Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When they wheel in what's left of the Arkeesian ship's passengers, Dr. Amanda Stern steels herself for a headache of a job. In fact, the headache comes in the shape of a man - Colonel Richard Perkins of the United Federation's army, a small, hawkish person who stomps in and caws his demands like he has paid for the lab and all of its equipment.

"Time is of the essence," Perkins spits, and Amanda graces it neither with a reply nor with a speeding of her steps. Their patient, a pair of disembodied hands, still gloved, still interwoven, cannot not get any more dead and it will take a few days for all of the genetic material to decompose to a point of incomprehensibility. So no, time is not of the essence. Precision is.

"The reconstruction will only take a few minutes," she informs the man instead and waves for her assistant Janet to separate the hands and place them in the first cylindrical chamber. Amanda steps behind the control console of their device and lets the titanium glass cover slide in place.

With the integrated robotic arms she takes two samples, one from each hand, and runs the analysis program. In front of Dr. Stern, a hologram of the cell nucleus comes to life. She zooms in, revealing chromosomes, genes, and-

"Oh," she says. Swallows. What an embarrassing display of emotion for a woman of her position. "It's not Arkeesian, that much I can say."

"Meaning?", Perkins snaps, not wasting a single breath to consider the information.

"This DNA is like nothing I've ever seen. It uses all of the base pairs of human DNA, but the architecture..."

She points at the screen, gesturing at genetic information so densely packed that it looks like a ribbon rather than a ladder. "We have two double helices, interwoven with one another, which means that every chromosome can carry twice the information. But that's not all. The chromosomes come in a quartet rather than the usual pair."

Amanda makes sure to dissect the mitochondrial DNA next, curious if the phenomenon is mirrored here as well.

"What does this mean for our patient?", Perkins barks, and from the corner of her vision, Amanda can see his hands hovering close to the big red button on the console. His type only cares about one decision: to destroy or not to destroy.

The console beeps, and Perkins flinches away.

"Patients," Amanda says.

"What?"

"The other hand only shows an 87% match of the genetic markers. Meaning it does not belong to the same person. Janet!"

Janet is already moving. Amanda releases the lid of the chamber and her assistant removes one of the hands, bedding it gently in the next tube over.

Dr. Stern probes the second hand again, just to ensure she has a fresh batch of cells to multiply. Hormones and enzymes are added and a slurry of amino acids, fats, and sugars, kickstarting the cell replication. A process that would usually take the better part of the allotted hour, if not for the fact that the growth rate of the mixture is going through the roof.

It takes 3.5 minutes to process all of the raw materials into stem cells. Amanda takes a sharp breath. "I'm going to start the assembly now. Please try not to interfere with the chamber or the controls, this is a very delicate process."

Just the press of two buttons sets the robotic arms inside the chambers into motion. One provides the sludge of cells, the other starts modeling the brains, the nervous system spreading out like fungal mycelium. The process is slowed when it reaches the hands - reattachment requires more delicacy than modeling from scratch.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Perkins mutters.

"I assume this is your first resurrection?"

"How come we have that kind of technology at our hands, and we don't use it all of the time?"

"Money. Ethical concerns," Amanda replies, although in truth, it’s much more complicated than that. As the technology draws on the cells' memory to reconstruct the body, it does not rejuvenate or prolong the life of the patient, nor does it cure any defects. Those who had the money to afford the procedure usually prefer to invest in a treatment of the body they already inhabit. 

In the chambers, bones and marrow are sculpted in beautiful, orchestrated synchronicity. Muscles are printed and stretched out like pasta dough, to be wrapped around the bones. The bodies take shape, lithe but not slender, strong shoulders - the physique of swimmers.

And then an alarm starts blaring.

Perkins' hand dives for the destruct button and Amanda can just catch the man by the wrist.

"Error in chamber one," she says, clenching up her jaw. "Janet?"

Janet jumps into action, approaching the glass with half-hopping steps. "The arm is jamming up again!", she squeaks.

Amanda takes a deep breath. Of course. They had that issue two to three times a month, some little part that had gotten crooked and doesn’t quite catch the way it’s supposed to. It could have been an easy fix, except there are only three maintenance technicians for this particular device in the whole solar cluster and it’s still a few weeks until their appointment is scheduled. Mishaps could be avoided if one took the time to apply extra lubricant before any use, but they were in a rush-

Janet slams her fist down against the side of the chamber, and the shock is just enough to jolt the arm back into motion.

The alarm falls quiet; the error warnings disappear from the screen.

Janet cranes her neck and peers in. She gives a highly unprofessional thumbs up. Amanda breathes out.

In the chamber, the body continues to be constructed, the process now half a minute behind the reconstruction in chamber two, where a metal sheet slips over the glass covering. There is also a divot on their patient's forehead that she is sure was not intended to be there. She hopes that the little imperfection will blend right in once the skin is grown on top of it.

"This is the last step," Amanda says, as a female voice from the console informs them that it is one minute until the implementation of the UV-protection. "The skin has to be cured with different kinds of radiation, to encourage the production of melanin-"

"And then we're done?"

"Then we can wake them up." Although, if she is honest, Amanda dreads handing these poor people over to Perkins. They just suffered a traumatic death, only to be brought back into the world naked and confused… and then to be handed over to a prize asshole without a chance to digest any of that? It strikes her as cruel.

The metal cover slides into place at the first chamber as well. Purple-blue light shines through underneath. This step always makes Amanda think of getting her nails done. Sculpting, hardening. Her work is not so different from art, even if the shape of her living sculptures is predetermined.

"I suggest that they meet up with a counselor. The first few hours after resurrection have proven to be difficult for most patients."

Perkins scoffs. "They can see as many shrinks as they want once they helped us save the fucking universe."

A disappointing, but not unsurprising response. Still, it was worth a try.

The metal cover of chamber two slides off, revealing a shock of dark, sleek hair. A youthful face, pale, smooth skin dotted with moles that seem almost deliberate in their distribution. A circular white scar at the left temple, another, larger one on the abdomen, at the height of the diaphragm. Even the body hair is delicate in its distribution.

He is beautiful. He is perfect.

The machine whirrs to life again. Thermal bandages are wrapped around the naked body in an almost skeletal fashion. Around the neck, the torso, the thighs and yes, the crotch. Just enough to provide the barest idea of decency. The bandages are a temporary undergarment solution, designed to be applicable to the anatomy of most vertebrate species. They also leave very little to the imagination.

"Huh," Perkins says. "He's just some guy. I'm going to have to take pictures. For the, uh, file." He’s squinting, staring. "I imagined him to be bigger."

Amanda could point out that the patient is likely taller than Perkis himself, but she knows better than to hurt the ego of an ill-tempered man. She also knows that Perkins would have no appreciation for the fact that like Adam in the bible, this person has the ability to single handedly restart the human race - a pale ghost of the human race, but still. Despite male in phenotype, the patient carries two X and two Y chromosomes and enough genetic variation to create four vastly different humans out of him.

The lid of chamber one slides back late, revealing the second patient. He looks identical to his brother, except for the white dip of a scar right on his forehead, a glaring imperfection on an otherwise perfect body. When both of them receive their dressings, Amanda rubs her hands.

"Now, to the most important part. I'm going to wake them up."

She presses a blue button, sending a shock of electricity through the bodies.

Allen jerks upright, his heart hammering a mile and hour. There’s a yowl of protest from his side, and a small body nearly ejects himself from the bed. He squints against the dark of his cramped apartment and then squints some more when the overhead lights turn on, triggered by his movement.

He drags a hand over his face. His skin is sticky with sweat, and his heart refuses to calm down, no matter how intently he repeats to himself that he is safe , he is fine , he is in the confines of his... well, it would go too far to call it a home.

Princess sneaks closer again, wary, and lets out an accusing meow. "Sorry, darling," Allen mumbles. "Didn't mean to scare you."

He’s no stranger to nightmares, but it's been a while since he had one that bad. There was blood and gunshots and groans of pain, rising to a loud chorus until a black hole opened in the middle of the battlefield. And then it was gone, and something else took its place. Something big, and changing that hummed like a wasps nest. Calling, calling. 

The phone rings.

With a groan, Allen crawls out of bed and walks the few steps over to his wall-mounted landline. He doesn’t even bother checking the clock.

"Yeah?"

"Allen, my man. Glad to finally catch you home."

He tries to give a reply that’s more than a grunt, but now that his heart is calming down, he becomes aware of the burning sensation behind his eyes.

"Pedro. What time is it?" It has to be before seven a.m. or Princess would make a stink about being fed.

"Time for you to show up for your 6 month inspection."

Fuck. He's expected as much, but still.

"That won't be necessary. Car's spotless."

"Sure it is. I know how you fly that thing."

"Can't we just drag it out for another month?"

"You know what, sure. Except hey, would you look at that, you've been dodging my calls for a month now. Bring in the car, Allen."

"Look, I just need to-"

"Today. Or I'll have it decommissioned until you bring it in."

Allen sighs. "You'll have the car by the end of the day." Princess lets out a little meow and starts brushing against Allen's legs, vying for attention and pets.

"Noon. No later."

"Mh." He crouches down into a squat and pets Princess' dear little head and cheeks. When he'd picked her up from the streets, she'd been a filthy little creature, mangy and half starved, her fur so filthy that he thought she was a brownish tabby until he gave her a first bath and started cutting out some mats. It had taken a year for her fur to grow in right and to treat the patches of her skin that were affected. You wouldn't be able to tell anymore, though. Now she just looks like a poofy white cloud with eyes the color of an unpolluted sky.

She licks his fingers with her raspy tongue.

"I'm sorry, darling."

"You better be talking to the cat," Pedro says and for once, he actually sounds amused. "Unless you got yourself some real pussy for once."

Allen grimaced. "I'm not interested in that." 

"Oh? Sworn off the ladies for good? Well, in that case, I know a club-"

"I don't want a quick fuck or a fling or whatever. I want a real fucking connection. Someone to share my life with, not just my bed. Someone who gets me, someone who's- maybe not perfect, but perfect for me."

Pedro snorts. "I forgot what a romantic you are. You'd always keep up the morale with your little speeches."

"And our boys were killed all the same," Allen concludes. Pedro falls quiet. Allen closes his eyes and lets his hands run through Princess' soft fur.

"Bring in the car, Allen. No more delays."

The line goes dead.

Morning consists of instant coffee and lukewarm showers. Breakfast is for people who have money and he'd rather save his to make sure Princess will not go hungry. He boils some water and fills it in a bottle to cool, for later. Takes a bottle from the fridge and fills his cat’s water bowl. He puts on some cargo pants, a fresh tank top, faded teal.

Every step of his morning routine is well rehearsed, a dance he's been through so many times, he can do it blind.

He straps a knife to his belt. Checks the fisheye on his door, which reveals a bleary hallway with a row of identical looking doors. He's been jumped more times than he cares for, and he has a collection of weapons to show for it. (No scars.) People get desperate around these parts, and very, very stupid.

This time, there's no surprise mugger with a grainy picture of the hallway attached to his forehead waiting for him. (Although Allen had to admit, the twitchy individual had been a fun change from his usual visitors.)

Princess follows him out, bushy white tail stood up like an antennae. As unsafe as the streets are, the crammed container of Allen's room is no place to keep a cat looked up in. He waits and watches her for a while until she disappears in a vent, slipping off to her own little cat adventures. Hunting rats and whatever small mutant creatures she may find.

Unlike his ex-girlfriend, Allen can count on her to come back.

He takes the elevator down to the sublevels of the garage. The yellow cab car stands out among the vehicles for its bright color and its general… wholeness. Sure, it has been dealt some scrapes and scratches, but most of the other cars here are held together by spit, duct tape and prayers.

Allen slumps into the seat and turns on the engine. The navigation computer wakes up and greets him with its tinny, vaguely female voice. It lists the time, the weather. (Smog, the weather is always smog. Sometimes a hint of acid rain.)

"Good morning, sweetheart. How did you sleep?"

The program does not answer. It’s not sentient, only responding to the press of a button or some preprogrammed triggers. If the oil is low, if the tire pressure is wrong, if he didn't buckle up- that sort of issue. He slides in his driver’s license.

Allen still liked to talk to the board computer. That voice was one of the few constants in his life, and it didn't give him shit for just existing.

"You have nine points left on your driver's license."

...usually.

"Yeah, yeah, I know."

Allen flickers on the lights. He has to play things by the book for a while, but the issue is that sticking to the speed limit doesn’t make you any money. No one wants a slow cab. And people who are in a hurry tend to pay better tips.

"How bout we clean you up a little, before we bring you to Pedro?"

It’s the polite thing to do. Makes the mechanic's job a lot easier. And Allen knows a car wash that offers free coffee with every wash. They have decent croissants, too, if he wants to splurge. Which he shouldn't.

He puts the car into drive and flies off.

The supreme being watches as the smug, nasty man slumps against the wall of his tubular prison and slides to the floor, unconscious. The supreme being's fist still clutches tight around that hard card that the man had waved in his face to taunt him. He may not know the language that the stranger speaks, but he - Iteration Sixty - understands that if the card has the man's face on it, if it has value, it has to be a kind of key. 

There is a panel of buttons just outside of Sixty's tube. He reaches through the hole he punched in the glass and bends his arm to push the first button he can reach. They all look the same, grayish white like dirty bone, a fine print on them. The letters look familiar, even upside-down.

But Sixty doesn’t have the time to study them further, as chaos erupts in the far end of the room where even more people - even more humans are gathered.

An alarm starts blaring.

Sixty chooses a random button to press.

A hydraulic hiss.

He withdraws his hand quickly, without nicking his skin in the fortified glass. The tube covering slides to the side. Once the opening is just big enough, Sixty slides out and to the floor. His muscles still feel strange and tingly, his heart beats way too fast, like he drank too much Arkeesian purple tea.

The Arkeesians. His crew they - where are they? There was an explosion. He remembers the missile hitting their shuttle and then noise and fire and-

Nothing.

Sixty crawls over to the other tube, squats down next to it. He peeks into the thing. Here his brother lies, Iteration Fifty-three, but he does not move. The chest rose and fell slowly, wrapped in the same meager bandages like the ones on Sixty’s body.

Sixty looks back at the commotion - and finds that he is being watched in kind. While most humans pace or shout, one of them stands unmoving. Her eyes are black onyx and the pinch of her brow speaks not of fear, or anger, but something colder. More calculated.

And then she nods.

Another hiss sounds, and the cover of the other tube slides away. Sixty reaches for his sibling, swinging a heavy arm over his shoulder as he first props up Fifty-three's torso, then pulls close his legs. Fifty-three still does not stir. His eyes do not even flutter. If not for the warmth of his skin and the swallow breath that tickles Sixty's cheek, he would think his brother dead.

(But even dead, he cannot leave behind his kin. Not in this strange, hostile place.)

At the far end of the room, two people enter. Their bodies are obscured by armor as black and shiny as a beetle's carapace, but their height matches a humans. They lift some sort of short devices and aim them at Sixty - and he has just enough time to drag his brother's body and himself behind the cover of the tubes before the noise starts.

The intruders' tools - weapons - let out loud bangs that make Sixty's ears ring. Holes open up in the wall behind him, just in tune to the noise. It was then that Sixty realized that the wall is a flimsy thing. The edges of the holes look jagged, crumpled and... golden. Beneath a textured layer of white lurks crumpled foil - insulation to catch rays created by the machinery? Or to muffle sound? He's seen something similar in the engine room of the Arkeesian ship.

Sixty holds his brother tightly. If he is right-

He waits for the shooting to stop. The noise of the weapons is replaced by the bellowing of voices, harsh and angry. 

(But they haven't done anything wrong, have they? Sure, Sixty has punched the mean looking one, but the human has threatened him. Taunted him. And they need to get out of here to fulfill their mission. How do the humans not know? Surely, Father Anderson must have told them. This is all a misunderstanding.)

Sixty takes a deep breath. Redistributes his brother's weight. And then he leaps up and charges at the wall. He shifts his torso as he runs, twisting so he would hit it shoulder first - and the material breaks away like flakes of paper, like the nest of a wasp.

And then it is dark.

Sixty squints; he finds himself in a crawlspace, nothing but dust and stale air.

More screaming. Getting louder.

To his left there is a large shadow that just might be a doorway. He starts to run.

The place is a labyrinth of grayish white hallways and doors and doors and doors. Some of them are locked, impassable until Sixty spots a tired looking person slap their hand on a rectangle next to the doors. The rectangle flickers yellow, then blue and there is a click of a mechanism unlatching, and the person pushes through the door.

