Warnings, et cetera: this is going to be a big one. I've got an outline and everything. Future het, slash, femslash, et cetera. Please enjoy, and please forgive the way I repeatedly murder the comma. :D

Prologue

Souji was beginning to wonder if he'd ever be able to cry the way other people did.

Sadness wasn't new to him – feelings like that were something he'd grown up with, which was pretty sad in itself. Being jerked around all the time by his mother's career, he was used to loss, certainly far more so than he could ever be comfortable with, but he was sure he shouldn't have been as dead to emotion as he felt, too empty to squeeze out even a single tear over what he had so willingly given up. His parents weren't like that; his father would blubber and weep over going on holiday, of all things, and even his characteristically stoic mother had cried when they'd been pushed out of Tokyo by her first big promotion – the city where he'd grown up, spent so much of his life building attachments and memories. He hadn't cried then, and he couldn't cry now, despite Inaba being so much more important to him, almost immeasurably so; it was almost painful that he'd watched his friends in tears, even Kanji, when he couldn't do the same for them.

The bright morning sun shone through the blinds that hung over the windows, directly into his eyes, glittering rays of light dancing merrily at the edges of his vision as they cast their glow all around the darkened, empty carriage. It infuriated him. He'd closed every curtain, shut off every light, chosen the corner furthest away from the side of the train the sun shone into, just so he could sleep and not have to think about anything, if only for a moment. It hadn't helped; his mind was sharp, more awake and aware than it had been in a long time, and nature didn't seem particularly interested in helping him either, with the chirping birds and buzzing bees enjoying the beautiful day just out of his reach.

He could forgive nature for that, though, even if he wanted to throttle it (as much as he could hope to throttle something that didn't have a neck), because the way the train almost flew through the countryside, stirring the grasslands into frenzied action, was an experience he'd never forget, something too beautiful to remain angry with. Pulling the blinds apart and precariously balancing his hands on the windowsill, he rested his chin on the little platform they made and stared through the windows, heart filled with longing.

The sun had reached its peak in the sky, and sat there now, proudly beaming down onto the earth. A light breeze, probably the speeding train's doing, carried a stream of cherry blossom petals through the long grasses, themselves swaying to the beat of the wind. Souji pulled the window open and inhaled the scent, a mixture of exhaust fumes, metal and country, an indistinct rural feeling that he wished he could surround himself in forever. The sounds and smells of the trees, the flowers, the birds, and the peace that those things brought.

That peace was abruptly shattered by the echoing cry of the train whistle that scattered the assorted crowds of birds that had chosen to rest on the roof of the train, and Souji grinned up at them as they flew away, shrieking angrily back in his direction.

As he opened the window and stuck his head out (stupidly, the back of his mind supplied), the feel of the wind running through his hair, stinging his eyes, chilling him to the bone, was one Souji tried to burn into his memory, never to forget. It was home. It made him feel free, liberated, hopeful, punctuated by the alternating sadness that he was leaving it behind, and the rushes of relief that he'd be returning soon, and maybe he could convince his parents to move there. They'd always seemed unhappy in the past – he could appreciate why – but no one could stay that way in Inaba, not there, and surely the country air would do them a world of good.

Fondly he recalled the many occasions when his cell phone had rung, sometimes at the most inopportune moments, and he'd picked up and felt the sheer happiness at the other end, flowing into him like a waterfall, before his mother would quietly but firmly start interrogating him, or his father would launch into his typical hurried stream of words that melted into each other until none of it made sense. If he could, if he ever had that opportunity, he'd show them this: the unmitigated purity of life at its own pace, the joy of unhurried travel, the extravagant beauty of a simple stream lapping at the edges of an embankment as the ants crept alongside by it, careful not to be caught up in it. If they were lucky, they'd get to see a babbling brook, something that had been so normal to his friends but so powerful, so moving, to him; it would be something to remember, something they'd never see in the cities.

The sound of the carriage door opening and a light switch being flicked didn't click inside his head until the lights came on and a splash of cold air hit his backside, but as soon as he realised the grey-haired boy pulled his head back inside and slammed the window shut. Locking away his short train of thought for later contemplation, he looked up at the intruder, wishing away the blush he was sure had crept into his face, but they hadn't noticed him, thankfully, and he used the opportunity to look them over.

