[ tl;dr: chaboy shows up on the border without a pulse
also we're pretending this occurs on saturday afternoon thnx ]

There was no recollection of how he got there. Teleportation might be the logical answer, seeing how he clearly didn't walk there, and he hadn't been there moments before -- but there was no conscious decision to do that. Later, he wouldn't be able to say if he had gotten himself there or if it had been Beck; later, he wouldn't really recall much of those fuzzy in between moments where he was in Tanglewood one moment, everything fading to black, and on the Ascendants' border the next. "Tomorrow," he could swear he remembered, though he had no idea if that would have been before or after he got there, before or after he forgot how to breathe, before or after the flickering darkness started to settle in -- there was little to no recollection of the last 60 seconds or so, between the burning of his lungs intensifying and everything slowing down.

There was... nothing.

No movement. No pulse. The Seraph was limp on their border, seemingly having gotten there on his own, but it was clear that he likely couldn't have. At some point he must have passed out, the rope pulling tight on his throat when he couldn't keep his weight steady, when he was losing too much oxygen to resist the lulling darkness. Beck's voice was just a wash in the background as his senses had dulled and faltered, and there was no way to tell how long it had been between he initially passed out and when he wound up here. Long enough for his body to give up, surrendering to his screaming lungs and the burning in his neck. 10 seconds without a pulse, maybe 30.

The only sign of damage was the matted fur around his neck, though there was no blood. There was simply nothing.

--

Generally speaking, Bastille didn't dream unless he dreamed in memory. Now, however, he sank and sank through the darkness as his body burned and prickles shot along his nerves. There was no sensation in the darkness until he jolted all at once, and found himself standing in the middle of a clearing, dark indistinct trees all around. Mist rolled through the trees, coated the ground, climbed high to his belly as he stared straight ahead, thoughts sluggish. He had been here before, maybe, though he couldn't say when. It was all so... vague. A half-forgotten memory of a dream.

They were there, though. Directly in front of him stood Echo, and he knew without looking that if he looked over either shoulder there would be Pollutedsoul and Zaniel, completing the triangle piece of a five-pronged star; somewhere to his right, Grimmkit, and his mother used to be to his left. He knew how it should all look, but somehow, he couldn't quite say he was used to it. That he had been here before. It was more akin to deja vu, and he was momentarily at a loss.

Everything was numb. He could feel and remember nothing, was nothing, and when he instinctively made a move to step forward, he found that he couldn't. He was trapped, rooted to the spot, staring into blue eyes colder than his own. He opened his mouth and there was nothing -- just the chilling sensation of not being able to breathe, his throat constricting and burning as his neck throbbed.

"Well shit, boo," Echo drawled, looking vaguely amused, "I guess we see if he killed you or not, huh? Didn't they ever tell you that leaders don't [i]really get nine lives?"

Bastille stared back at him, blank, unmoving, uncomprehending. He? Who was he? Was he dead and did he care? (Was there anything that he cared about? He couldn't call on any memories of his life, any suggestion of existence, beyond this clearing. Only the faint burn in his throat, the rawness of his voice.)

"My money's on you fuckin' dying, kid. I don't think you've got much of a survival instinct," someone -- Zaniel -- said, lazily, over his shoulder. "Is there a limit on how long you can go without air? Tick, tock, yo." A snort of agreement from Echo. Bastille just looked at the stealth-walker, and considered.

Should he be alarmed, and if so, why wasn't he?

If this was Saturday, then this was one hell of a birthday present for Hazel.

It wasn't like she was used to presents on her birthday; Mother never acknowledged the date with the exception of laying on more chores, telling Hazel she was old enough now to do this and that and remember a whole new set of rules. Hazel couldn't do much but nod and obey, eager not to have certain scars reopened. But ever the dreamer, Hazel had always hoped for some sort of gift and small "happy birthday!" one day. She thought she might find that in the Ascendants.

She was wrong.

For the entirety of the day, she had spent tracking Arion down and convincing him to let her groom his tail while he took a nap, hoping to give herself a distraction from the exhausting emotional rollercoaster she rode wherever she went. Arion hadn't agreed quietly, having been busy searching for Bastille and O himself, but he caved in the end after she offered him carrots. Quick was the girl to busy herself in the task of brushing away the burrs and knots in his tail and mane.

She tired quickly, her body and mind exhausted with the spontaneous cycles of anger and fear and confusion. Every time she saw Bastille, her anger started low, hovering just under the surface like the hum of a motorcycle, knowing that he was driving himself closer and closer to an edge that they couldn't save him from. Knowing that he was doing it to himself, doing it to them, and that one day he would break and lash out. Knowing that one day, he would turn on them all, and then Hazel would just be reliving the nightmare she had worked so hard to run from.

And this went on, every day. Every day, there was the fear and hurt and anger of him turning into Mother, of him going to far, of her not being able to do anything because she was, after all, just the golden girl.

