Manor House
Chapter Eight

Rating: R
Category: AU
Pairing(s): Cloud/Reno, Tifa/Barret, Aeris/Tseng, Zack/Sephiroth, Vincent/Cid, Reeve/Rufus, Yuffie/Elena, Charles/Nathan, Toki/Skwisgaar
Warnings: Some minor grossness.
Summary: Charles goes in quest of a memory and finds it, Cid struts his stuff, and there are secrets locked away.
Notes: This chapter is a bit Metalocalypse-centric because I’m setting up part II of the series, but no need to fear! There are lots of pretty bishis to be had! Also I realized none of the kids had aged in like… a couple years so we’ve had a few birthdays to get their ages up to where they should be.

For those who do not watch Metalocalypse and only read about the guys in my fics, the part about the band’s eyes shining red and strange hunger cravings is canon. There IS something other-worldly about them, but what has not yet been revealed. Also canon is Pickles’ ability to handle substances that would leave other people blind/dead/insane, etc.

To learn more about the Wandering Albatross, go here

Illustrated by Animama

Charles Foster Ofdensen stood in the bathroom of the Space Kopter, staring at his watch, and talking to himself in two different voices. One was his own as a naïve impressionable graduate, the other was an impersonation of his favourite professor at Harvard Law.

“Well Charlie, now that you have graduated with full honours in the top three percent of all graduating students and have been offered a position at a prestigious corporate law firm due to your ability to speak three languages… unfortunately none of them a Scandinavian language,” he muttered as an aside to himself before reverting back to the voice of his professor. “…your doctorate in mathematics, your keen grasp of financial handling and your minor in psychology, what are you going to do with yourself?” He changed voices. “Well gosh golly gee Professor Bradshaw! I’m going to manage a big rock and roll band! That way I get to travel and meet really fun and interesting people while earning a substantial income! And if I’m reeeeeally lucky I’ll end up living with the singer, flying into outer space while my lead guitarist vomits onto my Armani suit and I stand in the bathroom peeing on a stick! Wow!” Charles shook the device he held, willing it to hurry up and show him a result.

From the other side of the door, Pickles’ voice could be heard. “Talking to yourself is the first sign of insanity, dood.”

“It is not,” said Charles. “Answering yourself is.”

“You were doing that, too.”

“How long is this supposed to take?” Just as Charles asked, the result appeared, and he sagged in relief. “Oh thank heavens.”

“I told you it was the kippers making you puke.”

Charles dropped the device into the trashcan, then washed his hands. He opened the door and stepped out to look Pickles in the eye.

“This is bloody inconvenient.”

“So stop having sex with Nathan and you won’t have to freak out every time Jean-Pierre serves kippers for breakfast.”

“Thank you, I think on the whole I would rather just stop eating kippers.”

“You’re less likely to get pregnant from a kipper.”

“I’d like to believe that,” muttered Charles.

He crossed the large room to where Skwisgaar lay on the large bed along with the rest of the band. The room was dark and quiet, the temperature slightly cool. Skwisgaar’s blue eyes were open, and he was having one of his more lucid moments.

“So what is verdicts being?” Skwisgaar asked drowsily.

“Not pregnant,” said Charles.

“Told you it was the kippers,” said Nathan.

He was lying on his back, his reading glasses on his face, and a book in one hand, the small overhead reading light turned on. It always amazed and impressed Charles that Nathan read. He was barely literate and the dyslexia didn’t help, but dammit he read. Currently he was reading about the effects of mako poisoning with Lydia face down and asleep on his chest, a tiny blue bundle on an expanse of black. Lydia, fortunately, did not have the flicker in her eyes. However her family had been exposed to mako, she seemed to have avoided it. Charles took out his phone and used it to take a photo as Nathan’s eyes shifted towards him, the expression, as usual, not amused.

“That better not end up on the fan page.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.”

“Uh huh. Then how did all those other very not metal ones of me end up there?”

Charles seated himself on the bed. “I can assure you that was not me. That was Toki.”

