heaving, uncontrollable gasps slipping from his lips. 

He hates it. 

He hates all of it. He hates the perfectly tidy bathroom, too similar to Eden, with its sparse toiletries, carefully unordinary, and pale gray walls, no decorations adorning them. Too similar to what he left behind — what he’s missing so desperately. 

He hates not knowing what he’s supposed to do, how he’s supposed to act. Before today he had every single second in every single minute carefully and methodically planned out, his whole future set in stone, just waiting for him to arrive. And now he is lost, his plans of a picture-perfect future set aflame, all notions of normalcy or structure crumbling to ash with it. He is a nobody, with nothing to his name.

Useless. He’s fucking useless.

He hates these new emotions swirling up inside of him. He hates being so fucking angry, every breath of air igniting his insides, erasing this perfect persona he has crafted so delicately for himself. He hates this new life, hates this stupid smartass kid who thinks they know better than he does, thinks they’re somehow greater and better because they didn’t get roped up into a corporation like Eden, didn’t fall for the sweet-as-honey lies, the manipulated comforts. He hates living in a van, hates having no home. 

But most of all….

He hates himself. 

· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ───────── · ·

“I was gonna shower, asshole.” 

Wren stares at the closed bathroom door with a scowl. The boy has shut himself in there and it looks like he’s not going to come out anytime soon. Great. Just what they needed. 

They sigh, standing up and flopping back onto the bed with a groan, their body limp. The mattress bounces underneath their weight, creaking in rhythm. The blankets are smooth, though not cozy and gentle like the ones they have back at home, impossibly soft to the touch. But they’ll do, much more comforting than their worn-down sleeping bag rolled up in the van, which is much overdue for a wash. 

They stare up at the ceiling, eyes bleary from exhaustion. It is in this quietness, a sort of rest washing over them for the first time all day without the boy’s tense presence to bother them, that the realization dawns on them that they haven’t really slept properly at all in weeks. At Eden they were on constant alert, left with the choice of camping out in their van half a mile off-grounds or cloaking themself somewhere ambiguous, body forced into a small, impossibly cramped crawl space no one would think to search. And this morning they woke up far too early for their own liking, the boy’s piercing violet gaze disrupting their dreams. 

They groan, turning their head towards the bathroom door. The water isn’t even running. “Hey,” they call out. “You gonna shower? Or can I?” 

They wait and the air is left brimming with tension as silence stretches out, no response coming from the other side of the door. “Hello?” 

The sound of slight shuffling is the only noise they can catch. 

They frown, sliding off the bed and going to stand in front of the door; their eyebrows furrowed, mouth pulled taut. “Dude, you good?” They ask, voice louder this time, fist brought down in a light knock. 

An explosion of fury booms from behind the door, ripping the next words from Wren’s tongue. 

“SHUT UP!” The boy screams, unbridled rage cracking his voice. It is deafening, hitting Wren with a truckload of emotion that has evidently been pushed down for far longer than he’s capable of withstanding. It's a violent kind of rage, one that’s dangerous to get caught up in. A stark contrast to the quiet and polite attitude from before — Wren is almost unsure if it came from him. “FUCKING LEAVE ME ALONE.”

Wren flinches slightly at his outburst, the anger coming unexpected. Their eyes are wide and they are still for a moment, lips parted slightly. Shit. 

With a sigh, they turn away from the door. If he wanted to be left alone, then Wren would leave him alone. That bursting, uncontrollable anger is one they are all too familiar with. It’s no use in trying to comfort him, they’ve never been very good at that anyway. They’re sure their presence is only making his breakdown worse.

They turn and shuffle through their bag, pulling out a pair of large sweatpants and a t-shirt. They carry it to the door before dropping it in front of it wordlessly, and returning to sit on the bed. 

The bathroom is quiet for a second, so quiet that Wren thinks the boy has calmed down. They listen out for any further sound, and it’s at that moment that a large crash cuts through their hotel room. There’s a deafening bang, the sound of smashing glass shattering from behind the closed door. Wren gasps as a series of muffled thumps follow, clattering and clanging alerting them of the destruction reigned upon the bathroom. 

The sound of running water hisses from the tap and Wren grimaces, wiping at their face, their exhaustion settling in. They kick off their shoes, curling up under the covers. This should have been expected. 

They can shower tomorrow. 

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A big thanks to @ohagiwrites for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

─ O.A. .ᐟ