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chaoticpuff17 · 3 years

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When the Chips are Down

part 8

masterlist

Y/N hated bed rest. She’d taken a nap after Namjoon had cleaned them both up, only to wake up and find that he wasn’t allowing her out of bed. It would have been one thing if she was sick, but the contractions had stopped, and she knew better than to strain herself anymore than necessary. She wanted the baby to stay snug right where it was at least for another month. And unlike her ‘husband’, she knew how to keep herself in a relatively stress free environment, and it greatly involved keeping herself away from said husband. There was no hope of that though.

The contractions had shaken him, she could see that well enough, but that didn’t make her any less pissed at him, for Iyla, for shooting the doctor. Did she like the doctor? No. Did she want the doctor dead? No.

“Just stay in bed.” Namjoon pleaded, getting his hand slapped away as he tried to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. “Just for a few days.”

“I don’t need to stay in bed. Jin said I didn’t have to.” she huffed, shooting him an irritated glare.

“Just for a few days.”

She pursed her lips, considering her options. She was stuck here, but that didn’t mean she had to get something for nothing, and he had given her even more leverage in shooting the doctor. Another bonus was now Jin would be pissed at him as well.

“No more shooting people in the house.”

“Of course.” he was quick to agree, but Y/N wasn’t done yet.

“Ever. There is a child. I don’t want this baby to grow up with dead bodies around every corner.”

Namjoon at least had the decency to look sheepish. “Alright. No more shooting people at home. Now will you please stop trying to get out of bed?”

“I want to see my sister.”

“You just saw your sister, jagi.”

“She gets free reign to visit the house.” she insisted.

“That’s not up to me, jagi. Hoseok has some say over…”

“He has no say,” she scoffed. “Not after you gave my sister away. So, she gets to visit any time she wants.” she knew better than to bargain for her release from the estate, but she knew she could get visiting rights for Iyla. Guilt is a powerful thing, and Namjoon was harried in just the right way for her to get her way.

“Jagi.” he sighed, but she could practically see him weighing the pros and cons of capitulating to her demands.

“She’s my sister, Namjoon. I haven’t seen her in over a year.”’

“Alright. She can visit.” he relented, watching her warily.

“You have to let Mark go.”

He froze, staring at her with wide eyes. “No.” he growled, unwilling to even consider the idea.

“You want a peaceful house?” she asked, quirking a brow. “You have to let Mark go. That’s the deal.”

“No.”

“Unharmed.”

“I’m not letting that maggot go.” he hissed, sending her a glare of his own.

“That’s your choice, but I thought you said you wanted a peaceful house.”

“He stole you from me.”

“I left you.” she cut in, tone calm and level. “You gave me a reason to go, and I did. You’re the one who wanted to renegotiate, so let’s renegotiate.”

She had him there. He had proposed a new deal, and he should have known she would have asked for this. She had an annoying habit of protecting people he wanted gone.

“I won’t let him go.”

“Then there’s no reason to even consider a deal.” she shrugged, moving to get out of bed, but Namjoon was quick to stop her, pulling her back against the pillows again.

“You have to rest.”

“Which would be a lot easier to do if you weren’t actively causing me massive amounts of stress.” she shot back, taking a little bit of pleasure in the way he flinched, just slightly, at her words. “You want to make a new deal, let Mark go.”

“Anything else.” he sighed. “I’ll give you anything else.”

“No.” she shook her head, her expression deceptively innocent. “Of course if you would really like to keep Mark, you could always let Iyla and I go.” she suggested looking at him with eyes soft and wide as Namjoon tensed even further at her words.

“Fine.” He growled, hating that he was agreeing to this, but she was a woman of her word.

She wasn’t exactly wrong when she said that he’d given her a reason to go. She’d kept her end of the bargain before he’d ruined things. If they made a new deal, he was sure she would keep her end of things. It wasn’t just her life or Jackson’s life this time. Iyla, the baby, Mark. they were all dependent on her for security, and he knew her enough to know that she would do whatever it took to protect them. Was it the most idyllic way to patch their marriage? No, but it would be an excellent stepping stone.

“But you have to agree to my conditions as well.”

“That’s how a negotiation works.” she tutted, her jaw clenched slightly as she stared him down. She was ready for war, and Namjoon would have been lying if he said it wasn’t hot.

“You can’t leave. Ever.” she didn’t flinch at the request. It was to be expected. “No more running. No more escapes. You stay here, with me. You will be the wife you promised to be when you agreed to marry me. I won’t lose you again.”

“Fine,” he hadn’t expected her to cave in so quickly, but he could see she wasn’t done yet either. “But you never lay a hand on me again. You never lay a hand on this child, and no one lays a hand on my sister. I want to be able to leave this house.”

“Fine,” It was her turn to be surprised. She hadn’t expected him to agree to that. “But you will be under house arrest until I deem you ready to leave the house, and you won’t be allowed out without my permission and a guard by your side.”

She exhaled deeply, trying to keep her calm. It wasn’t the freedom she wanted, but it was something, and it wasn’t as though she was going to be able to escape him again. She had had help the first time, and everyone who had helped her was either dead or imprisoned. “But I will be allowed to leave this house?”

He nodded, gaze calculating. “I reserve the right to take away that privilege based on your behavior. Actions have consequences, my love.”

“Except when they’re yours.” she muttered under her breath, earning her a sharp look from Namjoon.

“I’ve been kind, jagi.” he reminded her, eyes dark, menacing. “I’ve been forgiving. I won’t be so kind next time.”

“Then don’t lay a hand on me or my family again.”

“And Mark is your family?” he scoffed, a dark cloud hanging over his head at the thought.

“More than you’ve ever been. I want him released, unharmed.”

“If I release him, he leaves Korea. He doesn’t return. I’ll kill him if he does.” he warned, still seething at the thought of having to let the other man go.

“That’s between the two of you. I don’t control Mark, but if you want me to stay here and be your pawn, you’ll let him go.”

Namjoon scoffed at that. “You’ve never been a pawn, jagi. After all this time, you still can’t see that you’re the queen.” she rolled her eyes, but Namjoon continued anyway, cupping her face between slender fingers as he spoke, his voice soft and urgent. “You are my queen, and I would burn the world to the ground to keep you by my side.”

She knocked his hands away, sending him a dark look of her own. “I don’t care about your kingdom. I care about my family, which you seem quite intent on ruining.”

“I am your family.” He growled, placing a hand over her belly. “You, me, and this baby. We are a family.”

“Then act like it.” she snapped. “If we’re your family, so is Iyla. She is my family. Mark is my family, just like Jackson was. You don’t get to threaten my family.”

“Then you don’t get to run away.” he shot back. “We’ll have a son.”

She rolled her eyes huffing out a laugh. “You don’t know that. Neither of us know what the baby is.”

Namjoon smirked, thumb gently rubbing over her bump. “We will have a son.” he repeated. “I need an heir, and as my wife, it’s your duty to give me one. If this baby isn’t a boy, we try again.”

She froze, stiffening as the implications sank in. If she had a girl, they’d try again and again and again, until he had his heir. She had no intention of being a broodmare, but the look in his eye told her this was nonnegotiable. She didn’t want to give him a son, but she had to if she wanted her family to be safe. She’d have to pray that this baby was a boy, and if it wasn’t, that a boy would come swiftly.

“I’m not a broodmare.” she hissed, glaring at him even though she knew this wasn’t a fight she could win. She didn’t have to be happy about it though.

“I know that.” he was quick to reassure her, understanding how his words had caused her hackles to rise. “I would never treat you as one, but I need an heir.”

“You could always get one from one of your other women.”

“There are no other women.” he growled, trying to keep his frustration in check. “How could there ever be another woman when you are by my side?” He waited a moment, hoping she would respond, but she only stared at him, stony silence hanging between them. “No other women. Never again.” he promised, leaning down to press a kiss to her belly despite the way she tensed. “I don’t want anyone but you.”

“I don’t care if you have other women.” she scoffed, watching how his eyes lit up excited fascination as the baby kicked against him.

“No other women.” he insisted, staring at her belly in wonder. “And no other men.” he added looking up at her, eyes dark and serious. “You are my wife, the mother of my child. I won’t let anyone else touch you.”

“And where would I find a lover with you hanging over my head?”

“I would eviscerate anyone who even tried.” he warned, his attention quickly turning back to her belly as the baby kicked again. “They’re active.”

“That’s good.” she sighed, relaxing back into the pillows. “They’re healthy, and staying right where they are.”

“You’re still going on bed rest.” Namjoon muttered, shooting her a stern look. “Just for a few days, just so we know you’re both okay.”

“You keep saying I need to stay calm and stress free. Stop giving me a reason to be stressed.”

“She insulted you.”

“You can’t go shooting every doctor that insults me.” she chided, pushing him away from her belly. “You should apologize to Jin as well.”

“I suppose we have a deal then.” he grinned, his excitement clear.

“I want to see Iyla.” she said ignoring him completely.

“You can see her tomorrow, jagi. You’ve had a busy day.” she huffed, rolling her eyes again, much to Namjoon’s amusement. They both knew that they had a deal. She got to protect herself and her family, and he got his wife and child. “Rest, jagi.”

He had them back, and no one was going to take them away again.

part 9

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doorsclosingslowly · 3 years

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Your death is a number but I cannot count that high (13/16)

In which Maul learns what he has done to his brother.

3.8k | Zombie Savage AU | warning for graphic body horror

The world is sluggishly textured, a mess made of strings of gentle metal and rough sleazoid skin; the breath is soft, and Maul is safe. Tame fat cables undulate and rivets melt into him as if they had finally found their home. The skin does not recede either: it encloses Maul into its arms and soothes the worries in his hearts, the questions, the force battering against it, as green and swollen as summer wind. The skin and the steel are his brother, Maul realizes and has always known.

He must not have managed to catch himself, this time, before he tumbled down onto fallen Savage inside this half-remembered nightmare, must not have braced himself up and grabbed hold of his brother’s face. He must have failed his desperate attempt at controlling air and force and life.

Still, there are no wet gasps—no sounds at all, and no blood on a dirty Sundari floor that he left weeks ago.

There is no frivolous apology gasped out with a weak apprentice’s final breath.

Only the steel and the skin remain.

Maul’s hungry hand digs itself into the warm cables and dissolves into shrapnel, into gristle; the cilia of his lungs and the bone marrow and gut bacteria unravel eagerly into a boy that was never allowed to exist. A boy that is held—that is safe, here, for this moment that lasts forever, because this fleshy soup will not harm him: Savage would never, Savage loves him, and this tangle of sweet metal and worried bone and tender force that is melting Maul down with it is Savage, Maul has always known and remembers over and over with every jolt, every breath, every second the pain of being unguarded does not come.

Outside, the howling force and the spluttering green light churn and spin a cocoon.

Inside, they are safe. There is no more child in an empty facility, trained up to become a pointless attack dog by a malcontent liar. There is no first loss, no dissection, no empty exile. There is no vengeance. There is no heinous defeat at the hand of Maul’s—abuser—Master and there are no lightsabers piercing his brother’s—it’s not his, never was, this disfigured fake—chest and their hands do not have to hold on and cling to the one person they ever possessed. They do not have to stand back up and beg for mercy—they do not have to lie helpless and feel every millimeter of their useless torn ‘saber worm itself into their charred torso—they do not have to feel themselves tossed over and over into walls and floor before their Master carries them off to further torture—they do not have to wake up alone after they failed the one brother they had left—they do not have to lose their sisters, their mother, their clan—they do not have to mourn—they do not have to mourn—they do not have to mourn, here, they do not have to mourn, they are liquefied and safe. They are wrapped in each other, alloyed, and neither the force nor the Mother could assort what is left to make any coherent wholes again. Neither the force not the Mother could let one die and another survive, not when all that’s left of their lives is each other. They are amorphous and safe. They are cartilage and rivet and cortex, oleaginous and oozing and ready to eclose. They do not have to mourn.

They are safe.

They’re safe.

Safe. The feeling is terrific; terror-filled; tearing; suddenly, it is far too alien to bear. Safe. Safe? Reality lays its tumescent eggs into the goo of his conscious, eggs bursting and birthing memory and rationality and dread: bringing forth everything Lord Sidious has ever taught him. Safety is a lie. Maul has never been safe. There is no mercy. The very desire is debasement, pathetic for its infantile holdout against education, eradication. Life is solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short; it is impossible to bear, and the only reprieve is victory. Passion, strength, power, victory: and Maul but a loathsome worm who lost everything that could ever be taken from him. Legs. Purpose. Grace. Duty. Mother. Title. Planet. Brother, over and over again. Safe? There is no safety in a world of power and irrelevance, where those who wield might will slake their base desires using those who are weak. Where those who wield might will extirpate Maul’s brother before his very eyes and he can only scramble and beg, impotent wretch that he is, for the person he deluded himself into loving. It hurts. It hurts. It shouldn’t. Pain is no teacher, Maul reminds himself. It serves no purpose. He is but a failed apprentice to the Sith, and that dark power will never be his. Pain is pain is pain.

Hope serves no purpose either, save the acolyte’s attempt to protect herself. Savage lives, Ventress had said, and yet, Maul saw him on the cot motionless and her crouched over him with her ‘saber and he begged again and—it is but false hope. Hope is nothing but pain, pain deferred.

Maul’s head rests on the chest he is so sure belonged to his brother, and he forces his hearts to beat louder to drown out the silence where his own rhythm should meet an answer. It hurts. It shouldn’t. Pain is pain is pain, and there is no power to be gained from wallowing in it. From hoping.

He must open his eyes. The false safety will not return, however long he begs childlike again for his brother. The cocoon has disgorged him. He is in the lair of Sidious; he lies unconscious on the sacrificial altar of his brother’s corpse. He must open his eyes.

He does.

The torso looks much worse than it felt. The torso: adorned with Savage’s familiar markings, but that is not all it bears. From his vantage point resting right above the silent hearts, Maul catalogues open sores, suppurating and infested with shining maggots and dark worms, yet clear of any blood. And why should there be blood, when the dead do not bleed, and Savage is dead? Unutterable pain is inscribed gaudy and blatant on Savage’s body. On his brother, whom Maul had left for weeks, abjectly paralyzed by defeat and apathy and fear of his Master—had left him there for weeks, and Maul is learned enough in the decomposition and rot of humanoid bodies to recognize that Savage could not have died weeks ago. Of course, the rate of decay could have been affected by water contact, humidity, the presence or absence of certain insects, availability of oxygen, or heat—though if Master had had the corpse refrigerated for imaginative torments to visit on his failed apprentice, there should not be this many nimble insects inhabiting Savage’s carcass.

This many insects—the body is teeming with steel-shining creatures, far too massive for mere blowfly eggs, and yet there is no bloat. Maul runs his fingers over the belly, carefully pushing aside the shreds that remain of his brother’s old armor and prodding feather-light against unbroken skin, avoiding the edges of burns and slashes so as not to hurt—he cannot hurt a corpse, though the piteous superstition rides deep within him. He can’t hurt Savage. Anyway, Savage’s dead. Dead, but not for weeks. Not for days, even. Not for hours. No bloat. It should have started in the belly—unleashed enzymes should have broken down his intestinal walls—but the stomach is slightly pudgy, soft, warm, not turgid in the least. The muscles aren’t rigid. Its state does not match up with the steel-colored insects, heads like cross-recess screws—the steel-colored…

The corpse moves.

Hot air snorts against the top of Maul’s head, once, twice; the body underneath Maul shudders and stretches. Savage wakes the way he always did in the months he and Maul played at being crime lords, deeply unhappy with his sudden consciousness but far too dutiful to turn over and give in to sleep once more. A warm steel hand touches the back of Maul’s neck.

“This is a dream,” Savage’s familiar baritone rumbles.

Maul rears up and falls to the ground.

“Maul, is that really you? Where did you go?” Savage is sitting up now, the back of his right hand—the arm bisected by a deep wound and full of ferrous maggots though it was whole and hale when Maul last saw him—right hand carefully wiping sleep grit from his eyes. He yawns. “I have not seen you for so long. Is this a vision again? Tell me it is. Tell me where you are, brother. Please—”

Maul scuttles backwards.

“Brother?”

“Lord Maul?”

Voices, taunting. Maul has fallen for these tricks too often—fell for them again, just now, even though the naïve child apprentice was deceived and hurt so often that even he learnt one day not to trust the offerings of his Master. Hope is a foolish pursuit. In the wretched company of his honest brother and loyal fanatic Death Watch, he must have unlearned this most vital of lessons.

