Chapter Text
Jimmy Solidarity does not believe in destiny. Unfortunately, the universe does.
From his very first memory, Jimmy has known what his fate is to be. He’s known, just as every child does. It was emblazoned along the undersides of their forearms at birth: the role they would play in the world’s grand narrative spelled out in indelible gold letters.
Their archetype.
Some, the lucky children, are ensured status and power before they can even walk or speak. His sister had been snatched up from the orphanage the moment prospective parents had spotted her title. The Fairy Queen.
He still sees her once in a while, flashing brilliantly on sky-high billboards or starring in the latest hot television program. Destined to be mythical; fated to receive adoration from all.
A select few others, not as fortunate but still favoured, are promised futures of glory or conquest. Jimmy’s classmate in high school, a girl with spiraling brown curls and sharp ears like elk horns, had pulled back her shirtsleeve with gleaming eyes. The Knight. Destined to cut down her enemies; fated to meet resistance until dulled by age and battle.
Others didn’t have any specific connotations to their archetype– it simply informed them of their career or life path. His brother’s paramour, a gregarious, smirking man named Scar, was apparently The Merchant, although he’d never let you see his mark if pressed.
Sometimes it was a curse. His adoptive sister, The Big Bad Wolf.
Very rarely was it inconsequential. Never was it wrong.
Which was rather unlucky for Jimmy, who at seven years old had scanned freshly-literate eyes over his forearm and spotted two damning words. The Canary.
Destined to die young; fated to be an omen of calamity. The first sacrifice to set off a bloodbath.
It’s hardly an appealing fate. So it was perfectly reasonable, when Jimmy made the executive decision to tie a piece of cloth tight around his wrist and deftly evade questions about his archetype for two entire decades.
So far, it’s worked out for him. Jimmy Solidarity, freshly twenty-five years old, not dead, not a canary.
Just one problem.
“Arrested? I’m getting arrested?!”
Joel rubs the bridge of his nose, face flushed at his hysterics. “No, Jimmy. You’re not getting arrested. You’re getting… taken in.”
“That’s the same thing! On what possible charge?” Jimmy yanks his arm away–hard–from his friend’s attempted reassurances. Former friend, now, apparently.
“I told you about this last week.” Joel groans. “Narrativist Law demands that anyone with a ‘volatile’ archetype which hasn't manifested by age twenty-five gets taken in for observation.”
“Well you can screw off with that. I’m not going.” He shoots a warning look at Joel’s partner, who’s been conspicuously attempting to circle behind them with a pair of handcuffs tucked under his arm. “I don’t have a volatile fate.”
“C’mon lad. We both know that’s not true. You might not like to talk about it, but the Archive’s got a registry of everyone’s archetypes. You’re a canary.”
“That’s not– Etho! Enough!” He whirls, glaring at the white-haired man creeping up behind him.
“I’m just doing my job man.” Etho grumbles, with the audacity to sound offended. Joel motions his partner over beside him.
The two had been partners for as long as Jimmy had known them, and, he assumed, as long as they’d both worked for the Narrativists. It only made sense. The Fox and The Hound.
“Look.” Joel grit. “You can come with us now, or we’ll have to file a report, and you become someone else’s problem. Someone who doesn’t know you, and isn’t gonna be as nice as me.”
“Yeah, because you’ve been a real gentleman.”
“Jimmy. I’m losing my patience.”
Grimacing, Jimmy weighs his options. He could shove Etho over and make a run for it out the back door, but he’s an idiot if he thinks he’s outrunning two officers. He could submit without resistance and get taken in… or he could call Lizzie and hope her name was enough to get Jimmy out of this mess.
A streak of revulsion races through him at the thought. As if he’s going to let Lizzie fight another one of his battles.
“Fine.” He spits. “But you’re not handcuffing me. And I’m taking my phone call.”
Joel squints at him. “This isn’t an arrest. You don’t get just one phone call.”
Ignoring his logic with the deft practice of an expert, Jimmy dials his brother. He’s still at work right now, but Jimmy can only imagine the panic if he’d come home to an empty house and no note.
“Hey, Grian. I’m getting arrested.”
“Oh shoot.” Grian’s voice is unperturbed, like Jimmy has just reported a strange bug on his bedroom ceiling. “Why?”
“For goodness– He’s not getting arrested!” Joel shouts from across the room. “He’s just being dramatic.”
“They’re calling me volatile.” Jimmy pouts into the phone. “And Etho threatened to beat me up if I didn’t go with them.”
“Etho would never do that.”
“I… didn’t.” The officer confirms.
“He might as well have! What should I do?”
“Go with them? Joel did tell you about this last week, Tim.”