“Shoulda figured,” muttered Nathan. “Hey this book says in small amounts mako makes you smarter.”

“What’s abouts large dosages?” asked Toki.

“Uhhhh…. Large dosages can cause erratic behaviour, vomiting, confusion, hypersensitivity, hallucinations and will eventually turn you into a Swedish guitar player.”

Skwisgaar poked his tongue out at Nathan. Toki stroked the long golden hair.

“No seriously, whats is goings to happens to us?”

“Well from what I have read, nothing, so long as they get us treated properly. In some people it can cause chronic depression and anxiety but we’re already so fucked up who will notice.” He turned a page. “Hey it can make your hair grow too.”

Pickles charged into the bathroom.

“Well why is Skwisgaar so much sicker than the rest of us?” asked Pickles from inside the bathroom where he was inspecting his scalp. “I mean assuming we’ve all been poisoned equally.”

“Because he’s the smallest,” said Nathan.

There was a brief, surprised silence.

“Come again?” said Charles.

“He’s the smallest,” said Nathan. “He’s tall but he’s only thin. Mako likes to settle into body fat and muscle tissue. The more fat or the more muscle you have, the more mako you have to take in for it to have any effect. Well Skwisgaar is just all legs with no fat and very little muscle tone, so it all just went right into his brain and major organs. Guys like me and Murderface have the best chance against it because we have both fat and muscle, and then you, Charles, and Toki because you’re nothing but muscle, which means Pickles should be the next sickest because he’s so small.”

They looked at Pickles as he returned from the bathroom. Pickles blinked back. “I feel fine.”

“Well is there a way of determining exactly how badly we have been poisoned?” asked Charles.

“There’s an approximate test,” said Nathan. “You know how the eyes kinda flicker with light in the dark? Apparently if you shine a light into their eyes the flicker becomes like… a glow. How much a person’s eyes glow can give you some idea of how badly they have been poisoned. And the book has a chart.”

“Don’t shines no lights into my eyes,” muttered Skwisgaar.

“We won’t,” said Toki. “We already knows you sick.”

“Well I have a small flashlight,” said Charles. “Let’s see how sick we are. Let’s start with you.”

Nathan handed Charles the book as Charles took out a keychain with a small pen light on it. He turned it on and aimed it into Nathan’s eyes. There was a sudden glare of blue deep within the eyes, like that of an L.E.D. light. Charles consulted the book.

“Moderate poisoning. Let’s check out Murderface. Also moderate. Okay Toki, let’s have a look at you. Light poisoning. Now me… huh. Also light. Now we’ll have a look at Pickles and…. dear bleeding Christ! Pickles, my God!”

“Is it bad?” asked Pickles, his eyes blazing like blue high beams on a dark desert road.

“Bad?!” exclaimed Charles. “They don’t even have a category for your level of poisoning! You should be dead at least four times over! How do you feel?”

“Kinda hungry.”

Charles stared in horror, then looked at Skwisgaar. “Do you mind if I shine this into your eyes for comparison?”

“Ja I minds. Makes it quick.”

Charles did. Skwisgaar flinched and dry-heaved, pulling away from the light, but Charles had seen enough. Skwisgaar’s eyes were not anywhere near as bright as Pickles’. Charles shone the light into Pickles’ eyes once more, and just stared in disbelief.

“Pickles… you should be dead.”

“Uh… sahry?”

“You know what this means, don’t you?” said Nathan.

“No, what’s it mean?” asked Toki.

Nathan watched the burning blue light shine out of Pickles’ eyes. “Means the mako is in the booze.”

***---***

Cid opened the door of his house and looked across the expanse of grass. It was early morning, and the sun was just streaking across the flat green expanse of the runway. In the distance he could see Reno flapping huge black and crimson wings, still trying to master them. Beside him were Sephiroth and Charon, offering pointers, but it seemed to do no good, Reno was forever tripping over his own plumes.

“You need to work on your balance,” said Cid as he approached the lanky red-head.