Hope is foolish. Mercy will not come. Maul is accustomed to agony.

And yet, he cannot bear this.

Savage’s corpse, moving, and did he not just wonder whether Master refrigerated it to prolong the torture…

“Fight me, Master,” Maul growls. Attempts to growl. It comes out as a plea, a whine, a sob. “Fight me. Kill me. There is no need for puppetry.”

“Brother—”

“Lord Sidious, what do you gain from—”

“Lord Maul! ‘Alor! Maul!”

Rook Kast enters the edges of his narrowed darkening vision, Kast who does not serve Sidious, or does she—? Maul has trusted his senses before, trusted his followers, and it led him here. If even Savage, his apprentice, his brother, was turned into a tailor-made torture, how could he ever discern… how…

A prick in his neck, he must fight, and—

Maul is kneeling on the floor. His head aches, the edges of his vision still bruised—tell-tale sedation. His back is braced against a warm solid chest, and there are yellow-black-metal arms poised at his sides, ready to help hold him up if he should buckle but otherwise not caging him in. Well-practiced, a caution born of prior experience when a feverish Maul attempted to fight his way free, and… Savage would not have shared this knowledge. He would not use it to further the ends of Maul’s Master, Maul’s abuser as he always says. He wouldn’t.

“I apologize for the tranq dart, Lord Maul,” Kast says. She is kneeling as well, a few meters away. “You were having a panic—you were growing slightly discomfited.”

The tips of Savage fingers dance along Maul’s forearm, a comforting gesture. Master would not have known this type of contact soothes Maul. He has never treated—or even witnessed Maul ever before being touched with any kind of gentleness.

“Apology granted,” Maul says.

“What you were saying before—Sidious isn’t here. He’s on Coruscant.” Kast shrugs her shoulders. “While you were—indisposed, I had an instructive conversation with Ventress and the captive General. We are in agreement that Sidious must die. We were waiting for you to wake up before we discuss strategy.”

Sidious is on Coruscant.Where they will fight him. Nobody here is in his employ—they are all his enemies. It must be true, if Savage doesn’t object, because despite the lifetimes of pain inscribed in his brother’s open wounds, the confused state of decay, the person guarding Maul’s back is Savage. Master would never have managed to imitate his mannerisms, his gentle care. Savage is far too alien, too unlike anyone Maul has ever met.

Sidious is on Coruscant. Far away. Too far to hurt Maul. It is a boneless relief—Savage’s hand braces him carefully—and yet… And yet, Kast wants him to discuss strategy for an attack against the unassailable eternal Master of the Sith. She still does not grasp that attacking Sidious is suicide, and neither do her compatriots. She does not understand that finding Savage far away from Him is all they ever could have hoped for; that all the future holds for them now is a desperate scramble to avoid arousing any notice every again, if they want to live. Kill Sidious? Kast is delusional.

If Maul owes any loyalty to Death Watch, for helping retrieve his brother, he must dissuade her. He must tell them again about Sidious. He follows.

On the walk over to the war room, Maul attempts surreptitiously to catalogue his brother’s injuries. It’s not easy, since Savage wordlessly fell into his usual position of guarding Maul’s back, albeit walking much closer behind than he would have, earlier, so close that he would get in the way should Maul have to veer around to protect himself. A tactical mistake, though Maul is not inclined to correct it. He himself is trying to subtly glance over his shoulder. He could order Kast and Savage to halt, so Maul could visually inspect his brother, but then Savage might attempt to engage him in a conversation he does not know how to have. The weeks apart have unbalanced their easy relationship—Savage’s torture has, and Maul’s desperate search, the revelation of how deeply he values his brother—and a repeat conversation about the awful might of the Sith Master is much easier to have than whatever words Savage might expect. So he does not stop.

He listens, instead. The rhythm of Savage’s steps betrays no hidden pain, though they are a fraction more frequent, as if something had shortened his strides.

Maul chooses his path so that he passes under a low-hanging light fixture, and Savage clears it without bumping his head.

Savage’s breath is calm and measured; he does not falter once; he effortlessly matches Maul when Maul speeds up.

He follows behind Kast and Maul into the war room.

Saxon and Jagrub are in there, as well as a random Clone Trooper, Asajj Ventress, and—

Kenobi.

“I was warned that you would show up,” Kenobi says.

Maul bares his teeth.

Behind him, Savage growls. Suddenly, he is so close that Maul can feel the warmth of his skin against his back. Dark cables flare around him to form a makeshift cocoon guarding Maul, and the air crackles dangerous and green.

“In this moment, we have a common enemy. I wish to dispatch this Sidious as fast as humanly possible. I am reliably informed that Sidious did not exactly treat you with kindness, either. He is my priority. I am prepared to forget our—” Kenobi looks pained— “our history, as long as this threat is defanged.”

Maul feels the air vibrate against his skin. He and Savage managed to take on Kenobi once before, though after they had laid a trap, and Maul is still muddled and buoyed by the aftershocks of his dream and Savage’s marked by weeks of unknown torture. They have allies here, but Dooku’s acolyte will likely side with Kenobi again, and Death Watch are resourceful but they still lack the force entirely, and might as well be discounted in a duel of Sith and Jedi. Kenobi and Ventress against Maul and Savage, again. And Savage’s still injured. Kenobi targeted Savage’s weak defenses in the fight on Florral, and Savage was in a decent form then and still tore a knee and lost his arm. He is weaker now, and his survival far more tenuous given Maul doesn’t even know the full extent of his injuries yet. In a fight, Kenobi will most likely kill him. Maul just found his brother impossibly alive after weeks of torture, and Kenobi would…

It’s a calculation Maul never before had to make, because his death would have furthered the ends of the Sith or have proven he did not deserve life in the first place, but Savage was just returned to his side. Even if the demise of a weakling is well-deserved, it would make tactical sense to retreat until he is at full strength once more, wouldn’t it?

“A temporary alliance until we find Sidious is all I propose. Believe me, I’m not happy either.”

Savage would die if Maul attacks now. The walls and the floor swirl in the corner of Maul’s eyes, a faint green vortex—Ventress takes an alarmed step towards him—Savage would die, and Maul wants to murder Kenobi and he wants his brother as far from Sidious as possible and so he says—

“Lord Sidious will asphyxiate us with His mind. Attacking Him is suicide.”

“The Jedi have exterminated plenty of Sith before.”

Maul breathes. In, out, in. He does not remember tasting the ashes of the dead of Malachor. He doesn’t. He would kill Kenobi if he did. And Savage would…

“I fought you,” he growls instead. “I fought you on Naboo and you barely won. I fought you on Raydonia and you needed the aid of Ventress to escape; I fought you on Florral and you barely won, and on Mandalore I beat you.”

Kenobi looks angry. “On Mandalore—” He swallows his words. “Barely, you say? I seem to remember that you were barely half a Sith when I finished with you.”

Savage rests his shuddering hand against Maul’s back. Maul hardly even feels it.

“You barely beat me,” he repeats, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing but a hooded man laughing. “My Master squashed me like a bug. He could do anything He wanted to me, right until I deployed to Naboo, and He toyed with Savage and me on Mandalore despite any skills we might have learned. I watched Him skewer Savage, and I know it was not happenstance but His brag that He controlled every moment of our battle. The power of Lord Sidious dwarfs every single one of us, and He will beat all of us together.”

Kenobi is quiet, but just when Maul begins to hope he has finally met a rational creature, he says, “What can Sidious do against a foe who does not die?”

Maul growls again. He bared his vulnerabilities to prevent a predictable massacre, and Kenobi spins fairytales?

But Kenobi keeps on talking, “You created a technobeast, Maul. Are you too squeamish to use it?”

A technobeast: part machine, part organic Sithspawn mutant. Lord Sidious was not impressed with Maul’s fascination for this area of force manipulation, back when Maul’s studies focused of the elementals of Sith history and technique instead of practicalities for carrying out his Master’s plans. Nevertheless, He allowed Maul the study, if only for the reason that droid mechanics and forceful manipulations of machines was occasionally useful. Technobeasts, Maul recalls, are created by infecting living organisms with the nanogene spore, a technovirus developed through a combination of Sith alchemy and a Force technique called mechu-deru. The virus grows metallic tumors over the bodies of its victims, ultimately lobotomizing their brains and transforming them into weaponized cyborgs. Metallic tumors… like worms that resemble cables, and maggots made from screws.

Does Kenobi mean to imply…

“I entered Savage’s mind and saw it,” Kenobi says. His eyes are heavy, sad, disgusted. “You can deny your crime all you want. I saw you transform your own brother into a zombified machine slave. If you did not mean to use your immortal weapon to take on your Sith Master and take his place, then why did you use mechu-deru on Savage Opress?”

The maggots and worms inside Savage: of course they bore such resemblance to metal. Maul has worked on enough droids and speeder bikes and ships. He should have recognized their components. He remembers that moment on the floor in Sundari palace, reaching for every animating power he could to just keep Savage breathing for a second longer: and Maul has always felt the movement in inert matter, has felt the force presence of droids and ships and treated mechu-deru as a fact of life. And mechu-deru and Talzin’s magic were the only force powers animating inanimate matter, after all. So when he reached out back then…

If Kenobi is right, then Savage is dead, and yet Maul brought him back. Maul took away the vulnerabilities of mortal flesh, and changed his apprentice forever. He plugged up every injury with metal, and every further injury will be fixed with more metal still. Maul has power. He could make the choice Kenobi has already condemned him for. He could use his brother against his Master. He could be safe. With Savage changed, undead, undying, they could kill Sidious, and they would not have to live forever terrified of his reprisal. He could…

The warm hand on Maul’s back retreats.

Maul turns around. Savage looks down at him, one eye tender and worried, the other a crater of sluggish shrapnel.

He still had both eyes when he died.

Mechu-deru is a dark art for a reason. It does not respect bodily integrity, consent, independence. It is never mutual but always imposed by the strongest. It is Sith. To infect a living creature with nanospores means lobotomizing their frontal lobe and rendering them incapable of higher thought. Nothing more than a weapon. Savage might be more powerful now, but truly, has Maul ever valued him for his power? The person who found Maul on Lotho Minor and whom he took on as an apprentice was a decent fighter, certainly, and strong but unpracticed in the force, but Maul treated him the way he did because Savage threw him food in the freighter when he was still spider-bellied and insane with pain. Savage sang him songs and tried not to hurt him. Savage was gentle and he cooked inedible food, and he was the only person Maul could turn his back to and sleep leaning up against, because Savage was not just a powerful apprentice, but his brother, his brother whom he claimed when he lowered guard long before he could even acknowledge the word. Before anything, Savage was his brother.

And Maul turned him into a technobeast.

There are thousands of primitive legends a brainless Savage will never be able to whisper at night. Thousands of bad recipes he will never try. Thousands of smiles that will never grace his face.

Every injury will draw in more metal, until there is nothing of Savage left.

Lord Sidious controlled every inch of Maul’s life when he was young, chose his food and his clothing and knowledge and training and, on Mustafar at the very least, the very air supply. But for want of skill or knowledge of the option, Master never possessed his apprentice as utterly as this.

It’s not conditioning nor fear of punishment that leads to loyalty, no: Maul inserted his will into Savage with the very metal that keeps him alive. There is no choice for his brother now but to obey.

No other option.

Not even death.

For the first time in his life Maul has surpassed Lord Sidious.

In the realization there is nothing but shame.

Feeling cold as a glacier, he allows his eyes to stare straight for the first time at the monster he built out of the only person who ever loved him.

#darth maul #savage opress #savage oppress #rook kast #obi-wan kenobi #zombie savage au #dimtraces makes things

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spideyswebhead · 4 years

Text

Loose Screw (Arthur Morgan X OC)

I don’t know why since seeing The Devil All The Time trailer I’ve been thinking of Red Dead Redemption 2 again, maybe it’s because I saw someone mention that was Tom’s “YeeHaw” voice. But anyway, Arthur and Emmaline are on my mind again. So enjoy this one-shot with these two babies.

Also this is a first with writing this type of scene, so be gentle on me for it!

Summary: Emmaline tries to talk to Arthur about Dutch plans.

Word Count: 2,224 (This became longer than I intended)

Warnings: Murder -♡- means it started and when it’s over if you need to skip. And slight spoilers to chapter 3 and 4

(1st gif by @river-the-fox and 2nd is @whitewolfofwinterfell)

Arthur burst through the door of Angelo Bronte bedroom most likely. Instantly raising his gun to kill the guard who had been hiding behind the bed, but fell to the ground with a bullet wound in their head before they could do anything to defend their boss. “John! In here!” Arthur calls for Marston.

Bronte raised up from the bathtub which turned out to be where the lizard was hiding, aiming his gun at the two men but found he had no ammo left. Cursing in Italian that Arthur didn’t understand - nor cared to understand - and in panic threw his gun. Hitting John square in the face.

“AH! Goddammit!” John yelps in pain from the impact, his hand flying to his face.

Arthur probably would’ve laughed at the scene of John being hit in the face with a gun, but he was focused on getting Bronte. Who pleaded with the two men as he stepped out of the bath with his hands raised.

“Okay, okay! I’m sorry, friend, I... no, name your price! Name your price, every man has a price, eh?”

John had recovered from the blow of Bronte’s gun and advanced to the man before clocking Bronte in the face, knocking him out cold. “Should we kill him?” John asks Arthur, staring at Angelo Bronte with disgust.

“Nah, let’s take him to Dutch.” Arthur told him as he shouldered his rifle.

“You carry him. I ain’t touching this piece of shit.”

Arthur nodded wordlessly, walking to the unconscious man, feeling his pocket and coming up with $155, he hummed appreciatively at the find and would put it in the camp funds box once they return to camp and pocketed the money before he picked up the lizard. “I think Dutch wants to have a little chat, Mr. Bronte.”

Arthur could hear the whistle of the law coming to answer to their invasion “Shit.” John mutters.

“C’mon, Morgan! We’re getting the hell out of here!” Bill exclaims.

-♡-

Dutch woke up Bronte who looked at all the men in the boat looking ready to kill him, but let their leader speak to him before they would do anything. “Hey, big guy. We gonna ransom you or what?” Dutch said to him.

“You’re pathetic.” Bronte says, sliding further up the boat, not looking threatened or scared in the least despite the Van der Linde gang kidnapping him easily.

“Oh. I am?” Dutch challenged. “Cause from where I’m sitting...” He sat up straighter so Bronte could get a good look at all the murderous men holding their guns firmly. “You’re the one deserving of pity, my friend. All your men, all your money, it weren’t no match for a bunch of bumpkins.”

“You are nothing.” Bronte hissed. “You do nothing, you mean nothing, you stand for nothing. Me? I run a city and when the law catch up to you, you will die of nothing. I am this country! you...you...you are what this country is running from!”

Dutch had a stoned look on his face as he spoke with such a calm tone it would’ve sent a normal man into begging for forgiveness. “I possess things you will never understand.”

“You don’t even possess your own men! A thousand dollars to the man who kills him and sets me free!” Bronte promises and looked at all the men who didn’t move a muscle at Bronte’s promise, years of loyalty to Dutch and faith in him over weighing Bronte’s broken promise.

“What are you going to say now?” Dutch says in a taunting tone as he leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

Bronte seemed loss of threats and broken promises to get him out of this situation like any other, his men dead at his house and law no where for them to find him. “They are even bigger fools than you. No doubt, the law will find you, already the dogs are on their way.”

“Oh yeah?” Dutch taunts, sitting up as he advances on their prisoner. “Oh, you’re right. You are so right” Dutch grips his shoulder and pushes him close to the edge of the boat. “They are good at smelling filth, huh? So filth has got to be disposed of!” He dunks the lizard into the filthy swamp.

Arthur and the others stand in the boat as Dutch forces Bronte’s head to stay under the water, a determined look on Dutch’s face, Bronte yelling as he tries to fight their leader’s strength to get some air in his screaming lungs. Arthur stood there in surprise on Dutch’s actions, never seeing hims react in such a way as he yells at the drowning man. This wasn’t the way Arthur was taught from Hosea and even Dutch.

Revenge is a fools game.

“Your friends the Pinkertons gonna come and rescue you? You repulsive little maggot! You call them now, you call them!”

Dutch force Bronte to keep under until his thrashing body eventually settled and stopped moving. Dutch lets him go and stands up, seeing a alligator there waiting for one of the men to jump in to get their snack. Dutch without a beat kicks Bronte’s body into the lake.

