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Ababa remembers the sun on his fur, the meadows outside his hometown, and his wild and untamable magic.
Then the tall and handsome stranger who calls himself Marda-B comes to take him away.
What follows is not quite a romance, not when one of them is under mind control and the other is losing control of himself.
Ababa remembers raising his hands to the sky, feeling the sun’s warmth touch his fur as it chases away the crisp air of the valley. He must have been young then, young enough to have a mother who worried for him when he went outside the village, young enough that he still convinced himself to wear skirts like the women who flitted about the town square, young enough that the magic that danced somewhere in his gut was still wild and untameable.
He remembers the rolling meadows that clung to the mountains surrounding the town, and he remembers standing in them with his hands outstretched, and he remembers someone calling his name, someone whose name and face he can’t remember…
The stranger who came to town was a dapper young cat in a well-pressed white suit. Ababa remembers the day he arrived, the whispers that followed him as he made for the tavern. It was a long time ago, he’s sure, before B-Centers were landmarks in nearly every town across the world, before B-daplayers had a standard place to meet and compete to their hearts’ content. This is important because Ababa remembers the stranger seeking out B-daplayers and challenging them all, and this was before Ababa cared about the sport, so he’d turned away and turned his nose up at the commotion and he’d gone up to the woods past the meadows. To the woods where he could let his magic dance and play, and he was free to run and let the wind grasp at his braid and take the laughter that spills from him.
Ababa narrows his eyes and holds his hand out, and the stone rises. It rises and rises, and then—it shatters.
He curses. A few other rocks explode. Years and years of this, and still he cannot lift a tiny rock. Why? He sighs and turns away from the clearing. The sun is getting low among the mountains, long fingers of light reaching for release. He supposes he ought to get back to the town now.
“They shatter because you are exerting too much of your will.”
Ababa jumps in surprise. He whirls around once he’s landed on his feet and narrows his eyes at the intruder. It is the stranger, smiling calmly at him with a cane in hand.
“You’re that B-daplayer,” hisses Ababa, backing away. “Did you lose your way? This is a little far from the town, isn’t it? You won’t find any B-daplayers out here.”
“Oh, I don’t care about B-daplayers,” answers the stranger. He advances toward Ababa, that smile growing wider into a hungry look Ababa immediately recognizes. “I came here to find you.”
Ababa does not bother to be discreet when he tugs down the hem of his skirt, nor does he care to hide how he steps backward. He knows well enough what he looks like right now. His mind flashes to stolen moments with his lover, to wandering hands and a much kinder smile, yet still marked by that same hunger the stranger blatantly wears on his face.
But the stranger does take note, eyes flicking to Ababa’s hand on his skirt, and the stranger immediately calms his expression. “No,” he says with a chuckle, “Most certainly not for that. I am here because I encountered rumours of a catfolk born with magic.”
“…and you found me, what now?” Ababa feels his mood sour even further, cut through only by the fear keeping him rooted to his spot. If he does not move too quickly, maybe the stranger will be gentler. “Come to gawk and ask for stupid tricks like everyone else?”
The stranger’s chuckle turns into a laugh and he shakes his head, tail flicking in amusement.
“Wrong again,” he states. “I’ve come to invite you to be my apprentice. You see, I am a trained mage.” He lifts the cane, and, effortlessly, all those rocks Ababa has been practicing with rise into the air. They start to move on their own, turning about each other in midair and forming patterns around the stranger.
“How!?” blurts out Ababa. Fear abandons him entirely, now—now he only wants to know.
“I did say I’m a trained mage.” The stranger lowers his cane and waves his free hand, dropping the rocks and leaving Ababa in awe. “Come be my apprentice, and I shall teach you more than that little trick.”
“I—” Ababa opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. He wants to say yes, but how can he trust this stranger? “I don’t even know your name.”
“Ah, yes.” The stranger tilts his head. “You may call me Ambrose for now.”
Ababa flattens his ears without even thinking. “That’s not a catfolk name.”
“No, it isn’t.” The stranger laughs again, his own black-tipped ears perked up. “It seems to have fooled all your town though. No, my name is Marda-B.”
Suspicion still reigns in the way Ababa regards Marda-B, but he’s not sure he can get any further information from him right now. The name is…strange. Catfolk, yes, but something about it feels more traditional than he expects.
“Ababa,” he supplies, if only to be polite. “I will think on your offer.”
“Very well.” Marda-B’s expression is marked by disappointment, but he nods regardless. “I suppose it is getting dark anyway. We shall speak on this more tomorrow, then.”
He turns on his heel, and walks off, deeper into the forest. Ababa blinks and starts to call after him, to tell him there’s nothing out there but mountain and darkness, but he changes his mind. If the mysterious magic cat wants to walk into the forest after the sun has gone down, who is he to stop him?
Ababa waits just a little longer, in case Marda-B decides to come back to the clearing, but when no such thing happens, he turns and starts for home.
“That Ambrose fellow is fascinating, don’t you all think?”
They sit with their backs to the fountain in the town square, snacking on sandwiches Ababa’s mother had prepared. The sun shines down from high above, and Ababa is thankful a whole morning has gone by without Marda-B trying to approach him again.
“No, Nara,” drawls Arsen, the only human among them. He’s wearing his long, verdant hair loose today, locks falling across his shoulders in that way Ababa very much enjoys. He’s scowling though, and glaring straight at the birdfolk he’s addressing. “I certainly don’t like him. He’s stuck-up, arrogant, rude—”
Nara tsks from where she sits beside Ababa braiding flowers into his hair, a style he has not had the heart to tell her he despises just yet. He can just imagine her annoyance at Arsen coming through in her expression. “Please, you only think all that because you lost to him.” She titters at her own jeer, then adds— “Suppose he’s here looking for a wife?”
Ababa almost chokes on his sandwich.
“Even if he were, he’s not likely to be interested in you,” points out Arsen earnestly. His gaze shifts toward Ababa, and he frowns. “I may have to battle him again if he is here for a spouse though.”
“I strongly doubt searching for a wife is the real reason he’s come to our exceedingly out-of-the-way town to battle B-daplayers,” Ababa says, refusing very hard to think about Marda-B’s offer with Nara’s suggestion in mind. “He’s just a traveling B-daplayer, obviously.”
