Chapter Text
Dark, it’s so dark.
It’s dark and it’s empty, the nothingness so overwhelming it should hurt, it should be painful.
But it doesn’t, it isn’t and it feels familiar, it feels like home and it feels wrong, wrong, wrong—
He can’t breathe; is this normal?
He’s alive, isn’t he? He has to be.
So why can’t he breathe?
Something is wrong.
Something is missing.
His body doesn’t respond; is he dead?
He might be. He can’t breathe.
His head feels light, and so does his body.
They did something. Did they break him?
What are ‘they’? He can’t remember.
Something is missing. They took something.
It’s quiet. Very quiet.
It’s quiet and it’s dark.
Something is wrong.
He’s numb. He can’t feel anything.
His body refuses to move.
Something is wrong.
Why is he alone? He shouldn’t be.
He tries to call out; his voice fails.
It’s dark and it’s cold. His body is heavy.
He’s tired, so tired. He wants to sleep.
Maybe everything will be better if he sleeps.
There’s something wrong in the air. Something deep and twisted and out of reach, like a feeling gnawing at the bottom of his stomach, trying to warn him of a tragedy about to fall over his head; and maybe, just maybe Cellbit should check it out, just to be sure it’s nothing but good old anxiety bubbling up, rearing its ugly head when he’s running only on too many cups of coffee and hardly enough hours of sleep. He has been focusing a bit too much on working on the castle, decorating and redesigning rooms and towers until he was barely satisfied, a new nest filled with trinkets and blankets and little treasures but something was still missing — and then he’d decided the castle needed more rooms, hidden ones to please the entities from the other side.
(The connection used to be stronger before; something shattered along the way, taken from him by the Federation.)
And maybe the entities aren’t so pleased yet with their new rooms, new spaces, with his efforts. Maybe they just want more, greedy and needy and never satisfied. That’d explain the sudden, vicious urge to get down there and check each one of them.
The main room is empty, cold and still peaceful as always. The bell rings gently when he paws at it, no sharp words nor reprimands coming from it. Nothing out of the ordinary, no real reason to stay any longer, so he moves on. Blood lays quiet, in serious need of more love, more red, more life running through its walls; but nothing wrong, despite the obvious lack of proper care. Death remains a work in progress, slow but special, and he can see a few new skulls someone else had placed. Chayanne, probably. Knowledge is perfect, soft murmurs and whispers from anywhere and everywhere almost lulling him into staying for too long. Chaos remains unfinished, too problematic and erratic for him to deal with right now and he’d rather spend weeks helping Tallulah with her tower than figure out what to do with that place.
Nothing.
(Maybe he’s just too tired, too paranoid.)
Fear is the last one. He almost doesn’t enter it, almost disregards his own instincts because no one would be down there, nothing to see or find but an endless void but he steps into it anyway; for a moment, the nothingness seems overwhelming, too much for him to bear but it dissipates easily when his eyes fall on a figure slumped near the threshold— and for the first time in quite a while the cat feels something other than apathy, because the thing that runs freely through his body when he recognizes the dark wings could only be described as absolute, pure horror.
Because no one is supposed to be there yet, too unsafe, too unpredictable and unstable and he should’ve done something to prevent anyone from getting into the room but he had assumed— it doesn’t matter, not right now, not when his mate is curled up onto himself, shivering so badly it almost makes it look like the room is shrouded in ice and snow instead of darkness, wings spread and bent; a mess of blood and loose feathers all around him, dark, ugly lines running up his arms and neck, sprouting from somewhere down the soft contour feathers covering his hands— talons tightly wrapped around something, and it takes Cellbit only a brief moment to recognize the thing.
A black skull.
(He knows, he just does, that there’s a pouch filled to the brim with more of them, probably stuck somewhere under the crow’s body.)
And he’s by Phil’s side in a second, digging the cursed skull out of his mate’s grasp and it’s difficult, he can hear it cracking under the crow’s talons, fingers too stiff as if he doesn’t want to let go— a small part of him wants to cling to it to dear life, as if it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Cellbit ignores it, ignores the little voice in the back of his head trying to sweet talk him into doubting his own mind; the skull finally cracks completely, small dark pieces disappearing within the void that’s the Fear room.
(The pouch is right where he knew it’d be, compressed right under Phil’s chest; he dumps it deep into his own backpack, pretends not to listen to their call.)
