Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Galacta Knight stirs at the faint sound of movement within his crystal enclosure.

At first, he dismisses it as a trick of the mind. The darkness surrounding him is absolute—nothing should be making a sound.

Yet the noise persists—a soft, barely perceptible tapping, like someone lightly knocking on glass, followed by an occasional, irregular thunk. Curiosity, mixed with a hint of dread, stirs within him. He opens his eyes, but all he sees are shadows.

The tapping continues. Galacta turns his head slightly.

Nothing. He catches the blurred reflection of distant stars and the faint outline of an asteroid, but there’s no sign of life, nothing that should be moving. It could be some kind of creature, though few ventured this deep into space.

Tempted to ignore it, Galacta closes his eyes. But just as he does, something pink catches the corner of his vision.

What he sees doesn’t resemble a monster.

Despite the shadows and faint light of the crystal, the figure appears humanoid, though unusually small. Galacta presses his nose against his prison, eyes locked on the unexpected visitor. Perhaps it was some fool daring to test their luck against the galaxy’s strongest warrior.

He watches intently as the figure moves around his prison. Shadows dance with each step it takes, but Galacta can’t make out what it’s doing. Frustration gnaws at him as he’s forced to simply observe.

Time loses meaning. The figure taps the crystal, steps back, then resumes its pacing. There’s something almost hypnotic about the repetition, and despite himself, Galacta is drawn into the rhythm of the routine.

'CRACK!'

Galacta's eyes snap open. His heart leaps into his stomach. His hand twitches with the urge to defend himself, to fight, but there's nothing to grab.

'CRACK!'

He tries to move his arm, but it stays motionless. He can’t pinpoint where the noise is coming from. He knows something is happening, but he doesn’t know what.

'CRACK!'

Light. It’s the first thing he’s felt in nearly a century. Just a sliver, but it touches his face. It’s cold—he remembers that light in space is cold—yet still, there’s light on his face. Could it be the soft glow of a distant star? Or maybe a nearby sun? It had to be from the crystal, right?

'CRACK!'

For a terrifying moment, the thought crosses his mind that this might be his end. Why else would he be seeing light? After so many years of isolation, it only makes sense that death would eventually find him. Yet he isn’t afraid. He’s lived far longer than he would have naturally, had he not been imprisoned.

'CRACK!'

Everything slows to a stop. The soft glow that had enveloped him vanishes, and the surrounding darkness lifts. White fills his vision, and for a moment, he’s blinded by its intensity.

'CRACK!'

Something shatters his crystal. Flecks of solid magic explode.

And then he's falling.

When he wakes, something is leaning over him. He can’t see it; his eyes refuse to open, but he hears it speaking softly in his ear, gently shaking his shoulders. The voice is feminine, though the words are unclear.

An agonizing minute passes as Galacta struggles to force himself up. His body won’t cooperate, blood rushing back into limbs that have been stationary for too long.

As the pain subsides, his eyes finally open. He blinks rapidly, trying to adjust.

Something grabs his arm, and Galacta, driven by pure instinct, swings. His fist connects with something metal, and the resulting thud shatters the silence.

"THAT WAS QUITE RUDE."

Galacta’s eyes shift to the side.

The person kneeling next to him is someone he recognizes.

“Nova.”

She doesn’t look particularly remarkable, her mechanical face and sleepy blue eyes regarding him with the same indifference one might show to a wall. She definitely hadn’t been the one circling his prison, but she was here now. And that had to mean something.

“HELLO, AEON.”

“What is it now?” he asks, though he already has an idea. It’s not as if he hadn’t noticed the presence outside his prison. Still, he wonders if she’ll sidestep the truth and lie. 

Nova doesn’t respond to his snark, offering only a patient smile. She helps him sit up, ignoring the pain that flickers across his face. “I HAVE RECEIVED A WISH. YOU ARE NEEDED.”

Of course. That much was obvious. Why else would he have been freed? Not that this felt like freedom. This was business, exactly what Galacta had expected. Though, it was unusual—Nova typically only interacted with him while he was confined in his crystal.

She would release him to fight arrogant warriors who saw him as nothing more than a challenge. After he defeated them and left their ashes scattered at his feet, Nova would imprison him again, and the cycle would continue.

Nova’s eyes narrow slightly, as if silently asking a question. "YOU LOOK CONFUSED."

“Where is my challenger?” Galacta retorts, subtly leaning away. He’s not afraid of her, but he knows better than to be entirely at ease.

"THERE IS NO CHALLENGER. YOU HAVE BEEN ASSIGNED A DIFFERENT TASK."

...Had he heard that correctly?

"No challenger?"

"NO."

What in the stars was that supposed to mean? No challenger? He’d never been freed for anything but a fight. Was this some kind of joke?

"ARE YOU READY TO LISTEN?"

It’s only years of ingrained discipline that keep Galacta from snapping.

"What do you want?"

“AN ANONYMOUS WISHER HAS REQUESTED THAT YOU TAKE CARE OF HER SON. YOUR TASK IS TO TRANSPORT THIS CHILD TO DREAMLAND AND NURTURE HIM. IF YOU CAN KEEP HIM ALIVE UNTIL HE REACHES MATURITY, YOU WILL BE GRANTED ETERNAL FREEDOM.”

For a long moment, Galacta is at a complete loss.

He doesn’t know how to react, what to ask, or if he even heard Nova correctly. Eternal freedom? Was he truly being offered eternal freedom? What did that even mean? Was he no longer bound by the curse that kept him trapped in a crystal prison for eternity? Could he roam freely? Or would he simply no longer be summoned?

"YOUR MIND IS CHAOTIC."

Galacta’s thoughts come to a rocky halt. He realizes his chest is heaving, his breath coming out in shaky gasps. He quickly regains his composure. "I don't understand."

If Nova is surprised by his admission of weakness, she doesn’t show it. “THE WOMAN WHO RELEASED YOU FROM ISOLATION HAS TASKED YOU WITH CARING FOR HER SON. IF YOU REFUSE, YOU WILL BE ISOLATED ONCE MORE.”

“The wom—the one who was moving around—”

“THE ONE YOU SAW BEFORE YOU FELL. SHE HAS WISHED FOR YOU TO CARE FOR HER SON. IF YOU REFUSE, YOU WILL BE—”

“Imprisoned, I know,” Galacta interrupts, his voice rising. He feels on edge, his body tense with adrenaline. He knows he can't refuse. It’s why he’s had to kill so many warriors until now. “Is she here now?”

Nova tilts her head down, a rare sign of bashfulness. “SHE DID NOT HEED MY REQUEST TO STAY. SHE IS GONE. THE ONE YOU NEED TO CARE FOR IS HERE.”

Wonderful. Not only is the one who granted him freedom gone, but he has no idea what he's supposed to be doing. “Where is this...?”

"CHILD. I WILL BRING YOU TO THEM."

“Child?” Once again, Galacta’s thoughts spin, like a hamster struggling to keep up with its wheel. He feels off-balance, as if his axis has tilted slightly to the left. The hand on his shoulder is the only thing keeping him moving, his legs following one after the other.

It doesn’t take long for Nova to guide him to a small depression a few paces from where he fell. The area is man-made, a remnant of one of Galacta’s many battles. It resembles a shallow crater, designed to shield oneself from shrapnel and magic.

"ARE YOU WILLING TO ACCEPT?"

Nova’s question halts his steps, and Galacta kneels beside the hole. He can barely make out the figure of a creature huddled beneath the gravel. Still, Galacta doesn’t lower his defenses.

“Let me see what I’m dealing with first.”

Reaching his hand into the hole, he doesn’t expect it to be intercepted, batted away like an animal’s paw. It does little to ease his growing irritation.

"HE IS AFRAID. DO NOT—"

“Shut up,” Galacta snarls, shifting his hand until he can see the collar of a shirt. The hand that had swatted him flinches as he grabs the shirt and yanks it forward.

A child with kyanite-blue eyes tumbles out of the hole and rolls to a stop in front of Galacta. The child grips Galacta’s hands and struggles to pull away, his face pinched with frustration.

He must be no older than four.

“You’re kidding.”

Nova blinks slowly, her face as impassive as the stars around them. “WHY WOULD I BE KIDDING?”

“This is a child.” Galacta tugs on the child wrapped around his hand. He gets a hiss in return.

“I TOLD YOU THAT.”

“He’s an actual child.”

“IS THERE SOMETHING I’M MISSING?”

Galacta barely flinches when the child opens his mouth and bites into Galacta’s wrist. “How old is he?”

“FOUR.”

“You’re fucking insane.”

Nova hums. “THE MOTHER REQUESTED—”

A shrill cry pierces the air. Both Galacta and Nova freeze, turning their heads toward the noise.

The child in Galacta’s hand is shaking, tears welling up in his eyes. Something tugs at Galacta’s chest, and he pulls his hand away, his throat oddly dry. Nova doesn’t comment on how his hand twitches as if burned.

Neither speaks for a good while. The only sound breaking the silence is the child’s cries, drowning out everything else. Galacta shifts, his hands tapping idly on his thighs.

“I didn’t me—”

“YOU MADE HIM CRY.”

“Really? I couldn’t tell,” Galacta grumbles, rubbing his nose. He remains still for a moment before slowly reaching out.

As if deciding Galacta has seen enough, Nova repeats her question. “DO YOU ACCEPT?”

Galacta scowls, his hand just inches from the child’s shoulder. He couldn’t care less about what Nova was asking. The child was having a full-on tantrum, and it was hurting his ears. He needed to handle this first. “Give me a m—”

“DO YOU ACCEPT?”

Irritation bubbles in his throat like acid. His hand makes contact with the child, and the crying only worsens, escalating into a full-blown scream. Even in the vastness of space, the noise is grating.

“DO YOU ACC—”

“Fine! Now shut up!”

There’s a barely whispered “good” from his side, and then nothing. When he turns to face Nova, the goddess is gone.

Suddenly, Galacta feels like screaming too.

Everything feels off. He feels off. There’s a pounding in his head, and the child curled around his foot hasn’t moved since Galacta sat down in defeat.

But maybe "off" isn’t the right word. No, nothing feels real. Just minutes ago, he had been trapped in his own personal hell, waiting for the day someone would either kill him or set him free. Now, he’s sitting on the same undisclosed planet he’s been on for centuries, with a child latched onto his boot, mumbling in their sleep.

To say he’s a little miffed would be an understatement.

Still, there’s no warrior standing over him, sword drawn, demanding a fight. Nova is long gone, and the child shows no signs of being dangerous. Galacta had checked, poking and prodding the exhausted boy beside his boot. There had been no response, nothing of note—just a crumpled letter in a language Galacta couldn’t read.

With nothing to go on, Galacta isn’t sure what to do next. He doesn’t even know what year it is, let alone where exactly they are. It's frustrating. He’s frustrated, and there’s no one around for miles to offer him any direction.

He’s half-tempted to fall asleep. There’s a bone-deep exhaustion settling into his body, leaving him feeling both lethargic and on edge. His eyes struggle to stay open, but the steady heartbeat against his ankle keeps them from closing. He can’t sleep like this. He can’t do anything like this, for that matter.

As if sensing his internal debate, the child stirs, blue eyes opening to glare at Galacta.

His throat burns. He can taste the blood rising in his esophagus, the result of years of silence. He coughs into his elbow and returns the child’s glare. “Don’t stare at me.”

The child says nothing but eventually curls back against Galacta’s ankle, brown hands digging into his skin. The touch is possessive, but not aggressive.

Well, it's better than staring.

There isn’t much to occupy Galacta’s mind either. The space around him is exactly what he’s seen countless times before. The sky is dark, the stars are bright, with flashes of painfully vivid color whenever meteoroids zoom past. And then, just off to the side—

Wait. Hold on. A spaceship?

The child clinging to his leg grumbles in protest as Galacta stands. Blood rushes to his head, and black dots dance across his vision. He’s really pushing it, moving so quickly, but he’s never seen a spaceship that wasn’t his own this close before. Not even during duels, when challengers would arrive in elaborate metal contraptions, only to be destroyed by his lance. No visitor had ever left anything behind—mostly because Galacta would destroy both the contraption and those who arrived in it.

Once he finds his footing, Galacta walks toward the ship. The child startles, tumbling from his boot. Without any prompting, the child scrambles to follow, distress flashing across their face as they reach for Galacta.

“Was this your mother’s?”

As expected, but still dreaded, there’s no response. The child simply grabs his ankle, blinking slowly up at him.

Galacta heaves a sigh. "I'm going to check it out. If there's someone there, you're on your own."

The child doesn’t respond, continuing to cling to Galacta’s boot. He starts walking slowly at first, allowing the child to keep pace. Once they find a rhythm, Galacta strides forward, fingers clenched at his sides.

He’s no fool, and he’s not about to be lulled into a false sense of security. This entire situation is strange, from his sudden freedom to the child at his boot. He’s not going to explore the ship without caution, but he will explore it. He’d be a fool not to, considering he probably has the skills to hotwire it.

As they walk, Galacta tilts his head down. "Do you have a name?"

The child startles, tripping over their own feet. Galacta waits until they’ve stood before continuing to walk. "Can you speak, at least?"

Nothing. Not a single sign of acknowledgment.

The ship is rather small. It’s standard-looking, with all the bells and whistles Galacta is used to. He walks to the side of the ship, fingers running over the thin metal. The payload doors are firmly sealed, likely by the pilot. Galacta kicks at them, listening for any response. Hearing nothing, he moves to the middle of the ship. There’s another door, meant for passengers. He pulls on the handle, but the door remains closed.

Patience already stretched thin, Galacta unsheathes his lance. The child at his side flinches, eyeing the weapon warily.

“It’s fine. I’m just going to pry open the door.”

The reassurance doesn’t seem to comfort the child, but Galacta isn’t sure if the child even understands him. There’s been no response to any of his questions.

Raising his lance, Galacta swings hard. It jams into the metal casing between the door and the interior, and he pushes. A horrible screeching noise fills the air as metal is forcibly torn away, but Galacta doesn’t stop. He pushes harder, waiting until the metal is warped enough for him to fit a hand inside the ship and pull the door back manually.

Inside, the ship is practically empty. There are a few crates, a pilot's chair, a cobweb in the corner, and a navigation system in a language he doesn’t understand. There’s also a single crew quarter, and a side room that seems to serve as a makeshift kitchen and bathroom.

Setting his lance down on the navigation system, Galacta peels open the drawers below it. There’s nothing of interest at first, until his hand bumps against a single frame.

Inside is an old photo of a woman, perhaps a little older than him, and a child.

Galacta glances at the child a few paces away, who seems content lying in the corner. “Is this you?” he asks, holding up the photo and waving it around.

There’s a muted reaction; the boy tenses, his eyes widening and lips pressing together. Slowly, he gets up and moves to stand next to Galacta. Galacta lets the child take the photo, frowning as he watches the way the boy clutches it tightly.

‘It must be his,’ Galacta muses, glancing away from the boy and back at the navigation panel. ‘This must be his mother’s ship.’

He doesn’t bother taking the photo back from the child.

He reaches for the next item in the drawer: a small handbook. Galacta flips open the first page. As expected, the text is in a language he can’t decipher—strange letters and symbols that mean nothing to him. It must be a new language, or perhaps the new common tongue. It’s frustrating, but he doesn’t let it show. Instead, he flips through the manual, page after page filled with the same incomprehensible text. However, the visuals are more straightforward.

Above him is the communication system, but the rust creeping across the speakers makes Galacta hesitant to use it. Below him are the ship's internal mechanisms—a tangled mess of wires and components. He knows he’s found the right spot.

Moving from the pilot’s seat to the floor, Galacta pries open the bottom of the panel. He carefully sifts through the tangled wires, mindful not to electrocute himself. Near the left side, he spots what he’s looking for: a single red wire, essential for powering the ship.

Pulling it toward an adjacent wire, he begins to tinker with it. Eventually, he succeeds, and the ship hums to life, its lights flickering rapidly.

“Okay, great,” Galacta mumbles, pushing himself up from the ground. “Now, how do I pilot this thing...?”

Taking a seat, he glares at the control panel. Though he can’t understand any of the text, he’s not afraid to experiment. He flicks switches and presses buttons, carefully observing their effects. The ship doesn’t explode, and after a few tries, he feels confident he can manage the controls.

Or at least, he would be—if not for the glaring error displayed on the navigation screen.

Galacta sighs, closing his eyes as the pulsing in his head worsens.

He’s going to need to learn the language, isn’t he?

Frustrated, he stands and sends the pilot chair flying. Galacta then spins to face the child. The boy is still curled up in the corner, clutching the photo tightly. The sight of the child’s pitiful expression twists something deep inside Galacta.

To distract himself from the fact that he now has a child to care for—and to ease the pulsing in his head—Galacta offers his hand.

"Care to grab some food?"

Chapter Text

The child screams bloody murder as soon as Galacta tries to pick him up.

Kicking, biting, and doing all sorts of things typical four-year-olds shouldn’t, the child fights back. Galacta endures it impassively, waiting for him to tire himself out. With the ship practically dead and no teleporter for miles, it’s just Galacta, his wings, and the vast expanse of space.

When the child finally goes limp, his head lolling against Galacta’s shoulder, Galacta steps away from the ship, spreads his wings, and leaps into the sky.

He doesn’t know exactly where he is or where to go, but he knows space well enough to make an educated guess. There's nothing around him, which means he's in deep space, far from civilization. He needs to find a ship, a structure, or perhaps a spatial warp created by magic or energy—anything that could give him a point to jump from before heading in the right direction.

The child shifts in his arms, curling into his neck. Galacta is half-tempted to cover his jugular, but he reminds himself that this is just a four-year-old.

“Tired?”

No response.

Galacta flaps his wings harder, pushing through the growing strain in his lower back. Before his imprisonment, he had loved flying. Sure, the pressure changes when entering different layers of air were taxing, but it was fun. There was a sense of freedom in being above the sky, unbound by anyone or anything. It’s not the same in space.

Maybe, his mind taunts cruelly, it’s because I’ve been imprisoned for so long.

He flies for a good while before sensing anything. There’s a small blip in the air—a magical flare. He eases his ascent and turns right.

He spots a planet some distance away. It’s blue, with speckles of orange. He can already feel the heat emanating from it, his face warming from the proximity. The orange must be pools of lava, reminiscent of lights in space. He nudges the child slightly. “Are you heat resistant, or are you going to burn?”

There's a grumbled yawn in response.

“…Great. Fine, just stay close, okay?”

Galacta slows to a stop, hovering in space. He examines what he can, trying to judge the best place to land. It’s hard to see from space, but the more blue areas of the planet look welcoming enough. He quickly casts a heat-resistant spell, more for the child’s sake than his own, and then starts to descend.

“I wish I had a name for you,” Galacta murmurs to himself, his wings flapping hard behind him. He tries to smooth the transition from space as he breaks through the planet’s atmosphere.

It doesn’t work. His ears pop, and he can tell the child's do too, judging by the way they whine and cling to him so tightly that his skin aches. 

“Sorry,” Galacta sighs, glancing down at the planet. He can already tell it’s mostly abandoned, but there is some form of life. He spots a single bird perched atop a cliff, feeding its offspring. He makes a mental note to craft a bow sometime soon.

Landing is a challenge only because the child presses his face against Galacta’s chin, leaving him with limited mobility. He attempts to brace himself, bending his knees and aiming to land as gracefully as possible—because really, that’s all a descent is—falling as gracefully as possible. But with his head locked in place, he practically slams into the ground.

The child remains unfazed, feeling none of the impact. Galacta’s knees crack, and for a moment, he’s tempted to sit for the rest of the day. A muffled wince escapes his lips as his boots hit the solid ground.

So much for smooth flying.

“…S’k?”

Galacta tilts his head down. Two blue eyes stare up at him.

“Did you just ask if I was okay?”

The child tilts his head.

The planet turns out to be very hot, but it’s bearable under the shade.

Galacta has stationed them under the cover of a forest, where large, oddly colored trees shield them from the sun. The child leans against his knee, eyeing the fish he caught and the eggs currently bubbling on a flat piece of wood.

Since there’s no need to censor his language, Galacta turns to the child. “What the fuck do four-year-olds eat? Are you going to be okay if I feed you eggs?”

The child snuggles more firmly into his leg, likely trying to escape the heat. Galacta watches the eggs change color, cooking from the heat alone.

“I can’t believe your mother just… left you in my care. On top of that, she left her ship! That’s just dumb. What was she even thinking? Why free me only to saddle me with a child I don’t even want?” Galacta scowls as he grabs a leaf from a nearby tree, doing his best to dust it off before placing the eggs on its wavy surface.

The child doesn’t seem to mind his complaints. Instead, the boy opens his hands, waiting for Galacta to offer him the leaf. Galacta hesitates, waiting until the eggs cool before passing them to the boy. “Hot,” he warns, fanning his face to emphasize the point. “Very hot.”

His warning goes unheeded, but it doesn’t seem to matter. The child eats them as if they were cold, scarfing them down like he’s starved.

Maybe he is starved.

Galacta glances at his own eggs, still cooking, and then at the fish.

He doesn’t really need them.

Ignoring the way his stomach protests, Galacta plates the rest of his eggs onto the child’s leaf and begins to debone the fish.

"My own mother, bless her soul, wouldn’t have left me like that. Sure, she dropped me off at an orphanage countless times trying to get rid of me, but at least she took me to an orphanage. Who in their right mind gives up their child to someone like me? I mean, everyone thinks I’ve destroyed multiple planets. Doesn’t your mother know that?"

There’s a soft murmur as the child bites into his eggs. Goo drips from his chin, staining his shirt and falling into his lap.

"Ew."

The next few moments are spent watching the child eat. Galacta attempts to clean him up, but it's a lost cause. The boy eats like an animal, food sticking to his face. It's mildly disgusting, but Galacta pretends not to notice.

“We need to get you clothes,” Galacta sighs, laying down. His head thunks against the heated gravel. He’s still dizzy, and the pounding in his head is at an all-time high.

Maybe it’s because he still can’t believe what’s happening. For the first time since—he can’t even remember—he’s free. Truly free. Free with stipulations, but free nonetheless. It’s hard to grasp, considering his life up until now. He really thought he was going to die in that crystal.

A small finger presses against his cheek, and Galacta shifts his eyes to the left.

“Is that your way of saying you want to leave?”

No response.

“Okay—we can leave,” Galacta says, slowly sitting up and ignoring the way his body screams in agony. “Maybe we can find you some clothes along the way too.”

The child scrambles to stand as Galacta does, tugging on his pant leg. Galacta scoops him up, and this time there’s only a little fussing, along with a gentle elbow to the chest.

Unfurling his wings, Galacta takes to the sky. The boy wraps his arms around Galacta’s neck, and they begin their search.

Surprisingly, they actually find clothes. Galacta rifles through an abandoned tent—which goes against quite a few codes of honor—but he manages to find a simple tunic and passes it to the child. It’s lightweight.

The child puts it on without hassle. Galacta stands outside, waiting. When the child is ready, he joins Galacta at his side. It’s a clear upgrade from the shoddy attire he had been wearing earlier.

“I’ll have to get you more clothes later, but this will do for now. In the meantime, we should stock up on food, don’t you think?”

Silence is his only response, but by this point, Galacta would be more surprised if the child actually spoke. He lifts the boy into his arms and begins searching for a sturdy branch.

There’s no hickory around, but Galacta finds a long piece of black locust from a nearby tree. It’s long but not entirely sturdy. It won’t last long as a bow, but its thickness at the center will do for now.

“You know how to make a bow?” Galacta asks, if only to fill the silence. The child takes a seat on one of the many stumps scattered across the forest. He curls up on it, knees pulled tightly to his chest. He looks tired.

“Go to bed,” Galacta murmurs, taking a seat a few paces away. He grabs some stray sticks and branches scattered around his feet and throws them into the middle of the clearing. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he lights them on fire.

The child's eyes widen in surprise. He shoots up from the stump, staring at the fire with what Galacta can only label as pure, unfiltered wonder.

Interesting. It seems the child has never seen magic before, Galacta muses.

Perhaps due to his own arrogance, Galacta allows the flames to twist, shaping them into unnatural forms that cast disfigured shadows across the forest floor.

"Magic," Galacta says, his voice pitched low. "It will keep you warm."

Although the wonder in the child’s eyes remains, his energy wanes. He returns to his seat on the stump and curls up tightly. Galacta watches as the child’s gaze grows heavier, his eyes fixated on the flames. It doesn’t take long for the boy's excitement to give way to exhaustion, and gradually, the fire lulls him into slumber.