Ababa isn’t sure why he can’t bring himself to tell his friends the truth about the mysterious catfolk. They know about his magic, about its untameable nature, and he trusts them more than anyone else in this hell of a town, but…there is something about his meeting with Marda-B that makes it feel too private to share.
“The sooner he leaves, the better,” declares Arsen. He sets down his sandwich and reaches down for his B-daman, raising it with a wide grin. “Else Boreas and I chase him out of town ourselves!”
“I should hope it does not come to that.”
Boreas almost slips from Arsen’s hands, and Ababa feels a sharp tug on his hair as Nara squawks in surprise. He grunts and reaches back, pulling his hair away from the startled birdfolk, as he looks up to Marda-B standing before them and leaning on his cane.
“Ambrose—” breathes Arsen, but Marda-B does not humor him, turning to face Ababa and cutting him off.
“Might I have a walk with you, Miss Ababa?”
“Mister,” hisses Arsen before anyone can stop him. Ababa shoots him a glare, but Marda-B’s neutral expression doesn’t change.
“My apologies. I do hope you shall consider joining me for this walk still, Mister Ababa,” says Marda-B.
“I…” Ababa can feel his friends’ gazes bearing into him in light of the conversation they’d just had, and worse still he can feel the gazes of the rest of the townsfolk lingering nearby. He’s not sure he can handle sitting here and letting them question him if he says no, so he alights off the fountain’s edge and hurries to Marda-B’s side, which earns him a pleased hum from the taller catfolk. Ababa takes a moment to call back to the other two, “I’ll catch you two later.”
And Marda-B leads him off toward the meadows.
“How dare you do that in front of my friends,” grumbles Ababa as they walk. He has undone his braid, and flowers fall out of his hair as he shakes the entire mass of locks. “Now I shall never hear the end of it from them!”
“You’ll not have to care about that if you become my apprentice,” points out Marda-B, striding along beside him with a cheerful gait. “Come now, surely you’ve given my offer plenty of thought?”
He has. Ababa barely slept the night before, mind plagued with the thought of just up and leaving this little town which has been all he’s ever known. There is so much he could just abandon, and anyone he meets outside would know him as a man, and…
“I still don’t know if I can trust you,” he tells Marda-B. He takes a moment to pin his hair back, now free of flowers.
“Ah, and you shouldn’t.” Marda-B nods, strangely approvingly. “I am still a stranger to you, after all. But you, Ababa, are no stranger to me, for I can already tell that we are very alike.”
Ababa squints up at him, trying to discern something, anything, from Marda-B’s face, but it is impossible. Marda-B, he realizes, is a master at hiding how he feels.
“Fine, I’m curious,” he says, “How are we ‘very alike’?”
“Where shall I start?” Marda-B looks thoughtful only for a moment. “Have you never thought you deserve more than this pathetic little town? You are too clever, too intelligent, for a meek life boxed in by mountains.”
Something in those words sting, but Ababa recognizes easily that it is not the insult to his home. It stings because Marda-B is right. He’s dreamed of great cities, of a grand future, all of which he cannot find here. And he’s known for so many years he is better than this town. Ababa keeps silent, afraid of what he might say if he opens his mouth.
“There are great things you could do with your magic,” continues Marda-B, “Beautiful, fantastic things, both good and terrible. Changing the world to your whims is what such powers are for.”
Ababa hesitates. There is something in the way Marda-B says good and terrible that gives him pause. “…And you plan to teach me only the good, is that it?”
Marda-B’s laugh this time is hearty and full.
“You can learn to do good with your magic from any old mage, rare as we are,” states Marda-B once he has regained his composure. “No, the magic you’ll learn from me is beyond such perceptions.”
This is not the sort of temptation Ababa remembers ever being warned about, so…surely it cannot be the worst thing he could do? To leave and let Marda-B take him under his wing so he can learn to control his magic in a way that defies labels that way he himself does, and then…and then what? What will he do with it? Something great, surely. He doesn’t know how yet, but he knows he’s going to change the world.
Ababa wonders if he should be ashamed that only now does he think of his friends.
“What about…” he starts, but Marda-B seems to know what he’s going to ask.
“Think no more of them,” he says.
“But I ought to tell them—”
“No.” Marda-B’s tone makes it clear this is a command, and it is so sudden a shift from the pleasant, friendly way he’s spoken so far that it makes Ababa freeze. The silence between them stretches for just a moment, before Marda-B adds, in his more usual cadence, “I have seen into their hearts, Ababa. That human man will leave this town one day to chase his own fortunes and he will expect you to stay here and raise his children. He will make you wait for him. That birdfolk woman will sooner stab you in the back so she might have his affections than let you marry him while she lives. They are your friends for as long as you fit into their world.”
Ababa feels himself tremble, feels himself shudder and try to shake his head and tell Marda-B he’s wrong, but this stranger is so assured of what he’s saying that perhaps he did speak the truth…
“You’ve done very well to pretend you fit in with them this whole time.”
Ababa’s eyes widen, and he stops in his tracks.
Marda-B takes a few more steps, then stops. He turns and faces Ababa again, and Ababa is suddenly struck by how bizarre this entire moment is. Here he is, standing with a handsome stranger who is inviting him to leave his home forever solely on his word about something that was still impossible to believe.
His doubt must show on his face because Marda-B’s expression darkens. The man looks displeased now, and his gaze is turning colder.
“I had hoped to leave this miserable town with a willing student and subordinate, but time runs short for me and it seems you are more of a coward at heart than I anticipated.” Marda-B closes the distance between them, towering over Ababa and raising his cane high into the air. “Very well, you leave me with no other choice.”
Too late, Ababa realizes he should never have agreed to this stroll. His breath coming fast, he wills himself to turn tail and just run—run back to the town, to his friends, confess everything and hide—but his feet refuse to obey and he finds himself rooted to the ground.
Marda-B reaches down and touches his chin, lifting his gaze so their eyes meet. Ababa stares directly into those golden eyes, mind going blank with a curious mix of fear and intoxication, and he hears Marda-B saying something he can’t make out. Magic visibly shoots out of Marda-B’s eye, and Ababa only has a moment to note the sky has turned red before he feels the bolt of magic hit him and everything goes black—
…and it’s a faint thought, so faint, but he thinks the one calling his name is someone he once dared to love.
