The water is the coldest embrace.

  It doesn’t make sense when the world was once so hot, so boiling. It bites with chilly teeth as it carries them through the undergrowth.

  He keeps his lips sealed. Tries not to let it enter his mouth. He can’t swim. He only holds on to the child he wrenches above the surf wherever he can. It’s pointless in the end. Air abandons them.

  The lower levels funnel into a steep drop — he can’t see; he only feels. They descend and gush into some place else; it’s a tight fit, and something scratches up his legs and tears at his backside. He screams, but the sound is swallowed by water, collected in bubbles that wash across his face.

  He can taste it; oh, he can taste it now.

  Foul, foul — the water is foul.

  Choking, scrambling — don’t let go. He can feel it in his lungs, flaring up his nostrils. It’s everywhere. It’s everywhere.

  Drowning – it isn’t peaceful.

  They're dragged deeper, pulled by a current that screeches through the decrepit unknown, and then pushed into a blinding and luminous underworld. His vision is spotting when the current pulls them through, but still he sees it — God, he sees it.

  A city draped in glowing algae, towers and courtyards blooming with vibrant flora where swarms of glittering creatures plunder and dance. Eels, larger than his whole arm, streaking tentatively through ruin.

  It’s gone in a moment — blurred by the stream that drags them ever further.

  Darkness, again, more familiar than anything at this point. He’s not sure if he’s pinched his eyes closed or if he’s passing out.

  Regardless, he doesn't meet the synthetic red glow that greets him in the end. Only sees black. Only sees nothing.

  Until—

  Air. Beautiful Air.

  His lungs are on fire. Burning, they’re burning up, and that should really spread the blaze, but for once it will douse it.

  Gasp, he gasps, wrenches from breath. Vision returns, and with it, colour and form.

  Roach stands above him, completely soaked, brows creased in the middle, diluted blood trailing the side of her face.

  Her hands are poised above his chest, gripping his shirt tightly. She sighs deeply. “You’re alive.”

  He doesn’t believe it, but he is.

  She moves onto his companion while he tries to catch his bearings, blinking rapidly as the world fills in around him.

  The girl skids to her knees by the child that escaped his grip — he's not sure when. Their face is near violet now, lips blue.

  Roach kisses them flat on their dead little mouth.

  Rivin thinks she might be blowing air past the opening, breathing into a broken lung.

  One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

  She begins pumping their bandaged chest with her fists, dripping sweat and grey water over pale, cold lips.

  Much of the bindings have come loose, exposing pristine scripture beneath, wounds lovingly cared for in stark contrast to those left uncovered. The writing is in a more familiar dialect. A language they share.

  Again, Roach’s mouth forces air into the lung, desperate now but losing strength—until the child sputters, choking for breath.

  Rivin gasps despite himself, steel eyes widened by this miraculous display. It's something he's never seen before.

  This kiss of life.

  The girl, once so taut in the shoulders, relaxes, tilting her head back to stare at the ceiling. She's gasping too, panting hard. Blood flows thicker from the gash beneath her hair.

  The child, now in her lap, remains unconscious, but the life is quickly returning to their skin.

  When the Queen of Roaches looks to Rivin, there's a deep exhaustion in her eyes. Still, she flashes a grin.

  “Hell of a ride, huh?”

  Rivin swallows the lump in his throat. His heart is still racing, still scrapping for a beat. His eyes are glued to her for only a moment longer, lingering on those lips — those lifesaving lips.

  He tenses his jaw. “Where are we?” His voice is small, but he finally takes in their surroundings.

  They appear to have landed inside of a church, ancient and forgotten, repurposed into a partially submerged sanctuary.

  Ruined arches are draped by moss, and reeds peek out from between stones and brickwork. The water is dark yellow and dappled with tiny microbes that reflect a tinny shimmer.

  Vines have rooted themselves across altars and pews, and many more hug the walls and high ceiling, including a low-hanging shaft where water still falls hurriedly into the basin.

  On the far side are three enormous mosaic windows, of which only one stands in its entirety, red glass filling the room with a ruby glow as water trickles out either side.

  Beyond, he can hear whispers — slugs. Fireflies. A biome of brightness.

  It’s not all beauty, however. The stench is overwhelming.

  There are things floating in the water, something touching his knuckle — gauze, old and brown, fluffed with bacteria. Rivin snatches his hand away.

  He spies white, bone white — a skull, no, several. There are so many. Bandages, too, several spools caught upon rocks and wood.

  It’s not a pool, and it’s not a pond — it’s a dumping pit.

  Something screams in the distance overhead — weight funnelling into the shaft.

  He can't focus. His vision has begun to blur again. His pulse quickening. He can feel it in his fingernails, in his hair, in his teeth — his skin feels dirty down to the bone. It’s everywhere. They’re everywhere.

  He’s covered in them.

  “Incoming!!

  Roach snatches his wrist and wrenches him to his feet; he follows her guide with weak knees. From above, the shaft rattles with weight before several more bodies spew into the steeple.

  The others come crashing in — Ricket and his ward first, then Slink and Chip.