Galacta turns his attention back to the hickory in his hands.

Crafting a bow with wood alone is difficult.

Galacta has nails but no claws. They can only chip away at the wood, and his lance isn’t made for such tasks. He could use it, but he doesn’t want to dull its edge on something as trivial as a bow. He needs the lance in case they’re attacked.

Still, it’s frustrating. He needs to find a reliable food source to take back to the ship. He can’t keep coming to this planet; it would eventually alert someone to his presence, and he doesn’t want that—at least not now, right after being freed. He’ll deal with whoever might still be after him—if they’re not long dead—once he’s more secure. Until then, he can’t afford to waste his lance on trivial tasks or risk flying to unknown planets for food. He has to be careful and cautious, expecting the worst from everyone around him.

Something inside him warns that thinking like that isn’t healthy, but he pushes it down where he can’t hear it.

If he doesn’t think this way, who’s to say the ancients won’t come for him again, looking to seal him away like some prized artifact in a museum?

Tearing his mind away from that line of thought, Galacta focuses on molding the wood to his liking. It’s not perfect, but eventually, it bends. Once it’s set in a usable shape, he moves away from the clearing to search for milkweed. It doesn’t take long to find a few stalks, and once he has enough, he digs a hole in the ground and soaks them in the residual water.

The child sleeps peacefully, barely moving as Galacta works on crafting his bow. A certain peace settles over him, the kind you feel after a long day. Galacta isn’t home, but he’s free, and it’s really starting to set in. He has his own bow, his own mind to create it; he’s free in every sense of the word, aside from the child on the log a few paces away.

But honestly, that’s the least of his worries.

He finishes the bow just as the sun begins to set, bleeding into the soft glow of two orange moons. Galacta still doesn’t recognize this planet, but he doesn’t sense any danger. The only threats here are a wild beast or two, but he doubts they’ll come near. Galacta’s aura alone is enough to send them scuttling away.

When the moon rises, casting the land in shadow, Galacta stands just as his shadow disappears. He removes his boots, adjusts his mask—he forgot he was even wearing it; no wonder the child screamed when he first saw him—and then sets off down the narrow path of the forest.

He has some reservations about leaving the child alone, but only because he’s uncertain of the boy’s magical prowess. His head still pounds, but he knows the child won’t die. Perhaps a stray predator might come around and nip at the boy’s foot, but nothing worse should happen. Although he doesn’t know the area, he knows how to guard a defenseless child.

The walk is brief. Galacta spots a few sleeping animals—rabbits, waterfowl, and small game—which he captures and clips to his belt as best he can. He gathers enough to eat and then heads back toward the child.

Still asleep, Galacta sits down next to the boy. Nothing catches his attention except the marks on the child’s body and the color of his hair. It’s pink, much like the sunset. His skin is brown, but the wounds on his hands are red, clearly recent.

Galacta isn't sure how to feel about what he's seeing.

On one hand, it’s hard to believe his mother did this. On the other, Galacta can’t understand why a woman would give her child to someone like him. Everyone knew his story when he was imprisoned, and it hasn’t changed over the years, if Nova's words are to be believed.

Had she sent her child to die? But why leave her ship?

Galacta's head aches, but he doesn't sleep. Instead, he prepares his catches and cooks them, watching the smoke billow into the sky. It’s a risky move, but Galacta’s never been afraid of a fight. If anyone spots the smoke, he welcomes the challenge.

Hopefully, the reality of his situation will sink in soon. He doesn’t like feeling disconnected from what’s happening to him.

After finishing up the cooking process, Galacta waits until the sky lightens and the moon disappears. He stays awake through the night, thoughts spiraling. He snaps out of it when the child slowly rises, yawning softly.

"I need a name for you," Galacta announces, staring ahead into the sky. His eyes burn from lack of rest. The sun is bright. "I can't keep you around without a name."

The child blinks rapidly in response, scrambling off his stump. He moves to stand at the edge of Galacta's boot, peering up at him with mild interest.

“Huh,” Galacta murmurs, his lips curling up at the boy’s curious expression. “You like the idea of getting a name?”

There's no verbal response, but Galacta likes to imagine the light in the child's eyes is agreement.

“Okay, let’s see…” Names fire rapidly through his mind, each one worse than the last. He’s never thought about naming a child—never had a child to name, no partner to speak of. His life had been dedicated to defeating Termina, and anything beyond that hadn’t been considered.

"Tristan?"

There’s a flash of curiosity in the boy’s eyes, but it fades like the dwindling energy in Galacta’s body.

"Adam?"

There's a slight twitch in the child's lips, but overall it's a lackluster response.

Perhaps less modern names would be better—Galacta is admittedly familiar only with the names of his deceased challengers, all of whom screamed their names before their timely deaths. He considers it for a while, rolling names off the tip of his tongue.

"Alaric?"

"Cedric?"

"Gawain?"

"Kirby?"

There’s a gentle tap on his shoulder, and Galacta meets the child's eyes.

“Kirby?” Galacta repeats, sitting up. “You like that one?”

There’s no nod, no sign of agreement, but Galacta has an inkling that the child understands him to some degree. He points to the child’s chest, emphasizing where his soul would be, and repeats the name. “Kirby.” He does this a handful of times before standing.

“Your name will be Kirby until further notice.”

If the child smiles, Galacta misses it when he turns to collect their newly gathered resources.

The flight back to the ship is easy. Finding a planet had been the hard part. When he arrives, he lets Kirby head inside first, and then follows the child.

"I don’t have any way to store this besides burying it. Do you mind getting dirt in your food?"

No response, as expected. Galacta grumbles to himself, quickly burying the food before closing the ship door as securely as he can. There’s still a hole in the door, but it’s barely big enough for a hand to slip through. He’ll keep an eye on it, but it’s unlikely anyone will get past.

Kirby makes himself useful by lying on the floor. Galacta watches him for a moment, unsure if he should say something. There must be a better place to sleep.

“Go sleep in there,” Galacta says, pointing to the room adjacent to the kitchen. He mimics sleeping by placing his hands together and resting his head on them.

The child looks at him but doesn’t move.

It seemed like this was going to be a much longer day than he’d anticipated.

Chapter Text

The ship roars to life with a satisfying hum, and Galacta lets the wrench drop from his grasp. It clatters to the floor as he steps away from the navigation panel, wiping the excess oil from his hands.

Admittedly, it had taken much longer than he’d hoped to repair the ship.

Two months stranded on the same planet where he had woken up, forced to scavenge the neighboring one for food. It hadn’t been enjoyable, especially with the child in his care consistently ignoring his demands, but he managed to get it done. It wasn’t perfect; errors still flashed across the hull, warning Galacta of issues he couldn’t quite decipher, but it was functional. It would fly the distance he needed.

He still needed to learn the language of the ship to pilot it, however.

The noise of the revived engine seems to rouse Kirby from the corner where he had been curled up. He peeks his head out from the ship's hallway, his bangs covering most of his vision. He stumbles into the light and makes his way to Galacta’s side, eyes focused on the glowing buttons.

“It’s fixed,” Galacta says, pushing a chair toward the child. It spins once before Kirby jumps onto it. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll get us to Dreamland. 

The child doesn’t react, reaching out to tap the ship's panels. The ship beeps in confusion, unable to do anything without Galacta’s permission from the pilot’s seat.

Galacta feels his face soften at the sight of curiosity in Kirby’s expression.

"That’s for the copilot, but you can’t push anything without my permission. I set it up that way—childproof, since someone likes to touch everything."

There's no denial from Kirby. He doesn’t glance at Galacta but instead reaches for the buttons above his head, which are just slightly out of his grasp.

Galacta moves to the navigation panel, then crouches to retrieve a manual stored beneath it. He hasn’t touched it much since beginning repairs, and it remains just as confusing as the first time he opened it. The pages are filled with a foreign language; letters and numbers blending together. He flips through the pages, eyes narrowing. He can’t decipher any of it and has a sneaking suspicion it’s written in the same language the child speaks.

Setting the manual down, Galacta decides it’s time for another trip. Not for food, but for knowledge.

"Okay," Galacta announces, standing so quickly the child nearly falls from his chair. "We’re going out. Grab any snacks you want."

Of course, Kirby stares at him with the same blank expression he’s been receiving since taking the child under his care. To combat this, he mimics the motion of eating, using his hand as a fork and the manual as food. "Snack. Grab. Food."

There's a delayed response before Kirby jumps from his chair and runs to grab a makeshift canteen full of water. Galacta had fashioned it from metal salvaged from the ship, bending it to his will. Given their limited supplies, he imagines he's done quite well.

Once situated, Galacta heaves the child onto his shoulder and opens the spaceship door.

The space above them is as dark as it was yesterday. Fewer stars dot the void, and a handful more asteroids drift by. The chill in the air is biting, but there’s no escaping it. Space will always be cold, even for a species born from the stars.

He gives himself a once-over—lance, shield, mask, bow—before taking to the skies. He flies until he passes the planet he’s been scavenging, now slightly more blue than orange, and then veers to the left.

The child atop his shoulder makes a confused hum, tapping his head.

“We’re not going there today,” Galacta says, his voice cutting through the silence of the void. “I’m going to find something that will help me learn your language.”

A quietness settles over the two after his response.

Galacta flies through space, and Kirby nuzzles his head into Galacta’s shoulder, watching the stars speed past. Galacta takes care to fly slowly, not wanting to scare the child. Still, stars rush by, and the darkness of space merges with the purples and blues of shifting energy fields.

Galacta loses track of time after passing the third planet.

He would usually stop to explore, but it’s clear the planets are deserted; no signs of life or water appear, despite scanning them with magic repeatedly. It’s not surprising. Galacta had been imprisoned this deep in space to ensure he wouldn’t escape. To see any necessities would mean the Ancients had miscalculated in sealing him away, which was simply not the case.

There’s a sudden blip of life that causes him to slow down, his wings coming to a halt. He recognizes it—ancient magic, not from his captors. The child seems to sense it too, pointing toward the source with wide, interested eyes.

Galacta doesn’t hesitate. He flies toward the energy, veering right. It doesn’t take long for him to realize what's causing it.

“You ever been to a Kabu sanctuary?”

Kirby tilts his head, looking up at Galacta with a worried expression. Galacta raises his hand to pat Kirby’s knee. “It’s fine. He’s no danger. I know it’s a lot to take in.”

Although his words don’t seem to reach Kirby, Galacta continues toward the sanctuary. The energy grows more intense, filling the air with static electricity. Kirby burrows into Galacta’s neck, his nose pressed to the junction of Galacta’s ear.

"YOU ARE FREE."

The voice booms across the void, making Kirby jump and lift his head. Galacta, however, remains unfazed, crossing his arms with thinly veiled annoyance. After ten thousand years—no, more like a hundred thousand—and the stone deity still can’t even manage a simple hello?

After all the times Galacta had saved Kabu from death, and all he gets is a curt you are free. Truly, the gall of some people. 

"I am," Galacta retorts, flying toward the visible platform slowly materializing before him. He lands on it, boots thudding against the synthetic concrete. It sparkles under his shoes, tiny flecks of mica embedded in the surface.

"I SEE."

Galacta takes his time walking down the platform, eyeing Kirby’s wary gaze and pursed lips. It’s clear this is the first time Kirby has encountered something like this, both seeing and feeling it for the first time.

The platform stops, and grass quickly covers it. The space around them shifts, transforming into a planetary landscape. In the distance, a massive stone idol emerges, shrouded in mist.

It’s a clever disguise, concealing them from any prying eyes.

Galacta gently lifts the child from his shoulder and sets him down on the grass.

"YOU ARE LOOKING FOR KNOWLEDGE."

Galacta takes a seat on one of the artificial rocks jutting from the grass and stretches his legs, ignoring the lingering ache. "You can read my intentions, can't you? No need to beat around the bush."

Kabu doesn’t reply, and silence settles over the area. Kirby pulls at the grass, and Galacta watches as the strands in his hands dissolve into sparkles as soon as they're pulled from the ground.

"THE CHILD IN YOUR CARE IS NO ORDINARY CHILD. THIS IS NOT TO BE IGNORED."

Galacta freezes, his gaze moving from Kirby to Kabu. His mouth feels oddly dry, and for a moment, he’s at a loss for words. It was rare to receive a warning from Kabu.

"How so?"

"THE LANGUAGE YOU SEEK IS THE COMMON ONE OF THIS TIME. YOU WILL FIND WHAT YOU NEED TO THE NORTH, ON THE PLANET SHIVER STAR."

Galacta frowns, eyes narrowing. "Hey, I asked a—"

"LEAVE BEFORE NIGHTFALL. YOU WILL FIND WHAT YOU SEEK."

Galacta holds his tongue. He wants to ask more, but it’s clear Kabu doesn’t intend to say anything further. It’s a bit concerning, given the warning, but it’s manageable. Galacta isn’t facing a prophecy of doom—just a caution to be careful.

He can do that. He can be careful.

Standing from his rock, Galacta moves next to the child. He mimics falling asleep to signal the child, then finds a semi-comfortable spot on the ground.

For now, he’ll take a nap. Later, he’ll deal with the warning he’s just received.

Galacta realizes that Shiver Star is so far north it's entirely covered in ice.

Frost whips at his face, turning his skin white with the cold. Even with his mask, it’s a challenge to see, as snow obscures even his heightened vision.

Kirby fares moderately better, considering how he clings tightly to Galacta’s chest, with Galacta’s wings wrapped around him like a warm blanket. The position is almost impossible to maintain—Galacta’s wings are bent at an awkward angle—but he’s been instructed to keep the child alive, and treating hypothermia is not something he wants to deal with right now.

A snowflake slams into his eye, and Galacta curses.

He does enjoy the cold. His feathered wings are hard to manage, and heat only makes it worse, so he’s always preferred the cold. Right now, though, snow is something he could do without.

Trudging through mounds of white, Galacta makes his way forward. 

Up ahead, he senses old electricity, like that of a long-forgotten civilization. He has a hunch that whatever he needs, whatever knowledge he can use to his advantage, is somewhere there.

Doubling his efforts, Galacta picks up the pace, half-jogging through the snow with his head lowered. It takes a while, but eventually, the energy signal grows clearer, prompting him to raise his head.

In the distance, he spots what appears to be a building—worn down and half-collapsed. Ignoring the dilapidated state of the structure, Galacta makes his way inside.

The interior is just as destroyed as the exterior. At one point, Galacta imagines it was functional—a factory designed to create new technology, with a crew dedicated to advancing the state of the world.

Now, it's just an inconvenience to navigate through.

He spends half a minute looking for a light source before making his own.

Galacta ignites his hand with fire, flames bursting from his skin and illuminating the dimly lit factory. Kirby doesn’t flinch from the newfound light but clings closer to Galacta’s chest, wrapping his arms around Galacta’s neck.

"It's fine," Galacta soothes, lowering his voice. "It won't hurt you."

He’s not sure if it helps Kirby at all, but he doesn’t let it deter him. He simply lets the child cling to him while he moves around the factory.

It’s not a large factory. After searching through a few rooms, Galacta finally finds what he’s looking for—a room filled with wires and a few test tubes. It appears to be an experimentation room of sorts, with human figures plastered on the walls. In the corner, there’s even a mock skeleton—no, wait, a very real skeleton.

He stares at it for a moment too long to be just curiosity and then curses himself for the way his hands twitch. 

At one of the desks, he finds a book. It’s a book he can understand, but the letters are unfamiliar. It must be a dictionary or a translator designed to help people like him. It’s a bit embarrassing to rely on a book to learn a language, but after so long in isolation, it’s all he has.

He wonders just how long he’s actually been imprisoned. Still, it'd work. Kabu had led him to the correct place, as expected.

As he scans the book, he hears a noise coming from a nearby corner. Galacta tenses, his attention shifting from the book to the child. Kirby looks up at him, as still as a four-year-old can be. It’s not Kirby making the noise, so it must be something else.

"Come here," Galacta orders, pointing to his side. Kirby quickly obeys, sliding behind him and taking cover under the desk.

Galacta doesn’t move. He stays in place, eyeing the corner, which is doused in shadows and faintly illuminated by the fire in his hands. He quickly turns to the child, places a finger over his lips, and then douses the fire.

He senses it before he sees it—a demon, maybe the size of a chair, crawling across the walls. It’s not huge, but he can smell the blood on it, the copper staining its jagged teeth. It must have been the one to eradicate whatever life was here last, if the abandoned skeleton is any indicator.

It's a simple demon beast, probably a scout of some sort. Galacta readies his lance and inhales slowly. It won’t be able to react before Galacta does. It will die, as everything that challenges Galacta tends to die.

His weapon drives into the beast’s mouth as soon as it drops to the floor in attack.

It screams, clearly put off by Galacta being on the offensive. It scrambles away, but Galacta is faster, grabbing it by the edge of its claw. It resembles a spider, with a large, oval-like body.

He drives his lance into its body, tearing through its skin like butter. Its screams rise in volume, and Galacta quickly silences it with the edge of his boot, which comes down hard onto its eyes. The heel of his boot cracks down past its nose and into its jaw, creating a clean slice through its face.

It falls silent shortly after.

Galacta sheaths his lance and—

“Oh,” Galacta breathes as the full weight of a four-year-old slams into his stomach. It knocks the breath out of him for a moment before he regains his bearings.

Kirby doesn’t react to Galacta’s surprise. He stays in place, arms wrapped around Galacta as if he fears being abandoned. It’s a stark difference from the child’s earlier demeanor, which had involved pointed glares and gentle elbows to the neck.

Galacta heaves a sigh. “It’s okay. There’s no need to be scared.”

Kirby doesn’t move an inch. The child clings tighter, nails digging into Galacta’s skin.

Galacta fights the twitch in his lip. “It’s gone. It’s dead. Bye-bye.” To emphasize his point, he pulls away from the child and points at the slowly disintegrating corpse of the demon. It’s fading, melting into ash and stardust, as most celestial things do.

“See? All gone. No more,” Galacta repeats, ignoring how the child seems to be tuning him out. “It’s dead. I killed it. It’s not going to—”

Suddenly, Kirby meets his gaze. The abruptness of it halts whatever Galacta was about to say. He watches as Kirby points at his own chest and then at Galacta, his eyes hard with something unspoken.

Even with the language barrier, Galacta understands the message clearly:

‘I was worried about you.’

“Hello?”

Kirby, who had been sitting at his boots, waves enthusiastically in return.

So it seemed the book he had snagged from the factory had some merit. Although it had been a nightmare to grab and even harder to understand, it was almost worth it to finally get a response from the child.

Galacta flips through the book, moving from page to page, and stops when he comes to an introductory page. He skims it for a moment before clearing his throat.

“I am... Galacta Knight.”

At first, there’s no response. But after a few long moments, Kirby’s lips part to form the shape of an 'o'.

“Ga-acta Kni’?”

Galacta almost allows himself a smile.

"Close enough. We'll work on it."

Chapter Text

"HE SEEMS TO BE ADJUSTING TO YOUR PRESENCE."

Galacta keeps his eyes on the spaceship's navigation panel, having spent hours plotting a route to find the most politically acceptable landing spot. It turns out Dreamland, specifically Cappy Town, has no real political structure. It’s supposedly governed by a king who, according to recent records, died 700 years ago, which doesn’t make much sense.

Perhaps the current ruler hasn’t officially declared their authority yet?

Nova doesn’t seem bothered by his lack of response. She takes a seat a few paces away from where Kirby is curled up, asleep around Galacta’s vest.

"HAVE YOU GIVEN THE CHILD A NAME?"

"Kirby," Galacta retorts, ignoring Nova’s gaze as she peers over his shoulder. He can just barely see her cat-like grin out of the corner of his eye.

"INTERESTING." 

"Why do you ask?" Galacta prompts, stretching his arms high above his head. There’s an ache in his bones and a tiredness that won’t fade. He figures it must be due to the environment rather than the fact that he’s farther into the future than he should be.

"I WILL ALERT KABU. HE WILL WARN THE LOCALS BEFORE YOU BOTH ARRIVE."

"Kabu?" Galacta repeats, finally meeting Nova's expectant gaze. He didn’t know Dreamland had a Kabu; such a thing usually signaled trouble. "Why does he need to know?"

"THE LOCALS WILL SEEK A SOLUTION TO THEIR PROBLEMS. KIRBY WILL BE THAT SOLUTION."

Galacta doesn’t respond right away. On one hand, he feels an odd protectiveness at the thought of Kirby being used as a solution to a problem that requires Kabu’s intervention. On the other hand, Galacta had faced far worse at Kirby’s age and knows there’s not much one can do against destiny.

Torn between two responses, Galacta simply shrugs and gazes out the spaceship's window.

"KIRBY WILL BE THE ONE TO DEFEAT NIGHTMARE, THE CAUSE OF DREAMLAND’S ANGUISH. YOU WILL HELP MOLD HIM INTO BECOMING THEIR SAVIOR."

Galacta can't help but scoff, swiveling in his chair. He kicks his feet up on the control panel and gives Nova the best unimpressed look he can muster. "I thought you wanted me to keep him alive until maturity."

"THEY ARE ONE AND THE SAME," Nova retorts, matching Galacta’s glare with a pacifying smile.

"And I'm supposed to train him too?" Galacta asks, clearly unenthusiastic. He can manage keeping the child alive until adulthood, but the thought of training him is not appealing. He already has enough on his plate—the last thing he wants is to announce his presence to the world through his prowess. 

"NO. KABU HAS ARRANGED FOR SOMEONE ELSE TO HANDLE HIS TRAINING."

"Someone else?" Galacta asks, his attention shifting from Nova to the control panel. Everything is set for takeoff, except for a few tweaks that Galacta isn’t particularly focused on.

“IT WOULD BE LESS THAN IDEAL FOR YOU TO NURTURE AND TRAIN THE CHILD. KIRBY MUST BOND WITH YOU, AND IF YOU WERE TO TRAIN HIM DIRECTLY, IT IS UNLIKELY THIS WOULD HAPPEN. A KNIGHT LIKE YOURSELF WILL OVERSEE HIS TRAINING INSTEAD.”

Galacta laughs, unable to help himself. He continues until Nova’s face narrows, and even then, he struggles to contain his amusement. Seriously? Another knight? Who else could compare to him? Galacta was the strongest warrior in the galaxy. Who did Nova think could rival his skills, let alone his teaching abilities? Not that Galacta considered himself a teacher, but the point still stood.

"And who is this knight?"

Nova smiles again, her eyes half-lidded with faux contentment. “HIS NAME IS META KNIGHT. YOU WILL WORK CLOSELY WITH HIM THROUGHOUT YOUR TIME IN DREAMLAND.”

Galacta snorts, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand. He doesn’t bother asking the goddess any more questions. It’s clear Kabu and Nova will do as they please, even if Galacta thinks their plan is ridiculous. “Who’s this Nightmare fellow you mentioned?”

There’s a long pause before Nova answers, “HE IS THE CLOSEST THING IN THE PRESENT TO THE VOID TERMINA OF YOUR TIME.”

Galacta sits in the pilot's seat of the spaceship, hands firmly on the steering wheel as he studies the navigation panel. The engine roars to life in the background, and the controls light up, bathing the cabin in blue and pink hues.
Kirby sits in the co-pilot seat, idly doodling on the only map Galacta scavenged.

“Aw' we leaping?” Kirby asks.

“Yes,” Galacta answers, trying to ignore the way his heart flips as Kirby scribbles a poorly designed smiley face on the map. “We are leaving.”

Galacta had learned Kirby's language, or rather the common tongue of this world, relatively quickly. Still, he doesn’t expect praise—but he also doesn’t expect the crayon to slip from Kirby’s hand as he leans over the control panel. In his attempt to grab the crayon, the child smashes his hands against a multitude of buttons.

Galacta is semi-grateful that he thought ahead to install a childlock system.

"Dream—and?"

“Dreamland,” Galacta corrects, his voice steady as the ship’s hum grows louder. “We’re heading to Cappy Town. Apparently, that’s where—er, Aunt Nova wants us to stay for a while.”

Nova would find the term "Aunt" hilarious if she were here. Luckily, she isn’t, and Galacta refuses to introduce the concepts of celestial gods—and by extension, death—to a four-year-old child.

The ship begins to shake, reacting to the incoming turbulence. Galacta quickly fastens Kirby’s seatbelt and subtly adjusts the child’s gravity with a touch of magic, ensuring he stays secure. “We’re going to fly there.”

Kirby kicks his legs, clearly unhappy with the idea of staying still but unable to do anything about it. “Weg’s?” he asks.

