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icey--stars · 10 months

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Born For Tragedy: Part 10

Series Index

She was tragedy. Nothing except death, fear and pain followed in her wake. When she was young, she was beaten. Now she’s the one doing the beating as an assassin. A mysterious stranger comes to her, paying an absurd amount of money for her to kill Beron Vanserra, and protect the eldest son until the job is done. She stumbles across a story much similar to her own, and knows what must be done.

a/n: yknow… initially i wasnt gonna include all the random dog history i made when i was bored and excited for the story… but then it just came out. bonus points to those who can pick out the parts where i basically said to a pinterest quote “you’re mine now” lmao

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The next day, Eris wasn’t around any of the times that she went to “clean” his rooms. Honestly, she should just make him clean his rooms since he knew she was an assassin now. Valda was annoyed at being forced to sweep and dust, and change the sheets of the esteemed heir, she thought mockingly.

The second day after that, she sighed and finally decided to ask somebody. So close to when the plan was to be set in action, Eris was not allowed to brood and stay away from her.

Valda asked one of the guards, “Where do you think I might find the heir? He hasn’t been around and I have a few questions.”

The guard clearly thought nothing of it, which was good and directed her toward the training rings and the kennels. Obviously, the training ring came up with nothing except a few confused onlookers as she practically marched across the area to go down the other stairs.

So she asked where the kennels were and found herself outside of the heated dog house quite quickly. It wasn’t even noon. Valda scoffed at the fact it was heated though. Eris truly pampered his furry friends.

She knocked heavily on the door twice.

“Who is it?” Eris called from within. She grinned and decided to just open the door.

It was a simple building, really. A log cabin just a half-mile away from the Forest House. It was all one room, split into different areas by extra wood put into place to likely separate the different dog areas. She spotted a red-haired male sitting in one the ones farther back and smirked as he lifted his chin to see who’d entered.

“Valda,” he addressed. “What a wonderful surprise.” He didn’t at all sound excited.

“You’ve been avoiding things,” she stated. “I don’t appreciate you trying to ditch me before the plan gets put into place.” She marched confidently down the rows of dog areas, most of them empty, but a few had a couple ghost hounds napping.

“I’m not ditching you,” he growled as she finally came into view. She saw more than six dogs pinning his legs down to the ground with their heads, or bodies, and one plump female resting right in the prime place for petting, which was exactly what Eris was doing. She recognized the female as Taunya, the pregnant one.

“You are brooding though,” she stated, and took a seat against one of the wooden walls.

A familiar one-floppy-ear dog came over toward her, abandoning Eris and groaning as it placed itself in Valda’s lap. She stared at it a moment before resting a hand on its head.

“I’m fine,” Eris replied.

He seemed more uptight than usual, she noticed. His eyes were more guarded than usual, so she decided to abandon taunting him and opt for a more pleasant conversation topic.

“Tell me about your dogs,” she ordered. “How you got them, their names… I’m bored.”

Eris hummed and then closed his eyes and sighed. Only when he reopened them did he speak.

“Percy was my first, a gift from my mother. A little ghost hound puppy. I immediately researched how to properly train them. Percy still remains my most loyal, despite my attempts with the others. Cadoc comes close,” Eris explained.

“Vixen and Selena were next. I bought them as litter mates with most of the funds I had stored up. Vixen was named for her personality, and Selena was named after a female I quite liked. She didn’t reciprocate, of course. Cadoc was next. He was bought from a breeder whose female had died of sickness. He’s been a good boy.”

She grinned at the wording, trying to hide it as she leaned more heavily against the wood and brought her knees up.

“Then a litter of three appeared from my mother, yet again. Nimbus, Sorrel and Soot.”

She noticed three of the dogs laying on him perked up and turned their faces to look at him. Smoke trailed the movement.

“I decided to try my own hand at breeding. Cadoc and Vixen were by far the most inseparable. It was a perfect success, and thus came Ash, the first born boy of those two. Then I bought Taunya and Pyro on separate occasions. Hue decided to get me a pup as well. Rue. He insisted the name had to rhyme with his own since I wouldn’t name it after him. Jack-”

She made a startled sound as the hound on her lap sat up immediately to look at Eris. He merely smiled fondly at the dog.

“The second litter of Cadoc and Vixen,” Eris explained. “Nimbus and Taunya’s litter will likely be more than one, but we’ve yet to find out how many.”

The pregnant female rubbed her nose insistently at Eris’s hand when he stopped petting her. Eris scoffed. “Needy girl,” he chastised and began petting her again. Valda held back a smirk at the words. Gods, when did talking to dogs become so dirty?

“What do you plan on naming the new pups?” She asked curiously.

Eris scoffed. “You can’t name them before you know how many and what genders.”

“Couples come up with names for their children all the time, Eris,” she said mildly. She couldn’t help but notice that he swallowed as she said his name. “Do you have ideas?”

Eris rolled his eyes and smiled fondly down at Taunya. “I have a few. If there is a male, I’d rather like to call him Bane.”

“And if there is a female?” Valda asked.

“I have no ideas,” he admitted. “Apparently, naming females is harder than males.”

Jack rolled onto his back in her lap, groaning as he hung his paws in the air above him.

She held back the fond smile that threatened to break through. “Stop making me like you Jack,” she scolded.

“Oh, he’s the best at that,” Eris chuckled. “Always loves to be annoying and make everyone love him.”

“What do you train them for?” She asked.

“Hunting, mainly. Tracking, and attacking, or rather just bowling someone to the ground and biting their arm clean off.”

Valda snickered in amusement. “This cute thing can take off someone’s arm? I doubt it.”

“He's got the right genes in him. Cadoc and Vixen are my best in that area.”

“Who’s the best at tracking?” She asked.

“Percy… and probably Rue,” Eris thought.

“That’s hilarious that your brother demanded the dog must have a rhyming name,” Valda commented.

A dog walked into the room, glanced at Eris and then at me, and then came around my feet to lay under my legs.

“You betrayer,” Eris muttered. “Percy, don’t you love me?”

Ah, so this was Percy. He’d been betrayed by his “most loyal” dog. Valda smirked and began to pet Percy.

“He loves me more now,” Valda declared. “Snooze you lose, general.”

Eris snorted, grinning. “They do strangely like you,” he admitted. “Normally they hate most people and growl at them.”

“Nova warned me about them,” Valda admitted. “And you seem to strangely take their opinions of people very highly.”

“What can I say?” Eris asked. “I do. They practically lunge at Beron and then adore my mother, so I’d say they have the right idea of people.”

“Smart dogs,” Valda chuckled. “Bite Beron next time you see him, you cute little thing.” Her voice went higher in pitch as she nuzzled down towards Jack, who was still laying out, completely relaxed, on his back.

Eris chuckled, a bit of his teeth being shown in the smile. Valda’s lips tilted up in a grin.

“What would you name the pup if Taunya had a female?” Eris asked.

Valda hummed, pursing her lips as she thought. “I’ve always liked the name Tempus. Or Zelda. That one just screams sassy.”

“And it rhymes with your name,” Eris noted. “Zelda… hm.”

Valda scoffed. “That was unintentional, Eris. Don’t place me in the same category as your narcissistic brother.”

Eris chuckled, but it faded only moments later. Valda could tell she’d only managed to evade the obvious point of conversation for this long. She waited for Eris to start it, as she was unwilling to.

“What do you care about?” Eris finally asked.

Valda’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“You said you care about this, but you never specified what,” he specified, raising his eyes to meet hers.

Valda didn’t expect the conversation to take this turn, but she finally just sighed and decided to give in.

“You’re abused, Lady Merle is abused, your brothers are abused, all because of one fucking asshole in charge. Hell, he fucking tortures you,” Valda threw her arms up, exasperated. “It’s high time he pays for that, and I’m in a position to give that payment.”

Eris merely hummed. Valda wanted more than just that sound that meant acknowledgement. She wanted his reaction.

“Do you care about the people?”

“The people?” She asked. “What, the Autumn Court?”

“No, do you care about my mother and brothers for them or just for the harm caused toward them?”

“I can’t say I find the second eldest Vanserra all that fun,” Valda muttered. “That’s a hard question, Eris. I both do and I don’t. I can’t, because if I fail and end up returning to the darkness, then I’ll regret it throughout my afterlife.”

Something akin to rage sparked in his gaze, and Eris’s jaw tightened as he turned his face away from her, hiding his eyes. “You won’t fail,” he stated.

“He’s a High Lord, Eris,” Valda reasoned. “I just won’t let myself be captured. Not by that asshole again.”

Eris’s head darted up. “You’ve been captured by my father?”

“Once,” she admitted. “I escaped. He tends to like the whip, doesn’t he?”

The air around them noticeably got warmer and she lifted a brow at Eris.

“Turn off your magic idiot,” she scolded. “It’s already warm enough in here.”

Eris let out a short, low growl before the magic in the air was pulled away and she could breathe a bit easier. “You can glamor then,” he stated. “I doubt you got away without scars.”

“I didn’t get away without them from any encounter like that,” Valda admitted. “So yes, I can glamor.”

“Show me,” Eris said. She knew what he meant.

Valda looked at him distrustingly for a moment. “No,” she stated.

“I showed you mine,” Eris reasoned.

“There’s a difference between a male body and a female body without a shirt on Eris,” Valda reasoned. Then she sighed, huffing. “Fine.”

She began rolling up her sleeves up to her elbow and lifted the small magic there, watching as the red burning manacle marks came into view. “Your father also quite enjoyed heated manacles. Luckily, these are easy to cover.”

Eris stood up suddenly, causing the dogs around him to either grunt, whine or yelp in surprise. He leaned down to grab her hand and examine the scars.

She yanked it away quickly. “Stop that,” she scolded. “Just because they’re out doesn’t mean you can inspect them.”

Eris looked up at her and she saw what could’ve been a complete raging forest fire in his amber eyes. “I won’t hurt you,” he whispered.

She looked down at Jack, who was now rolling over to greet his master. “I don’t think that you will, Eris. I just don’t like being touched or inspected.”

“Why not?” He asked, leaning down onto one knee and the ball of his foot. He was still leaning over her, trying to catch a glimpse at the scars.

Valda hummed, stretching out her leg that was closest to Eris to try and force him farther away. “It’s a strange dislike, I know,” she said. Yet I crave it so much, she thought silently. She did want to be touched, perhaps even held, but she also knew that nobody should ever trust her. They shouldn’t, because it might very well end badly for them. Never for her. She always survived. Somehow, she always did.

“I just don’t like it,” she stated. It was better to say she didn’t like it than to say all the little insecure thoughts that ran through her. She rubbed at one of the little indents on the side of her thumb. That one was from one of her first missions, when she accidentally sliced herself with a dagger, rather than her victim. “I am a murderer, and perhaps I’d rather my scars to be my own.”

“To serve as a reminder,” Eris said almost breathlessly.

She sucked in a breath. Yes, the scars served as a reminder.

“Your hands might be scarred from murder,” Eris began, and gently reached forward for her fingers again. He glanced up at her, brushing those long fingers against hers lightly. “But I find myself trusting them despite everything.”

Her chest tightened uncomfortably as Eris lifted her hand just by the barest of touches at the end of her fingers.

“You can’t trust me,” she whispered.

“Tell me every terrible thing you did, and let me tell you how much I trust you anyway,” Eris whispered back. “Whatever horror you committed is not who you are.”

“You’ll get hurt eventually,” she argued quietly.

“I won’t, I’m about to be High Lord, remember?”

She scoffed, but her breath was taken away when Eris leaned down and brushed his lips against the manacle scar. Then down, to the middle joint of her third finger. She didn’t know why he did it, or why she was so affected by it, but it felt like it meant something.

He pulled away and placed her hand gently back where it had been previously. “You’ve learned to be strong on your own,” he stated. She didn’t bother trying to argue that. It was true.

When she’d been asking for a hug, she’d been handed a match, a knife and some new lashing scars and she’d learned. She was never broken in the way that could be healed, or could be considered beautiful despite everything. No, they’d ripped her to shreds, stained her bones and her soul with blood and oil, and then taught her how utterly horrible the world could be.

Yet Eris trusted her. He trusted her despite every horrible fucking sin she’d committed.

“I find that very beautiful,” Eris finished.

Valda didn’t think her breathing could get any worse, but it did at that moment. She didn’t know how to respond, but words kept banging through her skull like drums about what Eris had said and what she’d always believed to herself. Her head wasn’t screwed on tight enough for this. He didn’t either.

“Has-” she hated herself for the stutter in her voice. “Has your mother found a dress?”

Eris pulled back further, searching her blue irises for a moment longer before nodding. The nod might’ve been to himself or to answer her question. She didn’t know. “She said she’ll have it by tonight or tomorrow morning. Just enough time to prepare.”

“Good,” Valda hummed. “I should go prepare my knives.”

Eris scoffed, grinning. “Go prepare your knives then, scary assassin.”

She raised her hands, pulling on her magic for a moment to create a mist effect similar to what the ghost hounds had with their smoke. “Ooo,” she said in a haunting tone. “I’m so scary… I have knives… ooooo…”

The red-haired male rolled his eyes and sat back on the ground. “You have me shaking in my boots,” he joked.

“Good,” she said before standing up, carefully avoiding Jack and Percy. “I’ll see you tomorrow, late afternoon. Bring the dress to the clearing.”

She knew she didn’t have to specify which clearing as she walked off.

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TAGLIST (see post for getting added)

@bunnymallowo, @officiallyunofficialperson, @margssstuff, @rebloggiest-reblogger, @inpraizeof, @graciereads, @eos-princess, @imma-too-many-fandoms, @mali22, @sassybluebird, @bubybubsters,

#eris x oc #eris vanserra #eris acotar #acotar #acotar fanfiction #acotar fanfic #original character #oc #mywriting

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jack-kellys · 1 year

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Détective au + afterlife au for the ask game!!

what's quite funny about this ask is that it became a ghost hunting/destroying storyline and then maybe two hours into writing the snippet i got a ghost hunting au + something else ask. more for me!!

i have a lot but u can send me more randomized aus!

okay SO! recently i saw this 8 episode show called lockwood & co on netflix (originally a book series) and it was sort of a weird first season to follow without the lingo and historical context of the world so basically this is an au adjacent to that concept. inspired by, if you will. one thing that's important is that young ppl lowkey function as living tools to listen to, see, or feel ghosts' energy. so they are tasked with destroying ghosts. without further ado here's a 1.6k word scene of a one-shot idea i'll finish eventually!

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Sarah and David stood at the door together, the eerie home where their research had brought them. A haunted item, some music box, had been being bought and sold across the city, only leaving haunting incidents in its wake. It wasn’t hard for the spirit within to free itself with all that travel and the likely lack of protection the music box had undergone. David had tracked the hauntings, cross-referenced with recent black market sales, and estimated the next location via finding the latest buyer’s home. Sarah had surmised the threat level based on the hauntings (the deaths; there had been ten recent ones of hypothermia, which could only mean a ghost’s touch), finding police reports and tapping their forensics friend Finch to properly place what kind of threat they’d be dealing with.

And now, armed with iron bullets, chest plates, and lined gloves among other things, Sarah tried the doorknob. Unlocked.

The twins shared a look, David nodding and fingering his pistol as Sarah carefully opened the door.

An iron blade poked into David’s throat, both siblings freezing in place. After a moment, David groaned.

Holding the sword was ex-detective Jack Kelly, who looked about as shocked as David had been. His two brothers-in-arms, Charlie and Anthony, flanked his sides with their own weapons drawn.

“Who gave you this case?” Jack demanded in a whisper, while Sarah scoffed.

“Who gave you this case?” she countered. “You’re not registered detectives anymore, Kelly. You can’t be here.”

“And somehow, we were here first,” Anthony grinned. “If we cracked it better and quicker than you, then I think we gotta be the right people to be here.”

“Too many of us’ll make us dead a lot faster, so you guys should go,” Charlie nodded. “We got it covered.”

David scowled, guiding Jack’s iron away from his neck with a finger.

“Not a chance in hell,” he muttered, marching past all of them. “Follow me.”

After a moment of hesitation, he heard footsteps behind him, and his own grew more sure.

The old hardwood of the house barely creaked under their feet, careful of the noise they made as they were essentially breaking and entering– it was the buyer’s property, and David wasn’t sure if the man was home or not. Essentially, all they had to do was secure the music box and get it to their detective agency, to determine if it should be stored or if it was safer to destroy it. Spirits were mostly tied to objects, and since these specific hauntings had been within a short radius of the box, it had to be the spirit’s physical connection. But where in the house the box could be was another matter.

David’s hand found his sister’s, letting her take it and closing his eyes. Listening.

“Right,” he heard Jack drawl out. “The spirit gonna give us directions?”

“You know it doesn’t work that way,” David sighed, “or I’d be calling you an empath.”

“He does love his crystals,” Charlie teased, and David heard a small rustling between the two brothers, likely from Jack pushing the other.

“Quiet,” he said softly, suddenly, a small sound at the back of his head. Mechanical, a trill of gears tapping and moving to his left. He drifted toward it, allowing Sarah to guide his steps. The sound moved forward, between his eyes now as the noise of it came more into focus. It wasn’t tinny, wasn’t machine-like despite the ticking and tapping of it. He felt his feet hit the stairs, and cautiously started up them.

“What are you hearing?” Sarah whispered, resting her other hand on David’s back.

“It’s fluid,” he murmured, “as much as a music box can be, anyway. Guessing it’s because of the spirit’s post-life being attached- or… combined with it.”

“I’d rather fight a ghost than a box, so let’s not hope ‘combined’,” Anthony muttered behind him. Jack stifled a laugh, before letting out another one. David heard the railing’s wood creak, maybe a hand tightening around it.

“Wasn’t that funny, Jack,” Anthony said. “Now you’re just patronizing me.”

“I know, you’re not that-” Another giggle broke it off, what sounded like a hand slapping over Jack’s mouth as they made it to the top of the stairs. The fluid sound grew louder in David’s ears. Melodic, bright, and pretty, a swirling tune that tried to make David smile.

His eyes flew open with a small gasp, squeezing Sarah’s hand.

“Something’s wrong,” he murmured. “The spirit sounds too strong, we have to find that box- we have to find out if the buyer’s still- …alive.”

His gaze had landed on Jack, hunched over the banisher with his shoulders shaking as his brothers tried to get him to look at them.

“Jack,” Sarah hissed, “what do you feel?”

“Come on,” Charlie encouraged, rubbing Jack’s back. “Jackie, you’re okay, come on.”

“It’s- kind of…” Jack started, falling into a strained batch of giggles again. He lifted his head, fingers pressed to his temples and pained look on his face while a smile resided on his lips. He shook his head, laughing again. “Very.. happy. It’s happy, that kinda bubbly ecstatic feeling? You should…”

Jack grinned, lopsided and loose, and David stepped back. They had to get him out of here.

“You should check- on the buyer,” he laughed, curling into himself. “You should- oh, man, you should–hahaha–check on the buyer…”

“Fuck. Fuck,” Sarah breathed, hand on her sword. “Charlie, stay with Jack. You two, with me.”

David nodded, glancing at Anthony before casting his gaze at Jack once again. The boy couldn’t hold it in anymore, wheezing with delirious laughter as Charlie leaned against the bannister with his iron cane at the ready. David tore his eyes away, running after Sarah.

The noise, the music was present in David’s ears now without him even trying to concentrate, loud and repeating and quite beautiful. He gripped his forehead between his index finger and thumb, trying to silence it while he drew his pistol. Sarah kicked open the bedroom door, and the pretty music faded away from him.

“Oh, shit,” Anthony sighed out, crossing over to the bed. A body laid there, with skin chilled and lips blued and eyes grayed. “Well, there’s our buyer. How’d Jack know by a feeling?”

“And why would a ghost in a music box be happy to kill?” Sarah frowned. “Spirits don’t often know they’re killing others, that’s…”

And then noise as a whole left completely, David’s eyes falling on an object on the dresser as the world fell into static silence. It was ornate, rectangular, with run-down gold moldings on its edges and glossed rose along its top and sides. He stepped towards it, wanting to investigate the rest of it. Look at it, look into it. Wanting to open it, wanting to hear it again, so pretty and soft...

“-avid!”

He winced at the surge of live sounds- walls creaking, Sarah’s voice, her feet on the carpet, the clink of Anthony’s pistols in their holsters. Something was in his hands, rectangular, and he could hear Jack’s laughter shriek in amusement from down the hall.

“Don’t open it,” she was saying, her eyes wide. Anthony was still by the bed, hands by his hips, fingers spread. “David. Don’t. Just give it to me.”

David’s gaze dropped to what was in his hands, the pretty music box occupying his vision again. All he had to do was tug his finger towards himself, and he’d hear the song again. That was all he had to do.

“No,” he said suddenly, though his grip tightened on it.

“No?” Anthony scoffed, shifting on his feet a bit- a more active stance. “For the know-it-all, you sure are stupid. Drop it, Jacobs. Now.”

“All we have to do is get it in the iron sack,” Sarah said softly, shooting Anthony a look. “David, just let go, and I’ll put it in. Don’t listen to whatever you’re hearing–”

“I’m not hearing anything,” he interjected. “I can’t hear it, it’s in my head, Saz, so if I just- if I open it then it could counter it–”

“No way,” Anthony said, shaking his head. “It’s like Charlie said. The more of us there are the easier we wind up dead, so don’t try shit to make that true.”

“But what if- if it could counter what Jack’s going through too?” David tried. “He’s sick with it, it’s contained in him right now, right? If we open it, we can release it.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying right now,” Sarah said, her voice the material of her weapon. David watched her hands take hold of the box in his grasp. “You’re not in your right mind, Ach. Let go.”

“Once it’s open, we can put it in the bag,” David scoffed. “That’ll make sure the spirit stays trapped and Jack and I will be fixed-”

She tugged it, like they were seven years old again, and David tugged it back.

“Jesus christ,” Anthony muttered. Swiftly, he pulled out a pistol, David glancing up to see the circular, hollow barrel of it.

“You’re insane,” David scoffed.

“That’d be you,” Anthony sneered. “Drop it.”

“Fine.”

David raised his hands over his head, and the box went flying behind him.

Sarah shoved him aside, Anthony raced around the bed, and David watched as it hit the ground.

A bright, tinkling sound filled the room as Anthony drew both his guns and Sarah raised her sword, both stepping back as a flickering shape rose into the air. David’s brain felt noisy, but… grounded. Clearer, feeling a bit sick though present.

“She’s in a fuckin’ tutu,” Anthony sputtered out, eyes wide. David didn’t have the clearest sight when it came to spirits’ physical forms, only a flicking outline. “She’s a dancer, and… she’s smiling.”

And Jack’s laughing hadn’t stopped.

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bu1410 · 2 months

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Good morning TUMBLR - March 8th - 2024

''Mr. Plant has owed me a shoe since July 5, 1971."

Ch. X - Antwerp – Belgium - 1989

Central Station - Antwerp - Belgium

Kasstraat - Antwerpen - Belgium

In May 1989 I accepted FOSTER WHEELER's offer for a job position at FINA NESTE refinery in Antwerp, Belgium. To tell the truth, I considered this job a filler while waiting for SNAMPROGETTI or SAIPEM I exist.....

At first I didn't want to believe it: a European destination in a splendid city, and than I was keen to see what it was like to work with a large Anglo-American company. Antwerp would shortly thereafter be, with full merit, ''European City of Culture'' for a year. Antwerp, its Flemish name, is a city of half a million inhabitants located on the Scheldt river, which after crossing the city, flows into the English Channel after few kilometers. Birthplace of Pieter Paul Rubens, whose birthhouse is now a splendid museum. I had rented an mansat in Kasstraat (Street of cheese makers) overlooking the beautiful Groote Markt, the central square of the city, where the Sunday flower market used to take place. I had arrived in Belgium with the red A112 that I had bought a few years earlier, when I was working on the construction site in Milan. The country, which I had always been considered not particularly beautiful (it was in that period that I learned of the numerous jokes coined by the French about the Belgians) had instead turned out to be not bad at all. Perhaps not very varied, just a few hills in the Ardennes area, but very tidy and sprinkled of splendid cities such as Louvain for example. Antwerp also enjoys a moderate climate, with rainy winters, yes, but never excessively cold.

THE PROJECT It involving the construction of an ethylene plant inside the already operational FINA NESTE refinery. An old methanol plant was then demolished to make room for the new one. In the meantime, the price of ethylene on the world market had collapsed, so it was already known that once finished the plant would be put into ''conservation'' (waiting for the price to rise again).

The STAFF. There were several Italians already present when I arrived, together with several Americans and British. There were just occasional relationships between the various nationalities, even if the climate on the construction site was good and jovial. The management of FOSTER WHEELER differed substantially from of the ENI group companies in terms of general organization and logistics. While with SNAMPROGETTI or SAIPEM the employee is taken in full charge by the companies - and is therefore told where to live, where to go to eat, what to do (or not do) even during hours outside of work. With FOSTER WHEELER the employee is guaranteed a monthly lump sum and than he has to manage the logistical aspects himself. However, in addition to the positive aspects, there are also responsibilities that the employee does not have with SNAM or SAIPEM. For example, after leaving Belgium, I learned that some of my former colleagues had risked arrest for not paying taxes on the part of their salary received locally. Unpleasant situations that never happened with the ENI Group. The police even went to the house of one of them at 5.00 am, with the intention of arrest him - scaring his wife and son to death for that sort of raid.

