Azkadellia's Okay! Chapter 1: Things Explode; Iceland Blamed.

[luchia13]

AUTHORS: andrealyn and luchia13. Can we tell who did all of the header stuff?
TITLE: Azkadellia's Okay! (With Ambrose and the Cains' help), Chapter 1 : Things Explode; Iceland Blamed.
RATING: PG! Probably!
EVENTUAL PAIRING: Ambrose/Cain (or Cain/Ambrose; they're flexible. Well, Ambrose is at least.), WAAAY down the line Az/OC, Jeb/OC/OC :D
DESCRIPTION: When the Witch picks another target, everything changes. Including switching out the Roboparents for Ambrose and the only Tin Man who knows what's going on (and his kid).
This Chapter: Things look grim. But then the Queen pulls another Jesus out of her hair, which, sadly, she apparently won't do for anyone other than her daughters. And then they all get shoved into a Travel Storm and everyone fails miserably at Kansas-isms, such as understanding TV or modern art.



Azkadellia's Okay!
(With Ambrose and the Cains' help)

Chapter 1: Things Explode; Iceland Blamed.

The Witch smiled at them with her jagged teeth. “Let go.”

Azkadellia swallowed, holding her sister’s hand tight. “Don’t let go.” She began backing up, pulling DG along by the hand as the Witch followed, still smiling.

“I’ve called so long,” she whispered. Azkadellia managed to get a foot out of the cavern’s mouth, back into the cave. She could get to their parents, she and DG could run while their mom took care of this bit of trouble-

DG wasn’t moving anymore. Her red dress was glaringly bright against the darkness of the caves as she and the hag stared at each other, the Witch saying something that Azkadellia couldn’t hear.

“DG, don’t listen to her,” Azkadellia said, fear clenching inside of her stomach, watching as DG didn’t take a step backwards, but forwards. Azkadellia immediately followed the motion, not daring to let her hand go. “DG! Don’t let go, let’s get out of here, it’s dangerous!”

“But she’s so sad, Az,” DG said, still staring at the Witch, who smiled back at the younger princess. “She’s so…cold.” DG glanced back at Az. “We can help her.”

“Mom can help her,” Azkadellia said a bit sharply, moving to stand right behind DG, ready to yank her out of their by force if she had to. “She wanted us back home anyway, and I’m sure she can manage to find some way to help the cold.”

“So much light and warmth,” the Witch whispered, and grinned up at Azkadellia. “Let go.”

“No.” She wrapped her other hand around DG’s small waist, keeping their hands together. “DG, we’re leaving.” They had to leave. She could feel it. The hag in front of them was dangerous; she had to move DG out of the way. If one of them was going to end up caught by the Witch, Azkadellia refused to let it be her little sister.

“No.”

Azkadellia shuddered. They’d spoken at the same time. The Witch and DG were already too close. That strange form of empathy DG had always had was being turned against her. Why couldn’t DG just be scared? Why did she make Azkadellia feel like a coward, even though she knew it was nothing but being sensible and knowing when to run away from something too big for them? “Remember the bear, DG?” Azkadellia whispered, clinging to DG. “Remember how scared we were, but we got away safely? We need to leave.”

DG looked right at her sister, head tilting up and blinking at her. “But bears don’t get scared like she is. We’re scaring her.”

“Then we should leave and let her relax,” Azkadellia said quickly, wondering where DG was getting all this information. She’d always known when Azkadellia was sad, or angry, always known when Dad needed a hug or Mom needed a smile, but Azkadellia had never known that talent ran so deeply.

“Don’t leave me,” the Witch said.

Azkadellia glared at the hag, and grabbed her sister, trying to drag her out of the cavern.

DG let go of her hand and slid out from Azkadellia’s loose grasp, the fine fabrics of their dresses turning against them. Buttons snapped off the top of Azkadellia’s dress, and the Witch laughed and laughed and laughed as she suddenly absorbed into her sister, her creatures on the walls flying into the youngest princess. DG slumped to the ground, panting.

“DG?!” Azkadellia shouted from the mouth of the cavern, eyes tearing up because her little sister wasn’t moving, was just lying there. But Mom knew how to fix that, right? She…she always knew how to fix things, Mom could always make everything better, and Azkadellia found herself sprinting out of the cave, her top flapping against her chest, the buttons that remained on it flying off as she ran, still holding the lantern until she finally got to the gazebo. The lantern smashed against the ground.

“Azkadellia?” her mother asked, mouth in a perfect o as she looked at her daughter, who was crying and dirty. The Queen’s mind immediately jumped into a fit of rage, only for Azkadellia to start pointing, sobbing out what had happened.

“DG, she…we were in a cave because she heard something and she let go and wouldn’t leave and she fell and won’t get up, Mom, she won’t get up.” She slumped to the floor in front of her mother.

“What are you talking about? See, DG’s right there,” her mother said, and smiled. Azkadellia’s head whipped around.

She was skipping over, looking like her sister, but it wasn’t her sister. It wasn’t DG. There was something much, much darker in what had been light blue eyes.

“…Angel?” their mother asked, frowning. She could see it too.

“I fell down, but I’m okay,” DG said. “I feel better than okay.” Her eyes turned straight to her older sister, and she smiled. “I’m warm.”

---

The Queen was pacing when Ambrose entered her chambers, which immediately set him on edge. That, and the fact that her hair had suddenly gone from raven black to a golden gray, almost matching the color of fur on her cape. Her eyes were bloodshot, and it seemed like all the strength in her had suddenly decided to drain away.

He didn’t blame her, of course. The death of a child would do that to any mother, although Ahamo seemed to have taken it better than the Queen, although packing up and hopping back into his balloon to head for gods knew where, maybe back to the Otherside, maybe not, wasn’t healthy. But he’d managed some small smiles at Azkadellia’s funeral, small laughs, small hugs. The Queen had simply sat next to the marble casket, staring at the graining in the stone, not answering to anyone’s whispered condolences or sympathy.

“Your Majesty?” Ambrose bowed, but that was where his reverence ended. He walked forward, putting a hand on one of her shoulders. “Are you alright, your Majesty? I know your daughter’s death has been hard on you. It’s been hard on all of us. But-”

“Azkadellia, would you come here for a moment, darling?” the Queen called out.