“You go get me some balance and I’ll work on it, yo,” grumbled Reno.

“Come for a lesson?” asked Charon.

“No, thanks. I was just gonna take a brief trip out to the little island just off shore and get Vincent some pomegranates. He likes them fresh.”

“Has he come to a decision about whether he will carry Tifa’s baby?” asked Sephiroth.

“He’s thinking on it. He’s a bit fed up with the whole notion of pregnancy so he’s a hair pissy on the subject. If he’s gonna do it then Barret and Tifa better find a fast way to make midnight runs to Turtle’s Paradise for won ton soup, ‘cause I ain’t doing it. Me and Vin want them to enjoy the whoooooole baby-making experience. The cravings, the crying, the vomiting, the mood swings…”

“Sounds like you and he have decided,” said Sephiroth.

“We have and we haven’t. He’s had three babies and five pregnancies, and he’s not keen on the idea of chasing babies while in that condition and I don’t blame him. So what I was thinking was having Barret and Tifa move in to help out. That way they know what they’re in for. See Tifa and Barret have one kid – Marlene. And what they do not realize is that Marlene is an unusually intelligent and well-behaved kid. They have never dealt with a hot, cranky toddler in the middle of summer who is teething, has an ear infection, and does NOT want to behave!”

“Been there,” said Sephiroth. “I’m just hoping my next pregnancy is a few years off. Twelve would be nice.”

Cid grinned. “Well anyway, Vin wants fresh pomegranates, so if you will excuse me…”

“Well where is your ultra-light?” asked Reno.

“Don’t need it. Gonna fly.”

Reno snorted. “Fly. Right. Cid we can’t fly. These wings are for gliding. Not flying.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes,” said Sephiroth. “Not one of us can fly. I’m sorry. I know how badly you wished to fly, but these wings were never designed for flight. They are for high leaps, gliding long distances, and balance and intimidation during battle.”

“Not sure about the balance part,” muttered Reno.

“Well,” said Cid. “That may be true for you mere mortals. But I’m Cid Highwind.”

“You’re an arrogant twit,” said Sephiroth. “Assuming you make the island, and with the wind right there is a very good chance that you could, there is no way you can make it back. You can glide down. You cannot glide up.”

“Wanna bet, pretty boy?”

“I don’t make wagers.”

“Oh yeah.” Cid stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it, then began very quietly clucking. Sephiroth’s pupils reacted, and the eyes narrowed.

“Are you calling me a chicken?”

“Me? No. Never.”

Sephiroth crossed his arms. “All right. Name your price.”

“Marlene wants to breed her black chocobo, Molasses, before she gets too old. To do that she needs to catch one of those high-octane birds up north. Now a little fourteen year old girl can’t do that. So. If I can fly all the way to the island and back, using only my own wings, you have to catch Marlene a chocobo.”

“Oh just what I always wanted to do. Well I sincerely doubt you will, so fine. And when you crash like Icarus into the sea and force me to come rescue you, then you have to quit smoking.”

“No problem. None at all.”

Sephiroth raised an eyebrow. “Would you like me to teach you how they work first?”

“Nope,” said Cid. “Thanks anyway.”

He fit his goggles into place. Reno and Sephiroth watched, curious. Cid looked over his shoulder at them.

“Y’may wanna step back.”

Reno curled his lip. “Oh I so hope you have wings like Chuckie the Wonder-Budgie.”

“No such luck, Red,” said Cid, and suddenly unfurled a truly enormous pair of wings; something that would not only support him, but would carry him for miles upon miles. These were wings for flight, not gliding, carefully engineered to support his weight. The colour was clearly customized; they began as black along the leading edge, then melted and faded until the very tips were palest blue. The colour scheme may have been questionable, but there was no doubt as to the species.

“Wandering Albatross,” said Sephiroth, his voice tinged with annoyance. “The greatest flier of all birds. Now how in the name of Great Gaia did you manage to get a pair of those? And the colours! Those are your colours! The ones you have on the small aircraft you rent out! Cid how…?”

