He hates everything about this realm, if he’s being honest.

It’s not just the lack of color. It’s the sullenness, the long-suffering desperation of souls hunting things they can’t remember but know they need to. They’re all trapped in this grey cage despite the pull of the Realm of the Dead calling them home. Stumbling through some sad mirror of actions and jobs and lessons performed in life, but it’s all more hollow and lacking fulfillment, lacking purpose. Lacking. That’s all it is. It’s a dustbowl purgatory and a sorry excuse for a schoolhouse.

Kane despises it. There is something so seriously wrong here. The promise of after life shouldn’t be so disappointing and empty. And he’s not the only one voicing the same school of thought. There’s been something wrong for a while, but neither he nor the handful of other lackeys can remember or suggest anything better. Laws are laws, they’re told. You don’t interfere with the balances of life and death. That’s how it all ended up in this clusterfuck to begin with. The laws don’t leave room for democratic suggestions of improvement.

He’s of the opinion that’s some bullshit. So, good scofflaw that he is, he does what little he can to shake things up. And little it is, he is so vehemently aware. But he brings with him small glorious things so rarely seen in the RBR - he brings with him color, he brings with him overwhelmingly knee-weakening grins. He brings jokes and pies and mid-shelf whiskey and music. He brings old photographs chock full of memory and shiny solstice ornaments full of meaning. He brings all the theatricality of life in with him, hidden in the pockets of his jackets and in the depth of his laughter, turning it all on full force, bombastic and irresistable each time he swaggers into town like a young deviant St. Nick. Anything in the hope it can spark something familiar in a deceased soul, granting them access to memory and with it a one way ticket to peace.

“Kane!” comes a young cry the moment his feet land with a whoof in the sand. It’s owner’s messy towhead comes zooming into view immediately after, and below it an eager grin missing a few teeth. It tugs at Kane somewhere beneath his ribs, the recognition of baby teeth in a grey smile. But the boy is all wriggling excitement, his current state of death forgotten at the Lieutenant's arrival. “Did you bring it? You said you would, you said this time.”

“Did I?” Kane feigns a confused quick of his mouth, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully. “Huh, that’s funny, that doesn’t sound like me,” he teases, passing the boy a wink when he’s too convincing in his act and the childish grin slips a hair. It’s back full force as he’s patting down his bomber jacket in good show, giving each pocket a checking. “Oh hang on, I just remembered. I do have this.”

He holds up a small toy biplane. It’s simple design is countered with an overly realistic paint job, complete with some Earthen military signals and gold foil accents. Having never known Earth first hand, it means very little to Kane, but the blond child’s face turns a luminous shade of grey at the sight of it and his hands reach out on their own accord before he remembers his manners and waits politely.

“I don’t suppose you want this old thing, do ya? I mean, I was looking to pawn it for booze money, but I guess I could let it go for free just this once.” Kane cocks a brow as the child begins to bounce on the tips of his feet.

“Awesome! Thanks, Kane!” yelps the boy when the plane is finally tucked in his arms. He runs stone cold hands over it excitedly before dashing off in the direction of the door, his group of friends already assembled and waiting impatiently. Kane prays its enough to jog the boy’s memory of who he was, who might have loved him once.

“No hookers or keg parties, guys! And stay out of the street!” he shouts to their backs as the scramble away in a rowdy herd to play, the toy plane held aloft above them like a trophy. Good kids, he thinks as he strides further into the desolate land, a little more spring in his step. Damn shame they get that worked up over such a tiny trinket of the life they once had. He really does hate this place and wants to return to his own realm immediately if not sooner.

Luckily for him, the fairy he’s hunting is within sight, sitting on a stool in the middle of this nowhere, dust on his hem and a collection of notes balanced precariously on his lap. He’s watching the group of boys out of the side of his eye and muttering under his breath. Kane grins, amused at his hassled irritation and stops just so his shadow blocks whatever light the fairy had to write by. Said fairy doesn’t look up or pause to acknowledge his presence.

“What’s up, Brock?” he saunters, all charm and rugged appeal. “Can’t remember what you were supposed to put on that grocery list?”