“Jesus.” John breaths, the first to speak as the Alligator eats up Angelo Bronte. “What part of your philosophy books cover feeding a feller to a goddamn alligator, Dutch?”

“The part that covers weakness.”

“...I don’t know.”

“Well I do! It ain’t nice, I know it!” Dutch says as he steps off the boat onto the peer where Thomas had stopped the boat. “But it’s either us, or him! I figured it might as well be him.”

Dutch walks away to join the other men who go to get on their horses. Arthur and John step off together slowly and look at area where Bronte disappeared. A sick feeling in the pit of Arthur’s stomach.

Revenge is a fools game.

-♡-

Emmaline noticed Arthur didn’t return last night when all the men eventually did when Dutch finally got his revenge on Angelo Bronte, she didn’t know what happened but with the way Lenny and John acted it didn’t seem good.

“John, what happened?” Emmaline said as Lenny went to his tent, John coming up the porch of Shady Belle. John puffs out a sigh and plops into the chair that someone set on the porch at some point. Emmaline took the other to listen to John in case he would talk.

John took a second to double check Dutch wasn’t there so he wouldn’t interrupt and told the nurse of their camp of what happened with Angelo Bronte. Emmaline listened intently and didn’t say anything for a while as she processed the actions of Dutch Van der Linde tonight.

It wasn’t like they haven’t done brutal things in the past, murdering gang members, robbing banks, shooting up half a town in Rhodes before killing that old hag Braithwaite inbred sons before casting her manor on fire cause she kidnapped Jack and sold him to Angelo Bronte. The rage of the Van Der Linde Gang was vicious, but the way Dutch acted wasn’t the normal Dutch. He always talked about revenge being a fools game.

“It wasn’t right.” John said, scratching his chin. “Bronte is a bad man, but nobody deserves to be fed to a damn alligator.”

“No, you’re right.” she agreed. It was silent between her and John for a second before she spoke again. “Where’s Arthur? He should have returned by now.”

John just shrugged. “Don’t know, he might be taking care of something or laying low.” He tells her before patting her on the shoulder in a brotherly manner for getting up and heading into the house to probably get some sleep with his family. Emmaline stayed out to try and wait for Arthur, smoking a cigarette as she waited, but after she was done with it, putting it out with her boot, she returned inside the house.

She made her way up the stairs and went into the tiny room her and Arthur were given. She stripped down to her undergarments, stuffing her clothing in the trunk where their clothes were together, blowing out the candles before she snuggled into the rough cot. Slipping into a dreamless sleep.

Emmaline woke up when she heard rustling and she turned around from facing the wall to see Arthur finishing getting dressed, finishing up buttoning his black and red vest. Must’ve came to bed at some point in the night? She watched silently as he turned to the table where he had a map sprawled. His hat laying on the table next to the map. There was a streaming light of the sun rays into the tiny room from the early morning - Arthur always a morning person and up before Emmaline - the golden glow casting over her lover that somehow made him more handsome. She took a second to appreciate the view before she spoke. “Mornin’”

Arthur looks over to the woman once she spoke to him in a sleepy tone. “Mornin’” He returns.”Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“‘s okay.” She said, sitting up, holding the blanket against her as she sat up in the bed. Arthur had returned to looking at his map, his pencil in hand. “John told me what happened with Bronte.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. Arthur... Are you okay?”

“’m fine.”

Emmaline pursed her lips at that response, not believing him at all that he was ‘fine’ after seeing Dutch murder a man. “John seemed bothered by it and you didn’t return until late.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Arthur, can we please talk about this?”

“What is there to talk about? Bronte is dead.” Arthur says, keeping his gaze on that damn map. “Nothing there to discuss.”

“Just- can we please?” Emmaline tries again.

Arthur sighed as he shifted his feet, turning to his lover but avoiding her gaze as he seemed to stare into the corner of the tiny room instead of the half-dressed woman. He didn’t say anything. “Arthur, it wasn’t right for him to take his life like that and for that reason.” She bites her lip as she chooses her words carefully here. “Are you sure Dutch is right about this Tahiti thing?”

“What?” He spoke, now his blue eyes landing on her instantly from her words.

Emmaline had only been with the gang for two years and had listened to Dutch spoke about everything from keeping faith, the promise land of Tahiti where they could be free from everything, one more big robbery and they’ll be on their way to getting a boat to Tahiti and starting their life over. After listening to the same thing over and over and feeling like they were getting no closer to getting to this freedom he was speaking of, she was starting to question Dutch’s motives. But nobody dare question this grand plan of Dutch Van der Linde, but Emmaline was getting tired of this false promises and as she thought about Dutch’s plans of becoming farmers in Tahiti...it had a lot of loopholes and unrealistic dreams.

But also knowing her lover, who has had 20 years loyalty to Dutch, it was hard to talk about the flaws of Dutch and she had to choose her words carefully when talking about this.

“Killing Bronte just so we can rob this bank and than 2 months later become farmers in Tahiti? For 15-20 people to start a new life? It just...it seems unrealistic for this world now.” She said. “You always told us how revenge wasn’t a way to do things and it seems to me Dutch is believing that idea more.” Emmaline says, keeping her gaze on Arthur’s and not daring to look away. “Killing Bronte just seemed...reckless and could make this job bank job go really bad.”

“It’s just one more job and we’ll be out of here, Dutch knows what he’s doin’“

“Are you sure? Getting in the middle of a family feud, for what? Some rumor of gold?”

“It would’ve helped!”

“And what did it do? We’re always running cause of some plan Dutch had that backfires in our face, Arthur!” Emmaline argues. “Now he’s killed a man in cold blood and cause so much more trouble! I’m tired of running!”

“Dutch had to do what he needed for all of us to get us the money!” Arthur says, fuming at the thought that these past 20 years were for nothing.

“And this is the way to do it? Get the money to go to Tahiti that he doesn’t even know about! You heard him, he heard some one talk about it once and that’s it!”

“I’m not going to talk about this.” Arthur huffs, grabbing his hat and placing it on his head harshly and moving to leave the room.

“Arthur!” Emmaline calls for him. “You can’t just walk away!” She gets up, wrapping the blanket around her to conceal how undressed she is. Arthur ignored her as he went down those stairs. She glared at his hat, he was impossible to talk to about any of this. She heard a door shut and turned to see Dutch looking at her and narrowed his eyes.

They stare at each other for a second before Emmaline goes back into her room, shutting the door behind her.

#arthur morgan x oc #arthur morgan x original female character #arthur morgan #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption chapter 4 #arthur morgan one shot #emmaline nielson #red dead redemption oc #red dead redemption original character #angst i guess

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dcschain · 4 years

Text

CHARACTER SOLIDIFYING QUESTIONS. | always accepting.

@seacache asked: What does your character want most? What do they need really badly, compulsively?

“You hold your breath.”

Hold it in until the soft seams of the world are unraveling. Hold it in with the blood in the throat and hold it in until the earth knows that you are dead: only then and with that thought in your jaws will you be able to come back to life.

“Hold it, now. Come now.”

His father’s broad hand. His warm child’s chest. He was seven. He is seven. Steven crouches beside him and adjusts his hands, his arms, to hold the bow and arrow better. To straighten his back into the shape of cwalu-beran / chary-ka and make his gestures gestures of intent. A power more ancient than language.

In these silent woods with no footsteps but the ones not of men Roland is here to learn the oldest art there is after dying: he is here to learn to kill.

He never thought he’d see the sky so red. The evening sun pours over Jericho Hill.

It was a long day.

It was a longer night before it.

Now the earth is rich, red, and can drink its fill of putrescence that was robbed from it when Alain Johns was killed, without mercy or meaning. In the setting light the sea has turned to crimson like eviscerated hearts: it bears no witness but the witness of the eternally unyielding, and above it on the slopes of the great white cliffs, some dancer perhaps a mimicry of history is taking its last leaping steps towards an audience still and uncaring. The curtains are ripped and the light that seeps through the leaves of the Blossword Forest reeks of gunpowder burns. Covered by the dead Roland holds his breath and beside him if he looks to the right Ceridwen stares at him with the lower half of her face gone. His father’s hand is warmer and gentler than it had ever been while alive and it is pressing between his shoulder-blades to stabilise his posture. He is seven. He was seven. He is seven. On the floor of Steven’s study the hand curls in the half-light from the slitted window. It is wet with its own blood. In the dreams it is always still and will never move again or be warm again.

The hare lifts itself on its hind legs.

“You don’t want to shoot too soon, boy. The arrow won’t hit if the moment isn’t right. The wind’s like ka. It won’t heed you as its master if you try to tame it. So tame your breathing instead.”

He swallows too hard, his throat too dry. When he nods he does it with that serious expression Steven sees himself reflected in. The boy is only seven, but his eyebrows knit together too tightly for the blood between them to be an accident, or a lie: what’s left for it then is the gunfire, as an answer no bombardier blue eyes could ever give completely.

Some things you just know. Some things fill the night with the scent of white roses.

“Shoot to kill, not to wound. Wounding is the coward’s way. Wounding means you ain’t ready to face the truth of the death you’ve decided to bring.”

The wood of the bow creaks slightly in his grip. The hare tilts its head: it listens. Both of its terrible, liquid-amber eyes are squeezed between bone spurs and tumours, and the living head twitches and lulls under the weight of them. In the darkness the hare knows smell and taste and sound and touch: evocations in the deep, whale-cries that trace neurons into paths and hatch memories of trickles, whisper-draws. A world with no colour: just song. Each cloud like a humming. Fields of blades of glass.

Footsteps too close to his head. He hears them squelching in the bloodied mud and he cannot tell where his heartbeat ends, where they begin, where they slip into the quieter careless lulling of the undertow below them. If they find him he will not be able to fight them and they will take his head as their trophy.

They took his father’s.

He hears the person come closer through the ground and their footsteps. Willing his body entire to die or be like the dead, closing his eyes as they pass above him and the man he’s crushed beneath. They do not stop.

Steven squeezes his shoulder as one final encouragement. A dead gunslinger’s hand digs into his clavicle, rigor mortis demanding it turn to stone and then grief. He draws the bow.

In the underbrush, the hare turns its malformed head towards father and son and stares at them with no sight. Red roses bloom in both his eyes: the cut on his forehead burns and bleeds into his mouth and he cannot move to wipe it from his face. A Troitan warrior lies lifeless on top of him and crushes his arm underneath his own body. The hare’s whiskers twitch with the blood-pulse in his ears.

He takes his last breath before the killing. The air filling the spaces in his chest where his mother’s love could not reach or stem the tide of violence. Gilead’s greatest living son. Gilead’s only living son.

He exhales when he lets the arrow fly. Jamie’s brains stain the wind with their death. Jamie took Grissom’s bolt for him because Roland was his dinh and the order of things cannot be sacred if it is not also written in blood. The arrow hits the hare below the shoulder and misses the heart.

He sees it take off into the leaves with red staining green. The back of his father’s hand hits his cheek, and his head drops forward to make him bite his lip.

“Maggot. Go find it and put it out of its misery. Move.”

He tries to move under the weight of the Troitan dead above him but something snaps when he does. Inside his own body he feels his ribs crack, the sound clawing into his neck and lungs and throat, unhinging through the skull into the brain and there it tells it one word. He has to clench down on the word with his teeth or else he will scream. The blood into mud on his face: his eyes sting and they wash the grit off of him. His tongue split open and the taste of spit and red. His traitorous lungs, needing air: the harder he breathes through his nose the deeper he sinks into pain. When he swallows again it is copper and the sky is getting harder to see through the twilight. He finds the hare lying a few meters further into the woods, far enough that his father cannot see them but only hear if he listens closely enough. It wheezes curled around the arrow, embracing its death with terrible sounds, and when Roland tries for a second disastrous gulp of air he feels all of it compressed in the fractured bones around his lungs. He bites down on that ringing fracture and slams his fist against his thigh, once, twice. The pained, frustrated scream he locks behind his lips and the hare feels him come closer through the ground and his footsteps. It tries to scramble away from him but it’s already dead anyway, the rest of it just hasn’t realised it yet. It dies piece by piece, as parts of it lose blood and the lungs try to breathe against the sharp arrowhead. He feels something in his child’s chest: sudden, bright, that swallows the thoughts of his father’s rings on his cheek.

Pity for the dying thing.

His second arrow does not miss. The animal stops thrashing and stills with one last, aching shudder when the tip breaks the tumours and growths on its skull and then breaks the brain. He didn’t understand the noise it made as it dragged itself on the overgrown ground until there wasn’t a sound anymore. No gunshots to mark the hare’s dying: arrows are quiet. Just the scrambling of it, and then the nothing of it. It made its own dirge. He only gave it the pain on which to play it.

Roland plants the hand trapped between his back and the ground and splays the other one on the chest of the body above him. He ignores the pain because he swallows it with noise, now that he knows the battlefield at least around him is empty, a scream he strangles from his aching torso long enough to shove the body to the side.

He wheezes a dry sob and kicks his legs out to ride the black bile. His father behind him says nothing when he finds him crouched beside the dead hare. Steven leans down to inspect its small body, smaller now in death, and the scowl is a disappointed one.

“It needn’t to have suffered the way you made it suffer. What a damnable waste.”

When he scrambles standing he stands up too quickly, and in the fetid stench of dead things that have shit themselves he feels his head spin, his knees give. He cannot afford the act of passing out: he must get away from the field or be found unconscious and ripe for the pickings or killings or both.

His head buzzes and decides for him. In the swimming last light, a red this deep he’d never seen, Roland feels the hard smack of mud against his bleeding forehead.

Then it is dark.

Then it is no longer dark. He wakes with a rat gnawing at his shirt. Though he does not know about the rat yet. Though he does not know about himself yet. Who he is. What he is. What’s left of him.

For a moment it is too warm to leave wherever he is. He knows he is fighting the wakefulness, every inch of it. He knows it is safer here where he is dead. He opens his mouth and finds his cheek crusted with spit and bile, from his lips a ridge of sick. When he wipes at his forehead it comes back crusty red, black in the moonlight.

Breathing hurts. He notices the rat and smacks it off of himself. The gesture blooms the ribs again, but this time he knew it would come and it does not catch him by surprise. He bites into his hand and he screams and it bleeds where his teeth cut the skin.

He breathes in small bursts with his head thrown back and the noise strangled in his throat. Mid-world does not even offer the comfort of stable stars. Constellations melt into each other, night after night, unable (unwilling) to be tracked. Spinning on their axis. Each night different scars and different carvings in the dream-dark flesh of the sky, with no rhyme or reason.

The stars above him are not the same stars that saw his world die just the day before. They will never be those. He will never have them to remember.

Roland buries his hands in his hair and he screams. It hurts worse than any breath did. It hurts worse and he does it again.

In the distance, lights and the sudden barking of dogs. He’ll be gone before they reach him. He sees them then, and he is the hare in the underbrush and the arrows in its chest and skull and they are the hare and they are the arrows.

When the sound stops ringing in his ears his heart becomes dead weight, stone at his feet pulling him to the bottom of the lake. He reaches in his chest to tear it out and what he pulls from his pain is just black. It’s just more pain. He stares at it in his mean red hands and then he stares at it in the growing fires he sees on the horizon.

In the night the breeze brings the smell and makes it clear what the lights are. Sweet and sick.

Burning flesh.

Looking towards the fires now though he sees in the billowing smoke a shadow towering. How easily: the scent of burning people becomes the deep smell of roses. He finds it at the end of this killing field, and he knew it would come for him and now it has.

He has nothing left but it. He has nothing but the Tower.

Were he a better man he would not dare to want to see the top of it. Were he not the mirror-image of a grinning wizard the Tower would be silent to him and he would content himself with the silence.

But the Tower is not silent. Not for him. Not under these strange stars. The Tower sings. And what is disconnected voices now will become the voices of his dead over time.

In the smoke of the pyres he sees it. He sees it traced in his father’s blood, and in the moving of his mother’s guts with the bullets that broke her spine. He sees it.

He is not imaginative enough to think there will be no answers at the top of it. He is not strong enough to not want the pain to mean something. He is dead and he is alive and being those two things at once is not a condition of reality under which one can expect to survive for long.

So the Tower sings. And he stands. And he is dead. And he walks despite the dying.

#drabbles.#le prince à la tour abolie. these fragments i have shored against my ruins. (roland)#IB –– CHAR DINH.#malakh coming straight for the jugular i see #allowing me to write words upon words of absolutely incomprehensible ramblings. hero #death //#gore //#animal death //#violence //#child abuse //

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yourdeepestfathoms · 4 years

Text

if not by blood, then siblings by bloodshed (part one)

this is the exact definition of “Well that escalated quickly!”

