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Rural fucking Icefields towns.
Atlas thought he was done with this shit years ago with the conclusion of killing 003 and barely managing to reconstruct Bhyram's incredibly mangled body. Well, and the one visit he took up to check on the recovery of Connie, but that doesn't count. She was a patient, that was arguably a work-related trip, which made it easier to stomach the week-long trek through the snow up to the mountainous town. This, too, is arguably a work-related trip, though it's far more personal.
Iskovallen is a small town by Atlas' standards, but for the incredibly remote area of the Icefields, it's apparently considered to be rather large. Bustling, even, if the fairly packed Hound's Breath pub is anything to go by. Atlas doesn't bother hiding his grimace. He sticks out enough as it is, as a scaled pearlcatcher
still wearing his thickest winter coat
indoors… so what if people stare? At least the coffee is strong, warm, and given to him without an overly enthusiastic conversation to go along with it. Hit or miss with rural pubs. Sometimes the staff is too chatty for his liking, sometimes they’re perfectly happy to ignore him. Thankfully, the latter seems to be the case this time– there’s only
one
chatty dragon he feels like dealing with at the moment, and (when Atlas focuses his vision properly) that chatty dragon is currently floating as if ‘seated’ next to him, staring at the crowd with rapt attention.
The coffee helps keep him awake. It’s only about seven in the evening, around the time he should be meeting Bhyram’s associate. It feels later than it really is thanks to the time zone difference between home and the southeastern edge of the Icefields. Iskovallen isn’t too far from the sanctum, according to the locals. Lots of dragons come through here to go check it out, usually scholars. Probably, locals just assume he’s another one of those. He’ll take it.
He’s lost in thought when someone sidles up to his table, behind him, leaning over one of his shoulders to rap sharply on the wood of the table. “Pardon me, my friend,” says a cheerful, accented voice, warm and energetic. “Are you perhaps looking for some company, for a meal or, eh, let me guess, perhaps for a little expedition?”
The dragon speaking is a
nocturne
, a bit smaller than average, bundled in a few layers of thick coat and padded armour. His scales are a pale robin’s-egg blue, mottled in patterning, and his wings are a mixture of mint and thicket greens, matching the vibrant emerald of his eyes.
Atlas startles slightly, broken from his thoughts. He covers it up with a quick sip of coffee, then says, “you’re Syble, I take it?”
“I am indeed, Doctor,” Syble says, and slips around to the side to take a seat across from Atlas, leaning his elbows on the table and resting his chin on the back of his forepaws. His eyes are sharp and attentive, almost alarmingly keen. His posture is relaxed and casual, but Atlas can tell just by looking that Syble knows exactly where every dragon in the room currently is and what they’re doing. That’s a quality he can respect in a dragon.
“It is good to meet you in person!” Syble says, with a smile. “Your voice does not quite sound exactly as I thought it might sound. It is close, though. Very lovely voice, yes. I see why our dear friend likes so much to listen to it. How have the Icefields been treating you?”
Dear friend,
huh? Atlas smiles. That’s one way to put it. “You sound nothing like your letters, for what it’s worth. Not at all what I imagined,” he tells him. “It’s…
bloody cold,
obviously. Can’t stand it, frankly, but I wouldn’t be here without a very good reason.”
“I tend to get that. About the letters, I mean. I have been told they do not quite, eh, ‘capture’ my voice,” Syble says, amused. He nods in agreement. “Yes, I see - you are very bundled, like me, aha, yes? You even have, eh, familiar scarf on, I see. Our mutual dear friend wanted to keep you warm, eh?” He grins. “As you may guess, I am not entirely a fan of the cold myself. Labyrinth dragon, and all. Much too cold here! Fah. Not enough greenery for my tastes too. Hard to find any place to hide. But not impossible!”
He clears his throat. “Yes. Reason. We are here for a very distinct purpose, yes? Tell me more. We have discussed this, yes, already, but it cannot hurt to, eh, what is the term? Re… go over the information that we have.”
“At least you have the excuse of coming from a warm place. The Plateau is
mild,
I’m just…” Atlas gestures at himself. “Can’t be helped, I’m afraid.” A pause. Right, he nearly forgot: “I
am
wearing Bhyram’s scarf, yes. He insisted on me taking it.”
(Sweet man that he is. It’s ridiculously cozy,
and
it smells like him.
If
he can quietly revel in that just for a second.)
“Nothing to be ashamed of, my friend! All dragons are different. My wife is not so good at handling the heat as I am, no? The same is true for your Bhyram, I remember, yes - he does not like the warmth. We have different strengths. Ah, I am getting, eh, off topic. Sorry! Continue?”
“I love this guy already,” says Quintin, the box at full volume, barely muffled by virtue of it being in Atlas’ tail bag.
Atlas just stares into his coffee for a moment, resigned.
Syble’s head cocks sharply to one side. “Eh?” he says, clearly having heard that. “Ah! You have a friend, then? Of some description?”
“Hi!” Quintin says, absolutely
delighted
to have someone to talk to. “You could say that I’m a friend. Atlas, can you put my box on the table please?”
“Yes, yes, one moment,” Atlas mutters, pulling it out. For good measure, he adjusts the output volume to be
just
audible over the cacophony of the busy pub. “Go on, introduce yourself,” he says once it’s adjusted.
When Atlas looks back at the ghost, he can see him leaning forward, paws on the table, politely folded with interest. “I’m Quintin! You… probably can’t see me, but I’m sitting in the chair to Atlas’ left. Unless you can see ghosts. Then you could see me. I don’t know– ahem, sorry, I’m a little excited. I’m the one that scouted out the place we’ll be… visiting later.”
“He’s a pearlcatcher, somewhat larger than both of us,” Atlas adds.
Syble looks
delighted
by this. “Ah! No, my friend, I am afraid I cannot see you. My many apologies for this! I will do my best to speak to you if I know where you are - otherwise, I will speak to your little box. It is a pleasure to meet you, Quintin; I am Syble.”
“It’s great to meet you! I’d shake your paw if I could, but… I’m still not too good at interacting with physical things, sorry,” Quintin says.
Atlas sips his coffee again. “Quintin will be coming with us. The range on his box for speaking is great enough that he should be a useful scout ahead when needed.”
“Excellent, very helpful indeed,” Syble says, clapping his forepaws together; the impact is muffled by his gloves. “I am a passable scout, as I do not appear on cameras, but a ghost who does not even appear to
eyes
is even better. I look forward to working with you, Quintin!”
“Oh I am
so
excited to be out of the Plateau…” Quintin says. Though the
volume
is the same, the tone of voice suggests that that should have been under his breath.
“Ahem…
ignore that. Uh. I’m definitely looking forward to it!”
Atlas supposes he can’t blame the ghost for the slip of the tongue. This is only the second time he’s ever left the Plateau since he died, and the first was for the initial scouting mission. Prior to Cay’s assistance with getting Quintin stabilised in terms of energy, Quintin was tied to the Plateau, unable to wander much farther than a few hundred meters from its perimeter. Now, energised and much more vibrant, he’s able to go anywhere– and, apparently, it’s even less exhausting when Atlas is with him.
“With introductions in order, perhaps we ought to get to business?” Atlas says, claws rapping on the table. “Eat something, go over plans, get to know each other a little better… Strengths, weaknesses, etcetera.”
“Well,
you
guys can eat something.”
“Quintin.”
“Sorry!” He does not sound sorry.
“Excellent plan,” Syble says, grinning. “Quintin, my friend, if there were a food for ghosts I could get for you, I would. Alas! I cannot. Unless…?”
Atlas barely manages to suppress a groan. This is who he’s working with? Good fucking god. Chatty, chatty. Well, if he reminds himself, he disliked Will at first too, and look where they are now. “We can ask Cacoethes about that when we get
home,
Quintin.
The plan…?”
he prompts.
Ah, the plan. The plan. Syble is a very good thief. He has tools, and gadgets, and know-how. The layout of the records building they’re trying to get into is fairly simple: it used to be a very small library, in what used to be a very small town, before the Corps took it.
Ideally,
there should be a relatively simple way in; through a window if nothing else. All they need to do is find the central information storage area - either a computer, if the Corps has one, or some kind of catalogue of information - and find any information pertaining to Bhyram. Syble does not know his old name, but Atlas does, and any file containing that name should have what they’re looking for.
Please be a computer please be a computer please be a computer -
Then they find the file, take it, and leave. It’s
simple.
There shouldn’t be
any murder.
If they encounter anyone, Syble has non-lethal ways of dealing with the issue, something he takes the chance to make
very clear
to Atlas. Did Bhyram say something, Atlas wonders, or is Syble just generally opposed to murder? Either way,
fine,
so be it. Dealing with a body in the snow is annoying anyway, and the last fucking thing he wants to do is drag out a corpse or five for the damn whitelings. If those beasts are even
in
this area of the Icefields. He’s not sure, and he does
not
want to find out.
The first step is trying to find the blueprints for the library, a nearly impossible task. Base 41 - the place that used to be a town - was not built by the Corps, and so they don't have any architectural records. Failing that, they'll send Quintin to find where they can search the library's records from and map a route from there to the nearest entry point, intended or otherwise, that hopefully avoids most guards and cameras.
The good news about that is that the Corps really does not expect anyone to try and steal from this place. As far as any of them can tell, Base 41 is not very well-guarded. It's not valuable. Why bother posting too much of a guard on it?
This is all, of course, in the hopes that Bhyram’s records - still classified, but twenty years out of date, with no progress to be made on them - have been moved to this lower-security storage facility instead of being kept in the labs with Kynaba and his ilk. They're
pretty sure
that's what's happened. Or, at least, Bhyram’s friend Commissioner is pretty sure that's what's happened. She’s the best lead they have, so they’ll just have to hope that she’s right.
As far as plans go, the whole thing seems fairly straight forward, despite the risk involved. If they’re
lucky,
it won’t even take all that much time. In and out, and they can be on the way out of the snow by the day after tomorrow at the earliest. Atlas doesn’t feel too worried about it. Anticipatory, yes, but not terribly nervous.
The two of them eat dinner at the pub, where conversation can flow from plans to something more casual. Atlas talks a little about Bhyram and Will, his work, Swiftreed– the usual polite chatter he holds with colleagues.
Syble seems happy to engage in that, but he himself does
not
remain in that polite, light, inane realm of chatter. His commentary ranges from mundane to shocking with very little distinction between the two. For example:
“- your natural magic in your, eh, place of work?” He's asking. “I cannot imagine Wind is entirely too useful in ehhh, a place of medicine, healing and stitching, no? But then again, perhaps I am wrong! After all you may not think Nature is very useful for thieving or for, eh, for fights. But you would be surprised! I am very good in a little scrap, very good at sending someone out, goodnight!, without hurting them too badly. I must do it often, you see? Otherwise many times my wife will just kill them. And I do have to stop her, yes, oftentimes, even if she is very hungry. We can get meat at home.”
“I’m–
sorry?”
Atlas says, pausing. “Meat at…? Is your wife
eating
the dragons?”
“Oh, yes, sometimes,” Syble confirms, unbothered. “But only if they were GOING to have to be killed in self-defense or some such. She tries to stick to bandits, eh, slavers, terrible people who can afford to no longer have things like livers and eh, eh, the little sweet glands in the neck, yes, and hearts and things, yes?”
Atlas can’t really even
say
anything about that. He doesn’t actually care that much himself, not from a moral standpoint. No, not at all– even he’s tried dragon meat once, after one of his kills that seemed like they might make for good meat, out of curiosity. He didn’t much care for the taste and hasn’t had it since then. But to say so
so casually? What?
He’s been taken entirely off guard.
“Yes, I– I see, that does make sense,” he says, sounding thoroughly baffled.
“Does that even
taste
good?” Quintin asks, in equal parts horror and fascination.
Syble cocks his head slightly to the side and leans forward, bright gaze fixed on Atlas. It reminds him of a heron that has spotted a frog. “Your reaction is not the same exactly as most reactions,” he observes, still grinning. “No, eh, what is the word? Revolution? No. Not that. Ehh. Revulsion. Yes. And you don't seem to mind the murder either. Eh? Interesting.” His gaze turns to where Quintin is, though of course, he still can't see the ghost. “Eh! She says it does. I do not partake in her little snack-times myself, no, I do not need to do that now-a-days, but she has a good time. She enjoys herself. Now, mind you, most of this taste of hers comes from one of her friends, eh, the Plague being, yes? So perhaps is not the most
normal
of things for a dragon, no.”
Quintin thankfully speaks up, talking over Atlas before he can even think to formulate a response. He’s clearly
fascinated
by that, somewhat horrified, but not in a judging way. He could never do that, he says, even if he were able to. The specifics of his arguments and anecdotes are lost on Atlas, because he’s too busy focusing on the
first
part of Syble’s long-winded remark.
Does he know? How? How the
fuck
could he possibly surmise that Atlas is himself a killer (and,
technically,
a one-time cannibal)? The nocturne’s eyes were too sharp, too piercing, almost, for a man that has not once met Atlas before today. Has Bhyram said anything? Atlas’ claws find the edge of the scarf tightly wrapped around his neck. No, no– he feels guilty even thinking that. He wouldn’t do that. What the fuck. He’s quiet, eyes trained on Quintin’s box, as if he’s paying rapt, polite attention to the ghost’s chatter.
“You would be
surprised
what you are capable of if you are starving,” Syble is telling Quintin, with a wink. “A lot of things that are distasteful are suddenly not so very distasteful anymore. No? You did not grow up in the Labyrinth, did you?” He laughs.
“Nope! I grew up, lived, and got killed in the poor areas of the Singer’s Brook, if you’re familiar with the Plateau, that is. I’m a Wind dragon,” Quintin says, and Atlas
desperately
hopes that he shuts the fuck up about his death.
“Ah, you are a
murder victim?
I will not ask much, that seems, eh, insensitive, somehow. Unless you want to talk about it. I am not too much familiar with ghosts, yes? I know the Brook. Very beautiful place, very peaceful. I have gone there, eh, many times for relaxing. It is a little bit like, ehhhh, a little bit like the Gladeveins, but with fewer plants that try to eat you. Very beautiful place.”
“Doesn't bother
me
too much, but, uh–” out of the corner of his eye, Atlas can
just
make out Quintin's blurry head turning his way “–yeah I probably shouldn't go there,” he says. “Never did go to the Labyrinth.”
“Dangerous place. Interesting place,” Atlas says, trying to maintain an air of normalcy.
“Beautiful place,” Syble agrees cheerfully. “Very, eh, you must watch your back, no? Ah, there is nowhere like my old home. I visit it when I can. You should go some time! You are a ghost? Eh! Then you have nothing to fear. Animals cannot eat a ghost! Unless perhaps there are ghost predators? Mm… I do not know.”
Syble moves quickly past
all of that
and on to the next thing. He leaps from one piece of a conversation to the next with ease, leaving Atlas in the dust to struggle with wondering what exactly Syble might know. Wholly unsettling, but it doesn’t…
seem
in bad faith. So far. In this way he passes an hour, during which time they order food and eat it. Then - to rest, as they have a lot to do the next day.
The inn, White Shoal Inn, is conveniently next door to the tavern. It is, inconveniently, mostly full. They can get
one
room. Syble has no problem with this; he doesn't seem nervous in the slightest.
Not even when they go up to the room and find it has a grand total of one bed.
Great,
just what Atlas was hoping for, to share a space with a stranger! The shared room is bad enough –he can handle that– but
a bed?
What might Will or Bhyram think? As evenly as he can, Atlas tells Syble, “you take the bed, I'll just get comfortable here on the floor.”
“Oh, do not worry, my friend!” Syble laughs. “I do not need it. Eh? I see you are confused. Hah. You must not live with nocturnes!” He looks up, surveying the ceiling, and nods before fluttering up to the rafters. He curls his tail around a crossbeam and hooks his hind claws into the old wood, then swings down and hangs upside-down from it, folding his wings around himself. “Problem solved, no?”
Atlas looks up towards the ceiling. High rafters– the inn was made with gaolers in mind, he's pretty sure. “I… guess so,” he says. Logically he knows this is a normal and comfortable (and safe!) place for a nocturne to sleep, but it still seems… hm. As long as he's comfortable. “And you're right, I don't. I live with a tundra and a snapper-tundra mix.”
“Yes, your partners! Of them I have heard some. As you may have, eh, figured out,” Syble says, grinning. He drops from the rafters back to the floor to put his things (one small bag) away somewhere. “Well. For your knowing, this is a natural place for nocturnes to be, up high and clinging to things. Out of the way, out of danger. We are very convenient creatures by nature. Sneaky things too.”
“In knowing Bhyram, you know fifty percent of them, so I'd hope you have heard of them,” Atlas says mildly. He’s just going to accept the first part of that explanation– logically, he does know this. “How
do
you know Bhyram, anyway? He didn't say in detail.”
