Archive of Our Own

At the frankly outrageous hour of five in the morning, show tunes scare off any birds singing outside. Go the Distance threatens to crack the window from the sheer volume, and a hand attempts to slap the snooze button. Instead, they send the iPod hurtling off the table.

10 years, 15 light years, and a selection of questionable decisions later, it is surrounded by the best security system in the known galaxy. Although, not for long.

“Are you sure the rope is tight enough?” Virgil’s voice buzzes in Janus’ ear. If he looks up, he can see his lips moving, whispers barely loud enough to be picked up by the microphone. The bright lights from underneath the display glints off of the purple in his headphones. Virgil’s hugging the support beam like a koala bear, the discarded ceiling panel pushed out of view. Janus can see the end of his makeshift tether in his white knuckled grip.

He doesn’t know what he’s so worried about. For Virgil, there’s a good bit more than a single length of rope standing between him and almost certain death.

“Of course the rope is tight enough,” he mutters, “I tied it.”

“That’s why I asked.”

Although he may be sandwiched between beams and a laundry list of unknown building supports, Janus knows he can still see the way he sticks his tongue out in response. His face is reflected in the glass tube that surrounds him, stretching up into the maze behind the panelling. Below him lies the object of tonight’s excursion. 

Virgil lowers him down, reminders of “Don’t you dare touch that glass and set everything off,” and “Your stupid hat is going to fall off, Jesus Christ—” breaking the silence. Any nerves that might have crept up are batted away with every time he triple checks nothing will trip the alarms. Not even a speck of dust brushes against the glass.

He’s got this. It’s not like he’s new to this rodeo.

When the battered excuse for human technology is within reach, he tugs on the rope and Virgil stops lowering him. Why Remy’s fine with them risking life and limb and sanity for a hunk of outdated metal, he’ll never know. The paycheck’s worth it, though.

“Oi,” Virgil hisses, “Stop self-reflecting so we can get out of here.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” He considers taking a moment to relax, drag the heist on for a little longer — maybe he can get Virgil to start playing Mission Impossible? It would enhance the mood. Improve motivation. Piss off Virgil.

“Janus!”

“Mhm?” Perhaps a veil on his hat would improve the atmosphere too. There has to be some remnants from Virgil’s latest project kicking around somewhere. Would the reduced vision be worth it?

“We’re going to get caught. There will be guards, and they will capture us, and they will chop us up into itty, bitty, bloody pieces! And we haven’t had lunch! I’m not getting dissected, especially not on an empty stomach, no sir, not today—!” Ah. Janus should hurry up before the polished assholery he’s refined becomes, well, a bit of a dick move.

He’s got a reputation to uphold. That’s all.

They’d gone over blueprints, diagrams, more blueprints, but Janus firmly believes that a few pieces of paper does not a good thief make. Spontaneity. Keeps the blood pumping.

Underneath the little heap of earphones and — can it even be called an iPod? One early alarm and misplaced swipe for the snooze button and it would all be over — there’s a thin metal plate. If he twists his head and goes as close to the glass as he can get without Virgil worrying himself off the ceiling, a mess of brightly coloured wires just starts to peek out. Either an alarm, a bomb, or some other deadly defence system. Maybe all three.

He hopes it’s all three. They’ve got the thermal detectors, sound activated alarms and microscopic cameras on loop, but for a top-notch security system, it’s been laughably easy to break in. 

0/10 review on Yelp. Is Yelp intergalactic now?

“Janus! Can you please, just dismantle the bloody trap?”

If they had time, he’d take it apart so they could both poke at it. Since life and limb and sanity are in the balance, however, he settles for taking out a vial of hydrochloric acid and prepares to dump it down the side.

“And don’t spill acid against the glass,” Virgil warns. Dumping it down the side precisely , then.

This requires the sort of position only achieved through years of aerial ribbon performances. His feet tangle around the rope, and he keeps a hand on the brim of his hat as he hangs upside down.

“Stop showing off,” Virgil grumbles, but at least now there’s a slither of amusement in there.

“I’m not showing off; I’m cool,” he teases, because a quick scan of their surroundings shows that they’re still alone. Alone, save for the rows and rows of exhibits in glass tubes. It’s only weird if he thinks about it for too long. To the rest of the known universe, humans are…

Space orcs, he supposes. Earth is Space Australia. He has a tumblr, posts pre common space travel weren’t so far off.

It makes sense, is what he means, that tiny scraps of humanity are shown off at every angle, lit up for the masses. Like they'd be doing anything different if alien vinyls showed up floating around in the stratosphere.

Although speaking of vinyls, he eyes a stack of them at the opposite end of the room. If they ever come back here, he’s nicking them for sure.

The acid lazily eats away at the trap until Janus can swipe the iPod without any trouble. Apparently, it’s at least sturdy enough not to crumble to dust in his hands, he zips it into the inside pocket of his jacket—

—And wonders how he never noticed this particular attraction before. 

Compared to the vinyls, it’s nothing particularly special. Sure, the display tube itself is impressive — dozens of wires and tiny flashing lights running all the way up to the ceiling. And, and really, it’s a miracle the Dragon Witch even managed to get her hands on something like this at all, it’s not like—

“Virgil?” he asks, voice high and thin, “How do you tell a wax sculpture from a— from a real person?”

“One’s not made of fucking wax, why are you asking? You’ve got what Remy wants, right?”

They can’t be any older than fourteen. They’re wearing school uniform for Christ’s sake, long grey trousers and a white shirt that are looking a little more than worse for wear. A faded red bag lies at their feet, and Janus doesn’t realise he’s shaking until Virgil’s hissing in his ear, “Janus? Janus? Janus!”

“Get down here.”

Virgil’s probably scowling above him, but he still can’t tear his eyes away from that display. “I can’t just—”

“Virgil,” Janus snaps, “Once I saw you wriggle under the floorboards because Emile got his phone stuck. In twenty seconds . Get down here.”

“Janus?” He can hear ropes being tied and pulled, and then Virgil tentatively climbs down until his feet are hovering above Janus’. He’s never had quite the same talent for climbing ropes like Janus, even if he moved over and under the beams like water. Even though it’s far from ideal for both of them to be in the tube he just…

He needs him to see them. He needs him to.

“That is a child,” Virgil murmurs, and Janus knows they’re staring at the same spectacle. “That is a whole child, what the fuck.”

“Were you only expecting half?” he tries to joke weakly, although it doesn’t really land.

The movement of the rope tells him Virgil has clamoured back into the ceiling, and before he can protest, he’s being pulled up after him. “We can’t leave them, can we?” asks Virgil, even though it’s not really a question. 

“Remy’s only paying us for the iPod,” Janus says. He doesn’t know what he means by it; he’s already bundling up their supplies back into his rucksack and slinging it over his shoulders. “What do you know about cryosleep?” 

“Next to nothing.” Virgil drops the panelling back into place, wincing at the clang that he fails to muffle completely. 

“People coming out of cryosleep?”

“Even less,” he huffs, and dislodges a different sheet of metal, this one leading straight into open space. “Guess we’re doing this the dumb way.”

“We are,” Janus agrees, and throws him their longest length of rope. Virgil tosses it around a higher support beam once before loosely tying it around his waist. “What are your predictions? About them waking up?”

“I don’t know. I scraped a pass in Biology, you know that.” When he’s sure that Janus has a tight enough hold on the other end, he jumps out of the gap. Feeding it carefully through his hands, Janus doesn’t stop until a firm tug on the rope lets him know Virgil’s down safe. 

“I’ll catch you.”

“You’d better,” Janus tells him, and makes a leap of faith he’s done hundreds of times before.

Virgil catches him with practised unease, leaving them without injuries or dignity as they untangle themselves on the floor. By now, you’d think they would have something more reliable than…this. A sturdy length of rope and a list of desperate prayers.

Although, as Virgil always says when he brings this up—

“Why would we change it? We don’t die when we just use rope. What if we changed it, then got injured, who are we going to go to?”