Also: Kitty is 11, Joan is 14. So this very well could take the cake for darkest Tiny Kat AU!

TW: Blood and gore, violence, animal violence, death, vomit, maggots

——————-

Blood Makes Noises

Lady Jane said Kitty was a strange child. That she...had gifts. That was why she wasn’t allowed to play with the other children and had to do weird training all the time. Personally, Joan thought it was odd, but she didn’t think much of it. She kind of wished she was Jane’s ward, too, but those were fantasies she kept to herself- or used to comfort herself at night.

Being a maid wasn’t all that bad. Sure, it was, again, nothing in comparison to being Lady Jane Seymour’s personal ward, but there were some perks. Like...not being homeless! Having a room in the castle was a good one. Maybe the only perk. Cleaning wasn’t all that fun. But Joan did enjoy stable work, believe it or not.

That’s where this tale starts, actually.

In a stable with very spooked horses.

Joan didn’t know what was bothering them. All the royal horses were uneasy and disturbed in their stalls, neighing and shifting anxiously.

“What are you gawking at?“ Joan asked, rubbing a grey mare’s neck. “There’s nothing...here...” When she went to survey the stable again, she noticed something. A large hole in the corner. Out of it, a thick, black mass bubbled into the open air. It’s churning over itself, like it's struggling with something within.

Joan stepped back, horrified. The horses shriek. Several of them kick down their stall doors and flee the stable right as the normal stablehand enters. He’s drunk and very angry with the animals getting out.

“Joan!” He yelled, “What the fuck did you do!”

“T-Terrance!” Joan squeaked, “There’s something here!”

“No! There isn’t! Because, if you haven’t noticed, the horses are fucking gone!!” Terrance stomped over,.

Stomped over just a few steps too far.

A tendril of inky blackness snaps forward and whips around his leg. He stumbles, howling in pain.

Joan is screaming before she can even realize it. She goes to Terrance’s aid by grabbing his hand and attempts to pull him free. It helps some, but the tentacle is still crushing his leg in its grip. She hears the sizzle of burning flesh, and Terrance arms heaves a great sob. Her strength falters when she hears a horrible tearing sound.

Terrance shrieks as the flesh on his arm rips slowly, like the bursting of seams. First the skin goes, then the muscles and tendon, and, finally, the bone. Tendrils wrap around his wrists, then his legs and throat. He's dragged into the black, writhing mass as his arm gave way, flinging Joan onto her back, and there's nothing she can do to help. His screams continue for several seconds before dying out.

Joan sits up shakily, but freezes when she sees the bloody severed arm she still has in her grasp. Stricken by terror, she stares at it, trembling.

The bulbous black mass shifts audibly, crunching the bones of its prey in its bulging girth. It retreats slowly into the hole, which catches Joan’s attention and gives her a chance to escape.

She runs out in near tears, her stomach twisted in horror. Her mind keeps replaying the sight and she’s about to sprint to the castle in search of the queen when the foliage to the sides of the stable rustles, and out step half a dozen men and women. Each is armed, each looks at Joan threateningly, and each is clad entirely in black.

She doubts they are there to help or comfort her after the horror she witnessed.

One of the black-clad men carries an ash bow in one hand. He steps forward, expression malevolent.

“One lone child,“ He said, “Tell me, girl, where is the queen?”

Joan’s muscles clench, her eyes widen even further, and she feels a bead of cold sweat trickle down her back.

The black-clad archer, clearly the leader here, pulls another arrow from his quiver and nocks it to his bowstring.

“Hand over the coin you’ve, girl, slowly. Then tell us where Lady Jane Seymour is. No sudden movements, or this next arrow goes through your heart.”

Joan remains still, her mouth half open in shock. She can tell the man is getting impatient the longer she doesn’t reply, so he motions for his followers to advance into the city while he and one other stayed back to off the useless girl.

“Pathetic little thing, aren’t you?” The archer said, “You probably don’t have anything good on you, anyway.”

Joan’s heart was two seconds away from bursting at the flint tip of an arrow when a deep rumbling came from the stable. The archer falters and he and his companion look towards the wooden doors, weapons ready. Joan feels lightheaded as the noises get louder and louder and...

All at once, they stop and a dog trots out of the barn. It’s a little thin and scruffy, but a plain dog nonetheless. The paid of raiders blink and then laugh loudly.

“A dog got you spooked, Brutus!” The second man said to the archer, chortling.

“Me? You should have seen your face!” The archer, Brutus, apparently, snorted. “Now...where were we?”

The weapon was back on Joan, but she couldn’t seem to focus on the face that she was about to be killed. Where did that dog come from? It hadn’t been in there when...

Suddenly, the hound is upon the second raider. It leaps at him before he even really knew it was coming and knocked him to the ground, its powerful jaws snapping at his throat. The archer whirled around and screamed a very startled, “HOLY SHIT!” at the bloodbath the dog was creating.

The second raider is dead quickly and the archer realizes he was next. He tried to defend himself, but the dog bites into his thigh and he’s on the ground. His leather armor proves to be worthless against the hound’s jaws as its torn off and his flesh is exposed to open air.

Joan watches in horror as the dog began ripping chunks from the man’s genitals. Its teeth first catch on the testicles and tear them off so easily, scarfing them down before biting onto the penis and removing a large mass of flesh. The member soon only dangled from a few strips of skin and muscles before even that is gone.

Finally, once the archer’s pelvis became a mess of bright red and pink, Joan thinks to run.

She sprints down the street, noticing whorls of smoke rising up from several parts of the city. She can hear screaming of women and children, and that just urges her forward faster.

Joan tore open a back door to the castle and scrambled inside. Her lungs were burning, but she just kept on running, desperate to get to Lady Jane Seymour’s chambers.

However, that plan was halted when she was suddenly grabbed.

Joan let out a muffled scream as her mouth was covered and she was dragged into a small side room in the kitchen. She sobbed and shook her head, desperately trying to get away, but the grip was strong.

“Hush, little one, you’re okay.”

Joan froze. She knew that voice...

She snapped her head up and saw the queen herself holding her. At her side, Kitty was clinging to her dress. They both looked very nervous.

“L-Lady Jane,” Joan whimpered. She all but collapsed into the queen’s arms, crying in horror. “I-it- L-Lady Jane, it was so- I saw-”

“Shh, shh,” Jane kneels down beside her, cradling her protectively against her chest. She strokes the weeping child’s hair soothingly. “You’re okay... It’s going to be okay.”

Joan shook her head while sucking in a shaky breath.

“Y-you don’t-”

“Shh,” Jane hushed her again, “I know you’re scared, darling, but I need you to be strong. At least until we get out of the city. Then I’ll hold you and you can tell me what happened. Can you do that for me?”

Joan really didn’t want to go back outside after what she had seen, but something told her Jane already knew. She sniffled and nodded.

“Good girl.” Jane smiled.

She helped Joan to her feet and took one of her hands. The other was holding Kitty’s, who was silent through Joan’s partial breakdown. Both children exchange worried looks.

“Come, little ones,” Jane whispered, “And stay quiet. Don’t make a noise.”

Getting out of the castle was a painstakingly slow and tense affair. Raiders were stalking through the hallways, but outside was much worse.

The sky was clouded with smoke. The streets were filled with screaming. The smell of burning flesh wafted throughout the entire city.

“Shh,” Jane murmured when Kitty whimpered at the scent. She took her hand away from Joan to cover Kitty’s eyes, making the older girl have to cling to her sleeve as they moved carefully. “It’s almost over, my love...”

They were in the garden. Joan always loved the garden. She knew Kitty loved the garden, too. She sometimes saw the younger girl picking flowers and making them into crowns, which she would give to Jane. But now the beautiful greenery has turned into a labyrinth of golden blazes. The thick walls of grey smoke were suffocating to walk through and flames licked desperately at any bare flesh. One of the three would occasionally hiss softly as they were burned.

“Here we are,” They stopped at a large crack in the garden wall, which led out of the city. She gently nudged Kitty towards it. “Go on.”

“Wh-what about you?” Kitty asked.

“I’ll meet you on the other side,” Jane told her. “Go. Go through. Hide once you get out, alright?”

Kitty hesitated, hugged Jane, then slid through the crack.

Jane stared at the space where her ward used to be for a moment, then turned to Joan. She sets both hands on the girl’s shoulders.

“Listen to me, Joan,” She said, her voice hardening. “You need to protect Katherine, alright? Don’t let anything happen to her.”

“Wh-what? What about-”

“Go to Catherine of Aragon. She’ll help you.” Jane went on.

“Lady Jane-”

“Please do this for me, Joan. You two need to protect each other. There are things you don’t k-”

Joan couldn’t even muster up the will to scream as blood squirted onto her face. She watched in horror, tears spilling from her eyes once again as Jane gagged on the arrow lodged through her throat. She caught the queen’s body, nearly falling over from the sudden weight, and felt the tip of the arrow poke into her shoulder, shoving it back further in Jane’s neck. A second arrow comes flying and nails Jane in the back, causing her to make a garbled choking noise and foam bright red at the mouth.

It gets all over Joan.

Finally, the scream bubbles to Joan’s throat. In a sudden rush of fear, she shoves Jane’s body off, which she immediately regrets.

“I’m so sorry,” Joan wept. She almost crumples to her knees beside the queen, but a watery gag and spill of blood keeps her upright. She thinks Jane is trying to tell her something, and she has a guess what it is.

“I’m sorry.”

Joan whispers that one more time before slipping through the crack in the wall and leaving Jane to choke and bleed.

Kitty is waiting on the other side in a bush. She perks up and scampers over to Joan, only to have her hand grabbed roughly.

“J-Joan?” The younger girl stammered.

“Let’s go!” Joan said, “Run!”

“What? What about my mummy? Jane? We can’t leave her!”

Joan felt more tears slip down her cheeks. She doesn’t stop running.

“She’ll meet us there!”

“Where?” Kitty cried.

“Just run!!”

Kitty continues to babble for a few seconds before shutting up. She’s practically being dragged by Joan, who is running much too fast for her to keep up with. Still, she does her best, and the two don’t stop their sprint. They keep running as fast as they can, even as the leaves and roots and brush of the forest blend into an unending sea of greens and browns and ominous shadows.

From somewhere behind them, the howl of a hound rings out.

————

Joan had thought she was overwhelmed when the raid broke out. But as scared as she was, she knew she would be okay; because Lady Jane was there, holding out a hand to her. Lady Jane had always protected her. Lady Jane always looked after her, and made her feel better. Even if she was busy more often, she would help her. Joan knew she would catch her.

And then that arrow pierced through her throat and Lady Jane was dead.

Joan can still taste her blood in her mouth. She had thrown up when she and Kitty finally stopped running. If Kitty saw the red splattered across her face she didn’t question it.

They had ran for when felt like hours. At one point, they were chased by troops of raiders, but lost them in the woods. For now, they were safe.

Or, as safe as two now-orphans could be.

Kitty occasionally asked where they were going and where Jane was, but she got the message to stay quiet when Joan didn’t answer her. The two trudged on after Joan vomited- at least now they were walking.

Hours passed. Joan ran out of tears a long time ago. Kitty was trying to keep her optimism up. Sometimes she would see a rabbit or a fox and point it out, hoping to lighten the mood. Sometimes Joan cracked a smile, sometimes Joan would tug her forward, sometimes Joan snapped at her, sometimes Joan just ignored her. Kitty gave up, eventually.

They were now miles away from their home. Kitty was limping. Joan was so thirsty. They were both very hungry.

Hunting was tradition in an English Aristocrat- or that’s what the guards and nobles said. Even the lowest of peasants found thrill in wielding a weapon and hunting game. Joan and Kitty, however, never enjoyed bloodsports- that’s one thing they could agree on. Joan never fired a bow with shivering, trembling limbs, and she never thought she had to, but then she and Kitty stumbled upon the rotting corpse of a hunter in the grass.

There was a bear trap clamped tightly on the left ankle. A bow is slung around the torso. Maggots fester on the head and chest. Joan tells Kitty to look away. Kitty doesn’t disobey. She goes to collect firewood.

Joan mutters apologies as she kneels beside the body. A trail of maggots squish loudly beneath her knees. She does her best to ignore it.

The stench of the corpse is overpowering. The feel of maggots wriggling over her hands is worse.

Joan has to stick her fingers in the maggots mass to untangle the bow. They’re slimy little creatures and squirm wildly when touched, clearly angry. A few wiggle up her digits, tickling the soft flesh, and Joan shakes her hand wildly, sending the worms flying. She works faster, but that just makes the squelching noises louder and louder until-

Joan rips the bow off the rotting corpse and vomits for the second time that day.

Kitty is waiting at a nearby clearing with a pile of sticks. Joan praises her wearily.

“Joan?” Kitty speaks up for the first time in hours. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Joan mumbled. The front of her tunic is drenched in vomit, old and fresh. “Just...tired.”

“Okay.” Kitty said softly.

Joan kneels beside the sticks and then stared at them, as if she were hoping they would light if she gave them a stern enough look. Then, the took the bow, a stick, and began a technique she once read about in a book.

It was called the “bow drill” apparently. By using a bow to grind a stick against a piece of wood, enough friction would be created to start a fire. On paper, it sounded like a simple way to help in a survival situation, but actually doing it was a lot more problematic.

Joan was crouched on the ground, drilling a stick down on another piece of wood for half an hour, and all she really succeeded in was tearing strips off of her hands. Fresh blisters stung and glowed angry pink in the open air. Splinters pokes at the raw flesh, deepening Joan’s agony, but she kept trying. She feared she and Kitty would freeze during the night if she didn’t.

After nearly an hour, there were enough ashes to dump into a pile of dry moss and grass to blow on, eventually starting a small fire that grew larger and larger. Joan actually sobbed out of relief. Kitty hugged her arm happily.

It was sad, they both thought, that they thought this was the best thing to ever happen to them.

Joan told Kitty to tend to the fire while she went out to get dinner. She regretted it almost immediately, as the darkness of the forest seemed to close around her. For a moment, she swore she thought she saw a writhing black mass of human limbs in one of the shadows...

The buck had heard her coming, and Joan cursed herself. She already didn’t want to kill an innocent animal, but it fleeing was just making this even worse. She began to fear getting lost if she went any further.

The buck ran out of sight, and Joan tried to chase after it on her sore, tired legs. She pushed harshly through the brambles and bushes. She knew she wouldn't find it on the other side. She'd given it so much warning with her clumsy noise it could be anywhere by now.

Joan turned around and began retracing she steps. She stopped, however, when she saw another deer nearby.

Joan drew her salvaged bow, staring down a trembling arrow, praying that her hands would be steady enough to keep her from starving to death. Despair set in as she released the arrow. She was clawing for one more hellish day in this nightmare that had became her life in a span of mere hours.

The deer never knew what hit her. And it was a her. Joan was able to discern that as she crouched down next to the body and brought her next arrow closer. The arrowhead was small but sharp, and she began slicing the fur away, wondering if she could make some gloves, or sleeves, or something to hold back the wind and rain that would soon come with fall.

A smaller noise squealed from her left, and she snatched up her bow. The new animal was...young. It was a deer, barely two months old, and Joan knew instantly that she had just orphaned the little one.

(Just like the raiders had orphaned her and Kitty.)

It was terrified of her, but unable to leave the mother's body...

The helpless creature squealed again, and Joan knew it was doomed. More so than she was. She at least had learned the protection of silence. The baby's squealing would call down every carnivore or person in the area.

Joan notched another arrow into her bow...and put it right between the little creature's eyes.

Her lack of hesitation scared her.

(Someone told her this wasn’t going to be the only blood she will spill.)

She had thrown away more than a few of the promises she had made to herself just a few hours ago. She had promised that she wouldn't participate in hunting. She had promised herself she wouldn't give way to despair. She had promised herself she wouldn't be cruel to anything or anyone that was helpless. But now she didn't care. If someone she loved had come by with a piece of bread, she would have caved their head in with a rock to get a bite of it.

Savage. She felt savage.

Joan dragged the deers back to the camp. Kitty squeaked and looked away from the poor creature’s bodies and Joan didn’t blame her.

Gutting was a painful process. Joan might have thrown up if she had anything left in her system.

She cooks slabs of meat in the fire as best as she can. Majority of the food goes to Kitty. Joan was too nauseous to eat, anyway.

“Joan?”

