Chapter Text
“This is ridiculous…”
“It's protocol.”
“Why am I even dealing with this?! I was already briefed and cleared for departure! Why change it all of a sudden?”
“Sir, this is classified information.”
“No no, I want to know why I'm being treated like a criminal. What, you think I'm smuggling space dust or something?!”
The Knight sighs, clearly resisting with all his might not to reach up to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperated annoyance as the pointless argument with the merchant ship's young owner continues to no end. The same cannot be said about his two subordinates in training, as one lifts a hand to his helmeted face, while the other can be heard mumbling “Oh my Gods” under his breath, sounding like he's at his limit. It was late, their shift was supposed to have ended twenty minutes ago, but the stubborn outworlder sadly wasn't keen on making their lives easier. As tempting as the use of force was, they had no reason to do it yet, since all the traveler had done so far was loudly complain. And as long as it's the case, diplomacy it is…
“I understand your frustration, sir. But we have orders to run an inspection. By resisting, you're interfering with official Cloud Knight business. And the longer you argue with us, the more your flight will be delayed. I assure you that your cooperation is in both our interests. And since you claim to have nothing to hide, there is no need to act so defensive.”
That final line lands at long last as the young outworlder throws his hands up and finally steps aside, much to the whole squad's visible relief.
“Thank you, sir. We'll be as quick as possible.”
The merchant huffs and stands to the side with his arms crossed, watching the Cloud Knights enter his cargo and sniff around everything inside like they were bloodhounds on a hunt. What were they looking for? “Classified”, apparently. Annoyance only grew further with the knowledge that the briefing was over and he was ready to leave and finally take time off for the week's end to see his family. And now he's getting delayed by some surprise inspection in the dead of night when all he wants to do is set course, turn autopilot on and take a long nap in the ship's quarters while his trusty rust bucket takes him home. Unfortunately, he was stuck here for the next… hour or two, probably. The Knights searched and searched, looking into every place on the ship, even into his private chamber like they had any business being in there and he protested against it one more time before being reminded he will not be allowed to leave without the inspection because of some vague emergency that might as well be a drill and nothing more. Though… throughout the whole process, even if he knew he had nothing to worry about - all his wares were approved and legitimate, not to mention most of them had been sold by now anyway - an odd feeling of unease kept tingling at the back of his head. Like he was being watched… But every time he glanced around? Nothing. Creepy…
At long last, the Knights left his ship, very clearly empty-handed. Whether annoyed or relieved by it though, it was hard to tell through the visors of those helmets.
“Alright, sir. You're clear.”
The one who did the most talking said before lifting two fingers to the side of his head.
“Vessel with registration LT881459 authorized for departure. Copy.”
A beat of silence, before he lowers his hand and the merchant can't help but exhale. Finally.
“Safe travels, sir. We won't-”
He pauses mid sentence when an eerie sound makes everyone's skin break out in goosebumps. A low, clicking growl coming from across the dock.
“... What the heck was that?”
One of the other Knights asks, audibly nervous and already gripping his devastator glaive tighter. The one on the lead remains silent and raises a hand to signal his squad to be quiet. The traveler looks around, paranoia intensifying. Was there something actually watching them from the dark? The uneasiness was severely contagious and spreading rapidly. Especially when one of the Knights hissed.
“Sir. Two o'clock.”
All eyes turned exactly to the pointed out location just in time to see a shadow undulate and retreat with a bone-chilling gurgle. The Cloud Knights immediately take on battle stances and it only serves to freak the merchant out further. Although initially annoyed with them, the Cloud Knights suddenly feel rather safe to scoot closer to. After all, they're the armed ones… While the leader talked to his headpiece, asking for instructions about some “fugitives” (the term alone made him even more terrified, because what fugitives? There are dangerous people on the run???), he was so focused on that one spot in the dark, that neither he nor the Knights noticed two figures - one holding a hand over the mouth of the other - silently slipping into the still opened cargo behind their backs.
“Yes, Madam Xueyi. Suspicious activity in sector 9. We'll guard the South entrance and remain on standby for reinforcements.”
