Hakka and Bettels Fight

The air in the TEMPUS guild hall was thick with a tension that even Axel’s loudest boasts couldn't cut through. Usually, the headquarters echoed with the chaotic symphony of Flayon’s high-pitched screeching and Altare’s exasperated sighs, but today, the silence originating from the corner table was deafening.

Gavis Bettel was meticulously polishing a throwing knife, his movements sharp and jagged. Opposite him, Banzoin Hakka was slumped over a map, his dual spears leaning against the wall like discarded toys. The "coolest exorcist" looked decidedly un-cool, his purple eyes darting toward the jester every few seconds, only to be met with a cold, painted shoulder.

"Look, Bettel, I already said I was sorry," Hakka muttered, his voice cracking slightly. "I didn't mean to mess up the routine. I just thought the backflip would add more flair to the finale."

Bettel didn't look up. "Flair? Hakka, you nearly kicked the chandelier onto the Duke. That wasn't 'flair,' it was a death wish. My performance is built on precision, not your impulsive need to show off your Karasutengu leaps."

"I wasn't showing off!" Hakka snapped, his sarcastic defense mechanism kicking in. "Maybe if your 'precision' wasn't so boring, I wouldn't have to spice things up."

The knife clattered onto the table. Bettel stood up, his colorful attire jingling with a sound that felt more like a warning than a melody. "Boring? Fine. If you think my life’s work is boring, maybe you should find a different partner for the investigation tonight."

"Bettel, wait—"

But the jester was already gone, his cape fluttering behind him as he stormed toward the infirmary to find Shinri, leaving Hakka to punch the table in frustration.

"Trouble in paradise?" Axel asked, leaning over the banister with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. He’d seen the two of them glued at the hip for months; seeing them apart felt like a glitch in the world.

"Shut up, Axel," Hakka groaned, rubbing his right hand. The Records Corruption was acting up, a dull itch beneath his skin that always worsened when he was stressed. "We have a lead on a Corruption Beast nest disguised as a high-end lounge in the lower districts. Magni is busy, and Altare wants us to scout it out."

"You two are going alone? In that mood?" Altare joined them, his expression worried. The leader of TEMPUS always had a soft spot for his guildmates' well-being. "Maybe I should send Flayon with you."

"No!" Hakka stood up, grabbing his spears. "I can handle it. And Bettel... he’ll come around once we’re on the job. He’s a professional."

***

The 'Velvet Void' was a den of opulence and shadow, the kind of place where the wine cost more than a gladiator’s armor and the secrets were even dearer. Hakka and Bettel had arrived separately, blending into the crowd. Bettel was at the bar, playing the part of a wealthy, eccentric traveler, while Hakka moved through the shadows of the mezzanine, his exorcist instincts screaming that something was wrong.

They weren't speaking. Even through their comms, the only sound was the crackle of static and the occasional muffled 'copy' from Bettel.

"I’m moving to the back office," Hakka whispered into his mic. "The energy readings are off the charts. Bettel, stay in the main hall and keep eyes on the exit."

"I don't need instructions from you," Bettel’s voice came back, sharp and icy.

Hakka sighed, slipping through a curtained doorway. He didn't see the shadow following him, nor did he notice the faint, sweet scent of a localized pheromone trap until his head began to swim.

He reached for his spears, but his fingers felt like lead. His right hand, the one touched by corruption, burned with a sudden, agonizing heat. He stumbled into a private room, gasping for air.

"Well, well. A little bird flew into the cage."

A man stepped out of the darkness. He wasn't a beast, but he was corrupted in a way that was far worse—a human who had tasted the power of the Records and wanted more. He held a small, empty vial.

Hakka tried to summon his energy, to leap, to fight, but his legs gave out. The drug was a potent sedative mixed with something that made his skin feel hyper-sensitive, a cruel cocktail designed to break an exorcist's will.

"Get... away..." Hakka wheezed, his vision blurring.

"You have such interesting data," the man purred, pinning Hakka’s trembling arms to the plush rug. "The Karasutengu blood... I wonder how it reacts to physical trauma."

Outside, in the main hall, Bettel was nursing a glass of sparkling water. His anger was starting to simmer down into guilt. He knew he’d been harsh. Hakka was impulsive, yes, but he did it because he loved the thrill, the same way Bettel loved the applause.

"Hakka? Report," Bettel said into the comms.

Silence.

"Hakka, this isn't funny. I'm over the fight. Just answer me."

Still nothing. Bettel’s heart plummeted. His unlucky streak usually involved him falling off stages or dropping his props, but this feeling in his gut was different. This was real danger.

He didn't wait. He vaulted over the bar, ignoring the startled cries of the patrons, and sprinted toward the back rooms.

He found the door locked. With a strength born of pure panic, Bettel kicked the frame, the wood splintering under his boot. He burst into the room, and the scene before him turned his world to ash.

