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loki-hargreeves · 3 years

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Loki x Reader - Thanos controls You

Warnings: angst, mentions of torture, mind-control, fighting, choking, blood and gore, more angst (it's a lot ok)

Word Count: 5,8K

Summary: After failing to deliver the Tesseract, Loki has been living in fear that Thanos will one day find him again and seek revenge. You have been missing ever since Loki was imprisoned after what he did in New York. Little did Loki know that you were with Thanos all along. During the events of Infinity War, Thanos makes you battle Loki in order to obtain the Tesseract

Author’s Note: I know Thanos doesn’t have the mind stone at the beginning of Infinity War but it’s fiction and I’m gonna do what Marvel does best, ignore canon. Let’s blame the Other’s powers, okay? Please enjoy this angsty little thing! :)

YOUR POV

“There’s room for more!” Loki yelled over the cries of scared children and their crying families. There was no way he would send a half-empty escape pod on its way to Midgard. That’s when he saw a child all by herself a little further away. She was clinging onto the wall for dear life and the ship trembled due to the impact of getting shot at. Her parents were nowhere to be seen. Dead. Loki felt sick to his stomach when he knew they were most likely dead. Thanos’ children were slaying kids and their parents heartlessly and they had the audacity to say they were being rescued. That their deaths were part of something bigger than life itself.

They viewed Thanos as a god who was being merciful even when he ripped a beating heart out of someone's chest.

Loki’s heart clenched in his chest painfully. Before it would be too late, he made his way to the tiny child and picked her up carefully. She seemed to recognize the prince but she wasn’t afraid of him. Instead, she hugged Loki so she wouldn’t fall out of his grasp.

“Where’s mommy?” The girl sounded absolutely petrified.

Loki didn’t know what to say as he made his way to the pod. Once he reached it, he saw a woman by the entrance.

“You’ll be safe here,” Loki promised the child as he handed her over to the lady. That’s all he had time for as he returned to the corridor. A particularly loud blast made him stumble over his feet and he had to catch his balance by taking support from the metal wall. The lights flickered, which meant the electronics of the ship were injured. There was a strange smokey smell in the air, which lingered with the irony stench of blood.

Loki couldn’t believe this was happening. Had Thanos finally come for him? Or did Thanos somehow know of the tesseract? Either way, if Thanos succeeded, he would kill two birds with one stone. The thought of this being all his fault made Loki nauseous. Guilt was nibbling at his skin and he knew it would eat him alive in the end. He never wished for this to happen!

As he ran down the corridors frantically searching for Asgardians that needed help, he heard different kinds of cries. People were letting out guttural screams. Others were pleading for their lives. Listening to the massacre that was taking place was worse than any nightmare Loki ever recalled having. They were all drained after Ragnarok and now Thanos had found them. It was haunting how ruthless fate could be.

Footsteps began to approach Loki and they were awfully close. Too close for his liking. He was quick to grab his daggers and turn to face whoever dared try to sneak up on him. When he saw a familiar figure, he nearly dropped the blades from his hands. Seeing you there was like shock itself punched him in the face.

You were there, real and clear as day.

How long had it been since the last time he saw you?

Ever since Loki had found out about his true nature, his life had gone downhill. After he ended up with Thanos and went through pure hell with him, he had changed. During his time away from Asgard, he had only missed one person truly - you. You, who had been by his side through everything. You, who hadn’t loved him any less when you saw his deep blue skin and those crimson red eyes that in Loki’s mind resembled blood. You, who had seen him as the rightful king of Asgard when everyone else betrayed him. The light of his life, the angel that had cared for him even when he felt like a monster.

You, who hadn’t been on Asgard when Thor brought him back to face Odin in trial. Loki had spent a lot of time in his cell, alone. He waited for you to appear but you never did and no one ever told him why. They rather left him to drown in his own vicious thoughts. It wasn’t until Loki pretended to be Odin that he began to learn what had happened on Asgard during his exile.

The people at the palace loved to gossip. Some claimed you had stolen a ship and left Asgard behind for good, that living as Loki’s widow had been too hard for you. In Loki’s darkest hours, he wondered if you truly felt ashamed for being associated with him. So ashamed in fact, that you had left it all behind and started anew. Sometimes, he believed that, but it never stopped him from trying to find you. He had searched night and day but it seemed like you had vanished into thin air. It had killed him more every day living in the unknown. His only wish had been that you were okay.

Now there you were, looking like you had never left. In a moment of pure shock, Loki couldn’t even begin to comprehend how you appeared on the ship - seemingly out of nowhere. He was happy to see you, despite how appalling everything else was at that moment.

“Y/N,” Loki spoke your name softly and dared to blink. When you were still there as he opened his eyes, he felt goosebumps all over his skin.

You looked at him so innocently, but then he noticed that something was off. The look in your eyes was cold. You weren’t in your typical Asgardian gear. Instead, you were dressed in dark armour that Loki could’ve sworn he had seen before, but he didn’t know where. Nevertheless, it made him feel uneasy.

“It’s been a while, Loki,” You attempted a smile as you walked closer to him, your husband. It still counted since he had never truly died, right?

Loki didn’t stop you as you walked right up to him. His eyes never left yours. Part of him wanted to kiss you, to hold you and feel you were real, but the shrieks in the background reminded him of how dangerous everything was. The daggers disappeared from his hands and Loki held you by your shoulders. He needed to see that his hands wouldn't go right through you, that he hadn't lost it.

“You need to get off this ship, Y/N!” He told you seriously. There was profound fear in his voice.

Instead of being worried at all, you just smiled back at him.

That was so unlike you.

“Y/N, do you hear me?”

“Oh, I do,” You confirmed nonchalantly, “I’m not going anywhere. Not yet.”

A bloodcurdling cry startled Loki. They were coming closer and closer. The two of you wouldn’t be safe in that passageway for long. By now, his heart was racing with his thoughts. He felt panic settling into his bones.

Before Loki could say another word, you cupped his face rather gently. The fact that you didn’t seem disturbed by what was happening was eerie to Loki. He knew that you had a heart much bigger than anyone else he knew of. The version of you he remembered wouldn’t have been so calm. Something was terribly wrong.

“I need something,” You admitted and batted your eyelashes. Before, Loki would’ve found that quite adorable, but at that moment it was so wrong. He had been so ecstatic to see you and know you were alive, but now he almost wanted to run the other way.

“What?” Loki barely found his voice at that point. He felt sick and heartbroken. This had to be a nightmare, the worst kind.

“The Tesseract, Loki. I really need it,” You blurted it out.

Shivers ran down his spine. How did you know about it? Why did you even care? He was unsure if he could even trust you with the knowledge that he had it in his possession. Usually, he would’ve trusted you with his life without any hesitation, but you had been gone for years and returned like this, with bizarre motives.

You returned at the same time as Thanos and you were looking for the tesseract. Loki wasn’t a fool. He finally put two and two together and the realization was too arduous to believe. The idea of you and Thanos even meeting was something Loki could only see happening in his worst nightmares, but he was afraid it had already occurred. If so, he needed to hear it from you,

“Is Thanos making you do this?”

The tone of his voice seemed to offend you as you sent him a nasty glare. Your softness turned harsh and you pushed Loki against the metal wall with a loud thud. Before he could get out of the way, you grabbed your own dagger and pressed it against his neck so it was ever so slightly pressing against his exposed skin.

“He is not making me do anything. I am glad to serve the all-mighty Thanos. I won’t fail him, unlike you,” You snarled at Loki spitefully.

Never in a million years had Loki imagined this moment to happen. One where you would be fighting against each other. It was supposed to the two of you against the nine realms. Being held like that by the one person he loved more than anything was tearing his heart to shreds, but he tried not to show it.

Deep down, he knew it wasn’t truly you. He knew exactly what Thanos had done to you so you would act like this, and it only made it hurt so much more. It felt like someone was pouring salt into an open wound, and his entire body, heart and soul were wounded.

“Now give me the tesseract and we will be on our merry way,” You tried to obtain it again. This time you seemed more serious. Was it the tone of your voice or your weapon pressed against his pulse? Loki didn’t know.

“I don’t have it,” Loki lied as smoothly as he could because even thinking straight at that moment felt impossible. The world was caving in around him at supersonic speed.

You pressed the sharp edge of the blade closer to him, feeling how just a little bit more pressure would've broken his skin “You’re a great liar, my dear, but I know that’s not the truth.”

Loki didn’t want to fight you, but he didn’t see another way out. And it was good for him that you had learned most of the tricks from him. Your every move would be more easily predictable for Loki. He had to find a way to distract you.

“Why do you need it?” That was a foolish question. He knew damn well what Thanos would do if he got his dirty hands on the infinity stones.

“Why do you care?” You didn’t answer his silly question.

Suddenly, Loki grabbed your wrist tightly and yanked your arm to the side. He tried to be as gentle as he could, but Loki knew you wouldn’t go down without a fight.

At least your weapon fell out of your hand, but you knew how to defend yourself without it. So did Loki.

Loki tried to turn things around so he would have you pinned down against the wall, but you didn’t let him get that far. As he turned you around so your back was pressed firmly against his chest, you kicked your legs against the wall hard, pushing both of you back. Loki took the biggest impact as he fell on the floor, with you on top of him. Quickly, you rolled out of his grasp, turning around in one swift movement so that you were now sat on top of him, with your legs tightly against both his sides.

A powerful orb of magic grew above your fingertips and you brought it closer to Loki’s face - so close that he could feel the heat of your burning powers. The magic created an electric sensation on your skin. It felt like you pushed your fingers deep into warm sand. Toying with it was exhilarating, and seeing the astonished look on Loki’s face made it so much better. The green light of your powers cast light in his eyes, only deepening the look of disbelief that was painted all over him.

“It’s sweet that you’re trying not to hurt me,” You taunted him at that point, “but that doesn’t mean I won’t hurt you.”

“This isn’t you, Y/N,” Loki groaned. He was so sure of himself.

You tilted your head and smirked, looking at him like a cat would at a mouse. “I don’t know, Loki. It’s been a while,” You explained casually and leaned closer and closer to his face, stopping when your noses brushed against one another. By now, Loki was frozen on the spot. He was trying to come up with a plan and he felt hopeless.

“I’ve changed,” You whispered to him and felt tempted to kiss him, to taste him. Would you taste his fear? His heartbreak? You were sure it would taste sweet.

“The torture must’ve been painful,” Loki pushed his feelings aside. Yes, he felt like his heart had been ripped to shreds, but he had to do something. He had to surprise you, even if it would hurt. Words could hurt more than actions, and if Loki wanted to survive and to help you, he needed to reach the real you even if the only way to do so was cruel.

How did he know? You narrowed your eyes and surprisingly, found yourself waiting for him to continue.

"I was trained well."

"Trained?" Loki spat out harshly, "I know you're afraid. He has promised you something worse than the pain he has inflicted on you already. It won't happen. If you let Thanos continue his reign, he will not care about your loyalty!"

"Shut up!" That was too much for you. With tears brimming your eyes from anger, you put your hand over his mouth to silence him. He didn't budge and you didn't know why.

You pushed the memories aside. The painful memories of the time Thanos first found you. It was wrong to think of it as torture. No, he had shown you what you're truly capable of. It was training. Training to become a stronger person after the hell you endured on Asgard.

But now that you found yourself thinking about it, it seemed like the memories were all blurred as if you were looking into the past through a broken lens. Someone had spilt oil all over it and the pictures were warped.

"I know you have it," You needed the tesseract. "Give it to me and then this will all be over," you removed your hand from his mouth because it looked like he wanted to speak.

Loki knew that if he’d push you, your magic could burn him, but at the moment he couldn’t come up with another plan. He couldn’t just stay on the ground as people were being killed on the other side of the wall!

"Okay," Loki blurted out. Okay?

For a moment, he had you surprised which was the perfect distraction.

Loki grabbed your wrists tightly and pushed you to the side, but not quickly enough. You released your magic and it graced the side of his face, making him growl out either in pain or frustration - or both. The two of you rolled over and this time Loki was on top, holding your arms pinned above your head. You were trapped because of one mistake. You couldn't believe Loki had used the element of surprise to turn the situation upside down.

Furiously, you tried to kick your legs free, but he had you pinned down beneath him and Loki was strong. There was no point in squirming, you had to come up with another idea.

The two of you faced each other and Loki revealed his face and the damage you had done. Your magic had burned his skin and left a bloody cut on his eyebrow. It had just barely missed his eye. If he lived, it would surely leave a scar.

You flinched when a drop of his blood hit your cheek and it rolled down the side of your face.

"What are you going to do, kill me?"

Loki could never bring himself to kill you. He wouldn't be able to live with himself with your blood on his hands. No. He had other ideas. Loki remembered what it was like to be under Thanos' control. He remembered how much it hurt to even think about the torture. He had to remind you, he had to make you see that this wasn't the real you.

"This version of you, or I certainly hope so," Loki replied mysteriously. Before you could ask him to elaborate, Loki released your wrist and slammed the palm of his hand against your forehead. In a split second, you were in a different place - in your head. You could've sworn you heard him mutter "I'm sorry," before everything turned black.

It was hot, burning hot. Metal chains were attached to you and they were glowing red. Torching. You could only scream in pain as the metal sunk into your skin, your bones, your nerves. It felt like he had chained your mind and with the tiniest movement of his finger, he could make you do his dirty work.

He, Thanos, was sitting on his throne. He was the puppet master and you the puppet. He didn't look at you fondly. No. He was smiling as he watched you cry your lungs out, letting out animalistic growls as the pain got worse. It was so overwhelming that every once in a while, you would scream until you passed out. But every time, one of his children would be there to wake you up.

It was time for another round. And another. And yet another. Would it ever end?

Each time you tried to resist the chains, the strings that were sewn onto you and connected to his fingertips, it hurt more. Eventually, you learned that allowing the strings to tighten around you made it hurt less. It almost felt good, like a long embrace after a long day.

"I don't want to hurt you, my child."

Lies. You knew that all he said were nasty lies, but sometimes it was easier to believe lies than the truth.

"Make it stop!" You would beg him. How long had you been there?

You could remember Thanos touching your face gently, which was so comforting after everything you had endured. At the same time, it made you sick. You couldn't believe that the one who had caused you distress could have such a gentle touch.

"You're ready," Thanos had realized. The Other had appeared right before you and his fingertips were pressed against one another, making him look like he was deep in thought. You had no idea what they were doing, but the next thing you knew was that you no longer felt pain.

The chains, the strings, they were all invisible. It looked like you were free, but the weight of the metal was still pressed against your skin. Had you imagined it?

No,

Deep down you knew that the strings were still attached to you, but they had only made it seem like you had a choice.

"Excellent," The Other's voice surprised you. You merely blinked and you had returned to the vessel. Loki was above you and the Other was standing right there, "You found him."

The Other used his powers to push Loki off you. Shock had made your entire body numb and you couldn't scramble up to your feet. It felt like your limbs had been turned to stone and you were anchored to the floor.

Loki got up slowly with his arms raised in surrender. He was well aware of the powers the Other had and Loki wasn't going to fight him now. If he followed you for long enough, then maybe just maybe he could come up with a plan. Loki looked at you as you finally got up. As you stood next to the Other, you couldn't believe your legs carried you. Something was so wrong. You felt sick and you couldn't shake it off. It felt like something had snapped within you, but you didn't know what.

"He is waiting for you," The Other explained as he turned to walk away, most likely to wherever Thanos was waiting.

Loki had no choice but to follow, and you walked behind, making sure he didn't try to escape.

Why did Loki make you remember that? What did he think he would obtain with making you relive something so awful? It hadn't worked, right?

There he was. Thanos was standing by a hole that had been ripped into the side of the ship. Magic was keeping it sealed so the vacuum of space wouldn't suck everyone into it. But still, the emptiness of space wasn't frightening at all compared to the titan who was standing right there.

Loki swallowed thickly as he saw him again. It had been years but he remembered everything like it had happened yesterday. Seeing Thanos standing in the middle of the piles of bodies, in the room that smelled like smoke and blood, was sickening. Thanos hadn't just killed a part of Loki. He had just slaughtered these innocent Asgardians with the help of his so-called children. He had taken you.

He will make you long for something as sweet as pain

Loki closed his eyes and took a deep, shaky breath. They had stayed true to their threats.

"I know what it’s like to lose," Thanos turned around now that he knew Loki was there. At long last. Thanos had not forgotten what Loki had failed to do, and Thanos was a man of his words.

"To feel so desperately that you’re right yet to fail, nonetheless," Thanos continued dramatically and slowly made his way closer to Loki. He saw Thor on the ground, bloodied and weak. The brother of Loki. As tempting as the idea was to torture Thor right in front of the god of mischief, Thanos had different plans. If there was only one way Loki would ever give him the tesseract, it was going to be in order to save you. You were Loki's true weakness.

"It’s frightening. Turns the legs to jelly. I ask you, to what end?" Thanos looked Loki right in the eye. He could see that Loki was afraid, yet Loki never looked away from him. He was either too proud or fearless. Thanos had liked that about Loki initially. But he had failed Thanos greatly. It had cost him infinity stones.

"Dread it. Run from it. Destiny arrives all the same. And now, it’s here. Or should I say I am," Thanos finished his dramatics because it was time for action, to turn the wheels and see the bigger picture. This was the end of an era and a new beginning for a different universe. In Thanos' mind, only he could bring balance and order. He gestured for you to walk up to his side.

Too afraid of the idea of what would happen if you disobeyed, you walked right up to Thanos, feeling like a fly that was willingly flying into cobwebs. When you were close enough, you kneeled and dipped your head so he wouldn't see the worry in your eyes. It wasn't there before.

"I didn't obtain the tesseract from him, but I am sure that he has it, father," You muttered quietly. Why did you say that? There was a pounding headache growing within your skull. You didn't know what was right or wrong anymore and you couldn't fight it either.

Father

Loki clenched his jaw as he followed the situation closely. Hearing that made his blood boil. He wanted to rip Thanos apart after this. Never in a million years had he imagined this, to see you pledge your alliance to Thanos, kneeling before him and respecting him. Thanos didn't deserve that. Hell, Thanos didn't even deserve to look at you. It was wrong.

At that moment, Loki worried that his trick hadn't worked. That the memories hadn't awakened anything within you. That it was all too late now. This was the end, the one thing in life that was inevitable.

"I know, my child," Thanos let out a sigh. Then he grabbed you by your jaw like he had done before, forcing you to face him. "I know he has it," He repeated and suddenly his touch turned violent. He closed his hand around your neck tightly and you gasped for air helplessly. Your hands - tiny compared to his - grabbed his fingers and you tried to pry them apart, but he was tougher than you. Panic shot through your entire body when you realized you couldn't breathe. It turned your blood to ice and your poor heart was beating so hard you were afraid it would explode.

What was he doing?

The moment he pulled you to your feet, so high that you had to stand on the tips of your toes, he spoke, "The tesseract or her life," Thanos smiled devilishly, showing no remorse. He didn't care about you. You were a pawn in his game and if you would die at his feet, he would just walk over you and carry on.

"You choose," Thanos put the weight of the world on Loki's shoulders.

Loki wanted to rescue you from that monster, but he wasn't stupid. With all of Thanos' children surrounding him, he knew that he would be dead before he could reach you. Nonetheless, it didn't mean he wouldn't try. Seeing you clawing at Thanos' hand, fighting for something as simple as air and not getting it was heartbreaking. Loki's body was trembling with hatred and hurt. Tears blurred his vision and he struggled to keep his composure.

How had it all come to this?

The thought of Thanos with the tesseract was haunting. Soon he would have all the stones and he would destroy reality as they knew it. But Loki could live with that. He couldn't live knowing you had died when he had a chance to save you. Perhaps he was selfish for choosing you over the entire galaxy, but Loki didn't care. Nothing mattered if he would lose you again.

"Alright, stop!" Loki made up his mind. "I choose her," Finally, Thanos released his grip on you and let you fall on the cold ground. Your hands wrapped around your throat gently and you coughed painfully. It took you a while to finally breathe again, which was a huge relief for both Loki and you.

And now Loki was holding the tesseract. It was so bright that it painted the space blue. It was almost too bright to look at. The power within the stone was so strong, you could sense it like heat from the sun in spring after a long and cold winter. Loki was tempted to use the tesseract to grab you and escape, but he quickly shut those thoughts away. Thanos would follow him for the end of all days.

"You...you really are the worst, brother," Thor was following the situation to the best of his abilities. He spat out blood as he watched Loki holding the cube. It made him sad. Everything they ever knew was destroyed in the name of power, pure and raw power that the tesseract could offer. Was it worth it?

Loki glanced at Thor who was too weak to even get up. He didn't care too much about what he had to say. Then he looked at you. There you were, on the ground struggling to breathe after Thanos had crushed your windpipe. There was bruising on your skin that would only deepen with time. Time that you possibly wouldn't have after this.

He saw the tears running down your face, but you didn't sob and whimper. It seemed like you were as still as stone. You couldn't bring yourself to face Loki.

"I assure you," Loki found his voice and he addressed both you and Thor with his words, "the sun will shine on us again."

What did he mean by that?

You were ashamed to tilt your gaze to see him, to see the tesseract. The damn infinity stone had ruined it all! It was why Thanos had wrecked Loki, why he had destroyed you too. Why so many people were now dead. If you had one wish that could come true, you would wish for the tesseract to be destroyed forever.

Thanos had his back turned to you. Loki was slowly but surely making his way closer to the titan, almost like he was afraid to move but he forced his body to comply. Why? Why would he trade the tesseract for your life? It seemed like whatever spell you had been under had worn off. You were free, but it was more terrifying than being under Thanos' control under these circumstances. He didn't need you, and soon enough the vessel would be blown to bits. All of you, even Loki.

Would you be able to tell him how sorry you were?

"Your optimism is misplaced, Asgardian," Thanos wasn't fond of Loki's strange choice of words.

"Well for one thing I'm not Asgardian," Loki replied quickly. It sounded a little bit witty, which was confusing. Where did the boost of confidence come from? Was he up to something?

"And for another," He continued dramatically. This time it was Thanos' turn to be confused.

"We have a Hulk."

