Felicity's Beast World Apocalypse

Lucan let the general’s claws rake along his ribs, a line of fire splitting his side, and watched the bright bloom of his own blood with an odd sense of detachment. The general’s mind-fuckery still wrapped a phantom hand around Lucan’s throat, squeezing out every last reason to stay on this rotten earth. Somewhere above, Felicity screamed for him, raw and hoarse, his name, he thought, though each time it reached him the syllables turned to static and bile.

He looked up, up, and there Felicity was, small and trembling on the balcony, holding her stomach like she could stitch herself back together if she pressed hard enough. Her fox ears were flattened and shaking, her tail a pale gold question mark twisted tight against her leg.

He let the general’s next swing connect. A fist the size of a cinder block slammed into his jaw, and the world went sideways. He felt the sickening crunch, tasted the copper-bright tang, but it was nothing compared to the hollowness blooming inside his chest. He spat out a tooth and watched it bounce over the flagstones in a lazy arc, then flicked his gaze back to Felicity, who was tiny, crumpled, beautiful and watching him lose.

She was crying. He’d never seen her cry like that. This was the kind of crying that left a scar, that left nothing behind but salt and silence. She was screaming for him to get up. To fight. To not give in. His stupid fucking heart stuttered at the sight, then stilled. But to him? In his fucked

Mind she was spitting filth at him to get away from her.

The general loomed over him, a wall of red-veined muscle and teeth. Lucan realised, with a kind of bitter clarity, that the monster wasn’t the only thing hollowed out by magic and rage. He could see the end of his story, and it looked a lot like this: another beast believing the lie that he could be wanted, that he could be essential, only to find out that he was replaceable after all. There was a time when he would have laughed at the melodrama. Now he just let the next blow come.

He didn’t try to dodge. Instead, he reached for the magic, his magic, the one thing left to him that didn’t taste like ash. Space folded around him in jagged sheets, a curtain of night and static. He let the general’s claws pass through him, felt the heat of the swipe but not the pain. He teleported up, onto the next roof over, a hundred meters away. The world snapped into focus, then blurred as his powers wobbled, destabilised by the riot in his head.

From here, he could see her perfectly. She was still screaming. She was saying his name, over and over. Lucan wanted to tell her to stop, that it was all a waste,

Felicity was his everything, and she hated him. Looking at her crying and the sight of his disgusting, weak face broke his heart.

He looked down at his hands and realised they were shaking. He clenched them tight, let the claws dig into his own palm until he felt the sting. It was all noise. No one needed him. She had the others, Victor, always the hero, ready to sweep in and save the day; Dimitri, the golden boy with the perfect jaw and easy smile; Damien, the snake with his unwavering watchfulness; even Voss, the silent bastard, had her back in a way Lucan never could.

If Felicity didn’t want him, if she didn’t need him, then there was no goddamn point.

He pivoted, spat another mouthful of blood onto the roof tiles, and called the power to him again. The city folded around him, each jump taking him further and further from her, from Bowral, from the pain. His vision tunnelled, the world reduced to a string of coordinates and the metallic stink of his own blood.

He would find the other generals. The other monsters. He would throw himself into it until there was nothing left.

On the balcony, Felicity sagged forward, the last of her strength bleeding out. For a moment, the world seemed to stop, light falling through the jacaranda leaves like confetti, catching in her hair. Then her knees buckled, and she collapsed, hands scrabbling at the railing until Dimitri caught her. He pulled her to his chest, hushing her cries, pressing her face into the safe dark of his neck. She couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t stop the howl tearing itself out of her.

Victor was already moving; he’d never needed a spoken command. His wings unfurled, silver and obsidian, throwing off flecks of light like shattered mirrors. He bent to Felicity, brushing a thumb along her jaw, kissing the crown of her head, then her lips with a gentleness that didn’t fit his size or strength. "I’ll bring him back," he said, voice so low it felt more like a vow than a promise. He squeezed her hand, let her fingers tangle in his, and then he was gone, a streak of wings and wind over the rooftops. The air snapped in his wake.

Dimitri held her until the worst of it passed, his own breaths coming fast and rough, the scent of fox and ozone thick around them. He looked at Damien, then at Voss, a silent order in the tilt of his head. The general below was still rampaging, tearing through the gardens, but Dimitri trusted them to handle it. He had only one thing that mattered now: the small, shattered girl in his arms.

"Shh," he whispered, stroking her hair, his lips pressed to her temple. "He’s not gone. Victor won’t let him be gone." He rocked her, side to side, like she was something fragile and priceless and already half-broken.

She pressed her face into Dimitri’s chest and let herself sob, because she couldn’t think of any other way to stop her heart from stopping.

Ivan shouldered through the crumbling corridor, ignoring the stench of smoke and the pulpy bodies slicking the floor. Felicity was a limp featherweight in his arms; her head lolled where his massive hand cradled her neck, ears unconscious and trailing gold fur across his chest. Her breaths flitted in and out, barely there, and each pulse of her heartbeat felt like an accusation. He could feel Frost and Luna at his heels, their own little hands trembling, eyes huge and white-rimmed. Behind him, the manor shuddered with the echo of violence. He didn’t look back.

He set his course for the only place that could withstand another attack. The pocket space. It was the one thing Felicity had made that nothing and nobody had ever gotten through.

Ivan pressed her closer, feeling the notch of her skull against his thick fingers, and listened for the anchor.

Dimitri braced his arm against the doorway and called for all of Snow Team. The men came in ones and twos, bloodied and panting, some dragging the half-dead, some already bickering about the way to skin a tiger. Dimitri counted heads, did a quick tally of injuries, and squinted out into the yard. The general’s body was still twitching, but Damien would handle that. He always handled the weird stuff.

Voss stalked over, blood painted in weird geometric streaks across his arms, and nodded at the field. "You see, Exile?" Voss asked, voice gravel and honey, like always.

Before Dimitri could answer, a shadow moved by the gate, and Exile slithered up, blood-caked and breathing hard, his jaw working like he was chewing on a bone. "West perimeter is clear. Maddie’s gone." He looked straight at Dimitri, dead serious.

Exile wanted to collapse, but instead he scanned the manor.

"Lucan?" he asked.

Dimitri exhaled, a sound like a tyre losing air. "Gone. The general did a number on him. Victor’s out looking."

Exile leaned against the wall, running a hand through his hair. He thought about Felicity, the way the light had gone out of her when Lucan vanished, the sound she’d made. There was nothing in the world that could match that pure, hopeless animal noise.

"Let the others know we hold the ground now," he said. "Nobody gets in unless they belong."

Exile nodded, eyes darting to the house. "Felicity?"

"In the space," Dimitri said. "Ivan’s got her." The words left a sour taste in his mouth, but that was how it had to be. Only Ivan could hold the world steady when everything else was spinning out of control.

He glanced down at his hands and realised he was shaking. He balled them into fists, forced himself to stop. The job wasn’t over. There’d be more to do, always more. But for now, it was enough.

Voss stood by the edge of the garden, the stink of torn earth and blood mixing with the sharp, clean notes of eucalyptus.

He wondered if Lucan would come back, or if he’d just keep running until the magic burned him out from the inside. It didn’t matter. If anyone could talk him down, it was Victor, and the zombie’s magic should be wearing off soon.

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