A/N: Hwello! This is the first part of the double update. I'll be posting the second part in a couple of hours, so look out for it! ^0^/ after all, we don't want to be held in suspense, do we? :') hehe

____________________________

He stepped out into the night

Flew up and high, out of sight

Hard to see, hard to find

Never knowing what was blind.

___________________________

She drew a bath and disappeared beneath the surface, leaving the chaos of the world far behind as she dived into a deadly peace. All noise ceased to exist as soon as water filled her ears, drowning every whisper of the universe that pounded in her head. The phoenix searched—in the darkness of closed eyes, along with the lack of sound—for a lead that would suffice.

Where the waters were unknown in the minds of those whom she'd ever searched, Jing found that Reux Yvone had not such foreign waters; in fact, he had not waters at all. She had dived into a well of ink.

Jet black pigment that latched onto her skin and seeped into her flesh, tainting and corrupting that which lay within, untouched. Its tendrils reached for anything within its grasp, leaving nothing untainted and at the same time, miraculously, retaining a form of purity. The purity of an abyss.

Complete darkness.

In it, the phoenix could not seek an opening. There was simply no direction in Reux's head; no surface in his stream of rationality. Nowhere for her to start.

The touting of her efforts was beginning to seem a little unsettling. She considered the prospect of him having crafted a wall (one that was stronger than her ability to see) or some sort of sorcerous ink that obscured her vision, enhanced by witchcraft—forbidden.

Both appeared equally unlikely.

Returning to the darkness, she sought a final reason that nagged in her cage, quietly disturbing. It fell in whispers like the rain, merging with the body of ink that engulfed her body. Reluctant and with mild pause, she entertained the dull, unpolished thought of nocturnality.

Hardly did this ever happen; this inky darkness of the soul that prevented the search for depth and memory. As the keeper of diurnals, Jing was entitled to sail every sea, cross every ocean and dive into waters unknown until her knowledge was certain and vision complete.

This was the purpose of her Vantage, and to not be able to fulfil it was puzzling if not downright dubious.

The inexplicable phenomenon of a vision—blind and completely obscured—could only be explained by an unlikely conjecture that required a tremendous leap from one premise to another and that was nocturnality.

Reux was not diurnal.

He could have been hiding every feature of his true identity, cloaked beneath the shadows whilst crafting one scheme after another, plan after plan, act after act that served one ultimate end: now.

The idea sunk deeper into her cage, nestling by the feet of her creature within. She familiarised herself with the prospect and was beginning to see how it could fit in the order of the world, a piece so perfect she would never have noticed.

Reux Yvone was a Hunter; one who sought the hearts of predators. There were two types of Hunters which she considered prominent enough to be part of the equation: the dealers and the players. He seemed to fit the description of both—one hunted for an organ that could be sold at the highest price on the black market and the other, for leisure and entertainment. For fun.

If he was a Hunter who'd once feasted on the heart of a Nocturne, the possibility of him being just like Iolani and having two contrasting Avians was not entirely null.

Eating.

The unnatural act of consumption conjured an image of disgust in her mind, the idea of a species eating one of its own; a brutal act of cannibalism—raw and perverse. To possess the shrewdness of a creature so dark and commit the act of carving out another's heart, planned and executed for a purpose so selfish and profane, Reux Yvone was everything less than a human.

He was a monster.

Living in the guise of a mortal being, his darkness

Would consume.

_________________________

The maximum time taken by an official to appear after a broken rule would—at least by Vaughn's immediate calculations—be six minutes. Time ticked in his head, the timer set as it always did on its own, perpetuating the growing anxiety that had long nestled in his cage. Nox was sent to scout the skies in case the group was graced with an early presence, buying them mere seconds of warning if the occasion should call.

"I would...appreciate it if you left the talking to me," said Vaughn stiffly, unable to configure an appropriate emotion. "The details need to be explained quickly...and as for you," he turned to Pipa with a difficult expression, partly confused and mistakenly annoyed. "I can only hope that appealing for a lighter sentence has not crossed your petty mind. Rest assured, I will most certainly not be putting in a good word for you."