When they’re about to lay down and try to rest, Kitty’s voice speaks up.

“Yes?” Joan tiredly responds.

“When are we going to see mummy again?”

Like that, the memories come rushing back. Joan had been desperately trying to repress them, but her efforts were in vain. The corpse, the creature, the raiders, the dog, Lady Jane- it all hit her like a brick and, suddenly, she’s keeled over in Kitty’s lap, weeping noiselessly. Her body was unable to produce tears anymore, but, from the growing wetness on the back of her neck, she knows Kitty still can.

The younger girl wraps her arms around Joan and Joan grasps tightly to one of her hands. She feels Kitty sobbing into her hair. Joan cries along with her until the noises turn to a full death-rattle of two orphaned children weeping in the night.

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jimlingss · 5 years

Note

Request for one of my favorite writers~ An apocalypse au with any member of your choice that you think would fit the best! Maybe the mc needs to make a choice to either save the person they love or an important person they hate (up to you really!). A story about the end of the world is always a great medium for angst haha

↳ The Crumbling World of You and I

1.9k words || 99% Angst, 1% Fluff || Apocalypse!AU || Park Jimin

Warning: Mention of suicide

It’s better to pretend that you’re dead.

Even if you’re not, the game of imitation is the only means of survival. Try not to not be seen by others. Try not to breathe too loudly. Try to not eat too much. Try not to make too much noise. Sometimes you’d like to think that you’d be better off being actually dead. The contemplation of ending this misery is appealing on dark nights cowering in the shadows with your stomach gurgling from starvation. But your stubbornness won’t let you. You’ve made it this far — while there’s no end in sight, all your efforts and every sacrifice would be a waste if you took a bullet to your head. Not yet, at least. You can’t die just yet. You can’t die until you see him die. “There’s no food, but I found this.” He tosses you a box that you catch instinctively. It’s torn and muddy, but you find three bandages inside that your pocket with a hum. “We might starve again tonight.” Your boots are silent against the floor and you grasp your knife tightly as you round the corner, peeking over the counter. When you find nothing there, you release your held breath. “We could head to the forest. Kill a bird.” “They’ll see the smoke from the fire. It’s too risky to go back.” You turn on your heel. “So you think staying in the city is any better, Jimin? Who’s fucking fault is it anyways that they’re looking for us?! I told you that I didn’t trust them, but you didn’t listen.” “What’s done is done.” “We could’ve died.” “Well we didn’t,” he counters. “I’m sorry to say that. So what do you want to do?” There’s a drawn silence and your teeth grits. “There’s a preschool down the street I saw on our way here. There might be something there. If not, we can camp out there. It looked relatively untouched.” Jimin follows closely behind you. “Nothing’s untouched.” “Yeah, well it’s our fucking best bet, so shut your mouth.” The two of you leave through the backdoor of the pharmacy, quiet and slinking down behind fences and bushes. You’re not afraid of the dead as you are of the living. Those that pillage and steal, who serve their self-interest and would happily hold a gun to your skull and enjoy hearing your screams as they’d rip your limbs from your sockets and cook them for you to eat. There’s a lot of sick fucks left in this world. Those that were sane have turned crazy. That includes you. After so many years of chaos and destruction, your thoughts have turned to dark places. Especially when you have to look at Jimin. And those places have taken permanent residences in your mind. You’re huddled down, about to run over to the next car to shield yourself from the light, but Jimin extends his arm. He holds you back. “What the hell do you think—” “Shush.” He puts a finger to his mouth. Jimin grabs a pebble by his foot and chucks it in the opposite direction. A zombie you didn’t see cranes his neck around and begins to lurch towards the noise. The boy nods to you, and you swallow hard, continuing. It’s not difficult to get down the block, and you take a moment to look at the graffiti on the walls, the last messages of people begging for help. Cars have been abandoned, windows broken, ivy and moss beginning to grow all over the walls. The city is decaying, but it’s not a new sight to you. The pink walls of the preschool have turned into a muddy shade, playground abandoned and filled with the ghost of children. You don’t dwell, easily prying open the barricaded door. The hallway is dark, but with the little light coming in, you’re able to notice the school pictures framed in a row on the wall. They’re of kids gathered together in front of the school before the war, three to five year olds with pink, cherub cheeks and mischievous smiles, grinning and unaware. They’re probably all dead. Jimin notices that you’re staring at the photographs and hesitates. “Are you okay?” “I’m fine,” you answer sharply, turning away. He nods. “I’ll check the staff room then.” You enter a classroom nearby, making sure to throw another pebble that you have in your pocket to the center of the room. When nothing comes crawling out, you take a sigh of relief. The windows are covered with planks, desks fallen over, papers sprawled all over the ground. Contrastingly, the white board has scribbles of flowers and happy faces. The drawings are sloppy to show the inexperience of holding markers. You walk to the teacher’s desk as you slot your knife onto your belt, shifting to open the drawers. They’re empty, except for a small pair of scissors that you keep in your hands. But as you open the bottom drawer, you find a wooden frame. It’s another picture. This time of a woman and her child — a four year old that reminds you of someone. Someone with rounded eyes and lopsided lips, that held your hand with their small fingers. It’s been a year, but it still hurts like a bitch. You release a staggering exhale, feeling your eyes sting before you put the photo face down where it belongs and close the drawer as if noting happened. There’s the sound of footsteps that follow, but it doesn’t put you on alert. It’s familiar and constant. Jimin appears with a can in his hand. “It’s beans. Past the expiration, but still looks good.” It remains quiet and he reads the expression on your face. “What’s wrong?” “There’s a lot of fucking shit wrong.” You brush past him, but he grabs your wrist. “Well then tell me. We’re a team.” As if his touch burns, you shove his hands off of you. “Let me make this perfectly clear with you, we’re not a fucking team.” “Then what are we?” “I don’t fucking know. It doesn’t even fucking matter, alright? We just so happen to be together.” You step closer to him. “But believe me, the chance I get, I’ll leave you behind. Don’t think for a second that I have your back and that I’ll protect you, Jimin. You’re on your own.” “Is this because of your sister?” Your blood runs cold. “Don’t fucking talk about her.” “You know I didn’t mean to.” He moves to face you again. “I didn’t mean…” “I told you not to fucking talk about it! What don’t you understand?!” You grab the collar of his jacket, shaking him with your trembling fists. Jimin puts his hands over yours, searching your expression desperately and he whispers— “I’m sorry, Y/N.” “Well sorry doesn’t bring her back, does it?!” you scream until blood curdles at the back of your throat. You punch his chest hard with your fists, like beating a dead horse. “You let her die. You left my sister to die. A fucking four year old. I told you to watch her and you knew she couldn’t run with her fucked leg and you left her behind! You cold — hearted — bastard.” You’re hyperventilating, jaw clenched, knuckles turned white. The fucked world didn’t harden you. It taught you how to savour your anger and sadness, and use it to find the will to live. “You killed her.” There’s thumping. Growling. Broken feet sprinting. You let Jimin go, stumbling back. One of them comes through the door, maggots on its face, eyes bulging, thrashing at him. Jimin turns around and with his body weight, stabs his knife through its skull. But he’s unable to pull the dull blade back out. It’s stuck in the crevices and he’s shoved down as its arms try to maul his own face. Jimin kicks it back. “Y/N!” You cup your ears, close your eyes, curl up in the corner. Please. If there’s a god out there — you pray for the first time in a long time — let him die. Jimin grabs a ruler on the ground, right in fingertips’ reach and he slams it at the zombie’s skull, hard enough that it’s stick through. The creature shrieks horrifically, and he takes the chance to tackle it down, getting a grip on the handle of his knife again. He pulls out and stabs once more, blood splattering all over his clothes like it’s just paint. But another creature follows the noise and comes through the door — the size of a small child sprinting in bloodlust. Jimin’s still on the ground, vulnerable as he finishes off the other. And he’s brought the floor again by the child turned dead, his knife once again stuck in the other one’s brain. He scrambles, tries to push it off as it crawls up his body. But the zombie’s nails have sunk itself into his jacket. “Y/N!” Jimin screams. And then it’s silent. The zombie stops shrieking. Blood sprays across his cheeks. His eyes are blinded, catching the sunlight that bleeds through the wooden planks of the window and reflects against the scissor’s blades. With both hands, you stab through the back of the child’s skull, again and again. It rolls off of him and you continue to spear the small scissors at its head. Ramming it until your arms are aching. Until the blade feels dull. Piercing until the bones and brain tissue feels like minced meat. “Where’s mom and dad?” — “I want to go home.” — “Y/N, I’m scared. I don’t want to die.” It was your fault. It was your fault. It was your fault. She was only four years old. She only had you. She was your own family left. And yet, you left her behind — you dared to entrust her to a stranger. She thought you were going to save her and she waited. She waited for you to come back, but you didn’t. You were the one to leave her behind. Jimin gets up, watching sobs break through your frame. You can hear the child’s shrieks, your sister’s, and you try to kill it. Try to get it to be quiet. Try to make it return to its grave. “Stop. Y/N.” You scream through gritted teeth, only shocked out of it when you feel arms wrap around your body. The bloodied scissors are taken from your grasp and you collapse next to the corpse. Jimin quickly embraces you, something he usually wouldn’t have the audacity to do, but he’s still a warm body that feels nice against your dirty skin. “Why can’t you just die?” The real question is why you can’t let Jimin die. “I’m sorry,” Jimin murmurs. The two of you are bloody and disgusting, but you’ve gotten used to the iron scent. It’s comforting. It means that you killed it, and that you’ve lived. “I hate you,” you tell him, having never felt hatred so deep in your stomach before. “So much.” “I know,” he tries to comfort you and it’s a futile attempt. “When the time comes, I’ll let you kill me.” But despite his promise, you know you wouldn’t feel better even after his death. Maybe Jimin knows that too. No amount of retribution can make you feel better, can make it easier to sleep at night. You can’t let him die. You only have each other now.

#Requests 2019 #bts fanfic #bts scenario #jimin fanfic #jimin scenario #BTS Zombie AU #jimin angst #peachdragonrecs #the second of twelve requests!!#i've never tried my hands at a zombie apocalypse AU before #so this was fun

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missnmikaelson-main · 5 years

Text

The Mummy - Hamunaptra 3

She took shallow breaths and fought down her urge to throw up. Deep underground she should have mourned the lack of light, but even the flickering torches were too much for her dry eyes.

Elena’s hand was miraculously steady when she slipped the key into the lock on the sarcophagus. She gritted her teeth and flexed her arm; it had been locked for so long that she had to use a lot of elbow grease to turn it. After a moment of twisting it she loosened the mechanism and it turned easily.

A series of mechanical clicks rose from the box. Each grinding gear made her head pound.

Working together Elena, Kol, and Nik began to slide the heavy lid off the top of the sarcophagus.

“I can’t believe I let you two get me drunk,” Elena grunted from the exertion. Her stomach fluttered nervously; if she has eaten anything earlier it would have been in real danger of coming back up.

“Don’t go blaming me,” Kol grunted. “I don’t even remember being there.” His head was pounding and his mouth was dry.

“Well neither do I,” Elena lifted one hand from the lid to push back an errant curl that had fallen loose from her braid.

“You don’t,” Nik couldn’t quite comprehend disappointment in his chest. He realized it was showing in his eyes when she looked at him with drawn together brows.

“No…” Elena kept pushing the lid and turned to meet his sad eyes. “Why? Should I?”

“Yeah,” Nik recovered quickly and lifted his lips in a teasing smirk. “You told me it was the best time you ever had.”

Kol chuckled weakly. He could see the flush staining Elena’s cheeks when her head snapped back around.

What happened last night? Elena knew her face was burning with embarrassment. She could imagine what had happened, but she highly doubted she would have acted on any of her dreams; she had more sense than that. He was just teasing her, right?

With a final shove the lid fell off the sarcophagus and crashed to the ground with a loud clang.

“How does sand make such a loud noise?” Kol groaned. He saw Nik and Elena holding their throbbing heads.

“Canadian Whiskey,” Elena moaned and massaged her temples.

“It can have that effect,” Nik muttered.

++++

Kai and Lucien held guns in their hands. They trained the weapons on the sweating diggers.

The men shook with fear as they approached the secret compartment. None of them had forgotten the fate of their friends the previous day; it was impossible to banish the image of the horrid death that had met the three men. Slowly the diggers knelt and reached into the hidden compartment.

Damon used his good arm to further support his injured arm and take some of the pressure off his shoulder; the sling helped, but it dug into the back of his neck. It was a less than welcome sensation with the sunburn he had acquired in the desert.

Beni shifted from foot to foot when the ornate chest was pulled from the compartment. It was smooth mahogany ringed in onyx and covered in the symbols of the Old Kingdom. He trembled as the words were translated.

Wes knelt in the sand and blew gently. The layer of dust flew off the wood that suddenly glowed in the light from the torches.

“There is a curse upon this chest,” he squinted at the hieratic.

“There’s no such thing,” Damon scoffed. He kicked up some sand with his shoe.

“Who cares?” Kai rolled his eyes. “That’s just what they put on everything to keep the superstitious fools from stealing.”

Wes gave him a hard look before nodding to the room in which they were gathered.

“In these hallowed grounds, that which was set forth in ancient times is as strong today as it was then.”

“Just tell us what it says,” Kai narrowed his eyes at the man’s intensity and cleared his throat.

Wes bowed his head and ran his finger along the onyx. His voice held a note of warning as he read the ancient words.

“Death will come on swift wings to whoever opens this chest,” he paused when a gust of wind made the torches flicker.

The diggers lost whatever nerve they had been holding on to and spun on their heels. A cloud of dust was kicked up in their wake as they fled the chamber.

Kai, Lucien and Damon exchanged a nervous look before shaking off the feeling and turning back to Wes.

“It says,” Wes continued without looking up, “there is one, the undead, who if brought back to life is bound by sacred law to consummate this curse.”

“Let’s make sure we don’t bring anyone back to life,” Kai snickered at the absurdity.

“He will kill all who open this chest…” Wes shifted in the sand to follow the shifting script over the curve of the lid, “… and assimilate their organs and fluids, and in so doing he will regenerate. And no longer be the undead, but a plague upon this earth.”

Wes shared a fear filled look with Beni when the wind whistled sharply through the room. Shadows flickered in the hollows of their cheeks.

“I say we open it anyway,” Kai shrugged.

++++

Elena bounced on the balls of her feet and beamed. Her hangover seemed dissipate quickly in the face of her excitement. She was almost certain she was drunk again when she bit her lip and stifled her giddy giggle.

“I’ve dreamed about this since I was a little girl,” she grinned as the wooden coffin was dropped onto the ground alongside the stone.

“You dream about dead guys?” Nik cocked an eyebrow.

Elena gave him a stern look and smacked Kol’s chest when he laughed before leaning over and brushing the dust from the wood. Her fingers grazed Nik’s arm; electricity danced over her skin. She was wondering if she had imagined his intake of breath when she froze.

“Look,” she pointed to the cartouche, “all of the sacred spells have been chiseled off.”

“The what?” Nik shifted back to give her more room. Truthfully he had liked the way her shoulder had been pressed to his chest, but he doubted she or her brother would have reacted well if he were to place his hand on the small of her back like he wanted.

“The hieratic and hieroglyphs that protect the deceased on the journey to the afterlife,” Kol explained excitedly.

“They’ve been removed,” Elena’s nails traced the chisel marks. “This man was cursed…”

“Tough break,” Nik smirked.

“Yes,” Kol agreed, “I feel tears coming on at any moment.” He took his sister’s arm and guided her back with a pointed look. “Shall we see who’s inside, darling?”

Elena shook her head and sighed.

Kol snagged the key from her hand and smirked before inserting it into the lock on the coffin. The lid cracked open with a sharp hiss.

Elena pressed her hand to her nose to try and block out the foul stench that rose from the coffin.

Kol gagged and blinked against the sting of the rancid air.

Nik swallowed his gorge and took hold of the lid of the coffin; he tugged on the wood with a suppressed grunt. Kol joined him when it became apparent the lid was stuck in place.

Slowly the top started to come towards them.

Elena jumped to her feet and scurried around to push on the other side. With her added strength, miniscule as it was, the lid moved faster. Suddenly it gave way.

Elena had just enough time to move back when it happened.

A hideous corpse jumped out of the coffin.

Nik and Kol jumped back from the coffin.

She screamed and fell on her back; her hand came up to cover her pounding heart. Her eyes were glued to the rotting man’s eye sockets and mouth; white maggots writhed along the dark bones.

