Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Blessed be, noble hosts of the House of Avaran Katar, Primator of the Tribes of the Moon! Enan havara, havara akar, akar eternata — that which is named can be spoken, that which is spoken is remembered, and that which is remembered lives. It falls to me to tell you a tale of our eternal Lethe, the world encircled by the River of Oblivion who calls to her bosom the citizens of a thousand universes; I, who have tasted the waters of Mnemosyne’s realm, and whose gaze has penetrated the veils of history. 

For the long night of the Winter Solstice, what tale would be more fitting than one of transformation and renewal, of despair and hope, of irrevocable loss and unfading love? So compose yourselves, honoured guests, to hear the story of the Red King who rules in Omalan and his first Champion, lost these past five hundred years, whose memory yet lives in song and story — but nowhere brighter or more enduring than in the stern and shadowed heart of his King, whose devotion to him is undying. Those who bow to Megabyte’s majesty and swell the ranks of the Enthralled call him the Immortal Lord of the greatest kingdom on Lethe, the Unconquered Protector of the Southern Lands, and justly so; but when he was first summoned to the White Queen’s Court across the celestial River that obliterates all memory of one’s former existence he was as all travellers are when they set foot upon our shores: perplexed, adrift, ignorant of our laws and customs, his form as yet unaltered…

… but he was not alone, although he might have wished it so. And that is where our story begins... 

Chapter Text

His name was Bob. He was drowning. And that was the sum total of his knowledge, as if the world itself had come into being at this moment when he thrashed in the cold engulfing depths, struggling instinctively towards the light that filtered faintly to his eyes, differentiating life from death.

His booted feet met a surface — yielding, but firm enough to kick off from. One powerful stroke of his arms took him far enough to burst through the swaying surface above: he gulped bright air, floundered, got his bearings and kicked again towards the dimly sensed shore. His left shoulder bumped into something that he couldn't see through all the water in his eyes, something vertical just beneath the water line; he pushed himself away from it, barely registering its indigo hue and adamant texture, concentrated as he was upon getting to water shallow enough that he could easily gain his footing and follow the brisk waves that were all hurrying towards dry land.

He got no further than a half an arm's length before something caught hold of the back of his neck — something hard and powerful, dragging him out of the choking waters to hang in its grip like…

… a drowned null? Whatever that might be: the term had surfaced from the depths of Bob's mind, but it had absolutely no meaning attached to it. He blinked rapidly to clear his vision and gave his head a sharp shake, his attention immediately captured by the being that had plucked him from the surf. It stood waist-deep in the surging waters, solidly rooted, looming in front of him and gazing at him with cold red-in-green eyes.

At first he thought: It's a machine. And indeed it appeared to be made of metal, of embossed blue and gold and silver components cunningly fitted together, with a virulent green symbol boldly emblazoned on its chest and upper belly. But as it studied him and he studied it, he realized that whatever it was, it was clearly alive. Its face was shaped by recognizable emotions — perplexity, wariness, a thin edge of silver teeth bared in menace — and it radiated presence, a force of charisma that tried to reel Bob in and only made him want to say something smart and cutting. He opened his mouth, having no idea what was going to come out until he heard his own voice, lightly mocking:

"Come here often?"

The creature's glowing eyes narrowed, and its brilliantly green lips parted to issue deeply pitched and perfectly modulated words in a tone both superficially polite and unmistakably threatening: "And what, pray tell, are you? Other than insufferably impertinent."

Bob found himself cracking a thin smile. He couldn't help it: that voice had awakened something within him, made him keenly alert and eager for… what? "I was hoping you could tell me."

The living machine turned its — his, Bob amended, with a voice like that he could only be male — long head, sharply crested in scarlet, to glance out to sea, then toward the shore. They were standing still, but to either side of them several other humanoids were stumbling through the waves toward three tall figures robed in white, their heads hooded, their hands concealed in their sleeves. The trinity was watching the waters give birth without making any move to help — even though one of the arrivals, a woman clutching a small child, trailed the rest and was clearly struggling to make it to the beach. The living machine's gaze had found the robed watchers and focussed on them; he didn't turn when the woman cried out, stumbled and went down, the surf washing over her head.

