Work Text:
Penacony is a far cry from the enduring walls of Belobog and the sprawling delves of the Luofu, nothing like the persevering modernity that braved an eternity of cold and the everlasting tradition soaring through the sea of stars.
Your first step into the hotel lobby breathes of the freedom of dreams coming true, and you relish in it.
After everything that's happened since you awakened at the space station, a vacation is exactly what you need. Just for a while, you want to forget about the Antimatter Legion, the Stellaron Hunters, the plans everyone has for you that you don't know about — that you no longer know about. You want to stop thinking about what Kafka told you on the Luofu, about the Aeons and your fate, and most of all, you really want to take a bite out of the floating ice cream cones in the Sweet Dream.
In the bustling opulence of the Golden Hour, you meet a girl.
(Well, "meet" is maybe a little simplistic. It's more accurate to say that, as usual, you enthusiastically run headfirst into trouble, and that the trouble happens to involve a girl in need of rescuing. So you do what you do best — violence.
After a few diplomatic swings of your bat and the intervention of a man better versed in the art of diversion through words than you are, you seize a heroic victory and save the princess.
All in a day's work.)
The girl introduces herself as "Firefly". She's from the Iris Family, she says, a performer-slash-guide nobody who was mistaken for a stowaway.
Something about it rings oddly to your ears — how can such a pretty girl be relegated to such background parts that she needs to work outside the stage? No matter how much you look at her, you can't imagine her in anything but the lead role.
Yet for some reason, you trust her. It's not that you feel like you can, the way you felt like you could trust March when you first met. No, you already, and without question, trust her.
In the back of your mind, you hear Mr Yang's voice — This is probably something you should question more.
You don't.
Firefly takes you around the Golden Hour as thanks for helping her. You agree instantly, and only partly because of her offer to treat you to local food.
Sightseeing with a guide gives you a very different appreciation of the Dreamscape than running around from one eye-catching oddity to the next. You also get hit by cars a lot less, but you're still undecided on whether that's a good thing or not.
She shows you the Clockie statue and its chirping eyelashes, luxury stores that force you to picture Pom-Pom's wrath from how much they make your credit card itch, a view of the Grand Theater in the distance, then pulls you towards Aideen Park through the crowds of dreamers, your hand held tightly in hers.
Wandering around with her feels natural, like you're old friends — you almost forget you aren't just out trailblazing a new world with March and Dan Heng. The familiarity is so comfortable it's a little uneasy, like it should mean something more to you.
But the nagging feeling disappears quickly, and you follow her to the next spot.
In hindsight, it's not even that surprising to find Sampo in Penacony.
It's Sampo , after all. It's not that odd to find him somewhere he shouldn't be — it's not even the first time, really. So you don't think much of it. But you do look him over closely, just in case he's wearing something that looks a little more like a bomb than usual.
You don't think much of the way Firefly manages to gauge his fighting capabilities, build, and even what weapon he uses from mere glances you didn't even notice, either. For some reason, it doesn't seem out of place for her to say.
She's always be■n skil■ed ■t thi■, aft■■ ■ll.
Before you can examine the sudden thought that crossed your mind, Sampo calls Firefly March 7th , and your naturally chivalrous mind discards any and all doubt to correct this offense.
Your ongoing tour of the Golden Hour is interrupted by none other than Clockie, and while weirder things have happened to you than being called for help by a moving, talking cartoon character... No matter how you look at it, it's definitely up there. Somehow, you can't make yourself refute his claim that Firefly isn't innocent or honest, either. Despite how offended she is, it rings true, as does her reaction. It almost feels like something you could tell her yourself, a teasing edge to your voice so you can watch the way she puffs out her cheeks.
No matter — someone is in danger and you're surely being summoned to put villains in their place. Like your very own holy blade, your bat will answer.
"I'm afraid a baseball bat isn't an efficient weapon…" Firefly protests, before shaking her head. "No! What I mean is, we can't solve the problem with violence..."
Something about her words, her tone, brings you an odd feeling of déjà-vu.
"A b■t ■■n't ■ffic■■n■. Y■u'■■ b■■te■ ■ff u■■n■ a s■■■r■-"
A dis■■pr■vi■g voic■. It b■lo■gs t■ the g■rl in fr■■t o■ you.