“I’m sure Remy would patch us up,” Janus says, as they scurry across the hall.

“You’re going to trust Remy to keep you alive?”

“Hmm. Remy over you.” Before Virgil can protest, he gives him a shove to where the other human is…could it be described as sleeping?

He asks Virgil, who helpfully tells him, “We have no idea if he’s even alive,” and plops himself down at the foot of the display. Janus opens his mouth to ask him what the hell he’s doing, but stops when Virgil pries a section of the base off and immediately drops it.

His hands are shaking. Janus tells him so.

For all his concern, he gets a scowl, and an incredibly polite “Piss off.” Sighing, Janus lifts his headphones on to his ears, and grabs Virgil’s phone from the front pocket of his bag.

“Which Life Or Death Playlist, One, Two, or Three?”

“Three’s for when multiple people are in a life or death situation,” he mumbles, and Janus nods, pressing play.

As if a lever had been pulled into place, Virgil takes a deep breath and starts cutting wires. At one point, he takes out a tablet and starts typing furiously into it, lights and lines of code flashing across the screen. Finally, the front of the display sides down with a long suffering hiss, and Janus stumbles back with a sudden armful of kid.

“That went better than I expected,” Virgil states in slight surprise, which is the perfect time for all the alarms to start screaming.

*

“No one will ever hear of that again,” Janus demands, when they’ve locked all the doors of The Mind Palace IV (it’s best not to ask about its predecessors), put the engines on full blast, and collapsed in a heap. 

Virgil nods. It’s hard to tell if he’s actually paying attention since most of his attention is on radars and camera feeds instead of him. “Yup,” he replies, and puts up another shield to camouflage their tracks. They’d lost the security team an hour ago, but as Virgil had told him insistently the first time this had happened: It’s better to be safe than sorry, rotting in a jail cell, or deader than my hamster. He’d said that wasn’t how the saying went. Virgil ignored him. He’d said that the hamster really wasn’t his fault. Virgil told him that Sir Squiggles III deserved better.

“It was such a shoddy escape, what were we thinking? The vents were right there but no, let’s run across the floor like rats! Such a brilliant idea.”

“Mhm.”

He’s not listening. The audacity of some people, honestly, you risk your life for them on a regular basis and they just ignore you. “And I cannot believe you just missed the hoard of feral neon orange flamingos burning me—”

“Wait, you’re hurt?” Virgil interrupts, and immediately abandons whatever he was doing beforehand. 

“—And, and wait , you pick up on the me-being-hurt bit and not the hoard of feral flamingos?”

He blinks at him. “…Was there a hoard of feral flamingos?”

Janus wants to scream a little bit, actually. “ No! There were plasma guns instead!” And as he says that, the adrenaline wears off and realises he might have actually been hit. There’s a patch on his sleeve where the material is charred, glimmering with the faintest hint of blue. “Shit.”

“You idiot, why didn’t you tell me earlier? Let me see,” Virgil hisses, and Janus peels off as many layers as he can until there’s only his t-shirt sticking to the angry red burn. “That’s nasty, now did you not notice this?” His body takes this personally, and now the pain’s increased from a mild Oh hey, they got me to an Oh hey, I kind of want to rip my arm off.

He leaves Janus standing there like a lemon, trying not to wince or cry or show any sign that he’s in pain. His attempts are…moderately successful. There’s the sound of pounding feet along the corridor and then Virgil’s returning with a wet cloth and a bottle of aloe vera.

“It’s probably only first degree,” Janus tries to reassure him. 

Apparently that isn’t reassuring. “Do you know what you can get with burns?” Virgil asks. He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t particularly want to, but he has the feeling Virgil will tell him anyway. “Tetanus. It can enter your body through the burn; I’ve read about it.”

“And I’m obviously going to get it in Space .”

Virgil’s eyes narrow. “Are you vaccinated for it?”

“Yes? We were vaccinated at the same time. At school. You fainted. I told the lady about snakes.” It had been a great talk, apart from the whole getting stabbed bit; Imani had been a delightful person, truly. Shame she wasn’t here right now, with all her NHS knowledge, and ungodly amount of chill.

Virgil hums in response, and dunks the cloth in a bowl of cold water when it starts to warm up. Thank god for controllable-gravity; the first time one of them got burned on the ship had been…an interesting experience. “How much pain are you in?” he asks, and Janus puts on his sunniest smile.

“Practically none!” It’s incredibly convincing.

“I’ll grab some ibuprofen.” Or not. “Don’t move this for another five minutes.”

Before he can disappear off to their sickbay (which is really a cupboard they stuffed a bed and as many overflowing cupboards as possible), Janus remembers their extra passenger. “What are we going to do about the kid?” It’s not that they forgot about them, per say, just that in all the chaos of escaping they’d dumped him on the floor and hadn’t tried to move him since. There is a reason neither of them are medical professionals.

“The kid,” Virgil repeats, who may have actually forgotten. “Right. I’ll…I’ll put him in the sickbay, then.

“You are not going to be able to—” In a surprising feat of strength, Virgil lifts up the kid in the most undignified bridal carry ever seen. “—Maybe you should run before you drop him.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, and half walks, half runs, half drags himself away. There’s silence, a loud exclamation of “Fuck!” that probably meant Virgil almost dropped them, and then nothing but the whirring of the ship’s engine. He does know that he can follow him, right? A burn on his arm doesn’t prevent him from moving, even if he’s pretty close to screaming every now and then.

Deciding that sitting here with only a bowl of water for company is boring, Janus wanders down and slides the door to their sickbay open. The most recent iteration of their ship came with fancy doors that saved valuable space. Space that could be used for an almost worrying amount of various basic wound care manuals.

Virgil is in the middle of rifling through a drawer when he notices him. “If you want running water for that, you’re going to have to fix the taps.”

“The taps aren’t broken.” Just completely unusable. There’s a difference.

“Until one of us can figure out how to work them, they’re broken.” Virgil hands him a couple of ibuprofen pills and a water bottle. “Take them now and they’ll have kicked in before the kid wakes up…if they wake up.”

Janus swallows them both, and rolls his eyes at his hesitance. “Of course they’ll wake up, who’d want to parade around a dead human? The smell would be terrible.” He still seems unsure. “Did you check for injuries?”

Virgil stares at the too-still body on the bed and shrugs. “As much as I could. If he’s got, I don’t know, severe brain trauma, or internal bleeding, then that wasn’t covered in any of the books.” He stares at the kid. Janus stares at him.

“You’re worrying too much.”

“He could be dead.”

“I told you he’s not dead. And you can tell when someone’s internally bleeding.” Virgil isn’t the only one who swotted up on injuries and maladies, just in case. 

“But what if this is the one time when you can’t?” He keeps staring until he turns to grab some cling film to wrap Janus’ arm in. Something, something, no fibres, something, something, Janus, just keep the bloody cling film on. Virgil pats down the end of it on the underside of his arm, and although it still hurts like a bitch, the pain is much more bearable. 

“It won’t be,” he says, because making sure Virgil won’t worry himself into an early grave is much more important than a thank you, “That would be rude.”

He gets a snort in response. “Didn’t realise the human body ran on politeness.” The cupboard doors open once, twice, three times again, as Virgil cleans up the little he got out, and then there’s nothing to do but fret.

That’s a lie. They have a whole list of things to do, which starts with Maintenance and ends with Business. However, there’s a much more important task to complete, and that’s Janus’ hourly quota of jibes. “Well, what would you know, didn’t you fail Biology?”

Virgil pokes him in the side viciously. “I passed, just barely. I got the GCSE. I wouldn’t have taken it for A-Level if you’d paid me.” 

The tension lessens, if only slightly, and after another moment of silence Virgil slips his headphones over the kid’s ears. “What should I play?”

“You don’t have a playlist for this?” Virgil’s list of playlists was longer than the trip to Earth and back.

“Why would I have a spotify playlist for coming out of cryo after being kidnapped by aliens on a distant planet good time vibes?”

