Fantasy hope everlasting | ely & sof.

[heartstringss]

Over two dozen individual eyeballs sat on marble plinths throughout the room, each one fixed and staring creepily at them. Arlo absorbed the skepticalness inside the stare of all those eyeballs… and though the inhuman quality of some did, quite frankly, make their skin crawl, they didn’t turn away. Instead, they stared blankly right on back.

Truth be told, they’d gotten used to being stared at. Everywhere they went they collected stares because they were an outsider. They couldn’t go anywhere without being balked at, not the public bathhouses, not the markets… Suppose they just had that sort of look about them: the look of someone whom society deemed uncivilized; that because they were nomadic they must have nothing useful to contribute, no valuable coin or tradeable knowledge, only scraps that they could barter. Nothing to do but beg, steal, loiter, cheat, or vandalize... It wasn’t true, of course. They were plenty strong and capable enough to work if they desired, not that that mattered considering they didn’t [desire to work, that is]. People’s minds were small, perhaps arguably smaller in Asiria due to the fact the borders had been closed so gods’ damn long.

For what it’s worth, Arlo fortunately was not small minded. (Perhaps that’s why their head was still miraculously whole and solid, despite this titan so annoyedly insisting that it should have melted.) They’d wandered the soil of this dying planet for what felt like centuries and never had they shied away from horror. The experiences they’d had since meeting the titan were unfathomable, their Fate and purposes uncertain… but they’d had plenty of odd experiences in the waking world before. For all they knew they could have still been dreaming.

“I know Delphine,” they answer shortly, biting their tongue rather than arguing with the woman since she clearly thought that they were stupid. But that lifetime of the princess had been over centuries ago, by now the royal line was long irrelevant and whatever came of Delphine’s child was no more than rumors passed through generations. (There was no record to show if the child had survived themselves; they’d simply disappeared to the timeline and become a ghost. It could be anyone, their mother told them. The royal line could always rise again.)

Being told that Delphine had nothing to do with them felt like it should have been an insult somehow. (Were all Asirians not meant to feel intricately connected to the royals? Ah yes, they were supposed to wish they could rewrite history and go back to the time the planet had “respectable” leaders.) Quite frankly, Arlo didn’t care the slightest what had become of the royal lineage all those years before. How could it possibly be good for one family, one person to have all that power? …Yet they had also just felt Delphine’s heartbeat in their own chest mere minutes ago due to one of this very same titan’s strange memory timelapse-like illusions. Had their souls not been entwined right then? Were her feelings not their own?

“He tried to kill Delphine,” Arlo remembered, speaking once again of Soren. “In the fortress. He tried to turn her against you first, though. You were her mentor. He said you led her astray.”

It didn’t matter what they remembered of the visions or what questions they still had–the titan’s mind was clearly elsewhere. She was so frazzled that for all they knew she might not have even heard them. Arlo wanted to understand, they really did… at the very least because there seemed to be no other option. Regardless of relevance, they were stuck in this place–they couldn’t will themselves away; there was no door or exit lest it be controlled by something else. This could have been a dream but all the same it made them oddly curious.

It was that same morbid curiosity that had them nearly touching things they shouldn’t. Their fingers danced along the edges of the plinth, not retracting all the while the titan rambled and she dawdled. They’d been afraid of her, once, when her form had been more intimidating and more otherworldly–less ridiculous–less human. Now that she was mostly human (even with still having otherworldly powers and some physical attributes, like the temple wings, that they couldn’t quite explain or fathom), they weren’t afraid but merely… well. Just curious.

When the woman swept across the room, suddenly towering over them, and slapped their hand away from the closest plinth of eyeball(s), Arlo took a sharp intake of breath. They’d noticed her eyes before, of course, but not experienced the true depth and gravity of their inhuman color this close before now.

The woman’s anger stuns them for only a moment. Within seconds, their whole demeanor shifts. They stand up taller, straightening their spine to reach and grasp the woman by her shoulders. (Assuming this un-human woman could even feel temperature and sensation like a normal person, Arlo’s metal left hand was likely a bit cold and biting on her skin. The other hand was warmer… in fact, its skin was tingling, turning almost feverishly hot the longer that they maintained contact with the titan's skin.) They leaned in until they were close enough their breath tickled the titan’s ear. Their voice took on a distinct quality that was not their own.

“I know your name,” they whispered gently. Teasing, almost. “Would you like to hear it?

Were they stupid? Crazy? Reckless? Brave?

“B̶͔̊ŕ̸͖̈́ö̴̦̥́͐n̶͕̜̔̅t̵̟͛̔ḛ̴́̽͝”​

As a matter of fact, they were.

 

[starboob]

Rare is for the all seeing to be stunned to silence. In her surprise, her mouth hangs open in a small 'o,' as the name summons a flood of memories; ones buried under the burden of the past and the disaster that turned Asiria from a once lush forest with overfull oceans and rivers that carved the ravines into a desert grasping at Life.

Of all the names she held onto, she let herself forget her own;
The one she came to prefer to the weighty one Father and Mother gave to her.
One only a silly mortal could come up with.

Her eyes sear in the same way they would if she were in a staring contest with the Sun himself. The ones on the plinths rise a few more inches then, all at once, they plummet and splatter across the marble. The wet puddles bubble and with each burst, grass grows; high enough to tickle Arlo's abdomen as they sway with the sea breeze that sweeps up the cliff side.

Small white flowers wave with the grass and the titan stands among them, her white robes rippling behind her; licks of fire wave out from her rich brown hair, dotted with eyes. There is a child in the grass, arms out and running with a smile that could break all the sadness in the world.

"Is Bronté even a word?" she had asked once. Not incredulous; only amused.

How her voice carried such fondness for the young princess, the hope of Asiria. 'It was a mistake…' She knew her destiny too early and robbed from her was the chance to just be. If just one thing had been different, could that have been the difference between bounty and ruin?

The waves that should have been below the cliff, rise over it's ledge and crash over the grassy terrain — though Bronté does not flinch. Salt water that would have frozen anyone's bones if it were real wash over herself and Arlo. As the water pulls away, they stand on the deck of a ship. A babe still taking its first breaths is shoved into the titan's arms, a bundle of warmth — hot like the Sun; like its wretched father. "Delphine, you should have told me. You could have told me."

Even in spite of her own duress, she remembers. She remembers how she had held onto that bundle, that precious package her champion insisted she steal away and hide (protect). With nothing but its mother's scarf and the golden medallion — bearing neither the royal seal nor Ilyos's sigil, but something entirely new (something they must have forged in secret) — she promised to ensure the babe lived.

As much as the titan could afford, anyway. All powerful and even she knows not the fruit of that effort or if it became a burnt sapling.

The Titan Lord of Wisdom and Sight stares a thousand yards into the future, the past, the present. The ocean waves freeze, the ship pauses at a slant while the crown of her brother's head starts to surface at the ship's bow. (She had not sensed him then; she does not sense him now.) Even in this freeze frame, she carries that bundle tightly to her chest. It does not breathe. It does not howl. A small curl of dark hair pokes out from its swaddle; that is the only feature Bronté recalls.

"Who told you that name?" Her voice is low, though she is unmistakably addressing the junkrat who stubbornly remains with her through these memories. She holds tightly to the bundle that is both real and not — real in the sense it had been, not in the sense she hid that child away long ago and burned the memory of where.

"How dare you speak to me as if we are anywhere near equal," she spits, turning on Arlo. While she might tower over them, while her wings may fan out in warning, her bark lacks any bite, in spite of it all. "You come here and sully these sacred grounds with your filth and dare taunt me, your Titan Lord?!"

With one arm still wrapped around the bundle, she uses the other to reach for Arlo's head, aiming to twist her fingers into those infuriating dark curls. "I am your superior, you insolent brat." Her ire may not even be how they speak to her, but that their words even have the power to get under her skin at all. "Who told you those things!"

What did they see?

She clutches the bundle tightly to her chest while still keeping her hold on Arlo. Though the babe is still frozen with the rest of the coming shipwreck, the medallion around its neck weaves through the fabric of the scarf and stretches towards Arlo like a brilliant shiny button. "Don't. you. dare."

 

[heartstringss]

Arlo wasn’t sure exactly what they had expected to happen after revealing to the Titan they had knowledge of her name, but it certainly wasn’t this. (Most likely they hadn’t considered the consequences of their actions in the slightest–at least they would be on par with their general trend of thoughtlessness.) They watch from the corner of their eye as the woman’s mouth falls open in a tiny ‘o’ of surprise, and at first this makes them smile… but then the woman’s eyes sear brightly and a rush of panic floods their veins instead. Their attention flickers to the closest surplus eyeball when they notice movement out of their peripheral vision, at which point Arlo looks over just in time to see the plinth eyeballs rise then plummet and splatter all across the marble. It’d be disgusting if the resulting vision weren’t so damn magnificent.

Grass! So much grass, and oh, how it sways in such a pleasantly warm and salty breeze.

Arlo’s hands drift off the Titan’s shoulders. They reach out and touch the brilliantly green growth where it extends beyond their waist, capturing and running (but not plucking) the blades gently through their callused fingers. Their eyes glisten with wonder as they spin around and see the flowers, then they gasp noticing the Titan (nearly forgotten somehow) standing tall and proud amongst them, her elegant white robes and flame-tinged hair both fluttering softly with the breeze.

They don’t see the child until that echo of the Titan’s name clatters like a pin-drop in the stillness of their mind.

“Is Bronté even a word?” The titan asked, to which the young princess chortled her response, “it is now.” A child’s logic–simple as that.

She dances to the Titan, her fingers clasped around a small bouquet of three white flowers and a single blade of grass. She presses these into her lord’s hands and then disappears back into the tall grass, her laughter rising to a cry as one memory fades and the next one soon takes over.

Against all logic of one getting caught up in a rising tide and receiving a facefull of seawater, somehow Arlo doesn’t drown nor does the water sweep them away, freeze them or clean them of their filth (...unfortunately). When the last salty licks of sea foam finally pull away, they gasp to find themselves standing on a ship in the middle of an ocean beneath a brilliant many star-flecked sky and twin moonlight. They watch as an older version of the princess stomps distraughtly to the Titan and presses a warm bundle into her outstretched, waiting arms. They spot a hint of rosy cheeks and dark curly hair but can’t make out too many of the baby’s other features. Arlo feels their chest tighten as they look into that bundle and catch sight of a distinct, oddly familiar shiny gold medallion.

When the infant’s mother speaks her voice is filled with so much urgency and distress it borders on hysteria. “You must protect him, Bronté, please! Take him away from here and hide him. As long as he’s with me I fear he won’t ever be safe.” She doesn’t respond to the Titan’s urging that she should have–could have–confided in her sooner. Her already-teary bright blue eyes turn away in shame; it isn’t long before the tears give way and spill down her cheeks.

