North blinked as reality started to reassemble around him—colors returning, sounds catching up, air thickening. Whatever C had been saying fizzled out mid-word, his voice scattering like smoke in the wind.

His focus steadied just enough to see Destiny still sitting across from him—wide-eyed, breathing unevenly—

Crack.

Pain exploded across his face.

He clutched his nose, doubling forward. "Jesus—! What the hell, Destiny?!"

"I was already in motion before whatever the hell that was!" she snapped, half standing, aura flickering in agitation. "What the hell just happened?"

"Right in the damn schnozer!" he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Get over it, Jafar."

"Hey!" he said, voice nasal and wounded pride. "I said sorry about calling you by your other name! Let's be respectful, damnit!"

"You forced me into whatever that was!" she shot back, glaring.

He winced, then grinned anyway. "I just wanted to get it out the way. Y'know—see if my hunch was right."

Destiny froze, the rush of emotion hitting her like a delayed echo. Her heart still raced, her hands trembling slightly. The memory—the connection—whatever that had been, still burned behind her eyes.

She took a shaky breath. "What… was that?"

North straightened, wiping his nose and grimacing. "Okay, so… best I can tell, it's something that started happening ever since I came here. I can… I dunno—spark memories in people I've met before."

Her expression softened, but confusion still lingered. "You mean—memories that aren't ours?"

He nodded slowly. "Exactly. It's like I touch them, and it triggers something. I'm not sure of the rules yet, but going off how the first one went with Tinsurnae… it's probably physical contact. Or a handshake. Some kinda resonance thing."

Destiny exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. "Great. So now we're just… triggering past lives like light switches."

He shrugged. "Could be worse."

She shot him a look. "Oh? How?"

He grinned faintly, still holding his nose. "Could've been a punch to the face."

Destiny sighed, the corner of her mouth twitching despite herself. "Next Jujisn you meet, maybe don't touch them."

North smirked. "Nah, next one I'm definitely touching. Gotta test the theory."

She groaned. "You're insufferable."

"Hey," he said, giving her a crooked smile, "at least now I know what I'm working with. And apparently… so do you."

Her heart gave one uneasy thud at that. She looked away. "You're lucky I don't hit you again."

"Yeah," he said softly, "but at least you're not walking away."

They both winced, almost in sync.

This feeling—this strange echo between them—wasn't new anymore. Just… contextualized.

Didn't make it any less weird, though.

With mutual, unspoken agreement, they both decided to shelve the emotional whiplash and instead focus on what they'd seen. On how their past selves—Jafar and Vari—fought, lived, became.

Destiny turned inward, quiet, thinking.

Vari wasn't the original Vari. That memory—her memory—had proved it. Someone had worn that name before her, carried that same divinity, that same ambition. The knowledge settled something heavy inside her chest. Maybe lineage of godhood wasn't creation—it was inheritance. Continuation.

It also helped her center so many running thoughts.

North had his own line of thoughts.

For once, he and Jafar… synced. Their drives, their pain, their stubborn defiance—it all aligned. The Unraveling that had haunted him suddenly made sense. It wasn't madness. It was memory bleed.

And seeing what Jafar endured—the Blood Realms, the cave, the torment of clawing sanity out of hell—shifted something in him. The "asshole" in his head wasn't just rage. He was survival given form.

The parallels kept stacking.

Jafar woke up in hell. North woke up in divinity.

Jafar's cave in the Blood Realms. North's tomb—the one he made after surviving that Ranker's blast.

Both had been alone. Forgotten. Starved for something to anchor them.

Both couldn't stand the stillness of defeat.

And Destiny…

He glanced at her. She was staring at nothing, her expression distant.

He thought about how he unlocked his lightning—channeling the memory of that old game, Destiny 1. Some cosmic inside joke. It wasn't a coincidence. But a guiding force.

His power had remembered her before he did.

"So…" he said at last.

She blinked, snapping out of her trance. "Hm?"

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"Wanna grab something to eat?"

She blinked again, slower this time. "…What?"

"Please don't act like you," he said, pointing at her, "because then I'll act like me, and then things are gonna get all weird again."