Brock glances up briefly before shaking his head in dismay. “You aren’t supposed to be here, Lieutenant. I’m not sure how you’re able to even transport here, it’s an abnormality I don’t have time to solve presently,” he chides, licking a finger before flipping over to a new empty parchment page with a world weary air.

Kane squats down a ways in front of him, picking up a dusty rock and tossing it in the air. “Yet here I am. I ain’t in the habit of watching kids die on their birthday and not following through on promises I make them.”

The smaller man huffs, slamming his quill down on his lap and sending several pages of notes fluttering to blend in with the gold of the sandy dirt. “And you don’t get to pick and choose who dies. It’s not in your best interest to get attached when everyone dies and it’s not within your power to decide who or when. Now if you don’t mind, I am up to my ears in trying to stay organized with the affairs in which I am in charge. I don’t have time to micromanage you right now,” he sighs.

“Then don’t,” Kane counters with a shrug of a shoulder. ”I don’t need anybody to hold my hand, I ain’t the one dying. But I’m never gonna stop coming to check on them. They’re just kids, man. They don’t deserve to stay lost in this place until top brass figures out what to do with them.”

The grey fairy’s quill pauses mid stroke and he’s quiet for a moment. “That is most likely the only reason you’re still here,” Brock says quietly. He raises his eyes to glance at the group of boys playing happily just a hundred meters away thanks to Kane’s doing and they soften. “Now what do you really want?”

Kane’s characteristic grin returns. “Well Brock, I’m offended you think I’d need a reason to pay a visit to my good friend. In the realm between realms. Surrounded by nothing. What are you creeping on those boys for, again? I missed it.”

Brock stares at him, unmoved.

“I actually was meaning to give you these,” Kane changes the subject airily. Reaching into an opposite pocket, he comes up with a handful of sun conure feathers. They’re only half a foot or so in size, but the color is blindingly bright against the suffocating grey and they catch and hold the light in a rainbow dazzle as he twirls them to and fro. “Your quill collection is looking a little shabby. Thought you might like these to help spruce it up a bit.”

The librarian reaches for the feathers with wide doe eyes, captured in the spell of their vivacity, and holds them with all the care of holding a live bird in his hands. “They’re exquisite,” he breathes, running fingers over the silken edge of the plumes with wonder. “Thank you.”

Kane’s smile this time is tinted with bashfulness. “Hey man, no problem. I know you’ve got a huge crush on green lately.” It’s such a small thing (too small of a thing) to bring a hint of joy back to Brock’s tired face. He feels sorry for him. To be trapped in this place and remembering abstract things like color but being unable to create or mold or keep it.

“So...” he starts after a minute of Brock ooing and aweing over his new prize. He clears his throat, fiddles with a corner of the closest parchment. “Can I see her today?” He keeps the question light and unconcerned, as if it wasn’t everything he was laying his hopes upon.

Brock meets his eyes, and his expression is sympathetic and so very discouraging. “You know I can’t control who she chooses to see. If I could, I would have had her meet with you the last five times you asked.”

He blinks, momentarily taken aback. He’s worked for Aura for 5 months now, asking to meet her on the first of every once. Not once has he been granted an audience. And for a while, he understood. The Realm of the Dead was in shambles, souls at war with each other and themselves, memories lost and tangled and grief rampant in a place where should be peace. Fairies were getting lost in the chaos, dead children stuck in deserted places like this because memory had deserted them. He got it, she had a lot of her plate. But then he got pissed, the hard work he’d thrown himself into leading to a righteous sense of entitlement and she had turned into an enemy he was tricked into serving instead. A stuck up ungrateful little girl who didn’t give a damn one way or another about a single one of the souls in her charge, including the ones who served her directly. Which the dark logical part of his brain hissed was unfair - she most likely didn’t have a fucking clue what was going on anyway.

But now, he was mostly depressed. He did his job because he was good, damn good, the best in fact. If not the only fairy currently on the job. But the dreams of finding out what had happened to his brother were quickly fading, turning as grey and empty as the sand and people of this place and every bit as forgotten.

“C’mon, man,” he says, quiet in his begging, just one more time. “I just want to talk to her, just once. Isn’t there anything you can do?”