united we stand; divided we {fall} // lucas day seven

The thigh proved to be its undoing; one last, solid hit and the demon fell.

Cannon fire rang in his ears, causing him to flinch.

But cannon fire means-

A mixture of awe and horror slowly built from within, forming into a ball of metaphorical ice within his gut as he stared upon a face that flitted between something demonic and something much more-

Human.

What if it hadn't been an apparition of Riordan Einfallen that he had been fighting, but-

His head spun, the latest bit of input quickly proving itself to be the final straw that broke an already overburdened mind.

Logic took over, and slowly, methodically, he stumbled over towards the corpse of the not-demon. Hands patted down a body still warm and rummaged around in a bag chock full of assorted goodies and items for things that looked useful.

Four bundles of plants that looked an awful lot like those that Wylla and Riven had picked for him in past days. A trio of crayons, each noticeably shinier than what he had grown accustomed to. A medkit, much like his own but colored pink instead of green.

Another cannon sounded, piercing the maelstrom of emotion and thoughts whirling within his head, and through the distraction a faint whirring - hovercraft - began to register itself in his conscious.

With knife forgotten and bag of goodies clenched in an iron grip, he crawled away from the corpse - oh god, it was a corpse now - on hands and knees.

The whirring grew louder.

I just killed someone.

His thoughts and the hovercraft reached a matching crescendo simultaneously, and he did what any reasonable person who had just killed another soul would do.

He promptly blacked out.

---

We are unfortunately ever so self-destructive

We live inside this labyrinth

Waiting to go home

Cannon fire rang in his ears, and he woke up with a start.

The first thing he noticed was that he was flat on his face, the smell of grass and dirt overwhelming his senses to the point that he barely noticed that they were, in fact, blades of grass and not blades of bloodstained steel.

The second thing he noticed, the realization slowly dawning upon him as his eyes blinked open, was the lack of natural light that filled the air.

He rolled over with a groan, and in place of bright yellow sunlight came the orange-pink glow of a dying star setting beneath the horizon.

The third thing he noticed was that his vision had returned to normal. Whatever drug or experiment that Hera and Cricket had subjected him to had faded.

The fourth thing that he noticed, sometime after he had yawned and gotten to his feet, was that his knife was nowhere to be seen.

That fact didn't bother him too much - each and every weapon up to that point had either been lost or melted the day after it had been drawn, and he hadn't expected any different from this one.

Regardless, that left him weaponless and vulnerable, at least for the time being, and he hadn't come this far - hadn't gotten his first kill - just to die without any proper way to defend himself.

Labyrinth, oh labyrinth

Your worst is what we'd might expect from you

And in your twisted walls you sing out of tune

"Come in."

A quick status check of his inventory revealed that the events of the day had not, in fact, been an overly bizarre dream. One bundle of plants - he'd seen Riven munching on some a couple of days before - ended up in his stomach within seconds, and a quick, arbitrary grab from the enlarged stash of crayons stored away within his bag came back with a glittering red crayon as its reward.

Then, he got to work.

Placing crayon against tree, the weapon he drew this time was simple enough - a long, thin rod that extended from the ground to just above his head, with a sharp triangular point sporting from the upper end. It solidified and plopped to the ground at his feet, but he barely gave the freshly crafted spear a glance, instead shifting slightly around the trunk and repeating the process.

Six times he repeated the drawing, and six times he was rewarded, the long, thin spears proving themselves lightweight but sturdy. A memory flashed of a blonde girl from the year before his throwing a similar weapon into the eye of a neon orange muttation, and for a moment he briefly imagined himself doing something similar - only the spear was glittering red in the sunlight, and the muttation was not a muttation but the weaponless boy from Two instead.

He'd just finished gathering the spears in a neat pile when the first notes of the anthem began to play. Curious as to what the night's faces would bring, he turned his head towards the sky.

Then the first face appeared, and his blood curdled.

Labyrinth, oh labyrinth

Your most is what we'd not expect from you

And in your tired walls you sing out of tune

For it was Wylla Lysander's glare that stared back down at him, her gaze magnified a thousandfold but her spirit no less fiery, her eyes no less wise despite her years-

-and he barely registered that none of the Twos had fallen that day, barely registered that he had fallen to his knees in shock even after her face faded away, for Wylla Lysander was dead.

The face of the second Eckhart twin shone next and faded, and then Rio's face replaced it. The shock that he had potentially killed the boy from Six had long since faded away in his slumber, but the mixed flood of emotions that surged through his veins did nothing to hide the sinking feeling that spread through his chest-

-and then a sharp inhale of breath was drawn, for it was Eva Hope's face that took Rio's place in the night sky. Her smile was light, joyful, even, and he couldn't help but think that two sisters somewhere in the great beyond had gained a third member to their ever growing family, and that such a smile would once again light up those near it.

Eva's face faded, and he found himself whispering a silent prayer.

Please, no...

Riven Fowley's kind grin had never looked so cruel.

"Stay safe, okay?" "So stay safe as well, okay?"

It was hard to believe that only forty eight hours had passed since such words were spoken from two spirits that were as similar as they were different, only forty eight hours since the promise of one had been broken with irreversible consequences.

"Come in, make yourself at home"

'Cause you won't be leaving soon.

The face of the last boy from Twelve was the final gaze to stare down at him that evening, but he barely noticed.

Whispered words flashed through his mind as if their speaker was still alive and well and not currently en route to six feet under.

"I don't do goodbyes," it whispered, quiet and inviting. "So this is a see you soon."

"See you soon," he echoed, just as softly.

For a moment, all was still. Then, a grin, laced with grief and hope alike, slowly spread across his face.

"Don't you worry, guys," he murmured, so soft that even he could barely hear the words that fell from his lips.

"I'm on my way."

All your friends are dead and gone

And you've got, nothing to lose.