Krepta had gotten the ping on her Key Gauntlet late into the evening, a quiet buzz against her wrist that broke the relative peace of the garden outside of the main building.You have an new multiversal mentee! He goes by the name of Fiyero Tigelaar and hails from #0Z19L.
As with all new agents, they will rely on you to help them find their footing in the Omphalos, Sanctuary, and the culture of the multiverse for the next week or so. Please schedule a time to meet them. They can be contacted through their AotM email or via courier.
Ah. Right. It had been a while since she had gotten one of those. Krepta was surprised to realize that she had almost... missed it, honestly. Getting to show someone around and answer their questions was a nice break from the doom and gloom of the dozen a day apocalypses-- when they didn't ask the awkward questions, anyway. There was always curiosity about things like interspecies romance, or wanting to know the stories behind her scars. But even those things Krepta had learned to field better these days.
So with a grunt, she pushed off from the fountain she had been resting on the edge of and sauntered towards the main building. The message had suggested setting up a meeting, but as a Guardian, Krepta's Key Gauntlet could track the signatures of any of the other active Gauntlets in the vicinity, and she decided to abuse the privilege a little tonight. Her locator map said that Tigelaar was just inside in the lounge anyway, and it was fun to play Batman on occasion.
But as she made her way to the lounge, that plan began to fray at the edges.
The lights were low as she padded up to the threshold between the cool tile floor of the main lobby and the patterned carpet of the lounge proper. There was music-- some rock or pop song that Krepta didn't recognize. It didn't quite rattle her teeth, but it bordered on it, a low, pulsing bass beat accompanied by the slightly off key howling of one of the lycanthropic agents. He was gripping the shiny black stem of the microphone in both half-transformed hands, its wire curled around his feet like a friendly snake.
Agent... Furry...? Krepta quickly corrected herself, grimacing a little. Probably not that. Murry? Hell, she couldn't remember.
He turned his head when she entered either way, and flashed her a cheeky little grin before going back to belting out the words of his song. Krepta thought it might have been in Korean, but she couldn't be sure.
She frowned to herself. Right. Karaoke night. It seemed like half the agency had been trying to drag her to one once they had figured out how much she hated them. Krepta had been doing a good job at evading them up until now. Ironic that she had played herself in the end.
I could just leave, she considered. Quieter realms awaited. Ones where there was little chance of everyone in the room staring at her while she croaked half remembered lyrics into a sweaty microphone.
But that felt like quitting, and Krepta had never been very good at diversion once she had picked a course, so as the werewolf's song wound to an end, she scanned the crowd for her newbie instead. The beacon on her Key Gauntlet continued to blink softly, but she was having a hard time singling him out...
And I thought Oz was strange, Fiyero thought to himself as he took in the crowds he found himself in the midst of.
The last few weeks have been . . . trying to say the least. One day he was living a quiet, idyllic life with the woman of his dreams in the middle of nowhere, and the next thing he knows, the world he knew was getting devoured by an incomprehensible darkness. It happened so suddenly and completely out of nowhere--he had been sitting in the kitchen of their little ramshackle hut, peeling apples with a knife that was far too dull, Elphaba perched in a nearby chair mending a shirt for him. All the sudden, she collapsed to the ground, screaming.
A Vision. But unlike anything Elphaba had ever experienced. Fiyero had never seen her like that before. Never. Not even when Nessa died.
Elphaba, eyes wild and face pale, said only one thing:
"Oz is gone."
They tried. They raced back to Oz as fast as they could, flying atop a broomstick much like the one Elphaba had possessed long ago when she first defied the Wizard and then gravity itself. With the broom, the landscape roared below them and they traversed The Badland in only hours, a journey that had originally taken them weeks on foot. When they got to Oz, it was already too late.
It was gone.
Their world, their friends. Consumed. Turned into monsters. Turned into mere shadows of the people they once knew. Nothing was left. There was nothing they could do, and nothing they could save.
How did this happen? How could this happen? They had no answers, not until they were approached by some . . . very peculiar strangers, one of which seemed to have an innate distrust and wariness of Fiyero.
They told them everything. Of the Corruption, of the evil that not only threatened their world, but all others. And they could not stay here. They were given a choice. They could flee with them and find refuge in Sanctuary.
Or they could join them in the fight against this Corruption.
In the end, there was no choice. Not really.
Getting situated in the Omphalos was an ordeal in it of itself. It was the mother of all culture shocks, and though Oz was quirky and strange with all manner of odd things, this was an entirely other level. But they eventually settled, he and Elphaba finding room and board and ever the social butterfly, Fiyero quickly made friends. Because this was a hub world with so many strange creatures, Fiyero and Elphaba hardly stood out, which took quite a while to get used to. Elphaba didn't know what to do with herself now that hardly anyone stared at her anymore.
To summarize: they had been through a lot very quickly, and all that trouble and strife had become much too overwhelming for the scarecrow. He needed to let off some steam, so to speak, so he found himself in a very familiar atmosphere: in a lounge surrounded by rowdy strangers in the middle of karaoke night.
Reminds me of the Ozdust, Fiyero thought wistfully as he watched a wolf-person (a phanfasm?) howl into the microphone. He didn't know the language, but he didn't much care, he was here to forget his worries and woes for a while and just make a right fool of himself.
He was rather good at that.
The wolf-person finished their song, and now it was Fiyero's turn. Grinning a wide, crooked grin, he sauntered up to the stage, his stride janky and swaying but he leaned into it. His stride was almost a bouncy dance as he glided into the spotlight, his gloved hand reaching out and gripping the microphone as straw crackled beneath his burlap shell.
Through the glare of the spotlight, he could see eyes turn to him, some curious, some expectantly. He flashed his most dashing, charming smile, and the music kicked up.
"The trouble with school is, they always try to teach the wrong lessons," Fiyero began, his voice a shockingly beautiful and smooth tenor. "Believe me, I've been kicked out of enough of them to know!"
He glided across the stage, leaning on a nearby table where a couple of plant-like entities sat.
"They want you to be less callow, less . . . shallow." He gave a wink, and one of the plant-beings giggled bashfully. "But I say why invite stress in?"
"Stop studying strife." He hopped up onto the table, using his foot to playfully kick a tablet out of a patron's hands who wasn't paying attention. "And learn to live the unexamined liiiiiiiiife!"
The music swelled into a soft piano solo, and Fiyero used that as an opportunity to saunter his way around the crowds, working his not-so-princely-anymore charm. He winked and smiled at all in attendance; men, women, beings of indistinguishable gender, no one was immune to Fiyero's flirty, sultry gaze.
And he found himself looking at a woman. She looked stern and annoyed, like she really wanted to be anywhere else but here.
And Fiyero decided he found his target.
He waltzed up to her, a smile on his stitched mouth, and danced around her as he continued to sing.
"Dancing through life, skimming the surface, gliding where turf is smooth. Life is painless for the brainless. Why think too hard, when it's so soothing?"
The last few weeks have been . . . trying to say the least. One day he was living a quiet, idyllic life with the woman of his dreams in the middle of nowhere, and the next thing he knows, the world he knew was getting devoured by an incomprehensible darkness. It happened so suddenly and completely out of nowhere--he had been sitting in the kitchen of their little ramshackle hut, peeling apples with a knife that was far too dull, Elphaba perched in a nearby chair mending a shirt for him. All the sudden, she collapsed to the ground, screaming.
A Vision. But unlike anything Elphaba had ever experienced. Fiyero had never seen her like that before. Never. Not even when Nessa died.
Elphaba, eyes wild and face pale, said only one thing:
"Oz is gone."
They tried. They raced back to Oz as fast as they could, flying atop a broomstick much like the one Elphaba had possessed long ago when she first defied the Wizard and then gravity itself. With the broom, the landscape roared below them and they traversed The Badland in only hours, a journey that had originally taken them weeks on foot. When they got to Oz, it was already too late.
It was gone.
Their world, their friends. Consumed. Turned into monsters. Turned into mere shadows of the people they once knew. Nothing was left. There was nothing they could do, and nothing they could save.
How did this happen? How could this happen? They had no answers, not until they were approached by some . . . very peculiar strangers, one of which seemed to have an innate distrust and wariness of Fiyero.
They told them everything. Of the Corruption, of the evil that not only threatened their world, but all others. And they could not stay here. They were given a choice. They could flee with them and find refuge in Sanctuary.
Or they could join them in the fight against this Corruption.
In the end, there was no choice. Not really.
Getting situated in the Omphalos was an ordeal in it of itself. It was the mother of all culture shocks, and though Oz was quirky and strange with all manner of odd things, this was an entirely other level. But they eventually settled, he and Elphaba finding room and board and ever the social butterfly, Fiyero quickly made friends. Because this was a hub world with so many strange creatures, Fiyero and Elphaba hardly stood out, which took quite a while to get used to. Elphaba didn't know what to do with herself now that hardly anyone stared at her anymore.