ALL RETURN TRIPS FROM BELGIUM. The fact of being in Europe and free led many colleagues without family in tow in Belgium to make trips back to Italy at the weekend, myself included. I tried any way, from traveling by car with a colleague (very tiring) to traveling by train. During one of these returns, as the train was passing through Luxembourg, I was subjected to particular treatment by the local police. At the time I was in possession of a ''double'' passport (one attached to the other) with many stamps from Arab countries. Therefore police guys politely asked to empty my suitcase in front of them - than they took me out of the compartment, closed the curtains, and reopened them only once the inspection ended. During this type of inspection by police forces from all over the world, my fear is always the same: that something illegal will be introduced into the luggage, and than create the excuse of a stop or arrest. Fortunately it has never happened to me in all my travels, but the fear of an unpleasant situation of this kind has recurred more recently during my return trips from Mexico.

It was end of November, I was in my mansart of Kasstraat and I received a phone call from an HR employee of SAMPROGETTI Milan.  ''Are you still interested in going down to Morocco for the New Agadir Airport project''?  ''Yes, I'm still interested, only 4 years have passed since you told me ''Go…go to Bahrain for a few months, until the project in Morocco is successful……''  ''Well - says the guy - since it's something urgent and you have to go there as soon as possible, come here to our Head Office in San Donato as soon as possible, to complete all the procedures''

The next day I went to Brussels, and took the SABENA flight to Milan - from Linate airport, I reached the 5th Office Building and I was introduced into the presence of Mr. Pastacci. It took just a few minutes to agree on salary, daily allowance, shifts and the fact that I would go to Morocco with my personal Range Rover - the same car that I had imported into Italy from Bahrain. Than the usual discussion on the reimbursement of expenses incurred to return from Belgium, so as not to deny the reputation of ''Office of another Company'' that the SAMPROGETTI Personnel office carried with it.  Pastacci ''I can't reimburse you for the cost of the plane ticket, perhaps the train ticket''  Me: ''Do you remember that on the phone you told me to hurry? This is why I took the plane, otherwise I would have returned by train - so please refund me the cost of the plane ticket''  Pastacci ''Okay…I'll see if I can get it to put it on his first salary…'' Something I never understood is the behaviour of HR people toward other employees. When it comes to money, it looks it's THEIR personal money, not Company's money.

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studykac · 2 years

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March 27th 2022, 19:58 55/100 DoP

- As we're officially on Easter break, I decided to treat myself to a day trip to Edinburgh!

- Visited Topping & Co. Bookshop which was so beautiful (I bought books of course I bought books).

- Went to the National Gallery of Scotland - the painting in the middle is of Achilles Lamenting the Death of Patroclus by Hamilton, and it was beautiful and massive. The collection is really nice, if slightly smaller than its London counterpart. It was such a sunny day that the skylights were making it a bit tricky to see the details of some pictures when standing too close, but stepping back and looking at the whole thing they looked stunning.

- Fed into tourist-y culture and went on a open top bus tour around the city. Most of the pictures are from that!

27. Do you have a pet? +details.

I do not have a pet. I can't have animals in my uni house, and my grandma doesn't like the idea of pets so I haven't kept a pet for the last decade. I have previously had a dog named Pitucha (she was a Lab-Russel and very small and fat bless her) and two cats, who were bequeathed to us by a family friend about a week after I was born. We moved into a house that didn't allow pets after a few years, but they lived with my godparents until they passed away (at 18 and 19 years old respectively which was amazing). In the future I'd love another cat, but I can see myself moving around a lot in the next 3 years so probably not for a while!

🎧 = Face by Woosung

📖 = The Mercies by Kiran Millwood Hargrave and Royal Assassin by Robin Hobb

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dee6000 · 3 years

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LoSlavery Is Not OUR "Original Sin" The thick lines show majority of African slaves went to Spain’s (they started trans-Atlantic slave trade) Latin American & Caribbean slave colonies, Muslim and African Countries. Few went to colony that became the US

How many times have you heard that slavery was “America’s original sin”? I’m not quite sure what that means, but I think the idea is that slavery was a uniquely horrible thing that defines the United States and will stain whites forever. It’s one of the few things Senate Minority Leader Mitch McConnell and Barack Obama agree on. There are books about it. Here’s a college course at UC Davis called “Slavery: America’s Original Sin: Part 1."

The fact is, there has been slavery in every period of history, and just about everywhere. The Greeks and Romans had it, the ancient Egyptians had it, it’s all over the Bible, the Chinese and the pre-Columbian Indians had it, the Maoris in New Zealand had it, and the Muslims had it in spades. But I have never, ever heard of slavery being anyone else’s “original sin.”

About the only societies that never had slaves were primitivehunter-gatherers. As soon as people have some kind of formal social organization, they start taking slaves.

You’ve heard about slavery and mass human sacrifices of Central and South American Indians, but North American Indians were enslaving each other long before the white man showed up.

Tlingit and Haida Indians, who lived in the Pacific Northwest, went raiding for slaves as far South as California. About one quarter of the population were slaves, and the children of slaves were slaves. During potlatches, or huge ceremonial feasts, the Tlingit would sometimes burn property and kill slaves, just to show how rich they were. What’s a couple of slaves to a guy who lives in a house like this?

When we bought Alaska from the Russians in 1867, Indians were furious when we told them they had to give up their slaves. The Tlingit carved this image of Abraham Lincoln, the emancipator, to try to shame the government into compensating them for slaves.

What were called the Five Civilized Tribes of the American Southeast happily bought black slaves. In 1860, there were 21,000 Cherokee, and they owned 4,000 slaves. And that was just the Cherokee. Many took their slaves with them when they were forced to move West.

Free blacks in the South owned slaves. The fact of having been slaves didn’t stop them from wanting to be slave masters themselves. In 1840, in South Carolina alone, there were 454 free blacks who owned a total of 2,357 slaves. Only about 20 percent of Southern households had even one slave, but 75 percent of the free-black households in South Carolina owned slaves.

Don’t believe me? It’s all in this book by the expert on the subject, Larry Koger of the University of South Carolina. And he demolishes the idea that most blacks bought slaves only to get family members out of slavery. Like whites, some were kind masters and some were mean, but, for the most part, they owned slaves for exactly the same reasons whites did.

There’s a whole book about this black guy, Andrew Durnford.

He had a plantation of 672 acres along the Mississippi in Louisiana, and close to 100 slaves. Another black slave owner in Louisiana, P.C. Richards, owned 152 slaves. Black slaveowners avidly supported the Confederacy. There are no accurate estimates of the number of slaves held by free blacks at the time of the Civil War, but they would have been tens of thousands.

If slavery is somebody’s Original Sin, it’s sure not ours. Take a look at this map of the slave trade, beginning in 1500.

[Source: SlaveVoyages.com, click to enlarge]

The thicknesses of the lines represent numbers of slaves. What became the United States imported just around 400,000 slaves—about 3 percent of all the slaves who crossed the Atlantic. Look at all the slaves who went to Brazil and to the Caribbean Islands.They needed millions because, unlike American slaveowners who raised slave families, they bought grown men and worked them to death. And let us not forget, virtually every slave on this map was caught by blacks or Arabs.

And look at all the slaves who ended up in North Africa and the Middle East.

That’s millions of them going to Muslim countries at exactly the same time slaves were crossing the Atlantic. And Arabs had been taking black slaves out of Africa, across the Sahara, for 900 years before America was even discovered—and a forced march across the desert was a lot worse than crossing the Atlantic. In this article about Africa’s first slavers—the Arabs—historian Paul Lovejoy estimates that over the centuries, Muslims took about 14 million blacks out of Africa [Recalling Africa’s harrowing tale of its first slavers – The Arabs – as UK Slave Trade Abolition is commemorated, March 27, 2018]. That is more than the 12 million who went to the New World.

And you might ask, where are the descendants of all those Middle Eastern slaves? America has millions of slave descendants. Why don’t you see lots of blacks in Saudi Arabia or Syria or Iraq? Arabs castrated black slaves so they wouldn’t have descendants.

Muslims were even more enthusiastic about enslaving white people. Christian Slaves, Muslim Masters, by Prof. Robert C. Davis is the best book on the subject. Remember the Barbary Pirates of North Africa? Between 1530 and 1780 they caught and enslaved more than a million white, European Christians. During the 16th and 17th centuries, Arabs took more white slaves south across the Mediterranean than there were blacks shipped across the Atlantic.

Mostly, Muslim pirates captured European ships and stole their crews. In just three years, from 1606 to 1609, the British navy admitted it had lost 466 British merchant ships to North African pirates [Counting European Slaves on the Barbary Coast Past & Present, August 2001]. Four hundred sixty-six ships in just three years. Arabs took American slaves. Between 1785 and 1793 Algerians captured 13 American ships in the Mediterranean and enslaved the crews. This is a 1804 battle between Arab pirates and the USS Enterprise.

It was only in 1815, after two wars, that the United States was finally free of the Barbary pirates.

Muslim pirates also organized huge, amphibious slave-catching assaults that practically depopulated the Italian coast. In 1544, Algerian raiders took 7,000 slaves in the Bay of Naples in a single raid. This drove the price of slaves so low it was said you could “swap a Christian for an onion.”

After a 1566 raid on Granada in Spain netted 4,000 men women, and children, it was said to be “raining Christians in Algiers.” Women were easier to catch than men, and were prized as sex slaves, so some coastal areas lost their entire child-bearing populations. One raid as far away as Iceland brought back 400 white slaves.

Prof. Davis notes that the trade in black Africans was strictly business, but Muslims had a jihad-like enthusiasm for stealing Christians. It was revenge for the Crusades and for the reconquest of Spain from the Arabs in 1492. When Muslim corsairs raided Europe, they made a point of desecrating churches and stealing church bells. The metal was valuable but stealing church bells silenced the voice of Christianity.

It was a tradition to parade newly captured Europeans through the streets so people could jeer at them, while children threw garbage at them. At the slave market, both men and women were stripped naked to evaluate their sexual value. In the North African capitals—Tunis, Algiers, Tripoli—there was a big demand for homosexual sex-slaves. Other Europeans were worked to death on farms or building projects.

Prof. Davis writes that unlike in North America, there were no limits on cruelty: “There was no countervailing force to protect the slave from his master’s violence: no local anti-cruelty laws, no benign public opinion, and rarely any effective pressure from foreign states.” Slaves were not just property, they were infidels, and deserved whatever suffering a master meted out.

For a man, there was a fate even worse than being a sex slave. Hundreds of thousands became galley slaves, often on slave-catching pirate ships. They were chained to their oars 24 hours a day, and could move only to the hole where the oar went through the hull—so they could relieve themselves. If the men were rowing, they fouled themselves. Galley slaves lived in a horrible stench, ate rotten food, were whipped by slave drivers and tormented by rats and lice. They could not lie down and had to sleep at their oars. Many never left their ships, even in port. Their job was to row until they died, and to be tossed overboard at the first sign of weakness.

Muslims have taken slaves for as long as there have been Muslims, which is about 1,400 years.

Mohammed himself was an enthusiastic slave trader. Muslims still take black slaves. As this article points out, Libya still has slave markets, Mauritanian Arabs take black slaves, and there is still slavery in Niger, Mali, Chad and Sudan[Libya’s slave markets are a reminder that the exploitation of Africans never went away, by Martin Plaut, New Statesman, February 21, 2018].

And, of course, it was white people who abolished slavery, both in their own countries and, except for a few stubborn holdouts, the whole world. Africans, just like the Tlingit Indians, screamed about all the wealth we made them give up.

But slavery’s still our “original sin.” As Time magazine wrote just this month about slavery “Europeans and their colonial “descendants” in the United States engineered the most complete and enduring dehumanization of a people in history."[Facing America's History of Racism Requires Facing the Origins of 'Race' as a Concept, by Andrew Curran, July 10, 2020]

What a small minority of Americans did for 246 years—and in a relatively mild form—is worse than anything that was ever done anywhere by anyone.

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the power of white privilege. I hope you are enjoying it. Watch this video:

youtube

#Youtube

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bleachbleachbleach · 3 years

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Fic: Away, Away

This was written for Day 13 of @hitsuhina-week! If you prefer, you can also read this on AO3. Which is my preference, because Tumblr keeps eating my spacing whether I use Rich Text or HTML so it looks absurd on here. >.>

Aftermath / Going on a Trip Together Hinamori Momo + Hitsugaya Toushirou Pre-Series

This will be the last time.

(Whisper it, so he won't hear.)

Every spring, Junrinan finds its way to the western mountains. (The souls of Rukongai wander.) There is no grand procession: They disperse across the vast range, often alone and sometimes in twos. They are always careful not to cause disruption, because while one soul in a forest full of spirits generally isn't worth the effort, seven is a meal.

They are three.

Soon, they will be two. Hinamori can't stop whispering her new name, hi na mo ri. It's early to be out here, but the snows were mild this year and new growth is already peeking from beneath the thick, rich leaf rot. She feels an affinity with this year's tender saplings, a feeling that grows hotter with every whispered repetition of her name. Her grandmother had given it to her, showed her how to write it. She'd studied her name harder than she had the exam.

Hinamori has an acceptance letter. In April, she is leaving.

Hinamori nearly walks straight into a nettle spirit--the hair-eating kind--draped across the game path plain as day.

"Do you wanna be bald?" Toushirou grouses as he yanks her back just in time. "I guess it fits. You're acting like a blind old man."

Hinamori blinks, brushes imagined hair from her face. It's the fifth time she's tried to walk straight through a spirit in as many days.

"Studying is bad for your eyes," says Toushirou. He doesn't care for moony Hinamori. Momo had paid a lot more attention to what was in front of her. But she's Hinamori now. At least, that's the only name she'll write, dragging her thin stick through the dirt outside the house. So that's what he calls her.

Toushirou squeezes through a bumble of pot-bellied mushroom spirits and Hinamori follows him, stepping carefully into his tracks.

"You'll need to keep reading even when I'm not around. It'll go if you don't practice," she says.

Toushirou makes a noncommittal sound.

"I'll send you letters full of kanji and quiz you on them when I visit." I'll learn how to write them pretty, she promises, just like Baachan does.

"Will you write me back?" she asks.

"Probably not."

This hurts her. But Toushirou plans to go the rest of his life without writing a single thing. It's not personal.

"Why would I need to tell you what happens in Junrinan?" he says. "You already know."

And if I forget?

Life in Junrinan doesn't change. That's what Toushirou was promised. The winters are quiet and slow, and in spring they go to the mountains. Summers are for farming, and autumns for harvest. Then winters are quiet and slow again.

Spring passes with bracken and angelica in hand. It is counted in the spirals of ferns as their number grows in the baskets. Some are dried; some are steeped. Mostly, they are sold. Many of the men in Junrinan spend springtime waking before dawn to sprint to the mountain, forage the lowlands, and return to the village for evening revelries, but Toushirou and Hinamori and their grandmother have always spent the whole of the season between the trees. The mountains prefer it when you stay.

This will be true no matter how long Hinamori is gone.

April 12th through July 20th, then our first break, she says, scratching numbers in the dirt. But Junrinan doesn't have dates the way the Academy does. She draws the way the trees will change. The change happens in a long straight line, and beyond July 20th there is an emptiness rather than a repetition. How do you draw an unwritten future?

Hinamori writes her name again.

In the spring, everything is full: Toushirou enjoys the wet green of it, the late snows and vernal flooding. The water flows down from the mountains ice cold and the forests are loud and thick with spirits.

The spirits have no names that are written and no faces that have ever stayed the same, unremembered but immemorial. They are loud. Most of them respect the borders of his body. They brush against his legs with thick wet fur or scrape his cheek with leathery wings. They coil around his throat, treating him like a tree or rock. Some of them are trees and rocks. They are the mountains and forest, just like the wandering souls of Junrinan. They all belong here, more or less.

Toushirou can see most of them. When the blurry ones pass through you, it's feverishly unpleasant for the split-second it happens and then is nothing at all. The blurry ones, Toushirou figures, aren't actually in this forest. They are like shadows at sunset, cast long and far from their bodies. Their true bodies roam a different world entirely.

That's what Hinamori wants to do.

Hinamori used to clamor for shinigami stories any time one of them passed through town. She'd been told one time that all travelers carried stories and now expected it.

The shinigami never expected her. Unless commerce was involved they didn't tend to acknowledge souls, or even look at them. So they always seemed surprised by Hinamori, like it hadn't occurred to them that they'd meet a real, full person out here. Which is fair enough, Toushirou grudgingly allows--there are plenty of souls in Junrinan so old and staid they cannot move, nor speak. (Don't touch them. It's unlucky.)

We don't talk about those.

The shinigami talk story: The story of black dye. The story of a tall bathhouse. The story of grilled meat on sticks. The story of the time they saw a noble. The story of a big fish. The story of a bigger fish. The story of the bullet train. The story of my sister, who isn't very interesting but is the only thing that comes to mind right now sorry. The story of 19th seats should be paid more. The story of the soul who wanted a story.

Almost none of the stories are about death.

"Little girls shouldn't go into those mountains," one shinigami once said, which is as close as a story ever came to it. "Nasty stuff in there. They're called Hollows, you know. Real bad guys."

The shinigami patted the sword at his hip. He'd just told Hinamori a story about the third son of a lesser noble whom everyone loved and thought deserved better than the shadows of his elder brothers. And how preposterous is it, really, that he should have to prove himself when his brothers never did? Pushed out here into the boonies, seeking honor and fame. He really feels for the guy. Don't you? Don't you?

"You seem to know a lot about 'this guy,'" Toushirou offered.

"I'm a master storyteller," said the shinigami.

I've killed a Hollow before, you know, boasted the master storyteller. He'd led a unit of twelve men into those mountains out there, which were so quiet you could hear your own heart beating. When you can hear your terror--that's when you're on the cusp of valor. His eyes lit up. I was the one who cut the mask, he said.

Twelve is obviously far too many (seven is a meal), and those mountains have never been quiet. Toushirou didn't think he'd really been.

In the spring, though, there's a dark scar where once there'd been a copse of trees. Shattered branches and burned ground. His grandmother says it smells like Hollow.

"They see things differently," his grandmother half-explains, of the shinigami and their Hollows and the silence of their mountains. Of course this would seem a different place to them.

"They're idiots," says Toushirou, though suddenly he's not sure. The scar is hair-raising, and his stomach roils. Maybe they really shouldn't be out in the woods.

"The shinigami know more than you," says Hinamori, taking his hand in hers. She grips it tightly, reassuring, or maybe annoyed. Both. She has a lot of school spirit for someone who hasn't even been yet.

But she doesn't let go of his hand, even after they've returned to the cover of the live trees, kitsune fire nestled in the brambles at their feet.

Toushirou makes the mistake of noticing a spirit that tends to linger just out of sight. It feeds on your instinct to look, and it grows higher and higher the more you crane your neck, so sure you'll be able to sneak a glimpse of it. By the time you realize the trick, you've always been had. It's very annoying.

This will be the last time.

(Scream it.)

"It's so dark out here," says Hinamori, in spite of the kitsune and all the rest. Lots of spirits glow. She is still holding his hand.

Toushirou thinks of the small lamp Hinamori had bought to study by, the wild shadows it cast on the interior walls and the way it had made all hours bright. He thinks of all the hours she hadn't slept. All because some shinigami had told her a story about a school.

Anything would seem dark by comparison. He can't remember the last time she hadn't had her lamp on when he went to bed.

Hinamori is going to snap the bones in his hand. He yelps. Tears prick in his eyes. "What's wrong with you?"

She doesn't let go, and then she doesn't let go.

"It's so quiet," she says faintly. Her free hand wavers over her heart protectively.

It's so dark. It's so quiet. Quiet enough to hear your terror.

Except it's not. It's not dark.

It's not quiet.

The forest is full, air thick with chirrups and buzzing, screeching, hooting, chittering. Bodies clack and bones shudder. Reeds whistle and something large makes a whomping, resonating tone. Foxfire hisses as it makes sparks, throws phosphorous motes that dance high above. A heartbeat glow marches up the ridged spine of a lizard spirit. The forest is as it has always been.

Toushirou's eyes widen.

"You can't hear them anymore."

To Hinamori, it is all darkness and silence.

She sinks to the ground, burying her head in her knees as though to hide from the quiet. From the black. She drops his hand.

"Momo--"

She shakes her head. She opens her hands to the sky like she's waiting for a bird to land. For a split second, a small warm flame billows from her palms.

Then the entire forest catches.

The thought had been innocent enough--to be her own light in the darkness, conquer her fear. But the forest only hears the conquering. It's the kitsune who don't take kindly to Hinamori's light. Their fire screeches up and outward and then all the spirits are in frenzy. A meal! scream some; and others, a threat! A danger to be expunged. A strange thing not of this forest, these mountains.

Outsider! the world around them hisses. Away.

away, away

Hinamori screams as the flames leap forward--the claws, the vines, the terrors and all in between. She throws herself in front of Toushirou.

Toushirou can't find his voice at all. The wide whites of his eyes feel the propulsive gust of the forest coming down on them. On Hinamori. No! he can't shout, cold fear coiling over his frozen legs and pricking at his shoulder blades. Something serpentine rushes past him and he's on the ground. His head smacks hard against a writhing tree root and he tastes bile, feels nothing.

Hears everything.

away

When he wakes, snow is falling, wet and sloppy. Kitsune are nibbling at the singed edges of a hanafuda. Hinamori is in her grandmother's arms. She's crying.

Before Hinamori started studying, with her bright lamp and her long nights and her feverish poetry scratched into the ground, before the hunger came, she'd woken one morning to a futon streaked with her blood. Her grandmother said that this was womanhood.

"The tea will stop the bleeding," she assured a tearful Hinamori as they scrubbed at her futon, pinking the waters. Toushirou beat at the stain with his feet, splashing everywhere.

"You don't have to touch it," Hinamori had said quietly, her eyes fixed on the water. "It's my mess."

"Baachan said I have to help," Toushirou objected. "Besides, am I supposed to just sit here and watch you bleed?"

Just one last time.

Hinamori isn't hurt, but she is in pain. The forest doesn't want her anymore. (She is leaving.)

"The forest sees them differently," his grandmother says, the other half of her earlier explanation. "Them," meaning shinigami. "Them," meaning Hinamori, now.

Shinigami see and are seen differently. They belong differently. Toushirou had only ever distinguished them by their black clothes, and sometimes their attitude. But his grandmother talks about reiryoku, about reiatsu, about the realms the shinigami travel through and the spirits they are blind to. The spirits that belong to different worlds than theirs, even when they're side by side. Some worlds are bound to one another, tied by fate and duty; others are repelled.

As Hinamori's reiatsu blossomed with her womanhood, slowly folding outward past her skin, beyond her body, her worlds were chosen for her. Like the bleeding, there's a tea to help this, too, but it's not the same.

There is no going back.

"What're you looking at," Toushirou scowls at her. He's not sure what to do with her pain. There's nothing he can do for her pain. But she's looking at him differently, a little less like Hinamori and a little more like the rest of Junrinan does, and that scares him.

She asks him if he'd felt anything. Something cold.

She's asked him before. Every day since the incident, she's asked him.

His answer is always the same. No. Just fear.

He should be helping his grandmother. They're here in the forest for a reason, and that hasn't changed; they have foraging to do. But he doesn't want to leave Hinamori alone.

"Don't be afraid of it, Shiro-chan," says Hinamori. Hinamori, who's now afraid of the dark.

Hinamori, who is leaving.

She doesn't have a choice. When her power comes into her she knows there is only one place she can go. It's a place she has always wanted to go. (She has always wanted to go places.) But now she has to.

She smiles.

If she is going to go, she's going to fly. She will love, and yearn, and cry. She will give all of herself to the future before her, even when it means that precious things can be only memory. If there is something Hinamori leaves in him when she goes, it's flight.

Someday, Toushirou will remember to remember that.

"Will you write me?" she asks.

(You will be written.)

She returns for the summer, then is gone again. Winter, then gone again. But she doesn't come home for the spring. They'll be going to the realm of the living. They will fight Hollows, just like the Gotei 13. She explains the meaning and stroke order of the characters, go tei, though she doesn't explain what the Gotei 13 actually is. That part must already seem obvious to her. Shinigami stuff. That's all Toushirou will ever need to know. Seems pretentious.

When Junrinan returns to the mountains this year, Toushirou and his grandmother stay behind. "It's dangerous," she says. She squeezes his shoulders.

It's dangerous now.

There is no going back.

Junrinan may not change, but life does, and by the second summer, Hinamori has mostly forgotten the shapes of the forest spirits. Toushirou is forgetting them, too.

The difference is, Hinamori has found replacements. She talks about incantations and sword stances, friendships and histories. She has been to the realm of the living. It's only been a year, and already they have nothing in common but their memories, ever-receding.