“Eh? Oh! We lived in the same clan, of course,” Syble says. “And my wife, Void, she is a very good friend of his, no? They travelled together some time ago, on several journeys. Eh, I am sure you have heard of it, yes? Going around to a little city in the Isles, Yeheg, and out into the Worldsea, to all sorts of little islands. The warm one where my Void finally freed her friends from their long silence. There was a, a, ehh, a great emperor that they fought. So! They are friends from all of that. And, eh, I have gotten to know my beloved’s friends, as I am with her oftentimes, no?”
He flutters back up to the rafters, clinging again and swinging upside-down once more. “I like to believe he and I are friends, of a sort, too,” he says, fondly. “I believe so, anyhow. If he does not agree? Eh, I will not be too offended. I am a thief after all. Sometimes that gives other dragons a reason not to trust me, no? Aha. Worry not, my friend, I only employ my skills for good nowadays.”
Ridiculous, of course. Bhyram would never refuse to befriend someone just because they're a
thief.
He's done more to
Atlas,
who is a decidedly worse criminal than a
thief
. He probably thinks he and Syble are
great
friends.
True to his word, Syble genuinely seems perfectly happy hanging from the rafters like a bat. How bizarre. Nocturnes…
He sleeps like that. Just goes to sleep once he's ready for the night, wrapped in a thick blanket that's hooked around his wings and draped over the rafter strut as well. He even, very politely, positioned himself as far away from Atlas as possible without being asked.
Still. It's unsettling to see that shrouded figure hanging there in the dark in the night. Downright creepy.
They wake before dawn to head out. It's
freezing.
It’s absolutely fucking awful. Syble seems cheerful enough, of course, despite the cold. He leaves his tail mostly uncovered, but does swathe his head and neck in a dark blue wrap or hood, letting only his eyes peer out, too clever and keen.
It's a half-hour flight to the border of Base 41, and Syble immediately locates a small thicket and tumble of snowy rocks for them to hide in. He urges Atlas to stay low, winding himself through the dark stones to break up his image and prevent any stray eyes from noticing them.
Not that there are a ton of wandering eyes to begin with. There are occasional guards that patrol the border, but it seems pretty quiet. Base 41 is not well-guarded. Nobody really cares about it.
They position themselves as close to the library as possible. They can see it from their hiding spot, a building that might’ve once been pretty, but with its decorative features neglected. A two-story affair.
“Well, my good friend,” Syble whispers, “eh, Quintin! It is time for you to help us. Go, find the database, yes? And tell us how best to reach it. Good luck!”
“Aye aye!” says the box on its lowest setting. Atlas focuses in on the ghost, watching as he bounds away like a mirror might, disappearing into the side of a wall.
Then they wait. Just wait. Sitting still in the freezing cold black morning. Great.
Syble rubs at his arms a few times, and the long bones of his legs. He catches Atlas looking. “Ah - the bones, they ache in the cold,” he explains. “I had, ehh, the growing disease in them. Where it grows too much? Ehh? I cannot remember the - no, yes, I can. Ehhh, os - mm. Osteo…sarcoma. Yes. Yes? All over through me. My wife fixed it. Burned it to nothing. Poof! Gone. I love her very much. But! The bones still hurt sometimes. I was told that will simply happen. I do not mind. It is a small price to pay for my life.” He smiles.
Osteosarcoma? Bone cancer. He had bone cancer, and it spread? He’s incredibly casual about that, but then again, Atlas is well familiar with the casual manner in which dragons occasionally talk about their worst ailments. In any case, Syble’s lucky to be alive. Atlas tells him as much.
“Oh, yes, I am aware,” Syble says cheerfully. “I am one of the luckiest dragons in the world. To have met my beloved when I did. Ah! And she and her friends stopped me from being killed in a landslide as well! Very lucky, yes.” He pauses, frowning. “Or, no, they
caused
the landslide. It would not have happened except - well it did not happen, not
really.
Ehh. It does not matter.”
Fucking hell, the luck of this guy.
“Have you ever considered buying a raffle ticket?” Atlas asks, incredulous.
Syble laughs aloud. “Perhaps I should! Though there is nothing in the world that I want for, now. If I win, I could always donate it. I know a few good, eh, chariots. No. Charities.”
Atlas shakes his head in mild disbelief. Yeah, he can see that happening.
A distraction, taking his focus: a pale shape moving through the gloom; Quintin, trotting back to them.
“Learn anything?” Atlas says quietly, both as a way of alerting Syble of his return
and
buying him some time to focus his vision.
Quintin nods fervently. “I sure did. Boy, it looks dusty in there, I hope neither of you have allergies?” he says with the box. “But, uh, here, Atlas, look at my paws. I’m better at… showing than telling. Atlas, you’ll just have to, uh, mirror these for Syble, probably..” And he does, wildly gesturing and using his paws as reference points, drawing shapes in the air as he explains what he’s learned.
So the easiest way into the library is through a door. Not a window - good. Syble brings his tail around and flicks it in a motion like shaking out, and with a quiet series of cracking sounds it lights up. He takes hold of it in one paw and fiddles with the larger scales near the base. One of them, to Atlas’ surprise, slides off, and he removes a small set of lockpicks from it and replaces the scale.
At Atlas’ startled look, he grins. “This is not my original tail,” he explains. “I lost most of that one, eh, a
very
long time ago. This is only a copy. Very useful, though! It is partly flesh, partly bone, partly magic, and on and on. Grown by mages. It is very much attached, though!”
He tucks the pick set into a pocket. “As soon as this guard passes, we go. Up and over the fence.”
They wait for a tired-looking tundra to slog her way past through the snow and round a corner, and then Syble beckons. He spreads his wings and takes flight, skimming low over the ground, to the fence - up, over, back down, ghosting above the snow. He lands on a railing at the library’s side door, perching on that and curling his tail around it, wings half-spread for balance. Already, his attention is half on the door, but he glances around and nods to Atlas before looking down to focus.
Smart to fly. The less tracks in the snow, the better. With wings larger than Syble’s, Atlas is forced to back up a little bit before taking to the air. Low to the ground, quiet but not
entirely
silent due to the clicking of the brace under his coat. He lands next to Syble to peer over his shoulder.
The door is locked by a keypad. Syble hums very quietly, pleased, and pokes the edge of it a few times until he finds a seam in the plastic and pries it open with one sharp claw, sweeping a wing up to muffle the crack of the breaking casing. He's counting under his breath as he goes.
Those claws of his dart into the mess of wires inside, and with a little bit of fiddling the door unlocks with a whirr. Syble nods. “Open it, go in,” he urges. “I will follow you.”
Atlas nods and pushes the door open, making sure to keep a paw on the door’s handle so that it doesn’t click. He slips through and into an incredibly plain hallway. The air is stale but the stone flooring is relatively clean. He won’t have to worry about covering tracks in dust, then. Beside him, a blue blob walks casually through the wall.
Syble wedges his tail through the door, curled around the frame, and does something with another plastic click. Then he withdraws inside and shuts the door with a nearly-silent thump. “Excellent,” he whispers. “Now! To the data-base. Quintin, my friend, lead the way - and keep us alert for danger! Atlas, my friend, I am afraid you will have to walk on the floor. Do not worry, I am not leaving you behind. I will be above.”
He skitters up the wall and onto the ceiling, claws easily finding purchase in old stone and wood, immediately almost invisible in the darkness; his half-spread, mottled wings serve only to disguise him further.
“Are you sure you’re not a Shadow dragon?” Quintin remarks, amazed.
Syble laughs. “I
am
a nocturne,” he says, “and any dragon born of the Labyrinth knows how to be either predator or prey. Or both! Either way, you must know how to hide.”
There’s truth in that statement, though Atlas does not speak it aloud. He’s seen it in others, in patients; in those he has hunted, for sport or for work; and in colleagues alike. What would Freylin say to that, he wonders, then schools his thoughts back on the mission before them.
“Well you’re pretty good at it! I’d ask for tips, you know, but…” Quintin trails off into silence, and the three of them venture forth, Quintin slightly ahead.
There - an old wooden doorway. Quintin pokes his head through the door and then withdraws it. “All clear, looks like,” he says, smiling.
Syble flutters down to the door and peers at it. This one is not electronically locked. He pulls out the picks and gets to work. “Easy, easy,” he croons, with a little flicking motion of his claws. “Bah. Took longer to take my picks out than it took to pick the lock! When will they learn? Eh. They simply do not know how to make a lock that works, not that it would do much against me anyhow. Fine for me!”
The handle clicks open. Syble pushes the door open and steps in, holding it for Atlas. Beyond -
Oh, thank god. A computer. This place has a computer to search. Fuck, going through a card catalogue would’ve been a
nightmare.
“Oh, I will have us into this in seconds, quick quick, do not worry,” Syble hums, and hops over to the computer. He sidles over to a tundra-sized keyboard and monitor and sets to work immediately.
Atlas cannot help with that, not for the moment, so he simply trots about the office, pacing restlessly. As Quintin said, the place is
dusty.
A thick layer of it covering all but the one main desk where Syble sits. Atlas was almost expecting something more… grandiose, maybe; certainly he was expecting something more modern. Something more formidable for the organisation that has, arguably, ruined Bhyram’s life in some way. Maybe the main bases are more impressive. Shaking his head, Atlas looks back towards the computer.
Sure, there’s a login. Syble tests a couple passwords, and it lets him in on the third try. “They
never
learn,” he mutters. “All the better for me, no? Mm. Let us see. Yes…”
The search-database function is one of the only programs on this ancient machine. Syble pulls it up, taps away for a few seconds, and pauses, frowning. “Ehh… there are no results for his name,” he says. “Which I will delete from the searching history now. Eh - did he perhaps have a different name once?”
“He did, yes,” Atlas says, grimacing at the bitter memory of learning it. “Let me type it. That is
not
his name. The less people that know it, the better.” He steps forward to take Syble’s place.
Syble steps back, gesturing with a flourish to the terminal. “By all means, my friend. I do not
wish
to know it! I will look away.” He turns and trots across the room, observing, poking around in drawers and boxes.
Good. As it should be. Atlas looks over the absolutely barren (in terms of form, pure function, this thing is) screen, then quickly types in that which is no longer Bhyram.
Ah. Ah-ha. There are several thousand results for individual portions of his name, but his full name shows up in under 300 files, and they’re all in one spot - almost. Yes, there. B1, aisle D, section 18, rows 7-9, files 16836-17115.
There is one small set of exceptions to that grouping. B3, aisle F, section 2, row 4, files GS98-GS101. There are no details listed for any of that, and trying to bring up more information on them reveals only blank fields, left unfilled. Hmm.
“GS?” Syble states, frowning. “Ehhhh… ‘glacial snow.’ Is, eh, is a code word for a level of secrecy, I believe. Very very secret. Very few people are allowed to read. He must have been very special indeed for the use of that, eh, that… ehhh. Type of thing. Class? Yes. Class of thing.”
“Special indeed.” He frowns. “All of them. We’re taking
everything,
both sections, in their entirety. Leave nothing,” Atlas decides immediately.
“Of course,” Syble agrees, cheerfully. He sighs, happily. “Ah! This brings back memories. It has been quite some time since I participated in, eh, corporate sabotage, no? Hah. This can carry a great deal! But we may, eh, need your bags as well, if there is very much paper to carry.” He pats one of his bags, an oiled leather thing.
He turns, facing Atlas. “Do we have what we need, then?” he asks. “We know where to go? If not, I will get, eh, map, from the computer. Yes?”
“Yes, that’ll help.” Atlas sits and adjusts his bags. Two of them, empty, one on either flank. “And yes, we have what we need. I should be able to carry a substantial amount of files as well. Together, the two of us should be able to carry all of them.”
He hopes.
Syble hops over and dismisses the search without looking at it, avoiding seeing Bhyram’s old name. He instead fiddles around in the files until he pulls up a map of the area. “Basement, yes, here. Yes. Right! Off we go, then, my friends?”
Atlas nods and makes a noise of confirmation. Quintin, however, speaks up, “I’ll check out there, first. I thought I heard something…?” The ghost wanders to the wall and sticks half his body through it, then leans back out, making eye contact with Atlas. He holds one claw up to his mouth, which Atlas mirrors for Syble’s benefit. Quintin gestures for them to wait, then disappears entirely.
Footsteps go by after a few seconds, light steps, claws on the stone floor, sort of dragging along. The tundra guard from outside? Or maybe another tundra. Either way, Corps. Atlas can wait until the steps are gone. Quintin pops his head through the door, claw still at his muzzle, then with his other paw makes a sort of… walking motion? Atlas squints, thinks about it. He’s pointing to his left, the opposite direction of the tundra’s steps.
Another guard?
he mouths, to which Quintin nods enthusiastically. Waiting. More waiting.
Finally, after what
feels
like forever in this tense hellscape, Quintin makes a motion as if taking a deep breath. “Okay. Yeah, we’re good. Just walk quietly,” he tells the two of them.
Now that
those
are gone, Syble opens the door and slips out, and holds it open for Atlas, then closes it
very
quietly once he’s passed through.
Down the hall, over to a stairwell. There’s no lock on it. This building is old, and really is just in the middle of nowhere. They didn’t update the security. And why bother? It’s a bunch of old records from twenty years ago minimum. Nobody would come here looking for usable information nowadays.
Save for concerned doctors about their nightmarish partner’s physiology. Goddamn, what has Atlas’ life turned into? He wouldn’t change it, of course, but
damn.
“Is this… normal?” he murmurs after they turn another corner. “There’s almost
nothing
here preventing us from getting in.”
“Sometimes,” Syble answers, a cheerful whisper. “You would be very surprised how low security is in some places! I have met many houses with better security than this military base. I have also met many better-guarded military bases. And, even more so, better-guarded corporate buildings. They are much more concerned about their secrets being stolen.”
Down the stairs, out to the first basement level for most of Bhyram’s files. It’s quiet.
“Quintin, my friend, could you perhaps check and see if there are any guards on this level at all?” Syble requests, tugging Atlas away from the stairwell door and into a small alcove on the wall, clearly once made for some decorative purpose but now empty and shadowed. Fluorescent lights at half-power buzz above featureless grey rows of filed documents.
“On it!” the ghost chirps, then Atlas watches his blurry form disappear around the edges of the alcove. He isn’t gone for too long, but even that feels like it takes a while, just as before. “All good,” he reports, as he comes back closer to them. “Looks preeeetty barren in there, so far, but maybe stay out of sight of stairwells just in case?” Atlas just nods.
Syble laughs and straightens up. “Excellent!” he says. “Very good, very good. Thank you
very
much. Now, my friend, Atlas, where were we going again? Area D?”
“Aisle D, section 18.” Atlas nods, stepping out of the alcove and walking further into the room. At least everything is labelled appropriately. He can give the Corps
some
credit for that. It makes locating the right area much quicker, even though there’s plenty of room down here. “Rows 7-9… Sure is a lot on him,” he mutters.
It’s the last quarter of row seven, the entirety of row eight, and the first third of row nine. The shelves are filled with identical beige boxes, each with several numbers indicated on the outside; many of them contain more than one file. The first box they’re looking for contains 16836-16849. Syble plucks it from the shelf, then sets it on the floor and flips it open. Several old manila folders are stacked inside, filled with papers. He nods.
“Empty them and return the boxes,” he says. “It is quieter that way.” He pulls out the first folder and looks it over. It is, helpfully, labelled with the file number, so he doesn’t bother marking it. He scoops up the rest of the folders, flips open his bag, and settles them inside, then replaces the box.
He pauses, one forepaw on the box, looking over to Atlas. “...what are you waiting for?” he asks, tilting his head slightly to the side. “Go on. Steal.”
Atlas ducks his head. What
is
he doing, just standing, watching? As if this is his first time breaking and entering any sort of facility? Hell. He scoots to another shelf and starts pulling down files. No time to look at them, just put them in his bags, sort them
at home.
Syble even hums to himself as he methodically empties boxes. His claws are quick and careful, and he ensures that the boxes - empty - are replaced in the proper order. He fills his bag before Atlas does, and turns to just handing folders to Atlas when he removes them.
They
almost
don’t all fit.
Almost.
But Syble does some rearranging, as well as rolling up two thinner folders and securing them inside one of the compartments of his tail, and then that’s all the boxes.
Before they turn to go, he holds up a paw. “Wait,” he says. “The dust. You are a Wind dragon. Can you rearrange it - hide where it has been cleared from the shelves?” He taps a claw on the wooden self surface, and the top of one of the boxes, where their handling of it has wiped smears of dust clear.
“I can’t replace it, but I can simply remove
all
of it. Not as… conspicuous as being able to put it back but it’ll mask it a little bit.” Atlas gestures for Syble to move, then stirs up the air, stale as it is, in and around the file boxes. He brings Bhyram’s scarf up to avoid breathing in the kicked up dust. Off to the ground it goes. It’ll have to do. Once he’s done, he nods and turns. “Good?” he asks.
Syble glances around and nods. “It will do perfectly,” he says. “These do not stand out! If anyone even notices, they will just think someone has cleaned. But somehow, I do not think they will notice.” He grins. “There is more, yes? Further down?”