Everything that happened after that happened so fast that you could hardly keep up with it. Loki dropped the tesseract and he leapt toward you. Thanos barely had time to turn around when a huge, green beast appeared out of nowhere and it seemed angry. It was eager to fight the titan.

Loki had you up on your feet in no time and the two of you ran away from the immediate danger. He led you to one of the many corridors on the vessel until no one could possibly see you. They were too distracted by the Hulk to even think about Loki and you. It wasn't until he was right in front of you that you could comprehend what was going on. He was kneeling on the floor and you were sat against the wall for support. Your hands were trembling so hard, it seemed like you were freezing up and you couldn't make it stop.

Loki had tricked Thanos.

He was relieved when you didn't fight him, yet he was unsure if it meant you were no longer under Thanos' control, or if you were simply too tired to fight.

He cupped your face gently and searched for answers in your expression. Back in the day, he had been able to read you like an open book.

You put your hands around his wrists and pulled him closer. You were desperate for the comfort he could bring in the midst of the living hell you were stuck in. How did he not hate you?

"I'm s- I'm sorry," You whimpered, finally cracking like a plate that had fallen on the floor. "I'm sorry."

"Shh, it's okay," Loki couldn't possibly let you apologize for what had happened. He was possibly the one person who understood exactly what you had gone through and what it was like to follow orders from that monster. There was not an ounce of judgement to be found in his heart.

What mattered now was that you were together again. You could come up with a plan, but you had to work fast. As much as Loki wanted to hold you and comfort you, to feel that you were real, he knew there wasn't enough time for that.

"We need to get off this thing," Loki's mind was running a marathon as he tried to come up with an escape plan.

"They're gonna blow it up," You explained, feeling how bad your lips were quivering as you spoke. The moment Thanos had what he came for, they would leave and destroy everything they'd leave behind.

Shivers ran down Loki's spine as he heard that. It only confirmed that you had to act quickly. Loki wasn't sure how long the Hulk could fight Thanos. Would they be able to rescue Thor? How much time did they have?

The blood in the wound you had caused on his face was beginning to dry. It looked gnarly and all you wanted was to make it all better. Knowing that you had hurt him made you sick with guilt.

"I'm sorry, Loki. I didn't w-want to fight you," You sniffled, breaking Loki's train of thought. For the first time, he felt lost. He didn't really know what to do. Were there any escape pods left?

"I know," Loki assured you. "I know that. I was in your shoes when I was on Midgard," He explained briefly, unaware whether or not you knew of it. Had Thanos talked about him to you?

A sense of impending doom weighed you two down. If this was the end, then at least you were together, right? You and Loki against the nine realms, you would face the end together if there wasn't another way out. Whenever you had pictured your final day, you had imagined something entirely different than this. You would be old together, with hundreds of stories of your shared life. You would be surrounded by people you cared about. It would be calm, the exact opposite of this.

"I love you," You needed to tell him that. Any moment could be your last. The world would cave in and you would be gone forever.

Loki hated how much that sounded like a farewell, but at the same time, it had been so long since he had last heard those three words, let alone from you. Perhaps it was sick and twisted, but it made him smile.

"I love you too," Loki was sure of it. He had never stopped loving you and he didn't think he was even capable of that.

It seemed like you acted on instinct. You found enough strength to push yourself right against Loki. There was no hesitation in your actions as you kissed him. Loki closed his eyes when he felt your trembling lips pressed against his. Your scent, still sweet and familiar despite it all, punched its way into his lungs. He held your face gently but the kiss was passionate, almost despairing.

You wanted to scream out in agony because at last, you were reunited with Loki but not in the way you imagined. You felt like the shell of the person you were before, and now you knew for a fact that Thanos had done the exact same things to Loki. That titan had killed your souls beyond repair. But all you could do was kiss Loki and hold him and hope that he could feel how sorry you were. You didn't want to let go, afraid that if you did, it would all end. Just like that.

Loki broke the kiss, and for a moment you rested your foreheads against one another like you had done so many times before. It was comforting. You both wanted to stay close like that, but you recognised that you couldn't. Letting go of each other and getting up on your weary feet was so incredibly difficult, but it had to be done.

The world around you began to glow brighter. You quickly held onto Loki, startled as the mysterious light surrounded the two of you.

Loki held his breath as he studied the warm glimmering magic that had swallowed you. In between the bright rays of light, he saw all the colours of the rainbow. Shimmering. He saw reds and blues, yellows and greens, shining brighter than the other and it changed smoothly.

The Bifrost

He didn't know how or why, but he knew for a fact that you were in the magical portal. He couldn't see beyond it anymore. He couldn't feel the floor beneath his feet. It was like he was levitating mid-air, with you tightly in his arms.

Heimdall must've conjured the forefathers, letting their powers flow through him one last time. Where to? Loki assumed that anywhere would be better than where they had been mere seconds ago.

And it was a miracle.

A/N: I think it would've made more sense for Heimdall to send Thor or Loki to earth rather than the Hulk. So that's why I ended it like that

I'd absolutely love to hear your feedback! <3

TAGS:

Loki: @yuna-belikova @ornella0910 @castiels-majestic-wings @lucywrites02 @myraiswack @prettysbliss @weirdfangirl2416

Forever Taglist: @iraniq @embrycallsgirl @blackroseyaz @badass-psycho @r-alexandra01 @p3aches13 @your-pixels-are-showing @disasterren @iamsuperjenna @yuna-belikova @ornella0910 @optimisticpeacecollector5 @thehumanistsdiary @your-pixels-are-showing @klanceiscannon14 @i-have-arrived-bitch

#Loki #Loki fic #Loki fanfiction #Loki oneshot #Loki x You #Loki x Reader #Loki x Y/N #Loki Odinson #Loki Laufeyson #tw angst #Loki angst #Loki/You

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3pirouette · 3 years

Text

Fic: Great Rivals (1/1)

Title: Great Rivals

By: TriplePirouette/3Pirouette

Spoilers: Full MCU, very specifically Black Widow

Disclaimer: They're not mine.

Distribution: AO3 Anyone else please ask first :)

Story Summary: “So, I have the nuclear code. But, there he is: Captain America! Finally, the Red Guardian’s time has come! I grab hold of his shield, and face to face, it’s a test of strength. […] This shield, you know, that he carries with him like a precious baby blanket, you know? I use it to my advantage. I take it and I push him out the window. I make my escape.”

“What year was this?”

“I don’t know. Like ’83. ’84.”

“Captain America was still frozen in ice then.”

“Are you calling me a liar, Ursa, huh?” – Black Widow, 2021

Humor. Steggy. Set, oh, I don’t know. Like ’83. ’84.

Steggy Week Day 4: Favorite Headcanon

A/N: This is it. This is my new favorite headcanon that this really, actually happened and you can’t convince me otherwise. Spoilers for Back Widow. If you haven’t seen it, RUN. I will wait. I am absolutely in love with Bumbling-idiot-family-man Red Guardian. Also, based on canon and my understanding of the time travel rules (I’m going by Outlander/Doctor Who rules and until they state otherwise, you can’t stop me), this is 100% possible in the current MCU timeline, even WITHOUT the multiverse.

I started writing this pretty much right after watching Black Widow, then decided to use it for Steggy Week 21, Day 4: Favorite Headcanon.

Also, YES, Peggy and Steve would be quite a bit older when this happens. As in their 60’s. But I see no reason why a super-soldier Steve wouldn’t be able to pull this off with no problem. Plus, since we have no confirmation of when they have their children, I’m going with they have teenage/college age kids at this time. Timeline is just SUPER vague, so fill in your own head canon.

~*~

Steve stopped what he was doing, wiping his hands on the dishtowel before picking up the phone. “Hello?”

Her sigh through the phone line was not a good prospect. “Darling? Are you busy?”

“Just working on dinner,” her replied carefully, moving back to the roast and the rub he was trying to get to stick to the outside of the uncooked meat. “Why?”

“I’m afraid I’ve a large favor to ask.” The phone line garbled for a moment and he could hear her yelling across the room. “No, I said three tac teams, and keep their distance!”

Steve put down the seasonings and stepped back from the roast, cradling the handset between his ear and his shoulder. “The kids will be home soon, and I’ve got a roast on the counter. My time is limited, Peg.”

“Mr. Jarvis is on the way over,” she mumbled, the sounds of her shuffling papers on her desk clear. “I’m sure he can very well handle both those things.”

Steve washed his hands, intrigued. “And what, exactly, is it that you need me to handle?”

Her laugh was mirthless. “A very large, very angry idiot.” Her sigh was softer. “I’m afraid you’ll miss family dinner, but it’s wheels up in twenty at the base. And bring the shield.”

Steve looked toward the basement where he hid it. “The shield? The one Howard made me as a joke?”

“Yes. The shield.”

~*~

His briefing in the jet was marginally useful, at best. The man was known as The Red Guardian, a super soldier of unknown origin, working for the KGB. He wasn’t usually considered a serious threat, and even though he could be extremely dangerous, was often easily outwitted.

Peggy and SHIELD had managed to figure out that they often trotted him out as a decoy. Large, boastful, and loud, he attracted attention wherever he went, and caused enough damage to keep authorities busy. He wasn’t a tactical soldier, but that didn’t mean he was easily deterred.

Steve landed in California and was brought to the swanky hotel by SHIELD Agents who filled him in on the latest. “He’s on the tenth floor, in the suite.” The young man said as they pulled up to the scene. “The president and his team are safe, but I’m afraid the Guardian has one of their briefcases. We’re still trying to verify the contents.”

Steve stepped out of the truck and moved to the back, gearing up and filling the belt and pockets of his black tactical suit. Most people didn’t know he was alive, and even though he was showing up with a red, white, and blue shield strapped to his back, he and Peggy had decided the suit shouldn’t ever make a comeback while he was still frozen. “What could be in there?” he asked as he put an earpiece in.

The young agent shrugged, clearly frustrated himself. “Could be President Reagan’s menus for the next three days, could be the round of bills he was set to talk about at the capitol tomorrow, or…”

Steve didn’t like the way the young man paused. “Or?”

The man tried not to look nervous as he said it. “It could be the nuclear codes.”

Steve didn’t waste another second as he pushed forward, knowing what could possibly be on the line. The political climate with the Soviets was tense, and both sides seemed to have their hands hovering over those figurative buttons, ready to start the end of the world at any second.

The agents and police parted like the red sea around them, and Steve swiftly made his way into the building and up the stairs as quietly as he could. He did odd jobs for SHIELD here and there, anytime they need a little extra muscle or the job was particularly dangerous, he stepped in.

He hated missing Family Dinner night, though.

He slipped onto the tenth floor and heard the man’s bellows from down the hall. He was laughing, telling some sort of joke to the SHIELD agents that had him cornered.

The man had a suit of bright red and white, similar to the one he once wore in that it called to those around him, brought attention, and tried to be a symbol. The Guardian swung the briefcase in his hand, causing the agents to back up a step.

“Now, why don’t you just let me leave and we can all have nice day, hum?” The Guardian asked, teasing the men as he moved more and more aggressively.

“Why don’t you pick on someone who can handle you?” Steve asked loudly, stepping into the room, shield drawn and at his side.

The Guardian turned, a smile widening across his face. “Captain America,” he growled, his excitement growing. “Captain America!” he bellowed, as if triumphant, while pumping his fists in the air, one still holding the briefcase.

“I’ll be needing that briefcase,” Steve said, loud and serious.

The Guardian laughed, smiling as he sauntered closer to the man. “My great rival, finally here to challenge me!” He sighed as if his greatest wish had come true. “The time has truly come.”

Steve wasn’t exactly sure what this man had heard, or why he seemed to know that Steve was Captain America so far removed from the War- SHIELD had worked desperately to keep his existence under wraps and to keep the figure of Captain America out of the public eye as much as they could. Steve couldn’t quite figure out why he seemed so excited.

The Guardian did a little skip jump in place, almost a two-step as he got closer and closer. “I have come to steal your nuclear codes. The time has come for the Soviet Union to rise!”

The man paused, almost unnaturally still, and then without warning charged at Steve. Steve held his ground, the man running into him and his shield with fantastic speed and strength, pushing them both back until Steve felt his back connect with then push through the plaster of the wall behind him. Steve pushed back, launching The Guardian off of him with his shield and pulling himself out of the wall. He saw the briefcase skid to a halt to their side, but turned his attention back to the problem before him.

The fight that ensued was sloppy, but serious. The man had no technique, which set Steve back on his heels. He wasn’t ever sure where the next punch or kick would come from, because the Guardian wasn’t skilled and the motions didn’t make sense. He managed a few good hits, including one that Steve was sure had broken bones in his ribs when The Guardian ducked, spun, and managed to catch Steve in his side.

But Steve was still a scrappy kid from Brooklyn that learned quick, and he found that The Guardian relied far too much on his size and bulk, and was not used to fighting someone who wasn’t incapacitated after a few hits. Steve started ducking his blows, his smaller body moving faster and the shield helping him to block as he finally started to understand the way the man threw his weight around.

The Guardian let out a frustrated bellow as another punch missed, but was quickly silenced by a well-timed punch by Steve across his jaw.

The Red Guardian paused, stepping back, and smiled as he ran his hand over his jaw. “We are matched!” he growled out, slow and dark. “No man is match for my power, my strength, but you!” He laughed again, this time his eyes narrowing with calculation. “You are truly the only adversary to give me challenge.”

The Guardian charged again, and Steve stepped out of the way, but the Guardian swung his arm out and picked Steve up, spinning him and slamming him hard to the ground. Steve rolled and lifted his shield, just in time to block a punch from the Guardian. The man yelled in pain, the vibranium absorbing the power and his knuckles cracking hard against the metal.

Steve swung his legs around and swept the Guardian’s feet out from under him, setting the man on his back. Steve jumped back up, intending to punch him, when he saw the man reach out and pull the briefcase back into his hands. He rolled and jumped up, a few feet away now.

“No, no, no!” He teased, swinging the briefcase at Steve. “I have the codes.”

“He doesn’t have the codes, sir.” Came the fuzzy voice in his ear.

“What?” Steve asked, straightening up and pressing his hand to his earpiece to set it deeper and get a better sound.

“He doesn’t have the codes, Sir,” the agent in his ear repeated. “He has President Regan’s food and housing preferences. Nuclear codes are still secure.”

The Red Guardian, however, hadn’t noticed Steve wasn’t talking to him. “I have the codes,” he teased, swinging the briefcase back and forth, “And your forces will be no match for the wave of blood that will take over your land when we are victorious!”

“What about…” Steve didn’t get to finish the question, one eye on The Guardian’s boastful dance that was supposed to be taunting and one ear on the voice of the agent.

“SHIELD headquarters just radioed in, reported that the Soviet Union’s actual attempt on the Able Archer files was unsuccessful. Director Carter says, and I quote, to let him go and please get home for dinner.”

“Copy that,” Steve replied. He stood tall and let his shield drop, lifting his head in challenge to the other man. “Let’s get this moving along, Guardian. I’ve got a roast in the oven.”

“A roast—” The Guardian looked confused at first, then he started laughing, great big guffaws that almost doubled him over. “Funny man. And Apple Pie for dessert, hum?”

Steve eyed the corner of the room where the Shield Agents were still standing and tipped his head towards the exit. The leader questions him silently, but Steve signaled again and he watched as they left.

The Guardian didn’t miss a beat, even through his laughs. “Ahhh, yes. You clear the field. Now is time for real fighting.”

Steve braced again as the man ran at him full speed, letting the shield take the brunt of the impact and then turning swiftly, locking an arm around the man’s neck. Steve hoped to choke him enough to get him to pass out, then make a quick getaway. The Guardian, however, was not a slight man, and finding the right spot to put pressure on as he flailed under him was proving more difficult than Steve thought.

Steve managed a sharp knee in the Guardian’s kidney, dropping him to his knees, and just when he thought he hand him, The Guardian managed to flip him over his head.

They both stood, taking a deep breath. The Guardian stepped closer, laughing, and grabbed hold of Steve’s shield with two hands like it was a steering wheel. “A test of strength, yes?”

The man started pushing, and initially Steve pushed back, causing an impasse where they were simply straining against one another, but then Steve managed to get a glimpse behind him to the wall of windows the man was pushing him towards.

He’d seen what was under those windows.

It wasn’t great, but it would do.

Slowly, he let up the pressure he was exerting on the Guardian, the man smiling triumphantly as Steve started sliding back. Steve called up every ounce of acting talent he had, from the USO show to pretending he couldn’t lift Mjölnir, to every time he’d had to make up an excuse to his children about why Peggy was missing Family Dinner night, and scrunched up his face like he was pushing as hard as he could.

“What?” The Guardian asked, “You cannot best me in just strength?” He chuckled. “I am bigger, and I am stronger, Captain America!”

Steve couldn’t believe those stupid radio plays were going to come in handy, but having been forced to listen to them by Peggy, the cheesy line that popped into his head was too good to not use. “You may be stronger than me, but you’ll never love your country more than I love America, Red Guardian! Truth, Justice, and the American way!”

Steve remembered, just a moment after that, when he was falling out of the ten-story window, that the last part hadn’t been the Captain America Adventure Hour, but rather from the Superman comics. He didn’t think the oaf would notice.

He spun and twisted, putting the shield under him just in time to make contact with the solid concrete of the courtyard. He rolled slowly, the wind knocked out of him, and made it to his hands and knees.

He looked up, just in time to see Red Guardian triumphantly waving his briefcase full of lunch menus before disappearing into the hotel.

He slowly pushed himself up off the pavement, standing tall and feeling the sharp pains of broken bones and a battered body. He was met by the SHIELD Team, who seemed astounded he was alive after that fall.

“Sir, are you- should I call an ambulance?”

“I’m fine,” Steve replied, moving carefully back towards the base of operations. “Just get me on a plane home.”

“The Director…” the agent mumbled, nervous. “She said to let him go?”

“He thinks he has what he wanted. He shouldn’t bother you again.” Steve winced and shifted, biting his lip as he felt a rib pop back into place. “I’d like to get back to the plane as quickly as possible, please.”

“Yes, sir.”

~*~

Peggy heard the bike’s motor cut out and met him at the back door. He was tired, but smiled and met her lips with his, anyway. “Sorry you had to miss dinner.”

“No, you were right.” He stepped into the kitchen, setting the shield by the door and sitting to take his boots off. He moved slowly, gingerly. “He was a very large, very angry idiot.” Steve leaned back, tossing his boots to the floor. He closed his eyes and sighed. “That’s not as easy as it once was, you know.”

“I know, my love.” Peggy smoothed his hair and dropped a kiss on his head as his eyes fluttered shut. “Did you sleep on the transport?”

“No, couldn’t.” He sat up, cleared his throat, and started pulling apart the zips and snaps to his tac uniform. “The kids asleep?”

Peggy set her mug down and helped him shrug out of the long-sleeved top. “Hours ago. It’s nearly two in the morning, you know.”

“Didn’t realize it was so late. Came right home. Why aren’t you asleep?” He asked, glancing over at the clock that was ticking away the middle of the night.

She let her hands rub over his shoulders. “Couldn’t. Kept wondering what that brute had done to you and Howard won’t let me back on base until tomorrow.”

Steve shook his head. “How does he even know I’m alive, anyway?”

Peggy laughed, moving over to the sink and pouring him a large glass of water. “Quite the opposite, really. I’m told no one can convince him you’re supposed to be dead.” She brought it over and watched as he drank the whole thing down in greedy gulps, little rivulets falling over his chin. “He seems to think you are great rivals or some such, and if he isn’t the one to kill you, then you can’t be dead.”

Steve held out the glass and Peggy quickly refilled it, watching as he took slower sips this time. Steve finally took a pause to take a breath. “But he wasn’t… he wasn’t even…”

Peggy laughed and sat across from him, sipping her own tea and wrapping her robe tight around her. “I know. It’s why I stand beside my assessment of him as an idiot.” She hummed happily. “How did you fare?”

“Fell out a ten-story window. Haven’t done that in a while.” He winced and shifted his ribs. “Maybe a cracked rib or two, but nothing that won’t be healed by morning.”

“Good thing Howard was lying when he said that first shield was all the vibranium he had.” Steve nodded and they were quiet for a moment, still gulping away at the water like he was dry as a desert. Worry fell over her face, but she knew better than to coddle him. “I do think he’ll continue to be a problem.”

Steve winced again and rolled his shoulder in the socket. “They’re using him as a distraction. If they think it works, he’ll be back. How’d the tac team fair?”

“They stopped the data breach before it could happen, but we lost half a data storage facility to fire and two agents were wounded.” She smiled at him, switching gears. “Are you hungry?”

He rolled his neck and smiled. “Starved, but I can fix something.” He reached out and put a hand over hers. “Go to bed.”

“No,” She took his hand and kissed his knuckles, a smile on her face. “No, it’s already warming in the oven. I had the tower call down when you landed so it could be ready.”

“Peg…” He was somewhat chiding, but smiled when she pulled the dish out and set it in front of him. “You didn’t have to.”

“And you don’t have to come out of retirement to save the world, and my ass, on a fairly regular basis, but you manage it and I’m very grateful.” She kissed the crown of his head once more before settling back in front of her tea. “I can manage to wait up for my husband and make sure he gets dinner.”

“Were the kids disappointed?” He asked, putting an impossibly large spoonful of mashed potatoes in his mouth.

“No, not terribly,” she smiled softly. “Though I do think they were a bit amused that it was you and not me that missed family dinner night for a change.”

They were quiet as Steve made his way around the plate, finally cutting into the slices of roast. He moaned as he chewed. “I might be really tired, but this is just amazing. That new rub I found…” He stopped when he saw Peggy grimace. “What?”

“Mr. Jarvis threw yours out and started from scratch.” She tried to be delicate, but Steve frowned anyway. “I believe the words he used were ‘abomination’ and “disgrace,’ respectively.”

Steve chewed thoughtfully. “Well, it’s good, and I can try that—"

Peggy set her hand on his wrist, dead serious. “Cinnamon has no place on a roast, Steve.”

“It’s supposed to bring out the—”

“I will divorce you.” Her deadpan delivery slowly melted into a smile for both of them. “Please stop experimenting.”