Sometimes she wakes up screaming. She doesn't say why.

Toushirou dreams of a chill ripping through him. He dreams of a place where there are no mountains as far as the eye can see.

He wakes to Hinamori.

#hinamori momo #hitsugaya toushirou #hitsuhina week #bleach fic #IT'S FOR THE CULTURE #I wanted to play with the idea of the districts of Rukongai having their own cultures and practices apart from what we know of the Seireitei #I thought it would be interesting to imagine that it's because these things are not legible/perceivable to our shinigami narrators #because their existence is tied more closely to other worlds and realms #So just like there are things that humans can't see wandering their world there are things that shinigami can't see either #👻👻👻👻👻👻#yes this is the angery fic that hates me but its deadline is today so now it is done!

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marauderssequels · 3 years

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“’...her mother Andromeda was my favorite cousin,’ said Sirius, examining the tapestry closely.” (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix)

in 1953, the second little Black girl was born. two-year-old bellatrix peered into the crib, chin already learning how to hold itself in the haughty manner her mother’s did. later, the tiny form in the cradle would learn to toddle about behind bella, following her as faithfully as her sister would ever follow voldemort.

bellatrix was her father’s daughter, and narcissa was her mother’s, but andromeda felt always caught in-between. she did not have the fair hair and dainty features of narcissa, nor the strong chin and determined build of bella. the day she stopped following bellatrix around, she learned that loyalty sometimes comes only so long as mindless obedience follows. without her little sister constantly admiring her and doing whatever she asked, bella’s proud little smile turned to a smirk whenever andromeda was near. they remained friends still for a long time after, but andromeda’s place in bella’s heart had fallen, and it would never find such high purchase again.

narcissa followed neither, imitating instead everything their mother wished her to be. andromeda could not remember a time her sister hadn’t worn gloves, mindful always of her pretty little palms. she acted out occasionally, it was true, but her fits of temper learned from her father’s stern gaze, and she became a little lady instead, spoiled and proper and everything their aristocratic family could have hoped for.

bellatrix was a leader; their father claimed he’d known it from her first wail, for even then her tone had been commanding. she led andromeda and narcissa through all matters, teaching them (though neither kindly nor patiently) how to size up one’s enemies and social prey, which families were to be associated with and which were to be ignored, who could be preyed upon and how to get away with it. narcissa practiced eagerly the subtler arts of the social games they waged against other children, while bellatrix wielded their family name as her brash blade. when that was not enough, there was always her anger, which crackled out of her like fireworks against anyone who dared challenge her. andromeda was never sure if bella meant to use her magic, or if it was like the times her own untamed magic sometimes shot out without warning.

in 1959, a little Black cousin was born. andromeda’s aunt named him sirius, and he was every bit as willful a child as bella must’ve been, once upon a time. when a screaming regulus arrived two years later, however, sirius took the mantle of brother more willingly than bella had of sister. he protected that little baby as watchfully as any two-year-old could, and andromeda loved them both.

bellatrix went marching off to school, but she did hug her sisters tightly before boarding the train. she squeezed andromeda’s hand and gave narcissa a small trinket, though she said little at the time. they watched the first of their little band ride off into a new beginning, and the two sisters went back home to tears in the night that neither would ever speak of.

bella changed, but in many ways, she stayed the same. andromeda sometimes wondered how everyone else was always so surprised by her later. the darkness in her sister had lived there forever; it blossomed, of course, but not from nowhere. she was no more unkind than she’d ever been to her sisters, not yet, but ambition was raking its iron claws through her embers and stoking up a fire.

a four-year-old sirius told andromeda she was his favorite. she laughed but hushed him, listening always for the creak of the floorboards beneath her aunt’s heels. one never knew where walburga might lurk in that ancient, miserable house.

two years later, andromeda no longer had to be left behind. she bought her school things and chose a pet and bounded up the train right behind bella.

a cold hand shot out, grabbing her wrist. a flash of black eyes, cold calculation and irritation- and then bella relaxed slightly, as though nothing had happened at all.

“we don’t sit together,” she said, releasing her grip on andromeda. she showed her sister what people she should sit with, and she was gone.

another two years passed, with bella’s attention clearly no longer so focused on her as it had been before hogwarts. but that was fine; andromeda made a few friends and learned to be a good slytherin, though already the Black name had begun to chafe up against her. narcissa joined them, and it seemed as though she became the most popular girl in her year overnight. bella had her gang of slytherins that whispered already of dark marks and vengeance, and though bella had made the invitation- several times- andromeda had no interest in joining.

eventually, bella left school and entered into the lestrange family. andromeda was the maid of honor, and for the first time in years, bella looked at her like she loved her. both knew bella did not love her husband, but for a few minutes at the reception, bella and andromeda whispered to each other at a back table, and all felt as it had been before.

sirius would be making his own trip to hogwarts before long. already, he clamored for every detail he could wring from andromeda. pranking bella and narcissa had its fun, but he loved most the stories andromeda spoke of in her letters. they’d sent her owl back and forth since he was eight, and soon, he told her, it would be his letters going to her from hogwarts.

it was her seventh year before she knew it, and a muggleborn named ted finally put the feeling she’d had as long as she could remember into sharp focus. she knew her family was wrong, but she had a reason to fight now- and she did.

1972, the last time she saw her sisters; it was the night before her wedding. the tonkses were kind people, and it was to be a muggle marriage- she’d slip smoothly into his life and his world and his family, if only her own would let it go uninterrupted. she hadn’t seen bella or narcissa since graduating hogwarts, for she’d returned to ted’s home rather than her own after that. it had been a peaceful year, and the couple had since moved out into their own flat- nothing fancy, but ted’s job was steady and her own work felt worthwhile, and they were happy. she and sirius sent their letters, and he seemed happy too, finding his own home within the gryffindors.

still, it felt like she’d been waiting to hear that crack! in the next-door park ever since she’d left. andromeda stepped out into the night and watched two figures approach, and it felt to her that no time had passed at all.

both clutched tightly the wedding invitations she’d sent them, though bella’s had clearly been through more wear. a dark ruby glittered on her ring finger, so dark it was almost black, as her knuckles whitened.

“dromeda,” narcissa breathed, as they reached her. for a moment, andromeda thought her sister would embrace her, but she remained by bella’s side.

“this is enough,” bella snapped, her harsh whisper barely an effort to be courteous of the neighbors. “this has gone on long enough- come home, andromeda.”

andromeda steeled herself- but narcissa spoke again, gentle. “I’ve spoken with Father- all will be forgotten, if you’ll only come with us. they’ve been telling people you’ve been abroad-”

“no, cissy,” andromeda said, firm. “I have not been abroad, and I am not coming ho- going back.

bella glared. those eyes could burn holes into ordinary wizards, but andromeda was not just any witch. she had seen the fury behind those black eyes and knew all too well the harsh consequences of their direction, but she stood taller than them now.

the invitation was thrust into her hand, but the bony hand seized beyond andromeda’s palm to clutch around her wrist, just as it had all those years ago. bella jerked her sister roughly forward, revealing to her and narcissa the engagement ring gleaming against her skin.

“a common sapphire?” bella laughed; it grated against andromeda’s ears. “this is what you leave us for? a pauper mudblood and his-”

“let go, bella.” controlling herself, andromeda shook off her sister.

bellatrix’s face knotted up; she did not give second chances lightly, and andromeda knew already that she would never be given a third. instead, she turned to narcissa.

of course cissy cried. cissy always cried. it was easy to get her way like that, round blue eyes filling up and that perfect little pucker- but andromeda knew her too well. that night, however, cissy did not cry as she did for their father. she simply stared, tears flowing down her cheeks as she took no notice.

too soon, bella was gripping narcissa’s arm and turning on her heel, never breaking her glare for a moment until she’d vanished into the night.

she did not tell sirius. he wrote of regulus and three wild young friends, and she spoke of the wedding he had not been allowed to attend and the baby that arrived all too soon the next may. he promised to find a way to meet little nymphadora, but she gave stern warnings against it. in the Black family, one was not allowed mistakes simply for being thirteen and foolish.

he did meet dora eventually, and loved her as easily as he’d loved regulus. she was delighted by the dark waves of hair falling around his face, and promptly changed hers to match.

he came to visit for easter holidays every year, telling his parents he was staying at hogwarts. she heard about his separation from the family when he sent an owl from a friend’s house. it stung for a moment, that he had not come to her, but it was easier to drag an unruly heir from a disgraced relative than a family like the potters. what surprised her was that they never tried; firstborn sons were not an investment that pureblood lines gave up easily. things at home must have been far more dire than he’d ever let on to her.

their uncle alphard’s death gave andromeda and sirius each a small inheritance. finally, andromeda felt that she could breathe, not having to worry about securing nymphadora’s magical education. sirius had the means to move out on his own, and he chose an apartment not far from his cousin’s.

he told andromeda in quiet words what had happened to his brother. he never spoke of regulus again after that.

she watched him and his friends join the war. she and ted couldn’t risk it, not with little dora needing them, but she checked up on sirius every week in disguise. the times were dangerous and she could no longer bring nymphadora to visit, and he used his animagus form rarely, not wanting the death eaters or the ministry to make the connection. in the short hour-long visits they snatched up, they spoke over tea of the years they would spend after the war.

it had taken their siblings from both of them. as far as blood went, they were the last real family they had to each other, and they clung to futures where sirius could take nymphadora shopping for sweets and magical trinkets.

november of 1981, remus lupin turned up at her door. the war was over and voldemort had fallen, but the headline of the paper he gave her with shaking hands told a story she could not comprehend.

the sunrises of those tea-steeped futures died that day. sirius was locked away, and nymphadora grew up with only her father’s family.

at hogwarts, dora was fed the myths and lies of the traitor sirius black and his whole death eater family. she was taught to hate every single one, and andromeda did not know how to tell the story of the cousin who had railed against them all until the day he hadn’t.

in 1974, ted called from the garden, amused by something he’d found. she squinted through the window, peering through the evening’s darkness.

and standing among the peonies, a large black dog stared back.

#sirius black #andromeda black #bellatrix black #narcissa black #regulus black #andromeda tonks #ted tonks #nymphadora tonks #alphard black #bellatrix lestrange #narcissa malfoy #black family #black sisters

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panda-noosh · 3 years

Text

the normal one {Leo Valdez x Reader}

Words: 14k

Summary: Your sister is the demigod. You’re just the unlucky one who got dragged into her mess.

Genre: angst??

Notes: support my writing or ask me about commissions! - omg happy first day of nano y’all.

---

You never knew your sister was a demigod.

Of course you didn't; it's not the kind of thought that crosses the mind of a logical individual, though it seems obvious now that you're being greeted with the proof.

Emma has never been particularly normal. She's three years older than you, and yet she carries herself like she's been through years upon years of unforgiven trauma, glaring at anyone who dares even speak to her. You used to just describe her as grumpy, not-a-morning-person, just leave her alone and you'll be fine.

Now, you're beginning to think it might not be as simple as all that.

Your day starts off pretty normal; you wake up, greeted by the sunlight streaming through the curtains you once again forgot to close over the previous night. You look down, not surprised to see you're still dressed in a pair of jogging bottoms and a loose white shirt instead of the pyjamas your sister has been trying so desperately to make you wear at night. You got ready, brushing the knots from your hair before marching downstairs.

Your mum is in the kitchen, whistling to herself, frail hands forever trembling around the pot of boiling oatmeal; you and your mum don't really talk that much. She favours Emma over you, and she's never found much point in wasting breath on the child she doesn't necessarily like. She'll smile, feed you, let you have a roof over your head, but neither of you pretend like your relationship with each other is permanent. One day you're going to move out, and your mum is never going to contact you, never going to step foot in your house, never going to give you a house-warming gift.

You're fine with that.

Emma is sat at the kitchen table, her head in her hands. It's not even that weird of a sight, considering you've always known Emma to be into the dramatics. You sit across from her, folding your arms over the table before whispering, rather loudly, "Rough night?"

Her head jerks up, revealing her wild, bloodshot eyes. "What?"

You laugh, grabbing an apple from the fruit bowl in the centre of the table. "You look like shit, Em. Where have you been all night?"

Her jaw twitches, and she doesn't respond, which is a pretty normal reply for her, especially at this time of day.

"Whatever," you mumble. "Can I borrow that fancy deodorant you bought back from that summer camp you go to?" Emma nods. You grin, banishing the conversation all together as you stand and skip upstairs.

So, yeah. The day was starting off pretty normal. Not a single worry in sight. You would go to school, mope around classes for a few hours, come home and stress eat over a pile of unfinished homework that was probably due multiple days ago.

Instead, you have to deal with the boulders being thrown through Emma's bedroom window.

The first one hits just as your grabbing Emma's fancy deodorant from her bottom drawer. There is no warning, no low whoosh sound that would give you a chance to step away and make a run for it - no. Instead, it goes straight to the shattered glass and bloodied arms. Instead, it goes straight to the boulder smashing against your hand, crushing your fingers against the wall.

You are stuck, legs crumbling beneath you. You should be slipping to the floor right now, probably unconscious, maybe dead, but your hand, trapped between the biggest rock known to man and the wall, keeps you upright. Blood leaks from gashes forming on your fingers, dribbling down your wrist, your arm, dripping onto your knees. You stare at the scene in shock for a moment, unable to register what on earth has actually just happened.

And then Emma is screaming your name, thundering up the stairs, and you're crying out, trying to form words but they get lodged in your throat, replaced by the overwhelming pain and realisation that you're going to die, you're going to fucking die on your sisters bedroom floor because there is so much blood, and there is no way in hell you won't be drained before the end of this day, probably within the next ten minutes, probably within-

The door opens. Emma barrels inside, wielding a golden sword that honestly just makes you think of course she has a golden sword.

"You son of a bitch!" she cries out, darting to her bedroom window. She stands upon the sill and waves her arms at the sky. "You got the wrong L/N, you idiot! Get back here and finish me off if you're so tough!"

"Emma," you croak, tears flooding down your cheeks. "Little help here."

"It's the giants." She leaps off the window sill and swivels round, darting to your side. Something has changed in her, something you've never seen before; she seems stronger, her eyes a little brighter yet still eerily dark at the same time.

She crouches beside you and begins manoeuvring your trapped hand back and forth. You hiss, throwing your head back as blood spurts down your arm, staining your shirt. Emma grits her teeth, keeping her eyes peeled on her work. "They've found me," she continues muttering. "We need to get out of here - all of us. You, me, Mum. They know where the house is. How did they find out where the bloody house is?"

"Can you shut the fuck up talking crazy for one second?"

Emma pays you no mind, taking a tiny knife from her back pocket and wriggling it between the wall and the boulder. "I'll have to get in touch with Chiron, tell him I'm bringing a few mortals with me to camp this summer."

You grunt. "I'm not going to some hippy-Christian summer camp with you."

"It's not a hippy-Christian summer camp." Emma swats your head, forcing you to look away from the blood dribbling down your arm. "It's a place that will keep you safe, alright? So don't argue."

"Don't tell me what to - AH!" The boulder falls, crashing to the floor. Tables rattle, things tumble off shelves, and your hand is freed. You pull it to your chest, but Emma doesn't let it go unaided for long - she grabs your wrist and tugs it back, examining the damage; your nerves have clearly been ripped, fingers cold from lack of feeling. Gashes have been made into the back of your hand, fingers torn to shreds.

She shakes her head. "I'll get Will to have a look at this."

"No, you idiot, you'll call 999 before-"

"We have to go now. That giant will be back soon enough, especially once he realises I'm taking you guys with me." Emma doesn't even give you a chance to respond before she's grabbing your good hand and dragging you from her bedroom. You hiss in pain, stumbling behind her, but there's really no point in arguing. When Emma has her mind set on something, she goes for it no matter what objections people put in place. Mum always said she gets that from her dad, but you've never met the man, so you wouldn't know.

Speaking of your dear old mother, the woman doesn't even give you a second glance when Emma drags you into the living room and shoves you onto the sofa next to her; she's frozen in fear, fingers pulled to her lips as she bites on the nails, a habit she's had for as long as you can remember.

She shakes her head, dazed. "He's coming back to me. He's sending signs."

Emma groans. Looking over, you see her with a phone pressed to her ear, big and bulky with an oversized antennae peeking from the top of it. "Mum, that wasn't Dad sending signs. That was a giant trying to kill me."

You blink, certain your blood loss is contributing to this wild conversation somehow. "A giant? Your dad?"

Emma raises a finger, telling you to be quiet. Mum whimpers at the movement and goes back to chewing her nails, gazing steadily out the window. She looks terrified, but her knee is bouncing in that way it always does when she's excited. You've given up trying to understand her. In fact, you've given up trying to understand your entire family.

So you just sit there, trying to fight off the black spots dotting your vision and the blood dribbling through your fingers; you don't know why Emma hasn't called 999 yet, considering you're basically on the verge of unconsciousness, but your throat is too dry to ask. Instead you listen as she says, "Leo! Where are you? Are you close?" and then she sighs in relief, and within three minutes, there's a knock on the door and she's barrelling out of the living room to grab it.

You look up, dazed, when she returns with a small curly haired boy in tow. He's a bit scruffy, you have to admit, but in a cute way, like a bunny with a bit of dirt on its nose.

"Not really the time for guests, is it, Em?" you grumble, before falling face first into the floor.

---

You wake up, and immediately wish you hadn't.

Emma always messes things up - always.

Her life has to be so damn dramatic all the damn time, and you're getting pretty damn sick of being dragged into it. All you want to do is sit in bed with a nice blanket and a cup of tea, maybe practice a bit of witchcraft, maybe sink into the dirt and become one with nature.

You don't want to be hunted down by rabid, murderous giants, that's for sure.

You also don't want to be trapped in a hospital bed at some hippy-Christian camp you don't even know the name of. But that's exactly what has happened.

When you open your eyes, you're greeted by the sight of white, cloth walls and multiple eager faces gazing down at you. Most of them have blonde hair and the brightest eyes you have ever seen, and then there's that curly haired boy, and Emma herself, and there's a guy who is half horse-

"Oh god, this is death. I've died."

"She's awake!" the curly haired boy - Leo, you remember - cries, throwing his hands in the air. "Good job, Apollo kids! Another point for you!"

"Shut up, Leo." One of the many blonde haired kids steps forward and places the back of his hand against your forehead; in any other situation, you might have pulled away and told him to step back, but the feel of his skin against your own is surprisingly soothing. It's almost against your will when you melt into it, eyes gliding shut. Your hit with images of you and Emma as children, running through fields, her punching that guy in the nose because he called you short that one time, and-

He snatches his hand back, startling you back to reality. "The fevers definitely going down," he says, turning to Emma.

"Uh, excuse me," you chirp, raising a timid hand. "She's not my legal guardian, I'll have you know." You glance at Emma. "Where is my legal guardian, by the way?"

Emma rolls her eyes, and that's answer enough.

"Ah. Frollicking in the leaves again?"

Emma hums. "I left her to it; we have bigger things to worry about than her love life."

"That's a bit morbid, Emma," says Leo. "Love is a magnificent thing."

"So is me not dying," you say, before turning back to the blonde haired boy. "Can I leave?"

The boy blinks, staring at you like you have two heads. It almost makes you uncomfortable, but his eyes are so pretty, and the way his palm felt against your forehead-

Leo shoves to the front. "Will here is gay, Y/N. Stop staring."

You look away, flustered. "I wasn't even staring."

"Yeah, you were. I see that look of lust on people all the time - I get it a lot, to tell you the truth."

You look at his curls, the oil on his tattered overalls, the dirt smothering both his cheeks, nose and hands.

"I'm sure you do, big guy. I'm sure you do."

Will sighs, shoving Leo out the way again. "I'm gonna do a final check up before I let you leave; I can't give mortals any nectar or ambrosia, so the healing process might take-"

Awkwardly, Emma coughs. The entire tent goes silent, turning to her with raised brows and narrowed eyes, but all you can focus on is Will's strange choice of vocabulary. Nectar. Ambrosia. Those don't sound like common prescription pain meds.

"Emma..." Will drawls. "What have you-"

"I'll talk to them," Emma mumbles. "Can you guys just give us a minute?"

You grab Will's hand. "Please don't leave me alone with her."

Will gives you a timid smile, squeezing your hand gently before he, Leo and all the other blonde haired strangers exit the tent, leaving just you and Emma to your own devices.

And honestly, Emma's your best friend. She means the world to you. She's the one person in that god forsaken house that actually pays you any attention, and it doesn't even matter that she's the favourite, that Mum basically licks the ground she walks on for a reason you have yet to pinpoint. You love Emma with all your heart, but right now, you would rather be anywhere but in her presence.

You pull the quilt up to your chin and say, "I'm very confused."

Emma pulls a stool over and takes a seat. "I know. I should have explained. I need to explain."

"Yes, you do."

She hollows out her cheeks, which only makes your fear spike - you've never seen Emma act like this. She's usually so brave, bold, confident. She doesn't do a single thing without planning it out perfectly beforehand, and yet here she is, looking completely stumped. You almost feel bad for her until you remember the way she completely ignored your pleas for her to call 999 when you were fairly certain you were bleeding out.

"Well?" you push. "Go on, Em. I'm listening."

Emma sighs, scrubbing a hand down her face. "Do you have any idea where we are right now?"

"Absolutely none. There was a guy with a horse body-"

"That's Chiron. He's a centaur."

You blink. "Okay."

"This place is called Camp Half-Blood; it's where I go to every summer."

"Well, I assumed."

"It's a camp for Half-Bloods. Demigods. People who are half-god, like. . . like me. Like Leo, and Will, and probably loads of other kids, too."

It's starting to get jumbled now, a string of words that don't form to make a coherent, sensible sentence.

You don't even respond, simply staring at Emma until she is forced to continue.

"It sounds insane, I know, but I'm not lying. I'm a demigod, Y/N, daughter of Ares."

It goes silent, because of course it does. What are you even meant to say to that? The logical part of you says to just call her out on her lies, ask her where the hell you actually are and where Mum is and why she brought you here in the first place. But the other half recognises that Emma being the daughter of a war god kind of makes perfect sense.

In your conflicted state of disbelief, you say neither of those things. Instead, you look at Emma and say, "Mum hooked up with a god?"

Emma breathes a laugh, closing her eyes. "Yes, little one, she did."

"And she couldn't have done the same thing when she was conceiving me?"

Emma winces. "I don't want to talk about Mum conceiving either of us, thank you very much."

You shake your head. "So that's why she's always hated me."

"Mum doesn't hate you-"

"I'm the repair kid. I'm the one who-"

Leo pops his head in the door. "Did someone say repair kid?"

Emma looks up, giving Leo a tired little wave. "You can come back in now. Y/N's all caught up."

"Oh, happy days!" Leo marches in and reaches for your good hand, giving it a vigorous shake. "Leo Valdez, son of Hephaestus. Nice to properly meet you."

"Y/N L/N, child of - uh - that guy from McDonalds.

Emma stands up quickly, grabbing Leo's shoulders as his eyes narrow. "Alright! Now that we've got the niceties out of the way, I think it's time we let Will back in here so he can do his final check up. Sound good?"

"Sounds fantastic," you mumble, sinking down into the pillows. "Bring the nice looking blonde boy to me now, please."

----

Camp Half-Blood kind of looks like a dream scape. But a really bad one.

A nightmare-scape.

There's sword fighting, and teeny tiny girls in green dresses that get wildly offended when you call them Tinkerbell. There's people riding around on winged horses like it's no big deal, and you're almost certain it was raining when you left the house earlier, so why is it sunny and warm right now?

Leo is the one who greets you when you're finally allowed to step out of the tent - the infirmary, apparently, run by the kids of Apollo. All of them were really nice. They all had really nice hands.

"You're looking fresh," Leo says, tucking his hands in his pockets as the two of you stroll across camp together. "Will and his siblings really know what they're doing, huh? I had my doubts, with you being a mortal and all. I don't know how often they work on people like you."

You shrug. "It was just a bit of nerve damage in my hand."

"You passed out."

"I blanked. It happens to the best of us."

Leo's lips twitch. It shows you just the briefest hint of dimples, and you hate that it immediately turns your tough-guy demeanour to mush. It seems like you have a soft spot for demigods. You look away quickly, tucking your hands - bandage and all - into your pockets. It's this movement that seems to tilt Leo's attention to the clothes you're wearing, all of which are smothered in your own blood.

Pleasant.

He grimaces, stopping dead in his tracks. You would continue walking, being an independent mortal and all that, but you don't know your way around this place, and you'd rather not accidentally walk into a fighting arena. So, you stop and look back at him. "What's wrong?"

"You need a change of clothes, my friend."

You blink. "No, I don't think-"

"They might be a bit big on you, but I have the perfect pair of overalls you could borrow. Come on. To Bunker 9 we go."

He starts walking away before you even have a chance to protest. It really puts the fear of god - gods? - in you, because at that very moment, a winged horse slams into the floor at your side. You squeal, immediately sprinting after him, and the bastard doesn't even turn back to look at what has just startled you. He merely grins, cocky and annoying, and says, "Yeah, stick with me and that won't happen."