To summarize: they had been through a lot very quickly, and all that trouble and strife had become much too overwhelming for the scarecrow. He needed to let off some steam, so to speak, so he found himself in a very familiar atmosphere: in a lounge surrounded by rowdy strangers in the middle of karaoke night.
Reminds me of the Ozdust, Fiyero thought wistfully as he watched a wolf-person (a phanfasm?) howl into the microphone. He didn't know the language, but he didn't much care, he was here to forget his worries and woes for a while and just make a right fool of himself.
He was rather good at that.
The wolf-person finished their song, and now it was Fiyero's turn. Grinning a wide, crooked grin, he sauntered up to the stage, his stride janky and swaying but he leaned into it. His stride was almost a bouncy dance as he glided into the spotlight, his gloved hand reaching out and gripping the microphone as straw crackled beneath his burlap shell.
Through the glare of the spotlight, he could see eyes turn to him, some curious, some expectantly. He flashed his most dashing, charming smile, and the music kicked up.
"The trouble with school is, they always try to teach the wrong lessons," Fiyero began, his voice a shockingly beautiful and smooth tenor. "Believe me, I've been kicked out of enough of them to know!"
He glided across the stage, leaning on a nearby table where a couple of plant-like entities sat.
"They want you to be less callow, less . . . shallow." He gave a wink, and one of the plant-beings giggled bashfully. "But I say why invite stress in?"
"Stop studying strife." He hopped up onto the table, using his foot to playfully kick a tablet out of a patron's hands who wasn't paying attention. "And learn to live the unexamined liiiiiiiiife!"
The music swelled into a soft piano solo, and Fiyero used that as an opportunity to saunter his way around the crowds, working his not-so-princely-anymore charm. He winked and smiled at all in attendance; men, women, beings of indistinguishable gender, no one was immune to Fiyero's flirty, sultry gaze.
And he found himself looking at a woman. She looked stern and annoyed, like she really wanted to be anywhere else but here.
And Fiyero decided he found his target.
He waltzed up to her, a smile on his stitched mouth, and danced around her as he continued to sing.
"Dancing through life, skimming the surface, gliding where turf is smooth. Life is painless for the brainless. Why think too hard, when it's so soothing?"
Krepta watched the scarecrow dance about with growing irritation. The lyrics of the song he was singing rubbed her the wrong way. True-- it was only a song, and a silly one at that, but his actions seemed to line up with the philosophy of it. Kicking the datapad (those were expensive, you little grub!), batting his eyes at strangers like he was the prettiest thing in the multiverse, and then-- oh, here he was, sashaying up to the one creature in the room who wanted no part of his nonsense.
Krepta's Gauntlet beeped as he neared, cheerfully alerting her that this little show pony was her newest mentee. Lovely.
She crossed her arms and hooded her eyes at the straw man, nostrils flaring, and it took all of Krepta's power not to grab him by the metaphorical chin hairs and give him a good shake.
Wrong tree, pup, she thought wryly, This one's got a tiger up it.
Krepta resisted more than that though, in part because it was important for the agents to be able to blow off steam, and everyone seemed to be having mostly a good time. And they were all adults anyway, not some easily swayed school children likely to fall prey such foolish ideologies. A good half of them probably thought the show was meant in irony, considering what they had all been through.
Krepta wasn't so confident, and that was concerning to her.
But... first impressions, while important, weren't everything. She would hold full judgement until she had gotten to know this particular specimen of sparkling ego one on one. But he would be running laps if that datapad had been damaged.
"Agent Tigelaar, I presume," she said quietly as he leaned in. "Finish your song. I'm your mentor."
Krepta's Gauntlet beeped as he neared, cheerfully alerting her that this little show pony was her newest mentee. Lovely.
She crossed her arms and hooded her eyes at the straw man, nostrils flaring, and it took all of Krepta's power not to grab him by the metaphorical chin hairs and give him a good shake.
Wrong tree, pup, she thought wryly, This one's got a tiger up it.
Krepta resisted more than that though, in part because it was important for the agents to be able to blow off steam, and everyone seemed to be having mostly a good time. And they were all adults anyway, not some easily swayed school children likely to fall prey such foolish ideologies. A good half of them probably thought the show was meant in irony, considering what they had all been through.
Krepta wasn't so confident, and that was concerning to her.
But... first impressions, while important, weren't everything. She would hold full judgement until she had gotten to know this particular specimen of sparkling ego one on one. But he would be running laps if that datapad had been damaged.
"Agent Tigelaar, I presume," she said quietly as he leaned in. "Finish your song. I'm your mentor."
The woman immediately tensed on his approach, clearly disinterested and annoyed and not having a good time. What was she even doing here, anyway, if she wasn't a fan of karaoke? But Fiyero was not so much of an inconsiderate hellion as to make a stranger uncomfortable, so he thankfully backed up.
But then she surprised him by speaking to him.
"Agent Tigelaar, I presume. Finish your song. I'm your mentor."
Fiyero blinked, reeling back as his painted eyes went wide. His voice nearly caught in his throat right there, but he quickly shook himself out of it and the playful demeanor returned.
"So formal, miss," he teased, pulling the microphone away to speak to her. "Just a moment. Make yourself comfortable, we're getting to the good part!"
And just like that, Fiyero raced back to the stage, nearly tripping over himself to get in front of the crowd and finish his song. But not only was Fiyero determined to give the vocal performance of a lifetime, he was going to give everyone here a show. As he sang, belting his heart out and putting his whole soul into every word, he began to dance. Though dance was a rather generous term, as a scarecrow was not exactly the most graceful creature in existence. His legs bowed at odd angles, his torso twisted and bent uncannily, and his movements were more of him flopping all over the place than proper dancing. But there was still an odd grace and weightlessness to his movements, though who's to say if he was actually trying to dance or just make a right spectacle of himself.
Whatever the intent, it seemed to have the desired effect as Fiyero's energy proved to be infectious. Soon the whole lounge was whooping and cheering, hardly a sour face anywhere to be seen. Save for one, of course.
"Dancing through life! Down at the Ozdust, if only because dust is what we come to! And here's the strange thing, your life could end up changing while you're dancing through!"
The song ended with a bombastic finish, and the crowd erupted with cheers and applause. Fiyero took a deep, dramatic bow, practically folding himself in two, and with a few blown kisses directed at some very lovely individuals in the front row, he skipped off stage, letting the next in line take their spot as he passed on the microphone.
Good luck following that performance, however.
With the song ended, he quickly found the woman again, the stern annoyed one with reddish hair. She wasn't hard to find, lingering away from everyone else. He approached, still smiling but it was more cordial and friendly rather than playful and flirty.
"So. You're my mentor, you said?" Fiyero asked, cocking his head slightly to the side as he looked her over. His gaze was curious but still friendly, taking all of her in without any judgment or prejudice. "I was told to expect one. Well, best get right to it, yes? You can call me Fiyero. Or . . . Scarecrow, if you wish." He dipped his head in greeting to her. "And you are . . . ?"
But then she surprised him by speaking to him.
"Agent Tigelaar, I presume. Finish your song. I'm your mentor."
Fiyero blinked, reeling back as his painted eyes went wide. His voice nearly caught in his throat right there, but he quickly shook himself out of it and the playful demeanor returned.
"So formal, miss," he teased, pulling the microphone away to speak to her. "Just a moment. Make yourself comfortable, we're getting to the good part!"
And just like that, Fiyero raced back to the stage, nearly tripping over himself to get in front of the crowd and finish his song. But not only was Fiyero determined to give the vocal performance of a lifetime, he was going to give everyone here a show. As he sang, belting his heart out and putting his whole soul into every word, he began to dance. Though dance was a rather generous term, as a scarecrow was not exactly the most graceful creature in existence. His legs bowed at odd angles, his torso twisted and bent uncannily, and his movements were more of him flopping all over the place than proper dancing. But there was still an odd grace and weightlessness to his movements, though who's to say if he was actually trying to dance or just make a right spectacle of himself.
Whatever the intent, it seemed to have the desired effect as Fiyero's energy proved to be infectious. Soon the whole lounge was whooping and cheering, hardly a sour face anywhere to be seen. Save for one, of course.
"Dancing through life! Down at the Ozdust, if only because dust is what we come to! And here's the strange thing, your life could end up changing while you're dancing through!"
The song ended with a bombastic finish, and the crowd erupted with cheers and applause. Fiyero took a deep, dramatic bow, practically folding himself in two, and with a few blown kisses directed at some very lovely individuals in the front row, he skipped off stage, letting the next in line take their spot as he passed on the microphone.
Good luck following that performance, however.
With the song ended, he quickly found the woman again, the stern annoyed one with reddish hair. She wasn't hard to find, lingering away from everyone else. He approached, still smiling but it was more cordial and friendly rather than playful and flirty.