For a moment, the Advisor truly feared for his Queen’s sanity, truly believed that her heir’s death had driven her to hallucinations and insanity, the mind’s final way of coping. But when a solemn Azkadellia in a lilac dress and black belt walked through the door, watching Ambrose like a cornered animal watched a predator, he wondered which of them was insane. Her death had hit him hard, too, just as DG’s sudden seclusion at her sister’s death had. He cared deeply for both princesses, and the Queen was kind enough to let him indulge in acting almost like their uncle, let him come along on an occasional picnic and, on one occasion, the girls let him tag along on one of DG’s little ‘adventures’, although it had really just been a stroll around the lake at the Northern Island.

“Az…Azkadellia?” he finally managed to say, staring at the dead girl. News of her death had made him go a bit more solemn over the week, the lab no longer a whirlwind of work and fun for all that worked in it, the inventions not so kind. He’d been bitter enough to draw up the schematics for something that could have slowed the suns, as if the invention was a step towards traveling back in time to rescue her from simply expiring in the night. It had other benefits, of course, it extended the growing season and could soften the winters that sometimes killed half the northern populations of the OZ, but his humanitarian side had almost died with Azkadellia.

“I need to protect her, Ambrose,” the Queen said, walking over to her daughter and wrapping an arm around the twelve-year-old, who was nothing but rigid in her arms, still watching Ambrose. “I need you to help me protect her.”

“Of course, your Majesty,” Ambrose breathed. He wanted to hug Azkadellia, but knew better than to try if her back was up like that. “Anything you need, for either yourself or Azkadellia.” He wanted to call her Azka-D, wanted to just touch her to make sure she was real. “What happened? How is she-” He stopped mid-sentence, the answer clicking as soon as he noticed the contrast of Azkadellia’s dark hair against her mother’s. “Your magic. You gave up your magic to give her life again. Then why the funeral? Why the-”

“DG killed me,” Azkadellia said, and Ambrose’s head spun, eyes going wide.

Now he was the one pacing, a hand going into his hair. “I…but you two love each other, you adore each other, why would she kill you? You’ve always been the one who watched over her during those adventures of hers, the one who protects her-”

“That’s exactly why, Ambrose,” the Queen said quietly, and he stopped pacing, eyes meeting her lavender ones. “Azkadellia has spent the past four months trying to convince DG to throw a wicked Witch out of her, trying to save her. But with the crises in the south I felt…” She shook her head. “I have been a fool, Ambrose, putting the OZ in front of my own family’s well-being. That ends today. And that is why I need your help.”

“Anything,” he said again, knowing not to argue with her self-loathing since it never did anyone any good. “How can I help?”

“DG and the Witch will continue to do nothing but wreak havoc as much as they can. DG’s age, of course, will slow the Witch down a bit, but that doesn’t mean she still can’t kill.”

“Obviously,” Azkadellia said, and Ambrose shuddered. It wasn’t wrath in her voice, but guilt. For what, he wasn’t quite sure, and he didn’t know if he ever wanted to know, either.

The Queen hugged her daughter tighter.

“Some magic remains in me,” she said softly. “The OZ isn’t safe anymore. I’m not sure if it ever was after the Witch escaped, but we thought just because of her age that we had time to try and save DG.” She looked straight at Ambrose. “I want you to take Azkadellia to the Otherside. Teach her, keep her safe, and wait until the time is right to return. When the double Eclipse is coming, return. Find the Emerald of the Eclipse.”

He could read the look in the Queen’s eyes. Make sure she’s strong enough to face her sister as an opponent. He was fairly certain the thought made all three of them share the same amount of heartbreak.

“I have enough power for two, maybe three Travel Storms,” she said simply. “I have no experience on the Otherside and no idea how you should dress or act, but blend in as quickly as you can. Ambrose, I trust your ingenuity to find a way to make your lives good ones.”

“I’ll do my best,” he bowed, mind already making a list of things he might need, things that might be useful.

“I have Azkadellia already packed and prepared. I consulted with…with my husband before his departure, and he said that things such as this would be alright for Azkadellia. He suggested pants and a shirt for you.”

Despite himself, Ambrose found himself frowning. “Just a shirt?” The thought was almost preposterous, and at the tiny, barely noticeable smiles on the girls’ mouths, he could tell they both thought the same thing, and he’d finally managed to amuse them. He shook his head. “I’m sorry your Majesty, but I’m going to be looking a little unorthodox, at least in the beginning. I’ll find the simplest coat I can, but…” He just shook his head. No coat. What was the Otherside thinking?

“I trust your ingenuity,” the Queen said, smiling. It was a genuine, true smile this time, and it made him smile back. “You’re a very good shapeshifter when you need to be, even if you always stay human.” She sighed, and put a gentle kiss on Azkadellia’s head, moving aside. “You leave tonight. I’ll be waiting outside the gate with Azkadellia at moonrise. Stay cloaked, even until you reach the nearest settlement on the Otherside. My husband suggested a nice city near the standard drop areas, you’ll be about two hours away from that if traveling on foot.”

“I understand,” Ambrose nodded, and bowed, knowing what the end of a meeting sounded like.

“…Ambrose?” Azkadellia asked hesitantly, and his head jerked up, seeing she had stepped towards him, still looking cautious, and lost.

“Aw, come here, Azka-D,” he found himself saying despite himself, getting on one knee and hugging the twelve-year-old princess. “I’ll take care of you, promise. Already lost you once, I’m not letting it happen again.”

She nodded against his shoulder, and with one pat on her head (something she supposedly hated, which meant he liked doing it just to see her fake pout and she let him do because he always looked like a goofy idiot when he smiled at how bouncy her little hair tufts were and how adorable she looked when he pushed them down) he moved aside, and went off to pack, and plan, and prepare.

He also wrote a fake suicide note and managed to find a very, very big rock to throw into the lake, stealing some chain along with it to make the note seem more legitimate. He threw it in just before moonrise, already dressed and cloaked, lugging a big bag on his back as he headed for the gates.

They were waiting for him when he got there. Azkadellia got one last hug and kiss from her mother, along with a necklace that was nothing but a tiny clear piece of crystal on a silver thread, and the storm was there. Ambrose apologized to Azkadellia when he hugged her to his chest tight enough that she was nearly having trouble breathing, but when they made it out, tumbling into wide grasses and a one-moon sky, he let her go, laying on the grass for a moment to stare up at the foreign sky, one with constellations he didn’t know, and stood up, offering a hand to Azkadellia. She took it, still wobbling from the dissipated Travel Storm.

“Let’s go learn how to be Othersiders now, hmm?” Ambrose smiled down at her, flinging their hoods back and lugging the bag behind him.

Azkadellia nodded hesitantly, smiling a bit, and they began to walk towards the burst of lights on the horizon, her hand still clasped tightly in his.