The first years of the Shadow Alliance’s life as an organization go by in a blur, and Ababa marks the years in his own achievements as Marda-B’s student. Their travels take them across the world, and in each town, Marda-B carefully chooses lackeys for Ababa and lets him take command of them as they build up the beginnings of the Shadow Alliance’s influence.
Everywhere they go, B-daplayers abandoned by their brethren answer Marda-B’s call. They crawl out from the shadows they have slinked within all this time, outcasts and criminals and anyone else the world has turned its back upon. They answer the call, which comes in whispers and rumours, and they obey when they are instructed. Those who do not are given no choice, and over time, Marda-B starts letting Ababa perform the mind control spell instead. And Ababa never asks why Marda-B seeks only a certain sort; he would never question his master.
Little by little, Ababa senses that Marda-B is turning over more and more duties to him. Little by little, the Shadow Alliance grows and grows.
And after that blur of years of a life on the road spent practicing magic and claiming B-daplayers, Marda-B builds a base from which they reign over the Shadow Alliance.
“My agents report that the IBA suspects nothing,” states Ababa. He has sheets of paper in hand, documents sent in from all over the world by those he’s installed in powerful places. His organization is young, but it is poised to invade every aspect of the B-daplayer’s sport. “As you requested, Master, we now have a proxy in the IBA’s every department.”
“Hm.” Marda-B does not quite reply from where he is lounging against the pillars of their scrying room. He has been distracted, even disinterested, throughout Ababa’s careful detailing of their agents’ movements.
“Master Marda-B?”
“Oh, yes, yes.” Marda-B does not show how he startles, but Ababa can hear it in his voice, can see the way he jolts upright and the way his tail flicks. “Good work.”
Ababa pauses, then makes a split-second decision. He faces Marda-B directly, finally comfortable in his own fur and the buttoned robe he now wears after all these years. “Master,” he says, “If I may be bold…you seem distracted by something. Is there perhaps…some way I can help soothe your mood?”
“…no, Ababa, this is something you cannot help me with,” answers Marda-B, and his voice is so measured, his expressions so deliberate, that Ababa knows there is indeed something important on his mind.
“Then…may I perhaps know what it is?”
Marda-B does not answer this time, and the silence stretches and stretches until Ababa is quietly wondering if he should not have tried.
“Very well,” says Marda-B finally. His expression is somber, perhaps even dejected if Ababa dared to guess. “I shall be leaving headquarters and all operations will be entirely your own starting tomorrow.”
The stack of papers slip from Ababa’s hands, and his jaw slackens in shock.
Marda-B’s solemn expression shifts immediately to irritation. “Don’t look at me like that. I have already handed over every piece of the Shadow Alliance’s basis for success to you. You need only continue with the overarching plans I have given you.”
“B-but—” Ababa takes a moment to find the right words, and even then— “But where will you be going? Master, why? Don’t…don’t abandon me—”
“I am not abandoning you, you idiot,” snaps Marda-B. He strides to the scrying orb, limbs clearly tense. “I am leaving for reasons you need not know for now. There is something I must do and it has nothing to do with you.”
For now. It will have to be good enough, but Ababa finds himself distraught at the thought of the other catfolk’s absence. For as long as he can remember, he has been at Marda-B’s side as his loyal servant, and Marda-B has been there to guide him. How can he proceed without his master? Ababa breathes in deeply, but panic is setting in, and he can’t help but twirl a stray lock of his hair that has found its way to his hands so he might try and maintain some form of composure.
“I-I understand, Master Marda-B,” he manages to say.
“See that you truly do,” comes the cold reply, and Marda-B turns on his heel and leaves Ababa to his thoughts.
Ababa stands before his dresser, gazing into his own eyes. The mirror reflects his doubts and fears back to him, in the way his brow furrows, in the twitching of his whiskers, the way his hair hangs low over his eyes and frames his face with its melancholy purple.
He is the leader of the Shadow Alliance.
And starting tomorrow, he will be its sole leader. He must be more dignified than this, must hold himself with the pride that befits such a position. Marda-B has indeed given him everything he needs. All that’s left is putting those tools to use.
But first, he needs to fix the unseemly sight before him.
Marda-B’s chambers are a well-guarded secret, in a section of the base off-limits to all of the Shadow Alliance. All, save for him, and Ababa takes special pride in the honour of being the only person free to come and go as he pleases anywhere he wishes.
But he pauses before the door to Marda-B’s personal quarters anyway, nervousness running through him as he slowly raises a hand to knock. He has only ever come to Marda-B’s chambers in the evening to share the occasional meal before, never going so far as the place where Marda-B slumbered.
The door opens before he can even make contact with it.
“I grew weary of waiting for you to make a move.” Marda-B’s voice drifts out to him from within, beckoning in its disarming cordialness. “Why is it that you come to my chambers when I have a trip to make tomorrow?”
Ababa does his best to hold his composure as he steps over the threshold. The chamber is sparsely decorated and Ababa’s gaze is immediately drawn to the lone bed set against the wall across him. The only lamp in the room sits upon a table beside the bed, just bright enough for Marda-B to read the book in his hands. He has caught Marda-B lazing in a way he’s never encountered before.
“Marda-B, I…”
“Wait.” Marda-B sits up and shuts his book, eyes and ears alert as he gazes upon Ababa. “You cut your hair. That is…curious to me. Explain.”
“It was a distraction.” Ababa’s mouth is dry as he speaks. This isn’t what he came here to discuss or even do in the first place. “When you leave, I will no longer have time for something as inane as caring for hair. Alas, it’ll grow back at some point, but I shall have to cut it again then.”
“Then let us make sure it does not. Come, sit with me.” Marda-B’s expression has softened, and he pats the spot by him on the bed.
Ababa feels like he’s in a dream, as he strides close and clambers up onto the bed automatically. He sits down facing Marda-B, and it is only in close proximity to his master that he realizes, with a start, that the other catfolk is wearing next to nothing. Only a thin silken blanket gives him any modesty.