"So. You're my mentor, you said?" Fiyero asked, cocking his head slightly to the side as he looked her over. His gaze was curious but still friendly, taking all of her in without any judgment or prejudice. "I was told to expect one. Well, best get right to it, yes? You can call me Fiyero. Or . . . Scarecrow, if you wish." He dipped his head in greeting to her. "And you are . . . ?"
Krepta leaned her weight back on her hip, watching the scarecrow dance. It wasn't the oddest sight she had ever seen-- Krepta had even met one or two sapient dolls in her time that weren't too far from he seemed to be-- but certainly he was the most... enthusiastic of the bunch, and she found herself expecting him to fly apart at any moment as she watched.
Then the song wound to a close, and he made his way back towards her.
"Krepta," she answered, looking him up and down. The sternness in her expression was still there, but it was mixed with appraisal now, and faint amusement, tired around the edges. "Or Agent Walker, if you'd like. And we ain't dust yet, so c'mon, let's get you oriented. Though I suspect you've made yourself plenty comfortable already."
She turned, padding away from him towards the door. "Can't stand this noise. Makes my hair hurt," grumbled, half to herself. "Oh-- also? I wouldn't go around calling yourself 'Scarecrow'. You'll give the Bat a stroke. Used to be a psychopath that would tear up his town with the same name. Nasty guy. Real piece of work."
She led the way out, not bothering to wait and see if Fiyero would follow. She didn't go far though, just around the corner to a set of low tables and plush sofas just outside of the lounge, where the din wasn't quite so jarring. Krepta eased into one of them, denim blue fabric creaking as she sat. She groaned under her breath as she did so, that gusty, absent minded kind of sound that old warhorses sometimes made settling into their stall for the night, then crossed her legs.
"So," she began, glancing at her Gauntlet's screen, "Tigelaar. Your partner's been with us a while, yeah? Pretty good ranger. What made you want to join up just now?"
Then the song wound to a close, and he made his way back towards her.
"Krepta," she answered, looking him up and down. The sternness in her expression was still there, but it was mixed with appraisal now, and faint amusement, tired around the edges. "Or Agent Walker, if you'd like. And we ain't dust yet, so c'mon, let's get you oriented. Though I suspect you've made yourself plenty comfortable already."
She turned, padding away from him towards the door. "Can't stand this noise. Makes my hair hurt," grumbled, half to herself. "Oh-- also? I wouldn't go around calling yourself 'Scarecrow'. You'll give the Bat a stroke. Used to be a psychopath that would tear up his town with the same name. Nasty guy. Real piece of work."
She led the way out, not bothering to wait and see if Fiyero would follow. She didn't go far though, just around the corner to a set of low tables and plush sofas just outside of the lounge, where the din wasn't quite so jarring. Krepta eased into one of them, denim blue fabric creaking as she sat. She groaned under her breath as she did so, that gusty, absent minded kind of sound that old warhorses sometimes made settling into their stall for the night, then crossed her legs.
"So," she began, glancing at her Gauntlet's screen, "Tigelaar. Your partner's been with us a while, yeah? Pretty good ranger. What made you want to join up just now?"
"It's an interesting place you've got going on here," Fiyero remarked. "So much stuff to do and see. And all these strange contraptions! I can't make heads or tails of what I'm even looking at! It's enough to make a poor scarecrow's head spin. I'm sure if I still had a brain, it'd be pudding right about now."
But as Krepta walked away, he quickly followed, his long gangly strides easily keeping pace with her.
"I wouldn't go around calling yourself 'Scarecrow'. You'll give the Bat a stroke."
"You mean the man in the black mask and cape who looks like he just partook of a particularly sour lemon? That man?" Fiyero clarified. "Is that why he's been glowering at me this entire time? Had I known, I would have asked my dear Elphaba to turn me into something else!"
He let out a laugh, coarse and rough that had the distinct sound of dry grass rustling in the wind. But his mood quickly shifted when he heard just what sort of person this other Scarecrow was.
"I suppose we are called scare-crows and not friend-crows," Fiyero said wryly. "I'm sorry to hear that. If I happen to meet him, I'll give him what-for. Just for you and the Bat-man."
He flashed her another one of his signature grins.
They went to some nearby sofas, where Krepta sat herself down with all the weariness of a battle-worn general. Fiyero had no such grace; he practically threw himself backwards into a chair, his limbs flopping like a ragdoll with a soft flump. He kicked up his feet on the nearby coffee table and folded his hands in his lap, his eyes half-lidded as he listened to Krepta.
"Fae--Elphaba's incredible, isn't she?" Fiyero said, his eyes sparkling with doe-eyed admiration. "She's been telling me of her recent missions--couldn't be prouder of her. The Agency's lucky to have her." But his tone softened, and his eyes fell back down to his hands, clenching with the soft creak of leather and the distant crackle of straw.
But they weren't here to sing Elphaba's praise, were they? They were talking about him.
"Well, just seemed to be the right thing to do," he said in a casual manner as he gave another shrug. "I can't just sit back here nice and cozy at base while my dear Fae gets to swoop in and save the day. Think there's enough excitement and danger going around for me to get in on some of that action, isn't there?"
But as Krepta walked away, he quickly followed, his long gangly strides easily keeping pace with her.
"I wouldn't go around calling yourself 'Scarecrow'. You'll give the Bat a stroke."
"You mean the man in the black mask and cape who looks like he just partook of a particularly sour lemon? That man?" Fiyero clarified. "Is that why he's been glowering at me this entire time? Had I known, I would have asked my dear Elphaba to turn me into something else!"
He let out a laugh, coarse and rough that had the distinct sound of dry grass rustling in the wind. But his mood quickly shifted when he heard just what sort of person this other Scarecrow was.
"I suppose we are called scare-crows and not friend-crows," Fiyero said wryly. "I'm sorry to hear that. If I happen to meet him, I'll give him what-for. Just for you and the Bat-man."
He flashed her another one of his signature grins.
They went to some nearby sofas, where Krepta sat herself down with all the weariness of a battle-worn general. Fiyero had no such grace; he practically threw himself backwards into a chair, his limbs flopping like a ragdoll with a soft flump. He kicked up his feet on the nearby coffee table and folded his hands in his lap, his eyes half-lidded as he listened to Krepta.
"Fae--Elphaba's incredible, isn't she?" Fiyero said, his eyes sparkling with doe-eyed admiration. "She's been telling me of her recent missions--couldn't be prouder of her. The Agency's lucky to have her." But his tone softened, and his eyes fell back down to his hands, clenching with the soft creak of leather and the distant crackle of straw.
But they weren't here to sing Elphaba's praise, were they? They were talking about him.
"Well, just seemed to be the right thing to do," he said in a casual manner as he gave another shrug. "I can't just sit back here nice and cozy at base while my dear Fae gets to swoop in and save the day. Think there's enough excitement and danger going around for me to get in on some of that action, isn't there?"
Krepta regarded him silently for a moment with those keen green eyes, piercing and slightly mismatched in color where a thin scar bisected one of them. She seemed to decide something as she looked at him, because she pursed her lips thoughtfully, then leaned back into her chair with another soft whuff of breath. Much of the tension she had been holding in her shoulders bled out of her, and she looked up at the ceiling pensively for a moment before replying.
"She sure is something," Krepta said. "Kinda hard to measure up to that kind of firepower. Most folks? Probably wouldn't even try. They'd stay right there on the ground where they belonged."
She uttered a quiet chuckle, more of a grunt than a real laugh.
"Dancing through life..." she echoed. "Y'know, funny thing about dancing? Most people think it's easy. At least when they're watching. A good dancer makes it look that way though, yeah? Really though? It's scary as hell... all those eyes on you? I can't stand the spotlight myself. Makes my skin crawl. It's brave, puttin' yourself out there. And on top of it, you gotta pay attention to the rhythm, and then your surroundings, and your own body, and what your partner's is doing if you got one... Else you wind up stepping on toes and lookin' like a really donkey, don'tcha?"
One side of Krepta mouth quirked up, just a little. It might have been a smile.
"So why the hell do you bother? Seems like a waste of time to me. Let other people do it-- look like idiots, flailing about the room. Why risk the laugh?"
"She sure is something," Krepta said. "Kinda hard to measure up to that kind of firepower. Most folks? Probably wouldn't even try. They'd stay right there on the ground where they belonged."
She uttered a quiet chuckle, more of a grunt than a real laugh.
"Dancing through life..." she echoed. "Y'know, funny thing about dancing? Most people think it's easy. At least when they're watching. A good dancer makes it look that way though, yeah? Really though? It's scary as hell... all those eyes on you? I can't stand the spotlight myself. Makes my skin crawl. It's brave, puttin' yourself out there. And on top of it, you gotta pay attention to the rhythm, and then your surroundings, and your own body, and what your partner's is doing if you got one... Else you wind up stepping on toes and lookin' like a really donkey, don'tcha?"