“I thought you had a playlist for everything . Wasn’t there one for introducing aliens to Earth? Isn’t getting reacquainted with Earth music basically the same thing?”

Virgil stares at him like he just suggested they throw his headphones into space. “It’s for introducing aliens, I can’t use it for someone on Earth. It would completely defy the point.” He scrolls through his phone thoughtfully, before sighing and tapping on a song. “I’m playing him ABBA. Imagine that, first thing you hear after being completely isolated from humanity, and it’s 70s pop.”

“Well, come on then,” Janus says, pushing Virgil out of the sickbay. He leaves the door open, just in case, but apart from that they really don’t have the time to stick around watching and waiting. Which…probably isn’t medically correct. “Places to go, people to see, ships to run, you know how it is.”

*

Roman is—

Roman is pushing his brother into a puddle as they’re walking home from school, and there’s a costume in his bag for tonight’s Halloween party—

Roman is screaming, and Remus is in front of him spitting and snarling at wild beasts, because they surely can’t be aliens—

Roman is trembling as a hand closes around his wrist, and he is yelling out for Remus, yelling something similar to “Get your hands off him!” before he is dragged far, far—

Roman is dying, with the feeling of piercing needles going all up his arms and legs, as his visions swims—

Roman is—

Roman is—

Roman is lying in a hospital bed, crumpled sheets underneath him, with Thank You For The Music by ABBA crooning softly in his ears.

Wait. That doesn’t seem right. Is he dreaming, one of those sharp focused dreams that almost seem like real life? But that doesn’t seem right either; he hasn’t dreamed in a long, long time, years of… years? It can’t be years. A week perhaps, since he last saw Remus, and he will see him again, soon, as soon as he gets off the bed.

He needs to get off the bed.

He can’t get off the bed.

“I’m nothing special, in fact, I’m a bit of a bore ,” ABBA tells him, and the absolute absurdity of it all makes him want to cry. But he can’t cry, not when he doesn’t know where Remus is. If Remus is even— no, no, no, he can’t think like that, he can’t cry, he can’t think that, because if he does then there’s no point getting off of the bed at all.

His eyes are closed. He hadn’t noticed that, which is worrying, but that makes everything easier. First port of call: open his eyes. Open his eyes. Open…his…eyes.

Shouldn’t he have opened his eyes by now?

They feel stuck down to his face, properly stuck down, not like that time Remus covered his face with duct tape when he was sleeping. Mum had yelled at him for that, but Roman didn’t, because he was sunnily planning out his revenge behind her back and practising his crocodile tears. Which is another reason Remus can’t be dead, because he needs to enact his revenge for when he put a frog in his bag yesterday. Last week. Two weeks ago. Whatever.

But all he needs to do is open his eyes. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Perhaps all he has to do is a mental run up, like they did for javelin last Tuesday (Tuesday before last?). He threw it pretty far, but Remus is in the lower set so he couldn’t properly beat him. When he thinks about his run up, he doesn’t take a deep breath, because that would remind him that his breathing feels awfully shallow.

Three…

Two…

One. He opens his eyes. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Surely finding Remus will be that easy, because it’s not like he’s skipped Maths to do God-knows-what God-knows-where, he’s only doing God-knows-what God-knows-where in Space. 

But Roman must be on a spaceship, like in the movies, so that’ll give him a head start. And then he’ll find Remus in some Space-swamp coated with mud and he can cover all his clothes in glitter. That’ll teach him. And after that, he’s going to get a gas mask and lock himself in Remus’s wardrobe so he can unpick every third stitch of his clothing. When he finds him.

However, spaceship means aliens, and aliens mean (screaming, trembling, dying) bad news. And these particular aliens have kidnapped Roman and done something which means he can’t move.

Unless he’s just really tired, and there are no drugs and no aliens and no kidnappings, just another hospital visit from a quest gone wrong. That would be nice. Actually, that would mean he probably had another broken bone, and his costume wouldn’t quite have the same finesse. That would suck. Would mean he hadn’t been kidnapped by aliens, but would still suck. 

His limbs feel like lead, tied down with whatever the opposite of helium balloons are. They don’t hurt, and there’s no sharp pricks going up and down his limbs, they’re just…numb. Cold. Numb like he’s been to the dentist to get a tooth pulled, and cold like the time he and Remus went sledding and they lost their wellies. 

The dentist was nice. He thinks her name was Laura, but he couldn’t really keep his thoughts straight because a bone was coming out of his mouth, oh God, oh help. He knows she was new because Mum had mentioned her the week before, although he’d never seen her because she only came in on Wednesdays, Thursdays and Fridays, and he only stayed after school on Mondays. Remus never stayed, because he had some gross club that involved dissection and bugs and other delightful things like that. Mum had said that either he sat in the staff room until her shift ended or he went with Remus, which wasn’t really a choice at all.

When they lost their wellies they had to trace back their steps for what seemed like hours, which was torture because all he had on was a pair of kind of thick Frozen socks. Remus kept shovelling snow into his mouth, saying that he was reminding himself what it felt like to be alive. Roman had told him that he would need a whole lot more reminding in a minute, if he didn’t find my bloody wellies, Remus, why don’t you actually help me look?

That was fun, really, but in the sort of way that you can only appreciate after you’re warm and dry. Like when Polly explained to him that I can laugh about Miss saying “Hurry up girls!” as we’re playing lacrosse in torrential rain — it was hailing, Roman, my arms turned orange — because right now I’m not ninety percent freezing cold rainwater. Personally, he’s never played lacrosse in torrential rain, only rugby, where he swallowed a mouthful of mud and then faked being sick for three weeks.

Maybe he can laugh about being kidnapped by aliens after he and Remus are on Earth, not dead, running down the street like mad things because they both forgot their raincoats.

Why did he think about that? He’s not been kidnapped, Remus is fine, he’s fine, it’s just a hospital visit because—

Maybe the question is just why he’s bothering to lie to himself. Who is he kidding, they’ve been kidnapped by bloody aliens, and if they ever see Earth again no one’s even going to believe them. Except, maybe, Polly. He misses her, a lot, and he decides that if he can’t be optimistic for their sake he’ll be optimistic for hers. And then he’ll tell her that he thought of her whilst in his near death situation and she’ll hug him and call him a right ninny and everything will be fine.

Everything will be fine.

Everything will be fine.

…Yeah, that isn’t working. Sorry Polly. But he’ll try to compromise; everything will be okay-ish as long as he finds Remus, and gets the hell out of here. An admirable goal to work towards, he thinks.

And he can start working on that right away, as soon as he regains control of his limbs. He opens his eyes again, not realising he’d closed them in the first place, but that doesn’t matter. It’s Game Time (this would be where inspirational music would start playing over a really cool montage, but he guesses he’ll have to make do with ABBA and his own thoughts.) He can’t afford to pull any punches.

Not that he could even attempt to throw any at the moment. Mental punches? He can’t afford to pull any mental punches, starting with the one he’s going to throw at the alien who took his brother, with the terrifying scorpion tail, and stupid orange alien-hat. It was such a stupid hat.

“Without a song or dance, what are we?” ABBA encourages, and he focuses his efforts on throwing himself off the bed. First things first, he tries to wiggle his toes. His toes are cold, and numb, and he can’t wiggle them. But! He can’t give up, not if he wants to punch that stupid hat off its stupid alien head. He tries his fingers, and is met with resounding success when his pinkie twitches.

It’s getting a little easier to breathe, and so he takes a deep, deep breath, this time ignoring how his lips feel like the remains of their kitchen window after their first and last football match took a turn for the worst. Breathe, twitch your fingers, and summon the strength to just roll…

“Now this is a sorry sight,” someone says, and any progress Roman might have made goes down the drain. Down, down, down, like Itsy Bitsy Spider. Except no, Itsy Bitsy Spider went down a water spout, and—

Focus! The— person? Alien? tuts, as if they could tell what Roman was trying to do and thought it was hopeless. Should he freeze and hope they don’t hurt him, or try to make a break for it? Sure, he’s at a bit of a disadvantage, but he’s moved at least an inch towards the edge of the bed, and if he just—

If he just—

“Yes, that looks like a brilliant idea,” they say, and before Roman can make it any further a pair of hands roll him flat on his back again and all his progress is unravelled. His skin burns where they touched him, like his body’s forgotten what it’s like. Which is ridiculous, because it’d only been a week at most since he last hugged someone. Who was it? Remus? Polly?