Instantly Bob knew what he had to do. There was no internal debate, no question of whether or not it was his place to help — only instinctive certainty. "Put me down," he ordered, twisting his shoulders in a futile attempt to wriggle free. 

The machine glanced down at him, one eyebrow rising. "Excuse me?" he said haughtily. "That's hardly —"

"I said put me down!" He kicked out savagely, his booted foot rebounding off the machine's massive thigh without moving it a hair's breadth. "That woman's in trouble!"

Those gleaming eyes glanced back toward the floundering figure, beyond whom were now discernible a number of long dark shapes in the deeper water, circling ever closer. "And…?"

Amazed, Bob realized that to this creature the potential death of another being meant nothing — less than nothing, perhaps. But to him… "Let me go, or so help me, I'll —"

"Or you'll what?" He was clearly amused now, his gaze scanning up and down Bob's significantly smaller body and a superior smirk touching his lips. "I scarcely think you're in a position to dictate terms to —" 

In the back of Bob's mind, a voice spoke up, a voice not his own, low and chirring: Repel virus Y/N? It was a rudimentary communication, but Bob understood it — and immediately chose Y.

His forearms were banded with silver, and on the left armband something glowed and emitted a brief pulse of brilliant yellow energy that struck the hulking machine in the side of his silver belly. The flash caught both Bob and his antagonist by surprise, but it had the desired effect: the virus let go, and Bob fell back into the water with a mighty splash, kicking hard to put some distance between them before scrambling to his feet and racing toward the drowning woman as fast as he possibly could. He reached her as she was going under for the third time, pulling her to her feet and scooping the coughing and wailing child from her failing embrace, cradling it to his chest with his right arm and locking his left arm around her waist to hold her upright.

"The —" Her gasp was breathless, her hazel eyes wide and rolling with horror as she glanced wildly back over her shoulder toward the long black shadows undulating toward them from deeper water. "They're —"

"Hold on tight," Bob told her, already starting toward the shore as quickly as he could while weighed down with two almost-limp bodies. "Everything's going to be fine." A promise that might turn out to be a hollow one if those fish had teeth, he thought grimly, but abandoning the helpless to such a fate was definitely not an option. 

The virus had gained the sunlit shore and was watching him intently from a position closer to the water than that of the white-robed trinity or the woebegone figures who now huddled close around them. All eyes, in fact, were on Bob as he toiled through the surf, expecting at any moment to feel razored jaws locking into his flesh from behind. It seemed to take forever, but at last he stumbled onto dryer land and eased the woman and child to the ground, catching his breath in huge gulps and hardly able to believe that within a small span of heartbeats of coming into this world, he might have almost taken himself out of it.

He was aware of the machine's approach, but he didn't look up until he'd assured himself that both the woman and child were breathing well and fundamentally unharmed. 

"That," the virus remarked with his massive arms akimbo and his fists on his hips, "was singularly foolish of you."

Bob glared up at him. "I didn't see you helping."

One indigo eyeridge rose. "What a curious and irrational notion. Why would I risk my life for… well, anyone? And more to the point, why would you?"

"I…" He had no answer to that. Come to think of it, he had no answer to anything at the moment. "I don't know. All I'm sure of is my own name."

The virus narrowed his eyes impatiently, although his tone was still courteous. "Which would be…?"

"I'm Bob." He got to his feet, brushing wet sand off of his kneepads, then extended his hands to help the woman to her feet. "Are you okay?" he asked her gently, and she nodded silently, clutching her crying child to her shoulder.

"And I," the virus announced with a regal tilt of his square chin, "am Megabyte." He said it as if it should mean something to Bob, and as Bob met those coldly arrogant eyes he found that although he had absolutely no idea who or what this creature was aside from being utterly deficient in compassion, somehow… it did. 