He shrugged, knowing it was a losing game. “Do you think if we keep telling Jarvis that I’m trying to cook, he’ll make us more like this?”

“I believe if we tell Mr. Jarvis you’re still experimenting in the kitchen, he and Ana will take the children and run.”

Steve finished what was on his plate and smiled. “We haven’t had a vacation just the two of us in a while, wouldn’t be the worst thing…”

Peggy laughed and gave him a gentle smack across the shoulder as she took his plate from him and set it in the sink. “While I agree we should be planning a getaway, I would very much like to keep my children.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Steve teased, stepping up behind her as she washed the dish. He wrapped his arms around her and let his head rest on her shoulder. “I do kinda like them.”

Peggy tuned off the tap and set the dish to dry. “Yes, agreed. We shall keep them.” She turned in his arms and kissed him gently. “Now hit the showers, soldier. You’re quite filthy and I will not have you in my bed like this.” She pushed him away and turned him towards the stairs. “And this time I’ll thank you to not put the filthy tactical gear in the same dirty linen basket as my good blouses. A garbage bag will do very nicely.”

“Yes ma’am.” He saluted over his shoulder to her, smiling as he marched up the stairs.

She locked the door and shut the kitchen light. She hadn’t wanted to pull the shield out of retirement, but something about the way it sat, glinting in the moonlight in her kitchen, gave her a warm feeling.

#steggyweek21 #Steggy Fic #3P's Fic #SO excited for you guys to read this one #New favorite headcanon

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humanwheatleyslefttoenail · 3 years

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Now I Am An Arsonist

Chapter 2: The Acrobat

Summary: GLaDOS learns a few things about love, hate, and the human condition.

Tags: Canon typical violence, ChellDOS, human!GLaDOS, found family

A/N: I know technically I published this a while back but I did some major edits to both the chapters I’ve already written and the story as a whole. As promised, I’m re-releasing what I already have with the edits/illustrations.

She’d awoken slowly, feeling the hard coils of a mattress underneath Her back and a stiff yellow jumpsuit enshrouding Her arms and legs. Long fall boots clung tightly to Her feet, uncomfortably squeezed into the rigid white plastic.

Gradually, She sat up on the neatly-made bed, a rough linen blanket still covering Her lower half. The chamber had been deliberately made to look like a hotel room, complete with a TV in the corner and a nightstand on the side. Something wasn’t right.

It was like living in a distant memory, a dream She’d had but not quite remembered.

A part of Her felt like this was normal, as if She’d woken up here every morning, but another urged Her to look for answers.

GLaDOS searched Her memory, not fully processing the world around Her, puzzled as to why Her thoughts had been slowed tenfold.

Looking down, She saw two pale human arms and two pale human hands. Feeling the top of Her head, She found a mess of dark brown hair which came down to Her shoulders.

No, this surely wasn��t right.

Only hours ago, only hours ago, She’d been in control of all of Aperture Science. She’d been invincible, the immortal, all-powerful GLaDOS and now…

Now, She was this.

What the hell is going on here?

There was seldom more awful than to be a human being, to live a short, painful life burdened equally by love and hate. Even on Her worst days, the most She could muster for human beings was a vague sense of pity.

Yet, here She was, more human than She had been in centuries.

Oh, you have got to be kidding me.

Being Caroline, however brief, was not something She’d ever wished to return to. Emotions were completely incapacitating. There was something to be said for the victory of a test well done, of throwing Wheatley into space where the little moron belonged, of the relief when Chell woke up. But something like guilt? Something like fear? Real, genuine fear?

As a machine, She could destroy those feelings, suppress them until they were nothing at all. As a human, that task wasn’t so easy.

Sparks of happiness, moments of joy; none of them were worth the ordeal.

Even the anticipation of fear made GLaDOS’ chest pound, rapidly breathing in and out as She reflexively clung to the blanket. The last thing She needed was more complicated thoughts about Chell, more bittersweet memories of Cave, more useless sentiments to wring Her bitter heart dry.

In a very human moment of pure shock, GLaDOS screamed. It was an ugly cry of anger and surprise swirled together, resounding throughout the vault. The echoes echoed off the walls, and the once-powerful GLaDOS cowered with Her head in Her hands.

The potato was bad enough. The potato brought Her closer to Her own humanity than She’d ever wanted to acknowledge, but barely minutes in GLaDOS could tell that this would be infinitely worse. GLaDOS felt Herself shaking, barely even processing the fact that this hideous amalgamate of skin and bones was now Her body. Now She had hair, She had hands, She had fingers and She had lungs and She had a heartbeat.

She had a heartbeat. A thudding reminder of Her newfound vulnerability. A symbol of Her weakness.

GLaDOS did not particularly care to be weak.

Finally, She understood the meaning of organic in Organic Transplant Procedure. Could they have possibly made it any vaguer?

Whatever this was, whatever had happened, She had to figure it out. The potato battery, being fed to birds, and dying twice was apparently not enough to satisfy whatever gods lurked in Android Hell. She would spite them once again, return to Her body, and everything would be alright. It had been alright before, so why wouldn’t it be now? At least, this time, She didn’t have Chell and Wheatley working against Her. All She had was Herself and the facility.

GLaDOS took a deep breath, a sensation She had not felt for hundreds of years. The motion didn’t entirely calm Her nerves, but Her only option was to move forward. Staying here would do nothing to help. The faster She figured something out, the faster She could leave this awful body.

GLaDOS leaned one arm against the peeling wallpaper, trying to balance on Her boots. The heels on the shoes were suspended above the floor, supported by a spring. Shifting Her weight while wearing them, however, was an acquired skill. Gently lifting Her hand from the wall, arms out at Her side, She was stable.

Briefly.

Without warning, the boots gave way, and GLaDOS toppled onto the dusty carpet.

A dull pain filled Her legs, quickly fading as She clung to the wall and rose again slowly. If She wanted to go anywhere, She would have to try again.

She walked along the side of the wall and felt the way the heels bounced beneath Her, made specifically to take the impact of any fall. Cautiously, GLaDOS let go of the side of the room, miraculously still. She took a careful step forward, preparing for impact, only to see that She was steadier than expected. Still, each step was uneasy, tense and on the cusp of collapsing.

Walking around the perimeter of the bed, She peered at the little wooden nightstand. One of the drawers had already been pulled out, but the other remained tightly shut. Crouching down, GLaDOS wrenched the second drawer open, finding a small mirror clouded with age. Holding it close to Her face, She examined Her repulsive new features.

GLaDOS wondered if there was any particular reason why this body looked so similar to Caroline. Most likely, it was an odd coincidence, but She wouldn’t put it past Aperture to clone a body that looked exactly like her own. She appeared to be in Her late thirties, already sporting gray hairs and frown lines. Her eyes, weighed down by bags, were a dull metal gray.

Robots, unlike humans, were built specifically to look beautiful - gears moving in harmony, painted finish gleaming under the lights of the enrichment center. She was stunning in the way She alone could be, completely alien and yet striking to the eye.

Humans, on the other hand, were made only to survive. Nature didn’t particularly mind if its final product was an unsightly, hairless primate so long as it could handle the simple job of finding food. Some humans considered certain members of their own species more attractive than others, but GLaDOS found them all equally ugly. Humans, with all their variation, all looked the same when you’d seen enough of them.

GLaDOS’ real body was a physical manifestation of Her power; She didn’t care that it was pleasing to the eye so long as it conveyed a sense of authority. This new human body, with its small size, its blemishes and imperfections, conveyed the exact opposite. Other humans may have even described Her appearance with words like pretty, soft or even kindly.

The idea of being seen as anything but imposing was a nightmare.

For Her own sake, GLaDOS didn’t ruminate over Her first impressions any longer.

Part of the zipper on Her yellow jumpsuit was undone, revealing an implant attached to Her right collarbone. It appeared to be a small, bright yellow core, the source of Her being, woven into Her skin by a cluster of wires.

GLaDOS rezipped it, the yellow light still glowing brightly through the fabric.

Without a second thought, She placed the mirror back in the drawer and shut it closed, screening the room for an exit. In the front of the room was a wooden door with a rusty brass knob, waiting to be turned ajar. Without hesitation, She followed the path and twisted the handle, the door creaking open without any resistance.

As She entered the hall, GLaDOS was taken aback by the sheer number of chambers, suspended from above and hanging inches away from a more stable platform. Closing the door behind Her and jumping onto the catwalk, She couldn’t help but notice the sense of abandonment that filled the room. It had been centuries since the old Relaxation Center had been brought up to code, and previously there hadn’t been much reason to improve it.

Now GLaDOS wished She’d put in the effort.

The metal catwalk led directly to an old waiting room. Ladderback chairs sat around a central column in the middle, surrounded by coffee tables, a water dispenser and miscellaneous paintings. A flickering Aperture Science logo still shined in the dim gray room, gleaming a ghostly white. Near the back, a faded poster called for test subject applications, apparently endorsed by Cave Johnson himself.

Everywhere She looked, remnants of a dead man’s company made parodies of themselves, untouched for years.

Behind a front desk was a hallway filled with shadows, leading behind the room. With nowhere else to go, GLaDOS stepped into the dark, the light of Her core guiding Her through.

There wasn’t much to see, and for a while, the corridor ran along a single route.

GLaDOS had to come up with a plan.

Somewhere around here there had to be a control room, or at least a place where She could catch a lift back to the Enrichment Center. The thought crossed Her mind that She might have to pass through a testing track, one of Her own meticulously designed traps. It didn’t matter. She’d deal with it when She got to it.

The hallway was only becoming darker, and the little light on Her shoulder wasn’t nearly bright enough. As far as She could tell, there were no switches along the way. Any lighting was likely controlled by a power station a mile from here.

Something metallic banged against Her foot, and upon examination, GLaDOS discovered it was an empty can of beans. In front of Her, at least three more were lined up in a row. She sighed.

Of course Doug had been here. That man was as ingenious as he was stealthy, and had found his way through every nook and cranny at Aperture. Not even Chell had been able to access some of the places he had.

GLaDOS took it as a good sign. Wherever the path led, it meant someone had been able to survive it.

Surviving had never exactly been a consideration before. Even when Chell killed Her the first time, She had a feeling there was some kind of safeguard. Humans didn’t have a black box; when they were gone, they were gone. Nothing could bring back a dead human.

As a potato, GLaDOS had been forced to confront the idea that if Wheatley blew up the facility, that would really be the end. There had been a part of Her almost content that if it was, Chell would be by Her side. Whether it was a vengeful wish, or a side effect of companionship was still unknown.

Back then, though, She hadn’t really been in control. She’d relied on simple hope that Chell could stop Wheatley before it all went down, not contributing much besides the occasional bit of advice. Now GLaDOS was responsible for Her own fate, fully mobile and fully alone.

Maybe that was even scarier than standing still.

After all, She could rely on Chell. Relying on this new human body was another story altogether.

The question now was whether any light could be found in this hallway. GLaDOS uncomfortably dropped to her knees, feeling for anything besides the three cans. She grasped at something plastic with a switch on the side. A flashlight.

Turning it on, the hallway became completely visible. Immediately, GLaDOS was surprised by the sheer number of paintings that covered the white walls.

Portraits of Chell were splattered from floor to ceiling. Everywhere GLaDOS looked, a woman in an orange jumpsuit stared back at Her, shooting portals and knocking over turrets. Swirls of paint danced from one scene to another, blending each picture into the next. Words were haphazardly scrawled across, some of them poetic and others screaming pure nonsense. Whatever meaning they’d had was lost with Doug.

A common theme was the companion cube, and one particularly disturbing image replaced their iconic hearts with bleeding human eyes. There was a stark contrast between the idyllic, peaceful depictions of Chell sleeping and the scribbles of scientists running for their lives. GLaDOS could barely make out some of the more manic drawings, but those turned out to be the most horrifying. Tightly clustered loops signified a cloud of neurotoxin. Blotches of red were human remains.

GLaDOS stood back up, meandering further down the hall. The paintings only devolved from here, intricate detail morphing into vague warnings.

Don’t trust Her lies.

The path went on for about another fifteen minutes, twisting and turning at sharp angles. Metal doors led to cluttered offices, all of them sealed and locked. In some of them, the computers were still on, endlessly flickering in the darkness.

When GLaDOS finally reached the end of the corridor, She was greeted with the sudden activation of a bright white light. Reflexively, She shielded Her eyes as the voice of the announcer blared.

“Welcome, Aperture Science Testing Associate! You’re here because you’ve voluntarily, or involuntarily, chosen to sign over all your legal rights to Aperture Science and further humanity’s progress!”

Of course. Being turned into a fleshy mess of tissues wasn’t enough. She’d have to go through the testing track, too.

She bit her lip in silent rage, no longer blinded by the light, gazing upon an airtight room with little more than a circular door. All around Her was white, covered in portal surfaces. Beneath Her, GLaDOS could feel the electronics of the panels whir, making the whole room seem alive. It could move at any moment.

“Before we begin, the Enrichment Center would like to remind you that you may suffer terrible injuries caused by our testing devices designed to create terrible injuries. If you have suffered a terrible injury, please review our community-shared legal manual, which states that Aperture Science takes no responsibility.”

GLaDOS knew that redundant message. It was backup, for when She wasn’t there to narrate. Testing tracks had levels of difficulty, and before Her takeover, it was fairly common for subjects to be screened and assigned one based on what they could handle. This message only played for the most difficult, and consequently, the deadliest. Not even GLaDOS was entirely sure what was in here; She hadn’t used it for fear of subjects dying before any real data could be collected.

“As part of [HIGH DIFFICULTY] testing protocol, Aperture Science has temporarily issued you your very own Aperture Science Handheld Portal Device.”

Without warning, a panel on the ceiling lifted, a robotic claw descending and dropping the device directly in front of GLaDOS. The claw lifted, and the panel closed again.

“The device has been successfully deployed. To ensure the validity of our tests, please verify that your device is completely operational.”

GLaDOS was familiar with the portal gun from Her databases, and She knew exactly how to work it. Despite this, She’d never actually handled one Herself, unless being impaled on the end of one counted. The device was heavy in Her hands, cold and sleek against Her fingers. The center, black plastic encasing a glowing yellow coil, was warm to the touch.

Pointing at one of the white panels, She cocked the trigger, and a golden portal blossomed in front of Her. Running Her fingers across the surface, it felt like waving a hand through a ray of sunlight. GLaDOS turned around, shooting the next portal at the opposite wall. The portal which followed was a lighter yellow, less vivid than the first.

“Good. A signal from the device has proven activation. Please enter the elevator.”

The metal door opened, and just beyond the emancipation grill, an elevator stood wait. It was the only path left to take.

---

Putting a cube on a button should’ve been a simple task for a supercomputer. Even for a human, the menial work was a cognitive breeze. The large button in particular required minimal force to operate, and the weighted storage cubes were lighter than they appeared. In any scenario, placing an object on another was easily mastered with only the most basic of motor skills. It could have qualified as the least difficult task known to mankind. All GLaDOS had to do was put one cube on one button.

That was all there was. One cube, one button, and several killing machines stuffed with thousands of bullets. It was for this reason that GLaDOS could not perform this extraordinarily simple job. The turrets blocking the way would surely be a hurdle.

Already, GLaDOS could feel the beginnings of human fear creeping into Her mind. She was out of the turrets’ line of sight, and yet the caution of Her new form compelled Her to stay hidden in the corner regardless. Nervously clutching the trigger of Her portal gun, She considered the dangers lurking in future tests. This one was only the first, and it had already deployed one of the worst weapons Aperture had to offer.

Logically, GLaDOS knew She could step out. She could put one portal behind Her, another at the opposite wall, and avoid the turrets altogether. Behind them would certainly be the cube and the button. Still, emotion was quite a world apart from logic. As a computer, She could be revived over and over again. Humans could not be fixed, and GLaDOS understood that in the very unlikely possibility She died here, She was never coming back.

GLaDOS didn’t want to admit that She was afraid, not even to Herself. She was sure Chell could tell back when Wheatley was in control; She’d let Her voice slip more than once. Now, with nobody around, She only had Herself to prove it to.

Removing Her cores all that time ago had also been the removal of Her regulators; She felt everything once they were detached, things She would have to relearn how to suppress. All She remembered before the world went dark, before Chell killed her, what She’d relived, was fear. Panic. Terror. There were a million words for it, none encapsulating just how soul-wrenching the phenomenon was.

Even then, that’s all it was for Her. Just an emotion. For human beings, fear was a sixth sense. It could be felt in a spiraling heartbeat, in beads of sweat, in shallow breaths and temporary, last-ditch strength. Fear was a state of being, and for the particularly unfortunate, a way of life.

GLaDOS knew fear only when She had to, only when She could not shove it to the very bottom of Her files. Humans knew fear like they knew living.

What a miserable way to be.

It was all the more reason to complete these chambers faster.

When She reached the other side of the room, GLaDOS found exactly what She expected. The cube glowed a bright yellow when placed on the Aperture Science Super-Colliding Super Button, and the chamber lock opened.

As the elevator descended, GLaDOS realized that She had no idea how to solve these tests. She was smart, and the solution would certainly come to Her eventually, but the human mind could only store so much. GLaDOS used to have entire libraries of nothing but solutions to tests, but the upload procedure hadn’t deemed that useful or necessary. When trying to remember, there was nothing. For the first time, GLaDOS’ mind was blank.

The next test dashed all Her hopes for a few more tutorial puzzles.

No, GLaDOS reassured Herself. This is alright. I’m used to being challenged.

After Chell, She was sure any other problem would be easier to solve.

This particular test was supposed to introduce lasers. The first step was to burn the turrets with the beam, done with the help of portals and crouching behind a corner. The explosions were louder than She’d expected; GLaDOS had seldom heard them outside of watching from a camera. Her ears rung as She crept past the charred remains of the turrets, almost nothing left of the slender white robots. The burn marks brought a smile to Her face; She’d killed them. Even now, She had power over something.

The turrets were programmed to have some level of sentience, though their sense of self was not nearly as defined as that of a core’s or a human’s. It didn’t matter anyway; they wouldn’t be missed. For every one that was destroyed or made wrong, ten more were created in its place, and the missing turret was simply forgotten. Nobody really made an effort to remember in the first place.

Humans, too, were often unremembered. She used to be able to look at their files at any time, but why would She want to? She’d seen so many, none particularly worthy of note, and most of them were gone. Even so, in a part of Her that She wanted to deny, GLaDOS almost felt sorry for them. She too had been forgotten for years; nobody had even wanted to wake Her up, to check and see if She was alright. All the robots in the facility knew was that the voice controlling them was gone, and that She wasn’t coming back.

The rest of the puzzle was much more challenging than swinging around a laser, involving the use of a redirection cube and multiple steps to obtain it. Another round of turrets was waiting where GLaDOS couldn’t see, launching a bullet directly between Her ribs. Luckily for GLaDOS, the force of each bullet was minimal, and the single hit left only a painful bruise. These turrets were stuffed to the brim with ammunition, part of Cave Johnson’s idea to really give his customers their money’s worth. The unintended side effect was a reduction of firing power.

Trudging to the elevator, GLaDOS clutched Her side. She’d been knocked out of breath, and the sharp throb of the bruise had faded into a dull ache. It was almost worse that way, grating on Her nerves, flaring up when She took a breath.

Chell had taken a couple bullets before, some grazing the sides of Her shoulders and most leaving similar small wounds. GLaDOS had to give her credit for continuing to test, holding her head high even when she was bleeding. That didn’t even count sores in her lungs from the neurotoxin, or the damage from falling down the pit. The fact that Chell stayed alive, then went on to test for days, proved her exceptional stamina.

This one bruise to the rib was occupying nearly all of GLaDOS’ thoughts. She couldn’t fathom the kinds of things Chell felt. The only comparisons She had were the removal of Her head and dying, both of which didn’t last longer than a few minutes. Her pain as a computer had been simulated, but this was real and arguably worse. Chell had likely felt this same sensation a hundred times over, and a hundred times longer.

You did that to her, you know. A voice clawed from deep within Her mind.

You gave her all that pain.

Testing was bad enough, GLaDOS didn’t need the additional burden of guilt. She ignored the voice, though a heaviness still welled in Her chest. Her conscience, the one with Her own voice, was coming back. GLaDOS couldn’t say She missed it.

---

The following tests had proved themselves to be little more than a series of colorful injuries.

Despite Her caution, misfires on behalf of the turrets were inevitable. A stray bullet had bruised Her shin, while another flew past and grazed the side of Her left shoulder. Other little nicks were speckled across Her skin, the products of miscellaneous falls.

Hitting the sides of walls, and even landing with the boots, left GLaDOS’ arms and legs sore. Every step She took was a laborious trudge from panel to panel, and eventually Her fatigue took control.

GLaDOS scanned the level sign on Her right upon entering the test. 15. It hadn’t felt like 15 tests; it’d felt like hundreds had gone by. GLaDOS wasn’t even entirely sure how long it’d been. The adrenal vapor in the air muddled Her perception, and an hour and a minute seemed to be the same.

An educated guess was about four hours, accounting for the rests She’d taken in between. The hard physical activity had already worn down this middle-aged body. The woman was lean, more bony than muscular, and even slight exertion took all the effort She could give. The factor of age didn’t help.

GLaDOS sat down in front of the glowing screen, giving Herself a minute to catch Her breath.

There was a possibility that these tests would go on for thousands of chambers, enough to last years. Equally likely, at the end of the next there might be a scorching pit of flames. That one without any portal surfaces to escape from.

She leaned Her head on the wall, closing Her eyes and letting Her mind wander.

The chamber was frigid, and the jumpsuit did little to shield GLaDOS from the cold. Arms crossed and knees at Her chest, the heat still escaped Her.

The thought crossed Her mind that this was how Chell had felt. Was she always this cold, this tired, this desperate? GLaDOS made a mental note to Herself.

Make the chambers warmer.

The heat was only a surface-level fix. The claustrophobia induced by the walls, the artificial lights, and the expectation to give it your all or else was maddening.

Why does it matter to you? GLaDOS asked Herself. Sure, it was bad for Her, but why care about the other subjects? Once She got through this, GLaDOS would never have to feel it again.