--

There was a daily routine that the Cain household ascribed to, one that kept them in order and kept Wyatt Cain in high regards when it came to being respected by the other Tin Men. His boy was only five annuals, but he was never in trouble or late for anything and Adora Cain was something of a legend within the halls of the various buildings. She was well-known to do as much as her husband when it came to the care and defence of Central City’s guards, constantly bringing support, good cheer, stories, and a pragmatic eye to the situation. More than once, it had been Adora Cain’s suggestion that helped moved a strategy from being good to being sensible and realistic. Jeb Cain was a delight to have in the halls and whenever they visited the main headquarters for the Tin Men in Central City, the spirits were lifted, seeing as they looked to Cain as a somewhat unofficial captain (even though he always refused accolades or actual promotions).

Adora and Jeb were family, they said, and they were always welcome.

That was why they were there the day it happened.

Occasionally, there were days in which the guards of the shining city on the hill were let to relax, seeing as crime was at a low point (which was strange, seeing as Cain had never seen crime dip this low before, at least, in Central). Some of the villages down South were reporting some strange occurrences, but it had more to do with the landscape and seeing as the Tin Men couldn’t slap a pair of chains on nature, they didn’t offer much help when it came to the rescuing and arresting.

“This is weird,” one of the new recruits was muttering. “I mean, really weird.”

“You keep saying that, Nick, I swear to the gods...” one of the older veterans muttered under his breath.

He wasn’t wrong, though. Never before in Cain’s career did he ever see a lull like this before. It wasn’t just crime, it was everything. It was like the city had taken a great big deep breath and had forget to let it out and things were building up and building up and something had to give. Cain himself was waiting for Adora’s arrival. She’d left Jeb in the care of neighbors and he’d been glad to agree for lunch with his wife. She was never late, always punctual, so when one o’clock rolled around and the suns were blaring away in the sky, Cain watched Adora cross the threshold of the building in her simple dress, boots clacking against the floors as she made her way to Cain’s side, kissing his cheek.

She’d been carrying a small leather pouch with her and Cain made a point to ask about it by raising a brow.

“Treats for your men,” she said. “I know I’d never hear the end of it if I came empty-handed.”

Cain smiled ruefully and brought her close for a full-on kiss on the lips, affectionate and passionate at once as he wrapped an arm around her waist and gave a peck to think about before he let her go, winding her way up the familiar corridors. “Don’t let them get too grabby when it comes to thanking you,” he warned, tipping his hat as he watched the view.

“You didn’t teach me to shoot a gun for nothing, Wyatt Cain,” she threw her drawled retort over her shoulder. The sounds of many a man clamoring in pleasure at her arrival made Cain smile wider and he checked the clock sitting above the desk by the main entrance. Nearly one o’clock now.

“Mister?” a young voice disrupted his thoughts.

Cain turned to look at the source - a young girl of no more than six annuals holding a little doll with buttons for eyes - though it was already missing one. She was holding onto the hand of a man in a thick black leather coat, one who looked familiar, but whose name Cain couldn’t place, exactly. He had it in mind that maybe it was a number of some kind, but his attention was purely on the little girl, as if he couldn’t take his eyes off of her and those bright, brilliant blue eyes. “What is it, kid?”

“This is the big main Central City headquarters for all the Tin Men, right?” she asked, with a slight lisp to her words. “Like, where they all are?”

“You got it,” Cain agreed with a slight smile.

He couldn’t have known it, but there was something just a mite strange about the way she smiled when he told her that. Her lips curved up, but it definitely didn’t look like a childish smile of innocence he’d ever seen before in all his life. In fact, it looked downright calculating and almost like it had a lot of malice in it.

“Thanks!”

They left after that, but not before one of the button-eyes of her doll pried loose and clattered loudly on the floor.

The clock read 12:58.

Cain swooped down to pick up the button and followed the girl and her chaperone out the front door, adjusting his hat as the suns beat down on his head. “Kid?” he called out. The button or the stone or whatever it was felt cold in his palm and she wasn’t turning away. They just kept walking forward and it almost looked like she was skipping, which made Cain smile to himself. He hurried to catch up, taking the long strides needed and offered the button. “You dropped this,” he pointed out, getting a good look at both the girl and the doll in the light of the suns. “Kid, aren’t you the Princess?” he asked warily, taking a look at the doll, which had a strange resemblance to the mourned Princess Azkadellia, at least in terms of all that hair and the dress. He supposed it wasn’t that odd for physical representations to pop up after the funeral, seeing as the O.Z. tended to always love a good story about the Royal family.

“Nope,” the girl said sweetly. “Guess I just look lots like her. Thanks for the eye.”

The man accompanying her gave him something of a sneer as they departed and Cain just watched them go, back to the building.

He didn’t even see the first explosion.

He heard it. Everyone in Central City heard it. Those who were spans away on the map felt the ground rumble beneath their feet and wondered if the earth was quaking or whether something foul was in the air that had left the city on edge, like it was sinking. Wyatt Cain was the closest of all and there was no mistaking just what the sound was, what the flash of heat engulfing him was. He turned slowly and for a moment, it couldn’t be real, seeing as what Cain was seeing was the rubble of a building that had been filled with people.

adora

There had been his coworkers, just about everyone he’d ever worked with, some of the sweetest support staff Cain had ever met.

adora

And Adora. Adora. Cain didn’t realize he was shouting it until he was sprinting inside to search through the rubble and look for the survivors. Something in his mind was convincing himself that there was no possible way that Adora could be gone because he could still taste her lipstick on his lower lip from the kiss and still felt the way she’d held him in that lobby. Adora, he shouted, but it sounded hazy in his ears, like an underwater echo. He couldn’t find anyone alive, just bodies. Bodies and corpses and pieces of a building he’d been devoting his life’s work to.

He found the device before he found Adora.

Right beside the trigger amidst the random pieces of cinder and paraphernalia - papers, badges, charred pieces of clothing - there was one little item.

A small button, little enough to be the eye of someone’s doll.

Cain felt his stomach turn, but it solidified his purpose as he rose to his feet and kept looking amidst the stones, knowing that he had to put out a call for whatever was left of the Tin Men out there in remote locations. They had a secondary outpost in Central City in the jail where officers worked and he would just walk in there and tell them exactly what happened, it’d be as simple as that. On his way out, he found her.