The other person was slouched, of average height, maybe a little taller than him, and fairly thin, with a rather slight build. Their face was obscured by the black hooded jumper they wore, which matched their black jeans and shoes; all in all, the ensemble was obviously meant to be inconspicuous, though it didn't pull it off well. Souji's eyes had been drawn to them, after all, and remained on them as they walked towards the other end of the carriage.

When the mysterious black-clad figure stopped and straightened up, drawing itself to its full height, Souji withdrew into his seat ever so slightly. Before, they had looked unthreatening, if a little strange; now they had a full half-a-head's worth of height on him, and looked much less slight, muscles not overly large but practically rippling underneath the tightness of the hoodie. It took everything Souji had in him, every last bit of courage, not to make a noise, and he silently prayed the figure would just leave.

The prayers quickly changed to curses when the black-clothed man (it must have been a man, how could a woman look so intimidating) turned to look directly at Souji. The boy flattened himself against the back of his seat, thanking the gods that he had chosen to sit next to the door, and averted his eyes, trying hard not to make eye contact while desperately hoping the man would go away.

The tapping of light, carefully measured footsteps towards him told Souji that was not to be. Summoning every fiber of strength in his body, Souji turned to look at the man again, stunned into silence when he chose to drop into the seat across from him and idly stared out the window.

His face was still shrouded in darkness, but Souji was certain he'd seen glowing yellow eyes underneath the hood, and that worried him.

"Wonderful day we're having, isn't it?" came the voice from where Souji assumed the man's mouth was. He chose to ignore it, stiffening up and keeping his eyes trained on the other man, who was still staring out of the window at the countryside.

After a short period of awkward silence, the man tried again.

"Isn't it just the most wonderful weather?"

Souji noted that his voice sounded human, no reverberating echoes or underlying demonic scratch that he could hear, but he still kept his mouth shut. Whoever he was, he must have known most people weren't the type to start conversations with strangers on trains, and definitely not in circumstances like theirs.

The man huffed, a childishly indignant sound that made Souji smile, and tried again.

"Don't you think it's-"

"Certainly is wonderful weather," Souji said, and the man relaxed, eyes widening into big yellow circles. The change vaguely disturbed Souji (it looked almost happy, and the closest thing he'd seen to 'happy' in any other shadow was maddened glee when rejected by their true selves).

"So you do have a voice!" the man clapped, the sharp noise piercing the quiet ambience of the train. "That's great! I was beginning to think I was talking to a mute!"

Souji kept his silence, still not comfortable, though the higher pitch of the stranger's voice was off-putting.

"The strong, silent type, maybe?" the figure lifted one finger to what Souji assumed were his lips, and he realised that the man's hands were also wearing black gloves. It was eerily fitting.

"Isn't it a bit hot to walk around in an entirely black outfit?" The question felt inappropriate, considering the strangeness of the meeting, and Souji was a little hesitant to voice it, but it appeared to lower the man's guard, and for that he was grateful.

"Try wearing layers," he smiled, and Souji smiled back. For a crazy person, the intruder was quite sane.

"I am. Looking back, I regret it."

"Then wear black! I'm sure it'd suit you. Better for staying warm anyway."

Souji chuckled, and so did the other man.

"How can I help you?" he said, voice taking on an interested tone.

"There's not really all that much you can do," was the response, quick and disarming. "I just wanted some company while I waited."

"Where are you getting off?"

"Okina City," Mr. Black, Souji decided, answered casually, waving a hand in the air as if to dismiss the question. "Still a ways to go from there, though. Through Iwatodai, then a couple more major stops, until I hit the end of the line."

"Oh?" Souji leaned forward a little, relaxed. "And from there?"

"Wherever the wind takes me, I suppose," the man laughed. "I'm a nomad."

"Then you should be walking," Souji jibed back, lips curved into a small smile. "Harmony with nature, and all that."

"I wouldn't survive it," the other man quipped. "I have the feet of a seven year-old girl!"

Souji's response was a loud and hearty laugh.

"I know seven year-old girls who can walk farther than I can," and here the boy gestured towards the window, which the man seemed to understand. "That's no excuse."

"I'm sure it gets lonely out on the open road," he replied, "and I'm not the sort who can handle hours of silence."

"Then talk to yourself," Souji said, eyes full of mirth. "I do all the time. It's healthy."

"It's also mad," the other muttered, "probably very boring, too. If you already know what your partner is going to say, what's the point? Conversation's about conflict."

"You call it predictable, I call it stable," Souji said, leaning back and crossing his arms. "Certainly helps work things out. Outside perspectives can grate on the nerves."

