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mandalorewhore · 3 years

Text

Two Steps Ahead

PART THREE OF HUNTER (formerly hunter and prey)

gif by @princessxkenobi

Rating: Explicit Content Warnings: SMUT, Fighting as Foreplay, Rough Sex, Penetrative Sex(PIV), Unprotected Sex, Dirty talk, Praise kink, Size kink, Big Dick Mando, Top Mando, Sub/Dom elements, Very slight Pain Kink, possible CNC elements although I didn’t write that I also want to warn anyone who doesn’t want to read about rough sex with physical fighting as foreplay Words: 6.9k AO3 LINK

Summary: Reader and Mando start tracking their first bounty together

A/N: i believe things are happening...interesting

***

“I feel like you have a distinct advantage here.” A bead of sweat drips over your brow as you mop at your sweltering forehead in irritation. Your temple throbs as you press on it, pain shooting down your neck at the pressure.

It’s so fucking humid here. You’re tracking one of Mando’s bail jumpers in the middle of a boggy swamp planet that you never caught the name of and you’ve been walking through the forest for at least 24 hours, only stopping for water and ration breaks. Based on the holo-map you’re currently staring at, this entire planet is one big swamp, with no escape from the damp, sticky environment.

The thing barely makes sense, a jumble of colors and shapes that worsens your headache the longer you try to figure it out. You had borrowed a thin shirt from Mando before setting out, but it does little to protect you from the buzzing swarms of insects, while at the same time it reflects just enough heat to have you sweltering.

Mando acts unbothered under all that padding and armor, trekking through the trees without any visible sign of struggle. You don’t understand how he can stay awake for so long without caf, yourself being covered in caf-patches to keep from passing out. It’s probably somewhat dangerous to have so much of the stimulant coursing through your veins, but oh well. If my heart gives out then at least I’ll escape the bugs.

“Footprints aren’t the only way to track a quarry.” He returns mildly, moving swiftly over tangled tree-roots to avoid the pools of murky water that litter the forest floor. You move with less grace behind him, trying to climb slippery wood and juggle the holo at the same time. The twisted trees of this planet seem to reach inward to point at the forest floor, giving you the impression of being trapped within their clutches. The eerie feeling isn’t helped by the distinct lack of light, odd lichen tendrils drape between branches to create a blanket that absorbs most natural light from the sky. A faint glow emanates from the tendrils, basking the forest with ghostly illumination. You scramble to the top of the particularly tall root he’s perched on then plop down to catch your breath.

“No, it’s not the only way,” you pause to take a swig from your water skin, dabbing off the spilled drops from your chin with your sleeve, “but the footprints you track are apparently all glowy and red. I get to look with my naked eyes for shit like depressions in the ground, which is so fun considering the only paths here are solid wood.”

Mando rolls his helmet on his shoulders, the effect similar to someone rolling their eyes. When he speaks it’s short and gruff, annoyed by your attitude. Which is… appropriate. The hours you’ve spent walking in this heat together is starting to snap both of your tempers. “Stop complaining.”

He’s not wrong about the footprints. You’re mostly annoyed because of how useless you feel, more like you’re tagging along than assisting him on the hunt. Drawing your eyebrows together you try to come up with a plan. Most of those mercenary skills you talked up for Karga don’t apply here, this naturalistic setting is too messy and... wild. Unpredictable. You’re used to the structure that comes with starships and cities, places engineered and civilized.

Tracking people isn’t very hard, you’ve done it plenty of times before. The only issue is that all of your practice came from environments where they left clear signs of direction, displaced gravel indicating a shoe-print, broken branches, a trail in sand. It also helps that your targets didn’t know they were being stalked. The only path here is over hard wooden tree roots, with nothing to indicate direction, not even moss grows over the foot trail for traveling feet to mark. You take in a deep breath and hold it for several seconds before letting out all your air in one huge swoop.

“I’m sorry, “ you tell him sincerely, “I want to help you -and not just for a bigger cut. Is there anything I can do?” You truly do feel bad for snapping at him even if you know you’re right about his advantage. Just because you don’t have fancy thermal settings and footprint tracking doesn’t mean you’re useless. The Mandalorian settles his hands on his hips and surveys the area, looking for a task to assign you. His helmet tilts up and lingers on the trees, and you’re already two steps ahead before he can voice his idea.

“I can climb,” you interject, standing up swiftly and moving. “Trees can’t be more slippery than a spacecraft.”

He nods in acknowledgment. “Find something and your cut goes up by five percent.”

“Ten percent.” You grin at him cheekily, wanting to tease him even if he won’t give it to you.

“Eight, if you find somewhere to camp.”

“Deal.” You return, already halfway to the widest tree you can reach without getting your feet wet. The trunk is covered in knots and twisted vines, ugly but providing fantastic handholds for your hands and feet. Grabbing hold of a sturdy looking ledge you begin your ascent.

The climb is fairly easy even with the woods damp surface, and you reach the forest canopy with minimal effort. Carefully squirreling around the thin top-most branches you attempt to find a break-through point, the wood beneath you bowing a little from your weight.

When you finally poke your head through and see the sky you gasp, taken aback by the sight. You hadn’t hung around in the cockpit during landing, instead choosing to pack the bags while Mando skillfully piloted his ship. The forest floor is all you’ve seen of the planet and apparently you’ve missed a lot.

The sky here is beautiful, a color palette that is completely opposite from the dark, damp underbelly of the forest ground. Swirling aquamarine clouds float lazily in the sky, speckling the orange hued atmosphere above you. There are at least 6 pale moons lined up on the horizon from edge to edge, stars twinkling around each orb as if drawn to their orbit. You drink in the sight greedily, the ache in your head lessening in the natural light. This is so much better than the cold stark metal of space stations that you’re used to living on.

It’s hard to tell the time based on the sky alone, the moons must be constantly present in the sky no matter the time of day and you can’t find a single sun. Maybe this planet lives off the light and heat from each moon, reflected from a distant star? The thought is lovely but you don’t think it’s possible. You file the image away for your daydreams then divert your eyes back to the thick forest, searching for anything useful to tell Mando.

The line of trees is unbroken, a sea of dark green leaves and glowing lichen. An orange sky helps to warm up the pale glow from the lichen but it’s eeriness still sends a shiver through you. Everything on the horizon is of even height, betraying nothing within its depths. It isn’t ideal. You gnaw your lip anxiously, dreading to return to Mando without any information especially on your first hunt together. Eyes flitting around desperately, you try to analyze any possible breaks in the natural pattern of trees.

Could that be a settlement there? You think, looking at a slightly thinner section of forest that might roughly be three miles away. You aren’t sure about the planet’s curvature and how flat the terrain is so you double check the holo, looking for the information.

Something catches your eye as you’re pulling up the data, just substantial enough in your peripheral version that you stop what you’re doing. There is a mist rising from that thinned area, far enough away that you mistook it as some sort of lighting effect from the overwhelming color palette here. That has to be steam right? It’s too thick to be naturally occurring from the bog. There must be machinery over there. A settlement hopefully.

You’re about to climb down when you pause, looking at the still lit holo with renewed curiosity. Something about the map visually paired with your clear view of the forest allows the pieces to fall in place. When you compare the shape of the map to the trees you’re finally able to make sense of what you previously thought was a topographical mess. A built pathway lies here, a body of water there. And clearings. Several clearings not too far from where you are now, the perfect size to settle down in. Hopefully they’re dry.

Either the caf-patches are finally sending you into cardiac arrest or you’re manically happy to finally be of help to your hunting partner, but either way, you’re grinning so widely that your teeth clatter together.

“Hey Mando! Guess what you owe me?” You shout down at the ground, beginning to descend. You’re so excited that you practically slide down the vines, jumping to the ground when you’re several feet high in the air, sore muscles creaking at the impact. The Mandalorian is sitting now, resting with his elbow propped on his knee while he waited for you to come back. There’s a soft pang in your chest and you wonder if he’s tired. You brush it off, feeling as though you’re just projecting, and instead grin widely at him in triumph. “7 percent increase for me!”

He lifts his helmet and looks you up and down. “What did you find?”

You reply chirpily, hands grasped behind your back and shit-eating grin still plastered on your face. “There is a settlement of some kind roughly three miles that way,” you point in the direction where you saw the steam, “and several clearings nearby suitable to camp in, if we don’t want to head in right away. Oh, also we aren’t on the actual path used by locals here, the asset must be making an effort to hide.”

“That isn’t very smart of them,” Din observes, shaking his head at the concept. “Busy path hides more prints.”

“Hm…” You take that in, wondering what other techniques a quarry may use to shake its hunter.

It occurs to you that there is a lot you could learn from the Mandalorian, since so far hunting someone has been notably different from your mercenary missions. You’ll find a moment to ask questions later once you’re settled down for the night, wherever that’ll be. “Do you want to camp or find the maybe-settlement?”