Galacta rolls the word over in his mind until he understands what Kirby is asking. “No, not with my wings. With the ship.”

There’s a puff of air and a confused huff from the child as he looks at the control panel. Galacta doesn’t stop him from tapping and smashing different buttons, even as they blink in response. It’s unlikely Kirby will break anything, but Galacta still nudges his chair to the less critical part of the control panel, just to be safe.

"Are you ready to fly?" 

There’s a pause in the assault of button smashing, and then Kirby nods, smiling so joyfully it almost looks forced. “Kay!”

Galacta directs his attention forward. After confirming he has everything he needs—which really only includes the child beside him and the engine running—he gently nudges the thrusters into takeoff mode. The spaceship groans, but Galacta keeps his touch light. Once he's confident there’s enough distance to lift off, he raises the nose of the ship. "Stay in your seat," he warns, glancing at Kirby. "I'm not sure how this ship is going to handle flying."

Kirby stops tugging at his seatbelt. 

Galacta eyes the flashing lights on the control panel, mentally pushes them to the back of his mind, and then releases the brake. The ship begins to roll, creeping down the runway. Galacta adjusts the ship’s angle, carefully increasing the power on what he assumes is the throttle. The ship jolts, then eases, rocking like a boat on water, but he’s not entirely sure. In the end, it doesn’t really matter—they’ll reach their destination one way or another.

Once the spaceship reaches the desired speed, he turns to Kirby to make sure he stays seated, then lifts the control wheel to adjust the elevators. The ship shoots into the air, turbulence shaking even Galacta. He reaches out to steady Kirby’s arm as they take off.

"How's your first time flying?" Galacta asks over the rattle of the ship as it climbs higher and higher into space.

Kirby presses his face against the glass just above the control panel, leaning over a multitude of hopefully unimportant radio buttons. "We fwyin'!?"

Galacta hides the quirk of his lips behind a less-than-enthused tilt of his brow. "Stay in your seat."

It’s not a perfect takeoff, but Galacta isn’t a pilot at heart. He’s more of a mechanic, skilled with his hands rather than his mind. As long as they’re airborne, Galacta can pretend he didn’t recalibrate the ship in a way that’s probably incorrect.

Thankfully, the navigation screen switches to an outside view. It’s nothing special—just space and the asteroids he needs to avoid—but it offers the aerial perspective he desperately needs. 

While he knows how to fly, without a visual, he’d have to leave the control panel—something he definitely doesn’t want to do with a curious four-year-old in the co-pilot’s seat.

A sound beside him catches Galacta's attention, and he watches as Kirby digs into the cloth Galacta used to wrap their rations. Though he’s unsure if eating at this altitude while co-piloting is a good idea, he knows it’s going to be a long journey to Dreamland. With a resigned sigh, Galacta settles into his seat, preparing himself for the long day ahead.

There's something wrong with the ship.

Galacta realizes this almost immediately upon breaking through Dreamland’s atmosphere. After more than thirty-six hours of flying, it’s typical that something would go wrong during the final stretch.

At this point, it feels almost like his destiny.

An alarm beeps to his right, warning of turbulence. Another sounds to his left, alerting him to low altitude and an impending system failure. It’s as if all the alarms had been waiting for this moment to go off and give Galacta a headache.

Kirby peers up at him with pursed lips and a furrowed brow. "Wha's wong?"

Galacta grumbles, rubbing his forehead. They’re going too fast, and he can’t slow them down at this altitude. He can try to land the ship, but it might be better to abandon it. So much for the months he’d spent repairing it.

He reaches over to unclip Kirby's seatbelt and pulls him onto his shoulder. "The ship is...well, the ship wants to fly on its own, so I'm going to let it." 

Kirby nuzzles into his neck. "I-p' don' like us?"

"No, it just...wants to fly without a pilot," Galacta replies. 

"Wha' happen to us t-en?" 

Galacta glances at the navigational panel. He doesn’t want to risk harming anyone—at least not so early in their stay—so he redirects the ship’s path toward the ocean. Then, forcing open the padlocked doors, he says, "Simple. We land without the ship."

The air speeding past his face is hard to ignore. He’s going to have to jump from a spaceship traveling at over 80 ASI.

“You hold onto me and don’t let go,” Galacta murmurs, his voice steady and clear despite the turbulence shaking the ship.

There’s a lot going on below him that he can’t see, but he can make out patches of grass, and he decides it’s better than nothing. With both hands wrapped around Kirby, Galacta takes the leap.

The ship crashes into the ocean, sending a wave so massive it nearly washes out the neighboring beach. Anyone who had hoped to stay dry was now cursing the ocean.

Galacta, however, was not among them.

“Are you alright?” Galacta asks softly. The grassy hill where they’ve landed is mostly intact, aside from a few scrapes and bumps. Galacta’s ankle, however, had taken the brunt of the impact.

"Mhm!" 

Kirby slides off Galacta's shoulders with ease, landing without a scratch. Galacta tries to make his collapse look deliberate rather than a result of his shattered ankle.

Aside from the ocean, there isn’t much around. They’re on a hill, but just beyond it, Galacta spots a simple castle made of cobblestone and other natural materials. It’s barely guarded, from what he can sense, and nothing about it seems particularly grand. In fact, it looks rather unimpressive.

Nearby, he notices a small village. It’s quite tiny, even for a village, but he sees people moving about, many of them staring at the ocean. Pupupuland is exactly what he expected given the limited information: a quaint town with a small population, surrounded by natural beauty, beneath a single yellow sun and a clear blue sky.

The sound of a child and the clatter of metal draw Galacta’s attention away from the sky and back to the foot of the hill. He quickly shifts his focus, trying to pinpoint the source of the noise.

It doesn’t take long for him to spot the reason. A girl, a few years older than Kirby, is trying to climb the hill while arguing with another child. They both look young, their faces free of age. They’re not as small as typical children, but they’re definitely not approaching adolescence.

Galacta unsheathes his lance. “Halt!”

The children freeze, their argument forgotten as they stare at him. Neither moves, so Galacta cautiously lowers the point of his lance. “State your names.”

The boy is the first to speak. "Tuff."

'Tuff? What a strange name,' Galacta muses, narrowing his eyes behind his mask.

The girl hesitates, clearly wrestling with an internal debate, but after a moment, she finally says, “Tiff Ebrum,” echoing her companion’s response.

He’s never heard of the Ebrum family, but then again, he’s never been to Dreamland. There’s nothing threatening about them, and their auras reveal no malice—just poorly directed curiosity. Galacta doesn’t sheath his lance, but he does let it rest against the grass. "I—" 

He doesn’t get the chance to continue. The metallic noise he heard earlier grows louder, speeding up the hill. Galacta raises his lance and steps back, shielding Kirby.

A rectangular box on wheels screeches to a stop a few paces away from Galacta. Its gold exterior reflects the sunlight, and inside sit two figures: a heavyset man with wild hair and a thinner gentleman in regal attire with a curly mustache.

"Don't move," Galacta whispers, more to Kirby than to anyone else.

It takes a painfully long minute for the two men to climb out of their vehicle, but once they do, the heavyset man makes his presence known with a boisterous laugh.

“Well, would ya look at that! Two aliens in my kingdom!” he exclaims, his voice pitched two octaves higher than necessary. The man with the mustache quickly moves to hide behind the larger man.

“Smash it with your mallet, sire!”

The girl—Tiff—levels the king with a glare that could rival the setting sun. “Wait!”

Whether startled by the girl’s plea or responding to some context Galacta isn’t aware of, the wild-haired man steps back, and the girl moves in front of him, raising her hand in a pacifying gesture.

"You...you wouldn't happen to be Kirby, would you?"

'Ah, so it seems Kabu did inform the villagers of this land,' Galacta muses, twirling his lance idly. He aims it away from the child and more toward the ground, his own gesture of peace. “I am not.”

Her face falls, but before he can disappoint her further, Galacta nudges the child hidden behind his leg into view. "This is who you are looking for."

The reaction is immediate: the men burst into laughter, collapsing against each other in an attempt to regain their composure. The girl looks stricken, her face falling and her eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. The boy awkwardly fiddles with his bangs.

Galacta’s scowl is hidden behind his mask, but he can guess why they’re reacting this way. Kabu must have spun some legend to raise their hopes. And now, faced with a mere child, their expectations are shattered. Galacta knows all too well how quickly people lose faith in a child.

Once the men stop laughing, the one in robes—who had spoken first—points at the girl. "Some warrior that is!"

Galacta can tolerate mockery, but his patience is wearing thin. He aims his lance at the man who spoke and lowers his voice. "State your name."

The taller man flinches, hiding behind the one in robes. The girl and the boy back away, wary and naturally cautious once more. The man with the boisterous laugh barely reacts, only smiling in disbelief. "Me? I’m King Dedede, ruler of this here kingdom! And you'd better show me some respect!"

King? Well, the robes and attire might fit a king—if they’d been procured from a secondhand merchant. 

Galacta barely tilts his head, raising his voice just slightly. "I apologize, Your Highness."

A spark of serotonin seems to ignite in the king’s brain, and his face brightens like a fire kindling on a cold night. His expression softens, giving way to a broad smile. The girl, however, looks mildly offended, as if she can’t believe Galacta just called the king a king.

"Well, well, well! That’s more like it! See, all of you should be talkin' to me like that!"

There’s a scoff from the man behind Dedede and a thinly veiled eye roll from the boy.

"Now, how 'bout I find out who you are?" the king continues, waving a dismissive hand toward Galacta, though his curiosity is poorly disguised.

Galacta makes a show of bowing, lowering his head and bending until his face is level with his midsection. It’s not that he cares about the king, but making a good first impression could be in his best interest if he plans to stay here for any length of time.

"Greetings to the King of Dreamland. I am Galacta Knight, a humble vassal at your disposal."

There’s a quick whispered exchange between the king and the man at his side. "Hey, Escargoon, what’s he mean by a vassal?"

Galacta catches the tail end of a sigh. "Servant."

The king laughs heartily, giving Escargoon a rough pat on the shoulder. "Ha! I gotta say, I like your style. If everyone acted like that, this kingdom of mine would be smooth sailin'!"

Somehow, Galacta doubts the sincerity of that statement.

"CHEERS!"

Galacta watches as the Cappies clink their glasses of wine in a toast to Kirby.

Most of Cappy Town is gathered around a large table, with Tiff to Galacta’s left and Bun beside her. Kirby sits on Galacta’s lap, his head resting against the table. He looks exhausted, which is understandable after Tiff’s marathon tour of the town that had taken up most of the evening. Galacta can’t help but yearn for sleep himself.

The king’s absence is notable, but he had left hours earlier after a heated exchange with Tiff, grumbling about the lack of respect. It’s interesting how little regard the people of Cappy Town seem to have for their king.

Galacta figures there are more people in town who aren’t around the table, but he’s not curious enough to go searching. Instead, he listens to the murmur of conversation spreading around the table, catching names here and there, along with other bits of meaningless chatter that he suspects will become important later.

The Cappies pass around an assortment of food that Galacta eyes warily. He doesn’t feel like being poisoned—not that anyone should know who he is considering the time period—but even so, he politely declines the plate offered to him.

He’s hungry, but he doesn’t trust anyone here—not yet, at least.

Evening settles over the sky, bathing the inside of the mayor’s house in a warm, golden light. Food is eaten in joyous fashion, and the Cappies drink their fill until every wine bottle is emptied. Kirby is the subject of most of their chatter, their eyes wide with curiosity.

"What exactly does a Star Warrior do?"

"Do you really think Kabu believes that child will save us all?"

"Wow, that kid sure can eat!"

"I’d prefer the man in the mask as our hero." 

The mayor, or who Galacta assumes is the mayor, clinks his glass, and the chatter gradually quiets to a low murmur.

"So, Sir Galacta—"

Galacta scowls beneath his mask, his eyes hardening with disgust. "Just Galacta."

"Apologies. Galacta, sir, allow me to formally welcome you to our village." 

That had already been addressed earlier with the king, but it seems the Cappies have their own way of doing things. Galacta nods in acknowledgment, and a frail-looking woman with a decorative hood and dark eyes studies him with a curious gaze. "So, do you plan to stay here for a while?" she asks.

Galacta twiddles with his fork. "For as long as your Kabu instructs," he replies.

There's a stir of conversation following his words. Galacta doesn't understand why it's so shocking, but this village seems to have a thing for theatrics. Perhaps everyone had expected him to simply slay a monster and be done with it.

"Where will you stay?" another voice pipes up amid the conversation. This time, it's a man with dark fuchsia hair and slanted eyes. His accent is thick, but Galacta can understand the words, even if the common tongue is still unfamiliar to him.

"I'll figure it out," Galacta replies, sharp and curt. He should have responded more thoughtfully, but quite frankly, he doesn't care. He's never been good at being the center of attention, and he's long since abandoned any pretense of being cordial and nice. His purpose here isn't to make friends, and he certainly won't start by bonding with twelve strangers around a dinner table.

Thankfully, the conversation shifts to Kirby, who eyes the rest of the village's food with interest. Galacta briefly entertains the idea of poison again but quickly dismisses it as unlikely. Pushing his worries aside, he fills his plate with food. Then, after piling it high, he passes it to Kirby.

Two fairies, who had been hovering near the man with fuchsia hair and another woman, shift closer to Kirby.

"He sure eats a lot," says the one dressed in pink, her voice soft.

"Is that usual for a warrior?" the one in blue adds. They're both barely the size of Galacta's hand.

"Lololo, Lalala, that's rude," Tiff scolds, jumping into the conversation. The two fairies blush under her gaze but don't move away.

Galacta tunes out the rest of the conversation, including the fairies’ introductions. He absently twiddles with his fork until the metal feels more like rubber in his grip. He's only snapped back to attention when the woman beside the man with fuchsia hair gently hands him a napkin—a subtle invitation to converse.

Galacta looks up, his brows knitting together. "Hmm?"

"The castle might not be the most comfortable place to stay, but it has plenty of spare rooms if you're willing to deal with the king. As a knight of your stature, I'm sure it won't be difficult to find suitable lodging," she suggests.

Galacta exhales a sigh. He doesn’t know where he wants to stay yet, if he’s being honest. Worst-case scenario, he could always make his own living space if the land was available. "I'll manage on my own," he replies.

When the yellow in the sky bleeds into purple and the older adults begin to excuse themselves, Galacta directs his gaze out the window. It wouldn’t be a bad time to make a break for it, or at the very least, excuse himself.

He goes to stand, and Kirby immediately snaps awake, wiping a stray sausage from his nose. "Out?"

"For a moment. I will be back. Do you want to come?"

Galacta quickly moves around the table and helps Kirby down from his seat as soon as the child gives a nod. If he’s lucky, they might not come back at all.

Chapter Text

A field of dead sheep stretches before Galacta, leaving him uncertain of what to do. He considers alerting the mayor, who’s still inside, with his house lights casting a soft orange glow over the porch, but the thought of socializing feels unnecessary. He could also investigate, but with Kirby by his side, it doesn't seem like the best idea.

Caught between a rock and a hard place, Galacta lingers by the field's fence, staring up at the sky.

"Aw' tey sick?"

Galacta suppresses a sigh and brushes the bangs away from Kirby’s forehead. He really should find a barber on this planet—the child hasn’t had a haircut in months. "...Somewhat."

He doesn’t like explaining death to children. He’s done it before and knows how quickly innocence can be lost. Children as young as Kirby deserve to be protected from that.

As if thinking about children could summon them, the minister's kids come rushing out of the mayor's house moments later, their eyes wide with curiosity. Lololo and Lalala trail behind, each fairy perched on a respective sibling’s shoulders.

"What happened to the sheep?"

"Did Kirby do this?"

Galacta scowls, though it’s hidden behind his mask. The downturn of his lips is unmistakable, however, and he watches as Tiff’s eyes harden with caution, unsure how to react to such an expression.

Galacta doesn’t release the tension in his shoulders. "You assume we did this?"

The question catches Tuff off guard, but he eagerly brushes past everyone and leans over the edge of the fence. "Well, aren’t you supposed to be super strong?"

Galacta rolls his eyes. He would have a stern talk with Kabu when he had the time. There was no point in filling this village with false ideas of grandeur or whatever nonsense had been spread.

"Kirby didn’t kill the sheep," Galacta replies plainly, stepping aside as Tiff tries to pull her brother away from the scene. It’s a losing battle, ending with both of them tumbling over the fence. Kirby tries to follow, but Galacta pulls him back by the scruff of his shirt.

"Ew! Tuff, come on! It could be dangerous!" Tiff protests, brushing off her overalls, now stained a deep maroon with mud. She doesn’t look entirely upset, though—more worried, if the crease of her brow is anything to go by.

"It’s fine! It’s probably one of Dedede’s monsters!" Tuff retorts, stumbling to his feet. He seems to consider helping his sister up but remains fixated on the grassy field, littered with dead sheep and bones

Kirby tugs at his sleeve, and Galacta looks down. The child is pointing into the distance, eyes filled with curiosity.

Galacta hesitates for a long moment but eventually gives in. He doesn’t like the idea of death being near Kirby, but realistically, Kirby is bound to face it sooner or later.

Galacta steps into the field and lifts Kirby over the fence. He joins Tiff and Tuff, who slowly start to make their way toward the sheep. The smell is revolting, but it’s not what Galacta expected. Instead of the usual stench of decay, it’s musky, like ash or char. Something must have eaten them at a high temperature—perhaps even cooked them.

"It smells like steak," Lololo mutters, his voice eerily loud. Galacta gives a curt nod. It’s true.

"Should we investigate the shack?" Lalala asks, mirroring her twin's curiosity.

"Shack?" Galacta and the siblings turn their gaze to the distance, where an old, rickety shack sits. The wood is graying, sickly with mold. There are holes in the straw roof, and a few stray crates are scattered around, filled with what looks like hay and other farming materials.

"That's the shepherd's shack," Tiff supplies, crossing her arms in silent disapproval. "Why should we go there?"

"Because what if a monster's there!" Tuff exclaims, already stepping ahead. The fairies reluctantly follow, and Kirby trails after them, with Galacta close on his heels.

"That's exactly why we shouldn't!" Tiff retorts, but it’s too late. Tuff kicks open the shack door, and they all enter inside.

Galacta shuts the door behind them, not bothering to lock it—there’s no lock anyway, and he’s certain there’s no monster inside. The real danger is more likely outside.

Inside, there’s not much to see: a few bales of hay, a till, some buckets for watering troughs, and a moss-covered vest. The children poke around, lifting buckets and moving things, but they don’t find anything noteworthy.

The fairies are the first to give up, fluttering to the floor. Galacta takes a seat beside them, letting the siblings and Kirby tire themselves out.

After a while, Galacta turns to them with a curious glance, though he figures much of his expression goes unnoticed. "You two aren’t fairies, are you?"

Lololo is the first to visibly react, shying away from Galacta. Lalala frowns, her sharp features softening in confusion. "What do you mean?"

Galacta levels them with a glare. "Demons. I can see it. You two are demo—"

"Hahaha! That’s so funny!" Lalala snorts, but her brother remains still, eyes wide in surprise. Galacta doesn’t need them to admit the truth—he already knows. It’s the way they cast reflections in the shoddy shack buckets, whereas a true fairy would shine in the darkness like a firefly.

He doesn’t understand why the village can’t see it, or why the Ebrum siblings hold such a close connection with the two, but Galacta learned long ago to hold his tongue when something doesn’t concern him. It’s not his place to point out the obvious or protect the people of this village. His job is to nurture Kirby in this land until maturity and to do so until Kabu instructs otherwise.

With a facade of contentment, Galacta leans back against the hay bale behind him, ignoring the panicked look shared between the two. "I guess I was wrong."

The children search for another minute or so before stopping to chat. Galacta watches as the fairies, clearly uneasy with being exposed, move to join the rest of the group. In truth, any trained Star Warrior would be able to sense a demon beast approaching. It's not Galacta’s fault he was inclined to point out the obvious.

Suddenly, Tuff turns to Galacta, eyes wide with excitement. "Hey, I think I hear someone coming!"

The shack falls silent as Galacta stands, his knees protesting with the movement. His head spins, and for a moment, he wonders if the lack of rest is finally catching up to him. But then he hears the sound of boots on grass, the footfalls heavy and deliberate. Any exhaustion he felt melts away, replaced by a surge of adrenaline.

"Kirby, come here."

Kirby, followed closely by the other children, scuttles to Galacta’s side. He stands alert, warily eyeing the door. It’s then that he hears the muted conversation of what must be villagers or those familiar with the area.

"Are you sure you saw them head this way?" a gruff voice asks, weathered with sarcasm.

"I'm sure," a softer voice replies.

The shack door creaks open, and Tiff hurriedly tries to straighten her slacks, shooting a glare at Tuff. They must recognize the voices because there’s no panic on their faces.

As moonlight spills in from outside, two knights step into the shack. Both are clad in armor and helms that cover most of their bodies. From their attire, Galacta can infer they must be lower-ranking knights, dressed to compensate for any gaps in their defenses, uncertain of their abilities. The swords they carry are also standard, made of simple metal.

"Oh. Lady Tiff."

"Sir Tuff."

Tiff grumbles, crossing her arms as a chill sweeps through the area. She shoots a cross look at her brother, clearly annoyed at being caught. "Hello, Sword, Blade."

"We're here on our lord's orders," says the one known as Blade, his green helm glinting in the moonlight.

"We're looking for someone named Kirby," the other knight, Sword, announces, keeping the door open as the night breeze ruffles his messy locks.

The Ebrum siblings and the fairies exchange uncertain glances. An unspoken conversation passes between them before they all look to Galacta for direction. It momentarily stuns him, and he stares back at the children as if to ask, What in the world do you think I can do? It’s not like they could lie—Galacta wasn’t from here, and everyone in the village had just had dinner with them. Truly, what was he supposed to do? Hide behind a haystack with Kirby? Pretend to die?

Sighing, Galacta addresses them with a nod but not a bow, clearly asserting his higher rank. "Who is asking?"

The two knights step aside and kneel, their armor clinking as they do. The sound of another pair of boots—sharp and deliberate—breaks the stillness, as the wind seems to hold its breath for the arrival of another knight. This one is dressed predominantly in blue, a mask fastened tightly to his face, and a cloak wrapped securely around his body.

Galacta meets the knight’s gaze with one of his own. A silent standoff ensues, each sizing up the other. There’s something off about this one, a magical presence that puts Galacta on edge. It’s unsettling, and it cements Galacta’s immediate dislike for this knight. He also doesn’t appreciate how the other holds eye contact for so long without uttering a word.

Eventually, Galacta breaks the stalemate by lowering his lance hand slightly. It’s a silent gesture of peace, but not of surrender. He won’t release his grip on the lance, but he will lower it, if only to avoid a needless confrontation. Starting a fight over a stare-off isn’t his intention, and truthfully, Galacta is far too confident to be bothered by it.

The knight’s sword dips slightly, acknowledging Galacta’s gesture. He then shifts his gaze to Kirby, lowering his sword entirely, its metal tip clinking against the stone floor. The action seems devoid of specific intent, so Galacta assumes the knight’s thoughts are elsewhere.

Then, without warning, the knight spins on his heel and exits the shack.

The knight’s subordinates follow swiftly, and the Ebrum siblings scramble to chase after them. Kirby lingers beside Galacta, but his curiosity gets the better of him. Seeing this, Galacta motions for him to follow. "Let’s go."

Outside, the smell of char lingers in the breeze. Galacta watches as Tiff steps forward to confront the knight clad in blue. "Sir Meta Knight, there’s been another monster attack!"

Tuff quickly joins his sister. "Yeah! And this time it ate all the sheep! They’re all dead!"

"Tuff, don’t sound so excited! That’s not a good thing!" Lololo scolds.

"I’m pretty sure they already know that," Lalala mumbles.

"But Kirby’s here to finally get rid of the monsters, right?" Tuff asks.

Not quite the center of attention but close to it, Galacta watches as all eyes shift to Kirby. The child at his side tenses, then sheepishly presses his face into Galacta’s hip.

Something tightens in Galacta’s chest, and he discreetly pulls his cape around the child’s shoulders.

"Kirby is not ready," Meta Knight says, just as Galacta is about to speak. He eyes the boy much like Galacta does, his mask revealing nothing but indifference.

It doesn’t improve Galacta’s opinion of the knight—the way he’s staring at Kirby. It’s as if he knows the child personally, and it’s beginning to irritate Galacta. It’s one thing to stare, but to examine the child like a specimen, with eyes fixed solely on him, is another matter entirely.