You grunt, knowing he's right.

The two of you arrive at Bunker 9 in no time. It's like an old bomb shelter, with tin walls and a door that looks like it's about to fall off it's hinges. You make a joke about why Leo can't just fix the hinges, considering he's a machine expert and all that, and Leo rolls his eyes and says, "I'm busy enough as it is."

The room lights up without a switch needing to be flipped, which you think is pretty cool.

"My school used to have lights like that," you point out, gazing up at the ceiling. "They were motion censored."

"Mm. They're handy little things until you haven't moved in fifteen minutes and they switch off whilst you're still standing there. The amount of times I've nearly put a screw through my finger." He shakes his head, tossing aside discarded tools in his search for the overalls he promised you. "Mental."

You pluck at a random copper wire hanging out of a drawer. "So, is this like. . . your dorm room?"

"Hm?" Leo looks at you. "Oh, no. I don't sleep in here - I sleep in the Hephaestus cabin. I'm the head counsellor, so I have to keep an eye on things, you know."

You raise a brow. "Is your bed more comfy in the Hephaestus cabin?"

"That, too." He blushes, lowering his eyes back to his search. "But honestly, my job is pretty important. I've got to keep that place running, keep all my siblings in check."

"I'm not being funny, if Emma tried telling me what to do, I would tell her to piss off."

Leo scoffs. "Yeah, I got that vibe off you."

"So how do you do it?"

Leo pauses, glancing over his shoulder."How do I do what?"

You push yourself up onto the counter, ignoring the saw dust that now litters your hands and the back of your already ruined jeans. "How do you get them to listen to you? You don't look to be much older than I am - surely you have older siblings in that cabin of yours. It can't be easy getting them to fall into line, too."

Slowly, Leo turns. He leans against the chest of drawers he has been digging through, regarding you with a single raised brow. His gaze is hard, but you keep the eye contact, smiling just the tiniest bit.

He doesn't respond with words. Instead, he stretches his hand out, palm towards the ceiling, and uncurls his fingers, revealing a bright orange flame dancing in the centre. It doesn't make you jump as it probably should have; instead, you are mesmerised, caught in the slick movements of the tiny ball of fire.

You slowly reach out. Leo slams his hand closed and pulls back. "You can't touch it."

"I wasn't going to."

"You were fully going to touch it."

You scowl, folding your arms over your chest. "What was the point in showing me that?"

He turns on his heel, going back to digging through the chest of drawers. "That's why I'm head counsellor - no other child of Hephaestus can do that." He glances at you. "You don't think it's weird?"

"Well, yeah - very weird." You shrug. "But who am I to judge? I can do this thing where I dislocate my shoulder, and that's pretty weird, too."

Leo blinks, mouth opening like you've caught him off guard. He swipes his tongue along his lower lip before he turns away and mumbles, "Yeah. That is pretty weird."

Bunker 9 is doused in silence after that. Leo rummages through his drawers as you inspect every nook and cranny of the place, running your fingers along the tin walls, picking up tools you have never seen before; you can feel Leo watching you from the corner of his eye, probably making sure you're not stealing anything. Honestly, the golden screwdriver set is pretty tempting, but you wouldn't want to risk getting on a demigod's bad side.

Finally, after what feels like far too long, Leo pops his head up, grinning broadly with a set of overalls in his hands. "Found them!" He tosses them at you with no warning; you just barely manage to catch them. "They got shrunk in the wash, so I was gonna rip them up for hand towels in here, but I'm sure they'll be more useful for you."

You pull them into your chest. "They smell like oil."

Leo spreads his oil stained hands. "Yeah, well, that's how life is, love. I'll let you get changed - I promise I won't peak!"

Laughing, he leaves Bunker 9; his footsteps stop there, though, and there's a glimmer of relief when you realise he isn't just walking away and leaving you to your own devices.

You get changed quickly, bundling your blood stained clothes into a ball and shoving them beneath your arm - you don't know where you can possibly wash them, but you refuse to leave this camp in Leo's old overalls. First of all, they're much too big on you, pooling over your feet despite Leo's own small stature. The striped shirt he gave you to put underneath it has oil spots embedded in it, too, which just makes you look like even more of a slump. Nonetheless, you throw open the door to Bunker 9 with your arms outstretched and call out, "How do I look?"

Leo peaks his head around and freezes.

You drop your arms, rolling your eyes. "Don't be so dramatic. This isn't a romance movie."

His nose erupts into flames. He yelps, swatting the fire away before he awkwardly coughs and says, "Good. You look good."

You grin. "Thank you. Do you have any idea where I can put these?" You offer up your pile of clothes. Leo takes them from your hands and tosses them over your shoulder, back into Bunker 9. You frown. "Do you have a washing machine in there?"

"It won't take me long to rig one up. I'll have them washed before you leave, don't worry." He offers his arm, grinning yet again. "Now, how about we go up to the dining pavilion and get some food? I'm starving!"

----

Leo did not know one of his best friends was related to such an attractive individual.

It wasn't really that big of a shock when he walked in and saw you sitting there in the living room, looking dazed and out of it with blood dribbling from some pretty severe cuts in your hand. Emma had rang him and filled him on all the details, so there was no surprise at the scene. And plus, Emma's not exactly ugly. She has that rough look to her, sure, but Leo would probably date her if she asked him. Again, it wasn't much of a surprise when he walked in and saw you there, all pretty with the innocence only a mortal could have.

But then he got a glimpse of your personality.

No. Scratch that. He got an entire bucketload of your personality, and he was still craving more by the end of it.

He tried his hardest to fight off these feelings, because he's felt them before - with almost every person he finds attractive, in fact. He gets it lodged in his head that he can impress them, that this is the one and he can make it work if he just tries hard enough. It's kind of hard not to think that way - hopeful, desperate, almost - when all his friends are hooking up and getting boyfriends and girlfriends, generally just having the time of their damn lives. And Leo is just. . . making machines.

But then the two of you went and had dinner together, and he found himself asking if you wanted to go for a walk along the lake before you would have to go to bed. You had agreed, and the conversation had continued, and Leo has never laughed so much in his entire life.

You tell stories of these little memories you have with Emma, enjoying the embarrassing little details you add in whenever you can. Leo struggles to imagine the daughter of Ares being anything close to the Emma you're describing, but he can tell in the passion of your words you're not telling lies.

"What about you, though?" he asks.

Your hands drop to your side, smile curving. "What about me?"

"Well, you're going on about Emma and all the cool stuff she used to do - what about you, though? What have you been up to?"

It's a pretty simple question in Leo's mind; with his ADHD brain, he is able to come up with a million different answers on the spot.

You, however, look at him with a raised brow. He stares right back.

Finally, you crack and say, "Uh. . . I've been doing some school work, I guess."

Leo blinks. "You go to school?"

"I do indeed. I'm studying psychology, but it's really difficult, so I might drop it."

Leo nods like he understands, even though he doesn't. All he really remembers of his school days is him sitting in the back of the classroom plotting his next escape. "Interesting," he says. "Does Emma go to school?"

"She's doing an apprenticeship at some mechanics place. She dropped out when she turned sixteen."

"Naughty."

You shrug. "She does what she wants. I would love to drop out, but Mum would flip." Leo glances at you; the mention of your Mum seems to be something a little heavy, as your smile immediately dips, your shoulders slumping. Leo knows he probably shouldn't pry, but he's Leo, so he does anyway.

"Is your mum tough on you?"

"No. She's not tough at all. She's not light, either. She just. . . lives with me, I guess."

"She just lives with you?"

You inhale, looking out over the lake. For a moment, Leo thinks you might start crying, but then he shakes that thought out of his mind, because you don't seem like the type to cry in front of a stranger, and that's really all Leo is, which is why he shouldn't expect you to open up to him right now, not if this is something you don't want to-

"Mum only had me because she wanted to see if she could get over Emma's dad." You wince. "Ares, I guess."

Leo pauses. His fingertips start glowing, a sign of his anger, but he shoves them in his pockets and dispels the flames before you see them. "That's horrible."

You shrug halfheartedly. "It's fine. She was crazy about the guy from what I've heard - it's why Emma's her favourite. She's the only piece of him she has left, really."

"But that doesn't mean-"

"You don't have to tell me she's a bad mother, Leo. I know. I've known from day one; I've just gotten used to it." You pick up a rock and toss it into the lake. "Honestly, we're better off out of each other's hair anyway; put us in a room together and make us talk, we'll probably burn the house down."

Leo doesn't know how to respond; he's never felt like that. Ever. Even with his dad, there's always been some level of affection there, even though his dad is a Greek god who only pops in when he wants something; Hephaestus has never straight-up ignored him, never made his favouritism clear.

Leo finds he wants to punch something, and not even the steady whisper of the lake can calm him down. He walks a little bit behind you as the silence settles, you picking up random rocks and tossing them into the water, apologising profusely when the eighteen tentacled octopus pokes its head up and yells at you.

Your calmness makes it even worse, though, because that lets Leo know that this treatment is something you've grown used to. You've never known any different.

----

Three days in, and Emma still insists on keeping you at Camp Half-Blood.

"You're not leaving until that giant is dead, and that might take a while."

You drape your arm over your forehead, still sprawled across her bed in the Ares cabin. It's a pretty musty cabin, to be fair, but you won't mention that when all of Emma's siblings are glaring daggers at you. "Do you have any idea how many assessments I'm missing? Mr Wrightchuck is gonna be furious with me, and I do not have the mental energy to deal with his shit right now."

Emma throws a pair of shorts at you. "Shut up and fold those for me."

You grunt, sitting up and getting to work; you've decided to make yourself at least a little bit useful around here. These people were nice enough to offer you accommodation, even though it's clear being around mortals isn't exactly their everyday routine. The amount of times you've hissed in pain because of your hand and been offered a chunk of ambrosia is uncountable.

"So," Emma starts suddenly, taking you by surprise; she hardly ever initiates conversations, preferring to brood in her own head when she can get away with it.

You look at her, sitting cross legged on the floor in front of the bright pink laundry hamper she stole off your Aunt Grace. She's not even looking up, lips pursed, eyebrows raised as if expecting you to fill in the blanks from that single word.

"So, what?" you push. "What did I just say, Emma? I don't have the mental energy-"

"You and Leo have been hanging out an awful lot these past few days."

You pause. That certainly wasn't what you had been expecting to hear.

"Uh. . . I suppose. He's a cool guy. Cool fire, and stuff." You wriggle your fingers, imitating flames, though Emma's sideways glare makes you mumble an apology and drop your hand to your side. "Is there something wrong with Leo and I being pals?"

"Leo's a very. . . hopeful boy," Emma replies. "He tends to get lost in his own fantasies sometimes."

You blink. "What, like kinks?"

Emma groans, throwing some socks at you. "No, you idiot! When he likes someone, he tends to get a little carried away. It's quite sad to see, actually."

"What does that have to do with me and him being friends?"

Emma glances at you; you recognise that look. It makes your stomach curl, heat rising to your cheeks. You look away, coughing awkwardly into her shirt before you mumble, "No. No, absolutely not. Leo doesn't like me that way."

Emma shrugs, grin spreading across her face. "Maybe, maybe not. I'm just saying, if you don't like him that way, try and break the illusion as soon as possible. It's easier to just rip the bandaid off."

"You're heartless."

"I'm a daughter of Ares, Y/N. We don't bullshit people. We say it how it is."

You scowl, snatching another set of trousers from her wash pile and getting to work, trying to ignore the thump of your heartbeat, which suddenly seems to have sped up a fair bit.

----

You lose track of how long it has been since you last saw your mother.

This happens sometimes, these long stretches of time when neither of you will acknowledge the other person; it's easier that way, just pretending she doesn't exist, just pretending the house is empty besides you.

You've been caught up in camp activities these past few weeks. Your hand is starting to heal, the nerves tingling, which Will says is a good sign. You've been talking to other campers, learning more and more about the world Emma has kept hidden from you for so long, a world that fascinates you, a world you will never want to be properly part of.

Now, however, you see her. Sitting on her own by the lake, knobbly knees pulled into her chest, dazed eyes locked on the swirling water in front of her. The little sea creatures have long since hidden, probably put-off by the presence of a stranger, but your mother doesn't seem to care. She just sits all on her own, long hair billowing out behind her as the moon begins to rise in the distance.

You lean against a tree just a little bit behind her and say, "Are you not cold?"

She doesn't even flinch, like the voice of her child has no effect on her whatsoever. Instead, she digs her fingernails into the dirt and grabs a handful of stones, lobbing them into the lake.

You sigh and crouch down next to her; she smells of sweat and dirt, a sure sign that she hasn't been taking much care of herself these past few weeks. "Let's go back to the Big House, Mum. You're gonna get hypothermia out here."

"He will protect me," she replies. "He's always protecting me."

"You mean Ares? Emma's Dad?"

"He's protected me from day one; he loves Emma and I. He's just busy."

You swallow, staring at the side of her face. "I'm sure he does, Mum. But he's clearly running a little late right now, so he's asked me to come make sure you get wrapped up before the wind eats you alive." You gaze at the trees. "Which I'm pretty sure is a thing that actually happens here."

Finally, your mum gazes at you, lower lip trembling. "I just want him to talk to me."

You freeze; it's most unlike your mother to talk like this, especially to you. She rants and raves about Ares to Emma, but she barely pays you any attention when it comes to things like this. You don't really know how to handle it, whether you should comfort her and tell her Ares loves her - this Greek god, surviving somewhere on Mount Olympus, overlooking the entire world. Yes, of course he still loves her. Of course he does.

But the other half of you just doesn't want to lie. You don't want to get her hopes up any more than they already are, because anyone with a brain will be able to see that Ares has long since forgotten about the mortal woman he apparently fell in love with, and the daughter they created together.

So, you grab your mum's hand and drag her to her feet. She slumps against you like a child having a tantrum, and you have to basically lift her off the floor to get anywhere. Nonetheless, you eventually have her standing, and together, you walk up the hill, back to the main camp.

It's dark, probably past curfew, but campers are still walking about. Mostly the Apollo cabin, never off their feet with the casualties they have to tend to in a day, though there are other campers enjoying a late night cup of hot chocolate by the fire, laughing merrily. They don't notice you walking up the hill, don't notice your mum mumbling to herself, words you can't even grasp being right beside her.

"The Ares cabin," your mum suddenly blurts.

You pause, nearly stumbling over your own two feet as your head whips around to the direction she is now staring, eyes wide.

"Yes, Mum," you grumble. "That is the Ares cabin - now, can we keep moving before my fingers fall off?"

"Is that where you've been sleeping these past few weeks?"

You narrow your eyes. "What? Yes, Mum, it is; Emma lets me sleep with her, now can we please-"

"He isn't your father."

You stop dead in your tracks; oh no. You've heard this line of speech before, and it's never pleasant. Mum gets angry, enraged, when she thinks you're trying to take on the same status as her beloved Emma, daughter of the war god. She likes to keep you in your place, which is a good few tiers below everybody else, apparently.

"I know that," you say quickly. "Emma was just nice enough to lend me her bed so I didn't have to sleep in the Hermes cabin - you know I don't know my way around here, so-"

"He wouldn't like you sleeping amongst his children. He told me."

"He what now?"

She shakes out of your grip, gritting her teeth. Her eyes are wild, dilated beyond anything you've ever seen, and when she next speaks, the words are a cry. "He told me!" She shakes her head, gripping the strands of hair between trembling fingers. "He's so mad at me, Y/N; he told me it was disrespectful to have a child with another man. He said he would burn you to the ground if you stepped out of line. He said he would kill you, just to teach me a lesson for going behind his back!"

You blink. You're used to this. You're meant to be used to this, but holy mother of god - gods? - you don't know what she's on about. You've never heard her talk like this. You've never heard her speak of your death before, and the words coming from her mouth are so eerie, so fucking terrifying that you stumble back, hands trembling, tears rushing to the surface.

"You crazy bitch."

She laughs, loud and clear so the entire camp's attention turns directly to her. "That's what he said! He called me insane, and then he said he loved me and gave me a child - and that child certainly wasn't you."

"Mum, what are you-"

"He talks to me sometimes, you know." She nods, hands still buried in her hair, tugging her eyes back so she looks demented. "In my head, he talks. We have little conversations, but he's been so much more talkative since we arrived here, like this place really is my home." She releases her hair, eyes dimming. "But you're not meant to be here; he told me that, too. He said Emma and I were welcome amongst his kind, but not you - not a bastard like you."

You look around; all the demigods are on their feet now, staring at the scene in confusion. It's embarrassing, absolutely mortifying to suddenly be the centre of their attention, especially under such circumstances.

"Okay," you croak out. "Okay, that's fine - I'll go, then. Leave you and Emma here. I don't mind, Mum. You don't have to get angry."

Mum's nostrils flare. "It's not me who's angry - it's him-"

"Well, tell him that he doesn't have to get his godly bollocks in a twist, because I'm leaving." You raise your hands in faux surrender, taking a few tentative steps back. "I'm leaving, and you'll never have to see me again."

The words hurt, but they're the truth - especially now. Mum doesn't respond, merely stares as you take a few more steps backwards, turn on your heel and dart towards the Ares cabin, fighting desperately to push the tears away, because crying is stupid.

This is just your mum being. . . your mum, just as she's always been. Sure, her words tonight were a little harsher than you're used to, but her neglect has given you thick skin, thick enough to take her words on the chin.

You see the Ares cabin, and run right past it towards the lake. You nearly slip in the mud on your way down the hill, catching yourself before finally crumbling to the floor against a tree by the lake side.

You'll take her words on the chin, but you'll cry over them first.

----

When Leo hears the news, he's pretty sure his blood turns to fire.

He's half-asleep, but that doesn't stop his understanding of Will's words, his descriptions of the scene he just witnessed at the camp fire.

And the thing is, after hearing all the things your mum has done to you, Leo isn't even surprised to hear it's finally boiled over.

Doesn't make him any less angry.

He storms out of the Hephaestus cabin wearing nothing but his pyjamas. He feels the heat beneath his skin, threatening to break the surface as he forces it down, gritting his teeth. He's half tempted to turn to the Big House to give your mum a piece of his mind, but his main concern at the moment is you, and where you've gone, and where you plan on going, because according to Will, your last words to her were "I'm leaving, and you'll never have to see me again." That's a horrible thought. Leo doesn't want to think about that.

He heads to the lake, because according to Will, that's the direction you were running, and Leo knows how much you like the lake; it calms you down, you said, and he stored that piece of information in his brain for weeks, as if in preparation for this very moment.

He stops at the top of the hill and gazes down, lighting up the darkness with a ball of fire cupped in the palm of his hand. You don't flinch at the sudden intrusion, instead curling into a tighter ball against the roots of a tree, burying your head in your knees. The sight breaks his heart. He swallows, slowly waddling down the hill, careful not to fall in the dirt.

You don't look up when he finally arrives at your side. "Y/N."

"Who told you?"

Leo crouches. "Will. He said you seemed upset."

"That's literally nobody's business."

Leo sighs, slumping against the tree beside you; his shoulder brushes your own, and for a moment, you stiffen against his side. "You don't have to tell me what happened if you're not cool with that," he says. "I'm not being nosy or anything."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm really not. I just wanted to make sure that witch didn't hurt your feelings too bad." He pauses. "What did she actually say?"

Your head snaps up, eyes blood shot, lips dry. "Ah, see! You are just being nosy!"

He swats your arm, scowling. "Be quiet, no I'm not; but how am I meant to help you if I don't even know what happened?"

"I never said I wanted help, Leo. My mum not caring about me isn't something that can just be helped." And you didn't even realise those were the words you were going to say, because they sound so heartbreaking, so self-pitying, even though they're the truth. You've always just brushed your mothers behaviour off as normal, the only hand you've ever been dealt, but phrasing it in that way, claiming she doesn't care . . . something about that makes your heart break.

Your lower lip trembles before you can stop it, fresh tears springing to the surface. You remember holidays, catching Emma wrapping up gifts of her own to give to you, just so you could wake up to something on Christmas morning. You remember making your own Halloween costume because your mother spent all her money on Emma's. You remember thinking it was okay, because it was all you ever knew.

You're older now, though. You can recognise mistreatment when you see it, but it's still a blow to the chest realising that you were on the other end of it, that you're a victim, whether you want to deny it or not.

Leo notices your sudden change of emotions and immediately lurches forward. His fingers are hot, almost scalding when they make contact with your arm, his brown eyes burning holes into your own. His eyebrows are furrowed when he says your name in a whisper, just your name, like nothing else needs to be said.

You close your eyes. "I'm fine."

"I wish you'd stop saying that. It's starting to grate on my skull, and I can't afford that kind of damage."

You let out a breath of a laugh, just because you think it's appropriate; in truth, you find none of this funny. You want to curl up and cry. You want to leave Camp Half-Blood and everything it stands for, start a life away from demigods and Greek gods alike.

What's stopping you?

Leo's hands heat up on your arm, forcing you to look at him again. He's closer now, head tilted, all amusement flushed from his features, which is a sad enough sight on it's own. It's been two seconds, but you already miss that sparkle in his eyes.

"Hey," he says quietly. "Talk to me."

And you do. You don't know why, but you do. The words pour out like a broken faucet, a complete mess of incoherence's that Leo - and only Leo - would ever be able to understand. He nods along like the words are making sense, like these sentences aren't just complete gibberish.

When you finish explaining everything that happened down at the camp fire, you gasp, starved for air. Leo grabs your hand and tugs you forward, cupping your face in his attempts to calm you down; you didn't realise the tears had started pouring, didn't realise you're breathing heavily, totally lost, unable to catch a breath.

"Calm down," he mumbles. "Y/N, calm down. I'm here. I've got you, pal, I've got you."

You close your eyes, leaning into his palm. He traces his thumbs along your cheeks before slowly, slowly, slowly running his hand over your ear, tucking a strand of hair back. His eyes never leave your face, despite the state you know you are in, how awful you must look.

"I'm sorry," you choke out. "I didn't mean to. . . to get so worked up."

"Don't be stupid," he replies. "Did she really say all that to you?"

"She's not in her right mind out here. She thinks she's one of you guys, that she can be part of the group just because-"

"Because she slept with Ares?"

You laugh, exhausted. "Yes, exactly."

Leo rolls his eyes, finally letting his hands drop back to his sides. "Honestly, everyone and their grandfather has probably slept with Ares. She's nothing special, and she needs to get that through her head." He pauses. The air crackles. "But - uh - you're, you know, special. Very special."

You blink, certain you heard him wrong. The words don't really make sense in this context, so you're trying to disentangle them.

Finally, you crack and say, "What?"

Leo rubs the back of his neck, glancing awkwardly over his shoulder. Over the hill, everything is silent as Half-Bloods sleep, unknowing to the panic attack that has just captured you, unknowing to the magic Leo has just cast to calm you down.

"I said you're special," he mumbles. "In a good way, I mean. Like, a really good way."

Your heart thunders. "Thank you?"

"You're welcome." He looks at you then, chirping up. "But seriously, don't let her get to you. She's just a love sick psycho who doesn't know when to back down. Clingy ex-girlfriend and all that."

He changes the topic so swiftly it nearly gives you whiplash. You stare at him for another moment, and just when you're about to open your mouth to continue the previous, deserted conversation, Leo stands and reaches his hand out. "Shall we go before Hedge thinks there's some funny business going on?"

You nod dumbly, taking his hand only because you don't know what you want to say in response to what he has just said - he called you special, and he said it like it was just. . . normal, like it was something you could slip in without any further questions being asked.

You try and let the subject drop as Leo leads you back into camp. He walks you to the door of the Ares cabin, and it is there that he turns to you and says, voice low, "You can sleep in my cabin if your mum is in there; Chiron won't mind, and I won't either."

"No, it's okay," you reply. "Mum's staying in the Big House; I'll just slip in next to Emma." You glance at him, his eyes meeting yours because he never looked away. He looks so sweet beneath the lantern light, flames dancing across his skin like they were always meant to be there, like Leo has lived his life in fire and came out smiling every time. "Thank you, Leo; you really didn't have to help me tonight."

He scoffs. "Don't be daft. Next time you have any issues, I want you to run to me instead of the river naiads, you hear?"

You smile and nod. "I hear."

And so, Leo and you bid each other goodnight, and you watch as he walks across camp, past the Hephaestus cabin, right in the direction of Bunker 9. Half of you wants to go after him, question him on his use of the word special earlier on, but you don't. Your limbs are heavy with exhaustion, and so you turn on your heel and head into the Ares cabin, unable to stop the tiny smile that forms on your face.

----

Bunker 9 looks very nice in the morning.

"Oh, the tin is just glistening!"

Leo yelps, dropping a spanner on the ground as he whirls around. His overalls are covered in oil, along with his face, arms, legs, and every other body part that is presented to you on this fine Monday morning. In your hand is a plate of steaming cinnamon buns that Leo's eyes immediately fix upon, his startled expression quickly being replaced by one of pure hunger. You're almost certain you see his mouth salivating.

You tug the plate back, holding one arm out. "Not so fast, Fire Boy."