“Third level down,” Atlas confirms. “Quintin?”
“On it!” A little salute, then Quintin simply drops through the floor.
Syble can’t see that. But he can hear the tone of Quintin’s voice. “I think he is having fun,” he comments, looking over to Atlas as they start back towards the stairwell.
“Oh, he is. He’s– not really able to leave the house much.” He pauses to think about that for a second. “Actually, no, he is, he just
doesn’t.”
“Ah, he cannot? A shame! It is good of you to help him get ‘out and about.’” Syble trots along on his hindpaws for a second to make the quotes with his foreclaws.
Atlas suppresses a wince. Well, it might be true, but it still feels bad to remember why, exactly, that is the case. “It is what it is,” he says instead.
Syble gives him a curious, keen-eyed sidelong look. “Mm,” he says, neutrally, smiling. “Ah! The stairs. Eh, we will pause at the bottom of them for Quintin to return, and tell us what he has found in -”
He stops, paw on the door handle, halfway through opening it.
“...hello?” someone calls up the stairs. “Someone there?”
There sure is! Atlas draws his knife, silent, and lowers into a crouch.
“Whoops,”
Syble mutters, and reaches into a pocket. He holds out a wing to stop Atlas, shoving him back out of the stairwell. He snares the tip of Atlas’ tail with his own and wedges it under the door to keep it open, then swings over the railing and onto the wall, skittering up. Something pale is clasped in his scaled mouth.
Paws on the stairs. After a few seconds, they round a corner of some kind, heading upwards. “Could’ve sworn,” grumbles that voice, “is that not…?”
Syble hooks his tail around a support for the stairs leading up and uses one forepaw to fiddle with the thing in his mouth, a small, pale disk-shaped canister. He yanks on it, then tosses it downwards out of sight. After half a second it pings off the metal stairs. There’s the sound of movement.
“What -?” starts the voice - surely a guard, one of many in Base 41.
There’s a faint hiss, almost a pneumatic sound, and a startled grunt. Then, moments later, a thud.
“Hallo? Yes?” Syble calls out. Nothing answers. “All is well,” he adds, presumably to Atlas. He scuttles down off the wall and onto the stairs, dusting his paws off.
Atlas slinks down the steps to find and inspect the guard. “What did you do to them?” he asks.
“Ah - ah, careful, do not breathe in any of the, eh, the dust,” Syble says, indicating the guard with a wing. A cloud of silvery-white dust hangs in the air, slowly drifting to the ground to settle, looking
remarkably
just like… normal dust. Syble himself has his blue facial wrap and hood pulled up to avoid breathing any of it in. “It is a, eh, a spore, yes? From the Labyrinth. They will not remember anything strange, I do not think. Just had a little fainting-fit. I hope they did not hit their head when they fell. Oof! That would hurt.” He hops down through the stairs, dropping straight between the railings down the center instead of actually climbing them. “Ooh. It looks like they did. I do feel bad about the, ah, but I cannot, eh… move them. Too suspicious. They will be asleep for a little while. Enough time for us to go, certainly. We can get the files, and when it is time to leave, the spores should be inert enough that you can -”
He gestures with a forepaw, a shooing motion. “Fwhoof. Disperse them, yes? A little. No strangeness left over.”
“Hm.” What the hell is Syble using…? No time to think about that
now,
but maybe later. He keeps Bhyram’s scarf firmly wrapped around his muzzle. He’ll be happy to know that his scarf helped, Atlas thinks. “Onwards,” he says, quickly stepping up and over the guard. Poor bastard. If that neck is broken, what a shame. Should’ve found a better job than one for the Corps.
Syble nods, skittering down the remaining steps to B3’s landing. As he does, he pokes around, and picks up the little white cartridge, returning it to his pocket. “Ah! Here we are. Now we wait for our good friend to return.” He sits down on the stone and folds his wings and patiently waits, looking for all the world as if he’s waiting for a public bus, or perhaps a theatre show to start, and not
this.
Perplexed, Atlas sits down next to him.
Quintin comes back looking a little harried. “Uhh… Things are locked up much tighter down there, a couple of guards wandering around. I don’t know why…” he reports, the box muffled.
“Ah, likely because things are more secret,” Syble tells him, cheerfully. “There are more guards? That is good to know. Good to know indeed. We will have to be
very
quiet, yes. Are they inside the, eh, the rows of shelves, or are they only walking around the sides of the rooms? Or are they standing still? I do not fancy our chances of being unseen if there are many moving about all at once…”
“…one of each, actually, uh…” Quintin turns as if looking over his shoulder, though Atlas doesn’t know
why.
“One’s at the end of the steps, just… standing there, looking inwards. One’s wandering the aisles, one’s sort of reading the file box numbers. All tundras. They all look pretty bored, but they
are
armed, so… I
did
see a fourth heading out, but I guess you guys missed ‘em?”
“...no, my friend, look here,” Syble says, and gestures towards the nearby guard on the stairs. “They, ah, came over here. It is alright though! It is handled. They are sleeping. Hopefully unhurt. Or, eh, not hurt too badly. Everything is fine! Now. Hmm. How to get past the ones on the
inside…”
Atlas re-settles the knife in his paw. “One by the door? Looking inward? Its back is to us, then. That’s easy– just a matter of
timing.”
“No,”
Syble says firmly, holding up a paw. “We do not
kill them.
We are not going to kill anybody. That is simply not needed. Quintin, my friend, where
exactly
are they? I am very swift. Atlas, are you swift as well? We may be able to get in and out, quick quick, before the one patrolling
around
make their circuit fully. But it will be definitely, ehh, a matter of very specific timing, yes. The one in the shelves is probably not to be worried about unless they are in
our
shelves. And is it - are they all, eh, big long shelves across the room, or smaller blocks with hallways in between? The latter one is very much the easier one to move about in.”
Unluckily, it is the former. There aren’t that many aisles, either. They’re going to have to be very fast and very quiet.
The first hurdle is getting past the stationary guard. They’re positioned in such a way that they
should
be able to see through most of the aisles without moving, which is a problem. It might be easier to knock them out, or distract them somehow.
Once that’s complete, they just need to get in once the patrolling guard has passed, get into the right aisle, and get out before the patrolling guard goes around the far side and sees them - all while avoiding the guard
in
the aisles.
That one, at least, shouldn’t cause them too many problems. That guard isn’t in the aisle they’re looking for, and so won’t be an issue. She’s across the room. Easy to avoid. No - it’s just the door guard and the patroller they have to be concerned with.
Syble is staunchly against killing either of them. Incapacitate or distract only. Fine. Not his preference, but it’s much less precarious.
They’ll use Syble’s spores on the one outside the door. He gets that process started first by making a cover for them - Atlas watches in mild disgust as he scoops up some of the spores from the floor and licks them off his claws, makes a face, and then climbs up the wall and spits onto the wall above the door. A burst of Nature magic, and the wet spores greedily grow inwards into the wood and stonework, creeping through the gaps in a silvery mycelial network, eating away at the wood. Wavery rings of silvery-white spread through and across the wall, looking rather like a lichen, with delicate flowery petals, almost, made up of fungal material. When disturbed by the breeze, they release more spores.
“Pfeh,” Syble mutters. “Yes. Mm. That should not grow here. But, eh, it is a decent explanation. Eh, keep your mask up when you are walking around now. You do not want to breathe those in. They do not do much to me! But, eh, I cannot say the same for you. Now! We must be swift. Quintin, my friend, tell us when the patrolling guard has passed, and we will incapacitate our friend outside the door here, yes? Then - Atlas, you and I. I will dose them, you hold them, we lay them down very slowly, no sound, no alerting the one that is walking. Then - quick quick.” He gestures. “Yes?”
“I can do that!” Quintin says, moving positions to better see out.
“Excellent.” Syble puts one paw on the door handle. “Quintin, let us know when!”
He hums, the box turning that more into a vibration than a true sound. “Two… one… go!”
Syble opens the door swiftly and silently. Luckily, the hinges do not screech - none of the doors here have, thankfully - and Syble slips out, holding the door, and waits for Atlas to step silently through. Then he lets it fall closed, stopping it at the last second to ensure a silent closure.
The dragon with its back to them is a coatl, but a small one. Easy enough to handle. Syble creeps forward, then leaps up and flutters over the coatl’s back, landing on their shoulders. At the same time, Atlas moves up, grabbing hold of the dragon’s muzzle and holding it shut. His eyes widen, but Syble wraps one arm around his neck and pulls his head back, then claps one of his little canisters to one of the coatl’s nostrils and releases it. A poof of spores directly into the lungs, and the dragon tries to flail for a second - Atlas snares their tail with a hindpaw - and then goes limp. Syble and Atlas together lay him down on the floor quietly.
“Go,” Syble whispers, barely audible. Sound carries in this silent place. They cannot make excess noise. They
cannot.
There, Aisle F. On the far side of the room from where the patrolling dragon is. Syble and Atlas are both very quick dragons - they run. Section 2 is just at their end of it. Atlas drops down to the floor, claws skimming just above each box as he reads each label.
It is a black box, unlike the beige ones on B1. GS98-101, all contained within a single box.
And it is empty.
“What the fuck!”
Atlas spits. Empty?
Fucking empty?
What is he
supposed
to do with that? His ears go back, frantic, as he tries a couple of the adjacent boxes to no avail.
Syble pats Atlas on the wrist. “We cannot linger,” he breathes. “We must go.”
“The fucking files–”
Atlas hisses, then stops.
“Yes, I
know,
my friend, it is unfortunate. They were likely moved long ago.
We must go.”
Frustrated, Atlas puts the boxes back where they were, then gently stirs up the dust. “Move,” he tells Syble, gesturing for him to lead.
Syble turns and - after a quick pointer for Quintin on where the patrolling dragon is right now - books it back towards the door. He opens it and gestures Atlas through, then closes it very gently again.
“Disperse the spores in here, quickly,” he instructs.
Atlas nods and stirs up the wind in there, too, as he slinks past.
As soon as the spores are airborne, Syble gestures Atlas up the stairs. Once Atlas is halfway out of sight, he opens the bottom stairwell door at a normal level, calls “...hello?” in a perfect mimic of the first guard’s voice, and then lets it fall closed. Then he darts after Atlas, headed up.
Now all they have to do is get
out.
Quintin is, once again, invaluable; he keeps them in the stairwell until the two hall guards have passed, then leads them back to the door they used to get in. One quick check out there, another moment fiddling with the keypad, and they’re back outside.
Quiet. Very, very quiet. Once they’re clear outside, Syble leads Atlas back over the snow, the fence, and out to the same little rocky thicket where they’d hidden before.
Only once they alight does Syble let out a breath, grinning. “A job well done,” he praises. “Very good! They will not know anything strange happened. Aside from a mold they did not realize was there before. They will not suspect a thief in the night. Ehh… morning.” He waves a paw. “And they will be distracted by their, eh, their hurt guards. Again, I hope that one is not too badly wounded. I would feel terrible. Ah well. Come, let us get far away from here.”
While Atlas could not personally care less, he keeps that particular opinion to himself. “We should be clear, now. We have what we came for,” he says.
“Man,
you do that stuff for a living, Syble?” Quintin says, still sounding quite exhilarated.
“I used to!” Syble confirms, sunny as always. “Not so much nowadays, no, I do not need to. I have no need to acquire, eh, great sums of money. I have what I need. I do it sometimes still for the, eh, for the… skill, yes, to keep the skills alive. I find it very satisfying.” He spreads his wings and turns his head back towards the distant town.
“I wish I had a physical body to learn that kind of stuff,” Quintin laments.
“Perhaps someday there will be a way for you to have one,” Syble offers, trotting a distance away from the base so they won’t be seen taking off. “A body of… wood, or metal, or something. Or perhaps someone will let you live with them, like my Void and her friends. Though their circumstance is, ehh, not usual.”
“Sometimes Cay comes to visit and he lets me possess him so I can eat fruits and ice cream,” Quintin says, and
boy
is he thrilled about that. Atlas impatiently lashes his tail.
“Ah, yes! Cay! The, ehh, big red pearlcatcher, half dead mostly, yes? Sigma likes him, I think. I am… mostly sure of that.”
“Big and red, yep! But he’s not as dead-looking nowadays, or so Atlas says.”
“Yes, yes, he’s far healthier now, I’ve been seeing to that whenever he will let me,” Atlas snaps. “Can we
please
return to the inn? The sun will be rising shortly.”
“Ah! I will have to tell him. He will be happy to hear that. Yes, let us go!” Syble takes flight without a moment’s hesitation, off back towards Iskovallen.
Thank fuck.
They make it back to the inn without further incident, despite Atlas’ mild creeping suspicions that they might have been found out. No, all is well, and he tells himself as much up until they end up walking into the room.
Atlas drops down to open his bags immediately, pulling out all the files neatly arranged still in their manila folders, ordered with their original numbering. Everything from B1. Nothing from B3. None of the higher-secrecy material.
Damn it.
But - hopefully, at least, his goddamn medical records are somewhere in the hundreds of files they’ve just pilfered. It’s going to take hours to sort through all of this.
Syble does not attempt to help, though he does tentatively offer. “If you wish for me to assist, I will,” he says, “but, eh, I am not so sure I should be looking at these things? It is not
my
information, or that of
my
partner. I do not want to see anything I am not trusted to see, not really.”
“I’m primarily concerned about
medical records,
of which I’m sure there is an extensive amount of documentation on, but…” Atlas growls, frustrated beyond anything. “I don’t know what all is
missing
from my new collection. B3, based on what very little I know of what is likely down there, is incredibly important.”
The files are dated, all of them, roughly in order from oldest to newest, aside from one or two clearly misplaced exceptions. He selects one at random to inspect more closely, closer to the most recent end of the spectrum of dates.
“I can do some, eh, searching,” Syble offers. “Not in here, but - I can try and look into, eh, other systems, other records. Perhaps I can return and see if the files were transferred out? But, eh, I do not believe anything down there had been moved for a long time. It is likely they were taken a long time ago. Possibly they were destroyed. I do not know the exact, eh, the specific… time-ranges where the Corps keeps their special documents before getting rid of them, no?”
The file Atlas selects does not have a title, just the number. And a date - about forty years ago. Five years into Bhyram’s active service. It’s a little difficult to decipher at first, but it appears to be a record of some kind of medical procedure. The first several pages are objects and substances to be used listed in
excruciating
detail, from the exact size and batch number of glass vials and needles to the exact location of the table and room they were working in in relation to the rest of the Fortress of Ends and to various magically significant leypoints, as well as the time of year and position of various celestial bodies. Is that even
relevant?
It’s a fucking
medical procedure,
who gives a shit what phase the moons were in?
Maybe it matters somehow. It’s written down, anyhow. It’s recorded.
Everything
is recorded here.
This one appears to have something to do with the way Bhyram’s body is meant to react to adrenaline. Atlas is going to have to spend some time actually reading these in-depth to get an idea of what they’re actually talking about.
But there is a segment that is relevant.
‘PROCESS INTERACTIONS WITH -’
And it’s blacked out. The section heading is redacted, and six pages of following text are blacked out.
“You have got to be
fucking
kidding me…” Atlas mutters, flipping through them. Of course anything regarding the thing in Bhyram’s soul that is also him would be redacted. Why
wouldn’t
it be…? That just confirms it. Those files in B3, he’d bet his entire damn house on the fact that those are related to it.
He lifts his head. “Syble, how much time and compensation would be required
for
that time for you to look into the Glacial Snow papers?”
“Ehhh.” Syble waggles a forepaw. “Time? I am not so sure. Probably a while. Compensation? Eh. I am wanting for nothing. Consider it a favor for a friend. I like Bhyram very much; he is a very sweet person. A very good man. And he sounds happier than I have ever heard him before, in the letters he writes to us, no? Happier than he was in the time that I knew him in the Sea. You have done a good thing for him. I would do this for you, I am not going to charge you a price for it as I would for a stranger.”
He sidles closer, along the rafter above, cocking his head to the side. “But, eh, I cannot guarantee you success. I am mostly certain the files will be gone by now. Taken, perhaps, burnt up. Maybe locked in the desk of someone who I do not, eh, feel confident in robbing, yes? But probably just gone. I cannot promise you anything except that I may try.”
“All I can ask for is an attempt. I…” Atlas sighs, setting his papers down in favour of another one, just to confirm that there’s plenty more blacked out. There is, of course. “Anything I can get my paws on helps with Bhyram’s healthcare.”
“Of course. I will do what I can. I do not know much about him, but I think your Bhyram deserves the best you can give him.” For a moment, Syble pauses, squeezing his eyes shut, one forepaw pressed to his forehead. “Mm - wait, I am hearing. What my wife would say if she were here. I am conjuring it. Ah! Yes. And you
must
give him the best, or she will have
very much
to say about it. There. I am sure that is a message she would wish for me to deliver.”