“Gotta go Baby, gotta get the pomegranates while the dew is damp. Vince doesn’t like them all dried out. Oh and thanks for going to get Marlene the chocobo, she’ll really appreciate it.”

He spread the gigantic feathered spans, and without so much as a flap the wind picked him up and he was airborne, drifting effortlessly in the air currents, adjusting course accordingly. Sephiroth watched Cid drift to the island… smoking all the way.

“I have wing envy,” said Reno.

“I hate that man. How did he do that? How the hell did he get a pair like that? In his colours no less! You can’t tell me that’s a coincidence! Bastard! He knows something we don’t.”

“Well that just goes without saying,” said Reno. “So what are we gonna do? Beat it out of him?”

“No,” said Sephiroth. “We dig. If he can do it then we can do it too. We just have to find out exactly what he did. I didn’t make general letting smug little jackasses like that get the better of me. Come along, Reno. We have spying to do.”

***---***

The inside of the Space Kopter was quiet, and all around Charles were peacefully sleeping bodies. He was lying against Nathan, his head on his chest, Nathan’s arm resting around him. Pickles was spooned against him, his chin resting on Charles’ hip. Funny how Pickles always liked to sleep in positions guaranteed to give him a backache. Toki and Skwisgaar were sleeping near each other, but Skwisgaar couldn’t tolerate being touched so they lay side by side without making contact. Murderface was a face-down lump. He slept like the dead. In the midst of all this was Lydia. She’d never spent a single night of her life alone in bed; she was not about to start now. She had inherited the famous Explosion vocals, and if anybody wanted some peace then they better not stick her in that damned crib one more time. Currently she was a tiny bundle in a white and green flannel blankie beneath Toki’s chin, his arm around her. Charles studied the pair, feeling something bother him about the peaceful scene. And then it came to him.

“I don’t remember. I don’t remember having her.”

Pickles stirred, raising his head and blinking sleepily. “What?”

“Sorry. I was just thinking out loud.”

“Mph.” Pickles shifted his position, closing his eyes, his chin on Charles’ hip. “What don’t you remember?”

“Having her.”

“Well that’s odd, that’s the sorta thing that should stick.”

“One would think,” said Charles.

Pickles squiggled around a little more, then finally settled with a contented sigh. Charles reached down one hand and stroked the heavy red dreds, his expression thoughtful. It was odd. His memory was excellent. So why didn’t he remember her birth?

Nathan shifted slightly in his sleep, and Charles reached up to stroke his black hair. Why was his daughter’s birth a blur? He remembered everything! He remembered his and Nathan’s first kiss, boy how could he forget that? They had been at a huge music festival; a dozen bands and fifty thousand people, all crammed into a football stadium slated for demolition. Metal Stock, it had been called, and just like at Wood Stock, disaster had struck. Except in this case it was not rain chanted away by gentle hippies. It was a firebomb thrown by some moron who thought it would be ‘cool’. It was not cool. It was a riot as a gigantic mob of people began franticly trying to save their own lives. Charles had been waiting for the boys to show up near the rear entrance when suddenly hundreds of terrified concert goers came tearing out. Charles had been fine; he’d flattened himself against a wall to let the stampede pass, but a certain very large black-haired lead vocalist didn’t know that. Nathan drove through the crowd like an icebreaker in search of him, reaching him and hauling him out of harm’s way. Of course the news crew there capturing the happening zoomed in on Nathan as soon as they recognized him, following him as he dragged some little nobody in a grey suit out of a sea of stampeding people. Once they were clear, Nathan turned to Charles, hands on his shoulders.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” said Charles. “A little shaken but oth…!!!”

