(IM)MORTAL

01

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THE FIRST CHAPTER
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༶•┈┈୨ MARIA CAME BACK from the dead with a proper scream, welcomed by the darkness of a windowless room illuminated only by a nightlight above her head.

She whispered his name (his real name), but the darkness said nothing in reply.

She said his name again.

Then she screamed it.

He did not scream back, and neither did the darkness.

Maria was utterly alone. He was gone.

A door opened, light poured in, but with vision blurred by tears, Maria could not decipher the face that belonged to the silhouette.

Friend or foe? She did not care.

As long as they had answers.

"Where is he?" An instant demand, bubbled by her sobs. "Where is my—!"

"He's gone." An instant answer, soft in sadness. "They both are."

And he sat beside her on the bed, placing his hand atop hers. She squeezed it; her free hand scrubbed at her face in an attempt to clear her vision. She knew her cousin by his voice, but she needed to see his face; needed to see the Robotnik blue eyes and sharp nose.

"What?" Out of disbelief, not of mishearing.

"He's gone." Hardly a whisper. "Your little friend is gone. Grandfather, too."

Maria choked. Her lungs refused to work. She squeezed his hand with all her strength.

No, no, no.

"Yes," he added, as if he heard Maria's internal dread. "They killed Grandfather, and they put the boy to sleep and hid him."

         "My . . ."

(NO NO NO
NOT HIM)

         ". . . he's gone."

"Yes. You and I are all that remain."

You and I are all that remain.

The words sank deep and fast and heavy.

         "G.U.N. destroyed them all . . ."

(everything;
everything they knew,
everybody they knew—
all dust)

         ". . . and erased us from existence."

         He took her face in his free hand and touched foreheads with her. "Maria, my dear,"

(he always called her
my dear
as if he were three years
older instead of younger)

         "I am sorry. So, so sorry."

They had only interacted a few times—she could count on one hand—and he met him once ever, but regardless, her cousin knew very well how much he meant to her. Everybody on the ARK did. They would be blind not to.

"Ivo . . ." But she said nothing more. There were no words, only tears. Only despair, just sorrow.

         So he held her. And he held her close. Safe and warm. He held Maria as he had the very first time,

(Ivo, I can touch you now;
I'm healed!)

         with his long arms wound around her tight, fingers entangled in her yellow hair.

"Oh my stars, he's gone," she wailed. "He's gone."

Each breath was a struggle; her sobs were choking her, squeezing her lungs. She was drowning in her tears.

All he could do was bring her comfort in the best he knew how.

Yet Maria found no comfort.

She just melted.

Screamed and melted; a wailing puddle on the bed until there was no voice left to scream with, no tears left to shed. Just a girl wishing to die (again).

Then Ivo, with his shaking hands and arms and voice, bracketed her face with his palms and gazed deep into the scintillating blue eyes that they shared.

"I will find him. I promise." And he meant it. "I will set him free. I will not stop searching until I die."

A wheeze, a whimper. Then scarcely a whisper: "I can't ask that of you."

"You don't need to. I want this. You deserve this, Maria, after all that man has done."

That man. Grandfather had become a slur. His name could not even be uttered. Truly, a professor was all he was.

Maria was just another experiment.

"I will find him. I will. I will never stop looking."

         Ivo was almost thirteen, but his mind was brilliant. Too brilliant, sometimes, but as was Maria. Another trait that ran in the family,

(brilliance,
blue eyes,
and tragedy)

         and Maria wiped her tears and settled her heart to listen.

Ivo told her everything, all as it was born in his head, the thoughts spoken immediately after formation. His plan to change their names, to hide, to earn the government's trust only to throw it back in their face when the moment called for it. A plan to find him, to rescue him—to bring him home. Ivo just kept talking, kept throwing ideas out, scribbling others in a notepad. Idea after idea, plan after plan . . .