Oh, of course, it was both of them, when Polly had her orthodontist appointment. They’d hugged her goodbye (and good luck) before she wriggled out from between them so she wouldn’t be late. After that the bell rang for the end of lunch, and he’d wished he was able to miss Maths too because—

Wait, the…the someone is saying words, but all he can hear is “So I say, thank you for the music!” and all he can see clearly is the brim of a hat. It’s probably a stupid hat. He wants to bat it off their stupid head.

A sudden burst of adrenaline (or maybe it’s just spite) rushes through him, and he manages to rise and raise his arm enough to hit it to the floor. It lands with a pathetic little noise, and the talking stops as they both stare at it. The action’s left him far more tired than it should, and he flops back down immediately. 

“Thanks for all the joy they’re bringing,” ABBA sings, and you know what, that did bring him a bit of joy. The hat stays on the floor for the good of his happiness. For the good of the universe, really, who wears a fedora on a spaceship?

Wait, what alien wears a fedora on a spaceship?

He knows for a fact that Earth Fashion wasn't all the range among the aliens he had met, not that he’d been paying much attention to the few aliens that were wearing some sort of clothes. He’d been…well, he’d been a bit busy at the time. 

They can’t have all picked it up in only a fortnight, that would be ridiculous. And he can’t be on a ship with other humans, he can’t, because what would that even mean? A couple of idiots had stolen a rocket and decided to become space pirates?

It sounds like something out of one of Remus’ stories, except it would end with them trying to return home then dying a horrible, gory, fiery death. Roman really doesn’t want to die a horrible, gory, fiery death, but he also doesn’t want to have to see more aliens, so perhaps life is just a lose lose situation and the one concept is that ABBA’s just going to keep playing.

“So I say—!” Yeah. That’s what he thought.

Before he can write a better ending, where he teams up with the space pirates and saves humanity, someone else comes barging through the door. Like everything else, he doesn’t notice his vision is fuzzy until it suddenly comes into focus, and he prepares for pincers and antennae and twisting, grotesque limbs. They’ll suit up in order to, he doesn’t know, rip him open like a sack of meaty flour and smear his blood all over the walls and woah. That got…a little dark, a little quickly. If Remus was here he’d be cackling. But that really doesn’t matter when the aliens, because they must be aliens, are—

Are—

Are looking rather human for their current location of a bazillion light years from Earth. The new one looks despairingly at the stupid hat wearer and then waves a bottle of water under his nose. He wants to laugh. He wants to cry. ABBA continues singing in his ears all the same, truly, the one and only universal constant. 

“Can you drink?” the newcomer asks, and Roman does his best impression of a squid trying to shrug. Feeling is ever so slowly coming back to his body, and the worst case of pins and needles he’s ever felt is flitting from one limb to another. He tries to sit up, and it feels like he just stuck his finger in a socket. The pirate with the water bottle — and Roman’s just noticed he has purple hair, which looks so cool — starts towards him, like he wants to help, and then stops, like he’s decided better. This leaves him rocking back and forth on his feet, still holding the water bottle out in front of him.

It takes a few tries until Roman’s sure he isn’t going to spill the water, or fall out of bed now that he’d be able to feel it. Then, he drinks like he’s never going to drink again. It feels like he hasn’t drank in years, and he’s half concerned he’s going to throw it all up after he’s finished.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got my bag?” His voice is shaky, and it’s a faint hope, but maybe, just maybe, it’ll be there. He can’t remember if it ever fell off his back, and he doesn’t think it has anything particularly useful in it — his iPod, maybe, and his costume for the party. There’s also his lunchbox, but his sandwich will be pretty manky after two weeks left untouched.

The two exchange a glance, and then start speaking at the same time.

“Did you—”

“I mean, maybe—? ”

“I’ll go look.” The purple one walks out wringing his hands, and then it’s just Roman and Hat Arsehole. 

“So,” they say, “Do you have a name? Because we love just calling you ‘the kid’.”

“Roman,” he says, and wonders if that was a mistake. Does stranger danger still apply when you’re…well. When you’ve already been kidnapped and are light years away from home. “He/him pronouns, please.”

“Wonderful. Us too,” is his reply, and they don’t get the chance to exchange any more small talk when a yell echoes down the ship.

“Found it!”

“Looks like it’s your lucky day, then.” They wait in silence after that until the other pirate returns. He makes grabby hands for his bag, and it’s deposited in his lap.

Okay, it’s…a little worse for wear than he last remembered. The pins are all slightly faded, and there’s a large splash of mud up the side that probably came from the puddle. In the front pocket, he still has his pencil case, for all the use that’s going to do him. There’s also a couple of sweet wrappers, and a button he picked up in Textiles at the beginning of the year. Inside, his second hand copy of Emma is fine, as are all his exercise books. There’s a piece of Spanish homework that is… very late. 

“Where’s my lunchbox?” Sure his sandwich would have been unsafe to even touch, but there was a chocolate bar in there that would have been fine too. He gets a grimace.

“That lunchbox was a public safety hazard. I opened it and everything had disintegrated.” That…that didn’t make sense. That didn’t make sense. It takes longer than a fortnight for decomposition to happen on that scale, Roman knows , because Remus has talked his ear off about it too many times before. But maybe that’s just…just a weird Space thing. 

His iPod is also missing, and when he brings it up, the two exchange looks and refuse to answer him. Ah. Guess they stole it then. Wonderful. However, the bread is bugging him. It doesn’t make sense, not at all, and things aren’t adding up.

At the very bottom of his bag is his planner, and he grabs it desperately. Something’s spilled over the pages, turning reminders for assignments and deadlines illegible, but the most recent date was still written neatly at the top. He lifts it up. “How long,” he whispers, “has it been?”

It’s Hat Arsehole who answers, counting days on his fingers. “A decade, maybe? Estimating Earth time from up here’s the easiest thing in the world, as I’m sure you can imagine.” He’s saying more, but those two words are buzzing in Roman’s head.

A decade, a decade, a decade—

How had he been rescued after all that time?

At some point he registers that he really has fallen on the floor, and has backed himself into the corner of the room. A decade… She hadn’t given him up in a decade…

His voice is still rough and his limbs still feel like someone stuffed the contents of a freezer into them, but his mind is clear enough. “You’re working with them, aren’t you?” he asks, and his stomach twists at the thought. “That’s why you’re here— that’s why I’m here, I— Where the hell is my brother? ”

“Ah,” Hat Arsehole says, “Of course. I have no idea how you figured it out. You should have told me we were working with the Dragon Witch, Virgil, I wouldn’t have dissolved half of her security system.”

“Janus,” Virgil hisses, and pokes him hard in the side. Oh. They have names, now, that’s nice, that’s wonderful, that’s completely and utterly not helpful. He can’t tell whether or not Janus is being sarcastic, and doesn’t know if he really wants to either. Would they give him back to the—

Nope, not thinking about that now, not even a little bit. Rescue mission, he’s plotting a rescue mission, not having a breakdown in the middle of Space. “I said,” he grits out, “Where the hell is my brother?”

“Hm, where do you think?” Janus keeps opening his mouth and it’s really not helping his impulse control. “I’m all open for theories. Earth, mayhaps? That planet with the fruit bat trees? Maybe he spaced himself, it’s always in the— fuck.” 

Virgil looks at him hopping around on one foot unremorsefully. “Oops.”

“What do you mean oops?” he hisses, “What are your shoes made of?”

“Anti-Arsehole rubber, it’s all the range.” Virgil hesitantly crouches down in front of Roman. His face is screwed up like this is just awkward and horrible for him, not Roman, and it’s all fine and dandy when all you’ve been doing for the past ten fucking years is— is— Is fucking what, just vibing in a display case?