Nathan dragged him close and kissed him hard full on the mouth. Just bent him backwards and crammed his tongue right down his throat, right there on national TV. Charles got to see it in high resolution super slow motion about five million times. He could see that kiss in beautiful brilliant Technicolor every time he closed his eyes. He could see Nathan grabbing him by the shoulders, covered in corpse paint, clearly frantic. He could see himself, a little messed and slightly annoyed but otherwise unharmed. Nathan gave him a slight shake as he asked if he was okay, and the moment Charles looked up and opened his mouth to speak Nathan pounced on him. And what did he do? He threw his arms around his neck and wrapped one leg around Nathan’s thigh like Scarlet O’Hara before the burning ruins of Tara, of course. Just to add a little comic relief Pickles wandered up then to remind them that it was the accepted practice to move away from burning buildings, and they should leave.

Numerous late-night talk show hosts got a lot of mileage out of the ‘flaming’ references. Charles had been invited to appear on one show to talk about the incident, ‘Night Life’ with Dan Weatherman, and he accepted. It was his first time before the camera instead of behind it, and he felt like a rabbit on the highway. On camera he looked like a little grey mouse. He was not the on-camera type. No hidden dreams of public fame for CF Ofdensen; he liked his quiet office just fine. As he nervously clutched a mug of brandy-spiked coffee, feeling wholly out of his element, he was confronted with that public kiss yet again on the monitor, and the host asked Charles if he had any idea at that moment that Nathan had feelings for him.

“I figured it out once his tongue passed my tonsils.”

“But you didn’t know?”

“No. Nathan’s… actually surprisingly shy.”

Dan gave Charles an ‘oh yeah?’ sort of look. “Is this the same Nathan Explosion who once screamed something to the effect of wanting the piles of women’s panties and men’s thongs on the stage in equal piles?”

“He’s really very sweet.”

“And he’ll kill you for saying otherwise. You live with the band, don’t you?”

“Yes, we all live together.”

“What’s it like living with Dethklok?”

And that was when it hit Charles. Here was the perfect vehicle for him to finally get some revenge on the little shits who were slowly but surely turning him grey. He couldn’t give away band secrets or anything, but a few humorous stories couldn’t hurt. Charles smiled at the show host, mentally hearing the distant howls of anguish.

“Well what would you like to know about first, Dan? The midnight games of Herring Ball, how many boxes of Jell-O it takes to fill a Jacuzzi, why it’s a bad idea to fling a flaming guitar from a trebuchet into your manager’s window, or should I just skip all that and get right to the story about the six foot dildo?”

Dan Weatherman was still staring in astonishment when Charles’ deth phone rang. Charles immediately recognized the number on the call display. He answered the cell phone, and held the speaker out to the mic on Weatherman’s desk. The voice belonged to Pickles.

“Do naht tell the dildo story! Just don’t! If you tell that dildo story, I swear we’ll…” Pause. Then Pickles addressed his band mates. “What’ll we do?”

There was another pause.

“Aw craps!” exclaimed Skwisgaar. “We don’t gots no dirts on Charlie! Nat’an tell him nots to tells da story!”

“All right, all right. Charles?”

“Yes Nathan?”

“Don’t tell the story about the dildo.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

There was some evil chuckling. “Yeah the one about Murderface and that bet he made with Pickles involving a hollow tube, a book of matches and a golf ball is way better.”

So that was it; one little kiss and Nathan and Charles were the most famous gay couple in the world. No surprise he remembered the kiss. He remembered the first time they made love equally well; Nathan hadn’t wasted any time now that he knew Charles returned his feelings. After all it was a long ride in the limo from the burning stadium to the airport. Nathan was careful and extremely gentle, and even as Charles lay in bed and thought about their first time, he could still feel the physical sensations of it, could even smell the smoke on their clothes.

That was one of Charles’ dearest memories, lying coated in soot and corpse paint on the floor of the limo.

He remembered getting pregnant, too. It had been two days after he had been sprayed with Sephiroth’s blood, and he and Nathan had been making love in their room on the Hatredkopter. They finished, then settled together to dream the night away, but suddenly Charles felt a very strange sensation within himself; a great rush of heat in his lower abdomen. It wasn’t painful or uncomfortable, just strange. He sat up, a hand over his belly, and looked at Nathan with large brown eyes.