Her brow furrowed. "How do I stop being me, genius?"

"Well, you're not a crazy serial killer anymore," he said. "You're more like, uh…" He waved his hand vaguely. "A reformed war criminal with empathy. Y'know—progress."

Destiny sighed. "You seem to know me quite well," she said, her tone shifting—voice falling into that formal cadence. "Our paths, it seems, are intertwined. You clearly won't leave me alone, and I cannot deny that I… benefit from your presence as well."

North smirked.

"It's not funny!" she snapped, cheeks heating.

"It's a little funny," he said, raising his hands defensively. "Mostly the switch. You go from normal to Shakespeare in half a second—it's impressive."

She groaned. "You are insufferable."

"Yeah, but I'm also right," he said. "I just wanna hang out. You and me. No gods, no titles, no weird cosmic bleed-throughs. Just… get to know each other."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off.

"I'm curious," he said simply. "About Destiny. Not Vari. Vari's kind of a bitch."

Her fist clenched—but then she snorted, trying to hide a laugh. "You're not wrong."

"Exactly," he said, grinning.

She rolled her eyes. "Even if I agreed—which I haven't—do we even have time for this?"

He shrugged. "Of course not. But that's kinda the point, right? Jafar said it. Vari too, in her own weird way. Gotta enjoy the moments before the next shit storm hits."

"Moments, huh?" she muttered, shaking her head.

"Besides," he added, hopping off the ledge, "my friends are out trying to get a whispering tree for some alchemy thing. They'll be gone for awhile."

She gave him a slow, disbelieving look as she followed him down. "A whispering tree? What does that even mean?"

He grinned over his shoulder. "No clue. But it sounds cool, right?"

Destiny sighed, descending after him as the night wind rushed past. "You are truly ridiculous."

"And you," he said, glancing back with a smirk, "are apparently my cosmic reward for surviving hell."

She laughed under her breath, shaking her head. "You're going to regret saying that."

"Probably," he said, and smiled wider. "But now it's out there. Can't take it back."

————

Loud music thumped through the air—heavy bass and layered vocals, a rhythm that pulsed through the floating cubes making up the "club." Each cube shimmered with holographic sigils, merging and splitting in sync with the beat. Neon light spilled across hundreds of faces—humans, half-beasts, metallic forms, and beings made of translucent energy all moving as one chaotic crowd.

Crisper sat at a crystalline table off to the side, cards in hand, a smirk on her face. She wasn't "cheating", despite what her glowing UI window hovering beside her suggesting otherwise. The natives around her muttered in disbelief as another round ended and a fresh pile of tokens clinked across the table toward her.

"Read 'em and weep," she said, flipping her last card with a casual flick of the wrist. The group groaned; she laughed, collecting her winnings.

On the dance floor, rhythm had a name—and it was Jamal.

He'd been "in his element" since the first beat dropped. Sweat gleamed across his arms as he moved, smooth and confident, hitting every rhythm like the music was wired to his heartbeat.

First, the dougie.

Then, the jerk.

Then the whip and nae nae, and a few other old-school moves that somehow still hit even in another realm.

The crowd—natives, refugees, all of them—stopped to stare. Some cheered. Others tried to copy his steps and failed miserably. A few pulled out their own Ryun-screens, recording or trying to match his rhythm, but none had his swagger.

When he hit the spin-drop combo into a clean pop, the room erupted.

Even Crisper looked up from her game, smirking. "Show off."

Jamal was living. After months of chaos, grime, and near-death experiences, he was finally clean, finally free to move without tension. And damn, some of the women here? Fine.

Anime-level fine. Half-beast fine. Alien-but-still-suspiciously-human fine.

A few approached him, laughing, trying to mimic his moves. He danced with them for a bit, enjoying the spotlight—but it didn't take long before he noticed the pattern.

They weren't dancing with him. They were just watching him. Treating him like a novelty act.

He caught on quick.

"Nah, nah," he said, stepping back and waving them off. "Ain't no token boy here. Y'all gon' dance, dance. Otherwise move aside, let a brotha breathe."