“Okay,” Virgil says, “Okay. Okay, let’s uh, we should probably clear something up. We’re very illegal.”

“What?”

He looks physically pained by the conversation. “We steal shit for a living and cause minor amounts of property damage.”

“In Space,” Roman tacks on, and Virgil nods enthusiastically.

“Yeah,” he agrees, because apparently he can’t answer anything important but he sure knows where Space is! “In Space!”

This is ridiculous. This is so stupid , and so absurd, and Roman would really like to go home now. “Like what, space pirates?”

Halfway through cursing Virgil out under his breath, Janus snorts. “Our life long dream,” he mutters, “stealing a ship at the tender age of seventeen to become space pirates. ”

“Ignore him, he’s being a prick.” 

“Excuse me— ”

Virgil cuts him off with a very pointed “So, Roman,” and that at least brings back the muttering. “How’d you end up…” He waves his hands in front of him, which does not do as good a job at communicating fucking kidnapped and shoved behind glass as he probably thinks it does.

He hugs his knees and stares at his school shoes. The laces need replacing. “Was walking home from school with Remus, right? And I pushed him into a puddle ‘cause he was being annoying, and then uh…” he trails off, and asks himself if he really wants to talk about it with complete strangers, who wear weird hats and are literal space pirates. Then he decides that he’s too angry and too tired to really give a damn, and tries to find the words again.

“Then I don’t know what happened, but there were…were these things, guess they were aliens, and Remus was screaming. I couldn’t move, I don’t know, and I don’t know what happened we just…

“Just got Beam-Me-Up-Scottied I guess, or whatever actually happens. And then it was like— like these aliens, but they were different, and there was this one that kind of looked like that one from Doctor Who? The Victorian one with all the scales and oh, what’s her name—”

“Madame Vastra,” Janus supplies immediately, and Roman nods half-heartedly.

“But less cool, because she would probably have done something badass and not just sat there and took— I mean, it was like— like an uh—” All of a sudden his throat’s closing up, and he can’t get the words out, and he can’t bear to even think, why can’t he—

“Would you like the music back on?” Virgil asks quietly. He nods hesitantly, and then he lifts the headphones over his ears and closes his eyes. There’s the shuffling sound of someone failing to tap in a password three times before a different song starts to play softly.

“With golden string,” a voice hums over his accumulating panic, and he doesn’t know how long they both sit there, listening to the thrum of the engine and a gentle melody. Halfway through, Roman starts to sing along under his breath, picking at a loose thread on his trousers. “I guess space, and time …”

“There was this other alien who…who took Remus. Dragon Lady took me and there was— there was some stuff but uh, someone else took him. Really stupid hat.” It isn’t until something hot falls down his cheek to his leg that he realises oh, he’s crying. “Bit of a wanker, really,” he chokes out, “Didn’t even let me say goodbye.”

“Oh,” Virgil replies, like that means anything.

“Didn’t even let me say goodbye,” he whispers, and the tears are falling faster and his breath is getting shorter and huh, that’s fun, he’s full out sobbing now. Alone, on a strange ship with strange people, but Virgil’s listening at least and he’s too tired to do anything but cry. “I didn’t want to say goodbye, I want him back, I want him back, where is he, it can’t have been— it can’t have, and he can’t— he can’t—”

Janus doesn’t have anything horrid to say to that, and he’s so fucking grateful. “Okay,” Virgil says, like Roman will break if he raises his voice higher than a whisper, “Do you uh, want to try some breathing exercises?”

“Breathing exercises won’t bring Remus back,” he says, “and they won’t turn back time, and they won’t take me back to Earth.” But he copies Virgil’s steady pattern of 4, 7, 8 until his world’s still tearing itself about but now in time.

“That’s…that’s good, you’re doing good.” There’s a beat of silence in which Virgil scrabbles for what to say next. “I’d uh, probably offer you a hug or something but that would be so weird right now, you barely know us, so would you like to—”

“Fuck it,” Roman mumbles. He’s tired of being angry and tired of being tired and above all else is so homesick he thinks he might die from it. He slumps forward into Virgil with all the grace of a toddler, and tries not to soak his shirt completely. It’s alright. Polly gave better hugs, but Polly is…Polly is not here, so there’s no point wanting her to be. Virgil’s arms settle slightly stiffly around him, and he’s warm in a way his ice cold body is craving, and it’s okay. 

They stay like that for a little bit, until Virgil tells him “You can cry if you want, you know,” which sets off the waterworks again. This time, a hand runs over his hair hesitantly, and when met with no complaint, a little more comfortably. Roman’s brain tells him to go to sleep, like it always does after he’s had a good cry and feels completely exhausted.

A tiny part of him doesn’t want to close his eyes, just in case he forgets to open them. He does anyway.

When he wakes up, his leg has fallen asleep and Virgil is talking quietly to someone over his head. It’s probably Janus; he thinks that if there was anyone else on the ship, he’d have met them by now, and Janus seems like the sort of person who pushes stowaways out of the airlock for fun.

“Remy’ll know something,” Virgil’s saying, “He’s got his fingers in enough pies.” 

Janus snorts. “Remy can’t cook to save his life.” Personally, Roman thinks Remy is starting to sound a bit sketchy. But if Remy can find Remus, if Remy can help them both go home …

…Roman can deal with ‘a bit sketchy’ for that. Although, anyone tied up with the— the sort of people that they had run into was possibly a little more than just a bit sketchy. Sue him. He’s still coming to terms with the whole…aliens thing.

There’s a pause, or maybe Roman just zoned out, then Janus says, “I can’t believe you’re mother-henning him. We met him yesterday .”

“I’m not mother-henning him,” Virgil protests. 

“You are. Just put him back in bed and we can pretend the power of semi-comfortable mattresses will fix him.” He’s lifted clumsily into the air, and when he’s alone on the bed, the two having walked out to do something they hadn’t bothered to share, he stares at the ceiling and counts the minutes until they land.

1, 2, 3…

*

“Oh yes, my mistake, we can totally afford to derail all our plans for one kid,” Janus hisses, now that they’re far enough out of earshot of the sickbay. He didn’t realise that Virgil’s idea of ‘helping’ meant following a death wish.

“What plans?” Virgil scoffs lightly, before his face darkens. “His brother could be dead, Janus.”

“Then why would we search for him? That won’t be a complete and utter waste of time at all!” Maybe he sounds heartless. Maybe he sounds logical. He has a burn on his arm, however minor, that reminds them both that no one’s playing games.

“He’s a kid. The Dragon Witch is after some kid.”

“All the more reason to ditch him on some neutral planet and wash our hands of him. Did you miss the part where The Dragon Witch is after him? This is supposed to be your thing, Virgil, worrying about the very, very real consequences of our actions!”

Virgil is worrying his lip between his teeth, but his eyes are steely like they've only ever been when he’s refusing to budge on something. It’s infuriating. “Janus—”

“His sob story sucks. We couldn’t have left him there. I hope he finds his happily ever after back on Earth with a white picket fence and all the trimmings. But it has nothing to do with us. Nothing.

“And I’m not trying to be mean, Virgil, I’m just doing what you would do, because your head’s too up in the clouds to realise when someone is a liability. The Dragon Witch is after him. The Dragon Witch is after us. Who stayed up for hours each night making sure that wouldn’t happen?” They stare at each other for a long, long time. They’ll be finishing off this job in a few days, and then they’ll be on to a new one. A new heist, a new journey, a new adventure. But they’ve never dealt in Search and Rescue. It’s just not their style. 

“He’d been there for ten years.” Virgil’s voice is quiet, but only because he doesn’t think he’ll need to raise it to win this argument. It’s true. It’s awful, and Janus thanks every single star that they got Roman out. 

But that doesn’t mean he can let him stay. They’re so used to working primarily from the shadows; hiding in the pipework, dropping out of the ceiling, dipping their toes into the galactic underground. A search and rescue is very rarely from point A to B. 