Atlas snorts. “I certainly…
try
to do that,” he says, mostly truthfully. He hasn’t in the past, of course, on a number of occasions– he’s only a dragon, after all. Loathe as he is to remember. “He deserves all I can give him and more. Please, you know where we are. Write or visit, feel free. Anything I can offer to assist, I will, including another excursion.”
Bhyram is worth it.
Syble quirks an eye-ridge. “Of course, my friend. I will keep you updated.” His expression softens, a smile. “Ah. We would do anything for the people we love, no? I understand. I do. I am glad to see you value him as much as he does you. It is a good thing. A good thing to see. Yes.”
Love…? Hm. Atlas tilts his head up to look at the hanging nocturne properly, studies his face. He looks nostalgic, adoring,
open
. Quickly, Atlas looks back to his files. “Thank you,” he murmurs. “I do what I can.”
And he’ll continue doing that. Whatever he can, to make sure Bhyram remains safe. So long as it’s within his power.
He’ll get those damn files, if they’re out there.
— — —
They arrive back in the Plateau by nightfall. Well, nightfall relative to the Icefields. It’s fairly late at night in Swiftreed by the time they arrive, but the lights are on anyway. Syble comes with, landing quietly behind Atlas in the front yard– the place is roughly on the way to his home in the Sea anyway.
“Coming in for a moment, or heading out?” Atlas asks as he trots up to the front door and fishes out his keys. “Considering the lights, it seems like Bhyram and Will are awake. Or– maybe just Bhyram? I’m not sure. Regardless. You’re more than welcome to come in and have a drink –non-alcoholic, we don’t keep it in the house very often anymore– or maybe a snack before your flight out.” He opens the door, then pauses, awaiting a response.
“If it is alright with you, I would like a brief rest, actually. The bones of the wings - they hurt, you know, after flying for some time? I am sure you understand.” He gestures at Atlas’ wing brace. “A drink would not be, eh, turned down either! It is a long flight still to the Sea. My Void would have me be prepared for such a thing. Certainly not an alcohol. I do not do so well with them. All of the, eh, half-rotted fruit I ate as a, eh, a little lizard, very small? Did not do very much for making me like it.”
“You’re a far smarter man than I,” Atlas says, stepping in and holding the door open for him. “I wish I did not have a taste for it. Please, come in, wipe your paws with this cloth here before stepping onto the tile.”
“Well, my friend,” Syble says cheerfully, trotting in and obligingly cleaning his paws with the cloth, “I could recommend you several fruits that will make you wish you never tasted them when they are eaten at a specific and terrible stage of decay! It will not be a good experience. It will make you hate them. And whatever you consume around them. I am not sure you want to do this. It is probably a bad idea. Oh, you are a fish keeper, yes! Bhyram has mentioned your fish before. He said you are very proud of them, yes, I believe, were his words. Something like that? Anyway. May I observe them?”
Atlas perks up, probably a little too brightly for what he might like to show relative strangers. “Yes, yes, by all means.” He gestures broadly with one wing, focusing on the buttons of his coat with his paws. “Look all you like. That’s why they’re here, of course.” A pause. “Hold on. You're a nocturne.”
Fruits? Nocturnes don't eat those.
Syble trots over to the pond and sits down, admiring the fish. They're very soothing to watch, of course; he seems to relax, observing the colourful scales under the clear water. “Ehhh, well,” he says, with a shrug, “maybe sometimes a little hungry lizard eats something it is not really supposed to, no? Anything to stay alive. I have eaten a great many things that maybe dragons should not have. Things that maybe dragons would not like to know about. It happens in the Labyrinth. You do what you must!”
Things that dragons would not like to…?
What, cannibalism again? Atlas can assume. Far be it from him to care. “Hell,” he says finally, “I guess so.”
Commotion in the hallway, off to the right of the koi pond. A yawn, hardly muffled, and shuffling paws along the hardwood. “Atlas, honey, is that you? Are you home– oh!” Will says, thoroughly surprised.
God
is it good to see them, rumpled with sleep as they are.
“Good evening!” Syble calls, with his usual enthusiasm and a wave of one wing. “I am Marcesible, the thief. Call me Syble. Do not worry, I am not here to steal anything! I am only in for a little rest before I continue home.”
“Oh!” Will says.
“Oh!
Um, hello! God, um, I– promise I normally am less… underdressed!” They laugh, startled, then turn around to call softly down the hall, “hey Bhy, your friend is here!”
Hurried paws in the hall, followed by Bhyram appearing behind Will. “Oh!” He says. “I didn't realize you were actually
with him,
that's why your scent is so strong -!”
He winds around Will, then bounds into the foyer. “Syble!”
“Ah, Bhyram, my friend! It is good to see you again!”
Bhyram plants himself down in front of Syble and, without hesitation, grabs him in a hug and picks him up, grinning. “It's been over a
year!”
he exclaims. “If I'd known you were going to stop in, I would've made something for you to eat.”
Syble, grinning, pats the shoulder he's draped over. “Eh, worry not, my friend. Your company is already a treat enough.”
“Mission successful. And, no one died. Syble made sure of that,” Atlas says, as Will trots over for a hug of their own. He gathers them up and hugs them tight, soft silk and feather and fur. It’s
nice
to be home.
Bhyram slings Syble over one shoulder like a sack of flour and trots over to Atlas. “
Good,”
he says, vehemently. “I was
so worried
about you. Down there. With all of
them.”
“Your friend’s information was very good,” Syble wheezes, squeezed like a stuffed toy. “The base was not very well guarded. We did not have much trouble at all!”
“Oh, good.” Bhyram reaches out with his free forepaw to touch Atlas' face.
“Bhyram, my friend, would you put me down before you, ah, welcome your partner home, please, yes?”
“Oh, right, yeah,” Bhyram agrees, and unceremoniously dumps Syble onto the floor. He lands it with grace. Bhyram ignores him to stand up and loop his paws around Atlas' shoulders and kiss him without any pause to think about how this might look.
Startled, Atlas awkwardly places his paws on Bhyram's shoulders and kisses him back automatically. Will ducks their head below Atlas’ jaw, squished between the two of them, and makes a squeaky toy noise.
“Bhy, take pity…!”
they laugh, squirming a little.
Bhyram grumbles wordlessly, but does shift to squish Will less, drawing back and using one forepaw to pet Atlas' cheek lovingly. “I have my Atlas back,” he tells Will, almost plaintively. “Don't put yourself in places where you'll get squeezed, maybe.”
“We have
our
Atlas back,” Will corrects, amused, as they shimmy out from between the two of them and fix their robe.
“Bhyram, I–” Atlas looks at Syble,
thoroughly
embarrassed
“–please.”
Later, preferably, when he can properly
relax,
and cuddle up to his tundras and wear his collar and…
Good fucking god,
how much things have changed. What is he, desperate?
“Yes, yes, our Atlas,” Bhyram says, and kisses Atlas’ throat, stroking one of his facial tufts. “I - I almost flew to the Sea to get, to have someone scry you so I could make sure you were
okay,
down there, with - them. Around.”
Syble is dusting himself off and wandering over to the pond again, entirely unbothered by the display.
“I was
worried,”
Bhyram adds, nuzzling the side of Atlas’ face. “I was
scared
for you. I wasn’t
there,
there was nothing I could do to help if something - went
wrong,
and yes you had Syble but I - I don’t know
what
the Corps can do, and I wouldn’t be able to
help
you, and I was -
so stressed.
About this. Just let me - let me love that you’re back. That you’re safe, that I have you back where I want you. Okay?”
…yes, he
might
be desperate, actually. Just a little.
Bhyram may have taken pity on Will, but Will takes pity on Atlas. They trot over to Syble, up on their hind paws. “Hi, Syble! Um, I swear the house isn't normally this, um,
chaotic?
Normally we're… sleeping at one or so in the morning. But can I– they're, y'know, in the meantime, can I get you something to drink or eat? We have medicine too, if you were injured out there! I'm a nurse, so I'm happy to help!” They walk as they talk, effortlessly and casually leading Syble into the living room.
“Oh, of course!” Syble agrees cheerfully. “I would welcome such a thing. Eh! It is good to meet you. I have heard of you, written in letters, I believe by your own paw, no? Or sometimes the scripting of Atlas, on occasion. What a treat to finally meet you in person! Bhyram has had many good things to say about you. This is a wonderful day. Night? Eh.” He follows Will away out of the foyer, voice fading somewhat.
“There,” Bhyram murmurs, to Atlas, once they’re no longer in sight. “Okay? They’re gone for now. Just you here. And me.”
Yeah.
Bhyram immediately kisses him again, almost
urgently,
pressed against his chest. Both of his paws cup Atlas’ jaws, claws tangling through Atlas’ mane. “My Atlas,” he murmurs, “home.
Mine.
I love you.”
He moves to kiss Atlas’ throat. “I love you.” His jaw. “I love you.” He keeps moving, dropping a kiss to Atlas’ scales, then a murmured affirmation, then a kiss. Over and over.
Atlas squirms a little in his hold, overwhelmed and unsure what to do. His paw finds purchase at the back of Bhyram's head, claws tangled in the impossibly soft fur there. “I'm safe, I'm here, I'm…!” He whines then, near silently. “I'm
yours.
Your scarf helped a lot.”
Both practically and because he liked having it on. It's
still
on, loosely wrapped and gently pushed aside by Bhyram, while his coat rests thrown over a bench some meters or so away. God, he really hasn't gotten far into the actual house, has he?
“Did it? Oh,
good,”
Bhyram murmurs, against his scales. He drops another kiss there, a few, trailing back up Atlas’ neck to his jaw. “If I couldn’t
be there
at least I could -
help
you, at least a little, somehow. Keep you safe. Keep you warm. Anything to give you any - edge, to make sure they didn’t get you.”
His thumb-claws rub at the scales just below Atlas’ jaw and tufts. “I should collar you again,” he murmurs. “But Syble’s - mm. I’ll just wrap my scarf around it. Come here. I want my Atlas as he should be.”
Who is he to
deny
him? Risky, incredibly so, but fuck does he want it. He wants to feel
home
again. Damn Icefields.
“Please,”
he murmurs back, “just keep the… tags. Later.”
“Yes,” Bhyram says, and tugs Atlas across the foyer to the side table where his collar is kept in a nice wooden box. He reaches over - keeping one paw on Atlas the whole time, one wing around him - and opens the box, withdrawing the collar.
The tags are on, but he fumbles with one paw for a second, then reluctantly uses both to detach the tags. His wing he keeps around Atlas. The tags only jingle a little as he sets them back in the box, then turns and reaches up, fastening the collar around Atlas’ neck.
His heart beats just a bit quicker once it's in place, where he thinks it
should
be, comfortable and familiar. He reaches up and behind him to adjust the way his mane sits under it, then just leaves a claw hooked into it, gives it a tug. Yeah.
Yeah.
That's– home, isn't it. Part of feeling like he's home. He drops his paw in favour of finding Bhyram's fur again.
“There you go,” Bhyram murmurs, stroking Atlas’ mane, lovingly. “There. Safe. Home. Mine.
Safe.”
Atlas leans forward and down, nuzzling into Bhyram's neck and jaw. He exhales deeply, ruffling the fur, then leans a little more of his weight against his partner. His owner. Comfortable. Safe. “Happy to
be
home,” he mumbles.
“Yeah,”
Bhyram agrees, and turns his head a little and kisses him until he’s breathless.
That seems to satisfy him for the moment, and he pulls back, paws finding his scarf still wrapped around Atlas’ neck. He tugs on it, pulling it up and tucking it into the collar, hiding the red leather underneath old blue fabric.
“You can– have me later,” Atlas pants, “your friend is here.”
“I
will,”
Bhyram growls, a loving rumble. He clears his throat. “Uh - yeah. He’s, right, yeah. We should - yeah.” He steps back, smoothing his mane down, and drops to all fours.
Breathlessly, Atlas laughs a little. He gestures with a paw out of habit, towards the hallway. “By all means,” he says, “after you.”
Bhyram purrs in his throat and trots through the foyer, through the hall, and over into the living room. Will and Syble are over on the couches, Syble half-curled on one of them, clutching a glass of juice in his forepaws. On the table before the couches is a bowl of some kind of seasoned, fried bug mix Bhyram made a few days ago. It’s probably one of the few things in the house Syble can actually eat - nocturnes aren’t built for digesting plant matter, after all, and that’s
most
of what gets made here.
“Hi guys!” Will chirps as they come in. “Come join us. Syble was just telling me about the Icefields.”
Atlas hums and follows Bhyram in, over to the couches. Bhyram hops up next to Will, curling up and laying down, forepaws stretched out before him. He uses a wing to gesture Atlas to sit down next to him.
“Ah, yes,” Syble says. “Beautiful place! Very cold. I do not think I like it as much as I like some other parts of the world. But I very much admire the fog. I do love a good fog. The, eh, the heavy military presence does not do it any favours though.”
“Bloody terrible place to be,” Atlas agrees, though in far harsher terms. He hops up where Bhyram directs and sits nicely. “If I never have to go there again, I'll be happy.”
“I did think the fog was pretty cool! I, um, have only been there a couple times though,” Will says.
“I remember it being really beautiful,” Bhyram says. “Especially down by the coast. You were down, uh, near the foothills of the Crags, right? I actually, um. I’m kind of from that area. Not - not exactly where you were, but, uh, close.”
“Iskovallen, if that means anything to you,” Atlas says, his paw settling on Bhyram's shoulder.
Bhyram thinks about it. “Yeah, that’s, uh, maybe an hour at most away from my hometown,” he says, and laughs a little. “You could’ve gone past it. That’s weird to think about. I haven’t been there in… I don’t know. Forty years. Forty-five? A little more?
Gods.”
“Eh? You are older than you look, my friend,” Syble comments.
“Yeah, I - I get that a lot.”
“We can’t
all
be young and beautiful,” Will laments, as if they aren’t
also
young and beautiful. “He took it all.”
Syble snorts. Bhyram shakes his head. “Of the, uh, the three of us, I think I’m basically the only one who
can’t
be described as, uh. ‘Young and beautiful,’ Will,” he says. “You’re one to talk.”
“Oh
bullshit, Bhy,
you’re gorgeous,” Will argues.
“Yeah, you keep saying that? But - okay, you at least can’t argue me on the young part. You
can’t.”
“Fine! Old man.” Will jabs a claw into Bhyram’s shoulder.
Bhyram lets out a low grumble, mock-annoyed. Syble glances over at Atlas, making eye contact, amused.
Atlas snorts.
“Anyway,
because I assume this will be brought up eventually, and so that we don’t end up forcing Syble to stay unless he’d like to:
the mission?”
Will blinks. “Oh! Yeah, um. I was wondering about that. I was waiting for you guys to get in here before, um, y’know.” They wave a paw. “So… how’d that go?”
Syble perks up. “Ah! Quite well. I believe we took most everything that had to do with an old entity who I do not know the name of.”
Bhyram tilts his head to the side slightly, ears forward. “You didn’t look at any of it?”
“Me? No, certainly not. That is not for me to know.”
“...thank you, Syble.”
Syble waves a forepaw. “Eh. It is only polite. Not special at all. And I am not finished. There is still a little more to try and find. Some files were missing. Taken away a long time ago, no? I am going to try and find them.”
“Files, supposedly down in the third basement level, all
bloody missing,”
Atlas spits. He’s still somewhat bitter about that. Damned Corps. “GS98 through GS101. Project Glacial Snow, or so the computer read.”
Bhyram flicks his ears back. “Glacial Snow,” he mutters. “That’s high security. Um. That’s probably… about my. Uh.” He stops.
“Yes, that was my assumption…” Atlas rubs at his muzzle.
“Perhaps you should discuss that after I have gone?” Syble suggests. “Eh, it seems it is something not for me to be knowing.”
“Maybe.” Bhyram puts his head down on his paws. “Maybe that’s for the best.”
“Of course, my friend! I will be going as soon as I am finished with this little drink, then. I have much to do!”
“You don’t -” Bhyram hesitates. “You don’t need to go looking for those if it’s going to be dangerous.”
“Ahhh, it will be fine. I do not mind. It is a favour for a friend, no? I will investigate. You deserve to know.”
Atlas nods in agreement, something he’s sure Bhyram can feel, considering he’s leaning on him somewhat. “You deserve to know. And we
both
deserve to have those damn files because it helps me take care of you.”
Bhyram offers him a low purr. “I - yeah,” he says, through it, “that’s true. Did you, um. Find. Any… useful stuff? In all that? Or - I guess you haven’t had a chance to sort through it, huh.”
Atlas groans. “Did you know they documented the
fucking phase of the moon
in which various procedures occurred? Do you have
any fucking idea
why that could
possibly
be relevant?” He drops his head into his paws, runs his claws through the top of his mane (careful not to disturb the scarf, god forbid).
“Uhhhhh. I… don’t, no, I mean, it - probably is somehow. Um. Some… magic. Thing.” Bhyram frowns, a faint, slight motion of old scar tissue. “I mean, they didn’t tell
me
anything. Aside from where to stand or lay down or whatever.”
“Why
would they.”