"Then what do we do about the monsters? They’ve never killed anything before!" Tuff argues, side-eyeing Kirby. He kicks at the grass as if that would somehow help.

"Sword, Blade, and I will handle it for now. Tomorrow, I will discuss with the castle how to address Dedede’s growing antics. For now, your parents are looking for you, and it’s not safe to be out," Meta Knight replies, his voice a low rasp blending with the wind.

Tiff nods eagerly. "I told you it wasn’t safe to be out! Let’s go home," she insists, tugging at her brother. Lololo and Lalala exchange fleeting glances with the knights, unsure where to stand.

"But I wanted to see the monster," Tuff sighs, but he relents, allowing himself to be pulled away. The rest of them follow the siblings back to the soft orange glow of the mayor’s porch, where the man with fuchsia hair waits, along with the same woman who had offered Galacta a place to rest.

As soon as they see the children, they usher them inside. The fairies follow, leaving Galacta outside with Kirby and the three knights who had apparently been looking for them.

Silence overtakes the group, and for a while, no one speaks. It’s only broken by Kirby’s yawn, followed by a gentle tug on Galacta’s sleeve.

"So, Meta Knight, then?" Galacta asks, trying to ignore the flush that rises to his face when Kirby tugs at his sleeve, asking to be picked up again. He can’t do that right now. He needs to look intimidating in front of these knights, to ensure they understand his strength.

The knight in blue gives a curt nod, tilting his head slightly downward. The other knights at his side remain silent.

"I suppose you were looking for us because of what you’ve heard?" Galacta continues, unfazed by the silence. When Kirby tugs on his sleeve again, Galacta’s resolve crumbles, and he lifts the child into his arms. Kirby immediately snuggles into his neck, sleepily babbling.

There’s a long stretch of silence before the knight speaks. When he does, it’s not directed at Galacta. "Sword, Blade, walk the Ebrums home. I will return shortly. Do not wait for me."

The two knights bow before shuffling past Galacta, ignoring the scathing look he sends their way. They enter the mayor’s house, and Galacta turns his attention back to Meta Knight.

After a long pause, Meta Knight finally speaks, his voice low and measured. "I have been tasked with overseeing Kirby’s training. When I heard of his arrival, I felt it necessary to assess the situation firsthand. I did not expect, however, that the child would have a guardian accompanying him."

Galacta sputters, thankful that Kirby barely reacts to the word "guardian." Galacta is no guardian—he is simply a knight with a task, and he has every intention of completing it. His freedom is tied to this child, nothing more. If that weren’t the case, he wouldn’t care at all. "I’m not his guardian."

Meta Knight shifts his gaze to the sky, a hint of displeasure in his stance. It sends a spark of adrenaline through Galacta, akin to a flicker of satisfaction. Had that comment truly gotten under the knight’s skin? "Do you have a place to stay?"

Galacta scowls. "I’ll figure it out."

"The castle can host you for a while," Meta Knight continues, "but I fear the king may cause trouble for Kirby."

"Like I said, I’ll figure it out."

Meta Knight narrows his eyes beneath his mask. "Very well. Would it be agreeable for us to meet at Kabu’s sanctuary tomorrow? I would like to discuss the matter of the child’s training."

"Fine with me. What time?" Galacta replies curtly. He figures he could find a place to sleep somewhere near where they had first landed—not by the ocean, but perhaps near the hill.

"As soon as the sun rises would be preferable," Meta Knight replies. Without waiting for a response, he turns on his heel and strides back toward the fields where the sheep lay dead. It isn’t long before his figure disappears into the night, leaving a lingering chill that makes Galacta instinctively pull Kirby a little closer.

When he’s certain they’re alone, Galacta gently brushes the bangs from Kirby’s forehead. "Let’s get some sleep, hmm?"

There’s no complaint from the child, and Galacta takes it as a sign of agreement. Stifling a yawn, he heads in the opposite direction, away from the mysterious knight shrouded in darkness, and into the hills that welcome him in silence.

Chapter Text

The hill had seemed like an ideal place to sleep in theory, but with the morning sun rising, Galacta regrets his decision. An ache lingers in his back despite his attempts at stretching, and his ankle pops with every step.

Kirby stirs soon after, yawning loudly and sitting up slowly. He looks as if he’s just rolled around in the mud, which, given their circumstances, Galacta suspects is true. They had slept in the dirt, after all.

Throwing his hands into the air, Galacta finishes his morning stretch, ensuring his joints are loose enough to avoid immediate pain, and then scoops Kirby into his arms.

The walk down the hill and past the mayor’s house is quiet, but as they enter the village, the change in noise is striking. People move about, starting their morning chores and laundry. Some pass out papers, while others clean doorways and hang up signs, all preparing for a busy day.

Galacta heads toward what appears to be a store, marked by a simple curtain. The same woman who questioned him last night, the one with the decorative hood, is hanging up what looks like beads outside her shop.

She catches his eye before he speaks. "Oh, hello," she starts, somewhat surprised. Her voice takes on a lower, more casual tone. "Looking for a place to shop?"

"No," Galacta replies, though not without a touch of tact. "I'm looking for Kabu."

He had completely forgotten to ask where Kabu was last night. Not that he would have, considering Meta Knight had been the last person to speak with him, but it was still something he needed to know.

The woman in the decorative hood frowns quizzically. "Kabu? Is there trouble?"

"No," Galacta repeats, this time with less patience. "I have business with him."

"Hmm," she continues, as if disregarding his words. "Well, if there is trouble, I predict fortunes. I can offer you one for free, if you have the time."

Spinning on his heel, Galacta makes it halfway down the road before another Cappy, this one with worn-looking suspenders and hair slicked back with oil, points toward a road barely visible in the distance. "Don't mind Mabel. She's just tryin' to entice you. Anyway, follow that path, and you'll find Kabu."

Galacta doesn’t catch the man’s name, but the sign reading "Gus" above his shop leads him to believe he doesn’t need it. He nods his thanks, then starts down the road, ignoring the looks he receives in return.

The weather is brisk, with a warmth that clings to Galacta's back, and he fiddles with the edges of his armor, half-hoping to spot a clothing store. He sees none but does notice a restaurant of sorts, looking more vacant than full.

"You're the new visitor!" the person at the front door shouts, stumbling over himself to grip Galacta’s hand. He shakes it heartily, orange hair bobbing with the force. "It's nice to meet you! Welcome, welcome!"

Galacta relaxes his grip and pulls his hand to his chest. "Hi."

"The name’s Chef Kawasaki! But friends call me Kawasaki! I run the local restaurant in Cappy Town! Say, are you hungry? I’m running a breakfast special today! I promise it won’t poison you—not that it would normally!"

Galacta blinks slowly, his mind struggling to catch up. Before he can process the man’s words, he’s already being led into the restaurant.

The lights overhead flicker as Galacta steps inside. A gentle breeze sweeps through the space, brushing past him.

"Vacant" was an understatement—there’s literally no one else here except for him and Kirby, standing beneath the dim, artificial light.

Kawasaki guides them to a small booth tucked off to the side, placing disposable paper menus in front of them. Before Galacta can mention that he has no money, Kawasaki has already dashed off to the kitchen, probably to grab a notepad.

Sighing, Galacta slumps in his seat. He’s starting to hate it here already.

After paying for a mediocre meal with a coin he found wedged between the seats, Galacta walks down the dirt path, a now less-hungry child in his arms. The trees obscure them from any curious onlookers, though animals watch them closely, curious about what’s coming their way.

A roaring fire, seemingly fueled by magic, illuminates the stone idol ahead. Galacta finds a seat on a nearby rock, willing the pounding in his head to stop.

"YOU HAVE ARRIVED."

Galacta closes his eyes, only opening them to watch Kirby pluck a flower from the ground. "Clearly."

Galacta levels the sage with a glare. "Why do you keep spinning stories, no matter who it is? Everyone here thinks Kirby is some kind of legend."

The stone sage doesn’t respond immediately, and it’s only when Galacta hears the approach of footsteps that he understands why. He’ll have to confront Kabu later, when they have more privacy.

Turning his attention to Meta Knight, Galacta adjusts his collar. Kirby glances over at the two of them, then returns to picking flowers near Kabu’s entrance.

"Good morning," Meta Knight announces, halting a few feet away from Galacta.

Today, he's dressed even more regally, with metal-plated gloves and boots edged in steel. If Galacta didn’t know better, he’d think the knight was gearing up for a fight, but there’s something in his demeanor that suggests otherwise. Perhaps he’s just showing off after their standoff. That could be it, but Galacta refuses to be intimidated.

It might also be his usual attire, but Galacta chooses to ignore that possibility.

"So, when do you want him?" Galacta asks, cutting to the chase. He stretches his leg, biting back a wince when it doesn’t pop.

Meta Knight doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze shifting to Kirby. "…You mean for his training, I assume?"

Galacta remains silent, letting the knight figure it out. When Meta Knight finally catches on, Galacta crosses his arms, feigning interest.

"I would prefer Kirby to join me in the castle courtyard for a few days each week."

Galacta gives a slight nod, gesturing toward Kirby. "Every other day, starting today."

If Meta Knight is taken aback by the quick decision, he hides it well. Instead, he looks toward the worn path behind them, empty except for the watchful eyes of the forest creatures. "Shall we proceed, then?"

Galacta huffs, stretching his other leg. "I just said take him. You don’t need to ask for my permission."

There’s a pause before Meta Knight speaks again. "Will you not accompany him?"

Galacta abandons his attempt to stretch and stands, crossing his arms as he points at Kirby, more like directing an object than a child. "Are you going to kill him?"

Meta Knight’s hand tightens slightly, a gesture Galacta doesn’t miss. "No—"

"Then introduce yourself, take him to the courtyard, and start training. Do you really need my help with that?"

Meta Knight doesn’t answer, instead releasing a quiet, measured sigh before walking over to Kirby. The ensuing conversation is so awkwardly stilted that Galacta tunes it out entirely. How could a knight like this be responsible for Kirby’s training? Sure, Galacta has no idea how training works, having only ever been on the receiving end, but he’s kept the kid alive and fed until now, hasn’t he? That has to count for something.

Eventually, Kirby stands, dusting himself off. He hands the flower he picked to Galacta, then looks up at him, uncertain, as if seeking reassurance.

"Go with him," Galacta instructs, his tone softening, becoming less curt and more reassuring. "He’s going to train you. If you need anything, I—"

Galacta pauses, a frown forming as he realizes the problem. How would Kirby reach him if something went wrong? The child can’t fly, can’t fight. He could scream, but by then it might be too late.

Galacta reaches into his cloak, pulling out a small whistle. He hands it to Kirby. "Blow this if you need me. I’ll find you. Go ahead, give it a try."

Kirby takes the whistle and presses it to his lips. Slowly, he blows, but the sound is inaudible. To Galacta, though, it’s as loud as thunder. "You can’t hear it, but I can. If you need help, I’ll be there. Okay?"

Kirby nods and cautiously shuffles toward Meta Knight. The other knight doesn’t offer his hand, and Kirby doesn’t reach for it, instead keeping his hands to himself.

"I’ll bring him back by evening," Meta Knight says, stepping away from Galacta. He inclines his head toward Kabu, then addresses Kirby. "Come along."

Galacta keeps his expression neutral as the two head down the path. It’s not that he’s worried—he isn’t—but he doesn’t like Meta Knight, and part of him believes Kirby would do better in his care. But Nova had specified that Galacta wasn’t to train him, and that was that. Even if he wanted to, Galacta couldn’t change how things were meant to be.

"YOU ARE WORRIED."

"I am not," Galacta snaps, whirling around. He glares at Kabu from behind his mask.

"YOUR HEART SAYS OTHERWISE."

"My heart says you should shut up," Galacta grumbles, ignoring the way his chest tightens. He isn’t worried. It’s just pain because he’s in pain. Which, of course, isn’t true. He’s fine. Everything is fine.

Kabu doesn’t argue, nor does he offer reassurance. "I HAVE SOMETHING YOU WILL NEED."

The shift in topic—and the redirection from Galacta’s impending barrage of insults (because yes, he’s still mad about Kabu’s false narratives)—halts him. He waits for the entrance to the stone sage to open. When it does, he descends the stairs that appear, stopping before a stone mound with a Warp Star impression.

There, glowing softly, is a Warp Star. "Oh. Is that Kirby's?"

Kabu hums lowly. "YOU ARE HIS GUARDIAN. UNTIL HE IS OF AGE, IT SHALL REMAIN IN YOUR CARE."

Galacta almost wants to refuse, but he’s not going to argue with Kabu over terminology. He carefully snatches the Warp Star and tucks it into his cloak. There, he’ll keep it until it’s needed, where only he can summon it.

Emerging from Kabu, Galacta settles on the nearest log by the fire, ready to confront the stone sage for spreading stories. If the sage thought Galacta had forgotten, he was in for a rude awakening.

Sooner or later, Galacta is destined to have a run-in with the king. Everyone else seems to know this—except Galacta, who’s more than a little blindsided when, around lunchtime, the heavyset man suddenly drops into the seat beside him.

He’d been eating lunch in peace—a simple fish, cut and deboned—but whatever peace existed is shattered when the king snatches it with nimble fingers. "Hey, ya think ya can just loaf around without my say-so?"

Galacta watches as the fish he spent several long moments catching is tossed into the air and then smacks against the stony path. It lands with a thunk, then explodes from the force of the fall.

Galacta’s hand twitches for his lance.

"Hey, don’t gimme that look! Everybody knows better than to ignore the king! You said you was my vassal or somethin’, didn’t ya?"

Galacta inhales slowly. The king can’t see his face anyway. He doesn’t even know what expression Galacta is making.  

"What do you need me for?"

The king lets out a boisterous laugh, the sound echoing across the small space Galacta had carved out for himself by the village river.

"You're a knight, ain'tcha? Can't ya figure that out for yourself?"

If the royal was thinking of hiring Galacta, he had another thing coming. Galacta had devoted most of his life to serving a cult, dedicating every waking moment to defeating Void Termina. If this fool thought—

"I'll pay you more than anyone in the village."

—thought about not hiring Galacta, it would be a mistake. Really, Galacta had great skills. The king could definitely use them.

By late lunch, Galacta has a place to stay, a title that outranks Meta Knight, and a position that ensures he's fed every day.

Kirby doesn’t have any of that, so on the ride to the castle, Galacta strikes up a negotiation. "Do you have any free land?"

The king, who had driven to pick up Galacta and was now driving them back to the castle, peers over his shoulder. "Why ya ask? I wouldn’t know anyway. That’s the mayor’s thing."

Galacta watches as the village blurs past. People dart out of the way of the moving—what had the king called it, a tank?—scowling and grumbling in annoyance. Galacta leans back in his seat, letting the wind ruffle his hair.

"There's a space on the hill near an old oak tree. May I own some of it?"

The king scoffs as if the question itself is absurd. The castle comes into view, and the winding path leading up to it draws closer. "Sure. You fight off any guys I don’t like, and I’ll give ya whatever ya want. Long as you’re more competent than that other knight I got. Ain’t a high bar, ya know!"

Galacta’s hand twitches. "You mean Meta Knight?"

"Oh, yeah, that’s the guy’s name, ain’t it? He’s always messin’ around with my monstahs. If you can do better than him, I’ll give ya more than just land."

Galacta sinks into his seat, feeling more like a princess than a recently hired knight. "That sounds like something I can handle."

When the king reaches the drawbridge, the gates automatically lower for him. He drives his tank inside the castle and heads toward the back. Stone pillars dot the space, and large arching bricks make up most of the castle's structure. Grass covers the areas hidden from the road, and Galacta watches as Dedede comes to a stop near one of the many inner wards.

Dedede jumps from the tank, and Galacta follows suit, heading inside. He spares a glance at the courtyard, where he can just barely make out Kirby. The child appears to be swinging around a sword—or at least trying to. It’s almost endearing in a strange way.

As they walk, a guard suddenly rushes up to them, clad in blue and orange. An eyepatch covers his left eye, while his right arm bears heavy scars, his ring finger only a stump. "Sire! There's a—"

"Captain Doo, 'bout time ya showed up! Take this fella to his room," Dedede commands, waving a hand without much thought. His robe swirls behind him as he stomps past. "And make sure he gets the rules, got it?"

Captain Doo stutters, clearly caught off guard by the command. He spins around to look at the king, but Dedede doesn’t even glance back. He just keeps marching down the hall, indifferent and unconcerned.

Captain Doo sighs, long and hard. "I wish he'd at least listen to me first."

As it turns out, King Dedede hadn’t hired him for his status but rather for what he could bring to the table.

"Galacta! Check out this monstah! Ain't it cool?"

Galacta glances down at the octopus-like creature, uncertain of how to respond. It's a rather unimpressive monster, but small enough that Galacta simply nods, avoiding eye contact. "It's... something."

During his first encounter, it seems that Galacta had unintentionally given the king the impression that he was willing to listen to his endless ramblings, which wasn’t what he had intended. Still, it’s better than nothing, and at least this way, Galacta stays informed about the whereabouts of every monster. Honestly, it’s not a bad position to be in, even if it means putting up with the king most of the time.

He’s also not the only one stuck in this position.

"Escargoon! Grab the catalog! I wanna see some more monstahs!"

The same man Galacta had seen yesterday, lanky with sharp green hair, sighs as he adjusts his glasses. To Galacta, he seems much too old for this kind of work, though it could just be the wear of age on his face.

When the catalog is finally handed to the king, he flips it open and stands beside Galacta. "See any ya like? I might still have a few runnin' around, and if ya want, I can ask about 'em. I forget which ones I ordered sometimes."

Galacta suppresses a disbelieving scoff. Seriously? He forgot which monsters he ordered? That’s... a sign of low intellect, Galacta muses, though not without a hint of amusement.

As the king rambles on, Galacta listens absentmindedly, occasionally twirling the cuffs of his sleeves and offering a yes or no when required. It isn’t until Dedede asks about specific types of monsters that Galacta snaps to attention, providing what information he can. Overall, it’s not a terrible interaction, just mind-numbingly dull.

Still, better to stay on the king’s good side than end up on his bad side, right?

When the king eventually dismisses him, mumbling something about lunch, Galacta heads to the courtyard. It's nearly empty, save for the two knaves he noticed yesterday and Meta Knight, who seems to be demonstrating something to Kirby. This gives Galacta a chance to swing by the mayor’s office, which he takes without hesitation.

It turns out that the land Galacta is interested in isn’t officially owned, though someone does seem to live there. The mayor, without much finesse, gives him the name, and Galacta heads to the hill. At first, he doesn’t notice anyone, but when he leans against the old oak at the center of the hill, the resident finally comes into view.

A demi-human, as small as Kirby, with wings instead of arms, flaps out from the hollow of the oak. "Hey! This is my tree, pinky!"

Galacta barely reacts, only tilting his head slightly upward. The child—judging by size and appearance—scowls at him, one pointed wing flapping in his direction. "I said, this is my tree!"

"You own this tree?" Galacta repeats, glancing up and down at the old oak. He doesn’t see a sign, any indication of ownership, or even a name carved into the bark, which might have at least made him reconsider.  

"Yes! Now shoo! You've been hanging around here way too often! I need my sleep!"

Galacta doesn’t bother arguing. He lets the demi-human retreat into the tree, lets the sky darken as rain begins to fall, lets the clouds grumble with thunder, and watches as the once-sunny day turns into a dreary downpour. Then, with measured calm, he raises his leg, levels it with his chest, and with a slow exhale, slams his calf against the base of the tree.

The force shakes the tree so hard that it sends the child tumbling out into the rain.

Had he planned for it to rain? No. But was this satisfying enough to continue his day? Absolutely.

Ignoring the surprised squawking from his left, Galacta sets to work. He hauls lumber from the neighboring trees, gathers stones from the earth, and uses the wet soil to his advantage—along with a touch of magic—to begin constructing the foundation of Kirby’s new home.

He knows Kirby staying in the castle isn’t likely, considering what’s ahead for Dreamland. If Dedede starts ordering monsters, Kirby will stand against him. If Dedede aligns with Nightmare, Kirby will fight him. A clash is bound to happen sooner or later, and Galacta wants to hold it off as long as possible.

"Hey! What are you doing? You can't build a house here!" the demi-human argues, stamping his feet. They’re more taloned than toed, bird-like in their appearance.  

"Is this your land?" Galacta counters, wiping the rain from his mask. It’s starting to fog up, the visor turning white. He inhales deeply, trying to hold his breath to clear the mist, but it doesn’t work.

"No! But you’ll be my neighbor," the demi-human insists, waving his wings frantically, as if that alone could stop Galacta. Undeterred, Galacta secures another log into place and nails it to the next with a sharp piece of stone.

"Well, then what's your name, neighbor?" Galacta replies, continuing to hammer away. The sound of his work blends with the roar of the thunder in the background.

"Go away!"

Galacta picks up another log and sets it into place, then starts forming a rounded hood. His magic allows him to shape the wood without needing any cement. "Interesting name," he comments, continuing his work.

"No! My name’s Tokkori! And you need to kick rocks, buster!"

Galacta smiles beneath his mask. "Unless you can move your tree, it’s nice meeting you, Tokkori."

Tokkori’s scream is drowned out by the storm, and Galacta continues working until the rain fades and the sun begins to shine with a warm, pearly orange glow.

It was satisfying, wasn’t it? Making everyone else’s day just a little bit harder.

Chapter Text

When Meta Knight drops off Kirby, with all the grace of a newly divorced parent lacking any tact, Galacta manages to thank him without cringing. They part ways in silence, not exchanging a single word.

Their new neighbor, Tokkori, fills the silence with more noise than they could ever need. 

It might be a bit dramatic, but the constant back-and-forth is really making Galacta consider Kawasaki’s breakfast menu. He can’t help but wonder how bird might taste if cooked just right.

As if sensing his murderous thoughts, Kirby nudges his leg. Galacta pulls his attention away from the sand he’d been melting—glass was precariously hard to make, and the sea sand here was full of debris—and forces himself to focus on Kirby.

"Hmm?"

"Meta taught me," Kirby mumbles, opening a book. It’s a book on swords, though Galacta has no clue where he got it. He’d been holding it when Meta Knight dropped him off.

"Did he now?" Galacta asks, his voice softening. He ignores the persistent hammering of wings at the door and continues fixing up the place. "Tell me about it."

As Kirby recounts his day, describing how Meta Knight let him hold a sword only to quickly take it away after realizing how inexperienced Kirby was, Galacta starts setting up Kirby’s bed. He’ll stay here for the night, but after that, it’ll be up to Kirby to sleep alone. Galacta can’t stay here forever, especially given his position as Dedede’s knight. Apparently, they have a morning debrief around nine, though this depends entirely on the king’s mood.

Once he’s finished with the bed, Galacta stocks the fridge. He hasn’t been paid yet, but he managed to grab a few things from Kawasaki, who spotted him on his way to gather lumber. It’s not much—just some eggs and a boxed lunch—but it’s enough to feed Kirby. It’ll have to be...

...

...

"Gala?"

Galacta snaps back to focus, realizing he’s slumped over the newly formed kitchen counter. Shaking the exhaustion from his bones, he quickly straightens up. He hadn’t even noticed when he started feeling dizzy.

"Yes?"

"S’okay?"

Galacta nods, swallowing down the sick feeling rising in his throat. He’d done a lot today—maybe too much. "Mhm."

Kirby eyes him with more concern than a four-year-old should have, and Galacta scoops him up. "Did you have dinner yet?"

Kirby nuzzles into his chest. "Nhn."

"Well, I hope you don’t mind breakfast for dinner."

As night falls, the sky clears, and the banging stops altogether.

Tokkori tosses around some choice words that neither Kirby nor Galacta quite understand, but he eventually quiets down. With peace restored, Galacta makes sure Kirby’s house has the essentials: a sink, a fridge, a bathroom, a working tub, a water system, a bedroom, and a makeshift kitchen with a heating system that stems from a fireplace.

He’d done all that in a day, hadn’t he?

Galacta shakes the ache from his body and sets Kirby into bed once they’ve finished eating. They chat for a bit, mostly about Meta Knight, which Galacta hopes won’t become a recurring theme, and then he tucks the young star warrior in. Kirby falls asleep easily, and when dawn breaks, Galacta wakes him just before he has to leave.

Setting out breakfast feels like second nature, even on maybe three hours of sleep. It wasn’t by choice; Galacta had tried to sleep on the floor, but paranoia kept him up. The lingering unease of not being in space weighed heavily on him, and only sheer exhaustion managed to grant him a few hours of rest.