“I’m pregnant,” he said, but even as the words left his mouth he wasn’t sure he believed it, or why he had even said it. Some instinct was trying to warn him of his condition, but he was male, and he knew such things didn’t happen. Nathan drew him close and tried to reassure him, and after a little while they fell asleep.

Three weeks later he threw up on Ozzy Osbourne.

So his memory wasn’t faulty. He recalled all the important events, everything from the first time he saw a mangy group of young men who would one day be the world’s biggest band to this very moment, snuggled amidst the warm bodies of his unconventional family.

But he didn’t remember birthing Lydia.

He remembered going into labour well enough. It hadn’t been like on TV at all; no sudden sharp pain followed by fifteen minutes of screaming and ending in birth. It had started slow, and easy. He read a bit, had some tea, did a crossword puzzle, then had a nap. By the time he woke up the contractions were getting harder. That was when Nathan showed up, a little afraid of what he was facing but unable to hide from it any longer. Charles had been thrilled to see him. He’d been less thrilled to see the rest of the crew, but it was hardly unexpected. And that was when it started getting a little fuzzy…

Why couldn’t he remember? Frustrated, Charles forced himself to think, to examine every minute of that night. What had happened? Why didn’t he remember?

It began coming back in small pieces, like a damaged film; comforting presences nuzzling him, gentle hands touching him, and voices. Quiet voices that sounded familiar, yet… weren’t. He heard Dr. Gaywell telling them she had to be allowed to help him, and a soft, guttural voice telling her in an authoritative tone to wait. Then he heard Pickles’ voice, but it seemed as if someone other than Pickles was using it.

“He’s flagging. He can’t do it himself. He’s too tired to push her out.”

Then he heard Nathan speak, but once more there was something strange about the voice. “You have to help him. My hands are too big.”

Eyes. Red eyes. Watching him. The doctor at the far end of the dark room, saying nothing, just staring in fear. Then something reached inside of him and pulled Lydia out…

Charles sat up abruptly and looked around. The room was extremely dark; all he could see were the dark silhouettes of four bodies, and a soulless red glow where their eyes should have been.

“We didn’t want you to see us like this,” said Pickles.

For the very first time in his life, Charles was terrified of his boys. He glanced at Nathan, and saw that he too was sitting up, and his eyes also were hell-red.

“What are you?” Charles asked, shaking.

“We don’ts know,” said Toki. “We gots no idea ats all. Dis didn’t starts happenings to us until we all gets together as a band.”

“We’re not dangerous,” said Pickles.

Charles gazed at them as they shifted uncomfortably, like dogs expecting a beating. He reached out to touch Pickles’ hair, as if assuring himself it was still his happy amiable little drummer.

“This is why those monsters are after you,” said Charles. “This is why the Tribunal are hunting you down. You’re not human. But what are you?”

“Don’t know,” said Nathan. “But… we’re not evil. Cursed, but… not evil.”

The red eyes blinked in the darkness, and Charles felt his fear subside, replaced by sympathy.

“Why didn’t you boys tell me?”

“Yeah,” said Murderface. “That would have made hiring you go real shmoothly. Oh by the way, we think we’re curshed.”

“Yes I can see your point, but later…”

Pickles shook his head. “We couldn’t risk it. We couldn’t risk you leaving.”

“You’re the only thing keeping us safe,” said Nathan.

Charles’ jaw dropped. “I am? Then… then why do every now and then the five of you get a wild hair up your butts and set out to do what I can only construe as a concerted effort to get me to leave?”

“We don’ts know,” said Toki. “Is likes pieces to puzzle, buts we don’t have alls da pieces.”

“There is something else,” said Nathan. “Some outside factor we don’t understand that wants you out of the way. But that’s not us.”

“So… who delivered my baby?”

“Pickle did,” said Toki.

“Pickles,” said Charles, his tone heavy with disbelief.

“You needed help!” said Nathan.

“And you decided that our borderline-alcoholic drummer was a more suitable choice than a trained physician?”

“We didn’t really think about it,” said Pickles.

Yeah he’d certainly heard that before.