She wasn’t breathing anymore and her eyes were shut. Compared to some of the others, she looked to be in fine condition and Cain might have even believed she was only sleeping if it weren’t for the fact that she was covered in soot and bleeding and her chest didn’t raise and fall once in the entire time Cain was kneeling over her body, tears on his cheeks, words choked up in his throat so badly that he couldn’t speak. He leaned over, a kiss pressed to her forehead and when Cain opened his eyes, the world was still all askew. It was hard to believe that just five minutes past, everything had been normal and he could have pretended that his life was just as happy and good as the next man’s. Now, it was hard to pretend when he was choking on soot and ash and echoing voices were in his ears, asking if he was okay. He felt someone’s hand on his arm, but he just clenched his fist around the jewelled eye a little tighter and stared down at his wife’s calm face, as if she’d just decided to go to sleep.

“I need to find them.”

“Who, sir?”

The voice sounded like one of the recruits he’d sent out to do patrol, putting him out of harm’s way. Guilt flooded Cain, then, as he wondered about all the men and women who’d lost their lives and if he had just had them out on the streets, it would have been fine. But crime had been so low that they hadn’t needed as many Tin Men out there and that sick feeling revisited with a holy vengeance as Cain swiftly realized this was all planned.

“The girl,” he snarled. “The little girl, she did this.”

“The...little girl?” Things were slowly coming back into focus for Cain and instead of seeing a blurry version of everything, he could start to see faces of people whose names he knew, he could see the damage all around him, and he could see the blood and wreckage. All the records were lost, some of the highest-ranking Tin Men had been in the blast, and it had all been planned, Cain was sure of it.

He looked up and under the brim of his hat laid one of the O.Z.’s most determined faces it had ever seen. “Little girl of about six annuals, looks a lot like the Princess DG, she wandered in here and she did this.”

“Sir,” the Tin Men sputtered, sounding lost.

“She did!”

“Sir?”

“Look, I found one of her doll’s parts by the bomb mechanism,” Cain insisted, starting to sound desperate now. One hand was still resting possessively atop Adora’s and he was fighting harder than ever to make his case, but it was doing less good than before. In fact, he’d got himself something of a crowd of four men, who were exchanging wary glances with each other and silently asking what they were going to do.

Someone must have taken charge, because one of them stepped forward. “Mr. Cain, I think we ought to bring you into the jail t’il you calm down,” he said politely. “Just for the night, okay? A little bit of solitary.”

Cain realized only later that they’d figured he was a suspect, being the only survivor who’d been at the building hours before. At the moment, he was still too mired in the panic and the grief to understand what they were doing.

He punched one of them with a strong right hook and fought all the way up until they cuffed him, at which point he turned to his right and looked one of the newer boys up and down. “You. What’s your name?”

“Christopher, sir.”

“You get to go watch my boy until I’m done,” he instructed sternly. “Anything happens to him and you’ll be wishing you were inside when that thing went off, got it?” he demanded, voice low and extremely dangerous. The man named Christopher nodded - though he looked a lot more like a boy trying to look manly than anything else. “Go,” Cain ordered, and let the remaining men cuff him and bring him to the jail, all the while he insisted that it’d been the six-annual-old.

The jail was a dank little place down a row of strange shops that had little to nothing to do with it. It was wedged in beside a candy store and a women’s clothing store. It wasn’t that they planned for it to be like that, but the jail had been a long-established structure and the stores had built up around it. They put Cain in one of the nicest cells they had with white-washed walls and a window that didn’t even have bars shading the glass (though it was definitely well-guarded). It was in the back corner of the precinct and he was there for forty-eight holding hours.

No one had actually told him that, but they hadn’t needed to. By then, the grief had worn off just enough for Cain to remember the process of things.

Nothing happened for the first six hours, even though he told every officer and Tin Man he saw about the little girl and the man with her. He kept talking and talking more and he was sure that there were rumors going around by now of the Tin Man driven insane by his wife’s death, gone kooky, but he wasn’t making anything up. He knew what he’d seen.

It was the second morning that things started to turn toward the stranger.

That was when the Queen of the O.Z. showed up in a hooded-purple garment, looking all the realm like she was about to knight Cain on the spot. He was draped on the bunk, just staring up at her. He refused to let the cell move him to any kind of regrettable action and had instead spent every waking moment going through his memories of Adora and praying to the gods that she’d be taken care of.

He swore to get his revenge on whatever was doing this, too, but that thought came in bursts every few minutes or so.

“Mr. Wyatt Cain,” the Queen announced. Behind her cloak, there was a slight rustling and Cain stood, walking his way slowly over to note that she had Jeb with her and his boy was crying. It looked like he hadn’t stopped crying for a long time. The bars between Cain and his son had about two minutes before Cain started ripping them apart with his bare hands to get to his boy.

The violence wasn’t needed though, seeing as the Queen quietly instructed a guard to open the door and leave them be.

Cain didn’t even wait until the doors of his prison were open for him to descend on his boy and wrap his arms tightly around him, pulling him close and whispering platitudes that weren’t so much honest as they were desperate to try and comfort Jeb. He whispered ‘it’s okay’ a lot and ‘she’s in a better place now’ more than that, which he wished he believed. The Queen let him do all this, never interrupting the moment between father and son. She wasn’t exactly going anywhere either, so Cain lifted Jeb into his arms and held on protectively.

“Majesty,” he greeted politely.

“Wyatt, I heard what happened and I am most terribly sorry for your loss.” Her voice was soft and it drifted over him. “I don’t mean to hurry along your grieving, but I must ask you to do something. It is not quite an order, but it is close. The entire O.Z. depends upon you.” Cain had the feeling she knew of him somehow, seeing as she was playing on his sense of duty. “My Azkadellia has been sent to the Otherside in order to protect her life and with her, I’ve sent a most-trusted Advisor. However, they need protection and with so many of the Tin Men in the city mourned and so many blind to the danger, it has fallen to you.”

“The girl,” he insisted. “You actually believe me?” He was acting suspicious, but after his day, he really couldn’t be blamed. He’d heard the part about Azkadellia, but he didn’t have the presence of mind to think about whatever kind of conspiracy this was. All he cared about was the fact that she didn’t think he was completely insane.

“Yes,” the Queen agreed, sounding awkward. “The girl. You would be gone for fifteen annuals until the double eclipse is upon our realm,” she warned. “But your Jeb would go with you. You would watch over Ambrose and Azkadellia until it is time and a storm comes. The fate of the O.Z. and all its people rest upon this action, I am afraid and I would not ask if I did not think it crucial.”

She wasn’t asking. Cain had known that from the first moment she’d walked into the cell. She was telling him exactly what was going to happen.

“Will you answer the call?”