“Wait, He wasn’t lying about that? I don’t remember.”
Grian sighs. “You don’t remember anything.”
That was strange. Jimmy knew he didn’t have a great memory, but it was still odd he’d forgotten something like that. “Hold on– was this during Mumbo’s birthday party? I was smashed to high hell, obviously I wouldn’t remember!”
His brother almost audibly shrugs over the phone. “Okay, you know now. Have fun, don’t die.”
“I am going to die! That’s like the entire problem!”
“Oh right. Try not to do it tonight? Scar’s coming over for di–”
Jimmy hangs up. Jokes on him for assuming this would be news to anyone but himself. Joel raises an arrogant eyebrow.
“So? Ready to go?”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t look so smug about it.”
“This is my neutral face.” Joel says. “I’m feeling very neutral about your stubbornness and would like to neutrally inform you that I told you so. In a neutral way.”
Jimmy smacks him on the arm as hard as he can– right on his archetype marking. Serves him right for having such a mundane, safe destiny.
The universe was unfair.
From birth, he’s been deemed a powder keg. Not worth investing in, not worth caring for. Anyone could tell with one look. He'd be gone soon enough; There was only a short fuse of gunpowder between his life and a catastrophic end.
He’d always claimed the surety of his death was why he didn’t fear it. He’d always swore he was used to the fear, that the familiarity numbed the sting of the end.
But he’d been lying. Death terrifies him–always has–for a very specific reason.
The second set of gold-trim letters he’d found at age nine, scrawled along the curve of his ankle. An extra archetype.
It wasn’t supposed to be possible. Yet no matter how hard he scrubbed with soap and washcloth, the letters remained bright and accusing.
The Star-Crossed Lover.
Destined to find his one true love; fated to die by their hand.
“You know, when you said observation, I was imagining test tubes and weird body-melting experiments. Not… group therapy.”
Joel shrugs, leading him down a hallway of what looked to be classrooms or conference rooms, chairs arranged in circles inside. Jimmy occasionally spots people sitting in them, conversing in hushed tones.
Beside them walks a researcher in pink goggles and a neon yellow lab coat that Joel had introduced as ‘Impulse.’
“Different volatile archetypes have different needs.” Impulse explains. “You’re not as liable to go crazy and start stabbing people, so we’ll do without the tubes. Most of your destiny is only going to be a problem after you… well, die.”
“There are archetypes that make you go crazy?”
Distant thudding footsteps echo from the hallway to their right. Jimmy’s ears perk up at the sound of shouting, and his senses are inundated by the distinct scent of smoke. The air is thick with the buzzing of ozone, a smoldering in anticipation of a blaze.
Something he can only describe as a flashbang streaks past him: a ball of light and heat that grazes the skin on his face with a kiss of white hot pain. Joel wraps an arm around his waist and drags him back, blinking tears from his eyes.
“There’s your answer.” The officer remarks, expression even but thundering heartbeat betraying his fear. Impulse doesn’t seem fazed at all.
“Maybe not crazy.” He clarifies. “But an archetype can instill all kinds of traits, not always positive. For example, an affinity for pyromania, propensity for property damage, lack of impulse control… A perfect cocktail of volatility.”
Said perfect cocktail of volatility is rounding the corner now, dressed in a woodshop apron powdered in soot. Jimmy spots red eyes blown wide in euphoria, and a head of blonde hair dyed black at the tips from falling ash.
“Hey Imp!” The newcomer shouts, voice scratchy as a swept chimney. “Who’s that?”
“Our new subject, Jimmy. He’s joining you in observation for today.” Impulse greets the man like an old friend, unbothered by the homemade firecrackers tumbling from his pockets.
“I’m joining him?” Jimmy chokes.
A grin, sharp-toothed, cracks open at the fear in his voice. A warm, calloused hand grips his in a rough handshake. The contact seems to infect him with energy, liquid fire racing through his bloodstream.
Warm. His skin is warm.
“Hi! The name’s Tango.”
Jimmy looks up to meet molten-copper eyes, irises slit-thin, almost reptilian. They flick in place to pierce through him as the stranger speaks again. “I’m destined to destroy the world.”
Jimmy blinks. The man stares back, still grinning. Jimmy’s tongue is burnt sand in his mouth.
“I think… I should run.” He says, faint.
“Wait, don’t! I’m joking!”
“Really?”
“Ok, well. Not really. I’m the dragon.”
“You mean The Dragon?”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you said the dragon. Not The Dragon.”
“That’s the same–” Tango only gets that far before a security guard barrels into him, apparently lacking the situational awareness to notice Tango had stopped running.