“We should camp,” he responds immediately, rising from his seated position and walking closer to you, “we don’t know what we’ll face there. You can choose the area, since you climbed the tree.”

You pull up the holo-map again and zoom in on the different options, feeling far more energized now that you actually know what you’re doing. There are two spots that seem encouraging, both a short hike away from where you are now but removed enough to grant you some privacy. You’ll still need to set up a watch to prevent ambush or stray travelers from finding you but it’ll be easier if you make an effort to hide. One of the clearings seems to have a running water source, you hope it’s cleaner than the still-water you’re currently surrounded by. Maybe you can bathe there too.

“Lets go here,” you pull up the coordinates for Mando, “that looks like a stream, right?”

He leans into your body for a closer look, broad chest just brushing against you in a way that sends flutters through your tummy. You know he can zoom in with his visor, there is no reason he needs to be so close to you except for your benefit. He seems to enjoy messing with you like this, throwing you off with unexpected touches, looks, and gestures. It’s like a game he plays and you’d be far more annoyed by his teases if it wasn’t so exciting.

“Looks good,” he rumbles low in his chest. “Fresh water would be nice.”

Your heart quickens, but you tried to hide your reaction by teasing him back, tapping your fingers on his helm and stepping away. “I was hoping to clean myself up, actually…”

Mando straightens up at this, visor locked on your face.

“Lead the way.” He returns quietly, giving away nothing. Trying not to smile, you start off in the direction of the clearing, for once moving faster than your armored companion.

Your goal isn’t very far, only about 3 miles north of your previous position and a mile adjacent to the settlement you’ll pay a visit to tomorrow. Large, fuzzy fronds of an alien fern droop down the sides of the hollow clearing, providing a barrier between the forest and empty space in between. The trees still tangle above the open area, blocking out part of the beautiful sky, save a few of the large moons, and old pieces of charcoal are ground into the sandy earth here, a sight that makes you a little anxious. This spot must be used by others, you’ll have to be more careful with setting up the watch than expected.

The water source turns out to be a small spring set on the edge of a cliff at the far end of the clearing, a sizable waterfall cascading down the side and gathering in a crystalline pool. Skipping ahead of Mando to the edge of the pool you crouch and dip your fingers in the cool water, sighing in relief as it relieves some of the warmth in your overheated body.

You’re unable to hear Mando’s approach - how he is so stealthy under 50 pounds of metal escapes you, but you feel him behind you. You smirk. Arching your back as you rise, you turn around slowly and begin to make eyes in his direction however, when you actually see what he's doing, you cringe at yourself in embarrassment. He’s not looking like you assumed, instead he is surveying the clearing skeptically, body-language imbued with disapproval. Your heart simultaneously sinks to your stomach and contracts in frustration. You thought you had finally done something right.

“What? Is something wrong?” You ask him tightly, subtly shrinking in on yourself in disappointment. You try to hide this by fiddling idly with a stray thread on your tunic, stubbornly keeping your head lifted high despite wishing you could disappear. He doesn’t respond right away, instead turning and walking the length of the clearing then back, stopping just in front of you sharply. You meet his visor with your eyes, holding the look until you feel like you’re burning up in shame from the pressure of it.

“It’s too… open,” he finally says, voice halting as he tries to find the correct words. “Anyone could walk into our camp.”

“I figured we’d set up a watch. There’s only one entrance-”

He interrupts you. “One ground entrance. Anyone can climb down from the trees.”

“Maybe, but this planet isn’t supposed to be dangerous, is it? Practically abandoned,” You huff out, fists clenching at your sides as you argue with him. “Besides. It’s… pretty here.”

The Mandalorian sighs, pinching the helmet just below the visor where his nose bridge would be. “Fine. I’ll take the first watch. No fire.”

Nodding in response, you cross the clearing and set your bag down on a log, letting out a sigh in relief. That’s fine by you, you don’t need the extra warmth and the glowing lichen provides enough light to get by. You really did not want to hike again after moving for 24 hours straight. Mando mirrors your movements, leaning his rifle next to your pack before settling on the sandy earth. A loaded pause passes between you, earlier implications at the forefront of your minds.

Letting out a shuddering breath you crouch down and pull your old tunic from your bag, slinging it over your shoulder before making your way back to the small pond. The water is completely clear, an inviting sight after the marshy puddles that made up the forest ground on your way here. You’re facing the water now but you’re still well aware of the man behind you, the intensity of his gaze burning even through the impassive visor. The invitation is clear. Take it off.

But you aren’t sure if you want to give him that yet. The exhaustion from today has wrung you dry, small bickerings between you and your work partner dampening the sweet mood leftover from Nevarro. Apologizing with sex isn’t really your thing. You’d rather stoke the mutual respect between you as allies instead of start up a pattern of fighting then making up.

You crouch at the water's edge, peering into the depths for a moment before splashing your face with cold water, fresh scar throbbing as blood rushes to the surface of your face. The spare tunic you grabbed just brushes the surface of the water, sending ripples throughout your reflection. Curious, you lean over and observe the way the mirror-like pond breaks off into fragments, bits of you here and there mixing in with the moons that lay on russet sky.

Like a painting. You think in awe, having only seen a couple of the artifacts in person. The richest target you were assigned to owned two pieces of art, real paintings on real paper, encased in transparisteel viewing cases before you smashed open the backing to wonder at them. You close your eyes and try to recall the texture of the paint before the rest of your memory catches up and sours the whole thing. The man's home had to be burned in order to erase evidence, his paintings too large to smuggle out of the city.

When you open your eyes the pond has settled with your reflection only- you’re not alone.

“Maker!” You jump at the sight of the Mandalorians gleaming helmet appearing in the reflection. “What the fuck, you sneak.”

He just chuckles in response and offers you a hand, which you take firmly while rolling your eyes and standing. He leads you back to sit with him on the sandy earth, taking ration bars out of his pack- not yours, and breaking them evenly between you. The gesture is surprisingly tender and none too appreciated what with your stomach growling audibly at the bland meal. All at once, you are reminded by the spattering of caf-patches on your limbs, the jitteriness becoming more apparent now that you’re finally still. You’re shaking. Mando notices as well.

“You may explode.” He remarks, prompting you to start pulling off the stimulant, crumpling each piece and setting them neatly in a pile at your knee.

“Good, let me explode. You’re too bossy to work with.” You return with a smirk, hoping your sarcasm lands. He hums in response, pulling one of the patches off of your forearm and flicking it in your direction for you to catch.

Tutting, you roll the patch into a ball and set it at the top of your pile. “Don’t leave a mess, this forest is ugly but at least it’s untouched,” you tell him firmly. Mando just nods.

The ration bars are hardly a delicacy but you shove them in your mouth all the same, appreciating the engineering behind them. They are so calorie rich that a piece the size of your palm can keep you going for hours. However, your body can’t seem to relax despite the food lining your belly- perhaps you actually overdid the caf. You should be tired right now. Staying awake for more than a day isn’t exactly the average schedule but your knee bounces uncontrollably in a frantic pattern, stirring up puffs of sand between you and the warrior.

“You need to tire.” Mando mutters, firmly placing a glove on your thigh and holding the limb down. “Stop that.”

“Sorry,” you reply, trying to freeze yourself and sit as still as he does. Mando always exists so sagely, like a monk. Completely calm when he wants to be before exploding into action, no warm-up necessary. You wonder if he had some sort of meditation training to achieve that. Is that why he sits like that in the cockpit, his back rod straight like a statue? Weirdo.

“Hey…” The palm at your thigh presses again and you suck in a sharp breath. You didn’t even realize you were twitching again. “Do I have to hold you down?” He growls.

You gulp. “Tempting. But no.” Your words come out steadier than you feel. The caf becomes all too much in that moment so you lurch to your feet, his gleaming helmet following your body as it rises jerkily. You feel far too energetic, needing to get the energy out somehow so you can finally pass out. Your idea leaves your mouth before you can truly think it over.

“Wanna fight?”

“...What?” Mando sounds truly surprised even if his body betrays nothing.

“You heard me,” you’re bouncing on the balls of your feet, swaying back and forth like a green sailor on the oceans of Mon Cala. “Let's practice our combat, I rarely get to do that.”

He’s standing before you can blink causing you to jerk back, startled by his speed. The Mandalorian poses right in front of you, too close to not be a challenge with his weight settled on one leg breezily.

“Okay. Hit me.”

What a taunting mother fu- You swing your left hand out as if aiming for the unarmored spot on his ribs, which he blocks with ease… leaving his throat open for your right fist to sharply jab.

The bounty hunter doubles over, coughing and clutching his neck with one hand.

“O-Oh shit! I’m sorry, I- I didn’t mean, let me-” You scramble with lost movements, trying and failing to help him straighten upright. It leaves you awkwardly placing your palms on his back while the crown of his helmet presses into your belly. “I, um… Mando?”