The lead Knight says to his comms device with a nod, before turning to the traveler.
“We advise leaving the area as soon as possible, sir. It might not be safe here.”
“You don't have to tell me twice. I'll be on my way…”
In minutes, he is in his vessel, shutting all ramps and going through takeoff protocol with the Skyfaring Commission folks. Giving his registration and all information. And a sigh of relief escapes him once he's given a green light to finally leave and think nothing more about whatever was going on down there just now. Though, along with that sigh upon passing the Jade Gate, comes another noise. Muffled and distant. Kind of demented, actually… It makes him go rigid and slowly look back over his shoulder. Was it just his imagination playing tricks on him? It had better be… because ain't no way he's going down there to check. Just in case he hadn't imagined the moaning of some cosmic hellbeast, he looks around the cockpit to make sure he's alone and hits the lockdown button, sealing all doorways on the ship until the system is either deactivated or individual doors are opened via a manual override. Then, he settles himself back in the chair with a pulse rifle across his lap. Dying is the last thing he's dreaming of right now. Well… It looks like sleeping in the pilot's seat it is then… If sleep is even still on the table at this point.
“Darn it…”
La Mancha curses the moment all lights go out and magnetic locks click into place on the door at the other end of the chamber he's in. Full lockdown engaged. Sneaking onto the ship was a piece of cake but he did not take into consideration that they might be locked in for however many hours this flight will take before he manages to speak to the pilot and tries to negotiate. An echo of Yingxing's pained groan must've carried all the way to the cockpit and startled the guy badly enough to lock every single door. Smarter than what some would do in this situation. Unfortunately for the two runaways, however, this wasn't good at all…
“Well… This kid is definitely surviving in a horror immersia scenario, at least.”
La Mancha comments idly while looking around the storage they're stuck in, but the craftsman beside him whimpers once again. Face falling in concern, the Ranger looks down at Yingxing laid down on the floor, breathing heavier and more shallow again. His eyes are squeezed shut, eyebrows pinched and upper lip peeled back in a grimace. One hand never left the belt on La Mancha's chest, the other - the hilt of the broken sword. Not ideal. Before, Yingxing could flail to his heart's content if he had an episode. But now that he's armed, clinging to that sword like it's his lifeline - or one of two at least - one erratic swing could spell a catastrophe. A pained grunt is drawn from La Mancha's throat when his metal arm twitches again, fingers curling on a reflex as the shadow visibly crawls up and down the length of it like it's pacing. Another danger. By now both Yingxing and he are ticking time bombs with fuses of undetermined length. With no idea where exactly they were going or how long it would take. A safe assumption would be they're going where Ashveil had been initially picked up. And that would be ideal, actually. From there he'd only have to slip a local guide a tip to take the two of them to the ruins where one of his camping spots is. But that is, privided that they'll find a way out of the cargo when they are on the surface of the planet. Which isn't guaranteed at all. If the pilot continues to act smart, he'll likely get the local security involved the second they touch down, and that will be a whole different kind of mess to deal with. Hardly anyone looks kindly upon stowaways.
One way to resolve this would be to try and announce his presence, given the ship's owner already knows him from the last time he asked for a lift to Luofu. But the kid is undoubtedly terrified out of his mind right now and less than likely to check the source of potential noises. If La Mancha's voice reaches the cockpit through all the locked doors to begin with. Still… this might just be his best shot. The question is…
How?
An attempt at standing is thwarted by Yingxing's surprisingly strong hold.
“Yingxing, you need to let go.”
Leather creaks under the tightening grip.
“I won't leave you, you hear? I'll be here, I just need to take a look around.”
“... Nnoo…”
Yingxing's voice comes strained and so quiet that the faintest whisper of wind could drown it out. Chest heaving, eyes still tightly shut and bresthing through his mouth, Yingxing makes a move like he was going to sit up, but he doesn't manage to lift himself even an inch when his whole body starts shaking from the effort. His head lolls to the side and an attempt to straighten it out causes more tremors to run through him. Over time, he was gradually deteriorating… Be it just the mara or the evident illness. La Mancha puts his real hand under Yingxing's cheek and supports his head. Even through the fabric of his glove, he can feel how unnaturally cold the skin beneath his palm is, which heavily contradicts with the feverish, glassy look and how hot Yingxing's breath felt before. Fragmented sentences begin to spill from the craftsman's crusted lips without control.