The body was twisted and deformed. He sat up in the coffin for a moment before slumping back.

++++

Damon attempted to pry the lid off of the chest with one hand. Kai joined in when it became clear he was incapable of completing the simple task.

Wes and Lucien watched them work.

Beni stood back from the trio of treasure hunters. His heart drummed. Sweat poured down his flushed face. He shook his head and backed away from them towards the door.

“Beware…” his teeth chattered and rattled his skull. “Beware the curse.” He barely got the warning out before spinning around and bolting from the room.

“Superstitious bastard,” Damon grunted.

The seal on the box broke free suddenly. A thick black cloud burst from the box and engulfed them all.

++++

Anxiety swirled in her chest. She carefully pushed herself up onto her knees and crept forward with her companions until they were all peering warily into the coffin.

“Is he supposed to look like that?” Nik tilted his head.

“No,” Elena’s breath shook. “I’ve never seen a mummy look like this. He’s still…”

“Juicy?” Kol’s mouth twisted with the word. A slick black substance coated the body.

“He’s got to be more than four thousand years old,” Elena grew calmer the longer she studied the corpse, “and he’s still… decomposing.”

Nik rocked back on his knees. His head snapped around when he caught a glimpse at the lid of the coffin. Hesitantly he reached out and lifted the edge of the lid.

“Take a look at this,” he pointed to the inside of the lid. Long scratches ran the length of the coffin and crisscrossed; each one held the remnants of dried blood.

“He was buried alive,” Elena gasped. She crawled around the side and leaned closer to the wood to inspect a bloody series of hieratic symbols. “He left a message,” she pointed to the words. “Death is only the beginning.”

Kol shivered and leaned back.

Nik backed up and looked around the torch lit room. “Where’s my gun?”

“What are you going to do?” Elena cocked an eyebrow.

“Shoot him?” Kol swallowed. He wasn’t overly opposed the ridiculous suggestion. There was something sinister in the dead man’s hollow eyes. “He’s already dead.”

“What if he wakes up?” Nik located the pistol. He knew he was being insane, but something inside of him was saying this was dangerous; the voice in the back of his head whispered: ‘kill it’.

“You two are being completely ridiculous,” Elena rolled her eyes.

++++

The black cloud settled slowly to reveal three men with guns trained on the wooden chest.

Wes slowly stepped forward and knelt down to lift out a heavy piece of folded burlap. Folding back the corners of the cloth he carefully lifted out a heavy black book.

“I’ve heard of this,” he breathed so as not to disturb the onyx tablets. “I never believed it existed. This is a most priceless treasure.”

“I was under the impression it was meant to be made of pure gold,” Damon growled. He climbed to his feet and kicked the side of the box.

The bottom broke away to reveal a hidden compartment and five canopic jars. One of them was broken, but the other four were encrusted with jewels.

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ohdeerlings · 5 years

Text

mushi hime rant hahahhaahfdsjh

just posting my long-winded summary i typed immediately after finished reading to talk about how bad it was; it ended up a lot longer than i intended and now i feel like i should at least keep what i put effort into typing =___=

so it starts with this guy who's been getting recurring nightmares of a girl who shapeshifts into a monster with a huge mouth and teeth eating him

one day a transfer student comes in and looks exactly like her(already outplayed trope of having dreams for no reason of reality that doesnt ever get explained, and it happens lots of times throughout

)around the same time strange events start happening around town: ex, truck driver found by police with markings of a mass insect attack, dogs and pets all getting attacked by swarms of ants and filling up the vet hospitals

the narrative goes back and forth btwn:

- the guy's (Ryoichi's) POV in class where he's just not approaching her and wary of her bc of his dream; he's Not Like Other Boys who get all horny over her bc she's perfect (beautiful, smart, mysteriously quiet, physically adept)

- and btwn this stereotypically wacky/eccentric scientist who was consulted by the police with the first caseturns out the scientist has been tracking down a series of seemingly unrelated murders that follow a clear path ending at Ryoichi's town

throughout the story there's some not so subtle dialogues about the earth going through global warming and species dying

the scientist spiels to some insignificant characters about how humans arent long for this earth, etc etc and how insects are amazing because of their adaptational abilities

he seems to know the transfer student girl, Kikuchi and is trying to track her down

meanwhile kikuchi is character-developed as some clearly dangerous but morally compromised monster-human hybrid who Only Preys on Bad Guys or people around at the wrong time

she gets hit on by some lecherous perv who asks her to karaoke and she actually agrees

there she straddles him and starts kissing him and then these tentacle things come ouit of her throat and go into his mouth

he slumps over and she leaves

the scientist-investigator duo are closing in on her and find the security camera tapes, from that they get a picture and show it around town to try to locate her

meanwhile Ryoichi is still like wow she's Scary and I'm Not Like Other Boys

then he happens to see her just as the old man from the karaoke bar (who seems to have not been killed and is just stumbling around acting drugged) finds her and attacks her

a fucking needle spike comes out of her arm and she defends herself by stabbing him and puncturing his skull and killing him

he sees all that and shes like well guess you're my hostage now and takes him to his house

she's also attracted to him inexplicably, partially because He's Not Like Other Boys and shes like WHY ISNT HE SECRETING PHEROMONES FOR ME(she can smell that

)then there's a weird "erotic" scene where she forces him onto the bed and deep throats him with her mouth tentacles

then there's just a LOT of dialogue thrown at us at once with the scientist just explaining a shit ton to his investigation partner whose character clearly only exists for hte sake of exposition

turns out he had a colleague when he worked on a super secret gov funded experiment called biosphere 2 where they sealed off a forest and bombed it with radiation and pollution n shit

they found that it endured a lot at first and it was because of the bugs (?) that it did until the bugs disappeared and were nowhere to be found, then the forest just died

they looked around and found mutated bugs sleeping inside the earth

his colleague had a daughter back then with a terminal illness so out of desperation he injected the dna of the mutated insects into her, hoping their resilience would change her body to survive the illness

so she lived but she was clearly not human, farming off of her dad - she wasnt able to produce endorphins anymore so her tentacle things would secrete an enzyme to get hte host to produce lots of endorphins and she would take it, creating a dependency

bc she was the only of her species to exist she felt a need to procreate so she also kept trying to mate with her dad

then we find out that her dad had an identical twin who was raised by foster parents - and thats Ryoichi's dad, making Ryoichi and Kikuchi technically cousins, and genetically half-siblings

so thats why she was Inexplicably drawn to that town, and to him

she was wandering through japan because at some point her dad tried to kill her for humanity's sake, but bc of a random flood their town was wiped out and he wasnt able to kill her and she disappeared/survived the flood thanks to her ability to mutate in environmental changes

meanwhile she's been keeping him hostage to feed off of his endorphins and creating a dependency in him for the enzymes she would give him

until his mom accidentally comes into his room and sees, then she runs away and dies falling down the stairs lol

then he's all like ytou're a monster!!!!! and she threatens to kill the girl-next-door character in his friend group who seemed to have a thing for him/vice versa

so he's like: ill do anything just spare her!!!!

so she forces him to answer the door when his friends are like why havent u been going to class and tell them to fuck off/be a dick to them

while theyre walking outside after to go somewhere else the scientist sees the girl (Chiken) and is like hEY you look sad and depressed there's nothing possibly else that could make u feel like that except having your childhood crush abducted by a halfhuman-half locust succubus

he shows her the picture and she recognizes her and leads him back to the house

then he gets a rifle to try to shoot her and theres a whole fight scene where she uses her pheromones to call upon the insects to swarm

ryoichi is useless because he found his moms corpse lying in the bathtub getting consumed by maggots she asked to fully decompose the body

then the scientist gets a couple shots in and fends her off, meanwhile random police get in the way to stop what looks just like a home invasion and she disappears

they take ryoichi into the hospital bc all the endorphin harvesting and brain fuckery has him weak

then ryoichi's dad comes in and is like how do you recognize who i am!! to the scientist who explains

oh yeah that's the point at which we find out ryoichi and kikuchi are related

and then he's still having dreams where she vores him and he's both horrified and wants it

meanwhile entire city is getting swarmed by insects in a disaster scene with society breaking down etc etc

kikuchi tracks them down by following ryoichi's scent (?)

then they have one last battle where they try to use the dad as a distraction bc he looks identical to her dead father

and somehow the scientist just FINDS specific chemicals/enzymes to throw on her and weaken the part of her thats an insect

also earlier before she got there he whips out the mutant insect dna out of nowhere? like the extremely valuable dna that he should have no business just finding/still carrying around

and is like

hey lets inject ourselves with this because humanity is getting wiped out and attacked by insects rn anyway, the only way to live i sto adapt

but no one does it (lmao pointless inclusion)

then they defeat her in a big struggle with ryoichi getting farmed on by her again and instead of just taking it has a Miraculous realization past the drugs that oh no this person is killing everyone i love

and CHOMPS on her tentacle thigns while their mouths are connected

scientist injuects her with more random dna he has to compromise her mutant dna and the insect swarming stops bc of the internal biological shit happening and she's writhing oon the ground

then looks like she dies

they try to escape the basement theyve been in because its suddenly flooding (no reason lmfao)

on the way out they get stopped by a teacher that she pricked with her spike earlier on who's been missing from school and his "insect bite" changed his behavior/ultimately made him into a different part human part bug who tries to kill them

then kikuchi who -surprise- hadnt died!@!! shows up again but now she's blond and looks almost exactly like Ryoichi (who is blond) because the thing the scientist injected in her enabled her to adapt to the water and she's still a mutatn but Less Evil Somehow and he's like i thOUGHT U DIED.... I ACTUALLY LOVE YOU..

then epilogue is the scientist goign through his life normally and the city is recovered from the insect swarm and he sees another random global warming thing in the news and is like

“its only a matter of time before humanity perishes, but now is not that time....we're good.............,,,,,,,for now...and i know somewhere underwater something of humanity's legacy will live on”

and it cuts to ryoichi and kikuchi hugging in a very Shape of Water way underwater with tentacle thigns cause they went to live in the ocean

then there s a bad window for a sequel showing the teacher guy - SURPRISE - not actuially dead and crunching on humans in a sewer somewhere

STILL A FUN READ

#summary #review #manga #insect princess #mushihime #mushi hime #trashpost

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twofrontteethstillcrooked · 6 years

Text

We did this backwards, Silver said.

a wee post-series outtake (tropes! angst! happy ending o wait is that a spoiler? silverflint/flinthamilton) for a dreary yet celebratory anniversary Monday. thank you, black sails & fandom, for making the last 12 months infinitely better *mwa*

p.s. shout out to @clenster who, again, was super nice about not laughing to my face when i told her i did not think i would ever ship silverflint haha ha aha that was sure a funny joke i made way back then (whelp)

Everything went too quickly, too slowly. At one point, Flint imagined trying to tell the story of it to Thomas and Thomas sighing with embarrassment on Flint's behalf, if also charmed and possibly even ready to discuss how Flint might pursue the next encounter. Madi: would not be surprised at what had happened in her bed. Would probably also not match Thomas's enthusiasm. She wasn't due back for a week or longer, but Flint decided it was best not to think about her for the time being anyway.

"We did this backwards," Silver said.

For several minutes Flint had been idly stroking a long vein scored down Silver's arm, after he'd been able to move, while Silver raked his fingers through Flint's hair. Flint lifted his head off Silver's chest and hoped his expression hid any confusion. "I." He scratched the bridge of his nose. "You're not talking about." He waved a hand.

"No," Silver said, pushing a strand of Flint's hair away from his eye. "Well. Not the act itself."

Flint kissed the underside of his chin. "Acts."

"Right."

Flint shifted off Silver to lie on his side and brought Silver with him. Silver's hand on Flint's bare hip was as warm as a brand.

"I think. I am pretty sure." Silver took a breath. "I should have apologized, first."

Before we fell into bed? Flint thought. The morning sun had long since vanished into fog, leaving the narrow bedroom in shadow.

Flint considered what to say. "You told me once you saw what I saw, a world where there was nothing left to lose." He watched a white moth fluttering at the top of the window nearest the bed. "I might have said you were right, that day in the forest." He felt Silver's gaze like it had a measurable weight and kept his eyes on the moth. "Only it wasn't true. Even if you had been lying about Thomas."

"What do you mean?" Silver murmured.

"I think there is reality as one perceives it at the moment it is supposedly invoked, and there is the actual truth. And here is the difficulty. Then, in the forest: perhaps I would have agreed with you. My rage was as loyal a companion as I have ever known; it blinded me to many things yet I pretended, at various times with or without acknowledging the subterfuge, I could still see clearly. Whatever could have come as a result of the war, I had already forfeited my life. I might have claimed my own losses could not be multiplied, and therefore war could not harm me."

Silver watched him without moving, without seeming to breathe.

Flint's eyes prickled with tears. "It would have been a lie, because you could have died." He finally let himself look at Silver again, who looked back without recoiling, whose chin trembled and eyes burned.

"I should've, rightfully, had a hundred nightmares about the men I put in the ground," Silver said in a voice thick with tears that he was pretending was not thick with tears. "Stabbed, shot, cut down -- few innocents among them, but. Dead because I made it so. Dufresne at least, if no one else. Would be only fair, if fair were how it worked, to have suffered a nightmare or two. What a long litany of horrors to choose from."

For just a moment, Flint glimpsed the way Silver had woven tales for the crew, the way he tempered his voice to precisely the right timbre and turn of phrase, and depending upon what Silver had wanted them to feel the words ripened or rotted like fruit. It was more than skilled. It was a type of power Flint had envied and feared. But Silver's expression was agonized.

"I suppose there have been plenty of nightmares, if I tell you true, remembered or not," he said. "Madi lying dead in the carcass of your old house, burnt unrecognizable. The axe falling, or the saw in Howell's grip. Muldoon trapped as the water's rising and I too weak to free him or do anything but watch.

"You," he said to Flint more softly. "Sinking far beneath the waves. Your throat slit during a raid. You slashed and broken among island tree roots; you felled at the entrance to a cave crawling with maggots and bats." He smiled a brief sad smile. "Maybe it's fitting. I killed you, after all."

No, you didn't, Flint wanted to say; you may have tried, but you didn't; I'm here because you returned my life to me, more than once. It didn't seem like the right time to interrupt. He gentled his fingers through Silver's hair and waited.

Silver watched him as if for permission to continue. "I must admit, there was something -- it was starting to wear me down a bit. Some mornings, I would rise feeling as though I'd slept again on the ship, in one of those damn smelly hammocks. Or like I'd drank a case of rum when I hadn't had a sip in a week."

Flint leaned slightly into Silver's hand while Silver traced his right eyebrow with his thumb.

"I finally caught it, that dream," Silver said. "The first night after Madi had left; wind at three o'clock in the morning startled me right out of sleep. That's when I saw there in the darkness the whole of it."

He had Flint's full attention.

"You and I stand at the rail on the wet deck," Silver said. "Behind us the crew works, unceasing. The air smells like seaweed, gunpowder, smoke from who knows what. We're cutting through choppy waters, headed north, north east. Sails on the horizon."

Flint could picture the setting with such clarity it seemed almost as if Silver had spellbound it into existence, pulled in an ocean to cover the bedroom floor, knitted the bones of all those dead men, their men, back together to run ropes and pack cannons. Silver in a long blue coat, pressed at Flint's side, solid, constant, almost as near as they were now lying together in the tiny bed.

Silver said, "We're not talking, because we don't need to. We both know what will happen soon, and it doesn't matter; we are of one mind."

His voice had grown softer. Flint felt each word in his own throat like stones.

"Night after night after night. Watching that ship come closer. You and I, shoulder to shoulder," Silver said, his voice quieting until it was so low Flint strained to hear. Silver traced Flint's eyebrow again, traced the line of Flint's jaw. "I lied to you, that time I said Madi was my only weakness. But I lied to myself too, didn't I?" A ruinous sorrow shone in his eyes.

What haunted you was not the dream, Flint thought, but the waking; and it was nearly too painful, too astonishing a thought to be endured. He rubbed his thumb across Silver's lower lip, felt the shiver that laced through Silver just before he kissed him, Silver's mouth soft and warm as he let Flint slip inside. Flint pulled Silver's leg over his hip, deepened the kiss, tightened his fingers in Silver's hair, discovered again how easily his body and Silver's fit together. Friction, heat, breath, another beginning; something sacrosanct, something splintered made whole.