He frowns. "What did you just call me?"

"No cinnamon buns for you until you tell me how many hours of sleep you got last night."

Leo raises a brow, a tiny smirk making an appearance. "Are you kidding?"

"Nope. I want the details, Valdez, or these cinnamon buns are all mine."

"That's really unfair, and very unnecessary. A body like mine was made to work off two hours sleep."

Your eyes widen. "Two hours? Leo!"

"Can you just hand me my breakfast already?"

You groan, but a promise is a promise. You set the plate down on a nearby toolbox before pushing yourself onto the counter, legs swinging. Leo dives for the plate, nudging your knee with his hip as he grabs the first cinnamon bun he can see and stuffs it in his mouth, nearly swallowing the thing whole.

"Watch you don't choke."

"Why are you so protective this morning?"

"Two hours sleep, Leo? That's awful."

He shrugs, fingers hovering over the plate as he searches for his next victim. "I'm used to it. I'm not even tired! It was a really refreshing two hours."

"You get worse, you know."

Leo rolls his eyes, looking up at you. "And how many hours of sleep did you get, Sleeping Beauty?"

"More than two hours."

He clicks his fingers. "I want the details."

You roll your eyes, swatting his hand away. "I had six hours, if you must know. I'm refreshed and ready for my day!"

"So am I."

"Liar."

"And what?"

You laugh, and Leo smiles, making the noise louder than it really is.

"But no," he continues. "Don't you go worrying about me, dear. Ol' Leo Valdez can handle himself."

"Ol' Leo Valdez needs to take a nap."

"A nap? Sounds cowardly." He grabs the spanner from the floor, spins it in the air, catches it with an ease that makes your breath catch. "How about I show you the new updates I've made to Festus?"

Festus, Leo's pride and joy, the one thing in the world he will talk about for hours upon hours on end; you've sat there and listened to him every single time, absorbing every word, even if you don't understand it. He talks about circuits and updates and tools you have never heard of, but he says it all with such enthusiasm it's almost impossible not to get involved. And even though you know you should be stubborn, insisting on him getting into bed right this instant, you want to see him in that state again. You always want to see him in that state, eyes glittering with passion, hands moving all over the place, smile brighter than anything.

He doesn't need an answer. You simply smile at him, slightly exasperated, and he says, "Alright!" before spinning on his heel, the very beginning of his lecture.

You listen to him talk like how you would listen to lo-fi music. Your legs swing back and forth, back and forth, a tiny smile gracing your features. Leo shows you different parts, illuminating the inside of Festus's new helmet with fire ignited in his calloused palm. It makes his grin impossibly brighter. It makes his curls that little bit darker. It's him.

Finally, he spins and says, "Cool, right?" and even though you were mildly distracted the entire time, you nod and say, "Very cool. As always."

"What are you doing here so early, anyway?" He strolls over, casually plucking another cinnamon roll off the plate and taking a bite.

"I saw you heading to Bunker 9 last night and just assumed this was where you slept. I thought you said you didn't sleep in here?"

He shrugs. "I sleep in here when I'm stressed; gets me away from the ruckus of everyone else, you know."

You raise a brow. "You were stressed?"

"Of course I was stressed." He looks at you, exasperated. "Do you not remember anything we discussed last night?"

You blink; it's not that you had forgotten - there's no way you'll be forgetting that night any time soon - but you thought for sure Leo had. Yes, he'd been there to help you through it, and he was the reason you went to bed smiling, but you were still a mortal, and your problems surely could never be as big as his. You genuinely sat in front of him and cried about feeling neglected by your mother when his own mother is dead, and his Dad doesn't even talk to him, too busy producing other godly children. But here he is, head tilted and eyes slashed with worry. You almost want to look away, but the colour in them has become so noticeably entrancing these past few weeks that you find it nearly impossible to do so.

"I didn't mean to stress you out," is all you can manage. "I was just ranting."

"You were crying."

"I was - I mean - like - yeah, I guess, but you don't have to stress."

Leo narrows his eyes. "You really are dense, aren't you?"

You open your mouth, ready to chastise him for saying such a thing, but your words are swallowed by the loud clang clang clang of the door opening. Leo stares at you for a second longer before glancing over his shoulder, sharing your shock at the sight of Will popping his head in the door. His lower lip is pulled between his teeth, movements slow and timid.

"Uh, sorry to interrupt," he says. "But we kind of need Y/N up at camp."

Those words are terrifying. They jolt you and Leo into action almost immediately; you slip off the counter, stumbling over a few discarded wrenches and old toolboxes. Leo catches you before you can fall, but neither of you comment on your suddenly linked hands before following Will out the door, curiosity getting the better of you.

You hear the commotion before you see it.

The sound of your mothers shrill voice is all-too familiar, and it echoes now. Bouncing off trees, sinking into the dirt, giving you a blistering headache that immediately makes you want to turn around and pretend you never heard it. But there's a crowd, an ocean of demigods, all with weapons and angry expressions trained on the woman who raised you - the woman who tried raising you - and despite the anger you once felt towards her, you pick up your pace, rush into the scene and say, "Ay! Get that spear out of my face!"

The demigod - you don't even know who she is - stumbles back, gaping at you. You don't give her the time of day, instead pivoting on your heel towards your mother.

There she is, stood in the middle of the clearing with her arms above her head, screaming up at the sky. Blood coats her elbows and knees. Chiron and Emma are beside her, but it seems like both of them have given up trying to make her see sense; they simply stare, Emma with tears in her eyes, Chiron looking like he's on the verge of booting her out of camp right this instant.

Leo stumbles to your side and grabs your arm. "What's wrong with her?"

You touch your mum's arm. "Mum, you're being proper embarrassing right now."

She spins. Her hair is matted, the product of having not been washed in weeks. Her eyes are dark, lips chapped and bitten, utterly destroyed. You've seen her when she's having one of her episodes, but this is worse. This is the worst you've ever seen it. It breaks your heart, even though it shouldn't. It was only last night she was basically calling you worthless, a mistake, the reason her little affair with a Greek god didn't work out.

You swallow. "Mum. . . It's me."

"Emma?"

You bite your lip, trying to ignore how much that hurts. "Uh. . . not quite, but nearly. Emma's over there."

"Don't get me involved in this," Emma spits, roughly swiping a hand across her cheek. "I don't want anything to do with her."

Your heart judders. Your mother's eyes narrow, like she's taking a little longer to process her first childs words. You decide to step in before she has a chance to.

"No, Mum, I'm not Emma, I'm Y/N. I'm here to - uh - take you home."

As soon as you say it, you want to curl in on yourself. It's a truth you've been trying to avoid these past few weeks, the idea of finally breaking away from camp and heading back to your shitty apartment with your shitty mother to live a shitty life of online classes and pretending everything is normal and okay. Behind you, Leo mumbles, "Sorry, what was that?" which hurts your heart even more. "Yeah," you continue, taking another timid step towards her. A branch cracks beneath your foot, and your mother flinches, looks up into the sky like the sound of a god appearing will be nothing more than a simple crack.

"Yeah, Mum, we're gonna go home, and you're gonna get some rest, okay? You look exhausted."

"Exhausted," she mumbles. "Home."

"Home, yeah. Remember home? We liked it there. Things were normal there."

Mum's nostrils flare. "Normal-"

"But our house is also where Ares thinks we are right now!" you barrel on. "He's got our address in his little address book - he doesn't actually know we're at Camp Half-Blood right now."

Her shoulders deflate, eyes brightening. "Oh. You're right. He's probably visited so many times and we haven't even been there! He's going to be so angry!"

"So, so angry." You wrap your arm around her shoulder, gently drawing her away from the crowd of angry demigods, of sobbing sisters and confused centaurs. You meet Leo's eyes only once, and it's enough to shatter your being, enough for the burning of tears to erupt through your senses. You want to turn and run to him, tell him you're sorry, promise to never leave him, but the feelings are so extraordinary and so weird, unfamiliar, that you can't.

You turn your gaze to the floor and guide your mother through the crowd towards the Big House, uttering words about home and comfort, and going back to a life you want to abandon for good. You pretend it's all okay, because that's all you've ever known.

----

Leo finds you that same night.

You left your mother in Chiron's care. She fell asleep immediately, and you were free to do what you wanted after that, but the thought of parading through Camp Half-Blood after being in the centre of such a weird scene made your stomach curl, so you stayed by her side until you were positive most of the campers were in bed, sleeping.

Except Leo, of course.

He sits down in the grass, shoulder brushing yours. You don't look over; you know it's him just from the scent of oil, and the way he cracks his knuckles, and the way he awkwardly coughs into the darkness. These are all little things of him you have memorised. Each one makes your heart ache.

Finally, after what feels like forever, he speaks. "You don't have to do all that, you know."

"Do what?"

"Stick up for her. Make her comfortable.

" You shrug. "I know I don't."

"So why do you do it?"

"Because she's my mum."

"She's barely your mum. She doesn't even do the bare minimum for you."

True. Painfully, awkwardly true.

You shrug again. Leo sighs, tilting his head back. When you glance over, you see him gazing up at the stars, jaw clenched in a way that throws off the soft features of his face you have grown so used to seeing. You don't like it.

You reach over and poke his cheek in an attempt to make him loosen up. He closes his eyes. "I don't get it."

"What?"

"Why you have to be the one taking care of her when she's never taken care of you."

You swallow thickly. "I'm not. . . I'm not taking care of her. I'm just-"

"Then what was that back there?"

"That was me trying to make sure my mum didn't get a spear shoved down her throat. It's basic human decency, Leo."

He purses his lips, like this is something he has never heard of.

You sigh, slumping back against a tree. "I don't hate my mum, you know; she's done some fucked up stuff to me, but I don't hate her."

Leo stares at you. His eyes are lazors, flames, beams pouring into the side of your head, and you want to look at him, but you think it would be a very bad idea right now.

Neither of you say anything for what feels like forever, which is a big deal when sitting with someone like Leo Valdez. The only noise filling in the silence is the steady drip of rain drops rolling down the leaves, bouncing against the lakes surface. A few ocean creatures peak their heads up, examine the scene, duck back beneath the water.

And then, "Are you actually leaving?"

You bite back a sob. "You didn't expect me to stay here forever, did you?"

Leo doesn't respond.

"She's not well here," you continue, tilting your head back. The moon waves at you. The stars smile. "She was bad at home, but being here - around this kind of thing - it's going to drive her insane."

"She's a grown woman."

"Ares messed her up." It's the first time you've said it out loud, the truth. Your mother was okay before she met that man. You've heard stories from your grandparents, your aunts and uncles, of the days when your mum was winning medals for her skills in ballet, the days she was getting awards for her academic success, the days where she played mediator in a house full of people who could never see eye-to-eye on anything. You listened to them with only half-interest, because you never fully believed them. You had lived with the crazy side of her for too long by that point.

But it's true. Ares waltzed into her life, promised her the world, gave her this child with skills beyond human comprehension, gave her a taste of real love for the first time in her life - and then he left.

"Why do gods think they can just get away with that?" you find yourself asking before you can stop. "Mess with people's lives like that. Why do they think that's okay?"

Leo sighs. "They run the world. They can do whatever they want."

"That seems really unfair."

"Yeah, well, it's also unfair that you have to give up your own happiness for your mum."

You close your eyes; there it is again, the topic breached. Leo doesn't understand that this is all you've ever known - caring for her, making sure she's okay, being ignored and neglected because you're not the gods child. He doesn't understand that this has been your life from day one. You were never given a chance to mind it. You were never given a chance to know anything else.

"You know, I think this place could really benefit with someone like you."

You look at him. "You're just saying that."

He shrugs, picking up a pebble and lobbing it at the lake. Always keeping his hands moving, never being still. "Maybe. Maybe I'm just a little desperate for you to stay." He looks at you. "Is that weird?"

You swallow, unable to respond, because you want to tell him no, no of course it's not weird, please keep talking and I'll stay, I'll stay here with you, I'll never leave, I never wanted to leave in the first place.

Leo looks down at his hands, fingers fiddling with the threads dangling from his overalls. "Sorry. I - I didn't mean to - like - put you on the spot or anything. I just care about you. A lot. And I hate seeing you upset. It bothers me."

The way it says it, words spoken through gritted teeth, makes your heart stutter. Oddly, it reminds you of those days spent laughing in Bunker 9, calling him stupid as he tried so hard to keep you amused, like he wanted to keep your attention as firm as possible so you wouldn't get up and leave. For once in your life, someone wants you to stay.

And it's sad - heartbreaking, even - that you have been cursed with these circumstances, that the mere notion of staying at Camp Half-Blood is so beyond reality; you're no demigod. Even if your mother were to head home on her own, do you a favour for once, the chances of Chiron being allowed to let you stay are incredibly, incredibly slim. You won't entertain the idea. You won't get your hopes up like that. You won't play to your own feelings, because that has never done anything for you, nothing but leave you in a state of despair.

And so, you keep quiet, staring out over the lake with Leo by your side, his hands working, his mind probably racing, your heart a steady thump in the distance.

---

The next day, you are ready to leave.

You packed all your things the night before. You said all your goodbyes the night before. You and Emma got into a brutal argument the night before, and now you're stood before her, trembling from head to toe as you patiently wait for Chiron to lead your mother to Thalia's pine tree so the both of you can finally be let go.

Emma stares at you. She's been doing that since last night, her hands balled into fists, jaw strong, so she looks a little bit like her father; you can say that now. You hate him. You think you'd punch him in the face if you ever saw him.

"I can't believe you're actually doing this for her."

"I never understood why you hate her so much - you're the one she actually cares about."

Emma grits her teeth, looking to the ground in that way she so often does when she's trying not to punch you square in the face. "That's not the point."

"You don't even deny it any more," you scoff. "You've just come to terms with the fact that she basically worships the ground you walk on. How about you start understanding how lucky you are rather than giving me grief for taking care of her?"

"Taking care of her?" Emma bursts. "She's your mother! She should be taking care of you!"

"Right, but that's not the way things have turned out, so we might as well cut the shit now before-"

"Leo spoke to me, you know." You freeze. Your mouth stays open, eyes widening; Leo is the absolute last thing you want to talk about right now, not after last night, not after hearing the hint of heartbreak in his voice when he realised it was too late, you were too far gone, there was no keeping you.

Emma nods, even though you haven't said anything, even though you can do nothing but stare at her in complete shock and bewilderment. "Yeah, Leo Valdez, the boy you're head over heels in love with."

You splutter. "What?"

"Oh, don't play dumb! I've seen the way you are with each other. I've seen the way you look at him. I've seen the way he looks at you, and for fuck sake Y/N, you shouldn't have to give all that up for someone like her!"

"That person you're on about is our mother!"

"And what? That means you have to put your entire life on hold for her?" Emma drops her sword in a move close to desperation, startling you when she barrels forward and grabs your shoulders. She holds you at arms length, eyes like fire. "You're my only little sibling, Y/N; it's my job more than anything else to look after you, and I'm not going to sit back and let your selflessness ruin your whole life."

You blink, and only then do the tears make an appearance. You think of Leo, even though you hate it, even though you've already said your goodbyes to him and you should just leave it at that. He hugged you, and you hugged him, and you apologised and he told you there was nothing to be sorry for - it was the perfect potential ending, but you don't want it to be over.

Emma is right; you're jeopardising your own happiness for this woman.

Emma stares at you, the tears leaking from your eyes. Her own lower lip trembles, but she's Emma, so she won't start crying. Not properly.

You inhale shakily, ducking your head down. "I can't let her go home on her own, Em. She'll never make it. She'll never agree to go if she doesn't have someone with her."

"So I'll go."

You freeze. "What?"

Emma tilts her head forward, catching your eye. "I said, I'll go. I'll take her home, get her settled, and then I'll get someone to come take care of her - a professional. Someone who should have been there for her a long bloody time ago. You can stay here for a while."

Your heart thunders. You're certain you've heard her wrong, because this isn't right - none of this is right. Emma's the demigod. She should be the one staying here whilst you get shipped off back home with your mother. That's how things have always been, how things were always meant to be. But when you look back at your older sister now, there is no glimmer of amusement in her eyes; she's being serious, more serious than you've ever seen her before.

She squeezes your shoulders, curling her stubby nails into the fabric of your hoodie. "I mean it, Y/N. If you want to stay here-"

"I do," you croak out. "I really, really do."

"For Leo?"

You blink.

Emma grins. "For Leo." She pats your shoulder, nearly knocking you off your feet. "Go, before her and Chiron make an appearance. I think Valdez is-"

But you don't let her finish. You know where Leo is even without her input, and so you throw yourself into her arms, squeal a thank you in her ear before sprinting off down the hill towards Bunker 9.

The gods should be yelling at you right now, casting lightning and rain and every other deadly element down upon you, because this must be so far out of the rule book. This must be going entirely against everything they have ever set up, every rule they have laid out - a mortal in one of their demigod camps? A mortal hanging around their children like their even close to being equal. Complete blasphemy.

But you don't care. Not when you round the corner to see the door to Bunker 9 already wide open, little flashes of Leo Valdez skimming past the entryway.

You pause in the trees, craning your neck to catch a glimpse of what he is doing, and it is only then do you see the spanner smash against one of the windows. The glass doesn't shatter, but it shakes and it makes a loud noise, and it's followed closely by Leo yelling out a curse that would get him blown to smithereens if his father were to hear it.

You sprint towards the door. "Leo?"

He spins around, eyes widening. He grips his hand, blood seeping from one of his fingers, dribbling down his wrist and landing upon his boots. He doesn't seem to care, though, simply staring at you in shock.

And then, "Y/N?"

You throw yourself forward, grabbing his wrist. The blood from his gets caught beneath your fingers, but you don't care. You stare at it, shaking your head, whispering his name over and over, and all he can do is stare at you, dumbfounded, before he exclaims, "Hey, wait!" and stumbles back, yanking his hand from your grip in the process.

"Leo, let me have a look at that-"

"You shouldn't be here right now!"

"Okay, Leo, yes, we'll discuss that later, but please, let me look at your hand. What the hell did you even do?"

You reach for him, but he's like a wild animal, startled and afraid. He stumbles back, nearly tripping over a toolbox discarded on the floor. You notice the mess that wasn't there this morning, the tools laying everywhere, sheets of torn paper thrown left, right and centre, broken glass littering the hard floor.

"Jesus, Leo," you gasp. "What have you been doing in here?"

"Why are you back? Why aren't you away yet?"

You lift your gaze, narrowing your eyes. "If you want me to go, you can just say so." And right now, looking at the scene around you and the state of Leo's hand, and his startled expression, you don't even feel bad that he very well might just ask you to turn and leave. Your mind is preoccupied, wanting nothing more than to grab him and force him to shut up so you can pay some attention to the gaping wound on the tip of his finger. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. He's staring at you, unable to move, small of his back pressed against the workbench. The blood welling in his fingertip looks to only be getting worse.

"Leo," you say softly. "Please, can we talk about this later?"

He doesn't respond, but he doesn't run away when you take a step towards him, either. His eyes never leave your own as you reach for his hand and pull him towards a chair in the corner, slowly pushing him into it. You softly ask him to reach into that magic toolbelt of his to pull out some medical supplies, and he does so with trembling hands, never saying a word, never really needing to.

You get to work in silence, trying to ignore the thumping of your own heart, the tremble of your own hands, the desperate need you have to just apologise over and over and over for scaring him so bad, for startling him to the point where he can't even form a full sentence, to the point where he was willing to run away from you.

You clean the wound and bandage it the best way you can, remembering all those times as a child when you would cut yourself by accident and your mum would be too dazed or too neglectful to take you to the hospital or do anything about it herself.

Leo watches your hands working wonders until it's all finally complete and you step back, admiring your handiwork with a pleased grin on your face. "Not too shabby."

Leo swallows. Finally you take the time to look at him, his pale face and startled eyes; he looks like he's on the verge of tears, which really isn't the reaction you were hoping to receive when you walked back into Bunker 9.

You fold your arms over your chest, nibbling your bottom lip as you say, "I'm staying."

Leo exhales shakily. "I don't get it. Last night you were so adamant-"

"I know. I know I was, but I never wanted to go in the first place."

"So why-"

"Emma made me realise some things." You push yourself onto the workbench behind you, the very same spot you always found yourself sitting when Leo is working away on one of his projects. You used to sit with your legs pulled beneath you, watching him work in silence.

He stares at you. "I fully prepared myself to never see you again."

You wince. "I'm sorry."

And then he's scrambling out of his chair, stumbling between your legs, grabbing your hands, tugging them into his chest, all in that order. You gasp at the touch, the rough fabric of his plaster rubbing against your wrist, the forever warm touch of his skin so familiar yet you crave it so badly.

He's shaking his head, mumbling "No," on repeat beneath his breath

. "Leo. . ."

"I didn't mean to make you feel bad," he says. "So don't apologise to me again, alright? I don't want it. I don't need it - all that matters now is that you're here, and you - you said you're staying." He looks up, almost timid. "Did I hear that right?"

You nod, dazed; he's not mad. He's happy. He's smiling, and his eyes are doing that thing again where they glint and they crease into crescents, and he looks so cute, so happy, so like the Leo you've come to know and love so deeply. It makes your heart stutter. It makes this entire thing so, so worth it.

He grins. "Oh gods, Y/N, you scared the shit out of me. I nearly tore this place to the ground-"

"I can see that," you croak.

He winces, glancing awkwardly over his shoulder. "I didn't mean to - It was honestly an accident, but-"

"It's okay, Leo." His head snaps back round.

"It's okay?"

"It's all okay."

You reach forward, winding your arm around his neck, dragging him closer. His curls flood through your fingers, his eyes fluttering closed for a split second before he opens them again and says, "Can I kiss you?"

You nod, because of course he can. He does just that, pressing his lips to yours delicately, so, so delicately, like he's afraid you'll shatter. His hands are tender on your hips, thumbs rubbing gentle, mindless circles into the fabric of your shirt, and it's all so slow, all so gentle, but your heart is exploding into constellations, sprinkling over your being in a way you have never experienced before.

For someone who is never still, never calm, never quiet, his kisses are like a warm summer afternoon spent wading along a beach. They are aquamarine waters and birds chirping around a morning sunrise. They are everything and nothing and more than enough but never enough all in the same breath.

He pulls away first, uncertain, glancing nervously into your eyes as he slowly releases you. He takes a steady step back, rubbing the back of his neck, and it takes everything in you not to pull him back in.

Instead you laugh, swinging your legs back and forth like a giddy child. "Don't look so sheepish or I'll think you've poisoned me."

"I'm not very good at that," he mumbles. "Machines don't usually need kissed, so I don't tend to do it that often."

"I'd hope not." You grab his hand, pulling him back between your knees. "I'm sorry for scaring you earlier."

He opens his mouth, ready to protest your apologies once again, but you cut him off with five fingertips pressed to his lips. His eyes cross over as he glares at them, making you giggle. "I know you said I shouldn't apologise, but I shouldn't have been so. . . hasty. I shouldn't have lost my temper with you. I should have let you speak-"

"I don't say very interesting things."

"You say the most interesting things." You drop your hand, intertwine your fingers with his. "But I'm staying, Leo. I promise." He exhales shakily, like this is what he has been waiting to hear for a while now; it breaks your heart, rejuvenates you at the same time, and you realise suddenly just how awful it would have been to pack up your stuff and head home, to live a life without Leo Valdez in it.

---

Your mother looks a little better. A little healthier. A little happier.

Emma sits beside her, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, a denim jacket over the top. She looks happy, too, a little exhausted, but you never expected anything less. She's still smiling, though, and when her face appears in the Iris message, she lets out a happy sigh of relief.

"I thought you two would fuck it up."

"Go to hell, Emma," says Leo.

You chuckle, leaning back in your seat; it's been two weeks since Mum and Emma went back to the flat together, two weeks since you agreed to spend the rest of your summer at Camp Half-Blood, working on a relationship with Leo Valdez. It's been a grand two weeks, yes, but you still have responsibilities back in the real world.

"So, how's it going?" you ask. "Mum, you're still going to therapy, aren't you?"

"Yes," Mum mumbles, sounding more like an anguished teenager than anything else. "I've told you both already, I don't need it - I got over Ares years ago. I have my own family now - he can go to hell."

"Tartarus," Leo corrects.

"Whatever."

You grin. It's been so long - so long - since you've heard your mum mention you in the same context as Emma, including your name in the same sentence as the word family. Leo must notice your sudden shift in mood, as he chuckles, placing a gentle hand on the small of your back. He does that sometimes, letting you know he's there, like you'd ever forget. You reach behind you and tangle your fingers with his, subtly placing your joined hands in your lap.

"A few more weeks," you tell her. "That's all you have to endure, and then they're putting you on that trial, aren't they?"

"Apparently," Mum replies. "I was thinking of coming to visit you."

You and Emma share a look - the last time your mother was at Camp Half-Blood, things didn't exactly go well. The energy of this place drove her insane, reminded her of days with Ares, reminded her she'd been abandoned by the one man she ever loved.

Leo cuts in. "Oh, no! I was hoping Y/N and I could come out there and visit you guys for the week!"