Cain held Jeb tighter in his arms and thought of his home, of Adora’s smile, of the things that just two days ago, he’d known as his life and he thought of what she was asking. “Fifteen annuals.”

“You would be sent with adequate currency and instructions to guide your task.”

Fifteen annuals.

Jeb’s grasp tightened on Cain’s shirt and he held on as much as he possibly could. “Fine,” he agreed, one sharp grunt of a word. “When do you want us to g...” was all he got out of his mouth before there was a soft clap.

The next thing Cain knew, he was falling out of a storm with Jeb in his arms and something slung around his waist. His holster was with him, as was the gun - thank the gods - and it seemed as if the Queen had stuck true to her word about sending him with everything they needed. The field looked to be some kind of wheat-growing area and a large sign in front of him welcome him to Baker, Kansas.

So this was the Otherside.

“Father?” Jeb spoke up finally, his voice sounding hoarse and small. “Where are we?”

“Looks like our new home, son.”

--

At first, Cain hadn’t counted on needing a job straightaway. He always intended on getting himself one, but he thought he’d take a while to get him and Jeb accustomed to life on the Otherside. The first thing he’d noticed was the technology. Cain had always been a simple man and they hadn’t even had one of those fancy telephones you’d see sometimes in Central. He figured if you needed to get in contact with someone, a personal message or a visit would do just fine.

He and Jeb had got themselves set up in a ‘motel’ and Ahamo had sent money over, which Cain had used to buy the necessities of food, clothing (more for Jeb than for Cain, who was hesitant to part with his wear), and the rest.

The need for a job came from the fact that five days in, Cain was bored and his little journeys over to watch this Ambrose and Azkadellia didn’t take up enough of his time. He’d figured out just what they looked like and noted their regular patterns and found he had too many free hours a day, even including all the time he took to play with Jeb and do the Queen’s bidding.

The strangest thing of all was the culture. He couldn’t wear his holster out in public anymore, which irritated him more than a little, and while it could have been a worse shock to the system, people still acted a whole lot differently than anyone he’d ever met in the O.Z.

He’d come home from another day of Azkadellia-protecting to find Jeb lying on one of the two beds in the room, peering at the box that kept flashing images. “Jeb?” Cain asked warily.

“It’s telling me a story,” Jeb replied, dazed, and that was that.

So even at night, he barely had conversation and mostly kept to himself, reading through the paper for jobs in his line. Eventually, there came something and the sheer leap of hope when it came to the thought of having something to do during the day was enough to let Cain know he had sat too long on this - even if it was only five days, which was a lifetime for an impatient Cain.

The man interviewing him was the former Sheriff, a man on his way out of town and looking for a replacement. Seems that they didn’t trust anyone currently in the department to take over. There wasn’t much to choose from. Cain had sized them up the moment he’d walked in and taken off his hat - funny, but the hat wasn’t out of place at all in Baker, Kansas. It seemed that was one thing that fit right in.

He’d conformed to the Otherside’s ideas of trousers and wore a tight pair of jeans with his faded button-down atop, vest giving him something for his fingers to hold onto as he slowly walked into the room and looked over the other three men who weren’t the departing Sheriff, tipping his hat to each and every one. If he was going to get this job, he’d need a good heap of respect for down the line.

The first one was gangly and young. He looked wiry and shaky and there was something to him that told Cain that he couldn’t shoot a gun if his life depended on it.

The second was clearly not even a deputy, seeing as she was doing the filing and acting as the assistant in the small area. Unless something real strange were going on, there was no way she’d be taking over the job.

The last looked angry. Cain knew better than anyone else that angry people mixed with power just never worked out and he could too easily see why they’d been eager to pass over this black-haired deputy for the promotion.

It still didn’t mean he had the job in his pocket. It just meant that door of opportunity was open.

He made a note to himself to drop by the college again and check on Ambrose when he was done, as it couldn’t hurt to overprotect. After all, he hadn’t done his job right the first time and that was how he got himself into this mess, how he had lost Adora. So he steeled himself and sat down in the chair opposite an ageing man who looked all-too-ready to be gone and out of there. ‘Going smaller places,’ he’d said to Cain, which made Cain wonder if smaller places than Baker existed, but he supposed there was always a smaller size to achieve until you had two people in a shack.

“So, Wyatt,” the Sheriff started, immediately setting Cain on edge. No one called him Wyatt, not really.

“Cain, sir,” he corrected politely.

“Cain. Why are you qualified for a job when you don’t even have a resume or references to give to me?” the man asked.

Cain didn’t know what in the Realm a resume was and all his references were being buried in the ground, which made Cain go somewhat stoic. And then he decided he needed this job. Not only did it pay a fair penny, but it would keep him busy and it would give him authority in the event he needed it. “Last job I had, we lost ninety-percent of my guys,” he said, honestly. “I left soon after that, seeing as I needed a fresh start. You give me a month, just a month, and I’ll show you that you’ll never make a better choice than having me replace you to continue this fine work you’ve been doing.”

Because Cain might not have had paper or little notes to slip across the table, but when it came to trial runs, he was definitely in a league of his own.

“A trial?” the Sheriff asked and by the interested sparkle in his eyes, Cain knew that he had the man, dead to rights to the idea. “I don’t know. We could always just put Lambton in charge,” he pointed out, gesturing to the black-haired man.

“You won’t,” Cain said, leaning back in his chair and taking off his hat to smooth a hand through his hair. “Seeing as you’re worried about an aggression charge with him and the girl’s obviously not got enough training yet, even if you’re trying to teach her some self-defense-“ He’d seen it in her stance, in the way she judged a room. “-and Skinny over there, well, you’re just worried he’ll take someone’s eye out with a gunshot.”

Slowly, just barely, Cain could make out an impressed smile on the Sheriff’s face, but he was doing his best to mask it. “That so?”

“Indeed it is,” Cain agreed, cool as a cucumber and confident to boot. Either he’d get the job or he was going to get kicked out for being too smug in the interview, but either way, Cain wasn’t about to make himself look less than his best when he’d done much harder than this. He figured this job couldn’t even dare to compare to tracking a wayward murderous Papay through the South during a rainy season. And he’d got the little bite-happy beast. “I’m a stranger, granted, and new to the community, but I plan on being here with my boy for a lot of ...time.” He had to cut himself off before he said annuals and half the time, he still did that. “I’d like to see him grow up in this here fine community and I’d like to make sure it stays a safe place.”

The Sheriff looked nearly convinced, but it still looked like Cain would need another push.

“A month’s trial,” the Sheriff repeated, brushing his thumb over his greying beard. “You’ve got yourself a deal, Mr. Cain. You start tomorrow.”