He almost looked at her in disdain. "A lighter sentence does not come so easily, even if you believe the act sacrificial or worthy of praise."

The canary nodded briefly. An added shrug was enough to replace her unspoken words.

Just then, Vaughn's Avian noted of an approaching hawk. A secondary call was heard; one that sounded much closer than the first.

"Ford," the vulture reverted his attention back to the matter at hand, struggling to remain the collected and decisive demeanour that he often tried to impress upon others. "I'd like you to warn the others. After the official leaves to inform Kirill and my mother, get the girl to the exit as soon as you can but tell everyone along the way to stay away from the shrike. If you can, get them to follow you. That would be for the best."

Dmitri's response was stiff and unthinking. Everything was unfolding at speeds impossibly fast— multitudes so impossibly great—that it was hard to swallow whole. He nodded vaguely before following Pipa's gaze and taking in the sight of what appeared to be more than what he'd ever experienced in his entire life.

*

The reporting of details was done in a swift and orderly manner; the latter being almost central Vaughn's core personality and compulsive disorder. He brushed matters of less importance (such as Pipa's rule breaking and Dmitri's odd presence) aside and narrowed in on the situation at hand, watching as the official's expression turned sour with confusion before a cloud of disbelief obscured everything else.

Vaughn was beginning to understand how it felt to be on the receiving end of mistrust. Lying was akin to breathing at certain points of time in his life but now that truth was key and relying on it was all he could do, his previous lies amounted to every bit of doubt in his words. No one believed him.

Upon listening to his entire account, the official hesitated in calling for an emergency team and preparing for the commencement of Reux's capture. It was common sense to listen to the account of more than one person, and for Vaughn to be that sole account was taking an unnecessarily large risk.

Dmitri could not add much to the report. He hadn't been a witness to the owl's death and so had not an account that deserved any more recognition.

"Alekseyev, are you hearing yourself?" Said the official, a member of the Order now that Kirill was the headmaster. "Reux is the leader of our youth division. Could you have mistaken him for someone else? What you suggest is absolutely foolish, if not absurd."

The vulture's lips were dry as he spoke, voice cracked and faint. "No. No, no it is not a mistake. I saw him—"

"I will consult the Order with your report," he interrupted, penning a sentence and finishing it with a harsh period that was deliberate. "Rest assured, Alekseyev. Now, can I have the name of this young lady over here?" He turned to Pipa, giving her a filthy once-over.

"Wait, I am not finished." Vaughn stepped between Pipa and the official, unable to conceive how she was placed above the death of another or the restraint of a serial killer on the loose.

"Please refrain from interrupting my duties, Mr. Alekseyev," snapped the official as he shoved him aside and inspected Pipa's charm, scribbling down an abundance of notes that Vaughn regarded as irrelevantly stupid. "My job here is not to listen to your petty complaints and unlikely conjectures— give me the girl's name!"

"And how, may I ask, is it unlikely?" Vaughn was quiet. He felt the rage in his voice thin and sharpen like a blade. "You are being fooled by the man's appearance! His devotion is foul, you don't understand the ideals that he intends to impose on the world that does not belong to him! He is the exact opposite of who you think he is. He is a—"

A terrorist.

Yes, that was the word he had been searching for. A serial killer did not make the cut for someone as idealistic and rigid as Reux Yvone; neither did the word 'murderer' fully encompass the blinding devotion that he contained, fuelling every deed that was corrupted the heart of a human and turned it into ink. A darkness that was pure.

"Girl, what is your name?" The official did not so much blink in the direction of Vaughn. "Tell me your name now—"

"NO," she roared in his face, breathing hard. "WHY SHOULD I LISTEN TO YOU IF YOU'VE NEVER DONE SO YOURSELF?" She refused to let him see the fear that trembled within, fingers gripping hard on the armrest to stop them from shaking.

Vaughn did not think twice of her emotion.

"Leave now and tell the council that Slayne Castor is dead. Get someone to collect the body and then dispatch a team for Yvone before things get out of hand." They were swatting around with a spatula, trying to catch a fly that refused to be caught.

