UNDER CONSTRUCTION: watch me disappear before your eyes (catch me if you can!)
Originally posted: 5th March 2026
Originally written: November 2024
Characters: Solidarity, Original Characters
Relationships: No major ship
Additional notes:
Summary:
Abandoned, Revolution Era EmpiresSMP Au, word count: 2,267.He really wishes that he was back home in the ocean, salt water lapping at his gills. Y’know, he’d seen the mainland before, he’d been forced to visit the Kingdom of Mezalea many times as he got older, but he’d never seen quite as many trees as he has in the past 48 hours. it's really starting to get on his nerves. They all seem to blur together into massive chunks of browns and greens at this point. He really wishes he’d followed the ocean to a river instead of trying to lose them by disappearing into the unfamiliar jungle. He thinks it’s a jungle, at least. It looks kinda like what the illustrations his tutors showed him. Well, ex-tutors actu- And he’s tripped over a tree root. Great. Note to self, dirt does not taste anywhere near as good as it looks. And it doesn’t even look that good in the first place! It stains his remaining long, billowing sleeve. He lost the other one ages ago, some thorn bush when he first stumbled onto land. They probably found it already. They’re probably nearby already, he hasn’t been particularly quiet or subtle. O Great Ocean Goddess, they’re probably nearing him every second he sits here, he has to- He needs to focus, he needs to keep moving. It doesn’t matter if he has no clue where he is or what any of these plants are, he just needs to keep going. He can’t let them catch him. He gets back up, scratched palms stinging as he gets pebble’s stuck in them. He overbalances and leans against the trunk of a tree to his right. His breath comes in messy pants but he can’t afford to catch his breath so he pushes off the tree, trying to regain his balance. Rough dirt and rocks and roots irritate his bare feet, which sucks because they’re already sore from the constant movement. The webbing between his toes had dried up at some point since he’d left the ocean and now it's starting to ache when he bends his toes. He’s not sure if that or the untreated, scabbing wounds on his face are more irritating. At least the face ones got washed out by the salt water during the start of his escape, it burned but maybe it'll keep them a bit cleaner. It all means that he hurts like hell and he’s almost delirious with exhaustion. It’s hard to focus on moving. He can’t stop moving. One of life’s fun little paradoxes. He spins on his bruised heels and tears back off through the trees, blinking back his fatigue. Somewhere behind him in the thicket, a group of soldiers in once pristine coral decorated armour thunder their way through the jungle. Later on, he’ll remember these weeks in flashes and this will be one of the important ones. One moment he’s seeing nothing but jungle and the next there’s a lake. An actual lake. Water. His mouth feels drier than ever at the sight of the large lake. Somewhere to his left, a river flows into the lake. Fish swim merrily in circles as he sprints straight to the edge and jumps in without a second of hesitation. The deep end of the sweet blue lake swallows him whole, soothes his aching muscles. Propelling himself forward, he rockets through the lake, a thin trail of washed off blood and dirt follows behind. The fish flee from him but he’s faster. A sharp twist and a flash of pearly fangs earn him a salmon that he tears through down to the bone. Two more join their brethren before he scrambles his way onto the shore. On his knees, he dunks his head in once more to drink his fill. The sound of people, metal clashing, yelling, startles him enough to try to push himself back up. The mud beneath his hands makes him slip and trip and fall back to his knees. He pulls his legs from under him and falls flat on his back. Still, he scrambles backwards into the treeline. A fresh layer of mud coats his clothes and sticks to his bare skin. It doesn’t hurt as much as it would have earlier. The brief lake swim rehydrated his skin enough to stop it from feeling like it was burning. The sounds get louder as his breath comes quicker. He tries to grab onto something behind him to drag himself further back but his hands simply slip across muddy silt. He digs his heels in instead. Pushes himself backwards. Back until he can barely see that beautiful oasis. Backs into a tree. Sounds get louder. His dirty, wet, aching hands grab onto the trunk. They burst through the tree line. Further to the left than he had. He stands. Freezes. Watches. O Great Ocean Goddess, he thinks, Mighty Queen and Dutiful Protector, guide me through the storm, curse my enemies with the sight of the abyssal zone. They’re right across the lake. He can see them, brown filth on colourful armour, palming the swords at their sides. They spread out at the orders of their captain, pointing and yelling and searching. Hunting him like orcas. They’re so many of them but he can’t move. He shoves a hand to his mouth. Muffles his breathing as best he can with how he pants. They can’t hear him. It’s been 3 days. They can’t find him now. They’ll make it hurt. It’ll hurt because he knows them, because they see him like a diseased sunfish. Useless. Worthless. Contagious. O Great Ocean Goddess, Mighty Queen and Dutiful Protector, guide me through the storm, curse my enemies with the sight of the abyssal zone. Tears gather as he presses further back against the tree. Some of them slip into the lake, hunting through it for him. They start making their way around the perimeter of the lake. Heading towards him. Someone resurfaces in the lake, mere metres in front of him and looks around before heading back under. People get closer and close to where he stands. They’ve had meals and water and rest. He wouldn’t get far. He knows that. He’s been running on borrowed time. O Great Ocean Goddess, Mighty Queen and Dutiful Protector, guide me through the storm, curse my enemies with the sight of the abyssal zone. There’s someone, red hair and red and white striped skin, a clear lionfish merfolk. He knows her. She swore her loyalty to him, joked with him just last week. She will kill him. He peers through the trees that hide him at her. Presses the hand to his mouth tighter. His eyes dart to the side to carve a mental