Sixty searches frantically for another rectangle, as his brother grows heavy in his arms. And he wonders what to do about the card that digs sharp into his hand, the one that he has taken from the snarling man. This garment he is wearing has no folds or pockets. It barely protects from the chill of the air.

Sixty studies the card once more. The face of the snarling man stares back at him. Many blocky letters scrawl across the surface and-

In the upright corner there is a symbol or letter embossed in the card. It looks like a pebble hitting a pond, with ripples spreading from it in circles.

Sixty takes a closer look at the glowing rectangles - they bear a matching symbol. Lock and key. He holds up the card against the rectangle, and a yellow light starts to pulse. A little chittering, like ever so many insects, begins to sound. And then the light turns blue. Sixty pushes against the door, which relents.

This changes everything.

Sixty never knew of the human concept of modesty, the societal shame surrounding nudity. Which is not to say that he and his brother frolicked naked through the garden in which they were raised, but clothes are protection before anything else. The Arkeesians are a soft race. Once their skin had been leathery and yellow until they learned how to fasten armor from metal. But generations of relying on their designed shields made them pink and wrinkly, sensitive to light and injury. Even their claws became flexible and dull until they had to start filing them down. They were domesticated. Vulnerable.

Like humans.

Like Sixty and his brothers.

So when Sixty stumbles through yet another door into a room full of cloths, where the air thrums with the sound of a dozen spinning machines, where it weighs heavy with humidity and heat, Sixty does waste any time on digging through the piles of whitish fabric for something to cover him and his brother. Instead, he grabs a wheeled cart and finds it... appropriate. The cart is deep, with a few sheets balled up at the bottom and just big enough to hold - and hide - a person. Sixty lowers his sibling down gently, butt first, propping up Fifty-three against the frame and angling his legs for minimum discomfort. Finally, he grabs another long cloth and drapes it over Fifty-three's unmoving form. He has an inkling these carts are not meant for moving people.

Once his brother is appropriately disguised, Sixty takes a deep breath and tries to think of a plan.

They need to get out of here, and quickly. Perhaps he can find a map of the building, but if he does not, or fails to understand it-

Outside there is air. Wind. The air inside the hallways is not as stale as it ought to be, so there has to be fresh air coming in from somewhere. But even so, even if there is a breeze somewhere, all the locked doors would make it impossible to find a source. And what about water-

There is water sloshing and bubbling inside a row of machines. They have round windows to watch the whirlpool of linen and water - water that had to come from somewhere, go somewhere. Likely, this building had pipes and vents, like a spaceship.

Sixty searches the walls. There is one grate on the ceiling, easy to reach once he steps on one of the jostling machines. It opens into a metallic vent just big enough for one person to crawl into. Sixty looks back to where the dark head of his brother was propped up.

He is at an impasse.

He cannot not take Fifty-three with him, not through there, not as long as his brother is unconscious. Sixty leaves the grate open as he hops off the machine and checks on Fifty-Three once again. His brother is still breathing at least. The urge to shake him, to slap some life into him is overwhelming, but if their little chase from the humans has not woken Fifty-three, chances are slim that the palm of a hand would. 

Maybe this is how things were always meant to go. Only one of them is needed to be the key, save the universe. The other was just... insurance. A counter-weight.

That doesn’t mean that it’s right to leave his brother in this awful place.

I'll come back for you, Sixty whispers against his brother's hair before pressing a fleeting kiss against his temple. I'll find Anderson. He'll help me get you back. This is not goodbye.

He crawls into the vent.

They are following him. Their stomping footsteps and shouts echo along the wall of the tunnel. His pursuers are armored. Armed too, he Is willing to bet. Not that he intends to find out. One of the vents had opened to a larger area with round, gray walls. No people. Here, Sixty could feel a breeze, real and unfiltered, and full of a stink that hurts his throat.

And then they found him again.

He’s been running since then, stopping only at intersections to feel where the breeze is stronger. The stink gets worse too, which surely means he is on the right track.

And then there is light. Many colors, muted by a veil of fog. The tunnel opens-

Sixty comes to a stumbling halt before the drop. He slinks back against the curved wall and inches only a little to the edge, risking a glance down.

He’s high up.

Higher than the highest temple, high as a ship flies. And ships there are many, flitting about like dragonflies. Rectangular in shape, just big enough to fit a few passengers; Sixty watches them breeze by, studying the faces of the pilots. Some seem bored, others angry. None of them paid him any mind.

Behind him: stomping, shouting. His pursuers have caught up with him.

An order is bellowed from the far end of the tunnel. Sixty looks back; the black clad beetle men point their weapons in his direction. The visors of their helmets are pushed up; their faces betray insecurity. Sweat beads on their faces. More words are spoken and although they are foreign to him, Sixty slowly starts to recognize the rhythm of their language, the drawl of vowels, the eroded consonants.

He takes a step forward.

A stone ledge wraps around the wall of the building, barely as wide as a foot is long. Sixty presses his back against the cold wall, mindful of his weight, the balance of his body. Little by little, he shuffles to the right.

The shouting takes up a frantic edge. One helmeted head pops out of the vent.

He is sure they would not follow him here, though. One of the men was rounder than him, with some weight seated in his belly. He would not be able to keep his balance on the narrow edge.

Sixty takes another look down. The little ships underneath move with a kind of rhythm, forward and stop, forward and stop. Like they’re swaying. It’s fascinating. Predictable, even.

The wind whips at his naked skin.

Most ships are dulled by a coat of dust and grime, their colors muted. Except-

There he spots a yellow one, all shiny and smooth. And it will soon pass underneath him.

Sixty takes a deep breath. Considers.

He stretches out his arms wide-

And lets himself fall forward.

The impact rattles and sways the car. Allen curses; he grips the steering wheel tight and hits the brakes, not that it matters anymore.

Fuck. What kind of idiot-

"You had an accident," the prerecorded voice of his car informs him. "Seven points will be removed preliminarily from your license."

"It wasn't my fault!", he barked. No answer. Of course. Allen takes a deep breath. Doesn’t matter. There are more important things to worry about, like whatever just hit his car. Which couldn’t have happened to him before he invested the time and money to put the car through the wash, no. Of course not. Just his fucking luck.

He unbuckles and shifts in his seat, angling himself toward the plexi barrier between him and the back seat of his care. There on the bench lies a bundle of limbs that may just belong to a human. They are dressed in strange white wrappings that cover only the bare essentials, leaving too much cream colored skin exposed. There is no blood that Allen can see, and-

They move. A head of dark hair rises slowly, and looks about. Warm brown eyes focus on Allen.

His passenger is a man; young, but fairly out of his teenage years. In his twenties perhaps?. Fine lines mark the corner of his mouth. He has a white faded scar on his right temple, and another in the center of his forehead - where one would aim to kill. And, by god, he is beautiful. With solid shoulders but slender limbs, he looks like a model or a dancer and maybe that explains the getup… the city has a lot of night clubs. 

"I-", he tries, and finds his mouth dry. "You okay? That was quite the tumble."

Allen does spot a single scrape on the arm after all, the flesh rising in an irritated pink but not cut deep enough to draw blood. "Looks like you got lucky."

The man studies him, brows knitting together, tilting his head ever so slightly. His mouth is a tight line. And then he speaks.

It sounds like no language or accent Allen has heard before, and he's overhead his fair share of phone calls. One half of the phone calls, to be exact, but- point is, it doesn’t sound like any human language he knows. Doesn't sound like any alien language either, not enough trills or whistling or snarling. The words all stumbled into each other, and Allen tells the young man to slow down, in hopes that he might recognize the odd phrase or two..

"Are you alright?" He leaves longer pauses between his own words, maybe his passenger would pick up on something himself. They can’t have been on the planet for long, surely. Nowadays every tourism center sells these little translator devices for cheap.

The man squints. Looks about. When he speaks again, his words are barely slower and his hands gesticulate wildly. At one point, they shape a ring flaring out, like a ripple in a pond, or a soundwave, or-

"An explosion? Did your ship crash?"

"Crash," the fare echoes, but his eyes are questioning.

"You know, a crash, like. Boom." Allen mimics something diving toward the ground, then shattering. He feels a little silly - and then there follows an ugly twist in his stomach. He'd spent no small time in the army trying to converse with the local people, a feat that was usually done with hands and the occasional noise as he lacked the words. There's been laughter, joy at the different ways they expressed each other. Because they didn't understand yet the death he brought to their home.

He is no longer the guy who shoots at everything he’s told to shoot, but that doesn’t mean he gets to forget. He still has to carry that weight.

"Crash. Boom. ", the young man said, this time with more earnesty. He reaches out a hand slowly, pressing his palm against the divide. And Allen may not know many languages, but some things do not need words. He raises his own left hand to the panzerglass and matches it up with the stranger's. They are of a similar size; the stranger's fingers slender where Allen's are stout and calloused… but they are both inherently human.

The stranger smiles at him, proud if not a little smug. He has dimples.

Allen's heart gives a little squeeze.

Ridiculous.

That's what comes from shunning your social contacts for far too long, one starts to swoon over every pretty face-

A siren howled.

The young man jerks away from the divide and shrinks into the depths of the back seat. Red and blue light washes over the inside of the cab as a police vehicle pulls up next to them. Blue. Not fortified. A simple patrol car.

"This is the police," a speaker sounds. "You are harboring a fugitive. Do not move. Surrender, and there will be no negative consequences for you."

"Ah, fuck," Allen curses. He checks on his passenger through the rearview mirror - and finds dark eyes staring back at him. A face twisted in fear and desperation.

The police car hovers a little closer.

"I'm sorry. I can't - I can't afford to get into trouble with the police. You understand that, right?"

"Sorry," the young man wails. He probably doesn’t have the slightest clue what’s going on. Of course he doesn't.

"Thank you for your cooperation," the police speaker announces. A chubby man reaches over and opens the cab’s back door. Allen’s passenger flees to the opposite wall.

"The less you resist, the easier it will be for both of us," Allen says. In truth, he could not make that promise, but he really couldn't-

"P-lease," the passenger whimpers, still trying to catch Allen's attention. "Help. Please... help." There's panic in his voice. He bares his teeth, looking so much like a caged animal and Allen can't help wondering where this young man might have escaped from. It's hard to picture him as a dangerous fugitive when his clothes barely conceal his body. You don't dress prisoners like that. And didn't he say that his ship crashed?

It hits Allen then that his fare might just as well be a victim of sex trafficking. 

The police officers hook tethers into the cab on either side of the back door.

Allen takes a deep breath. With a slow, steady movement, he puts the car in drive.

"Pedro is going to kill me."

Allen floors it.

The first officer screams and struggles for balance as the cab lurches forward, pulling taut the tethers and yanking along the police car. Metal screams and twists- and then the door and hooks tear free and both cars are propelled into different directions.

As Allen dives through traffic, the siren continues to wail behind him. He can’t focus on that, nor on the stream of exclamations that come from the back seat, nor the board computer that informs him candidly that he just had another accident. He turns the goddamn thing off. That’s it for his license.

"Hold tight, sweetheart. It's going to get a bit bumpy and we seem to have lost a door. I'd hate to lose you too."

The response he receives sounds almost indignant.

Allen knows every street in New New York, he knows how to read the flow of traffic, how to breathe with it, to find the little gaps to slip through, how to dart across an intersection during a red light, if need be. The city's designed in a grid pattern, so it's harder to shake off a pursuer, but it's also a gray behemoth of smog and decay, houses that fall apart, eternal construction sites that are built on top of the ruins of office buildings.

Gradually, Allen hops onto lower and lower lanes of traffic. Down, where the air grows murky and scratches your throat. Where the trucks trundle on on their daily grind. He weaves between them too, over and over again, a yellow stain among the gray. Eyes glued to the rearview mirror, looking for the telltale blue and red lights - and a flash of dark brown eyes that study him intensely.

Finally, he slips into a construction site. It's all floors and no walls, but a large, faded billboard is propped up in front of it, promising a dream tech center that will never come.

Allen stops behind the billboard. He kills the engine and the lights turn off.

Then he waits.

Cones of light pass. Trucks.

Then, red and blue.

The police car turns off the siren; it seems to creep, searching, stalking. Allen stops breathing. His fare ducks deeper and deeper into the foot space in front of the back seats.

The police car passes.

Allen waits another heartbeat. Then another. His chest feels uncomfortably tight. Finally, he breathes.

"Jesus fuck. That was- shit!"

"Shit," The young man echoes quietly and in solemn agreement.

Allen gets out of the front seat and slips into the back through the gaping hole where the door used to be. His fare has propped up his head on the back seat, the rest of his body is still slumped into the foot space. He makes no attempt to sit up or crawl out.

"Are you alright?" Allen kneels on the back seat. He seizes the young man by a shoulder - and those dark eyes settle on him again. They're not as wary as before, not as focused. The young man lets out a deep sigh, followed by a stream of words that rumble on like a creek. Even if he had been talking English, Allen doubts he would have understood.

"Hey, don't fall asleep on me now, okay? Tell me what I need to do. Where you need to go. You must have someone here who can help you."

As Allen studies the man's face up close, he wonders if the stranger is really as young as he first imagined. The dark lashes and smattering of freckles was drawing his attention- and so Allen missed the fine thinking lines on the forehead, the gentle crow's feet around the eyes that would deepen with a smile. He still cannot see any injuries, but he does spot another strange scar. The one on the right side of the temple is a faded ring that looks too even to be from anything other than a surgery tool. Maybe a laser. And then there was another circular scar peeking out from the... cloth straps just beneath the sternum. Thinner than the other ring but no less perfect, in fact- it might just be a tattoo of a circle. Could it have a religious purpose? Or was it more of a cattle brand, seared into the skin to claim ownership?

The thought makes Allen's stomach churn. "I'll bring you to a hospital, alright? They can check on you and then-"

"Father," the man suddenly croaks out.

"You've got family here?"

"Anderson. Father, Hank An-derson."

Not a father in the familial sense, then. A priest. Christianity is a stubborn and varied weed that had persisted even through the advance of modernism, mutating all the while. Allen is familiar albeit not friendly with the idea of it. He wants to press on when his passenger's eyelids start to flutter and shut.

"Hey. Hold on, stay with me." He pats against a too smooth cheek, tries to shake strong shoulders into waking, but it's too late. The man has slipped into unconsciousness, leaving Allen with more questions than answers.

Chapter Text

Ever since he was eleven years old, Father Hank Anderson knew that the end of times and the death of the universe may well just happen in his lifetime. He blames a lot of what he is, what he became, on that little fact.

He didn't mean to become a father in the literal sense. Why bring a new life into this world when you know that shit was about to end and your kid may not live past their twenties?

And then his wife became pregnant despite both of their precautions.

The world was dying. The order of the five was dying too, members losing faith or turning to nihilism as their prophet while the advent of doom inches closer. But there was new life growing in his wife's body, an unexpected gift, and no, he never meant to raise a child, but that didn't mean that he never wanted to, that looking at other people's babies didn't make his chest squeeze up in pain and regret.

So there was only one thing to be done. He told his elders that when the time came and Father Miller retired, he'd take up the mantle as liaison with the Arkeesians. He spent years learning their language, training under Father Miller to get acquainted with the duties of the job, the ritual that was expected of him if he were to meet the divine emissary that would come to deliver them all from certain death. And as the communications with the Arkeesians increased, the 'if' became 'when'.

He was given a position as the president's theological advisor by right of his rank, by necessity. It took so much preparation and lobbying to get all the pieces in the right position, to ensure that Hank will be there in the room where decisions would be made about the great evil that is going to come to devour the worlds. 

The room where he would watch the Arkeesian ship get tailed and destroyed by some other unidentified ship. Where he would watch all their hopes and efforts blow up in a fireball.

Hank hasn't touched a bottle in years, but as today marks the beginning of the end, he's making an exception. He stops at a liquor store to buy a bottle of black lamb, his poison of choice for many years, before he had Cole.

His son protests at the sight of the bottle, of course. Even if he hadn't known that his father used to be a barely functioning alcoholic, it's not even noon yet. 

"Just one glass," Hank tries to bargain. For all his failures, he manages to look into his son's eyes. Cole is fifteen, still growing into his full height. The ashy blond hair he used to have as a toddler has darkened to a light brown, just like his mother's. But the eyes he's got from Hank, just like the little gap between his front teeth. God, Hank loves that kid so much.

