Archive of Our Own

*"The Kübler-Ross model (the five stages of grief) is a concept in psychology that describes the emotional stages of coping with grief, loss, or radical life changes. Although originally developed to describe reactions to a terminal diagnosis, it was later applied to other life upheavals: the death of loved ones, divorce or separation, job loss, and any crisis-driven change"*

The blue light from the Borg-Watch screen cuts through the darkness, harshly boring into the eyes of the one watching. And why on earth did that businessman get the idea to narrate everything in his own voice? Acronix feels like Cyrus is standing right behind him, reading out these strange, incomprehensible words himself. He still hasn't quite gotten used to the technology. A strange feeling, a little frightening, even. Or is it not? Maybe it would be better if he weren't alone in the room. He wants someone to stroke his head, the way Krux used to do when his younger brother was fretting over something trivial or scared before a fight…

…Or to grab him by his long black locks, pull until it's a sickeningly sweet pain, and smash his head against the wall. Yes, so his skull would ring, so his vision would go dark, so he'd go deaf for a few seconds, only to then hear the howl of his own heart in his ears. Yes, the way Ray did it when he and his brother betrayed the alliance. Back then, Acronix resented that the Master of Fire never once doubted that they were now enemies, never gave him a chance to explain, never even noticed such a sudden change. Now, though… he probably deserved it. It was the only honest act in a chain of hazy, false events, and that blow was so tartly sweet and refreshing that he wanted another smash.

*And another.*

And another.

…No. No, that’s just madness. He wants to lay his head on someone’s warm lap and let them braid his smooth hair into silly little plaits. He wants to hear someone else's voice, a little stammering and unsure, but so passionate. What did Cyrus like to talk about? Once, Acronix asked him how the coffee machine worked, and the man chattered on non-stop for almost half an hour, until Krux arrived. The dull thud of his forehead hitting the table was hardly the best way to end the conversation, but what could you do? If his older brother does it, then it must be necessary. Krux knows best, Krux loves him and would never wish him harm, even if it means he can't hear the end of some empty chatter about how a special tube froths milk in the cappuccinator. Honestly, he didn't understand much of it, but he loved watching that extinguished spark reignite in the prisoner's eyes as he spoke about something he knew so well. In those pathetic thirty minutes, Acronix himself wanted to become something alive, separate, to have some strange obsession in whose stream of thoughts he could drift far, far away… Away from this Iron Doom, away from the Alliance, Wu and Garmadon, away from those new ninja who were barely older than him but had already become such finely honed war machines.

Oh. Wait. Garmadon is already dead. Krux was saying something about that fool having purged the Devourer's venom, sacrificing himself for his son… He had a son?.. Yes, right, right, he thinks he did… Forty years of history just don't fit inside a tense head, and Acronix wants to shove two fingers down his throat and vomit out all this new knowledge to hell. He wants to wake up in the monastery again, wake up Libber, and go steal Garmadon's slippers to stuff them in the most unseemly places. One, for example, could be placed in the bushes growing over the cliff around the temple. Just barely hooked on a branch, so their friend, cursing, would later try to retrieve it with a staff borrowed from his brother. The other one would be good to shove into that very cabinet where Wu keeps his tea. Of course, they'd get it later with that same slipper upside the head; the sensei would surely manage to throw it so it bounces off bewildered Acronix’s crown and flies straight into the forehead of Libber, who’s laughing at the situation. Krux would take a sip of his disgusting tea from his cup and smile, warmly watching how all participants in the spectacle end up just giggling and putting their arms around each other's shoulders.