The crowfather is taller, wings always making him look bigger even when hidden under too many layers of clothing; and he’s not much bigger than his mate but enough to make it harder than usual for the cat to get him out of the unfinished room, to drag him all the way back to their incomplete nest but Cellbit does it anyway, ignores the aching in his muscles, forces his attention to the gentle rhythm of Phil’s breathing against his neck, too soft to be normal but far from danger— it’s all the blood and the broken feathers that worries him most.
The nest lacks a lot still, but it’s theirs and it’s safe and he wastes no time in hauling the crow on the comforters and for once he’s grateful for their shared intimacy; his hands don’t shake as he takes off Phil’s upper garments, slow and careful not to hurt him any more than that, and now it’s easy, sickly so, to notice all the little details that had been shrouded by the darkness of the room before— the deep claw marks all over his mate’s back, blood still flowing freely down his skin, the once healing feathers clipped again, the dark veins still covering the crow’s arms, refusing to dissipate.
(This wasn’t supposed to happen anymore, they promised, he made a deal so why why why—)
There’s a feeling he hasn’t forgotten, that the Federation hasn’t managed to take from him. It bubbles easily through his veins, his sight red all of sudden but his mate needs him, all of him and not just a bloodlust monster that’s threatening to take over his skin.
Focus, he needs to focus.
Breathe in, breathe out.
The floor quickly becomes a mess of bloodied towels and fallen feathers, buckets and more buckets of water tinted red; it’s slow and careful, claws kept to himself not to make everything worse, not to let himself be a danger and yet he can see Phil’s face twisting in pain at each preened feather, distressed chirps breaking the silence— soft noises that are still loud enough for the hatchlings to pick up, and the cat doesn’t notice it until it’s too late, too focused to notice little feet running up the stairs.
Chayanne is the first to arrive, breathing hard, expression all but covered by his faithful skull mask but not enough to hide the fear as clear as day in his eyes— grown up too fast, too soon; a little warrior that had no chance to enjoy his childhood and the thought hits too close to home. Tallulah and Richas are just behind him, hand in hand, chiding and chirping and they’re loud and panicking and gods for a moment Cellbit almost wishes he’d asked someone to watch over them all but there’s no point in dwelling on that stupid mistake.
Instead he steps closer, corners the hatchlings and wraps his arms around them; it’s hard to keep three of them in check but Tallulah is the first to melt into the embrace, face pressed against the cat’s chest. Richas just allows himself to be held, confused and afraid. Chayanne struggles for a second, almost as if he wants to fight and run for his dad and it’s understandable, really— because Phil is strong and powerful and he shouldn’t be this hurt, this fragile; and the cat wishes there was more, much more he could do other than just hold his children tight, cooing gently at every scared noise they make.
“He’ll be fine. We’ll take care of him, alright?”
He can focus on finding whoever did this later, much later.
He should've known the Federation would still be watching; why wouldn't they, when he's still part of their ranks? And Cellbit can feel himself being stalked, he can feel Cucurucho's presence before the thing approaches him and it takes too much effort, too much willpower not to let himself snap, not to let his body move on its own to grab the knife because what's the point when that cursed, nauseating excuse of a bear can't even be hurt— always out of reach, always protected by some higher powers no one can really understand. But it's hard to think when Phil's blood is still on his hands, when he can still hear his mate calling out in distress and pain; and it's not fair, it's not fair at all because they had a deal but the Federation has never been fair and he should've learned his lesson too many months ago but he's been stupid, he's been naïve and this is his punishment now.
But for once Cucurucho doesn't laugh to his face.
It just takes a feather from the floor, brings it close to its snout—
'Unacceptable' rings from its voicebox after a second.
(The urge to draw the knife and pluck it right into its eyes rise a bit too fast.)
Fortunately, a book is thrown at him before he can say or do something stupid. The handwriting is perfect, nothing out of ordinary, painfully familiar and he knows why, a part of him remembers that and nothing else and it hurts to think so he doesn't, he just moves on instead because he wants Cucurucho gone as soon as possible, he just wants to curl next to his mate and their hatchlings and pretend nothing has happened today; but the words scribbled in the book are definitely the last thing Cellbit was expecting to read today.
THE PROCEDURE HAS NOT BEEN AUTHORIZED
BY THE FEDERATION. I WILL
SEE INTO THIS.
WAIT FOR YOUR NEXT ASSIGNMENT.