His arms wrap around your middle in a flash, pulling you tightly against his chest and throwing both your bodies to the ground. It happens so fast that you can’t even shriek before the air is knocked out of you, hitting the sand hard enough to throw it into the air around you. Gasping, you smack full force at the Mandalorian on top of you, his arms still crushing you against him while your legs lock straight together with his knees on either side. It’s sexy, but you’d really like to breathe. He lets up just barely.

“Nice punch,” he rasps, throat clearly affected by the hit. “Don’t think I’ll hold back after that though.”

“Don’t… want… you to…” You shoot back at him, sharp as you can manage while wheezing. Mandos visor raises ever so slowly and pins you, hidden eyes holding you down more effectively than his body. After a drawn out moment of this, your head spinning as you calculate your escape strategy, he crawls up your body to prop himself above you, locking your wrists in one large hand with the other presses against your chest, shoving your back into the earth. It is just enough pressure to squeeze some air out of your lungs and it is then when you know he isn’t kidding about not holding back.

You’re so fucking happy that he isn’t letting you win.

In other instances, you’d panic at the hopeless feeling of being trapped like this, by someone twice your size and clad in the galaxy’s most powerful steel. But the way he spars with you now, full force and not playing easy... it has implied respect for your skill. He knows you can fight and doesn’t spare you the opportunity to prove it.

Only a second or two has passed since he fully immobilized you and you’re still locked in your flattened position. When he motions to stand, pulling your wrists as if to drag you, you know you must make your move now or it will be too late. The only spot he has open on his body right now is… well, right between his legs. The first thing a smaller fighter learns about combating larger foes is to fight dirty and there is no reason you should hold back if Mando isn’t. Your legs had been pinned tightly together before he moved to drag you but now there is just enough room to swing a knee up and hit him between the legs.

Mando doesn’t wear a full codpiece but luckily for you, the padding on his groin isn’t enough to block your kick. A choked sound rips out of his throat and he falls to one knee, the fingers encircling your wrists loosening slightly while he struggles to fight his body’s natural pain response. You wrench one hand free and use it to grip his cowled neckline, planting your feet against his cuirass and swinging yourself into a hanging position before his grip tightens again. He's steady but you try to dig your feet in to throw him forward, hoping to twist around and land on his back with his face down. He totters for one frozen second, both your bodies on the precipice of falling but unfortunately, he manages to wrench himself backwards and land heavily on his back with you on top.

You’re both gasping and groaning at the shock of hitting the ground so hard, and for one breathless moment all you do is stare heatedly at each other on the forest floor, eyes locking through his visor and somehow you know he is grinning.

His smile mirrors on your face when you feel his hands rip at your clothes, wrenching the thin pants off of you down to your thighs forcefully enough to knock your legs together with a dull thud.

“Did I not just kick you in the dick, Mando?” You laugh, working at his belt at the same time. He palms your ass through your underwear greedily, squeezing so hard that you know finger shaped bruises will blossom there.

“You missed.”

“Must’ve hurt either way…” You mutter, finally managing to reach under his thick layers and wrap your hand around his length, producing a low growl from the man beneath you. “Maybe, it's good I missed.”

The only response you get is his hands pulling both your hands to lay on his chest plate then traveling back down your body to tug aside your underwear and grind you down onto his hips, rubbing your now bare slit against his bulge. You vaguely remember deciding against coming onto him as a form of apology, but for some reason, since he started first that all ceases to matter. It feels like a game you’ve begun to play with each other, playing with the tension between you and the Mandalorian until you find out what breaks your resolve. Maybe it started even before you entered this forest, perhaps back on Nevarro or even on the station.

You can’t tell but you don’t want to question it either.

A moan falls from your throat, your hands moving on their own volition to try and remove his belt entirely, or at least enough to pull his cock out. Mando’s glove flashes up again to circle your wrists, immobilizing them and harshly pinning you down with his vambrace lain across your back.

“You yield?” He asks, voice dripping with a sickly triumph. A chill runs down your back and you feel as if he just dunked you into the pond.

“W-What?”

“You yield… I win?”

“Wha- No!” You cry out indignantly, struggling against his iron grip. “I didn’t realize we were still sparring!”

He laughs, fully bodied and dark with some emotion that swirls deep within your core, and you can’t put your finger on it exactly but you know you’ll have to do something before you’re swept up entirely. “Oh, but we are. What shall the winner gain?” He asks, so quietly that it is almost lost in the warped modulator, barely a question and more so a crackling of static.

Fuck, you’re so wet.

You lick your lips and shakily respond. “I am not one to give up, however-”

“Then don’t. Keep fighting.”

Oh, and you love what he implies. There is no reason to argue further and less time to act, so you immediately struggle hard with the upper half of your body, wrenching your wrists to try and distract him from the way your legs are free to swing into his ribs. But Mando doesn’t fall for your feint a second time. In fact, he seems to have expected it, his leg is more than prepared to hook around the back of your knees and hold you against his body, rolling to the side to throw you underneath him.

You’re pinned on your back with nearly his full weight, unable to do more than weakly punch at what you can reach- unfortunately for you all you can reach is armor. Your cry of anger is cut short when Mando flips onto your front, your chest pressed roughly to the floor of the forest.

The helmet appears over your shoulder, his ragged breathing right by your ear. “T-This okay? You want this?” You can’t find your words to respond with the way you're held so tightly against the earth, so you nod as best you can with one cheek pressed into the ground. Mando snarls something furiously, one hand leaving your back to fumble with his pants and pull his cock out, lining himself up at your soaking entrance and running the head through your folds.

His helmet drops back down to your shoulder, the visor turning and burying itself into the line of your neck and you know that if he weren’t bound by his creed then he would be kissing dark bruises there.

“You know this means I win,” he hisses, pressing his cock to breach your tight opening ever so slightly.

“I-I know.” You whimper weakly.

With that, he fully pushes himself into you and if you weren’t so wet you know his size would be unbearably painful. Instead, the stretch is pure bliss, a slow burning sensation that has a hint of sting to it, his dominance lending to complete submission and all you can do is lay there and take it. There is still the strain you grew to know from when he allowed you to use his body on Nevarro, but something about Mando topping you encourages you to open yourself for him with more ease.

He quickly bottoms out then holds himself till, allowing you to adjust to his size. You’re writhing as much as possible under the way he crushes you to the floor, knees carving grooves in the soft sandy earth.

“Fuck,” Mando grits, teeth clenched together so hard that you swear you can hear the grinding in his jaw. “You’re so fucking tight, fuck.”

The position is hard to maintain on the soft ground, his hands keep sliding ever so slightly on either side of you forcing him to adjust every few seconds. His patience breaks after the third time this happens, a growl crackling through the helmet as he settles his hands on your lower back and hoists his body up, knees planted on either side of your thighs, crushing them together with intense pressure on your clit. Your body is locked tight, pussy clenching harder around his cock when he rises into an upright position.

You let out a genuine scream when he draws back then thrusts sharply into you, pain mixing with pleasure in a manner far more biting than on his ship, when he had let you take control entirely, never even doing so much as to thrust into you. It is almost too much for you but even while you struggle to take his cock, you don’t dare tell him to stop, nor do you want him to stop. You’re so blinded by the stretch that you don’t realize he is speaking until you miss several, distorted words.

“Fuck, why did I wait, why did I wait? I should’ve fuck-fucked you back on the station, approached you in that hangar and made myself fucking clear-” Each gritted word is accentuated by a mean thrust, his dick is so big that he has to shove himself inside of you rather than glide, breaking you open in a way that burns so sweetly. Your legs are held together, knees locked and straight, which doesn’t help how tight you are but you can’t budge at all to open yourself to Mando, his hands pressing down at your lower back so heavily that you’re short of breath.

A garbled moan is forced out of you when Mando grinds his length into your pussy as deep as he can possibly reach, hips smashing against your ass while he pulses inside of you and for a second you think he's cumming. But no- he draws himself from your depths and starts to rut his cock between your cheeks, head resting on your upper back and hands by your head.

A powerful hand wraps under your side and settles at your sternum, pulling you back against his cuirass and lifting so that you end up seated together, fitting against him without even an inch of space between your bodies. His hand lifts your hips, other appendage snaking around to position his cock back at your entrance before allowing gravity to do the work, your legs spreading to rest on either side of his thighs as you sink down on him to the hilt.

Once settled, Mando starts to work you on his cock, lifting you like you weigh no more than a pebble then letting go. The head of his cock slams full force into your pussy with the weight of your entire body, each brutal pounding sending sparks of pleasure up your spine. Lungs free and no longer crushed to the floor, you’re unable to stay quiet, broken sobs and moans puffing from gritted teeth as he takes what he denied himself on his ship, the memory a thousand miles away as your processing center is fucked stupid.