Your head whips round. "You were?"

"Well, yeah." Leo rolls his eyes, faux exasperation. "I did tell you about it. I haven't been back to your house since the giant threw that boulder through your window." He rubs his finger along your scarred, damaged knuckles, forever torn from the boulder that destroyed all your nerve endings. "I think it would be a grand old time, personally."

"I agree," Emma chimes in. "And it would be less stressful for us - we can just wait here for them to arrive, and you still get to see Y/N!"

Mum hums, thoughtful, and for just a second, you're certain she's going to revert back to her old ways. She's going to call you scum, pretend you don't exist, make you feel like shit all over again; judging by the sudden grip Leo has on your hand, he thinks the exact same thing. You thought this was over with. You thought your Mum had gotten better, that she finally realised you are her child, too, and-

"I guess it would be a lot less hassle."

Leo exhales. "Great! It's a date."

"For you two, maybe," Emma grumbles. "Look, we have to leave in two minutes, so this is goodbye."

"Jeez, Em, tell us how you really feel."

"See you in a few weeks, assholes!" And before you or Leo can respond, the Iris message is flickering to a close, leaving you and Leo alone in Bunker 9.

It's silent for a few seconds. Leo grips your hand, running his thumb along your knuckles, and it suddenly feels so, so hard not to cry.

"She's getting so much better," you choke out.

Leo's head snaps round, eyes widening at the crack in your voice. "Hey, no. Don't you start crying on me, okay? This is a good thing! Good!" He cups your face, forcing you to look at him. He has that goofy look, his eyebrows stitched together, his lips pursed; it makes you laugh every time.

You reach up, wrapping your hands around his wrists just to keep the feel of him against you for a little longer. "I'm not going to cry. I'm not a bitch."

"It's all good here, Y/N," he says. "I always told you it's all good here."

And with his hands on your face, his eyes gazing into your own, the sweet weather of Camp Half-Blood flourishing outside, you know he's telling the truth. It's all good.

181 notes · View notes

sondrawr · 3 years

Text

Where Monsters Dwell

“What kind of place is this?” “The kind of place where fairy tales live and monsters dwell.” —Smoke Bitten

Adam Hauptman is intimately acquainted with fear. It was born in a jungle in Vietnam and never quite left him. Even in his happiest moments—of which there were many, especially recently—it lurks in the fringes. Lying in wait.

When he sees Mercy broken on the burnt grass, seemingly dead, he feels that fear claw up his chest and strangle him. He blacks out for god knows how long, his worst fear playing like a feedback loop in his mind. It isn’t until Samuel, still wolf, bites him in the arm that he finally comes to.

That’s how Adam finds himself, naked and half covered in blood, cradling Mercy’s body. His pack huddles around him, worry creasing their faces. He feels the stink of his fear billowing out of him like smoke, choking everyone around him.

“She’s alive, damn it!” Gary finally manages to gasp. He is panting, voice raspy. How long had he been trying to tell him?

Adam reaches down into himself and feels for that thread-thin bond that connects him to his heart’s mate. It’s there, flickering. He grasps it in both hands, wrapping it around his wrist, anchoring himself to sanity. To her.

Mercy survives that night, like she has done so often before. But one day her luck will run out; his fear whispers the words he knows too well. She’s not like Coyote—damn the man—who resurrects like the sun every morning.

Adam hates beyond telling that her unconquerable spirit is wrapped in such an insubstantial thing as human skin and bones.

:::

Adam first met Mercy Thompson in Montana when she was about thirteen years old. He was up on business, Alpha of a New Mexico pack and newly engaged to a blonde, 22-year-old coed named Christy.

Mercy at the time, before the deaths of her foster parents robbed her of childhood, was still all scraped knees and awkward arms of adolescence. Jutting chin and slumped shoulders—defiant and bored.

There was a ghost of a bruise on her face from the accident where she wrapped Bran’s brand new sports car around a tree. He had heard of that incident within hours of it happening, as he suspected most wolves did, even across the ocean. Mercy’s antics were already famous.

She sat on a chair outside Bran’s office, the scuffed toe of her sneaker knocking into a leggy console table nearby. Looking at him sidelong, she had the air of someone waiting their turn at the principal’s office.

When the door finally opened to let him in, he asked, “What did she do this time?” He stepped around Bran to enter the office.

Bran’s mouth pressed flat in an irritated line, while Charles smirked in the corner. He was the one who answered: “Something about chocolate Easter bunnies.”

“She poisoned a group of boys at school,” Bran snapped, closing the door a little too roughly behind Adam.

“Really?” That seemed a bit extreme for the young girl, whose reputation for pranks were mostly harmless, if effective.

“She injected several chocolate Easter bunnies with ipecac,” Charles explained. “And then warned the boys not to steal them, or ‘they would pay.’ They, of course, did not listen. Apparently the boys had been in the habit of stealing the younger kids’ candy for a while.”

Adam laughed despite himself.

“She wants for discipline,” Bran said with a frown.

“Mercy has plenty of discipline,” Charles answered. “It’s the focus of it, that’s the problem. Her interests are too narrow and she has an overdeveloped sense of justice.”

“And her foster father can’t do anything?” asked Adam.

Charles smirked. “If Mercy were a wolf, I wouldn’t be surprised if she outranked him. Any good she does is out of love for Bryan and his mate, not because of fear or intimidation.”

That was, Adam realized, the principle by which Mercy lived her life. It was the driving force of all she did for her family and friends—the pack she forged for herself, not with magic ties but by fierce loyalty and reckless love.

:::

It has been months since she recovered from her devastating injuries. Injuries that Samuel said at first would be the end of her. Her survival is nothing short of a miracle and, Adam suspects, a bit of Coyote’s magic.

Now night holds new terrors for him. He lays in bed at night just listening to the steady beating of his mate’s fragile, mortal heart. Dreading the day when it would inevitably stop.

:::

Mercy was twenty-three when he next saw her in the middle of a Washington desert. Alone in the world but still causing trouble. The first order of business for his newly arrived pack was eliminating the rogue wolves who were harassing her. Saved without so much as a thank you.

Was it coincidence or conspiracy that brought her to the Tri-Cities when Bran had ordered Adam to move his pack north from New Mexico? Coincidence on her part probably, but definitely not Bran’s, whose machinations were wide reaching and infamous.

That Adam bought the property behind her trailer was pure, ornery spite on his part.

She had marched up to him on the first day of construction and stuck a finger in his chest. “Tell Bran that I don’t need a babysitter,” she told him, eyes flashing. “I’ve done fine for eight years without his help—I’m done with wolves.”

“Good to know,” he answered, because he knew that response would drive her crazy, and turned back toward the construction of his pack house. He imagined her making faces at the back of his head and smiled.

:::

He kisses a line down her body, pausing at the shiny-pink of each new scar. Scars she earned in defense of his pack—in defense of him.

And he knows his love is killing her.

Oh god, would her life be better without him? Yes, the fear—the monster—inside him says. Yessss. We will kill herrrrr.

Panic like bile rises in his throat, and he gulps it down. Beneath him Mercy tenses, sensing his change of mood. He murmurs quietly, nuzzling her, lulling her back into softness underneath him. His lovely Mercy. His mate, for who he would willingly lay down his soul, let alone his body.

Whom he would kill for. Without question.

This. This will be his goodbye, then.

He presses a kiss to her inner knee, to her neck, and then presses into her, drawing a sigh from her lips. With his own he continues his careful ministrations, whispering a benediction against every mark on her skin that dares to be there because of him.

:::

His touch is a disease. His touch is a curse.

He can’t bear lying next to her and not touching her, so he doesn’t. He stays late in his office. He sleeps in the spare guest room. It’s killing him, but every day she’s alive, and it’s worth it.

It’s killing him that she wanders the house with those empty eyes, a line of concern between her brows, the hurt and confusion that clearly marks her face.

But at least she is alive. And soon, it will be over.

:::

Adam’s favorite memory of Mercy—the one he thinks of before he puts the gun to his head—is of her in the wedding dress too fancy for the church reception that his pack and daughter put together. She’s dancing with Jesse, at the heart of the people he loved most in the world, swaying to a country song blasting from the church’s ancient speaker system. And she turns to him and smiles.

He can see it as clear as if it were right in front of him. There was so much love in her face then. How different are those faces, the one from his memory and the one Mercy wears at this moment, when she finally sees him for the monster he is.

But she is not disgusted and horrified, as he feared she would be. She is furious. She throws a barrage of words against him, her unfettered anger like a battering ram.

In the years Adam had known and loved Mercy, he has become intimately acquainted with her many moods. Sneaky, playful, worried, content. They were as familiar to him as the feel of Mercy’s calloused hands in his.

Her white hot rage was something entirely new. And through clenched teeth she seethes a truth so utterly profound, that in that moment it shatters the madness that grips him. He lowers the gun in his hand.

Three simple words they had spoken to each other again and again. Whispered in passion and in play. Promised—sworn.

“You are mine.”

:::

He believes her. And for now, so does the monster.

You are mine.

He follows her home, to bed. And though he can’t make love to her like he wants, he worships her body with oil and hands and mouth.

It isn’t until she is completely sated and asleep when the monster rips through his body again. A monster that he now realizes is the ugly marriage of his own fear and self loathing, and Elizaveta’s death curse.

But instead of hurting his mate like Adam fears, the monster scrabbles out from beneath the covers and huddles in the corner of the room. It sits there watching his mate, the covers rising and falling to the rhythm of her breathing.

Within a few minutes, the even breaths stutter and stop. “Adam?” she calls, voice rough with sleep.

It’s the monster that growls in response, and Adam waits. It didn’t work, he thinks. The monster is still here. Will you finally leave me like you’re supposed to?

And still he remembers her promises: You are mine. You are mine. You are mine.

“For fuck’s sake,” she says sounding annoyed. “Get back to bed. I’m cold.”

Oh, my Mercy.

After a moment, the monster cautiously approaches the bed, and it creaks under the sudden weight. It wraps itself around her, tucking her head under its chin. She draws up the covers over them both, and they settle to sleep.

For the first time in a long time Adam prays. Let this be enough. This love. Let me be enough to keep her safe.

If God is kind and he is lucky, maybe it will be.

Maybe the monster will love her, too.

#mercy thompson #mercyverse #Mercy Thompson fanfic #my writing #sondrawr writes #adam hauptman #mercyverse alphabet series

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lucas-grey · 3 years

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I always wanted to write a FanFiction about little 6 and 47 and their time in the Institute, so here it is! I would also be very happy if you would left some Kudos for it on my AO3 ❤️

TW: Torture, Child abuse, Drowning, Death

Brasov, Romania

The Institute for Human Betterment was located far away from any civilisation in the mountainous forests. It was an old building, a mansion trumped by a box-shaped extension, the only part that suggested it was more than just a simple institution.

Because the Institute was situated in such a remote location, the human experiments that were carried out in this facility remained hidden from the public. With the cunning use of intimidation and money, it was easy to keep something a secret. Nobody outside the building knew anything about Doctor Otto Wolfgang Ort-Meyer's cloning program and the experiments he carried out on infants and children. Nobody suspected that in these deep, dark forests children were being tortured and that the main goal was to form them into perfect killers by any means necessary.

Everyday life in the Institute was tough and marked by violence and pain.The punishments for misconduct ranged from bashing to isolation and execution. The rules were strict and discipline was paramount.There was no place for feelings in the facility. The boys were trained to suppress emotions. They were taught that feelings equated with weakness. They had their guiding principles: Weakness is the enemy. Strength through discipline. Discipline through the mastery of one's feelings. But what Ort-Meyer and the brutal guards forgot was that they were still children who only suppressed their feelings for fear of punishment. Subject 6 knew the feeling of coming into the bedroom in the evening and being able to shake off this fear. That time when the boys got ready for bed, when they put on their pyjamas. It was like his whole body was relaxing. The feeling of tense muscles that were finally loosening. He used the short time when the bedroom door closed behind him to inhale and exhale several times and then suddenly let himself fall into his bed. This brief moment of lightness and peace of mind was the highlight of the day for him. But 6 knew that these instants were rare and could be broken at any time. It happened again and again that the boys were startled by the overseer in their sleep, to go on long marches through the forest in the middle of the night or to scramble through the muddy course behind the house when it was pouring raining. For this reason, these short times without this tension, without the knot in the chest that reminded the boys of their guiding principles, were so precious.

Far away from the guards' gaze, the boys used the time to exchange ideas. They sat together on their beds, telling creepy stories or watching porn magazines that they had stolen from the guards. It was important to be quiet. The children's laughter in those moments were barely audible, the boys had learned to hold their hands over their mouths so as not to be heard when they giggled at the sight of the naked women in the Playboy.

Subject 6 was an orphan. As an infant, he was left behind in the hospital by his mother immediately after his birth, where Ort-Meyer found him. He bought the baby and many more to do inhuman experiments on them. Ort-Meyer got the money and influence from an organisation called Providence, which commissioned the doctor to create the perfect killers. They should be more than just super soldiers, they should be quiet, the perfect silent assassins. Subject 6 remembered the many injections given to him. He remembered the feeling of serums flowing through his veins, the warmth rising inside of him and cramps that made all his muscles freeze and the pain so intense that he vomited. He was tied to a metal table and left alone with his pain. What remained was the feeling of fear. He thought he was going to die any moment; every fiber of his body was streaked with pain, as if he was being burned inside. He felt the sweat on his forehead and he could no longer suppress the screams. Tears were running down his face from the corners of his eyes. He sensed exactly how the serum flowed through his body, he felt how it found its way through his veins, like a burning river. He didn't know how long he laid there each time. Minutes? Hours? At some point the pain stopped and gave way to total exhaustion. 6 was breathing hard and looking into the bright light of the neon lamps. He no longer had the strength to scream or to fight the serum. It was like embracing the pain that plagued his body. He felt beads of sweat drip from his forehead and bare torso. The heat spread evenly as the serum made its way into every fiber of his body. He had to endure this procedure several times a week, always followed by tests to see whether the serum had the desired effect. He had to run for hours on a treadmill, lift weights and do intelligence tests. He knew he had acquired skills beyond those of a normal child.

In parallel to the attempt to make children stronger and more resilient with special serums, Ort-Meyer started a cloning program with the help of funds from Providence. He hoped to be able to create the perfect killer right from the start without having to send him through the painful procedure that 6 had to endure. Many of the first clones died early, they were disfigured and not viable. But with Subject 47, Ort-Meyer created a perfect clone, the perfect human. The perfect killer. Right from the start, 47 possessed all the skills that 6 and the other children had only acquired through the serums and hard training. 47 has been trained to use his skills to become the best assassin from the day he was created. Ort-Meyer watched him with hawk eyes. He had great expectations of 47, and the other children knew that 47 was in a different position from theirs. Although he had to do the same training as the others, Ort-Meyer watched him especially. He called him the most gifted of all his boys. Oftentimes, 47 had to show off his skills by fighting with other children. 6 watched him during these fights. He saw as the rest of the boys were left expressionless as they witnessed 47's dexterity in combat. He made it look effortless while the rest of them had to endure long hours of fighting techniques to be his worthy opponent. 47 appeared to 6 and the other children as cold and reserved, disinterested and unemotional. He never spoke to the others and always held back when there was a conflict.

It was 6 who at some point, when the boys were back in their chamber and getting ready for sleep, took the initiative and approached 47 as he was sitting on his bed and taking off his socks. "Hey 47," he said softly as 47 turned around and looked at him with his deep blue eyes. 6 felt the other children's gazes on his neck, they fell silent and there was a certain tension in the air, as if they were expecting 6 to be eaten alive by a bear. 47 didn't answer, so 6 stepped forward. He crossed his arms behind his back to show that he had no intention of harming him. "Today in the fight, that was impressive," said 6 with clear appreciation in his voice. 47 looked at him, then his gaze wandered to the other boys, who immediately averted their eyes for fear of angering him. Then he looked back to 6 and their eyes met. 6 tried to read something in his stare, a sign of gratitude for the compliment he had just received, or, which was more likely, a sign for annoyance. But he saw nothing. They were cold and unemotional. 6 regretted having said anything at all when 47 suddenly whispered a soft "thank you". At that moment 6 saw it, that brief glint in his eyes. It was barely noticeable, but 6 could see it. A small smile played around 6 lips. "Do you like card games?", he asked. 47 looked at him questioningly when 6 pulled out a couple of old cards from under his bed. "Some cards are missing, but you can still play Mau-Mau with them", said 6 as he shuffled them and was watched by 47. "I don't know that", 47 said shortly. 6 sat on the bed. "It's very easy." While 6 started explaining the rules, 47 slowly sat down next to him and listened attentively. The other boys watched in disbelief.

From that night on, 6 and 47 played Mau-Mau together on their bed everyday. The other boys did not dare to play along, on the contrary, from that evening on they met 6 with the same distance as 47, as if he had tamed a lion that he could let loose on the children at any moment with just one command. 6 didn't care. He enjoyed the friendship with 47 and the feeling of not being alone. When he went to sleep in the evening, he whispered to 47 a quiet "good night". 47 didn’t reply. Only his look at that moment told 6 that he was happy. For 6, his gaze was not cold and distant, but warm and grateful. It were just nuances, dilated pupils when 47 won Mau-Mau, a slight squint of his eyes when he lost, and that warm look he gave 6 when he wished him good night. Sometimes 6 even saw a slight hint of a smile in the corner of his mouth. For outsiders who didn't understand 47 as well as he did, it wasn’t more than a twitch, but 6 knew it was there. 6 realised that 47 was more than an emotionless clone and he was aware that he was the only one with the gift of knowing this.

One night, Subject 6 and the other boys were asleep in their beds. In the small room there was space for eight children in four bunk beds. The chamber was bare and uncomfortable, with nothing to suggest that children lived there. There were no toys, no painted pictures on the walls, no books. The metal beds were equipped with thin mattresses and blankets and only an old fireplace provided the warmth that was so badly needed that winter.

Suddenly, Subject 6 and the other children were woken up when their warden opened the door and loudly ordered the children to get up. None of the boys showed resistance. Nobody pulled the covers over their heads again or stretched, yawning. As if at the push of a button, they got out of their beds and stood in a row. 6 looked at Subject 47, who was facing him. Their eyes met. 6 knew that 47 felt the same uncertainty about what was to come as he did, even though one couldn't tell. But 6 could see it in his eyes. No one except 6 knew that 47 sometimes felt the same fear as the other children and it was important that it stayed that way. Ort-Meyer would be very disappointed to know that his favorite Subject was feeling exactly the same emotions as the others.

The boys stood next to their beds. They knew these situations. They were aware that they were being roused from their peaceful sleep because they had a task to do. They were only dressed in their blue pyjamas, they wore neither socks nor shoes. Despite the log fire, the arch was freezing and Subject 6 felt the cold slowly rise inside his body. He watched intently as the guard walked scrutinizing past the children and examined them. "We're going out", he bleated and left the room. The boys followed without saying a word. They all knew that talking or even contradicting would result in a blow with the rubber truncheon by the overseer.

They ran down the hall and down the great stairs. Subject 6 felt uncomfortable. It wasn't the first time the children had been awoken from their sleep in the middle of the night to do some kind of task. But what they ultimately had to do remained a secret until the very end. It was the element of surprise that the overseer used. It should prepare the boys to be able to improvise in any situation and to always perform at their best.

When the warden opened the large front door, the boys were hit by the icy cold outside. Without hesitation, they followed the overseer into the snow. When Subject 6 stepped into the snow with his bare feet, he was breathless for a moment. The cold shot through him with an uncomfortable pain, he felt his feet and then his limbs went stiff. "Don't stop", the guard shouted angrily when he noticed the boys' hesitation as they tried to ignore the freezing cold that seized their bodies. 6 folded his arms and rubbed his armpits with his hands to at least warm up a little. He felt his breathing accelerate automatically and how the cold found its way into his throat. The pain that pierced his body was almost unbearable. He tried to remember the feeling he had when he was lying in his bed. Although the mattresses were uncomfortable and the blankets were thin, the moment the bedroom door was closed was the one 6 liked the most. He knew that it could happen at any time that he would be torn from his dreams, which is why the thought of his bed, of the silence and the relaxation that he felt when he lay there and his mind could freely circulate, was so precious to him. He thought of the evenings with 47, which they spent sitting on the bed playing cards and the warmth of the fireplace that surrounded him when he closed his eyes and slowly slipped into lovely sleep when fear and pain were forgotten for a brief moment.

At that point he dared to look back briefly. Subject 47 was further behind him. He rubbed his armpits too. 6 could see how hard he was breathing, each of his breaths visible through a thick, misty waft. 47 looked at him and gave him a short nod to understand that he should look forward again. Subject 6 turned and continued to follow the guard in silence.

It wasn't long before the children reached a lake not far from the Institute. 6 couldn't tell what time it was, but it was probably very early in the morning as he could already see the sun rise on the horizon, its rays making their way through the trees and lighting up the frozen lake as if its surface was made of nacre.

The warden ordered the boys to line up. "Your task: you swim from one end to the other", he explained briefly. The task was clear, none of the boys asked a question or protested, even if everyone knew this task could be fatal. So it was with many tasks that the children had to do at the Institute. 6 had seen many children die. He knew that because of the way they were created, he and the other boys were different from other children, both mentally and physically. They were made to be faster, stronger, and more resilient. They were intelligent, could improvise even in stressful situations and they could adapt well to any circumstance. But they weren't invulnerable. Even small mistakes could cause a task to fail. Even so, it wasn't impossible for them to accomplish this order. Normal children would hardly survive this, they would probably die from the shock of the cold water, let alone be able to hold their breath long enough to swim to the other side. 6 knew that he and the other boys were physically capable of doing this. More important was whether they would be able to keep a clear head during the process. This exercise was not only a test of their physical abilities, but above all their mental ones. "Subject 4, you are the first", the warden shouted. He had a clipboard and a stopwatch in his hand. One of the boys stepped forward. He took off his pyjamas until he was standing in the snow in his underpants. Subject 6 saw him shiver. His skin looked pale and bluish, and his feet were red from the cold snow. Subject 4 carefully stepped onto the ice surface, which crunched under his weight. He went on to a hole in the ice. 6 looked at the hole and his gaze wandered to the end of the lake, where he could make out another one in the distance that was straight ahead to the other.

Subject 4 slowly slid into the hole before taking a deep, perceptible breath and then submerged. The guard pressed the stopwatch. What followed was an uncomfortable silence. While the warden only looked at the ticking watch, the boys looked at the surface. Subject 6 held his breath. He wondered how long it would take Subject 4 to swim to the other side while watching the shadow of 4's silhouette beneath the ice sheet. He felt the tension when he noticed that he could no longer hold his breath and he knew that there were only seconds left for Subject 4 to get to the other side. 6 breathed out silently when couldn’t hold his breath anymore, when he suddenly heard a knock. The guard looked at the surface. It was first a short knock, then another, then it became more. They all heard the despair; they all knew what was happening. When the knocking fell silent, the guard stopped the clock, took the pen from the clipboard and with one movement he crossed out something on a piece of paper.

"Subject 6, you're next", he snapped. 6 breathed in and out deeply as he took off his pyjamas. He had the feeling that he no longer sensed the cold. The pain had given way to a strange numbness and what remained was the impression of many small needle pricks that hit his skin. When he was standing there only in his underpants and walking in the direction of the ice surface, he noticed the warden looking at him. He wanted to turn around and look at 47 but he didn't dare to. When 6 reached the small hole in the ice, he first slid his feet into it. The pain that rose through him almost made him scream, but he stifled the scream and clenched his teeth in agony. He let himself slide further into the icy water, then took a deep breath and dived below the surface.

The water was pitch black. Only a few of the distant sun rays penetrated the thick surface and served 6 as a subtle but much necessary orientation. Without hesitation, he started swimming. He stayed just below the surface and tried to the best of his capacity to swim straight ahead. He tried to remember the hole on the other side of the lake and he orientated himself by the sun rays that he hoped would shine through the other hole. As he swam as fast as he could, he was suddenly distracted by something he saw to his right. He dared a quick look to the side and looked into the wide-open eyes of Subject 4 floating motionlessly below the surface. Subject 6 was petrified. He felt a vibrating heat flooding his body. Immediately he removed his gaze from his late mate and refocused in front, yet in the corner of his eyes the boy’s stiff body still floated and his dead stare remained stubborn in his mind like a reminder. He had to make it to the exit hole because he knew he only had seconds before he couldn't breathe anymore, and his body would give up due to the cold.

Subject 6 swam as fast as he could when he saw the redeeming sun rays shining through the other hole. When he emerged, he took a deep breath. Although the cold continued to hurt and his heart pounded as hard as if it were about to beat out of his chest. He climbed out of the hole and as he stood on the slippery surface he felt life coming back to his body. He took some deep breaths to feel the fresh air in his lungs again. His stiff limbs ached, so he moved them a bit. He shook his arms and legs to get rid of the ice cold water that surrounded his body. He was clearing himself from the fear and pressure he had just felt and allowed the relief of having survived the task. Without lingering, he ran back to the others.

