Arc 9 | Chapter 478: Made to Be a Mirror (but mirrors shatter so easily)

There had been a long moment when Valor landed, when he had just held his brother. In many ways, Baylor was the most competent of the three of them. He was strength and chaos. He was the one who had the instincts to kill and maim, and while those sometimes got in his way—made it difficult for the three of them to imagine anything more than the life they were already set to live, unhappy as that was wont to be—they were also what kept him safe. It wasn’t that Valor or Taelor would hesitate to kill, but they lacked something within their instincts—virtually all clones did. Baylor and a handful of other clones were the exceptions, all those other clones lingering as spectres within the history of their line.

Currently, however, Baylor was a uniqueness unto himself and all the rest of them—someone perfect, despite the claims of the

older clones

, who would happily wipe every bump and crack out of their organization. Could Baylor’s instincts be troublesome? Of course, but every person was made of troublesome qualities, even the most benign and perfect of clones possessing faults.

The fact that Baylor had so immediately pushed Darrian away in his panic, was an aspect of his instincts—this reality that, unless controlled, they could spit out at anyone with no notice. The fact that Baylor had then jumped after the other boy without a second of hesitation was another aspect—that breakneck speed at which his brain could work. Valor and Taelor, as well as many of the people they knew who weren’t clones, would have jumped after Darrian as well, but it would have been slower.

For some of them, it would be mere milliseconds—microseconds, even.

For others, it would have been seconds—information about what had occurred and what needed to be done and how likely they were to reach Darrian and survive the fall a flux of information that, especially within the shock of the moment and Darrian vanishing into the scattered lights of the city, might have come too slow.

Too sluggish.

Too little.

Too late.

Baylor, his sweet brother, didn’t need that time, and while those personality traits could make him volatile—and they certainly left a lot of them on edge during times of high stress, not knowing when he might suddenly snap and lash out, his instincts moving faster than what common sense he possessed—they were also why their drop group was still alive.

Taelor had joined their cuddle puddle when he landed with Codeth, and in that moment, all three of them had wanted was to breathe each other in. Baylor’s fingers had skimmed over each of their cheeks and necks—this little bit of physical connection because while their current moods were very much within the domain of

we don’t care who knows how close we are

, there was too much clothing in the way.

Sorvell, Valor thought, was the most scandalized by what was happening—unsurprising. While some of their former classmates seemed to have no knowledge of how their relationship worked, many of them had seen enough to not be surprised that they would bundle each other into a hug and revel in their closeness. Valor hadn’t been convinced bringing Sorvell along as their more-or-less hostage had been a good idea until shortly after he had clocked the older man looking at them with a mix of shock and confusion. It was unclear if the man’s gaze would have turned horrified or disgusted once the full weight of what their closeness—as well as Baylor’s softly shifting hands—implied hit him.

The attack hit first, so, Valor supposed, he would never find out what the older man would have thought, had he had the opportunity to pull his thoughts together while Valor was watching him.

By the time the dust settled, Valor and his brothers will no longer be pressed so closely together, and Sorvell will have either decided he doesn’t care, chosen to forget what he saw, or decided that, as their hostage, offending them might incline them to leave him to die—or just kill him themselves.

He may have been correct. For as much as the three of them weren’t as close with Emilia’s friends as even Rafe was, Valor was nearly positive that her friends would defend them from even the judgmental eyes of friends and allies that might fall upon them. They were causing no one any harm, after all. So what if their love from one another was taboo within the scope of Baalphorian culture? It affected no one external to themselves and anyone willing to enter their bed, and Valor was sure that even Codeth would step to their defence—would help cover any murder they split through the world, removing someone who would dare judge them from their vicinity.