One side of Krepta mouth quirked up, just a little. It might have been a smile.
"So why the hell do you bother? Seems like a waste of time to me. Let other people do it-- look like idiots, flailing about the room. Why risk the laugh?"
Something changed in the scarecrow. It was subtle, but it was there.
At first, his form seemed to stiffen, growing rigid as he tensed, the straw creaking and his stitched mouth growing tight as his head slowly turned to look at Krepta--fully look at her, and not just gazing listlessly out of the corner of his eyes.
And then there was confusion. One eyebrow, made of straw much like his air, arched upwards as his lips pursed, and then he softened, relaxing back in his chair as that stiffness dissipated and something else passed over his face, some complicated mix of emotions that was too difficult to name.
"The first step to being good at something is to be bad at it," he said, allowing a much quieter, reserved smile. This smile seemed more . . . sincere. More real. "It's the same with anything else. You want to be good at something? First you have to be comfortable with making a right fool of yourself. You'll trip and stumble, and you'll mess up more times than you can count. But when you get it?" He sighed, the sound like a breeze whispering through blades of grass. "And then it's like you're flying. I would know. But sometimes, before you can fly, you have to crash land a few times first. And maybe it'll hurt. Maybe you'll look like a fool. But it'll be worth it in the end."
He paused, pursing his lips.
"The metaphor got away from me a bit at the end there," he admitted somewhat sheepishly. "But I'm used to having eyes on me, anyway. I don't know how much that fancy gadget--" He gestured to her Gauntlet. "--tells you about me, but I was human once. And not just human . . . I was a prince. Oz's Most Eligible Bachelor with a scandalocious reputation. I couldn't go anywhere and not turn every head in the room, and not for lack of trying. And if people wanted to stare, I'll give them a reason to stare. Besides," he gave another shrug, that more familiar playful smirk returning. "Dancing is fun. There's nothing better than letting loose, letting go your inhibitions and just . . . just getting lost in the music and the energy of a good crowd. It's cathartic. And I think the people around here could use a little bit of cheer and fun and a good time, don't you think?"
At first, his form seemed to stiffen, growing rigid as he tensed, the straw creaking and his stitched mouth growing tight as his head slowly turned to look at Krepta--fully look at her, and not just gazing listlessly out of the corner of his eyes.
And then there was confusion. One eyebrow, made of straw much like his air, arched upwards as his lips pursed, and then he softened, relaxing back in his chair as that stiffness dissipated and something else passed over his face, some complicated mix of emotions that was too difficult to name.
"The first step to being good at something is to be bad at it," he said, allowing a much quieter, reserved smile. This smile seemed more . . . sincere. More real. "It's the same with anything else. You want to be good at something? First you have to be comfortable with making a right fool of yourself. You'll trip and stumble, and you'll mess up more times than you can count. But when you get it?" He sighed, the sound like a breeze whispering through blades of grass. "And then it's like you're flying. I would know. But sometimes, before you can fly, you have to crash land a few times first. And maybe it'll hurt. Maybe you'll look like a fool. But it'll be worth it in the end."
He paused, pursing his lips.
"The metaphor got away from me a bit at the end there," he admitted somewhat sheepishly. "But I'm used to having eyes on me, anyway. I don't know how much that fancy gadget--" He gestured to her Gauntlet. "--tells you about me, but I was human once. And not just human . . . I was a prince. Oz's Most Eligible Bachelor with a scandalocious reputation. I couldn't go anywhere and not turn every head in the room, and not for lack of trying. And if people wanted to stare, I'll give them a reason to stare. Besides," he gave another shrug, that more familiar playful smirk returning. "Dancing is fun. There's nothing better than letting loose, letting go your inhibitions and just . . . just getting lost in the music and the energy of a good crowd. It's cathartic. And I think the people around here could use a little bit of cheer and fun and a good time, don't you think?"
Krepta hummed-- quiet, amused.
"Well look! He does have a brain," she remarked dryly, but her tone was more approving than taunting.
She sat back a little, then unbuckled the Gauntlet and put it to the side on one of the small tables beside her. Batman would have been glaring daggers. Could lose it. Could get stolen. Blah blah. Batman wasn't here.
"Key Gauntlet," she told him. "You'll be getting your own soon. Doesn't tell me much, honestly. A few facts. As a Guardian I could request your file opened, read what you shared in your interview. But I'm not Batman. I like getting to know people in my own time, face to face. People will tell you more that way than interviews ever will."
She canted her head, still studying him.
"You take what you just told me, and you apply it here, and you'll do just fine. And you're not wrong. Folks need some hope and fun now and again, especially this lot. We see a lot of sadness here. That sort of fun--" she gestured to the lounge where the music still throbbed. "Not my cup of tea. I like quiet places. The outside. But you brought those folks joy, and that's good. Keep it up, but make sure you're balancing it with the more serious stuff, cause that could mean someone's life someday, and not just your own."
She flared her nostrils at him subtly, lifting her chin a little in challenge-- half playful, half very serious.
"But if I see you kicking our tech around again, it'll be your ass meeting my boot next time, we clear?"
She flashed him a grin with too many teeth.
"Now. You got questions?"
"Well look! He does have a brain," she remarked dryly, but her tone was more approving than taunting.
She sat back a little, then unbuckled the Gauntlet and put it to the side on one of the small tables beside her. Batman would have been glaring daggers. Could lose it. Could get stolen. Blah blah. Batman wasn't here.
"Key Gauntlet," she told him. "You'll be getting your own soon. Doesn't tell me much, honestly. A few facts. As a Guardian I could request your file opened, read what you shared in your interview. But I'm not Batman. I like getting to know people in my own time, face to face. People will tell you more that way than interviews ever will."
She canted her head, still studying him.
"You take what you just told me, and you apply it here, and you'll do just fine. And you're not wrong. Folks need some hope and fun now and again, especially this lot. We see a lot of sadness here. That sort of fun--" she gestured to the lounge where the music still throbbed. "Not my cup of tea. I like quiet places. The outside. But you brought those folks joy, and that's good. Keep it up, but make sure you're balancing it with the more serious stuff, cause that could mean someone's life someday, and not just your own."
She flared her nostrils at him subtly, lifting her chin a little in challenge-- half playful, half very serious.
"But if I see you kicking our tech around again, it'll be your ass meeting my boot next time, we clear?"
She flashed him a grin with too many teeth.
"Now. You got questions?"
"Excuse me," Fiyero said with sudden mock seriousness, raising a finger in the air. "I will not abide by this slander. will have you know I am utterly brainless. Nothing in this head but straw and fluff." He poked at his head, straw hair rustling for emphasis. But he grinned, indicating he had been joking.
Krepta set down her Gauntlet, and Fiyero was eyeing it with no small amount of curiosity and intrigue. He knew about them, of course; Elphaba had her own and she was so wonderfully curious about that strange contraption. So much so she tried tearing it apart to figure out how it worked, to the ire and fury of the brainiacs who made them.
"I remember the interview," Fiyero said, his mouth growing tight into a grimace. "They were very . . . thorough."
He understood, of course. They needed to make sure that he and Elphaba could be trusted, that they weren't malicious entities that would reign down pain and terror to the vulnerable populations here and in the Sanctuary. Nevertheless, it had been trying for both himself and Elphaba. He had been poked and prodded more than he was comfortable to admit, and just because he could be disassembled like the life-sized straw doll he was doesn't mean he liked it, and Elphaba nearly took the head off of one such interviewer when they insisted Fiyero be thoroughly examined, inside and out, to make sure he wasn't hiding contraband anywhere in or on his person.
But after put through the proverbial ringer and after making sure Elphaba's magic was something she could control and intended to use for good, they were given their own room in a quiet, comfortable corner of the Day Wing with a lovely view of the gardens. That did wonders to help ease Elphaba to their new strange surroundings.
"Make sure you're balancing it with the more serious stuff, cause that could mean someone's life someday, and not just your own."
Fiyero's eyes hardened--not in a way that he was glaring at Krepta, more like that friendly veneer faded away and Krepta saw something much more serious and somber underneath. She saw the face of a person who had been through his own fair share of pain and loss, strife and hardship, even before the Corruption.
"Trust me, Krepta, I know full well where to draw the line between work and leisure," he said, his voice low and serious but not hostile, conveying that he was listening to Krepta's words and heeding her advice, but assuring her that, despite his previous antics, he was serious about being here and about being an Agent.
But not one to dwell in such dire matters for long, the smile returned as the conversation shifted.
"Well, then, perhaps that particular individual will think twice before burying their nose in their whatever-the-Oz-that was instead of sitting back and enjoying themselves." Fiyero said with an airy huff. "Honestly, who goes to a karaoke bar to be a reclusive stick in the mud?" He gave Krepta a very pointed look as that grin grew wider. "But, yes, heard loud and clear. I shall abstain from kicking things that look to be big and important and expensive in the future. Though feel free to boot my ass to your heart's content. I can't say it'll prove to be particularly effective."