Nonsense. There’s no temple anymore. And Libber is gone; there’s only this little ninja. Jay, he thinks his name was. In every fight, he manages to laugh at some stupid joke so hard that Acronix wants to sink through the floor just to not hear that ghostly voice. Sometimes he imagines that if that shadow appears one more time, he'd be ready to gouge his own eyes out just to stop unconsciously trying to count the freckles on someone else's cheeks. No one is there. There's an aged Wu and some offspring. Only when the strange fog in his head cleared a little did he realize with horror how much the sensei had changed. If he had been himself back then, in the first battle at the monastery, and not a pathetic parody with only a delusion of grandeur in his head, he would have been scared, burst into tears, and wouldn't have even been able to raise his blade, suddenly realizing he’d lost everything. For the members of the alliance, Acronix is already dead; for those living now, he was never even born. Time chewed him up, crumpled him, and spat him out in the wrong place, and the world kept moving forward. Without him. His only support remained his brother. Krux is always there, Krux won't abandon him, Krux remembers him and understands how hard it is for him…

*The Kübler-Ross model includes five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. The first reaction is shock and an attempt to deny reality; the last is emotional exhaustion and resignation. A person adapts to changes. Thus, within two years of hearing of a loved one's death, the personality fully recovers and continues to exist. After ten years, the periods of remission almost cease.*

Two years. Acronix was gone for four decades. In that time, you could not only accept it but even forget the most vivid features of someone close. This Krux flinches when his brother laughs too loudly and sharply asks him to be quieter. This Krux never expresses concern about him fighting too recklessly and dangerously, and even sends him ahead when outnumbered several times over. This Krux walks past if he sees his younger brother has managed to get wounded and mutters something about him irresponsibly wasting his strength, and that next time, he'll only be allowed to do anything with his permission. It's still care, but it's strange, twisted, turned inside out. The older brother Acronix knew would never have done any of that. He didn't have time to understand anything before Krux disappeared completely, turning into a mix of a slightly unhinged Dr. Saunders and a living suit of armor with a katana in hand, thinking only of revenge and victory.

Unable to bear it, Acronix yanks the Borg-Watch off his arm with a sharp motion and casually tosses it against the wall. Glass and the Kübler-Ross model shatter into pieces, joining the debris already lying on the floor. It's fine, he'll find new one; but right now, he needs to get rid of that disgusting, constricting, aching feeling in his chest, the nervous pounding in his ears, and that terrible sensation of the ground giving way beneath his feet. He gets up and, staggering, heads for the door.

*Boom. Boom. Boom.* Acronix barely understands anything except that he doesn't feel so good. Just a little… He's not weak.

*Boom. Boom. Boom. Crash.* He slams his whole body into the wall, hits his temple against the doorframe, and tries to figure out where he's ended up. Is that an elastic band pulling his hair, or Ray's hand? Can he walk? Is someone holding him?

*Boom. Boom. Boom.* Seems like he can. He needs the bathroom. He barely has time to lean over the toilet. He's sick, and it feels like it will never end. He manages to stand, rinses his mouth with water from the tap, and spits with disgust, trying to get rid of the taste of bile and peat that has risen in his mouth. Stupid swamp…

*Boom. Boom. Boom…* The pounding grows duller. It’s a little easier physically, but unbearably worse mentally. He wants to see Krux, and forgetting that he’ll probably just be thrown out, he runs out the door and rushes to his brother’s room.

In the strip of light from the doorway, he sees a strange old man squinting angrily at the intruder. For a second, he thinks he’s got the wrong door, but his returning consciousness reminds him that the man before him is Krux. Acronix already regrets his action and wants to disappear, slamming the door behind him with a crash, but for some reason, he hesitates, frozen under his older brother’s gaze like a dumb animal in headlights.

- What’s wrong with you? - Krux grunts sleepily, blinking and pulling the blanket off himself. Acronix, not fully aware of his own time, stares at him frantically, like some museum exhibit. - Have you lost your mind?.. It's night already.

- A month ago, you were different, - the young Master of Time mutters quietly, as if not quite understanding that the voice belongs to him.

- And how long ago was that "month"? - Krux asks back with cruel irony, and finally, it dawns on Acronix again.

- I… I'm sorry. Please forgive me, brother.