Chapter Text

A fairly short while later — maybe ten minutes, although he had no idea why thinking in that unit of time made him vaguely uneasy — Bob, walking at the head of the nine individuals who had emerged from the ocean and immediately behind one of the white-robed figures who had done nothing whatsoever to aid them, was passing under an arch of pale rock that led into a shadowed tunnel, which in turn was embedded in the high outer wall of a long, low castle the colour of foam on the sea. They'd had to climb a long set of wide stone steps to get to it, carved into the cliff that bordered the beach, and Bob had had to assist the woman he'd rescued (whose name, she's shyly disclosed, was Finala, and whose son's name was Denna) up them at several points; her struggle in the surf seemed to have exhausted her, and there was a peaked look to her sharp-featured face that made him cast scowling glances back at the two white-clad figures who bookended the procession, wondering why they weren't doing anything except looking serenely stern under the shadows of their hoods. 

He couldn't help but catch glimpses of Megabyte at the same time: the virus was at the very rear of the straggling group of newcomers, towering over them all with his gleaming armour already dried in the brilliant but cool sunlight and his keen gaze taking in everything with the air of a general surveying a potential field of battle. If that was indeed the case he'd picked the best strategic position — a couple of strikes of those deadly looking claws on his hands and he'd be through the rear guard and away in the event of trouble — but Bob had other things to be concerned with at the moment.

For one thing, he'd discovered that Finala had no idea who she was or how she'd gotten here: like Bob, her memory of her past seemed to have been completely erased, and judging by the murmuring behind them it sounded like everybody else was in the same boat. Clearly they all spoke the same language, which was identical to the one the robed figures had used to issue a clear but enigmatic statement once they'd all been safely gathered on the sand: "Welcome, travellers, to the shores of the eternal world of Lethe and the Domain of the White Queen. If you wish to live, follow us and obey our every instruction." — at which point Bob had discovered something else about himself: it was in his nature to distrust authoritarian statements and those who issued them. He'd been half-inclined to start demanding answers right then and there, and in fact he'd seen Megabyte step forward and draw himself up to his full (and impressive) height, opening his long mouth to no doubt do exactly that — but the robed woman who had spoken had turned a chilling gaze on the virus, the entire surface of her narrowed eyes glowing brilliantly red, and Bob had been struck by a sudden conviction: If he challenges her, she'll blast him back where we came from… wherever that is.

For a heartbeat their eyes remained locked in a silent striving for dominance, while the newcomers from the sea, including Bob, held their collective breath — but in the end Megabyte had inclined his lantern jaw in a little bow and the line of his shoulders had fallen ever so slightly, just enough to convey acquiescence without an outright concession of defeat. That seemed enough for the robed woman, who had turned away and started up the beach without looking back. Bob had glanced around, seen hesitation writ large on the faces of everyone except Megabyte (whose expression suggested that he was definitely filing away this incident for later vengeance), and had decided it was up to him to set an example; trudging through the sand, he heard the others fall into place behind him and felt the virus's gaze in particular, fixed on a spot directly between his shoulder blades. It was not a comfortable sensation — in fact it brought to mind a ghost of a memory, of something hot and electric hitting him in exactly that spot — but he ignored it, finding some distraction in the company of the woman he'd pulled from the waves, who had scrambled up the line to walk at his side.

That had been ten minutes ago, and so far Bob had learned nothing of consequence, unless you counted the fact that nobody else knew anything of consequence either, except perhaps their guides — and the robed ones weren't talking. With every step he took his disquiet continued to grow: they weren't under armed guard or being forced in any obvious way to march to their destination, but Bob couldn't shake the feeling that they were in danger nonetheless. Every instinct told him that this situation stank to high heaven, an impression enhanced by the occasional "prompt" in the back of his mind that seemed to come from the square blue device attached to his left arm guard: Environmental scan initiated… Working… Class Three virus @ 5.78 m & 180 degrees… Locked portals @ 1.8 m & 5 degrees, 6.92 m & 177 degrees, + 6.93 m & 183 degrees… Glitch power level @ 26.7%, recharging from [unitelligible] stable tear @ 278.3 m & 24-27 degrees… No Core energy detected…

Which told him that the robed figures were "portals" as far as the device was concerned, or at least that they carried portals — whatever that might mean exactly — and that there was a very large energy source in the complex they were approaching. As they passed into the shadow of the tunnel he raised his left forearm as surreptitiously as he could, pretending to scratch his right cheekbone with his curved index finger, and murmured in a tone he hoped Finala, who was occupied with hushing Denna, wouldn't overhear: "Is that your name? Glitch?"