"I'll never understand you introverted types," the man said, voice laced with hints of amusement. "Why you don't just lock yourselves up in rooms forever, I'll never know."

"Food," Souji grinned, "and occasionally, company. What else?"

"Logic I can get behind," the hooded man's eyes shutting for a moment, reminding Souji what he was dealing with. He brought his guard back up, chastising himself for letting someone get past his walls. He was far too comfortable here. "What's your name, kid?"

"I'm hardly any younger than you, I'm sure," Souji chirped, but his expression hardened, and he studied the other intently for a few seconds.

"You'd be surprised."

"It's Hiro," Souji responded, eyes narrowing to match those of the other. "Hiro Yamada."

"Not Souji Seta?"

"No," he shot back, too quickly to be believable, inwardly cursing. "Why?"

"I don't think you want to know, kid," the other man sighed, shaking his head. "I guess I'd better stop bothering you, then."

"Please," Souji frowned, "I was trying to sleep."

"Didn't look like that to me, Souji," he sighed again, and Souji jumped to his feet, alert, face drawn into a look of smooth calm.

"I told you-"

"Please don't lie," the man interrupted, snapping his fingers for effect. At least, Souji thought it was effect, until the man glared at him, crossing his arms, and suddenly everything went mad.

The spike of black flame that sprang from the floor speared souji through his heart, slamming him against the wall and impaling him there. Spatters of blood hit the carriage on all sides as the grey-haired boy screamed, eyes rolling up in their sockets, flames beginning to consume his body. The man stood, watching Souji long enough to be sure the kill had been quick and relatively clean, before shaking his head and opening the door to the next cabin. Souji fell to the floor, blood flowing from the wound that refused to cauterize, as the man stepped over him, wiped himself off, and walked out.

"Good soda," Kanji said, wiping traces of it from his lips as he threw the empty can into the trash. "Thanks, Dojima-san."

Dojima grumbled a little before taking Nanako's hand. "Are you ready to go home, Nanako? Daddy has a lot of work to do."

"Dojima-san, we can take care of Nanako," Yosuke interrupted, kneeling down in front of the young girl. "I'm sure she's sad that her big bro's gone," and she nodded, teary eyes clamped tightly shut, "so why don't we go to Junes and cheer you up? What do you say?"

Nanako had been latched onto her father's leg from the moment her brother had stepped on the train, refusing to let go even for a moment as she cried. Yosuke understood that, he really did (he wished he had someone he could grab on to like that and just cry with, but his partner had been that guy, and now he was gone), but he didn't like the idea of letting her go home and sit around the house, alone, moping for the rest of the day. If being without Souji started out well for all of them, or, well, as well as being without Souji could possibly be (until they'd had time to get over him, not very, he assumed), it would very likely carry on the same way, and that could only be a good thing, right? The quicker they were all back to their usual selves, the better. He preferred 'easily infuriated' to 'infuriating'.

His tangent was brought to an untimely end when Nanako choked out something Yosuke assumed was some form of assent. Letting go of Dojima, she walked (very slowly, very carefully, trying hard not to fall) over to Teddie's side, before grabbing his legs and burying her face in his waist instead. Yosuke sympathised with the poor blond, who was a full head shorter than Dojima; he found the little girl's arms wrapped tightly around him until he barely had the breath left to choke anything out himself, but with great effort he extricated himself from Nanako before effortlessly lifting her up into his arms with a firm embrace of his own.

Yosuke took that to mean they were ready to go, at least, and with a final nod at the rest of the group and a slightly apologetic glance for Dojima, he led them in the direction of Junes. The older man, finding himself left alone, whipped a chunk of grey plastic out of his pocket and rapidly pressed a few buttons on the front of it before putting it away again and walking in the other direction.

Yosuke noticed the buzz of the phone in his jacket when Chie sidled up to him and poked him with one of her long, bony witch-fingers. He hoped his sudden glare said everything his voice didn't.

Apparently it hadn't, because the grin that spread across her face as she pinched his phone out of the pocket of his jacket spoke unmistakably of mischief.

"You're kinda spacey today," she said as she flipped open his phone, and he tried hard to ignore the sing-song tone she put on. "What's eating you?"

"I'm not a steak, Chie," he snapped back, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth. The affronted look she shot at him didn't suit her face at all.

"I never said you were, you..." she paused, hoping to find the right words. "You idiot! I just wanted to know why-"

"Go bug someone else, Chie," Yosuke sighed, "I'm not in the mood."