Bastards, the lot of them. He’d burn it all down if he could. “But, at least, everything is incredibly well-documented. Medication and procedures… It’s just anything with relation to Glacial Snow that’s omitted. Interactions and whatnot. That’s why I need those, if they still exist,” Atlas tells him.
“With…” Bhyram trails off. Right. “I. Yeah. Alright. But if I - if they’re not
stored,
uh. They’re either destroyed, or…”
He shifts uncomfortably. “Or
he
has them.”
Kynaba.
He won’t say the name, not without Bhyram himself stating it. He’s not sure if that’s something he wants to tell Syble, assuming Syble doesn’t already know it. The gaoler scientist that did everything to him… Bhyram’s afraid of him, of course he is. Atlas isn’t. Fuck, does he want him dead.
“He very well might,” Atlas says, grim.
“If
that’s
the case then it’s - it’s not worth it,” Bhyram says firmly. “Don’t get anywhere
near
him.”
“...eh, who are we talking about?” Syble asks, a little lost.
“A scientist in the Fortress of Ends. He’s too dangerous to try and steal from. Don’t.”
Syble considers that. “Mmm… if you say so.”
Atlas catches Syble’s eye, gives him his most unimpressed look. It’s not too dangerous. Atlas is sure of it. Risky, yes, of course. Dangerous, certainly. But not so far gone as to be impossible to try. Syble gives him a faint nod back.
“...I can feel you not listening to me,” Bhyram states flatly.
“Nooooo,” Syble says, waving a forepaw. “No, no, not at all. Never.”
“I’m
serious.
He’s
bad news.
Don’t play around with him.”
Syble holds up both forepaws, coming perilously close to spilling his glass of juice. “Alright! Alright. I will listen. If I find that they have been sent to the Fortress of Ends to the care of an evil scientist, I will not then go and break into his home, or laboratory, or what have you, and steal them.”
“Thank
you.” Bhyram lays his head down on his paws. Syble winks at Atlas with a smile. Apparently, he’s capable of emitting whatever emotional cues he wants to make Bhyram believe that.
Atlas winks back at him, but lets himself stew in the mild frustration of having to go digging for the damn files at all. “I
suppose,”
he grumbles, claws combing Bhyram's mane. Bhyram leans into the touch, rumbling gently.
“Kynaba is, um… I mean, I haven't seen him, and I hope I
never
do, but it's… the whole thing is bad news,” Will tells Syble. “If you're gonna go looking, be
really
careful. I mean. You shouldn't, but it's not like I can do anything about it.”
“Kynaba,” Syble says thoughtfully. “Kuuuuu-nab-ah. Mm. I will be on the lookout for such a name. I will stay clear of him.”
“Don’t ever let him catch you,” Bhyram insists, raising his head again, jostling Atlas’ paws. “He’d want you. He’d want to play with you.”
“Hmm! I am thinking I do not like the sound of that,” Syble says. “I have been played with enough by the, eh, that god, that time, no? I do not need to be a plaything once again. Thank you very much.”
“Then
stay away from him.”
“I am also thinking perhaps I should not mention this name to Void?” Syble asks.
“Oh,
hell,
no,” Bhyram tells him, ears going back. “Don’t say
anything.
She’ll - try to kill him. She’ll die. Don’t - don’t tell her. Please.”
“Under
stood.”
Atlas settles his wing over Bhyram. “No one is dying,” he tells him.
Bhyram nestles up against his side. “Yeah,” he mumbles. He’s clearly a little tired - was he up all night, waiting for Atlas to get home? “They
can’t have my friends.
He can’t have my friends.”
Syble observes this with a wide smile. Amused, friendly. “You alright there, my friend?” he calls over. “You seem very tired!”
“I
am
tired,” Bhyram mutters. “You took
forever
to get home. I mean. Atlas took forever to get home…”
“Eh, I will get a move on, so to speak, so that you can go back to bed. There there.” Syble’s grinning.
Bhyram picks his head up, expression flat. “I’m older than you are,” he states.
“A fact I did not know until today! Well. I had perhaps an inkling. But, eh, I did not know
how
much older you are. Perhaps that is why you are so tired.”
Bhyram would probably glower at him if he had any eyes with which to do so. Instead he just grumbles, laying his head down again. “Next time I write to Void I’m going to tell her to make Raphaella bully you,” he mutters.
Syble blinks, eyes widening. “I take it back,” he says hurriedly, “my friend,
please,
no, I take it back.”
He only gets an amused snort in response.
“Bhy, you're bullying our incredibly handsome guest!” Will says with faux-horror. “Come on, Syble,
I'll
show you out.” They stand, pretending to be clutching pearls, and rush into the kitchen for snack bags. Of course Will would be sending him off with food.
“Leaving us for Syble, are you?” Atlas jokes, monotone.
“Yes!
And I'm taking the snacks,” they insist, coming over to bag them up.
“So soon? At least let me ask my wife first,” Syble says to Will, getting up off the couch and trotting over into the kitchen to put his glass in the sink. “I think she should have a say in all of this, no?”
“I'm sure she'll
love
me,” Will says, very seriously. “I'm loveable. Look at me!”
“Bhyram
can't,
Will. He can't look at you,” Atlas says.
“…well…!” They stop and just look at Atlas for a moment.
“They're pouting, now,” he reports to Bhyram.
Bhyram raises his head and actually bothers to turn it fully towards the object of his attention, something he rarely does; it just isn't needed when he can't see them. There's no point. He thinks about that for a second, then lays his head back down with a sigh.
“Wow. Just like that? If he'll go
that easily,
you can have him,” he mutters. “Shows how much we really matter.”
“Exactly! I'm
– wait,
what?”
Will says, clearly expecting…
something
else. Atlas isn't sure what, but their gobsmacked expression is hilarious. “Hey!”
“Good luck, Syble,” Bhyram calls over. “They're a real handful. And they'll leave you for the next dragon with a nice accent that comes along.”
“Wait, wait wait, nooooo,” Syble tries, backing up, forepaws raised.
“Nooo,”
Will echoes. They scurry back to the couch to try and wiggle their way under Bhyram's wing. “Take me back!
Pleeease?”
Atlas snorts and pulls himself up. Good luck, Bhyram. He moves across the living room to approach Syble. “Ignore Will,” he says, amused. “Would you like anything else for the flight home?”
Syble shakes his head. “No, my friend, I will be fine - but thank you for the offer! You are, eh, very kind.” He looks mostly amused by the various antics happening. On the couch, Bhyram is audibly waffling over whether or not Will really
means
what they’re saying. Syble ignores it. “If you wish to stay with your partners I can just see myself out, really, it is no trouble. Thank you very much for all you have already offered me! This little respite has been very good for the wings, yes.”
“No, no, they'll see plenty of me tonight and tomorrow. I'll walk you out,” Atlas says, ignoring his tundras to instead gesture for Syble to step into the foyer. He follows him in. “I'll keep in contact?” he asks, head tilting knowingly.
“Of course! It would be a pleasure to hear from you every now and again,” Syble replies, with ease. “Eh, Bhyram, it was good to see you!”
“You too!” Bhyram calls back. “Or, well -”
“Yes, yes,” Syble hums, trotting across the tile to the door. “Eh, I have your address, you have mine. I will send notes. I believe my wife knows Bhyram’s, eh, his source in the Corps, and I may be able to get a bit of information from her, yes? And on and on.”
“Just let us know,” Atlas nods. He's confident, all things considered. If anyone might know something, it'd be Syble. He'll wait. As soon as Syble re-gathers his things (and all the files from his bags rest safely off to the side to be moved later), Atlas opens the door for him.
Syble trots out into the middle of the night. “Goodbye, my friend! It was a pleasure working with you!” he calls, and then he takes three steps and he’s just gone. Vanished into the darkness.
Impressive.
Good choice of thief indeed.
He closes the door, locks it, then sighs and trots back into the living room to check his tundras. God is he ready to change and rest and be
home.
Bhyram has somehow managed to get Will pinned to the couch. Not for any particular reason. He’s just laying on top of them. “Hey,” he calls to Atlas as he approaches. “C’mere.”
“Comfortable?” Atlas snorts, more than happy to come when called.
“I'm dying,”
says the clearly alive ball of fur poking out from all of Bhyram's winter coat.
“I wouldn’t be, but I have enough fur padding that it’s fine,” Bhyram answers. He scoots back and lets Will go free and only waits for Atlas to get halfway onto the couch before grabbing him and pulling him up the rest of the way, over to immediately flop against him, nestling up against his side.
Will snickers and pads around to Atlas’ other side.
Atlas wiggles down just enough to sink further into the couch cushions, one paw looping around Bhyram's shoulders, the other loosening the scarf until his collar is back on full display. “It's… very good to be home,” he murmurs.
“It's good to have you home,” Will purrs.
“Home and safe and everything,” Bhyram murmurs, nuzzling his throat again. “I, uh, you probably will have to… look through those files, huh? I mean. I can’t. I can’t do it.”
“Tomorrow,” Atlas says immediately. Maybe a year or two ago he'd staunchly refuse to rest first. But now? “I'm… tired. Well, mostly just happy to be home. The files can wait for now.”
“Right, yeah, right,” Bhyram agrees hurriedly. He clears his throat. “In - in that case. We should go to bed. I’m - kind of tired. Howwww tired are you?”
Atlas tilts his head. “How tired…?” What? “Well, I'm not falling asleep standing up, which is generally a good sign.”
“...mhm.” Bhyram twists around to get both paws up on Atlas’ face. He leans up and kisses him, then shifts without breaking that, scooting Atlas a little with his forepaws so he’s sitting upright, then swinging a leg over Atlas’ hips and settling down on his lap, facing him. He leans against his chest. Without Syble here to witness, he has
no qualms
about kissing Atlas until he
has
to break away to breathe. As he pants, Bhyram asks, “are you too tired for me to
have you?”
“No,” he says breathlessly. “I can't guarantee– I'll be awake for long
after,
though.”
“That’s fine,” Bhyram murmurs, against his mouth. “You don’t need to be.”
“Bet you'd sleep
real good
after that,” Will says, trailing their claws down Atlas’ side.
Well, that's certainly
true.
Oh, fuck. He's– yeah.
Yeah.
Atlas nods, wordlessly, and pulls Bhyram back in for another kiss himself.
----- CHAPTER BREAK -----
In the morning, Atlas takes the pilfered files to his office. Clear his desk, clear his schedule - everything gets shoved to the side to make way for this. This mammoth task.He’s read plenty of medical journals. This shouldn’t be too gruelling. Still, he asks Will up to help him with it. It’ll be faster and easier to do this if the both of them are working on it.Bhyram does not join them. No - he spends the day down in the kitchen, stress-baking an inordinate amount of food. It’s fine. It helps him deal with his emotions and most of it can just get donated to the hospital staff, which they’ll love. And with both Atlas and Will upstairs out of the way, Bhyram can just leave the patio door open to combat the heat of the ovens and stovetop, and he won’t overheat. If he does, he’s promised to send Hypnos to fetch them to get him outside again.So that’s all squared away. All they need to do is peruse 279 files on a dragon who is effectively dead to the world for anything that can be used to assemble even a passable medical record. There is… a lot to go through. They begin the arduous process of separating out all of the files, setting out the most relevant ones to construct a medical record in one pile, then Bhyram’s service history goes in another. Anything too blacked out to be immediately useful –anything related to the GS clearance level paperwork– goes in a third. All of them are meticulously labelled, easy to put back in their original order should the need arise, so Atlas isn’t too worried about rearranging their original order into something more workable for his purposes. The military history is nice, but it’s the medical aspect that he’s most concerned with. With Will on the floor with papers spread around them, Atlas on the couch with stacks to his sides, and a notebook and pen in each of their paws to take notes, the two of them start with the oldest documents and work their way to the recent stuff. All in all, it is the same story that Bhyram told them, just in far greater detail– starting from his initial intake paperwork. There’s records about one Hiraeth Vali Ash, an incredibly weak, unimpressive little spiral that performed so badly in basic training that he was supposed to be removed entirely, up until he begged to be made useful. He signed up for Kynaba’s experimental program (codenamed Breakthrough Alpha), agreed to all the consent forms, with –Atlas can only assume– absolutely no understanding of what he was reading. Hell, the consent forms are in this stack, or at least copies of them are. The wording here is… not all that clear, likely purposefully so. No wonder. He hands the paper to Will to review as well; each of them have trouble parsing it, but agree that Bhyram’s handwriting is interesting to see. Would it be the same now…? Probably not, Atlas thinks.The level of specificity in detail increases after that. More intake forms, essentially, from his time separated from the rest of the corps in order to be tested, changed, re-trained, and tested again. There's an extremely detailed description of Hiraeth's –indeed it is Hiraeth, separate from Bhyram in Atlas’ mind– spiral form, bordering on what Atlas might consider invasive. But, well, that is the nature of everything that's happened to him, isn't it? Technically, he signed his consent– his life away. Will has to stand up and go get some more water from the pitcher they brought up, just to break from it.Following that, extensive documentation on the magical particulars of breed changes, specifically from spiral to tundra. It's fascinating in Atlas’ opinion, as someone only familiar with what to keep in mind for continued care of breed changed dragons, even with the occasionally blacked out sections. By the time he's through it, Will's mentally fortified. Back to it.Hiraeth was changed into a tundra mostly in one session, but the entire process took a couple of months due to the multiple revisions attempted. Some successful, some not. The Corps science teams apparently tried to make him larger in size, but it never stuck, leading to unpleasant, unwanted, unplanned reversions at some stages; it was better to wipe all the magic and start over. As a smaller spiral, Hiraeth was simply destined to be a smaller tundra. His muscle mass, however– much larger than average. He's simply built like a train (or, built as FUCK, in Will's words). Adjustments here and there, related to physical performance, almost always done while sedated. He grew very accustomed to happily accepting orders and being put under with no questioning or kickback. Practically a model patient. Bhyram had said himself that he thought he was making something of himself at the time, no matter how disconcerting it seems in hindsight. There is, of note, one specific set of outlined procedures that Will goes through and has to immediately pass to Atlas to notate instead. They simply cannot read that. Atlas can immediately see why. Not even Bhyram's dick was left untouched. That too was sculpted, purpose-made, down to the centimetre in length, girth, hell– even sensitivity level. How the fuck they specified that is… completely beyond Atlas, but he's not going to look into it. Bhyram's never mentioned this part of the process, and with how frank he'd been about the rest, he doesn't think he would've omitted it. It's more than likely that he simply does not know or remember. Nothing untoward is mentioned, they simply reconstructed his genitalia from the ground up as part of the overarching procedure, but it's still… a lot to take in.Will has to stand up again after that, take a deep breath, chug a cup of water. They're going to go downstairs and kiss Bhyram silly and give him the most reassuring hug they possibly can, they declare, and then disappear out of the office door, leaving Atlas to his papers. Once revisions were completed, and Hiraeth’s new body was tested, functional, and a proper baseline was established, then the alterations could begin. Increased healing capacity to begin, both speed and the ability to naturally heal far more dire wounds. There's details here about the testing of it, both sedated and conscious. That is what Atlas has to set down for a moment, his turn to get up and move and try to manage his anger. Fuck, those are rough to read. He's thankful that Bhyram, now, is… fine. He's mostly alright. If anything, he thinks– No, no. Those are words he should put out there. He's too damn frustrated to read right now anyhow.Just as Will had done, Atlas chugs a glass of water and opens the door, then down the stairs he goes. He shakes himself out down at the base of the steps, tags jingling. Into the living room he goes.Will has Bhyram pushed up on his hindlegs against the island, holding his face and still making out with him, sweet and slow. Bhyram is purring gently, claws combing lazily through Will’s fur, going over the feathers specifically, feeling their fine texture between his claws. He flicks an ear as he notices Atlas’ approach, but does not stop.Atlas moves into both of their personal spaces, startling Will slightly as he nudges their paw out of the way to nuzzle at Bhyram's neck. “Oh!” they say, pulling back enough to speak and to breathe. They laugh, breathless. “I didn't, um, notice you coming down.” “Needed to get away for a moment,” he says to Will, then to Bhyram, “and I needed to see you.”Bhyram’s purr kicks up a little. He leans his head against Atlas’ with a soft hum. “From the sound of it, it’s a lot of reading,” he starts, and then he seems to get a better grasp on Atlas’ emotional state. “Oh, uh. You found something bad too, huh.”“Something like that,” he says, wrapping his paws around his shoulders and pulling him closer to Atlas’ chest. Effectively stealing him away from Will, but they don't seem to mind too much. They simply slide over with him, then lean over to give Atlas’ neck a kiss.“Is it, um, the same thing I read?” they ask.“No, different.” “Worse?”“Too different to compare.”Bhyram winces. “I’m… sorry about this,” he mutters. “I, really, if I - could, I’d, uh, do it myself. So you don’t have to… see all that.”“I'd rather me than you re-traumatising yourself,” Atlas mutters. “Besides. Only the two of us would know precisely what is most helpful for our jobs. There's some… surprisingly useful pages. Things you wouldn't expect to be helpful.”“Yeah, I know,” Bhyram sighs, “I just - don’t like when you’re upset about things. I want to help, but I can’t. That just - sucks a little, is all.”“I can give you attention. I can make you happy. I can do what you ask of me. All of these are within my realm of capability,” Atlas says. Hell, that might be the boldest thing he's said yet, but… it's true. He continues, “help me help you and vice versa.”“Oh,” Bhyram says, and pulls Atlas in for a hug, wrapping his arms around Atlas’ shoulders and shoving his head against him. “I… love you so much. Yeah. Take a little break with me? Have some stuffed buns or something. Be here with me.”Food… would probably help. It gives him an excuse to think, anyhow. To gather his words, decide how, exactly, he'd like to say what he wants to say. “I'll… do that, yes. Sit with me on the couch?” he requests.“Yeah. Yeah, of course.” Bhyram pulls his head back and gives Atlas a kiss on the tip of the muzzle. “And just - know that, uh. Whatever you’re reading, it was… a long time ago. That’s not - me. Anymore. I used to be him, but he’s not me. And it won’t ever happen again.”It's still important to him, even if that's true. Those statements can coexist. Still, he nods, and grabs Bhyram's paw to pull him to the living room. He makes eye contact with Will, who just giggles and turns. They understand his plea; they'll bring over a snack for everyone.Atlas hops up on the couch and sits normally enough, already making a little plan in his head (and refusing to feel silly about it). He pats the spot next to him. Bhyram pinpoints the spot by sound, pats it with his own paw, then hops up, doing a little circle before flopping down, head leaning against Atlas’ side. He’s dusted with flour and his mane is still mostly tied back, though a few wisps have escaped the cloth he uses for that.“Been having a decent time with the kitchen today?” Atlas asks, combing through some of the worst flour-dusted spots.“Yeah. A little - I mean I’m a little bit stressed. So I’m - there. But yeah. I’ve been having a good time. It always helps.” Atlas tries to wipe a thicker smudge of flour from one side of his muzzle - but, no, it’s not flour, just a speckling of grey in his fur, a spot usually hidden by his blindfold. It’s more noticeable than it used to be. Forced perfection my ass, he thinks, and silently dips down to kiss that lovely little grey spot.Bhyram gives him a contented sigh in response, settling down against him a little, like an old dog. There’s a smile on that scarred muzzle. Atlas goes to say something, opens his mouth, but Will unknowingly speaks over him. “Snacks for my boys,” they say, singsong. They bring over some of the heated, steaming stuffed buns, resting comfortably on a soft, clean towel, and place them down before the two of them. One for each, and one more for Will.“Oh, these do look good,” Atlas says, carefully taking the largest one of the three.“Hope they taste good, too,” Bhyram says, waiting until he senses Will has taken theirs before patting around for the last one. His tail flicks a few times as he takes a bite and tilts his head to the side, thinking about it. “Hmmmm… pretty good. But I think I could’ve been less, um, hesitant about the seasoning. It’s good, but it could be… better.”Atlas snorts. He takes a bite, and as expected, Bhyram is his own worst critic. It's delicious, savoury mushroom and vegetable filling with just a bit of spice. “You're too hard on yourself,” he says, mouth half full. His wing settles over top him for the time being.“I’m taking notes for later,” Bhyram corrects. “Um, I have my - my recorder around somewhere. Over on the counter. I really am taking notes. I’ll, um, record this one later.” Will got him a little crystalline voice-recording gadget on a necklace for his birthday, something he can carry around and speak into. He can’t exactly scribble things down for himself; this is the next best thing.“Hm. Then note down that I think it's delicious,” Atlas insists, then takes another couple of bites in rapid succession. He wants to finish his quick, lest he lose his nerve, but he does try to (semi-) patiently wait for Bhyram and Will to do the same.Bhyram gets halfway through his and puts it down, tilting his head to one side. He swallows to clear his mouth and asks, “what’s going on? You… okay?”