You can’t say how long this goes on for, maybe minutes, maybe hours, but the next thing you know is that your cheek is back on the sand, burning from the way it chaffs against the floor with each rhythmic thrust that claps against your thighs. You’re don’t even know if you’ve cum yet but it doesn’t matter, not with the way he is fucking the life out of you here in the wilderness. Mando is still talking, still uttering filth and praise through the helmet and all you can think about is how badly you want to hear his real voice speaking that way to you, you’re so close to asking him to take it off but you can’t find the words, you can’t think, you can’t-

Abruptly, he grinds to a halt at the deepest point in your body then pulls himself free, pushing your shirt up lighting fast before cumming across your back with a choked exclamation. You’re both still for a second before your knees collapse, landing flat on your belly and gasping desperately. There is a shuffling noise behind you, accompanied with heavy breaths from the bounty hunter. It sounds like he’s rummaging through something then, yeah- your train of thought is confirmed when a wet cloth wipes his pleasure from your skin, gently trailing along your spine and ass.

You reach behind you and hold his wrist, feeling the fluttering pulse there. “I’ll win next time…” You whisper, drawing his hand along the soreness on your bottom, the area he bruised, you suspect. He laughs- or pants you can’t really tell, but either way his touch becomes more gentle on your body, smoothing out the tense muscles and cleaning you up. Today's travels with the man have suddenly caught up to you and you might pass out right here, half clothed and dirty.

“Come on, get up. Don’t sleep here.” Mando firmly states, helping you up and guiding you across the clearing after you pull your leggings up from where they gathered at your ankle. You’re trembling like a leaf, fragile in your spent state but glowing all the same. Mando sets you down on a log and brings you a canteen of water which you gulp down thankfully. He chuckles. “Wait up or I’ll have to drink from the spring.”

That gives you pause, reminding you of something he said while you lay beneath him. You’re slightly nervous to ask but you do it anyway, warm and satisfied on your perch while he cares for you. “You.. When you were, um- fucking me. Well, you said something about how you shouldn’t have waited. Does that mean what I think it means?”

He nods, “I noticed you for other reasons too, burc’ya.”

“Maybe you should’ve fucked me back then.” Taking another gulp then handing the canteen back, you stretch then slide down to sit on the ground with him, back against the log. “You said that word before, ber-borshaw?”

“Burc’ya.”He corrects,“It means friend in Mando’a.”

“Oh.”You cheeks heat, feeling silly and rude for not recognizing the use of his people’s tongue, also noting that he used it to refer to you twice now, endearingly. It is an honor, one that makes you nervous. You feel like you should apologize, somehow. “Y-You speak Mando’a? I’ve never heard you use it before.”

Mando settles against the log, leaning his broad shoulders to rest against the wood near your side. A few moments pass before he responds, “I chose to not use it around the others. Didn’t trust them.”

“Oh, so you trust me?” You giggle, tapping the side of his helmet with your elbow. Questions burn within you and you may as well ask now, in the quiet afterglow of sex where everything is warm and slow. “Why didn’t you trust them if you started the company with Ran? How am I any different?”

“You aren’t ruthless,” he surprises you by answering immediately, and you can’t decide whether you're insulted or not before he continues. “Ruthless and cruel is all that group ended up being, and it didn’t start out that way. We weren’t just mercenaries, we had a code. In the early days, attacking a slave ship would’ve been out of the question. Ran wasn’t always so full of greed.”

Silence falls after he speaks, letting you mull over his explanation for a while while the waterfall rumbles in the background. Really, his perspective confuses you when you think back on your actions as a mercenary. Desperate to climb the ranks, to make a name for yourself, to earn credits and reputation. You suppose you conducted yourself with empathy, avoiding selection for hits that targeted innocent people if you could help it. You never had much choice in the area but it seems your actions spoke louder than realized. So much energy spent to avoid seeming weak and you never considered that your aversion doubled as strength.

“Friend…” You whisper, not of your own accord. The word floats on your tongue, a specter within your vocabulary. In your adulthood you’ve had allies, you’ve had teammates, you’ve had acquaintances, but to have a friend… it terrifies you as much as it warms your heart. You considered yourself partnered professionally with the Mandalorian and didn’t dare to consider yourself lovers, no matter how much you privately hoped. But a friend is a luxury you didn’t hold close, mainly out of fear. You lost too many as a child. For a faceless man he manages to strike areas that are quite intimate.

You decide that you’ll enjoy being his friend, a bit surprised that you aren’t too hurt by what is essentially a romantic rejection of the crush you held for so long. Probably because this is real , solid and built within reality instead of the silly fantasies you built prior.

This is better than lovers, you tell yourself, the slight ache in your heart melting into the background of your desires, behind lock and key for another world.

“I’ll take ‘friend’, Mando.” You grin, extending a hand to him cheekily. He stares for a second before taking it and shaking, helmet tilting in a respectful nod.

His next words send an unexpected pang throughout your chest, taking all the careful walls you worked hard to set up and throwing them into a blazing inferno.

“Let’s see where it goes.”

Fuck.

----------------

Leather boots prance lightly through thick branches high in the trees, footfalls landing silently with all the grace of an athlete. Through the delicate glasses perched on the pursuers nose, a red glow blooms on the shadowy floor of the swamp, two sets of footprints lighting up to reveal a steady path made by the travelers. A musical giggle bubbles out of the darkly dressed woman as she pulls a small holo-watch from her bag and straps it onto her wrist, pale light mixing with her lavender skin, transforming it into a sickly grey.

Xi’an claps a hand over her mouth to prevent her cackle from ringing through the trees as her plan takes form.

***

TAG LIST (working on it slowly, message if you want)

@velia27 @shrekscoochiehair @tbhitisdbh @sparklingwitches @lazyonasunday @peach-child @leah-halliwell92 @riot-sounds

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walkingshcdow-a · 3 years

Text

((Should I make a tag for canon divergent threads based on canon?

That’d be, like, all of my Stolas threads tbh.

Because my main verse, he and Stella fix their relationship. 9 out of 10 times, unless the AU is otherwise tagged or otherwise plotted (see below for examples), I assume this is the universe in which my Stolas lives. It goes divergent between the pilot and Episode 2, and subsequent events don’t happen. In one version of this world, he never slept with Blitzo at all but does have a best friend Blitzo ( @spindlehorse ) who isn’t EXACTLY the guy we see in canon either. In another, he did fuck up and has been fighting to make things right. @raichoose and I have worked really hard for this divergence and I don’t even consider it an AU because it’s my default.

Another of my verses, he’s developing a special connection to Agent Two (Darcy) as he possesses her on and off. They’re both lonely, curious souls who are bonding and we pretend it is not shaped like Venom/Eddie fanfic. In this, everything to Episode 6 has happened but things are a little wiggly after that. @infernal-feminae and I have been hype about how similar Darcy and Stolas are internally and we’re testing to see where it goes and I love them, your honor.

Another, he and Verosika are on track to rage and grieve about Blitzo and maybe develop some deeper, romantic feelings. This is a brand new universe but if you wanna talk about characters who want to give and receive love and lust - reciprocated ‘n all.. @vsika and I were talking about making this a real ship last night and I was so excited to meet someone who not only saw the “oh yeah, they should definitely talk” but the “oh yeah, they might actually be compatible, if messy.” possibilities.

I have a ship that predates all three of these with @noblehcart and her human Stolas made a deal with, Lucy Harris from “Jekyll and Hyde”, who becomes his sugar baby and the sweetest monsterfucker you ever did see. He helps her become a lawyer in a modern verse and sets up a palace for her in Hell when she becomes a sinner eventually so she’s poised to become an Overlord. It’s a super soft ship, though, for two people who aren’t used to softness.

I have a weakness for rare pairs, don’t I? Like, hell, anyone who knows me knows that and most people who know me know that I enjoy Stolitz as a fan of the show, but just want to do something different with my Stolas. I feel like people who don’t know me would get mad that these ships are all with female characters, but my Stolas is bi as fuck and proud of it. so it’s really just been luck-of-the-draw and which muns want to write and plot with me. I sometimes have Blitzos who I ship with but the percentage of my threads that are Stolitz is miniscule compared to other ships and, of course, all the beautiful, wonderful Octavias I get to write with and the OCs Stolas has taken under his wing.

Like, there’s that, too, right? My Stolas is here to take care of his owlet and any cuckoos who need a little bit of dad energy in their lives, perhaps above all else he does. I’ve met some amazing Octavia muns ( @raichoose, @ladiesofhell, @celestvia, @owletteofstars, @hazbinxdisaster to name a few). Octavia is the heart of Stolas’ world, but I also think about the fact that he adores his weird nephew (Hooty), happily supports Via’s friends (Charlie and Hellsa @ladiesofhell and @von-eldritch), and adopts OCs he sees who need a parental figure that doesn’t suck (Clem @hannah-the-small) and that in my heart of hearts, I want him and Ann’s Stella to expand their family one day, when they feel on totally stable ground. I focus on Stolas as a father figure as much as or more than I focus on him as a sexual being and I love it. I love it all.