She looked livid.

"Fine, sheesh! Excuse me for wanting to help!"

For a moment, Yosuke could have sworn Chie was about to stomp off in a tantrum (it would be so much like her), but then she visibly deflated, and his guilt multiplied.

"C'mon, Yosuke, don't be like that," she muttered. Yosuke bit his lip. "I'm trying to keep things from getting any more..."

"I know, and I'm sorry, it's just..." He fumbled with his thoughts for a moment before settling on what to say. "I'm just a little annoyed. I'm sure you are too, Chie, and so's everyone else. We might as well just relax for a while, get our heads back together." Yosuke felt like 'just' and 'well' were the only words he knew at that moment.

"Yeah, Chie-senpai," Kanji's voice cut in, and Yosuke was grateful for the help, "I know I am. Tired, that is, and a little pissed off." Yosuke felt for the guy; they'd never gotten along like a house on fire, but he understood what he was going through. Souji had been his closest (and possibly first) real friend, and he'd left, they'd all been left behind, and now they were all struggling with the reality: reality without their leader, the one they'd all turned to in their times of need.

"I know," Chie grumbled, "so am I. But he wouldn't want us to feel sorry for ourselves, right?" The grin that crosses her face seemed forced to him. He didn't like the idea that even Chie was as depressed as he was, because she was always happy, perky, bubbly, all that stuff – then he remembered Souji had been her training partner and her best male friend, and he wondered if there was anybody in Inaba who hadn't been best friends with the guy, who hadn't depended on him.

Yukiko chose that moment to pipe into the conversation.

"I wonder how he is," she said, voice tinged with both sadness and curiosity. "He didn't look very torn up."

"I concur," Naoto added, drawing Yosuke's attention to her. Again he reminded himself that despite all appearances the prim detective was just as human as he was, even if she was more detached than anyone else he knew. "He appeared rather serene for a man about to be torn away from his home." She raised her hand to her chin and held it there, standing still, lost deep in thought. Her other hand tapped rhythmically on the side of her thigh, and Yosuke found it hypnotising. "Perhaps I should have accompanied him after all. I'm certain he would have enjoyed the company."

"But what about us, Naoto-kun?" Rise grinned sweetly from where she had attached herself to Teddie's side. The blond was still carrying Nanako, who looked like she'd fallen asleep; he was unusually quiet, a contemplative frown sat where his usual wide smile would be. Everything about him, even the fact that he was effortlessly holding Nanako, was disquieting. Yosuke looked hard at Rise and gulped, hoping whatever phase the blond was going through would hurry up and pass.

"I am sure," Naoto began, the sound snapping Yosuke back to attention, "you would have been fine without me. Senpai is alone, after all. We are together."

"That's exactly why we still need you, Naoto-kun," Rise countered, wagging a finger in front of the bewildered detective's face. Yosuke wondered how she could be so peppy. "Senpai's so strong, he can handle anything alone. Even a god," which Yosuke couldn't argue with. His partner had handled a god alone, in the end. "We need each other to keep moving forward!"

That made Yosuke blanch, and Kanji bumped into his back, knocking him forward a little. He turned and scowled at the younger boy, who sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck, eyes averted, before Yosuke turned around to keep walking and resume his thoughts. He wasn't weak, he could take care of himself. What made her think they needed each other? What made her think Souji could go it alone?

"Yeah, Naoto-kun, Rise's right," Kanji said, "We need each other right now, simple as that. I know I need you guys."

"We'll be here," Yukiko said, softly, but with that inner strength they'd all come to expect from her, leaving no room for debate. "I promise."

Kanji blushed at that, mumbled something unintelligible, and starting walking more quickly; Rise, sensing his apparent discomfort, threw tact away like an old toy, bouncing over to him and bombarding him with questions any sane man would refuse to answer. He did. Behind them, Naoto fell into step beside Chie and Yukiko, the three engaging in some sort of hushed discussion, muted tones barely audible but nonetheless harsh.

Yosuke pondered putting on his headphones and letting his music drown everything out until they reached Junes, but one look at the (despondent) Teddie and he discarded that notion. Choosing to approach the boy with as much tact as he could muster, Yosuke tapped him on the shoulder, startled as Teddie jumped out of his reverie.

"Yosuke!" The blond cried, shocked. No one else seemed to notice. "What is it?"