If Marda-B notices Ababa has grown flush, he says nothing of it. Instead, he reaches over and places one bare hand on Ababa’s head, between his ears.
Ababa goes still. “M-Master?” he squeaks out.
It is more contact between them than at any point in the past few years, and Ababa realizes with a shock how desperately he craves more of it. Marda-B’s hands are more humanlike than his, fingers tangling in what little remains of his hair. His gaze on Ababa is so intent that when magic suddenly flows through, Ababa doesn’t startle.
“There.” Marda-B pulls his hand away, and with it, Ababa realizes, is a clump of purple locks. He blinks, staring as Marda-B discards of it magically with a sweep of his hand. “Now you needn’t worry about it at all.”
Ababa blinks, understanding that his master has done a great favor for him. “Thank you,” he says quietly, trying to keep his composure as devotion and affection surges through him. For once, he isn’t afraid to wear his feelings on his face.
Marda-B looks back to him, and surprise briefly crosses his face, but Ababa is sure it was only a trick of the flickering lamp.
“That wasn’t why you came here.” Marda-B’s voice is soft, even kind. “What is it, my apprentice?”
And here, Ababa has to take a moment to calm himself, to remain poised and graceful as he opens his mouth and carefully says, “It might be presumptuous of me but as your…loyal and humble servant…I thought to come and offer you my company before your excursion.”
“Your company.” Marda-B gives him an interested smile, a strange gleam in his eyes. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” replies Ababa. He hesitates, then finds his resolve in the increasingly ravenous look Marda-B is starting to give him. He is small enough, light enough, that he can stand upright on the bed and still easily look into Marda-B’s eyes while reaching up to unbutton his robe.
Marda-B does not let him reach even the first button before pouncing.
Ababa does not have time to see Marda-B off the next day, not when he has a criminal empire to run.
He remembers those first years alone were hard but valuable. They are how he solidified his power, creating for himself a name whispered only in the shadows across the B-daworld, a name that B-daplayers in the know fear, a name that was master of all things unseen and all things vile and terrible in the world.
Still, he wondered when his own master would return.
“Your form is deplorable,” declares Ababa. The offending trainee stiffens but keeps firing anyway. Others in the training room pointedly look away and try not to watch, but it is clear what they are doing when the once-steady sounds of firing slow down.
“Did you not hear me?” Ababa does not raise his voice, to do so is beneath him. The trainee finally stops firing, taking his B-daman off the field and turning to face Ababa.
“I did, Master Ababa,” the trainee replies, “I was just trying to—”
“Stop your prattling,” Ababa commands, and this time, fear immediately comes to the trainee’s eyes. It is precisely what he wants. “You are a fool, and we do not tolerate fools in the Shadow Alliance.”
“M-Master Ababa, I’m sorry, I—”
He doesn’t let the child finish. Ababa lets the giant shadow cell set into the wall, where its eye serves as a constant reminder of the Shadow Alliance’s ideals, do its work. It glows an angry purple before firing off a bolt of magic, engulfing the now-former trainee in its harsh light. There’s only a moment for him to scream before the bolt stops and his body drops to the floor.
The training room is quiet.
Ababa turns to face the rest of the trainees. “Time for a lesson,” he says, “What was his mistake?”
More silence. The trainees’ faces are pale, and they don’t dare move. It is another long moment before one of them finally makes an attempt to answer.
“He was weak.” The one who speaks is a young man with a heavy accent. “He was weak like a crumbly cookie and made excuses for it. And worse of all, this wasn’t the first time he’s done this.”
It is an answer that earns the trainee an approving smirk from Ababa. He starts to stroll through the training room again. “Correct. The Shadow Alliance does whatever it takes, and while failure is unacceptable, it can be understandable depending on the circumstances. But fail again and again and make excuses while you’re at it? You are not fit for the Shadow Alliance.”
He looks around at the young faces around him, each one still pale. “Well? Back to training.”
The cacophony of B-daman firing resumes. Ababa makes his rounds through the room, making his remarks here and there. He pauses when he comes to the trainee who answered him.
“What is your name?” he demands. Few are the trainees worth his time, and it is clear from the way the young man immediately stops firing and turns to face him with a reverent expression that this one is one of the few.
“I am Goldo, Master Ababa,” replies the trainee.
“Resume your practice.” Ababa does not acknowledge him beyond that, only continuing with the rest of the training session. He has other matters to attend to, after this.
He is making his way to his own quarters when a harsh surge of magic knocks him off his feet.
“M-Master Ababa!?” One of his current elites rushes to his side, helping him to his feet.
“Go back to your quarters,” Ababa commands once he is steady. He shakes off the boy’s hands, and starts back down the corridor, ignoring the concerned calls following him. The magic that reached him was of a type he has not encountered in so long but remains familiar. He follows its pull into the deepest chambers. Marda-B’s chambers.
He flits through the rooms, eyes wide as he searches for the source of the surge, his pulse quickening as he considers the possibility—could it be—
The door to Marda-B’s quarters slides open, and he steps through.
Marda-B is sitting on the bed, gazing directly at him. Ababa tries, he really does try, to keep himself under control, but it is impossible. He rushes forward and falls at Marda-B’s feet.
“Master, you’ve returned!”
“Quiet,” commands Marda-B, and Ababa shuts his mouth. Marda-B gestures, and that is when Ababa notices for the first time the human figure laying in his bed. “Ambrose is asleep.”
Something about that name stirs a distant memory, but Ababa does not entertain it. He rises to his feet and steps closer to examine the human. It is small in stature, with dark hair and deathly pale skin. Ababa gapes at the sight, and he starts to wonder what precisely Marda-B has been up to that he returns with…with this.
“A human child?” whispers Ababa.
“Yes,” answers Marda-B, “The key component of my plans. Do you have agents you can trust, Ababa? Truly trust, with leading the Shadow Alliance’s operations?”
“Y…Yes, Master Marda-B.”
Marda-B rises from the bed, gazing down at Ababa. “Rearrange your plans and delegate to them your duties as you see fit.”
“I don’t understand, Master.” Ababa is sure that his confusion is showing plain on his face. He has been hoping all these years for Marda-B’s return, for his master to see all he has done to the world for him, and immediately he is being told to drop everything.