He doesn't know what to do now. There is no contingency plan in case the supreme being never shows up. In just a few days, the universe will fall to hate, despair, and death, and that's that. Maybe, if they fly to Egypt and destroy the temple, they can prevent the great evil using the altar for its own propagation and slow the advent of the universe's death. But that will put them right on the front lines - it will put Cole right on the front lines unless Hank can think of some bullshit errand that will send his son to the farthest ends of the universe-

The alcohol burns in his throat and stomach. He doesn't know how to savor it anymore, maybe he never has. The one glass he allowed himself is quickly dwindling and soon it will be empty and he'll have to make a decision.

The doorbell rings.

With a groan, Hank slams the glass back on the table. He heaves himself off the couch, adjusts his stupid dark brown cloak that makes him look like a fucking Middle Earth character and answers the door.

He is greeted with the sight of a man in a teal colored tank top and dark cargo pants who holds a barely clothed unconscious person in a bridal carry. There are beads of sweat on his forehead.

"Weddings are on the second floor," Hank says, "And the hospital is a few blocks away from here."

"Wait!", the guy shouts and takes a step into the doorway, like he expects Hank to slam the door on them any second. Not the worst instinct in this city; most people just kinda looked after themselves. "We need your help. I'm looking for Father Hank Anderson."

"Well, you found him."

Out of the corner of his vision, Hank can see Cole's lanky form shuffling closer from the hallway.

"He fell through the roof of my cab. Said that his ship crashed and asked me to find you before he passed out. I found your address in the yellow pages."

The man shifts and readjusts the weight in his arms and that's when Hank decides to actually take a closer look at the unconscious person. Right away, his eyes fall to the pale circle of a scar on their temple. His stomach drops.

"When?"

"Just a few hours ago. Can't tell you much else, I'm afraid, he's speaking a language I never heard of."

Hank ushers them in; he takes a quick peek outside to make sure no one overheard their little conversation before he shuts the door behind him. "Put him down on the couch," Hank instructs. He shouts for Cole to get his belt and the key. "Did he say anything else before he passed out?"

"A lot," the stranger says with a dry snort. "But I couldn't understand any of it. There were police on our heels. Any idea why that might be?"

Despite the wary attitude and dry sarcasm, the man lowers the supreme being down almost tenderly.

Police. Huh. That doesn't sound like fun.

"Don't think I caught your name."

"Allen."

"Allen first name or last name?"

"Maybe both." Allen puts a pillow under the supreme being's head. If only he knew-

"Dad," Cole shouts from the other side of the hallway, "I can't find it!"

"It's right-" Hank pauses. Where did he put the insignias again? Shit. Shitshitshit. "I'll be right back. Don't move, either of you."

Allen can't even find it in him to move. He kneels on the carpet, his face inches from his nameless passenger. He did his duty. Made sure his fare was exactly where he wanted to be. By all means, Allen should leave.

Instead, he marvels at how dark the man's lashes are. How peaceful his face appears, now that he is relaxed. You can still see the fine lines of age, but-

His skin is smooth, not a hint of stubble on his jaw. His full lips are slightly parted as he breathes slowly and, unbidden, Allen is reminded of a fairy tale that his mother told him when he was young, about a princess cursed to sleep, only to be awakened by true love's kiss.

But Allen is no prince. And it doesn't seem right to take advantage of a sleeping man. He allows himself only to push back a single lock that has slipped onto his passenger's forehead. His gaze settles on the round scar at the temple. What kind of accident or procedure could leave such a scar?

"What happened to you?", Allen breathes. His fingertip brushes against the pale, slightly raised skin-

Dark eyes fly open. Quick as a snake, the young man strikes and plucks something off of Allen's pants - he doesn't realize what , exactly, until sharp steel kisses the skin of his throat.

Allen raises his hands. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to- I wouldn't have-"

(But he had, hadn't he?)

Angry words spill out of the passenger's mouth. Allen raises to his feet and takes a step back but for every inch he budges, his fare follows. Well. He fucked up. The certainty of this sings in Allen's veins as the young man's hand bunches in the fabric of his top and leans in closer, whispering words in his language as his eyes burn with anger, and betrayal. 

"I want to help you. I did help you, remember? I brought you here in my cab. To Anderson."

"Anderson," the young man repeats. He eases his grip, but not by much.

"Look, I overstepped. I get it. Can we- can we start over? I don't even know your name yet."

He receives a wary squint in return. The knife is inched away from his throat, but not lowered - they may not speak the same language, but Allen starts to believe the other may understand him just a little.

"I'm Allen. Al-len." He places a hand on his chest to illustrate. Then he gestures - slowly, so as not to threaten - at the man in front of him. "What about you?"

The other hesitates. Lowers the knife just a little. " Amin ojela-tot Sattami. "

"Oh. That's. That's a lovely name, really. Do you, uh. Have a nickname? Like a short version. Short ", Allen repeats and holds up his hands slowly to show a couple of inches.

Another squint. "Six-ty," the other says, finally. Welp . Allen tries to smile. "Okay, maybe let's try this again-"

"Allen!", the man repeats and jabs a finger at Allen's chest. "Sixty," he then repeats, gesturing at himself.

"Okay, alright, I get it. I'm sorry. Pleased to meet you, Sixty."

Sixty huffs, but finally he tucks the knife in one of the straps. Allen wants to protest - the young man may just cut himself, but on the other hand, it's not like he has any pockets or belt buckles. He doesn't have much of anything, with this outfit. Allen regrets not wearing a jacket this morning, then maybe he could have offered some kind of modesty. Not that Sixty seems to act shy about his get-up.

The priest takes this moment to burst back into the living room, sporting a maroon robe and a belt with a large buckle. He is trailed by his young acolyte, who carries a pile of... clothes? ... in his arms.

Sixty tenses. He takes a step back, eyes flitting from the priest to Allen and back.

Anderson gets to one knee, as if to propose, and bows his head. He rumbles some words in the same language that Sixty speaks - and Sixty's face lights up. He responds, words bubbling out of him like water from a mountain spring. Anderson laughs.

"Slow down, kid, I'm a bit rusty. Uh. Apipoulaï. Mo… Ecobar. Shichkeman. Ena? " Anderson gets to his feet again, though considerably slower, with all the grace of aching joints. Allen wonders how old the man may be - his hair is dark silver, his face sports a nice, full beard and deep crow's feet. Anywhere between sixty and fifty perhaps?

Anderson places both of his hands firmly on Sixty's shoulders, like a man welcoming his lost son. They exchange a few words in that other language and Allen shrinks away.

He did a good thing today, sure, but it seems that he is no longer needed. There's no small amount of questions burning under his skin, but he doubts that he is entitled to them. This is no longer his story. So he makes his way for the door… and is stopped by the young, gangly acolyte. The kid holds out some money.

"What's that for?"

"You're a taxi driver, right? And you drove them to us. So this is your payment. Unless it's not enough?" The boy starts to fumble and falter. He tries to shove the bills at Allen. "I can get more-"

"Leave it, kid. Get your friend some proper clothes from that money instead."

"But-" The boy protests and so Allen digs deep in his pocket and hands over his card.

"Listen, if you want to repay me, just think of me next time you need a cab, alright? And, uh, take care of our friend here. Keep him out of trouble."

It may be too late for that but the boy still nods. Allen opens the door and… lingers. He takes one final look back at Sixty, who has started to gesticulate animatedly again. Sixty’s focused on the priest and doesn't look his way.

Doesn't rush over to tug at his arm and implore him to stay, because Allen could be useful, surely-

But he isn't wanted.

So he leaves.

The trip home is miserable. The cab makes some awful noises; it's a small miracle that it doesn't break down on the way to the repair shop. They're not thrilled to see the condition it's in. One door missing, a large hole in the roof and who knows how the brakes are looking.

But that's a problem for the future. He's not gonna drive any car in quite some time unless he can find a way to wipe some minor traffic violations off his license’s record. Regain some points. He'll probably have to sit through a stupid seminary on driving safety, too.

He takes the bus home.

When he reaches his apartment, Princess is already pacing in front of his door, yowling miserably as soon as she spots him, like a starving little cloud with pointy claws.

Allen picks her up and soothes her with kisses and promises of a good dinner. He didn't actually buy some, so he'll have to get creative. Sushi sounds great, something for both of them - of course, sushi also comes with a heavy price tag. And Allen isn't going to go to work for at least a couple of days. 

He should have taken the boy's money, pride be damned. Too late now, of course.

He barely sets foot into the apartment when the phone rings again. Allen picks up, doesn't even get to a greeting before Pedro starts ripping him a new one.

"The fuck did you do to the car?"

"Hey Pedro. I ran into a bit of trouble today."

"You don't say! My guy at the shop says it looks like some huge beast took a bite out of that car. Care to explain how that happened?".

Allen lies down on the bed and lets go of Princess. She sniffs the air, turns around and gingerly pats Allen's stomach. Eventually, she tucks herself against his side.

"I had a job that got me into trouble. You know how it is. You know how this city is."

"M-hm. Trouble's got a big pair of double d's by any chance? Is that why you lost your goddamn mind all of a sudden?"

Allen lets his hand run through Princess's soft fur. It doesn't take long for her to purr up a storm - so much noise inside such a small body. "Takes more than a pair of tits to have me acting stupid, Pedro, you know this." 

"Right. You like them feisty. Smart. Too smart for you."

He closes his eyes and tries to conjure the memory of Sixty. The faint scars. Long lashes against smooth, freckled skin. The raw emotion in his words.

"Trouble's got a name?"

"Sixty."

"That's not a name, that's a number."

"Try to tell him that. He wouldn't have it." Allen sighs. 

"Oh, trouble's a boy."

"You don't understand. He was perfect. Six feet tall, dangerous eyes. He has dimples,  Pedro. How can I say no to dimples?"

"I thought you didn't care about perfect."

"I don't," Allen says. "And he wasn't perfect like that. He was perfect like a wave crushing into you, you know. Sweeps you off your feet."

"I wouldn't know," Pedro says. There's a hint of impatience to his voice. "Well, I hope it was worth it. I'm not sure insurance pays for collisions with dreamboats."

Sixty is given a device which holds the grand knowledge of this civilization, and he tries to treat it with respect, he really does, but sometimes when he moves the little arrow in the wrong spot or presses the wrong button on the interface, the thing cries out in affront.

Father Anderson first summons a program that is for children that teaches Sixty the most basic words of his language, the Common American English. After three minutes, Sixty demands an advanced version - they're not going to get far in their quest with terms like Apple and Banana although when presented with the real thing by the young one, Cole, Sixty finds that they are sweet and soft and leave his hands and mouth sticky.

So Sixty learns Bathroom and Faucet and Soap and Water next.

This is fun. Cole shows him how to make bubbles with the soap between his fingers and how to blow them so they take flight. The Arkeesians have soap too, hard, waxy bars that did not foam as much. Sixty likes this liquid soap much better.

He also likes the garments he is offered. They're soft and colorful, and he spends some time trying them on until he settles on a pair of shimmery, sand colored pants that is not so tight that it constricts him, but not so wide that it would flare around his legs with every step. And for his chest, he chooses a garment that is pure white, as it is the only one of the options that does not cover the mark on his chest. He has borne this mark since he was little - barely plucked from the hatchery - they’d carved it into him to show that he was worthy. Supreme . Last, he picked up a shirt that reminded him of home - purple flowers against a teal background, like the waves that lapped against the Garden's barrier in the afternoon light.

He also found some socks, and Cole gave him a pair of shoes that he had outgrown that just about fit Sixty. In his new clothes, Sixty returns to his post at the learning machine. Once he grasps the basic structure of the English language, he moves on to the grand encyclopedia, which holds a vast collection of knowledge, all sorted by blocky starting letters.

"Are you really reading any of that?", Father Anderson asks, in his own tongue. The man's Arkeesian is poor and his accent is grating, so Sixty is almost glad that he doesn't try that much.

"Reading," Sixty replies, because that is what he's doing.

"You're, uh. You're pretty fast. Hard to believe you're taking all of that in."

"Chinchilla," Sixty then offers, because that's the entry he's reached, even if he lacks the vocabulary to go into detail. Father Anderson cranes his neck and squints his eyes together to look at the machine.

"Huh. Would you look at that. Never seen one of those before. I mean, they're kinda cute, but- looks almost too fluffy to be real."

"Fluffy?"

He braces his arm on the backrest of the sofa and leans forward. "Yeah, that's like... it's got a lot of fur, you see. And that fur looks very soft, but also- puffed up? It's like a cloud. A cloud of hair."

Sixty squints. He knows what a cloud is, at least. He reaches out for the priest's silver hair, patting the top of his head gently. "Fluffy," he decides.

It makes Father Anderson laugh. "I guess."

Sixty backs to an earlier article, one that depicts the very vehicle that he chose to jump to. "Cab!", he says, pointing at the picture. "Taxi."

"Yep, that sure is a taxi."

"Allen."

"What's an- oh, you mean the cabbie that brought you here? What about him?"

"Allen driver. Allen... where? Back. Back time."

Humans are fascinating creatures. In the span of a few blinks, Sixty can see Father Anderson's face transform under a host of emotions. Confusion, realization, pain. (Pain? But he wasn't hurt.) The man circles the sofa and takes his seat next to Sixty. He folds up his hands in his lap so they shape a little triangle.

"Yeah, listen kid," Father Anderson starts. Curiously, the term kid referred to a growing human, usually pre-adolescent, and Sixty was neither a fledgeling nor a human. "This mission that we have, to save the universe, it's dangerous. Somewhere out there, there's agents of the great evil and they're going to want to stop us. Hell, I reckon they already tried to - I watched the Arkeesian ship get blown to pieces."

Sixty nods. Of course it's dangerous. That is why he and his siblings were trained to be warriors.

"And that man who brought you here, he isn't part of this. He didn't agree to be dragged into this fight. He has a life that he needs to return to."

[He's not coming back.], Sixty concludes, falling back to his mother tongue, because fumbling his way through English is… frustrating.

"No, I'm afraid not."

Sixty takes a deep breath. Then another. [But I didn't get to say goodbye], he protests.

"I'm sorry."

[It's not fair.]

"Life ain't fair. And it wouldn't be fair either to drag him into this mess when he doesn't have to be. You don't want to see him get hurt, do you?"

Hurt. Injured. Sixty remembers the lifeless body of his brother, the weight of him, the vulnerable state in which Sixty left him behind. They knew what they were made for at least. Of course Sixty does not wish for Allen to be hurt by the people that come for him, but Allen is not weak. He has sided with Sixty when no one else would, has protected him, has brought him here - and then he left? Like he didn't care at all?

It doesn't sound right. There's a part of him that bites and twists inside his stomach over the wrongness of it all, but what is he to do? He has to save the universe.

Father Anderson stretches his legs with much groaning; here is a man who will make a poor warrior, burdened by age through the flaws in his code. Yet he was chosen by the Arkeesians to guide Fifty-three and Sixty.

"Listen, I hate to bring this up now, but your ship got attacked, right? I saw it blow up."

"Boom," Sixty confirms glumly.

"Oh great, he has a sense of humor," Anderson mumbles to himself and scratches the hair on his chin. It seems more coarse, rough. His nails make a sound. "There is a set of four stones that we'll need to activate the altar. If there's any way we can retrieve them from the wreckage."

"Stones gone. Stolen."

"What?", Anderson barks and sits up straighter. Now, Sixty knows that his grasp of the English language is still clumsy, but he thinks he has expressed himself rather concisely.

"Thief. Take box." He watches the priest's face carefully, waits for his features to twist in snarling anger like a predator. Instead, they sag.

"Then we're fucked."

"Fucked," Sixty echoes. He's heard the syllable before, as he was being chased. Not long now, and he will reach the letter F, and maybe then he will understand why the humans keep bringing it up so much.

"Jesus Christ, don't copy that. Just. What are we supposed to do now? Roll over and wait for death?"

Sixty is about to answer, when there's a knock at the door. He perks up. "Allen?"

"I'll go check." Anderson gets to his feet, groaning. Sixty, in his impatience, helps him up. The man is heavy, far from frail. He should not be hurting at his every move.

Another knock.

"Coming," Anderson bellows, even as he makes a shooing motion at Sixty. He perks through a tiny, circular window inside the door. "Who the f- Cole, take our guest and show him the kitchen."

"Who is it, Dad?"

"No fucking clue. It's not Allen," Father Anderson adds, with one last look at Sixty. "So you can calm down."

He continues to shoo them, and Cole links his arm with Sixty to lead him away. It's not until they've ducked into the hallway, that the priest opens the door.

A greeting is issued. Words fall too quickly and too distant for Sixty to decipher, and he's not the only one. Cole squints in confusion. Then there's shouting; something crashing to the floor, and suddenly they're running. Cole leads him to a room with more apples and bananas and he heads straight to a large box that might just be a sarcophagus. Square and a faded yellow. He pushes the thing aside with some strain - and reveals a doorway behind it.