"Everything alright, man?" Yosuke said, eyes boring into the blond's innocent baby blues. Teddie nodded.

"I'm fine."

"Thinking?"

"Yeah."

"I didn't know you could." Teddie rolled his eyes. "About?"

"A lot of things. Sensei," the blond shrugged, "going home, you guys, Nana-chan. It's all beary confusing."

"Enough with the bad puns," Yosuke groaned, slapping his forehead. That got a little smile out of the blond. "If anything's going to kill us, it'll be them."

"You just don't appreciate my esoteric sense of humour!"

Yosuke reached out to hit Teddie upside the head, but the boy nimbly darted out the way, laughing. Yosuke laughed in turn, a little of the shadow that clouded his thoughts clearing.

"Where'd you learn that word, Ted, you little-"

"Sensei taught me," the blond said, and surprisingly the mood didn't sour. Maybe this was progress. "He said to use it on you if you ever 'got uppity'. I didn't really know what he meant. Are you 'uppity', Yosuke?"

"Why, you little-" Yosuke snarled as he swiped at the blond, careful not to harm Nanako. Teddie cleverly used her as a shield, stepping smoothly aside as Yosuke overbalanced and careened onto the pavement.

"Hey, be careful, you guys! Don't hurt Nanako-chan!" Chie shouted from behind them. Yosuke watched in awe as, unexpectedly, a weight pulled Teddie down to the ground.

"Ouch," the bear groaned. "Kanji, can you take care of Nana-chan for me? I can't lift her!"

"Sure," Kanji answered, extricating the quietly sleeping girl from the bear's arms and lifting her up to his shoulders. "What's up? She too heavy for you after all, you dumb bear?"

The fondness in Kanji's voice was obvious, but Teddie still chose to be indignant.

"I am not dumb!" he huffed, crossing his arms. "She wasn't heavy, then she was. I don't know why."

"Probably a shadow thing," Kanji replied, "you weren't thinking about her and then you were. Happens to the best of us, man."

The way Kanji ruffled Teddie's hair was cute, in a weird way Yosuke didn't think he was comfortable with, and Teddie looked pleased for a moment until Rise cooed at the sight, and then he pulled away sharply, almost retching. Kanji made no move other than lifting Nanako into a more comfortable position in his arms, smirking all the while.

"He'll be a good dad someday," Chie whispered into Yukiko's ear, and the furious red that washed over her face matched that of her favourite red sweater. "Even if he is a punk."

Kanji, who had paid no attention, continued walking towards Junes, and Yosuke savoured the opportunity to confront Teddie, mock-punching him repeatedly while the others rushed to catch up with the bleach-blond.

"You sure you're alright?" Yosuke hoped he wasn't pushing too much, but Teddie's bright grin allayed his fears a little.

"Can't be sad forever, right, Yosuke?"

The boy wearing headphones grinned, remembering when his partner had told him the same thing, that fateful day by the riverside.

"Yeah," he smiled, feeling some of his doubts beginning to lift. "Yeah, you can't."

It had been an eventful morning indeed.

He had, for once in his long career, decided to take a break, if only so he could (for the first time, no less) observe the fruits of his labours. He had, for once in his long life, chosen to leave his self-imposed prison, if only to ensure that nothing had diverged from the plan that was dictated by fate (that would be unacceptable, after all). He had, for once in the entirety of his memory, allowed himself to truly enjoy the outside world, one he had not seen since days long before he had taken up his position. These were all things he had planned, expected, prepared for, and all that. They'd been his choices.

What he had not expected, which certainly was not his choice, was the chaos that would threaten to break free so quickly after his departure. His master had warned him that there would be repercussions for his actions, that a rewrite of his contract would be necessary if he chose to carry out his plans; he'd chosen to disregard those warnings, and though he did not regret his actions, per se, he found it would be slightly more inconvenient to reshape the passage of time, the sequences of events, now that they were not what he'd prepared for. It was an irritation, certainly.

Confidence was key, however; he remembered that from before, the mysteriously sparse space in his memories that he could never quite control, never influence. Occasionally snippets would return to him, to provide him with gems of advice (which he always acted on – they were always appropriate, after all), the knowledge safely stored away in his mind where he continually believed it would be safe. His mind was meant to be inescapable; instead it felt much like a sieve, where the information he desired to keep drained away time after time, through cracks that not even his master could fill.

