hi, author here. thanks for choosing Dawn of a Dead Day. this is a story i've been writing on and off since april of 2013, more off than on - there was a year gap between chapters 18 and 19, and after that two years until i updated again in april of 2017. four years with this story in the back of my mind is plenty, so i'm finally setting in to grind it out to the end, so i can say that i pay the rent even if it's late.

repartee aside, there's two things you should know before digging in.

one, this story is violent. if you're a kid, a suburban mom, a tumblr refugee, a veteran, or all of the above, don't read this cause it'll give you nightmares.

two, this story is verbose. i like big words and i like using them even when i don't know what they mean. this is a dense story, in terms of words and chapter length together. i don't read fanfic and i write in a style all my own. if you're used to linkXmidnaXingoXepona slashy-fashy-fiction, this is going to read like the whole dictionary at once. also there are swears hell crap peepee.

all that said, there's nothing left to do but grab a snack, maybe a drink, spin some Theophany (here i'll help - watch?v=F4jdLygR-dI), and read. thanks again for your support, and enjoy.

PROLOGUE: FINAL HOURS

The only thought that seemed true right then in Mutoh Magnussa's mind, of course, was that pride didn't count for a damn when there was no one around to see what you'd done.

The plaza was painted and bannered in rainbow colors, incense burned in every torch, the stalls stood where traders would pitch sugared fruits and ribbons of lace, and as far as he knew, only Mutoh himself took time to admire it.

He was leaning against the viewing tower that his boys had built a few days previous, his arms crossed, his short-sleeved workman's jacket floating open and his leggings cinched just a little too tightly. He was old in face and body but not in strength, and though he was leaning against the wall it was not for support but simply from resignation.

A while back there had been a few sounds of revelry coming from guards that had abandoned their duty and gone to get drunk—they'd chased each other around the plaza, their helmets atop their spears, their mindless smiles holding back sadness, trying not to look up. Definitely not to look up.

Mutoh looked up, and wasn't afraid to look up. He only brought his gaze away to spit every now and then.

There was no spot above that belonged to the sky.

Though there was not fear in him, it was that simple contradiction—that one could look skyward and see ground—that had started Mutoh's thoughts about pride, and what it was worth to stick by one's word.

Pride had kept him here this evening, even as the last of the merchants and shopkeepers shuffled out of the rear gate. Pride had kept him here after three separate guards had asked him to flee. A few short days ago, pride had made him pound a fist on Dotour's desk, and wave a finger at the Captain of the Guard, and say what he always said—"On with the Carnival!"

Now pride kept him in the town square, where last year and each year before, the people of the town had gathered to celebrate the opening of the festivities—a crowd so thick you could get lost in streets you'd known your whole life.

Tonight, with the great clock only a few ticks from midnight, there were three people there. Mutoh kept his place against the base of the viewing tower, the smell of rope and sawdust to keep him company. At the south end of the plaza, there was a solitary guard, who likely was thinking just the same thoughts that Mutoh was thinking.

And to Mutoh's left was the luckiest bastard in the world—a Scrub, half-buried in the Deku flower that could and likely would carry him to safety, tied parcels at the ready by his side, and a fish in his hands, plucked from the pond to his left. The Scrub twisted its hands, tearing the fish's head off, and at once snuffed the two pieces into its snout.

It spat the bones back into the pond, a few bubbles drifting away from its snout. It took embarrassment at this, and wiped its snout with a hand—"Pardon me, sir. Seems I've already packed my manners."

It took Mutoh a moment to realize the Scrub was talking to him, and a moment longer to figure out what it had said—he'd never been able to understand Scrubs with any success. He waved a hand to dismiss the offense—"No trouble at all. And even if it were, I'm not of a mood to make enemies."

"Hardly, sir, hardly." The Scrub stuck its hand into the pond again, searching for another fish.

Mutoh sighed and slumped against the viewing tower. He looked up at the taller tower before him, the one built of stone and tradition. The clock clicked on, deep thrums every half-second. There was a distant rumble. A short streak of fire crossed the sky.

The Scrub pointed to the fire—"Ah! Perhaps a moon's tear, you think?"

"No concern to me," Mutoh said. He pulled out his pipe and put it into his mouth. His hands did not shake, and he took pride in this.