Fortunately, these things would never be required when it came to Sorvell—not now, not long into the future—and these passing thoughts faded into the blackness of Valor’s mind as Baylor, who had been running a recon skill even as they hugged, became the first to react to their sudden assault. He twisted, no hesitation within his eyes or stance or the willbrand he was transforming out of its default wrist cuff form. Normally, all three of their willbrands wound up their forearms—a gift from Emilia that gleamed against their often golden skin in three winding vines that seemed far too delicate for people as cold and brutal as themselves.

There was a reason behind the vines, however, and their willbrand was actually three separate willbrands, all wound together, pulling power from one another as needed—just as the three of them pulled power from one another. Of the three willbrands that made up their wrist cuffs, each of them favoured a specific one—that was part of their brilliance.

While there were some willbrands that could take on multiple forms, they were quite difficult to smith and utilize. They were also quite expensive, and while overall, both Emilia and Simeon had more than enough money—courtesy of the Starrbergs, The Black Knot, and oddly, the Mhrinas—to create multi-form willbrands, the fact that Baylor in particular was terrible about breaking his willbrands… Well, it had been more cost-effective for Emilia to design their preferred willbrand forms into multiple willbrands. It also meant that, when Baylor broke one of his willbrands, Emilia could recreate that single willbrand for all of them—she insisted that some people would be capable of telling them apart based on minute differences within each instance of the willbrand if she didn’t recreate them all—and fit it in with the remaining, undamaged willbrands.

Currently, the three of them had decided to only use their favoured willbrand form to fight. There was as much power in being obviously different clones as there was in being indistinguishable from one another. For the moment, they wanted anyone who might find themself watching their group to assume they were creating an accurate map of their abilities and personalities. So, what better way to mess with someone who might try to exploit supposed weaknesses than to skew whatever they learned?

Were they older, this might not have worked—after all, if they were older, anyone who saw them would assume they had more training. Clones were masters of shifting their personalities to suit the moment, the pod they were working within, the job. They, however, were baby clones, the majority of the people in their group—save Sorvell—clearly barely into adulthood. If anything, most of them still looked to only be in their early twenties. Not only that, but they were Baalphorians, and while the clones might inspire fear throughout the continent, the reality remained that much of the Free Colonies viewed Baalphorians as weak.

A bunch of young Baalphorians? It didn’t matter that there were clones with them, those childlike clones are nothing to be afraid of. What can a Baalphorian do to a Free Colonier who actually knows how to use their core well? What can a Baalphorian, who has no awareness of the aether, do against someone who can directly interface with it?

Those were the sorts of things many Free Coloniers would think of them as a default, and they were going to work with that.

Baylor’s barrier exploded out of him as he willbrand screamed to life, Taelor quickly erecting a barrier to keep the power of it contained—to keep that scream of life, of the aether bending to Baylor’s will, contained. Even as skilled as their eldest brother was—as delicate and powerful as the skill Emilia had created to try and keep the activation of a willbrand from reaching out in ripples through the world was—it wouldn’t stop anyone exceptionally attuned to the aether from feeling it.

Hopefully, if anyone followed the echo of their willbrands activating, it would be someone they could happily kill. Really, even if random Drinarna who

weren’t

involved in the city’s corruption showed up and attempted to get in their way, Valor doubted any of the three of them would have many qualms about killing them if they didn’t let them pass. They would calmly tell them why they were there, of course, before demanding they get out of their way or die. If they didn’t move… Well, stupid people shouldn’t be part of the Drinarna to begin with.

Baylor would joke that Wander should thank them for removing stupid people from his organization. Valor would have no comment on this hypothetical joke, he knew—he knew himself just as well as he knew his brothers, just as well as they knew him in turn.

At least, that was what they all assumed. Sometimes, however, Valor did wonder whether they really knew each other at all, or if they were letting their thirty years together skew their judgment and understanding of one another.

They were the same people they had been as children, yet, they were nothing like those small bodies. Were they even the same person, moment to moment? Second to second? When was the last time they had really sat down and discussed who they were and what they wanted with one another? When was the last time they didn’t assume they knew each other just as well as they always did? Just as well as they had been trained to know one another?