The vision is gone in a flash, as soon as it appears.
You grip your bat tighter, and assure Firefly that you're alright before you do your heroic duty.
The dream's backstage hides a constant rain of shooting stars, dizzying perspectives, and Firefly's heart.
She gives it to you in the light of a still dawn, as the two of you overlook the entire Dreamscape from her “secret base” — the almost childish name clashes with her weary voice as she tells you of her fate, and your own heart aches for her.
This is too much to reveal to a stranger , your reason says, and you know it's the truth. She tells you of the goal you know you two share, and she tells you of the lies you long saw through without knowing how. There's something she's not telling you , your reason insists, and there's something you aren't telling yourself .
You know. Of course, you know.
Yet you listen, and yet you ache, and when you hold up your phone to frame her smile next to your own, it looks painfully familiar.
Despite the eeriness of this corner of the dream you two have found yourselves in, Firefly remains much calmer than the part of your brain who still likes to think tells you a local guide should be. More than once, you engage in a battle and realize your back is against hers, each of you covering the other's blind spots like you've done this a hundred times — and when she calls you over to investigate something, your body reacts to her voice before you've processed her calling your name.
Even when “death” itself ambushes the two of you, she remains strong, keeping up with you to the best of her abilities instead of cowering in fear before the horror of what you're facing. Even as the fight drags on, as even you fail to see a way out of the claws of this embodiment of the one thing that shouldn't exist in the dream, she never falters.
Part of you thinks back to what she told you on that rooftop, and deduces that she already lives in fear of death every day of her life. She has no reason to be more scared now than at any other moment.
An■■her, q■iet■r pa■t of y■■ whisp■r■ tha■ t■is ab■lit■ t■ ke■p he■ he■d o■ h■r sh■■lde■s in comb■■ is so■eth■■g y■u'v■ ■lw■■s adm■■■d, an■ som■ti■e■ env■■d.
— You try to hold onto the hazy thought, but once more it slips through your fingers like a bubble swept away by the current.
Stained glass hands surge out of the ground to grasp the shrieking creature looming above you, and all other thoughts vanish as you see and seize your path to victory.
You follow her echoes across the distorted corridors of the hotel, a growing sense of urgency eating away at you with each step. Your tense steps clash with Acheron and Black Swan's calm stride, until you're almost running from one translucent figure to the next, grasping at the empty spaces in your brain to complete the puzzle scattered in the frayed dream.
Something scrapes away at the black paint clouding your bleary mind, layer after layer until it peels off to reveal faded hues of wine purple, dark blue, electric violet, and a n■st■lg■■ g■e■■.
Deep in your chest, something hurts like you've never hurt before.
It's not the lies.
(You always knew she wasn't telling you everything.)
It's not the thought of betrayal.
(Even now, you trust her.)
It's fear, so visceral you can't comprehend it.
The silent voices and unseen pursuer lead her deeper into the dream, and you on her trail. Each new memory feels more tangible than the last, her voice clearer, her presence closer. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, thrashing against your ribs.
You'd give anything to know who she's talking to. You know who she's talking to. You can't figure out why she's there. You know why she's there.
It's the ■■■■■■.
W■at ■■■■■■ wa■ ■he giv■■?
Wh■■ w■ll ■■ req■■re o■ ■er th■■ ■■m■?
It happens so fast.
The nightmare-hued blade pierces through Firefly's chest, ripping her off the ground of the distorted Reverie. As your gasp of shock echoes her gasp of pain, her eyes find yours.
"S-sorry-"
The word is coughed out alongside iridescent blood.
She's told you this before.
"■'m s■rr■."
Th■■ ri■g ■n yo■■ ■ars, a■■ y■u c■■'t tel■ ■■at sh■ te■■s y■■ ne■■.
"■■’■■ ■■■ ■■■■ ■■■■■ ■■■■■."
"I promise."
Her lifeless body disappears in your arms in the blink of an eye, like a memory bubble popped by a needle.
You drop to your knees in the shimmering puddle she left behind, the same color as her eyes, and you wonder why your heart breaks like you lost a lifelong friend and not a kind stranger you met earlier today.
There's no one left to answer you now.
Belatedly, you realize you never actually told her your name.