“From tomorrow on,” states Marda-B. He starts toward the door, tail swirling. “You will be raising this child into both a mage and a B-daplayer.”
“Master, I…” Ababa isn’t sure what he wants to say when all he can think of is how shocked he is.
Marda-B turns, just enough to shoot Ababa a glare full of threats. “What is it, Ababa?”
He supposes this is where he should demand answers, where he should argue against the way Marda-B returns after all these years and instantly imposes his will like this. But Ababa does neither of those things. “…where will you be staying, if the child will sleep here?”
A wry chuckle falls from Marda-B as he moves to the door, where he stops and faces him again. Marda-B smirks. “Why, your quarters are just as serviceable as mine, are they not?”
Ababa is quick to follow him out after that.
Ababa discovers immediately that Ambrose has the capabilities to be a potent mage. The child is quick to learn its spells but otherwise does not speak much.
Unfortunately, B-daman are another matter altogether. Ambrose is clumsy and easily fatigued, and Ababa somehow knows, when it steps away from the field a few days after its arrival and it falls over onto the ground, that this is not what Marda-B had envisioned.
“B-dabattles are beyond its abilities,” Ababa tells Marda-B at the end of the week. He is sitting in his master’s lap, a rare luxury granted to him that may come just this once. Marda-B hums, hands wandering toward places Ababa increasingly cannot ignore.
“It is an experiment,” states Marda-B, “In time, it’s physical abilities will improve.”
“Master, I hope you are right.” Ababa shifts, leaning back against Marda-B’s chest. “Otherwise, it may not last long enough to master both skills.”
“It will.” Marda-B’s breath is heavy on Ababa’s ears. “It must, it is the most successful one yet—”
They say little more that night, and Ambrose’s training continues the next day. Ababa paces his lessons, but the child does not do much better in the weeks or months to come. He spends his early mornings dealing out duties and going over plans with his agents while Marda-B handles the child, his late mornings and afternoons teaching it, and in the evenings they send it to bed and retire to Ababa’s room.
It is not the sort of schedule he ever thought he would carry out as the leader of the Shadow Alliance, but Marda-B seems pleased with the progress he is making with Ambrose. It’s almost nice, having this child quietly do as it’s told, all while having his master present and at his most affectionate toward him. It is almost…normal.
And then it comes to a screeching halt when Ababa walks into Marda-B’s quarters one morning to find his master on one knee on the floor, panting heavily and grunting in pain.
“Marda-B!” he shrieks, rushing to the other catfolk’s side. The child is sitting on the bed’s edge, staring at them both as blankly as ever with bright red eyes.
“I…I am fine,” coughs Marda-B, rising to a crouch. Ababa keeps hold of him, letting him lean on him as he helps keep him steady. Marda-B shakes his head, mumbling to himself, “So close…just a little longer…”
“Master…?” whispers Ababa, voice quavering in fear.
Marda-B pulls away from him, reaching for the bedside table to pull himself to his full height, his tail shifting for balance. His breath starts to even out, and Ababa finds he can only watch in terror as Marda-B takes one deep breath and turns toward Ambrose again.
“Now!” shouts Marda-B at the child. Purple fire flows from him toward Ambrose, dancing between them, connecting them, and Marda-B starts to yelp just as the child opens his mouth and starts to scream.
It is the most noise Ababa has heard out of it. He is frozen in place, trying to will himself to move, to do something—his master is in pain! There is no time to think and, with some effort, Ababa dashes forward and jumps at Marda-B.
He is rewarded with Marda-B’s yelps increasing in volume, and the purple flames around him only grow. They do not burn anything, but—but they are hurting both master and child somehow, and Ababa is stuck—
“You—shall—receive—my—will—” Marda-B shakes Ababa off once again. Magic rushes outward from him, attacking the child on the bed, whose screaming has not stopped, whose screaming is awful and makes something in Ababa hurt and then the magic is only growing and growing and—
It engulfs the child, and the child crumbles into dust, and the screaming stops because it has been replaced by a stark silence.
Marda-B is coughing and picking himself back up once again and he is saying something that sounds a lot like “Hmph, another failure—” but Ababa isn’t registering it, because he is staring at where the dust that was Ambrose but a moment ago is falling and, and—Ababa faints.
Ababa blinks into wakefulness, and when he sits up, he is in his bed and Marda-B is sitting on the other side with his back to him.
“I have no use for a servant who faints at a slight setback,” Marda-B says without turning to look at him. “Resume operations in the Shadow Alliance as they were. I must leave again. See to it you will not faint the next time something like this happens. It would not do for the master to carry the servant again.”
He stands and leaves and Ababa lays back down and wonders in what world a child exploding into dust is ‘a slight setback.’ Marda-B’s world, perhaps, and for the first time Ababa wonders if that his world as well. For all the crimes and all the wickedness the Shadow Alliance carries out, surely nothing has been…like this? He does not even know why Marda-B destroyed a child like that, what his goal was in the first place bringing Ambrose to Ababa…
But it is not his place to question. It isn’t…
He isn’t sure what he’ll do if this happens again.
Years slip by again. Trainees turn into agents, agents become elites, and elites retire to a life of administrative work for the Shadow Alliance. Ababa tracks the progress of B-daplayers and plays games with politicians and IBA officials as his game pieces. He is quite established now, and no longer does he second guess himself as leader of the Shadow Alliance.
Marda-B returns this time by crashing into the scrying room. The artificial sky turns an angry red as he rises to his feet and Ababa scrambles to collect his papers sent flying.
This time, the child is smaller, younger, and still, it has the same hair and eyes as Ambrose. Marda-B hands it off to Ababa without a word, ignoring his concerned protests, and limps out of the room.
Ababa follows, carrying the child carefully. Marda-B leads him to his own quarters, and Ababa has to force himself not to flinch. He has not been here since Ambrose—since that fateful day.
Marda-B collapses before he reaches the bed, and makes no motion to pick himself up again.
“I am running out of time,” he says.
Ababa, still holding the silent child, freezes. Marda-B has never spoken to him like this, in so vulnerable a position and so broken a tone.
“I will lose control of this form soon, and these bodies will be my only hope at B-dabattling again,” continues Marda-B. “One of them must work! It must!”