The official did not like being told what to do by mere students of no authority. He found himself increasingly pressured by them nonetheless, biting his lower lip in thought and reluctance.

"Do not expect something extravagant," he caved. "I will get the council to look into this. If we discover nothing but lies and unsupported conjectures, you will be sure to pay the consequences of your words." The official shifted in a blink and left in the direction he came, slightly more urgent than before.

Nothing was to be said between the three. Dmitri readjusted his grip on the handles of Pipa's wheelchair, itching to move in the silence he had always been so uncomfortable with.

He was about to carry on.

"Why are you helping her?"

The vulture had his back turned towards the pair, having watched the official leave with a sigh trapped between his lips. The question had been prowling around in his cage for the period of their encounter, still unable to conceive why the falcon—self-absorbed and arrogant—would do so voluntarily.

He went with the most probable cause. "Was it Io?"

"Io?" Dmitri laughed with unexpected ease. Neither of the two could not locate the source of joy that he now seemed to possess. "Nah, Sullivan did. He told me to help her."

His answer was simple and contained little meaning, but Pipa froze—a subtle response that went mostly unnoticed by the falcon but was not enough to slip past Vaughn's abnormally observant radar. She had been a burden to minds more than one.

Io had always been the sole friend who cared about her.

Every single cell in his body would fly to her aid at the exact moment she needed his company, despite the things she had done; the words she'd once let slip. His very presence and willingness to befriend, help, and most importantly keep her was more than enough. Io was carrying the burden that she was on his back and carrying on.

And now, he wasn't the only one.

Luka Sullivan despised her, that much she'd known. The canary wasn't entirely sure if Io had relayed every hurtful word she fired that one fateful night, in the darkest crevice, the lowest she'd ever fallen, but even if he had not done so, it would have taken the blindest fool to think that Luka cared about her.

Without her around, the time Io spent with her would be freed and readily available for his occupation. Luka would have been happier if she disappeared into the abyss.

"Sullivan did?"

She turned to the vulture whose words were laced with surprise. So it was unexpected. Even for him, it was. After all, people were doing things that they would not have done. What was it like for one to step out of their personality; to break the character that they once were? What was it that made others assume the existence of a limit?

Out of character.

Was that what they were? Or perhaps a result of bad and inconsistent writing, the creation of something imperfect—a mere mistake?

Pipa Felice did not know what made people tick. There were workings of the human heart she'd yet to discover and understand at her age, and reason for change was among these many uncertainties. What makes them out of character?

"Yeah. Weird, right?" Dmitri shrugged, continuing onwards. "I...guess I'll be making a move then. It's going to take forever to reach the exit with a wheelchair—"

A single glance confirmed that Pipa was not in her seat. In fact, no one was. The seat of the wheelchair was empty, save the trace of a single yellow feather.

Pipa had arrived at a conclusion she never thought possible to conceive. If there were others willing to carry the burden that she was on their backs, the least she could do was make herself lighter—and that, she did.

"She shifted!" Dmitri gaped at the canary perched on the backrest of her wheelchair, holding out his palm for her to tag along. "Good timing. This makes things easier, actually—and faster. Why didn't you shift earlier?" He sounded partly annoyed but in the context of what they were doing, strangely relieved.

Pipa remained mostly silent, noting that the view from someone else's shoulder wasn't what she assumed it would be. There was no establishing how or why the shift could come only now, commence at present in the midst of chaos; she knew not the reason why.

And watching all of this unfold was Vaughn Alekseyev, a lone vulture who'd become—over the course of several events and emotions and thoughts and chapters and words—the main character of another story. A story of his own that he soon found the will to write.

In it, he realized a parallel importance of every perspective; every thought and ideal, different from his own, played an equally significant role in his story.

There was a certain connection that Iolani Tori brought along with him, to everyone else. While Luka Sullivan would never have thought in place of any other human being, Dmitri Ford would never have known the truth of mental fortitude and strength. And while Pipa Felice would never have understood what it was like to truly care for another, Vaughn Alekseyev would never have found himself at all.