  Roach is quick to move upon the only child who isn't breathing. She’s thundering two palms into their chest by the time they're all gathered at the bottom.

  “We've got company!” Slink sputters through wet, desperately pawing the grime from his eyes, still trying to catch his breath. “At least a dozen!”

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Rivin looks up; the tunnels still rumble. Heavier than before.

  Someone else is coming.

  “How much time do we have?”

  “They're right on us!”

  Roach interjects, still vying for life in the child beneath her. “Chip, take over!”

  “I-I don’t—”

  “I’ll do it!” Ricket skids to his knees besides her, replacing her hands. “L-Like this?”

  “Hard as you can.“ She nods, but she's already looking away, already getting to her feet to race — strangely enough, towards Rivin.

  “Five breaths!” She calls back.

  Ricket inherits the kiss, breathing life into the dead.

  Rivin meets her approach, brow furrowed, desperate to be useful. He knows that look on her face by now. “What do you need?”

  She laughs — a terrible, ecstatic sound, as if the chaos itself is a gift.

  “Those eyes!”

  Her hand flattens over his.

  She's an inch away, her smile so - so - so -

  She speaks so softly, just for him.

  “I need your scrap, Riv.”

  He doesn't answer right away. Blinks dumbly. “My… My what?”

  The tunnels scream. They're running out of time.

  Her grin only grows, her fingers tracing the belt at his waist and then the metal, the Halidom steel that he covets.

  How she can get any closer he doesn't know, and yet she does, and she is. He should be afraid; he should be afraid right now, and yet instead—

  “Your sword, Rivin. I need that pretty little sword.”

  He never lets anyone touch his sword.

  He unsheathes it immediately and pushes it into her hands.

  Her mouth is still curled, lips still breathing life.

  Then, she’s gone again. Turning, running, fast—as fast as she can towards the shaft, one hand gripping his blade, the other diving into her pocket.

  “ROACH—” He calls, tripping at first in his attempt after her.

  He spies the opal in a millisecond, the clear sheen of something translucent and not of this world. She's unearthed it from her trousers, now rolling it between her palm.

  It's not the same heart from the droid all those weeks ago. No, it's smaller, much smaller, and white.

  Most importantly, it is also not a shard, not some Halidom power scrap.

  It's complete. Perfect.

  ‘You usually have to break ’em down for weapons.’

  Rivin’s blade begins to glow and shake in her grasp—volts of blue light zapping from the face, like it had all those weeks before.

  The pommel opens — wanting, so wanting of the power it was designed for.

  But Rivin remembers that night in the Observatory, the burst of light that shook his soul.

  Her words, echoing back in his ear.

  ‘We’d probably be dead if it fit.’

  He gasps, doubling his speed after her.

  The rush of the water is substantial, but the girl forces herself inside. Rivin follows after her, trying to spot her through the downpour, desperately gripping the edges.

  He can see the shape of her pushing up through the current — the billowing white glow, electricity screeching through the rush. He watches with stormy, horrified eyes as she fixes his blade into the rock, wedging it between ruin and metal.

  It's waiting.

  Feed it. Feed it. Feed it.

  His heart is in his throat.

  ‘Skyfat can utilise.’

  He swallows.

  ‘But they can't maximise.’

  He understands.

  ‘Not like he could.’

  Not like she can.

  The beam grows brighter. Painfully so. The light is reflective — he sees his face, his own wide, desperate eyes.

  Swiftly, he gestures the group away, crying out, “Get back!”

  The world begins to shake again. The shaft filled with blinding rays. She's being devoured by them.

  Then, he feels the pull of something urgent on his collar—hands, Roach’s hands wrenching him away from the shaft.

  The hungry socket is closing, closing, closing —

  The tunnels continue their rattle but grow to groan as a substantial load is thrust upon them.

  The Angels are coming.

  The Angels are coming.

  The others have already scattered. Chip is protecting the children, his arms spread wide to shield them while Slink and Ricket clutch each other, ducking for cover.

  Rivin pulls Roach into darkness, shoving her against his chest as he braces his back against the inevitable.

  The sword closes.

  The explosion is imminent — devastating, at first a blinding white light that spheres the space above them.

  The steeple itself quakes with her ancient terror, the final mosaic window shattering from the force, before the shaft screams from her wound, blowing torrents of rushing water veined with blue bolts.

  The earth howls as it begins to fall in on itself, rock and metal churning within.

  Dust scatters overhead, bricks and stone toppling into water. The very air seems to shake and groan for hours on end, and yet it is surely only moments. Far too many moments of terror.

  Until silence beholds them.

  Finally.

  The world falls still.

  The quiet lingers in plumes of smoke as it billows out around the sunken maw. Water, once a fall, now dribbles from between ruins, discoloured and meagre.

  Roach is standing again, puffing hard within Rivin’s arms. Her eyes dart like dragonflies over water before they settle upon his face.

  She's still shaking. He can't see it, no, but he can feel it, her stowed-away fear broiling beneath the flesh.

  It's why he doesn't drop his embrace of her immediately, merely watches the way her eyes linger over his features and then drop towards his arms and further still. Searching. Curious. Towards hands that hold her tightly.