Just everybody's little ray of fucking sunshine, She thought bitterly, not caring that the voice inside her head wasn't hers. Just a child, just an asset; unable to fight or heal or even get close to someone else because you're fucking weak and useless. Hazel yanked the brush through Arion's tail on a particularly stubborn knot, and the colt's head shot up with a snorted complaint. But she hardly spared him a second glance; just kept going, kept working, kept feeding the anger that was driving her mad. She couldn't help Bastille because she was pushing him away, and she was pushing him away because she was scared he'd turn into Mother. She couldn't get close to anybody because all she could feel was pain and pressure and suffocating heat every time she made contact. She couldn't fight because she'd been locked away in her room all her goddamn life. She couldn't even read because her teacher was inebriated and high over half the time and couldn't stand to be near her.

Couldn't stand to be near her...except for when he could. When he was so out of it, so gone, that he didn't have any sort of voice or feeling telling him no, don't, and he reverted back to his factory settings. And Hazel knew, in those little moments, that somewhere, he did care, and he wasn't numb, and he wanted help but couldn't figure out how to ask. But those little moments came and went so quickly that she hardly had time to figure anything at all, and it left her right back where she started: frustrated, scared, and a fucking coward.

So when people started rushing past, and someone screamed from the border, Hazel was on her paws in seconds, livid from the fury she'd worked herself into. She was sprinting, going as fast as her legs could take her, partially because it felt like she wouldn't vibrate out of her own skin like this and partially because whatever was going on at the border sounded serious. But when she reaches the border, she stops.

Just - just fucking plants her paws and skids to a halt, because she could see the limp form and she could smell the foreign scent of Tanglewood and she could hear Margy and Suite crying and see Rin and Rad working and feel everybody else there and -

And it didn't matter.

It didn't fucking matter, because "He's gone." She croaked. "He's already gone." It doesn't matter how she knows. She doesn't care how she knows. Doesn't care that she can tell his pulse is gone and his heart isn't beating and he's not breathing because fuck, how did this all go to shit so quickly? How did she not get to him sooner and when the hell did he even visit Tanglewood and why didn't Hazel know?

Hazel stood there, drowning out every other sound and word around her with such a torrent of anger and despair that she goes deaf for a moment. There's a heartbeat, where she wants to murder everything alive and find Tanglewood and crush Beck's windpipe into the ground, and then the heartbeat passes.

And she sucked in a strangled breath.

And doesn't register the tears. Shoves it down, deep down, like she did as a child, trying to avoid the punishment the tears would bring.

"Happy birthday to me," Hazel whispered.

★ — hazel — "speech" — eight months — the ascendants — tags — ★

30 seconds.

"I wonder if we'll get stuck with you again, or if we get to actually die," Echo commented, bored. He had no desire to keep living, contrary to the other two; he didn't believe in powers or resurrection or necromancy. He would have been content to stay dead, let his soul rot, waste away with his unfulfilled potential and incomplete plans like most spirits. He'd walked with Death on his heels all his life -- who was he to protest when it claimed him, too? "Because I've got to tell you, boo, I'm real fucking sick of hanging out with these assholes. They're terrible company."

"I can't wait to see you in Hell," Zaniel chimed, towards Echo, sounding cheerful, "I don't think he's got it in him to make it out of the spiral. I mean, he can't even escape memories." Nothing. Still nothing. Bastille just stared at Echo, silent, head spinning as he struggled to breathe, to function. They continued to chat idly, back and forth, snarking and betting on his survival rate. "I give it... another minute, tops."

40 seconds. The clatter of movement, voices.

"I don't know," Echo commented, after a beat, "Grimmkit is a freaky little fucker. He might not let him go, yet." Three sets of eyes turned towards the little black smoke kitten, who stared straight at Bastille, impassive. Bast stared back, their voices washing over him, distant, vague. His eyes were so green -- vivid and bright, apple-green, luminescent through the mist.

"Hey," Zaniel said, mild, "That's my kid. Show some respect." A snort from Echo's prong of the star.

Their words fades and fades as he stared straight at Grimmkit, and when he blinked, he found that he was now facing that corner. The pickering souls carried on, as they did, and Bastille just... stared. And stared. And tried to remember what it was that Grimm wanted him to remember, because that bottomless stare was lost on him. He could feel nothing, do nothing, be nothing. He felt numb and the mist was steadily rising, cool on his belly as it swirled slowly upwards.

50 seconds. Rustling, contact. More voices.

What do you want? he thought, transfixed. His throat burned, his lungs burns, his body burned. Everything burned and felt numb at once, a wash of sensation and apathy all at once. Grimm was unwavering, unmoving, somehow telling him with his eyes along that he was forgetting something, neglecting something, failing, somehow.