As it happened, he could find no words later when he arrived back at the inn. Thomas opened the door, took one look at Flint's face, ushered him in fast, and wrapped him in an embrace when the heavy door was firmly bolted; Flint could feel him exhale with relief as he pressed his face to Flint's hair. They undressed each other, Thomas skimming fingertips over those lightest of bruises Silver had left on Flint's shoulders, his hips and lower back. Flint should have been exhausted but sleep was a ways off still, and he made no complaint.

When they did finally rest, curled around each other, Thomas said, "So. Your day seems to have been productive. Does Mr. Silver know of any rooms to let here in town?"

Flint smiled, and kissed him again.

#is there such a thing as a cold rainforest? cause boy i'm living in one if there is #silverflint #black sails #fic

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phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess · 7 years

Text

TF2 Sniper & Scout Headcanon

For @camiluna27

- - -

This whole thing sucked.

Sure, once you got used to dying a dozen times a day, sometimes in bizzarre and awful, fire-related ways, it became your new normal.

But taking serious damage without access to the doc, or a healthpack, really just sucked. He honestly would prefer death, it'd be faster.

First freaking BLU Demo had caught his sideon with a stickybomb trap, and then the bastard BLU Sniper decided to take a potshot at the runner as he soared through the air.

All he knew for certain right now was that he was definitely hit somewhere vital, there was dirt mixing with the blood in his mouth, and he was going to kill that lanky fucker .

But then... why hasn't the man finished RED Scout off, already? Did Spy get him? Did he not see Scout as a threat? Were the others occupying him or... or was Scout just not worth the effort to kill?

Wiggling a bit, small movements, he managed to get a hand up to his headset. "H-hey, Doc, you there?"

There was static a moment before he got a faint, "...kzktshhhh... -usy at zhe moment, Scout, vhat is zhe matter?"

"Nnnn... not sure, BLU Sniper got me and I can't move?" he knew he sounded ridiculous, nearing incredulous, but the doctor hums back.

"Vhere are-... oh, oh I see you, Hase. Heavy get down!"

There was a loud crack as a sniper rifle went off, echoing loudly around the battlefield. It was closer to their spawn, than the BLUs, but the batltle was on the next control point; looked like the Sniper was just camping them.

"Ach! I am sorry Scout, ve cannot get to you... he is using you as bait, und I do not have zhe crusader's crossbow vith me today." There was a pause, "Und I am only at 67% ubercharge, or ve vould vait to rescue you. I am sorry."

Three seconds of frustration and despair later, Scout responded, "Y-yeah, 'sfine... just go before the bastard gets you too."

And then he's left with nothing but silence. Well, silence and the sound of RED's rocket-jumping soldier shooting overhead... and being shot down. Somewhere in the distance a sentry was going at full speed trying to dissuade the BLUs from taking one of the only two points RED had captured.

He jerks a bit, from his almost-doze, at the realisation someone else was talking to him.

"...-oi, mate, c'mon answer me."

Sniper. Well, fuck, this was equal parts great and awful...

"Here... Snipes."

"Right, good... look, the other sniper's got you pinned down as bait, but I'm going to come round the building to your left and take him out... don't give it away, and try to hand on 'til I can getcha, mate."

Oh thank fuck.

True to his word, he vaguely sees a fleeting dash of RED uniform to his left, before there's a crack. For a long second, Scout's almost sure that BLU got his opposite, anyway... but then, there's a thud to his right. Signalling the BLU sniper had just vacated his little camping-nest... by way of a speedy bullet to the brain.

"G-great shot there, Snipes!" he grins, as a body moves towards him.

Sniper kneels by him, "Alright, don't look great but the only healthpack near us was a little one... so it'll have to do 'til we can find Doc'n'Heavy or a bigger one..." the Aussie runs a critical eye over the other, before handing over the kit, "Might just take you back to spawn, actually. Y'look like shit, mate."

Scout can feel the kit dissolve and administer the limited degree of healing it had stored. Never understood them, but then, he still didn't get the medigun at all and he'd let medic put a fucking metallic thing on his heart... so he could do blind trust if he had to, regarding their current mode of healthcare.

He wasn't healed, but he sure didn't feel quite so close to death anymore.

"C'mon, up you get, kid." Sniper says, grabbing him by the arm and helping the runner wobble upright. And doesn't that make Scout feel utterly fucking ridiculous?

Why did it have to be Snipes?

"Well, you can try to be macho and get to the next pack yourself, or you can accept my help." Sniper adds, misinterpreting why the runner is arching away from his offer of support. "Just lean on me, mate, ain't nothing unmanly about getting help when you need it, yeah?"

"...fine." Scout says, going with that explanation because it was less embarrassing than blurting the truth of the matter. Something he definitely would not have done under normal circumstances; even if the team were cool with Heavy and Medic doing their thing.

"Last I checked, there was another little one somewhere near here..." Sniper mutters, he's got an arm looped around the stumbling runner, and his kukri out in the other. Always be Prepared.

"Negatory maggot, I saw Demo use it just a moment ago, get your asses to basecamp for healing!" shouts Soldier, appearing from the direction of the battlefield. He looked pretty beaten up, and also in search of a healthkit.

"Medic got an ubercharge going?" Snipes asked, wondering why the guy hadn't been healed by their battle medic.

"Double negatory, the very american medical man has been taken down by these cowardly BLU bastards and must be retrieved from basecamp!" Solly shouts, reporting the situation smartly, if a tad confusingly.

There's a second where no one is sure where to go with that, then the military man lifts up his helmet a bit. "God god, son, what the hell happened to you out there in the trenches?"

"...BLU Sniper was being a dick..." Scout mumbles, wishing the guy could just pitch in, or fuck off. He was starting to feel awful again, all this stalling.

"Allow me to assist you, Private. What kind of commander would I be if I did not take my privates in hand, when necessary?" Soldier shouts.

And Scout starts to laugh.

Sniper covers immediately with, "Er, he's in shock, he's not laughing at your or your... privates, mate."

"Good. Let us proceed! Forward march!" Soldier crows, striding over to them and making a show of moving to Scout's other side.

And that's when he realises, with a sick shock of cold fear shooting up his spine... that Scout saw Soldier get taken down by the BLU Sniper a bit back, but not long enough ago for the guy to respawn.

"Sp-..." he shouts in alarm, as the tell-tale sound of a Spy's disguise breaking zips through the air. He shoves at Sniper, Sniper shoves at him; Scout hits the floor as the sharpshooter whirls about to confront the BLU Spy.

"Fuck!" Snipes cries, as the intended backstab becomes a large slash across his ribs. But he lived, and was already swinging the kukri round before the other man could catch up to the situation, mentally, and cloak away.

Scout tries to shove upright, but it's not easy. So he does the next best thing, and rummages through the pockets he can reach for... yeah, there it is.

His aim ain't great, considering... everything. But he does manage to soak at least some of the spy in mad milk... which gives them an advantage.

"You little animal..." scowls the masked man, clearly under the impression it was something far worse than just BONK-infused milk that he accidentally left in the sun too long.

But Sniper's kukri keeps the guy at bay, rather well. Until it doesn't. Spy feints to the right, before side-stepping and catching Sniper on his left, a glancing blow to the temple that disoriented enough for the BLU to get a second slice in.

"How dare ya, ya bastard!" Scout shouts, feeling a surge of something like anger and energy combined. Some unholy fusion that let him get up, and start running, before it even really registered.

He body-checks the Spy, swinging wildly and feeling most connect somewhere. The man defends himself, with hand and knife, but Scout's just about dead himself and it's hard to focus on anything but how pissed off he was. Fucking spies. Always skulking about, takin' you out dishonestly. Face down your opponent, don't be a coward and get 'em from behind. That's what Ma always said.

"Mate, duck." came the calm direction from Snipes, and Scout jerked to the side, collapsing in the dust as the sharpshooter put a bullet through the opposing Spy's brain.

"Ain't so clever now, are ya, Spook?" he mumbles at the corpse beside him. Then he realises that at least one of his limbs has gone numb, which usually means

he's not going to make it, anytime soon. "Aw fuck... Snipes can ya... uh, can ya shoot me? Unless you always h-had a secret fantasy of carryin' me bridal style inta spawn... that is. 'Cause I won't take that from ya, if-..."

"Aw shut up ya little mongrel," Sniper grins tightly. "Are ya sure, though? We could maybe make it now the Spook's down?"

"M-might as well. F-fastest way for both of us to get back into b-battle... yeah?" Scout assures, letting his head drop back onto the ground in a halo of dust.

"Well," Snipes responds after a moment, cocking the rifle, "if you're sure... just shut your eyes, don't feel right to kill ya if you're looking at me like some dewy-eyed little bilby..."

Scout complied, then frowned. "Hey, dontcha call me a freaking bilb-..."

Crack.

Nothingness was instantaneous. The absence of pain or any other physical sensation, was at once great and real fucking bizarre. Respawn was like nothing words could describe.

Felt like forever, or a few seconds, and then you were suddenly there on the floor of Respawn, whole and feeling great. It had not been something they'd gotten used to, exactly, and some had come out screaming the first dozen times... but it was normal enough, now, that they could fight without fear.

"Rise, maggot, we must go and assist our unit in the battle for Point B of the objective!" Soldier informs him, helpfully tugging him upright.

"Wait, I thoughtcha would already be there, didn't you respawn like five minutes ago or something?" Scout frowns, thinking back over the sequence of events.

"Correct, private. But there was a TRAITOR lurking near the door that I was unable to detect until the last moment..." admits the man, looking a little chagrined at the whole affair.

Scout claps him on the back, "Hey, fair enough, we killed him like a minute ago or whatever..."

"Good job, Private. Now come along, we have a battle to win!" Soldier says, tossing the surprised Scout over his free shoulder, marching outside, and rocket-jumping them both onto the battlefront.

Afterwards, the rest of the team would recall the sight with amused smiles on their faces.

- - -

Ultimately, they did lose the match, but it was a fierce back and forth that had both sides on edge. Giving their all, fighting tooth and nail for control of each point. Ceding only when everyone defending was dead.

They'd get an enthusiasm bonus for today, that was for damn sure.

When the workday was over, both sides take a chance to relax; or commiserate their failures, depending on how things had gone. RED team wasn't all that bothered, honestly, they had done well even if they lost.

There was always tomorrow.

Soldier had given out medals (bottlecaps and ribbons, but the thought counted) to the team with 'commendations' for 'meritorious service'. Contrary to his BLU counterpart, the RED loved to let everyone know when he saw they'd done a good job.

Scout got two. One for the battle, and one for 'dispatching a traitor'; Snipes also got an additional one. Clearly, Soldier was going to target BLU Spy for the next week, until he felt he'd achieved revenge.

He didn't usually get backstabbed, with all the rocket-jumping, but he couldn't stand cowards who struck from behind. BLU Spy was a dead man walking.

"Hey kid..."

Scout startles a bit, then tries his best to look like he totally hadn't been caught off-guard. Though now one of his sketches had a huge line through it. At least it was in pencil...

It's Sniper. They didn't usually interact all that much, in the free time before and after dinner; the dude liked solitude, or spent time with Demo and Engie. Sometimes Medic and Heavy, if they weren't busy.

...or menaced their own team's Spy with his jarate jars, for the hell of it. Scout loved that. The Frenchman always looked so offended at the mere concept...

He blinks, realising Snipes was just standing right next to him, waiting for some degree of acknowledgement.

"Oh, er, hey... what's up?"

Sniper shuffles a tad awkwardly. "Are you... doing good, mate?"

"Doing goo-...? Oh, yeah, no I'm fine! Thanks for the mercy-kill and all today, Snipes." he assures.

"Alright then, just wanted to make sure ya not gonna jump everytime you see me cleaning my gun..." the aussie sighs, relaxing.

"Well, I mean, between Solly 'handling his privates' and you 'cleaning ya gun', there ain't much on this base I haven't seen... or could scare me." Scout grins back.

Sniper cuffs him lightly about the ear, "You little wanker, 'snot what I meant."

"Well, wanking was part of the proble-mmmph?" Scout's smart retort was covered by a gloved hand.

"That's about enough outta you. Now are ya gonna show me what you're drawing, or am I gonna have to take this beer back inside with me...?" Sniper asked.

Scout perks up immediately. The drinking age around here was 21, but none of his damn teammates would let up on how he was 'too young to be drinking'... even though Scout was 23. It ticked him off no end, and he knew that's why they did it... or well, most of them. He thinks Demo is sincerely trying to keep him from becoming an alcoholic or something.

Getting his hands on something even vaguely beer-like was a pain, especially under the hawkeyed-supervision of Engie and Medic (and Demo).

He hands over the sketchpad immediately, taking the bottle in return. "Nothing fancy, just stuff around here, some of the others, that owl of yours... was sitting on the fence a minute ago."

"They're good," Sniper says, flipping through and pausing, "but I think I like this one most."

Scout nearly chokes, as he realises Sniper's found the one he drew in a hurry (then carefully lined) of a time the Aussie was randomly napping in a tree near base. Actually, it was for the best he had his new sketchpad, the other one was full of the lanky sharpshooter in all the various ridiculous places and positions he fell asleep.

"What can I say, ya make an interesting study in posture when you're asleep, Snipes. Like the time ya napped in the pantry, and scared the crap outta Engie..." he explains, trying to act like he definitely didn't nearly die from being caught out.

"Oh... that'll explain why you're always lookin' at me, then, Bilby." Sniper agrees. Turning to face the runner with a knowing grin, "You think I wouldn't notice? Got eyes like a hawk, mate, and observation's something I do well..."

His mind in complete, and uncharacteristic panic mode, Scout blurts out, "Er, I... for art. Staring at you for art. Thanks for the beer. Going now."

The runner takes off with a beer in one hand and an embarrassed flash across his cheeks; completely forgetting he's left the incriminating sketchbook with the person he was trying to conceal it with.

Sniper lets out an amused huff, watching the younger mercenary disappear into the night. He'd realise he had to come back, in about a minute or so; nothing out on the field at night except mess and unexploded stickies.

Interesting, though... to find out that the kid'd been watching him right back. Maybe the clue he'd given the runner wasn't as wasn't as obvious as the sharpshooter thought.

Still, Scout was smart enough, he'd either figure it out... or get halfway across the map, realise Snipes had called him Bilby again, and come racing back to argue the nickname.

Sniper settled down to wait for the return... passing the time by going over the artwork with a critical eye. It was pretty damn good, really. Hard to see why Scout hadn't taken it further, really... maybe it had to do with finances or attitudes; when you had eight siblings it probably wasn't even an option, college that is.

His thoughts are cut off by the telltale rapid footsteps that meant Scout was returning.

Lo and behold, the runner skids to a stop in front of him, a little sweaty but not out of breath (and god does Sniper envy that energy, he'd had to run from a Pyro the other day up several flights of stairs, and it'd winded him).

"Why the heck do you keep calling me 'bilby', Snipes?! I gotta a real name and a class name, but you've called me dat like three time today..." questions the runner, taking a step back when Sniper stands up again.

"Why? 'coz you're small and cute, and bloody hard to catch." Sniper answers without hesitation.

And he sees the moment it sinks in, because Scout goes bright red, and splutters trying to think of an appropriate response, but failing.

He takes a step forwards, and when the other doesn't run off, he takes another... before slinging a companionable arm around Scout's shoulders.

"She'll be right, mate, c'mon... I noticed you noticing me, but it don't have to mean anything if you don't want it to, alright?"

"O...okay..."

"Ain't mad or nothing, surprised a bit... I mean, have you seen Demo shirtless? Thought you'd prefer that sort... but, everyone's different..." he's prodding the kid, trying to get a response, but it wasn't a lie. Most of the people on the team had impressive physiques, in their own right. Probably Pyro too, whatever they were.

Scout snorts, getting a lockdown on his emotions for the moment. "Er, yeah... I know, everybody showers together 'n'all, but apparently I've got weird taste or something..."

"...should I be offended?" Sniper asks, raising his eyebrows.

And Scout backpedals, "Shit, didn't mean that... but I mean like, when I look between you and Miss P, I can see things ya got in common that I find cute'n'all... and then it was like 'well fuck, I got a type'."

Sniper laughs, because yeah, he can see that. It's not hard to see it's something the runner's still coming to terms with.

"Salright mate, you got time to work it out... and no one here minds, whatever you realise or don't." he reassures, thinking about the whole Heavy & Medic situation from when they all started. Those two danced around each other for about five months before Soldier and Scout flat-out locked them in a room together and told them to 'just fucking tell him already you're killing us!'.