  It's the first time today that she hasn't seemed somewhat sure of herself.

  His fingers curl at her shoulders, and she stares at the wrinkles in the fabric, maybe memorising them. Burning them in like the passports on her wrist.

  She shivers, and his heart twists. It hurts; oh, it hurts.

  Because her lower lip quivers, and her eyes fill with tears.

  His breath seizes in his throat. He can't fight the frown, the undue domestic concern within this moment of unbridled chaos.

  Of all the things they’ve seen today, will it be the embrace that breaks her?

  He can't help but grasp her tighter, and he wonders:

  Have you ever been held before?

  Her eyes snap back to his, her lower lip still now, her mask replaced.

  “That should buy us some time.”

  “What the fuck was that?!” Slink bellows with shock from the back, gesturing towards the closed-over entry point.

  Water still drools from the scars — dusty. Dirty.

  Red.

  Roach grins toothily. “Bad manufacturing.”

  “What the—”

  Rivin's heart feels warm. His eyes, too, feel melted. Soft. It’s the way he looks at Ricket after a nightmare. The way he’d looked at Mouse when she first presented that impossible little bird, tiny feathers dappled in saviour blood.

  He lets go. Drops his hands, fisted, to his side, but stays close — as does she.

  He clears his throat and asks, “Roach, got any clue on where we are?”

  “Yes!” But she hesitates. “... I just need a minute to get my bearings.”

  Now, in the musky silence, all are able to see the sanctuary for what it is.

  Severed limbs and torsos of people and creatures—unidentifiable in age and gender and sometimes species—float within the shallows, dead tissue as cushioning to their fall as the moss and the algae. Many of the body parts are carved with symbols, siblings of the wounds that mar their rescued victims. Most are bone, but many are only months old.

  “Wh-What is this place?” Ricket whispers.

  “A graveyard,” Slink replies.

  Rivin glances between them, tightly clenching his jaw.

  Relief. Relief is hot and beautiful and found in each familiar face.

  They're all still alive. Thank God, they're all still alive.

  “We've got to get these sprouts up,” Roach interjects, mostly to herself, wiping her hands on the inside of her bomber jacket. She's covered in grime; it sticks to her hair. Her copper eyes are too bright against the filth on her face.

  Rivin can see that her hands are shaking when she reaches into her pack. He moves quickly — gently palms the back of her shoulder.

  Copper irises shift towards him; he can feel the tremor making its way through her entire body. He tightens his grip ever so slightly.

  Roach tries to smile, but it falls painfully flat.

  “Sorry about your pretty sword.”

  He smiles too. “I told you not to call it that.”

  He feels her soften. Watches it too. Her face is youthful and girlish once more before she returns to her task.

  That terrible medical toolkit Rivin remembers returns. She unfastens it quickly and unveils something just as ghastly and familiar — petals.

  From the plant at the Observatory.

  Rivin feels his heart stammer. She drops it onto a child's tongue and rubs their throat until they swallow.

  “Drugs?” Slink wonders, too curious.

  Roach barks out a laugh but doesn't answer; instead, she flicks her fingers in front of fluttering eyes and taps cold cheeks to consciousness.

  “Come back to the nightmare, little one,” she coos.

  “Roach”, Chip warns, “don't scare them.”

  The child blinks into reality, pupils dilating as the world returns to them. They jolt upright before wincing with a pained cry. Roach softens delicate touches against their shoulder, not quite holding them down so much as painting with invisible ink across their collarbones.

  The child, a boy perhaps, stills to stare, following the seemingly mindless strokes through the taint on his body. She dodges every rune and circles some of the words she must recognise, yet her gaze is upon his small and sullen face.

  “Hey, it's okay — it's okay.”

  Brown eyes scathe over her features: her gore-covered cheeks and hidden freckles.

  “What…?”

  They glance at the others, at the terrible wet, stinking pit. It all sets in like heavy rainfall sweeping innocence into mud. He looked down, tears beading over cheeks gouged with new scars.

  “I'm… I thought I was dead.”

  Roach chuckles, follows the path of their eyes before teasing, “This convinced you otherwise?”

  “Roach…” Chip scolds again.

  “Yeah, yeah. Listen, I know this is a lot to take in right now, but I need you to help us bring this whole “saving you” thing home. How ‘bout that?”

  The child watches her for a long moment, furrowing their brow. She must look terrifying — a Cheshire smile through browning wet viscera.

  Still, the boy nods slowly, eyes glued to her confidence—to the impossibility she offers in intense amber eyes and then again in her hand, now outstretched towards him.

  He takes it, and together they rise to their feet. The boy's legs buckle, and she catches him, shouldering the weight and pulling his arm around her neck.

  “You remember your name?”

  He frowns but nods again. Whispers just beneath his breath. “Sen.”

  Roach nudges his cheek with her nose. He can feel her smile. It’s the softest thing he’s felt in days. “Want to get out of here, Sen?”

  He laughs at that, a small shuddering sound that doesn't belong somewhere so pungent with decay. A final nod, more determined, more bold.

  Still weak. Still terrified.

  “Yeah. I'd really like that.”