She remembered the time She’d described Her worst imperfection to Atlas and P-Body. Too much sympathy for human suffering.

Still, Chell would’ve been happier (whatever excuse for happiness that would be) in warmer chambers. Now that She’d gotten attached to one human, She’d felt for them all. It was why She was so hesitant to form a connection in the first place. That would interfere with Her experiments.

Memories of sparing Chell’s lookalike and saving the life of the man reentered Her mind, and She was embarrassed at the thought of letting Her study careen so far off the rails. Looking back, how much perfectly good science had been ruined? Chell wasn’t even here, and yet She was still wrecking the facility.

Missing Chell, no maybe not missing so much as becoming used to her presence, was the source of all this mayhem. The thought of deleting the feeling completely…it was a motivating fantasy. Sentimentality had been, and would be, the death of Her.

Wisely, GLaDOS stopped Herself from wandering further.

Don’t think about it. Control yourself.

The act of caring verged on Caroline behavior.

If only to distract Herself, GLaDOS stood up tall and readied Herself for the fifteenth test. Walking deeper in, Her nose caught the scent of acid, stinging as the fumes filled Her lungs.

GLaDOS sighed.

She could already tell that this would be a long one.

---

Cheating was not as good of an idea as it originally seemed.

GLaDOS knew logically, No, you have to do the test, there’s no other way out. When subjects tried to escape, it never ended well for them. Despite past observation, the temptation remained as strong as ever. The walls beckoned Her, waiting to be climbed, an onlooking room in wait. These tests hadn’t been as thoroughly repaired as the others, and sunlight shone through holes in the ceiling. Wreckage from years of decay looked almost like a staircase, or perhaps more like a ladder. Everywhere around Her seemed like an easier path to freedom.

The main issue was stability; the rusty metal plates couldn’t support Her weight, and trying to climb left Her tumbling down onto the hard floors. No wall ever seemed to have enough traction, and a sprain on Her arm quickly taught GLaDOS that Her ingenious plans were too risky to continue. Even the use of momentum could not propel Her high enough to reach the windows of the room overhead.

Frustrated and defeated, She solved the test without further incident. Chamber 25 was waiting up ahead, and the sunlight from above shone with evening hues. To Her own disbelief, all of this testing had amounted to only a single day.

After the long, arduous completion of 25 had wracked both Her body and mind, GLaDOS found welcome relief. She almost couldn’t believe the fact that the chambers had ended so… safely. The door opened, and there were no death traps or pits of fire waiting for Her. It only led into a waiting room with a faded Thank You sign on the wall. GLaDOS smiled, satisfied with Her victory. Shortcomings aside, the fact that this measly human body had managed to endure so much was something She was proud of.

That had been Her work, Her survival, not just testing by proxy.

The waiting room She stood in was eerily similar to the last, furnished with the same kind of chair and plastered with similar advertisements. Unlike the last one, two exits waited in front of Her. One was for test subjects, boarded up with wood nailed to the door, completely inaccessible. The other was a flight of stairs leading upward, blocked off with a chained sign reading Employees Only.

GLaDOS lifted the chain over Her head and took the staircase, no other option available. Nervously, She hoped that anything but another testing track was up ahead, only to find exactly what She needed. Her luck had been improving; a control room was only a step away. A panel of countless switches was adhered to the pale blue walls, adjacent to a desk with pens, paper, and a noisy radio. The same jazzy tune played on loop until She switched it off, content with the silence.

It’s finally over.

She sat down at the office chair in front of the control panel, scanning it for the words lift or escape pod. Dials and switches cluttered the board, labeled with miniscule text that was near impossible to read. GLaDOS scorned Her human eyesight, searching desperately, but finding nothing. The buttons only controlled elements of the test chambers, which panels to open, which cubes to drop.

She reread it, knowing that surely She’d missed something. Again and again, She screened the switchboard, yielding nothing.

GLaDOS had to have overlooked a button, misread a label. Nothing was hidden behind the desk, and no other devices had been plugged into the socket on the wall. The realization that She could be trapped here, here of all places, sank low into Her chest. After everything, after all of the testing and the pain and the feelings, it had all amounted to this.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. That’s not possible!”

All the panic She’d suppressed was finally let loose, Her human mind no longer able to contain the fear She’d been anticipating.

I might die here. That’s it. I might never get back in my mainframe, and I might spend my last hours stuck in this human being.

I’m going to be alone.

Alone.

She lingered on that sentence, anxiously pacing around the desk, nervously clawing through Her hair.

I am going to be very, very alone.

GLaDOS had always wanted to spend Her entire, immortal life alone. No friends, no family to weigh Her down, to distract Her from purpose. Cave had put it best; Caroline was married to science, and that had carried over to GLaDOS.

Machines didn’t need companionship, but depriving a human being of social contact was like denying them water. Whatever human need for friendship still existed in this woman’s body was bubbling up, broken by the sheer loneliness of the tests.

She often wondered why subjects had such a difficult time euthanizing their faithful companion cube. Unless rare incidents of stabbing threats counted, the companion cube had not once spoken to them, never shown any kind of personality or attachment. They were sentient enough, like most Aperture products, but their only real difference from a storage cube was their little heart decal. A mere design change had been enough to exploit human compassion, and it was fascinating to behold.

A part of Her now understood why it was so easy to believe that an inanimate object could be a friend. GLaDOS’ human component ached for any sort of company, any kind of reassurance. Even an enemy would be nice. An enemy would be better, maybe even preferred.

Just someone to talk to, even if that conversation was just a tirade of insults on Her part.

GLaDOS gave up; nobody was here, and nobody was waiting for Her. The future looked lonely, and in desperation, She gave the control panel one last glance. A button that She’d seen before caught Her eye, one She hadn’t fully considered the first time.

Core Sentience Connector.

With nothing to lose, She pressed the button, and a whirring erupted from a panel downstairs. GLaDOS rushed back to the waiting room, portal gun in Her hands, and watched the walls open like magic. In its place was a metal contraption, holding the empty shell of a personality core with a flickering screen above it. The Aperture Logo flashed onto the newly implemented monitor, while the announcer blared from an invisible speaker.

“Hello, and thank you for activating the Aperture Science Personality Core Sentience Connector Protocol! If you have selected this feature, congratulations. A subject under your supervision has been experiencing difficulties testing due to prolonged exposure to severe social deprivation.”

GLaDOS wondered what other insane scenarios they’d thought of as the screen switched to a moving blueprint of a personality sphere.

“All Aperture Science Personality Constructs are made with the intended purpose of solving this problem, providing companionship to those in crisis. Personality Constructs with an active distress signal can be summoned with the connector protocol. A list of available constructs is provided on the screen.”

Walking closer to the device, GLaDOS saw only one serial number listed. Personality cores all had radio capability, and the signal of their very being could be transmitted in times of emergency. Once the signal was received, that could easily be implemented into any compatible device.

GLaDOS hesitated before selecting the number. She doubted that the little moron had the capacity to activate a distress signal, and if he did, it was highly unlikely that the signal could bounce all the way back to Earth. Still, the possibility that this core could be Wheatley was something She did not want to risk. Although psychologically destroying him would be a good use of Her time, being in a position of power would make Her revenge all the more satisfying.

The last thing She wanted was for him to see Her weak again, but the only other option was to remain trapped. At the very least, if they were stuck here forever, She could use the last of Her human strength to make Wheatley’s tiny, moronic life as miserable as possible. In the off chance he could open a panel, She’d use him to escape and leave him behind. Preferably, in the incinerator.

Survival was worth the temporary burden of dealing with Wheatley, especially if it meant another thousand years doing nothing but testing. GLaDOS tapped the number, an electric chime sounding from the machine as the connector activated. Within thirty seconds, the core’s eye opened, gleaming a bright blue.

---

“If you were, let’s say, a brain damaged woman who was betrayed by her only friend, what would it take for you to forgive the bloke who tried to murder you? It’s just theoretical, just, you know, coming up with hypotheticals to pass the time.”

“Space. Space is nice. Rocket ship. Rocket ship goes to space. Space goes to space. Space is in space.”

“Alright mate, thanks for the input. Very useful.”

Wheatley sighed, his optic focused on the same group of stars he’d watched for the past couple of hours, his mind wrapped up in the past.

Four months had been a good amount of time to relive his mistakes over and over, micro analyzing every transgression against Chell. His life was now a series of unpleasant memories, or pleasant ones turned painful by context, interrupted with by chatter of the space core and the light of the sun.

Fantasies, in which he apologized for his mistakes and Chell forgave him, were far too frequent. He’d say sorry, deliver a whole monologue four months in the making, and She’d pick him up and smile at him. They would be friends again, and Wheatley would never return to Aperture. GLaDOS would be gone, out of sight forever, and they could be happy. He could be happy.

Not that Wheatley particularly thought he deserved it. By most human standards of morality, trying to kill someone was considered an irredeemable offense. Empathizing with Chell’s fear, Chell’s heartbreak had been impossible with the mainframe distorting his thoughts. All of the sympathy he could not feel then was coming back now, transformed into guilt.

If you hadn’t acted like a monster, if you hadn’t been so awful, if you hadn’t been such a moron...

He knew that realistically, Chell would never pardon him. Even that was given the unlikely event they’d met again.

Wheatley wondered if he would ever get a second chance, ever get the opportunity to show that no, he wasn’t a moron and all that villainy had been just a fluke. He only needed a chance, just one.

Hell, if GLaDOS got an opportunity for redemption, why couldn’t he?

Wheatley closed his optic, feeling the cold of space against his metal casing.

One chance. That’s all I need.

For a moment, there was only the silence of the cosmos.

Without warning, his processors hummed with a fever pitch, and his thoughts raced until they melted into nonsense. A loud beeping resonated from inside, and through the chaos, Wheatley could discern a single error message.

Sentience Connector Protocol Initiated. Prepare for the brief suspension of your consciousness.

What in the bloody hell-

Wheatley screamed in surprise, his cry cut off halfway through.

The space core hardly noticed that his companion had been zapped away, content with watching the surface of the moon below. The stars shone bright as ever.

---

“Oh, oh my god, I’m alive! I…” Wheatley’s voice trailed off as he awakened to the dim walls of Aperture, facing a brown-haired, tired-looking woman. A yellow light glowed through Her jumpsuit, and a suspicious grin was spread across Her face. Wheatley had never seen this person before, but the moment She spoke, he knew exactly who She was.

“Well, there you are.”

She was back.

#glados #wheatley #chell #portal #portal 2 #niaaa #now i am an arsonist #fic #fanfiction #art #digital art #tw injury #canon typical violence

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weatheredpileoftomes · 3 years

Text

shades of heroism

For FFxivWrite2021 Day 6, “avatar”. Early Shadowbringers, does not contain spoilers past the level 71 post-dungeon cutscenes, about 1100 words (oops). Mentions of past canonical character death.

The Warrior of Light has another role to fill now.

Matron spare her, Frydlona is tired.

The people of Lakeland and the Crystarium might not know just who to credit for bringing back the night, but their hope fills the air like the tension before a storm breaks. That they don’t know she’s the one to bear it for them helps, but only a little.

And it won’t stop—she knows how this will go. First it will be “oh, Frydlona, if you can just make a delivery,” and then it will be, “and deal with this dangerous beast,” and then “and relieve that outpost,” and then it will be “and make a speech to these battalions,” and before she knows it she’ll have armies all looking to her again, or die trying.

As if to ward off the thought, or the danger, she lifts a hand to the icy metal of her earrings.

She’s not dressed to be the First’s hero. She’ll do it; she has no choice about that; even if it hadn’t been for Urianger’s vision, and even if she could just abandon her friends here, there seems to be no one else fit to save this world. She wouldn’t ask the Exarch to bring anyone else here—certainly not Krile, but not Arenvald or Fordola or any of the others either—to do work she isn’t willing to do, even if he could without risk to them and the people around them, and more moons lost, and…no.

So she makes her way to the Ocular again. The guard lets her in without demur. She’s expecting the Exarch to protest, or at least ask her what she’s doing in his office, when she enters, but he doesn’t.

(Does he sleep there? Does he sleep at all, part crystal himself as he is? There are people she might ask that, but the Exarch—as he’s so unambiguously told her to call him—certainly isn’t one of them. Maybe he melts into the rock of the tower when none of them are speaking to him. She doesn’t know; she won’t care.)

“Did you need anything?” the Exarch asks, looking up at her. The hood casts his face so far into shadow that she can’t even judge his expression by the set of his mouth. His voice is…not neutral, exactly, but still unreadable.

Frydlona clasps her hands behind her back, just like any Company member reporting to their commander. “I need to go back to the Source for a day or two, if I can be spared.”

She had expected argument, maybe even outright refusal—a portal between worlds is no small thing, in spite of how casually he’d mentioned it. The aetherite maintenance needed when she’ll return must be awful, unless the aether washing over the First makes it easier somehow.

“Of course.” He gestures to the portal; reflected light glints within his arm. “I hope you’ve had no bad tidings?” How could she have, here as she’s been? If he realizes it was a foolish question, though, he makes no sign.

“There are supplies I need to get,” Frydlona says.

It’s even true, not just an excuse to salve her pride, which she appreciates. Some of it is just for simple morale, bringing the Scions some little luxuries they’ve had to do without: a Lominsan sweetmeat Alisaie is very fond of, the latest book by Alphinaud’s favorite author—there are a few reference tomes Urianger will want, too, and a brick of Ul’dahn tea for Thancred, and…

Tataru and Cid she’s been able to reach by linkpearl from this side of the portal, though she couldn’t say much to Cid, but Tataru had done something special to the Scions’ linkpearls that means she has had no luck reaching anyone else. Frydlona wants to talk to Fufucha about soil treatments, in case there’s anything that can help the thin earth of the First yield up greater bounty, and then gather whatever she’ll need to make them. She wants to talk to—well, not Severian, but someone else from the Alchemists’ Guild—about ways to enhance medicines made with poor ingredients or stretched too thin. Lyngsath might be able to suggest something for the cooks, too, since she’ll be in Limsa Lominsa anyway.

Those questions are all too big, and any amount of growth formula Frydlona can make is going to be like trying to bail the ocean dry with whatever vessel she brews it in. Still, she can’t not. What she really should do is talk to E-Sumi-Yan, but that might need to wait until she’s found Y’shtola or Urianger; she doesn’t know enough about what the aetheric properties of the First actually are to know what questions to ask about how conjury will affect her here.

But the first place she’ll go, before she even starts asking her other guildmasters to try to help her make things a little easier for the people of—or trapped on—the First, is to Nashmeira.

“If there is something the Crystarium lacks…” the Exarch half-asks. Frydlona isn’t sure if he’s offended that she wants to go to the Source for supplies or already planning to make changes. “You are of course welcome to return to your home, but we are the hub of trade over much of Norvrandt, and if what you require is to be found in Eulmore instead…?”

“I need plants that grow in real dirt,” Frydlona says, as the simplest answer. “And some other things,” she adds, out of honesty and because it’s not as if he won’t notice.

This time the Exarch’s voice is definitely rueful. “Ah. Then by all means.”

Nashmeira had helped her with the look she’d presented from defeating Thordan to arriving in the First: gleaming gold and white and silver, something worthy of the Warrior of Light Haurchefant had died for. It shone even through the smoke of a battlefield, the dust of a crumbling city. Fires smoldering around her only made the gold brighter. Aymeric and Hien had both commented on it in half-awed tones; Zhloe’s orphans loved it and always told her she looked just like Khloe always said she did.

She’s wearing plain travel gear now, undyed leather and practical mail. White and gold mean fear and death, here, not hope. Nashmeira will be able to think of something, though—something dark, something still beautiful. Something that on the Source would say villain and here will just say I am the help you’ve prayed for.

The Exarch opens the portal, and Frydlona steps through, her feet dragging with the weight of two worlds.

#ffxivwrite2021 #ffxivwrite #my fic #my fic: frydlona #my fic: frydlona: gen #my fic: 5.0 #the true endgame of ffxiv is glams #frydlona merlgeimwyn #the exarch

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kbstories · 4 years

Text

I usually do a fic rec list of personal favorites every year on Fanfiction Writer’s Appreciation Day (August 21st) and I realized I didn’t do one in 2019 so here’s a list of my personal

One Piece Fanfic Favs 🏴‍☠️🌟!!

Keeping up with the tradition, this list exclusively features works that could use more love thrown their way! OP is a pretty big fandom, so I set the limit at max. 300 kudos. Please enjoy and leave plenty of kudos & comments if you can (๑˃ᴗ˂)ﻭ

Previous rec lists: Metal Gear / The Witcher

***

burn before the fire by shishiswordsman (@shishiswordsman)

Kicking this list off with one of my absolute favorites. This is a Wano Arc look into Luffy’s headspace through Law’s eyes, and it’s amazing. Stellar characterization, great pacing, I truly adore this fic.

(Sneaky double rec with shadow rises (and you are here) by the same author because my god do I burn for the Luffy-used-to-be-a-slave AU and this is my favorite rendition of it hrghhh my heart)

Stasis by ImperialMint (@imperialmint)

Pure Strawhat nakamaship hurt/comfort goodness. This was one of the first fics I read for this fandom and it scratches an itch for Luffy sacrificing himself for his crew and his crew taking care of Luffy in turn so wonderfully. Please mind the tags, though!

At The End of The Day by Artificial_Starlight

Bending the 300 kudos rule for this one because it’s a longfic and it’s criminal how few kudos this has. This is a true feast of a LawLu Modern AU if I’ve ever seen one. I adore everything from worldbuilding to plot to characterization. It’s one of those stories that makes you run to AO3 whenever it updates. You won’t regret catching up with it, I promise.

Scrapyard by Milo (@musasuchus)

SCREAMS FROM THE ROOFTOPS this is the first kidkiller fic I came across and it lit a fire under my ass for this ship y’all I can’t even describe it. It’s a collection of snapshots from Kidd & Killer’s lives with an ace!Killer HC I?? adore?? Anyhow if I could delete my memory and read it with fresh eyes I would hhhh

The storm ended already (so you should stop shaking) by Amazaria (@amazaria)

Listen. This fic has everything I needed from a post-Water 7 scenario and more because it’s focused on Usopp & Nami and I just. I’m so soft. This made me so soft. It’s so good. Please read it.

Illness on the High Seas by mydetheturk (@mydetheturk)

I’m one of those idiots who is so focused on the Most Popular Boys that I get tunnel vision from it and then there comes a fic that shows me what a monumentally stupid move that is. Myde writes those fics by the regular and I adore all her writing but this fic specifically is so very good and so very underappreciated. It’s a Coby-and-Brook story about shipwide illnesses and those who keep things together. It’s sad and hopeful and wonderful, my heart is so full.

sacrifice by wbtrashking (@quillifer)

This one is a swift but deadly roundhouse kick to the heart. It delves into an aspect to Law’s powers that makes me anxious to even think about in the context of Wano (or any fight with high stakes, really) and Ash sharpened that potential to its best possible effect. Straight to the point, absolutely heart-wrenching, join me in Law feels hell please!!!

(Ash also wrote a kidkiller one-shot called familiarity for me and I’m aware this will sound very biased but it’s the best thing I’ve ever witnessed with my own two eyeballs. Timeskip Kidd & Killer being soft around each other, my crops are forever watered... thank you...)

Breathing Easy (And All Its Associated Complications) by Trixree (@trixree)

This fic gave me a lot of emotions I didn’t know where the fuck to put, it’s just so good and unique and my soul burns just thinking about this. I never really considered the monster trio as an OT3 constellation before this but I certainly am since I read this. Pre-timeskip figuring out of feelings and polyamory, my god my heart aches.

Scrapyard Remnants by threesipsmore

Another kidkiller classic in my eyes. It’s an exploration of pre-canon Kidd & Killer, how they grew up and came to be and I just love this a lot. It was written before the Wano revelations of late, and I can’t express enough respect for tackling these characters in such a believable way with how little we knew of them back then.

toragara by Origamidragons (@oriigami)

This is one of those tattoo-it-across-my-body-this-is-amazing kind of reads where every line is so good and hits so deep and it stays with you for a long time. It’s an AU where Zoro is a tiger shifter... person roaming Goa where Luffy stumbles upon him, and I’m a little mad it’s not actually canon because it’s so unique and I adore the idea. Anyhow. Read it or die by my sword(s).

God’s gonna trouble the water by hongmunmu (@dragonkov)

Reading this is an experience that’s so visceral it’s hard to describe. It’s a what-if scenario for Water 7 where Usopp dies before he can grab Luffy’s hand and escape with the crew, and it’s exactly as emotional and harrowing as that sounds. This author’s grasp on Usopp and the entire crew is unparalleled and I literally haven’t stopped thinking about this fic ever since I read it.

***

That’s it for now! Feel free to add to this list if you like and as always a huge THANK YOU to the writers of this fandom for their amazing work c:

#one piece #fanfiction #fic rec #long post #i might do another one in a month aaaa i have like. 70+ bookmarks for OP......#anyhow hi you lovely people writing these fics ilu ok bye #some of the @s don't work due to tumblr being stupid but i tried manually linking instead!

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diloph · 3 years

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I recall Adam Malkovich being an Other M character. I take it you don't like him or Other M?

Oh boy, isn’t that a can of worms?

Yeah, having played Other M all the way through more than once, the shortcomings of the game are pretty much on display from the get-go. Lackluster voice-acting, confusing and sometimes nonsensical plot-points as well as baffling story structure; its only saving grace is its gameplay and even then, I’d only really enjoyed Samus’ mobility and physical ability to grapple/finish opponents.

Of note, the characterization of Samus is all over the place. As I’m going through the E-Manga right now and have seen other characters with similar, I’m not adverse to Samus having some form of PTSD from her traumatic backstory it’s just that it’s done in such a piss-poor manner that it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

The Ridley confrontation is nonsensical, considering that she’s reduced him to a bloody smear several times over by now. On a ship where everything from Zebes seems to have been cloned (including the Metroids and an android emulating Mother Brain) Samus wasn’t even expecting him to appear in any capacity whatsoever?

