Colette Watanabe has learned many things in the span of a single year.

How monsters exist in the most literal of definitions, how to shoot a crossbow straight ahead and never miss the mark, how to make a man scream for mercy when you wrap your fingers around his throat, how to flee a crime scene and wear a mask right before you’d ever get caught, how a vampire begs for a quicker kind of death when you leave him to burn at the rise of heaven’s dawn—

That last part is the relevant lesson for last night, all until this morning. At the crack of 6am, the corpse of a vampire whose name she no longer remembers, melts until its last speck of sludge. Her only complaint is that some of the black’s buried under her fingernails.

However, like this, he wasn’t a detective that danced on his nerves like a professional. He wasn’t the shadow of a blade that cut flesh for fun. He wasn’t baptized in the blood of his enemies, a crown of death blooming like a disgusting halo. He was small, quiet, and he wanted to keep him in his hands like a child not wanting to let go of a firefly.

A lifetime ago is an incline of enough months to nearly make up a year, and Laura Prince's mark in Camp Half-Blood's legacy is best known as the daughter of war who'd bled for the son of Zeus' victory. A quest is a quest, and prophecy is prophecy, and when a goddess herself offers you her hand with a promise—

Be nice to the divas, Cas says, and Thian thinks he'd sooner prefer getting stabbed by Celestial Bronze.

He does not, in fact, know how to drive a pegasus. But Thian's used skateboards before landing on the doorstep of Camp Half-Blood so, theoretically, it can't be that bad.

"You change like the seasons though." Dionysius has seen many lifetimes from many idols and, as is his nature, been to all the parties he could of the goddess before him. He's seen her in her different forms: all beautiful, all tragic. And then there's this one, and it's been awhile since he'd noticed there were no parties he'd have to visit for years. "You come and you go, and everyone still accepts all your invitations, as if the ending would be any different. You'll shine like starlight then disappear in the morning, and the last thing the rest of us can say about it is what a goddamn sight that was."

"Yes, yes. You can forgo the threats, boy. We both know they're meaningless now." the man interjected, "You played a good game, little dragon. I will give you that." Duhamel smiled, "But love is a weakness, not a treasure in these games of gods and men."

Chomper was a shoot first and ask questions later kind of guy. In fact, he didn’t ask questions.

[Cornelia] looks down at her glass. The wine reminds her of blood.

”San Llorona is a terrible city.”

It is a blunt statement, said with no love in her heart. Almost foreign, for a woman who’s only ever tried to believe in better.

”It takes, and it demands so much, and it plans for us to bury ourselves in a citadel built by saints who only wish for crusades, while we fight in the only language anyone understands.”

Violence. Power. To destroy. To corrupt. To survive, whatever it takes.

Like Damien Navarro did. Like Irene Hathorne did. Like her husband—

The Empress shakes her head. It’s all a cycle, isn’t it?

”If I were a stronger woman, I’d wish to see it all burn.”

She does not. (She is lying.)

However, she knew that one wrong poke meant that it could activate, setting off one of her many explosives, so there had to be some kind of care to this, right? No, not at all, W was treating it about as nicely as one would treat a sock.

And now there is a boy in front of him, and an open floor, and in the twinkle of soft guitar strings and the vocalist's harmonies, Death knows, with absolute clarity, where this goes.


Death is—

—but his way to the exit is barred by a crowd of dancers, stuck in a world of their own daydreams and fantasy. And he's still standing here, and a cursory once-over to the boy in front of him brings a singular conclusion: the frame of how he stands, talks, exists is familiar in the way a corpse is. But he won't—can't—doesn't choose to pinpoint the where. Death finds that it's easier to assume him a stranger, a picture dyed in cherry blossoms and cotton candy, and an elegance to rival a monarch. The soft-spokenness to remind him of a Disney prince. He, at least, wears the suit for the job.

Death can't tell if he immediately dislikes this boy or if he wants to ensure he wouldn't be eaten alive by half the people here.

The music continues to play, though, and no crowds appear to part. So he understands the only way to proceed. At least if he wants to pass the time, see what happens with the others, just be. In a fragmented mosaic of song, tonights, and nothing afters. (He won't mention that it looks like this person came for a reason that didn't pan out, so he may as well spare them both the stares of the crowd.)

"So I guess that leaves us."


A hand is extended, outreached for this prince to take. There's no charm to it; Death is not good with words, or sweetness, or anything more than the gesture, cut and dry and nothing hidden behind action.

"Do you mind if I ask for this dance?"

”Then maybe people need to work the fuck out more often! Work on their godsawful coordination too!” His words were an enraged hiss, like a foretelling of doom. Growling and yeeting a wrench out of frustration, it hit the wall with a dull thud and clattered to the ground. ”Fine, fuck! Lighter alloys…but maybe people should BE LESS OF A TIT BABY!!! ” He growled out, chewing on his nails as he paced.

With a light toss, the Pokéball flew about a foot above the professor's head. A satisfying pop filled the air, followed by a blinding flash of light.

As the metal ball returned to Ivy's hand, another flash—this one dark, primarily black and blue—flickered across the floor.

A tiny Riolu, significantly smaller than others of a similar age, wrapped herself around Ivy's leg. Her black pupils, surrounded by pale red irises, darted around the room, settling on Ryker.

The floorboards are groaning. In its dark wood, it remembers five things: rainwater, patience, birdbreath, the travesties done unto it, and blood. Outside, the setting sun coats these memories in fleeting fire and limns them in the stuff of awakened stars. As the alpenglow slips through thin, drawn curtains, they whisper to the house.