(In that moment, Arlo remembers an important detail of the royal family they’d been told once as a child: all the firstborn children prior to Delphine’s child had been Daughters. The broken lineage, what the legends called the start of a curse–fall of an empire–came with the rare first birth of an Unroyal Son.)

The scene grew eerily quiet the longer Arlo pondered this. Eventually they noticed that the waves' movement had frozen and the princess’s sniffling abruptly stalled–all was still except the silhouette of a large, spiked head and single eye slowly emerging from the sea beyond the point of the ship’s bow. Delphine’s eyes were frozen wide and so were Arlo’s–the titan woman for her part, however, seemed wholly unalarmed by this development. When her mouth next opened it was clear that she was speaking directly to Arlo this time, her fury unrelenting towards their presence as a once-again uninvited memory-dweller.

Arlo stumbles back when the titan turns on them suddenly, they nearly trip and fall trying to get away but no matter how they try they just aren’t quick enough. Their eyes squeeze tight as the woman grabs them by their hair and pulls them close. They whimper with the sting of pain, hands balling to fists at their side (although they wouldn’t dare lash out or strike her). “You came to me, you brought me here; I didn't choose this!” Their eyes tear open, shoulders shaking as their gaze mirrors the form of Soren with his fists raised over the boat posing to strike.

Considering the impending doom it didn’t seem much worth getting into how they’d actually heard the name from Soren in Bronté’s own memory. Even if they had wanted to explain, the movement of the gold medallion weaving out of the infant’s swaddle and stretching up towards them was quite distracting. The gold of the medallion shone brightly in the moonlight, its glare reflecting off the barest hint of honey flecked throughout the scavenger’s dark eyes. They reached for the medallion as if being summoned, so transfixed they barely noticed the slow descent of Soren’s fists nor Bronté’s warning.

Their fingers fold around the small medallion like it is the only lifeboat in the universe that had any chance to save them. As Soren’s fists crash to the ship and splinter wood, the princess falls in odd slow-motion. Her body tumbles across the deck, fingers digging in the wood leaving behind deep grooves from her nails and leaving behind streaks of bright red blood. Her voice strangles over the cacophony of chaos and echoes even as the scene dissolves:

“You must save him! My Lord, you promised!”

Arlo squeezes the medallion tight at the horrifying development of Bronté’s many-numbered hidden eyes suddenly bursting wide. The fabric of time and space shreds all around them and washes the scene with cold, bright light. They try not to cry when the woman’s fingers pull their hair and scratch their scalp.

The medallion hums and seems to vibrate. It appears they’ve formed a link of sorts–a bridge connecting past, present and future. The scene that emerges combines fragments of memory from all.

A curly-haired toddler hobbles through the narrow living area of a shabby, poorly lit mud structure. A woman sits cross-legged in the middle of the floor, arms outstretched to catch the child when they lean too far and start to fall. She sits them down in her lap and lets them pull her robe aside, a hungry mouth fast upon her breast. Sounds of nursing and the woman’s humming fill the air of the single-room household and are only briefly interrupted when the mother coughs. When her mouth pulls away from the sleeve of her elbow she finds the fabric flecked with bright red spots of blood. She sighs, for fortunately by this point the child is already fast asleep inside her arms.

(...)

A young boy sprawls across the ground inside his family’s sheepbarn. His body is long and gangly, his hair a wild nest of untamed curls. He looks just like his father besides the fact that he’s inherited his mother’s nose and smile–not that he would ever recognize either one of them in person. He shares enough physical similarities with the faraway palace guardsmans’ other children to not raise too many questions. Except one mystery remains: The weight of the gold medallion that sits atop the boy’s sternum, a treasured heirloom which has never left his sights for long. In silent ritual his fingers trace the grooves and ridges of the medallion’s elaborate gold face. He’s committed the sigil to memory so thoroughly that even when the medallion winds up getting stolen in the market one day, he still doesn’t ever forget its gold plate’s etching. However, it takes decades before he finally unravels the puzzle that his mother carved into its unique sigil.

(...)

A pre-teen Arlo wanders through a ruined camp. Their bare feet kick at stones and toss red dirt into the air. They bend down to grip a sheet of metal and nearly exhaust themselves trying to flip it over one-handed. When they finally manage to lift it up enough to look beneath, they nearly dance with joy to find an old pan with a bent handle, some metal spoons and a small crust of bread. They gobble up the bread most hungrily, use their toe to push the pan and metal spoons out from the rubble of the fire and then drop the sheet of metal back onto the ground. After this they pull a satchel from around their back and use their one good hand to shove the new cooking tools inside. They can worry about cleaning the tools later, for now they must find food…

This search for food leads them reluctantly into a village. They’re nervous around people but their hunger has gotten to the point of urgency they can no longer deny how hard it’s gotten to hunt since—

[THE VISION BLACKENS MOMENTARILY WHEN THE MEDALLION-HOLDER’S MEMORY GLITCHES IN ITS HASTE TO COVER UP REDACTED TRAUMA. WHEN THE PICTURE STABILIZES THE YOUNG PEASANT CAN NOW BE SEEN WEAVING THROUGH A THRONG OF BODIES AMONG A DENSELY POPULATED AFTERNOON STREET MARKET. THEIR FINGERS DANCE IN AND OUT OF SHOPPER’S POCKETS. DUE TO THEIR STATURE THEY GO LARGELY UNNOTICED… UNTIL]

Later in the night, they happen on the storefront of a building with its windows open letting out a mouthwatering sweet aroma of roasted meat and fried potatoes. The shop has a few tables outside littered with trinkets that are currently unmanned and it's here they linger, their fingers flitting over all the shiny bits of metal, odd-shaped stones and fossils. The stuff on the table isn’t likely worth much unless its viewer was a bird or some (other) type of collector, but in all fairness most children seem to be a little bit of both. They grab an odd piece of dented metal from the table and turn to run off before anyone can notice–only to turn and crash right into the store’s keeper.

“Where ya’ goin’, kid?” A man’s deep voice rumbled, hands catching on the peasants’ raggy clothes and dirt-caked hair. The child screamed with healthy lungs and twisted violently, without stopping, until at last they managed to tear themselves–and their shirt–free of the large man’s grabby hands. They turned back to spit and also dropped their treasure. Diving for it, the man thrust his boot into their stomach while they were down and the child vomited with pain. As soon as they had collected themselves enough to no longer feel their vision swimming, they bolted to their feet and took off into the night. Despite their ribs hurting and the stomach growling, they didn’t stop until they finally landed themselves back into the safety of the desert. ​

When the vision fades to black, they shortly find themselves returned to Bronté’s sanctum. The infant is gone but the titan’s hand is still fisted in Arlo’s hair. Without speaking a word, they reach up and take the woman’s hand gently, prying her fingers open to release and free their hair. They then step back, rolling their neck and shoulders to release a series of sharp pops from all the bundled knots and stiff muscles that had developed in the interim of the last few minutes… or however long it’d been.

“So it was Soren,” they said finally, “He sunk Delphine’s ship… he killed her, didn’t he? That’s where I heard your name as well. He said it in the other-- whatever these things are. Memory or vision, hallucination, I don’t know. Whatever you call them.”

It felt like an invasion of privacy that their own memories had been emulated in the Titan's dreamscape. Was that how Bronté felt with them peeking into her head so unwanted? Well, it wasn't like they'd done so willingly but of course that hardly mattered now.

Before she could get too angry with them, Arlo reached into their shirt and withdrew a necklace on a long bit of frayed leather cord. Hung on the end of the cord was a tarnished gold medallion which had certainly seen better days. The metal was littered with a series of deep scratches and no longer brightly shining, its sigil near unreadable. They pulled the necklace over their head, struggling for a few seconds when it briefly got caught in their hair. Once they'd freed the prize, they held it out unto the Titan.

“I guess this technically belongs to you.”

 

[starboob]

In truth, Bronté never knew the bastard child or what became of him; nor did she try. It was to no fault of her own. It was only ever her responsibility to find him protection.

"Take him away from here and hide him. As long as he’s with me I fear he won’t ever be safe."

Just as the bastard would have been in danger with his mother, he would have been in danger with the titan. The path she chose for him was for the sake of Asiria. That it failed to include what he might have wanted or wished for from his Life is hardly of concern to the Titan Lord of Wisdom and Sight. It is unfortunate, but sometimes personal want must be sacrificed on the altar of survival.

Delphine should have known that. Bronté is certain that she had and shirked her responsibility anyway — even after the titan tried to massage her champion's fate.

Bronté did what she had to do. Besides, the skies had darkened over Asiria shortly after Delphine perished at the hands of Soren. Even if she had wanted to know the little bastard, it would have done nothing for him, ultimately.

Had there been the Time to bond, however, Bronté would have made no different a choice.

It was for the best.

Millennia had come and gone as Asiria fell to waste and it was still and always the surest path to take: To wait for the crystalized version of her champion to awaken the sleepwalkers and restore order.

This is what she tells herself.
She has made no mistakes. She is a titan
And titanblood is true.

“You must save him! My Lord, you promised!”

In her clearest eye, she knows she saved him.
And in her clearest eye, that is all she ever did.

That knowledge fills her with something as cold and as heavy as Balthmor's core. An ice lump forms in her throat and it takes several swallows to ensure she does not choke on that guilt. What she had done may not have ever been enough and she may have always known it.

When Arlo's hand paws at hers, Bronté releases without fight. Somewhere in the supercuts of her past, the small bundle she once held evaporated and slipped through her arm like sand. Now her arm hangs limply at her side with only the ghost of his warmth left.

Her fingers tent over her chest and close into a tight fist over the fabric of her robes — a surprisingly mortal gesture for a titan who will insist that she is above it all.

"Memories. Not hallucinations." This may be the softest her voice has been when addressing Arlo. It's as far away as she wishes to be. "This is my life — at least the last some odd decades of wakefulness, before we all became sleepwalkers."

It's hard to say what possesses her to offer a candid explanation. None of this will ever pertain to the junkrat. She found them by chance, by some odd —

"I would never own something so ugly." Her nose wrinkles at the sight of the tarnished medallion — something about it is offensive enough to snap her back to her usual self. She has half a mind to slap it away. She even puts her wrist in position to do so, but somewhere in the motion to strike she changes course and grabs the leather cord instead.

"I swear, you must make it a competition to speak as offensively as possible. How could this ever…" She continues her mutters, but speaks too quietly for her words to make any sense — that and she switches to the incomprehensible language of the titans. She flips the disc of garbage over in her palm, flips it between her fingers, and rubs her thumb over the grooves before she brings it closer to her eyes. The wings at her temples fan out, spreading out the feathers so that all of her present eyes can see.

"I — " For a moment she is quiet. The eyes on her wings shift rapidly between Arlo, the medallion, the scenes from the bastard's Life to Arlo's, and then she laughs.