“Ag- Again… Hap- pening… again-...!”
“Save your breath, Yingxing… Don't-...”
“D- Dy… ing…”
Cold dread washes over La Mancha at the sound of this word. Dying…? What is that supposed to mean? Yingxing isn't done yet, however. Words tumbling out without control and laced with what sounds like genuine, instinctual fear.
“I- I'm dying-... No… Not again-...”
The former Galaxy Ranger breathes out sharply and shrugs his coat off, gathering Yingxing into his arms and wrapping it around him in the process. The feeling of helplessness is excruciating. Yingxing is suffering and there's nothing he can really do right now. He doesn't even know what exactly is happening that's making the tormented man say those things in such a frightened tone.
“Don't talk like that… Everything will be alright-”
“No more-... Please, no more…”
Yingxing gasps like he was about to descend into sobs again but no tears come anymore.
“N- No… Let… me go… L- Let it end-...”
…
La Mancha falls silent. Rendered speechless by the morbid plea of the clearly delirious man. He was begging for an end. Not salvation. Just death. And while the Ranger wanted to be horrified by it… he couldn't, really. Not when he himself sometimes shared the sentiment of existential exhaustion that tended to creep in every now and then, with the threat of the Shadow escaping and unpaid debts hanging over his head being the only things keeping him afloat. The only difference was that he didn't actively ask for it. Only figured “if it happens, it happens”.
He has heard what befell Yingxing after the Sedition. Whispers of how even death wouldn't have him. So while the threat of it wasn't real… the deeply ingrained fear of it was. Even if he voiced his longing for it, his body was in panic mode he'd seen many of his rowdy cubs in just before they-...
…
Jaw clenched and swallowing against the lump in his throat, La Mancha holds the ailing craftsman close, like he'd held many of his spirited Rangers who passed away in his arms… The smell that lingers in his hair is like damp soil, decaying leaves, and spider lilies. The scent of an omen of death…
“... Sleep if you must, Yingxing… You're not alone. Not anymore…”
Shivers never cease. In fact, they only get worse with the minutes it takes for Yingxing to eventually go limp and let go of both La Mancha and the broken sword. Still breathing, pulse - still racing, even if feeble. But consciousness finally leaves his weakened body behind. Gingerly, La Mancha lowers Yingxing - still wrapped in his white coat - to the floor, watching how his mara-red eyes roll back, lids fluttering and body shaking like he was about to have a full blown seizure. Truth be told, it could already be happening… Just to be sure, La Mancha rolls the fallen Furnace Master on his side into a recovery position, before standing and looking around the place. His arm jerks abruptly, prompting him to grab at his wrist with a huff to steady it while he wanders around. Searching. For a way out? Medical supplies? Water? He doesn't even know anymore. He'll take anything at this point.
Another sweep around the storage. And La Mancha's eyes find a covered air vent. A pause… This could work. His knees protest again as he climbs onto a metal crate and looks into the vent. It's too small to even fit halfway into it. But it could be used in a different way…
“Hello? Hellooooo~?”
His voice echoes down the narrow opening.
“Anyone there? It's me! You know, the guy with a cane, wearing a hat? The one who asked for a lift!”
Silence.
“Helloooo, cargo to the pilot! Can you hear me?”
Silence again, but this time La Mancha decides to give it a few minutes. He slides back down to sit next to Yingxing's quivering body on the floor, absentmindedly brushing the midnight-colored bangs away from his sweaty forehead. And sure enough… Footsteps banging down the corridor just beyond. A series of beeps… The door slides open and a barrel of a rifle is pointed through it, exactly at La Mancha. Another beat of tense silence where nobody dares to move a muscle. Then… the young merchant's face twists in a mixture of relief, annoyance and bewilderment.
“... You have got… to be shitting me.”