I can understand her shock, fear and even hesitance to re-engage, but it’s never stopped her before; why did Meta Ridley not provoke the same reaction aboard the Orpheon, according to canon his first resurrection proper? Or to play into post-Other M events, such as Ridley’s return in Super/Proteus Ridley? Ridley-X?

Why does this appearance of Ridley reduce her to a frozen state?

Spoilers for when I get to it, but the E-Manga does this far better. That’s not to say that perhaps it goes too far as well, I’ve yet to have a good hard think about it, but the execution is far better than what happens in Other M and matches what had happened in the volume by that point. Samus’ life is hardship and suffering and it all comes to a head in those particular scenes.

But that confrontation in Other M is just the start of the odd decisions made that reduce Samus from the incredibly capable woman she’d been portrayed as up to that point, into a naive, shrinking character with nothing resembling her drive or will.

She becomes unable to make even the most minor decisions, especially if they fly in the face of common sense (a reoccurring theme with characters I dislike in “serious” works, as you might have noticed, so having one I like suddenly doing that almost seems like a challenge to get me to dislike them).

I’m supposed to believe that this woman left the Federation to become an independent bounty hunter? It extends beyond her character to even her design; she loses a foot and two inches of height so that she’s shorter than all these guys, all of her established muscle and tone evaporates and high-heels appear on the Zero Suit that, while skintight, was deliberately designed to NOT have them.

And, of course, her general (borderline suicidal) deference to Adam.

It’s so bad that I’ve genuinely come to believe that this version of Samus is a GF clone that was meant to act out her own Shadow Moses simulation, like Raiden did in MGS2, only for her to go rogue and save the day regardless.

As a matter of fact, the whole game feels like a bad attempt to emulate a Metal Gear game, with its rumination and navel gazing, but lacks the talent or focus to actually discuss the topics it wants to.

It’s badly done and what’s worse is, even in Metal Gear’s most nonsensical or badly written moments, they’re at least funny or tragic and Other M is neither.

Which brings me to Adam Malkovich.

Oh, Adam, Adam, Adam.

What the fuck am I meant to see in you? Samus’ dialogue tells us one thing, the actions, visual direction, the way in which he addresses Samus, orders her, controls her and ignores her tells us another.

We’re expected to root for this guy. To agree with Samus’ assessment of him. But all it does is further that idea that Samus is, in fact, an idiot who needs people more capable than her, to do everything for her.

Simply put, Samus, when not doing everything in her power to remember the Baby (another botched take on what was fondly remembered, the bond between her and the infant Metroid has now forever been tainted, even with Samus Returns’ efforts to save that whole thing) talks about Adam, how wonderful this commanding officer is, how patient and kind and caring and-

Yeah, no, he’s a dick and he acts like he can’t stand Samus’ very presence.

Without even going into the hated authorization mechanic, he never once looks at her with anything resembling warmth in his face; you could put that down to the models looking uncannily robotic to begin with, but Anthony Higgs seems to be the most expressive and can do... emotion. Even in dialogue and his VA’s recorded lines, there are no smiles, no change in inflection or in-jokes.

He comes off not as an aloof CO, but somebody who dislikes being in the same room as Samus herself.

And the big part is, for all Other M draws from previous canon and the E-Manga, now that I’ve read further ahead, guess what? Adam is a completely likable human being in it.

By that, I mean he’s an average filler manga character and not a raging asshole; he’s ranked higher than Samus, but is a bit accommodating towards her situation when they meet and later they do seem to have struck up something similar to the relationship stated in Other M.

He jokes with her, smiles, when she goes independent he goes out of his way to help her, she’s quick to remind him of her boundaries and his lack of control over her which he quickly agrees with. Samus and Adam have a much healthier working relationship there and the one in Other M is meant to reflect it? Rubbish.

In short, from what I’ve gathered, Other M was an attempt to canonize or at least further develop the E-Manga and completely shot itself in the foot by contradicting the E-Manga, prior Metroid canon, Samus’ character and archetype and ultimately, itself.

But hey, looking at it with the benefit of hindsight, at least we got a game to put up there with Hotel Mario and the CDI Zeldas that rounds out the embarrassing meme trifecta of Nintendo’s Big Three.

#Metroid

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timetbl · 5 years

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🔪 SPILL the tea.

* 𝒎𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒚'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒐 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒆𝒔𝒚𝒆𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕 ! ╱ accepting→ @sichengwrites

Send 🔪 for a fandom you refuse to associate with

crazy armys are pretty much obvious lmao i mean it’s funny bc i love h.omestuck and i have dave as a muse here but the fandom freaks the shit out of me and the epilogue is crap i declare death of the author because clearly, i can write the strider-lalonde families better than the author himself and his team of exceedingly 2woke4u co-writers ( and i usually hate saying this which makes you understand how much done and disgusted with that guy i am ).

also hussie still squeezing every single last penny from whoever remained of his fanbase by making the sequel of the shitty ass dating sim minigame meant to just be a filler for the wait of the actual part 2 of the main game he was supposed to release? printing that shitty mess of the epilogue ( despite he declared it technically ‘non-canonical / dubious canonicity’ to protect his sorry ass from those who legitimately pointed his ways being a carbon copy of kojima willingly fucking metal gear solid 4 up ), bc he gotta get those pockets empty or he’s not happy? in my country that’s peak scammer culture. *micdrop

#im this pissed about it bc i literally saw it begin and end and become this mess #and its just appalling #theres nothing wrong with wanting to separate yourself from your most known work and wanting to try something else but you just communicate #like a fucking normal person instead of just creating something so horrible that the few sane people who remained literally spat to your fa #I HAVE SO MUCH TO SAY ABOUT IT BUT IM GONNA SHUT UP #homestuck /#sichengwrites

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seenashwrite · 6 years

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Step Right Up (Part One)

Status: Part 1 of 4 Word Count: 4.5K Category: Mini-Series; Behind-the-scenes canon compliant; Mystery; On-the-case Rating: Teen & Up Character(s): Sam, Dean, various circus folk, special guest star Warnings: None Author’s Note: Post-story Overall Summary: Sam is trapped in what’s left of a burnt-down circus while attempting to assist a tormented soul, when a mysterious ringmaster arrives.

* ~ * Series Master Post * ~ *

The fog had turned to smoke, the kind that filled every crack in a head, so thick that he was able to brush it away from his face in bulky clumps. No brushing away the thoughts it conjured, though; Sam never had been able to get the picture of his first hunter’s funeral out of his mind. Not the sight, not the smell, not the feel of the wood, not the sparks that would pop away and hit his skin. There was plenty of time to make the memory; it took a while to burn a body to dust.

The clouds cleared after he walked out of the trees and into the open field, much of the grass brittle black, then he saw the source: a quite large, still smoldering, partially collapsed tent.

"Dean!" he hissed, moving forward, but in a slight crouch, gun out and at the ready. He received no reply, instead being startled by the sound of a horse's gallop, prompting him to turn in a full circle, scanning his surroundings - there was nothing. No brother. No horses. No signs of life. Nor - interestingly - death.

But now, as he went on, that gray returned, not as thick, though it had morphed into an obstructive wall of ash in flight. It stung his eyes, and he stopped his progression, blinking, rubbing, and coughing as it turned tornado, oozed around him, then after a swirl or two, quickly flew away. And when he felt it leave and raised himself tall, he momentarily forgot to raise his gun because of what he saw.

Sam now found he was in a thoroughfare of sorts, standing in between rotted wooden wagons with cracked axles, their surfaces barely hanging on to ribbons of chipped paint. He walked on, in the direction of his intended target, the edges of the collapsed tent now just barely visible in the distance, despite the shabby passage being lined with precisely spaced poles, strings of small round bulbs connecting them, most of them lit, lazily swaying in a nonexistent breeze. The gray remained, though it was staying a polite distance ahead of him, and a peek over his shoulder revealed it was also keeping pace from behind. And his pace, understandably, was more creep than walk.

Broken popcorn stands rested on their sides, streamers from what must have been thousands of balloons littered the ground here and there, kept company by fallen bunting, yellowed, wrinkled tickets, and the glass from all the other quaint booths, all the customary fairground attractions. It crunched under his boots with every step, and that was another hair-raising thing: no footprints beyond his own. Not a trace, neither animal nor human, no indication this place - whatever or wherever this place was - had ever been inhabited, evidence to the contrary be damned.

Blocking his way was what was left of the strength test, the gauge stuck fast by the bell, and as he stepped over it, he mumbled, "Least there's no clowns."

And that was when he saw her.

She was perched on the unlatched tailgate of an ancient truck, the deflated tires allowing the rims to sink into the soft ground, her posture just as sunken, her head turned from him, looking in the direction of the tent. She wore a skirted costume, singed and smeared with black here and there, and Sam could imagine it was once a pristine white. The ruffled collar was ripped and pooled around her shoulders, and as he drew closer he saw that some of the smudges along the sheer sleeves torn at the elbows and the tights torn at the knees were actually part of a faded harlequin print. And even closer still, noted how one of her shoes dangled from her toes, the strap of the dainty ballet-like slipper nowhere to be found.

Sam couldn't say why he kept approaching, as he was feeling slightly drowsy and perhaps a touch nauseated, but nevertheless he was drawn, a definite pull, and was almost within reach when she spoke in a faintly accented voice.

"Are you are here for the job? I cannot think you would be an under-stander."

"Understand what?" he asked, brow furrowing, grip on the gun tightening.

Still turned from him, she replied, her tone flat but confident. "You are too big. The pyramid would be uneven. I would fall."

"I don't---"

"I could put in a word. You would be good for banquine. I love going high."

Her voice was easily one of the saddest Sam had ever heard, even here, speaking of something she loved. "Going high," he repeated. "Are you an acrobat?"

No answer.

"Are you hurt?" he tried.

Nothing.

"Where is everyone else? The ticket-takers? The animals? The cl... the other performers?"

That got a response - one of sorts, since she began to turn her head in his direction, into the light, slowly enough to where he could take in the streaky greasepaint, the smeared red on her lips and cheeks, the dark shadow around the entirety of her eyes, and before all that, the deep, concave wound surrounded by clotted, matted hair just behind her ear which the frayed bow around her once tightly-wound bun could not conceal.

"I am not sure," she said, eyes now focused directly in front of her, on a mostly-charred shack of a structure, the half-burnt banner stretched across what was left of the doorframe telling Sam it once read FORTUNE TELLER. Turning her head further, they were finally face to face. "Can you help me find them?"

Sam stared at the spirit for more than a few beats of silence before he lowered the gun and answered.

"I can try."

The big tent was still far off, but along the way familiarity struck her, and so into a smaller tent they went. It was stuffy, the air acrid, and Sam knew at least a few people had died in there - even if the smell hadn't told him, the human-shaped scorches on what was left of the tarp which covered the ground would have. But she didn't appear to notice; instead she meandered, taking in the space, and so he did the same. The fire had only done its work at one end; at the other, a rack of costumes remained mostly intact, excepting the soot. Clown gear, he knew that instinctively, and his lip curled out of reflex. They weren't the sort he was used to - they were more formal, somehow. He moved a few to get a better look, the metal of the hangers screeching across the bar and, suddenly, she was at his side.

"Grimaldi," she said softly. "It was Grimaldi's funeral."

"Is that... that a friend? Someone you worked with?" Sam asked.

"No. Grimaldi died long ago." She seemed to recall something, reaching for the garments, but her hand didn't quite land; didn't move through them, either, only succeeded in displacing the air, causing a sleeve or two to flutter. She dropped her arm, went completely still.

"I got it," Sam told her, reaching up.

"Move them all - something is behind here," she instructed, and he did so.

The rack had obstructed from view a modest vanity, not but one or two drawers on either side of the patchwork tuffet squeezed into the open space, the top covered with combs and pans of make-up. The mirror seemed too large, almost so disproportionate that it could've tipped the whole thing over, tall enough that taking a few steps back would've revealed the entirety of one's outfit. Well, most - Sam would've needed to back away for quite some time; had he been there on the night of, likely right into the flames.

The frame of the mirror held so many pictures Sam thought they must've accounted for a lifetime, and turned out he wasn't altogether wrong. They weren't accumulated over a lifetime; they held a lifetime - hers. Across the top she was young, a baby held tightly in the arms of a grinning couple, costumed in tights and cropped jumpsuits. Acrobats, Sam confirmed to himself. Then there was another tucked next to it, of her as a girl in a stiff, pleated skirt, a tiny ballerina caught mid-pirouette.

She'd immediately extended an arm, fingers out and ready to grab as they'd stepped through the rack, but just before contact, she remembered. She looked up at Sam with sad eyes, though they were dry and bloodshot, the tiny drawing on her cheek the only tear possible. He followed those eyes as they left his, down her arm, to the fingers that had turned to a singular point, at one area of the photographs, in the lower right corner.

"You want me to get those?" he asked, and she nodded.

He moved a portion of the objects on the dresser to the ground, spread out the photos so she could see them clearly. The couple from the first photo were nowhere to be seen, the girl now surrounded by, embraced by, riding the shoulders of, laughing with a small group of clowns - and, oddly, Sam was more solemn than scared. All he could see - feel - from the typically shudder-inducing was love. It wasn't faux cheer; the painted-on smiles could've been rubbed off, the whole gimmick stripped away, because it would've been obvious to anyone seeing these captured memories that it was far from an act. She had been loved, and dearly.

But he had a thought, and he asked the question before his mind had time to catch up with his mouth. "What happened to your parents?"

If she was offended by his nosiness, she didn't show it, answering, "They left me here. When I was a child." Once more, she pointed to the happy faces staring back at them. "This is my family."

Another photo caught Sam's eye, and he pulled it from the frame, laid it atop the others. "And who's this?"

She was the age she appeared to be at her death, or a least somewhere close - same costume, matter of fact - and was standing next to a man outfitted as ringmaster. He was older than her, Sam observed, but still young: he could see the lack of wrinkles despite the impressive handlebar mustache, and the head full of solid black hair, given that the hand not holding hers was occupied with a tall top hat. Sam glanced from the photograph to her - she was swaying slightly and her eyes had gone a little wide. She abruptly moved away, would've stumbled over the bottom bar of the rack except she sailed clean through it without realizing, kept up the retreat til Sam followed, held up both hands, gesturing for her to stop.

"Whoa, whoa - hang on. What is it? Who is he?"

"I think he did something bad," she whispered, trembling.

"What do you remem----"

"I think I did something bad!" she cried, then bolted from the tent.

When Sam chased after, he emerged from the tent to find nothing. Not her, not the light poles, not the ruined booths and wagons - everything was gone. Looking behind him, the dressing tent had disappeared. Looking to his right, there was no trace of the big top. Not even the fog had hung around; all that remained was that wide, open field in the middle of the woods in the middle of nowhere.

"Dean!" Sam called out, bringing his hands up to cup his mouth. "DEAN! CAN YOU HEAR ME?"

"He cannot, I'm afraid."

Sam whipped his gun from his waistband as he whipped himself around, finding a man in a modern-style suit walking in his direction. The steady pace didn't waver, despite being in the line of fire, and as the man approached, he removed a cap from his head, gave Sam a small, polite bow of acknowledgement when he came to a stop about twenty paces out. A trace of a smile floated under his modest - but impressive - mustache.

"It was good of you to come, Mr. Winchester. I appreciate your attendance more than I can say. Thank you for accepting the invitation."

"What invitation?" Sam asked. His eyes narrowed. There was something familiar about the man - the way he stood, the glint in his eye - then it hit him. "I know you. You're the ringmaster."

The man nodded. "Yes. And I believe if you check your pocket, you'll find the invitation to which I refer." A pause. "I also believe you're aware that pistol of yours won't be needed, true?"

The ragged flyer that was faded and worn, the one that had started Dean and Sam on the hunt, now emerged as intact as the day it was printed. What they'd known prior had been fairly sparse - the general area, the off-and-on reports over the decades of the smells of pretzels and peanuts, claims of hearing calliope music or an elephant’s trumpet or a crowd's cheers, seeing strings of lights in the woods, sometimes a girl who seemed to walk in mid-air, and all for one night only. One night, each year, stretching back to the early 1940s, somewhere on a spot of land in what was now a reserve. Good thing, too - it smacked of a trapped spirit caught in some sort of loop, and the brothers could only imagine what havoc such a thing would've brought upon excavators and construction crews.

"So let 'em have their circus til we have something better to go on," Dean had commented. "Nobody's gotten hurt, right? Sounds like a great party."

Sam had given him a *look*.

And Dean had chuckled. "Hey, if Bozo RSVPs this year? You can keep the car running, I can handle it."

But there were no RSVPs in that year, nor the next, so the lead was officially tucked away in Sam's TO BE MONITORED files, and it lived there for several more, largely forgotten in and amongst their other trials and tribulations. When things slowed down, though, Sam would dig through his files, refresh his memory, keep himself sharp for when he'd scan the news and the blogs, so any potential connections could be made. And in the fall of this year, as it so happened, the connection found them.

In their P.O. box, an ordinary envelope held the neatly folded relic - no accompanying note or return address, naturally - and it was enough to tell Sam that something was amiss. The occurrence wasn't due until the early summer. He'd immediately gotten a chill that had nothing to do with the October air.

Now as Sam looked it over, he said, "Then this was meant for us - not just any hunters?"

"Meant for you," the ringmaster clarified. "My former employer mentioned that between the fire and the clowns, you'd fit the bill nicely."

"Yeah. Nice."

"He was quite complimentary of you. Of your forbearance, your way with people, living or otherwise. He wasn't complimentary often."

Sam wasn't paying attention to the flattery, instead taking in the new details. There was the circus company's name in festive typography, tiny drawings of the wagons and the lion tamers and trapeze artists and sword-swallowers and the ringmaster, himself, skirted the edges, but the bulk of the paper was saved for illustrations of the company's clown contingent and the details of this clearly special event. Now the date and time - May 31st at eight o'clock sharp - as well as the location were specific, directing would-be attendants past commercial landmarks that no longer existed, then instructing them to continue on foot to the clearing, following the trail of lights. It was not open to the public - this was a celebration for clowns, and clowns alone, from harlequin to mime, traditional to modern, all to honor the anniversary of the death of Joseph Grimaldi.

"It was our responsibility to host - not everyone had escaped the Depression so well...." The man paused, let out a scant huff. "Not that we did, but we were better off than most. To tell truth, I wouldn't have done it, I come from a long line of misers, but she... she wanted it so badly. They - the clown troupe, that is - sent invitations to all four corners of the state, any fair or carnival or theater that may've held their brethren. It was to be a lovely night."

She was running. There was no thought to the how or the where, it was just GO. She hadn't cried like this for years, not since the day her parents abandoned her at the circus, a note pinned to her sweater saying she was talented, she could dance, earn her keep as long as they kept her in decent shoes, and nothing beyond this - no reason, no explanation, no Tell her we love her, no Tell her we're coming back. At least they were kind enough not to make promises they couldn't keep.

"Oh honey, you are so very nervous!"

"The show is starting soon, cheer up!"

"No need to cry, they will be on their feet screaming!"

"Here, now, let me fix your make-up!"

She'd run headlong into them, the last people on earth she’d have wanted to see her in such a state, and she let them go on assuming it was simply stage fright.

"Our Butterfly has the butterflies!"

"You will still be one of us, no matter how high you go, you know."

"Your parents would be so proud of you - *we* are so proud of you."

Then she let them fuss over her, let them pretty her up, let them lead her to the tent, and they waited with her behind the curtains just to the side of the ring, rubbing her shoulders, holding her hands, making her giggle with the same old silly gags they'd used to cheer her since the day she became theirs.

"Because what do we say, Butterfly?"

She forced a smile and joined in on the group chorus.

"The show must go on!"

Sam returned the flyer to his pocket, faced the ringmaster with a stony expression, gun still in hand, albeit at his side. "She's seven months to the day early - is that why you all of a sudden need help?"

"It has been cycling with more regularity, her walks through the past. I imagine fewer persons have noticed, as this area is largely unoccupied now."

“You mentioned a boss.”

"Yes. I am tasked with watching over her... I have been watching over her, looking for signs that she'll take her leave, or if.... if she'll lash out."

"Lash out?" Sam repeated.

"She can be quite emotional."

"Yeah, I believe it - she jumped like she'd been shot when she saw your picture. She said you did something bad, and that she did something bad - is she the one who lit the circus after she died? I saw her head----"

The ringmaster winced.

"----so I'm betting she didn't die in the fire, did she? Was she angry about it? Wanted to take the rest of you with her? Or was she already angry about whatever it is you did?"

"It was my fault. I should never have allowed her to even entertain the thought that she should take her dancing and tumbling to the high wire. I can only imagine the rage she felt toward me as she fell, when the safety net failed."

"What does ‘failed’ mean?"

"I told you - I'm not proud of how miserly I was. If I could turn back time, I'd feed them more, pay them more, have better equipment at their disposal." He hung his head now. "And I should have evacuated the moment the fire leapt from my trailer to others nearby. I was more concerned about loss of investment than loss of life."

"So you let all those people die----"

"Not all," he corrected. "There were enough to stamp out the worst of the flames. The smoke took some. But I'm well aware I ruined the few who lived. It wasn't a time to be unemployed. They were already hand-to-mouth. I wonder sometimes if the ones who perished actually drew the long straw."

"They didn't," Sam shot back, and coldly.

The ringmaster looked away for a few moments, squeezed the brim of the hat off-and-on, be it from agitation or simply fidgeting, Sam didn't know - that is, until their gazes met again, and all the charm the ringmaster had carefully cultivated over his lifetime had fallen away, tears rolling over his no longer rosy cheeks.

"I've been punished, you know. For my carelessness, my stupidity. It should be more, I'd think, but it has been difficult. Watching her suffer. To be tasked with reaping her soul, and being unable to communicate with her - I thought for many years, if only I were able, despite her anger toward me, I could remind her of the love we shared, convince her to leave the mortal coil."

"Reap.... you're a reaper!?" Sam asked, shocked. "It's in the job description to talk to the---- that's---- you have to convince her! The longer you wait, the harder it's going to be! I honestly can't believe she's stayed in one spot, that she hasn't burned this whole forest to the ground, or chased down the clowns who took her in, or----"

"They were among the ones who perished. I think somewhere, deep down, she knows they are no longer with her. So where else is she to go? Everything and everyone she ever loved met their end here."