It's a melodious sound, peels of it coming freely from her throat with such hearty force that tears spring in her eyes and she doubles over, clutching the stitches in her side. It has been too long since she had a good laugh and for this junkrat to be the cause — why, it's a rather large relief.

Because now, here in this seemingly insignificant object is her answer: Arlo is not the crystallization of Delphine. They merely found this piece of scrap metal and that, for whatever reason, was enough to awaken the titan.

Hope for her champion remains!

"Oh my — " She hiccups, wiping her eyes carefully as if she is trying to keep the makeup she is not wearing from smearing. "For a second I really thought you were a relative to the princess." Though she resisted the notion, it is true that pieces of her were willing to accept the unfortunate possibility. "But it merely is her heirloom you have ransacked! It is but simple and mere chance that you be the curse breaker."

And with this piece, she is a step closer to finding her scepter. Now they must find the blood of Delphine to open it. Simple! "Ah, for once you do good, junkrat." She musses through their hair in a manner that may have been affectionate if her tone were not so condescending. "I am sure we can find leads in a city or settlement — I am sure no heir of Delphine's would waste in the lone desert."

With spirits higher, she claps three times and the flashbacks drop like a veil, placing them back in Soren's outpost. The body of hers that initially caused the spillover of her power disintegrates into glitter that dances in circles on the floor before sweeping over to the titan herself, collecting in her skirts and taking the sallow look of her away. "Your little wheeled contraption still works, no?"

 

[heartstringss]

The life of a bastard son is never sure to be an easy one. Nasir had found that out the hard way growing up on a farm with limited resources, his adoptive parents already juggling several other hungry mouths long before he’d come along. He’d been handed off as an infant with very little details shared to the family who’d agreed to take him in the first place–”a healthy boy,” they’d been told, “in need of parents.” Of course, there were rumors and suspicions everywhere the boy turned… but following Delphine’s disappearance and the founding of her shipwreck, it was all anyone could do to simply grieve–in death there was no tolerance for disrespect. The Princess had been greatly loved throughout the galaxy, so with her illicit lover mysteriously disappeared unto the wind, her child was simply rumored to be lost–either taken by its father or perished among the shipwreck with its mother–either possibility suited the kingdom well.

Despite the monthly allowance extended to the family who agreed to feed and clothe that extra mouth, Nasir’s adoptive father had strict rules for all his children. “The boy must earn his keep,” he’d tell his wife before rattling off a list of chores to be completed all before he ‘earned’ his breakfast. Such responsibility was thrust upon him much the same as it’d been thrust upon his mother–yet of course his mother reaped the benefits of growing up loved inside a palace, and Nasir, comparatively, was merely tucked away in shadow. He’d still known love but not enough to ever fill the hole of what his life could have–should have–been, especially once he learned the truth of the medallion and what terrible shame and misfortune the circumstances of his birth had ultimately wrought upon his mother and the palace.

Oh, how easily a life can fall to sand and become lost to the annals of time.


/ / / . \ \ \​

The human response of the Titan’s pain, the shadow of her guilt, is not lost on Arlo. They watch her fingers tent over her chest and turn to fist above her heart, that ache inside her voice so clear and raw. (It’s all they can do to remain quiet through their resulting discomfort – they make no effort to console her, not sure they even could if they knew how.)

When the woman insults and makes to swat at the medallion, a flash of indignation crosses their face in response. The gold disc has been within their possession for a long time so even though they’d initially joked about returning it to the woman, they weren’t actually looking to give it up at all. They release the cord only reluctantly, their hand remaining in an upward palm while they wait (not so patiently) for her to give it back. Their dark eyes watch the Titan carefully, their mouth a thin, tight line making clear the fact of their discomfort. (It’s certainly amusing watching Bronté’s disbelief shift to surprise, but where normally they’d tease and laugh, the agitation at losing their treasure takes great precedence over that right now. That hunk of metal was a piece of them just like their arm. It had nothing at all to do with where it came from and everything to do with what they’d lost.)

When the woman begins to laugh, they startle with a marked abruptness. A flash of heat travels up their neck and molds their skin to earthy clay. It’s not the matter of supposed lineage that embarrasses them as even they do not believe that to be true; rather it was the Titan’s condescending tone, that awful way she kept looking down her nose at them, the pure “hilarity” of present circumstances… that all in all just made them feel like a squashed bug. When the Titan ruffles her fingers through their hair like an elder would a child, Arlo openly sneers and rolls their shoulders as if meaning to shake her off. They didn’t bother trying to flatten their hair back down (which would have been a laughable effort surely), and when at last her hand retreated they reached out their own and swiped the medallion from her open palm.

“I never claimed to be the heir,” they muttered hotly, now slipping the cord over their head and tucking the medallion safely back inside their shirt. Its metal is a welcomed coolness on their hot, flushed skin, its weight a stone that helps them feel more grounded.

Well, until the Titan claps her hands and the scene dissolves into thin air. They try not to vomit with the transition, their hands fold over their stomach and their eyes clench tight. A second later their senses settle and the desert aroma fills their nostrils. They breathe it in like life, even dropping shortly to their knees to kiss the very earth itself. They lift their head just in time to watch the Titan’s former body disintegrate and turn to glitter, the sparkles dancing lifelike right before their very eyes.

At this point, Arlo rises to their own feet, watching transfixed as the glitter sweeps across the desert floor and disappears into the layers of the Titan’s skirt. Their eyes track over her form slowly, eventually landing back onto her face at which point they then purse their lips and even gradually start to turn away. It’s a second later that she beckons them about their bike, their curly head now turning back to look upon the Titan with surprise.

“Oh, you… want me to go with you?” Or was she simply trying to use them for their bike? “I thought you made it rather clear I do not matter. After all, I’m just a junkrat.”

Even as they said this, Arlo turned and walked on to their bike. They heft its body upright, muscles straining beneath the thin material of their dusty tunic. Leaning its weight against their hip, they check the water pump under the motor and the gauges for the homemade solar panel strapped onto the bike’s rear mount. It was coated in filth and much like its owner was in desperate need of a thorough wash, but other than that… a couple hard twists of the handlebar and the engine roared to life! Arlo smiled, patting the chassis like a favored pet before they shut the engine off. They look back on the Titan with a smirk. “So you want a ride into the city? And I should help you why?”

They'd help her anyway because they had nothing better to do and they were a good person, but she didn't need to know that.

 

[starboob]

"Are you being so serious?" If Bronté thought the junkrat worth her Time, she might have attempted to inflect some incredulity into her tone. This is no specific offense to the junkrat themself — at least this Time — but in the days of old, a mortal would understand the honor of assisting a Titan. The Titan.

She does not even look in their direction and instead sends off two eyeballs from her form to give herself a once over. This new form is almost the perfect image of her last, save for two less arms and two more wings — which she did decide to keep, finding them rather stylish. (Maybe her style alone can inspire the rest of Asiria to crawl out of this dark age it has found itself in.) She primps her feathers with the tips of her fingers while she waits for Arlo's apology and subsequent groveling.

When that does not come, however, even after the engine shuts off (it is far too loud for her tastes, but she supposes she can fix that later if it is even needed) she blinks, brows furrowed. It takes her a moment to find Arlo in the outpost, as if she has somehow lost their location. She snaps her fingers, disappearing the disembodied eyes, and places her hand on her hip. Now she is incredulous. "It would be your honor to assist a Titan, might I remind you, for then you would have a chance at becoming a footnote in the annals of history and perhaps not be a forgotten junkrat. This is your chance to be something. I think it's rather generous, hm?"

Though she falls short of outright claiming their Life is insignificant, it makes no difference. Her meaning is not likely lost.

"But if you refuse to see logic, I am happy to provide threat." She grins. Though she lacks fangs and sharps rows of teeth, her smile is plain enough in its meaning — she would be happy to end Arlo. It would be as easy as it had been exploding those raiders' heads. "If the earlier demonstration of my power was not enough, I am happy to show you more of what I am capable of."

Never mind that extending herself any further could be catastrophic. The human does not know that. Probably.

"Truthfully, I should be taking that medallion from you since it really has no business being on your person." She shrugs. "But you seem over fond of it and, quite plainly, I would rather not get anymore gore on my person." That she can change her appearance but the gore remains is wholly annoying. "So I shall let you hold onto it until we part ways."

She finishes fixing her feathers and starts toward Arlo and their bike. "Shall we?"

 

[heartstringss]

Was Arlo …supposed… to care about honor? If so, they must’ve missed that memo. The Titan’s incredulity makes them snort, watching how she primps her feathers (of course she kept those damn ridiculous temple wings) and juts her hip out, hand perched like rather she was the princess and not Arlo. If they had to guess they’d say Bronté probably wasn’t used to not being constantly fawned over, her every wish and whim delivered at first beck and call. But then it’d been how many generations since the last waking Titan had existed? Arlo loved them, sure, respected them, of course, but worshiped them? No. To them, the Titans were merely a manifestation of the planet’s traits and values, for instance there was Father Asiria, the fabled tree giant who at one Time had been storied as so full of Life (who was now thoroughly desolate and ravaged, his branches barer than the planet), and Giatha with his big-boulder shoulders, literally a walking mountain in himself. What was it that Bronté represented? Arlo didn’t even know. Was there a Titan for pretentiousness and snobbery?

Alas, they couldn’t deny the Titans were a set of beings much more powerful and all-knowing than themselves, and this one especially they knew to be all-knowing, all-seeing and all-powerful. She could have surely wiped them from existence anytime that she desired. (And did they want to be wiped from existence? Fuck no!)

Anyway, it sounded like adventure and adventure was fun. Not like they had anything better to do with their Time.

They remain quiet while the Titan weaves her web of threats. The weight of their bike still rests upon their hip, one hand perched on the chassis, metal fingers gently tapping, while the other cards through the shaggy mess of curls on their head. When she gets to speaking about the medallion, they tune it more visibly and in fact look up, their gaze a warning in itself. Their hand goes to their breast, callused fingers thumbing the hard ridges of the medallion through their shirt. The threat that she would take it from them seems to impart much more of an emotional reaction than any of her other threats before. Were they ready to fight for the medallion? Die for it, perhaps? At that they weren’t so sure.

Their posture remains guarded even though she’s offered to let them keep it for a little while longer, at least until the time they truly parted ways. However, there was no way of knowing when that time would come. When they reached the nearest village, what came after? If she didn’t find what she was looking for there, would she choose to drag them with her further still or simply go off on her own? (If this Titan had awakened, could that mean that there were others? What did she need them for if so? Then again, perhaps her mission was more personal.)