Jimmy steps back, half in awe and half in bafflement, as half a dozen more medical and security personnel join them at the hallway intersection, all bearing singed hairs and ashen faces.
He turns to Joel. “You really think I’m as volatile as that guy?”
Joel winces. “I don’t make the rules.”
“Impulse, come on. Surely you can’t think I’m as much of a danger as someone like that.”
Tango’s head shoots up out of the tangle of security guard limbs, offended. “I’m not a dang– hrmph”
“You’re not.” Impulse pushes the blonde back down. “That’s why Tango’s under a lot more scrutiny than you are. You’re actually pretty low maintenance for a volatile archetype.”
Without another word, he continues down the hall, stepping over the squabbling guard and subject as if crossing a particularly noisy puddle. Jimmy stumbles after him, gingerly avoiding Tango’s flailing limbs.
He does step on the security guard’s foot, but he doesn’t feel as bad about that.
Impulse and him end up in a room somewhat reminiscent of a professor's study. The sleek walls are lined with bookshelves, overflowing with novels and poetry collections. Harsh fluorescent lights shine down on a desk covered in a deluge of papers. The font is so small Jimmy's vision swims when he tries to decipher them.
“I’ve never been in a Narrativist’s office before.” He mumbles, half to himself.
“Cool, huh?” Impulse says, right into his ear.
“Oh– Uh, yeah…?”
“Sit down! Get comfortable.” A hand on his back guides him to a leather armchair in front of the central desk. “This is just a basic evaluation of how your archetype has been manifesting so far.”
“What do you mean?” Jimmy digs a finger into the peeling surface of the cushion. “I thought you said it wouldn’t matter until I died?”
Impulse shrugs. “Everyone’s different. There’s no telling how your specific destiny will play out.”
“I’m not sure I have much to tell you. Being The Canary hasn’t really impacted my life at all.”
“Not at all? No bouts of misfortune, no health problems, no fear of housecats?”
Jimmy frowns. “Is that how it usually manifests?”
“Eh. Canaries are rare, you know. There’s very little actual data about them.”
“What do you know?”
“Do you want it straight?”
He stalls. Did he? All he knows about his archetype is that it's spectacularly unlucky, basically a death sentence, and the reason he hasn’t managed to hold down a job for more than a few months.
“Sure, yeah.”
“Canaries are usually unlucky. Short life-spans, as I’m sure you know. There’s never been a recorded instance of a canary living past thirty-five.”
Jimmy nods. Tragic, sure, but nothing he hasn’t heard before. He’s spent enough sleepless nights bent over grappling with his own mortality.
“When and how they die, that’s more up in the air. Usually it's a freak accident, like a careening oil tanker or an undiscovered allergic reaction. Sometimes they’ll just drop dead of a heart attack. When the narrative weight of the death is small, the fallout is small.”
“Fallout?”
“The consequences. The metaphorical coal miners struck down by the carbon monoxide. Maybe a spike in local crime rates, maybe a spontaneous fire that burns down a city block.”
“That’s small?” Jimmy gapes at the thought. His death, the culprit of a wildfire. He imagines the flames as his vengeful specter, dragging up the fires of hell to punish a world that had disposed of him prematurely.
Maybe Joel was right. He is dramatic.
“Yup. When the narrative weight of the death is larger, like, a celebrity homicide, a soldier’s death on the battlefield, or highly-publicized causality to a rare disease, we might see an earthquake hit a major city, or a revolution break out in a neighboring country.”
Jimmy swallows. His throat suddenly feels like tectonic plates, rubbing together with dry, creaking force.
“What does it mean for a canary to be killed by the love of their life?”
“Their– wait, what?” Lurching forward in his chair, Impulse nearly bends himself in half over his desk, pinning Jimmy with his gaze. “Why do you ask?”
“I was just curious! It was just a random thought…?”
Impulse squints at him. “You know, you’re a really awful liar.”
“Can you just… tell me, please?” Jimmy buries his face in his hands. “And I’ll tell you why afterward?”
“I don’t know. It’s never happened before.” His fingers run along his chin, tapping in a syncopated rhythm. “But a fate that narratively loaded? I’d expect the consequences to be huge.”
Jimmy’s fists tighten on his lap until nails break skin. Compared to a wildfire or an earthquake, how huge could it be? Cataclysmic? Apocalyptic?
“Jimmy.” Impulse asks, pupils alight with what Jimmy can only assume is scientific mania. “Are you going to end the world?”
“Maybe.” His lips are trembling. “I think… I have a second archetype.”
The researcher goes quiet. When he speaks, the humor has drained from him like dirty blood. “The Star-Crossed Lover.”