“And now he’s not.” He keeps his voice level. Virgil still won’t have it.

“Think if it was you. You’d want to be shoved out the airlock with a ‘Sorry, you’re a liability, and we’re cowardly enough to screw a literal child over’?” Janus does not flinch, because flinching would mean admitting that Virgil’s words held any weight at all. Even so, Virgil softens his voice when he asks, “What if it was me?”

“That would be different, I know you. We’re strangers to him.” The words don’t fit right in his mouth. “You said it yourself.”

“We can’t leave him,” Virgil tells him, like rewording the same phrase seventy times will make any difference (like it might be doing already).

“We can!” The half-truth lying at the bottom of this mess. “We really, really can. A bag of supplies and a map, and then he’s not our problem anymore. We can. ”

“No, we can’t! Just because— just because— “

“Just because what?”

“Just because,” and the soft tones are gone, and all that’s left is desperate frustration. “You can’t get it through your thick skull, that other people have— fucking lives, doesn’t mean that you have to sign him up for a death sentence. I didn’t peg you for a bloody murderer .”

“It wouldn’t be a death sentence—“ Or at least it wouldn’t intend to be. Janus can feel his conviction slipping, bit by bit, and the stark contrast between their first experience of Space is very, very obvious. His and Virgil’s had been fuelled with adrenaline, plans meticulously written out and covered in the overwhelming feeling of success. Roman’s had been…

“It would. It really fucking would,” Virgil sighs, and that sums up it all. They stand in silence, again, and all that either of them can hear is soft panting. It’s suffocating. They can’t…

Virgil takes his hand in his and squeezes lightly. No hard feelings, it means, /nm (mostly). I’m right, it also means, and you know it. “Fine. Fine.” He squeezes back just as lightly. You idiot (affectionate), it means, you kind, selfless idiot. ”

“What are we going to do?” Virgil asks, and there’s a hysterical laugh in there that’ll probably bubble up just before they leave. Janus feels exactly the same.

“You think I know? You can come up with a plan.”

Virgil groans. “Okay. This is fine.” This is not fine. However, it might turn out okay. “We’ll ask Remy, make sure the kid doesn’t die, and make sure we don’t die.”

It’s so vague and perfectly detailed that Janus can't help but smile. Search and Rescue. He might not agree with it wholeheartedly, but maybe they should start branching out. “Sounds good enough to me.”

*

Virgil plugged in the coordinates to Remy’s place, double and triple checking the displays to make sure nothing was wrong with the ship.

“But I need to find my brother,” Roman argued.

“Yes, well, capitalism is a bitch and we need money for fuel to get to wherever your brother might be,” Janus replied. Virgil could almost hear the eye-roll.

“And it’s my iPod! You’re stealing!”

“Hey, kid, you can play whatever you want through the ship sound system, alright?” Virgil offered, spinning around in his chair to face them. “C’mere. I’ll show you how it works.”

Janus shot him a glare. Virgil ignored it and gestured for Roman to join him.

The kid glanced between them, then hesitantly walked over to sit in the copilot’s seat. “What music do you have?”

Virgil flicked open the holographic display, bringing up the music selection and scrolling through it. “Well, what kind of music do you like? We’ve probably got something.”

Roman bit his lip. “Umm... Disney? Musicals?”

Virgil smirked. “Do you like Nightmare before Christmas?”

Roman smiled shyly and nodded. “Y-yeah. Do you?”

“Fuck yeah! Best Disney movie ever,” Virgil said with a grin, putting on This Is Halloween .

Janus groaned. “Oh god no.”

Virgil flipped him off. “You’re outvoted, bitch, we’re listening to the whole soundtrack.”

“Oh, the horror.” Janus sighed dramatically. “I’ll be below if you need anything.”

Some time later, Virgil noticed Roman singing along quietly and counted it as a win.

*

“Stay close, kid, alright? Wouldn’t want you to get kidnapped again,” Virgil said, preparing to leave the ship. Weapons, check. Coffee, check. Credits, check.

“I’m not that young,” Roman muttered. “You’re just old.”

Janus gasped in mock-offense. “Old? How dare you.”

Virgil grimaced. “Look, this planet overall doesn’t hate humans, but that doesn’t mean we’re safe either. Remy’s place is a safezone in a sea of danger. He’s wealthy enough to make sure no one bothers us.” He glanced out the viewport. “Not too crowded. C’mon.”

The short walk to Remy’s place passed without issue. A few stares and muttered comments, but nothing threatening. They approached the grand museum-mansion from the back, as usual. Less people gawking, and most servants knew them by now.

Janus muttered something to a guard, who stepped aside to let them in. “Kid, don’t touch anything,” he said over his shoulder before entering.

Virgil tried to smile encouragingly at the kid, but it didn’t seem to work. Roman insisted on hiding behind him, soft breath at his back. Virgil shrugged and stepped inside, glancing at the trinkets in the storage room. Old toys from various cultures, a few broken appliances such as toasters and coffee-makers, and some faded clothing.

Remy himself strode inside a moment later, grinning broadly and literally glowing as he did when excited. “Welcome back, babes! Did you get what I asked for?” He blinked, then stared at the kid, his glow flickering. “Who the fuck is that?”

Roman blanched, frozen. Virgil awkwardly patted the kid’s shoulder. “He’s not gonna hurt you,” he whispered.

Janus sighed. “We found him at the Dragon Witch’s place and Virgil insisted on rescuing him. Of course we got the device for you, as well as a new shipment of coffee,” he said. “The kid is not for sale.”

Remy made a face. “Gurl, you know I don’t deal in slaves! Your little friend is safe from me.” He impatiently grabbed the iPod and inspected it. “Fascinating.”

“You... haven’t seen an iPod before?” Roman asked hesitantly, then covered his mouth and hid behind Virgil again.

“Obviously not. It’s a rare collectors item. Deathworlder tech is far beneath ours.” Remy gestured around the room. “Look at all this! Isn’t it neat?”

Janus put a finger to his lips and shook his head. Virgil hoped the kid got the message.

“Oh,” Roman said. “Uhh... yeah, it’s cool.”

Janus cleared his throat. “Have you heard of any deathworlders recently in these parts?”

Remy scoffed. “Babes, I’m not the information guy. I am a collector, one who appreciates culture. You want news and shit, go to that big-brain Logan. You work for him too, don’t you?”

“Yeah, we know him,” Virgil said.

“We work for ourselves,” Janus corrected. “Speaking of work, the credits, if you please?”

Remy scoffed and waved an arm. “Already transferred to your account, babe. I keep my word.”

Janus checked his tablet, then nodded once. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

“Who’s Logan?” Roman asked.

*

Logan’s place luckily wasn’t too far away. Unluckily it was in a far more shady location. Virgil passed a cloak to the kid. “Put this on, hood up, and don’t take it off until we get to Logan’s.”

Roman frowned and backed away. “It’s hideous,” he said. “Why?”

“Because you’re new and these parts don’t like new people.“ Virgil tossed the cloak at the kid and put on his own cloak.

“Unless you want to be kidnapped again, in that case, be our guest,” Janus said. “Come now, we don’t have all day.”

Roman wrinkled his nose, but finally put the cloak on. “There, now my outfit is ruined. Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Janus drawled.

Logan kept his business underground— literally and figuratively, as he liked to say. The entrance was at the back of what used to be a library of sorts, shut down when funding went dry. A code typed into a hidden keypad let them inside. Blue lights led the way down a winding staircase. At the base of the stairs was a room with a ring counter in the middle, walls lined with books and data pads. In the middle of the ring counter, Logan worked on his supercomputer.

Virgil took off his hood and gestured for Roman to do the same. The kid gladly did so, quickly fixing his hair.

Janus walked up to the counter and rang the bell. “We’re looking for the kid’s brother.”

Logan leaned over the counter, blinking his four eyes in quick succession. “Brother?”