“Well, no harm done, though in the future I would prefer a doctor.”

“Yeah well we had a bit of trouble getting the doctor back in,” said Pickles. “See… the curse makes us… act kinda strange. And… well… we get these… cravings sometimes when we see blood.”

Charles narrowed his own eyes, watching the five pairs of burning red orbs blink in contrition. “What did you boys do?” he asked, noticing his tone was much like that of any parent who has caught her little one up to no good.

“Nothing!” said Murderface, all innocence.

“Nothing?” inquired Charles, crossing his arms. “Nothing at all?”

“Well,” Pickles admitted sheepishly, “okay Nathan bit through the cord with his teeth and Toki and Skwisgaar ate the placenta, but other than that…”

“I have such a headache,” said Charles, then looked at Toki. “You ate the placenta?”

“Ja well Pickle tolds you we gets strange cravings.”

“Well have you eaten anything else I should be aware of?”

“Just a troll,” said Nathan. “And we thought about eating our therapist but… we just went into the walk-in cooler and had a haunch of raw beef instead.”

“Thank you, I am very glad you did not eat your therapist.” Charles looked at Toki once more. “You ate the placenta?”

Toki nodded. Some strange imp of perversion made Charles ask the next question.

“What did it taste like?”

“Was placenta-flavoured.”

Ech.

“Look, I don’t care if you boys are cursed. But in the future I would appreciate it if you did not eat any people. Okay? People are officially off your menu.”

“What’s about parts people is nots using anymore?” asked Toki. “You wasn’t goings to re-use dat placenta.”

“The placenta is fine. But nothing re-attachable. No toes, fingers, hands, feet, arms, legs, heads… in fact just… don’t eat people. I can’t believe I am having this conversation. No people!”

“Yeah we’ve… never really had that urge to tell you the truth,” said Nathan.

“No people,” promised Toki, and the others nodded. Charles smiled affectionately at them.

“Good boys. Now let’s get some rest.”

The group settled down once more, and silence fell within the room. Charles closed his eyes and sighed.

Well no one could say his life was dull….

“So why don’t I remember any of this?” asked Charles.

“We didn’t think you’d wanna,” said Murderface.

Boy ain’t that the truth.

“Yeah so we left in the good parts,” said Pickles. “Didn’t think you needed to recall the pain and the blood and the placenta-eating.”

So they had some powers. They could affect memory if they tried. What else could they do? And what did this Tribunal know that he didn’t? They must have some information to be stalking the boys as relentlessly as they were. He had to find out. He had to understand what was happening. What was it the old priest said before he passed away?

“The Metalocalypse has begun…”

Just what was he dealing with? Dammit his boys were not evil. They could be snots and prima donnas, but no more so than any other major celebrity. In fact Dethklok as a whole were considerably better behaved than many public figures Charles could name.

The Tribunal knew something about his boys that he didn’t; something that made them want to kill them. He had to find out what, and protect them. They were his boys; he couldn’t let them be hurt…

Oh dear God he was part of it…

There was a crackle and Charles looked up, hearing the voice of their pilot over the intercom.

“Approaching Gaia. We’ll be in Costa del Sol in a few hours.”

***---***

Cid had a good day. He got pomegranates for Vincent, spent some time banking and gliding over the ocean before coming home to get some work done, and now as evening drew near he walked towards his house, content with life and all around him. Then he felt something strange just as he reached his house; an odd change of pressure in the air, as if something was approaching. Then he heard a noise, a most familiar noise, like the four horsemen of the apocalypse riding hard.

“That’s the Hatredcopter,” he said, and began scanning the skies for a sign of the gigantic craft. He did not have to look long; soon he could see the massive form, making for the far end of the runway. Vincent popped out of the house, his short hair blowing in the wind of the mighty helicopter.

“What are they doing here, unannounced?” asked Vincent.

Cid didn’t answer. He began racing down the runway to meet the helicopter, reaching it just as it settled. The door opened, and suddenly Cid was pounced on by a highly distressed Norwegian with long brown hair. Cid caught him and held him tightly, feeling Toki wrap his arms and legs around him, nearly sending him onto his ass.