The moon was bright, but Sam still took a several steps forward, to make certain the irritation all over his face was seen. "If you're so sure she knows, then it won't be as much of a shock! So talk to her, convince her there’s nothing left for her here!"

"I am trying to tell you: I am prevented from talking with her - that's our punishment for the fire. I cannot rest until she does, and she cannot rest unless I reap her soul."

"Call on another reaper! Hell, I could probably call for----"

"Listen to me, man!" the ringmaster shouted, closing the distance between them, snatching Sam's lapels and giving him a stronger shake than would have seemed probable. "She is my only assignment, and I am the only reaper assigned to her. There is no other option!"

Sam shoved him away, straightened his jacket, saying, "Except me, right? The psychotic clown whisperer?"

“As I said, my former employer spoke quite highly. And you are the only loophole to the rules, as it were. I am at my absolute most desperate, Mr. Winchester.”

Sam sighed, ran a hand through his hair. "I could use my brother's help, it'd make this go quicker, you know. Assuming I can figure out how to talk her into it. Which is gonna be hard, seeing as how she's not here anymore."

The ringmaster grinned, and it wasn't altogether comforting to Sam. "I can draw her back," he said. Returning his hat to his head, he clasped his hands behind himself and began to sing under his breath as he strolled away leisurely, a gentle serpentine pattern across the field.

“They asked me how I knew - My true love was true - I of course replied -Something here inside cannot be denied...”

The further he drifted from Sam, the softer the song, and the denser the air as the fog slowly began to accumulate once more, rolling in from all sides, the ringmaster's form gradually disappearing, the tiny, hazy points of light from the the bulbs beginning to fade in.

And this time when Sam approached her, she was sitting up straight, swinging her legs back and forth, humming the same tune, though it slipped away as she turned her head in his direction. She smiled. “Are you are here for the job? I cannot think you would be an under-stander.”

"I, uh.... no. Not here for a job."

“Just as well - you are too big! The pyramid would be uneven. I would fall. But I could put in a word. You would be good for banquine." She hopped off the tailgate, then paused for a contented sigh, closed her eyes as she added, "I love going high.”

“I do have a job to do, though,” Sam said carefully - and then even more carefully - “Your... the ringmaster asked me to talk with you.”

She opened her eyes slowly, and gone was the happy countenance - but she hadn’t reverted to the sadness from before. This time there was something frigid, unreadable about her, and it made Sam gulp, take a small step back. She lowered her gaze, began smoothing out the ruined costume.

“Have you come to ask me about the fire?” she asked in a low voice.

“Yes.”

She met his eye. “No.”

They stood in silence for some time, Sam didn’t know how long, but he knew he had to be the one to break it. “Then can you tell me about the celebration? Grimaldi’s funeral?”

Now the smile returned, her entire demeanor near-bubbly. “Oh, yes!” she exclaimed, turning and gesturing for him to follow her. “Come! This way!” She took off, launching into a near-sprint.

Sam found himself rushing to keep up, in spite of his longer strides. “Where are we going?”

“To the big top!” she called over her shoulder. “And I will introduce you to my family!”

Sam slowed momentarily, muttering to himself. “Dean, where the hell are you?”

Dean threw his phone into the car, where it crashed into the console, cracking the screen. His battery was officially dead. He’d called Sam countless times as he walked through the trees, even climbed one part way to get a better signal. He’d covered every inch of the field, the place where Sam was supposed to be, and Dean was furious that he’d wandered off; it was between furious and fearful, so the choice was obvious.

Dean slammed the door, flopped back against it, rubbed a hand over his face, trying to decide on his next move when a smooth voice came from the rear of the Impala.

“What’s shakin’?”

Dean jumped, whirled around. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded. Then he blanched. “Where’s Sam?”

Billie was the picture of calm as she walked around the car. “What’s got you all out of sorts, Dean? Sam’s a big boy.”

Dean gave her a look. “I dunno, we’re on a hunt, my brother’s missing, then Death shows up - gee, you’re right, nothing about that’s worth getting worried over, are you kidding me?!”

Billie chuckled. “No need to worry about Sam. He’s not on my schedule. Not yet, at least.”

Now Dean frowned. “What do you mean?”

Billie looked at Dean, studied his face for a moment to make sure she had his complete focus. “Sam’s gotten himself into a bit of a time shift. And he’s trapped.”

“So how do we----”

“The trapped he can handle, that’s not what you should be worried about.”

“Then I should be worried, great, that’s-----”

“It’s not that he’s trapped, Dean. It’s who he’s trapped with.”

Author’s Note: Part two tomorrow! It’s too long for one sitting, methinks, so I split ‘er up.

ETA: It hit me that today (the aforementioned “tomorrow”) is Thursday - show day! - so let’s put Pt. 2 off til Friday or Saturday, yeah? Kewl. 🤡

See Nash Write : Master / See Nash Write : Mobile

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#Supernatural Fanfiction #SPN Fanfic #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #Nash Writes #Queueby Dooby Doo #Dad's on a blog post and #he hasn't been queued in a few days #Nashoween #HAPPY HALLOWEEN!#🎃

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amandaoftherosemire · 6 years

Text

Sing For Me - Chapter Five

Fandom: Marvel Avengers

Pairing: Bucky Barnes X OFC (Sasha), (a little Steve X Natasha)

Characters: Bucky Barnes, OFC Sasha, Natasha Romanoff, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Tony Stark

Author: @amandaoftherosemire

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 2,641

Format: Series (Complete)

Warning: language, angst, fluff, slooooow-burn. (Future chapters will be NSFW due to smut)

Summary: Natasha figures out something is going on with Bucky and Sasha. She corners Bucky to pump him for information.

A/N: Not consistent with Marvel canon. I just started writing fanfic, please be patient. I’m open to constructive criticism and any help more experienced writers would like to offer. We’re almost done with set-up and about to get to the action. Thanks for bearing with me.

Banner by @hellzzzbelle

Sing For Me Masterlist

Chapter Four here

Chapter Five

At 6:30 the next morning, Natasha calmly sipped her coffee and watched Steve gather ingredients for breakfast. He was mostly useless in the kitchen, but the man made excellent pancakes.

"Why don't you just use biscuit mix?" Nat asked.

Steve looked up, a little confused. "I learned how to make pancakes from my mother. She never used a mix."

"I'm not complaining," Nat said with a little half smile. "Your mother's pancakes are delicious. I just wondered."

Steve pinked up a little at the compliment and smiled shyly at her. He enjoyed spending these early mornings with Nat. They were both up earlier than anyone else and they often had coffee together before everyone else started piling in. He liked to talk to her, just the two of them, because he felt like the mask slipped a little and he got to see the real Natasha.

The real Natasha had a wicked sense of humor and a quick wit. She didn't care for people easily, but when she did, she was fiercely loyal. She could be kind and generous, but in a subtle way that didn't draw any attention. She seemed to understand instinctively a lot of the things Steve wanted to say but couldn't put into words.

Natasha deliberately came into the kitchen early every morning to spend time with Steve. He was so open and honest. After all her years in espionage, it was a relief to just be with Steve. Everything he felt and thought crossed his face, and in her years knowing him, she had learned to interpret nearly every look. She could relax and be herself because Steve couldn't be anything but himself if he tried.

Other members of the team trickled in, getting coffee, ribbing each other, but Nat noticed that Sasha had yet to put in an appearance. Looking at the clock, Nat pulled out her phone and shot Sasha a text.

Hey girlie. It's 7:10. You're gonna be late to the meeting at 8:00 if you don't get your ass in gear.

Nat looked up as Bucky came into the kitchen. He looked tired, but happy? Natasha narrowed her eyes. Bucky didn't look happy most of the time, let alone this early in the morning and especially when it was to attend a meeting. Watching him out of the corner of her eye as Steve started plating pancakes to the cheers of the others, Nat noted that he took two coffee cups down and filled them both.

Nat's phone chirped. It was Sasha.

Fuck everything. Meditate. Coffee. Be there soon.

Nat grinned and shot back, In that order? I’d put coffee before fuck everything but okay. Sasha was the absolute worst morning person she'd ever met. Nat chuckled a little when Sasha's response was nothing but the middle finger emoji. When she looked up, Bucky was gone and so were the two cups of coffee. Nat narrowed her eyes and filed Bucky's odd behavior away until she had more information.

When Sasha pirouetted into the kitchen a half hour later, she was singing. The grass green swing dress she wore set off her warm coloring and reflected in her eyes, deepening the sea green color. As she spun into Sam's arms, the full skirt of her dress spun around her.

"Dip me, Sam!" she shouted.

Laughing, Sam spun her out to the end of his arm. With a tug, he pulled her back in and dipped her backward. "Good morning, sunshine," he said as he pulled her back up and gave her a loud, smacking kiss on her laughing mouth just as Bucky walked in.

Bucky started to scowl, a tinge of what he refused to call jealousy creeping up the back of his neck. He was about to move towards Sam and Sasha when he saw Nat set her paper aside and stand up. Her moves smooth as butter, the former assassin pulled out her Glock and pointed it straight at Sasha.

"There’s something wrong with you,” she stated, cold as ice.

Everyone, including Sasha, froze.

"Okay. Ouch. But why are you pointing a gun at me? I mean, I’d ask why you have a gun at breakfast but I’m not a fucking moron so… what’s up, Tash?” Sasha smiled winningly.

Nat felt herself relax slightly and knew Sasha was trying to calm the room but didn't lower the weapon. Steve stepped forward to place a hand on her shoulder. "C'mon, Nat," he said softly.

"Steve," she said, not taking her eyes off Sasha, "have you ever known Sasha to sing and dance before 10:00 AM, with no coffee?"

"I have had coffee!" Sasha cried.

"Steve, smell her breath," Nat commanded, none of her inner amusement showing on her face. She had seen Bucky flush when she brought up the coffee. That's what she thought.

When Steve walked to Sasha and leaned in, Nat noticed Bucky's metal hand clench into a fist. She let none of her glee show as she mentally fist pumped. She'd been nudging Bucky toward Sasha for months.

Sasha blew out a breath that ruffled Steve’s hair. "She's got coffee breath," he announced, grinning into Sasha's eyes. Nat saw Bucky's eyes narrow at the look on Steve's face. This was too easy, she thought.

Nat reholstered her weapon and sat back down. "Alright, then," she said as she turned back to her crossword puzzle.

"I found two cups of coffee on my table when I came in from meditating. I thought you left them," Sasha said, sitting next to Nat at the counter. Steve went back around to the other side and pulled the pancakes he'd been keeping warm for her out of the oven, setting them in front of her with a flourish.

"If you're gonna be so nice, Steve, I should have Nat pull a gun on me every morning," Sasha thanked him with a wink.

"Well, I mean--," Flustered, Steve tried to say that it was nothing, but Natasha's voice cut across him, "That can always be arranged, Sashenka."

Sasha threw her head back and laughed. "I may get a gun in my face some days, but at least living here is never boring." Digging into her pancakes, she gave Nat a friendly shoulder bump. It had taken a long time for Nat to warm up to Sasha, but since then they had become very close.

"So, if you didn't bring me coffee, who did?" Sasha asked, looking around the room.

Natasha saw Bucky duck his head and pretend to give his breakfast his undivided attention. "Who said I didn't?" she asked, not taking her gaze from the newspaper.

Sasha frowned, "But if you brought me coffee, why did you pull a gun on me?"

"I guess we'll never know, will we?" Natasha said dismissively.

Sasha's mouth popped open and she stared at Nat's impassive profile, her face drawn into an incredulous half-smile.

"Tash, you're a weird chick, you know that?" she commented as she turned back to her pancakes.

“Okay, listen up,” Tony said loudly to start the meeting. Everyone stopped talking and looked to Tony.

“Good news first,” he said, “Crazy Girl found me some breadcrumbs yesterday. Last night I followed them and found new evidence pointing us west. There's another base in the mountains of Washington State. Bad news, we don’t know if it’ll have anything we need. Hopefully, we'll either find our man there, or find more information to lead us to him. Sash?"

Sasha stood up. "Okay, the breadcrumbs I found lead to this man," she hit a button on the console that pulled up a picture of a boyishly handsome man. He had blond hair and a killer smile, but something cold and reptilian seemed to lurk in his steel blue eyes. "His name is Valentin Morozov. He used to be attached to Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service but he’s since supposedly retired. We think he's the head of this operation."

"As you know, Hydra's been trying to obtain vibranium. We're not a hundred percent on what it's for, but we think they're making a weapon. King T'challa has been informed and he's taking his own steps to protect their vibranium. But we can't be sure Hydra can't find another source. This base in Washington should have more information. If Morozov isn't there, we may at least find more data to groove on."

"Sasha's greatest joy," Tony said, and she grinned at him. "F.R.I.D.A.Y., send the Operation: Starbucks folder to everybody in this room.”

“Right away, Mr. Stark.”

“Tony. Starbucks?” Rhodey asked with a sigh.

“The base is in Washington. I assume it has a Starbucks. So, everybody take your homework, go over it tonight, and we’ll meet back here for the party planning tomorrow at 10:00.”

After the meeting, Nat made sure to walk out next to Bucky. She slipped her arm through his metal arm and smiled up at him. “Hey Buck. Do you have a minute? I could use a hand.” As she said “hand” she shook the arm she was holding and grinned cheekily.

Bucky rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth quirked up. “Sure. Lead the way.”

As they walked toward the elevator, he asked, “So, what can my hand do for you?”

Bucky raised an eyebrow at Sasha’s back as she walked to the lab. He thought he heard her mutter under her breath, “Oh, I’m sure I could think of something.”

“Pickle jar,” Nat said smoothly as the doors opened. When they stepped inside, Nat hit the button for the ground floor.

Bucky turned to Natasha and raised an eyebrow. “You keep the pickles in the lobby now, huh?”

“Come for a walk with me and let me be mysterious a little while longer," she ordered with a smirk.

Once outside, they started walking towards the park. Nat let her arms swing a little as she tipped her face up to the sun. Bucky squinted and scowled.

“I want to talk to you, but I didn’t want to risk anyone overhearing," she said as they got to the corner and joined the crowd waiting to cross.

“Nat, coming from you, that’s terrifying.”

“Isn’t everything?” she asked with a smug glance in his direction.

“Natalia.” He said it quietly, using the name he had first known her by. She knew when he used her old name that he was serious. She was silent for a few minutes

“I want to talk to you about Sasha,” she replied gravely as they reached the park.

Bucky felt a flush of embarrassment creep up his face and cursed silently. He took a seat at one of the tables around the square. “What about her?” he asked as he leaned back, trying to look unconcerned.

Nat sat across from him and leveled him with a flinty stare. “You took her coffee this morning. Not only that, you took her two cups because you know she’s only barely functional after one.”

“It’s not that big a deal, Nat," Bucky shrugged, deliberately nonchalant. "I knew she didn’t get much sleep, so I thought I’d help her make it to the meeting on time." Bucky frowned. "Wait, why did you pull a gun on her then?”

“I wanted to see how you’d react," Natasha replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. "How do you know she didn’t get much sleep? Was it your fault?”

Bucky was incredulous. “Jesus Fucking Christ, Natalia! That’s not a good reason to point a loaded gun at a teammate!”

Natasha snorted. “Calm down. It’s fine. The safety was on.”

Bucky stood up and paced away in frustration, a growl building in his chest. He couldn't believe Nat sometimes. He'd never met anyone so blasé about death and danger.

“Stop trying to dodge the question. Did you keep Sasha up all night?” she asked accusingly.

“Yes, but not like that!” Bucky hissed as he sat back down. “We texted for a while last night.”

“You guys live next door to each other." Nat paused to consider. "Aw. That’s cute," she said with her habitual dispassion.

Bucky stared at her. “The fuck is wrong with you?”

“Says the man who spent the night texting with a woman he was literally less than fifteen feet away from,” she sneered.

Bucky gave up trying to avoid telling her the whole truth. There was a reason that Nat was almost always sent to interrogate prisoners. “Look, it’s a good way to be friends with her but still maintain some distance.”

“Distance?” Though her voice barely changed, Bucky knew her well and could tell by the slight change in inflection that Natasha was pissed.

“Come on, Nat. Look at who you’re talking to. I’m all kinds of fucked up. A dame like Sasha shouldn’t hang around a guy like me,” Bucky said, his head in his hands.

“Ah. And your reluctance to spend any time with the woman in question wouldn’t have anything to do with said woman’s ability to read and manipulate your emotions,” she replied archly.

“Of course it does. I don’t want her to feel my emotions. I don't want to feel my emotions. Sasha is… pure.”

“Bullshit. You’re afraid she’ll see something you can’t live with,” she said viciously.

Bucky looked at her in surprise. Nat was really pissed. “Natalia.”

“Or you’re an idiot. Do you think she’s naïve? Who does Sasha spend the most time with? You think Tony has nothing but light happy feelings? You think any of us do? She lives with us, immersed in our feelings day in and day out. You think she’s any stranger to the dark side of humanity?”

Natasha voice got stronger and harsher. She was on a roll now.

“You think you'll break her? You think she’s weak? So are the bones in the hand. But if you break a bone a little bit over and over it grows back stronger. She's made of steel now. You think she’s defenseless? If she's so defenseless, why are you so afraid of her?"

“I-“ Bucky started to defend himself, but Nat cut him off.

“I was right. You’re an idiot.”

“I’m getting real tired of you calling me an idiot,” he said, sneering.

“Then stop acting like one." Natasha poked a finger into his chest. "You saw a sweet happy woman and never bothered to look beneath the surface. You should know better.”

Bucky looked down at where she was poking and conceded, “Okay, yeah. You have a point. I didn’t know until last night that the Ice Queen has a something of a temper.”

A small half smile moved over her face. "Think about that. What else don’t you know about her?”

“You could tell me,” Bucky stated with his patented charming smile. Unfortunately for him, Natasha was immune. She merely gave him a pitying look and shook her head.

“Question?” she asked, “Who texted who first?”

“She texted me.”

“Something else to think about. I’d be shocked if she didn’t know exactly how you feel and found a way around it. Go ahead and keep your distance, you coward. Let me know how that works out.”

Natasha stood up and started walking back to the tower. Bucky jogged to catch up.

“Oh, and Buck?" she said, a wide, bloodcurdling smile spreading across her face. "My Sashenka doesn’t have it in her to take revenge. But I do. Watch your step.”

Bucky just nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

They walked in silence for a few minutes before Bucky spoke up again. “How did you get over it? Being exposed to someone like that?” he asked.

"Actually, that's more her story than mine. You should ask her about it."

He groaned, frustrated. "Why do you always have to be so damn mysterious all the time? Can't you ever give a straight answer?"

Natasha didn't even spare him a look. "No."

Chapter Six here

Taglist:

@marvel-lucy

#bucky barnes #bucky x ofc #marvel #fanfic #fanfiction #steve rogers #natasha romanoff #tony stark #sam wilson #pantswrites #avengers

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knownonsense8 · 7 years

Text

You Opened My Eyes (but Mostly My Heart) Chapter 1

Tumblr post requested by alteranima :)

Summary:

She is just discovering her emotions, just learning what it is to love and be loved, when he's torn away from her.

Kuze, the key to everything is killed, but she's not content to let him go.

She will find him.

_________________

A story about the growing bonds between family and friends, and one woman's determination not to let love go. 2017 Live Action Film compliant.

Motoko Kusanagi/Hideo Kuze

Author’s Note:

There's so much controversy surrounding the movie, but I've decided that I think it really needs more love. It was a gorgeous film visually, and I found the scenes between Motoko and her mother as well as Kuze to be quite intensely emotional and they really resonated with me. They inspired this fic and while it will be mostly movie canon compliant (especially this chapter) it will diverge and become it's own story. I should not have to say this, but MOVIE SPOILERS AHEAD. If you have not seen the movie or don't want to know what happens, don't say I didn't warn you. This is unedited (for the moment), so I apologize for any mistakes/errors. Please enjoy! :)

Chapter 1

It’s so colorful here in the city.

There are holograms, adverts, models, the inhuman – all littering the streets everywhere. People of all different shapes, sizes, colors and enhancements don’t bat an eye as she walks by.

For her though, it’s her first time witnessing such culture after waking up in a new world and like a child, her eyes are filled with wonderment at it all.

She touches a store window, fingertips meeting glass as she gazes at the wares - moving fingers and clicking gears - when Doctor Ouelet places a hand on her arm.

“Mira, observe only. We’re not here to play.”

Right. They weren’t there to play.

That doesn't stop her from enjoying her view of the world, one first and last time.

It doesn’t take long for her to become disenchanted with the sights. She is sent on mission upon mission, exposed to the slums and lower class of society.

Too quickly the veil is torn from her eyes and it reveals nothing good.

Only bloodshed, pain, and death.

People are corrupt. People are also kind. She's learned this over the past year.

Mira knows her purpose: to protect the innocent, to destroy the evil.

Back then it never occurred to her, not even once, that she might not have known the difference between the two.

Her division, Section 9, is something…something new to her.

It niggles in the back of her mind, the feelings they inspire, and it bothers her that she can’t quite give the sensation a name.

She admires Togusa’s practicality, his intelligence - his self-preserving instinct because unlike her, he needs it.

She respects Chief Aramaki. He is tough but also wise, and not blind to the reality of what fates can befall the innocent. He’s a good leader and exactly what their team needs.

Batou…what can she say for him? He’s annoying and he's stupid. He’s like a puppy - always nipping irreverently and tugging on his leash - (where did that come from?) yet even still, she trusts him.

She trusts all of them, somehow.

Even when the aggravate her, tease her, or fail to properly execute their duties, she doesn’t loathe them. For some inexplicable reason, she never has the desire to hurt them in any way, shape or form - or even to leave them. Sometimes she even likes their company.

Not that she’d ever tell that to Batou.

But why?

Why does she have an…interest in their lives?

They’re her co-workers. Their relationship is (should be) impersonal.

If she was ordered to terminate them though, would she?

...No. Not unless her superiors gave her a very good reason to.

Huh.

She hopes that one day, she’ll discover the logic behind this irrationality. Hopefully it’s not a glitch.

She doesn’t want to let this feeling go.