"As for questions . . ." Fiyero went on, his mouth twisting in thought as his eyes rolled upwards. His hands clasped behind his head as he let out a little hum. "Honestly, I don't know where to begin. There's so many . . . things that I don't understand. All this magic and all the gadgets and gizmos--like that glowing square thing that the person was holding. No idea what that was. But guessing from your face and reaction, it seems to be important."
Right. Fiyero came from a world that had only discovered electricity a few years ago. Simple electrical appliances he understood, but all this futuristic tech? Well beyond him.
"But I suppose those things will just come with time and experience. I don't think I'm used to not being the strangest one in the room yet. Will I need to avoid the Bat-man in the future? I don't think he likes me very much. Then again, I get the impression he doesn't like anyone. The grump radiates off him like a miasma. He'd get along spectacularly with Elphaba. Speaking of which, you think we'll be able to team up for missions in the future? I'm itching to actually get out of here and do something useful. I mean--I'm doing what I can around here, but I can only peel so many potatoes in the kitchen or pick so many apples in the garden before a scarecrow starts to go a bit stir-crazy, you understand?"
Was there even a question in there? Right now, he seemed to just be rambling out loud.
"Oh! I do have a question!" Fiyero said suddenly, and he snapped his fingers. But the sound wasn't the sharp crack that was usually made when you snapped your fingers, but of a dull quiet thump of, well, of someone with thick leather gloves trying to snap their fingers. He leaned forward, once again growing dreadfully serious as his fingers laced together, his elbows resting on his knees as his eyes bore into Krepta with a sudden and unexpected intensity.
"What . . ." Fiyero said, every word spoken with an almost lethal level of severity. ". . . is your favorite color?"
Krepta set down her Gauntlet, and Fiyero was eyeing it with no small amount of curiosity and intrigue. He knew about them, of course; Elphaba had her own and she was so wonderfully curious about that strange contraption. So much so she tried tearing it apart to figure out how it worked, to the ire and fury of the brainiacs who made them.
"I remember the interview," Fiyero said, his mouth growing tight into a grimace. "They were very . . . thorough."
He understood, of course. They needed to make sure that he and Elphaba could be trusted, that they weren't malicious entities that would reign down pain and terror to the vulnerable populations here and in the Sanctuary. Nevertheless, it had been trying for both himself and Elphaba. He had been poked and prodded more than he was comfortable to admit, and just because he could be disassembled like the life-sized straw doll he was doesn't mean he liked it, and Elphaba nearly took the head off of one such interviewer when they insisted Fiyero be thoroughly examined, inside and out, to make sure he wasn't hiding contraband anywhere in or on his person.
But after put through the proverbial ringer and after making sure Elphaba's magic was something she could control and intended to use for good, they were given their own room in a quiet, comfortable corner of the Day Wing with a lovely view of the gardens. That did wonders to help ease Elphaba to their new strange surroundings.
"Make sure you're balancing it with the more serious stuff, cause that could mean someone's life someday, and not just your own."
Fiyero's eyes hardened--not in a way that he was glaring at Krepta, more like that friendly veneer faded away and Krepta saw something much more serious and somber underneath. She saw the face of a person who had been through his own fair share of pain and loss, strife and hardship, even before the Corruption.
"Trust me, Krepta, I know full well where to draw the line between work and leisure," he said, his voice low and serious but not hostile, conveying that he was listening to Krepta's words and heeding her advice, but assuring her that, despite his previous antics, he was serious about being here and about being an Agent.
But not one to dwell in such dire matters for long, the smile returned as the conversation shifted.
"Well, then, perhaps that particular individual will think twice before burying their nose in their whatever-the-Oz-that was instead of sitting back and enjoying themselves." Fiyero said with an airy huff. "Honestly, who goes to a karaoke bar to be a reclusive stick in the mud?" He gave Krepta a very pointed look as that grin grew wider. "But, yes, heard loud and clear. I shall abstain from kicking things that look to be big and important and expensive in the future. Though feel free to boot my ass to your heart's content. I can't say it'll prove to be particularly effective."
"As for questions . . ." Fiyero went on, his mouth twisting in thought as his eyes rolled upwards. His hands clasped behind his head as he let out a little hum. "Honestly, I don't know where to begin. There's so many . . . things that I don't understand. All this magic and all the gadgets and gizmos--like that glowing square thing that the person was holding. No idea what that was. But guessing from your face and reaction, it seems to be important."
Right. Fiyero came from a world that had only discovered electricity a few years ago. Simple electrical appliances he understood, but all this futuristic tech? Well beyond him.
"But I suppose those things will just come with time and experience. I don't think I'm used to not being the strangest one in the room yet. Will I need to avoid the Bat-man in the future? I don't think he likes me very much. Then again, I get the impression he doesn't like anyone. The grump radiates off him like a miasma. He'd get along spectacularly with Elphaba. Speaking of which, you think we'll be able to team up for missions in the future? I'm itching to actually get out of here and do something useful. I mean--I'm doing what I can around here, but I can only peel so many potatoes in the kitchen or pick so many apples in the garden before a scarecrow starts to go a bit stir-crazy, you understand?"
Was there even a question in there? Right now, he seemed to just be rambling out loud.
"Oh! I do have a question!" Fiyero said suddenly, and he snapped his fingers. But the sound wasn't the sharp crack that was usually made when you snapped your fingers, but of a dull quiet thump of, well, of someone with thick leather gloves trying to snap their fingers. He leaned forward, once again growing dreadfully serious as his fingers laced together, his elbows resting on his knees as his eyes bore into Krepta with a sudden and unexpected intensity.
"What . . ." Fiyero said, every word spoken with an almost lethal level of severity. ". . . is your favorite color?"
Krepta's mouth opened, then closed again. A perplexed little crease appeared between her brows. She had been prepared to answer Fiyero's questions, as much of a rush as they had come in, but his last one threw her off. Finally, Krepta's brain caught up to it all, and she breathed a gruff, quiet little laugh.
"If you're trying to charm me," she said dryly, "You'll find my sense of humor shriveled up and died long ago. I keep it in a little jar on my mantelpiece." But the woman's eyes were crinkled at the edges, and there was begrudging warmth in their green depths.
"Oxblood," Krepta answered after a moment of consideration. "Or I like green. But not too bright."
She reached up and ran her fingers through the back of her hair with a sigh, and closed her eyes for a moment before attempting the rest.
"As for your other questions-- No, he doesn't hate you. I think he'd probably find that to be a waste of energy. He's just... like that. Don't bother trying to avoid him. If he wants something from you, he will find you, and hiding just annoys him, trust me. He's... a lot. But he's a good man. Just mind your manners around him and try not to take the glaring personally."
What else had he asked? Krepta tried to remember. Ah, right, missions.
"Your wife is more experienced than you," she told him. "Some missions you might be able to go on with her, but others you'll have to have more training for, for your own safety and hers. If she's busy looking out for you, she might not be able to protect herself. You can review the qualification requirements for individual missions-- they'll let you know if you're eligible. As for the rest... Try not to overextend yourself. You just got into the program."
Krepta chuckled a bit. "You think you're raring to go until you actually get out there. Start small. Get used to your gear. Which-- the square thing you kicked will be one of them. That's called a databook, or you'll hear people refer to it as a tablet. It's kind of like if a bunch of books got compressed into one small, super light one. It's primarily for information. Maps, facts, anything you might want to know. You can also communicate through it. I'll show you how on mine later. Your wife can probably walk you through some stuff too."
Krepta pursed her lips again, thinking. She had told Fiyero to start small, but he was clearly restless, and she got the feeling that if she didn't give him something to do, that he was going to find something, and probably something less than productive if she was extra unlucky.
"Tell you, what-- here's your homework. I'm assuming you've gotten your shots and checkup and all that. I've got a few odd jobs that need doing that won't get you into hot water before you're ready. If you want, you can head over to Beach City and help them with debris cleanup on the outskirts. They're still recovering from what happened, poor bastards. Or you can head over to Sanctuary and help pass out a few care packages I put together for incoming refugees. It's up to you. I'd also recommend you pick up a few extra combat classes if you've got the extra energy after. Sound good?"
"If you're trying to charm me," she said dryly, "You'll find my sense of humor shriveled up and died long ago. I keep it in a little jar on my mantelpiece." But the woman's eyes were crinkled at the edges, and there was begrudging warmth in their green depths.
"Oxblood," Krepta answered after a moment of consideration. "Or I like green. But not too bright."
She reached up and ran her fingers through the back of her hair with a sigh, and closed her eyes for a moment before attempting the rest.