Damn.
“Yes, I'm fine, really, but… mm.” He shifts a little, pulling his wing back. “Move,” he requests, maybe a little more forceful than he normally would be. “Lie back, against the cushions. Please?”“Ooookay,” Bhyram says, and sets the other half of his bun on the table to do as requested. His expression is curious, maybe a little concerned, as is Will's.Atlas shuffles until his upper half rests against Bhyram's torso, lower half comfortably curled to the side. Lying directly on top of him, in effect, though his paws are free to wander. “I just wanted…” he starts, claws combing through his fur, finding the smattering of hidden scars on his chest, up his shoulders and neck, only occasionally pausing to untie and pull aside any cloth covers, “…to feel you. All that you are. Bhyram, our Bhyram, not the– slightly naive, manipulated man we've been reading about today.”Bhyram’s paws come to rest, one on Atlas' far shoulder, the other in his mane. His claws run through the short-cropped hair there, over and over, soft and loving. He huffs out a rueful laugh. “Yeah, I was… pretty stupid back then,” he agrees. “I - I don't know what I was thinking. ‘Slightly naïve’ is being, uh, pretty generous, I think. I want to believe I'm, um, at least a little better now. Years and years later. A whole different person. Here, with - with you.”“You were thinking you were doing something. Making a difference, maybe, I'm not entirely certain. But you did not know what you signed up for. Will and I both read the consent paperwork you signed for Breakthrough Alpha– it seemed very deliberately confusing, so as to obfuscate the true scope of what it had you agreeing to.” Atlas growls and nuzzles into the side of Bhyram's neck. With his teeth, he gently pulls away the last of the fabric covering his mane. Flour be damned; he doesn't care. He continues, before he can try to talk himself out of it, “they– they took advantage of you, and made you into this awful, beautiful thing. Strong, capable, perfect, and they had to hurt you immensely to accomplish that. Testing your pain tolerance, your healing rate…” Atlas combs his claws through the uncovered mane, from his shoulders up to his head, tracing the litany of scars, large and small, even the one from his own knife, next to where his muzzle rests. He gives it a kiss. “And you… I understand, now. I understand you. Your scars and what they mean,” he murmurs.For a full minute, Bhyram sits there, silent, just petting Atlas’ mane, thinking. Finally he takes a breath and says, “yeah. It did hurt. I - I thought it was worth it back then. I think… maybe it was? I, um. They never let me scar if… they could help it. So yeah, that’s, I’m… I’m that. Those. You - you… know. You get it.”Atlas lies more of his weight on Bhyram, enough to be indulgent and full-bodied without outright squishing him. “You're no longer perfect. You're covered in your scars and your past, good and bad, and–” he takes a deep breath “–that makes you beautiful. You're incredibly handsome, all of your features are still perfect, and your scars make them all the better.” The words are a low murmur, spoken against the scar that literally should have permanently killed him. He's alive. Here. Warm and familiar. “Oh,” Bhyram says, vaguely strangled, “I, well, I…”Atlas can feel him swallow, the movement of his throat, that scar, where the fur doesn’t grow anymore. He takes in a deep breath and lets it out, then takes another, a little bit shaky. “Thank you,” he mumbles, against Atlas’ forehead, pressing his muzzle into the scales there. “I love you so much. I, that - sometimes I have… you help me believe that.” “Holy shit,” Will says under their breath, off to the side. Atlas just smiles into Bhyram's flesh and fur, gives it another kiss and a little nip for good measure, then settles in nicely. “Thank you for… mm. Trusting that the words are true. You're beautiful, Bhyram, I– I like you a lot.” Of course, of fucking course. “Please never forget that part of yourself. That self-made, strong thing.”“I - I’ll try,” Bhyram stammers out, looping both arms around Atlas to hold him close. His heart, Atlas can hear through the pulse in his neck, is going faster than usual. “I will, I’ll try. I won’t let myself get… lost, or I’ll try not to, in - stuff that isn’t who I am anymore. I’m proud of who I am now. Everything past - that. Since then. Things I’ve done. The way they changed me. And I’m glad you - like it. Like me.” His expression shifts, Atlas can feel, in the faint motion of his face.“Thank you,” Atlas says again, just before the embarrassment sets in. That was– a lot. More than he's ever said. He doesn't regret it, no, absolutely fucking not, but he is fairly flustered. He returns Bhyram's hug and squeezes him once, more than content to fall into silence and enjoy his space (and listen to Will's obvious short circuiting). “God, you two,” they murmur, and lean down to give each of their heads a kiss.Bhyram works one wing out from behind him to clumsily throw it over Atlas, silent. He holds Atlas tight against his thickly-furred chest, muzzle pressed against cold scales. One ear flicks at Will’s kiss, and he makes a little half-whine, half rumble in his throat and chest, half a gesture with his head.“I'm comin’, I'm comin’,” Will says, amused and affected in equal measure, as they shuffle over to Atlas’ other side. They slot into the space Atlas’ wing creates when he holds it up for them to settle under, then scooch up to kiss Bhyram's head again.“My - I - this. Myl kaerlan, jaag fyrgaadet djette afthast ykk vaimeskige miilå,” Bhyram manages, and takes a breath to steady himself. His tone, when he speaks, is somewhere between overwhelmed, joyful, and quietly touched. “Gods. This - this is my life , isn’t it? I - I’m, I get to have this. I have you. I’m… this really is my life.”“It's your life, Bhy!!” Will chirps, to which Atlas hums in agreement. “And we're so happy to, um, share it. And that you want us here to experience it with you!”“Of course I want you with me, you're my - everything,” Bhyram mumbles, voice muffled where he has his muzzle once more shoved against Atlas. “Gods. Gods. They, hah, the Corps would be so mad if they knew this was what I was doing with all their stupid magic and science and to- uh, their, testing, and all their bullshit . It's mine now. And - and yours . I'm yours.”“I think they'd be pretty mad to hear that you use that perfect body of yours not to kill, but to um, do things like make really good croissants and fuck your boyfriends to sleep,” Will adds, laughing. “Good! I hope they are.” “Bastards,” Atlas hisses. He squeezes Bhyram a little tighter. They'll never get their horrible paws on him again. Not if he has anything to say about it.The three of them lay like that for a long while, cuddled up and cozy until Bhyram gently - reluctantly - pushes Atlas and Will off of him. The oven, still full, is about ready to be tended to again. Whatever it is (something sweet– Bhyram told him the name, something in Kostollsk, but Atlas couldn’t quite catch it in time), it smells delicious, of course. Bhyram seems in better spirits as he trots over to the oven to rescue his pastries. Good. Atlas was hoping that he’d feel a little better, what with the stress of the day, and all. Unfortunately, it must continue.Will elects to stay downstairs with Bhyram. Fine. It means it takes longer, but it means Bhyram has company to stress less, and Will need not get too much more frustrated with going through his history. Atlas goes up alone, gathers up Will’s stacks (they organise things very differently), then sorts them all into his own. Back to it, then.Where was he…? Alterations, right. Things they’d done to Bhyram after his body was constructed, additional things in the pursuit of making a perfect little killing machine. Things to make him absolutely unstoppable. After the increased healing capability, they– “Fucking hell,” Atlas says aloud, disgusted and horrified. –sedated him and removed various limbs and organs in succession to test his adaptability. See what his body could do in response to extreme trauma. ‘Adaptability Experimentation,’ reads one paper’s heading. At least he was unconscious for that. He probably doesn’t even know that his wings, his legs, his forelimbs, his tail, even his damn liver were all removed, one or two (or, in one unfortunate case, three) at a time. Relevant to his medical file, unfortunately. It goes in that pile to be stored later. Following that, adjustments to his immune system– of which there is a veritable stack of files on the subject. His body apparently required a back and forth in order to keep it from attacking itself, attacking any foreign material or magic at all, or having allergic reactions to what seems like just about anything. Eventually, they got it right, and (Atlas’ favourite piece of information learned thus far) it seems that vaccines are exceptionally effective and work very well with his monstrous immune system. Yes! Good! Finally, some good fucking news. That one happily goes into the medical file pile. There’s even a proper vaccination record! Atlas’ tail shamelessly swishes behind him when he finds that. Normal and meticulous medical records, thank fuck, about surgeries (many) and medication (sparsely used) and diagnoses (very few). All things that Atlas sets in their own special little pile. If there’s some here, there’s bound to be more. Evidently, he did not have any preexisting conditions as a spiral, nor did he have any post breed change, save for the things that were explicitly adjusted by the Corps itself. Oh, what a relief. The whole damn breaking into a military facility thing wasn’t all for naught. But, he can’t dwell on that all night. There’s more to see.Then, following that, comes general immunity to things unrelated to illness outright: poisons, substances, external, toxic matter. There’s an anecdote written on one of the papers, a note about failing to keep Hiraeth, not yet used to his new plant-based diet, from eating literally any plant outside without regard for potential poisonous properties. That one does have Atlas sitting and thinking for a moment. His Bhyram– cannot be that stupid. Maybe Hiraeth was, once upon a time, but by the fucking eleven. What? Sure, it’s a generally good idea to make him immune to poisoning, but the initial push for that is… actually somewhat comedic. Hell. And now he’s not allowed to drink alcohol, because it does nearly nothing without absurd quantities. Atlas snorts and moves on.For several groupings of files after that point, Kynaba (awful bastard that he is) must’ve been done with him for a while, save for one or two incident cases related to the actual bulk of these files: mission reports. Both combat missions (leading forces in patrols, leading them in raids on bandit camps and slaver camps, things of that nature) and noncombat (fancy dinners where he has a specific task to complete, things far less uncomfortable to read about). They’re not all exactly legal or moral, in as much as the military can ever be considered as such, but Atlas frankly does not care about the crimes Bhyram may have technically committed or not. Some are fine. Some are not. It doesn’t bother him all that much, considering Atlas knows that there are far worse missions coming. There’s been no mention of his control runes yet. These are all just run of the mill missions for the time being. Enter Kynaba, once more. There’s approved requests in here attached to more relevant mission reports– supply requests, mostly, from the Rimebone Stockade and the Fortress’ vaults itself. Little toys for the mad scientist, Atlas can only assume, given that after that there’s several missing entries that have only one piece of paper to take their place: refer to GS98. The Thing. That just confirms it for him, confirms what Atlas already knew, that the GS files definitely detail the particulars of the thing in Bhyram’s soul that is now also him that was not originally him. Good to know. Fucking frustrating that he cannot get his claws on them now. At that point, he gets up, takes the mostly-empty pitcher of water and the glasses downstairs to refill, steals another stuffed bun and a kiss from Bhyram, then makes his way upstairs again. It’s getting late by now, not that he cares.Not all of the information related to the Thing is withheld in these more general-access files. There’s further mission reports and test records about it. Mostly test reports. Over and over. Test after test after test after fucking test. Weeks’ worth of testing, tweaking, testing again. There’s interview transcripts as well, with Hiraeth himself speaking out about the fact that he dislikes unleashing it on others, dislikes inflicting wounds via a simple touch. There’s easy lies in here from Kynaba, false reassurances that Hiraeth probably fell for. Somehow, supposedly, the damage that thing wreaks is helping people all over the Icefields and beyond. What a load of bullshit. Atlas takes another water break. It’s at this point that the files get fucking thicker. Atlas nearly sits there in despair for a moment before he realises why. Many of the written reports, by Hiraeth alone, have been doubled. At some point, the now General Hiraeth Vali Ash gained a First Lieutenant Faulkner Graston– and Graston, as Atlas already knows, was the one calling the shots while Hiraeth largely acted as a figurehead and nice, pretty, commanding voice. All of General Ash’s reports were reviewed by Graston before being submitted as the ‘official’ version, with discrepancies between the two– the originals are here as well, for Atlas’ personal reading pleasure. Graston did not like General Ash’s honesty, it seems. Shortly after that, the missions Hiraeth completed began to get… increasingly ethically questionable. In his reports, he voiced his complaints about it, specifically his severe disapproval of the usage of the Thing. Of course, those were nicely scrubbed out by Graston. Honestly, Atlas is shocked that they kept the original records at all… but no matter, the result would have been the same: Kynaba introduced the euphoria effect. More testing, in which they had to up the dosage of the effect from a pleasant feel-good happiness to a full on, intense drug high. Even with that, Hiraeth fought against it, and admirably so, battling his own body’s craving for the sensation to avoid hurting someone else. Constantly. He simply refused to use it, despite commands to do so, despite how unpleasant it was to reject it. Atlas takes a deep breath. Here we go, he thinks bitterly. Enter the control runes. Kynaba and the rest of them felt forced to come down on him hard about his insubordination. Multiple files are focused on the process of it, the creation of the runes and associated spellwork by a team of incredibly talented mages; the branding of them into his flesh (which he was sedated for, thank fuck), tattoos cleverly hidden on his body, difficult to see; and finally the charging of them and creation of a command phrase. Blacked out, of course. Refer to GS100, is all it says. Wouldn’t want lower clearance personnel accessing and using their precious little death machine, now would they? Again, Atlas gets up and goes downstairs, to pace around the living room and sit with his koi for a little while. Bhyram and Will are in bed by now. It is well and truly late into the night. He doesn’t work tomorrow. Back upstairs. The testing on those fucking runes –every time he reads about them, the curse gets added. He swears he can feel his own, very much active runes burning– is extensive, just like everything else. And incredibly fucking horrific. They’re runes designed to wrest control from Hiraeth, from Bhyram, thank fuck they’re gone now, entirely. So the testing was - well, if they tried to test them on things Hiraeth might have been okay with, then the results could possibly be skewed. There are several tests detailed which follow a pattern with increasing severity: wake Hiraeth up, activate the runes, command him to commit some heinous act or several heinous acts, and then knock him back out again. First, killing animals. Game animals, initially, things often hunted for meat or pelt. Then animals less commonly killed by dragons for their use. Songbirds and occasionally even animals often kept as pets. Then, an escalation: prisoners, captives, dragons in various states of sound mind and body. At least two of those were dragons captured for the purpose of the test. Kept well hidden, of course. No need for a PR nightmare. Kynaba got his results, of course. The control runes worked incredibly well once they were tweaked just right, and Graston held the proverbial key to them.From there, the testing and procedure reports get fewer and farther between as General Ash fell into forced active service more than ever. Mission reports fill the vast bulk of the papers as they get progressively more recent. Just as before. Combat and noncombat alike. Details of destroyed or aided villages. Banquets and balls– PR stunts, perhaps? Things to help relations. Courtroom cases and transcripts of court hearings, testimonies Hiraeth had given. Plenty of various incidents involving injury to Hiraeth himself… which generally culminated in him getting restrained somewhere alone while his body recovered itself, usually in a bed in an empty infirmary. Anywhere he could be kept where he could not fight anyone. A side effect of too high a dosage of whatever it is that creates that magical drug high, Atlas presumes. It’s not mentioned to be the specific cause of it, but that… seems right? Too much of it and he’s rendered into what the papers describe as ‘an animalistic state of mind, devoid of rational thought or reasoning.’ In absence of a fight to put that energy towards, the adrenaline occasionally turned into aggression. Particularly dangerous when dealing with the Corps’ perfect little weapon.And so, he was often muzzled. The command phrase was no use when he was like that. They couldn’t simply force him to stop, because he simply could not process or understand any orders to follow. Kynaba had attempted to rectify that, which backfired horrifically. There’s an exceptionally long, very technical report about Hiraeth’s brain function in here. Atlas does not like the implications of that. In the end, they were forced to revert the change and simply wipe all of that from his memory– something they’d done a handful of times with regard to failed experimentation. Bhyram’s occasional lapses in memory, even to this day, suddenly make much more sense. A lot of the damage to his brain was given to Leigh, or so he says. Atlas resolves to ask him if he’s had any memory issues since that night.Aside from that, the rest of the files are much of the same, mission reports, incident reports, occasional exam paperwork. Up until Atlas comes to, around the time that the goddamn sun should be rising, what seems to be the final few non-Glacial Snow clearance files. The first: an incident report by one First Lieutenant Faulkner Graston, on the desertion of General Hiraeth Vali Ash. Atlas has heard this story from Bhyram himself, and the wording here, the official record, is certainly… embellished.