path through the dense growth. If they wish to hunt, then let them. He’ll give them a hell of a hunt. He won’t give up. Not now. He steadies himself. Perches his free hand to easily push off the trunk. He’s past the halfway mark. Let the Goddess grant him just a little more luck. O Great Ocean Goddess, Mighty Queen and Dutiful Protector, guide me through the storm, curse my enem- The captain blows a horn and they all scurry back to the other side of the shore. He points at the setting sun. Everyone nods. Starts setting up camp. They think they’ve lost him but they’re cocky enough to take this moment to rest anyway. They know he won’t. They know he’s exhausted. They think he won’t make it through the night. They’re wrong. He carefully scouts with his foot for branches where he intends to step yet he never looks away from them. They build a campfire. Clear. Step back. Someone laughs loudly. Clear. Step back. Sleeping bags get pulled out of packs. A branch. Gently push it to the side. Step back. Someone jumps into that beautifully tainted lake. A tree in his way. Sidestep. His vision becomes more obscured. Clear. Step back. He hears a clang. Another branch. Push it away. Step back. He can’t see them. Clear. Step back. He can’t hear them. C- He can’t hear them! He drops his hands to his sides. For the first time in 3 days, he smiles. He takes a deep breath. He turns and runs. The next time he sees another living person it’s nearing three days later, maybe. He’s not quite sure. He's heard his pursuers nearby a handful of times but he hasn't seen them again since he lost them at the lake. Almost worse, really, then of he had seen them. Like the world's worst game of Hide and Seek. He can almost feel their eyes on him, even when he knows they're not near. He's getting paranoid but rightfully so, he thinks. The shadows in this jungle twist into familiar figures with every glance. He can't help how on edge he is. Blood pools wherever he steps from his beaten feet and he’s less sprinting and more stumbling. He only stays standing because he’s still pumped full of adrenaline and spite. The flowing silky emerald of his dress has long since been marred by all manners of dirt, he lost his other sleeve sometime yesterday, his hair is greasy and itches. Everything aches and burns and he wants to claw his own skin off. The constant burn on his face lets him know that he’ll be lucky if an infection doesn’t fester there. He wants to vomit but he hasn’t eaten enough for him to waste it like that. He wants to cry but he’s so dry he can’t stomach losing the water. Everything is awful, is what he means. So when he spots the village, he’s almost certain that the fact he’s only slept 4 hours in as many days has finally caught up to him and he’s hallucinating. Or maybe some infected wound caused him to hallucinate. Or anything else other than actual, honest to Goddess, civilization. He slows down as he reaches its outskirts. A sign in a language he doesn’t speak presumably would tell him this village’s name. Or maybe it’d warn him of a painful demise. He doesn’t care at this point. He’ll rip them apart with his teeth if they try to stop him from surviving. A cheetah hybrid approaches him with a strange look in their amber eyes. Dirty blonde hair pulled into a loose ponytail sways in time to their walk. They start talking in that language of theirs and as he stares at them, glassy eyed and swaying, he’s hit with the thought that oh. This is the Lost Empire, isn’t it? The jungle, the cheetah hybrid, the language. He looks more closely at the village, and sees its coloured in vivid reds, browns, oranges. The people are diverse as befitting the home of all those who are lost. He supposes that fortune really does favour him, bringing him somewhere it knows will protect those who need it as viciously as these folk are rumoured to. The cheetah seems to have realised that firstly, he has not been paying attention, and secondly, that he absolutely does not speak their language. They sigh and grab his wrist. Tight. Right on the raw, aching skin. He yelps, yanking his hand away and cradling it gently to his chest, seemingly surprising them as they quickly step back. He glares something fierce and judging by their expression, it works as intended. They make some meaningless reassuring noises and yell something back at the village where a crowd seems to have formed, all ready to step in and help. Apparently, places like this have experience with injured, slightly wild people stumbling into their village. Go figure. The crowd parts and someone jogs forward to where he and the hybrid stand. They’re short. A little stocky. Darker skin. Human-looking but with that specific hair colour of the mahi-mahi folk, blue to green to golden yellow. They wave. He simply stares, wipes his face where he thinks the scabs have cracked and started bleeding again. The cheetah explains something to the newcomer and they nod seriously, turning to him with brown eyes shining in the sunlight that dapples through the trees. “Welcome to our home, traveller,” they say in shockingly formal Oceanic, “I am Kealoha Mahi of The Lost, may I inquire to your name?” He pauses in surprise, both at the Oceanic and the formality. Then he pauses as he realises he does not have a name to give anymore. If they were any fishfolk worth their salt, they ought to know that just by looking at him. He glares at them as they smile, seemingly confused at his hesitation. Just as they open their mouth once more, he answers, voice rough and raw. “You may just call me Cod of the Father. It is a… pleasure to meet you, Kealoha. My apologies for the intrusion but… may I ask where exactly I have intruded upon?” If they’re going to be so formal, he might as well be too. Their smile falters briefly at the name before nodding solemnly, “Tecillitlan is our home's name. We welcome all those who wish for comfort in their journeys. Do you wish to?" Tecillitlan does not, in fact, ring any bells. Judging by the location and the people, however, he's starting to suspect he ended up in the actual Lost Empire. Which doesn't make sense because he has a home thank yo- Well. He had a home. Not anymore, huh? That explains it. If he… doesn't deserve to call the ocean his home then this would be the place he ended up.
So this is part of a wider ESMP Au that I was obsessed with in 2024.