"Y’ leavin’?" Kirby asks after breakfast. He’s a fast eater—Galacta will give him that.

"Yes, but I’ll be back later. I hear the village children usually come to play around here by the time I leave. You’ll get to see Tiff and Tuff."

Galacta had overheard this in passing yesterday, and he figures it’s true because he can see Tiff and Tuff heading up the hill now. Whether they want to play or not, he has no idea, and he certainly isn’t sticking around to find out.

Bidding Kirby farewell with a napkin to the child’s cheek and a reminder about lunch in the fridge, Galacta steps out the door. Tokkori almost slams into him, but Galacta leaves the upset bird to the care of the Ebrum siblings.

He arrives at the castle just in time, lining up near Escargoon. He recognizes a few familiar faces, like Captain Doo and Meta Knight's two knaves, but doesn’t spot the king until long after the meeting is supposed to start.

When Dedede finally appears, he rushes into the throne room like a man on a mission, stumbling past arched pillars, the plain red carpet, and the odd monster-ordering device in the middle of the room. Despite Galacta’s questions about it, the king refuses to elaborate.

The castle needs to function, and with that function comes orders. Meta Knight and his crew are to patrol the halls, Captain Doo is to review cannon mechanisms, and Galacta, due to his newly arrived status, is assigned to help the king in the throne room. Escargoon lays out these orders as the king fiddles with a monster catalog, barely looking up to agree or disagree with his lanky servant.

When all is dismissed, Dedede pulls Galacta to the front of the room with Escargoon. It’s then that Galacta notices the unfortunate demise of the little squid in its tank.

"Someone here is killin’ my monstahs!" Dedede whispers loudly, as if his voice doesn’t carry across the hall.

Escargoon at least pretends to be shocked, but Galacta doesn’t bother. His mask hides his face anyway; they can’t see the way his eyes crinkle in amusement.

"It ain’t right. That little guy didn’t even get a chance to prove himself!" Dedede whines, to which Escargoon mutters, "Unless you count eating all the Mayor's sheep."

The monster catalog is then thrust into Galacta’s hands, and for a moment, he genuinely doesn’t know how to react. Even Escargoon looks a little uncertain, his brows furrowed with worry.

"Uh, sire?" Escargoon murmurs, leaving the question unfinished.

"It’s fine! Galacta, I want you to choose the next monster!"

A test of loyalty? In the form of choosing a monster? Galacta hesitates, staring at the catalog in confusion. Did the king regularly order monsters? Was this something that happened often? "Give me a second to look, then."

Though he’s stalling, he genuinely needs a moment to choose. The catalog offers quite a few options, and all the prices at the bottom are insanely high. He’s almost tempted to pick something dangerous—a fiery demon beast with slitted eyes and sharp fangs catches his eye—but then he remembers that Kirby will likely be the one fighting it and gives himself a quick reality check.

"Alright, I’ve got one."

Dedede swings around in his chair at Galacta’s words, and Escargoon closes the book. A control panel rises from the opposite armrest of Dedede’s chair, and the room begins to darken at the press of a button.

"Delivery system, activate!"

Metal screens rise from their places in the walls, mechanical contraptions drop from the ceiling, and a screen appears in the middle of the room, seemingly summoned by Dedede’s voice alone.

When the room is completely dark, with only the machine in the center providing light, the screen flickers to life. A man appears on it, his face oddly angular, his eyes hidden behind slanted shades. The aura emanating from him is unsettling—more one of fear and subservience than outright evil.

"It's a pleasure to see you," the man begins, his voice carrying an accent that Galacta can somewhat recognize. It’s an old accent, but it has that familiar twang common among the Cappies. "We’ve received your order for a demon beast and have charged you accordingly. Shall I send it now?"

"Obviously! Why else would I have called ya?" the king barks, leaning back in his seat with a scowl. The man on the screen doesn’t react, and the screen furthest from them lights up with readings that Galacta can’t make sense of.

Eventually, the machine in the center of the room crackles to life, sparking and sputtering as stray bolts of electricity scuttle across the floor. Escargoon sheepishly backs away, while Galacta subtly lifts his feet, just enough to avoid the errant shocks.

When the electricity fades and a blinding light fills the room, what’s left behind is...

A block.

That’s right. Galacta had chosen a block, hadn’t he? Blocky, was it?

Scurrying from his seat, Dedede leans over the edge of the transporter device, staring at the tiny block. Escargoon is quick to follow, and Galacta jumps to his feet as well, moving to inspect the cement block.

It looks plain enough, with simple eyes and a purple band around its center. It blinks up at Galacta, who tries to recall what he had ordered. It occurs to him that he doesn’t really know and continues to stare at it.

"What the hell is this?" Dedede sputters, blinking owlishly at the block.

"It’s a super-high-density demon beast!" the man behind the screen exclaims, unbothered and likely used to the king’s lackluster reactions. "Its name is Blocky!"

"And how is this supposed to terrorize the village and make me money?" Dedede barks, crossing his arms. Galacta can’t help but think that’s a rather ridiculous reason for ordering a monster.

"I’ll show you how it works," the man behind the screen soothes, reaching for something unseen. After a long moment, he unveils a remote and clicks the single button on it.

Electricity crackles from Blocky, and all three of them instinctively back away from the transporter device.

Slowly, the cement block begins to grow, expanding in mass and filling the center of the room. Galacta’s hand instinctively moves to his lance, his heart beating faster with each inch the beast gains. He doesn’t feel threatened—at least not yet—but the unpredictability of what might come next keeps him on edge.

Arms sprout from the beast, followed by wiry legs. It rises to its full height, and as it does, a fan emerges from the top of its head. Its build is reminiscent of a sumo wrestler, and Galacta can only stare in disbelief.

Dedede and Escargoon have entirely different reactions, yelling in shock. Dedede’s mouth opens impossibly wide, while Escargoon’s eyes grow as large as the beast itself.

Suddenly, as if unfazed by its new size, the beast leaps into the air. Both Dedede and Escargoon scream, scrambling to hide behind Galacta. He whips around in disbelief—really? They had made him order it, and now they were hiding behind him? But the beast doesn’t lunge at them; instead, it slams through the floor, crashing down deeper and sinking past the ground level to somewhere below.

He’s then yanked by his sleeve toward the throne chair, landing partially on top of Dedede. Escargoon grips the back of the chair as the throne room dips out of view, the chair sliding smoothly into the wall behind them, which opens just as they reach it.

They zoom past thirty-six floors in a blur. Galacta counts them as they whip by, utterly frozen in Dedede’s lap. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen... When they reach the thirty-sixth floor, an elevator-like door opens, and the throne chair comes to a sudden stop.

Blocky sits in the dungeons, unable to push any further into the earth. Dedede laughs, the sound echoing across the chamber

"I'll show those villagers who's king now!"

Galacta manages to convince the king not to destroy the house he’d just built for Kirby. It’s a hard-fought battle, but Galacta’s always been a good liar. He argues that with the dying sun, the villagers won’t expect a full frontal assault. The king doesn’t agree at first, but when Escargoon chimes in, it seals the deal.

This also gives him time to head home and prep Kirby for the coming battle.

When Galacta opens the door, he’s half-surprised to find Kirby sitting with Tokkori. The two of them stare at each other for a moment before the demi-human huffs, as if his presence in Kirby’s house shouldn’t be surprising.

Ignoring the situation, Galacta closes the door behind him. "Kirby, have you eaten?"

A muffled "mhm" comes from Kirby, while Tokkori eyes the kitchen suspiciously. If Galacta looks closely, he can spot something that resembles batter in a bowl.

"Good. You’ll need the energy. You’re going to fight your first demon today."

Disregarding the shocked look on Tokkori’s face—because, really, this wasn’t any of his business—Galacta kneels down to face Kirby. He gently brushes the bangs from the child's forehead and ruffles his hair. "You’ll be fighting something heavy. You’ll have to outsmart it."

"Heavy?" Kirby repeats, tilting his head.

"Mhm. You’ll have to trick it somehow. You’re not ready to take on something that big head-on, but you can outsmart it," Galacta continues. He figures Meta Knight should be the one saying this, but he’ll treat it as parental advice. Kirby would need it, as there was no one else to fight the beast, and if he didn’t, what was the point of coming to Dreamland?

Kirby nods as if fully understanding everything Galacta has said. Tokkori mutters something about demons and how the king is always up to something shady, but Galacta is already thinking ahead.

"Do you know how to swim?" Galacta asks, and Kirby frowns in response. Galacta mimics the motion of swimming, and Kirby shakes his head. Turning to Tokkori, Galacta says, "You can help him with this."

"Me!?" Tokkori sputters, eyes wide. He shakes his head, but Galacta pays him no mind.

"Kirby, remember our spaceship? The demon has to go there, into the ocean, just like it."

This seems to spark real recognition; Kirby’s eyes light up, and he forms his hands into the shape of something falling. Galacta fights the urge to smile. "Yes. Exactly."

"I'm not helping him!" Tokkori argues, but when he gets no response from Galacta, he stands and flaps his wings furiously. "Fine! I guess I'll help. But I expect more food next time!"

Galacta levels him with an unimpressed glare that goes unnoticed. "You ate the stuff I had in the fridge?"

"No! Me and Kirby made cookies!" Tokkori backtracks, casting a fleeting glance toward the kitchen. The scent of something burning finally reaches Galacta’s nose, and he frowns, staring at the two of them in confusion.

"I didn’t install an oven. How did you even manage to do that?"

Kirby grins, completely unbothered by the situation. "Fireplace!"

Galacta rolls the word around in his mind until it clicks. When it does, he rises to his feet and moves the conveniently placed logs in front of the fireplace. There, he finds a mess of batter, burnt silicone, and three of the seven eggs he had grabbed earlier, all discolored and beyond use.

By the time he turns around, Tokkori is already out the door.

When Blocky arrives, it appears at the village gates. The Cappies meet it with pitchforks and other sharp tools, but Blocky pays them no mind. It moves forward without a care, and the Cappies, realizing their weapons have no effect, scramble back, uncertain of what to do without the element of fear on their side.

Kirby and Tokkori swoop in just as the beast begins destroying the first home. Apparently, it had belonged to an older man, someone who had neglected to pay his taxes. Galacta keeps his expression perfectly composed even as Dedede and Escargoon burst into laughter, clearly enjoying the destruction.

When Dedede sees Kirby clinging to Tokkori's legs and flying through the air, Galacta resigns himself to never openly showing affection toward Kirby again. He can’t, not with the way the king's face twists into hate.

"The damn pink pest! I knew he was trouble! Tell him to scram!" Dedede growls from beside him, shaking with fury.

Galacta barely turns his head. "I can, but it won’t do any good. I only brought him here under instructions from a higher being. I have no connection to him beyond that."

Escargoon gives him a curious look, clearly skeptical, but Dedede doesn’t bother to question the excuse. He takes it at face value and runs with it. "Then go after him!"

Galacta sighs, gesturing toward the demon beast. "Don’t we already have that covered?"

"Hmm... I guess so. But Blocky still needs some backup! Come on, you two slackers! Let’s go root him on!" Dedede yells, rolling his tank past the town and heading toward the ocean.

They follow the demon beast from a distance, and when it loses sight of Kirby, Galacta pretends not to notice the flash of blue scurrying the child behind a rock, nor the outline of pink and green helping Kirby push a boulder precariously toward the cliff's edge.

When Blocky spots Tokkori, it lumbers after the demi-human, but in its haste, it misses the boulder soaring from above. The rock smashes onto the demon’s head, sending it tumbling forward. It rolls and crashes straight into the ocean.

Dedede, who had been mostly composed until now, erupts in anger. He slams his hands onto the tank and grabs the stick shift, yanking it into reverse. "Gah! I'll get that little menace the next time I see him! This ain't over!"

Escaping the scene, Galacta allows himself to be driven back to the castle with Escargoon, who remains silent but keeps a watchful eye on Galacta the entire way.

"If you want my silence, it’s going to cost you."

Galacta lingers near his door, rubbing his eyes. He hadn’t even made it into his room yet, hadn’t even seen it, and already he was being harassed. To say he wasn’t in the mood for secrecy right now would be an understatement, let alone a conversation.

Shutting the door to his castle chambers, Galacta lingers just outside its threshold. "I'm listening."

Escargoon slithers forward much like a snail, arms crossed and eyes fixed ahead. He makes a show of moving this way and that, daring Galacta to speak up. When his bait fails, he eventually drops the act. "I want help."

Galacta swallows down any concern—any memories—those words dare bring to his mind. Instead, he makes a show of puffing up his chest, squaring his shoulders to appear taller. He doesn’t really need to; he already towers over most of the castle’s inhabitants. "You want help?"

Repeating Escargoon's words seems to deflate any bravado he might have had. He sags like a popped balloon, eyeing Galacta tiredly. "Do you know anything about finance?"

The question throws Galacta for a loop, and for a moment, all he can do is stare at Escargoon. Eventually, though, he nods, tilting his head slightly. "I know how to count."

Escargoon takes his words and all but devours them. "That'll do. Help me with the castle's finances, and I'll cover for you occasionally. Deal?"

He’d be a fool not to take the deal, wouldn’t he? Galacta eyes the outstretched hand offered to him, then slowly takes it, gripping it firmly enough that Escargoon can feel his resolve. "Deal."

If finances are all Escargoon needs for a bit of secrecy, Galacta is more than willing to count money for a while.

Chapter Text

Galacta’s room is nearly empty when he enters: just a bed, a desk, a quill, and a mini-fridge. A bathroom is tucked into one corner, along with a small room barely big enough to serve as a closet.

Kicking off his boots, which definitely need cleaning, Galacta heads straight for the bathroom. He strips off his clothes, starts the water, and nearly collapses under the stream.

Alone and free of responsibility, Galacta allows himself a rare moment of peace. The water cascades over his aching joints, washing away the dirt and grime clinging to his skin. It feels good. He feels at ease. The warmth of the water and the soothing scent of the soap bring a fleeting sense of, dare he think it, comfort.

He doesn’t know how long he stays in the shower, but when he’s done, he finds a bathrobe neatly tucked into a corner. Slipping it on, he sets about washing his clothes, knowing full well he’ll need a tailor soon. He can’t keep wearing the same outfit indefinitely.

Still, he rinses the mud and dirt from his garments and hangs them to dry. It’ll have to do until he can locate the castle’s laundry room—if they even have one.

Tying his hair up messily, Galacta prepares for bed. Centuries ago, he might’ve taken off his mask and applied ointments. Now, he simply stares at the X-shaped slit in his mask and shrugs, deciding to skip the whole routine.  
It’s not like anything can undo what’s been done to him anyway.

His bedroom is small and modest. Galacta moves from the bathroom to the bed, pulling back the blankets. They smell fresh, and he savors the softness against his skin. Finally, he can sleep in a real bed. It’s been so long. He wonders if tonight will be the night he can actually relax when—

A sharp whistle cuts through his thoughts like a freight train.

Galacta leaps out of bed, wrapping his cape around himself. He clutches it tightly to his chest as his thoughts immediately turn to Kirby.

He doesn’t know why the child would need him or what danger might be lurking, but he doesn’t stop to think. His mind locks onto Kirby’s house, and in an instant, magic surges through him. Before he can second-guess himself, he materializes outside the child’s home, still wearing the shabby bathrobe he’d chosen to sleep in.

The disorienting sensation of teleporting hits him like stepping off a spinning wheel. His heart races, but Galacta quickly pushes open the door, lance at the ready. Instead of an enemy, he finds a child with outstretched arms, teary eyes fixed on the kitchen.

Galacta exhales heavily, lowering his lance with a sigh.

Somewhere, over the long course of his life, he thinks this must be what his friends meant when they spoke about the trials of parenthood.

Galacta gets Kirby back to bed around one in the morning, but he doesn’t fall asleep until sometime after four. When he finally wakes, it’s to his internal clock warning him of the approaching sunrise, and he greets it with a tired groan.

Stars above, he wishes the world would let him sleep, just once.

Dragging himself out of bed, Galacta heads to the bathroom. With a quick flick of magic, he dries his clothes—he doesn’t have the energy for anything else—and pulls his hair back. He must look as exhausted as he feels, because when he arrives at the morning briefing, Escargoon gives him a sympathetic glance.

"Rough night?" Escargoon asks softly, while Dedede rambles on in the background.

Galacta snorts. "Rough life."

Even so, his exhaustion doesn’t get him out of Escargoon’s deal, nor does it stop Meta Knight from approaching him after the meeting. The knight politely asks for permission to train Kirby again, and though Galacta is already annoyed, he thinks he says yes. It might’ve been a muttered “piss off,” but Meta Knight seems to take it as permission and leaves.

Eventually, Escargoon pulls Galacta along to his study.

He recalls, perhaps a month ago, wondering why Dreamland had no officially declared regal status. He’d read something about the deceased king and how the land lacked any formal recognition. Now, as he stares at the mess of papers before him, the reason becomes abundantly clear.

"Escargoon," Galacta starts slowly, feeling the tension in his hands creeping into his head. "There’s no way this kingdom is so far in debt that it’s technically bankrupt."

Escargoon, sitting to his right, passes even more papers toward him.

"No, no, I see it, Escargoon," Galacta groans, pushing the stack back. "I just don’t want to see it."

It’s all there—just how deep the kingdom has fallen into debt. But knowing doesn’t mean Galacta can fix it. He’s a knight, not an accountant. Sure, he understands numbers, but his skills have always been more mechanical—dealing with wires and bolts, not finances.

Sighing, Galacta gathers the stack of financial statements and sinks into his chair. For now, the best he can do is organize the chaos and figure out where to start.

By the time the castle clocks chime for lunch, Escargoon dismisses Galacta’s help without much fanfare. He doesn’t rescind their deal, nor does he offer thanks. He simply shuffles off to get lunch, leaving Galacta to watch him go, feeling drained.

As Galacta wanders through the castle halls, it’s no surprise when the woman from the mayor’s impromptu dinner—the same one who ushered Tiff and Tuff back inside—intercepts him with a startled, "Oh dear, your blouse is stained!"

Galacta barely reacts as she introduces herself as the minister’s wife, the one who should be managing the finances but instead focuses on political affairs—affairs, she admits, that are even more of a disaster than the finances.

He subtly flinches when she wets her thumb and dabs at a stain near his collar. "I'm Memu, but most call me Lady Like. I don’t think we’ve met formally."

"No, we haven’t," Galacta says, trying to ignore the soft touch on his neck.

"Hmm, I think I have a cleaner that’ll get this stain out. Do you have a moment?" she asks, her voice dropping slightly.

He’s so, oh so very tempted to deny her, but something in her face must remind him of someone, because he finds himself saying yes. She gently takes hold of his sleeve and leads him south, toward a group of rooms meant for castle inhabitants. From there, he catches a perfect view of the courtyard, where he thinks he sees the cabinet minister’s children talking with Meta Knight—though, in his sleep-deprived state, he wonders if it’s just his mind playing tricks on him.

Once inside, she motions for him to take off his shirt. Galacta removes his armor, and as he starts to unbutton his shirt, he suddenly realizes what’s happening. He stops in his tracks. "I’m not looking to court you."

Lady Like blinks, her hands freezing mid-reach. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment before she pulls her hands back. "You remind me so much of him, you know?"

Before Galacta can ask who, she continues, unfazed. "I asked Sir Meta Knight the same thing once, and oh, the fuss he made about adultery! You boys always look so tired, and I’m just trying to help. If you’re worried, my husband will be home soon. We can wait for him, though I’m not sure how well he’d handle seeing you shirtless. That might get a rise out of him."

He knows she’s joking, but her casual tone makes him briefly consider the situation. Still, fatigue overtakes him, and he shakes his head. Without a word, he finishes unbuttoning his shirt and hands it over, letting her take it to wash.

"Do you have clothes to change into?" she asks over her shoulder.

Galacta shakes his head, sinking into her couch. It smells like fried food and something distinctly homely. "No."

"I think I have something you can borrow," she offers.

Galacta hums in agreement, not bothering with words. His eyes drift shut without him realizing it until he feels a blanket tucked under his chin. Startled, he snaps awake to find Lady Like folding a pile of clothes into a bag.

“I can’t pay you,” Galacta mutters, his voice tight with unspoken gratitude.

“Can you cook?” she asks instead, continuing to fold a mix of adult and child-sized clothing.

“I can,” he replies, watching as she folds each item with care.

"Good. Then you can cook while I clean," she says lightly. "But first, take a nap, alright?" She offers him a pillow, and though Galacta doesn’t protest, he knows she isn’t asking. "I’ll wake you in an hour."

He thinks he agrees, but sleep overtakes him too fast to be sure.

When he wakes, there’s a bag of clothes near the door with his name on it, along with a plain set of cotton clothes laid out neatly. A small note rests on top, next to a bundle of cash.

He reaches for the note first, then the money, realizing it’s for him to use at the market. He stuffs the clothes into his cape, still feeling too out of place to change in such a space. Gathering the note and his armor, he heads out. Lady Like is nowhere to be seen, but he trusts she’s left him to handle things on his own.

When he enters the castle halls, they’re mostly empty. He glances down at the courtyard again but sees neither Kirby nor Meta Knight. It doesn’t bother him much—this castle has too many courtyards to keep track of anyway. Galacta moves on, but as he walks, snippets of conversation drift to his ears.

Upon reaching the village, a small group of Cappies talk just loudly enough for him to overhear

"Did Meta Knight really challenge Kirby to a duel?"

"Was it because of the king?"

"But isn’t Meta Knight with the king? Why would he challenge someone who’s helping us?"

"Meta Knight’s always been shady, if you ask me. This doesn’t sit right."

Galacta slows his pace but keeps walking, his mind turning over the conversation. Meta Knight had challenged Kirby to a duel, and Kirby had accepted.

If Galacta were wiser, or perhaps raised with a more caring parent, he might have felt the urge to intervene. He might have run to Kabu Valley and argued against the duel. But instead, he keeps walking, humming a soft tune under his breath to distract from the tightness building in his chest

He’s not worried. Meta Knight had already asked to train Kirby. He wouldn’t harm the child. Galacta may dislike the man, but they’re both knights and, more likely than not, both Star Warriors. Meta Knight wouldn’t deliberately hurt Kirby.

...even if Galacta had been tasked with Kirby’s well-being for this very reason.

Ignoring the flutter of anxiety in his chest, Galacta steps into the convenience store, marked simply "Convenience." He pushes through the creaky glass door, refusing to flinch as the bell above announces his presence.

"Welcome," says a man from the corner, holding a bottle of Windex. "You must be Galacta."

Galacta offers a curt nod as he pulls out the note Lady Like had given him.

Her handwriting is easy to follow. He picks up a slab of steak, some potatoes, fresh greens, and a few spices and butter, all while quietly humming, keeping his hands busy and his mind focused.

Once he has everything, Galacta heads to the checkout, where the man—Tuggle—rings him up. He hands over the money Lady Like gave him, and when Tuggle offers him the change, Galacta pockets it without a word.

"Have you heard about the duel?" Tuggle asks while writing up the receipt. "You came here with Kirby, right? So I’m guessing you two are close."

Galacta swallows the retort rising in his throat and nods. "I have."

"Hmm... isn’t Kirby just a kid? Seems odd for someone like Meta Knight to duel a child."

Galacta snatches the receipt as soon as it’s ready, his hands itching for an excuse to do anything but stand there. "They’re both Star Warriors. It’s standard practice."

"Really? Interesting," Tuggle muses, stroking his chin as if the thought genuinely intrigues him. Galacta doesn’t stick around, slipping out the door before the conversation can continue. As he reaches the exit, Tuggle calls after him, "Have a good day!"

Galacta keeps his head down as he walks through the village, catching more whispers about the duel. He doesn’t stop—if he does, he might be tempted to intervene—so he quickens his pace. When the castle comes into view, he breaks into a jog.

The drawbridge lowers, and Galacta hoists the grocery bags over his shoulder. He follows the familiar path toward the castle inhabitants' quarters, stopping a few halls from his room. He stands outside Lady Like’s chambers, hands sore from gripping the bags too tightly.

He knocks once and waits. When the door creaks open, Lady Like frowns, as if she already knows something’s amiss. "You didn’t change."

Galacta pauses, glancing down at his clothes. He’d been too preoccupied to notice.

"Go change and come back. I’ll get everything ready."