"As for your other questions-- No, he doesn't hate you. I think he'd probably find that to be a waste of energy. He's just... like that. Don't bother trying to avoid him. If he wants something from you, he will find you, and hiding just annoys him, trust me. He's... a lot. But he's a good man. Just mind your manners around him and try not to take the glaring personally."
What else had he asked? Krepta tried to remember. Ah, right, missions.
"Your wife is more experienced than you," she told him. "Some missions you might be able to go on with her, but others you'll have to have more training for, for your own safety and hers. If she's busy looking out for you, she might not be able to protect herself. You can review the qualification requirements for individual missions-- they'll let you know if you're eligible. As for the rest... Try not to overextend yourself. You just got into the program."
Krepta chuckled a bit. "You think you're raring to go until you actually get out there. Start small. Get used to your gear. Which-- the square thing you kicked will be one of them. That's called a databook, or you'll hear people refer to it as a tablet. It's kind of like if a bunch of books got compressed into one small, super light one. It's primarily for information. Maps, facts, anything you might want to know. You can also communicate through it. I'll show you how on mine later. Your wife can probably walk you through some stuff too."
Krepta pursed her lips again, thinking. She had told Fiyero to start small, but he was clearly restless, and she got the feeling that if she didn't give him something to do, that he was going to find something, and probably something less than productive if she was extra unlucky.
"Tell you, what-- here's your homework. I'm assuming you've gotten your shots and checkup and all that. I've got a few odd jobs that need doing that won't get you into hot water before you're ready. If you want, you can head over to Beach City and help them with debris cleanup on the outskirts. They're still recovering from what happened, poor bastards. Or you can head over to Sanctuary and help pass out a few care packages I put together for incoming refugees. It's up to you. I'd also recommend you pick up a few extra combat classes if you've got the extra energy after. Sound good?"
Fiyero listened to Krepta with his usual carefree, smiling demeanor, but when she spoke of missions, he leaned forward, rapt with attention, hanging on her every word.
But what she told him . . . frustrated him.
"Your wife has more experience than you," she said, as if he didn't already know that. As if when they both came here, he begged to join right along beside Elphaba, but she talked him out of it.
"This is a war we're fighting, we can't all be on the frontlines," she had told him kindly, comfortingly. "They need you here helping everyone else. You have other talents besides fighting--talents that are more useful on the Omphalos. Please, for my own piece of mind, stay here. I can't be worrying about you while I'm out there."
She meant well. She had been through so much--she suffered through the grief and heartbreak of thinking he died once already--he couldn't bear putting her through that again.
And yet--
His hand clenched in silent, frustrated rage when he was reminded time and time again how . . . lesser he was now.
It wasn't Elphaba's fault. Never her fault. She did her best. He was grateful to be alive--
"You think you're raring to go until you actually get out there."
Fiyero's hands clenched tighter. "I'll have you know, I do have prior experience," he said, trying to keep up that unflappable, carefree demeanor, but no, the mask was slipping. The grin was gone, the mirth in his eyes winked out. His form was stiff and tense as the straw and leather of his hands creaked and groaned as they were clenched tighter and tighter. "I have extensive military training. I was Captain of the Guards for five years--maybe your fancy tablot would have told you that if you bothered to read it. My sole mission was traversing all over the wilds, tracking down a particularly elusive fugitive--a fugitive I had been secretly assisting in evading detection. Do you have any idea how difficult that was? Corralling an army of bloodthirsty psychopaths away from the woman I love for years while also making sure other fugitives weren't captured and murdered? All while keeping my true motives and intentions hidden from my superiors? All those months of torture in the boot camps! You'd think that'd count for something!"
And then the other shoe dropped.
"You can head over to Beach City and help them with debris cleanup on the outskirts. Or you can head over to Sanctuary and help pass out a few care packages."
"Are you serious?!" Fiyero roared, bursting from his chair. His mouth was pulled into a furious, frustrated snarl. "Picking up trash, being your personal courier--that's what you'll have me do?! Chores for a lowly grunt?! Is that all the Agency sees me fit for? I am not useless!!!"
Fiyero froze, eyes going wide as he seemed to realize what he had said. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath--
Except he couldn't. Not anymore. He didn't need to breathe. Couldn't breathe. Denied for the rest of existence a deep calming breath or a cathartic sigh.
But he forced himself to calm all the same.
"Please." he insisted, his voice much softer, nearly pleading. "I am not as fragile as I appear to be. I can help."
But what she told him . . . frustrated him.
"Your wife has more experience than you," she said, as if he didn't already know that. As if when they both came here, he begged to join right along beside Elphaba, but she talked him out of it.
"This is a war we're fighting, we can't all be on the frontlines," she had told him kindly, comfortingly. "They need you here helping everyone else. You have other talents besides fighting--talents that are more useful on the Omphalos. Please, for my own piece of mind, stay here. I can't be worrying about you while I'm out there."
She meant well. She had been through so much--she suffered through the grief and heartbreak of thinking he died once already--he couldn't bear putting her through that again.
And yet--
His hand clenched in silent, frustrated rage when he was reminded time and time again how . . . lesser he was now.
It wasn't Elphaba's fault. Never her fault. She did her best. He was grateful to be alive--
"You think you're raring to go until you actually get out there."
Fiyero's hands clenched tighter. "I'll have you know, I do have prior experience," he said, trying to keep up that unflappable, carefree demeanor, but no, the mask was slipping. The grin was gone, the mirth in his eyes winked out. His form was stiff and tense as the straw and leather of his hands creaked and groaned as they were clenched tighter and tighter. "I have extensive military training. I was Captain of the Guards for five years--maybe your fancy tablot would have told you that if you bothered to read it. My sole mission was traversing all over the wilds, tracking down a particularly elusive fugitive--a fugitive I had been secretly assisting in evading detection. Do you have any idea how difficult that was? Corralling an army of bloodthirsty psychopaths away from the woman I love for years while also making sure other fugitives weren't captured and murdered? All while keeping my true motives and intentions hidden from my superiors? All those months of torture in the boot camps! You'd think that'd count for something!"
And then the other shoe dropped.
"You can head over to Beach City and help them with debris cleanup on the outskirts. Or you can head over to Sanctuary and help pass out a few care packages."
"Are you serious?!" Fiyero roared, bursting from his chair. His mouth was pulled into a furious, frustrated snarl. "Picking up trash, being your personal courier--that's what you'll have me do?! Chores for a lowly grunt?! Is that all the Agency sees me fit for? I am not useless!!!"
Fiyero froze, eyes going wide as he seemed to realize what he had said. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath--
Except he couldn't. Not anymore. He didn't need to breathe. Couldn't breathe. Denied for the rest of existence a deep calming breath or a cathartic sigh.
But he forced himself to calm all the same.
"Please." he insisted, his voice much softer, nearly pleading. "I am not as fragile as I appear to be. I can help."
The moment Fiyero exploded from the chair, Krepta changed. Not physically-- it was still a human woman sitting there-- but it felt like she was gone somehow, wrong. Her eyes had gone flat, alien. She tensed in one long, rolling wave, muscles coiling from her nape down, shoulders mantling like wings, head lowered slightly, watching-- a raptor's shadow, but those eyes never once left Fiyero.
Her nostrils flared dangerously.
Breathe. One... two... three...
Slowly, Krepta returned, human warmth bleeding back into predatory stillness.
"I never said you were delicate, Tigelaar." Her voice was dangerously calm. "Nothin' but that ego of yours, which you will learn to drop before you even so much as sniff an official Gate. You think this is about glory? You think helping people who are alone and scared, who are in desperate need of resources is useless? Pathetic. That chip on your shoulder? It's going to get everyone you love killed."
She inclined her head, eyes still round with barely suppressed fury. Therapy had done her good though. She managed to keep it leashed, though scales itched beneath her skin.
Easy, she whispered inside her own head, he's just a frustrated blowhard. He's not threatening you. You don't have to hurt him. That won't fix this.
"I have been doing this since I was a kid," she said coldly. "You are not prepared for what is out there. No one is. No one can be. No matter how many times you go. No many how many times you have to wrench some sobbing mother away from their possessed child who is begging them to join them, because you know the moment you let go of them, they will. No one prepares you for failure, after failure, after failure, because we are ants to the Corruption, and Tigelaar-- we lose more than we win. No one prepares you for having to scrape the ash of dead civilizations out from under your fingernails."
She gestured sharply to her Gauntlet, still resting on the table.
"You don't even have your damned gear yet, but you think you're some hotshot ready for anything, yeah? Reality will break you of that notion real fast, but not before someone else pays the price. Now-- I extended an olive branch, because I can see you're restless. You don't wanna take it? Fine, I don't give two shits. But you will not disrespect me like that again without consequences, are we clear?"
Her nostrils flared dangerously.
Breathe. One... two... three...
Slowly, Krepta returned, human warmth bleeding back into predatory stillness.