He supposed the problem began with his fractured mental state. Observing such a large scale operation, managing it all from corner to corner, ensuring everything constantly ran smoothly in the face of dangers that piled up day after day, threatening to destroy it all, was no easy task. Certainly not one a mortal, even an ascended mortal, could hope to fully comprehend. Even the mortals as powerful, as wise, as ancient as those who served him were continually outwitted by this machine, the one only he could fully grasp, which invariably led to him being stretched far too thin for his own good. In his flitting lapses of concentration (moments of weakness, his master would say, and he would nod along, always one to please) something always went wrong, and this was no exception; some part of him had decided it was acceptable, nay, even beneficial that he leave the management of the master's domain in the hands of talented but inexperienced aide. That was a mistake that he chose not to rectify, despite the backlash that even now loomed overhead, threatening to crush everything he had built, because it barely ranked amongst the other mistakes he himself had made in his handling of the problem. It was what had brought him here, made him feel alive again, the physical memories his body held thundering through him like stampede after stampede even if his mind could not comprehend them. If fixing those mistakes cost him his opportunity to experience humanity in all its grandeur again, then he would allow them to exist, master be damned.

Igor sipped his coffee, and acknowledge that perhaps age had not dulled his senses after all, as much as he had hoped. Choosing to drink so quickly was a mistake of its own league: the dark liquid still burned his tongue, hot and bitter and strong, like pure darkness coursing down his throat. The amusement over something so simple that clouded him was almost palpable, he supposed, and likely infectious, judging by the way the many passersby seemed to linger in his vicinity, as if leeching on the mirth that filled his heart. He believed it was one of humanity's greatest treasures, that communal soul they shared; then he remembered that he had willingly chosen to become human for this venture, and therefore he was part of it also. That thought itself made his smile widen even further.

He thought back to the earlier part of the day (or at least, it seemed like a day; in the blink of an eye, time could reach its end under his rule). Elizabeth, bless her dear heart, had once told him that if he took it upon himself to leave the Velvet Room and see the world, it would be best were he to take some sort of disguise, if only so he could hide his obvious power and age. At the time, he had told her he never intended to – he had seen his fill of all worlds, and none satisfied him as much as the world within the heart of each and every being – but that morning, when he'd looked in a mirror, he realised that appearance must have been barely a shadow of an idea in the expanse of his mind, for he had allowed himself to become terrifyingly monstrous.

In fact, he came to a few important realisations that morning. The first had been that, by human standards, Elizabeth (bless her dear heart) had been right. He looked positively mad. The gigantic, bloodshot eyes, feral grin, bald head, and hunched back were merely part of the whole that explained why his guests were always so fearful of him; they were quite clearly not traits that combined in a manner conducive to a good impression. Dimly he recalled an ancient proverb, that the nose was the one part of the body that never stopped growing, and he supposed that his nose, impossibly long and hooked to an outsider as it may appear, gave away his immeasurable age. The second realisation was that long ago Elizabeth (bless her dear heart, he repeated, like a mantra) had stumbled upon a photo of a young man he had not recognized at the time and had guarded it jealously ever since, even from her beloved sister.

Reaching into his pocket, he drew the photograph out, laying it squarely in the centre of the table in front of him. He had stolen it from Elizabeth (bless her dear heart, because no one else will) long ago, longer than he cared to remember, and now, he watched it warily. Memories were fickle things, especially those that were captured, like photographs, portraits and recordings, and he was not keen on doing something so ignorant as angering one, even as he laid a hand above it, on it, grasping at its essence, for what he knew it contained.

After a brief search, he found his target, hastily drawing it out and wrapping his hands greedily around it even as the light faded from the photograph that was now missing one of its participants. Peering into the murky depths of the crystalline sphere he now held, he allowed it to flow through him, filling him with what could only be its memory.

It stung when the sensation left him, the pain refusing to subside, and even as he moved towards the mirror he knew the process had failed.

Nothing had changed: he still held his own form, perfect and immutable as always. So, when the realisation of why finally made sense, he understood why nothing seemed to want to move, least of all his body.

Another proverb swam unbidden to the front of his mind, this one 'time is only as grand as he who wields it', and again he quashed the thought, dismissing it as he resisted the urge to curse. He needed to find the picture and -

There it was. Normal, unchanged, once again containing the same smiling man flanked by what Igor knew were his friends.