This web that Iolani Tori had so carefully spun—a web of complex understanding and connection that was more than anything merely physical, a connection on the basis of existence—Vaughn could not help but feel was bound to catch a fly.

________________________

On the night before the games, they had been lying on the eagle's bed and staring at the ceiling in silence. Io had turned sideways to look at his friend, who he found was already looking at him.

"Am I the ceiling?" Laughed the one with a lunar smile. "You're looking at the wrong thing."

Luka remained quiet, brooding over the plan that his friend had only just relayed to him, minutes ago, under the light of the moon. He stared for a little longer before voicing an answer.

"Why look at a ceiling when there's a moon?"

The silence darkened in a heartbeat before nestling within, a soothing warmth spreading to the tips of his fingers. Io averted his gaze, unable to meet the molten embers that burned only when they were looking at him. "I don't know how you say embarrassing things with a straight face, Luka."

The eagle had retreated into his mind, laying in wait for his companion to continue so that he could listen—as he did, always.

"Luka?"

"Yes."

Io rolled onto his back and returned to staring at the ceiling. "What do you think of the plan?"

"It's...fool proof?" Infallible. Luka had always played the role of filter, a safety net that Io's thoughts and ideas seemed to rely on every now and then. "Only...if you're flying at night, you have to beware of the gate's closing time. There's a two-hour-long buffer time in the middle."

Io rose into a seating position, cross-legged on Luka's bed. "A buffer time? Did they have this before?"

"No. It's new—by Kirill. It shortens the time for Nocturnes to get past the gate," the eagle explained, having heard the complaints of several Nocturnes himself. "Four to six in the morning, the gate will be closed."

"Whaaat?" The moon phoenix sighed upon his words, throwing himself face-first into a nearby pillow. Luka had four in total on his bed. "Okay then, looks like I'll have to fly a little faster. You think it'll work? I've barely had enough practice with Luna's body."

The eagle had reached out to rest his hand on top of Io's head. It wasn't an affectionate pet; neither was it a teasing ruffle of his hair. "For you, even if it's the darkest path you must walk..."

"You carry on." He finished after some time, have searched and found the word that Io had once relayed.

His companion had glowed with a silver smile—above and otherworldly. "I certainly hope so. But I'd prefer to walk on a path with you somewhere nearby."

The allusion to death was subtle and carefully crafted, leaving Luka both amazed and awfully stunted by the stated preference. He thought long and hard for something in return, as he always did when it concerned his most important person in the world.

"I did promise never to leave you alone."

_______________________

The wind in his face was something he had missed terribly over time.

While the night was cold and forbidden, Io had himself to guide the way—a direction clear and distinct. One that pointed towards the end. The arrival gate would have tons of officials he could report to or at least seek help from, but the remaining time he had before the gate would enter its buffer time was a little less than ten minutes.

He urged both himself and Luna to close the distance, bearing with the cutting chill that stung his eyes. Lyra clung onto a safe area behind between Luna's neck and her head, where her scales offered protection against the wind. It was a tough flight.

The glow of his wings unveiled an approaching wall in the distance—the north wall that would wave one of its gates opened as the exit. Io knew not the number, but it wasn't hard to identify from the point of vantage that a moon would possess on every other night.

Sight was not an issue unless obscured by the darkness of a cloud.

Together, they dived for the gate with a little less than five minutes to spare on the clock. The only reason Io knew the time was because he could tell by the position of the moon; eastward of the zenith (just a little) and on instinct, the number had surfaced in his head.

Relief surged in waves as he touched ground and shifted again, slightly exhausted but bearing in mind the duty that he'd set out to fulfil. Weary, he began to approach the light of the torches that were near several tents, noting that there were very few spectators at this ghastly hour of the night. He needed to inform the officials. He needed to raise the alarms, alert them of an incoming disaster and call for something to be done for it was hard to achieve alone.

Idealism did not suit his tastes. Io was logical enough to understand that a sole person with an ambition to incite change in the entire world was naïve.

"Iolani," then came a voice that beckoned from behind. A cold, frightening voice that sounded as though it had called from his deepest, darkest dreams. "I've been waiting for you."

From his nightmares.