“Papa Cid!”

“Toki, baby! Why are you here?”

“Is horrible! Someone is poison Skwisgaar! Dey poison all of us! Dr. Gaywell says is mako an’ bring Skwisgaar to clinic! He’s dying. He’s all bones an’ he t’rows up an’ is horribles! We can’t takes da copter to Healin, we don’t know where is an’ is too big an’…”

Cid stroked the long brown hair, then set Toki down. “Okay baby, okay, it’s all right. I’ll get my small craft and take you and Skwisgaar up there right away. Can he sit up?”

Toki shook his head. “No.”

“So it’s bad.”

“Ja is real bad.”

“Okay. You wait here and I’ll get the Seagull. He can lie down in it.”

“Okies.”

Cid gave him a kiss on his brow, then ran back to the hangar, encountering Vincent along the way.

“Cid what’s the matter?”

“Someone has fed Skwisgaar a whole load of mako and he’s dying. I’m taking him and Toki up to Healin.” He kissed him firmly. “I won’t be gone long.”

Cid dashed into the hangar and over to the small aircraft he called The Seagull because of its white and grey colours. It was too small to take the whole band, but there was room enough for Skwisgaar to lie down in the back and have Toki sit with him. He taxied the small aircraft out to the gigantic copter, stopping it on the runway and hopping out of the cockpit. “Where’s Skwisgaar?”

Toki pointed to Nathan, who was holding a black quilt in his arms. Cid walked over to him and looked into the quilt, and was horrified to realize there was someone in it. Saying nothing, Cid scooped Skwisgaar up and carried him to the craft, lying him down on the floor, Toki hopping in after him. Cid slammed the door after him, got into the craft, and took off.

Vincent drifted over to the remaining members of the band, trailed by Benji, standing with them as they watched the plane go.

“I called another pilot,” said Vincent. “He’ll take the rest of you up.”

Charles nodded. “Good.” He looked at Vincent. “So what are his chances?”

“It depends on how badly damaged he is,” said Vincent. “There is some chance he could just die, or have his health ruined to the point that he won’t be able to play guitar anymore, and in that case he probably won’t live another five years anyway. Mako is nasty stuff in large dosages. But the people at Healin are the best, and Dr. Aldus Shinra specializes in this sort of thing. I’d say Skwisgaar’s chances are good.” He smiled slightly. “However he’s going to be a little… emotional… for a while.”

Pickles snorted. “Great. Skwisgaar emotional.”

“Better than dead,” said Nathan.

“What will you do if he dies?” asked Vincent.

“Retire,” said Nathan. “You can’t replace a matched set of guitarists, and if Skwisgaar is gone Toki won’t go on. If we replaced them it wouldn’t be the same. Not just the sound but… everything. We’re family. We’ll just… retire.”

Nathan felt someone tug on his pants leg and looked down to see Benji staring up at him. Benji was four now and amazingly articulate, unlike Aiden who rarely said anything. Nathan studied the little boy.

“Yes?” he asked.

Benji pointed to the well-worn black denim jeans Nathan was wearing. “Dose pants is awful. Do you mom dress you in da dark?”

Nathan blinked at the child, then looked at Vincent. “Is that how you teach your child to talk to people?”

“He’s four. One day that tiny precious bundle with the fuzzy black hair Charles is holding will be just as bad.”

Nathan seemed to think on that, then looked down at Benji once more.

“You need a makeover!” the child informed him sharply.

“You could ushe a day at the shpa,” said Murderface to Nathan. “You are looking a little rough. Maybe a nice mud bath, shome of those little cucumber thingsh over your eyesh…”

“New hair!” said Benji.

“Yeah the hair could shtand a little updating,” said Murderface.

Nathan growled at him quietly. “Come on,” said Vincent. “Come in and have a rest while the pilot drives over here and gets the plane ready. I’ll watch Lydia while you all get checked out.”