The blue box squeaked sharply, both audibly and in his mind: Affirmative.

"What are you?"

Another surge of unintelligible input: streams of numbers, intricate graphs, a sense of a web of interconnected streams, and a single word laid over all: Keytool.

"So who am I?"

A brisk chirp: Guardian 452.

Which conveyed no real information whatsoever. Bob waited a couple of beats. "And…?"

Silence.

The tunnel wasn't very long, and they were approaching a short flight of broad stairs at the end of it that led up to a wide set of closed double doors, made of dark wood and bound with iron. Taking in the details of them and still speaking quickly and quietly, Bob whispered: "Any idea how we got here?"

A soft whirring sound. Negative. Memory banks 99.84% purged. Attempt cold recovery Y/N?

Bob's heart leaped in his chest. "Yes!" he hissed, then realized that Finala had noticed him talking to his arm and was looking at him queerly. He gave her his most charming smile and casually dropped his hand back to his side.

Working… working…

"Bob?" Her eyes were large and murky green, their expression sweet and anxious and hesitant. "Are you… feeling all right?"

"Never better," he assured her with a wider grin, then employed a distraction tactic by nodding at the little boy in her arms, who had stopped fussing and leaned his head against Finala's shoulder, his eyelids lowered sleepily. "How's he doing?"

It worked like a charm: her gaze turned to her child and a simple smile warmed her narrow face. She might not be terribly intelligent, Bob had been able to determine that within seconds of starting to talk to her, but he couldn't fault her disposition. "He's hungry, that's all. I hope they let us sit down soon. Isn't that right, Denna?" Her voice became a soothing croon, and the boy's eyelids dipped further. "Yes, my precious little man… Just a nice quite place to sit and we'll get you full of warm milk… won't that be nice…?"

Watching her, Bob couldn't suppress the fond smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. The sensation of simple pleasure, by far the nicest emotion he'd experienced thus far on this strange world, was abruptly penetrated by the sensation of a cold steel blade sliding into the nape of his neck — intangible, but nonetheless an effective distraction. He glanced round sharply to meet Megabyte's gaze over the heads of the people between them: the virus was gazing at him intently, and once again Bob found himself assailed by a feeling of connection that skirted the edge of recognition.

I know you, he thought, staring into those red-in-green eyes that never blinked as they regarded him across the shadows of the tunnel. I'd stake my life on it. And I'll bet that whatever we did together, it didn't involve sitting down to a pleasant afternoon tea twice a week. I'll bet it involved claws, and teeth, and a lot of yelling — and maybe even blood.

Deep in Bob's belly something coiled and hissed, surprisingly hot and startling enough that he felt his eyes widen; a fraction of a second later Megabyte's own eyes narrowed, his green lips curving in a smirk that managed to be both sly and triumphant, as if he knew that he'd awakened something in Bob's flesh that was — well, it sure didn't feel purely businesslike. 

Dangerous? Yes. Distracting? Yes. Disquieting? Hell yes!

In fact, it felt downright…

Still meeting the virus's gaze and still walking, trying urgently to figure that piece of the magnetism out, Bob almost stumbled on the first step of the staircase, saving himself from a fall with swift and certain reflexes that didn't quite prevent an embarrassing lurch. Turning away from Megabyte's smile, which had taken on a wicked quality that made the snake in Bob's core twist in on itself, he found Finala gazing at him with more obvious concern and managed to give her another reassuring grin, projecting a confidence he didn't fully feel.

Because it had just become obvious that the mysterious robed figures weren't the only potential enemy he was going to have to deal with here — and probably sooner rather than later.

[TO BE CONTINUED…]