He got no praise from the guard, no applause from the other children. Another boy has already been asked by the guard to do the job. Subject 6 took his ice-cold pyjamas out of the snow and pulled them over his wet body. He saw his reddish blue skin, he saw how he was trembling and he could no longer suppress the fact that his teeth chattered softly and his lips trembled. Only now did he realise that Subject 47 was no longer there. The panic of the air slowly lacking in his lungs, his heart racing and shrinking due to the icy water was nothing compared to the shock of that moment as he realised that the blurry silhouette swimming under the ice was 47. The image of the lifeless eyes of Subject 4 floating stiff in the water came back as his stomach twisted violently in visceral dread for his friend. To his convenience, his trembling limbs and shattering teeth seemed to the rest of the boys and the warden as the natural response to the freezing low temperature. The truth was, the fear for 47’s life had taken over his whole self in uncontrollable nerves. He realized that the trembling of his body was no longer just from the cold, but also from the fear he was feeling.

The ticking of the stopwatch was the only thing that broke the silence. Those were painful seconds for subject 6. Tormenting because of the uncertainty whether 47 would make it, agonising because he was not allowed to say that he was afraid, that he would have to suppress any feeling. At the corner of his eyes he noticed as the warden threw a look at him and in the blink of an eye, he studied him. Emotions weren’t allowed, as neither were words of encouragement or congratulation. Emotions were equated with weakness. Weakness is the enemy. Strength through discipline. Discipline through the mastery of one's feelings. With one eye 6 followed 47 swimming under the ice while with the other, he made sure the warden didn't notice the sheer level of dread that had taken over his slender body. He felt his heart ache. His gaze was fixed on the other hole at the end of the lake. Tick tock tick tock tick tock. Subject 6 gritted his teeth. He had the feeling that he could hardly stop the tension. The agitation that surrounded his body hurt even more than those few seconds swimming under the ice cold water. His hands clenched into fists and trembled from the pressure. Suddenly he heard a gush of water come from the other hole and the bald head of Subject 47 emerged. When 6 saw him climb out of the hole, he immediately let go of the convulsion. Life returned to himself like a warm breeze and embraced his body. The pressure left his body as if he were shedding ballast. The knot in his chest that had cut off his breath came loose when he saw 47 climb out of the hole unharmed. 6 suppressed the imminent smile that wanted to draw in his lips. He didn't care that he was cold, he didn't care about the pain. It just mattered to him to know that Subject 47 had made it.

When the task was finished, the sun had already risen. Six boys followed the guard back into the large building, where they were allowed to take a warm shower and change into fresh clothes. When Subject 6 got dressed, he went to 47, who quietly put on his clothes. “Are you okay?” 6 asked quietly. 47 looked at him and nodded. 6 was unsure whether 47 was well, when he suddenly saw a small, barely perceptible smile flicker in the corner of his mouth. That's when 6 knew he was okay.

Special thanks goes out to @sillyliterature Thank you for giving me helpful tips and for helping me to improve myself as a writer! Thank you for taking your time reading my stories, I really appreciate ❤️

#hitman #lucas grey #agent 47 #fanfiction #hitman fanfiction #my fanfiction

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the-little-crime-writer · 4 years

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DiAngelo is the only survivor of the largest mass suicide on American soil. He found the bodies of his 39 friends lying with plastic bags over their heads, wearing neat black tracksuits with an 'Away Team' patch and Nike trainers. Now we discover why he was left behind...

It was midday when Rio DiAngelo arrived at the hilltop mansion overlooking San Diego to find all the windows closed, the curtains drawn, and outdoor lights burning in the sunshine. The front door was locked, but he found a side door ajar and warily pushed it open.

The unmistakable stench of death made him gag and he covered his face with his shirtsleeve, which still smelled of cologne from his morning shower. As he walked through the eerie silence, he knew what he would find. And he dreaded it. Upstairs, 39 of his friends lay dead in their beds after the largest mass suicide on American soil. All members of a bizarre cult, they had each downed a lethal cocktail of vodka, barbiturates and apple sauce to leave their 'earthly containers' and join an alien spaceship trailing the Hale-Bopp comet.Yelling out in case anyone was still alive, DiAngelo raced from room to room. But all he found were bodies with plastic bags over their heads. Each one wore a neat black tracksuit with an 'Away Team' patch and Nike trainers with their comet-trail trademark. The 21 women and 18 men had each packed a small bag for the journey, and have five dollars in their pocket. Thoughtful to the end, each had left a note saying. 'I forced myself to go into each room and check everyone,' said DiAngelo. 'With each body I came across, the loss became too much to bear. They were my closest friends. I loved them dearly.'

DiAngelo, who's real name is Richard Ford, became involved with the Heaven's Gate Cult in 1994 after attending one of their meetings in a California hotel or 'Cultifornia' as sceptics often call the state that spawned Charles Manson and the Reverend Jim Jones. He had listened while nine androgynous-looking members wearing identical loose clothes and cropped hair described their absolute belief in aliens, the paranormal, and reincarnation. One of them was 59 year old Thomas Nichols whose sister, Nichelle, played Star Trek's Lieutenant Uhura. Forbidden to have sex, hug each other, or even shake hands, the Heaven's Gate cultists concentrated on purifying their bodies and spirits ready for the move to 'an advanced level of being' on another planet or dimension. They called each other brother or sister, observed daily rituals, and were allowed to watch only selected TV programmes. Individual needs were minimised so that a member who had run out of deodorant, for example, would have to apply for a new one in writing.Anyone entering the immaculately clean mansion referred to as 'the temple' had to take off their shoes and wear surgical socks. Silence prevailed, and many of their neighbours assumed they were 'a bunch of monks.' In line with their belief that they had been sent to earth as angels, six members were castrated and, according to DiAngelo, 'they couldn't stop smiling and giggling about it.'

On some days, members had to report to their superiors every 12 minutes while on other days they were required to wear a cone on their heads as they would in alien bodies. Many common words were changed so that members would not remember their human past once they had ascended into space. For instance, house became 'craft' and kitchen became 'nutri-lab.' Their 65 year old leader Marshall Applewhite had started the cult in 1972 with Bonnie Nettles whom he had met while undergoing treatment for homosexuality in a psychiatric hospital. They had abandoned their human names and called themselves Guinea and Pig, then Bo and Peep, before finally settling on Do and Ti.Ti died of cancer in 1985, But Do, claiming he was Jesus reincarnated, said he continued to communicate with her. The group survived financially by running a successful web page design firm which they also used to try and win converts and spread their message. Their own website featured pictures of stars and nebulae downloaded from NASA and appeared very businesslike. It also stated that suicide is acceptable for cult members who want to ascent to 'a higher level of life.' Heaven's Gate shared some of the beliefs of 19th century occultists like novelist Mark Twain. In 1907, Twain wrote a short story about a hero leaving Earth for 'an extended excursion among the heavenly bodies' on the trail of a comet. He took his passport and five dollars for the fare. Despite their fantastic beliefs, DiAngelo was converted and lived in this eccentric community for nearly three years. I'd just turned forty and recently divorced and I was trying to find meaning in life,' he said. 'I'd had a fairly troubled past that included a violent, unstable mother and other bad relationships. The group shared my interest in UFOs, music and Eastern Religions.

But in, December 1995, Do's teaching took a more sinister turn and DiAngelo later recalled that he 'sat us all down and told us that we might have to leave our bodies behind. Amazingly, we didn't really have a problem with that. We trusted Do implicitly. 'We found a suicide recipe that used phenobarbital, vodka and apple sauce, and Do and some of his helpers went to Mexico to buy enough of the drug for the entire group.' Eleven months later, an amateur astronomer took a photo of the Hale-Bopp comet, which showed a mysterious oval-shaped object trailing in its wake. Although NASA later described it a 'proto-comet' 2,000 miles behind Hale-Bopp, other astronomers dismissed the sighting as a hoax or error. Hale-Mary, as it was called, has not been seen since. Do, however, convinced his followers that it was a spaceship coming to take them away and that his deceased partner, Ti, was flying it. Seeing significance in everything, he told then that Hale-Bopp even had the same initials as Helena Blavatsky, another 19th century occultist with whom the group shared beliefs. Having decided on this 'Star-gate' plan, the group prepared to enjoy a final spree on Earth by spending some surplus money. They went to Las Vegas and stayed at the Stratosphere Hotel, and rode the rollercoaster and the Big Shot free-fall ride. A week later they went to see Star Wars and visited the San Diego wild animal park and Sea World. For their 'last supper,' they booked a table for 39 at a local restaurant where waiter Eric Morales was struck by their politeness and helpfulness. 'From the moment they arrived, all austerely dressed and looking the same, I knew this would be no ordinary shift,' he said. 'I made a joke to sort of set the mood and when I returned to their table five minutes later they were still laughing at it. You could tell they didn't get out a lot. 'All thirty nine ordered exactly the same: turkey pie, salad, blueberry cheesecake and iced tea. They were very pleasant, but guarded. When asked where they were from they said things like 'from the car' and 'from all over.' Six days later, employees at the restaurant watched news footage in amazement when they realised the oddball diners they had served had gone straight home and killed themselves. 'It was the last time they were going to be together,' said Morales. 'The bill came to three hundred and fifty one dollars which included a twenty six dollar tip. Our manager was so taken with them, he stood in the doorway and shook hands with each one as they left.' A month before the suicides, DiAngelo decided he wanted to leave the commune. He moved to Beverly Hills, and began working for a web design company. 'I left with Do's permission,' he said/. 'I told him I felt I had something to do outside...like a task. I think part of it was to explain to the world the philosophy of Heaven's Gate and the sort of people they were. Be an instrument of clarification. 'I believed Do was from another planet. He taught me to be more aware, honest and sensitive to the world. In short, a better person. What I gained from the group was phenomenal.

On March 27th, 1997, a parcel arrived at DiAngelo's office. It contained an upbeat farewell video and a message saying: 'By the time you read this we will have exited our bodies.' 'There was no mention of sadness or fear, but rather an air of excitement and anticipation. The cult he called 'his closest brothers and sisters' were aged between 26 and 72 and are believed to have died in three groups - 15 the first day, 15 the next, and nine on the third. In the heat of the Californian spring, many of the bodies had already begun to decompose by the time DiAngelo discovered them. Eager to be helpful, they cleaned up after each round of dying and had even taken out the rubbish. Police found handguns, rifles, and ammunition at the mansion which DiAngelo believed Marshall Applewhite had assembled because he feared a Waco-like siege by the FBI. He had also spent, $1,000 on an insurance policy that would pay out a million dollars each for up to 50 people in the event of abduction by aliens. The company said Heaven's Gate were one of 4,000 policyholders worldwide who had bought alien abduction insurance, with Britain and the USA being their biggest markets. The aftermath of the Heaven's Gate deaths was predictably prosaic. San Diego County planned to auction off their belongings - worth an estimated $1 million and give the proceeds to surviving family members. But DiAngelo claimed that his brothers and sisters wanted him to inherit the web design firm and announced his intention of settling the matter in court. Neighbours living on the same street as the group campaigned to change it's name after crowds of 'strange visitors' kept arriving to pray there. And the $1.6 million mansion itself proved unsellable because of it's gruesome associations and the obstinate smell of formaldehyde in its air conditioning. Two months after the suicide pact, two former members of Heaven's Gate also tried to 'exit their earthly vehicles' in a Holiday Inn four miles from the cult's mausoleum. They were dressed and prepared exactly the same as their departed brothers and sisters. One died immediately. The other was found unconscious, and went on to evangelise for the cult, touring the country with a 70-minute video of the bug-eyed Marshall Applewhite. He killed himself the following year in Heaven's Gate style after telling his friends that he would 'rather gamble on missing the bus this time than stay on this planet and risk losing my soul.' DiAngelo went on to apply the computer skills he had learned from Heaven's Gate to his earthly life. He auctioned off the cult's van on eBay and signed a deal to write a TV movie based on his experiences. But the project never got off the ground. A tabloid offered him $1 million for exclusive rights to his story. At the time he refused, preferring to preserve the dignity of his departed friends. Upon reflection, he later said he should have taken the money. 'I've been on a rollercoaster over the last decade,' he said in 2007. 'I still miss my friends so much and I still haven't met anyone who can compare to them. Not a day goes by that I don't think about them. 'I'm the last Heaven's Gate member on Earth, so there must be a reason why I'm still here. But although I still want to live like them, dying like them definitely isn't part of my plan.' DiAngelo re-established contact with his 19 year old son and confessed he was now 'a slave to commerce like everybody else.' Ten years on he was still haunted by the events of that terrible day, but relieved that he didn't join his friends in the mass suicide which shocked the world. The group's website is still maintained by two individuals allegedly surviving members who left after 12 years to get married (forbidden within the group which prized gender-free platonic relationships) prior to the group's exodus to the 'Next Evolutionary Level.' They confirmed in a statement on the 20th anniversary of the mass suicide that Heaven's Gate no longer existed but that the site remained available to those seeking information about their beliefs.

The world's fascination with the extraordinary actions Heaven's Gate undertook is yet to abate...

#Heaven's Gate Cult #Marshall Applewhite #rio diangelo #Richard Fort #Mass Suicide #tcc crime #tcc post #tcc cults #tcc blog #true crime #true crime community #real crime #real deaths #religious cults #dangerous cults #The Serial Killer Chronicles #my blog #follow for more

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aniray · 4 years

Text

Slipping Into Dreams

For @sighonahurricane

~*~

He’d heard from Pol that Lizzie was sick. She’d said it in passing, tone just sharp enough to make her displeasure with him known. He’d nodded and changed the subject to work. Lizzie was tough and she’d been sick before. If it was bad, Pol’d have been yelling. She wasn’t, so he went on with his day. He didn’t forget Lizzie was sick, he’d other things to worry about, though. Then, just before he’d left the office, Ada had called. He’d almost not taken the call. But Ada didn’t call the office often and when she did, it was usually important. So he’d taken the call.

“You need to get to Lizzie’s.” Tommy paused at the strain in his sister’s voice. But she was speaking again before he could ask why. “She’s sick. Been sick for a while. Had a doctor go ‘round to check on her, but no one answered the door.” His head told him she was just sleeping it off- she did that, Lizzie. Slept when she wasn’t feeling well. But he knew Ada wouldn’t call for nothing. “Look, she’s pregnant and alone in a big house. Go check on her.”

The line went dead before he’d a chance to say anything. He ran a hand over his face as he decided what to do. He’d send someone- Finn or Isaiah, maybe. They liked Lizzie well enough. And if something had happened- if things were bad- wasn’t much he’d be able to do anyway. His eyes drifted to the stack of papers on his desk. Papers that Lizzie should have had filed. Papers almost a week old, some of them. Had she really been out of the office for that long?

“Fuck.” He reached for the phone and called Isaiah. He’d check on Lizzie and report back. Standing from his chair, Tommy grabbed his coat. It was late, but no later than he usually headed home. Charlie’d be almost asleep by the time he got there. Guilt and relief tangled together in his gut at the thought. Heading out the doors of Shelby Company Ltd. Tommy took in a deep breath. He checked the streets for unfamiliar faces, but the few people moving about were people he knew. People who feared him.

He went to his car and got in. Wasting no time in starting the engine, he pulled out onto the street and headed in the direction of Arrow House. He thought of the house in the opposite direction- thought of the woman he’d bought it for. He didn’t remember the last time he’d been out. Had he been since she’d moved in? A prick of something stung the back of his neck. Felt similar to shame. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and ignored it. His eyes scanned the road- his mind mapped out where an enemy might be lying in wait. ‘Your paranoia is almost as bad as your pride, Thomas.’ As always, he tuned out Polly’s voice.

Too soon the gates to Arrow house appeared before him. He hated the house. Hated how his mind and heart could never rest here. But it’d been for Grace. She’d loved it. She’d wanted to raise Charlie in that house. So he stayed. Pulling up to the front door he stopped the car and got out. Heading inside, Tommy thought of Ada’s voice earlier. She didn’t get worried about little things, his sister. He paused in the process of shrugging out of his coat. He could go. It wouldn’t hurt anything- he’d no business to deal with that night. The sound of footsteps broke him from his thoughts. Isaiah would call if things were bad. Lizzie was probably fine.

Tommy went upstairs to Charlie’s room. His son wasn’t asleep yet, the nanny still helping him into his night clothes. “Hello Charlie,” he said, forcing some gentleness into his voice. It was an odd thing to have to do, so unnatural to how he spoke to everyone else. His boy looked up from stepping into his pajamas and smiled. Tommy stepped into the room, motioning for the nanny to leave. Pulling back to blankets, Tommy nodded towards the bed. “In you get, then.” Charlie scrambled onto the bed and Tommy tucked the blankets in around his little body. “Shall I tell you story?” Charlie nodded, so Tommy settled onto the bed next to his son. He stayed long after Charlie had fallen asleep. Stayed long enough for the steady breathing and warmth of his son-or maybe it was the exhaustion and stress of his life- to lull him to sleep.

There was no light. Cold air came from above him. There was no light. But not like before- not like the tunnels. He couldn’t see but he knew there was no dirt holding him in. There were no walls at all. He stepped forward, but felt nothing beneath him. He felt nothing at all except for the cold, the soft rush of air against his skin.

He blinked, hoping that it would ease the blackness. But it didn’t- he hadn’t truly thought it would. Still he took another step. There’d been three thoughts chasing each other ‘round his head during the war- only three. And the most important one- the one that got him back to England- was ‘keep moving’. It circled his head now, too. Trapped in darkness again. No way back, only forward. Didn’t know how he knew that, but he did- there was no turning back.

So he moved through the black. He moved and he listened- even though the silence was complete. It was eerie, this kind of quiet. Unnatural. His legs carried him forward, though his feet touched nothing. On and on and on for he didn’t know how long. Meters or miles or entire leagues- he didn’t know. But he wouldn’t stop- to stop was to die. It was carved into his bones, that.

Stillness and Death came together.

And no sooner had the thought come, did he realize he’d stopped moving. In another moment he realized why. A sound reached him. It was faint, so very small he could have missed it. He wasn’t sure it was even real. But he didn’t move. And he heard it again, still little more than an echo of an echo, but there. Real. He stepped forward and suddenly he could hear it clearly- like he’d moved a hundred yards instead of a single step. It was crying- the sound. It was a woman crying.

He took another step before even thinking about it. And again one step moved him farther than it should have. But it hardly mattered. Because where darkness had surrounded him before, now there was blinding light. Bright as the sun on fresh snow. It hurt. He flinched back, eyes closing against the sudden pain. It left him more disoriented than the darkness for a long moment. But he forced himself to look again. The crying was fainter now and he needed to see.

He wished he hadn’t.

A woman- dark haired, long limbed, lovely- lay on the floor before him. The crying stopped. The silence was as unbroken as before, except for the sudden heaviness of his own breathing. She was pale, Lizzie. Too fucking pale. Reminded him of a fresh corpse. She was too still. Her eyes were too dull, no light in them- no life. “Lizzie?” She didn’t answer. His hands shook as he knelt down next to her. It made him pause, seeing a tremble in his hands. It’d been a long time since fear had made his hands shake. “C’mon, Lizzie, look at me, eh?”

She was freezing to the touch. No warmth to her at all. Carefully, gently, he pulled her up. His hands framed her face, keeping her head up. If she was breathing he couldn’t see it, couldn’t feel it. He pressed fingers against her neck, praying (fucking praying, him) for a pulse. But only the stillness met his fingers. His hands fell away from her. His eyes watched as she fell forward against his chest. It was all cold skin and dead weight and pain.

It was the pain that finally plunged him back into darkness.

Tommy startled awake. His breathing was sharp and fast and useless. Spots flashed across his vision as he tried to remember where the fuck he was. His eyes shot around the room- looking for enemies, looking for Charlie, looking for a woman it made no sense to look for. But all was quiet except for him. Charlie slept beside him, calm and unbothered by dark dreams. Tommy couldn’t imagine a rest like that.

Slowly, with stilted movements and stumbling mind, Tommy got up and left his son’s room. His feet carried him down the stairs. Then his coat was in hand and he was walking out the door. He was driving before he’d thought to go anywhere. But there was this need- this tugging in his chest that said he had to go. He had to see her. Because Isaiah hadn’t called, had he? And Ada’d said things were bad, hadn’t she? And he kept seeing those dull green eyes, and feeling the cold touch of a woman who was never anything but warm when he held her.

Too soon he was there, marching up the steps to Lizzie’s door. He didn’t bother to knock. He pulled his key out- the key he’d never used before- and opened the door. He barely noticed the changes to the house as he rushed up the stairs. It’d looked nice when he bought it for her. It still looked nice. Felt different, though. Feels like Lizzie. The tug came harder in his chest with the thought.

He didn’t know which room she’d chosen, but his feet carried him to the room furthest from the stairs. His hand was shaking again as he turned the knob. Shaking worse than in his dream. He pushed the door open and stepped inside. His eyes scanned the room for friend or enemy- there was neither. Just Lizzie, laid in the middle of her bed. Sweat dotted her brow and even in the dim light from the bedside light he could see how pale she was. But she blinked her eyes open when he sat on the bed.

There was confusion in her eyes when she looked at him. And wariness. A bit of …something…unfurled at that look in her eyes. He wasn’t stupid. He knew she cared for him more than he could ever care for her. But…he’d never seen her put up walls between them. Yet looking now, maybe she’d just always had them in place by the time he actually noticed her. Said a lot that she expected pain from him- said more than he expected to cause her pain. Shitty realization, that.

“Do you want me to leave?”

She swallowed, and he took in her dry lips. Had she had water that day? Of its own volition his hand reached up to smooth her hair back from her face. He didn’t miss the way she tensed slightly at his touch. Didn’t miss the way she leaned into it a moment later- after she knew he wasn’t trying to hurt her. Sometimes the smallest things reminded him she wasn’t as unbreakable as he always thought. “Just trying to figure out why you’ve come.”

He looked away then. Pregnant with his kid, laid up sick in bed, and wondering why he’d come. Took more balls than he had to look at her right then. His hand came from her hair to her stomach. Baby was still too small for him to feel. So small but such a big weight on him. Couldn’t say he’d trade it for anything, though. “Do I need a reason to come here?” Lizzie turned her head. No words spoken yet she said so much. All of it meaning the same thing. She knew her place- he’d taught her early and well. “I had a nightmare about you. Wanted to see if you’re alright.”

Her eyes fell closed. “I’m fine.” He reached for her hand, but she pulled away. “Don’t… Just, don’t, alright? I’m fine.” She sounded so tired. Just not from being ill. He took her in. Laying there, head turned away from him, eyes closed so not to look at him… Tommy stood up, eyes still on Lizzie. He watched her chest rise and fall in a shuddery breath. Couldn’t tell if it was from being sick or from relief at him leaving. He found he didn’t quite want to know the answer. Thought it might matter more than he wanted it to.

“I’ll send someone by in the morning.” She nodded. He ignored the tear that slipped down her cheek. Had a feeling to mention it would be the wrong thing. “You can call. Me. You can call me, if you need something.” She bit her bottom lip the way she did when she knew he’d lied to her. He tensed a bit at that. “I’ll send someone.”

Then he was gone.

But her eyes- wary, disbelieving, hurt- haunted him.

~*~*~

4 Months Later

He couldn’t concentrate. He’d been sat at his desk staring at the same fucking paper for almost an hour. Didn’t know what it said, didn’t know why he’d even picked it up. He kept looking over to the phone. He wasn’t expecting a call. He didn’t have anyone to call himself. But it felt like it should be ringing. Made the silence seem ominous instead of natural.

Tossing the paper onto his desk he ran a hand over his face, tried to force his mind to work. But the moment his eyes closed he saw her, Lizzie. He leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. Opening his eyes again he expected the image to disappear. It didn’t. No, she was still there, dancing in his vision like a fever dream. The bad kind, the kind that left a man fighting back tears and screams.

The kind that Tommy drowned out with little brown bottles.

He didn’t reach for his drawer this time though. He was caught in the hallucination before him. Lizzie, stood in her nightdress, swayed on her feet. Her hair was damp from sweat, her skin pale, her face drawn. Like she was in pain. He’d seen Lizzie hurt before, Tommy had. But not like this. It left his skin feeling too tight and too hot and wrong. This was wrong.

He looked to the phone again.

Lizzie stumbled forward a step, bringing his eyes back to her. Though… She’d moved with him, hadn’t she? He saw, through the thin fabric of her nightdress, the ripple of their baby kicking. He’d felt it under his palm only days earlier. It was still odd to see just how real it was- even in this very unreal moment. Another kick and Lizzie was bent over, clutching her stomach. Blood pooled onto the carpet beneath her feet.

Then she was gone.

Tommy was on his feet and moving to the door in the next moment. His secretary- the new one, the one that replaced Lizzie- looked up in surprise as he left his office. “Mr. Shelby? Is- Do you- Sir?” But he didn’t stop, didn’t even glance her way. He took the stairs quickly, not caring that others might be watching. He kept seeing her. Too pale, too still, too quiet- like his dream from months ago. He saw her in bed- sweating, wary, and hurting from wounds he’d caused. He saw her as she’d been a moment ago- bleeding, in pain, and with fear (so much fucking fear) in her eyes.