"I never said you were delicate, Tigelaar." Her voice was dangerously calm. "Nothin' but that ego of yours, which you will learn to drop before you even so much as sniff an official Gate. You think this is about glory? You think helping people who are alone and scared, who are in desperate need of resources is useless? Pathetic. That chip on your shoulder? It's going to get everyone you love killed."
She inclined her head, eyes still round with barely suppressed fury. Therapy had done her good though. She managed to keep it leashed, though scales itched beneath her skin.
Easy, she whispered inside her own head, he's just a frustrated blowhard. He's not threatening you. You don't have to hurt him. That won't fix this.
"I have been doing this since I was a kid," she said coldly. "You are not prepared for what is out there. No one is. No one can be. No matter how many times you go. No many how many times you have to wrench some sobbing mother away from their possessed child who is begging them to join them, because you know the moment you let go of them, they will. No one prepares you for failure, after failure, after failure, because we are ants to the Corruption, and Tigelaar-- we lose more than we win. No one prepares you for having to scrape the ash of dead civilizations out from under your fingernails."
She gestured sharply to her Gauntlet, still resting on the table.
"You don't even have your damned gear yet, but you think you're some hotshot ready for anything, yeah? Reality will break you of that notion real fast, but not before someone else pays the price. Now-- I extended an olive branch, because I can see you're restless. You don't wanna take it? Fine, I don't give two shits. But you will not disrespect me like that again without consequences, are we clear?"
The instant Fiyero leaped from his chair, Krepta responded in kind--and the look that she gave the scarecrow was enough to make him wither on the spot. He stumbled backwards, his left leg giving out below him with a loud audible crack and bending at a completely unnatural angle, and he stumbled to brace himself on the sofa.
But that look in her eye--she looked perfectly normal and human, but Fiyero knew better than anyone that appearances could be deceiving. And what he saw underneath--
He shuddered, and fell dead silent under Krepta's fury.
"It's going to get everyone you love killed."
Fiyero swallowed--or tried to, because he couldn't do that anymore either, and the anger flared back up to the surface once again.
Too late for that, miss, everyone I've ever known is already dead, save for one. You act like I wasn't there to see the apocalypse of my own world.
He will never forget what he saw. The lush vibrant land of Oz turned to as much of a wasteland as the deserts that surrounded it. Every man and Animal turned into a shade, their lives sucked out and replaced with malicious, mocking replicas of who they once were. He could only stand there and weep as he saw a Lion and a man made of tin approach him, their forms shadow, their eyes dead, their mocking, taunting voices beckoning him to join them.
"You are not prepared for what is out there."
You act like I don't know. Like I haven't seen the horror firsthand.
But he remained silent. He did not rebuke Krepta, because as frustrating as it was for him to admit it, he only saw his world destroyed. He was new here, and Krepta was not. How many worlds did she witness reduced to ash? How many lives had she seen fall, how many civilizations was she forced to watch die while she could do nothing to save them?
So all the more reason he should be out there helping fight this Corruption instead of running errands like a child--!
This isn't about your damn pride. This isn't about being some glorified hero from a children's fairy tale. This is bigger than you. This isn't about you.
He just wanted to help, he needed to be useful, he needed to prove he wasn't some useless, fragile thing that everyone needed to treat as if he were made of glass--
This place does not need your insufferable ego.
Fiyero relented, eyes closing, the fight going out of him, his form slumped over as the stiffness left his body. He raised a hand to his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he steadied himself.
"I . . . you're right," he finally said, his voice quiet. "I . . . apologize. I did not mean any offense or disrespect. I just--" He stopped. Don't make excuses. Use your brain, for once in your life. "I . . . understand."
He stood there for a moment, collecting himself. Sorting his thoughts. Deciding what he wanted to do--no, what he needed to do. And to put his damn pride and ego away. Before it got him killed. Again.
"Beach City or Sanctuary . . ." he finally said, though he still didn't quite meet Krepta's eyes. "In your opinion, which of the two is more in need of assistance at the moment?"
But that look in her eye--she looked perfectly normal and human, but Fiyero knew better than anyone that appearances could be deceiving. And what he saw underneath--
He shuddered, and fell dead silent under Krepta's fury.
"It's going to get everyone you love killed."
Fiyero swallowed--or tried to, because he couldn't do that anymore either, and the anger flared back up to the surface once again.
Too late for that, miss, everyone I've ever known is already dead, save for one. You act like I wasn't there to see the apocalypse of my own world.
He will never forget what he saw. The lush vibrant land of Oz turned to as much of a wasteland as the deserts that surrounded it. Every man and Animal turned into a shade, their lives sucked out and replaced with malicious, mocking replicas of who they once were. He could only stand there and weep as he saw a Lion and a man made of tin approach him, their forms shadow, their eyes dead, their mocking, taunting voices beckoning him to join them.
"You are not prepared for what is out there."
You act like I don't know. Like I haven't seen the horror firsthand.
But he remained silent. He did not rebuke Krepta, because as frustrating as it was for him to admit it, he only saw his world destroyed. He was new here, and Krepta was not. How many worlds did she witness reduced to ash? How many lives had she seen fall, how many civilizations was she forced to watch die while she could do nothing to save them?
So all the more reason he should be out there helping fight this Corruption instead of running errands like a child--!
This isn't about your damn pride. This isn't about being some glorified hero from a children's fairy tale. This is bigger than you. This isn't about you.
He just wanted to help, he needed to be useful, he needed to prove he wasn't some useless, fragile thing that everyone needed to treat as if he were made of glass--
This place does not need your insufferable ego.
Fiyero relented, eyes closing, the fight going out of him, his form slumped over as the stiffness left his body. He raised a hand to his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he steadied himself.
"I . . . you're right," he finally said, his voice quiet. "I . . . apologize. I did not mean any offense or disrespect. I just--" He stopped. Don't make excuses. Use your brain, for once in your life. "I . . . understand."
He stood there for a moment, collecting himself. Sorting his thoughts. Deciding what he wanted to do--no, what he needed to do. And to put his damn pride and ego away. Before it got him killed. Again.
"Beach City or Sanctuary . . ." he finally said, though he still didn't quite meet Krepta's eyes. "In your opinion, which of the two is more in need of assistance at the moment?"
Krepta didn't outwardly flinch at the splintery crack that came from Fiyero's leg, though her eyes flickered to the site of the injury. He seemed fine, though. No screams of pain, and no alarm reactions after he had settled again. Aside from towards her, anyway. Krepta knew what he had seen-- the monster beneath the human skin.
Good, she thought, a touch bitterly, Being too nice makes you a target. Let him remember what I am.
Krepta watched the scarecrow relax again, or at least deflate, and listened to his apology without so much as twitching. Even her chest seemed to barely move-- breaths shallow and silent. Survival instincts didn't just go away with the snap of one's fingers.
"They're both in need," Krepta replied at last. Her expression remained closed off, guarded. "Sanctuary is overpopulated for its size, and we get new refugees every day who come with nothing. Beach City joined us only recently. Having a new refugee settlement is helping with that overpopulation some, but a lot of that debris is covering good farm land, or other resources. It needs to be cleared to sustain the local population. Your skills are probably best suited for helping the newcomers. They could use a friendly face. But if you'd like a challenge, take the debris. It'll be grueling work, and you'll have to use your head, and learn to listen to the work crews. But it's a good exercise in teamwork."
Good, she thought, a touch bitterly, Being too nice makes you a target. Let him remember what I am.
Krepta watched the scarecrow relax again, or at least deflate, and listened to his apology without so much as twitching. Even her chest seemed to barely move-- breaths shallow and silent. Survival instincts didn't just go away with the snap of one's fingers.
"They're both in need," Krepta replied at last. Her expression remained closed off, guarded. "Sanctuary is overpopulated for its size, and we get new refugees every day who come with nothing. Beach City joined us only recently. Having a new refugee settlement is helping with that overpopulation some, but a lot of that debris is covering good farm land, or other resources. It needs to be cleared to sustain the local population. Your skills are probably best suited for helping the newcomers. They could use a friendly face. But if you'd like a challenge, take the debris. It'll be grueling work, and you'll have to use your head, and learn to listen to the work crews. But it's a good exercise in teamwork."
Fiyero stood there stewing in silence for a moment longer. Internally, he was weighing his options. Sanctuary or Beach City, either could use his help, but the question was where he would be the most effective.
For a moment, he humored the thought of Beach City, but then he was rudely reminded of the limitations of this new body of his. It wasn't the grueling work that worried him--he could not tire. He could keep going forever and never feel the faintest tinges of exhaustion or fatigue. No, it wasn't the continuous labor that made that mission impossible, but the limits of what his body could do. Picking up debris? Sounded like a lot of heavy labor--heavy labor he was now completely incapable of.
Once, long ago, he had been quite strong and strapping--strong enough to sweep his wife off her feet like the princess she was--now he could barely lift a bin full of dirty laundry without significant strain. This body wasn't built for feats of strength, something he was constantly (bitterly) reminded of.