Which just meant he would have time today to peek in on Ambrose and Azkadellia one more time.

--

Ambrose Brown had every qualification you could want in a new professor. A Bachelor degree in Political Science from Princeton, during which he’d studied abroad at Oxford, a Masters in Physics from Stanford (the man had praised the sunny beaches and sound of the surfers), and a PhD in what Ambrose Brown called Alchemistral Engineering and his degree called Civil Engineering, which the department decided must have just been some form of translation change, considering it was from the University of Paris, or ‘Sorbonne!’ as the dean had whispered and looked at the degree in awe while Doctor Brown (who seemed to keep wincing at his title and continued to go “Ambrose, please”) stood in front of them, smiling.

Doctor Jane Walker, who was head of the English department and the leading expert on Post-Civil War Western American Folk Poetry (commonly called ‘Cowboy Poems’), had been staring at the man since he walked in. He was wearing loose and flattering brown pants, a tastefully chosen white dress shirt that was tight in the right places and loose in them too, and a brown coat that was almost in a Napoleonic style, even though it didn’t have anything more ornate than some yellow trim on the cuffs and collar. But he smiled through the entire interview, answered question after question about every single degree and what he’d learned with it like he’d learned it when he was twelve and found the entire thing funny, and was willing to not only teach entry-level classes but also help out graduates and undergraduates with lab work. He even seemed excited about those two things, where most people with his qualifications just accepted it to get their own time in the facilities.

The Dean even gave him a 500-level course, at which Ambrose had immediately asked “So I’d have five hundred students in a class I create completely on my own?”

He was funny, he was handsome, he was smart, and the best thing about him was why exactly he was there.

“Now Do…ah, apologies. Ambrose,” the Dean had said, beaming at the man, who was smiling right back. “You’re…well, you’re quite the catch for a private university like Baker. What brought you here? Surely one of your alma maters offered you a position.”

“I actually held a position at one,” he nodded, face going a bit sad. “But I moved here for my niece. Her family situation…deteriorated, and when her mother asked, I immediately came here with her. It’s a big change for the both of us, but hopefully a good one.”

Handsome, funny, smart, and already a caring, devoted family man.

“Well, welcome to Baker University, Ambrose,” the Dean smiled, and had gotten up to shake the newest faculty member’s hand while the rest clapped, waiting for their own turn to shake his hand. For some reason, just being around Ambrose made them feel that bit more self-assured and content. He was a comforting presence.

When he walked back out, putting his credentials back in the ratty briefcase that it looked he could have gotten down at the thrift store for a few dollars but undoubtedly had sentimental value, Jane Walker followed him, joining Ambrose on the stairs and smiling at him. “So have you gotten the campus tour yet?” she asked.

Ambrose smiled at her. “Actually, I’m going on one tomorrow with a group of incoming freshmen. I always feel like a student when I’m in a school, no matter how old I get. So much to learn, so little time, after all.”

“Ambrose!” a young girl called out, and suddenly the man was practically jumping down the stairs. In fact, when he reached the last landing, he actually hopped himself over it with a slightly unnerving ease, beaming at a dark-haired girl in a green sundress, who smiled back at him. She had elaborately done-up hair, the type Jane hadn’t seen in real life aside from Halloween parties and her occasional Wild West Reenactment trips. The girl looked like she could have stepped right out of some of that poetry.

“Guess who’s got a job here now!” he grinned, and hugged her. She hugged back, and shrieked with laughter when her uncle scooped her up and sent her twirling through the air.

When he set her down, she’d still been smiling and giggling, but cleared her throat and said, “You mustn’t do that, Ambrose.”

And Ambrose had immediately bowed, actually bowed, and said, “Of course, your Highness. No more twirling Azka-D around in public places.” He’d actually sounded sincere, too.

And then she’d smacked him on the shoulder, heading back out of the main building and onto The Strip, the original row of buildings from the oldest years of Baker University. She stopped him in front of one of the sculptures, though, gesturing to the glittering, holey piece of metal that was half-fountain, with how it dripped water out of the top and down the sheet it was attached to.

“What is it?” the niece had asked.

Ambrose had stared at it. “It’s a…” He paused, tilting his head to the side, squinting. “A…fountain? Non-functional fountain, at least.” He frowned. “I’d think there was a high-caliber bullet that went through it, but there’s not any damage to the surrounding buildings.”

“Maybe it was moved here?” Azkadellia suggested brightly.

“Aha!” Ambrose said, and smiled. “It’s a memorial. To…something involving high-caliber bullets.”

Amused, Jane Walker approached them. “It’s a piece of art from one of our graduate students. Not fans of modern art, I take it?”

“Why would the age of a piece of art matter?” Azkadellia asked.

Jane laughed, immediately charmed by Azkadellia. Both Browns were adorable, apparently. “The art movement. Well, this could technically be postmodern, but art analysis isn’t my department.” She winked. “Literally.”

Ambrose stifled a laugh at the look Azkadellia had on her face from the wink. She opened her mouth, but Ambrose spoke over her. “Azkadellia Brown, meet Jane Walker. She works here too, head of the…English department, if I’m not mistaken?”

“That’s right,” she said, honestly surprised that he’d remembered. Everyone had been introduced to him in the interview, but it had been a point-and-told sort of introduction. “How did you manage to remember?”

“Everyone’s important,” Ambrose smiled. “And if I’m going to be working with a group of people introduced to me, I make sure to at least know their job and name.” He looked down at Azkadellia. “A good thing to learn, maybe?”

“Yes, Ambrose,” Azkadellia said, sounding rather disappointed for some reason. Ambrose patted her on her elaborate hairdo, and she swatted his hand off, giving him a playful pout.

“So have you gotten a tour of Baker, then? The town, I mean, not the campus.” She smiled at him. “Already got that answer.”

“Oh, I toured it extensively,” Ambrose nodded. Jane got a feeling there was something funny about that statement. It was probably the slightly devious glimmer in Ambrose’s eyes that made her wonder if he was a professor by day and a cat burglar by night. “We are living in a hotel right now, though. Any suggestion for a good neighborhood near the middle school?”

“I’m only going to be in middle school for one annual, Ambrose,” Azkadellia said, almost dryly.

“And that’s going to be the most dangerous one since we’ll be adjusting to…” He smiled at Jane. “To a new town! Wow, what a change from France, you know?”

Jane gaped. “You two lived in France?”