Nodding absentmindedly, Galacta heads to the bathroom. He doesn’t particularly want to change, but he doesn’t argue. He removes his armor, boots, and everything else weighing him down, slipping into the soft cotton sweater and slacks he’d packed in his cape. They fit well enough, just slightly oversized. He stashes his armor back into his cape, watching it disappear into the void, and adjusts his mask.

Oddly, he feels better without the armor.

Opening the bathroom door, Galacta walks into the kitchen. As promised, Lady Like has set up a cutting board and some knives for him. He glances over to see her fiddling with the vacuum in the living room.

"Any preference on how you’d like this cooked?" he asks softly, not wanting to disturb her.

"No, just make sure it’s cooked! Otherwise, Ebrum will have to make dinner tonight!" she replies with a laugh.

He doesn’t quite understand what’s so funny about that, but he goes about sautéing a pan with butter and filling a pot with water. Once the water boils, he lets his hands move automatically, mechanically cleaning and dicing the potatoes.

It’s a good distraction.

The Ebrum siblings bring home a visitor Galacta knows all too well, and just in time, as his hands precariously place the last of Lady Like’s cooked ingredients onto the dinner table.

"Gala!" Kirby shouts as he stumbles through the door, rushing past the siblings. Galacta reaches down to pat the child’s sweaty, slightly sunburnt forehead. Small hands immediately grab at Galacta’s own, and just this once, he allows the child to find comfort in the touch.

"Hello, Kirby. I heard you had a duel with Meta Knight today."

The Ebrum siblings peer over his shoulder, eyes wide with surprise as they take in the sight of the meal Galacta has prepared. They sit down, and Kirby slips into a chair closest to both the door and Galacta.

"Mhm! I used a swo-wd!" Kirby beams.

Galacta ruffles the child’s hair and discreetly replaces the steak knife near Kirby’s plate with a plastic one, teleporting the original back into the drawer with a subtle flick of his wrist. Neither sibling notices the magic, and Galacta’s voice remains perfectly composed. "Is that so? Sounds like you had quite the day."

Kirby nods enthusiastically, and the door opens a second time, revealing Ebrum, looking as worn out as Galacta had after sorting through finances. "Honey, I’m home!"

A muffled response comes from the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of dishes being cleaned. Galacta feels a twinge of irritation—he should be the one handling that, but Lady Like had practically pushed him out of the kitchen, wagging her finger at him like he was a misbehaving child.

The Ebrums take their seats, and Tuff pulls over an extra chair for Galacta. As the family settles in, completely at ease with his and Kirby’s presence, Galacta watches them. It’s a strange feeling to witness, but eventually, he pushes his reservations aside and slowly picks up his steak knife.

His visor, like most knights’, allows him to eat without issue. The lower part of his face, just below the bridge of his nose, remains uncovered. It’s designed for moments like these. He cuts into the steak, which he cooked medium, unsure of everyone’s preferences. When no complaints arise, he assumes he did well—not perfect, but good enough to spark conversation rather than criticism.

As the family eats, Galacta lets his gaze drift, only half-listening as Tiff and Tuff excitedly recount the day’s events. They mention how Kirby managed to land a hit on Meta Knight and how the king had stomped off, muttering about "monstahs" and "clobberin’." There had been no monsters, but Meta Knight had roughed Kirby up enough to look like one.

"And then," Tuff says, his eyes wide as though he’s reliving a grand adventure, "Kirby raised his hand and tried to absorb him! It was like a black hole opened in his palm! It was super cool!"

Galacta’s attention sharpens, his gaze locking onto the siblings. "He did what?"

"Mhm! Oh, you didn’t see? He absorbed Meta Knight’s sword and jumped into the air! It was like he became a whole new person, with crazy sword skills!"

Frowning, Galacta turns to look at Kirby, who picks at his steak with a plastic knife. Without thinking, he reaches over to help. "Is that true?"

Kirby looks up at him, clearly sensing the change in his tone. "Mhm."

Galacta had never heard of anything like that. Was it the awakening of a new ability? Is that why Meta Knight had taken on the task of training Kirby? Or was it magic? Had Kirby always been this gifted, and Galacta had simply overlooked it while preoccupied with his own worries?

Whatever the truth, the thought gnaws at him, and the longer it lingers, the more unease settles in his chest, draining the last of his appetite.

Chapter Text

Galacta arrives at Kirby’s house with new clothes in hand, a container of steak and potatoes, and a growing sense of unease. With each step toward the door, the unease in his chest grows heavier.

Maybe the worry is misplaced, but it clings to him anyway.

For a moment, he considers sending Kirby home and rushing off to ask Kabu for guidance, but he knows the stone sage wouldn’t offer much help. Kabu prefers people to solve their own problems, like most deities. He could try calling Nova, but she’d likely ignore him and then scold him for bothering her.

Sighing, Galacta opens the door to Kirby’s house, letting the child enter ahead of him. He stashes the food from Lady Like in the fridge, then notices Tokkori lounging on Kirby’s bed, eyes half-lidded in annoyance. “Can you close the door?”

Galacta gives him a blank stare before closing it with a flick of his wrist. He opens one of the few windows in the house, allowing a soft breeze to ease the tension in his head. “Why are you here?”

Tokkori shoots him a glare, as if the answer should be obvious. “We’re neighbors. I’m just being friendly.”

Ignoring the demi-human, Galacta turns back to unpacking. Once he’s arranged Kirby’s clothes in a small crate by the bed, he glances around, ensuring there’s nothing else to take care of, then gestures for Kirby to sit next to Tokkori.

“Did Meta Knight hurt you?” Galacta asks once Kirby is settled, legs tucked under the blankets. Tokkori glances over, suddenly interested in the question.

Kirby shakes his head, blowing a raspberry in response to the serious question.

Not fully convinced, Galacta checks Kirby over for any bumps or bruises. Finding none, he finally relaxes, sinking into the bed. His tension eases, though the guilt and doubt still cling to him.

Tokkori raises an eyebrow. “Are you his dad or something?”

Galacta doesn’t regret what happens next. When Tokkori ends up sprawled on the floor with a pillow over his head, he can’t help but think the demi-human looks a lot like a goose ready for roasting.

The next demon beast Dedede summons is Kracko, and it isn’t long before Meta Knight finds Galacta, asking where Kirby is. There’s no visible sign of stress, but the tight grip on his sword speaks volumes. Kracko is dangerous, and Meta Knight feels the need to intervene.

Galacta lingers near the courtyard, standing where Meta Knight first approached him. He says nothing, letting the other knight stew in his concern.

It’s only fair. Two days ago, Meta Knight challenged Kirby to a duel without reason. Even if it was by the king’s order, it was unnecessary.

“Kirby should be at his house,” Galacta finally says, stretching as he speaks. His body hums with tension, like a wire pulled too tight.

“Is he alone?” Meta Knight’s voice takes on an odd tone. Galacta can’t see his expression, but he’s always been good at reading body language. The clenching of Meta Knight’s fist, the stiffness of his shoulders—it’s clear he’s worried. But isn’t that Galacta’s job? Isn’t he the one responsible for Kirby?

As if on cue, thunder rumbles in the distance. “How would I know? Does it look like I’m there?”

Meta Knight doesn’t respond, but Galacta senses the shift in mood.

“…Kracko is dangerous. I will find him.”

Meta Knight steps past him. Though it doesn’t feel like an insult, Galacta crosses his arms and follows. “And what do you plan to do?”

It occurs to Galacta that he's only interacted with Meta Knight three times, and based on those brief encounters, he might be judging him a bit harshly. Then again, Galacta didn't come to Dreamland to make friends, and Meta Knight’s constant presence is just plain annoying. So, he doesn’t feel particularly guilty about it.

Meta Knight doesn’t slow his pace. “I shall offer assistance in a manner that doesn’t compromise my position as a knight, much like how you fraternize with the king during your leisure.”

Galacta clenches his teeth, eyes narrowing. Meta Knight’s words had been cleverly veiled, but the insult was clear. “Very funny.”

They walk in silence toward Kirby’s house. As they arrive, the scent of electricity hangs in the air. Tokkori peers up at them through the cracked door, blinking warily, as if expecting a lightning bolt to strike at any moment.

Galacta breaks the quiet. “Where’s Kirby?”

Tokkori grumbles but answers, keeping his head low. “He ran off. Lightning started coming out of nowhere, and it wouldn’t leave him alone.”

Meta Knight immediately turns on his heel, heading back down the hill. “We need to find him.”

It’s not hard to find Kirby, especially when Kirby finds them first. They barely make it down the hill when they spot him in a small alcove, the only place seemingly untouched by the wild lightning. He stands at the sight of them, but quickly ducks down again as thunder booms, covering his ears with his hands.

Meta Knight reaches him first, taking a seat nearby. Galacta moves closer, and Kirby, without hesitation, runs straight into his lap, pride be damned.

“So, what’s so special about this demon beast?” Galacta asks.

Meta Knight peers out into the dark sky, clouds swirling ominously. “Kracko is a demon composed entirely of lightning. It locks onto its target and strikes relentlessly until they fall.”

“Fwoght it?” Kirby mumbles from Galacta’s chest, his head half-buried against his shoulder. Though he’s not trembling, Galacta can feel the rapid flutter of his pulse beneath his skin.

Meta Knight leans back into the alcove, pulling his cloak tighter as if bracing against the chill. “The only way to defeat Kracko is through aerial combat. A copy ability that focuses on ranged attacks would be ideal.”

Ah, so that’s what Galacta missed—a copy ability. “Copy ability?”

Without a word, Meta Knight unsheathes his sword and strikes the alcove wall. The impact leaves a sizable dent, and sparks of electricity crackle through the stone. Seemingly satisfied, Meta Knight turns to Kirby. “Show him what we’ve learned.”

Kirby scrambles from Galacta’s lap and approaches the crackling energy. The electricity flickers dangerously close, but Kirby doesn’t flinch. He raises a hand, inhales slowly, and then, as if by instinct, draws the lightning into his body. His skin darkens, and a helmet-like hat forms atop his head, sharp and jagged like thorns. Sparks dance along its edges as Kirby turns, beaming at Galacta. “Meta taught me copy!”

So he did, Galacta thinks, crossing his arms. He watches as Kirby sends a spark out of the alcove, setting a patch of grass aflame before it fizzles out.

In truth, Galacta knows what he’s seeing is mimicry—Kirby is drawing on the magic around him, not creating it on his own.

Rummaging through his cape, Galacta pulls out a small bottle and rolls it toward Kirby. “Think you can make it explode?”

The excitement on Kirby’s face is infectious. The child raises his hands, plasma sparking at the tips of his fingers. The bottle trembles, but instead of shattering, it melts into a puddle of goo.

Galacta hides a smile behind his hand. “That’ll do.”

The three sit in silence for a moment, the sounds of distant thunder and flickering lightning filling the air. The storm rages above, but there’s little they can do from their shelter.

“There remains the issue of getting Kirby into the air,” Meta Knight says, sheathing his sword.

Galacta leans back against the rocky alcove. “That’s easy enough. You can fly him up there, can’t you?”

Meta Knight remains quiet, his silence lingering longer than necessary. Galacta replays his words in his mind but finds nothing offensive. “I’d take him myself, but I’m not supposed to be involved with his training.”

Meta Knight’s posture stiffens, and he turns his gaze toward the ground. “We’ll find another way.”

Galacta raises a brow, confused. “Why? It’d be easier if you flew him up.”

Meta Knight’s eyes remain distant. “There are other solutions.”

Galacta sits up, fixing Meta Knight with a hard stare. He doesn’t understand why the knight is so resistant, but this isn’t a fight worth having. Sighing, he leans back again, the uneasy feeling from before returning. It’s the same feeling he had the first time he encountered Meta Knight.

“Do you have his Warp Star?”

Galacta rummages through his cape again, pulling out the glowing star. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

“Good. That will suffice,” Meta Knight replies, moving toward the edge of the alcove. “He hasn’t ridden it before, has he?”

Galacta scoffs. “You tell me. You’re supposed to be his mentor.”

The air grows thick with tension as Meta Knight falls quiet, his gaze fixed on the distant clouds.

In the end, Kracko proves surprisingly easy to defeat in the air.

It makes sense in hindsight—the demon, though powerful, struggles to maneuver in the confined space of the clouds. As the storm dissipates, the sky clears, revealing a bright sun. Meta Knight stands beside Galacta, and together they watch as Dedede arrives on the scene in his tank, shaking his fist angrily at the now-vanished demon.

Meta Knight is the first to leave, heading back up the hill. Galacta follows without thinking, questions swirling in his mind. He doesn’t realize how far he’s gone until Meta Knight stops and turns.

“Do you need my assistance?” Meta Knight asks, his tone careful. Galacta frowns, unsure what compelled him to follow. Maybe it’s the lingering uncertainty, or maybe it’s just his general dislike for the knight.

“There’s something off about you,” Galacta states, crossing his arms, his tone sharp. “And whether you like it or not, I’m going to figure out what it is.”

Meta Knight glances at the trees, their green leaves just starting to show hints of autumn. “You may do as you wish.”

Galacta watches him walk away, feeling no need to follow. Something about Meta Knight doesn’t sit right with him, and he’s not about to ignore his instincts.

As he walks back to where Kirby and the other children play, he slips the Warp Star into his cape as it flutters toward him, eager to avoid any lurking dangers.

In that moment, Galacta decides it’s his mission to uncover whatever secrets Meta Knight is hiding. He doesn’t know what the other knight is keeping, but he knows it’s important. It has to be, with how secretive Meta Knight is.

Would messing with Meta Knight interfere with Kirby’s growth in Dreamland? Unlikely.

Would it give Galacta a new purpose? Without a doubt.

Chapter Text

Galacta doesn’t get the chance to track down Meta Knight, but after several days, he becomes so entangled in the king’s affairs that it no longer seems to matter.

“What? You’re not sending me any more demon beasts?”

Galacta and Escargoon exchange a quick look, both inching back to avoid King Dedede's rising fury. On one of the castle’s screens, the man Galacta has come to call the "Salesman" adjusts his glasses nervously, clearly unprepared for the tantrum brewing on the other side.

“According to my calculations,” the Salesman says, speaking slowly as if to a child, “your interest of 8.9 deden has doubled to 19 million deden.”

Escargoon wheezes, clutching the king’s chair. Galacta suppresses the urge to walk out of the room, reminding himself about the paycheck coming his way. As much as the kingdom's debt is technically his concern, it’s Dedede who’s drowning, not him. At least, not yet.

“You’re a damn crook!” the king bellows, shooting up from his chair. Escargoon shakes his head, clearly already worn out. 

It’s not even eight in the morning, and Galacta glances at the clock with a sigh. Already the king is causing a scene, which would be impressive if it weren’t for the fact that Galacta knows he’ll be pulled into whatever mess follows. He always is. Maybe it’s time to ask for some time off—but is that even an option?

“If you paid us on time, there wouldn’t be a problem, Your Highness,” the Salesman responds, sipping wine as though the rising debt means nothing to him.

“Paid you? You ought to be paying me! I’m the reason you even have a business!” the king snaps, crossing his arms.

Galacta watches the back-and-forth, though it’s mostly just the king doing the talking. The argument eventually fizzles out as it always does—the Salesman standing his ground while the king, without a single deden to his name, can’t do anything to pay off the debt. The Salesman ends the call, leaving Dedede to fume and turn his wrath on Galacta and Escargoon.

“Sire—” Escargoon starts, but the king waves him off.

“That con artist! I don’t need him! I don’t need anyone! Nature itself will be my ally, and I’ll use it to my ad-vant-age!” Dedede shouts, his laughter bouncing off the walls. Escargoon groans, rubbing his temples in frustration.

With nothing left to do, they wait for the morning meeting. At nine sharp, Escargoon goes over the plans with the staff before pulling Galacta into his study. They spend hours sifting through a pile of unpaid bills and crumbling receipts until Galacta feels dizzy from it all.

He's rather relieved that Kirby is training with Meta Knight today. He’s not sure he could handle any more responsibility than what’s already in front of him.

By the time Escargoon finally calls it a day, Galacta drags himself out of the study, feeling more dead than alive. He shuffles through the castle, his feet dragging across the floor. A few guards glance at him curiously as they pass, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. It’s only when the smell of food reaches him that he stops, peering down a narrow hallway.

At the end of the hall, he spots what seems to be a cafeteria. Guards line up for food, trays in hand, while others sit at tables chatting or cleaning their weapons. It’s a part of the castle Galacta hasn’t seen before, and he lingers for a moment, until a pair of familiar voices catches his attention, making him turn around.

“We have a cafeteria?” Galacta asks as Meta Knight approaches with Kirby, both carrying sandwiches.

Kirby waves energetically, while Meta Knight remains indifferent. “Yes. It would be illogical not to. Feeding every soldier through a servant would be impossible.”

Galacta rolls his eyes, though he knows the gesture is lost under his mask. “Would’ve been nice to know about it.”

Meta Knight simply shrugs and dismisses Kirby with a wave. The child quickly hugs Galacta before dashing off, eager to find others to play with. “You never asked,” Meta Knight replies.

The comment irritates Galacta, but before he can respond, a commotion erupts from the cafeteria. Guards scatter, and servants quickly duck out of the way as someone barrels into the kitchen. Even Meta Knight steps aside, disappearing from view.

“Oy! Someone get me some apples! I want all the apples you’ve got!”

The guard in charge of handing out food raises her head, her sand-colored eyes narrowing at the king. She sighs, adjusting the bandana on her head. She then gestures toward a basket at the far end of the cafeteria. “All the fruit we have is over there, Your Highness.”

Dedede rushes past, grabbing apples by the handful and stuffing them into his robe pockets. Galacta watches the spectacle in disbelief, until the sound of crinkling paper behind him draws his attention. Escargoon slides by, his expression tired and worn.

“And now he’s taking what little food we have left.”

Before the situation escalates further, Galacta slips away, making his way past the cafeteria and through the quieter parts of the castle. As he passes the Ebrums’ residence, he spots a flash of pink and green—Tiff and Tuff—chasing after Kirby down the hall. Galacta pauses, watching for a moment. He’s glad they’re all playing together, even if the siblings are a little older than Kirby.

Satisfied with his exploration for the day, Galacta returns to his room. It’s as empty as before, and with a sigh, he conjures a wad of paper and begins drafting a list.

He won’t get paid today, but by next week, he should have enough to furnish the place. He could always create things himself, but the thought of using magic to craft furniture feels exhausting. His energy is already drained, and the idea just isn’t appealing right now.

Once his list is complete, Galacta checks his fridge. Lady Like had stopped by earlier and offered him some lunch, but he had only taken half of what she was willing to give. Now, he makes sure he has enough food for the evening, so he won’t need to go out later.

With nothing else to do, Galacta hovers near his bed, unsure of how to spend the rest of his time. Exploring the castle doesn’t seem necessary, and though a nap sounds tempting, he knows sleep won’t come easily. Still, he hasn’t slept in this bed at all since arriving, and it feels like he should at least try.

He changes into the softest clothes he can find among the outfits Lady Like gifted him and crawls into bed. It takes a while, but eventually, exhaustion pulls him under, and he drifts off to sleep.

Galacta is startled awake by frantic knocking on his door. Three knocks, a pause, and then several more, all within the span of a minute. He sits up slowly, blinking away the grogginess.

“Galacta! Oh, Galacta sir!”

He recognizes the voice—it’s Ebrum, Lady Like’s husband. Galacta stumbles out of bed, padding down the hall to unlock and open the door.

Ebrum stands on the other side, holding a visibly distressed Lady Like in his arms.

“…Hello?”

“They’re gone!” Lady Like cries, latching onto Galacta’s shoulders. For someone so small, her grip is surprisingly strong. “Galacta, they’re gone!”

A sinking feeling settles in his stomach, and he speaks firmly, “What do you mean?”

Ebrum gently pulls his wife away, trying to calm her. “Dear, you’ll scare him. He’ll think they’re dead.”

Lady Like sobs louder at her husband’s words, burying her face in his chest. Galacta watches as Ebrum tries his best to console her.

“They’re missing, Sir,” Ebrum explains. “Tiff and Tuff. They should’ve been home hours ago.”

"Missing?" Galacta frowns, his mind already switching to problem-solving mode. Though his days of knighthood ended long ago with the defeat of Void Termina, the instincts never left him. His eyes narrow. "Why wasn’t I woken earlier?"

It’s more of a statement than a question, and Ebrum falters under the weight of it.

“Well, I—”

“Everyone’s looking for them, but no one’s seen them! Even the knights haven’t found them yet!” Lady Like chimes in, her voice cracking with panic. She shakes her husband and gestures to the darkening sky. “Kirby was with them! Is he home?”

Galacta blinks, still half-asleep despite the rush of adrenaline. He shakes his head. “He’s probably still with them. Meta Knight would’ve checked Kirby’s house.”

Lady Like shakes her head in disbelief, reaching out for Galacta again, but Ebrum gently pulls her back. Galacta understands her fear—if it were his child missing, he’d be just as anxious.

Brushing past them, Galacta heads toward the one place that might hold answers. He throws a curt wave over his shoulder. “I’ll find them, if that idiot knight hasn’t already.”

Galacta reaches Escargoon’s study in half the time it normally takes, banging on the door urgently. When Escargoon opens it, his face is lined with suspicion.

“Galacta.”

“Escargoon.”

With a sigh, Escargoon rubs his temples, as if anticipating this confrontation. “No, they’re not hurt.”

Relief washes over Galacta, though he tells himself it’s not just because of Escargoon’s words.

“They’re in Whispy Woods,” Escargoon explains. “Being used as bait to distract the deity there. At worst, they’ll miss dinner and spend the night in the woods.”

Galacta nearly thanks him but stops himself. “Can they not leave the woods?”

Escargoon shrugs. “Probably not. The forest is impossible to navigate at night.”

Galacta nods, lowering his head slightly in a rare show of respect. "I’m going to find them."

Escargoon huffs, as if he expected nothing less. “I wish you the best,” he says flatly, closing the door without another word.

As the door shuts, Galacta feels an itch to grab his lance, but he resists. Instead, he returns to his room, pulls on an overshirt, and heads out of the castle.

The night sky is clear, stars shining brightly against the backdrop of the moon. It’s almost peaceful as Galacta makes his way to the village, keeping his head down to avoid drawing attention.

The Cappies are up, talking quietly and milling about. Some seem to be searching, while others glance warily at the woods, as though expecting something to leap out at any moment. Galacta notices the lack of urgency among them. It’s clear that most rely on the castle to handle their problems. It doesn’t surprise him, but it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. It only makes him less inclined to engage with them.

As he walks, he catches sight of a sabaton disappearing behind an alleyway and quickly follows the trail it left behind. The path leads him down a dark, cobblestone street, all the way to the village’s edge, where trees scatter across grassy hills and small animals scuttle through the underbrush.

Ahead, Sword and Blade stand behind Meta Knight, speaking in hushed tones. They stare at the dense woods before them, clearly suspicious but unwilling to venture in.

Galacta, ever impatient, strides past them without hesitation.

“Move,” he snaps, barreling through the both of them. “If you’re not going to search, I will.”

Sword and Blade immediately snap to attention, Sword cursing under his breath, but Meta Knight remains calm. His arms are crossed behind his back, his eyes fixed on the woods.

"You will get lost," Meta Knight warns.

"I won’t," Galacta retorts, ignoring Sword's muttered insults. "Because I’m not an idiot."

Meta Knight exhales as though in resignation, just as Sword’s hand instinctively reaches for his weapon. Blade mutters something too low for Galacta to hear, and it’s enough to ease the tension, as Sword relaxes and lets his arm drop.

"Stay here, Sword, Blade. Keep the villagers from entering the forest. I will return shortly. If I do not, inform Captain Doo of my absence," Meta Knight orders calmly. The two knaves salute, but Galacta is already moving forward, aware that Meta Knight is now following in stride, his boots echoing softly behind.

They walk in silence through the thick brush of the forest, the branches reaching out like claws. Galacta pushes them aside, ducking as needed, while Meta Knight walks straight through, unaffected.

After several minutes, Galacta finally speaks. "Why are you following me?"

Meta Knight hesitates, as though carefully choosing his words. "It is my duty to ensure the safety of all who reside in the castle."

Duty. Galacta almost scoffs at the word but keeps his focus on navigating through the forest. The unkempt trees reach out with sharp branches, and Galacta bats them away with his palm, ducking under a few. Meta Knight, on the other hand, walks straight through them.

“So you’re babysitting me?” Galacta mutters, barely avoiding a steep drop in the ground.

“If that’s how you want to phrase it,” Meta Knight replies, his voice as calm as ever.

