campfire stories

[reposing]

It’s the third night on the unnamed planet.

It’s the time in which Lapis and Apollo aren’t at their strongest, Connor has no downtime, Kira is the same as ever, and Alucard is at his peak. The closer it is toward the midnight hour, then the more likely they’ll all reconvene at the same spot, some unspoken agreement between the lot of them. The one thing that Kira commits to is making sure the fire is lit in their terraformed hovel. None of them really need it, but it’s a comfort all the same.

It’s at that point that Alucard returns alongside Connor with a fish in a jar in one hand and has planted a fern in the other. Kira pretends he doesn’t notice Alucard brushing his shoulder against the android’s.

But he definitely notices.

“Are you sure that’s going to survive the trip back?” Apollo asks skeptically.

Alucard shrugs. “It’s worth a try, in any case. If it does not, then we have a sample to study.” He takes a seat on one of the rock sofas he’d smartly lined with moss and leaves.

“This field trip’s been lame,” Kira complains, making sure it’s loud enough that everyone can hear him.

“No one said you were required to come,” Alucard points out flatly.

Kira grins at him. “Don’t tell me you don’t appreciate me.”

The dhampir grumbles wordlessly, focusing more on his ridiculously colorful mystery fish than debating that. Kira feels smug.

“Don’t humans like…” Lapis shrugs from where she’s laying on the floor. “Tell stories when they’re camping?”

All five of them exchange various glances: Kira is stoking the fire mostly to watch his stick burn, Alucard gazes impassively, Apollo offers a helpless shrug, Lapis is giving everyone the flattest look possible, and Connor is smiling politely as always.

“You guys are the worst at being humans.” Lapis sighs, draping her arms over her eyes. “I could be a better human than you all.”

“No one’s stopping you if you wanna show us how it’s done and tell a spooky story,” Kira teases her.

There’s a pause, then Lapis peeks out from under her arm. She raises a brow, then sits up. “All right, fine. It’s story time.”


A gem does not die. A gem’s life never really ends.

Their bodies are projection of light, a form taken that suits them best. Even if the hard light is disrupted, they reform. Even if a gem is somehow cracked, they live on.

A gem does not die.

The Diamond Authority does not waste a single gem in their courts. A lapis terraforms. A ruby fights and protects. A quartz is a soldier. A sapphire looks beyond into possibilities. Should they displease, should they disobey, it is the Diamond’s right to shatter that gem.

A gem does not die.

The Diamonds do not waste a single gem.

The shattered remains are but a broken consciousness. A gem never stops, but they forget themselves. They struggle, desperate to be whole again. The shattered remains are taken, forcibly fused with other shards, creating a form of mismatched limbs and different thoughts trying to be one and failing. An excellent mindless soldier.

After all.

A gem never dies.


All eyes are watching Lapis, the room quiet. Though she doesn’t usually emote much, she looks fairly pleased with herself.

“That was… morbid,” Apollo says, wincing.

“Isn’t that the point?” Lapis says, smirking to herself. “You do it.”

Apollo holds up his hands. “Look, if we’re falling into camping tropes, I’m more like camp counselor than the one telling stories here.”

“Weak,” Kira scoffs. “Hey, Barbie! You got anything in that computer brain of yours?”

“You don’t have to do anything he says,” Alucard says, frowning at Kira. In responds, Kira sticks out his tongue.

Connor shakes his head. “It’s fine. In any case, I don’t have a database of stories, exactly.” The android keeps his faint smile, remaining blandly pleasant. “But I think I know a few cases that could constitute as unsettling.”


On January 2, 1935, a man checked into room 1046 at the Hotel President in Kansas City. His name, according to the hotel register, was Roland T. Owen, and his home address was in Los Angeles. He had a cauliflower ear, brown hair, and a horizontal scar on his scalp. He had no luggage except for a hairbrush, a comb, and toothpaste.

That same day that Owen checked in at the hotel, a maid stopped by room 1046. According to her, Owen seemed frightened. The blinds were shut tight, and the room’s only source of light came from a small lamp.