The Scrub scanned the sky—"That's why I've been waiting here, myself. An associate of mine said he'd bring me one. Apparently the Astronomer up on the hill has one. It's for the wife, don't you know. She so enjoys things like that."

Mutoh grunted as he packed his pipe. At first he only filled it halfway—then when he remembered what his pride was making him do, he filled it all, and plucked a burning straw from the torchpost beside him to light his pipe. He tossed his half-full pouch to the base of the clock tower.

To his surprise, the door there opened—a red-haired man leaned out and eyed the pouch. He picked it up, and looked smartly at Mutoh—"Thank you!"—and at once slammed the door shut.

Mutoh stood there in confusion, pipe-smoke idly haloing his head.

The Scrub either did not notice, or did not care, as he went on—"But really it's a matter of culture, isn't it. It's in my blood for me to stay. The Oath of the Swamp Giant, do you know it?"

Mutoh sucked his pipe—"Hm?"

"The Oath of the Swamp Giant. 'To remain until the end'. The principle that all Scrubs hold to. Though really we don't need to hold to it, it's just there. Comes naturally. I must say, I don't know any of the other Oaths. What's the one for you men, the, ah… the Oath of the Canyon Giant, I believe? Quite an ominous one, isn't it?"

"No," Mutoh said—"We don't swear by the Canyon Giant. We're not Ikanan."

"But that's where you men come from, isn't it?"

"We came from there, yes. We don't swear by it. We swear the Oath to Order—'To hold the center, strong'. And by the Giants I'm holding it. Apart from the guards I'm the only man here holding the damned center."

"And you're also remaining to the end. A rather Scrubbish principle."

"I'll be here to the end, yes. I'll be here after the end. I'll end here myself."

"…not a very Scrubbish principle, I must say. I shall be here till the end, of course—but I do believe I'll ride out on the blastwave. Just as soon as—ah! But here he comes now!"

There came a gentle pattering sound from down the plaza—another Scrub, a younger one, came into view, cutting across the square toward the Scrub, holding a shining blue light in its hands—a moon's tear.

The first Scrub climbed out of his flower—"I see you've brought my specimen! Much obliged, sir." He accepted the moon's tear, and stowed it at once in one of his rucksacks—"The wife will be quite pleased, quite pleased indeed. I must say, I don't know how you ever could've convinced old Shikashi to part with it, but I suppose I'll just have to live with the curiosity, won't I?"

The young Scrub tapped his hands together, like he was waiting for something.

The first Scrub clapped his hands, making a sound like clacking wood—"Oh, but of course! Our arrangement. Well, here you are, sir." He reached into one of the sacks and produced a worn piece of parchment, and handed it to the young Scrub—"The flower is now yours. Now, I'm supposed to tell you all about how the pheromones in the flower will reject you at first, and make sure you understand the restrictions on the airspace over the market, but it all seems quite useless at this point, doesn't it?"

The young Scrub only nodded.

There was another gentle earthquake. The banners fluttered in the wind. Mutoh took another drag from his pipe.

The first Scrub finished his arrangements, and moved to stand beside Mutoh—"But that's what it is at heart, don't you think?"

"Hm?" Mutoh said.

"How useless all this becomes in the face of crisis. Well, not useless—just unimportant. My flower, his flower now, rather… it still has a use. It's always had a use. As a matter of fact, its usefulness is what gives it so much value. It's the only Deku flower in the marketplace, and it was mine. I had Scrubs and men alike bidding on its value, and I took no offers, I accepted no sum. It was too important to me. It was mine, do you understand me?"

Mutoh sighed deeply—"Yes. I do."

"But now, of course… things seem to have changed considerably. My flower is unimportant to me, since there's no more commerce. The moon's tear I have now probably isn't worth much, the moon seems to be spitting them out constantly these days. In just a few hours—minutes now, I believe—this town will no longer be here, so it'll serve no ventures either in business or leisure. Think about that, now. Soon, this town will be a wind at my back. So what value is it to me?"

Mutoh finished off his pipe, and tapped it against the torchpost beside him—"Get to your point."

"I believe that friends matter, sir. Friends, more than anything. Not oaths, nor property, nor business, nor my damned wife. Friends, sir—friends, and my life." He leaned in close, like he was making a shameful offer—"I… value my life, sir."

Mutoh nodded.

"I wonder if you do, too."