Roman took a deep breath and stepped forward. “He looks just like me and we were taken at the same age and then we got separated and—“

Logan held up a hand to stop the flow of words. “You know how I work. Information in exchange for information. What can you give me in return for aiding your request for knowledge?”

“Ask your question, and we will answer,” Janus said simply. 

Logan hummed, tentacles swaying in thought. “Humans are generally seen as indestructible beings. Tell me a weakness of your species.”

Virgil stiffened. That was not good. Logan wasn’t necessarily their friend. Who knew what he’d do with the information?

Janus leaned against the counter. “Our heels are our greatest weakness. One touch in the wrong place and we’re as good as dead,” he said. “You see, it all started with one of our greatest ancestors—“

Oh god. He’s basing this off a myth. We’re dead. So very, very dead. But Virgil nodded along, hoping Logan hadn’t heard of Greek mythology before.

“—Achilles was a renowned warrior, the best of the best. His mother had bathed him in the waters of the gods, granting him strength far beyond any human who came before. And yet, she missed a spot— the heel she had held him by. That one spot was vulnerable and caused his downfall. All humans since have inherited the same weakness.”

Logan stared at them for a long moment. “Entertaining as that was, I seek truth.”

Janus cleared his throat. “I assure you—“

Logan shook his oversized head. “It will do. Next time, I expect you to pay properly.” He folded his hands on the table and turned his attention to Roman. “Now, your request.”

Virgil squeezed the boy’s hand and nodded encouragingly.

Roman bit his lip. “My brother, please. I don’t know where he is, but he’s all I have. Please help us find him.”

“Brown hair is a common trait among deathworlders.... but I will do what I can. One moment, please.” Logan turned to his computer, searching for something. A few awkward minutes of silence later, he spoke again, “There have been sightings of a deathworlder in the fighting arena of Sector 13. Is this the one?”

A hologram of a young man with tangled brown hair and beard appeared, grinning savagely at something off-camera. Half-wild, violent— the exact image of “deathworlders” most aliens feared.

Virgil stifled a groan. Great. He looked over at the kid, noticing some resemblance after a moment. “Well?”

Roman nodded slowly. “That’s him. I-it has to be. Remus.”

“That name matches the listings. It appears he is quite popular,” Logan said. “Do you require the coordinates?”

“No,” Janus said quickly. “I know the way.” His lips were drawn in a thin line, clearly not looking forward to the journey ahead any more than Virgil was.

Virgil ran a hand through his hair. “Thanks, Logan. See you around.”

“I will be here,” Logan replied, seeming slightly confused. “You know that.”

“Yeah. I know. Just— never mind.”

“Let’s get this over with,” Janus said crisply, leading the way back to the ship.

*

Remus tapped a random tune on the bars of his cage, watching the guards and impatiently waiting for his turn. Fighting was the only reason he was allowed to leave, to get a breath of fresh air. Well, that or if Orange wanted to show him off. Which usually involved fighting anyway.

“Hey, you, quiet down,” one guard snarled.

Remus bared his teeth in a threatening grin. The aliens hated when he did that. “When’s my turn?”

The guard recoiled. “It’s your turn when the boss says so.”

A loud booing brought Remus’s attention to the shitty holograph that was their only view of the arena above. It was dimly lit and flickered in and out, with some areas completely chipped away, but it was enough to get the gist of the fights. And usually booing was a bad sign. Remus frowned, squinting as he tried to make out what was going on.

There was a volunteer fighter, seeming triumphant as they circled their opponent. Their opponent who was pleading mercy, curled up in their shell.

“Wait. Isn’t that snail guy? He barely got here a couple of hours ago! What the fuck is he doing in the arena?” Remus demanded. Not that he had any power to make demands.

“Snail guy? You mean Gus?” Patton asked from the cage across from him, unfolding himself as much as he could to look at the holograph. His giant frog-like body barely fit. “Oh... oh no. Poor little guy.”

One guard was generous enough to answer, “Eh, he’s useless. Boss wanted to get rid of ‘im. Got ‘im for free anyway, so no loss.”

“Bullshit!” Remus snarled.

The crowd grew louder as the challenger raised their weapon— and plunged it into the opening hole of the snail-alien’s shell. Gus let out a pitiful scream and died. Snail guy was dead. It wasn’t the first time Remus had seen death, of course— he’d even killed before. But Gus hadn’t even had any training, nothing to tell him what this hellhole was, and he had begged to survive. Fuck.

Patton started sobbing. He usually cried after a fight. Somehow this time it felt worse.

Remus tightened his grip on the bars of his cage. “Let me up there. Tell the boss I’ll give all my earnings up, I don’t care. But I want to challenge that one myself.” He pointed to the victor in the hologram.

The guards argued amongst themselves for a few long minutes, then one left to send the message up. Some agonizing length of time later, another opened Remus’s cage. “Suit up, grab a weapon. You better put on a good show, deathworlder. This is highly unusual.”

Remus grinned. “Oh, I’ll put on a show alright,” he said, quickly putting on his armor and grabbing his favorite morningstar before following the guard up the steps.

Snail guy’s corpse was cleaned away, only a stain of purplish blood where it had been.

Remus swallowed, then turned his attention up to the balcony where the boss was watching and waved, forcing a hopefully-convincing smile. “Good evening! It is evening, right? Hard to tell from down there.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” The boss hissed, orange claws snapping. “You better have a good reason for this interruption.”

“I do! I couldn’t help noticing that... uh.... lackluster fight. I figured the brave volunteer would prefer a real challenge,” Remus said.

“Mmmm.....” The boss narrowed his multiple eyes, then flicked his scorpion-like tail. “Very well. Assuming our friend agrees?”

The volunteer stood and strode down to the arena from his seat. “I do.” The dude was much larger in person. With big-ass muscles and spikes down his back. Fuck.

Remus twirled his morningstar. “Let’s get this party started then!”

The announcer counted down from 5 as they began circling. Remus watched his opponent’s movements, trying to get a feel for how they fought.

“Hey, you got a name?” Remus asked casually.

“None of your business, deathworlder.”

“You wish you were a deathworlder like me!” Remus taunted.

His opponent grunted and adjusted their grip on their blade, then charged. Remus jumped out of the way, laughing when they hit the wall. “C’mon I’m gonna need a name to boast of when I beat your ass!”

“You talk too much.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that before. Dunno what their deal is! Who wouldn’t want to talk when having fun? My name is Remus, by the way!”

“I don’t care what your fucking name is, deathworlder,” the brute snarled, hefting their blade and advancing.

Remus let them, watching for an opening. His grin never left his face. “You should! Because I’m gonna beat your ass and serve it to your friends on a shitty plate!” He cocked his head to the side. “You do have friends, right? Cuz if not that would suck for you.”

“Do you think you’re funny, little twerp?” The brute slashed at him.

Remus blocked the blade with the shaft of his Morningstar and grinned. “Oh, I know I’m funny! I’m hilarious!” A twist to slide the blade towards the spiky-ball and a quick tug to send the blade flying. “Race ya to it!”

His opponent scowled— as much as his faceplates allowed— and kicked Remus square in the chest, sending him flying. Remus landed with a grunt and shook his head to clear it.

No time to waste. Remus lurched to his feet and approached his opponent. While the brute was distracted reaching for their blade, Remus swung his morningstar at his opponent’s legs, not even flinching when he heard the bones snap on impact. He swung again, knocking his opponent to the ground. Before his opponent could stand, Remus jumped on top of their chest, digging his feet into the ground in an attempt to stay rooted.

His opponent squirmed underneath him, attempting to dislodge him, but before they could, Remus brought his morningstar down on his opponent’s head without even glancing at the boss for permission. Then he did it again. And again. Watching the smushed remains fly with each hit in horrified fascination.

He had never killed without the boss’s permission before.

That was a death sentence, and every fighter knew it.

Remus didn’t stop until there was nothing left to smash, then slowly turned and lifted his middle finger. If he was going to die, he’d go out in style.