Galacta bristles, walking in silence with his arms crossed. He can’t explain the irritation he feels whenever Meta Knight speaks. Something about him always rubs Galacta the wrong way, as if the knight was specifically created just to aggravate him.

"I don’t like you," Galacta announces to no one in particular. The trees offer no opinion on his statement.

Meta Knight hums in acknowledgment, unsurprised by the blunt declaration. He says nothing more, and Galacta doesn’t feel the need to explain himself. He simply doesn’t like Meta Knight. He can tolerate his presence, but that’s the most he’s willing to offer.

As they press on, the trees begin to thin, and they come across the remnants of a campfire. Tire tracks mark the ground, leading up to the fallen form of a tree, its branches strewn with apples. The lack of energy in the air suggests that Dedede had indeed found his target, and the deity now lay defeated.

"It appears we’re too late," Meta Knight murmurs, his gaze lifting toward the night sky.

Galacta exhales, rolling his shoulders. He can almost picture Dedede orchestrating this mess with nothing but apples and a few clumsy plans. The children are likely already safe by now, back at the castle while he and Meta Knight wasted time searching.

Turning on his heel, Galacta retraces his steps—or tries to, until he realizes the path he took is no longer there.

"...The path is gone."

Meta Knight hums thoughtfully, kneeling down to sift sand through his fingertips. Galacta watches him, unimpressed. The knight could have sensed the area without getting his cloak dirty.

"It has merely shifted," Meta Knight says, standing with a click of his boots. "The path now lies in the opposite direction."

Galacta glances around, curious how Meta Knight knows this, but ultimately chalks it up to magic. He doubts Meta Knight possesses much magical power, yet there’s always been something about him that suggests otherwise. With a curt nod, Galacta falls back into step beside him.

"The deity is dead, so why is the forest still purposefully confusing visitors?" Galacta asks as they continue through the woods, stepping over the remnants of felled trees.

Meta Knight wraps his cape tighter around himself, glancing briefly at Galacta, as though weighing how much to reveal. Galacta rubs at his temple, a dull headache pulsing behind his eyes. He hates the other knight’s silence.

"It is likely lingering magic," Meta Knight finally replies, his words clipped. As he speaks, a branch slaps against his ankle, cutting him off for a moment.

Galacta smirks, satisfied by the minor inconvenience. "I didn’t think Dreamland had deities that powerful."

"Dreamland harbors many beings you have yet to encounter," Meta Knight replies, stepping gracefully around a sinkhole. "That includes what you call deities."

Galacta raises an eyebrow. "You don’t call them deities?"

"I do not use the term deity," Meta Knight replies, his voice low. "For anything that can die is not truly divine."

Galacta isn’t sure how to respond. He supposes Meta Knight has a point—everything does end eventually—but deities are typically reborn after death, which would imply they don’t truly die. By that logic, Galacta himself could even be considered a deity, in some technical sense.

Rather than voice his thoughts, he kicks a stray rock across the forest floor. "I think your head’s messed up."

Meta Knight doesn’t respond, but Galacta catches the slight shake of his head as they continue forward. 

"I know my views are outdated in the eyes of many Star Warriors," Meta Knight finally admits.

"Many?" Galacta scoffs. "I think you’re the only one who thinks like that."

Eventually, the forest clears, and the path they’d originally followed comes back into view. Galacta steps off to the side, relieved to be out of the trees and away from the branches that had scratched him up.

"It’s safe to assume the children are back at the castle," Meta Knight says, brushing off a stick that had lodged itself in his collar.

Galacta grumbles, already thinking of a hot shower. He’s gone through two sets of clothes today, and it’s barely nightfall. "So I’m free to leave?"

Meta Knight’s eyes narrow slightly. "You’ve been free to leave whenever you chose."

"Asshole," Galacta mutters, frowning behind his mask. Without another word, he heads toward the hills, not even bothering with a goodbye.

Despite the entire ordeal having been pointless, at least the children were safe. That was enough to get Galacta back into bed for the night, even if Dedede’s plans were still a mystery.

Chapter Text

Galacta hadn’t been sure what Dedede was scheming at first. The king had been stomping around the castle for days, muttering under his breath, radiating the kind of energy that usually signaled trouble. But after watching him grumble and fume for long enough, Galacta finally pieces it together.

Dedede, in his latest stroke of brilliance, had decided the castle needed a golf course. His plan? Chop down Whispy Woods for lumber.

Naturally, Kirby caught wind of it and shut it down before any trees were touched, leaving Dedede livid. Since then, he’s been storming through the halls, brooding over his failure like the whole world had conspired against him.

Galacta sighs, twirling his lance absently as he stands in the throne room, watching the king pace back and forth like a caged animal. Dedede clearly isn’t ready to let go of his frustration, and Galacta knows all too well that the king won’t calm down until he finds something else to obsess over.

With nothing pressing before his session in Escargoon’s study, Galacta resigns himself to keeping an eye on Dedede. It’s better to see what ridiculous idea he comes up with next than get dragged into it later.

The heavy thud of Dedede’s footsteps fills the empty room, echoing off the walls. Then, without warning, he stops dead in his tracks. His eyes brighten, and a slow, sinister grin spreads across his face. It’s the look of a man who’s just hatched another disastrous plan.

“I’ve got it! Channel DDD! That’s what I’ll do!”

Galacta pauses, his lance stopping mid-twirl as he raises an eyebrow. “Come again?”

Dedede spins around, practically vibrating with excitement. “Channel DDD! It’s going to be the biggest hit in Dream Land!”

Galacta stares, unimpressed. “And what exactly is this Channel Dedede going to be about?”

“Me, of course!” Dedede spreads his arms dramatically, his grin widening. “We’ll broadcast it to everyone in Cappy Town!”

Galacta gives a slow, deliberate blink, his skepticism clear. “Right. And this has nothing to do with your golf course plan falling apart?”

For a brief second, Dedede’s face falters, but he quickly brushes it off with a dismissive wave. “That’s old news! This new plan’s going to be huge!”

Galacta sighs, leaning on his lance. “I’m sure it will be,” he mutters, already bracing himself for whatever chaos is bound to follow.

“Television!” Dedede enunciates, rushing up to Galacta with wide, eager eyes. “I’ll give 'em all television!”

Galacta remains unfazed. Despite being sealed away for a long time, he’s not oblivious to modern technology. In fact, most of what Dedede is so excited about has been around since before Galacta's absence. If anything, Galacta thinks Dream Land’s technology has regressed over the years, likely because of NME’s stranglehold on the market.

Was that what Nightmare’s company was called? NME? He’s heard Dedede mention it more than once.

At that moment, Escargoon enters the room, notepad in hand, as if he anticipated the king’s shift in mood. He immediately starts listing various satellites that could be used to launch a television show. Galacta suspects he’s been lurking nearby, waiting for the perfect moment to chime in.

Galacta stands off to the side, half-listening as they discuss the endless possibilities of television broadcasts. Soon enough, Escargoon summons Captain Doo, who stumbles into the room with a weary sigh, likely bracing for the day’s impending nonsense.

“Captain Doo! I want every Cappie to have a television in their room before noon!” Dedede barks.

The Captain nods without a word and quickly heads to the back of the throne room, gathering guards to figure out how they’re going to find that many televisions, let alone distribute them all on such short notice.

Galacta watches for a moment, then drifts away, not particularly interested in being broadcast to the world.

Later, an announcement about the arrival of the televisions airs, and Galacta finds himself sitting through it in his chambers, idly watching Dedede ramble on about nothing of interest.

It’s low-quality and obvious propaganda, but it passes the time, and before Galacta realizes it, most of the day has slipped by. As the sun sets, Escargoon drops by with a stack of papers.

“I can’t get to these today, but they still need to be reviewed,” Escargoon says, a microphone still clipped to his head. Galacta glowers behind his mask.

“Too busy playing announcer?” he grumbles.

Escargoon twirls his mustache, his tone equally sharp. “Do you want to get paid or not?”

Without a word, Galacta takes the papers and closes the door. He lays them out on the floor, methodically sifting through each one, letting the hours pass unnoticed.

It’s not until long into the night that he realizes the broadcast was yet another attempt to smear Kirby.

The following morning, Dedede insists on dragging Galacta and Escargoon out for bird watching.

He’s never been one for sitting still, but Galacta can’t help but admire the way the birds flutter and soar through the sky, free from any worries. It makes his own wings ache with the desire to stretch out and fly, though he’d never reveal them in front of the king.

It’s then that the king decides to shout, "I can see everything from here!" and scare off every bird within a mile radius.

The king yanks out his binoculars, which look suspiciously like NME technology, while Escargoon stumbles up the hill, nearly toppling over the cliff if not for Galacta’s outstretched lance.

"Your Majesty, what in the world are we doing here? We've got actual things to do today—bird watching isn't one of them!" Escargoon protests, fanning his face with one hand. Galacta makes sure he's a safe distance from the cliff’s edge before quietly sheathing his lance.

Honestly, Galacta doesn’t mind it. He’d rather take birdwatching over impromptu television sets or golf courses that end with him on mile-long hikes just to find missing children.

"A copper pheasant!" the king shouts, ignoring his second-in-command’s pleas. He raises his gloved hand to point at something only he can see, deep in the forest. "A shrike! A toucan! A scarlet macaw!"

Galacta blinks, seeing nothing but trees in the distance. He could easily enhance his vision with magic if he wanted to, but there’s no point. He’s already familiar with most of these birds, especially since his own wings resemble those of the Tytonidae family.

As Escargoon opens his mouth to complain, likely about the king’s oddly specific knowledge of birds, the forest suddenly rumbles. It’s a low, deep sound, like the stirring of many animals awakening at once.

Nearly all the birds take to the air, startled into flight by some unseen force.

A colossal surge of energy floods the area, so powerful that Galacta instinctively unsheathes his lance and drives it into the earth. With a hint of reluctance, he grabs Dedede and Escargoon just as a fierce wind sweeps through, shaking the entire forest. Trees groan and creak under the strain, with some even torn from the ground. 

"What's happening!?" Dedede shouts over the wind, hands moving to cover his ears. 

Galacta feels the urge to respond but focuses instead on keeping them all grounded. When the wind finally dies down, he grabs Dedede by the scruff and pulls him to his feet. "A deity," he says simply.

"Are you sure that was a deity?" Escargoon asks, adjusting his glasses. He gives Galacta a quick, sharp nod—the closest thing to a thank you Galacta will ever get.

"It must have been Dyna Blade!" Dedede declares, completely ignoring Escargoon’s question. His robe flutters in the lingering breeze, much like the scattered leaves around them, disoriented and adrift without a tree to hold onto.

Dyna Blade? Galacta’s heard that name before. Long ago, perhaps when he was younger, when deities were more a figment of imagination than something real and tangible. He crosses his arms and stares out into the sky, trying to recall. As usual, it only brings up memories he’d rather forget and a stress headache that pounds against his temples.

Escargoon brushes himself off with a frown. "Well, whatever it was, it almost took me out!"

Dedede doesn’t pause to chat about what just happened. He spins on his heel and rushes past them, muttering about a new idea. Slowly, he disappears down the hill, and Galacta releases a weary sigh.

By the time Galacta returns from the hill, the village is in complete disarray. The children murmur about a tornado, but Galacta knows better. No tornado could have caused such a powerful disturbance. Clearly, a deity had made its presence known, and everyone in Dreamland had felt its impact

As Galacta is about to leave the village, an older man catches up to him, clutching a book. He hurries over, clearly urgent, and Galacta, in a rare moment of patience, waits for him to arrive.

"Do you need something from me?" Galacta asks.

"You’re Galacta Knight, correct?" the man asks, doubling over to catch his breath. He has a wiry build, a large bushy mustache, and a comically oversized bowtie. Tufts of gray hair sprout haphazardly from his head.

"Unfortunately," Galacta replies, crossing his arms.

"Then you must know about deities, right?" the man continues, brushing off the soot from his frantic dash to catch Galacta. His hands, though pale, show the wear of years and numerous blemishes.

Galacta frowns behind his mask but neither confirms nor denies the man’s question. He’s unsure why the man is asking or how he knows this, but it’s likely due to Dedede’s loud mouth.

"Who’s asking?" Galacta prompts.

The man quickly adjusts his bowtie. "Curio, and is this phenomenon due to the deity Dyna Blade?" He opens a well-worn book, its spine flaking but its pages clear. He flips through it until he finds an illustration of a large, bird-like beast towering over a small, almost pitiful Cappy, emphasizing the size difference.

Galacta studies the illustration before shrugging. "Yeah, probably."

Curio snaps his book shut and nods vigorously, satisfied with the confirmation. He rushes back to the other Cappies, including the Ebrum siblings, who watch Galacta with curiosity. They listen intently as Curio begins explaining who Dyna Blade is.

Galacta seizes the opportunity to slip away, drawing no more attention than necessary.

Dedede drags Galacta along to catch Kirby just around lunchtime. They follow the child to the far east of the village, where there are no trees, and the area is dense with rock formations shaped by the sea. They wait until the villagers send Kirby on his way, leaving him alone, then strike, luring him with food into a conveniently placed trap.

Galacta stays silent through it all, only reacting when Dedede and Escargoon burst out laughing in victory.

"What’s the point of this?" Galacta asks as Kirby paws at the circular trap connected to Dedede’s tank. It’s more like a cage meant for an animal, one that’s clearly seen use a few times before.

Dedede throws the tank into reverse and floors it, barreling over broken rock and aged land formations, all tinged with blue. “We’re inviting Kirby to dinner!” he jeers as they climb toward a peak that looks more like a sloping hill than a cliff.

When they reach the top, Dedede yanks Kirby from the cage with a meaty hand, shaking the child like a rag doll before setting him on the ground. Galacta follows behind with Escargoon, who seems unfazed by the entire spectacle. Dedede must have briefed him ahead of time, unlike Galacta, who tries to keep his composure despite his confusion.

If he’s being honest, he doesn’t understand the point of any of this. He could rationalize the golf course scheme and the television stunt, but dragging Kirby up a cliff? It makes no sense.

They brave the slope until they reach a flat piece of land, high above the earth.

Escargoon scrambles up first, and Dedede, coming in last, drags himself over the edge and onto the flat ground, breathing hard. Galacta swings easily over the ledge while Kirby jumps up effortlessly, landing beside him.

"I...need...to exercise...more," Dedede wheezes, prompting the group to give him a few moments to catch his breath. Galacta glances at the king, silently assessing whether his bulk is mostly body fat or simply poor conditioning.

Once the king regains his breath, the four of them move to the crest of the hill, where an egg sits, shielded by bits of hay and tufts of trash. Galacta watches as Escargoon rubs his hands together, snickering quietly.

"Take a look!" the king shouts, pointing at the conspicuous egg before them. It's oversized, likely belonging to the deity. He vaguely recalls Curio mentioning something about Dyna Blade awakening to lay eggs, but Galacta isn’t certain.

"You like eggs, don'tcha, Kirby?" the king continues, kneeling down to Kirby’s level. He hands the child something from his robe, which Galacta quickly identifies. It’s a box of matches, perfectly sealed and unused. 

The urge to speak wars with his instinct to stay silent. He doesn’t believe a four-year-old should be handling matches, but he knows better than to interrupt. The king is the main problem in Dreamland. To fix this, he needs to align himself with the king.

Dedede opens the box of matches and strikes one alight. Kirby stares, unblinking, as the tip slowly ignites. "Here! Light it up, Kirby, and have yourself a grand meal!"

The child glances at Galacta for guidance, and he subtly shakes his head. It's enough for Kirby to reach out, taking the match to appease the king, if only by accepting it.

“Go ahead, eat all you want,” Escargoon encourages, oddly supportive of the disaster waiting to happen. Galacta hadn’t pegged him as someone who’d condone such recklessness.

The two wait in silence, grinning, expecting Kirby to throw the match. When he doesn’t, Dedede drops the box of matches and turns his gaze to Galacta.

Sighing, Galacta steps forward to pick up the matches. "He may just be feeling shy, Your Highness." With the box in hand, he carefully douses the match in Kirby’s hand, noticing it had burned too close to the wick for his liking, and then lights another one. 

Gently, he opens Kirby’s hand, placing the fresh match in his palm. “Hold it steady. Only throw it if you really want to,” he says softly.

"We'll leave you to eat," the king finally says, likely growing bored of waiting. He waves a hand over his shoulder, and reluctantly, Galacta stands. He eyes the match burning in Kirby's hand but does nothing besides watch it burn.

He doesn't like the strange feeling building in his chest as he walks away, but it was out of his hands now. The decision lay with Kirby. Galacta had done all he could, and if the child decided to throw the match, then he would have to face the consequences.

In a situation like this, what else could he have done?

By midday that evening, Galacta hears about Kirby’s decision.

Apparently, Kirby had tried to eat the egg, but it hatched too quickly for him to finish cooking it. The news leaves Galacta with mixed feelings, but he can’t fault the kid. It was a massive egg, after all. It’s no surprise Kirby would try something like that.

In the end, Dyna Blade found her chick, and looking back, Galacta figures it all worked out. He could have given better advice, but at this point, it doesn’t seem to matter. Kirby will have to make his own choices from here on out, and if that leads to a few battles, it’ll only make him stronger.

Besides, Dedede isn’t going to stop causing chaos anytime soon. If anything, it might inadvertently help Kirby toughen up in the process.

Still, he wonders if this will become a daily routine—Dedede summoning monsters, and Kirby rushing off to fight them. Maybe it’s all part of a bigger plan, preparing Kirby for the inevitable showdown with NME.

A knock at his chamber door interrupts his thoughts, and Galacta rises from his bed. Pesky, yet all too familiar, black spots cloud his vision for a moment, but he pushes through them with ease.

He makes his way to the door, unlocking it and pulling it open. He wasn’t expecting any visitors tonight, but given recent events, he’s not too surprised.

Galacta blinks down at the small girl standing in front of him, his expression hidden behind his mask, though his curiosity is clear.

“What do you want?” Galacta asks, his voice flat.

“I need to speak with you,” Tiff says firmly. She’s still covered in soot, likely from cleaning up the aftermath of Dyna Blade’s chaos, and probably from being around Kirby all day.

“Speak with me?” Galacta echoes, closing the door behind him. He doesn’t know what she wants, but whatever it is, they won’t be discussing it in his room.

She nods, hands on her hips. “Yes, and I’d like to do it now.”

Galacta shrugs, indifferent, and follows her down the hall, past the rooms where the castle’s residents rest after the day’s chaos.

When she finally stops, Galacta halts as well, his padded boots barely making a sound on the stone floor.

"Whose side are you on?"

Chapter Text

Out of all the questions the cabinet minister’s daughter could have asked, Galacta hadn’t expected one about his allegiance.

"What?"

Tiff crosses her arms, moonlight spilling onto her face like a spotlight. Her green eyes remain sharp and pointed, her bottom lip caught between gnawing teeth. It’s as if she’s restraining herself from pouncing on him like a cornered cat.

"Ever since you arrived, all you’ve done is cozy up to the king," she accuses, crossing her arms tighter. Her voice is low, but Galacta treads carefully, matching her tone with equal tact.

"Is that such a bad thing?"

"It is when all he does is terrorize the town and Kirby," she snaps back, her arms moving to rest on her hips. Galacta can tell she’s restless, energy coursing through her with no outlet. He watches as she shifts from one stance to another, hands on hips, arms crossed, pacing up and down the hall.

Galacta remains silent for a moment, choosing instead to study the cement bricks lining the castle’s halls. He imagines they’ve been there for ages, only touched up when wiped by servants.

"I'm not friends with the king."

"Then why do you help him?" she retorts, spinning on her heel. Her twin ponytails, braided and pulled back, nearly whip her face in her haste to confront him.

Does Galacta really help the king? He supposes his actions could be seen that way, but in truth, it’s more about helping Kirby. Galacta knows what to expect when he’s around the king, and by default, that knowledge eventually reaches Kirby.

"I don't help him. I’m simply a vassal under his—"

Tiff cuts him off with a groan, shaking her head. She throws her hands in the air and glares at the ceiling. "You’re just like Meta Knight!"

Galacta frowns, mildly offended by the comparison. "I am most certainly not."

"You are!" she insists, resuming her pacing. Her heels slap against the cobblestone floor, creating a rhythm that almost mimics thunder. "You both dodge my questions and act like you have no idea what I’m talking about! At least he shows up for half the battles Kirby faces. You just avoid them!"

Angered by her words but not at her, Galacta matches her rising tone. "I never said I was here to help Kirby."

"But that’s a lie!" she snaps back, her brows creasing in exasperation. "You built him a house, and he clearly cares about you!"

The admission makes Galacta pause. Did Kirby care about him? Sure, they shared the occasional hug, but Galacta wasn’t his parent. It felt more transactional, didn’t it? Nurture Kirby until maturity, help him fight off the king's demon beasts, eventually take down NME and Nightmare by extension.

"Well, no matter what you say, from this point on, I'm not trusting you!" she retorts, her face pinched in the kind of anger only a child can fully express. She brushes off her dress and glares at him. "Until you choose a side—either the king or Kirby—I won’t be helping you."

Galacta, unfazed and unfortunately accustomed to such hostility, shrugs. "I don’t need your help. You’re not even four feet tall."

His response summons an angry yell from her lips, and Galacta barely dodges the rock she hurls at him. Where did she even get a rock? And why were there rocks stashed away in the castle?

"This isn’t over!" she shouts over her shoulder as she storms down the hall. Galacta watches her go, idly staring at the rock now sitting by his boot.

He had to admit, she had good aim.

The next few days are spent trying to fix the mess Dedede made with the finances and getting accustomed to Dreamland. No new monsters are summoned, which is a welcome change, but the king spends a suspicious amount of time with Curio, who is summoned to the castle each morning with the same grim look on his face. 

Galacta pays it no mind. He has better things to do than meddle with the archaeologist, and if the king is distracted, it gives him more time to focus on other, more important matters—like Kirby’s training and keeping an eye on Meta Knight, who remains the most suspicious character in the castle.

For the first time since arriving in Dreamland, Galacta decides to observe one of Meta Knight's training sessions. It’s a bit awkward at first, taking a seat on one of the many cobblestone slabs scattered around the courtyard, but Meta Knight doesn’t react to his presence, and Kirby seems excited to see him.

"Parry," Meta Knight instructs calmly as he watches Kirby swing around a wooden sword. The child steps back and tries to follow the command, but even from where Galacta is sitting, he can tell Kirby’s stance is off.

Meta Knight’s knaves, who had been dueling off to the side, choose that moment to step in. Meta Knight turns to them, instructs them to parry, and when they do, he turns back to Kirby.

"Try again."

Galacta swings his feet idly, blinking slowly. Meta Knight’s teaching style seems to be visual, which surprises him. Given how polished Meta Knight’s speech is, Galacta hadn’t expected such a hands-on approach, but he finds himself inadvertently agreeing with it. Kirby is a child, and the best way to teach him is through example.

Galacta lingers for a while longer, watching as Meta Knight eventually brings the knaves together for group training. He has them stretch as a final exercise, and Galacta decides he’s seen enough, getting up to head inside. Perhaps, if he’s lucky, he can grab something to eat.

"Gala?"

Kirby’s voice stops him in his tracks, and he turns to face the child. They make eye contact, and Galacta offers a gruff nod. "Hmm?"

Kirby starts to speak but then seems to think better of it. He turns to Meta Knight instead, eyes almost pleading. "Lunch?"

The other knight doesn’t reply immediately but eventually acquiesces, dismissing the session with a wave of his hand.

Kirby quickly salutes and then runs to Galacta’s side, tugging on his sleeve. Galacta offers him his hand, and they make their way from the courtyard toward the cafeteria.

"I see he's got you saluting," Galacta murmurs, unsure of how to feel about it.

"Sal-u-ing?" Kirby repeats, his feet dragging behind him. He must be tired.

"Saluting," Galacta corrects, a memory surfacing of the time when neither he nor Kirby could communicate well. They’ve come a long way, haven’t they?

When they reach the cafeteria, he’s not surprised to hear the footfall of two other knights behind him. Sword and Blade don’t look his way, but the four of them enter the cafeteria together, even if unintentionally.

"Do you eat here a lot?" Galacta asks, feeling a bit out of place. He realizes he hasn’t talked to Kirby much recently. He should probably be doing that more if his mission is to nurture the child.

"Mhm," Kirby replies, tugging Galacta toward the line. Soldiers and servants wait with trays in hand, and once Galacta joins the line, Kirby runs to the sunny side of the cafeteria to grab trays for them.