In the end, they didn’t argue. They looked at her unsmiling, their hand still guarded protectively overtop the medallion. When she started towards them, Arlo stiffened briefly then nodded, turned and tossed their leg over the bike. They scooted up the bike as far as they could manage to make room for the Titan, their shoulders becoming cramped up near their ears, face twisting in a grimace when they felt the woman slide onto the seat and settle in the space just behind them. If there seemed a bit of hesitance to touch it was likely because this very moment they remembered the last time they had been on the bike together how Bronté had, at that point, been sporting four arms. This time she was down to just the two, which they thought was probably for the better seeing as last time she’d place one hand over their shoulder and that hand had quickly made its way up to their hair and even obscured their vision for a time during their fight with the raiders, nearly killing them both as a result.

They wait to start the bike until Bronté is settled. “Just around my waist this time, don’t touch my shoulders,” they instruct her gently. Once her arms circled their waist, Arlo tests their ability to lean and then adjusts the placement of her hands so that her grip was firm but not so tight they couldn’t breathe or move. “Try to lean with me when I go into a turn. It makes steering with your added weight a little easier. If you need me to stop, give my shirt a tug.” They try to ignore the feeling of heat radiating outward from all points her body touched. To say it’d been a long time since Arlo had last touched another person would have been an understatement. (Did it make it better or worse she wasn’t a person but in fact a god?)

“This is gonna be a long ride because we’re really far from any villages. So um, ya know. Just stay holding on.”

Hopefully they wouldn’t run into any problems like they had the last time.

With that, Arlo started up the motor and kicked off.

 

[starboob]

It was a three day's journey to the nearest settlement — settlement being a rather generous word for the abysmal shanty town that had nothing to offer them other than guns to their heads. Never mind that Bronté had demanded tribute upon arrival and, when no one budged, threatened to steal away the first born daughters as punishment. Really, it should not have gone so sourly!

"This would not have happened during the Premiera," she had said, sulking on the back of the junkrat's motorized vehicle. Bullets whistled past their ears as they (Arlo) outmaneuvered the mob chasing them, and all Bronté could think about was the gall of those uncultured townsfolk. She prattled on, counting off on her fingers, "I should be received by the highest ranking official, their priestesses, and offered whatever it is I might require. The absolute lack of respect…"

She had gone on like that for a day and only stopped when she noticed that Arlo was fast asleep beside the campfire. Thankfully (for the junkrat), the Titan had exhausted herself on the topic by the morning.

By morning her attention was on a sandstorm some hundred or so miles away. It hadn't been there yesterday nor the day before. It was a dark line over the other wise beige horizon, gradually growing thicker as it swallowed the distance separating them from it. She kept her eyes on it and, when she decided it was getting far too close for comfort, she pulled on Arlo's shirt and pointed in the direction away from the storm. "That way. Don't stop."

This detour would cost them another four days on the road. It would also only serve to delay the inevitable, but any second of Time she could take from Soren could prove to be the minutes that would win this protracted war of kin. Bronté would risk nothing.

Those four days on the road were quiet, at least. The Titan occupied herself with her thoughts, carefully plotting out her next several moves and countermoves. Occasionally she would break from strategizing to observe the blurred landscape and the various sleepwalkers she could make out in the distance. Still, even this was to find friend and foe.

Giantha was hidden by Soren's storm, but she could still make out his hulking figure even through the dust. He appeared to be going against Soren's current, heading off towards the mountains. The gilded dragon with her three heads and six wings had also flown off in that direction a couple days prior. Bronté would have thought nothing of this until the giant tarantula with a woman's face was spotted stalking off in that same direction. Her eyes narrowed, never straying from the mountains. 'Hmm.' When they stopped for camp that night, she had sent off a several pairs of eyes towards the mountains. Giantha, Calista, and Valry were not to be trusted together — not until she knew where they stood.

By that point, they were a day out from Quila, a once minor port city turned last remaining bastion of Old Asiria. Bronté stood over the fire like a statue. It might have been unnerving, but she had stood like that every night since their journey began, keeping watch over their camp and ensuring the medallion did not leave Arlo's neck. And, perhaps, she was also protecting the junkrat.

"When we arrive in Quila," she starts, breaking the long silence between them. "The first thing I wish to do is bathe. You are to join me, for your stink trail is certainly going to get us found out." To be fair to Arlo, they both are covered in a thick layer of caked on gore, dirt, and sweat. Tragically, even Bronté's feathers are looking dull. In their current state, she really would not blame the denizens of Quila for thinking of them both as two cockroaches of society. "Then we shall get you a gun."

That bone toothpick they carry will no longer be sufficient now that they have likely been marked as the Titan's accomplice, regardless of the veracity of that assessment. It shall not matter to Soren when he wakes in a week's Time. "And while I gather intel, you ought to consider upgrading that 'bicycle' of yours." She uses scare quotes around the word bicycle, because her tone certainly doesn't do enough to convey what she thinks of the piece of junk. "And when was your arm last checked out? Your parts look out of date and I haven't even been awake for more than a week. Can it even shoot lasers?" She lifts a brow, ever doubtful.

 

[heartstringss]

Arlo hadn’t had too high expectations for the first village they rolled up on, but after Bronté had insisted that they stop, they gave in (albeit reluctantly) and pulled the bike off in the direction of the little shanty town peeking from the shadow of the Gorshé Mountains. They could recognize landmarks better than they could villages, but generally speaking they knew that most settlements the smaller that they were, the less welcoming they usually were to outsiders. Of course it didn’t help that Bronté, with all her fine silk and gossamer and sparkly gold adornments–even bathed in filth as she was–essentially looked like a rich tourist. Their stomach filled with dread the instant they climbed off the bike and saw that dozens of villagers had emerged to greet them not with smiles and hello’s but rather guns and alarmed suspicion. That hostility escalated quickly the moment Bronté opened her mouth and demanded to speak to whoever was in charge about her “tribute.”

Even Arlo felt a rise of heat flood through them, remembering through their childhood all the many incidents a gang of thieves and criminals (or otherwise pompous blowhards as surely there were instances and occurrences of both) had rolled through their parents’ village and demanded residents pay “taxes” if they wished to continue living safely and freely.

“You idiot, you can’t just–” but of course there wasn’t much time for introspection when you were having to dodge bullets and also consider the safety of those very same villagers who were flirting with danger in the unpredictability of a newly awakened Titan who could easily destroy their village with a single clap if she desired. Grabbing the Titan by her shoulders, Arlo steered her back to the bike and forced her to get on. Only once she was seated did they also seat themselves and then hastily make to leave the shantytown (fortunately they’d left the bike running and hadn’t ventured far). A cloud of dirt kicked up in the wake of their tires peeling out, sending the mob into a blind coughing fit which wonderfully also bought them time. Still the bullets whizzed on either side of them, throwing sparks where they bounced and ricocheted off of the bike’s already heavily dented metal. It was a wonder they made it out alive with so few injuries, not that Arlo experienced any real relief knowing the high probability this wouldn’t be the last time they’d have to outrun an angry mob.

When nighttime came, they were grateful to sit by the fire and just relax a little, only looking up and responding occasionally while they largely tuned out the Titan in her endless prattling-on about ‘the gall of (those) savages.’ They made a simple broth out of some dried meat and ate straight from the pot, later removing their shirt to disconnect the harness for their metal arm so they could give their stump a break (and much needed airing-out) before they fell to dozing by the fire.

Beyond the shootout at the shantytown, the trip was pretty uneventful, really. Bronté pointed them in a different direction at one point and although they knew the detour was going to cost them another four days on the road, they didn’t argue with her either. It was hard to imagine the planet had ever been more than this decimated rock, but of course they’d seen it in the Titan’s visions–that living, thriving land of vast oceans and widespread greenery before Asiria’s landscape had become war-torn and drought-ed, its civilizations now dwindling and largely disconnected from each other. They passed ruins of Old Asiria on occasion–a crumbled monolith of some old palace; the dusty, sun-bleached hand of a fallen monument grasping for breath out of the sand–but if the Titan was mourning any of this (and they sensed she was), for once, she said nothing at all. (In truth, that was likely for the best because Arlo didn’t have much experience consoling emotional women to begin with.)

An estimated one day out from Quila, Arlo sat down by the fire and sipped their usual broth while sorting through their bags. They ticked things off on their fingers, muttering beneath their breath while they worked out a list of what supplies they were running low on and what others they could potentially use to buy themselves more trading power. The gold medallion must have been itself worth a small fortune, yet somehow even through all their various trials and tribulations, Arlo hadn’t ever found themselves so desperate to need–or want–to sell it. (This was also why they often kept it hidden–as with most things, the less the raiders saw the better.)

When Bronté spoke, Arlo looked up, and at mention of her number one priority they flatly laughed. Okay, they couldn’t really fault her for wanting to bathe–they were both caked in gore and even Arlo was starting to itch–but after the way she’d upset the last villagers giving her “demands”, they honestly dreaded how she might do the same and cause another confrontation with the next. “There’s a few places in Quila I know that I can safely stash my bike, we’ll have to do that first so I can trade some things for coin or credit and then we’ll be able to hit the public baths and market.” They raked a hand through their sweaty, dirt-encrusted curls and scratched at their itchy scalp. Despite their obvious discomfort they somehow do not feel the need to argue.

“A gun, what–” They sputter at the thought of how much a gun will likely cost. Looking down at their belongings, they know they have enough excess (read: hoarded) scrap metal to turn a decent profit should they need to sell it, but they’d never needed more than the bone knife to get them through their daily ventures. Other weapons they’d collected over all the years of solo living mostly sat in storage just collecting dust. Before they can argue too far though, she continues on with her demands, next choosing to insult their bike. “I–I can do most of the work myself,” they say, brow furrowed at the thought of letting another person touch their singlemost prized possession. Their arms fold over their chest defensively, the tarnished bronze of their prosthetic clinking with the tarnished gold of the medallion, which is likely what inspired the Titan to insult their arm next. Arlo’s face flares red with equal parts embarrassment and rage. “I can do that myself too, I just need–”

…money. The truth of the matter was they just didn’t have the money to replace and tune and fix all of the things that needed fixed, least of all to upgrade the shabby hunk of junk that was their decade-old homemade prosthetic arm. They blink at the woman’s last question when she asks them if their arm can even shoot lasers, their mouth falling open while they stare at her dumbfounded. “What, do you think high-tech laser equipment just like falls out of the sky?”

It was laughable, really. “You know what, I think when we get to Quila you should actually just follow my lead. In case you haven't noticed, whatever luxuries you might've had a couple thousand years ago when your precious princess was alive are all but gone now. You can’t just walk in a place and demand whatever you want, that’s not how things work anymore.” Nevermind that if the Titans really were starting to wake up, surely there would have to be a reckoning for humanity at some point; it was simply unavoidable. “Do you want people to respect you, worship you or fear you? Because you've got to pick one, you can’t have all three.”