"I attempted to pull Ash across the field to a healing source to offload his injuries, at which point he transferred his skull fracture and concussion to myself. As he was not commanded specifically against using this power against me, he turned on me, rendering me temporarily blinded due to the injury and unable to stop him from escaping."
Yeah, sure. That’s an incredibly watered down version of what really happened, which is the fact that Graston often used Bhyram as a stress relief punching bag for the hell of it, simply because Hiraeth could not fight back. The final time this happened, Bhyram had goaded Graston into getting physical with him, more and more violent, until it culminated in the lesser tundra taking a large rock and bashing in Bhyram’s skull out of malice, jealousy, and feelings of inadequacy. The rest, at least, is true. Atlas only wishes that the blow had killed Graston outright. As far as Bhyram knows, he’s still alive– and, privately, Atlas thinks that he may not be for much longer, if his knife has anything to say about it.With that, the last few files are far less notable. They’re more detailed accounts of what Atlas had found in his independent research however long ago: press-releases, news, speculations as to the deserter’s location. Then, a report that Atlas recognises as being from Bhyram’s friend Commissioner (interesting name, he thinks - oh, no, her full name is marked down in the document summary. Commissioner Kavusiya Kayin. She just only goes by the job title, apparently), about the death of Hiraeth Vali Ash. Filed by Commissioner, serving under someone named Fulgrim, in which she claimed to have personally witnessed the general’s death out somewhere in the Worldsea. There’s details here… time (both local time and Corps standard time), date, rough estimated coordinates. Even the details of what types of animals consumed his corpse, and how much of it remained after the carrion feast. Supposedly, this was verified independently by unrelated, non-Corps witnesses, with… vaguely familiar names. Has Bhyram mentioned these names before? He might have. Good. If they’re his friends, Atlas is glad they corroborated his apparent demise. The case was marked closed.There’s a note at the very end about the date in which they were moved to Base 41. There’s nothing after that.
Finally. He’s done.
After a great breath, Atlas gets up, stretches, and goes about neatly setting everything on his desk to deal with later in the day. He hasn’t eaten since that last stuffed bun before Bhyram and Will went to bed, he’s finally realising. Fuck, he needs a coffee. It is with immense pleasure that Atlas shuts off the office light and heads downstairs, first to his bathroom and then into the kitchen.To his surprise, he’s not alone. Will is there, he sees first, sitting on a stool with their upper half draped over the island and wings hanging towards the floor. Don’t they work today…? No, no, wait. They were supposed to spend all day yesterday and today going over files together. Whoops. That’s done now.Bhyram is standing on his hindpaws, leaning mostly on the counter next to the coffee machine, head resting on his forelimbs. He also looks a little tired, ears relaxed, wings drooping a little. His tail flicks idly. But as he hears the jingle of Atlas’ tags, he picks his head up. “Oh, hey,” he calls out, and yawns. “You were up pretty late, right? Did you sleep okay? Or - when did you go to bed?”“Good morning, Bhyram. Yes, I was up late, and yes I slept about as well as I ever do. Two-thirty or so?” Atlas lies on reflex, hardly thinking about it, as he moves to take a seat next to Will.“Try again?” Bhyram asks.What? Try– oh. Atlas groans. “I don’t know why I said– no, I’ve been up all night,” he mutters, grinding the palms of his paws into his eyes.Bhyram nods. “Umm. You were working on reading those files, huh. Well, that’s… you should probably get some sleep soon, at least a nap or something,” he tries. “Thaaaaat’s… not great for you. You could’ve waited, you know, Will’s going to help out more today.”“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters still, “they’re done with.”That has Will perking up. “Wh– huh? What do you mean…? You did all of those? In one, um, one sitting?” “I came downstairs and sat with the koi at one point. Better than punching my wing through a wall.”Bhyram winces. “That… bad, huh?”“The runes got to me,” he says simply. Idly, he scratches at the thin metal that hides his neck. Raw feeling… He ought to take that off, maybe. “Oh. Right.” Bhyram clears his throat, then abandons the burbling coffee machine to step over and reach out with one wing, brushing one of Atlas’ arms. Then he takes one of his forepaws and draws him close, holding both his forepaws. His muzzle is pointed down, slightly to the side, as he speaks. “I… want to thank you. For - for doing this. For me. Uh. Even if I - could read them myself, I… shouldn’t. I don’t think. It - wouldn’t… help me at all. I actually think it would probably be bad for me to read it, everything from - from their point of view, everything I might’ve forgotten. And I’m sure I’ve forgotten a lot. So I - thank you for doing that instead. For saving me from that.”Will nods along, seeming pleased. They must’ve said something. Atlas smiles and brushes his muzzle against the side of Bhyram’s. “It’s done now,” he murmurs, “and forgive me for not giving you all of the damn details. I’ll tell you anything I’ve learned about your medical record, if you want to hear it, but I’m not going to go into the particulars.”“No, that’s - that’s for… the best. It is. I don’t - I mean. Tell me anything I should know. But if I don’t have to, and I already don’t remember, it’s not worth learning again. I’ll just feel bad about it. It’s not - going to help anybody. I feel… bad, of course, making you know all this - horrible stuff, but you… wouldn’t have done it if you couldn’t handle it.” He leans into the muzzle bump, resting his cheek against Atlas’.“Later. I still need to organise the medical records, notate what I absolutely need most, get it sorted on my shelf–” he stops and sighs. “It’s going to be an event unto itself. That you could sit with me for, if you like. On the bright side, it doesn’t seem like you have any known allergens. Anymore.”“Oh, well that’s good!” Bhyram says, cheerfully enough that he seems to startle himself. He clears his throat, half-smiling, embarrassed. He does not let go of Atlas’ paws. “Uh. I mean. Yeah, that’s good. I would like to sit with you for that, if it… helps, at all. But it can wait a few minutes. Maybe do you want some breakfast first? I wasn’t sure what to make, I hadn’t decided yet. Maybe some eggs. I keep trying to ask Will but they keep falling asleep again.” “I’m sorryyyy,” Will whines, jaw pressed to the counter once more. “You wore me out, Bhy, what can I say?”Atlas snorts. “I don’t know what time I came down here last evening for a second bun, but that was the last time I ate,” he says, ignoring Will’s protests.“Ohhh nooo, that’s too long to go without eating,” Bhyram says, worriedly. “Okay, we’re making whatever you want. Just tell me. And go sit down! In the living room! You’re, uh, swaying a little.”“I am sitting,” Atlas argues. But, well, it is a fairly tall stool, and he definitely does not feel all that great, now that he thinks about it… He’s not exactly on the couch or the floor. A fall from here would probably hurt anyway. He huffs. “Fine.”“Yes, okay, good,” Bhyram says, and proceeds to refuse to let go of Atlas’ paw until he’s down off the stool, over into the living room, and safely installed on the couch. A little bit excessive maybe, he’s not going to collapse any minute (he’s had far longer all-nighters than this before, many times), but fine.Bhyram leans down and gives him a kiss, soft and slow and gentle, before stepping back to head into the kitchen again. “I’ll make - rice and tamagoyaki and bring it over,” he calls. “Okay?”Atlas drapes himself over the back of the couch to watch him. “Yes, that sounds great,” he calls back, already somewhat more tired. “Is coffee nearly ready?”“Mm, not yet,” Bhyram calls back. He seems very pleased all of a sudden? “It’s my stuff, anyways. I’ll - I’ll make yours once the machine is free, okay? Just sit tight. I love you.” He’s smiling.“I can wait.” With a hum, Atlas gets himself comfortable, content to watch Bhyram move around still. He’s no longer dusted with flour. Will probably brushed him out, or something. He looks good. Speaking of Will– Atlas’ eyes slide over to their hunched form just as they move, dropping down out of the stool like a liquid, then shuffle over to Bhyram to rub against his side before turning to scurry over to the couch. “Morning, honey,” they tell him. In response, he lifts a wing and pulls them close to his side. “Did you um, really get through all of that last night?” “I did, yes,” Atlas confirms. “I’m sorry I wasn’t… more help. I just… I didn’t know just how much it would all be.” They speak lowly, for Bhyram’s benefit, but Atlas is fairly certain he can hear them anyway. “I just… Haah, fuck, um. It felt a little too invasive? That– that old name. That old him. That’s not… Bhyram. I don’t know who that is. And I don’t want to know him, not in any more detail than I have to. I want to focus on, um, you know. I know our Bhyram. And that’s enough for me.” Atlas can agree with that. But, at least someone in the house needs to know his full history, and currently Atlas is the closest to that. Bhyram himself said he likely doesn’t remember a lot of things, and some of that he probably wasn’t told at all. It’s grim. Grisly, even. Not for the faint of heart, like Will, or the traumatised, like Bhyram.“It’s done now,” Atlas repeats, just like earlier. “You’re helping me notate it all later. And make copies. I am not letting all of this burn in one location, just in case something happens.”“I agree, and um, of course I’ll help. Tonight maybe, or… something. I don’t know if it could be done in one sitting. …no, don’t– I know what you’re going to say. Let me, um, fix that. It shouldn’t be done in one sitting,” they tell him. Atlas huffs, but Will nods easily and tucks their face into Atlas’ shoulder and neck. “We’ll get it done.” “We will.”“Oh, Atlas?” “Yes?” “Is the choker bothering you? I can take it off for you.”The wide but contoured metal band covering his runes? Yeah. He ought to take that off. Will might even be able to feel the chafing, he’s not sure. He doubts it, but it’s possible. Atlas nods, wordlessly, and Will goes about unlatching it in the back and letting it fall into their paws. They pull away to drop it onto the coffee table with a little metal clink! then curl up again in their previous spot. Comfortable. Good. Atlas does like having his dear Will with him. Atlas nuzzles the top of their head then looks back into the kitchen.For a little while, Bhyram clatters around (fairly quietly) in the kitchen. There’s the sound of chopping and whisking, the smell of cooking eggs as Bhyram cautiously and carefully pours and rolls and pours and rolls the egg. Time is a little hazy, with sun filtering wearily in through the shades, pale and watery in the early spring morning.Bhyram comes over at some point with a platter, containing the promised rice and tamagoyaki, and Atlas’ favourite mug, with - mm, that’s not coffee. That’s juice.“Bhyram, what is this,” Atlas deadpans.“Coffee can be later,” Bhyram tells him firmly, with a kiss to the side of his head. “After breakfast.”Atlas grumbles, but relents and just takes a sip of the mug. Fresh squeezed, of course, the bastard.Bhyram hums fondly and gives him another kiss, then heads back over into the kitchen to clean up, or make some more, Atlas isn’t sure. Doesn’t matter. Breakfast is right here.“Special treatment,” Will bemoans, eyeing his food. “He loves me more,” Atlas says flatly, to which Will scoffs. “I love you both, but one of you refuses to tell me what you wanted to eat, and the other one has regular favourites,” Bhyram calls from the kitchen. “And also he didn't sleep.”“Lam basted in my own home for the crime of– of sitting! And having varied tastes!” Will cries, cuddling up to Atlas’ side anyway. Atlas snorts. “Maybe later you can have food first. This is my breakfast. Thank you Bhyram,” he calls.“Anything for you,” Bhyram hums. “Will, don't steal his eggs. I'm making your food now, you can wait.”Will looks shocked. “How did you–!” They stop, think a second. “…not fair. Bah.” “I just know you,” Bhyram says, a smile on his face, detectable even though his back is turned. “That's all. I know you.”“Bullied in my own home,” they cry. Bhyram, of course, brings over food when it’s ready, a portion for both he and Will together, where Will reluctantly pulls themself out from under Atlas’ wing to sit and eat like a normal person. It’s everything a breakfast should be after a long night awake: warm and savoury. All it’s missing is the soup, but they’re out of miso at the moment… He’ll make a note to ask for some to be bought later. It’s delicious, Atlas scarfs it up in record time, and then afterwards he feels like he’s going to pass out at any minute. That does not stop him –though maybe it should– from getting up and relocating to Bhyram’s room and sending Will to his room for a change of clothes for him. It’s comfortable in Bhyram’s room, no matter the persistent early spring chill (and the Ice magic that keeps it colder). He wants the option for Bhyram to come cuddle with him in bed, and his room is simply too warm for him to exist comfortably. Here, he can bundle up in the blankets. He’s out almost as soon as he’s changed and snuggled in. Quickly enough that he doesn’t even notice if Bhyram joins him or not, rendering all of the prep work completely pointless. Whatever. He feels safe and at ease here.He's woken around noon by Will, who actually has his coffee this time. Bhyram is curled around his back, snuggled up against him, purring loudly, but unsteadily, indicating he's also just woken up. He yawns, catching those big fangs in a flash of sunlight, and snaps his jaws shut. “Hey,” he tells Atlas, upon feeling him stir. “You can't sleep all day. You'll never get to bed on time.” “Damn your responsibility,” Atlas groans, curling his neck around to nudge Bhyram’s head with his own. He’d like to shove his face in his fur, because that makes everything better, but that requires moving to do so.Bhyram laughs, through the purr. “Hey, kaerleste, you can hide if you want. But then you won't be able to drink your coffee.”“I even washed your mug from this morning,” Will singsongs. Atlas groans again, internally counting down from three to spur him into moving. He motions for the mug until Will laughs and sets it in his paws. He mumbles something that could be –is intended to be, sort of– a thank you. Will laughs. “It’s hot, honey, careful.” Good. It should be. Coffee isn’t hot enough unless it scalds the roof of his mouth.He sits up just enough to drink it comfortably. God, he's tired, still. But, Bhyram's right. He works tomorrow, he needs to be rested for that. So, coffee. Coffee solves all. He drinks all of it down and gives the empty mug back to Will, who's taken to intermittently kissing Bhyram and Atlas’ neck.“Mmm, alright, boys. Time to get up,” Will purrs, moving back away from the bed.Bhyram is purring, contented, nuzzling Will whenever they get close. He reluctantly stretches the wing settled over Atlas and starts to pull himself up.Atlas sighs. Right. Time to move again, even if it's incredibly enticing to simply lie here in the cold room with Bhyram. He pulls himself up and out of his blankets, shaking himself out once he's free– something he does far more often now, despite not needing to. He's picked it up from his far more furry companions. “Time to get some more work done,” he says. “Will, you'll help me?”“Of course!” Will chirps.“I’ll come up, too,” Bhyram offers.Atlas pauses halfway to the door. “Sorry…?” he says, surprised and a little confused. “Why?” Bhyram hesitates. “I - well,” he says, “uh, I just - think it might be nice if I’m there too. I won’t - I won’t get in the way, or bother you, I swear. I’ve got a book to read. But - you know, uh, maybe I want to be near you. Maybe I want you to be near me. I know if - if I’m doing stuff that makes me feel, you know, kind of terrible, being near you always helps me. So.” He shrugs, a little awkwardly.“Aww, yeah! That sounds nice,” Will says, then turns towards Atlas to bat their lashes at him, as if they’re a hatchling asking a parent to bring home a pet. “What do you say, Atlas? Pleeease?” “Why are you–? Don’t look at me like that. This is Bhyram’s house too, he can do what he likes.” Atlas rolls his eyes as Will snickers. “Of course you can come up with us; you won’t be in the way. It just surprised me, is all. Normally you avoid my office.”“Well - normally I don’t want to bother you,” Bhyram says. “And also I. I don’t know it well enough to, uh, to navigate it. And also it’s kind of - your space. I don’t want to just, you know, go in your space like that.”Atlas turns around to trot back over to Bhyram and nuzzle his face into the side of Bhyram’s. “Come up with us. I’ll refrain from smoking,” he says. Sure, Bhyram is right, the office is his own space, but Atlas does like having company up there from time to time.Bhyram’s expression lights up, pleased. “Alright! Let me just - get my, uh, I put a book somewhere. Oh, gods, I don’t remember where. Okay, I’ll be up when I find it, alright?”