When Fate Plots and Portals Glitches

Build Up

Death for Pitch, Hittite decided, should come in a crawl. It's rare, to see a spirit die. Really die. It should be something savored. While her and Furor don't agree on much, they agree on this.

They've gotten better at that, agreeing.

Furor watched, because of course he would however, Hittite doesn't mind doing most of the work. While Furor only cares about the result, Hittite prefers the process. Learning what works best and what doesn't, trial and error, that's where her talents lie.

When she's done, there's nothing left. Nothing of Pitch, that is. Just as planed, his Night Mares stayed. 

They watched, too, with empty eyes.

That was also an experiment, to see if there was any sort of consciousness, any sort of awareness. Any lingering or split loyalties. Given how they weren't even fazed with Pitch's death, there was no question that they had no loyalty what-so-ever.

"So," She says. "They'll do their job and they'll do what they're told. But only that."

"That's all we need." Furor tells her. "As long as we can turn them to a pile of sand, if the worse occurs they won't be any harm to us either."

As if to demonstrate, he turns them all to dust, only to build them back up again. He tries to get them to move, but frowns when nothing happens.

"That was my half, remember?" She tells him. "You build them, I move them." A easy split, and better, it left no room for betrayal. She can't attack him and neither can he. Equal leverage as well, she can't move the Night Mares if they're formless, he can't attack with them motionless.

"I remembered," he scoffed, "it was a matter of testing it."

Hittite watches as Furor's long, oddly elegant fingers, pull through the Night Mare's dark sand that mimicked a mane; the light shifts and the black showed sheens of a dark blue and royal purple. "I can't believe it was so simple," she says, "to take this power."

Furor nods. "And now we have an army. One that never tiers, one that never eats or sleep." 

"When Humanity does not."

Furor grinned. "No. He doesn't. And, quite conveniently, the machine is done. Suggesting a coup, are you?"

As if they weren't planning this. Waiting. As if they weren't wanting this. 

"No more waiting," She says instead of playing along with the game. "We can finally start." 

Furor grinned wider and Hittite matched it.

                                                                                        )*(

It happened in quick moments.

As soon as Danny shut the door to his room his chest exploded in a burning pain. He lands on the floor in a hiss, as a molten heat spread from his sternum as though poured into his veins and arteries; boiling his blood in the process. The lines in his face deepened to a pained snarl as he swallowed a groan and looked to the window, just a few yards across. 

There was no logic, no internal dialogue. Just instinct, a knowing to get to somewhere cold.

The muscles stretched across his ribs screamed and throbs as he uncurls -  too fast, too sudden. As though Danny was solidifying in stone. Regardless, he opened the window and the wind greets him with a howl as the room tempiture drops. Snow flurries swirl across the hardwood floor and the stale air turns crisp. And then -

- He hangs over the frame with deep breaths; hand over his chest. The heat retreated and  diminished. Danny doesn't know how much time passes, but when it's finally gone he's left feeling empty with the taste of ash in his mouth. Slowly, cautiously, he stood and stepped away from the window. The corner of his eye caught the mirror, and Danny made the simple mistake to turn, and look. His face was gray, like he was bled out of life. The blue curtains and hair pushed and pulled with the breeze like the tide.