“2000 credits to the one who kills the deathworlder,” the boss shrieked after a minute that felt like eternity. His stupid-ass hat fell off his stupid head. “Audience volunteers or seasoned warriors, come forth!”

Ah. So it was a free-for-all. An ungodly number against one. Fun. Remus laughed maniacally and shook his morningstar. “Come at me!”

And so they came. A slow trickle at first— not too bad, he could handle that. Remus shoved one alien onto another’s waiting blade, then jumped out of the way of a charging opponent. Dodge, smash, punch, kick, repeat.

Faces blurred as he focused on staying alive and causing as much damage as possible on his way out. No witty banter this time. Pain moved to the back burner, but he wouldn’t be able to ignore it forever. That was a problem for future-Remus. If by some miracle he managed to survive.

Remus snarled and swung his morningstar at a giant blue hand reaching for him.

“It’s me, it’s me! Remus! It’s Patton! Let me pick you up!”

Remus blinked, shaking himself from the battle haze. Patton. Shit. He groaned as someone else’s spiked tail sent him flying.

Patton caught him in his giant blue hands. “You alright, kiddo?” he asked in what was probably supposed to be a whisper.

“No shit,” Remus retorted, panting and spitting blood. “Go on, get it over with. Crush me, get your reward, and get the hell outta here.”

“What? No!”

“Pattycakes, you suck at fighting. You try to save me, we’re both dead. I’d rather die at your hands than theirs, just do it.”

Patton shook his head stubbornly. “No! I don’t want to hurt you!”

Remus glanced down and almost regretted it. Patton was huge. The ground was a long way away. But the other aliens were already hacking at his legs. “Pat, c’mon, quick and easy. A baby could do it, you got this. You get that money, you can bribe a guard to let you go and rent out a ship out of here. You’ll be free.”

“I’m not leaving without you!”

“Remus!” another voice shouted from the stands.

Remus blinked and glanced towards the voice. It was too far away to make out for sure, but there appeared to be a group of three humanoid shapes standing in an aisle. “Bit busy not dying here!” he shouted back. “Leave a message after the scream!”

“I’m not letting you die!” Patton protested.

“Stomp on someone, then! Kick someone! Fight back if you don’t kill me yourself,” Remus replied.

Patton looked down and shook his foot, not hitting anyone. Other aliens swarmed in where his foot had been. Patton ribbited in panic. “Now what?”

“Put your foot down! Or hop away! C’mon man, do something or we’re both dead!”

Patton jumped across the arena, landing shakily on both feet. Remus held on tightly, then whooped. Patton caught his balance and looked around. “All of you, listen to me! You don’t need to do this!”

Remus frowned. “Patton, what are you doing?”

Patton shifted from foot to foot nervously. “Just trust me on this,” he stage-whispered back, then looked back at the other fighters and raised his voice, “They can’t stop all of us. We don’t need to die for anyone’s amusement! That’s... that’s wrong! No one should be forced to kill to survive, let alone to entertain! We can be better than this. If we stand together against him, we can all go free. We can go home to our families, to our gardens, to our lakes and rivers and mountains. Please.”

“Pat, it’s not gonna work,” Remus said in a low voice. “We’re gonna have to fight—“

To his surprise, one of the fighters turned to face the others, weapon raised in defense. “I choose freedom,” they rumbled. Remus didn’t remember their name, but they were strong.

“I want to go home,” another said, moving to stand next to the first.

“I miss my children.”

“I miss my bed.”

“This place stinks— literally.”

Remus stared as more people moved to their defense, forming a wall between Patton and the more aggressive warriors. Somehow it was working. Somehow.

Patton smiled down at him. “See? I knew there was still some good in them!”

“That’s great, Pat, but we still gotta get out of here.”

“Hey! Over here,” a guard hissed, beckoning to them. There were two human spectators standing next to the guard. Which was weird. Humans were rare as fuck in this solar system. Three in one place was unheard of. One seemed to be an adult, with purple hair, and the other was a kid.

A human kid that looked hauntingly familiar.

No, that was impossible. It couldn’t be.

“Ro?” Remus’s voice cracked. “Roman?”

“Remus!” The kid who probably-wasn’t-but-had-to-be Roman shouted back. He looked like he was about to jump into the arena before the other human held out an arm to stop him.

“Get your ass over here if you want to live,” the guard snapped.

Remus squeezed Patton’s arm and pointed to the humans. “Go that way. I-I think they can help.”

Patton backed away from the fighting gladiators, and limped towards the group.

“Fucking finally,” the purple-haired human grumbled.

“I turned off the bubble shield thing, you have thirty seconds starting... now,” the guard said.

And yep, that kid was Roman. That was definitely Roman. What the fuck. Remus stared at his brother. Roman stared back. His twin who somehow looked ten years younger than him. “How—?”

“Questions later! Let’s move!” The purple haired one hissed.

“Patton comes too,” Remus said, holding onto the blue hand around his chest.

“Great, find space on the ship for a giant, just great. C’mon!” Purple-haired-guy tugged at his purple hair.

Remus turned to look up at Patton. “That’s my brother. The little one. We’re going where they go,” he said. The words felt funny. He giggled.

Patton gasped. “Oh my gosh it’s so nice to meet you!” He stepped out of the ring.

No alarms went off— except for the screams of the remaining audience.

“Can you carry them too?” Remus asked. “The two humans?”

“Three, excuse you,” the guard said. “You’re welcome, by the way. Finding clean armor that fit was a hassle.”

“Oh, cool, thanks.” Remus’s head still felt funny. Nothing made sense, except it made perfect sense.

Patton reached down with his other hand and they climbed on. He carried them towards the nearest exit, taking big lumbering steps.

Remus was distantly aware of guards moving towards them, but the purple human and the not-guard were shooting something to keep them at bay. Remus couldn’t take his eyes off his brother.

“Remus! You’re bleeding,” Roman exclaimed.

“Eh, it happens. Haven’t died yet. And you’re here now,” Remus replied. “If you’re alive, so am I. Unless we’re both dead.”

Roman’s concerned face was the last thing Remus saw before the world went black.

*

Remus blinked a few times, sitting up and looking around. This wasn’t his cage. It was far too nice. The walls were smooth metal, the bed soft. Bed— he had an actual bed. He laughed. When was the last time he slept in a bed?

“Remus! You’re okay!”

There was someone holding his hand and talking to him. Remus turned to face them, then immediately reached out to touch their face. “Roman? You’re real?”

Roman smiled sadly and nodded. “I’m here. It’s really me,” he said, hand on top of Remus’s. “Don’t scare me like that, you idiot.”

Remus poked his brother’s face with his free hand. “Why’re you so young? You’re like a baby. Go through a time machine or something?”

Roman’s smile faded. “I... umm... I was frozen. You know, like for long space travel? Where you don’t age or anything.”

“Oh.” Remus nodded. That made sense. Kind of. “Where’d you go?”

Roman shrugged. “A dragon alien stole me for her hoard and put me on display. She didn’t really hurt me or anything, though, so I guess it wasn’t that bad.”

“You met a real dragon? That’s awesome!”

Roman smiled a bit. “Yeah, I guess it was pretty cool. She had a lot of treasure too.”

Wait. Someone was missing. Remus frowned. “Where’s Patton?”

“The big frog guy? He’s down in the cargo area, since that was the only place he fit.”

“Let’s go there then! C’mon!” Remus tried to stand and immediately regretted it.

“Hey, hey! Virgil said you need to stay in bed.” Roman guided him back to a horizontal position. “Patton is fine. His legs are bandaged and he’ll be able to walk normally soon.”

Remus blinked. “Who the fuck is Virgil?”

“Oh! Right, you didn’t really meet yet. He helped save us both. Him and Janus. Janus was the one who was wearing the guard disguise.”

Remus groaned and let himself flop back on the bed. “Bed rest is so boring .”

Roman laughed. “I guess some things don’t change, huh?”

Remus stuck out his tongue. “Bed rest will always be boring.”

“We can put on music?”

“Music sounds great.”

Remus took his brother’s hand again. Some things never changed.