“No. I lived in Finaqua or the Northern-”

“Climates, northern climates. Finaqua’s a nice little island in the…ocean, and. Iceland. She spent time in Iceland with her mother and father, I obviously spent some time in France though along with some other places, we all move a lot, and now we’re here! Who needs the past, right? Live in the present, that’s my motto,” Ambrose said, fast and hiding something, but hiding it so amusingly that Jane found herself not really caring where they’d come from.

She just shook her head, chuckling. “Well, I’d suggest trying the old neighborhood down on Kent. It’s nice for a small family and only a few blocks from the middle school. It’s a bit pricey, but I doubt money’s going to be a problem with what you’ll be making,” she said dryly.

“Oh, good,” Ambrose breathed, almost like he hadn’t known that. Jane just chuckled and opened up her purse, pulling out a card and handing it to him. He raised an eyebrow at her. “What’s this?”

She blushed. “My card. In case you actually want to do something in Baker instead of just touring it. You two are new in town, so I thought it might be nice if you had someone to call if you need directions to the nearest grocery store or hardware store or-”

“Bathroom?” Azkadellia suggested.

Ambrose hissed out an “AZ!”, but Jane wasn’t even fazed. “Oh, down the hall, second door on the right. It doesn’t say ‘women’ or ‘ladies’ on it though, just has the normal triangle-girl with no neck. The drinking fountain’s on the left of the door.”

“…drinking fountain,” they both said.

Jane frowned, and pointed back into the building. “Do you want me to show you? Or there’s a decent cafeteria, we could grab a pop-”

“Grab a pop.” Ambrose stated, as if it was some new idea that he’d never heard of. He paused, and the hand not holding the ratty briefcase grabbed onto Azkadellia’s hand. “Jane, would you be kind enough to indulge us and give us a quick tour? Iceland’s been hard on our Kansas-isms.”

“I thought you were in France,” Jane frowned, leading them deeper into the campus.

“And Iceland. Just a short trip between, really.”

“I thought it was something around a five hour flight.”

Ambrose laughed. “Oh, what’s time when it’s getting to or from your family? Flight’s too long when you’re going for good news, too short for bad. Everything’s relative, after all.”

“And that’d be the Einstein from your Physics degree,” Jane smiled.

“Who’s Einstein?”

And Jane Walker laughed herself silly as she toured the Browns around Baker University, helping them both get their ‘Kansas-isms’ back. They also picked up the two entry-level textbooks Ambrose would be teaching out of, considering classes started up in less than a month, after all.

Jane didn’t see him buy practically one of every other textbook in the bookstore, but Azkadellia did, and just shook her head, muttering out “You’re always learning.” It was his real motto, after all.

--

Section 14 of Intro to Political Science, also known as POS 100-14, was unanimously voted as strangest, most interesting, and 'taught-by-the-most-promising-new-professor' in the student polls that went around through dorm rooms and greek houses within the first week and a half. It was probably due to the fact that Professor Brown, who never answered to 'Brown' and only occasionally answered to 'Professor' and had told them on day one that if they didn't call him Ambrose he probably wouldn't think they were talking to him ("Since there are so many Browns and Professors in the world, after all"), had given his class quite possibly the strangest syllabus ever.

The first three weeks were outlined extensively. No homework, but the required text, all three hundred and sixteen pages of it, was supposed to be read by the end of the third week, with lecture from the book for those three weeks. They had a test the first day on the fourth week, and then the syllabus' schedule had just said "Actual Learning".

Ambrose was actually fairly proud of himself. He'd managed to squish all the required, boring theoretical information about governments and politics and blah blah blah into a small amount of time, and then he could use that as a platform for actually teaching the students something about how governments worked. He had a plan, a very big plan that even Azkadellia had been impressed by (and, much to his excitement, agreed to help him with), and he had already picked the groups for it just based on who sat where and what everyone wore or how they slouched or how often they fell asleep and so on. Plus he was doing pretty good with the whole lecturing thing.

Sure, the book was painfully boring, but he'd managed to add enough spice in the lecturing-from-the-materials part of his class that most of the lecture hall stayed awake. Either that or they were still staring at his clothes. But whatever kept them awake and alive for the project, he could deal with.

They were on week two, which was still disappointing honestly, and Ambrose was almost tempted to buy himself a smock with the amount of chalk he was getting on himself. Most professors he'd spoken with used one chalkboard. Ambrose had to have three, usually with one for diagrams, one for questions that he'd spring on unsuspecting students and then jot down while hinting strongly that it could be on the test, and the third for all the points the book didn't get down in a way he thought it should.

The classroom was huge, but it almost felt like when he'd had to explain his dissertation to the Academy's professors. He was proud to say that he had yet to slip up in any of his Kansas-isms, and apparently he was only 'quirky' instead of genuinely out of place and blatantly from the O.Z.

"Now, republics," Ambrose beamed, moving over to the middle board, the one he wrote all the questions on, and everyone was immediately on edge, eyes wide as they waited to see who he'd randomly point to and ask a question of. This time, he actually didn't point to anyone, just began writing. "It's come to my attention that you live in one. Interesting ideas, unique forms of leadership, actual functioning and effectiveness of them vary quite a bit, according to history."

What's the weakest part of a republic?

The students shifted a bit uneasily, and Ambrose smiled. "Don't worry, it's not on the test. I just want you to be thinking about it." For the project. But he couldn't tell them that yet, they were too busy being terrified of the fact that their final was technically on the Monday after next.

One little aspect about large rooms that students were very fond of was the access to it from various points. If students were late, they could sneak up the back stairs and wander in unnoticed. That day, though, it was a stranger to the class that slipped in the back doors of the room.

He was beginning to be known about town and some of the students in the back row whispered quietly at his entrance, seeing as it was hard to ignore the man when he had to be elected as Sheriff if he wanted to keep the position of Acting Sheriff. The word about Wyatt Cain was that he'd stepped up and was kinder than any of the deputies, much better-looking, and would come by personally to deal with most of your problems. It made him something of a shoo-in for the tight-knit community, but that didn't mean there wasn't campaigning to be had.

He had a son, the community knew that much. He'd come out on some appearances, looking bewildered, but usually fell asleep in Cain's arms, which tended to make a good subset of the female population coo and tally up their votes already.

Today, he was sliding into one of the seats in the second-to-last row in Professor Brown’s lecture. The last seat was too obvious (which any student could tell you) and even though he took his hat off to remain inconspicuous, the man wasn't exactly college-aged any longer. Some of the students had pointed out the fact that this was the third time he'd been there.

None of them knew why.

Some of the girls just smiled shyly in his direction. Some of the boys tried to answer questions and look better. The man the community was quickly beginning to know never noticed. He always just kept his eyes on the front of the room and on Ambrose.