Memories began to dredge themselves up, and if his head could hurt any more Igor was sure it would. How he had once been, how time could make him that way again, were he to accept its assistance gracefully. He knew the risks – none knew better than him how time treated those outside its reach when they deigned to step into it – but he agreed anyway; the nagging feeling that he needed to hurry had intensified, a human urgency he had forgotten after so long spent inhuman.

When time itself released him he was young again, lacking true memory but with the same youthful vigour and bravado that had brought him to his master in the first place, he assumed. Stepping in front of the mirror one final time, he took a look at his reflection with a contented smile.

Elizabeth, bless her dear heart, had kept the picture for a reason. The man he was now, the man he had once been, towered over his true form – far more human than he remembered himself being. Even his nose was normal, though his eyes still looked tired, shadowed, and noticeably red around the edges.

He was sure he couldn't quite change fully without becoming a human, but what he had was easily good enough. The main in the picture had stood tall and proud, muscular but not overly so, with a slender frame and flawless tan skin topped with a crop of silver hair that hung down to the small of his back, loose and straight. His hands had been those of a pianist, long, thin, elegant and well-kept, but what was most intriguing was his face, which didn't resemble him as he remembered himself at all, bright golden eyes and fearless grin sitting respectively beside and below a small, upturned nose. He was angular. Igor didn't think he'd ever been angular.

Dressed in a neat, pinstriped business suit, he held an air of strength and pride that didn't reflect what Igor was at all. The picture was of a a child, young, inexperienced and given to the world for its consumption; he'd become jaded, old, scholarly, things he supposed his younger self had never imagined. It was life against unlife, and Igor found himself missing those days when he had not been caught in limbo between worlds, even if he couldn't quite remember them.

Straightening his new body up as best he could (it still seemed overly willing to hunch), he found his mind warring over which was best, in spite of the pointless nature of the question: whether to leave, or to stay.

Of course, the decision had been a simple one; it was, after all, how he came to be there, sat calmly outside some sort of gigantic building bustling with people in the town where the wild card had lived, sipping on a delightful, if slightly burnt, coffee as he considered the next course of action.

He had felt it, the moment the boy had disappeared from his realm of control; it was unfortunate that another wild card had been lost, this one so needlessly, but it couldn't be helped. Considering that his new acquaintance's plans were already in motion, very little could be changed now, even were he willing to act – but act he would, if only so his master would know something had been done. Guidance, advice, empowerment, that was his role. Directing the players from afar. If he made to rewrite his contract, perhaps he could change that, but not without good reason, not for the sake of a single boy he found himself caring for overmuch. If he had been able to refrain from doing the same for the others, even the one who had shown so much potential, it would be no challenge to do so now.

When a group of children appeared (each touched by the wild card, he saw, making sure he kept that knowledge for the future), taking scarce notice of him, he decided to make sure things stayed that way, and make himself scarce. Seeing them only reminded him of humanity's lamentable fallibility, the short burst of glory that was life, and he could not bring himself act if he were plagued with those kinds of doubt.

Rising from his seat, Igor conjured a door to the Velvet Room and quickly left, unseen. Upon his arrival, his body once more its immortal self, Igor found his other assistant, Margaret, curled up into a ball on the chair where the wild card had once sat, arms wrapped around her legs and face buried in the gap between them. She looked as if she were sobbing, and he took care to avoid catching her off-guard, but she started at the sound of him closing the door behind him, and rushed to his side.

He looked at her, for a moment. Though she was rigid, arms held respectfully at her sides, her beautiful features were bent into a proud grimace, cheeks stained with tears. Her eyes themselves were reddened, glistening with wetness; he'd be a fool to ignore her sadness and he had an inkling that he knew why. In fact, her eyes were almost as bloodshot as his own, he mused, as he placed his hands on her shoulders, nose carefully pointed upwards in the air.

Igor did not know when she had ceased to be his assistant, ruling over power, and become too human for her own good, but he could sense something had changed in her, the poor girl, the way it had in Elizabeth (bless their dear hearts). When sobs began to wrack her body, and she fell forward, to her knees and into his arms, he knew, and her tearful cries shooting through him woke what little humanity he'd managed to retain.

He gently wiped the tears away from her eyes (he found it surprising that he knew how to do all these things instinctively, knew what needed to be done) after she had finished crying, another memory floating to the front of his mind, of a girl, a beautiful girl, whom he had comforted, long ago.