But wasn't he meant to fail? That was the whole goddamn game Fate was playing here, as far as he was concerned. His lives had only ever failed, and it seemed to be a given that it would all spill over, eventually. What else was he supposed to do, with a combination of souls like that? Who was he supposed to be if not a failure like the rest of them, crashing and burning before he could realize any of his so-called potential?

Grimm knew this. Grimm knew this all ended in failure. Didn't he like his morbid stories, his sad memories? Why was he looking at him like that, as if he didn't know and he was waiting for Bastille to do something else? He couldn't do anything else. He was immobile, frozen, staring, lost, losing. He couldn't complete anything. Couldn't carry out any unfinished business. Couldn't achieve anything on behalf of his restless souls.

He wasn't the key. He wasn't the answer. He was no one's anti-hero, recovering from their sins and doing good. He was... nothing. Nothing.

Grimm's eyes were intent, steady, staring. Waiting. Waiting waiting waiting but Bastille couldn't breathe. He could just look back and wait for his time to run out.

60 seconds. Golden radiance, warmth, vanilla and honey. The light. Voices, louder now, running together.

Silence. Seconds ticking by, the clearing was silent now, Echo and Zaniel having faded into the background. The faint thump-thump of someone else's heart beating, echoing quietly through the clearing. Mist, climbing high and high as his throat constricted and tightened, his own chest stayed still. Grimm's green stare, always focused on him. Tick, tock, Zaniel had said.

Faintly, the impressions of vanilla on his tongue, bringing back a wave of... something. Something. What did vanilla mean to him? Did he have memories beyond this place, this clearing, these souls? Silence, as he stared and pondered and waited. Silence, as it trickled through his thoughts slowly, a faint coil of memory.

"Baby boy," his mother has said once, perfectly composed as she stood at his side, pale fur glistening and shimmering in the light. Her voice was soft and wispy, barely there. He couldn't remember it happened, and yet, here was the memory now, at the tip of his tongue. "Why are you so cold? This is not who you are, not even if they tell you that it is."

She had never carried any warmth, not in her spiritual form, but somehow, he'd always gotten those phantom flames -- heat flickering along his side, a comfort. Heat raging in his chest, his souls, his existence, screaming with his anger and his turbulence and his frustrations. He had glared at the ground and muttered, petulant, "Yes, it is. I can only be who they were. I can only be what I'm made out of." Bitter, rotten. So angry at such a young age, consumed by their anger and chaos.

A pause. Silence. Silence, both in the clearing, rebounding through the mist, and in his memories. Then, soft: "You know, they all had their potential, too. They all started somewhere and lost their way. You are made of good, baby, good that was lost. You get to make that choice for yourself, too. You're made up all of their potential, and it's your choice if you fail or not. I think you're here, and they're here, so that you can do what they didn't -- so that you can be the good and redemption."

Vanilla, seeping through the mist, his memories overriding his senses, and then... nothing, gone. Grimm's eyes, staring into his. A faint flicker of something, of acknowledgement, of reminder. He wasn't going to let Bastille go, he realized; Grimm had been waiting for him to remember, to realize, to feel, to be something. A stir of warmth. Vanilla and honey, golden radiance, the light. The thumping of someone else's heartbeat, filling the clearing.

For it is the redemption that saves the soul, a murmur in his head, and then darkness.

Bastilleprisoner jerked forward with no notice or warning, his heartbeat coming back online from perfectly stillness as he gasped in a rush of air. His lungs burned and his throat burned and for a moment there was nothing but the darkness, clouding his thoughts and senses, the groggy sensation of having been lost for a long time and recently returned home. He remembered, in an offhand fashion, what it had been like to wake up from that coma: confusing, startling, instant, like drawing the blinds back on a dark and dusty room so swiftly that the light was at once blinding and awe-inspiring.

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was that light: golden and radiant and all-encompassing. Too bright too look at, too intense to see clearly, blinding him as he looked away from Hazel in a daze, shook his head, inhaled another unsteady gulp of air as his body struggled to recover, to tell his heart to keep beating, to function. Warmth. He was warm all over, and it hit his sluggish mind a moment later that he was surrounded by warmth, by contact, by others. He blinked when he realized he was staring back at Margy, closer than he'd seen her in a while, but there was... nothing.

Silence. Stillness. Nothing. No flicker of annoyance, of anger, of frustration. Nothing. A slight glimmer of confusion, those first 60 seconds of processing as his body worked in reverse so disorientating and distant that he himself had no idea what the fuck was going on. Slowly, it was dawning on him that there were others here, auras sparking at the corners of his vision, and the first thing out of his mouth, sluggish, dazed, his voice raspy and hoarse: "Beck said yes."

Clearly, he hadn't entirely caught up to the situation, and he had no idea why that was the first thing that came to mind. A problem for when his thoughts started functioning properly in the next few minutes.