Hakka was on the floor, his shirt torn, his face pale and slick with sweat. The stranger was looming over him, a hand gripping Hakka’s throat while the other reached for the belt of the exorcist’s trousers. Hakka’s eyes were open but unfocused, tears leaking from the corners as he struggled feebly against the weight.

"Get your hands off him!"

Bettel didn't sound like a jester. He sounded like a demon.

The man turned, surprised, but he wasn't fast enough. A throwing knife whistled through the air, pinning his sleeve to the wall. Before he could scream, Bettel was on him. It wasn't a clean fight. It was a desperate, violent scramble. Bettel used his weight, his theatrical agility, and a hidden dagger to drive the intruder back, eventually slamming the man’s head against the marble hearth until he went limp.

Bettel didn't look at the unconscious body. He scrambled over to Hakka, his hands shaking so violently he could barely touch him.

"Hakka? Hakka, look at me. It’s Bettel. I’m here."

Hakka let out a broken, choked sob, his body convulsing. "B-Bettel? Don't... please don't touch... I can't..."

"It’s okay, it’s me, I promise," Bettel whispered, his voice cracking. He quickly pulled Hakka’s clothes back together, shielding him with his own flamboyant cape. "I've got you. You're safe. I'm so sorry, I should have been with you."

The exorcist clung to Bettel’s sleeves, his fingers digging into the fabric. The drug was still ravaging his system, making him twitch and gasp, his mind trapped in a loop of the assault that had almost been.

"I couldn't move," Hakka whispered, his voice a ghost of its usual cheerful self. "I was so weak, Bettel. I’m supposed to be the exorcist... I’m supposed to defend..."

"Shh, don't say that," Bettel said, pulling Hakka into his lap, holding him tight despite the jingling of his bells. "You were drugged, Hakka. Even the strongest hero can't fight that. You’re not weak. You’re the bravest person I know."

***

The extraction was a blur. Flayon had arrived in a specialized transport, his usual high-strung energy replaced by a grim, focused intensity as he cleared a path through the lounge's security. Shinri and Axel were waiting at the guild hall, their faces etched with a fury that promised a dark fate for whoever had organized the 'Velvet Void.'

Hours later, the infirmary was quiet. Hakka had been treated for the sedative and the minor injuries, and was now sleeping fitfully in one of the beds.

Bettel hadn't moved from the chair beside him. He looked exhausted, his face paint smeared and his hair a mess.

A soft knock at the door signaled Altare’s entrance. The leader carried two cups of tea, setting one down next to the jester.

"Shinri says he’ll be okay, Bettel," Altare said softly. "The physical wounds will heal. The rest... we’ll help him through it. All of us."

Bettel looked at his hands. "We were fighting over a stupid stage routine. I let him go in there alone because I was pouting like a child."

"You saved him," Altare countered, placing a hand on Bettel’s shoulder. "Focus on that. Hakka doesn't blame you. He’s probably going to wake up and try to make a joke about how 'cute' you look when you're worried."

Bettel let out a weak, watery laugh. "Yeah. He probably will."

As if on cue, a low groan came from the bed. Hakka’s eyes fluttered open, squinting against the dim light. He looked around, his gaze finally landing on Bettel. Memory flooded back, and for a moment, his breath hitched in terror.

Bettel immediately leaned forward, taking Hakka’s hand—the left one, the one that wasn't scarred by corruption. "I’m here. I’m not leaving."

Hakka looked at their joined hands, then up at Bettel’s face. The sarcasm was gone. The 'cool exorcist' persona was stripped away, leaving only a boy who had been through a nightmare.

"Bettel?"

"Yeah, Hakka?"

"Your makeup is a mess," Hakka whispered, a tiny, fragile smile touching his lips. "You look like a sad raccoon."

Bettel sobbed and laughed at the same time, leaning down to press his forehead against Hakka’s. "And you're an idiot. A total, impulsive, annoying idiot."

"But I'm your idiot?"

"Always," Bettel promised, squeezing his hand. "Always."

In the doorway, Altare watched them for a moment before quietly closing the door. Outside, the rest of TEMPUS was waiting.

"How is he?" Flayon asked, his hands hovering over his control panel as if he wanted to fly something into a wall.

"He's with Bettel," Altare said, a small smile finally appearing. "He’s going to be okay. They both are."

Shinri nodded, his hand resting on the hilt of his bow. "Good. Because we have a lot of work to do. No one touches a member of this guild and gets away with it."

Axel cracked his knuckles, his tail swishing dangerously. "I’m feeling like a 'doctor' tonight. Time to remove some root causes."

Inside the room, the silence was no longer heavy. It was a shield, a space for two broken people to start putting the pieces back together. Hakka drifted back to sleep, his head resting on Bettel’s chest, lulled by the steady, rhythmic heartbeat of the man who had caught him when he fell. The spotlight would return eventually, but for now, they were content in the quiet, holding onto the only thing that mattered in a world full of corruption: each other.