(Let them go.)

It's her latest mission and already things are going poorly. She's defied orders and she's too late to rescue anyone now, but her job here's not yet finished.

In fact, it's just getting started.

Her gun rests just inches from the Geisha's face, threatening and ready to be used at just the slightest hint of provocation.

"Tell me who sent you," she demands, and the Geisha scuttles backwards.

"Help me, please," its robotic voice contorts, dual tones too high and too deep all at once. "Don't let me die."

Her gun wavers. Am I like that? She steadies it.

"Help me, please."

"Speak!" She shouts, and then the Geisha's voice lowers ominously, playing back a recording and a message.

"Collaborate with Hanka Robotics and be destroyed."

Its face opens with a hissing screech, glistening pearly skin lifting to reveal the horrifying workings underneath.

Without a second thought she shoots five bullets from her gun straight into its head. It stumbles backwards, falling to the ground with a metallic clack, and she exhales a harsh breath.

When she's sure it's dead she peers at it closely, at the gears and wires that make up its face.

She looks down at her own hand where her skin is scorched, her insides exposed to the air.

They're not so different.

"Come on, you're not the same. You're not like her, Major," Batou says once he arrives on scene to find her standing in the same spot, gazing perturbedly at the Geisha with a furrow between her brows. He rests a hand on her shoulder but she brushes him off, coolly walking away and reverting her body setting to invisibility.

Internally, she's seething.

What would he know?

He's human.

He wouldn't understand.

It’s swelling, bubbling to the surface and building within her - the anger and dissatisfaction with her position in life.

She wants to remember her origins so badly, to feel her path, to know the people who once connected her to the rest of the universe. Without her memories she has nothing now, nothing of her own - except for her job.

No personal relationships.

There’s a key to her past, she knows. It might be in those glitches - in fact, it’s definitely in them.

The problem is, they scare her.

Whenever she sees the distorted flames, the static shaking and the image of that same, dirtied shrine, she fears.

Fears that the glitches mean something within her is failing. That they mean she can’t complete her one purpose (her one connection to the world - reason to live). More than anything else though, she fears what she might find.

She knows what they told her. How her parents died, their ship sunk by terrorists.

What she doesn’t know is if they loved her. If she loved them.

In those kinds of relationships, you’re supposed to aren’t you?

Somehow, she feels in her heart that is the truth. That somewhere, she was loved.

However the fog in her mind is deep, dark, and underneath it she senses so much pain.

So she accepts it, what they tell her, even though it doesn’t feel quite right. There’s something more to it, and she’ll discover it one day.

When she’s feeling braver.

Kuze is a sinister, looming storm cloud; a menace, clogging up the horizon and standing as an obstacle in her path. He’s dangerous, he needs to be eliminated, and there’s nothing personal there.

He’s evil.

That’s all there is to it.

The prostitute on the side of the road is human, she can tell, though she is not without her own slight enhancements. Is she beautiful? Probably. She wouldn't know - she's never thought much of beauty.

The woman's cheeks are freckled, her skin a light caramel-brown and hair close-cropped to her scalp. Glittering patches of gold adorn her face, though she peels them off at her request, setting them down beside her gingerly.

Sitting here, kneeling in front of her in a private room, she can only gaze upon this human body with wonder, awe. For these few moments, that body is hers alone to explore. She stretches out a hand, ghosts fingers along a cheek and presses them down into one, soft lip. She moves one around, curious, and asks, “How does it feel?”

How does it feel to be human, alive and breathing in your own, God-given body?

“It feels different,” her companion replies and she nods. It must.

Here, alone with a person society deems dirt, she suddenly feels more human, more in control of her life than she has in all her past year of waking up.

Here with that person, she looks at her and sees someone beautiful.

She leans in and slots her lips against hers.

They kiss.

“I had a dog,” she tells Batou as they drive, the image hazy but there of a floppy-eared beagle not dissimilar to Gabriel.

She doesn’t know why she tells him this.

“Huh. Color me surprised.” Batou says, and she quirks a single eyebrow at him questioningly.

“I had you down as more of a cat person.��

When she sees the bomb, hears its ominous tick and spies the faint, red glow emitting from it, there’s only one thought roaring past the blood rushing though her ears.

I have to protect Batou.

She leaps in front of him, hurls her body before his to protect him from the blast, though she doesn’t know if even that will be enough to save his fragile, too-human frame.

The flames explode, white and orange the sole colors raging across her vision as they envelope her, and then there’s the terrifying sensation of melting.

All she feels though, with Batou cradled in her arms and the very real prospect of death surrounding her, is relief.

Batou is breathing.

Her vision turns black and she cannot bring herself to fear.

The room is white; the people clad in red, and the machine a tickling sensation against her senseless corpse. It repairs her, fixes her, and she wonders if next time, maybe she can withstand that blast.

Next time, maybe they could instill greater protection into her skin. She could walk through the flames, find Kuze, take him off guard and

“Mira,”

It’s Doctor Ouelet.

“You have to take better care of yourself. You’re a living, breathing human being. You are not a machine.”

Am I not? She thinks.

Why does everyone – Doctor Ouelet, Chief Aramaki, and Batou – keep telling her that she should care for her wellbeing? Why does it matter?

Shouldn’t she prioritize the cause, the goal, you know, protecting other people, above all else?

What other reason is there for her to live? She just doesn’t have time to waste on self-preservation.

None of them understand. None of them seem to get it.

She’s not one of them. She’s not like them.

They have hopes, dreams, families.

She’s just wires and plugs, a brain floating around in a corpse.

It doesn’t matter if she dies. It only matters if she saves lives, like she just did…with Batou.

Batou…

Will he be all right?

Who is she kidding, of course he will be. He’s Batou.

He’s always okay.

The man she's interrogating is disgusting but pitiable.

Wires connect to the sides of his face, he wears a yellow jumpsuit, and at the back of his skull rests a rank, stringy mess of a bun. Tears and spit accumulate on his chin and his eyes are bloodshot, his every feature reeking of devastation.

Although his gaze is clear, eyes wide open and urgent in their earnesty, he is blind, sightless in the face of the reality that lies before him.

The reality that the life he thinks he's living isn't real, it's a lie, and that he's never going to return home to a daughter or a wife who never even existed in the first place.

She would have sympathy for him, really, if only he hadn't tried to murder Doctor Ouelet.

(and almost succeeded).

Her expression hardens and her hologram within the cells dissolves, her mind returning to her body. She backs away from the cell, though her gaze never strays from the prisoner.

"His memory's gone. He won't tell us anything," she says to the rest of her team, and from their various positions around the room they look troubled.

"How can someone's memory be wiped completely?" Batou asks in disbelief, and Togusa responds.

"He's been cyber-hacked, a new reality implanted in his mind. What I don't understand is how...there's nothing here on his data drives. They're totally empty."

They sound bewildered, and because of that they're not watching.

All of a sudden, the prisoner goes slack, his features re-aligning themselves from ruined and desecrate to calm and collected. His posture straightens, and the slightest of smirks widens his lips. He stares at her unblinkingly, eyes intent and beckoning, and it only takes her a moment to make the decision to answer his call.

She marches up to the glass, cutting Togusa off mid-sentence as the prisoner watches, the edges of his mouth twisting upward mockingly.

"He's here."

They all snap to attention.

"That's impossible, we're in a secure cell," Togusa denies, but he and Ladriya are already rapidly scanning their data.

"Quick, get a read on his location!"

She opens the door, her foot just touching tile when Chief Aramaki's voice makes her pause. "We don't know what he's capable of."

His voice is rough, a warning, and she nods, steeling herself for the possibilities that flash across her mind. She steps inside.

Immediately, she finds herself standing toe to toe with the prisoner (Kuze). He smiles at her serenely, looking all too satisfied with himself, as if she's just pleased him greatly.

It's irksome.

"Collaborate with Hanka Robotics and be destroyed," he says, assuring her with his voice that he is exactly who she thinks he is. Her eyes narrow into slits.

"Come here," he demands, and she can practically feel the agitation radiating off her team as she acquiesces to his request. They're so close now, nose tips almost touching with their proximity.

"Who are you," she growls, and of course he would answer in riddles.

"I am that which you seek to destroy. I have lived many lives in many different bodies, but in this life, you would know me as Kuze."

"I will find you," she tells him, and he barks out a short laugh, exhaled breath fanning over her face. He focuses on her intently, stressing the importance of his answer.

"Not yet. I'm not finished here yet."

Then he breaks out in a teasing smile.

"I'm shy. I'm not as beautiful as you are. I'm broken." Although his tone is light, jovial even, there's something almost too honest about his words. She shivers, yearning to ask him why, why do his words seem to ring too true, to resonate in her, when his entire demeanor shifts.

He blinks, recollecting himself, and then his shoulders are slumping, his eyes rolling back into his head as master abandons his puppet.

"We've got a reading on him. We know where he is!" Togusa shouts, and for a moment, she mourns the loss of their conversation. Then they're all grabbing their weapons, springing into action, and it's quickly overtaken by triumph at unearthing his location.

Behind them, the prisoner convulses within his cell, choking to death.

She feels fear now – fear for her life – crippling and intense and far too real.

She’s tied to a machine, which in turn, is connected to the mass accumulation of data acquired by her captor. It’s plugged into her systems, and all her knowledge, her life, is on the line, exposed to this villainous piece of shit.

But he’s not - she realizes - what he seems.

Kuze is a mish-mash of broken parts, sullied and cracked by a harsh life with no doctor visits to repair him. He has bullet wounds littering his torso and skin breaking apart at the seams.

It’s apparent he’s lived a tough life through the resourcefulness of his body, having evidently upgraded it on his own. He looks like scum, like dirt, and he’s covered in grime, but she’s not one to judge. To her, he’s simply the target.

Until he’s not.

While she’s shaking, trembling with fear, with anger, and trying to think of anything, anything to While she’s shaking, trembling with fear, with anger, and trying to think of anything, anything to break free, he touches her face almost too gently. He peels back her skin to expose what lies beneath and it…it hurts.

She feels naked, bare.

Vulnerable.

And that's when he starts talking.

Kuze is, according to himself, like her. But that’s impossible.

“No,” he says, "Everything they told you was a lie.”

There were 98 people before her. 99 including him who were stripped from their bodies, their brains implanted into new, entirely cybernetic frames. People whose lives and memories were stolen from them by Hanka Robotics for the sake of an experiment.

"Collaborate with Hanka Robotics and be destroyed," his message had said. It makes sense now he's been after revenge.

She is not the first of her kind.

She is the first surviving...test subject.

And not even that.

He is.

“Don’t take your next dose of pills. They block your memory,” he tells her, and her mind is going a million miles an hour. Suddenly, she believes him with startling clarity, and there’s anger, there’s blankness, but mostly there’s fierce, fierce determination above it all to know the truth. He makes a convincing argument and oh, she will find evidence, but more importantly…

Could her family still be alive?

She needs to know everything. Suddenly, she has a mission so much more vital than fulfilling her original purpose. What is she? Where are the ones she loved?

Maybe…maybe he can answer.

Kuze is almost frightfully intense. He fixates on her, but not like the men who stroke her face and place a hand over her inner thigh. He calls her beautiful, but he doesn’t mean it in the same way they do.

He’s bitter.

And looking into his eyes, intimately close and with his hand cupping her back, she knows.

Knows that once, he was beautiful as her (she can see it) until he fell into disrepair. In that way, they are the same.

He hated it.

She would give anything for her old self back, she realizes, and appearances…they’ve never mattered to her before. Only to everyone else.

Kuze lets her go, and yes, she would have killed him with the rapid-fire bullets that tear instinctively from her gun, despite how her heart isn't in it. But he’s not dead and she needs answers. Two parts of her are warring for dominance – to search for her family or to pursue her cause – but for once, she will choose the answer she has never chosen before. It’s no longer a difficult decision.

She wants to find her family.

Doctor Ouelet is a small figure within her bed, thin and frail, swamped under the folds of her sheets. Mira stalks up to her - uncaring of her appearance and not even attempting to disguise her inhumanity - and the doctor’s fear is apparent for it.

She doesn’t care though.

She doesn’t care, shedoesn’tcare, she doesn’t care.

Doctor Ouelet lied to her. Doctor Caring, Innocent, Ouelet lied to her about everything.

Everything.

And now she owes her answers and she owes her proof.

She steps aggressively into the Doctor's space, crowding her against the wall, and keeping her facial expression unreadable - wiped of the emotions Doctor Ouelet has so often encouraged her to project.

"Mira, what are you doing. Mira please stop-" Doctor Ouelet gasps, and she sees the fear flickering in her eyes, hears the telltale waver of her voice as she tries to get Major to back down.

Her threat is not an idle one however, and that’s something they both know. She sees the feeble hope in the Doctor’s eyes as she spills the truth that Mira still sees her as innocent and won’t hurt her, but it’s pathetic.

They both know that’s not the case anymore.

Still, when Doctor Ouelet confirms everything Kuze told her and more, her world still crashes down, burns, and she feels like she’s drowning.

Yet, she’s never drowned before.

It never happened.

Her grief, sudden and unexpected is overwhelming. She doesn’t know what to do.

So she runs.

Out beneath the waves in the cold, black depths of sea life, it’s peaceful but lonely. There’s beauty, but like the colors in the city it’s long worn off. Life is dangerous under the sea and she revels in it.

There is nothing, no one there beside herself and for a few blank, terrifying moments in her day she can be nothing. Nobody.

That’s why when she’s lost, confused, and doesn’t know where else to go, she goes to forget.

But of course it’s Batou who would find her here. Of course.

He’s Batou.

Still, she’s on edge. There’s a tempest in her mind raging at the sky and tunneling her emotions into overdrive with anger, and she directs it all at him.

They’re colleagues, co-workers, peers - he owes her no loyalty. Will he kill her? Bring her in if those are his orders? Of course he will. It’s not like they’re friends or anything.

“You better get your ass together and shut the hell up, before I really get pissed off,” he says, and then with just a few words he gets her to unwind, to relax.

The tension falls from her shoulders and she slips further into the ship, peeling off her wetsuit.

Her posture unstiffens and she wonders.

How does he make her feel so?

She quickly brushes the thought aside. There are more important issues at hand right now.

Batou won’t turn her in, but that doesn’t mean she won’t be caught regardless. She has to get herself together.

She informs him of her situation and his brow furrows. "Will you be alright?" He asks her with concern, and she sighs, gazing over the boat's rail at the glimmering city lights shimmering across the water.

"I don't know. I don't know who I can trust."

He nods, biting his lip as they fall into a comfortable silence.

Before he leaves, Batou turns back to give her one last, lingering glance with his strange new eyes.

“You can trust me, right?” he asks, and it’s a loaded question.

She pauses for a moment, but really, she’s known the answer from before the moment she jumped in front of a bomb for him. She does, of course.

He’s Batou.

“I trust you,” she says, revealing to him a vulnerability, a weakness of herself, and the slight weight off her shoulders is worth it.

Batou nods, looking appeased but she can let him settle with that. She has a reputation to uphold, you know.

“That doesn't mean I like you,” she teases, and the flickering smile at the corner of his lips makes her feel warm.

He’s my friend, she thinks as she makes her way to the shore.

My only friend.

There, men armed with guns surround her and she goes willingly, knowing she can’t fight them on her own.

Thoughts of Batou linger in her mind, and she sees his eyeless face as they drug her and the world fades black.

Kuze is an anomaly. Kuze is a mystery, and Kuze is, perhaps, the one person she knows who she feels an innate connection with. He’s like her…but unlike her, he is cruel. She doesn’t know much of anything about him though for sure. She has to find out the truth.

Somewhere deep inside of her, something cries out in recognition. Something wants to trust him, to see him again and lean her head against his shoulder.

It’s strange.

She doesn’t know how to feel about that thought.

When she comes to, she’s strapped to a table, the back of her head wide open and cords plugged into her body. There’s no hope of escape - not when sedation flows through her veins and a plethora of armed forces stand watch over the room. The situation is dire, and it feels like her worst fears come to life.

They’re going to take her memory.

Please…not again.

“I am Major Mira Killian, and I do not give my consent to delete this information. I am Major Mira Killian, and I do not give my consent-“

“We never needed your consent.” Doctor Ouelet interrupts, and it hits her like a slap in the face. It hurts more than she wished it still did.

She’s known the truth now for hours. She’s had time to come to terms with it.

That doesn’t lessen the horrific reality that these people were using her, controlling her, playing with her, and she trusted them.

She trusted them.

Somewhere out in the world, she has a family. She has people she loved and who loved her. She has a place where she belongs.

They took that from her.

And this time, they’re not just going to take her memory.

They’re going to kill her.

The realization is not a calm one, and it strikes terror deep within her heart. She's gasping, struggling and convulsing, frantically searching for an escape route where none exists. Doctor Ouelet looks clinical, emotionless, even less so than usual, and no, no, please, no

Not when she’s so close.

This is it, poison is being injected into her bloodstream and she’s going to die here, strapped to a table, sedated, and having lived a worthless life as a tool.

A tool.

Then suddenly, Doctor Ouelet is leaning in close and whispering words into her ear. She's shoving a file into her hands, desperately unplugging her - detaching her from the machines - and then she’s regained control of her body.

“Run,” Doctor Ouelet tells her, and no no, she can’t just leave her here to die

“Go!” Doctor Ouelet shouts, and that’s when she realizes that this is this woman’s last wish. She is not innocent, but maybe she can atone for her crimes through helping her now.

She runs.

Mira (but that’s not her name, it can’t be), Major follows the address given to her by Doctor Ouelet. There’s something akin to anticipation thrumming through her veins and giving her energy, purpose.

The houses are small and there are thousands of them, arranged in a circular, spiraling formation so out of place among the skyscrapers of the city. There’s nothing familiar about them, about the laundry that hangs out to dry in front of the homes or the curving rooftops and endless stained walkways, but still, she hopes.

She hopes.

Reaching the home of her destination, she finds it to be ordinary and identical to every other of the multitude surrounding it. She wastes little time, swiftly knocking, and out from the open door slips a tabby cat that slinks past her legs. Remembering something Batou once said, “I had you down as more of a cat person,” she frowns.

It appears he was right.

The woman who answers the door is not what she expected.

She is small, her face lined but kind, and though she smiles, it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Before Major can get a word in likewise, she is ushered inside, the woman asking if she wants tea and sitting her down at the table.

The house is homey, if she knows the word correctly. It’s small, it’s ordinary, it’s clean and functional, with various little knick-knacks spread throughout its interior and it…it makes her heart ache.

The little woman is smiling, pleased to see her for some reason and she wonders. Is this her mother? An aunt, a friend?

Is she even related to her at all?

The woman sits down and when she speaks, Major is immediately captivated. This woman is her, her mother.

As she tells the story of her daughter with little prompting, there’s a pain growing sharp within her chest. She hears of herself (or is it?) and the pieces fall into place, sliding together like righted parts of a puzzle, the realization everything she needs to know.

She just didn’t expect it to be this painful.

It’s not hearing about herself though, or the life she lost even that hurts the worst. It’s gazing at this short, lonely woman who pastes a smile on her face, welcomes a stranger into her home and tells them her story, simply because they have a similar look in their eyes to the one her daughter once had. There’s so much pain, so much sadness in her expression, but she keeps on hoping, keeps on living and rising to face each new day.

It’s so, so sad.

“What was her name?” she asks of her daughter, and when the woman answers it rings so true to her heart, her mind, that she has to get out, get out now.

“Motoko.”

Motoko Motoko Motoko.

She is Motoko. She was Motoko.

And this woman, this lady is her mother. She is the person who brought her into this world, the person who cared for her (and still does) enough to be grieving and hollow after more than a year past her death.

Her throat is heavy, eyes burning as her mother says, "You remind me of her."

"I don't remind you of her," she rasps, lip wobbling, and something inside of her feeling like it's about to burst.

"Who are you?" Her mother whispers, voice trembling perceptibly with the dawnings of an epiphany on the horizon.

She inhales sharply.

It’s too much to take in and she needs to do something, do something useful, instead of sit here sedately and listen to another heartbreaking word. She gets up and pushes her chair aside.

“Wait!” her mother cries as she leaves the table, going to the door. She pauses, hand hovering over the handle, waiting for one more moment, because there’s something pleading, a wistful longing inside her heart that just wants to hear her mother’s voice again.

Her gentle, accented, all too loving voice.

“Will you come back to visit me? Please?” Her mother asks, and oh, she shouldn’t have to answer that.

Of course she will.

“Yes,” she says before she leaves. Before she runs, runs away from the only home she’s ever known but the one she can’t remember.

She leaves to end things, to discover more so that eventually…

She can come back.

And stay back.

She calls Chief Aramaki on the bridge, phone held loosely to her ear as she tries to blend in with the crowd. It’s such a relief to hear his familiar voice - the sound of someone who isn’t willfully trying to hide anything from her. She trusts him, him and Batou, and they can help each other. She tells him the truth.

“Can you prove it?” he asks her, and no…no she can't. She doesn’t have any evidence, not beside her own gut instinct and feeble memories.

“I’ll find proof,” she says determinedly, and she knows what she needs to do. She needs to find Kuze, the only one who can divulge all the facts. But here’s another thing: she wants to find him.

“Stay safe,” Chief Aramaki implores and she hangs up.

This is it.

She knows where to go and her feet carry her there, the knowledge carved into them like something from a dream. They carry her deeper and deeper into the city, yet also farther and farther away from the technology she’s grown so accustomed to. They carry her until the sun goes down and she reaches cobbled stone in a place that by now she knows all too well.

The burnt shrine.

It’s a risk coming here, letting her signal loose to the world. It’s the only way she can be found by either side however, and she’s certain that both will indeed come. Hopefully her gamble will pay off and she’ll have the time she needs to set things straight with Kuze.

Stepping inside feels like confronting all of her fears, but she’s no longer afraid. Here in this place, as her glitches have been trying to tell her, is her past. Here is where everything began and now where it all will end. The acrid tang of smoke - thick in the air despite how long it's been embraces her like a welcome home. Her hand strokes the wall as she waits for Kuze.

Waits.

Then he’s there, and she feels clogged with emotion to know that they had been in this very place together before.