"Quick! In here!"

Sixty hesitates. He doesn't want the dark to swallow him; nothing good grows where the light can't touch. But the boy takes his hand and marches in first- and suddenly the room comes to life around them.

It's slim. Cramped. There's a single bed and a shelf holding many colorful cans and jars.

Cole stays at the entrance and strains himself to pull the sarcophagus back in place. Soon, his hands are covered in soot and fine webbing.

"We have to stay quiet," the boy whispers, and taps a finger over his lips, a gesture that means nothing to Sixty.

"Eat?", Sixty tries.

"Yeah, we got stuff to eat in here. And a bucket, for, y'know." Sixty does not know. Well. Bucket, that he understands. He also recognizes that Cole tries to keep his voice low, because they are hiding . Which means that something must have gone horribly wrong. Which- why didn't they say so? He could have fought. Sixty was made to fight, instead all he does is run and run and hide. Because no one tells him anything.

Because they don't trust him? Because they assume that he is weak? Well. It's not like he's been generous in sharing his information so far, but in Sixty's defense, he had to make sure his new friends could be trusted with it.

They're trying to protect him. Maybe it's time to be honest.

Hank is grabbed and manhandled by three identical looking redheads that drag him out of the apartment. In his younger years, he would have considered this a good time, although even young Hank may not have been stoked about the gun pressed against his temple. Or the fact that as soon as he is pushed into the back of a car in the nearest back alley, the faces of his captors morph into something much more alien.

Mangalores. They look like if someone tried to breed a bulldog with a warthog and they smell twice as bad. One sits right next to him, close enough that he can smell its stinky breath, like meat that's been left outside in the heat for too long. Fuck, he's going to be sick.

"Well, boys. Where are we headed?"

The one with the gun doesn't answer. The driver is too busy flipping switches on his vehicle. Finally, the one on the passenger seat turns its head around and snarls at Hank. "Mister Kamski wants to have a word with you."

"Who?"

"Elijah Kamski, pleased to meet you."

So pleased that Kamski does not bother shaking his hand, nor does he chide his grunts when they push Hank into a swiveling leather chair. They sink into the shadows. The man in front of Hank is wiry, pale, with high cheekbones and cold blue eyes. The sides of his head are shaved, while much of his hair is gathered in a topknot. He is dressed in a silk kimono that depicts cranes in flight and it comes to no surprise to Hank that there are katanas mounted to the wall of the office he's been led to.

He has been captured by a fucking weeb.

"Kamski, right. I recognize you."

"I should hope so, father. We spoke about two weeks ago. I inquired about an ancient case of four stones, bearing the marks of your order. I should think neither my face nor my inquiry were so forgettable."

"No, I mean, I've seen you on TV. You're a gun manufacturer, providing our troops with all sorts of equipment and shiny toys to murder people."

Kamski laughs, dry and sudden. He seats himself behind a massive wooden desk. "Always nice to meet a fan. Would you like a drink, Father Anderson?"

"I don't drink."

Kamski presses one of many buttons that are embedded at the top of his desk in the lower right corner. A hatch pops open at the side, and a bent tube emerges with a tray of some sort underneath it. On the tray, there are two crystal glasses.

"That's not what I heard."

Kamski nudges the first glass under the tube which quickly dispenses an amber liquid. Hank tries not to stare at the way it fills the glass. He knows exactly how it would taste if it hit his lips, how it would burn against his tongue, and he's willing to bet that Kamski has some much finer stuff in store than Hank could ever afford. It's spite that keeps him from reaching out.

"You said you were an art dealer when we met. I guess that was a lie."

"Can't a man have more than one passion? I do love art. It doesn't pay, though. Not anymore. Few people still appreciate the finer things in life." Kamski sighs dramatically and leans back in his chair. "But you understand the beauty that an artifact can hold. That's why I have to ask you, again: where are the stones?" Kamski takes the glass. He swirls around the liquid, taking a curious sniff before leading it to his lips and indulging in a single sip. He licks his lips like a cat. "Well?"

"I didn't have the stones two weeks ago, and I told you as much. Nothing has changed since then. They're still missing, and they're still an important religious artifact."

"Which means that you have no interest in selling them to me, even if you did come into their possession."

"That's correct." Hank flexes his fingers. Kamski feels… slimy, in the way that rich people often do. Who talk all smooth and sweet as honey when all they serve is bullshit. "What do you even want the stones for?"

"Oh, I don't want them. But I have a customer who's searching desperately for them."

"Yeah, well, tell 'em to keep searching. My order's been looking for them for hundreds of years, but you're welcome to try your luck."

"Perhaps you could aid us?"

"Actually, I got two jobs and a kid at home. I got my hands full. But I'm sure a man with your resources doesn't need the help of a poor old priest like me."

Hank watches as Kamski's face turns a nice little shade of pink. The guy probably can't remember the last time someone told him no .

"There is... a fifth artifact."

"Is there?" Hank scratches his beard. "News to me. But the teachings of our order are old as fuck. Wouldn't be surprised if a few of them never got transcribed to paper, much less digitized. 'S not like there are many of us left either."

"True."  Kamski stands. "It seems that I have regrettably wasted both of our precious times. I had expected that a man acting as a direct advisor to the president would know a worthwhile pursuit when it is offered to him."

Hank shrugs. He really doesn't care for the debates and the grand speeches, and whatever else rich people do to sniff each other's asses. He needs to get back to Cole. He needs-

"Remove him," Kamski barks. Hank is lifted out of his seat by two leathery arms and dragged out of Kamski's office - which makes it easy for him to look fucking perturbed because he is . He lets them jostle him around since he's eager to go home again but fuck, he has spent most of his life in New New York and this is the most disrespectful anyone's ever treated him. Including his mother-in-law.

Elijah watches for a moment as the bumbling priest is escorted out. Anderson has always been an unlikely source, considering the Arkeesians were not exactly the most trusting sort, but one would think that if they chose a human emissary, they'd pick one from the order they founded here on earth.

Well. That's what he gets for thinking.

He calls for his right hand - his darling Chloe. Here, at least, is a sight to behold, the perfect woman: slender as a whip and eternally young, made up in a smart blue sheath dress not unlike the uniform of the stewardesses in his favorite space airline. 

Chloe is entirely synthetic, of course. Elijah doesn’t trust anything he didn't create himself.

"Chloe, darling. Tell me you have some good news for me."

She tilts her head slightly. "Depending on your definition of good news... I'm afraid I have only news , neither good nor bad."

He takes a swig of his whiskey and motions for her to go on.

"There have been no new Arkeesian transmissions to the White Ship. There is, however, confirmation that the weapon that the Arkeesians refer to as ‘Supreme Being’ is being held in a medical facility."

"A medical facility? They're not dead?"

"Apparently not. As far as I can tell, there is still a disagreement on how to proceed with them. President Fowler wants to make sure they're not a threat. It seems that he wants to find a way to control them."

The Fifth Element. It was the key to their downfall and if they were not careful enough... well. Elijah has yet to meet a race that cannot be killed by one of his inventions. He'll deal with the precious Supreme Being if it crosses their path, but for now, what they need is the stones.

"I want someone in that facility. Maybe they have the stones there. Probably not. I don't care what you need to do to get it done, who you need to torture or kill, but get me these fucking stones."

By the time Hank stumbles back into his apartment, preparations are underfoot. Cole is packing suitcases. The Supreme Being number Sixty is drawing furiously on a block of white paper, creating sketches of.... star systems?

"What's going on? Did I miss something, or...?"

"We need to go on a trip to get the stones!" Cole shouts as he storms into the bathroom next.

"You found out who stole them?"

"I lied," Sixty says, and the clear and sharp simplicity of it knocks the wind out of Hank's sails.

"I wasn't aware you could do that. Aren't you supposed to be divine?"

That, he doesn't answer, not right away. But Hank notices a change in their guest. Gone were the bumbling pleas and the puppy eyes, replaced by something sharp and focused.

"Arkeesians do not trust. Humans weak. Keep stones safe with friend. Hidden."

"Hidden where?"

Their guest types something into the laptop. A triumphant smile blooms on his face. "Jericho Paradise. Angel Constellation."

He turns around the screen and lo and behold, Sixty has summoned the coordinates of a planet on the screen. He shouldn't have. Hank knows exactly where or what Jericho is - a fucking tourist trap. A whole planet terraformed to create a luxury vacation destination for the rich and the richer. Ordinary people like him never get the chance to see a place like this unless they get very lucky during a raffle which, let's be honest, is probably rigged anyway.

So it's just not gonna happen. Unless.

"You got friends in high places?"

"You have to look at the bright side," Tina Chen informs Allen cheerfully and while he appreciates her enthusiasm in theory, he's had one hell of a day. In fact, he'd shut the window to her face if she wasn't currently busy supplying him with miso soup and putting some fish cutlets on a plate for Princess.

Tina has been helping out with her parents' restaurant business since she was sixteen, and flying the delivery stall since she was twenty-one, so about eight years ago. Allen reckons he's been a customer of hers since day one, which means she has seen more of his life than most people, considering that he called on her once a month, maybe twice if his fares were generous.

"And where's the bright side of that?", he challenged while impaling a potsticker on his chopsticks. He popped the thing in his mouth, chewed thoroughly, and started to count his misfortunes on his fingers, summarizing the account he just gave her.

"So, I lost my license, I wrecked my ride, I might be wanted by the police at this point, oh, and, let's not forget that the single most beautiful man I have ever met just dropped in my life, only to disappear again."

"Well, that does not sound great. But I'm sure it could have been worse!"

As if on cue, a piece of mail arrives in the pneumo tube with a loud clunk. Allen musters the cylindrical casing with suspicion, but makes no move to grab it. He reaches for another potsticker instead.

"You're not gonna open it?"

"Never gotten a letter that wasn't bad news. Nicole also broke up via mail. She was so eager to get away from me that she couldn't even dump me properly."

"You're still hung up on that? That was years ago."

And his ego is still bruised. Sure, they were never a perfect fit. Sure, she had always wanted more from life than dating a cabbie. It was never going to last, but that didn't mean she had the right to go and cheat on him with her dad's lawyer, and elope with him only two months later. Allen couldn't afford to be caught drunk driving, so he dealt with it by getting into fights instead. Poor choices were made.

And one good one. She was perched on the windowsill next to him, devouring her fish with radical speed.

"Alright, give me the message," Tina demands, making grabby motions at the case. "I'll open it for you, since you're too chickenshit to do it yourself."

"Fine by me. Don't tell me I didn't warn you."

"I mean, your luck has to turn eventually," Tina reasons as he hands her the tube. She opens it with a quick twist of the cap and shakes the paper out onto her hand. "Maybe it's bambi eyes, writing you a poem about how much he wants your sorry, self-deprecating ass."

Allen bites the inside of his cheek. "I doubt that. He barely spoke a word of English this morning."

"Well, you never know. Maybe it's- oh." Tina unfolds the paper. Her enthusiasm falters as she reads the first line. The fading sun hits the paper just so, illuminating the black letters. Even mirrored, Allen can read them just fine.

"I'm fired," he says, saving her the misery.

"I'm sorry, David."

"It's alright. Pedro's patience had to run out at some point. And I did just cost him a shitton of money."

She puffs up her cheeks and returns the slip of paper to him. Allen tucks it into his belt, like he isn’t just going to burn the document the second Tina closes up shop again.

"I know it's not gonna be much, but dinner is on me today."

"Tina-"

"Don't protest. It's fine. Now, pick your dessert and don't you dare complain."

With a wan smile, Allen salutes her. "Yes, ma'am."

Chapter Text

Allen watches Tina's little restaurant stand fly off as he pulls a cigarette from the pack. They're dwindling, as is his lighter fluid. It takes a few spins for the gas to light, and when it does, Allen takes a deep drag.

He exhales, feeling a little calmer.

He's going to have to ration his cigarettes, ration his everything. Maybe he should quit smoking altogether, but being broke and on withdrawal is the kind of punishment he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy. He blows the smoke out of the window, where it fades into the everyday haze of the city.

Another message comes through the pneumo tube, but he ignores it. Probably a bill from Pedro. Has to be. No one else gives a damn about him anymore.

Allen makes himself another pot of coffee and spends his evening drinking the awful brew and watching old monster movies with Princess curled up next to him. He likes how uncomplicated they are. Here is an alien creature that tries to kill everyone and everything, that propagates nothing but itself, eradicating everything else in the process. Here are the humans, screaming and fighting each other, some just fighting to survive, others trying to carve a profit from the situation. They all die and most of them deserve it. In the end, there's just a few humans left standing, including the protagonist who will go on, beautiful and battered, to face the monster in the next installment.

Allen likes these kinds of movies because they don't shy away from having horrible things happen to perfectly nice people. And perfectly shitty people, too. No one wins because misery doesn't care about your morality.

Princess stirs. Her ears perk up, and Allen knows there will be a ring at the door before it sounds. His cat still bolts at the noise, hiding in the crevices of the bed's broken machinery - it's supposed to draw in and remake itself but that feature's been broken about as long as Allen's lived here.

He stands and checks the peephole. 

And there, just outside the door, his image distorted by the glass, stands Sixty. Dressed in proper pants this time and wearing a crop top beneath an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt. The man's got a weird fashion sense, Allen has to give him that.

He opens the door- and is greeted by the cluck of a revolver.

"Apologies for the late hour," Father Anderson says as he keeps his gun trained on Allen. "But we could use your help."

"Help," Sixty parrots, but his eyes are on the priest, narrowing. "Help, not hurt ."

"I agree with Sixty. You want something from me, put the gun down. It makes for better conversations."

Anderson stares at him. He's got a few inches on Allen, he's broad, sturdy. And he has cold blue eyes and a snarl that tell Allen not to fuck with him. If he was distracted, Allen could probably wrench the gun out of his hand, but in a proper fight, one-on-one... it's hard to say who would triumph.

Anderson humphs and lowers his gun, uncocking it before he tucks it away.

Allen tries for a smile. "Great. How 'bout a cup of coffee?"

He lets them in, but keeps a close eye on Anderson at every moment. That's the problem with guns, once you reveal that you have one, you turn from a person to a threat until someone else finds a way to get it off you. The next problem, of course, is that a gun can be used by almost anyone, on purpose or by accident.

Anderson made the mistake of showing his hand right away. And he doesn't know about Allen's collection of automatic rifles. Lucky for him, Allen would be hard pressed to shoot a man in his own home.

Sixty sits down on the bed, but jumps up again right away when there's a hiss from the space behind him. 

"That's just my cat. She doesn't like strangers," Allen calls out.

"Cat?", Sixty asks. "Felis catus?"

"Um. Sure. Whatever you say."

"He's been reading the encyclopedia," Anderson offers as he sits his ass down more towards the edge of the bed. Sixty kneels in front of the frame and leans forward onto the mattress, peering into the dark slit where the bed is supposed to go.

"Cat fluffy!", he exclaims, which means that he must have spotted her. The sentiment is promptly followed by the man starting to sing the chorus of cat's in the cradle . Huh.

It's... cute. Real cute. Pretty boy trying to serenade his cat out of hiding?

"You gotta let her come to you. Let her smell you and decide you're safe to be around." He grants Anderson with a poignant stare before offering the man a mug of coffee.

"We need to get to Jericho," Anderson says, and the priest doesn't even have the decency to look sorry. "Me and the kid. There's someone we have to contact there, items we need to retrieve."

Princess' head peeks out. She looks at Sixty. Sixty looks at her.

Anderson seems to be waiting for some kind of response.

Allen decides to indulge him. "Okay, and? What do you want me to do about it?"

"We need the tickets."

Allen doesn't even ask if they mean Jericho the city or Jericho the resort planet. Either destination is equally out of reach for him. "Look, I don't know if you can tell by this-" He gestures at the glorified corridor that makes up his apartment. "But I'm not exactly rich. So if you're expecting me to contribute any funds to the trip, I'm afraid I'll have to say no."

Princess has finally given up her hiding spot and shimmies up to Sixty, sniffing his face. Sixty giggles.

Allen's heart does a little flip.

He knows why the old man brought Sixty along. The priest is going to argue that this is for his benefit and how could Allen disappoint poor, handsome Sixty after all they've been through this morning. It's an old manipulation technique and maybe it could have worked, if Allen wasn't broke as fuck already.

"No, we need the tickets ," Anderson repeats, with more emphasis. "Do you not- You don't know what I'm talking about, do you? You've won the raffle. They've been blaring your name on the radio for the past two hours."