“Master…”
Marda-B does not reply. He crawls to the bed, climbs to his feet, and rolls into it. Ababa sighs once he spots the familiar rise and fall of Marda-B’s breathing in his sleep. He looks down at the child, shakes his head, and steps back out.
He brings it to his own room and sets the child down on his own bed, grumbling to himself that Marda-B didn’t even greet him.
The child looks up, opens its mouth, and says, “He’s never said anything nice to me too.”
Ababa jumps and just about clears the distance between his bed and the door in shock.
“This one talks!” Ababa cannot help but yell, even though it is the next morning and Marda-B has just woken and is sitting up and groaning and clutching his head.
“Yes, yes, Gwinn is quite intelligent.” Marda-B waves one hand dismissively, and he does not seem to care that Ababa is raising his voice at his master. “I corrected most of Ambroses’ flaws when I developed it and it should be able to battle better.”
“But…master, I don’t understand…who are these children?”
Marda-B’s answer comes after a long pause. “They are not real children. They are clones of a B-daplayer who agreed to be my servant.”
“Clones? But…why?” Ababa finds his flood of emotion calming into a tranquil state of sheer confusion. “Why go to such trouble? And why did…Ambrose…”
Marda-B looks up suddenly, sharply placing his gaze on Ababa, and Ababa feels something break between them.
“Ambrose was too weak physically to withstand my magic.” Marda-B clambers out of bed, pulling himself to his full height when he strides closer, looming over Ababa. “As for why—that is not important to you yet.”
Ababa thinks of Ambrose, quietly practicing his magic as instructed, a faint gleam in his eyes when Ababa tells him he has done well. He thinks back to the night before, to Marda-B’s anguished words that still make little sense. He decides against mentioning it for now, not when Marda-B’s gaze is turning into ice.
“…I understand,” starts Ababa, “Master—”
“Is there any food around here?” squeaks out a tiny voice from the door.
Gwinn takes to B-dabattling with a swiftness Ababa appreciates, but magic falls outside its skills.
Gwinn also acquires a habit of escaping when it should be practicing, and, unfortunately, it finds Ababa’s current elites before he can catch it. He finds them chatting with it as if it were an ordinary child, something he immediately breaks up when he strides over, barks at them to get back to work, and drags Gwinn away by the hand.
The weeks flash by like before, only this time he does not spend his evenings with Marda-B. His master keeps him at arm’s length, so Ababa lets Gwinn stay in his room instead. It makes for a nice change of pace as well, and it helps him forget the first time he raised a child for Marda-B.
“B-dafire!” shouts Gwinn, rapid-firing away into the targets. Another perfect score, earning a nod from Ababa. It continues to fire, but after more and more of the same, it, as usual, decides to break the silence. “Master Ababa?”
“Hm, adjust your grip,” Ababa tells it. “Yes?”
Gwinn does as told, before speaking again. “I know you don’t want me to talk to your agents, but lately they’ve got me thinking that I don’t like it when you and Master Marda-B call me an ‘it.’”
Ababa opens his mouth, then stops. Those words bring to him a jumble of thoughts and memories surrounding a similar topic, though he can’t quite identify when and where such things happened. He shuts his mouth though, swallows, and then asks Gwinn, “What would you prefer?”
Surprise falls across Gwinn’s face, causing them to miss. They stop firing immediately, turning to face him. “I think I like ‘she.’”
“Very well, Gwinn. You are a ‘she,’” Ababa says. “Now, adjust your footwork.”
“Wait, you’re really going to—”
“Adjust your footwork,” he repeats, making it clear their little side conversation is over.
The day Ababa dreads comes sooner than he expects.
He is woken by shrieking and sobbing, and when he jolts upright, he finds Marda-B standing over Gwinn in her cot. That same vile purple magic engulfs them both, and she is clinging to the hem of his suit and sobbing into it.
“M-Master…” Ababa just barely manages to say.
Gwinn hears him, as she instantly tears away from Marda-B and starts to reach for him with one tiny hand. “Help me!” she cries.
Something about her voice triggers something in Ababa, a panic that tells him to stand up, a panic that urges him to tackle Marda-B and put an end to this. But he does not. He does not because he remembers Marda-B’s warning.
Magic surges from Marda-B.
“Master Ababa—!” Gwinn reaches and reaches for him, and Ababa sits there and watches her with as cold an expression as he has learned from his own master. Gwinn’s pleading does not end, even so. “It hurts—papa—”
Her eyes suddenly go wide, her body flails, and then—she collapses into a heap and does not move again.
“Useless,” growls Marda-B, whirling towards the door. Ababa does not miss the way he staggers and limps.
When the door shuts behind Marda-B, Ababa leaps to his feet and rushes to Gwinn’s side. She is still breathing, and a cursory look over her reveals she is not injured. But her red eyes gaze outward without seeing him, and she does not respond no matter what he says.
Ababa cradles her until even her breathing ends.
He storms through Marda-B’s chambers, shouting as he slams open the door to his quarters. “Why?”
Marda-B is once again on one knee on the floor. Particles rise from his body, specks like dust floating away and fading into nothing. He looks up, eyes wide, teeth gritted, and startles at Ababa’s intrusion.
“Here is your answer,” replies Marda-B coolly. He draws in a breath and stands, waving his hand to clear the air around him as…whatever was happening to his body stops. “This body is nearing the end of its ability, and I can no longer use the same power source to keep it going. When I return to being a spirit, I will need a new body that I can possess and B-dabattle in.”
Ababa is angry still, angry for Ambrose and Gwinn. Marda-B claimed they were not real children, but…Ababa came to care for them. He glares at Marda-B, expression harsh, but he steps closer anyway.
He’s not sure why he thinks of his next suggestion, nor does he understand it all, and he thinks he should have more questions, but he looks up at Marda-B anyway and says, “Use my body then.”
Marda-B’s jaw goes slack.
“I am serious, master,” Ababa insists. “What you’ve done to both Ambrose and Gwinn vexes me, but I am ever your humble servant. I am yours, body and soul, however you see fit to use me.”
“Touching.” Marda-B gives him a wry smile. “But you of all people, Ababa, will not be able to withstand my will. Things shatter when you exert too much of your will.”