They were mirrors to one another, reflecting each other onto the world just as easily as they reflected themselves. Yet, a reflection wasn’t real—it hid the insides and the back, leaving blind spots. With near perfection, they could guess what each other would do in this situation or that, but did they know, not due to some deep understanding of the other, but because they were a circle of thoughts and inclinations?

Every decision they made, they made not just for themself and authenticity to who they were, but out of a mixture of that truth and what they knew their brothers would expect of them. At some point, did it become reality that they knew and followed each other’s expectations of them, rather than through actually knowing each other, or even truly knowing themself?

Valor—who had tucked himself behind Taelor because he was the quiet, unassuming one, set to the task of seeming like the weak link of their trio—watched Baylor strike down their assailant—and really, it did seem oddly fast for them to already have found themselves being attacked by… a random homeless person?

Alright then. Perhaps it had just been a crime of opportunity? Odd, but also not impossible, although…

“We need to talk to him,”

Valor sent into their group relay—the smaller one that was now just their drop group, plus Emilia. If Coral’s group ever indicated that they managed to get through the papers checkpoint, they would be included as well. For the moment, it didn’t seem like they were getting anywhere with that.

“That’s easier said than done,”

Baylor shot back, his willbrand clashing with the stranger’s abilities.

“The guy is actually strong!”

His willbrand swung around, the blade cracking into the barrier the man had created—at least, Valor thought they were man. So too did, Baylor, although, something in the way they moved…

A shot of pure aether fired out of the other end of their middle brother’s favoured willbrand, which was… strange. It was strange to the point that while Valor

could

use it, he didn’t generally enjoy doing so. It was, effectively, a gun on one end, powered by the large aetherstores all three of them possessed, and a blade at the other. Whenever he used it, he felt as though he were about to accidentally cut himself, despite years of practice and never having even nicked himself. Still, there was a reason that, when pretending to instead be a single person, Baylor’s weapon was not what they generally used.

No, instead, they used the version that

belonged

to Taelor—Baylor had similar issues with Valor’s preferred willbrand and generally disliked using it, calling it

too complicated.

Had he not been pretending to be meek and put off by the situation, Valor would have activated his willbrand to capture their assailant. As it was, either Baylor would kill them—or maim them badly enough that they would stop moving about so much—or else someone else would need to—

A skill shattered through the world, and then the person was being brought to their knees by Sorvell, another skill slithering out of him to yank Baylor—who gave an adorable and indignant squeak—back, before he could land what would surely have been a fatal strike on their attacker. Valor’s brother landed on his feet—and really, Sorvell was more skilled than any of them had assumed, based solely on the ease at which he placed Baylor back to the ground. It was so smooth, in fact, that in the second between being grabbed and being let go, Baylor’s annoyance with being manhandled was gone—volatility made him both fast to anger and quick to calm.

It helped, of course, that Sorvell had also created a barrier of junk skills around their assailant, leaving them effectively helpless for the moment. It wouldn’t last, but for a few minutes at least, they were safe and had a person to question.

Apparently confident in his ability to hold the person and keep them from attacking him, Sorvell was the one to step forward, another skill reaching out to tug down the person’s face covering. A mud speckled—and how did a subterranean city even have mud, when there was no rain?—glared up at Sorvell. They were too young—someone in their late teens, at the most, the oddity of their movements likely the result of a recent growth spurt that had given them the height of an adult. More than likely, they were also a girl, long lashes that contrasted with their otherwise filthy appearance casting shadows over their brown cheeks as Sorvell flipped back their hood, revealing matted red hair—at least, it was probably red under all that grime.

“Hello,”

Sorvell said, his Lüshanian holding a typical Baalphorian accent but fluent enough that Valor guessed he knew at least the basics of the language even without his Censor running a translation function,

“how about we have a chat?”