 

[starboob]

"Follow your lead!?" Oh, she would laugh if she weren't still fuming over the 'idiot' comment the other day. "I would sooner walk backwards into the mouth of Zeel than follow your lead, you ingrate."

She huffs, blowing a loose curl from her face. Her feathers ruffle. The audacity of this junkrat is so truly astounding that it is worthy of scientific study. How she would love to have Arlo laid out on a steel table with their head split open.

Alas, she has higher priorities and Titans to incinerate.

"High-tech?" She snorts, covering her mouth with the tips of her fingers. "A child could build a laser cannon."

Now she is just being facetious. It would be highly inappropriate for a child to build a laser cannon. (But not impossible. Delphine could have done it under her steady tutelage.) But this is not the Asiria of the Premiera and this is not lost on Bronté. The evidence is in the landscape, in the little Life that stirs when the Winds comb through her tresses with no whispers or secrets to share. It's in the parched, cracked desert that used to bleed in green. That which still lives, does so with fighting breaths, Arlo included. This is not lost on Bronté.

Had the Titans not fallen under curse, perhaps it would not have come to ruin. Perhaps Asiria would not have slipped into a dark age. And, perhaps, it would have only been worse. It was the looming war of kin that started the end of everything, after all. It is what forced the curse, lest they tear Asiria and the Nine asunder.

What had she expected upon her awakening?
Had she expectations at all?

To see her princess again, yes. And even then she knew and knows that Delphine is dead — the junkrat does not need to put burn in the wound. It was just…

Nothing.

The Titan steels herself, shooting daggers at Arlo.

"I'll have you know, during the Premiera, those three things were the standard." The lack of amenities are an adjustment, one she is sure she can weather. The lack of respect, however, is not something she will accept. She is a Titan and that will mean something again before she is leaves Asiria. With the swipe of her scepter she will ensure that all who encounter her know awe, fear, and love in their hearts.

It is only a matter of finding that damn scepter.

Her eyes flit over Arlo, lingering for a split second on the leather cord around their neck before quickly shifting to their mechanical arm to the steel horse, both of which appear to made of rejected scraps from superior projects. Her lip curls, "If this is your handiwork, you need a hand." This is only a fact. If it is harsh, then Arlo lives in another reality separate from this one. "And what better hand than that of a Titan — need I remind you that is what I am?" She flips her hair over her shoulder, placing a hand on her hip. "I have lived aeons. I have witnessed the rise and fall of kinds more Times than you could ever dream. I am the mother of invention."

In the distance horizon, lightning strikes giving the storm clouds a heartbeat-like glow. Bronté's features darken, her tone taking a somber edge. "For once, do you not want an edge in this one Life you have?"

 

[heartstringss]

Arguing with Bronté felt hopeless; all it did was make Arlo angry. Their blood felt hot like molten lava, their breath like steam, their nerves like sparkling live-wire. How impossible was this woman, this… this Titan! (Nevermind that they had no idea what she meant about ‘the mouth of Zeel.’ Was that a place? A person? Another titan, perhaps? Ah, they had so much to learn.) “You’re going to get us both killed,” they mutter under their breath, their fingers raking through sweat-drenched and dusty curls. Could a Titan even be killed by mere mortals? Their thoughts turned bitter, their face becoming a dark cloud. ‘Or just me. I’ll die trying to protect you and you’ll laugh and carry on like it doesn’t even matter.’ Why were they still following her if that’s how they felt? …because they’d made a promise, of course. Arlo was a person who had a lot of convictions, and one of those many convictions included that a person should never turn back on their word.

While the woman mocks them about not being able to build a laser cannon, Arlo huffs and stands their ground, saying nothing else. Oh, how they’d love to have a laser cannon, surely. But that shit was expensive, and most of the ruins of old ships that were still dotted across the landscape, those that had once had lasers and high-powered guns equipped as part of their weapons arsenal, were already stripped clean–bare–long before Arlo was born. If they could have only gotten their hands on one they would have likely been able to replicate it, no problem. But who had access to those old relics? Who had enough money, power and influence to afford them? Surely not Arlo. The only people Arlo could imagine was likely the Assyndio family. Arlo had crossed paths with them once and as long as they could avoid it they would like to never cross paths with them again.

They’re still running off the high of telling this Titan to essentially go shove it when she all but ignores their warning and only then insults them further. They feel a sense of pride swell in their chest and fume with righteous indignation. “I rely on only myself and no one else. I’ve gotten myself this far. Why should I need anybody else?” Okay, so that wasn’t entirely true. They’d nearly died of infection and starvation before they were taken in by the oftwala–simply put, they were only alive today because those kind women had saved them and nursed them back to health. A sense of shame creeps up behind their anger, taking over as simply as if Shame had merely laid a hand upon Anger’s shoulder and resumed its place. Meanwhile Arlo’s hands lay twisted in their lap, the knuckles of one fist starkly white against the cool bronze of the other. Their shoulders shake slightly. They stare hard at the woman while she looks off to the horizon, seemingly distracted by the flash of lightning in the looming storm clouds. Another static storm. There’d been a lot of those lately. Strange. Was it because the Titan’s curse had ended?

They’re still looking at the woman when she speaks up next.

"For once, do you not want an edge in this one Life you have?"​

Their grip tenses briefly then slowly relaxes. They don’t realize they’ve been holding their breath until they finally release it and feel the springs of tension gently ease out of their back and chest. They touch the hard edge of the medallion through their shirt. A few minutes later, they grab it by the leather cord and draw it out, remove it from their neck and turn it over gently in their palm.

They don’t know what to say for quite a while.

When they finally do speak, their voice is quiet and their tone is heavily conflicted. “I know someone in Quila who can hold onto my bike while we’re there. I'm sure they’d be willing to do me a favor by throwing in a tune-up also… if I asked…” They don’t look at the Titan and say nothing of their arm. The bike, the gun and all Bronté’s information-seeking would likely be expensive enough ventures on their own. The prosthetic served its purpose and quite frankly that was all they cared for. Of course they'd had to replace some of the parts as they got older and their body grew and changed, but that had stopped happening several years ago by now. They hadn't sought, needed or wanted any other updates. They didn't need it to be fancy or high-tech; it just had to be practical and relatively inexpensive to maintain. That it was so clunky nor anywhere near as good as the real thing they had long since gotten used to and made peace with.

“People have not forgotten the Titans, so you know. We have just grown more self-aware.”

 

[starboob]

Arlo capitulates in seconds, a house of cards blown away — sure, they puff up their chest like a proud lion, but their roar is the unsophisticated immature cry of a cub. Bronté arches her brow — somehow still as sculpted and immaculate as it was before it became caked with layers of grime and sweat and gore — and otherwise keeps her expression schooled, though she has to chew on the inside of her cheek to do so. Nothing the junkrat can say will have any effect. (Save for the idiot comment, though she develops a momentary lapse of memory when it suits her as it does now.) With one arm draped over her exposed midriff, she inspects the nail beds of her other hand.

"Are you quite finished?" She doesn't need an answer to know. Arlo is all but deflated, the weight of whatever inane thoughts they have seeming to have taken all the small fight they had in them. Or maybe it is some other emotion that weighs on them. She doesn't care enough to suss the difference and barrels over whatever conflict they may be having internally with her own agenda. "I understand that I may not have won your favor with the absolute headache you now find yourself in."

For the Titan, nothing she can say or do will ever be wrong. A world does not exist in which Bronté — let alone her insults helpful commentary — could be the problem. To her, Arlo's mood is nothing more than an apt reflection of their mutually shared circumstances.

"And for that, I apologize." She tents one hand over her flat chest, eyes closed solemnly. "It must be dreadful knowing the enemy you have." Bronté cannot recall whether or not she said anything of Soren, the eye he likely now has on Arlo, nor how thorough he is when it comes to the demolition of his enemies. "Make no mistake: I offer you my assistance not out of pity," not entirely, anyway, "but because I do not wish for your destruction." Arlo might be a thorn in her side, an obstacle in her path, but she does not need to see them perish for the irritation. A younger Bronté might have, but she worked that out of her system aeons before their Time. "It is unfortunate that you are now tangled in this." For once the Titan is sincere. Her shoulders drop for a moment, eyes wandering into distances only she can see. When she realizes she has shown more than she would like, she huffs, folds her arms over her chest, and gazes directly into the fire. The eyes upon her wings, however, continue to stare off distantly. "Had I known Soren would stir, I would have conducted our affairs in a manner that would keep you out of his sight."

The flame separating herself from Arlo rises, seemingly of its own accord. Soren should not have stirred so soon. His curse should have kept him bound. But fretting over the how does nothing to solve the mess of the present. If only Arlo's thick skull would crack enough to see the danger they are in and weigh it against the offer she has made. "My offer is a standing one." Times must truly be as different as Arlo says, for Bronté cannot fathom a mortal rejecting the help of a Titan. She is not sure there is even a record of such an instance. Even so, she leaves the matter at that. She cannot force wisdom upon the ostrich that buries its head in the sand.

Eventually, the flames settles to an ordinary size and her eyes shift from the distances to their bike, a more neutral topic.

"A tune up…" Her words come out in a breath and end with a sharp suck of her teeth. All of her eyes rove over the "bicycle" — and it is that only by virtue of having two wheels and, by some miracle of Mother, is capable of moving with passengers. "Right. Just so. That ought to be just what this tireless steed needs."

Not a complete overhaul of design. Not to be junked and traded in for something new. A tune up.

Bronté blows out a raspberry, but decidedly lets this topic go as well. Her eyes just shift from the bike back to the junkrat, looking over the knots of their curls down to their shoulders, to the point where flesh ends and machinery begins, to the medallion they turn over in their palm. Arlo holds themself like a shield or a wall and she supposes she cannot blame this hostile landscape for their current mood. Though neither can she admit that she might have contributed, no matter what evidence there is to that exact point.

"You ought to rest," she sighs, deciding to shut them both up. "Perhaps sleep on my offer."

 

[heartstringss]

The gold medallion is a warm familiar weight inside their palm. They wrap their hand around it and hold on tight, comforted by the hard press of the metal’s edges which had long worn down to buttery smoothness whereas in the past they had been sharp and well-defined. They close their eyes and breathe in the crisp night air. Bronté’s words flow over them like fog, permeating their subconscious even as they try to drown her out. There’s a change of tone inside her voice, a hint of sincerity that they hadn’t felt the Titan share before. Their eyes drift open as she tells them that she’s sorry for the monster-of-a-headache situation that they now found themselves trapped in, and how she can understand that hasn’t won her any favor. When she mentions the ‘dreadful feeling of knowing their enemy,’ Arlo tilts their head a moment in confusion… then remembers Soren, the Titan who had once plagued Delphine in the visions they had lived (or re-lived?) through Bronté’s memory… and are able to make sense of what she means at last.