I just fucking love Stolas. I especially love my Stolas. Like I adore all the takes on him I see on the dash but this guy is my serotonin boost when I’m at the helm.

Point is, I follow the spirit, not the letter of canon with my Stolas and I’m just wondering if I should differentiate my sub-verses so that way when I one day allow anons back into my world, I don’t get yelled at for Stolas cheating “again” because everything is separate and I just suck at tagging. Especially if Season 2 means that Stolas comes back and Stella plays a bigger role (last Q&A seemed to confirm it). I’m excited because I enjoy canon for what it is but my whole blog is like “Stolas: The Canon Divergence” and I am so nervous.

-banging head on the keyboard-

Opinions from mutuals (especially ship partners, Octavias, and those tagged) are welcome! I know the organization of this blog is mostly for me, but I want it to be helpful to the people who write with me and might need to tag-dive.))

#;;told by an idiot | {out of character}#;;i used to think that i was bold | {stolas}

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heartofsnark · 3 years

Text

Can You Feel The Sun? (Chapter Nine): Lazarus Rises

Notes: I’m on a roll with writing this. I’m honestly, a little nervous with sharing this chapter since i go more into Johnny’s backstory and like...my headcanon of it since CDPR gave us nothing. But hopefully it works. I also haven't written Johnny's voice in a while, so ahhhh.

Word Count: 12098

Chapter Warnings: Death, brief mentions of child abuse, drug use, alcohol, war, ableism, pov switches but not in the usual way.

If you haven’t yet, you can read the previous chapter here!~

Oblivion wraps around her like a blanket.

There is no existence.

No pain.

No world.

No V.

No Aidan.

Every anxious little thought, every guilt soaked burden; swept away with the reaper’s scythe. Years of running and death has finally caught her.

Then all at once it seems to let her go.

It's a flicker at first, neurons firing up again, rewriting and rebuilding themselves. No true sensation or senses; just existence. World still dark and lost to her, but not she is not lost to it, or some version of her isn’t.

Pain hits her before anything else, a crack in her skull, or where her skull should be. She has no sense of her body, only the vague notion she exists and is in pain. And when every sense returns, the world coming back….

It’s not her own.

There’s a fog around her, a fuzzy filter muting it all. Like trying to recall a memory from too long ago. And she sees and she hears, in a body that isn’t hers. She’s smaller, the world seeming to tower around her. A blazing sun burning overhead in the bright blue of the sky. Playing outside on a sweltering day with bruised knees and grass stains on cheap children’s jeans. A mothers voice calling for Robbie to come home for lunch. She catches a reflection in a puddle, there’s a blur to it, but the dirt smeared face of a dark haired boy looks back at her...at himself… for a moment.

The world shifts and with it comes a pain she can’t truly feel, a belt whipping through the air and welting a back that isn’t her own. Vision blocked by skinny arms marked with cigarette burns, hiding a face from the next lash. A boot gnashing into his side, the thick fog protecting V from the pain he feels. When he clambers to his feet, spitting blood she can’t taste, despite seeing vignettes through his eyes. He walks through a musty home, where the floorboards creak and threaten to break under his feet. A mirror showing a dark eyed boy with a split lip.

Then she’s watching the hands of this boy she doesn’t know, playing guitar. He plucks and strums at strings until they bite into his fingers, until he leaves them speckled with blood. And then he plays more. Gifted an acoustic, stole his first electric but forgot to klep the amp alongside it.

Playing in a musty crowded garage with a young boy with olive skin. Each playing away on instruments, the sounds and words all muffled to V. The pair play badly until they play great, she doesn’t hear, but she knows…

Tequila and cigarettes before he’s old enough to buy them. V can faintly feel the burn of the booze and the warmth of the smoke.

Stealing anything that can be tucked away in his pockets. Spray painting every wall he sees. Cherry bombs in mailboxes, picking a fight with anyone who sets him off and most people do. The faint burning of anger in his chest, she can feel it as if it’s her own. In and out of detention centers, a system that can put him away for petty theft, but never lift a hand to stop his father...

Military reps scouting out young, poor troubled boys, seeing nothing but canon fodder when they look at him.

Knocking on the door and that same olive-skinned, dark haired friend answering. She can hear the words but knows what’s being said without them. Both fog and clarity. ‘Robbie’ is enlisting, off to say his final goodbye to Kerry, a name she doesn’t know how she knows. He comes running down the street after him, before ‘Robbie’ can get too far away. Neither old enough, children. One made of lank and the other with baby fat still clinging to his cheeks. But the military knows boys can take bullets just as well as men. They need bodies, age irrelevant. Forged documents with Robert John Linder scratched across it. That name...

Blurs of training, a mop of dark hair shaved from his head. Separated from Kerry, stationed in different platoons, finding another friend who sticks by his side; both hardened by the military. Lank becoming muscle. Give optics, interface plugs, tech he doesn’t want, but they pry open his skin and put it in anyway. Anything to make him a better soldier.

Then they’re in combat, muffled gunfire. People brutalized; shot, blown apart and chrome shoved into whatever remains; treated cruelly both by the enemy and the corps that shipped them out there. The heat of Mexico and the smell of gunpowder. Enemy ambush, the faint ting of a grenade hitting the ground. Then Robert is on the ground, shoved there and the body of a friend draped over his own. A heavy boom, shrapnel tearing through his left arm and size, burns across the skin. But nothing compared to his friend… A grenade meant for him is taken by another, the pair rushed away to medical attention when the air clears.

He wakes up without a left arm and scars across his torso, pulling tight at his skin. His friend gone, remains thrown out and tags offered to Johnny, the man who died for him nothing but a number, canon fodder in the corp’s war. Not even a day passes before they’re shoving chrome onto what’s left of Robert’s shoulder, eager to give him another chance to die for them.

So, he runs, deserting and heading to a Night City that V has never seen. He climbs into a dirty motel bed and refuses to crawl back out, watching a ceiling fan turn until Kerry pulls him out. Older, more weathered, still young but neither of them quite the children they were before they saw the war.

And music becomes his life. Kerry and him scream their words into any microphone they can find. Blaring concerts, they sound as if they’re coming from three rooms over to the merc, but she can feel the energy through the memory. Long nights writing lyrics and melodies. A band forming around them, three more members coming into the fold. Grimy smoke filled clubs and a cramped pathetic excuse of a tour bus. Shows that turn into riots.

Cigarettes and tequila aren’t enough anymore. He pops pills like candy, snorts anything that will go up his nose, drinks everything but vodka, and fucks any pretty thing that looks his way.

A woman with freckles and blue mohawk kicks his ass when she catches him balls deep inside a groupie.

A blonde thrown into the back of a van.

An anger and rage burning like wildfire in his chest.

It all blurs and rushes; V never fully feeling what’s going on. All senses are fogged, seeing the snapshots of someone’s life through his own eyes. But she doesn’t feel linked, still distanced from it all. Barely able to think or decipher what she sees through the haze of it all. Just watching blips of a life not her own flickering by, with knowledge she shouldn’t have.

Its the feeling of graffiti covered steel pressing against hands that first pushes through the fog. Hands that feel like they’re hers, but aren’t. One inked flesh and the other chrome. V can feel the body move as if it’s her own, but she has no command of it, muscles flexing to open double doors. Surrounded by the halls of a grimy little club. She can smell smoke and sweat, she’d gag but she can’t seem too.

There’s music somewhere, muffled by distance but nothing else now.

Fog lifted, she's both connected enough to it to feel everything, but separate enough to question what the hell is going on? There’s a tangled mess of emotions in her...his…. Their head. Her own fear, anxiety, mingled with a burning rage pitting in his core.

There’s a girl leaning against the dirty wall of the club, watching V...or whoever she’s stuck inside of as they walk down the hell. A little smile playing on her lips. Thoughts flitter around V, in a voice that’s not her own. Chick’s cute enough, might of been worth a quick fuck, if he wasn’t rushin’ for time.

“Hey…”

V wants to ask her what’s going on, if the girl has any idea, what the girl sees when she looks at her. But her hands don’t move to sign and when she feels her mouth move, a different voice, different words, come out. The same rough voice that thought of fucking the girl in a dressing room.

“Hey.”

“You all right?”

No, none of this is alright. V screams inside a head not her own, but she can feel the pride rolling in his chest, a smirk on his face. There’s an anger mixed with it, he’s going to settle a score, leave a mark. Those thoughts and feelings rattling around.

“Never been better.”