"Yeah?" Scout asks, seeking confirmation that this was okay.

"Yeah mate, all the time in the world." he smiles back. If the other ended up working out he liked him, or not, it was fine by the sharpshooter. He just liked having the runner around, injecting life and energy into everything he touched.

On the other hand, he couldn't resist a chance to take a dig at the kid. " 'Sides, it's gonna take me a while to get an outfit like Miss P's, all that purple fabric's probably a pain to get and-..."

He couldn't continue, considering he was laughing too hard at the semi-scandalised, slightly-excited, but mostly confused expression on Scout's face.

"Oh my god..." Scout breathes.

Sniper can't tell if that was a good exclamation or not, but he claps the other on the shoulder. "Alright mate, looks like you've had enough... by which I mean both the beer and minor existential crises, tonight... let's get you back to ya room."

Scout lets the Aussie lead him inside for a bit, effortlessly navigating the base without thought... before a devious response came to mind.

"...and do I get a goodnight kiss when we're there, or are ya gonna tuck me in and leave?" Scout says, shiteating grin plastered across his face from one ear to the other.

Somewhere nearby the eavesdropping spy nearly chokes on his wine.

Sniper actually stumbles, slightly blindsided. "Whoa, steady-on mate... we'll see when we get there, you little terror. Now behave, or I'll tell Engie you're drunk and propositioning people..."

"...yeah, but I'll tell him you gave it to me..." Scout adopted an oddly sing-song tone, "and you were gonna kiss me..."

Sniper knew that even in a world where he did tell Engie about this, the man would kill him at the vaguest insinuation of taking advantage of a drunken Scout. Which was, on one hand, a good protective measure for the impulsive brat... but on the other, he;d get his pay docked for an off-hours discharge and respawn.

"You keep it quiet and so will I, mate." Sniper murmured back as they passed the loungeroom full of the others.

"Deal..." Scout responded, smugly, like he'd won. And he didn't stop until he reached his quarters a few minutes later.

"Right, here's your sketchbook... might have flicked through it, but it's bloody good, mate."

"Aw, ain't that good, you should see my brother's stuff... he's the artist." Scout responds, looking sheepish.

And that explained a lot, it really did.

"Well, if he's half as nice to look at as you, maybe I will... but he's probably shit on the battlefield." Sniper jokes.

Scout laughs, "Yeah... he's a freaking architect or somethin', I was always fighting to keep people form pickin' on him. Even though it was probably supposed to be the other way 'round."

"Good practice for here, though. Would've been a bugger if you'd never come out here... what else am I supposed to look at, 'round here?" states the sharshooter, slyly, just to watch Scout flush.

Scout's getting fed up with his very-manly-blushing. Why does Sniper do this to him?

"Aw shut up, I know I'm great to look at but I try to dial it down so you all don't get distracted from work..." he responds, and then yawns almost comedicly wide. "Okay, I'm going to sleep now... but I ain't gonna forget this conversation in the morning, and we're gonna talk about it. The whole... y'know... thing."

"Or you could just come over to my camper after battle tomorrow, easier to talk about it without eavesdroppers'n'all... 'sides, you get a good view of the land and stars, from on top of the van, you can bring ya sketchpad."

Scout pauses, mid-stretch, eyes gleaming with mischief. "Is that a date you're askin' me on, Mr Sniper?"

"Only if you're brave enough to accept," goads Sniper back, equally mischievous.

"You're on, Snipes! See you then, or y'know, in battle before it... but I ain't gonna kiss ya when the BLUs are firin' at us." Scout states, darting forwards to peck Sniper on the cheek, grin, and then shut his door in the sharpshooter's face.

Sniper stands frozen for a second, processing.

Then Demo is there, slinging an arm around his shoulder. "Oh laddie, he's a firecracker this'll be fun tae watch. Engie'll break yer arse in two if ye break Scoutie's heart though, be careful there..."

Sniper's just trying to figure out how to respond, when Demo adds.

"Now what's all this about wanting tae see me with me shirt off? I'm flattered lad, but the boyo would be devastated if I seduced you away with me rippling muscles and kilt..."

The sharpshooter loses it, and there's an echoing ring of amused laughter coming from behind the Scout's bedroom door.

"Oh, aye wouldnae be laughing too hard, Scout... or should I tell Sniper here ye once asked me tae model with me kit off for ye?" Demo teases.

To which a choking sound could be heard through the door, and what sounded like, 'You wouldn't dare!'

Conspiratorially, the Scot leans over to Sniper and whispers, "Aye, he did too. But who can blame him... I'm bloody gorgeous!"

Scout's head shoots out of the doorway as Sniper is nodding in agreement. "Hey, getcha own Sniper, that one's mine!" At which point the runner realises what he said, flushes a very manly shade of pink, and disappears to a litany of muffled 'ohmygodwhydidisaythat?'

Demo claps Sniper on the back, "There ye go, lad... confirmation he likes ye."

Weakly, Sniper responds, "Regular old Cupid, aren'tcha, mate?"

The explosives expert beams, "Aye. Now let's get a drink to celebrate, and I'll shout ye one, since I just won a bet with Medic. He didnae think I could get ye two to admit ye liked one another... but I'm not an idiot."

Snipes isn't entirely sure how to feel about it, but he's mostly relieved Scout isn't freaking out. Well, anymore than the litany of 'ohmygod's would suggest.

"Yeah, sounds good. And Scout, I'll bring you a soda or something..." he calls through the door. Only for it to open, and then a pillow smacks the sharpshooter in the face.

Demo's cackling, "Oh, a right good start you two have gotten off to, haven't ye?"

Sniper laughs, "Seems like it's gonna be interesting, to say the least."

- - - -

END

- - -

If it’s a tad disjointed, I blurted the concept in a Chat message and checking what you already wrote is a PAIN... but there you go.

#tf2 #scout #sniper #scoutsniper #demo #soldier #medic #heavy #engie #pyro #spy #camiluna27

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spookypastatoo · 7 years

Text

Parasite

I say my respectful goodbyes to David, adjusting my pack of supplies, and shut the door behind me.

It's a hot summer day in the middle of the desert state and the ash has finally let the sun through again. Other than being empty, the streets haven't changed at all. There are no signs of riots, no scorched buildings, no mangled bodies. Everything just happened too quickly.

It is six and a half miles from David's hideout to mine and I make it there in twenty-six minutes. The seven-speed does just fine over the uneven ground, even though there is a large bubble in the tire. The sun beats on my neck, but the wind in my face is cool enough to stop me from complaining.

Surprise was a small city in Arizona. It was founded in 1938 by Homer Ludden and he named it after his hometown in Nebraska. There were no riots or fires like the larger cities, but once the infection hit it spread like wildfire. Nearly all of Surprise was infected before Patient Zero started losing it.

Patient Zero was all over the news, the first victim of a brain parasite. Her name was Sarah Thompson and she begged on live cameras to be killed. Sarah, in the last few days of her life, reportedly pulled most of her hair out and skinned her arms with her fingernails. Some of them were lost in her flesh, but she was completely silent until the last five minutes of her life, when she started screaming quotes from books and detailing childhood memories.

Sarah supposedly killed herself, but the way she did it wasn't released to the public.

The house I've taken refuge in means nothing to me. I never lived here. I never knew the person who lived here, although from the pictures I can see that they were a family. There are no traces of them leaving, nothing missing. It's as if I woke up and was the last person on earth. Once upon a time I was a devout Christian, so this couldn't be the Rapture.

They can't open doors, so after I slam the door shut behind me it's useless to rush to the lock. Through the window, in the daylight, I can see that nothing followed me anyway. When I turn around to examine the house, I feel safe. I've stripped away some of the carpet to safely build a fire, and I've made a hole in the ceiling for both ventilation and quick escape. Water bottles and jugs have been gathered from the stores and other locations, and my food stock is nothing to worry about.

There's a reason David and I live so far away from one another. We both have resources, we both have adequate shelter, and we don't trust each other in the least. Greed is human nature, and we've accepted its existence. We try to hold on to things like greed.

David and I met at gunpoint in an abandoned Target a few seasons ago. We helped one another for as long as we could stand, but eventually our eyes began to covet and our empty hands began to hunger and thirst. Those days are known as The Fall - the three years when humanity died more than humans. Again, there's a reason why we try to hold on to things like greed. Those things are our legacy, our nature. It's ironic, but things like wanting are all we have left.

I set the backpack down on the ground near my sleeping bag. My body is covered in a thick layer of dry sweat and grime, and my shirt stings my nostrils when I pull it off and over my head. Doing my best to get comfortable on the treated carpet, I close my eyes and listen to the silence.

For the record, I hate the silence. It means that there are no animals. It means that there is nothing. There's never anything.

Birdsong wakes me in the night. According to my watch, it is three. The house is pitch black and I feel a draft. A door or a window is open and I instinctively run for the rope that will deliver me to the attic. I hear shuffling that is not my own and I climb fast. The shuffling comes closer until stopping right under me and I feel a very light swipe at the bottom of my shoe.

There is a flashlight and a handgun in the attic in addition to those I keep next to me when I sleep, and I reach for the flashlight. Shining it below me, I illuminate the face of the intruder.

Her face is very pale and there are almost no signs of decay. The meat on her arms has been slashed and lacerated; it is the same with her legs. She has no shirt on and blood has splattered the chest that rises and falls as she struggles to breathe. Her eyes were gray, lifeless, and her head cocked to the side while we examined one another.

Her arms reached up to me and her fingers bent like a baby's, so I cocked the gun in response. Her mouth opened and she tried to snap at me. I extended my arm and her fingers grew more coordinated. A low growling appeared in her throat and rose to a loud wailing. She began thrashing at me and jumping up and down, screaming inaudibly and snapping her jaw.

The first shot struck her shoulder and drew no blood. She paid no mind, but when the second shot struck her forehead she fell limp to the ground and laid there.

Silence returned to me and it was rushed along by the birdsong a few seconds later. I couldn't move until I felt the sun's warmth, and I pushed myself up and off the dusty ground to climb slowly back down.

Flood detected my ass.

She had somehow pried the unlocked sliding glass door open and made her way in. Some of the water bottles had been emptied onto the carpet. Most of my food except for the canned items had been opened and devoured or strewn about. I gathered my essentials and moved onto the house next door, a two-story.

The parasite makes them like cows, I've noticed. Cows mourn their dead. if a cow is buried on a hill, the other cows will make sure to avoid that hill. One of the safest places to be in the Post-Fall is right next to a body. So long as you don't disturb it and let it rot, the cows will make sure to avoid it.

The infection isn't like it is in movies. The parasite is found in your fecal matter and can be transmitted through the air. While the infected feel no pain, they are still human. Enough shots to any point on the body will kill an infected individual. I've never seen one as it eats, fortunately, but I've been hunted by them; they're clever and persistent.

The bubble has grown a quarter in size. The sun once again beats on my neck as I ride to David's house, and there is no breeze. The streets are still empty and the ash is still falling like snow.

According to the news, the ash is from an entirely different continent. Somewhere in Asia, they just nuked everything. Sometimes I think something like that would have saved me a lot of trouble.

David is dead when I force the door open. I shut it quickly behind me and watch him lay still on the carpet, covered in his own blood, and I let out a heavy sigh. No maggots have found their way into his collapsed skull, but I suppose it's only a matter of time. I watch him out of the corner of my eye while I reach into his fridge and remove a water bottle; to my pleasure, he seems to twitch only slightly.

I send a quick kick to his head and it rolls on the ground, connected limply to his neck. His eyes are in the back of his head and he is still dead. I frown. I drink. I swallow and pour some of the water on his head, smirking.

Again, as if it has become my addiction, I trace my fingers along his writings on the wall. I can hear his voice screaming at me while I whisper the desperate phrases and I lose my mind as I investigate how he lost his.

INFECTION attacks the brain what the fuck is a HOT ZONE? I'm not sick I'M NOT SICK T.V. IS OUT, FIND RADIO

The charcoal rubs off on my fingers and I wipe it on my pants. David's body is completely still as I heave another sigh and take a long drink of the water. Gathering some canned foods and a few bags of potato chips, I say goodbye to David again and head out the door, shutting it behind me.

The tire blows out halfway home and my mind immediately begins to race. The tire's failing - athough it wasn't the loudest sound one could make - was in sharp contrast to the silence of a summer day. I drew my gun, scanned the horizons, and crouched to see if I couldn't repair the tire.

I use a knife to take the tube out. I've tied a roll of masking tape to the bike's frame and I use the last of it as an improvised patch. Footsteps come from behind me and I turn to see one of them charging at me, its mouth agape and its eyes empty.

I fired four shots into its chest and watched it fall, then rushed my bike and tube over to its body. More came out of the woodwork, but they would not approach their fallen kin. I replaced the tube and pumped it with a small pump I retrieved from my bag.

They all have their mouths open, snapping at me but not moving any other part of their bodies. Their eyes are empty and they all hum quiet and low.

The tire is fixed and I flip the bike right-side up. My gun drawn, I take aim at one of them. A single round to the head drops and and it lays motionless. I take aim at a another, clearing a route for my escape. The shot misses and my heartbeat quickens even more. Another shot hits its chest and I curse loudly. Their humming grows louder and I'm suddenly aware of how much I'm sweating. Another shot kills it and I aim for a third. I miss again and scream at it when the gun reports that it is out of ammo.

The humming becomes a sort of yelling and I throw the gun down into the dirt. The bike's seat is warm when I sit on it and I pedal hard toward the survivor. They all begin to wail like the girl did and I pedal faster.

I'm pulled from my bike on contact, but I hit the ground, stumble, and start sprinting away. I hear teeth snapping behind me and their wailing becomes a screech. I'm just over three miles away from shelter and my legs become loose and weak. My lungs burn and it becomes hard to breathe.

I feel a hand tug at my bag and I gain renewed vigor. My legs move faster and my arms pump harder but the adrenaline only lasts for a few seconds. Two hands tug at my bag and I throw it off, stumbling again. More hands reach or my shirt and I draw my knife. I turn around to be tackled onto the ground, but they all freeze when I cut one's throat.

Its body falls on mine but doesn't bleed. I lay there, looking up at them as they stand with their mouths open, catching my breath.

The night comes and the cool breeze has returned. It is silent. They still stand around me and I haven't moved.

I slowly begin to push its body off of mine and they stand still. Rising slowly and cautiously to my feet, they don't sway at all. Their breaths pierce the silence; they are slow and deep. They're sleeping.

My legs are running before I can tell them to. I run through the empty streets and hear nothing behind me. The door swings open in front of me and I am under shelter. I slam it shut and lose my balance, falling on my side.

Heat and exhaustion force me to vomit. I wipe at my mouth and retch a few times more. The house is silent and the air is still. I hear no birdsong. I hear nothing but my own dry heaving.

My legs barely move. I've gotten little rest and exhausted myself. Looking around for water, I find my lips are dry. I drink. I choke. I vomit again.

My arm itches.

My fingers run up and down desperately before I can tell myself to stop, before I can tell myself that I'm okay. Soon my mind isn't comforting enough and I have to speak out loud. It's calming to hear that I still sound human. It's calming to hear someone's voice.

But soon, even my voice isn't reassuring enough. I have to see my words, to run my fingers over them as I whisper them to myself.

I search the house for some sort of writing tool and settle for a pen. The doors are all wooden and painted white, so they seem a beautiful place to start.

I'M NOT SICK I'M NOT SICK PLEASE, GOD, I'M NOT SICK David is just sleeping i'm not SICK it's safe here it's safe everywhere SOMEBODY SAY SOMETHING SOMEBODY TELL ME I'M OKAY

I stop to scratch furiously at my arm. It inflames the itch instead of extinguishing it. I scratch harder, faster. Blood is drawn. I try to keep writing while clawing at myself as well.

WAKE UP DAVID WAKE UP DAVID how did I get this way? no one else no one else exists I AM THE LAST ONE I AM NOT INFECTED THE PARASITE IS DEAD IT IS NOT INSIDE OF ME

I run out of room on the door and scream with frustration. My second gun is by my sleeping bag, laying on the ground with no one to hold it. I pick it up and cock it, screaming into the barrel.

My finger pulls the trigger. Click.

I curse loudly and start clawing at my neck. I feel a fingernail break off and the sound excites me. I pull the trigger again and again, slouching down against the wall.

My finger pulls the trigger. Click. My finger pulls the trigger. Click. My finger pulls the trigger.

A draft enters the room.

#creepypasta #creepy pasta #spookypasta

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