war has begun, and if they're not careful, a fatality will tear them down.
NO SMUT OR SEXUALIZING ━ if any of the triplets are uncomfortable with this fanfiction, it will be taken down immediately.
matt sturniolo x fem! oc x chris sturniolo (LOVE T...
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𝖝𝖝𝖛𝖎𝖎𝖎. I Love You
Maeve
STORM HILL is just like it sounds. It rises at a gentle incline in the middle of another field at the opposite end of the base, as far from the airfield as possible. Less chance of hitting a jet with a stray bolt of lightning. Maeve gets the sense the hill is a new addition, judging by the loose earth beneath her feet as she approaches the summit. The grass is new growth, too, the work of a greenwarden or newblood equivalent. It's more lush than the training fields. But the crown of the slope is a mess, charred earth packed flat, crisscrossed by cracks and the smell of a distant thunderstorm. While the rest of the base enjoys bright blue skies, a black cloud revolves over Storm Hill. A thunderhead, rising thousands of feet into the sky like a column of dark smoke. Maeve has never seen anything like it, so controlled and contained.
The blue-haired woman from Archeon stands beneath the cloud, her arms outstretched, palms up to the thunder. A man with swooping white hair like a wave's crest stands back from her, thin and lean in his green uniform. Both have lightning-bolt insignia.
Small blue sparks dance over the woman's hands.
Jeremiah leads Maeve and Matt, the latter close to her side. Even though he deals with his fair share of lightning, the black cloud puts him on edge. He keeps glancing up, as if expecting it to explode. Some blue flashes weakly in the darkness, illuminating it from within. Thunder rumbles throughout, low and thrumming like a cat's purr. It shivers Maeve's bones.
"Marzia, Tristan," Matt calls, waving a hand.
They turn at their names, and the flashing in the clouds abruptly stops. The woman lowers her hands, tucking away her palms, and the thunderhead starts to dissolve before their eyes. She bounds over in heaps of energy, trailed by the more stoic man.
"I was wondering when we would meet," she says, her voice high and breathy to match her dainty stature. Without warning, she takes Maeve's hands and kisses her on both cheeks. Her touch sparks, leaping from her skin to the Deuveux's. It doesn't hurt, but it certainly perks Maeve up. "I'm Marzia, and you're Maeve, of course. And this is Tristan."
The man in question is tall, with skin so pale he could be Silver, a sprinkling of freckles, and a jaw sharper than the edge of a cliff. He runs his hands through his white hair which previously was covering his eyes. They're ice-blue. Maeve expected him to be old, with hair like that, but he can't be more than twenty-five. "Hello" is all he says, his voice deep and certain.
"Hi." She nods at them, overwhelmed both by their presence and her own inability to act anywhere close to normal. "Sorry, this is a bit of a shock."