Cain had gotten the niggling feeling early into his job there that the man was going to need heavy protection. More than once in a while, he said something that was completely out of place and already, the rumors were that he was 'eccentric' 'odd' and sometimes 'weird'. None of those words blended well with fitting in and he was only more chagrined to find the same of Azkadellia.

If he weren't doing this covertly, he'd have taken them both aside to remind them what happened when someone took such a notice to them that they remembered and when people remembered you, there was always the potential for something to go awry.

Truth told, Cain enjoyed attending the classes. He'd give Ambrose that much. He had something to him that drew Cain's constant attention and he never wanted to let it drift. He knew the man was smart, seeing as he'd once lived in the O.Z. and was aware just who the most intelligent person in all the Realm was. Seeing it in action was incredible, though. It reminded him that he never had that kind of schooling and it reminded him that Jeb needed to get himself enrolled somewhere, for Adora's sake.

But that was later. Now was all about Ambrose.

Ambrose was practically talking his head off, but all the words were intelligent and educational. Three more diagrams had gone up, and he was in the middle of writing some more points on the third board when he stopped mid-sentence with a sigh, dropping the chalk onto the tiny wooden shelf that was made for it.

The entire hall froze. Ambrose really didn't blame them, considering he'd never done this before, and he could remember that horrible clenching feeling that the teacher was suddenly going to explode or walk out or suddenly assign a four-page paper for the next session. He wasn't going to do any of this, of course. He sighed, and looked down at his coat. Ambrose had been stupid enough to wear the black today - first time he'd worn it to lecture, actually - and it looked more like a cloudy gray on the front now. Chalk dust had gotten all over it.

"I'm sorry, just give me a moment please," Ambrose said, embarrassed, and walked out of the room for a moment, only for a screeching, scraping noise to follow him back in. The students gaped as he pulled in a fourth chalkboard...and then shrugged out of the coat, hanging it on the side of the board. He paused, and looked at the class. "If anyone knows where I could find a good laundromat, could you talk to me after class?"

He got a mild chuckle from his audience for that. Ambrose felt nearly naked, standing in front of the hall in nothing but his shirt and pants, and from the way that some of the students were looking at him, he guessed fitted shirts weren't exactly normal for the Otherside. Or maybe it was just Kansas. He plucked at his collar, swallowing a bit and reminding himself that he was the one teaching as he unbuttoned the second top button, and grabbed the piece of chalk one more time.

"Sorry, now moving on." He returned to his unfinished sentence on the notes board, his elegant writing spreading across the surface with that familiar scrape-tap-tap-scrape of the chalk that made him smile, and think of the Academy. But that was then, and this was now. "Back to republics."

Cain shifted in his seat and a quick eye around the room proved that he was mildly out of place without a notebook, but there was a good chance that come the next time he did this, he'd bring one of those as well. Blending in was critical and key. It was how you did anything well.

And Ambrose 'Brown' appeared to not yet have the clothing of the Otherside down, seeing as that was one hell of a shirt he was wearing and the casual way he unbuttoned it sent girls sighing (and the occasional boy staring) and Cain rubbed a hand over his face.

All the writing was gibberish to him, but all Cain worried for was hearing something out of place. Something that could catch the curiosity of just one student too smart for their own good. He was watching the large class as much as he was Ambrose, hat over his knee -- clad in a pair of denim jeans that had only grown tight as they did after one go in the wash.

Republics, the topic of the day, seemed to be most interesting to Ambrose, but Cain was keeping close attention. He'd read as many papers as he could, researched this role of his and knew many of the customs of the Otherside, but he still didn't feel at home there. He doubted he ever really would.

It wasn't home for Cain, though. His work, his purpose, his sole task, was to make sure Ambrose and Azkadellia made it back safely fifteen annuals down the line. And he wasn't going to fail in that.

Ambrose had only slipped up once, on the very first day, saying "annuals" instead of "years" while giving his own credentials. He'd passed it off as yet another Iceland thing (although really, he was beginning to wonder how O.Z-like Iceland really could be, that he and Azkadellia could blame practically everything on the island) with some French thrown in, and moved right along. He hadn't slipped up since, but just wearing the shirt, no coat over it, felt indecent to anyone who'd been wearing coats since he was seven. It felt like he was walking around on a stage and just waiting for someone to shoot him in the back, without that extra layer of armor from the Otherside.

He kept talking, and writing, and got through four more diagrams before everyone started packing up, making Ambrose check his own watch and realize he'd managed to go five minutes over. Again.

"Remember to read chapters eighteen through twenty two for tomorrow," he shouted out, pulling the eraser off the middle board and starting to clean the boards. "And I really wasn't kidding about the laundromat." The class that had heard him laughed a bit, and Ambrose was grateful for being on the second board. That way they saw nothing but his back and couldn't see the horrified blush. He'd managed ten years writing on chalkboards at the Academy and never once ruined a coat. Maybe he'd have to start working on a newer chemical compound and start making chalk that wasn't just chalk and wouldn't spray all over his poor coat.

He heard the doors start to squeak open and the students filing out, chittering on about something or other as he wondered how Azkadellia's day was going. If he hadn't had office hours right after this class, he probably would have gone and checked up on her.

Eventually, Cain was going to have to make contact. There was a subtle way of doing things so that Ambrose knew Cain and knew if he was ever in trouble, he knew who to turn to, but Cain had been struggling as to how they would be able to do that. He lingered for a moment while students flooded around him -- some nodding to him and waving, as if they already knew him -- and for a very long moment, he thought that today ought to be the time.

It was honestly strange to see Ambrose look so different. Cain knew the man from reputation, seeing as you couldn't follow the Royal Family without being aware of those that surrounded them. Or maybe that was just a Tin Man habit. The clothes were different and even the demeanor was different, in a way that did give Cain some relief.

Still, he worried over what kind of a task this would be. Scribbling down something on a piece of paper, he handed it to one of the girls on her way down to the front exits, nodding to it. "Give that to the Professor," he instructed.

On it were the directions to an affordable and reputable laundromat and the girl took it and bounded down the stairs, ready to deliver it on her way out. Cain just made sure he was out of the room by the time Ambrose got the message. Maybe it didn't fall under protecting, the cleaning of a coat, but it was taking care of him in one very strange way.

If the girl pointed to where she'd got the message from, he would be gone, which comforted Cain. He should make contact, but he wasn't ready yet.

Soon.

tbc
----

If there is such a thing as too much crossposting, we did it.