"What raffle?"

"The goddamn Cap'n Crunch raffle. Two tickets to Jericho Paradise for an all-inclusive trip, including a night at their opera house."

Allen blinks. Wonders if he's fallen asleep and this is just some shitty dream. Anderson continues to look at him expectantly. Sixty pets his cat.

"I have never bought a box of Cap'n Crunch in my life."

The doorbell buzzes.

Princess darts through the room like a firecracker went up her ass, knocking over the trash as she catapults herself up on the cabinets. Damn cat. Damn visitors.

"One second," Allen says, and turns to the door. The peephole reveals a familiar face, although one that Allen could have done without. Dressed in his decorative uniform, all badges polished until they shine, stands General Richard Perkins, awaiting entry.

"You need to hide."

"No!", Sixty protests, just as Anderson asks. "Who is it?"

"The fucking military. You keen on meeting them?"

The way the priest's face falls tells Allen that he's not. Sixty, on the other hand, puffs up. "No hiding. Hiding over."

"Trust me, you're going to want to," Allen promises.

"Where?", Anderson asks, already grabbing Sixty by the arm in a way that Allen does not care for one bit.

"Shower should just be big enough for the two of you. I'm sorry." He apologizes for Sixty's sake. He isn't quite sure what Anderson's deal is and he's starting to wonder if Sixty is really safe with the guy, but finding out will have to wait until-

Another buzz.

Allen opens the door to the shower, which is just a barrel of a room, really, but you can't look in and unlike the shitter, there's no risk of an unexpected visitor needing to use it.

"No hiding," Sixty insists, again, "want to fight. Protect Allen."

"Sweetheart, if you wanna protect me, you need to get in there. Please. It'll make everything so much easier if you do."

Sixty pouts, but lets himself get dragged in by the priest.

(And this is how Sixty ends up in a cramped space with a member of the Anderson family for a second time that day. It stings less when Allen is the one to ask him, but this place has even less to offer than the last, no ravioli in cans, no-

Water starts to drip on him from above. Cold first, then getting warmer. Anderson curses. Sixty, shrinking against the curved wall to get a little less wet, reminds him to be quiet. Quiet and unseen, that's what hiding means.

Even when you'd rather scream and punch something.)

"General," Allen greets as he opens the door. Perkins is a small, hawkish man, in spirit as well as in appearance. He's a man that prefers swift and ruthless action over a more gentle approach. A man whose decisions have gotten a lot of good people killed.

"Major Allen. What a pleasure to see you."

"No it isn't."

"No it isn't," Perkins agrees with a sharp smile before inviting himself in. Stepping forward with conviction, sure that Allen will make way. (And he does. The sooner Perkins has his say, the sooner this can be over.)

"Major, the United States and this very planet have need of your services. By now you should have received a crucial piece of mail-"

"I'm no longer with the army," Allen points out. He watches Perkins step into the center of his apartment and take it all in, the messy, broken down nothingness of this place, and Perkins looks so fucking pleased with himself. Like this is the kind of place he'd imagined Allen to belong.

"That's not quite true. See, we did the math and according to your file, you requested a few days of absence to visit your mother back in 2199, a request that was generously granted."

"You mean when she was dying?", Allen asks. 

"You still owe us four days, Major. That will be more than enough to finish the job I have in mind for you."

"Oh, fuck you."

Perkins smiles and trots over to the pneumo tube. "You really should open your mail in a more timely manner. Maybe then you'd realize I've come with a gift."

He takes the container and twists it open, pulling out two slips of half transparent plastic film, adorned with rainbow colored dots like ever so much graffiti. "I've got two tickets to Jericho Paradise here just for you. Well, you and the civilian operative you will accompany."

"What's in Jericho?"

"A singer. The Diva Lucy Plavaluna. She has a set of artifacts that you must retrieve. Although you can just leave the details to our man, he will know what to do. Your job is to make sure the transaction goes smoothly and no one gets hurt."

"Why me?", Allen asks. There are plenty of young men and women employed by the army at this very moment, plenty of poor fools that Perkins could order around, so why bother with him?

"Because you're the best."

Allen squints.

So Perkins tries to sweet-talk him. "You know how to fly like the devil, you're acquainted with nearly any type of weaponry, you know how to drive a tank-"

"You want me to drive a tank through Jericho Paradise?"

"I'm just saying," Perkins finishes, "that you are uniquely skilled. And you have been known among your comrades to never leave a man behind."

And a fat lot of good that did for any of them. Yes, Allen brought them back home, sometimes in pieces, sometimes in memories, sometimes alive only in the medical sense. And those that did return struggled to exist among normal people. Bowens died in a bar fight that he started himself. Springsteen ODed, Ramirez picked the barrel of a gun. Carpenter is probably still alive, roaming the streets as a nobody. Pedro made it out with his mind intact, only sacrificing a hand and a life's worth of good night's sleep. 

Allen looks at the tickets and wonders if the military is looking for the same thing that Anderson is. Has to be. The timing is too perfect to be incidental.

"And if I do this one job, you'll fuck off and leave me alone? No more surprise visits?"

The tickets are already in his name, so they don't have a backup at this point. Allen could negotiate a little further if he wanted to, but negotiations take time and Perkins is not exactly the generous sort.

"You have my word," Perkins promises, sweet as spoiled milk.

Allen takes the damn tickets.

He forgot that the shower is weight triggered. The second someone who weighs more than fifty pounds steps in and closes the door behind themselves, the spray comes on. Which is convenient when you step out and don't have to worry about turning it off, but not so convenient when you're trying to hide someone in there. Especially because at any given time, the building has no more than ten minutes worth of hot water.

When Allen opens the shower door, Sixty is shivering like one of these tiny dogs that people like to carry around in handbags, and Anderson's hair is curling up impressively, but he looks like a man who has pretty much resigned to his fate. 

Allen apologizes for the inconveniences as he helps Sixty step out of the shower.

"I'll grab some towels. And you-" He points at Anderson. "Owe me a few answers."

"Towels first," Anderson growls as he runs a hand through his wet hair, pulling it back, out of his face. Allen decides that this is only fair.

So towels it is. He hands one to Anderson, and wraps the other around Sixty's shoulders. Starts rubbing the young man's head dry as if he's just a kid, which… he really isn't. Sixty is probably taller than Allen by a small margin, but he keeps on making himself smaller, hunching and crouching, flinching at loud noises like a prey animal. Allen has to think of Princess, when he first took her in. The way she would hiss and purr and hiss again when she was petted, so unused to kind treatment. Allen has no idea who is trying to get to Sixty or why, but he'll be damned if he lets it happen.

Sixty stops shivering when Allen moves on to his shoulders. With his hair sticking up at odd angles and scrunching up his nose, he does kinda look like a kitten that had just gotten a bath. Well, if kittens could pout.

"Don't look at me like that. I said I'm sorry. The shower seemed to be the safest option to hide in-"

"Allen leaving," Sixty says, more accusation than question. "Not fair."

"Well, if we're playing our cards right, I'm taking you with me. Just have to figure out how to ditch the extra."

"No," Sixty insists. "Allen gone. Me all alone."

"I don't understand, do you want me to go, or-"

"He's mad that you left," Anderson cuts in and for a brief moment, Allen did forget that the man was even there. So much for staying frosty and alert. "He's been complaining about it all evening. Personally, if it wasn't for the tickets, I wouldn't have involved you of all people. No offense, but you're... an unknown element."

"None taken," Allen says drily. "Although I don't appreciate being threatened in my own home."

Anderson offers a well, what can you do sort of gesture. Next to Allen, Sixty is chittering complaints in his mother tongue although if it's directed at him or the priest, he can't say.

Allen does what he always does when he maneuvered himself in an unknown situation: he focuses on the basics. Right now, he has two guests in soaked clothes. Anderson is a bear of a man, so the best he can offer him is a bathrobe that's going to be a little too small and a blanket that miraculously isn't full of cat hairs. For Sixty, some of his own clothes should work. He's got plenty of sweats from his army days that he wouldn't mind giving away permanently.

Father Anderson slinks into the bathroom to wriggle out of his wet clothes. Meanwhile, Sixty...

Sixty strips down right in front of Allen, without so much of a warning. Not to flirt or tease, but as if he did not consider that his own nudity could have an effect on other people.

And ideally, it shouldn't.

Allen has seen his fair share of naked men in communal showers, men that he saw every day, that he fought with, that were like brothers to him.

It's different when you like someone, though. When you've shared glances and found excuses to touch the other, when the mere sight of them makes something in your chest seize up.

He politely averts his eyes and remembers to pick up his laundry basket. There's a dryer in the basement of the apartment, and at this hour, it might just be empty. Might. A lot of the renters here keep odd hours, working cycling shifts, they're cleaners, janitors, factory workers.

He picks up Sixty's soggy clothes, then Anderson's (which luckily doesn't include underwear) and makes sure the flight tickets are tucked safely in his pants pockets before he makes the trip to the laundry room.

They're not fucking leaving without him.

Sixty is cozy. Allen's clothes are warm, and imbued with a sharp, fresh smell. He is given a blanket to wrap himself in and another machine to continue his studies of Earth's knowledge, and as he sits down at Allen’s narrow desk, tucking his legs under his body, the white fluffy cat pounces on the floor next to him. After a brief moment of consideration, she jumps onto Sixty's lap, and curls up there.

Maybe this is her spot. Maybe these clothes smell like home to her. Whatever her reason, she chooses Sixty, and he takes it as the gift that it is. He lets his fingers run through her fur carefully, and continues reading. Slower now, keeping one ear to the conversation that happens behind him, about him.

The men are not as quiet as they think, and Sixty is quick at picking up their language, even if he struggles to replicate it. Verbs are particularly hard, and while he can look up what things mean, in order to do that, he also needs to know what to look for.

It's... frustrating.

He wants to be able to have a proper conversation with Allen, without the barrier of language, without Father Anderson's presence looming nearby all the time. Why is that so much to ask for?

"Perkins expects me to meet him at the airport at five thirty in the morning. The shuttle to Jericho takes off at six forty-five. I'm thinking we check in at five, and then hide in the shops nearby until onboarding begins."

They are perched on the windowsill, Allen and the priest. Looking out over the city that consists of cold twinkling lights and concrete monoliths and billboards in garish, blinding colors that scream at you to buy, buy, buy ! A perfect neon hell.

"We still need a passport for Sixty," Father Anderson points out and Allen offers a grim smile.

"Already taken care of. I know a guy. And according to him, Multipasses are incredibly easy to fake, so we shouldn't run into any trouble." Driver's licenses take longer to make but if all pans out, his new one should be ready by the time Allen returns to earth. "Now you tell me: what's in Jericho Paradise that's so important? And what does the military want with it?"

Anderson tries to pull the bathrobe tighter around himself, grumbling as he does so. Allen gets the impression that the man is not used to being questioned.

"There are four stones. When they are set into the right position in an ancient temple in Egypt, they power up a mechanism to defeat a great evil that has come into this world to eradicate all life, big and small."

"A great evil," Allen repeats. "Like what, you're gonna power up a laser to kill capitalism? Climate change?"

Anderson's eyes narrow. "I'm talking about destruction incarnate. If you don't believe me, call up your general and ask him about the new planet that has suddenly appeared in our galaxy. Or why it's moving towards earth. I assure you, there is a very real threat here, and there is only one way to stop it."

"Why not go to the military then? Pool our resources? They're looking for the same thing, aren't they?"

"Perhaps. But evil has its own agents. All I know is that someone shot up Sixty's ship to prevent him from reaching earth. Kid survived through some kind of miracle, but I'm not so sure he's gonna make it a second time. And we need him, just as much as the stones."

"Why? What's his role in all of this?"

Anderson musters him with a little huff, not bothering to reign in his distrust. Well, it's either distrust or the man is just grumpy and abrasive as a default... which would be an odd disposition for a priest. You don't usually join a church because you hate people, that's what cults and militias are for.

"He's the one who has to set the mechanism in motion. He's also the only one that the diva will give the stones to, which is why he has to go along with you. Which will put him in harm's way."

"You think?"

Anderson doesn’t bite. "Also, if I may add one more thing. Couldn't help but notice the long looks you're giving the kid. Don't. Just... don't. He's meant for something big, something important. I don't want to see the world end just because you had him distracted ."

A white-hot prickle settles at the back of Allen’s neck. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't." Anderson leans back. His attention trails over to Sixty, hunched and wrapped up on Allen's desk chair. Letting his body become a perfect little tent for Princess to hide in. "I don't have much in this world except my kid. And I want him to live to see his sixteenth birthday. We've made plans, you see. He insisted. Kid's got probably more faith in the whole operation than me. There is so much that all hinges on Sixty doing his part."

"And does he get to have any say in that?", Allen challenges.

He is being a hypocrite, of course. He's been in war zones, he knows how little a single life is valued when it's about the ominous greater good and yes, he would like to live, even if the life he has right now is beyond fucked. But the idea of people parading Sixty around like a tool to be used, that doesn't sit right with him either.

It doesn't quite sit right with Anderson either, Allen suspects. The priest rubs his neck and stares at the wall above Allen's head.

"It's his mission," Anderson says, which is a deflection at best. "I should hope he's on board with it. And once it's done, he is free to do as he pleases."

He bites back a remark. Just one more job, then you're going home. He knows the song. It got old a while back. It might just be different this time - how often can the universe be under threat of literal evil? Doesn't hurt to be wary, though.

"I'll make sure nothing touches him. You have my word."

The airport is bustling with people, even at four thirty in the morning. It's... a lot. Allen can already feel a headache coming on, and his eyes feel sore. He only took a little nap curled up on his window sill, and only after Father Anderson snored happily away. Didn’t want the man to get any… ideas.

Sixty, on the other hand, is chipper. Looking at everything with wide eyes, staring and waving at people he doesn't know - it's a good thing they showed up so early because they're attracting quite the attention.

At least he keeps the pace - Allen has a hold on Sixty's wrist, but he doesn't want to yank the man around like a dog on a leash. Instead, he promises there will be time enough to look around once they finish checking in. As usual, he has no clue if Sixty even understands - but he is met with brown eyes that sparkle with interest. There's a hint of mischief in the crooked curve of his mouth, too, something that promises to get Allen in trouble.

He just hopes it's the fun kind of trouble.

The attendant at the counter is a man in his mid-thirties, blond, pale, with dark bags under his eyes. Simon, his name plate reads. He's wearing a tight outfit, medium blue jacket with silver accents and generous chest cutouts. The same shade of blue lines his eyes, washing them out to a watery gray.

"Hi." Allen greets, and places the ticket on the counter. "We'd like to check in."

Simon hums in acknowledgement, as he takes up the tickets. "Oh. These are... congratulations on your prize, Mr. Allen. May I see your ID, please?"

Allen hands the man two multipasses. Simon picks them up, checks that the face on the pass matches the person right in front of him-

His forehead wrinkles; he turns to Allen's companion. "Sir, your name is Sixty? Sixty Allen?"

"That's the romanization. He's not from the US," Allen hurries to say.

"Multipass!," Sixty adds helpfully, pointing at the little plastic card.

"We just got married. This is going to be our honeymoon," Allen informs the attendant, in what he hopes is a cheerful, carefree tone. Does Simon's smile look strained? He hands back their passes - Sixty holds up his with pride. "Sixty Allen multipass."

Allen reaches for Sixty's hand and lowers it. "He knows what a multipass is, baby. He sees them all the time. Sorry-" the latter is aimed at Simon, who blinks. "He grew up sheltered."

"I see." Simon turns to his computer and starts typing something up. "Do you have bags to check in?"

"Just the one."

"Great." More typing. Somewhere inside the cubicle, a printer stutters to life. Simon slides over a paper tag. "Attach that to your luggage and bring it to the counter to your right. If the guy behind it looks like me, you know you're in the right place."

"Okay?" That's an odd thing to say, but who is Allen to judge? Simon hands them their boarding passes next, freshly printed, and nothing else matters.

He moves on, keeping Sixty close.

The man who checks in their bag does look like Simon, down to the sideburns. Sixty actually sneaks glances back and forth between the two counters. "Konna!", he gasps tugging at the back of Allen's top. "Allen, konna!"

"Soon, honey," he mutters, praying that no one will ask him what it means. Usually, Sixty at least tries to communicate in bits of English. Without Anderson around to translate, Sixty could warn him of imminent danger and Allen would be none the wiser.

Luckily, Daniel could not care less about any of them. Doesn't even acknowledge when Allen explains the excitement of his ‘husband’ with the honeymoon excuse. The man's interest begins and ends with the weight and tag of their bag.