The crowd shifted uncertainly, then—laughing and hyped by his energy—actually started trying. The music kicked harder. The floor lit up. And for a while, the entire club was just movement, sweat, light, and sound.

Crisper leaned back in her chair, watching Jamal spin, point, and shout encouragements at people who had no idea what he was saying. Her pile of tokens glittered beside her as she smirked.

"Guess gangsters really know how to throw a party," she muttered, tossing another card down.

All while the cubes floated and pulsed—an entire club suspended in motion, caught between chaos and rhythm.

Jamal caught Crisper's eye across the club and motioned for her to come join him, but she just shook her head and waved him off, clearly content where she was. Hoodie, joggers, rainbow hair pulled back—she looked like she was waiting for a late bus instead of sitting in a floating nightclub built out of shifting cubes.

"Such a brotha," he muttered under his breath, chuckling.

He was thinking about getting a drink—wondering if the alcohol here hit like Mad Dog or Hennessy—when something soft and warm slid right in front of him.

A someone, actually.

Before he could even process what was happening, the woman started throwing it back. Hard.

"—oh!" Jamal's hands instinctively caught her waist, and just like that, the beat caught them.

The natives froze mid-dance, eyes wide as the odd "mating ritual" unfolded before them. But for Jamal? This was just another house party. The music pulsed through him, his locks swayed, and the rhythm took over.

Her ass was soft. Perfect even through the fabric of her shimmering dress. His hoodie and borrowed shorts weren't doing him any favors in hiding that fact. But hell—he wasn't complaining.

They moved together until the song hit its peak, and then, breathing heavy, he caught her by the hips and lifted her upright. Her hair fell forward, hiding her face.

"Yo, shawty," he said, grinning. "You speak English?"

Her head tilted up slightly, lips curling. "Boy, I'm glad you do."

"Oh, shit—bet!" Jamal said. "You know how to order drinks round here?"

She smiled, slow and knowing. "Of course."

Her hand slipped into his, fingers surprisingly cool, and she tugged him through the morphing cubes. The floor beneath them rippled—lengthening, shortening—as the bar seemed to fold closer. The walls shimmered with glyphs and color shifts that matched the music's rhythm.

At the counter, she spoke in a language he didn't know, her voice melodic but firm. She tapped something, runes lighting under her touch.

Then she brushed her hair back.

Black silk strands shimmered with purple highlights, framing olive skin and eyes that gleamed yellow—too yellow—slitted like a serpent's.

Jamal took her in, his grin lazy and lopsided.

Okay, he thought. She might not be an Outlander—but she fine as hell.

And true to the old saying, his dick was already taking him places he wouldn't have gone with a gun.

"So," he said, leaning on the counter, "you an Outlander?"

She blinked once, surprised. "Damn. I thought we weren't supposed to say that out loud."

He shrugged. "I don't give a damn 'bout none of that. But I'll take that as a yes. Name's Jamal. What's yours, shawty?"

Her lips curled as two glowing glasses slid across the bar.

"I ordered," she said, tone playful. "But you're paying."

He laughed. "I was planning to dip on the bill. Get whatever you want."

"I like you, Jamal."

He grinned. "I'd like you more if you told me your name."

She smiled, coy and mischievous. "I'm Alesha—oh, shit."

"What?" he asked, mid-sip. The drink burned hot and itchy down his throat, like liquid battery acid. "Oh yeah, this strong."

She adjusted in her seat, regaining composure. "My associate says I should stop… making my Outlander status known."

"Associate?" he echoed, leaning forward.

She smiled again—and this time, it wasn't playful. It was deliberate. Power rippled faintly through the air, the lights above flickering once as if the club itself took a breath.

She turned fully toward him, extending a hand.

"Let me re-do that. Hi I'm Ria Dyusin," she said softly.

The handshake felt electric, warm, wrong. Jamal's vision flickered— the raw weight of her presence pressed down on him like gravity.

He blinked, forcing a grin through the shock. "…Damn, girl," he muttered. "You got a hell of a handshake."

Her smile deepened, yellow eyes narrowing. "You have no idea."

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