You'd think I'd get used to that. It's been long enough. Now stop complaining. Start being useful.
With that, his mind was made up.
"Sanctuary," he decided, giving his head a nod. "You're right, I reckon the new arrivals are in desperate need of a friendly face. Oz only knows how long they've gone without one of those. I can do that."
Then he straightened, and he put a smile right back on: cheery, bright, radiating unbridled positivity as if nothing was wrong.
No, ma'am, nothing wrong at all.
You know me. I'm always happy.
"Well. Let's not keep them waiting. Let's go lend them a hand."
For a moment, he humored the thought of Beach City, but then he was rudely reminded of the limitations of this new body of his. It wasn't the grueling work that worried him--he could not tire. He could keep going forever and never feel the faintest tinges of exhaustion or fatigue. No, it wasn't the continuous labor that made that mission impossible, but the limits of what his body could do. Picking up debris? Sounded like a lot of heavy labor--heavy labor he was now completely incapable of.
Once, long ago, he had been quite strong and strapping--strong enough to sweep his wife off her feet like the princess she was--now he could barely lift a bin full of dirty laundry without significant strain. This body wasn't built for feats of strength, something he was constantly (bitterly) reminded of.
You'd think I'd get used to that. It's been long enough. Now stop complaining. Start being useful.
With that, his mind was made up.
"Sanctuary," he decided, giving his head a nod. "You're right, I reckon the new arrivals are in desperate need of a friendly face. Oz only knows how long they've gone without one of those. I can do that."
Then he straightened, and he put a smile right back on: cheery, bright, radiating unbridled positivity as if nothing was wrong.
No, ma'am, nothing wrong at all.
You know me. I'm always happy.
"Well. Let's not keep them waiting. Let's go lend them a hand."
Krepta stayed where she was.
Spend a whole day with Mr. Sunshine over there? Did she really want to watch him hand out blankets and water bottles with that goofy ass charm of his, knowing the whole time what else lurked beneath the surface? No thanks. Krepta had enough stress going on as it was, and there was no way that Fiyero wouldn't be keeping her on edge after that little outburst. She'd either be walking on eggshells the whole time, waiting for him to explode again, or she'd explode herself with the tension of it, and someone who didn't deserve to would be caught in the crossfire.
"Sorry, you're on your own for this one, scarecrow," she said. The nickname slipped out, unintentional. Krepta was prone to nicknames anyway, and this one was one he had given to begin with, but it felt like it had a different weight to it now, after their discussion about Gotham-- after their argument. "I wasn't going to be able to get to either of them until next week anyway. I've got a lot on my plate right now. But if you get stuck, you can contact me on your Gauntlet, once you get it. Or send a letter, I guess."
Besides, as a mentor, it was Krepta's job to show newcomers around the place, answer their questions, not babysit them. A field trip to Sanctuary was not technically included in that requirement, and she wasn't feeling particularly generous at the moment.
"I'll have the supply baskets sent to the agency office in Sanctuary's square. Big building with our emblem out front. They'll show you where to go after," she told him.
Spend a whole day with Mr. Sunshine over there? Did she really want to watch him hand out blankets and water bottles with that goofy ass charm of his, knowing the whole time what else lurked beneath the surface? No thanks. Krepta had enough stress going on as it was, and there was no way that Fiyero wouldn't be keeping her on edge after that little outburst. She'd either be walking on eggshells the whole time, waiting for him to explode again, or she'd explode herself with the tension of it, and someone who didn't deserve to would be caught in the crossfire.
"Sorry, you're on your own for this one, scarecrow," she said. The nickname slipped out, unintentional. Krepta was prone to nicknames anyway, and this one was one he had given to begin with, but it felt like it had a different weight to it now, after their discussion about Gotham-- after their argument. "I wasn't going to be able to get to either of them until next week anyway. I've got a lot on my plate right now. But if you get stuck, you can contact me on your Gauntlet, once you get it. Or send a letter, I guess."
Besides, as a mentor, it was Krepta's job to show newcomers around the place, answer their questions, not babysit them. A field trip to Sanctuary was not technically included in that requirement, and she wasn't feeling particularly generous at the moment.
"I'll have the supply baskets sent to the agency office in Sanctuary's square. Big building with our emblem out front. They'll show you where to go after," she told him.
Scarecrow.
She had called him scarecrow.
Not Tigelaar. Not Fiyero. Scarecrow.
Well, why wouldn't she? Didn't he suggest as much? But she had been the one to advise him not to call himself that, she was the one who had always called him by his family name--a bit weird, but still his name.
No, this felt less of a name and more of a jab. A reminder. A well-deserved knock upside the head to remind him who--what he was now.
Scarecrow.
His smile didn't falter, but it did diminish ever so slightly to a more manageable level, not as bright and blinding but still cheerful all the same.
"Right," he said. "You must be busy. Got a whole thousand and one other worlds that need saving--I get it. Why waste your time chaperoning this fool? I know how to get to Sanctuary, Fae showed me there a few times. So look for the big building with a logo, got it. I can find it. I'm pretty good at finding things."
And with that, he just turned and . . . left. Why stick around? There was no point. He wasn't a total idiot, he knew Krepta was pissed at him. Great. He just met his mentor and he already pissed her off by acting like an idiot.
No surprise there.
What was that adage? You only get one chance to make a good first impression? Well, there that went, and what an impression he made. Acting like a spoiled child throwing a temper tantrum, that'll make a great impression on the Agency that he deserved to be here.
So earn it.
He steadied himself. He shook out his left leg--and shook off the haunting memories of the shattered bones sticking through his skin--and marched off. Eyes forward, not looking back.
Can't look back. Can't ever go back.
His only choice was forward.
She had called him scarecrow.
Not Tigelaar. Not Fiyero. Scarecrow.
Well, why wouldn't she? Didn't he suggest as much? But she had been the one to advise him not to call himself that, she was the one who had always called him by his family name--a bit weird, but still his name.
No, this felt less of a name and more of a jab. A reminder. A well-deserved knock upside the head to remind him who--what he was now.
Scarecrow.
His smile didn't falter, but it did diminish ever so slightly to a more manageable level, not as bright and blinding but still cheerful all the same.
"Right," he said. "You must be busy. Got a whole thousand and one other worlds that need saving--I get it. Why waste your time chaperoning this fool? I know how to get to Sanctuary, Fae showed me there a few times. So look for the big building with a logo, got it. I can find it. I'm pretty good at finding things."
And with that, he just turned and . . . left. Why stick around? There was no point. He wasn't a total idiot, he knew Krepta was pissed at him. Great. He just met his mentor and he already pissed her off by acting like an idiot.
No surprise there.
What was that adage? You only get one chance to make a good first impression? Well, there that went, and what an impression he made. Acting like a spoiled child throwing a temper tantrum, that'll make a great impression on the Agency that he deserved to be here.
So earn it.
He steadied himself. He shook out his left leg--and shook off the haunting memories of the shattered bones sticking through his skin--and marched off. Eyes forward, not looking back.
Can't look back. Can't ever go back.
His only choice was forward.
Krepta watched him go. The self-flagellating hadn't helped his case, nor her opinion of him. She didn't rise to stop Fiyero or call out to him, but she did make a mental note to put in a request that the mental health team give him a ring up. They didn't need any martyrs any more than they needed glory hounds, and a potential combination of the two...
Well, that was why they had the systems they did. Whatever it was that Fiyero needed to work through, she hoped he'd find the help to do it. She'd keep her door open, both for the week she was his mentor, and because she was a Guardian, but not as his primary source of stabilization. She wasn't equipped for that, nor did she want to be. Krepta had enough demons to carry without shouldering other people's too.
She heaved a tired sigh, tapped a note into his file with her Gauntlet, then pushed to her feet with a groan, heading towards the door herself, though she waited a good moment or so to make sure there was reasonable distance between them.
That, at least, was one more thing off her plate today, and Krepta intended to spend the rest of it as far away from people and their complications as possible-- at the very least until her nerves calmed down again.
...cripes.
[Thanks for the RP!!]
Well, that was why they had the systems they did. Whatever it was that Fiyero needed to work through, she hoped he'd find the help to do it. She'd keep her door open, both for the week she was his mentor, and because she was a Guardian, but not as his primary source of stabilization. She wasn't equipped for that, nor did she want to be. Krepta had enough demons to carry without shouldering other people's too.
She heaved a tired sigh, tapped a note into his file with her Gauntlet, then pushed to her feet with a groan, heading towards the door herself, though she waited a good moment or so to make sure there was reasonable distance between them.
That, at least, was one more thing off her plate today, and Krepta intended to spend the rest of it as far away from people and their complications as possible-- at the very least until her nerves calmed down again.
...cripes.
[Thanks for the RP!!]
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