“Sure don't look it…’

There’s a scoff in his throat, she’s got no idea what he’s got planned. He continues around the corner, a man at the end of the hall standing before a set of double doors. The letters above say its backstage. Green hued fluorescent lights only draw attention to the grime as his boots click over the floor. That smell of cigarettes and sweat still hangs heavy around her, she thinks it may be coming from him, the man she’s playing passenger in. Oh god, that smell is him, isn’t it…

What the hell is even happening? Dex killed her, didn’t he?

“I can't let you on!” The man yells out at him.

The fuck he can’t. His anger flares, a sliver left arm brought up, slammed into the guy's throat as he’s shoved into a wall, a gun held in chrome fingers. There’s a mirror against it and V can see the man she’s living life through now. And those foggy vignettes press at her, he’s much older now. Face angry and with a scruffy beard, dark hair grown to his shoulders.

His name was Robbie..? Robert.. ? Something, like that.

“Hey hey, we're chill,” the man begs ‘Robert’. He certainly looks too old to be a Robbie.

‘Robert’ lets the guy go with sneer, furious the guy would ever try to get in his way as he marches towards the doors. Abandoned music equipment and the music shoots in volume, a man blocking ‘Robert’ from getting up to a stage. Where four people play what sounds like older dad punk rock.

‘That smack, drag drunken roll

Chips are bashin' in my top

Ridin' high, my slots are shot

Metal burnin' beneath my skin

I'm chippin' in, chippin' in’

V would wince if she had control of her face, his face, does she even have a face anymore? The music is good, but painfully loud, something she could enjoy if only she could lower the volume. Phantom limbs she no longer has urge to turn the volume down on hearing aids that don’t exist.

“Heh… 'course you're high.” The bouncer in front of the stairs rolls his eyes at ‘Robert’ then steps aside.

‘Robert’ climbs up the short staircase, music painfully loud to V but exactly where he feels at him, bright lights down on him. A familiar face, Kerry from ‘Robert’s’ memories, is the one who sings.

Until he’s pushed out of the way, gun still in ‘Robert’s’ hand as he grabs the microphone. Looking out into a crowd of people who stare up at him, an entire club room of people cheering and yelling for him. Shirts with tha bright red demon symbol, Samurai across it. Adoring fans, hearing his words, people who know his message, heard it loud and clear. Common men and women beaten down by the corps that rule their lives, that tear them all down for the chance to make an eddie. And tonight he’ll show them all there’s a bite to his bark; he’ll make his mark, topple Arasaka and do what he should have done years ago.

“Tonight I'm…” he pauses, leaving that mark may be the death of him, he’s damn near sure it will be, “I'm here to say goodbye to all of you.

And he begins to play to the cheering crowd, a final show before he changes the world. V would cry out if she had the mouth to do it. Music shakes the venue, ‘Robert’ playing guitar and screaming lyrics into a mic, completely taking the show from Kerry. He channels his anger, his fury, into his music. Screams his rage into the mic. And it's a cacophony for the merc tucked in the back of his skull. She can feel her own stress and pain, but she also feels his energy, his love of this. Even through the anger, he knows that this is the place he belongs.

This is hell, she thinks as he sings. The idea that every hell is tailored to an individual, everyone has their own personal idea of torment. This is her’s. She died and now she’s doomed to live in the head of some foul smelling rocker who plays nothing but music her sort of ex liked. Surrounded by loud sounds, foul smells, and no control. This is hell, her own special little hell. And she’ll be stuck here forever, for being an atheist or bi or a whore or a murderer… one of those did it.

After an agonizing hour, the show closes down. More sweat is now clinging to her current vessel’s body and V mentally screams at him to take a shower, but no panicked thoughts seem to reach him. He’s completely unaware of her...presence… in his head. Sweat slick, ‘Robert’ puts away his axe and lights up a cigarette; smoke settles in his lungs, the cloying taste of tar sticking to his mouth. But there’s a relief in him, a tension leaving him, nicotine soothing him if only for a moment.

Two women are settled down on the steps of the stage, in clinging tacky clothes. Groupies there to claw their way into the pants of anyone who’ll have them, entire fucking lives dedicated to riding the dick of someone more important than them. Because playing fleshlight to a rockerboy is the closest they’ll ever get to making a difference in this world.

“You're wastin' your lives, followin' us around like dogs.”

If she had hands she’d hit him. The women scowl at him, obviously taken back at the rockerboy talking down to them, like he hadn’t been thinking of fucking a girl just before the show. Like his eyes didn’t look over the curve of their asses and cleavage. If one of them asked he’d be inside of them in a moment, just has to make them feel like shit first.

“What crawled up your ass?’

‘Robert’ sneers and rolls his eyes, walking past the stage. His fingers wrapping around the door handle, he was thinking about something he was going to do, toppling Arasaka. There’s a determination in his walk, a goal he’s marching off too, still hints of a soldier in his steadfast gait. The hell is he planning? How could some rockerboy take down a mega corp? There’s a faint but steady sound past the door, a whirring sound.

“Johnny, wait up!”

He turns, answering to the name she hasn’t heard until now and it’s Kerry running towards him; chasing after him like he did all those years ago, when he followed ‘Robbie’ right to war. She’s not sure if it’s her or ‘Johnny’ remembering it.

Kerry is older now than he was in the memories, though he looks younger than Johnny. A tall fluffy mullet of dark hair, a scraggly mustache, and a half finished sleeve of ink on his left arm. His hand wraps around Johnny’s wrist, pulling him the rocker closer.

“Don't do this,” Kerry warns, “You can still change your mind.”

“Get over here man,” Johnny pulls Kerry in closer, a hand cupped to his friend’s face,“Fuck this band. Not your crowd, not your noise, do your own thing.’

They’re close enough to see the scar above Kerry’s lip and the freckles that dot his neck. Johnny taps his finger against Kerry’s chest as he brings his hand from the shorter man’s face. Kerry’s always cared more for the music than the message, more about fame than impact, Samurai more Johnny’s baby then his. But fears kept Kerry from chasing that solo dream as much as he wants, dipping his toes but never taking the chance to fully dive in. Kerry always needed a good kick in the ass to get where he needs to be, might be the last one Johnny can ever give him.

“Bastard. Tsh… Gonna miss you something awful.”

There’s a softness in Kerry’s voice and smile, a fondness that only comes from lifelong friends. A soft warmth nestles in Johnny’s chest as well, for the first time she feels his lips pull into something she can almost call a smile.

“See ya in the next life, friend.”

With that Johnny puffs on his cigarette and turns, leaving out the door, the whirring growing louder. The source of it shown; a helicopter landed outside the club, blades spinning and whipping up dust. A woman stands nearby, a wild teal mohawk, someone Johnny knows, fuzzy memories of a tumultuous past.

“You're late,” she yells out over the sound of the chopper. Hands on her hips, eyes glaring at him. Always tries to play like she’s pissed, but never could resist him.

“Love it when you're mad. Gets my southern blood pumpin',” he teases with a grin and V can feel the reality of his words, a throb in his dick behind his leather pants. And she doesn’t like that, her discomfort at feeling what it’s like to have a dick oddly mingling with his lust.

“Get in. 'Fore I change my mind.”

Johnny makes his way to the helicopter, climbing inside, blades achingly loud. Two people already sit in the chopper. A man with chromed skin and fatigues, a woman fiddling with a computer. Her face is obscured by a helmet and visor, only black painted lips showing.

“Silverhand,” the man greets him.

Johnny...Silverhand…

“Hey, Shaitan,” he greets as gears start to turn in V’s head, a head she no longer has.

Johnny’s ex, Rogue, comes walking towards the helicopter as he turns back to the open doorway. Her name only known through Johnny’s thoughts skittering around her, but it sounds strangely familiar to V as well. Johnny extends a hand to help Rogue into the chopper, but she ignores him. Prideful bitch, he rolls his eyes.

“Get us in the air,” Rogue yells to the unseen pilot, shoving a headset into Johnny’s hands, “here, put this on, and it stays on, got it?”

Johnny pulls it on and the helicopter starts to take off, the world falling further and further below them. The sign at the top of the club comes into view; The Hammer, Johnny taking another drag on his cigarette as Kerry steps out the back door. Silverhand flicks the out onto the cement as his friend watches the chopper fly off.

As the helicopter flies through skyscrapers and towers, V struggles to take in where they are. Night City, but not. Towering buildings and screens blasting ads, par for the course in the city of broken dreams. But the ads are for products she hasn’t heard of or ones discontinued and no longer sold. The buildings look rougher, not quite the same slick clean look of the city she’s come to know.

A city consumed by corps, a vile cesspit with ads as far as the eye can see, each desperate to wring out one last eddie from the masses. The entire system designed to crush people too apathetic to do a damn thing about it. Exploited, violated, used for a profit, and thrown out the second the corps get what they wanted. And the people just take it. No longer questioning why there’s no more farms, only land stripped for profits and nomads forced to abandon their homes. No longer questioning why real food is a rarity, why the priciest drink on the market is filth free water. No longer questioning why someone like saburo is pushing a hundred and the average Night City citizen won’t see forty. Corruption and apathy, best friends united to create the city of broken dreams. He’d burn it all down if he could, but truthfully can’t imagine himself anywhere else…

So… he’ll burn it all down, die for it if he must, and something better can be built in it’s ashes.