"Master, he," she stuttered, eyes downcast, "he is gone. I left, to, to look for h-him, but he isn't there. He's-"

Igor held her, through her sudden spasm, as the tears started again. He had done the same for Elizabeth (bless their dear hearts, he sighed to himself, shaking his head) and he would do the same for any other assistants he may later have, who might be so foolish as to choose humanity over power.

"He's gone, Master," Margaret whimpered through her tears, jarring him. "He shouldn't, shouldn't be gone, but he is, and I don't know why!"

Igor elected to remain silent.

"So much power, so much strength, wasted," she sobbed, "An entire World lost to us, forever, and I failed to protect it..."

As she trailed off, Igor shushed her, hoping she'd stay silent. She was pale, paler than was healthy, and shook on her feet, incapable of standing steadily alone; he helped her to her feet, beckoning her to a chair across from his, which she gratefully took. He tried to maintain what he hoped was a comforting smile, which seemed to help.

"Now, my dear," he said, knowing there was far more to it than what she was willing to share, or even what she knew. "It is time we spoke, properly, the same way I did with your sister. Please, sit still and listen."

Lunchtime!

The best time of day, as far as he was concerned. That morning his wife had packed him an extra special lunch, the kind that always made him hungry whenever anyone so much as mentioned it, even if he'd just eaten. It'd been a lovely gesture, considering he usually did everything for her, not the other way around, even packing lunches, but he appreciated it; with all that high-powered businesswoman knowledge clogging up her head he sometimes wondered if she had the time and energy to care about him!

Ripping open the lid of the lunchbox, he began to scoff down the contents. His wife always complained that he inhaled his food rather than eating it, so he never appreciated the delicacies she would prepare with love and affection, but he was always so hungry, and the food was so good, he could never help himself. Lunch was no different, and he hadn't eaten all day, in a hurry to make his shift on time. He'd gotten sidetracked by his extraordinarily affectionate wife, with her teasing, and all those new clothes, which was a wonderful surprise, considering the last two years of their relationship had been stale and argumentative, but it had meant he was late for his shift. Not a bad thing, though, not after-

A blinking light on the control panel in front of him distracted him mid-bite, and he leaned over to pull a lever that he hoped would deal with the issue when a scream from behind him startled him out of his seat, knocking over his lunch. As he scrambled to pick up what he could, another scream made him drop it all again, and he cursed his clumsiness as he hurried to the door to investigate.

He needn't have bothered. As soon as he opened the door, the figure that charged right in through it (on fire, no less) batted him aside like a fly. Presumably it was very, very angry, judging by the way turned and sealed the doorway with enough heat to melt the skin off his hands. How could he drive the train like that?

As soon as his head connected with the wall, the driver was knocked unconscious; meanwhile, the figure that had attacked him stabbed rapidly at buttons, pressing whatever was closest while pulling randomly on levers, holding tightly onto the train's control panel as he worked. No one had been able to get past the sealed door, so no one had tried to bother him, although it looked like the driver was beginning to wake up (his head was swimming, though, and he didn't think he'd be very effective at stopping the mad trainjacker), but the constant banging and screaming was starting to get on his nerves. He'd go mad if he didn't finish quickly.

The train turned on the tracks, emerging out of a tunnel towards what looked like a river, running deep and fast. What better luck could he have asked for than that?

Seeing it spurred the newly-awakened driver into action, in spite of the pain in his head he was sure was a concussion. With the way everything around him was shaking and sputtering, the screams from outside the front carriage slowly getting even louder, he knew the train was undoubtedly too unstable to cross the single-track bridge – the figure at the helm quietly laughed, apparently satisfied, so the train driver through himself at him. It was time to be a hero.

After a brief and pointless struggle, the man pinned the train driver to the chair, holding his hands above him as he worked on the panel – the driver fought to free himself, but the grip was just too strong to break, and eventually he felt the train give way beneath him, slowly leaning towards one side. He knew his train, and he knew what was going to happen, but that didn't make him feel any better, and his stomach threatened to climb up his throat and out his mouth when the figure let go of him and punched through the triple-layered plexiglass windows like a hot knife through butter, right before jumping through them.

"Crazy bastard," the driver snarled as he rose to his feet, still unsteady. He rushed to the window and looked out, but there was no sign of the assailant; hopefully he'd been torn apart. "Crazy bastard!" he yelled again, hoping he'd heard.

There was very little he could do now. Lifting the receiver for the loudspeaker system, he spoke a few words of apology (on his company's behalf, so no one could sue) before warning everyone to hold tight in their seats, because it was going to be a bumpy ride.