“Make no mistake: I offer you my assistance not out of pity, but because I do not wish for your destruction.”

The word ‘destruction’ rings like hollow drum beats in their mind. It supersedes all of the pain and chaos they had encountered thus far in their life–the death of their mother; all those years wasted inside their father’s resulting deep depression until eventually they were forced to confront the loss of him too; the loneliness of orphanhood; the loss of their childhood home preceded by the loss of one of their arms; life with the Oftwala where it seemed that death was a revolving door; the many years struggling out in the wastes. What were they to make of Soren’s threat–that as long as they remained by Bronté’s side they would persist as equal targets? …why, even? All because they’d seen too much–now knew too much–of Delphine’s life? All because they had miraculously somehow heard and answered this one Titan’s call?

Ha! But it was all merely happenstance, was it not? This Titan had mistaken them to be Delphine’s heir–a princess–at first, yet just as soon as she had descended from the heavens and stood right before them she had plainly recognized her folly. Now the circumstances of their meeting was simply something to look back on and fall prey to laughter… Surely anyone could see that Arlo was neither princess nor heiress material. At least if Bronté knew that then shouldn't Soren have also been able to deduce the same? If there was nothing to doubt then why should they have been afraid?

…unless there was some seed of doubt? But if that was the case, Arlo knew they certainly hadn’t seeded it themselves. Sure, they had the medallion, but so what? Before them there was a random merchant in their home village who had had it, and before him, well… who knew how many other hands it had passed back and forth between over the centuries. Just because they’d found it didn’t mean that it was rightfully theirs, only that it was theirs right now. (And seeing as Bronté had implied she would be taking it sometime in the future probably that meant it wouldn’t even be theirs for much longer.)

This was all just one big misunderstanding. Anyone could see that, …right?

They watch the Titan’s many eyes (human and inhuman) sweep over the supposedly mangled-and-beyond-saving frame of their beloved bike and then shift slowly back to land on them. Their head towards downwards to look back over the medallion, not liking the feeling or knowledge that they were being watched and so closely absorbed. Exhaustion tingles at their limbs and forces tears to the inside corners of their eyes all before the Titan even dares open her mouth and suggest that they should rest. They bunch their shoulders to their ears and sigh haughtily, their mind still reeling but their body too defeated to continue fighting any longer. Perhaps they will sleep on her offer…

Rather than argue further, Arlo lifts the cord of the medallion back over their head and tuck it safely back inside their shirt, at the same time unfastening the clasps for the harness of their prosthetic which they have–as if mindlessly building a habit–now taken to removing almost every single night.

“You don’t sleep at all, do you?” They ask the Titan somewhere between sliding their elbow back into their shirt and next laying down, their head atop their backpack as a makeshift pillow. Their eyes blink slowly as they watch the Titan standing guard–motionless and statuesque–dutifully over the fire. They yawn between pauses as they gently ramble on. “...but you still dream, right? I mean, even animals still dream… I feel like life would be a prison if one could not dream at all…”

Whether the Titan has an answer for them or not, they fall asleep before they ever know.

 

[starboob]

Dreams. It is a simple question with but a simple answer: No. Perhaps once the Titans dreamed — had reason to hope — but those memories have scattered across the marble of her mind and tucked themselves in the crooks and crevices for her to one day find. But Titans are not mortal, let alone animal, so naturally they do not require the frivolity of dreaming.

Well…​

Once, yes, she supposes they did dream. Logic and fact confirm this. The story of Itzeila, the Titan Lord of Dreams and The Wayward, is the cautionary tale all Titans know. Itzeila who gave so much of herself, she became a whisper of herself. She gave mortals — every animal of them — dreams, stealing even those belonging to the Titans themselves. The dreams of Titans are now dreams of mortals, though Bronté and others are remiss to be reminded of this mythology that is their history.

Bronté has heard the whisper of Itzeila once and she might be the last Titan to have a memory of her voice, that low and raspy thing. What was it that she said? Was it warning? Does it matter? Her blood has been long spilt and its stain has been scrubbed clean from the watchful eye of history.

She never answers Arlo's question, in any case. They fall asleep in the span it takes for her to collect her answer, remembering a past so far behind them all it is an effort to recall. And even when they wake, she does not return to the query and acts as though nothing of dreaming or sleep had ever been mentioned.

🪽🪽​

The twin moons hang in the sky like a pair of crescent axe blades. The blades clash with the first rays of light as the sun reaches over the horizon and pushes back the moons. It bathes the desert in swaths of pink and orange. In the early hours, the red-rock buttes that surround them are so vibrant, they glow. The sands glisten as a sweep of warm wind carries them up and the granules dance like they are eager to lap up the first pulses of heat. It promises blistering temperatures by half-morning, but by then they should be well within the shade of the canyon where the last bastion of Asiria remains.

The enclave where the city lies is at a strategic disadvantage as it has no apparent way to defend itself from air raiders, at least as far as Bronté can tell. Even its fortified wall, made from the massive hull of a fallen space craft, does little to assuage her concerns. As they arrive at the entrance, a thick crowd of travelers and traders have already gathered. They swarm the entrance, awaiting their turn to be cleared and given passage into the city. She steps off the bike before Arlo, privately scoffing at the notion she, a Titan Lord, has to wait in line with the common folk. But the memory of the other day is still fresh; still painful. Her rags are only marginally better than the tatters those before them wear.

Some turn as they approach, the bike's loud engine having drawn some attention, and those who are bold, openly apprise the vehicle and its two riders. Bronté — who has already placed her shawl over her head, tucking her wings beneath it — glares. Her golden eyes gleam, flashing as they sear the image of melting flesh into the mind of the thief. Or would be thief. He pales, blinking rapidly, and turns quickly away. The Titan smirks.

It takes all of an hour before they are next to be interrogated by a disembodied voice. The entrance to the city appears to be nothing more than a narrow door, more or less, with two guards standing on either side of it and many more hiding behind the wall itself. Several guns are trained on them and the crowd behind them, the tips of the weapons coming out through gun ports. Above the entrance is an intercom box with a single, glaring red light. A voice crackles over the decaying system, cutting out every other syllable until the demands are nearly unintelligible. Context and observation are the only reason Bronté can suss what the voice asks.

"Na—" Static cuts in. "—nd" More static. "—rpose."

"My companion and I need only a day in Quila." Bronté recites what the last few travelers had said to earn passage, ignoring Arlo's instruction to let them lead. (As if.) She continues, "To wash, purchase provisions, and address the mechanical failures of the motorcycle."

Static crackles over the intercom. The red light scrutinize them with its unwavering silence. A few seconds pass, then a metal prong peels from the wall and — despite having observed this several Time over — a fan of bright white light sweeps over them, scanning their eyes as well as the bike. Another second of silence before the crackly voice confirms, "—nted."

"Titan's curse — was that necessary?" Bronté mutters, rubbing her eyes. The guards step to the side as the wall hisses, the first of several doors sliding away to allow them passage through a seemingly endless corridor. Still fussing, she complains, "You could have warned me, by the way."

As they near the end of the corridor hot grease, sweat, and urine assault her senses followed by screams — horrified and giddy — laughter, and overlapping conversation that muddles into an indistinct blend of noise. Soon, they are surrounded on all sides by the bustle of Quila. Wires criss-cross between the buildings and leave only narrow gaps to see the blue sky. At the street level stalls made from scraps of metal and wood are lined up and cover every corner, selling wares for all occasions. People and motorbikes crowd the streets. Everywhere she looks, Life is abound. She cannot help but to look around like her head is on a swivel, allowing the junkrat to lead if only because of her own distraction. Few seem to be better dressed than Arlo and while this is consistent with what she has seen of Asiria so far, she assumed Quila would have been… richer. She excuses this, deciding this must be a reflection of the city's outskirts and reckons the fineries she is used to are closer to the heart.

She takes note of the stalls she wishes to return to and the signage that points towards the various bath houses. (It will be wretched if they are all out of fresh water. Perhaps the most awful thing to occur since coming out of her slumber.) All the while her fingers slip into unsuspecting pockets and purses, collecting coins here and there. Once, while Arlo asks for directions, she makes small talk with a merchant and secures two skewers of meat, having charmed his sight with a cleaner version of herself — as dazzling as she is underneath all this grime and gore. She passes the sticks to Arlo, nudging their shoulder once she catches up with them. (Those muscles will not sustain themselves, is all.) And before they ask, she says, "A Titan can eat. Some prefer it. I do not. Not of mortal cuisine, at least."

Her tastes fall within the realm of conversation and trading barbs, anyway, and few have ever been able to sate that hunger — including in the Life before this. Delphine could even be dry on occasion. All this to say, most mortal fare is offensively over simplified and lacks the notes she seeks — too savory, too sweet, and none bitter enough for her refined palate.

Once the meat skewers are out of her hands, she holds out a palm full of tarnished coins. "This should suffice for the bath house, no?" She hasn't a clue what inflation has done to the economy, nor does she know anything about this new currency. She assumes the bigger and brighter coins are worth more — surely that has remained consistent? "I hope to purchase some nice soaps and oils, too."

Though it isn't needed, her eyes flick over Arlo, spending a pointedly exaggerated amount of time on their hair. "Your hair… Are you aware it's curled?" This is obvious to anyone who can see, even if their curls lack definition. "With proper maintenance — perhaps a haircut that I would be more than willing to provide, to save on coin, of course — and some moisture, I think they would dazzle." She bites her lip, seeing past her companion into a vision of what they could be — handsome, to give it a word. "We shall need new clothes, anyway, so I think this is rather doable and not without excuse or reason."

Naturally, this will mean they will need more coin as it will be more difficult to charm a seamstress out of a robe than it is to secure a sample from a cook.

 

[heartstringss]

The next morning Arlo wakes up bright and early and remembers little of their dreaming–or the thought of dreaming–that had filled their mind the last few moments of the night before. They go about their usual routine in silence, rubbing the sleep from their eyes before they shift to sit up, turn away and then remove the long bit of cord holding the medallion and their tunic. One-and-a-half arms go up over their head, shoulders popping as they stretch to release the ball of tension tightly coiled in the center of their back. As their arms come down to rest back at their sides, they breathe a sigh and then reach into their knapsack to retrieve the harness for their prosthetic, sliding their arm into the fitted cuff and then looping the straps around their back to either shoulder. A length of cable stretches from their wrist on up their forearm and around their bicep, connected to a shorter strap with a metal hook that branched off of a padded plate rested flat upon their back between their shoulders. Depending on how they moved and stretched the cable, the hand of their prosthetic could either open or close. They tested it out a few times just to be sure everything was working as it was supposed to, then slipped the corded medallion back over their head, laid it flat against their chest and clothed their body back into the worn rags of their grime-crusted tunic.