Despite himself, Mutoh nodded again.

"Then a partnership is in order, wouldn't you agree?"

"What sort of partnership?"

"A living partnership, sir. There are difficult times ahead of us, and as I have said, friends are the most valuable thing you can have, whether times are difficult or not. Take that boy, for instance—trotting around a doomed town without any company. He'll not last long, I guarantee you."

"I've seen him around, he has a fairy."

"Of course he has a fairy, we all have fairies, I used to sell them in bottles for two green. I mean a true partner. Someone at your back. Someone who'll keep you alive. In my experience, life has always, always been so much more impressive than death."

"And you'll do that for me?"

"Of course, sir. Frankly that's why I'm so disappointed in the boy. It's almost a crime that he doesn't have a partner. You always want to make a contract with a Scrub, sir. I think you know why, too."

Mutoh nodded—"Because you remain until the end."

The Scrub nodded, and offered his hand for a shake, and Mutoh took it. The Scrub did the closest thing it could to smiling—"We'll flee like cowardly bastards and feel none the worse for it."

Mutoh gritted his teeth at the shame—"But how? You just leased your flower."

"The boy only has one use for it. He plans to scale the clock tower. We shall use it again once he's gone."

At that moment, the clock chimed midnight, and the ancient machinery began to operate, twisting the tower into its festival arrangement, the giant clock face turning to the sky. Within the minute, it shuddered into place, sending out a manmade quake to match the moon-made ones.

The young Scrub crawled down into his flower—then sprang from it, petals helicoptering in the air, floating down to the viewing platform on the clock, and scaling the staircase there, heading for the clock face.

Fireworks shot off, reds and greens to illuminate the night.

Mutoh turned and looked up at the viewing tower one last time. The product of his carpenters, built to a soaring height in only the last three days. All of this, all the arrangements of the square… all had been done in only three days. A faster time than ever before—perhaps driven by panic at the prospect of a fallen moon.

But then, anything that could be done in such a short time couldn't be that important, could it? Nothing done in just three days could be worthy of too much pride.

Another earthquake—a real earthquake—came then. Mutoh stumbled and dropped his pipe, but the Scrub steadied him with his hand.

"Come on, now, no time to waste!" the Scrub said. He cut back to his flower, and picked up his bags—"You'll be carrying these for me, if it's alright with you. Or if it's not alright, either. Frankly I think it's too late to argue this."

Mutoh picked up the parcels without a word. The Scrub climbed into the flower and adjusted himself, then stuck a hand out. Mutoh took it.

The Scrub looked upward—"This will be a bit of a jolt, so be sure to hold on tight."

Before Mutoh could respond, he was in the air, dangling at arm's length beneath the Scrub, soaring over the marketplace, lifted higher and higher by the Scrub's petal-rotor. He looped the rucksacks over his shoulder and reached up to grab with both hands, the living wood flexing to grip him as well.

Mutoh looked down a final time at the marketplace, the place he'd left his pride. Before they'd flown too far to see, he witnessed one last peculiarity—the man inside the clock tower emerged, and went to pick up Mutoh's pipe. He seemed to be carrying a shovel.

After that, they were flying above the empty city streets, and the unmanned city walls, and then the fields of Termina, cutting away from the town, away from the moon, toward where the sun would rise. Toward the great Stone Tower, visible even at fifty miles' distance. Toward Ikana.

Ikana, home to the dead, and the Canyon Giant, whose oath was the simplest—"To last."

The impact came with the rising sun. Mutoh did not see it, but felt it inside him as much as out. There was a quaking feeling in him, a deep and desperate anger. Prideless anger. The impact was not quick or stunning, but a constant deafening rumble. A civilization's death-rattle.

Before long the shockwave hit them, and they flew yet faster, yet further, dust and debris flowing behind them, and a fire like another sun was rising from the west. Every leaf on every tree shook.

And the heat… if Mutoh Magnussa lived out the rest of his years, he would never forget the heat.

Mutoh's arms had grown sore, and he moved to adjust his grip, but instead slipped, dangling with only one hand now. Now the sickness in his gut was matched with terror.

The Scrub looked down at him, and over the roar of the rending earth Mutoh heard him speak—"Don't you fall, damn you! We remain until the end! Don't you fall!"

He didn't—his hands did not shake, and he took pride in this.