With that, only the security check is left. Allen instructs Sixty to watch as he goes first. Making sure to look as bored as possible as he takes off his shoes and empties his pockets, before going through the scanner. They don't have carry-on, so that speeds things up. And Sixty is smart. He copies Allen's actions down to the polite disinterest on his face.

Still. The relief that floods Allen's bloodstream when they're released is more potent than any drug. He allows himself to pull Sixty into a hug, and whispers assurances in the man's ear. Sixty is doing so good considering that he doesn't have the faintest clue what's going on.

After a short moment, Sixty's arms wrap around him in turn.

"Protect mine," he whispers, with a hint of stubbornness. Once again, the meaning is lost to Allen, despite knowing the words. Too much can be read into the gaps - is Sixty asking to be protected or does he really mean to protect what's his - and what is his? Didn't he come to this planet alone and without a thing to his name?

Allen files away the questions for later. He hopes they have time.

"Come on, let's find our gate. Then we can have some fun."

There are so many people.

Some stand about in clusters, some rush from one end of the hall to the next. There's laughter and yawning and grumpy stares - somewhere, someone is crying. Sixty's eyes search for the source of the wailing until he spots a child, long-haired and red-faced. Its mother dabs away the tears and presses her lips on its forehead, whispering soothing words all the while. He supposes this is the human equivalent to licking one's young. He wouldn't know. He never had a mother. When he was wanting for comfort, he had to find his own ways to acquire it. Usually, all he had to do was find his sibling, who existed on a baseline of sadness, and squeeze him thoroughly to make both of them feel better. And if Fifty-three wasn't sad, well. Sixty had his ways to make him so.

But Allen had embraced him, unprompted. Maybe he had needed it. Maybe they both needed it. Allen smelled good: like something sharp and spicy, sure, that’s the scent he coated himself with on purpose. But underneath that there was a note more earthy and salty that scratched an itch within Sixty's brain that’s usually reserved for his favorite food, or the scent of smoke when you blew out a candle. He wanted to chase it.

Why did Allen stop holding him? It wasn't fair. There are plenty of other people in this space hub that lean onto each other, sharing their affection. A man has rested his head on his woman's shoulder to doze off. Two younger people are engaged in a more messy exchange, bringing their lips to one another noisily, communicating by the slip of tongue against tongue.

It's... mesmerizing to watch, even if the rest of the people don't seem to think so. Most avert their eyes. Those that don't twist their faces into snarls to show their disapproval.

Sixty would have liked to ask about it, but he's not sure he has the words for it yet. It will have to wait until he does, or until he stumbles onto the answer in one of the knowledge machines.

Allen takes him to a shop next, where shelves are filled high and plentiful with the most colorful of boxes. Almost every corridor has pictures hung up of humans with very symmetric faces, skin untouched by age. And there's mirrors - so many mirrors. In the garden, the siblings had a single one, an oval hand mirror with an elegant frame, but blackened by age. If Sixty wanted to see more of himself than a glimpse- of he wanted to see all of himself - he had to go to the pond and hope for a quiet day, without any breeze to ripple the surface.

These mirrors are big, rectangular and shiny-new. When Sixty steps in front of one, he can see his entire torso, his proportions and - in the harsh artificial lights of this space - every freckle and scar on his skin, including the pale spot right in the middle of his forehead that he does not remember acquiring. He squints and steps up closer to his reflection. Rubs over the slightly hollowed flesh.

When did that happen? In the crash? But a fresh injury would leave a pink mark, the white is a sign of age. So, when? There's no chance that he just forgot, right?

(There is a time between the explosion and the waking where everything is black. But he knows when their ship neared earth and he can estimate when the evil will arrive on this planet and judging by that, he cannot have lost more than a day. Maybe even less. So maybe this is something the humans did to him while he was asleep?)

"There's no need to fuss," Allen chuckles, and Sixty meets his mirthful stare in the reflection. "You're beautiful as you are."

There is some color to his eyes, a pale, washed-out shade of blue, but if anything, they are the color of stormclouds. Sixty likes that. And he likes that most of the time, these storm-colored eyes are looking for him, at him. Allen has scars too. One across his nose and a few across the left side of his temple, then two more high on his cheekbones, curving like sickles. There must be a story to them; surely Allen has not spent most of his life trapped on a lush island, play fighting with his siblings in want of a proper match.

He opens his mouth, even as his brain struggles to find the right words in English, but just before he can ask, something chimes up.

Allen holds up a finger, which is a sign to wait . Then he rummages in the pocket of his pants and pulls out the source of the musical noise, a heavy, square-shaped device. Allen presses a button and holds the thing up to his ear, talking away. Huh. So it's a communicator, albeit a rather bulky one. 

"Allen here... General! What do you need?" Allen turns his body away from Sixty, and leans his arm against one of the shelves. His attention wanders to the entrance of the store. "I'm where I'm supposed to be, Sir. Took the liberty of checking in early. You know how it is with airports, if you show up two hours before your flight, you're almost too late."

There is a pause.

"I know what I was supposed to do, Sir, but in my opinion, bringing in a civilian only adds an unnecessary risk. I've found someone who could be far more useful to the mission. If you want to - I am not fucking around." Allen raises his voice, which has a few people turning their heads and staring at him. One of them, a young female with long, ink-colored hair and brown skin, holds her arm half raised. There is a series of markings on the underside of it, varying shades of red and ochre. After giving Allen another pinched look, she turns away and picks up a little black tube off a shelf.

"I know what's at stake, I've done my own research into it. I know how fucked we are if I fail. I'll get you the damn stones, but I'll do it my way. Don't try to interfere."

The tube, Sixty notices, is paint. The young one twists it out and puts another streak on her skin, this one dark as berries. Interesting.

"And if he is Jesus himself, I don't know your guy. If you want me to work, let me work ."

Allen puts the communicator away with a last exclamation of disdain. Then he reaches for Sixty's arm - though not unkindly - and tugs him along, away from the entrance. His brows are knotted in irritation. Something came up, Sixty is sure of it. Unfortunately, no one ever tells him these things.

Allen fucks about the stores for a while, picking up overpriced snacks here and there, some water, some bandages for smaller scrapes and bruises, a wound-cleaning spray. He picks up a plain t-shirt and sweater for Sixty, choosing a size smaller than what he'd wear himself because Sixty may be taller by an inch, but he's more slender than Allen. (They have some funds for this trip, courtesy of Father Anderson, who slipped the money to Allen inside an envelope, like a grandpa spoiling his grandchildren. This time, Allen did not refuse.)

Eventually, the boarding for their flight is called. Allen keeps an eye open for military presence as he ushers them to the gate. There's a line starting to form, and they take their positions.

Allen gestures for Sixty to keep his boarding pass and multipass ready, and to watch the other people before them - how their documents are checked, how they file in and step onto the bridge.

Everything's going smoothly, right until the moment an attendant checks his documents and looks up and gestures excitedly - and suddenly Allen finds himself apprehended and pulled out of the line by two beautiful women in tight leather getups. 

Sixty cries out in protest. 

The world seems to tilt on its axis, and then there's a figure standing in front of him, clad in a soft white sweater, dark eyes framed by eyeshadow as glittery as freshly fallen snow. Her lashes are red, poking out from her eyelids like the fins of a poisonous fish. Her hair is a blend of red hues too, mahogany and copper and sandy brown all shifting into another until you cannot determine which one prevails. It is gathered into a topknot that looks easy, a little disheveled but artfully so. Probably took an hour to get just right to evoke the illusion of effortlessness and ease. The woman is staring him down, talking but not talking to him, merely at him. He almost missed the tiny square microphone she holds up to her cinnamon lips.

"And here he is, the man of the hour, envied by all of the country, the one, the only, David Allen. He stands strong more than tall, rock-solid shoulders, the kind you want to lean on when the going gets rough and his face - girls, hide your mothers, it's giving four o-clock-shadow, it's giving grumpy action star. Allen, my man, what is it like to be chosen?"

Her words spill quick and evenly, like sand trickling through an hour glass. Allen's brain is still catching up when she holds the mic in his face. His mind blanks.

What is it like to be chosen?

"Weird," he supplies.

The woman waits, expectantly, but he has nothing else to give.

"Anything else you want to share with the world? Dreams, fears, daddy issues?"

"No." On this, he stands firm. This was supposed to be a stealthy mission. He looks about, searching for military presence, someone to snatch the fucking reporter away but there is no one. The one fucking time he’d be glad to see Perkins-

The woman appears slightly more annoyed now. She lowers her mic back to herself and finishes up, words flowing somehow even faster: "There we have it, a man of secrets, shrouding himself in a cloak of mystery. Tune in again when the stoic meets the power of music as I bring you along to the concert of the century - the ethereal Diva Lucy Plavaluna returning for her as of yet, last performance. When we hear each other again, I will be at Jericho Paradise, enjoying the wine, the women, just as the gods intended. This is North, going south, going to the stars to bring them a little closer to you. For now, I bid you farewell, my little deviants. Stay weird and stay curious."

And with that, the lady drops her sultry smile. She hands her little microphone to one of the women flanking Allen, and honest to god snarls at him. "What the fuck was that, man? You couldn't have given me less if I asked for it. Is it so hard to smile and nod and answer a few questions?"

"I wasn't aware I was required to give an interview. Especially when I'm about to board a flight," Allen says - and talking about boarding, he can't spot Sixty in the line of passengers anymore. Shit. Surely he went in? Surely some nice flight attendant led him to their spot, no reason to freak out, right?

"Well, I'm sorry they didn't tell you you'd be on the most famous radio show this side of the milky way," the woman (North? Wait, North Starr? The North Starr, self proclaimed DJane of the century, a title easily earned when you're the only DJane that’s still in the business. No one was doing live anymore - everyone just made podcasts. But if this is North Starr, then Allen's voice just went live on the ether, no chance of editing. Great.)

"Are you listening to me?", North snaps.

"No. If you excuse me, I need to find my husband."

"That's cute, but you still owe me a show, buddy. Tonight, for the concert. We're broadcasting the whole performance, so I hope for your sake that you remember to bring your energy. And your words. Eat a dictionary if you have to, but do. Not." She takes a step closer, poking his chest to underline every final word. "Embarrass. Me. Got that?"

"Sure. Because I got nothing better to do than letting you parade me around like a prize chicken at the country fair."

"You hear that, Echo?", North exclaims, turning to the first of her handmaidens, a young woman with blue hair, gathered in a ponytail. " Now he's got sass! Keep the attitude for the show, Dave, and maybe you can make a name for yourself."

"Don't call me that. That's not my fucking name."

North snaps her fingers and the other handmaiden, a girl with short-cropped orange hair, hands her a flute of some kind. Or not a flute- the device is no instrument, despite North leading it to her mouth. It's one of those goddamn electric cigarette things. The lady blows out a large white cloud of smoke right into his face. It smells like vanilla and pastries. "I’ll call you whatever I want, Schwarzenegger, until you stop fucking up my show."

Great. This is going to be a fun trip.

Father Hank Anderson is drinking. Again. Not one of his proudest moments, for sure. The airport bar may be open at all times and the bartender may be a blocky robot guy who isn't programmed to judge you, but that doesn't mean it’s right to park your ass at the bar early in the morning and order a whiskey neat.

But whatever, the world is ending, humanity's only hope is about to fly off in a plane with a guy they met yesterday and there is nothing Hank can do but wait and pray for them to return safely. It sucks.

So he drinks.

He’s alone at the bar, just him and his self pity, and the liquor is burning his throat in a way that Hank both despises and craves. And then some asshole chooses the seat next to him. In a fucking empty bar.

"Rough day?", the stranger asks and Hank could almost trick himself into believing that the raspy voice belongs to Sixty. Yeah. Sure. Then they'd really be fucked. It’s probably his guilt playing tricks on him.

"You could say that." He risks a half-bored glance to the side, enough to take in the business suit of his barstool neighbor. Great. That's the one thing he needs right now. Fucking white collar asshole complaining about his cushy job or his beautiful wife. He's not sure he has the patience for it right now. So he orders another drink. And the guy next to him motions for the same.

The robot pours out some perfectly measured amount of whiskey.

"I was meant to do one job and one job only," Mr. Suit says. "I trained for this my whole life. And then they just kicked me off the mission like I'm replaceable!"

"That's rough kid," Hank says before knocking back his whiskey. He wished this shit could burn his brain as much as it burns his throat. Burn out the worries, and all his stupid impulses too, and leave a brighter, better man instead. Someone who doesn't threaten random people with guns. If he had been more capable, or just fucking younger, he could have supported Sixty every step of the way-

"How do you feel about kissing strangers?"

Hank chokes, and it's got nothing to do with the whiskey this time. He swivels a little in his chair to tell Mr. Suit what the fuck, actually , when his eyes settle on Sixty's face. Oh. Oh fuck. "You're not supposed to be here."

"That's what I'm saying!", Sixty - in a suit! Where the fuck did the kid get a suit? - complained. And then Hank watches in horror as the fucking supreme being dips two fingers in his whiskey and then in his mouth in a gesture that is both disgusting and vaguely sexual. "I'm meant to be on my way to save the universe, but no, the guy they chose to accompany me went off without me. Didn't even bother to get to know me. I can protect people! I'm meant to protect people."

The kid doesn't talk like Sixty, is the thing. Doesn't sulk like Sixty, isn't dressed like Sixty. And there is no white scar in the middle of his forehead.

"You're Connor," Hank says. "The other one, the one that Sixty had to leave behind."

Connor freezes, and looks at Hank properly now, forehead falling into wrinkles. He and Sixty are identical, down to the moles on their faces and yet, doesn’t emote like Sixty at all.

"It's pronounced konna . It means mirror image. It's the closest thing to twin that the divine language has. Did... how do you know Sixty? Where is he?"

"On the plane, I hope, about to fly to Jericho to get the stones. With the guy the military picked out for you, I think. I'm Hank. Hank Anderson, from the order of the five."

Hank offers his hand, but the kid just gapes at him.

"You're Father Anderson!"

"Just Hank is fine, actually. What with you being the pinnacle of creation and so on."

The supreme being (number two!) takes a kitten sip of his whiskey and twists up his whole face in disgust. Coughing a little, he pushes the glass away. "I don't feel like the pinnacle of creation. I don't feel like much of anything, really. Just some guy they keep pushing around and now, I don't even get to be where I'm meant to be."

"You got a name, kid?"

"Fifty-Three."

"Hell nah, I'm not calling you that."

"Then I guess Connor will do." Connor raises an eyebrow. "So my brother left you behind, too?"

Hank shrugs. "Yeah, but I get it. Not sure how much use I'd be in a fight. Plus, he kept making eyes at the cabbie all this time. God knows, they're probably already tearing each other's clothes off. Jesus." Hank pinches the bridge of his nose. What a galactic mess.

"Why would they- oh. You think they're going to have intercourse."

"Please don't call it that."

Connor nods eagerly. With the getup, he makes Hank think of an insurance salesman. "It's not unlikely. The suppressors have to wear off at some point."

"The what now?", Hank bellows, but it's swallowed by the sound of an explosion that rocks the airport. Alarms start blaring. Yellow lights flicker to live above the doors.

"Sounds like trouble," the priest notes. His stomach sinks.

Connor slips off the barstool and lands in a crouch. He ducks against the side of the bar. Belatedly, Hank tries to follow his example, forgetting that his own body is not as honed, or graceful. He almost falls over.

"We should investigate. Maybe it's our enemies, coming to hunt us down," Connor says. It sounds like a line in a bad soap opera. Like he has no idea who his enemies are even supposed to be.

"Wait. You're not gonna run right into danger, are you kid?" Hank grabs Connor by the arm, just to ensure the young man doesn't try anything stupid. 

"Where else am I supposed to run? I am a protector. I protect." In his stubbornness and pout, Hank recognizes some of Sixty, and yet- what a difference language can make. Connor is so much more eloquent, talking like a library professor while his twin barely manages toddler level communication, and that... if Hank is honest, he can see how that might have led to him underestimating the kid. It's harder to brush off the fucking captain of the debate team.

"You can't protect shit if you die. C'mon, let's get out of here."

"I could warn my brother!"

"They'll never let you on board!"

Unless, a quiet voice inside Hank’s head speaks up. Things are getting pretty hectic. People running about screaming, police officers marching in to quell the rising panic. It's one hell of a distraction. Most of security will be focused on the gates and the passengers at the terminals- and that means less eyes will be watching the tarmac.

"Hey, Connor. You wanna sneak onto a plane?"

Connor's face breaks into an apprehensive smile. "I’d love to."