Arlo can tell by the position of the sun--and how the granules of sand dance to the sky with every disruption of the strong current of warm wind--that the morning was sure to bear a sweltering heat over the course of the next several hours. They don’t dawdle any longer before they begin to pack up camp and load their belongings onto the bike’s rear mount and saddles, not asking any help of their companion or regarding her in any way besides to wave her onward to the bike when at long last they themselves are ready.

Once they border the outer edges of Quila, Arlo slows the bike and does a sweep over the desert to make sure the coast is clear of any unexpected hurdles. They turn their head to look at Bronté. “You should put those away as we draw closer,” they say of her wings, not wanting to draw any more attention to themselves than the Titan herself was probably already liable to do. (Sure, there were non-human species on the planet too, likely some who were great-ancestors of the very same species that had once traversed the planet freely when the gates to all the outer worlds were still open… but none who shared this Titan’s weird appearance of occasionally-appearing many shimmering hidden eyes and bright blue flame, let alone the purple-hued soft wings that now protruded from her temples. Had anyone else noticed the Titans stirring yet? Fellow desert-dwellers like themselves perhaps, but surely not the city-folk.)

For all the years Arlo has spent actively resisting getting indoctrinated by modern civilization, the city itself felt actually familiar and hadn’t seemed to change too much from the last time they remember visiting. Like always there were guards and guns outside the door, the same system of slow impractical canvassing was still being moderated and the typical thick throng of peasants which was known to clog the desert all around the city’s perimeter was still lively and impatient as ever. It was these very same peasants whose presence fouled the air with a stench of rotten breath and even rottener body odor, each waiting for their chance to be let into the gates of the planet’s last standing metropolis, hopefully (like them) with much-needed intent to wash.

While they wheeled their bike to take their rightful place at the tail end of the queue, Arlo paid little attention to the crowd itself beyond throwing an occasional cursory glance this way or that in case of pickpockets. The bike attracted plenty of unwanted attention but fortunately also demanded being given a wide berth; lest anyone wished to chance their toes getting run over or crushed beneath the heavy frame’s huge studded wheels, they usually kept their distance. (Let alone their flesh melted or their heads exploded by the titan’s persistently cruel and famously efficient visions. Not that Arlo knew anything of that, of course.)

Entry into the city itself was a fairly simple – albeit incredibly arduous and borderline invasive – process. As soon as they reached the front of the queue, though Arlo tried to take the lead, they were quickly beaten to the punch by their overzealous new companion. An exaggerated huff and roll of their eyes was the desert dweller’s only real reaction as they quietly reserved themselves into the Titan’s shadow, giving up on parenting the woman for the necessity of caution–at least for the time being. (She gets her karma, in a sense, the next moment when a fan of bright white light shoots out and temporarily blinds them for the sake of Quila’s own cursory abundance of caution. While the Titan fusses and complains about the unexpectedness and sheer lack of warning, Arlo smirks and smothers laughter underneath their breath.)

Once they reach the city proper, Arlo’s expression shifts to one of seriousness and they push forward to take the lead from Bronté, instructing her to “stick close to the rear of the bike.” Though they don’t say it in as many words, they hope the Titan understands this means she needs to keep a watchful eye so they don’t get pick-pocketed among the crowd. Distracted as they are with navigating and reacquainting themselves with the city’s layout, Arlo hardly notices the Titan themselves is also participating in such thievery. It’s been so long since they last stepped foot inside the city that Arlo only vaguely remembers how to get to Uli’s shop. When they start to fear they might have gotten themselves lost, they finally submit to stop and ask directions.

They wave and catch the eye of a heavy, dark-tanned brutish man with long gray braided hair and scruffy beard standing behind the counter of a humble dye shop a few feet away. Though the man looked like the type that would probably happily use their bones to pick his teeth after a meal, Arlo doesn’t seem the slightest bit intimidated and in fact looks straight into his eyes. “Take a left up there,” the man grumbles in a deep, but friendly, voice, pointing to the nearest corridor. “Walk like 5 minutes or so and then take another left. You’ll find your friend’s stall easily by all the junk piled outside.” He gives a hearty laugh to which Arlo smiles, knowing exactly what he means. They thank the man and say goodbye, then turn to address Bronté where they thought they’d left her last–only to have her sneak up from their other side and softly nudge them on the shoulder. They look at the offered meat skewers with much longing and perplexion, counting as she hands both over (was she not eating anything herself?) and opens their mouth to ask her where she got them–only to be interrupted by the titan’s next comment which somehow doesn’t answer either one of their questions but in fact brings more.

‘Not mortal cuisine,’ she’d said, to which Arlo narrows their eyes and regards the Titan suspiciously as they tear into the first meat stick. What the hell did that mean?
They nearly spit the meat when Bronté next presents a handful of tarnished gold coins, far more than they possessed themselves. “Where did you–” they begin to ask, then stop, deciding that it might be better if they don’t know. They’d thought the Titan too pompous to steal. Apparently add that to the list of many things they had been wrong about so far.

“Yes, now put that away,” they say of the Titan’s primary concern whether it’d be enough money for the bath house. They glance around to make sure nobody is watching, then reach out a hand and scoop the coins from Bronté’s open palm into their own pockets instead. “We need to drop the bike off first, then you can–”

Their lips purses and eyes narrow when they look back to the Titan and notice her eyes intently staring at them. A hint of red darkens their skin against their will. “My hair?” they echo softly with an added suspicion and faint warning glare. “Yes… what is your point?” The compliment she gives them–even delivered somewhat backhandedly as it is–catches them completely off-guard and visibly stumps them.

“I don’t… see why any of that is necessary, I just–” but the blush that darkens their skin at the mere thought of someone else’s fingers touching–playing with–their hair takes the fight right out of them. They sputter helplessly, turning aside as if to end the conversation. In any case it seems Bronté has already decided for them. Getting new clothes, at least, seems something they can handle without any added risk of spontaneously combusting. “Gods, you're exhausting. Just come on, we need to get to Uli’s shop." Arlo grumbles, their hands clenching painfully onto the bike’s handlebars as they start to push it forward. Whether Bronté kept on picking pockets as they walked along, they neither cared nor thought to notice. (Hell, if their hands weren’t full with the bike they probably would have been doing the same–especially now that they knew the Titan didn’t seem to think it was beneath them.)

A few minutes later, they stopped the bike outside a ragtag structure that opened up on a garage and whose front entrance, simply put, seemed absolutely clogged with junk. Someone like Bronté might’ve scoffed, but to Arlo it was clear that this was a mechanic’s haven. There were stacks upon stacks of sheet metal cut into various sizes and organized by grade, a heaping tower of tires (again of various mixed sizes), buckets full of screws and gears and bolts aplenty. Laid out on a table was a wide array of soldering and welding equipment, protective gloves and shields the likes of which made Arlo’s mouth nearly begin to water.

Behind the counter with her nose stuck in a manual stood a large older woman with rich brown skin and neatly braided hair. Her dark eyes danced over the pages as she continued reading, so engrossed she didn’t even notice when Arlo stepped in further to the cool shade of the tent. The moment they moved to pocket one of the soldering guns, however–

“--better put that down unless you want to lose another hand.”

Arlo laughed out loud. The woman was pointing a blaster gun at them all while she hadn’t even bothered to look up. Well, until now. Now she looked up, recognizing something familiar in that laugh. When her eyes landed on the face of an old familiar friend, she dropped the blaster promptly and began to grin.

“You fuckin’ idiot, you know one of these times I’m really gonna shoot ya.”

Arlo wheeled the bike closer, glancing over their shoulder to make sure that Bronté was still close or following. Once they were within reaching distance of the other woman, they set the bike to lean against one of the sturdier-looking tables and threw their arms around their friend. “Yeah, well, maybe you should learn to pay attention. Gotta keep things interesting somehow, don’t I?”

They began to back up but not before the woman held them at arm’s length and looked them over with a keen eye. She touched the gore-caked rags of their shirt, pulled their sleeve up to take a closer look at their prosthetic arm then dropped it back down with a quiet dissatisfied hum and promptly reached and mussed their curls. “Interesting would be you not dying on my doorstep for once. Anyway, I haven’t seen you in ages, kid. So, to what do I owe the pleasure this time ‘round?”

Arlo tried to ignore the hint of warmth inside their cheeks as they were chastised by their oldest friend. Practically the closest thing to a parent that they had. Shifting some of the attention off themselves now, they turned and went to collect their bike where they had left it. “I need you to look under the hood for this thing,” they said, wheeling the bike up to the counter. “It’s um. Pretty loud. Which I don’t mind, personally, but I’m sure the bike does. And this one certainly does,” they jerked a thumb to Bronté, feeling fairly certain that before now their friend likely hadn’t even thought the two of them were traveling together. It shows in her face when she turns a watchful eye onto the Titan and smirks, as well as in her posture when she carefully crosses her two perfectly functional–and strong–human arms. Arlo can practically feel the suspicion bubbling in the air before her next words even leave her lips.

“...hmph. And just who might this be?”

Shit, perhaps they should have introduced Bronté themselves.

 

[starboob]

Children run screaming through the streets, rowdy gangs with only rags and filth to cover themselves. They push through the thick crowds without care, peals of laughter erupting as they shove the Titan to the side. For once, she cannot find it in herself to care, momentarily whisked away by the novelty of this new strange Life. Though Asiria has fallen to squalor, children remain as joyful and mischievous as they had been when Bronté last walked among mortals. She watches them with soft eyes and a softer heart. A child with fox ears and another with lizard scales and spikes along his forearms chase after each other — no, not chasing — they are running away from the very vendor who gave two sticks of meat to the Titan, happily and free of charge. He swears and curses at the children before returning to his stall, stewing over the loss of goods.

Guilt falls through the column of her throat and hits the bottom of her stomach like sheet metal meeting stone. She clutches the shawl tighter, her face falling as memories shuffle through her mind like cards. Aeons sleepwalking, lost in the prison of her mind as Asiria crumbled. True, she was helpless under the curse. True, the curse was written by her hand. (The weight of Consequence could put cracks in her shoulder blades.) 'Would it have been different had I done nothing at all?' This question will become mantra as her quest takes her through ravaged Asiria; as she bears witness to the fall of civilization. It might not have been by her hand — at least not directly — and she is no less responsible for it. On the heels of guilt, dread creeps into her stomach as a small part of her acknowledges that going back to the old order is no longer an option. Asiria has strayed so far from the course that what lies ahead will be determined by each action she takes now, alongside her champion; whoever they may be.