The drive was a blur of fields and smoke and thoughts tumbling over each other. He was used to the noise. He was used to having to fight the voices to get ahold of his own thoughts. But this- this was different. It was all his thoughts, no voices to fight, just himself. And all of them were weighed down and heavy with some emotion he refused to look at.

Finn was running out the door when Tommy pulled into the drive. He was out of the car and grabbing hold of his little brother. “What? What happened?” But before Finn could say anything Pol’s voice was yelling from inside the house. He didn’t catch what she said, but he knew that tone. He’d heard it when Finn was born- when his mother was dying.

He pushed Finn away and was running.

He took the stairs two at a time and it still took too long to get to Lizzie’s room. Pol swung the door open just as he reached to open it himself. “Ada- oh.” She placed both hands on his chest and pushed him back. “You’re not going in. You don’t want to go in there right now, Thomas.” But he didn’t care. She’d said that before his mother died, too. And he’d be damned if Lizzie was dying and he wasn’t in there with her. “Thomas, you can’t help her. You’ll be in the way.”

“The baby?”

Pol winced, but only just. It was still a knife to his ribs. She shook her head slightly and his legs threatened to give. “Don’t know yet. She’s stuck. Sent Finn for the doctor. Might need a hospital.” His mind tried to wrap around what his aunt was saying. Tried to understand what this all meant. “But…” He focused back on his aunt- on the new strain in her voice. “They can’t keep like this much longer. You should- You need to prepare yourself.”

Suddenly Ada was there handing something to Pol. But he barely noticed it. His eyes had slid past his aunt and to the bed that Lizzie was lying in. it was like before. She was pale and sweaty and looked beyond exhausted. But it was worse this time, somehow. He could see her thrashing, her hands clawing at the sheet. The tendons in her neck were straining and she’d never looked as fierce as she did in that moment. She’d never looked so close to death as in that moment. He took a step forward only for his sister’s hand to pull him back. He turned to look at her, feeling a betrayal he hadn’t felt before. She just shook her head.

He turned back to Lizzie’s room in time to see the door close.

The lock turning sounded too final.

He didn’t move for a long time. Not until Ada’d pulled a chair from somewhere and forced him into it. He stared at the locked door. The only thing keeping him from Lizzie and their child. And he waited. He listened to Lizzie’s screams and waited. He watched the door open long enough for the doctor to slip in and he waited. He heard Lizzie’s voice grow fainter and fainter into nothing (it was terrifying, that nothingness) and he waited. And for each moment he waited a bit of his mind slipped a little further away, a bit of his soul grew quiet and died.

It felt like an eternity passed before the door opened again. Ada stepped out, a little bundle wrapped tight in her arms. She wasn’t smiling, though, his sister. Her face showed exhaustion and sadness and fear. Nothing like a person should look like when a baby’s been born. “Is- is it…?” He couldn’t say it- couldn’t ask whether his kid was dead or not. He didn’t fucking want to know, did he?

“It’s a girl, like Pol said.” He just stared at the bundle- the bundle that was apparently his daughter. ‘Polly said to name her Ruby.’ His Ruby, then. “She’s alright, Tommy. Tired. It was- it wasn’t an easy time for either of them, Tom.” He nodded absently. He’d still not heard Lizzie. She’d been quiet for so long. Ada stepped forwards and placed his daughter in his arms. “She’s beautiful, Tommy.”

He looked at the little face peeking from the blanket. She was beautiful. Small and dark-haired and his. His girl to look after and protect. He looked back to Lizzie’s room. The door was closed again. “No one called me.” He hadn’t known he was thinking it until the words were out of his mouth. Ada looked away, something like shame crossing her features. Not much his sister had to feel ashamed for. He’d grant this was a good reason for it, though.

“She knew you were busy.” He flinched hard enough to startle Ruby. But Ada kept going. “Said to call when the baby was closer to coming. That you’d probably come by after work anyway. But then things got bad and we didn’t have time. She was bleeding and the baby was stuck and-” She took a deep breath, he held his with her. “It was really bad, Tommy.” He nodded, slow, barely had the energy for that bit of movement.

The door opened and Pol and the doctor walked out. Tommy wanted to stand, but he knew his legs wouldn’t hold him. “She bled a lot,” the doctor started, eyes going between Pol and Ada. “More than I’ve seen in a long time, really. But she’s been stitched up. Bedrest for a week and she should be fine.” He looked at Tommy for the first time. “You’re the father, then?” Tommy nodded. God, his head felt fucking heavy. “Right, well go easy on her for the next few weeks. Body can’t handle too much jostling.” Then he was gone. Tommy didn’t bother to call him back.

“So she’s alive, then?” His voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. His throat felt raw, like he’d been screaming the whole time Lizzie hadn’t been able to. Pol nodded, face only slightly less tense than it had been before. Relief crashed into him hard- hard enough that he lost his breath for a moment. His head fell forward, too heavy to hold up any longer. He looked at the little girl in his arms again. She’d not grow up without her mother, then. He’d not have to tell another child that their mother was in heaven. “Good. That’s- that’s good.”

Ada pressed a kiss to his head as he breathed through his relief. Pol rested a hand on his shoulder. It was a comfort he hadn’t gotten from her in a long time. He barely registered the awkwardness of the gesture. But underneath that he felt the warmth of Pol’s affection. Then the hand was gone, his aunt and sister walking away. He waited until they were both out of sight before he let the first tear fall. It landed on his daughter’s cheek. For a moment he could see her entire life, every tear she’d ever cry, every moment of heartache and joy. He brushed the tear away. It wasn’t so easy to erase the images he’d seen, though.

And again his eyes went to the closed door standing between him and Lizzie. He stood up, legs shaky for a moment. He held Ruby a bit tighter and reached for the knob. It turned easily and the door opened. And there she was. The sheets had been changed, and so had Lizzie’s nightdress. Her face was relaxed as she slept. The sweat had been wiped away. From the corner of his eye he could see the pile of bloody linens on the floor. It was too much blood to come from one person.

He settled onto the bed, Ruby tucked into the crook of his arm. He situated Lizzie so she was tucked under his other arm. So he could feel the rise and fall of her every breath. So he could feel the heat coming off of her. He watched the wall, watched the shadows lengthen as the hours passed. Watched the light dim as night fell. Watched the soft glow of the moon create fae creatures where perfume bottles and hairbrushes used to be.

They both woke at the same time- Lizzie and Ruby. One settled more fully into his hold, the other tensed against him. “Easy, Lizzie. You’re alright. Baby’s alright. Everything’s fine, I’ve got you.” She didn’t relax, but it was something close to it. Close enough that there was only a bit of hurt. He turned to look at her- took in the way moonlight cut across her, illuminating her face. “Got a little girl here who’d like to meet her mum.”

Lizzie stared at him for a long moment. “I told them not to call you from work.” Her voice was rough and barely there and Tommy’s throat hurt in sympathy just listening to her. “Didn’t mean to pull you away. Know you’re busy- especially lately.” And she did. He’d told her almost as much as he’d told Pol about his plans to run for MP. Didn’t mean it was more important than their kid being born.

“Had a nightmare ‘bout you. Wanted to make sure you were alright.”

She blinked. It was a confused little thing. Almost had a smile coming to his lips. Except… It wasn’t funny how surprised she still was that he might care for her. “I don’t- I don’t understand what you’re doing.” And what did that say about him? That the mother of his child didn’t know what she was to him. “Just say it. Whatever this is, whatever I’m to be from here on out, just tell me.”

He clumsily propped her up so she was sitting. Then he carefully settled Ruby into her mother’s arms. He watched the tension fall away from Lizzie as she held her baby. He felt something tight and warm and painful fill him up. He felt something he’d not thought possible- something he wanted to push away with both hands- take him over. Words were on his tongue before he could think of what they were. “I think-” I think I’m fucking in love with you and it fucking scares me half to death. “I think she’ll take after you.”

Her eyes were locked on Ruby but he still saw the disappointment fill her eyes. “I hope she has your eyes,” she whispered. He could see a tear caught on her lashes. It hurt him to see it. When did Lizzie’s tears start hurting him like this? “I’ve always loved your eyes. Even when I hated ‘em I loved ‘em.” She took in a sharp breath, wincing as she did. “But the rest can be me. Lizzie and Ruby- the last of the Stark women.”

“She’ll be a Shelby.” He hated the surprise that took over Lizzie’s face. “And…if you want, her mother’ll be a Shelby, too.” That tear he’d been watching fell, then. He could see her going through all the reasons he’d offer for her- all the wrong reasons. “It’s not about that. It’s not about legitimacy. It’s not about politics. It’s about you. It’s about doing right by you. Because you deserve that, don’t you think?” She didn’t nod, didn’t say ‘yes’. Broke his heart, that. “I wouldn’t ask anyone else. I want you to be my wife. It’s you. No one else.” He saw her remember those words- saw her understand.

“Alright.”

It was barely loud enough for him to hear, but he heard it. It made something settle in his soul- something that had been lost and broken and sore to the touch. He heard the words, he saw the wary hope mixing with the love she always tried not to let him see- she was trusting him with it this time. And for a moment- for a single perfect moment- he could see them. Every laugh, every fight, every cruel word and kind touch- it was all there, he could see it. All the things he’d needed and hadn’t wanted to admit. All the things he’d wanted but been too stubborn to ask for.

It was almost everything- even with him scared. Scared to hurt Lizzie- scared to put that wary, disappointed look back on her face. Scared to have her slip away from him. Scared that the light would dim from her eyes, the paleness last too long, the cold skin never warm. Scared that the love he’d been holding so tight to (hadn’t even known he was doing it) would fade and disappear- that she’d give up on him one day. Terrified that his heart might never recover from the loss of her, when he’d still not recovered from Grace.

Still, he pushed the fear away- it didn’t belong.

Gently- so fucking careful- he pulled his girls in. He wrapped his arms around them, him holding Lizzie, Lizzie holding Ruby. Tommy’s lips rested on the curve of Lizzie’s neck, eyes watching Ruby over her shoulder. And it wasn’t quite right- he’d need Charlie for that- but it was fucking close, wasn’t it. He lifted a finger to trace down Ruby’s soft cheek. His arm tightened around Lizzie. “It’s gonna be good, her life. And yours, too, Lizzie. I’ll make it good.” She took a deep breath- held it- then finally (fucking finally) she relaxed into him. Completely.

I love you Lizzie Stark.

One day he’d give her the words, but for now he’d hold her.

#tommy x lizzie #Tommy Shelby #Lizzie Stark #peaky blinders fanfic #ask #answered

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tarantula-hawk-wasp · 4 years

Text

Til Death Do Us Part ch 1

This will end up on Ao3 eventually Based on the @maulusque post (Which You Should Read Before Reading This) where Fox and Palpatine end up in a fake relationship and sham marriage because both thinks the other is sincere and that they are manipulating the other but Fox had one hell of a prenup and ends up cleaning house when he divorces Sheev and saves the galaxy

This is not that story. This is a failed version of that story I thought up because my two braincells were like Rey Palpatine? That makes Fox her step-grandpa??? and i wanted them to meet. It also is turning into a Sequels Fix It (disclaimer- I kind of take sequels canon about the sheev clones and mash it with my fist until juice comes out and make lemonade and do whatever i want bc they dont explain enough)

Summary: Fox wakes up from cryo-stasis to a galaxy recovering from the fall of the Empire as the universe’s Bitterest Ex-Husband because he didn’t get to kill Palpatine himself. He’s not going to let some discount clone of sheev ruin things again either, and ends up with a surprise step-granddaughter along the way. 3k words chapter 1/?

Fox should have known better than to attempt out-manipulating the puppetmaster of a galactic war. What really rankled was how close he had come, his fingers had metaphorically brushed the salvation of the Republic before it had been snatched away.

The divorce had been more than halfway processed, and Palpatine had grown more and more panicked. Under the scrutiny of every lawyer on Coruscant, the prenuptial agreement had been airtight, the political powers Fox tried to give himself in it were unlikely to be enforced, but the monetary and titular aspects were to the letter of the law.

Of course the law only applied to citizens and sentients. Palpatine cracked down hard against Clone Rights in those last months. He himself did not publicly utter a biased word in either direction, only ever praising the effectiveness of the troops, but many of Palpatine’s close associates presented strong cases. People that had been at their engagement party, people who had been roped by tradition into dancing with Fox’s brothers at the wedding, people who had looked him in the eye over an oiled banquet table and praised his wit, became the ones proclaiming that Fox and his brothers had no more inborn rights or legal merit than a droid or womprat.

Palpatine drew the court case out in circular debates, and last minute rescheduling. Fox was kept exhausted and worn to the bone between the ramped up tempo of the war, the grueling hours in court, and the new loathing facing him every second he spent at his job in the Coruscant Guard. Palpatine had dropped any acts around Fox, no longer the doting grandfather of the republic, or enthusiastic geriatric spouse, but bitter and jilted and cruel-tongued. Some days Fox feared for his life.

It was that resignation that he would die that saved Fox’s life. He updated his will -clones were at least allowed those for any non-GAR-issue items they had - and made sure copies were held by numerous offices, and even on other planets. He appointed Cody and the Coruscant Guard as the main benefactors, Cody had the authority to divy resources up among the rest of the vode, and the Coruscant Guard were both his closest brothers and deserving of any boon he could grant them. He left a hefty endowment for the cadets and tubies, to find either adoptive families or to raise them without the military training in the event of the War ending. He left his half of the cultural artifacts that Palpatine had collected to the Jedi for them to distribute as they saw fit.

Even if Palpatine managed to pierce holes through every line of the divorce documents, he could not deny Fox’s last will and testament. Palpatine had to keep Fox alive, or else he would lose many of the assets he was trying to keep in his grasp.

Fox had counted on more time to slip information to the GAR and the Jedi, he had counted on less supervision, and he had counted on Dooku and Grievous lasting for a few more months than they did.

He failed to prevent Order 66, and as his brothers lost their free-will, he was abducted from 500 Republica. A drugged dart jabbing through his blacks and unfamiliar hands hauling him onto a ship. He was put into cryo-cycle stasis. That counted enough as keeping him alive that his will could not be enacted, but kept him and his insider knowledge from challenging Palpatine.

Forty years later, a decade after the fledgling New Republic finally closed the buried account that dripped credits into the facility Fox’s stasis pod was in, the power couplings shorted out - whatever droid or employee was in charge of maintenance long departed for salaried work. The pod had emergency protocols to thaw him out with the last of its energy reserves if the power was cut out.

And so out he had staggered, head aching and bile rising. His genetically wired resilience and discipline had carried him through the worst of the stasis sickness.

The computer terminals were easy enough to slice. Palpatine did not change his cybersecurity strategy over the decades, and Fox knew more than he wanted to of that man’s mind. What he found was disturbing, but not surprising. Weapons capable of destroying entire planets, the genocide of the Jedi, the suicidal brothers made into cyborg Dark Troopers, a Galactic Empire. And cloning, an overwhelming amount of information on cloning. Not just familiar Kaminoan files, but resources from other cloning facilities, Strand-Casts, Splices, Stem-cells- every method explored and combined. Palpatine had been seeking immortality.

Fox did not let himself think about what year it was, he did not think about the decades Palpatine had marred for the Galaxy, the vode all marching far away without him, the history ripped apart by waves of propaganda. What he thought instead about was his own failure to sacrifice himself and put a blaster bolt through Palpatine’s wrinkled forehead so many years ago. It rankled quite a bit that Palpatine died while he was in stasis - the bitterness of unfulfilled hatred. But he could find new purpose. He would not let a false Palpatine return and inflict himself upon the healing Galaxy.

After he left the lunar facility orbiting its dead planet in a nearly-corroded relic of an emergency escape ship, the first goal he achieved was programming a medical droid to excise the control chip from his brain. Then he started slicing again. There were still some accounts he had set up during his sham marriage with credits that had decades of interest. His backup plan to that was selling the material assets he knew either he or Palpatine had stored away in scattered locations.

Fox bought a ship, blasters, and assembled piecemeal a set of armor. He bought bounty hunter credentials, keeping his helmet on always to hide any recognition his face might bring. He stacked crates of rations in the empty bunks in his ship - a Skipray Blastboat - a vessel meant for four was a roomy choice to travel alone in, but still nearly invisible in its ubiquity. And he went hunting.

Palpatine’s clones were hard to find, a challenge Fox embraced for its distraction. He found out some of the pseudonyms running the older facilities, the constructed identities for whatever apprentices, droids, or imperial loyalists were actually doing the work. That was a mystery Fox was still investigating.

Sometimes, to find a clone of Palpatine, Fox anonymously set the bounty himself, and then claimed it as well - getting the resources of the minor guild he worked with, as well as a tracking fob.

Sometimes he killed them. Sometimes it was easy, the compulsions and the personality of Palpatine showing through, and that hated face looking back. Sometimes they were worming their way into government positions to undermine the New Republic. Sometimes it was harder, botched strand-casts that held only a passing resemblance to the man, and were without the force or any malignance. Those, Fox judged on a case-by-case basis. Were they in politics? How connected were they to any neo-imperialists? He judged each of them by their own actions, he knew the way a clone could be blamed for the actions of another.

He was not the only one after these clones, someone else was also hunting them - off of any official Bounty Hunting channels. And with the karked up Sith tradition of usurpers, Fox could not assume it was an ally.

Fox’s unknown rival gradually became more than just a nuisance to compete against. There had been a strand-cast clone of Palpatine’s that bore only a partial resemblance and had been actively undermining some of the networks Fox thought might be connected to the cloning facilities. Fox had been trying to track him down, to talk to someone who might be able to link him to the roots of this operation - he was even ready to offer personal protection - but his opponent had reached him first.

The man was dead now. As was the woman he had been traveling with. It was frustratingly suspicious, and Fox was out of other leads to investigate. He spent a few months slicing and scouring for information about the strand-cast. The man had boarded a ship from a large spaceport with a woman and a child, had transferred numerous times, and then, at the last port before his death, had only embarked with the woman. The child had either died prior the the adults’ deaths, or was still alive. And if the child was alive, they might know where their father had come from.

Shipyard security cameras and life/heat sensors could only tell him so much. He looked into crew manifests, ration orders, and fuel receipts. Between fuel logs and hyperspace maps, he created a list of planets between each refueling stop with more fuel purchased and time between than a direct route would necessitate and worked down that, checking for ships matching their vessel’s description docking with false credentials. Planets with smaller populations were quicker to investigate so he looked there first. It was a slow process over weeks.

Jakku had only a few scattered settlements, and while their ship monitoring was lacking, the local population was likely to have seen anyone who arrived or left. He landed outside of one of the larger trade centers.

He disembarked his ship and walked towards the mass of tents and shabby buildings. He was wearing only a minimum of armor, and had left his helmet on the ship. His blaster was still displayed in its holster, a weight he felt pressed against his thigh with every step. He wasn’t here as a bounty hunter, but something closer to undercover instead, and if the kid was here he didn’t want to scare or threaten the child prematurely. He would blend in more as just another spacer.

He was met by a varied group of sun-beaten and skeptical beings. The welcoming committee seemed torn between distrust and hope for trade.

“I’m here for information.” He began, showing a flash of credit chips when he pulled out his holoprojector. “About a year ago a ship of this type would have arrived and left a passenger behind.”

“Lotta ships come in and out…” A thin Caskadag said unhelpfully. But Fox could see poorly concealed recognition among some of the faces. He mentally debated who to bribe or how else to persuade the crowd.

Out of sight, there was a shriek of conversation and then the frantic scuffle of running feet over sand. A girl emerged from a clump of tents and stopped, almost breathless, staring at him. She was young, between six or eight, Fox struggled like most clones with approximating odd numbered years of natural borns, but she was small.

“Did my parents send you!? Are they gonna come get me?” She asked with bright desperation. She was staring at the holoprojected ship in his hands. Fox knew this was the strand-cast’s child.

“I’m here because of your parents.” He said evenly. He looked at the group of now unhappy onlookers, denied their chance to weasel credits out of him. “Is there somewhere less busy we can talk?”

“Mmhmm.” She walked him between tents to a clearing edged with waste heaps. Fox opened his mouth and then stopped again, hesitant.

“Why did my parents send you?” There was sensible caginess warring with hope in her voice. She kept glancing back to the crowd they had just left.

“I’m sorry, Rey,” He hoped that what the other workers had muttered at her had been her name, and dropped down to one knee to be on a level with her. “But your parents are dead. I’m sorry, but they can’t come get you.”

There was a watery vulnerability to her eyes. Fox expected a denial, he hated being the one to deliver this news. It was partially his own failure.

“So… So I’m just… I’m just going to stay here? And - and work for Mister Plutt forever?” She looked wetly at the pitiful tents around them, the sand, the beating sun, the scrap-sorting piles. Fox looked at her, at the scabs and callouses on her tiny hands, at the stained clothing, at the bones of her arms, at the ring of faint green skin around her wrist. Force, he had always been weak for the cadets.

“No, if you want… If you want I can take you with me.” It was an impulsive offer, but it felt right.

“You’re not my dad.” She said sulkily. “I’m only supposed to leave if him or mum comes.”

“No, I’m not.” Fox did some quick thinking about his relationship to Palpatine, his own apparent age, and the fact her father was a clone of Sheev. “But I am your father’s ex-husband.”

He knew that she had no reason to trust him, and frankly if she had any sense to not get abducted, she wouldn’t. Fox was ready to pull up a datapad with the copy of his marriage certificate, proof her father was a clone, and a discussion of family trees. Instead of an argument, she looked intensely at him and he felt a warmth swell around him, like a summer breeze. Of course the kriffing kid was force sensitive.

It was pleasant, as far as being probed by the force ever was. She was bright and gentle and washed over him, so unlike the cloying oil-slick that he had not realized choked his mind for years until he was finally free of Palpatine. He waited, keeping his thoughts on what he had just said, but not so intently as to raise her suspicion that he was hiding something.

Eventually she nodded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I know when people are lying. And-” She hesitated, squirming a little. “And you feel nice.”

Fox smiled. Nice was not the word that Fox would have picked to describe himself currently, considering he had spent a better part of the past year hunting down clones of his ex-husband and killing many of them with extreme prejudice. He wondered unhappily at what relative caliber for niceness she was comparing him to. He stood up and paused.

“So you’ll come with me?” He asked again for clarity’s sake.

“Mmhmm.” She confirmed, and stepped to his side, reaching up to worm her little hand into his.

“Do you have stuff to get? People to say bye to?” He asked uncertainly. He wasn’t sure how this was supposed to go, and right now it felt too easy. She started tugging him towards the array of scrap-sorters.

She went to a spot she had clearly hastily abandoned when he had arrived, and picked up a dingy canvas bag and slung it over her shoulder. She walked back to him and put her hand back in his again.

“Okay. Now we need to tell Mister Plutt.” She nodded towards a permanent structure at the edge of the scrapyard.

“Rey, Rey, Who’s that man?” One of the women who had not been in the group that greeted him, skin toughened by sand and sun, rose up from the heaps of metal and brandished a staff at him. Part of Fox was relieved that at least someone was stopping little girls from getting kidnapped. The other part of him put on his most charming, non-threatening smile.

“I’m her father’s ex-husband. Her parents are dead and I only just found out…”

The woman glared at him but shifted to look at Rey, softening her gaze.

“He tellin’ the truth? Do you know this man?”

“He’s not lying.” Rey said. “And Dad mentioned he had a complix-complexcated past.”

“Her father and I may have split over our differences, but I’m not leaving his kid to grow up a scrapper beholden to quotas when I have the resources to raise her instead.” Fox’s honest determination had the desired effect, the woman lowered her staff and nodded, still suspicious but relenting.

“You’re going to have to pay Unkar for her.”

Fox frowned and gestured towards his blaster on his hip. “Sure, I’ll pay.”

“No. I mean it. You try any funny business and he’ll set the guild on you or worse.” The woman was very serious. “You got enough to pay?”

“If I have to, I will.” Fox said with finality. He did not want to buy another being, but he also wanted Rey off of this planet as smoothly as possible.

The questioning was repeated with Unkar Plutt, who glared with equal distrust to the people outside. He took Rey aside into his office room, and Fox hoped it was to question her about his claims and if she actually wanted to leave with him. Fox was concerned by how easy it was for someone to take a child off of Jakku like this, but also acknowledged that this was incredibly convenient for him.

Plutt and Rey reemerged and Rey walked over and clung to his pant leg. Fox brushed a hand over her hair.

“I’m losing years of good labor.” Unkar said callously. “I expect to be compensated.”

Fox told himself that the credits he handed over were a bribe. Fox swung Rey’s little bag over his shoulder and after a moment of consideration, hoisted Rey up to rest on his hip as well. She was light and clung round his neck, giggling with surprise in his ear.

Fox didn’t need to be force sensitive to know that this decision felt right.

#commander fox #rey #rey skywalker #sheev palpatine #foxpatine #fox/palpatine #my writing #star wars #This turned into a kid fic bc Im Me #foxpatine divorce stasis pod sequels fix it au

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