“You cannot know that for sure—”
“No.” Marda-B’s tone makes it clear he will not be arguing this further. “I am very sure of it, Ababa. A hundred percent sure. I will only end up destroying either your mind or your body or both. I cannot risk it, not while you are…useful to me.”
Something feels wrong here. After all, how can Marda-B be so sure?
“You’re leaving again, then?” asks Ababa instead.
“Yes,” answers Marda-B. He staggers backward, falling across the bed. “I must rest before then.”
Ababa lets his feet move on their own, taking him closer to Marda-B. He is full of grief and anger and confusion, but his adoration has never once waned. He is wearing this perplexing mix of feelings on his face when he clambers onto Marda-B, and Marda-B, for the first time since the end of his second journey, does not push him away.
The third time takes the longest. More years pass by. Goldo, once the young and bright-eyed trainee, now a sinister and excellent elite of his, approaches him and suggests ways to improve the training process. Ababa allows it, and it frees up time for him to keep watch on the IBA more and more and work on his own projects. Years continue to flit by. He finds a hundred hound dogs willing to work together. Agents start deceitful businesses of their own and send him large cuts of the profit. He dines with the wealthy who are enamored with the Shadow Alliance’s mystery while whispering sweet promises of power to them. He takes personal control of the ones who try to fight him with the spell Marda-B taught him so long ago. Years go on and on.
He steals plans and schematics from a great B-damaster. The Zero System is rolled out to all Shadow Alliance agents immediately.
And still, Marda-B does not return with a child. Ababa starts to fret, starts to wonder if Marda-B’s experiments are going well. He has no way of finding Marda-B, not even scrying.
But what if there is a child waiting for Marda-B when he returns?
Ababa starts to travel as he pleases, searching B-Centers for children worthy of his attention, for children worthy of becoming Marda-B’s vessel, and it is one such trip that his magic goes wild and pulls at him until he has found the child.
The child who emanates sheer power, such that Ababa knows he must have him in the Shadow Alliance. And it is easy, once the boy makes a friend. A few coins here and there, and, armed with the knowledge that his father is so detested, Ababa stands by and lets the world betray the boy.
When the boy is done with his father, Ababa steps out from the shadows. Fire still burns around them as he lifts the man out of the debris with his magic, a small mercy that he intends to be cruel in the future.
“I will be taking care of Enjyu from now on,” he tells the man.
Taijyu can barely move. Sirens ring in the distance.
“I have called an ambulance for you,” Ababa continues. “You will recover.”
“…won’t let you…” It is barely audible, but Ababa angles his ears forward to listen. “…take my son…”
“I don’t think you understand.” Ababa chuckles as he sets the man down somewhere the paramedics can find him more easily. “I will be taking care of Enjyu now. Ah, but men like you want one thing, no? When you recover, your nurse will bring you your payment.”
“…who…”
“None of your concern.” Ababa turns to go. “And I warn you—if I hear that you are looking for him, and I will hear, the mercy I have given you today is forfeit.”
He leaves the broken man behind, and goes and finds the child.
Enjyu does not care about what Ababa has to teach him beyond B-dabattling.
It is frustrating, but Ababa decides to keep him anyway. He has all the makings of the perfect warrior, the perfect agent, and Enjyu seems to desire that very status. So Ababa lets him do as he pleases and they steal a B-daman for him.
The brothers come not long after that.
Wen and Li come to him seeking strength, and Ababa would never turn away those so willing and eager to serve for the sake of power. That was the essence of Marda-B’s call at the start of the Shadow Alliance’s life, after all. Li, in particular, catches his eye—the perfect combination of battling and magic in one child he has been searching for.
None of them are like Ambrose or Gwinn, and that suits Ababa just fine.
Ababa does not consider himself vain, not when there are more important things to take care of and he can look regal and imposing with the bare minimum of care, but he catches sight of himself in the mirror one day and the face that looks back gives him pause.
It is not the face he expected, because he has not aged at all. How long has it been since he first journeyed with Marda-B and created the Shadow Alliance? Years and years. Perhaps decades? He cannot say for sure, but decades sounds right. And still, the face that looks back is the one from the night before Marda-B left for the first time, minus a messily cut clump of purple hair atop his head.
He remembers the feel of Marda-B’s fingers on his head, remembers the flow of magic.
He never questioned why Marda-B would have a spell for something so pointless as stopping hair from growing again, but now, Ababa realizes with a laugh, that it was never solely about his hair. Marda-B did something else to him, something to keep him always the same as that night.
He laughs because it’s brilliant. How can he serve Marda-B forever, after all, if he grows old and dies? For as long as the Shadow Alliance exists, he will serve and lead, and for as long he lives, the Shadow Alliance will exist.
Wen approaches him in the scrying room one day after training. It is curious because he is alone and without his brother.
“Um,” Wen starts, which is even more curious because Wen has never been able to stop talking before.
“What is it, Wen? I am busy.” Ababa does not look up from the report he is reading.
“I just, uh, found this…it was taped under the battlefield we were using today.” There’s the rustling of paper being unfolded. “I had to fold it up to hide it from the other guys. I think…it’s meant for you.”
Ababa sighs, thinking to himself this had better not be one of Wen’s pranks. He looks up, takes the sheet of paper Wen is holding out to him, glances down at the clearly yellowing page, and immediately regrets it.
It is a child’s drawing of himself and Master Marda-B and between them is a little girl with dark hair and red eyes and it is all rendered poorly in crayon. Ababa’s eyes are wide as he scans the page—mr gold said i should learn to draw—papa n father n me—will papa ever find this? surprise!
“A-Ababa?” Wen’s voice is small and distant and Ababa is having trouble breathing, gasping for air as everything in his hands slips out of his grasp.
They are not real children. They are not real children.
But how can he still believe that—
He senses Wen reaching out to him, hand on his sleeve, and Ababa whirls around to face him with his fangs bared and magic surging and he roars into Wen’s face, “Get out!”
The boy gasps and jumps back as though struck. Then he turns tail and runs.
Ababa does not watch him go, staggering toward the large, open windows of the scrying room instead. He screams up into the fake sky, into the expanse that keeps the room lit like it is night.