The mechanic coughs, dragging her attention away from her wondering, loping thoughts and back into the shop. She blinks, surprised to find herself here then apprises the space with a single glance. It is a mess of supplies and gadgets, though it's easy to spot patterns in the way the tools and materials have been organized. Half built objects sit on work benches, not abandoned but seemingly put to the side in favor of the work that will pay. It is no master's workshop, and it has that glimpse of potential. When her eyes finally land on the mechanic, she takes in the solid muscles, the handsome gut underneath her grease stained work-apron, and the hardened — though not unkind — look in her hazel eyes. The woman's curly mane of hair is pulled back into a messy bun and held back by a stained bandanna. Though she does not deign to greet the Titan properly, Bronté finds herself charmed nonetheless.

She blinks again, suddenly aware of her own dirt covered rags, the streaks of sweat that cut through the grime on her skin, and all the imperfections of her current state. Why was it that they stopped here first instead of the bathhouse? Right. That Titan's cursed bike. (She half suspects Arlo has feelings of ardor towards it given how they regard the heap of junk, but she ignores that line of thought. For now.)

"Bronté," she finally says, dipping her chin cordially. It's a stark turn from her first meeting with the junkrat or her disastrous attempts greeting other mortals. It's no change of heart on her part — it is simply that she sees an equal in the mechanic, a brilliant mind working with what little Asiria now has to offer; an innovator. "And what I am to call you?"

"Uli," the woman grunts. Her eyes flick between the Titan and the kid, sparks of amusement flashing in her gaze. "And what business do you have with the kid? Don't tell me you also had to scrape them off the pavement."

"Not quite," Bronté shrugs. "It was mere happenstance — wrong place, wrong Time." She rolls her wrist through the air in a nonchalant manner. Her attention turns to the equipment strewn about the garage, hands clasped behind her back as she leans over one of the benches. "A band of raiders came upon us and Arlo lent their hand in the escape."

More or less.

"Uh-huh." Whether or not Uli believes this or suspects pieces of the story are missing, she doesn't press either of them for more information. "Surely it's not the kid's charm that's keeping you around, hm?"

Bronté purses her lips. Her back straightens out as she glances over at Arlo, specifically the leather cord that hangs from their neck. It's a quick glance, one that could easily be missed as her eyes dart over the junkrat's shoulder a second later, to the wires and cables hanging from the ceiling behind them. "And what if it were?"

"I'd say you're a fucking liar," Uli says, matter of fact.

"Then might you believe that their bleeding heart is what has us stuck together, for the Time being?" She speaks like Arlo is not standing two feet from herself. They both do, woman and Titan. "I mean them no harm, truly."

Now it's Uli who purses her lips. She passes a thousand word glance Arlo's way, containing a nuance of meaning that Bronté cannot parse, then unfolds her arms and jerks her chin in a bring the bike over here manner as she heads deeper into the shop. Not that it has much depth to begin with, but she leads them further from the street and listening ears. She gestures for Arlo to show her what they mean by "loud" and only when the engine is revved does she speak again. "Heard a rumor through the passing sands that a loud-mouthed woman and a kid with a prosthetic arm demanded tribute from Ankari. The woman claimed she was a Titan. You two know anything 'bout that?"

 

[heartstringss]

Those few seconds between Uli turning her attention onto Bronté and the Titan recognizing that she’s being spoken to and then turning her attention to appraise Uli herself… For Arlo, that moment is incredibly tense. They can feel the sweat bead on their back, hairs prickling across their scalp and arms. Would Bronté behave herself this time or would there be more drama? (Surely she was capable of learning and adapting—she’d have to be, right? …or was that type of growth only meant for mortals who had flaws and lives they deemed worth saving lest they be forgotten by the Great Annals of Time? A Titan, so it seemed, could just keep on existing whether they were flawed or not...)

After knowing Uli what must’ve been nearly 15 years by this point, Arlo knew damn well the woman wasn’t the type to kneel or grovel. She’d spit in the face of an elder for any reason so long as she felt justified to do so; would stand up to criminals and thugs without a single fear inside her heart; she’d go to war against all evil. Uli was tough stuff, simply put. Her skin was practically made of iron and nails, her gaze and words both more cutting than even the sharpest shards of glass. She wasn’t scared of royalty, politicians or the Titans—never had been, never would be. (And whether she could recognize one standing right in front of her? Well… only Time would answer that.)

"What business do you have with the kid? Don't tell me you also had to scrape them off the pavement."

At this, Arlo simply crossed their arms over their chest and huffed. While it seemed they didn’t have to worry about Bronté causing any problems (yet), apparently the same could not be said for Uli. Of course she’d treat them like a child still—had they really expected any different? Not that they were really that annoyed with her, but whether they were ready for the Titan to learn the conditions by which they truly owed Uli their life, that they were uncertain. There were some things they preferred to be kept private. Trauma, near-death experiences, the details of their youth having to rely on strangers to survive? Those were things they rather preferred to be kept buried.

Fortunately, Bronté didn’t ask the details. She made fairly simple work of explaining their own happenstance in meeting, only revealing the most minute of details, nothing that was too revealing of the many odd experiences they’d shared thus far. When Uli spoke again, her lips curved to a gentle smirk as she looked at Arlo. In return, the junker’s dark eyes rolled inside their sockets. It was clear in that moment that the distance had not tarnished any of their fondness. Arlo knew too that they could have easily taken the reins for the conversation here but instead they just kept quiet, arms folded still over their chest as they leaned to rest a hip against the still-warm fuel tank of their bike. When Bronté’s gaze skirts in their own direction, they look up just in time to watch her eyes dance briefly over them before they are pulled elsewhere. They don’t bother trying to follow or catch her gaze, in general not thinking too hard of the gesture. When Bronté answers and they both look back to Uli, Arlo does feel some surprise to find the woman’s eyes already—or still, more like, as if they hadn’t ever stopped—staring.

The exchange turns far more awkward in a matter of mere seconds. Of course Uli was protective, could one even fault her for that?

“Hey, I can take care of–”

Before they can continue, Uli holds up a hand, effectively stopping them mid-sentence. Rather than deflate or cower, Arlo’s chest swells up with pride. The Titan answers before they can say any more and next it’s Uli’s turn to fall silent. (Arlo, too, is a little struck by what the Titan says, though they do not show it. Never had they thought themselves to be a bleeding heart. Was that how Bronté felt about them? Did that mean she thought them… weak?) Arlo opens their mouth to speak a second time but Uli cuts them off again, this time with a look rather than a simple gesture. Their shared dark eyes connect for several seconds, a look of quiet understanding passed between the two. Whatever her reason, it was clear that Uli thought herself quite justified to worry, and whether Arlo chose to humor her or not did not seem that much to matter. When the woman finally unfolds her arms and beckons them into the shop to get started on the bike’s maintenance, Arlo feels a coil tighten in their back with the suspicion that this conversation was not yet quite settled. Still, they follow her without a word.

When she asks them to show her what they mean about the noise, Arlo dutifully mounts the bike and then leans forward, twisting the handlebars to rev the engine. The bike’s roar erupts over the otherwise still quiet of the shop. It blocks out the noise of the street effectively, a clear (and arguably justified) offense to Bronté’s ears though Arlo and Uli themselves don’t flinch. The engine rattles on as Uli speaks, the woman listening but not yet bothering to tinker.

"Heard a rumor through the passing sands that a loud-mouthed woman and a kid with a prosthetic arm demanded tribute from Ankari. The woman claimed she was a Titan. You two know anything 'bout that?"

Arlo’s fist tightens on the bike’s handlebars. Without meaning to, they cut their gaze across to Bronté, looking almost guilty. To that, Uli latches on.

“So it was you, then.”

Shit. “Listen, it’s not what–”

“I know you're not an idiot, but are you trying to get yourself killed out there? And you–” The woman’s gaze is stern and accusatory when she turns her focus back to Bronté. “Just what are you playing at, huh? What are you dragging them into?”

There had been many rumors in the passing sands, in fact. Who could have missed the great storm-clouds, the increasing static storms, the roars of thunder? Something was stirring out there, that much was certain. Delicate times these were already—when even criminals and thugs grew nervous, that was never a good sign. “Tell me who you really are.”

 

[starboob]

The loud roar of the bike is as pleasing as chewing gravel. It encroaches on her mind, consumes all of her thoughts, and it's a miracle she can even keep up with what the mechanic is saying at all. Though she does miss the silent exchange between the pair of mortals, she manages to return Arlo's guilty look with a blank one, as she would expect them to do, if they had any sense of self preservation.

Admittedly that is an unfair assumption to make. They may be no more than a junkrat in her eyes, and even she can see that it took more than the fortitude of a cockroach to survive the ravaged lands. They could have just as easily become like those skeletons and half-decayed bodies they passed on the way to Quila.

This does not mean she is not annoyed that Arlo has given them away. This does not mean that she does not see the value in being able to understand more about where the Titans stand in the modern age. Arlo says that her kind are not forgotten, just that mortals are merely self-aware. But what does that really mean?

Uli appears more upset by the danger Arlo might be in than she is surprised by the return of the Titans. This bodes well, she supposes. Never mind that Uli is on edge — that is something Bronte can handle. Having to explain her kind, her species… That is a headache she would rather leave in the Great Annals of Time.

Bronte holds her hands up in defense, leaning back. "It truly was an error — I am just as perplexed as they are about the predicament we have found ourselves in." After all, it was supposed to be the princess and only the princess who had the power to lift the curse and call the Titans back. "Blaster pistol to my head, I would not have brought them along."

She fails to elaborate further on just why Arlo has found themself stuck with the Titan. That is not relevant for the Time being.

"You already seem to have an idea of what I am," she continues, choosing her words carefully. What, not who, because that is the crux of Uli's question and her concern.

A draft picks up in the shop, dancing with the ends of her dirtied shawl until it lifts the veil and pulls back the curtain, so to speak. The gray, moon-dust wings at her temple fan out and the eyes sitting between the feathers blink with a dizzying effect (at least to mortals). A handful more eyes of various sizes and colors open around the Titan Lord of Wisdom and Sight. Her eyes adopt their signature golden glow that seems to light up the rest of herself, giving the effect of a halo. A thousand years of history unfolds in each of the eyes, in the light of halo, in the strands of her hair as it fans out in the light. "Who do you think I am, Uli?"

Uli chokes the gasp in her throat before it can leave, though her muscles, now tense and strained, betray the effort its taking for her to remain cool. Her nostrils flare — overwhelmed or in rage, it's difficult to tell. It takes Uli exactly three seconds to recover her composure enough to address the challenge posed.

"I am getting too fuckin' old for this shit," Uli sighs, rubbing her brow as she reckons with what she's just seen. A war wages within herself; it only shows in the twitch of her brow and the flexing of her fists. The old woman knows an omen when she sees one and the one in front of her… It might not be bad, but it's trouble and that isn't good either. Perhaps, had Arlo not been there, had Arlo not been implicated in this, she would have told the Titan to fuck off. Instead, she gives a measured reply. "Don't come back until dark. Bike'll be done then. Dinner will be hot."