He’s not dirt to her any longer, nor is he a target. He’s…he’s beautiful, but in such a different way than the prostitute she had kissed out on the streets.

He’s similar to her in so many aspects, and when she looks at him she sees herself, but more than that, she’s sees her past, and in it…

In it there was love.

“We were like a family,” she murmurs softly, her mind, her memory, the ghost of her old self telling her that is the truth. There were so many of them, a group of people united by their beliefs and shared segregation. They were in it together from start to finish, united by so much, and yet now, there’s only the two of them left.

"We had nothing...nothing except each other," she continues, stepping closer to him.

Kuze looks up, his eyes wide, looking so, so open, and then she’s struck suddenly, peering at the wall and tracing his name, just who’s been with her all along.

“Hideo?” She whispers, and when he stops, eyes widening even further and then looks at her with such incredible tenderness, affection, her world begins to repair itself, slotting together with its undeniable rightness.

“Mo-Motoko?” He breathes hesitantly, his robotic voice stuttering on her name, and then they’re both striding forward, gripping each other’s forearms and staring into one another’s eyes. His irises are a pale blue now in color, his features sharper, unfamiliar, but the way he holds her, the desperation in his features and the affection churning in his eyes, all bring back memories of the fiery, determined boy who stayed with her for many a cold night in this very shrine.

Even now, parted for so long and with every aspect of their bodies different, they can still see each other.

Tears shine in his eyes, reflected in her own too, and they’re leaning forward, pressing together with more emotion than she’s ever felt.

This feeling, this heartbeat, it’s called love.

“We’ll evolve beyond them, beyond humans. It was what we were made to do,” he’s telling her as she tilts her head up, tugging him closer and feeling him do the same, yearning to cry with everything that she feels. “Come with me,” he says, and oh, oh she wants to. For once in her life, she wants to lean on someone else’s shoulders and share their world.

But she can’t. Not yet.

“I’m not ready to go yet,” she reveals to him, and there’s pained acceptance in his features but acceptance nonetheless, and it feels so, so good. He gazes down at her and she up at him, and their mutual understanding is the most beautiful thing in the world, the two of them connected by their past lives and now by their present. She smiles, he does back, and it’s so wonderfully genuine despite the burning in her eyes.

They're orbiting each other, gravity pulling them closer and closer together

That’s when it all goes to hell.

“NO!” she shouts hoarsely when Kuze is flung into the air, his body twisting and contorting, then slamming into the wall where he collapses against it motionless. She immediately leaps into action, grabbing her gun, and attacking the awful, horrid Spider Tank that has ambushed them - no doubt on Cutter's orders.

It scuttles on the ground, firing repeating shots at her, but she doesn’t let it get a clear hit. She keeps moving, keeps shooting, and she knows that this, this battle is the most important fight of her life.

She finally has something (someone) to fight for. She’s fighting for herself now, for her mother and Hideo.

This thing is going down.

Aw shit.

She’s too slow. For just a second, she’s paused long enough for the Spider Tank to lock onto her as a target and she pays for it. The explosion hurls her into the air, and she hears more than sees Kuze’s desperate shout of “No!”

At least it tells her he’s still alive.

As the spider scuttles forward, shifting ever closer to him, she lies immobile on the ground, feeling burns sizzle across her skin and the light-headedness that comes with being injured. Her state is not as bad as she would have expected however, and it seems that Doctor Ouelet did her one more good thing.

Last time she exploded, it appears her skin got a fire upgrade.

It’s excruciatingly difficult to move with the damage she’s attained, but she forces herself to rise. On her feet, she sees the Spider tank pointing its gun directly at Kuze’s face, aligned with his forehead and at point-blank range. It’s about to shoot him, to kill him, but she can’t let it do that, let him die, even if it means tearing herself apart.

She leaps forward, landing on the tank’s back, and immediately its attention is diverted to her. It swings around and she screams in pain, gripping it with all her strength and not letting go - ripping and tearing at it furiously. It’s stomping, shaking the ground with the force of its struggle, but no matter the warning messages that flash across her vision or the beeps alerting her of the fact that she is pushing her body way, way too far, she refuses to let go.

Her muscles are bulging, expanding with the strain put on them, and it hurts, hurts more than anything she’s experienced in her life. But this is nothing, nothing compared to how it would feel to lose Hideo or her mother again.

She pulls.

Her skin bursts, her muscles tear, and as the tank is torn apart - ripped through its very core - her arm is torn with it. She’s shrieking in agony as she collapses to the ground, but it’s done, it’s dead, and oh, thank god.

She lies there, gazing up at the starless sky, weak, but not alone. She hears more than sees Kuze drag himself across the ground to lie beside her, his metal body scraping harshly against the stone beneath them. She turns her head and he’s missing an arm, a leg, and looks frightfully damaged, but he’s alive. His hand slides into hers and is it strange that this is the happiest moment of her remembered life?

A tired smile makes its way across his lips but suddenly she feels dread, because she knows that kind of smile. It’s the look that people get before they die, when they’ve sacrificed everything for a cause and know they can’t live on any longer.

She’s seen it in Doctor Ouelet, in

“Motoko,” he rasps, and her name is so lovely, so loved coming from him. Tears prickle at her eyes and when his fingers twine with hers she sees the imploring plea in his gaze to just listen. She nods mutely, mouth open just slightly, and then he’s telling her that he won’t truly be gone. His ghost will live on to merge with hers should she allow it, but first it'll regenerate within the network he created, and she doesn’t believe him, he needs to stop talking, to stop saying such things, please don’t die

“NO!”

Bullets slam into his head, his eyes go white, and for the first time in her remembered life, a tear slides down her cheek and she feels hot, hot rage, and a stinging grief so powerful she rises to her feet despite her wounds.

There’s guns pointing at her, snipers surrounding her from all sides and this is it, her death.

It’s over.

The first bullet is fired, whistling through the air but it’s not aimed at her – instead, it hits the chest of one of the men who topples over, slumping in a heap to the ground amidst a startled silence.

That’s when everything descends into chaos.

Suddenly, all of the snipers are going down and she spies Batou, Togusa, and Ladriya emerging from the shadows. She leaps into the fray, grabbing her gun with her good hand and shooting it as best she can.

There’s hope.

A flurry of gunshots are exchanged, the enemy barraged, and there’s the sweet, sweet relief of finally fighting the opposition on equal terms.

She can't keep it up though, not now, knowing that they are safe and that she need not fight on any longer. She falls, falls beside Kuze, colliding with the ground, where the stump of his arm brushes hers.

Soon, all of the men are dead and Batou kneels beside her, smoothing the hair back on her forehead and taking her torso gently within his arms.

"What's your name?" He asks her quietly, and tears are still slipping down her cheeks as he rushes to clarify. "Chief told me you had a name before...before you came to us. What was it?"

"Motoko," she says softly, and a tight, bittersweet smile steals across his face.

"Major's still in there though right?" He prods, and she musters the strength to answer him properly.

"I am."

"Good," he breathes, accent lilting his voice. He helps her stand, holding her upright as the last of her energy threatens to leave her and with his help, she joins the rest of the team.

Chief Aramaki calls in and it’s with the best news she’s heard all night.

He’s captured Cutter, apprehended him, and now his life rests within his hands.

Cutter is about to die.

“Major, do you give your consent?”

She feels so, so grateful to hear those words come through the comm after everything that's happened, and she nods grimly. “I am Major,” she says, because she is not Motoko, not entirely, and certainly not Mira Killian now, “and I give my consent.”

“Any last words you want him to hear?” he asks, and there’s a deep satisfaction in telling Cutter that this is justice, the simple fulfillment of her purpose. He made her to protect the innocent, to destroy the evil after all.

And with his death, that’s exactly what she’s done.

Gunshots ring across their connection and it’s like music to her ears. She slumps against Batou where he grips her shoulders tightly, but she points him to turn around, because there's one last thing she needs to do. Confusion settles over his features, but he acquiesces as she wordlessly presses a hand to his chest. He helps her limp back from where they came, and there, lying upon the ground is Kuze’s body. Slipping from Batou’s grasp, she kneels on the ground beside him and strokes his lank, dirtied locks away from his face.

His features are slack, marred by bullets, and his unclosed eyes are white, pupil-less and unseeing.

Moisture blurs her vision but she tempers her grief with the reminder of his last words. He’s still out there somewhere…his ghost, immortalized in the systems he hacked. She’ll find him again and give him a new shell.

She clasps his hand between her own, leans forward to whisper a soft “thank you,” against his cheek, and then she kisses his forehead, soft and chaste. Nodding to Batou he helps her stand, and behind them the sun rises, casting light on the burnt shrine of her memories and bringing with it the dawn of a new day.

A new life.

After her body’s been repaired, she's back in the good books with the government, and Section 9 is taking a few days to regroup, she does what she’s been yearning to do from the moment she discovered the truth.

Major visits her own grave, an insignificant white stone among the many other thousands laid to rest, unweathered and obviously cared for. The cemetery is huge, graves of all different colors and sizes arranged in neat, spiraling rows within a circle, and she feels something akin to peace settle over her.

She is no longer Motoko nor Mira anymore. She is something between the two, indefinable and yet both all the same. Her old self is dead, as is the one she was just days ago, yet they are still within her through the person she has become.

And now she can finally, finally be at peace for knowing the truth.

Taking a deep breath, she places a bouquet of lilies gently at the foot of her (Motoko’s) grave, and turns to leave.

It’s not surprising when the next person she'd hoped to visit appears, blocking her path and smiling that kind, perpetual smile.

She hopes her gaze conveys what she truly feels.

“You don’t have to come here anymore,” she says to her mother, and then there it is, the smile that for the first time reaches all the way to her eyes.

Her mother's eyes sparkle, glistening with tears but also with elation. “I know,” she says thickly, and Major feels herself choke up.

“How?”

“You look at me the same way she did,” her mother says, and then she’s enveloped in a hug, and she’s clinging to that small woman and burying her face in her shoulder, taller than someone else for the first time within an embrace.

She feels so loved, and oh she loves.

Her mother takes her home, and there they disturb the carefully protected peace of Motoko’s room. They lift the plastic from her bed, her figurines, and when that night she lays there, curled up in that small, cramped room, it’s so much more comfortable than her open, spacious one had ever been.

Waking up to the joy in her mother’s eyes and that specific niche in the world that she was born into and created for is pure, utter bliss.

She hopes it lasts forever, and if she can, she will never leave this place for the rest of her days.

Her mother is so beautiful.

Returning to Section 9 is not nearly as jarring as she’d expected. There’s no Doctor Ouelet anymore, nor Cutter, or any doctors constantly fussing over her really.

There’s Chief Aramaki, his team, and the people they work with.

That’s so much better.

Batou greets her with a slap on the back and an arm around her shoulder. Togusa smiles warmly and gives her a sharp nod. Ladriya yells “Hey, it's Major!” and a chorus of greetings and smiles follow her entrance into the room. Chief Aramaki has a slight quirk to his lips, but he quickly gets down to business, laying out their next case, and she feels content.

She has a name for what she feels for these people now, finally - how they helped her and how she's helped them, and it’s a simple one.

Love.

There’s still corruption; there’s still greed and lust and lies in the city and in the government, but it’s better these days. She’s in a position now where instead of fearing for herself and being so woefully contemplative all the time, she can focus the majority of her efforts into saving others.

She spends her days with her mother, learning how to cook and how to sew all over again. She learns what it feels like to be cared for - how to help her mother when she cries from the relief of having her daughter back, or the nightmares where she’s gone again, and of course she learns to respond to the name “Motoko."

She goes on missions with her team, helps Batou feed his dogs and teach them new tricks and isn’t so afraid to use her body anymore.

She visits that prostitute on the streets, kisses her on the lips and heads on her way, occasionally escaping to the ocean when everything gets to be too much.

Life isn’t perfect of course but she never asked for it to be. She’s happy, she’s found her place, and she could never ask for more.

She belongs here.

But there’s one thing that’s still missing.

Kuze’s body is gone, buried in the same cemetery as her own grave just as she’d demanded, but she knows his ghost is still out there somewhere all alone, waiting for her.

Major needs to find him and she knows, knows that he left her a clue behind inside herself.

She just has to find out what it is and when she does, they’ll be together again.

That’s all that matters in the end.

For now though she stands atop a building, watching the data intake ebb and flow from her processors and scanning the occupants that reside within it. Chief Aramaki sends her his approval, and then she does what she was built to do (and would do anyway these days regardless).

Major strips off her jacket, lets it fall from her shoulders to the ground by her feet, and turns so that her back faces the sky.

She falls backward, body naked and bared to the world, reverting to invisibility as the clouds spiral above her and the sun beats down below. She lands upright, balanced on the balls of her feet, gun in hand and ready to go.

It's showtime.

Tbc...

#GITS #Ghost In The Shell #motoko kusanagi #Hideo Kuze #batou #fanfiction

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laurelsofhighever · 7 years

Text

The Falcon and the Rose, Ch. 1

The winter of 9:31 Dragon draws to a bitter close. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, hero of the people, has revealed a string of secret letters between King Cailan and Empress Celene of Orlais. The specifics are unclear, but suspicion of Orlesians run deep, and there are always those willing to take advantage of political scandal. Declaring the king unfit to rule, Loghain has retreated to his southern stronghold in Gwaren, with Queen Anora by his side. Fear and greed threaten to tear Ferelden apart. In Denerim, Cailan busies himself with maps and battle plans, hoping to stem the tide of blood before it can start. In the Arling of Edgehall, King Maric’s bastard son fights against the rebels flocking to the traitor’s banner, determined to free himself from the shadow of his royal blood. And in Highever, Rosslyn Cousland, bitter at being left behind, watches as her father and brother ride to war, unaware of the betrayal lurking in the smile of their closest friend.

Words: 1727 Rating: Mature CW: canon-typical violence Chapter summary: On the high plateau of Gherlen’s Pass, Loghain makes his first move. Banner art by me :) Also on AO3

Mid-Haring, 9:31 Dragon

Stretched out on the road behind him, the merchant caravan Reynard de Chernalle had built through years of hard work glittered like the jewels of a duchess in the winter sunshine. He himself was arrayed in travelling clothes of the finest quality, his rather portly frame cushioned against the weather by a quilted wool doublet decorated with a fine embroidery of spring flowers. Two days out from Jader, and the road still curved in easy loops along Gherlen’s Pass through high pastures thickly shadowed with snow. To either side loomed the white-dusted reaches of the Frostbacks, the gateposts of the border between the Orlesian Empire and the little country that had once been its easternmost province. Birds chattered in the mast pines that bordered the road. From his horse Reynard spied the tracks of fennecs eager to return to the warmth of their dens before the next storm. None of the men in the train failed to notice the front of pale, bloated clouds that rolled towards them from the Waking Sea on the back of a chafing north-easterly, and none of them were pleased about it.

Reynard sat straighter in his saddle to better catch a first sight of Ferelden as he capped the brow of the last rise in the road. From there, it was all downhill into lush, unspoiled valleys and thick forests that hunkered down under a grey haze of fog. Unlike the majority of his countrymen, he liked coming to Ferelden, even despite the weather. Its dogs, its stories, and the tenacious nature of its people possessed a welcome authenticity after the delicate pretensions of the minor Orlesian nobility he usually had to deal with. Most of all, he found the opportunities for trade in this former backwater very much to his tastes, and hoped an early arrival before midwinter would help him get the jump on his less adventurous rivals.

After the occupation thirty years previously, any merchant wishing to trade goods in Ferelden had had to make expensive detours through the Free Marches to avoid the prejudice of a population in which resentment traditionally lingered for generations. Clever traders, such as Reynard himself, had learned how to coax profits from these detours, but the gains had been small in the face of the risk to goods crossing the Waking Sea.

The peace treaties signed by good King Cailan four years earlier had changed things, however. Reynard had caught the turning tide, so to speak. He had traded in extortionate handling fees and sailors’ wages for a string of pack mules, wagons, and opportunities for wayside business. He had built good relationships with the merchants in Ridderby and Lakehead and every settlement in between. In less than half a decade his caravan had swollen to three times its original size – and if the rumours in his home city of Val Chevin were to be believed, soon there might be even greater profits to be made in Ferelden. The thought brought a smile to his thin lips.

A gust of wind tugged at the fur mantle of his riding coat, bringing an acrid mixture of smoke and pine balsam to his nose. Beneath him, his usually placid mare shied sideways, tossing her head with a snort. Only once he managed to steady her did he notice the spiked timber barricades that blocked the road ahead, defending a guard post that looked newly built, and which certainly hadn’t been there at the beginning of Hervestmere when he had made his last return trip to Orlais to resupply. He brought one hand to shade his eyes and squinted down the road.

“What do you make of it, Thomas?” he asked as the captain of his private guard trotted up to join him.

The man halted his gelding and scowled in the direction of the garrison of distant, shouting figures. Unlike his employer, the mercenary captain had a gruff appearance. His dark hair and beard were worn long, whether to obscure his features or to terrify opponents in combat, Reynard was unsure, but his weapons were well maintained and the discipline with which he kept his men in line spoke of a military background. While he rarely spoke, when he did it was with sound judgement and complete authority.

“I don’t like it, Ser,” Thomas grunted. “Best hang back and let me handle it. These look like unsavoury sorts.”

Reynard nodded. “I’m inclined to agree. Still, they’re probably just here to improve the road and are weary of being stuck at an out-of-the-way post like this.” He chuckled, imagining what young men might get up to with limited entertainment in the dark winter months. “I’m sure a friendly halloo will put their minds to rest that we’re not bandits.”

“All the same Ser, I advise you to be careful,” Thomas replied, unconvinced.

Busy smoothing the rumples in his coat, Reynard gave only a cursory acknowledgement of the warning as the mercenary cantered back to inform his soldiers of the blockage ahead. Knowing his employer’s penchant for striking up bargains along the road, Thomas would wait to order swords drawn, but his men would be prepared in case the meeting devolved into a confrontation. It was what he was paid for.

As Reynard rode closer, he busied himself by listing inventory in his head, running down a list of things bored soldiers might need. Most of his caravan was loaded with items geared more towards the nobility, and he never traded in flesh, but some of the herbs and delicacies in his wagons were difficult to find in Ferelden, and might go down well. He became so absorbed in working out what he would sell he failed to notice the peculiarity of the banner draped against the flagpole.

“Halloo there, my good man!” he called out when he was near enough to offer his most winning smile. “We are in for a blizzard before the day is out, do you think?”

A man with a weathered face and grimy, mismatched armour stomped out of the guard house, the longsword strapped to his belt the only serviceable thing about him. When he approached, Reynard’s hand twitched as he curbed the instinct to reach for the nosegay in his breast pocket.

“Papers!” the man barked through a mouth half-full of yellowed teeth.

Beaming wider, Reynard reached into his saddlebags and handed over the trade permits authorised by the Val Chevin Merchants’ Guild. “There you are, good Ser, I am sure everything is in order.”

The man hocked and spat. “You Orlesian?”

“Out of Jader,” came the reply. “Though I do not –”

“What you got in the train?”

“Well, all sorts of things, really,” Reynard answered, somewhat perturbed by the soldier’s brusque manner. “I trade furs, fabrics, spices, trinkets for the ladies,” he added with a wink. “This is my fifth year on this road. Bann Reginalda and Bann Ferrenly are both firm friends.”

The winning smile faltered as the soldier continued to riffle through the permits, scanning the lines with insolent disinterest, content to let the silence grow strained enough for the foreigner’s cob to shift its weight and whicker. He started when another rider cantered up to join the conversation. This one was practiced handling a horse, and the flint-like chips of his eyes showed no trace of fear as he edged in front of his master.

“Is there a problem here?” Thomas asked, polite enough but with a hint of steel that couldn’t be ignored.

Reading the mood, Reynard glanced back to see his company of guards arrayed in tight formation around the caravan, hands on sword hilts, their faces set with grim determination beneath their helmets. With their trained eyes they saw what he had failed to notice – a single flash of metal from within the forest, shadows of trees roving beyond their roots. They were waiting for the ambush. Dread settled like bad meat in Reynard’s stomach as he turned around and watched the strange battle of wills unfolding before him.

From beneath the leather brow of his cap, the soldier squinted upwards, sucking on one of his few remaining molars like a farmer contemplating the chance of rain on the harvest. Thomas stared back, implacable. Both of them seemed to have forgotten the merchant’s existence.

“I asked if there was a problem,” Thomas repeated.

“These papers are invalid.” The soldier held the permits high and opened his hand, letting them drop into the mud before grinding them into the ground with the heel of his boot. He leered. “’Fraid that means we get to inspect your cargo. Make sure you’re not carrying anything… undesirable, like.”

“Now see here –!” Reynard spluttered.

Thomas cut across him. “What writ do you have to authorise a search?” he demanded. “This caravan is sanctioned by Her Imperial Highness Empress Celene, and is under the protection of King Cailan. You have no authority to do this.”

The smirk spread wider across the soldier’s pockmarked face. Beneath his brows, the pale eyes glinted with malice.

“It’s Cailan has no authority here. On ‘em, lads!”

Before he could even process the words, Reynard heard the breathy swish of loosed arrows and screamed as his back exploded with agony. His mare reared and flung him into the roadside muck, where he rolled and lay gasping for breath like a landed fish. Shouts of fear and rage flashed in the air around him. When he mustered enough strength to look, he saw many of his men already dead, his drivers pinioned to their seats by crudely fletched arrows, and the guards felled by sword strokes from the bandits that had broken from the trees. Only Thomas held his ground, fighting off three at once with Orlesian curses fit to quell demons in their tracks.

Reynard reached out through the haze of his pain to try and warn his captain about the fourth man charging in behind him, but the arrows had pierced his lungs and his cry fell from his lips as a cough. As his vision dimmed, the wind picked up, bringing with it the first flecks of snow from the storm. Above the battle, unnoticed, the banner on the flagpole unfurled to reveal, not the scarlet War Dogs of the king, but a golden Drake on a field of black – the sigil of Loghain Mac Tir.

#dragon age: origins #dragon age fanfic #alistair x cousland #alistair theirin #cousland #king alistair #da:o #rosslyn cousland

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