After the maid was done cleaning the room, Owen asked her to leave the door unlocked because he was expecting a friend. Later, when the maid returned with fresh towels, she saw a note on the dresser that said, “Don, I will be back in fifteen minutes. Wait.”

The next morning, the maid returned to room 1046. It was locked from the outside, so she assumed that Owen had gone out. However, to her surprise, Owen was in the room, meaning that someone else had stopped by previously and locked Owen in.

Just like the previous night, Owen was sitting in the dark. Then, a phone rang. Owen answered, and said, “No, Don, I don’t want to eat. I am not hungry. I just had breakfast.”

That same day, a motorist named Robert Lane picked up a man near the Hotel President. The man apparently told Lane that he was going to kill someone tomorrow. Later on, Lane identified the stranger he had picked up as Owen.

That night, when the maid returned to room 1046 with fresh towels, she was turned away by a gruff sounding man. The next morning, the hotel’s staff noticed that the telephone in room 1046 was off the hook. A bellboy was sent up to the room, where he discovered Owen lying in a puddle of blood.

It was obvious that Owen had been tortured. When the police asked Owen who did this to him, he answered, “Nobody.” His wounds, according to him, were the result of him falling against the bathtub. Mysteriously, his clothes were missing.

When the police tried to confirm Owen’s identity, they found that Roland T. Owen did not exist. Owen, who had by now become John Doe, died in the hospital and was to be buried in the potter’s field.

However, an anonymous call came asking for the burial to be postponed until funds for a proper funeral were wired. Thirteen flowers were sent for the funeral and were signed, “Love forever – Louise.”

In 1936, a woman read about the case and thought that “Owen” looked a lot like her friend’s missing son, Artemus Ogletree. Ogletree’s mother confirmed that the man from room 1064 was indeed her son, but the case wasn’t able to progress any further.

Police never found the mysterious Don and they could never trace the mysterious woman named Louise who funded the funeral and sent the flowers.


Connor remains smiling as he finishes explaining the unsolved case, his hands neatly tucked together.

“Humans are messed up,” Lapis decides.

“All creatures possess the capacity for cruelty,” Alucard says. “Humans, beasts, gems it seems -- so long as there is intelligent life, there will be wickedness abound.”

“What about you, Goldilocks?” Kira grins at him.

Alucard sighs and reaches out, gently tweaking Kira’s ear, a sign of affection. “I know many stories.”


In the farming fields, Dahlia knew better than to go alone at night. There are creatures who prowl, seeking blood and meat of the innocent. The brighter the moon, the higher the risk, but their work had been set back by her father’s broken leg. She was determined to do everything she could to help her family survive the coming winter.

The sun had set, the moon was high, and out she went to work the fields with nothing but a candle for comfort.

She worked herself to the bone, blisters on her hands, her heart full of stubbornness. As she ventured further into the fields, she discovered the figure of a man on a pike.

No. It was just a scarecrow. She smiled to herself, relieved.

Until the scarecrow’s limbs began to twitch.

The scarecrow threw himself down to the ground and began to chase her, running inhumanly on all four of his limbs. She fled, desperate to escape.

She knew better than to go alone at night, Dahlia thought to herself as the scarecrow snatched her by the ankles and pulled her into the fields, never to be seen again.


“That seems incredibly unlikely. What kind of person would live with a pike inside of him?” Connor asks, looking puzzled.

“All manner of creatures exist where I am from, Connor. Sensible or not. Some exist as God’s children, others from cruel magic.” Alucard glances to the fire. “Some stories exist as a warning for humans to survive. Others are true. Creatures that look like scarecrows exist to prey on the weak and unsuspecting.”

“And is there a yellow brick road, too?” Kira asks.

Alucard frowns. “What--?”

“I know that reference,” Connor offers helpfully.

“Fantastic, something outside of my time. I should have expected as much.” Alucard sighs and leans back where he’s sitting. “Kira, if we are indulging, you might as well.”

Kira grins. “I have the best story.”





“I don’t know what I expected,” Alucard mutters.