Returning to Galacta’s side, Kirby hands him a tray and then offers trays to the two behind them—Sword and Blade.

"Good food," Kirby mumbles, striking up a conversation. He swings his plastic tray around  and Galacta pointedly doesn’t flinch when it brushes against his thigh.

"Is there? I’ve never been here," Galacta replies.

"Then you might not like it," a voice behind them interrupts, tone light. Galacta turns to find the speaker but isn’t sure who spoke until Sword shakes his head, turning his face pointedly to the side in dismissal.

Galacta redirects his focus to Blade. "Is that so?"

"Mhm," Blade agrees, nodding as if they’ve had to warn multiple people before. "It’s more ration food than actual meals."

Ah, that makes sense, Galacta muses, frowning behind his mask. With so many people living in the castle, he had wondered how they managed to feed so many mouths.

"Though they do have a selection," Blade continues as the line inches forward. "Do you have any allergies?"

Without thinking, Galacta nods. "Poison, I suppose, but that was trained out of me when I was younger."

The resulting silence is awkward.

Sword breaks it with a scoff, his eyes narrowing beneath his helm. "They don’t poison us here."

Blade nudges their companion, subtly signaling for him to knock it off. Then, as if Galacta hadn’t just said something mildly disturbing, Blade continues, "Well, are you more of a savory type of person, or a sweet type of person?"

Galacta makes small talk with Blade, feeling somewhat forced to do so since he has nowhere else to go. He learns that Blade and Sword come here often and that the custard is probably the best thing on the menu. When it’s their turn in line, Galacta makes a point of grabbing some custard, if only to show he’s paying attention.

When Kirby grabs enough food for both of them and heads toward a cafeteria table, Galacta follows, unintentionally finding himself back in the company of Sword and Blade, who take a seat across from them. Judging by Sword’s sour expression, this must be their usual spot, and Galacta is the one intruding.

Whoops.

"So," Blade begins as they dig into their meal, subtly lifting their helm. A large scar runs down their jaw and into the skin of their neck—not fatal, but clearly inflicted by something demonic in nature. "How long have you and Kirby known each other?"

Galacta immediately recognizes the question for what it is, and he turns his head to look at the child next to him. Kirby doesn’t react, but he does slow his eating, offering Galacta a curious glance.

"For a while, but probably not as long as you two have known each other," Galacta eventually responds. He digs his plastic fork into the custard before him and takes a bite.

It’s far too sweet, but edible. He should have told Blade he preferred something spicier.

"Oh," Blade hums, before returning to their meal. Sword picks at his food, eyeing it as if the meal itself will somehow tell Galacta to piss off elsewhere. 

Unsure of what to say next, Galacta stirs his custard and then moves on to the shitty sandwich sitting on the corner of his tray. It looks about as appealing as he feels. "How long have you two known each other?"

Sword sets down his fork and glares at Galacta. "I don’t think it matters."

Blade sighs, loud and audible, before clearly whacking Sword under the table. "Sorry about him."

Galacta shrugs. He couldn’t care less, honestly. Hadn’t he been the one to insult Sword first, anyway? If he remembers correctly, it was just a few days ago when Galacta had stormed past them both into the forest, muttering something about incompetence.

"We’ve known each other since we were young," Blade answers, their voice passive despite the mounting tension.

The rest of lunch goes by mostly in silence. Blade tries to make small talk, but it’s Kirby who really keeps things going. The little one fills in where Galacta doesn’t, and even Sword joins in, chatting about parrying and other techniques.

Galacta finishes his meal quietly, hanging around for a few minutes before boredom pushes him to leave.

The next morning, Galacta discovers the reason behind Curio’s constant visits to the castle.

It turns out that the king had been planning an elaborate celebration to flaunt his status. When no one bothered to show up, he enlisted the archaeologist to forge evidence of an impressive, long-standing royal lineage. 

Unsurprisingly, the plan collapsed, and Dedede, in his usual fashion, responded by summoning a monster. The chaos that erupted was so severe that even Meta Knight had to intervene. Galacta, meanwhile, stood on the sidelines, arms crossed, lost in thought.

It was in that moment that he realized—he’d never truly witnessed Meta Knight’s strength up close. He’d seen him around the castle, of course, but never in a serious battle.

Not that he ever planned to—Galacta had no interest in fighting for sport.

Perhaps that’s why, later that evening, he decides to watch Meta Knight train alone in the courtyard, driven by curiosity.

As Meta Knight swings, his stance perfected in a style Galacta doesn’t recognize, Galacta quietly approaches and takes a seat on the same slab he sat on before. "Were you a knight before this?" he asks.

Meta Knight’s strikes don't faulter even with the added company. "Elaborate." 

"It’s clear Dedede doesn’t offer any real training here," Galacta continues, crossing his arms over his chest. It’s something he’s been thinking about a lot. "You must have been a knight before settling down here. It’s evident. Kabu chose you for a reason."

Meta Knight’s swings slow, becoming more measured and controlled, more like practiced movements than strikes meant to harm. "...You are correct."

Galacta unwinds the tension from his legs and shifts his gaze to the sky. Sunny, with minimal clouds. "For how long?" he asks.

Meta Knight thrusts his sword to the side, his stance shifting ever so slightly. Galacta notices it only because everything in the knight’s routine had been perfected until that moment. "Many years," Meta Knight replies.

Many years, hmm? Galacta muses. That could mean anything. For a Star Warrior, many years could easily mean a century, if not more.

"Who knighted you?" 

The question stills Meta Knight’s movements altogether, his sword falling limp at his side. He doesn’t turn to face Galacta, but his boot shifts slightly in his direction, a subtle sign that he’s paying attention to Galacta’s words.

"A king," Meta Knight replies, and Galacta doesn’t even attempt to hide his eye roll, shaking his head in exasperation.

"No kidding, Meta Knight," Galacta retorts, sitting up straighter. "From which kingdom?"

This time, Meta Knight takes longer to respond, letting his sword remain still at his side. Eventually, he picks it up again, but the energy around his practice is different. It feels more like he’s training to distract himself rather than perfecting a technique, Galacta muses.

"He did not own a kingdom," Meta Knight finally admits, his thrusts becoming lighter, much like the fading light of the day.

"That’s impossible," Galacta counters, one hand instinctively reaching for his own weapon, though it remains sheathed. "Every king needs to own land to be a king."

"Perhaps before the war," Meta Knight agrees, switching into a sitting position. It’s a deliberate stance that lets Galacta know his guard is up, even as he stretches.

"War?" Galacta echoes.

The response seems to genuinely surprise Meta Knight for the first time that evening. He turns to face Galacta. "Yes?"

The two stare at each other, but this isn’t a standoff born from pride. Instead, it’s a moment of confusion, and they hold eye contact until Galacta finally breaks it, shrugging helplessly. "Humor me."

"Humor you?" Meta Knight repeats, moving into a lunge, which looks awkward with all the armor he’s wearing. "Kabu informed me of your age. You are not much older than I."

If any words could hit Galacta harder, he’d be on the floor. "How about you mind your business and answer me."

A breeze sweeps past, ruffling their capes. Meta Knight’s midnight-blue cape moves effortlessly in the wind, but Galacta can feel his own cape—white like his lavender wings—whip sharply to the side, reflecting the tension building inside him. Whatever Meta Knight had said had clearly gotten under his skin, and his body was betraying the frustration he was trying to hide.

Meta Knight twirls his sword thoughtfully, hesitating before speaking. "There was a war, about a hundred years ago. Many lives were lost... I was a soldier in that war."

Galacta, still tense, scoffs. "Is that why you’re so bitter? Because of all the men you've lost?"

Meta Knight’s sword flashes through the air, slicing cleanly as he thrusts it upward. He repeats the motion once more before sheathing his weapon and turning to Galacta. "Speak your mind if you must, but do not disrespect the memory of my fallen comrades."

Now clearly both upset, Galacta huffs, brushing off imaginary lint from his collar. An inexplicable urge to tackle the man wells up inside him, but he knows better than to act on it. He can’t quite put his finger on why he feels so tense around Meta Knight, but he suspects it has something to do with the way the other knight carries himself.

He’s always hated overconfident fools—except, of course, for himself.

"Who was this war with?" Galacta asks as a final parting question. He doesn’t feel the need to speak to Meta Knight any further today. This had been enough conversation to last him a year.

Meta Knight doesn’t respond immediately, choosing instead to gather his belongings. When he finally speaks, he offers Galacta a look that burns even without a visible reaction. "The same man who killed my comrades, Nightmare.

Chapter Text

Galacta avoids Meta Knight for the rest of the week, purposefully slipping into empty hallways whenever he hears approaching footsteps, keeping his head down, careful not to be seen.

He’s gotten good at staying unnoticed, but the memory of their last conversation still nags at him, creeping into his thoughts no matter how hard he tries to shake it.

He keeps telling himself there’s no reason to feel guilty, that nothing was his fault. It’s harder than he expected, but the more he dodges Meta Knight, the easier it gets. As long as he doesn’t have to see him, Galacta can almost believe he’s fine with how things ended.

And why should he feel guilty? He wasn’t the one who brought up old wounds, who dragged the conversation into a place it didn’t need to go. Meta Knight had made that choice, not him. He wasn’t responsible for whatever haunted the other knight, and he certainly didn’t owe him anything. If anything, Meta Knight should’ve kept his distance from the start, avoided stirring up the past like that. Galacta didn’t ask for it.

Still, the thought gnaws at him. No matter how many times he repeats it to himself, it doesn’t quite settle.

It’s not long before Galacta finds himself back in the throne room, standing in his usual spot in the shadows. Arms folded across his chest, mask in place, his gaze tracks the king as he paces before the throne, hammer slung over his shoulder.

In front of the throne, Lololo and Lalala hover in the dim light, their small frames bathed in a soft glow. Their wings beat softly, almost soundless, yet their resolve is clear. They don’t flinch or back down, standing their ground despite the king’s towering figure looming above them.

“I already told ya—you two are splittin’ up!" The king growls, slamming his hammer down with a resounding crack. “No more of this pair stuff! You’re gonna work on your own, or you’re outta here!”

Lololo doesn’t flinch. “We won’t work separately,” he says, his voice calm but unwavering. “We’ve always done everything together, and that’s not changing.”

Lalala nods, staying close to her sibling. “We’re not splitting up.”

Dedede glares, his grip tightening around his hammer. “Oh, so ya think you got a choice? I’m the king, and what I say goes! If you don’t like it, you can pack your bags and get out!”

Galacta’s eyes shift between the king and the two fairies. He already knows how this will play out. Lololo and Lalala won't back down, and Dedede isn't the type to tolerate defiance. It’s only a matter of time before the king takes things further, and sure enough, Dedede’s expression sours.

"You think you’re just gonna walk outta here, huh? You think you can disobey me in my own castle?" 

Galacta’s eyes flicker to the king as he fumbles for the monster catalog at his side. He throws it open, staring down at the worn pages, flipping through them with an irritated grunt. 

Lololo and Lalala seize the chance. They drift backward, wings barely fluttering, moving slowly toward the doors. Dedede’s focus remains on the catalog, his muttering growing louder as they slip further away. By the time they reach the doors, they’ve nearly disappeared from view, and with one last glance at the distracted king, they slip out, vanishing from the throne room.

"Slice ʼn Splice," the king mutters to himself, unaware he’s speaking to an empty room. "Yeah, that’s who I’ll get!"

Galacta barely reacts when the lights dim, the throne room floor opening up to reveal the king's familiar teleporter machine. Screens drop from the wall, and the most central one flashes to life, NME’s familiar salesman popping into view.

"Why hello there, your majesty. It seems—"

"Shut it!" Dedede snaps, waving the monster catalog book in the air before tossing it behind him with an exaggerated huff. "I don’t need no introduction! Just gimme my monster already!"

The salesman’s grin remains as unshaken as ever. "Ah, a decisive decision. I can appreciate that. Slice ʼn Splice is exactly what you need, a true masterpiece of division and control. Perfect for sending a message, if you catch my drift."

Dedede nods absentmindedly, waving his hand as if already bored with the entire process. The teleporter flashes with an intense burst of light, electricity crackling across the floor and casting a fiery orange glow over the room. The air hums with energy, but Dedede just yawns, clearly more interested in the result than the spectacle itself.

When the light fades, and the teleporter powers down, a figure stands atop it. The monster isn’t particularly tall, but it’s lanky, with unnaturally long limbs that twist at odd angles. Its red eyes gleam with a sinister light, and a wide, Cheshire-like grin stretches across its face, sharp teeth glinting in the low light of the throne room.

In its hands, it grips two staffs—one shaped like a crescent moon, and another that resembles the blazing sun.

Dedede, now lounging lazily on his throne, gives the monster a once-over.

"Yeah, that'll do. Time to show these folks what happens when they don’t listen to their king!" He leans forward, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Slice ʼn Splice, huh? Let’s see what ya got.”

Galacta slips out of the throne room and into the hallway just as the monster begins to stir. It charges down the corridors, relentless and quick, heading straight for the town. From his spot in the shadows, Galacta watches as it barrels through the castle doors, the king waddling after it, barking orders at it like he has any control over it.

With a quiet sigh, Galacta resigns himself to trailing behind. It’s not his fight, not really, but someone has to stop Dedede from making a complete fool of himself.

When the king stumbles into town, Galacta just a few steps behind, the village is already in shambles. Half the villagers are caught in a bizarre mess, their lower halves fused with objects that don’t belong—barrels, chairs, even parts of fences. It’s pure chaos, but not unexpected. Galacta keeps his hands still at his sides, calm despite the madness, even as he notices a few children clinging to their parents, tears streaming down their faces.

“This is hilarious!” Dedede howls, nearly doubling over with laughter. Galacta can almost picture Escargoon standing beside him, wearing the same smug, satisfied expression.

Galacta sighs, crossing his arms as he watches Chief Kawasaki stumble into a trashcan, struggling to move with his new sheep-like legs. The absurdity of the scene makes Galacta cringe, but he keeps his voice neutral. “It’s... something.”

As the chaos around them grows, Slice ʼn Splice continues its rampage, villagers scrambling to get out of its path. A cappy with a crooked hat storms up to the king, scowling deeply. “Are you satisfied yet, Your Majesty?”

Galacta imagines the answer is a resounding no, but he doesn’t miss the way Dedede’s expression falters, as if insulted by the very question. The king doesn’t answer immediately, and when he does, his voice is less amused. "Just because you run the law doesn’t mean you're the law! You have no right to talk to me like that!"

Dedede’s voice rings out, loud enough to catch the attention of the mayor, who’s dragging along a chair fused to his lower half. The wooden legs screech across the dirt path as he inches toward the king. "Your Majesty, I can’t work like this!"

The mayor’s complaint triggers a wave of angry voices. More villagers join in, their voices rising as they hurl their frustrations at the king. The mounting noise quickly wears down Dedede’s amusement, his grin fading into a scowl as he glares at them, as if they’re the ones at fault.

Galacta leans in closer, his voice just low enough for the king to hear. "I think Slice ʼn Splice would be better off going after Kirby."

It’s a subtle nudge to get the king focused on something else, but Galacta feels the weight of a few villagers’ eyes on him too, their judgment clear. He brushes it off.

"Oh, right, Kirby," Dedede mutters, rubbing his eyes as the cold settles in around him. A sharp breeze blows through the village, but it doesn’t help ease the tension in the air. "I wanted to play a bit more..."

Later," Galacta advises, keeping his tone level. He avoids Dedede’s withering glare as he presses on. "Let’s focus on what’s important."

The crowd’s frustration continues to grow, and Dedede, clearly wanting to avoid more conflict, takes a step back. “Fine! Since I’m such a benevolent king, I’ll fix ya all up. Slice ʼn Splice!”

The monster stops in its tracks, turning to face the king at the sound of its name. Its square head tilts, curiosity narrowing its red eyes as it walks back to Dedede’s side. Galacta almost can’t believe it listened.

“Fix ‘em up!” Dedede snaps, crossing his arms with impatience. “And be quick about it, we’ve got bigger things to deal with!”

The monster rumbles softly, raising its staffs high. The villagers flinch, but none are fast enough to escape. Slice ʼn Splice swings its staffs through the air, and with a single motion, the mismatched halves of the villagers disappear, replaced by their original forms.

Galacta sighs softly, keeping his relief to himself. He’s almost glad he’d followed, if only to rein in the king’s chaos. Someone had to be the voice of reason, and more often than not, he was finding that person to be himself.

When Kirby is finally found by the king, and by extension Slice ʼn Splice, things go south fast.

He struggles to fend off the monster, but it’s no use. One clean swipe, and Kirby is split in half. His body defuses into two, and Lololo and Lalala, who must have seen the entire thing, rush into the fray, scooping up the two halves without a second’s hesitation.

They waste no time, darting away with the Kirbies in their arms, their small wings beating frantically as they race back toward the castle. 

Lalala’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. He turns to see her hovering over a slightly more orange Kirby, this one dressed in overalls and wearing a soft bow. It's an undeniably cute bow. 

“Lalala,” Galacta says, glancing over his shoulder at the king, who’s still distracted, dragging his feet as Slice ʼn Splice lumbers beside him. "You should hide."

“I can’t until Kirby is fixed,” she argues, her voice tight with determination. She glances toward Dedede, ducking quickly as though she’s afraid he might spot her.

“Where are the others?” Galacta asks, though he already knows there’s no convincing her to hide.

“Lololo took the other Kirby somewhere near the cafeteria,” she replies with a shaky sigh. Her anxiety is palpable.

It’s probably the first time she's split up with her sibling, he thinks.

“Well, at least try to stay out of sight,” Galacta mutters, turning his back on her. He doesn’t miss the crestfallen look she gives him, her tiny wings fluttering slower as she watches him leave.

“You won’t help us?” she asks softly, her voice barely a whisper, almost lost in the noise around them.

Galacta pauses but doesn’t turn around. “It’s not my job.”

A voice in the back of his head warns him that Tiff was right, but he pushes it down, burying it where he can’t hear. He doesn’t have time for doubts, not now. The king is waiting, and Galacta has his own priorities

It takes less than several minutes for the fairies to be caught, both halves of the Kirbies held close in their arms. Slice ʼn Splice inches nearer, but before it can strike, its eyes widen ever so slightly, recognition flickering across its face. “I remember you two.”

Galacta lingers behind, watching as the demon beast waits for a reply. He doesn’t miss how the fairies’ faces pale, like they’d been expecting this moment. Lololo drifts closer to the ground, his wings fluttering rapidly behind him. “No, you don’t.”

“But I do,” the demon beast rumbles, its voice rough and low. Galacta hadn’t expected it to talk, but he supposes no two demon beasts are quite the same.

“We’re not like you!” Lalala hisses, her light sparking angrily. She darts closer, hands clenched at her chest, as though sheer will alone could make her appear more threatening. “We’re good people!”

“You think so?” Slice ʼn Splice taunts, raising its staffs. It barely seems fazed by their attempt at bravado, its tone dripping with disdain. “Because I don’t.”

Just as the demon beast readies its staffs for a strike, Dedede comes barreling down the hall, completely oblivious. With a loud crash, he stumbles right into Slice ʼn Splice, knocking it off balance. The demon tips forward, caught off guard, and the fairies seize the opportunity, grabbing hold of its staffs.

Dedede scrambles to his feet, lunging for the Kirbies, but he’s too slow. Out of nowhere, Tiff leaps in, delivering a swift sidekick that sends Dedede tumbling down the hall. He crashes into Escargoon, who also comes out of nowhere, his eyes wide and confused as if he’s just woken up.

The resulting bang is ear-shattering, echoing through the castle halls.

Galacta closes his eyes. He really wishes he'd just stayed in bed.

As Slice ʼn Splice fumbles to get back on its feet, the Ebrum siblings—who Galacta still has no idea where they came from—dart in and scoop up the Kirbies. They sprint down the hall, vanishing near a winding staircase that leads who-knows-where. Lololo and Lalala follow closely behind, clutching the monster’s stolen staffs. Galacta stands there, watching it all unfold with a sense of resignation so deep, he can’t even be bothered to care when Dedede storms over and grabs his arm, shaking him insistently.

“Come on! Go after ‘em!”

“It’s not in my job description,” Galacta replies, his voice flat as the king tugs him back and forth, his vision blurring from the motion.

“But you’re faster!” Dedede whines, desperation creeping into his voice.

Galacta’s gaze shifts to Escargoon, who’s still sprawled out on the floor, clearly in no hurry to move. “Actually, I think Escargoon might be faster.”

The groan Escargoon lets out feels more like a curse than anything else. “No, I’m not.”

Dedede, fed up, slams his hammer into the floor, leaving another dent in the already scarred surface. “Get up, you idiots, and let’s go!"

Escargoon, still groaning, pulls himself up slowly, wobbling as he brushes dust off his shoddy coat. “I’m not made for this. I’d rather stay right here.”

“You’d rather stay useless, is what!” Dedede barks, glaring at him. He turns back to Galacta, face flushed with frustration. “And you! I’m the king! You gotta listen to me!”

Galacta gives a noncommittal shrug, stepping back just out of Dedede’s reach. "That’s debatable."

The king’s face turns a deeper shade of red, his hammer tapping against the floor in rising annoyance. “You wanna get back on my good side, don’t ya?”

Galacta isn’t sure if he’s ever been on Dedede’s good side, but it hardly matters now. His focus shifts back to the staircase where the Ebrums disappeared. It would be easy enough to catch up to them, maybe even stop whatever chaos is brewing. But that would mean getting involved in a problem that, frankly, isn’t his.

“Fine!” Dedede huffs, realizing he’s not getting any help from Galacta. “I’ll do it myself!” He stomps off down the hall, hammer dragging behind him as he charges after the fleeing group, his steps heavy with frustration.

Galacta doesn’t follow. He watches the king storm off, his robe fluttering behind him, and sighs again, pushing himself away from the wall. “I give him ten minutes before he gives up.”

Escargoon, still rubbing his head, throws Galacta a weary glance. “Five minutes, tops,” he mutters.

Galacta lets out a soft huff in response, the closest he’ll ever get to laughing, before heading toward the staircase Dedede had stormed up moments earlier. His steps are measured, deliberate. Behind him, Escargoon shuffles along, dragging his feet, grumbling under his breath with each slow, reluctant step.

By the time they reach the upper floor, it’s clear they’re too late.

Slice ʼn Splice lies scattered across the floor, its body broken and half decapitated. Kirby, no longer split into two, stands at the center, silently pulling a strange, curled blade from his side. Without a word, he slips it into his pocket and turns to face Galacta.

Galacta can see the hug coming before Kirby even moves, and though he’s braced for it, he sidesteps discreetly, letting the child cling to his waist instead.

Behind them, Dedede stomps and kicks at the ground, yelling at the sky, throwing a fit over his latest failure. His shouts echo through the empty castle halls, each one louder than the last, but no one’s paying him any mind.

As the commotion dies down and the others begin to disperse, Galacta catches sight of Lololo and Lalala trying to sneak away. He steps forward, stopping them in their tracks. “I need to talk with you two.”

Lololo and Lalala exchange a glance, their wings fluttering nervously as they come to a stop in front of Galacta. Their confusion is clear, neither of them sure why he’s singled them out. Lalala hovers a little closer to her brother, her light dimming slightly as she looks up at Galacta, her expression uncertain.

“Why?” Lalala asks, her tone cautious, unsure of where this is headed.

Galacta steps closer, careful not to disturb Kirby, who is still hanging onto him. His voice is low, almost too calm. “Are you demon beasts?”

Lalala flinches at the question, her eyes darting to Lololo for reassurance. He gives a quick shake of his head, though his glow dims just a bit. Neither of them speaks immediately, and the silence lingers for so long that Galacta can tell they’re questioning whether to answer at all.

“We’re not—" Lololo starts, but his voice falters, and he glances nervously at Lalala.

“Just answer the question,” Galacta presses, his tone firm but not unkind. "Don’t lie to me again.”

Finally, Lalala speaks, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yes, we are. But... we were told not to say anything.” Her eyes meet Galacta’s for a brief moment, as if gauging his reaction.

Lololo nods in agreement, his face pale. “We’re not like the others, though. We’re... different. We don’t hurt people.”

Galacta narrows his eyes slightly, digesting their words. “Who told you not to say anything?”

There’s a moment of hesitation. Lololo and Lalala exchange another glance, as if silently deciding whether to tell him the truth. Lalala looks down, her light flickering weakly, while Lololo’s eyes meet Galacta’s, his voice barely audible when he finally answers.

“Meta Knight.”