A building in City Center holds a large holo-display showing the time and date; August 20, 2023… Fifty years in the past, the day Arasaka Tower was destroyed. And given his thoughts, she knows where Johnny is headed. That name, Johnny Silverhead, rattles through her. She’s heard it before, a few times. Half listened to conversations with Ava about music, where V would just nod and hope it earned her pity kiss. A name brought up by Jackie when discussing the tower being blown up, shots thrown back in… Rogue’s bar. The older woman with gray hair and the young adult with a wild teal mullet are one in the same.

V is in the foul smelling, cigarette smoking body of a rockerboy turned wannabe terrorist on his way to set off a nuke that will kill over a quarter million people.

“Piers're on fire. Pacifica's cut off, shut down. APCs on the streets of Watson,” Shaitan explains, stationed at the machine gun turret beside Johnny.

“Sons of bitches.”

“Skull-crackin' out there… that us?” A voice, the pilot maybe, asks over the headset.

“Johnny's idea. Weyland's drawing Arasaka's attention away from the tower.”

“Collateral damage part of the plan, too?”

“This isn't the cub scouts, Thompson, Chew it up, spit it out,” Rogue tells him, no hint of fear or remorse in her voice as the chopper starts to come around a tower.

A pillar of black metal with the Arasaka logo emblazoned at the top of it in silver. Levels of the tower get smaller towards the roof, from the distance there’s the bright red flash of holo warning signs forbidding entry. As they ascend higher and higher, the barrage of Arasaka soldiers and turrets atop the tower come into view.

“Target range acquired.”

“Make it rain,” Rogue commands and Shaitan begins shooting off the machine gun turret.

Gunfire rings through the air, Arasaka soldiers yelling out as they fire back, automated turrets beginning to fire at Shaitan. The chopper stays rotating, hovering but never still, to avoid being shot out of the air as the chromed sniper works to clear the roof. Blood painting across the metal as Shaitan blasts through them.

“Fuck!”

Enemy fire, Arasaka fire, blasts through, Pinging against chrome and metal, practically sparking. A lucky shot, or three, ripping through Shaitan’s shoulder and he screams in pain, falling onto his back. Rogue yelling out as she kneels down to check on him, Shaitan convulsing in pain.

“Taking over!”

Johnny takes over the machine gun, optics connecting with the turret sights. Arasaka soldiers flood the roof, nearly impossible to keep track of them; not even a moment passes before Johnny is firing off the gun. It's rapid and brutal, an onslaught as the reverberation of it shakes his body. But there is a hint of strategy beneath, taking out the automatic turrets first, blasting each one until they explode into shrapnel. Only when the final one is in sparks does he turn to the soldiers, Their sidearms can’t compare to the heavy fire. Blasted full of hole at rapid fire, blood and brains spraying.

A body of corpses and shrapnel left across the roof. He pulls away from the gun, unzipping a duffle bag. A white constructed mechanism, wire, switches, and a giant nuclear energy warning across it. He’s about to plant a nuke in Arasaka. Fucking stop it, you idiot, all you do is cause more harm than good. She tries to scream inside his head, but nothing comes of it. The helicopter lowers down closer to the tower roof.

“Murphy?” Rogue calls out.

“Found our access point. Get moving.”

“Johnny, remember the plan?” Rogue asks as Johnny zips the duffle bag and slings it over his shoulder.

“Get the payload on the elevator,” he jumps from the helicopter, “arm it, let gravity do its thing. Explosion rocks the foundation, tower crumbles - chaos, screaming, roll credits.”

He pulls out a gun, a heavy duty pistol, Malorian Arms 3516, Last True Friend etched in it.He spins it between his silver fingers, flourishing and completely unneeded. It’s smartlink tech, synching with his cybernetic arm. And she can feel a sort of dampening of his feelings and emotions, that rage burning in his chest starting to simmer down, a colder more calculated anger taking over.

Rogue and Murphy run ahead of him, across the roof, through the piles of bodies. Johnny follows behind them down a flight of stairs on the side of the building.

“Exit window's gonna be tight,” Rogue tells him, brandishing her own side arm as she comes to wait by a door.

“Jacking in,” Murphy connects a small computer into an interface, “Is grass green, do birds fly, do cats eat bats, do rats shit gnats?”

“Mainframe's not your playground, Murphy, c'mon. Evac announcement - broadcast it across all frequencies and let's get movin’.”

“Sheesh, who wrote this manifesto?”

“Really need me to answer that question?”

“Jesus, Johnny, you've gone of the deep end. And that's comin' from chairjock,” Murphy tells him, interface with a spider avatar drifting across the door, before it slides open.

Johnny rushes through and down a flight of stairs as Arasaka guards running to meet him. He shoots the first in the head, point blank, brains splattering. The gun is powerful, devastating, sending a reverberation through Johnny’s silver arm. Enough that bone would have broken in the recoil. The guard no longer recognizable.

The second guard stays further back, at the bottom of the second step. Johnny slams a trigger on the back of his gun, shooting flames out towards the guard. The man screams and staggers back, flesh burning as Johnny follows up with a shot through his chest.

A third one follow, stumbling over burning remains, when three shots go through his skull, Rogue taking him down. The two continue down the spiraling stairs, stepping through blood and ash. The meet another guard at the end, who fires off his hand gun rapid fire.

“Shred the whole fuckin' lot!”

The pair take cover behind the corner banister, Johnny reloading his gun with another twirl, before jumping back up. He shoots twice through the guards chest, watching the man fall in a bloody heap as they reach the end of the staircase.

They go through a doorway and two more guards greet them, gun’s trained on the two edgerunners.

“End him already! That’s an or-”

The guard's yell is cut off by a bullet ripping through his shoulder, a second through his chest. His underling going down a mere moment later, with a headshot from Rogue; room cleared. Blood soaking into silver and marble floors. Johnny’s eyes focusing on the elevator across the room.

“Murph?” Rogue calls out the netrunner’s name, her avatar showing on Johnny’s optics as she starts to hack the elevator.

“She sought it with thimbles, she sought it with care, pursued it with forks and hope…” Poem finished, the elevator doors open.

“Johnny payload.” Rogue yells out, but Johnny’s already across the room, making his way to the elevator. He brings the bag down off his shoulder, placing it down, crouching, and unzipping it.

“Bushido II - bomb's name was what?” He asks, in a slow sly voice, entertaining at least himself if no one else.

“Wrap it up, we gotta delta!”

“The ‘Demolitron’,” he sets the charges with a light hand, “we're good to blow.”

He stands up and leaves the elevator, no hurry, only determination in him as he walks back towards Rogue. Like this is just a regular Thursday night.

“'Saka elites incoming! Run for it!”

“Get the fuck out of there, Johnny,” Rogue yells as he steps away, “shoot the cables!”

He does just that, blasting through the elevator cables, the carriage with the bomb dropping down through the lower levels.

“Get the rotors spinning! We're on our way!” Rogue yells out to their pilot, but there’s something rattling around in Johnny’s chest. He’s got to save her. It’s his only chance.

“Not done yet still need to feed this to their subnet,” he waves a small handheld computer in the air. Rogue’s face twists and grimaces, infuriated.

“I fucking knew it!” she swings her hand through the air, fingers clenched like she could strangle him, “This was never about "corporate colonialism" - this was about your groupie output wasn't it?!”

“Nah, you wouldn’t understand, Rogue.”

“Givin' you four fuckin' minutes. Chopper's not gonna wait one sec longer.”

“Door lock breached. Arasaka sons-a-bitches incoming,”

“Love you, Spider,” he jokes as he pushes through double doors, the woodwork of a lobby greeting him a moment before an armed guard can.

“Whole world loves me.’

“Fuuuck!” He yells out, something between a frustration and excitement as he blasts a hole through a guard's chest.

Johnny reloads before stepping out further, quickly having to pull back into the doorway for cover through the marble passageway. Two guards coming from a corridor on the left, a third from the right. The tower is made of rectangular balconies wrapping around, corners and curves to hide around. He fires around the corner at the guard on the left, taking a leg before a second shot takes their hide.

A bullet whips past his head and he pulls back, guard coming to him, in front of the passageway. He slams his hand on the trigger, a plume of flames engulfing his enemy, before finishing them off with another shot. He rounds the corner and slams forwards into the third guard, knocking them off balance for a moment. Johnny swings his fist out, rings colliding against their jaw, they hit the ground. He fires a shot point blank into their head, continuing on his way.