Jimmy nods, slowly. “How did you know?”
“That’s the thing about star-crossed lovers. They always come in pairs.” Impulse picks up the landline on his desk, dialing in a number with all the grimness of a eulogy.
“Tango, could you come up to my office, please?”
The man sitting across from him in a circle of stiff, empty plastic chairs, is the love of his life. He’s also Jimmy’s murderer.
Jimmy decides he could do worse in both respects.
His gaze rakes over the other man’s rugged form, surreptitiously cataloging the tension in his forearms, and the faded burn scars peeking out from the collar of his shirt.
“Like what you see?”
“Uh– yes? No? Sorry?” Jimmy’s face flushes to red unreasonably quickly, before he catches himself. If this man–Tango, he recalls–was his soulmate, he might as well get comfortable with calling him attractive.
“Yes.” He says, completely stone-faced.
Tango’s smirk falls. He gapes at Jimmy, open-mouthed, for what feels like a full minute before bursting out into raucous laughter. “So forward! You’ve got me all flustered.”
A grin of his own weaves itself across his lips. “I’d hope so. It’s supposed to be love at first sight, isn’t it?”
“Well, hold on now. I think we should have a proper introduction before anyone starts throwing around the l-word.”
“Oh- uh, right.” A familiar sensation of embarrassment curls its way up Jimmy’s gut. Had he come on too strong?
“So.” Tango wrings his hands. “Lovely to meet you. I’m Tango, the dragon. I’m going to destroy the world.”
Jimmy nods. “I’m Jimmy. The Canary. Apparently, I am, too.”
“Personally, just saying, I think my apocalypse is cooler than yours.”
“Oh yeah?” The edge of his mouth quirks upwards into a smile. “How so?”
“I’m the dragon, aren’t I? That means fire and brimstone, maybe scales and flame breath if I’m lucky.”
Jimmy raises an eyebrow. “You think you’re literally going to turn into a dragon?”
“I mean, no. But it would be cool, wouldn’t it?”
In spite of his circumstances, Jimmy finds himself at ease. Here he is, staring his murderer in the face, yet his death doesn’t seem so scary beside Tango’s warm blaze. Even armageddon loses its edge.
“So, what does being The Dragon actually mean?”
Tango shrugs. “The universe has decided I’m going to cause destruction wherever I go. A big ol’ rampaging kaiju, trampling cities and the like.”
“And that’s why Impulse says you’re… what, ‘under scrutiny’?”
“Yeah. Have been for years.” A twinge of bitterness sneaks its way into the curves of his face, before he seems to wrestle it back into place, returning to a sunshiney smile.
“But what does the universe know, right?”
Jimmy hums in assent. The words fly from his lips unbidden. “The universe says we’ll fall in love.”
He feels the tension in the room stretch into infinity, a tense band on the verge of snapping. Tango goes still, and Jimmy's eyes shoot towards the floor. Humiliation, icy hot, claws at the sides of his stomach.
“Well... maybe we get to decide that. Not the fates, or gods, or narrators, or whatever else people think is deciding these dumb archetypes.” Tango says.
Meeting his gaze, Jimmy is taken aback by Tango’s serious expression, the hard ridges of his face unwavering. “Maybe.” He replies simply.
“The universe says I’m going to die.”
“The universe says I’m going to kill you.”
“Maybe the universe is wrong.”
“Maybe.”
It all makes awful sense. Star-crossed lover meets star-crossed lover. Prince meets dragon. Doomed hero meets twice-cursed monster. A storybook tragedy.
The Dragon stands, taking slow, cautious steps towards him. It’s a bit endearing, how Tango seems terrified that a sudden movement could cause Jimmy to die on the spot. The man drops to his knees in front of him.
“Can I… see it?” He murmurs. “Your second mark? I just– I’ve never met anyone else with one.” A blush creeps across his face, a matching warmth to the heat Jimmy feels in his own cheeks.
Wordlessly, he rolls up his pant leg. It’d been a spot of contention when he was a teenager, with Grian and Pearl teasing him incessantly over his determination to wear jeans even in summer. But they didn’t know about the words tattooed damningly up his ankle.
The same words Tango sports along the curve of his left shoulder, previously hidden by a shirt sleeve. The man brushes fingertips over his mark, and Jimmy shivers.
Warm. Even his nails are warm.
Tango lifts Jimmy’s hand to his lips, pressing a hollow kiss to the back of it. “I look forward to defying our destinies together.”
Jimmy laughs, because everything is poetry, by which he means mad, by which he means perfectly sensible. “Till my death, and your murder, do us part.”
“And the universe, too. So it’s written.”