Chapter Text

Follow the people in blue. It's a simple enough rule, one that Sixty has sussed out for himself. The people in blue, they're the ones to look at your papers, look at your multipass and then point you in a direction to go. And that's why, when Allen is taken away right in front of him (no fight broke out, that was a good sign, right?), Sixty approaches the nearest blue clad human and shows them his documents.

The young man - it's most likely a man, the deep cut vest he wears showed a flat chest - regards first the documents, then Sixty himself with mismatched eyes. One blue, one green.

"Do you need help finding your spot, Sir?"

"Need help," Sixty confirms. "Finding... husband."

It proves to be the wrong thing to say. Mister beautiful eyes raises a brow, the universal sign of uh-oh! Sixty is acting weird again! And tries to placate him. "If your husband has the same pod booked as you, he'll find you soon enough. So why don't I lead you where you need to go, and then you let him find you. Alright?"

Sixty deflates. "Alright," he says miserably because saying no means causing a scene, and he has been explicitly forbidden from doing that.

So the man in blue moves on, into a tunnel, and Sixty follows. Absently, he notes that the garment covering the man's rump is rather short. Granted, they all wear short garments, skirts or pants that cut off below the buttocks.

It's just that-

Hm.

Sixty can't help looking at it. The way the thin fabric clings so tightly that it reveals more than it covers. The way that Sixty could extrapolate exactly how that butt would look outside of it.

A warm flush runs through him, equally parts embarrassment and pleasant tingle.

He shouldn't- there is nothing wrong with nudity, he wouldn't mind his own, he could strip down to nothing this very instant and it would mean very little to him.

But, ah-

"Sir?"

His guide turns around and Sixty's eyes snap up, up! Eye contact. Normal human interaction. He can do that, right?

"We're here," his guide informs him. They are standing in a hallway of cream-colored plastic. Set into the walls are see-through doors, or lids rather, revealing many an alcove beyond. It's like they walked into a crypt.

The man waits, expectantly. He is, Sixty notes belatedly, quite handsome. Knows how to smile. His face is softer, more oval and less... angled? Intense?

His face doesn't have quite as deep lines that one might trace with one's fingertips, which is regrettable. Some of these lines etch a little deeper as he frowns and turns to open one lid, and all but gestures at the space behind it. 

Right.

The man is starting to say something more, but Sixty already has a foot on the narrow ladder on the wall and climbs up his first steps. His foot slips. Suddenly, two hands seize his midsection, and Sixty wants to scream and scrabble away because the touch is so warm and his skin is too and no, no, no, he doesn't like this (but he does). He doesn't scream in the end, only draws in his breath in one long hiss.

His feet find the opening one by one and then the bedding moves away under him and he all but slip-rolls into the narrow space, bumping his soles against the wall.

"Are you okay?", the handsome-but-touchy guide asks and Sixty hurries to yell okay right back at him, just so the man will finally leave.

He hears the lid close with a thunk.

Sixty clamps his hands over his face because what was that ? He's misbehaved before, of course he has, but never before has he felt like embers spreading under his skin and worms wriggling in his stomach and oh, no, has he been very weird? Has the handsome man noticed? Has anyone else?

Allen-

No.

Allen can't have seen. Allen would call out for him if he was close, because Allen always finds him. Allen always smiles at him when they meet, no matter how many social rules Sixty breaks at any given time. The thought of Allen, strong, reliable, forgiving, helps Sixty to calm his heart and his thoughts. He takes a few deep breaths, finally staving off the memory of plump buttocks in tight blue shorts.

There's just enough space for two people, so Sixty rolls to the side, away from the entrance. Lucky for him there's a screen and some keys right in front of him.

"Fucking A," he mutters to himself, although it sounds... wrong out of his own mouth. Maybe one had to be a grumpy old man for the curses to sound right.

Sixty navigates the menu, trying to find a knowledge database similar to the ones he'd used at Anderson's and Allen's place. He finds some music, some entertainment instead. Films, games. Learning games.

Finally. There's a language learning program, it starts with simple greetings and vacation vocabulary, but moves on to more serious topics like business agreements (without failing to mention what kind of business it talks about, surely they can't all be the same? And despite the name, interactions seem... relaxed, rather than busy.) Point is, it involves lessons in etiquette, which Sixty is eager for.

Sixty can read faster than any human, but he is limited by the speed of the program, and its predetermined topic. Soon, he finds himself growing impatient again, repetition grating on his nerves-

That's when the lid opens again and with one swift, powerful motion, Allen slides in beside him. Lucky. Or maybe he’s practiced at climbing tiny ladders and slipping into holes.

"Oh, there you are. Thank god."

"Hi," Sixty says. "Welcome back."

That seems to take Allen aback. He stills, and gives Sixty one long look, that makes the heat under his skin bloom up again. (There must be something in this shuttle that's throwing him off. This is Allen. His Allen. So why is his heart starting to speed up?)

"You speak English now?"

"I learn," Sixty says proudly and gestures at the screen.

"Okay, that's- good, that's great. Sorry for leaving you like that, apparently winning this trip comes with some obligations. Well, aside from the obvious."

Sixty nods. 

"You understand that we're not just here for a fun vacation."

Now, that’s a little insulting and Sixty would have liked to tell his companion as much, would have liked to tell just how much he appreciates to be belittled, but everyone is just so incredibly careful around him, with their words, their actions that Sixty has not picked up on any good insults yet. And a poorly applied insult was worse than keeping your mouth shut. He glowers.

"My mission," Sixty drops his voice to a snarl. "Is find stones. Talk to Diva, save the world. That's mine."

"Right, okay, so you understand-"

"I am fifth element. I am supreme being. You? You are human, weak, frail. I protect you ."

Sixty didn't mean to lash out or raise his voice, but he... he's just so tired. Of being pushed around, of being not involved in their plans, of being treated like a piece of luggage they cart around. Important, essential luggage, but still. And yet… after the rage, the shame creeps in. He watches Allen shrink away from him for the first time in - since they met, really. There's no fear in his eyes, but something more complex, an intelligent consideration.

"Okay? I don't think we have time to unpack that right now," Allen says, and fails to deliberate. Unpack what? They gave away their bag.

Allen licks his lips. Sixty watches, stirring in a flurry of old pent up anger and fresh embarrassment and that weird, hot tingle that sings under his skin, that only seems to get louder as he watches Allen watch him. Something's building between them, they are steering towards a kind of confrontation, of that he's sure. He doesn't want to fight, but at the same time, course correction seems impossible.

"So. You noticed how I keep telling people that you're my husband, right?", Allen asks him and Sixty nods. He jiggles his leg, too, because this space is just too small and getting too hot, with both of them cramped in like that. It's uncomfortable.

"I'm not sure if you know what it means-"

"Means you're mine. We, bonded by law." Husband starts with h. Marriage with M. Sixty is at P like Penguin, so of course he knows.

"But you understand that we're just pretending, right? It's not real, we didn't- that's just a lie we tell people because... because it's easier. Less suspicious."

Sixty preferred to think of it as a play rather than lying. What he says, however is: "Not married. Because... because no coupling."

Allen chokes a little. "What?"

"Marriage finished when consumed. We did not consume, so we did not married."

"You mean consummated?", the man asks, a little quieter.

"Sex," Sixty clarifies, and his partner turns an impressive shade of red. "Fucking."

"Yeah, I gotcha. No, we. It's a bit more complicated than that."

Sixty handwaves it away. Of course it's more complicated - humans are a diverse social species from what he gathers, and with a population spanning billions, they have developed cultures and subcultures, each with their own rituals. The Arkeesians only meet every long cycle to mate and reproduce, while the marriage, as humans call their pairing rite, refers to a more long-term arrangement, usually with an emotional component. The details of the ceremony vary, but the ency- the knowledge database was quite precise in that the final step of a marriage rite required copulation. The union's historical purpose was to procreate, so it makes sense that this is required.

It's funny, really. According to the Arkeesians, humans are filthy, instinct driven creatures, who developed the technology to procreate without ever having to touch another of their kind - and then ignored all that to mate with one another for the sake of pleasure alone. Worse than animals , is what the High Priest called them. Emotional, undependable.

This is quite at odds with what Sixty has observed of them so far. It is at odds with what he knows of Allen, who is stammering his way through an apology right now.

"-not because the idea is awful, but we just met and that's- that's just a stupid idea, alright. And anyone who tells you differently, they just want something from you."

But maybe Sixty is wrong. Maybe the reason that the humans all seem so... put together is because they, too, have to take medication to keep their primitive urges in check-

Oh.

Oh no.

"Sixty?" Allen's hand is rough and dry as it wraps around Sixty's forearm, pulling him back into the moment. "Are you okay?"

He is far from okay. The room is too small, they are too close, they are not close enough and while Allen's touch doesn't make him want to scream and run away, doesn't make him want to do anything but curl up in the warmth of the man's arms, Sixty hasn't taken his medication in... two days now? How long until it wears off? Has it already started, is that why he's feeling so damn weird?

There's a knock at the lid of their enclosure and Sixty looks up just to stare into the face of the man with the mismatched eyes again. He's saying something that Sixty can't quite catch, but Allen protests and asks for "just a few more minutes".

There's a hissing sound from the air vents. Allen's eyelids flutter, his head drops onto his arms. Sixty, too, grows tired, although he can stave it off a little longer. Long enough to settle in properly, scoot up closer and wrap an arm around Allen, hold the man close.

For the first time since he's been sent on his mission, Sixty is worrying about his own part in it. If he's off his meds… will he become un-

Sleep takes him before he can finish the thought.

Markus informs the pilot that the passengers are all asleep and is told, in turn, that they can’t take off just yet. Something about a commotion at the terminals and their cargo hatch still being open. The ground crew at the tarmac isn't responding, so the pilot requested someone check that out. They're scheduled to take off in five minutes, and the mood in the cockpit sours with every moment that passes.

Markus ducks out.

He walks half the length of the plane, giving the sleeping chambers a secondary glance. There's been more of a commotion boarding  on account of the celebrity on board. If you can count a radio DJane a celebrity. But this one's popular on account of being hot (why not choose a TV career then?) and pushy. North Starr is a big hit with the gays and men who like to be dominated, according to Kara, and Markus trusts that she knows what she's talking about because Kara listens a lot to the radio during flights. Not this one, because they have to dip into hyperspace and you don't get radio there, but-

Where is Kara, actually?

Markus hasn't seen her in a hot minute. She was in charge of tending to the more... needy passengers.

The coffee kitchen is empty. The lounge-

Is locked? That's odd. They never lock the lounge, even if it doesn't get much use on transports like these, with all their passengers asleep. It's still a good place for the staff to hang out or, if a medical emergency crops up, the lounge is where they’d take the passenger, away from prying eyes. Hence, the lounge stays unlocked. Maybe no one told the new girl?

Markus walks over to the number pad and types in a four-digit code to unlock the door. With a hiss, it glides open. The lights overhead are already switched on when he takes his first cautious step inside. That's when he spots Kara.

Set into the middle of the lounge is a circular depression, lined to both sides with cushioned seating, and two sets of stairs to step in and out of the pit. Kara has reclined on the semicircle sofa, head leaned back far against the backrest, eyes closed. She lost her little cap, her cheeks are flushed, taking a break. Markus speeds up his steps to go check on her. He's about to call out for Kara, when he notices that she is not alone. 

Her skirt is pushed up to her stomach, her legs spread to make room for the woman kneeling in front of her, head bent as if in quiet prayer.

Markus takes it all in, and freezes, but he does not understand . The scene has no meaning until Kara lets out a desperate whimper that seizes Markus by the scruff of his neck and the world sets in motion again, momentum and meaning pouring in like a bubbling creek. And in their wake, panic. Mortification.

He takes two steps back. The heel of his shoe scuffs against the floor, just loud enough to startle Kara and her worshipper, whose heads snap up, towards the source of the noise.

Well, shit.

"M-markus?", Kara yelps and tries to push down her skirt.

"I am so sorry," he almost stumbles over both his words and feet, his hand grabs behind him, feeling for the wall as he continues to back up. Somehow, he doesn't think to turn around, not when the woman in front of Kara rises to her feet, slow and precise, like a nymph rising from the water.

"Don't move," she says.

Markus freezes on the spot. What else could he do? She is a passenger, and that means her word is absolute, and if she chose to tear him apart- 

(oh god, she's going to tear him apart, he's gotten yelled at for far less and this kind of transgression means she's probably going to sue the airline, and he's going to get fired, and- wait a fucking second, is that North Starr? The North Starr?)

"Lock the door," North-fucking-Starr commands with the ease and confidence of a woman that relies on a flock of personal assistants. Her eyes are black little pearls, and Markus reaches for the door’s keypad. He enters his personal code and sets the door on lock.

Too late he wonders if he should have asked to leave first. Maybe she expected him to. Maybe-

"Look at me."

He does. Her hair, once freed from the topknot that she wore, falls down past her shoulder blades. None of it is draped over her very naked chest to provide a semblance of decency, nor does she make an effort to cover herself. It's like she doesn't care that he can see her tits. (Which are full and sagging with weight. It takes everything in Markus not to stare at them, but the knowledge of their existence burns inside his mind like a beacon. The cruel muster of North's eyes is equal torture.)

"What's your name, boy?"

"Markus. Markus Manfred," he's quick to answer. "I'm not a boy, ma'am." If the gossip about her age is to be believed, she is a few years younger than him. He can see the fine lines around her eyes that speak of age. There's a faded, half-moon scar on her forehead, a small depression that tells him that she is human, flesh and bone and blood.

"Hear, hear. He has a spine. Kara?"

North looks back over her shoulder (and Markus' eyes are drawn to the swell of her breasts before he stares, helplessly, after Kara. It's been long enough to brand him with the knowledge that her nipples are the color of clay. He cannot unsee. He can not unravel his mind and take out the memory. She is a passenger, and that makes her untouchable, no matter how warm and sweet her body may call to his most primal needs.)

"Yes?", Kara breathes. She sits up, hands smoothing over her skirt, as if she could iron out the unease.

"How do we feel about Markus?", North calls back to her. Markus rushes to promise that he will keep his mouth shut, but the woman grabs him by the jaw and shushes him. Her nails dig a little too hard into his cheek, and the pain jolts to the back of his neck, along his spine, down to his tailbone. His cock perks up a little.

"He's nice." Kara's voice is a little more steady now; her judgment hits harder than a punch to the face. Nice means pleasant in a forgettable way, it means that he does not need to be taken seriously. Nice is what Kara calls Luther when she is upset that he does not take the initiative that she wants.

"Well behaved?", North asks. She might as well be talking about a dog.

"Yes, but not because he wants to be." Kara leans forward and bends her arms to reach the zipper at the back of her top. Markus takes a step forward almost reflexively, the question if he should help so easy on his tongue.

A droning hum gues through the plane, more noise than vibration. They haven't taken off yet. They need to-

"You should return to your cabin. All passengers need to be asleep by the time the shuttle jumps into hyperspace, to reduce the risk of nausea and headaches," Markus rattles off, repeating a script that he has read and repeated way too many times.

North tilts her head a little, cocking a smile that bares her teeth. It reminds him of a predator, hungry, ready to pounce and tear him apart. Her hand settles against his chest; long, manicured nails scrape over the blue pleather of his top. Her thumb plays with a seam and when the silk of her pants brushes against his bare knee, he jolts. "I don't want to sleep, Markus. I want to experience and enjoy every minute of my flight."

"I can't let you do that, ma'am. It's against the rules."

She pouts. He takes a deep breath; the scent of vanilla and cinnamon tickles his nose, far too soft and delicate for a woman like North Starr, whose lifestyle apparently seems to involve fucking random flight attendants.

"Aren't you tired of playing by the rules, though?", she teases, softer now. Markus tries to escape her unwavering gaze and stares at her bare shoulders instead. She's going to get cold soon. Someone should-

She leans in closer, bringing her lips to his ears. Her chest presses against his, and he can feel the heat of her tits bleeding through the sticky plastic of his uniform. Hot, too, is the breath that tickles the shell of his ear.

"Don't you want to stop being their little tool and rebel a little? Live a little? Take what you want?"

His shorts are uncomfortably tight. Markus looks for Kara, praying for some help, but she has reclined on the sofa again. One hand dips under her skirt, the other is wedged into her top.

Oh. So this is how it is. She's enjoying watching him getting toyed with. Doesn't even have the grace to look ashamed.

Well, he's had enough.

"Are you actually offering? Or are you just all talk? Trying to fucking intimidate me to see if I run with my tail tucked between my legs."