“Alright, alright. We’ll be upstairs then.” Atlas kisses his cheek, then hurries away, out the door for Will to follow. A stop at the bathroom, then he meets Will upstairs. While Bhyram searches for his book (after a mild argument with Will about the fact that they could just find it for him, shut down by Bhyram insisting he’s more than capable), the other two can get the office set up better. The papers are still on the desk where Atlas left them, but there’s still things on the floor, unrelated to the journey through files. Stacks of books. A cup, and a bowl across the room (oops). An open drawer on a side table… Things that aren’t necessarily a hazard for sighted dragons, but things that Bhyram could mildly injure himself on without noticing them. Sure, he’d be fine, even if he got glass embedded in his paw, but Atlas would still be upset. Tidying up is important, then, and doesn’t take too long. Casual chatter makes the time go by quicker. Will opens the blackout curtains to let in the sunlight, then the window to air out the room of residual cigar smoke. It feels nice enough outside, a little chilly– Atlas keeps a blanket on the couch for a reason. He puts on a record to enjoy, and on the third song (spent setting out the medical papers), there’s a knock at the door frame.It’s Bhyram, of course, with Hypnos at his side. He pokes his head around the door, ears flicking forward. “...hi,” he tries, “wwwwhere’s safe to walk?”“Just come to me, honey, straight towards me. It’s clear,” Will says from the couch.Atlas adds from the desk, “Will and I picked up. As long as you’re over there, which is by the couch, the larger area, and not directly next to my desk, there shouldn’t be much for you to get snagged on. The record player makes a good point of reference. Just don’t pass it walking in my direction.”“Rrrright,” Bhyram says, with a nod. He’s got a little bag slung around his shoulders, probably containing his book. He steps into the room, and Hypnos trots in front of him, feeling out the way for him. One ear swivels to follow the sound of the record player, head tilting slightly to the side, curious.Most of the way there, he passes through the sunbeam that’s coming in through the window and pauses, ears flicking forward. “Oh, that’s nice,” he states. “Can - uh, would it be weird if I just laid here for a little while, actually? I like the, the way the sun feels. Is this in the way?”Atlas swivels around to see where he is– the middle of the floor, right on the rug. Amused, Atlas says, “sure? If you’d like. You wouldn’t be in the way.”“Would you like a pillow or something? Um, a blank– no, probably not a blanket, huh,” Will says.Bhyram pats at the floor. “Ummm… yeah, maybe a pillow.” He does a little circle and lays down in the sunlight, shuffling his wings. Hypnos sits at his side, and he wiggles the bag around and removes one of his tactile books from it.Will grabs a pillow and hops down to deposit it directly onto Bhyram’s back. They look supremely pleased with themself. “That’s what you meant, right?”He yelps, startled, and twists his head around to snag the pillow in his jaws and drag it over one wing and down in front of him. He tucks it under his chest and forelimbs for support. “Close enough,” he says, and gives his right forelimb a quick groom before he opens his book up and settles down.“Sorry, honey,” Will says, placing a gentle paw on his shoulder before leaning down to kiss the top of his head. “Enjoy your book.”“Us discussing medical records won’t disturb you, will it?” Atlas asks, just in case. Sure, he asked to be here, knowing what they were going to be doing, but…“What? No, no, it won’t. If anything, uh, if anything’s not clear, maybe I can. I don’t know, offer anything I remember.”“And, of course, you can ask questions,” Atlas says, reassured. Good. He prefers this, having Bhyram up with them.“Yeah. If - if anything… if I want to know anything. I can ask.”He can, and they’ll answer. Atlas wrangles Will into joining him for the task they’re actually upstairs to finish. He reads through the paperwork and lets Will write things down as necessary, and the two of them together get everything more organised and put in order. The original files remain, of course, but having a sort of quick reference sheet for medical emergencies is something that Atlas is sure will come in handy someday. The vast majority of Bhyram’s healthcare takes place at home, after all. The two of them discuss things in a normal volume, assured that Bhyram’s reading isn’t disturbed by them talking. He likes hearing the two of them, apparently, even when the subject matter is a surgery Bhyram had about thirty-six years ago. He asks questions or makes a comment every once in a while, mostly about things he has no memory of - things he finds surprising or odd. As expected, he has almost no memory of any of the adaptability testing, which is, to be honest, a blessing. He asks a few cursory probing questions about it, then decides it’s not worth it for him to learn more and goes back to his book while Atlas and Will dance around the subject out loud and, if they really need to discuss details, simply write them down on a paper instead and pass it back and forth like hatchlings in school.Getting through it, they get to verify if Bhyram is even aware of certain things, stuff he ought to know, given that it’s his body they’re talking about. “Oh, what the fuck,” Will exclaims into the silence. The last record ended a little while ago.“Will?” Atlas asks.“There’s– um?” Bhyram flicks an ear up, turning his head slightly. “Wwwwhat is it?” he asks.“Are you…” they begin, then stop to slide over the paper they’re looking at for Atlas to take. Oh. No wonder they’re surprised. He nods. Bhyram should know, if he doesn’t. Will clears their throat. “Bhy, are you aware that, um, you’ve been sterilised?” There’s a second where he sits there, processing, and then picks his head up, posture shifting, leaning forward. “What?” “About, ummm…” Will takes the paper back to check over, then flips through a few more papers. “Mmmaybe a year or so after your breed change, they had you sterilised. According to this.”“I - wh -” Bhyram starts, and tosses one paw up and to the side, then rubs his face with it. “I, okay, not that I have a - a problem with that, but they - didn’t… tell me? Which. If they had, it would’ve made - um. Some situations. Less stressful, uh. If.” He stops. “Bhyram?” Atlas and Will both say, each turning around to look at him.“I - listen, it - I… don’t know what you want me to say here.”“How often were you having sex with women??” Will asks. At the same time, speaking over them, Atlas says, “you weren’t using condoms?” “Oh my god,” Bhyram mumbles, into his forepaws, now both on his face. “I, um, sometimes! But they didn’t - I mean, where was I supposed to get…? I mean sometimes they, uh, my, uh, partners - had. Them for me. But not - it wasn’t like I carried them around.” “Wh. The– were they girlfriends? At least?” Will says, to which Atlas elbows them. “Ow! It’s a valid question!” “Sometimes? N. Not usually.”“You don’t even like women!” they exclaim, thoroughly baffled. “Williard,” Atlas chides.“Well - yeah, I know that now,” Bhyram protests, “but I - I didn’t back then! I thought I did!” …he didn’t always know he’s gay? That’s news to Atlas. Will stands up and slips around the record player to flop down next to him– oh, they’re taking a break now, are they? “Oh, honey,” they murmur, throwing a wing over him.Bhyram sighs, dropping his head to rest on his paws and the pillow. “I thought it was - normal, you know, to just kind of. I don’t know, I thought - I was feeling all the correct things and I didn’t realize how not interested in any of them I ever really was until I had to physically stop myself from trying to kiss Atlas in the goddamn undead sentry’s dream sequence! And even then I didn’t even really get it I had to - embarrass myself in front of you, and Nokk and Ambrose, and - gods.”“Embarrass yourself in front of Nokk and Ambrose? What did you–” Atlas stops dead in his tracks.
What?
He what?
No, no, he needs to hear that one again.
“I’m fucking sorry, you what?” Atlas says, choking on absolutely nothing.“Oh, you didn’t know?” Will says. “Not helping!”Bhyram has moved from ‘embarrassed’ to ‘completely mortified.’ “I forgot to - ohhhhh I forgot to ever. Mention. I - it.” He rubs the palms of his forepaws into his empty eye sockets, ears back, his fur fluffed up, especially along the neck and back.Completely unhelpfully, Will’s taken to absolutely losing their shit on the rug, laughing so hard they end up snorting in a way that Atlas is sure hurts a little bit. Atlas stands only to immediately fall back onto his haunches, sitting, stupid. “You– realised you’re gay by nearly kissing me in the bloody dream sequences? When! What part!” So much shit happened that day, during those awful dreams, even with Atlas and Bhyram backing out earlier than the majority of the group.“Sort of?” Bhyram tries, voice muffled by his paws. “No I only - I only figured it out later when I was, um, you were in the hospital, I was in your room in Phaistokaia and - Will thought Ambrose’s son was mine? Which was not, you know, not - not the case, uh, and I was trying to argue why and - said that out loud, um, that I’m not into women, and I thought - I hadn’t thought that before, but realized it was true because, uh, because I’d never felt about any of them the way I - I feel about you. Felt about you then. And now. More now. Um.” He runs his claws through his mane. “Sorry, the - the dreams. It - on the cliffside. You were - so tired, and so beautiful, and I wanted to give you - I don’t know, something, anything, anything to help, and I just - felt. Really strongly. Like I wanted to do that. Only at the time I thought that was - weird, for a bunch of reasons, so I didn’t… do that.”Atlas sits there blinking like an idiot for a second. Will continues to laugh, though they’re rapidly approaching the point where they have to gasp for breath. Wanted to give him something, anything, to help…? If Atlas remembers correctly –and he might not, he’s blocked out a lot of that day– Bhyram had said something along the lines of telling Atlas to do something stupid, that he would too. “That– that’s what you meant?” Atlas blurts out. “When you’d given me permission to do something stupid, and you would too, that was–?” “Yeah,” Bhyram confirms, face still in his paws. “And I didn’t, because - ohh my god that would’ve been really strange to do, but I had to - I wanted to so badly.” “But you and Will…?” Atlas puts his paw on his head, squishing the messy hair of his mane. “You, I. I don’t even look like that! I’m not actually beautiful, not– like that.” All of his awful purple patterning was red, which he really wishes was the reality.“I knew Will had a thing for me but I didn’t fall in love with them until later, and - don’t you even start, I’ve seen you before, once, um, even though you didn’t have any eyes then, and you - you are beautiful, okay, don’t - don’t pretend you’re not.”“Pretend? I’m not pretending,” Atlas says, truly baffled. “Ohhh my god,” Will gasps, “Atlas, holy shit, Bhyram–” “I wasn’t - it wasn’t even just how you looked, it was how you, you held yourself, and how open you were, and the way your voice sounded, and the way you looked at things, and the way you let me hug you, okay, it was - a lot of things,” Bhyram manages to ramble out. “And I just - Will, I’m trying to be genuine -” “I’m sorryyy,” Will manages in return. They’re sprawled out in the most undignified manner, though they move just enough to squish their head into Bhyram’s mane. God, Atlas is almost jealous about that. That was what he was going to do in the dream, after all.And now he can do that just about whenever he wants. How far they’ve come…Atlas shuffles his forepaws, completely baffled and flustered now in equal measure. “That’s ah… Ah. You… mm. Some of that is true nowadays…” Bhyram turns his head fully to face Atlas. “It’s all true, I was there and I felt that, and I was… already in love with you even if I didn’t know that - even if I didn’t understand that I was. At the time. And then I figured that out a few hours later. And before all of that I thought for my entire life I was not. I thought I was into women. Is the point. Is where this conversation, um. Started.”“You’ve been in love with me for that long?” Atlas says after a moment of silence. Bhyram can’t see him, of course, fucking hell he doesn’t have eyes, but the way he’s ‘looking’ at him has him squirming where he sits. What is he, a stupid teenager? A hatchling, hearing a crush of his admitting they like him, and not a grown ass man hearing his long term partner tell him what he already (sort of) knows? “Yeah,” Bhyram confirms, again. “Which is - nothing compared to Will, uh.”Nothing compared to Will, huh? He should’ve expected. His ears go back, but he just mutters, “I see…” while he sits reeling.Bhyram’s ears flick a few times. “Yeah,” he says, slowly, “and I’m talking about how Will’s - uh, actually, maybe I shouldn’t - Will, did you tell him how long you…?”“How long I’ve been in love with him for?” What– oh. Oh, he misunderstood that completely. “Yeah, um, I told him while you were at Hedone’s wedding. Eleven or twelve years or… something like that.” Has it gotten warmer outside? More heat coming in from the window? (No, not at all, but it sure feels like it).“Yeah, so - I mean. I was. I don’t know, I was wandering around your house every time I visited trying not to be really weird about - about anything, about how much I was. Definitely thinking about you. And I did it for months, sure, but Will did it for years, so that’s. More.” Bhyram winces. “Yeah, no kidding,” he mutters, to himself.Atlas’ paws move before he’s really aware of it, but he doesn’t stop himself. He drops down to the floor with the other two, settling just a short distance away. “Oh,” he says, feeling foolish.Bhyram beckons with a paw. “C’mere,” he says, softly.Atlas shuffles along the floor as Will watches, peeking through Bhyram’s fur. Thankfully, they spare him any comment about how he’s inching along like a bug, until he’s done as Bhyram asked.“Yeah, here,” Bhyram says, and uses one wing to drag him up against his side. He leans against Atlas, resting his head against his shoulder. “Um. Let me put it this way. I love you, so much. I love Will, so much. Will and I love you, so much. Uh, and my entire life is - good, now, really good, and I owe basically all of that to you? Without you I’d… still be taking care of hatchlings, I guess, in the Sea, I’d be so soggy and full of mildew and that nocturne for the neighbouring clan would still be hitting on me relentlessly and I’d be sticky. Because hatchlings are sticky. And I would not have any boyfriends. But because of you everything is different and it’s good.” “That’s… true, I suppose,” Atlas says mildly, too flustered to come up with anything better than that. Words like that… What the fuck is he supposed to say? He’s no good at this. He just lets himself be manipulated and manhandled into place, comfortable and happy to simply feel. Bhyram’s paw is close enough to snag, so he does, lacing their claws together as much as the size difference will allow.“It is true. The life that I have now? I - I owe it to you. You do so much for me.” Bhyram exhales, warm breath against Atlas’ scales. “I wouldn’t be well-groomed and well-fed and healthy and everything without you. I mean - for that purpose you went to the Icefields and stole from the Corps to get my medical records. You’ve done so much.”“And I’d do it again.” I will do it again, ideally. “It was worth it, and now they’re here, sitting up there on my desk, and…” Atlas takes a deep breath. He squeezes Bhyram’s paw. “I’m happy that you’re here. In my life. With us.” “Yeah,” Bhyram says, a third and final time, and goes quiet, just laying his head against Atlas’ neck and breathing, silently, calm and steady. On Bhyram’s other side, Will curls up, back to breathing normally and rumbling and purring up a storm.Atlas lies his head down, neck curled just enough to be able to comfortably keep an eye on the tundras. There’s still plenty of time left in the day. Will had said that going through those medical files to create a record shouldn’t be done in one sitting anyhow. Originally, Atlas was going to just disregard that. Now? Not so much. He’s content to stay like this for a little while, enjoy their company, keep Bhyram snuggled to his side.He’d gone into the dreaded belly of the beast, come home, stayed up all night reading heavy and upsetting material, sorted through hundreds of documents, all to help keep him safe, happy, and healthy. That’s far more work than what he’s doing currently, and he’d done it without hesitation. So he can do this. For Bhyram, for himself. He can lie here, sharing warmth and space and actions of care. It’s better for them all anyway.And that’s what life is now. Better.