“Master!” he shouts, “Please, just use me!”
The sky does not answer. Marda-B does not return. Ababa does not sleep well that night, not when he tosses and turns and wakes up imagining Gwinn reaching out for him and Ambrose sitting there in the dark watching him with its ever silent judgement.
Ababa stops spending time with the boys when they aren’t training, and his nights continue to be plagued by the pair he failed.
It is one such night when he is sitting up and panting and telling them to go away, that he hears Marda-B’s voice for the first time in years.
“Ababa…” comes the faint whisper. “My servant…come to me…”
“Master—” He is out of bed immediately, robed and ready as he rushes out and tears through the base’s halls.
The scrying room’s sky is a harsh red. Marda-B stands before the orb, tall and as dignified as ever, and at his feet is the third child, curled up and as usual, asleep.
“This one will work.” Marda-B’s mouth does not move when he speaks, his voice ringing in Ababa’s mind directly. “It is perfect, isn’t it?”
“Master Marda-B—”
“This one will not fight me, and its body will not fail.” Marda-B gazes down at him with an expression that has become serene. “I have already trained it to obey. The rest, I leave to you, Ababa.”
And with those words, Marda-B shatters into specks of light.
The child wakes up, and when Ababa checks on it, it is clutching to itself a B-daball of pure shining white light.
The eye that appears in the scrying room’s sky the next day startles Ababa, but he senses the same magic and the same power from it as Marda-B. It speaks to him in his mind, and he understands. This is Marda-B’s true form, and everything that came before was a fabrication.
Something in Ababa’s chest tightens at the sight of Marda-B reduced to this form, but he does not falter. He would never. He keeps his gaze on the eye as he descends to one knee.
“I am here, oh great and wise one.”
He could not have known the years that ensue would be the last few years of so great and vile an organization as the Shadow Alliance.
“I have no further use for you.”
Ababa finds it increasingly hard to remember anything but his own name. He remembers things like the sun on his fur and a meadow he called home, but they slip and slide within his memory and sometimes he remembers sitting with someone in the dark of night, but even that fades.
One moment he is here, and the next he is somewhere else. He is swept along by the crowds when they race to meet someone he doesn’t know but thinks he should.
“Ababa?”
When he blinks, the face that looks back at him is someone familiar—a boy with long brown hair and brown eyes clad in blue—but no name comes to mind. So he stares at the boy blankly.
Another boy, much shorter with the same brown hair but large dark eyes and clad in red this time, comes up to them, tugging on the first boy’s arm. “Wen? What’s going o…woah, is that Ababa?”
“Do I know you two?” asks Ababa, because he supposes that would be as polite as he can manage right now. “I seem to have lost my way…actually, do I know any of these people here?”
The two stare at him, then exchange glances.
“Um,” says the first boy, Wen. “This is, this is too weird. Ababa, are you…okay?”
“Brother,” says the second boy, “I think we should invite Ababa to walk with us for a bit before…you know.” His voice drops to a whisper, but Ababa’s hearing is sharp as ever. “…before anyone else recognizes him.”
Ababa remembers a stranger inviting him out on a stroll, and that must have been a long time ago, but the thought moves too quickly for him to catch. Still, these boys do not seem to wish him harm, and they even seem to care for him, so Ababa steps closer to them.
“If you two know me,” he says, “Can you help me find my way home?”
It is a chilly day outside, but Ababa has a quilt wrapped around him and a nice cup of tea in his hands to ward off the cold as he enjoys the fresh air from their porch. He tries to remember what the boys are up to today, but knowledge continues to slip away from him. Perhaps it isn’t that important, and he’s sure Wen and Li are both taking good care of themselves.
The brothers took him in only a few short years ago, once they all determined he has no idea where his hometown is, and Ababa was surprised that they would treat a stranger of an old cat like him so kindly, but they have given him nothing but comfort.
So Ababa enjoys the fresh air and lets himself relax.
“Hello?” There is a knock at the gate just a short distance ahead of him, and a human head peers around it to scan the yard between the porch and the gate. “I was in town and received a letter to come visit this address…”
Ababa blinks, and calls back to the stranger, “The boys aren’t here right now, but I can take a message…er…you may wish to write it down though. My memory isn’t as it used to be.”
“Yes, well, I’m not sure who sent it,” the stranger says. He steps forward over the threshold, coming into full view as he comes closer. The human man has long white hair pinned back and a B-daman strapped to his thigh. “I suppose I’ll just leave my name and—”
The stranger stops and stares at Ababa, and Ababa stares back.
He remembers mountains and meadows and flowers and a voice. A voice calling his name as they sit in the sun. Gray eyes watching his magic dance. Hands gently taking his so they might dance together amidst falling leaves as the sun’s rays stretch out from behind the peaks in the distance. He remembers Marda-B. He remembers the Shadow Alliance. He remembers the nights they shared. The magic they practiced together. The children. Ambrose, Gwinn, Biarce—He remembers—
“Arsen?” he whispers, and so unsaid is the name that his voice cracks.
“Ababa,” Arsen answers, voice likewise quavering as emotions surge across his face. “I never thought…”
Ababa looks up at his face, lined with age like his own. He stands carefully, quilt still wrapped around him. “I think,” he says, “You should come inside for tea.”
Above the Yong-fa residence, a ghostly catfolk hovers unseen. Marda-B watches the pair disappear through the door. His list of sins is long and he suspects he will spend a long time redeeming himself.
“Do you think this will make up for it?” asks the little blue creature beside him.
“No. Nothing I do can make up for what I did to Ababa all these long years,” Marda-B tells the B-daMage. “But I can hope to give him and his old friends some comfort in their old age.”
The B-daMage gazes at him appraisingly. “You really do care about him, after all.”
“Hm.” Marda-B’s expression is pensive and thoughtful. “I had thought that it was an influence of powering that form with B-energy, but the feelings remain even now. A shame, isn’t it?”
“Tragic,” remarks the B-daMage, “But not for him. Readers always do like that sort of thing.”
“Incomprehensible as ever,” says Marda-B with a chuckle. “Now then, there are others I must visit.”
“And that’s the end of that,” adds the B-DaMage.
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