North’s features are smoothed by what may be a genuine smile, a purse of her lips. "I don't want you to run. But I do-" she pauses, and her fingertip brushes against the back of his hand, feather-light. "Want to get you out of these tiny, tiny shorts. They look uncomfortable."

Markus swallows. "Well. They are."

Her smile grows wider. She sinks to her knees.

Eventually, the commotion at the airport is resolved. A Mangalore tried to pass himself off as a human passenger and responded to his discovery with fire power. For some, this meant a once in a lifetime opportunity to get a good look at the alien and confirm that they were indeed as ugly as the history books made them out to be.

Unfortunately for that lone Mangalore, the anti-war protest a few streets further had summoned the presence of the Riot Police and SWAT units of the NNYPD. They had a few men to spare to deal with the situation.

On the tarmac, the ground crew returns to their positions. Throwing in the rest of the luggage and shutting the cargo hold.

The tower messages the pilot and informs him that he's cleared for take-off. He steers the plane to the runway.

Markus knows that they're moving when the vibrations of the walls change, but he is not allowed to dwell on that fact, as his attention is demanded for more important things, such as finding out how Kara likes to be kissed. There's a condom wrapper on the floor, marked with her cherry red lipstick. There's smudges of red on North's neck and Markus' nipple, as Kara's mouth is generous with the attention it bestows.

And North, she knows how to take what she wants. She rides him hard but kisses him sweetly, making sure to slow down before he reaches his peak. She pinches Kara's side, leaving a little bruise against her ribs, something to remember her by.

She has them both. They are hers to command.

They take off. Microgravity keeps everything in place as the thrusters come online and take the plane up, up, up beyond the atmosphere.

North's scream peters out into a breathless laugh. Her hand reaches blindly for Kara, who seizes it tightly and catches her mouth in a kiss. It's slow, the angle is awkward. Kara giggles.

Markus watches them with a mixture of unbridled fondness and barely restrained discomfort. He is sensitive to every rock and jostle, but he can't imagine being anywhere else right now, with anyone else.

And when North promises that it's Kara's turn, Markus looks at her, the short, tousled hair, the mess they made of her make-up, her flushed cheeks, and he marvels at how beautiful she looks when she drops the forced smiles and the ever-present tension. Has he ever seen her so relaxed? He can't remember.

That's why, after North slipped off him and he tied off the condom, he reaches for Kara and holds her. She sits on his lap all soft and pretty, while she spreads her thighs for North.

And North, well. North is making a meal out of her.

The plane jumps into hyperspace.

It is not quite alone. A small vessel follows at a safe distance, the hull adorned by so many scrapes and burn marks, one may confuse them for decorative. The ship waits - its pilot watches space-time warp back into place and starts counting down seconds with impatience. His beat is off. Mangalores are not exactly the musical kind.

Once the recommended three minutes and thirty-three seconds have passed, he catapults his ship into hyperspace as well, racing after the passenger flight.

Racing towards paradise.

It takes a while for Connor to notice the change. 

There are a few panels and green emergency lights that illuminate the cargo hold, and Connor's eyes adapt quickly. It does not bother him. Neither does the hum of the engines, nor the quiet, gruff company of Father Anderson. He is adaptable; he was made to be adaptable. So he does not notice until his companion starts to fall quiet and shift more and more uncomfortably, huddling in on himself. The rustling and shifting is a bit annoying.

"Are you alright?", Connor asks, sharper than he intended. Sharper than befits an embodiment of peace and hope and kindness.

"I'll manage."

Once, he would have missed the nuance in the sentence. But he has learned in his short time on earth that some phrases imply others. I'll manage is always preceded by an unhappy 'no, but' - whether it was spoken or not.

"What's wrong?"

"You're kidding, right?", Anderson huffs and huddles up even more inside his robe. "It's freezing inside here."

Connor lets his eyes roam over the corner of the cargo bay that they have retreated to, hidden behind stacks of shifting luggage. He can detect no glittering frost on any of the bags or the walls.

"Not freezing, no."

"Figure of speech, kid. It's fu- it's cold ."

Connor makes an ah sound that he hopes carries the necessary weight. "I suppose I don't feel the cold as humans do."

"Lucky you," Anderson grumbles.

Connor looks at the man, whose shape is now nearly unrecognizable. He has tucked all of his limbs somewhere under his robe, making himself as small as his anatomy will allow - which is not that small, all things considered.

"How cold?", Connor asks, as his breath fogs in front of him. On any other occasion, he would have been fascinated by the phenomenon, but there are more pressing matters at hand.

Anderson does not grace him with a response, so Connor shuffles closer. "Let me-", he starts, and considers the shivering lump that is Hank Anderson. Not quite sure where the man might have tucked away his hands, he presses his palm against a part of Anderson that he could easily spot: the curve of his cheekbone.

Hank flinches, and stares back at Connor, his pale eyes glowing in the emergency lighting. His nostrils flare. "Jesus kid, you're like a furnace."

But he isn't. His body maintains the exact same temperature as it always has, with minimal fluctuations, it is just that Hank's skin has cooled significantly in the current atmosphere. Connor remembers what the Arkeesians told him about humans. Volatile tempers, fragile bodies.

It's unacceptable. How can Connor delude himself into believing that he may save the whole universe if he can't even protect one man? And after he just found Hank?

"We need to warm you up."

Hank scoffs. "You think? But unless you know how to hack into the ship, that's gonna be a tall order. Flight's supposed to take a few hours."

Warm up and keep warm then. Find better clothes or at least many clothes. More layers means more heat, right?

It's a good thing they're surrounded by clothes then.

Connor grabs for the first piece of luggage within reach. Most bags have a hard outer shell, with a softer seam in the middle where the zipper is sewn into. They remind Connor of mussels in a way. Unlike mussels, all the bags have a lock attached to them to keep them closed. This lock is attached to a belt that wraps around the whole hard shell, and while Connor can push it this way and that, it loops through a handle at the top and pull as he may, he'll never get it over the wheels at the bottom either.

"Connor, what are you doing?"

"Trying to break this open."

"You know, as a priest I have to tell you that stealing is wrong. But as a man who'd like to keep his nuts... ya gotta spin the little wheels in the lock to the right number combination."

Connor considers this. He tests the little gears, which are embossed with numbers, zero to nine. Three gears, which means a thousand different combinations. There are easily a hundred bags stacked around them, which means... 

Connor discards the piece of luggage he's holding and looks carefully at the locks instead. Some are embedded in the bag, some are belts, and some are dangling off the zipper like an invitation, looped only through the holes of two pullets, linking them together.

He doesn't need to find the right combination when he can find a flimsy enough lock. He wraps his fist around the dangling thing; Connor squeezes. He can hear the cold metal groan and crack as it warps under the pressure. When the lock comes loose, he shakes out his hand, not caring where the debris will fall.

"Connor, what the fuck was that?"

"Nothing," he says and it's almost scary how easy the lie rolls off his tongue. Hank doesn't need to know. Hank doesn't-

Hank isn't anything like Connor imagined him to be. Going off the Arkeesian description of the previous emissary, he had pictured Hank to be smaller, softer, and kinder. A scholar with a melodious voice who would choose his words carefully and treat Connor with reverence. After meeting Amanda, Connor had to adjust his perception of a welcome committee within minutes. There was a woman who was pushing him, again and again, knowing damn well what he was - is - and choosing to treat him like a pet rather than a messiah.

And Hank is neither a simpering follower nor a cold, conniving tactician. Hank is just... a person. And Connor refuses to lose him.

He searches the contents of the bag by touch rather than sight. His fingertips slip over multiple pieces of garment, most of them silky and thin and each feels smaller than the last. A few harder items all gathered in a smaller bag, those he ignores. He needs something big, warm, soft, and he says as much out loud to Hank, who scoffs.

"Good luck. We're on our way to a tropical resort. Don't think they'll have much need for sweaters or sleeping bags there. Hell, they're not even gonna bring a bathrobe, I'm sure the hotel has its own."

"I don't know what that means." Connor grinds his teeth, and if he slams the bag shut a little too hard, Hank doesn't comment on it.

"Means we're gonna go to a pretty hot place, so people won't pack their cold weather clothes."

Connor grabs for the next piece of luggage. Just because it's unlikely, doesn't mean he's going to give up like that.

It's in the fourth bag, that his fingers find purchase on something big and soft. When he pulls it out, multiple items fall out with it, landing on the floor with a flop or a thud. Books.

Hank shifts. 

Connor has to stand to shake out the garment to its full size, only to realize it's not a garment at all. It's a blanket.

"Hank," he says.

And then Connor is on his knees again and wraps the entire thing around the priest. Hank, for his part, is shivering miserably. He isn't complaining, which Connor finds worrying. 'People who complain are people who have energy to burn' his Arkeesian mentor would say.

"Thanks, kid", Hank says through chattering teeth. Connor reaches for the man, his cheeks, his hands as they hold on to the blanket. All of his skin feels cold and dry.

"Let me-", Connor starts and peels off his suit jacket. Hank laughs at him, low and dry.

"Don't think I'll fit in that."

"You're not supposed to. Open your arms."

"Why?" Even as he questions, Hank spreads out his arms wide. Connor slips into the space. "What the-"

"I'll warm you up again. My body maintains itself at a nigh optimal temperature at all times, unlike yours."

"Wow," Hank says drily. "I can't believe you're pulling this shit with me."

"What do you mean?"

"Nuthin," Hank sighs and traps Connor in a blanketed embrace. It takes some huddling and shifting to worm his legs between Hank's. First and foremost, he needs to raise the temperature of Hank's core, and the thighs and forearms are a big part of that. 

"Jesus, you really are a living space heater. You're like one of them naked cats, the ones that look like uncooked chicken."

"Sure, Father, whatever you say." Connor lacks the context to understand most of the remark, but he gets the impression that it's not too favorably. He does know what a cat is, and his world is made better by the knowledge that these creatures exist. Amanda allowed him to watch footage of animals misbehaving whenever there was a break between his tests. He thinks he likes dogs more than cats, though.

"You really don't have to call me that. I'm not much of a priest, you know."

Connor doesn't know that either. He only just met the man, and so his knowledge of Hank is  that 1) he can be found in airport bars sometimes, and 2) that he's taller and broader than any of the army men that have flanked Connor since the moment he woke up from his unfortunate nap. Which were strapping examples of humanity in their own ways, but Connor thinks he doesn't care much for their clean-cut appearance. The sharply regulated, precise identical haircuts they sported, not to mention how they liked to pretend he wasn't even there until he took one step out of line, and then they bared their anger and their guns-

No. He much preferred Hank’s company, priest or not.

The minutes tick by in awkward silence. Every now and then, Connor will brush over Hank's arm and find that it has not much improved. They need to get his blood pumping, but that's hard to do when you're also trying to move as little as possible. Barring that-

"I think... Hank, if you'll let me, I could just-"

He crawls onto Hank's lap, which earns him complaints and curses, but that's secondary to the fact that it brings their bodies much closer. Hank seizes him by the hip, a quiet, steadying force. Connor shudders; the touch bites his skin, even through the fabric of his shirt.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

"Keeping you warm, Hank. I recommend putting your hands under my shirt, that should speed things up."

"I really don't think now is the time for that," Hank sputters. Connor frowns. When else would be the time? He tries to find Hank's errant hand in the tangle of their limbs and brings it up against his core, where his skin is soft. "Do you have a better idea?"

Hank's lips part. He takes a deep breath. "Hands stay above the belt." It's hard to tell if it's a suggestion or a demand, so Connor treats it as both.

"That should work. If it helps - try not to think of me as a person, but a person sized heated pillow."

"You are a person."

"And you're cold."

Hank grumbles, which turns into a whole body shiver. He pulls Connor flush with surprising strength. His hands creep up to the expense of Connor's back, leaving a tingle in their wake that shoots all the way down to Connor's pelvis. Hank rests his forehead against Connor's shoulder.

"We're never going to speak of this again, you hear me?"

"I hear you, Hank. My ears work just fine."

"Smartass." Spoken softly against his collarbone. Some of the tension leaves Hank's body, and Connor dares to wrap his arms around the man proper. (The thought occurs to him that this is the first time he's holding another body that is not his brother's. The Arkeesians are very, very particular about the affections they allow.) Connor's fingers run through silver hair. They do not speak.

Until.

At some point - it's hard to tell when - Hank complains about his back and his legs. "Gotta stretch out a little," he rumbles and shifts underneath Connor. He hadn't been able to keep still, but the fidgeting and nervous energy had built up steadily - this is just a natural culmination.

Connor disentangles himself from Hank, emerging from their cocoon of blanket and coat.

Hank gets up, complains about the chill, and stretches his arms up as high as the ceiling will allow. Then he twists his torso to the left, to the right, until something in his back pops. Connor winces, but Hank lets out an all too pleased groan.

"Jesus, we have to find something more comfortable. No offense ki- Con. Connor. There has to be a way to hunker down that is bearable."

"I suppose we could lie down," Connor suggests. He keeps the blanket wrapped around himself tightly, lest it cools out.

Hank scratches his beard. "Suppose you're right."

So they pad the floor with all the beach towels that they find from bags that have already been opened. A silky dress, rolled up, becomes a pillow. They're making a mess for the owner of these bags, but it can not be helped. It's not like they're ruining these clothes.

Hank lies down, testing their makeshift bedding. Letting out a pleased little grunt, he pads the side next to him. Connor doesn't need to be told twice.

"Turn your back to me," Hank says before Connor has the chance to settle down properly. "I'm not going to have you stare at me the whole time."

Something small and petty surges in Connor, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to contain it. If it weren't for Connor's efforts, Hank would not feel well enough to make demands. And for him to act like Connor's presence is a burden now-

But then Hank's arms wrap around him and pull him close and Connor's mind draws blank.

"Don’t you dare say a word", the man grumbles, even as he drapes the blanket over Connor. And Connor, he wets his lips and does not protest. Which does not mean that he knows how to keep quiet.

They have barely settled - he can feel Hank's bulk against his back, warm breath tickling his short cropped nape most distractingly - when he asks about his sibling. If Sixty is well. He must be, if he was deemed the right choice to receive the stones by the Diva, a feat that they were supposed to do together. Already, Sixty is at least two steps ahead.

"He's a nuisance," Hank says, though not as gruff as the words would demand. "But he's quite alright. He was delivered to my doorstep almost by courier, if you can believe it. Wait. You know what a courier is?"

Connor smiles. "Yes, Hank, I know what a courier is."

"Okay. Just making sure. Your english is excellent, so I kinda forget sometimes that you're not from here. Your brother had to be introduced to the concept of liquid soap. How come you speak perfect English and he doesn't?"

Connor bites his tongue. He tries to figure out if it's an accusation, an insult to his brother's intelligence, or... just a question with no ill intent. "I didn't have much choice in the matter. Amanda was aware of my potential, so she pushed me. They couldn't question me if I didn't speak their language."

"Amanda?"

"She's a- doctor? Researcher? I'm not sure what she did exactly when she wasn't in charge of my education. She had me do tests, too. Pattern recognition, physical strength and limits, social aspects. I got a proper meal three times a day, and even that was a lesson."

"Didn't you come to this planet like yesterday?"

"It was a very tight schedule."

Hank huffs, and seems to hold onto him a little tighter. "I'm sorry kid," he says. Like it's his fault.

"It doesn't matter anymore. I found you. We're on our way to secure the stones and save the universe. Everything else was just a little detour."

"Tell you what. When this is over, I'll take you and your brother somewhere nice. A good restaurant maybe, or... well. I don't know. Depends on how much time you have before you have to go back."

"Go back?", Connor asks.

"I'm assuming the Arkeesians will come to pick you up again? They must know by now that their original ship got blown up. Don't think they'll just leave you and Sixty to your own devices, you're too important for that."

Are they? That was not the impression that they gave Connor. They never talked about what was supposed to happen after , if they succeeded. They sure heard about the calamity that will follow if both Connor and Sixty fail. Success is mandatory and once it would be achieved-

Well. He supposes they will be superfluous. There is a chance the cycle may repeat in five thousand years, but Connor will not live to see that day.

"I'd like to stay a little," he confesses to the low lights and the cold. "Meet more people. Maybe find someone to kiss."

Hank chuckles; the sound rumbles in his chest. "Shouldn't have a hard time finding someone. Guy like you is bound to turn some heads."

You didn't want to kiss me, Connor thinks surly, but keeps his disappointment to himself. This isn't the time.

Hank's hand is curled over Connor's stomach. Connor seizes it. For Hank’s sake, he tells himself. A supreme being does not want for comfort.

Sixty sleeps, and does not dream.