- Don't apologize. Go sleep. Or, I don’t know, take a walk… Check if Borg is working, since you have nothing better to do.

Krux-with-a-capital-K would have called him inside and let him lie down next to him. This krux, unfamiliar and not even with a capital letter, waits for Acronix to close the door from the other side, and goes back to sleep.

Nothing remains in his head except a burning feeling of resentment.

And who, exactly, is he supposed to be angry at? Father used to say that without his brother, he was nothing, an empty space, and Krux used to snap back at their parent, assuring his younger twin that it was a lie, that Acronix was a perfectly good person and friend, and that Dad was just angry that because of him, the element didn't go to just one person, as before, but to two.

*"But we're like the hands on a clock, right?"*

Right. Wrong. Now he truly had nowhere to go. The bond that was once his salvation had now turned on him, chained his brother, and wouldn't let him leave, and here, in the future, even without the power of time, he was even more useless. Better he help Krux with this hopeless plan to conquer the world and die on the same side as him than betray him and flee into utter loneliness. What's the point.

Checking on Borg, perhaps, isn't such a bad idea. Steadying his breathing, Acronix turns into the kitchen and quickly jabs the coffee machine on. Cyrus will say "thank you" in that frightened-but-charming voice of his if he brings him something hot, and that will make him feel like a normal person, even for a couple of seconds, during which his prisoner's eyes will stare into his own, before he turns back to work. Acronix smells the rich aroma of the beans and the fatty scent of fresh milk. His brother didn't trust store-bought goods, so he bought from familiar farmers, smiling amiably at them from behind a fake mustache. The steam scalds his hands, and the young man doesn't pull them away for a while, letting his fingertips redden from the hot foam, then clenches them into a fist, feeling a slight tingle. After so many battles, pain is hardly frightening anymore.

Having made the coffee, Acronix heads to the workshop. He tries to walk straight, but his hands are still shaking, and a few drops of the drink end up on the floor. Cyrus is indeed awake, still fiddling with some small part in the dim light. Judging by how sharply he turned around, he was more likely engaged in sabotage than work. Acronix pretends not to have noticed - he doesn't care. The risk of dying during the launch is a worthy price for not being alone right now.

- You shouldn't have, - Borg mutters when the steaming cup appears on the table in front of him. He flinches at how loudly Acronix sets it down. He probably thinks Acronix is angry. How could he know what’s really going on? - B-but, uh, thank you, Acronix.

The Master of Time smiles at the sound of his own name, catches the gaze of eyes red with fatigue behind the thick lenses of heavy glasses, but instead of satisfaction, he suddenly feels again only a sense of his own worthlessness. All he can do is make pathetic handouts to someone who would smash his skull with a crowbar at the first opportunity, right?

Fool. Lonely, doomed, stupid fool…

He is suddenly doubled over by a stifled, strangled sob, and he no longer sees the point in hiding it from Borg. Let him know what kind of idiot kidnapped him - maybe it will give him hope for escape, and he won't kick the bucket so quickly. Acronix can't find the strength to get up from the floor. He leans his back against the wheel of the chair and sobs like the last wretch on earth. The sound is ugly and pitiful, but that's how it should be. What does it matter. Let all the poison out of him, at least now, at least here, let it poison someone else, not him, let it all just end…

Acronix is in so much torment that he barely notices when Borg’s hand rests absently on his hair. It doesn't mean anything - Cyrus was probably just confused and reacted the way any other normal person would. His palm is somehow too cold and hard, hidden under a black glove, but that's even better. If Acronix were touched in a human way, he wouldn't be able to stand it at all; he'd spit on everything and allow himself to betray his brother just to feel something like that one more time.

Tomorrow, he'll put his villainous smile back on and tease the ninja in the next fight. In a week, he and Krux will launch the Iron Doom and either conquer the world or die in the battle. But that's later. Right now, in his world, it was blissfully empty.