Harsh smoke, nauseating fumes, overpowering emotion—that day, Louis Charadrius saved you from death, but more importantly, your own agony. You two found yourselves the only survivors of the Elda massacre, and the consequences of that are harsh. It’s a miracle he managed to drag you away from that trauma at all.

Louis always said that you both were special. He spoke like he understood it all—like he saw the whole world in the fire that burned your village down. He said you were the only normal ones left.

For the longest time, it felt like fact. You built your life around that fact.

Louis paces in the empty meeting room in his skyrunner, as if trying to convince you and himself of his confidence. His boots tap against the floor in a perfect yet slow 2:3 polyrhythm. You stand nearby.

“I’m almost there. Yes, it’s almost time. I could see how the street paripus looked at me.” Louis murmurs to himself. His eyes flick towards you again. “You were observing the crowd, yes?”

You don’t have the words to describe someone like him—only antonyms could fit, small narrowings of a grander, more complex personality. He isn’t hesitant, nor reckless, nor turbulent; he isn’t harsh, nauseating, or overpowering. Only himself, like when you were both kids. Elda. That’s why he still bothers letting you join him in restricted areas, and tries not to scold you too harshly when you call him Charadrius instead of his new name. He simply can’t help it.