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freosanSorry, folks, it just happened this way.
Sarah-chan, I've taken the liberty of renaming Cosmos; Sakura just doesn't work on a guy, flamingly homosexual or not. Nalin means lotus flower, is Sanskrit, and is as close as I could get to cherry blossom and have it be a male name. Feel free to have me retcon this. Apparently Cosmos's name is Michi. This has been taken care of.
Writers in this 'verse will remember the Keys. I'm planning to do something with them but I have no bloody idea what.
Ophiuchus is the thirteenth zodiacal constellation, but it is not counted as a birth-sign. (Remember this, there'll be a quiz later.)
Kaos, Leoran POV, PG, 659 words.
They sit in a library, four angels in four corners, each waiting for something. Kaos can taste the anticipation, is nearly going insane with the need to reach out and grab one of the infinite possible delicate futures.
Libra, Aries, Scorpio. And her. Virgo. No, she’ll give them their names – the ones that don’t get spoken anymore. Michi. Colette. Karen. Weird syllables that don’t fall easily from her lips, but that signify what they are when they’re not being defenders of the universe.
Kaos doesn’t have any other name. She doesn’t have anyone else to be.
The walls are oppressive, the light itself heavy. The dust in the air vibrates in dissonance with the lines of destiny and Kaos shivers in yet another pattern.
Cosmos – Michi – opens his mouth, shuts it. There’s not a lot they can say. They were the first. Miya is oldest and Bianca is strongest, but the four of them were the first.
They sit in silence, each still, each looking anywhere but at each other.
Colette says, “They’ll be okay. Right?”
Michi says, “We were.”
Karen says, “Eventually.”
Their attention shifts to Kaos, who says nothing.
-
There are three angels here. They are from different times, backgrounds, ideas. That doesn’t matter. The one thing that has always united people is a common enemy.
They try not to think of their names right now; they have titles, instead. They don’t think of those either. They’re not communicating, except through eye contact and extra senses and unity of purpose.
They are fighting. They are fighting things that look like humans. This is not something they’re prepared to deal with, but they have to. The others – the ones who know what to do, the ones who could break this illusion or just slice through it like so much mist – they’re gone, off to take care of more pressing things, and Ophiuchus knows that there are always more pressing things.
Infinity, who is trying not to think of himself as Leoran, slides in someone’s blood and falls over. Before he remembers his wings, something’s on top of him. Someone. He grapples, but his opponent has more experience and an extra fifty pounds of muscle. Hands close around his throat and his vision goes dark.
It clears briefly before being covered again by a rain of warm liquid. He wipes it off – it’s sticky. Blood. Tempest – not Alex – is standing above him, eyes wide. There’s something heavy on him and he pushes it off. A body, without a head. Tempest has killed one of them and the illusion hasn’t broken.
It’s not an illusion. They’re fighting people. There’s no time to think about it now; there are still five or six opponents and they have to keep going. Spirit says a few words and Infinity feels his breathing ease. A healing spell. He and Tempest avoid looking at each other as they dive back in.
Now that he’s sure – sickeningly, coldly sure – that they’re human, he can use a single spell, and does. Five words, some kind of bastard child of Latin and Arabic, and their hearts stop. Simple. Effective. Tempest knocks people away with his staff while he chants.
Their enemies fall down dead around them, and Spirit walks up to the pair. Without speaking, she checks them for injuries. She’s about four shades lighter than usual. Tempest is white as paper. Infinity feels that all the blood has left his body.
They’re uninjured, and Spirit has the presence of mind to ask about the key they came for – a small piece of twisted metal, something they wouldn’t look twice at on the street, but an artifact powerful enough to open worlds.
Infinity punches the glass it’s kept behind, takes it out, and hands it off to Tempest. Then he bends over and throws up, heaving until he’s sure that he’s gotten rid of anything he’s eaten in the past year.
He still tastes salt and copper.
Writers in this 'verse will remember the Keys. I'm planning to do something with them but I have no bloody idea what.
Ophiuchus is the thirteenth zodiacal constellation, but it is not counted as a birth-sign. (Remember this, there'll be a quiz later.)
Kaos, Leoran POV, PG, 659 words.
They sit in a library, four angels in four corners, each waiting for something. Kaos can taste the anticipation, is nearly going insane with the need to reach out and grab one of the infinite possible delicate futures.
Libra, Aries, Scorpio. And her. Virgo. No, she’ll give them their names – the ones that don’t get spoken anymore. Michi. Colette. Karen. Weird syllables that don’t fall easily from her lips, but that signify what they are when they’re not being defenders of the universe.
Kaos doesn’t have any other name. She doesn’t have anyone else to be.
The walls are oppressive, the light itself heavy. The dust in the air vibrates in dissonance with the lines of destiny and Kaos shivers in yet another pattern.
Cosmos – Michi – opens his mouth, shuts it. There’s not a lot they can say. They were the first. Miya is oldest and Bianca is strongest, but the four of them were the first.
They sit in silence, each still, each looking anywhere but at each other.
Colette says, “They’ll be okay. Right?”
Michi says, “We were.”
Karen says, “Eventually.”
Their attention shifts to Kaos, who says nothing.
-
There are three angels here. They are from different times, backgrounds, ideas. That doesn’t matter. The one thing that has always united people is a common enemy.
They try not to think of their names right now; they have titles, instead. They don’t think of those either. They’re not communicating, except through eye contact and extra senses and unity of purpose.
They are fighting. They are fighting things that look like humans. This is not something they’re prepared to deal with, but they have to. The others – the ones who know what to do, the ones who could break this illusion or just slice through it like so much mist – they’re gone, off to take care of more pressing things, and Ophiuchus knows that there are always more pressing things.
Infinity, who is trying not to think of himself as Leoran, slides in someone’s blood and falls over. Before he remembers his wings, something’s on top of him. Someone. He grapples, but his opponent has more experience and an extra fifty pounds of muscle. Hands close around his throat and his vision goes dark.
It clears briefly before being covered again by a rain of warm liquid. He wipes it off – it’s sticky. Blood. Tempest – not Alex – is standing above him, eyes wide. There’s something heavy on him and he pushes it off. A body, without a head. Tempest has killed one of them and the illusion hasn’t broken.
It’s not an illusion. They’re fighting people. There’s no time to think about it now; there are still five or six opponents and they have to keep going. Spirit says a few words and Infinity feels his breathing ease. A healing spell. He and Tempest avoid looking at each other as they dive back in.
Now that he’s sure – sickeningly, coldly sure – that they’re human, he can use a single spell, and does. Five words, some kind of bastard child of Latin and Arabic, and their hearts stop. Simple. Effective. Tempest knocks people away with his staff while he chants.
Their enemies fall down dead around them, and Spirit walks up to the pair. Without speaking, she checks them for injuries. She’s about four shades lighter than usual. Tempest is white as paper. Infinity feels that all the blood has left his body.
They’re uninjured, and Spirit has the presence of mind to ask about the key they came for – a small piece of twisted metal, something they wouldn’t look twice at on the street, but an artifact powerful enough to open worlds.
Infinity punches the glass it’s kept behind, takes it out, and hands it off to Tempest. Then he bends over and throws up, heaving until he’s sure that he’s gotten rid of anything he’s eaten in the past year.
He still tastes salt and copper.