A staircase in the left of the room, across from the stone garden in the midst of the balonied section. He rushes up two sets of stairs, reloading along the way. It brings him to the upper level of the stacked balconies, a guard directly across the gap on the other side. The first shot Johnny fires splits the banister in front of the guard, the second shot rips through them.

Three guards rush out from another room and Johnny pulls back, stepping down some steps, reloading. The movement forces the guards to come through the doorway, one at a time, letting him line up a shot that blasts through two at once, the third gagging as his friends' brains splatter and cling to his face. But he barely gets a moment to process before he’s dead too.

Johnny runs up the stairs, stomping over corpses, as he goes around the corner. There’s a doorway that leads down to what looks to be a board room. One more guard down with a quick clean headshot, brains now sprayed across a vase of flowers on the table. He walks over them around the corner and towards a paneled wall.

“Closing in on the access point,” he tells Murphy and the panel opens up, revealing a main frame.

“Slot in.”

Johnny pulls out a little computer, stickers across the top of it. He flips it open and plugs it into the terminal. A little interface coming across his optics, Uploading Virus: Liberator.

“Sweet ICE-breaker,” the runner speaks up again, “Foreign, right? Just, wonder if we know anyone who can switch the subnet protocol…”

“Hilarious. You gonna help or not?”

“Do spiders spin webs? It's time we caught some flies.”

“Thanks, Murph.”

“Now, just for good measure…”Murphy trails off for just a moment, “Holy cybercow, we’re on TV! Take a look.”

A large TV mounted on the wall pings on, tuned to a news cast. Johnny shifts to the side to watch it. Brief clips of chaos flashing by in snapshots as the anchor talks over them.

“And we turn now to Arasaka Tower, its evacuation ongoing after an unidentified terrorist organization released a manifesto threatening violence. The terrorists stating their desire to, quote-unquote, "topple a monument to corporate colonialism." Night City's mayor, Mbole Ebunike, has issued a statement declaring that he will bring the full force of the law to bear in response to any act of terrorism. Going now to our reporter on the scene at Arasaka Tower. Hopefully, he can shed some light on this situation as events unfold.”

People might finally wake up. There’s a swell of pride in Johnny’s chest, that this will finally send his message, finally change the world for the better. And V thinks of the rebuilt tower, now with remembrance monuments, but rebuilt and still standing proud fifty years later. The virus finishes uploading, Johnny unplugging his computer and tucking it back in his pocket.

Took too long, but better than never. Stay safe, Alt.

“All set. Now get outta there. They're movin' up! Hit the roof, quick!”

Johnny rushes through the board room and around the bends of the squared balcony, heading straight to the double doors on the other side. Just as he reaches it there’s a heavy blast, wood and metal shredding as Johnny is forced backwards.

Pain shoots through his back as it collides with the floor, looking up where the door was blown through. A man stands in the destroyed remains of it. A tall man in heavily armored Arasaka garb, wielding a heavy duty shotgun. Cybernetic arms, a black cyberware jawed, and adornments of metal across his forehead.

“Shit! That's Adam Smasher!”

Adam Smasher, the same borged out man protecting Yorinobu? He jumps down from the ledge, hitting the floor in front of Johnny with a heavy thud. He’s different than in 2077, more human, a healthy more flesh colored face behind the cyberware. Fuck, Johnny curses mentally and starts firing shots at Adam. The devastation of his Malorian doing nothing as they fire into Adam’s cybernetic arms, the top of the line chrome holding up under each fire.

“Johnny, run!”

He wants to fight, wants to teach Smasher a lesson the borged fucker won’t ever forget. Every fiber of his being screaming at him to stand and fight. But there’s a nuke on a timer, falling down to the depths of the tower. There’s a helicopter getting ready to fly off. And while he doesn’t mind dying today, expects he just might, Rogue and Spider are waiting on him. He doesn’t need the last thing he hears to be their nagging… or for Rogue to make the chopper wait on him. So, he swallows his pride, as foul as it tastes, and makes a run for it.

Johnny pistol whips and shoots an Arasaka soldier on his way out the door, reaching the stairs back out to the roof. The door shuts behind him before any more soldiers can come after him.

“Murphy!?”

“Door's sealed, but it won't hold for long. Run, Johnny. Like the wind.”

He can see Rogue ahead of him running up the stairs. She should have been back in the chopper by now, she waited on Johnny. Rogue will bitch him out and nag until she’s blue in the face, but she’d never leave him behind. Wrapped around his finger, no matter what he’s done. Johnny runs quickly up the stairs, to the roof, three steps behind Rogue as she jumps into the chopper, as it starts to lift off without him.

“Johnny! Move!”

He jumps, grabbing Rogue’s outstretched arm, fingers wrapping tight around her forearm. Rogue tries to pull him inside to safety, when his fingers begin to slip. Something fires in the background a whistling noise, as his hand catches in Rouge’s, fingers twisting tightly together as she pulls. A boom rings out, hitting against the chopper with a spark and a shake, he slips right from Rogue’s grip, world going out from under him as she plummets back down to the tower roof. His back hits the metal with a crash, head bouncing against the cement, pain shooting through his body. Pain blurs his vision as the helicopter spins overhead, watching as the pilot regains control and they’re forced to fly off without the ill-fated rockerboy.

Boots thunder against the floor around him, Smasher coming into view. Johnny’s silver arm shakes as he tries to reach for his gun, nerves on fire after the fall. Smasher throws down his heavy shot gun, kicking the gun away from Johnny’s fingers.

“Smasher.”

“Told ya, Johnny boy. Told you I'd end you someday,” Smasher all but snarls, a compartment in his cybernetic arm opening, Johnny’s staring down the barrel of the hidden weapon.

Johnny holds his arm out, only for it to be shot, chrome sparking as it’s blasted. Vision going out as he passes out. It only feels like a moment, a blink and the world returns.

The rattling of wheels against cement, strapped to a gurney. Bright and silver, a moon hangs high above the skyscrapers. Dirt and dust fly through the air, dancing around him like confetti. Faintly he hears sirens, hears screaming, hears cries. And when he shifts his head, to look further back, he can see the plumes of fire and smoke.

“Yes, he’s still alive,” the Arasaka doctor wheeling him says, spoken in Japanese, but understood by Johnny...and by extension the merc tucked in the corner of his mind. Everything hurts, no other memory so sharp, so clear. Able to feel every bruise and cut, like she’s truly him.

“Understood. We're en route,” the worker says above his head.

And Johnny falls back into darkness again, unable to keep conscious, the sound of explosions and chaos erupting around him as he passes out. It’s impossible to know how long, black void blanketing it all, time losing its meaning and grip on them.

It's a sharp slap across his face that wakes him back up, blood clinging to his lips. Blinking as he tries to take in his surroundings. He’s tied down to a chair, two guards standing before him. In a slick little room, a stretch of windows across the back wall, a bright mushroom cloud of destruction going off in the distance. Charge should have finished going off by now…

“Your associates - who are they? How did you acquire fissile material?” The guard questions him.

“Gonna give good cop over there a chance to say something? C'mooon…” Johnny sasses his interrogator, looking at the second quiet guard.

Then the guard sucker punches him, knuckles slamming into Johnny’s gut with a sharp crushing pain.

“Which terrorist organization do you belong to? How did you acquire fissile material?”

Another slap, backhanded and harsh against his face. His head forced to the side where he sees a man walking into the room; an older Japanese man, Saburo Arasaka. The corporate leader walks with his hands behind his back, a younger woman in all black following closely behind.

“Old man don’t look too impressed with your efforts,” Johnny taunts.

Saburo and the guards bow to each other, the old man speaking in Japanese, “leave us. I wish to look him in the eye.”

“Hot damn,” Johnny rolls his eyes, “done and gone.”

Saburo keeps his back turned to Johnny as the guards leave. The woman sets up a tech station by his chair. Her flingers click against a keyboard, looking at a screen before she finally speaks in a soft voice.

“My husband died in that tower.”

And Johnny’s stomach drops, pits with something akin to guilt. He can still see the burning clouds, the explosions in the distance through the window. Something went wrong, charges weren’t meant to be that strong. An evac announcement, charges just meant for the tower, a message. Not this. Casualties sure, everyone knew that was inevitable, but…

“But there are fates worse than death,” the woman tells him, fixing a metal wreath over his head. Wires connecting it back to her computer system.

“I… didn’t want him to die.”

“Why did you do this?” Saburo asks in his native tongue.

“To bring an end to the madness you wreak.”

“I have found that people lie, most often deceiving themselves. Not So the dead…”

Saburo finally turns to face Silverhand walking closer, stalking closer. And Johnny spits at him, blood and saliva now sticking to Saburo’s face, red staining the wrinkled skin. There’s barely a twitch to the old man’s face as he wipes the spittle and blood from his face. Disgusted but not stopped.

“Fuck you!” Johnny yells out for good measure, voice rough in his throat.

“The dead are so very, very loud,” Saburo scowls, “And yet, lying is not in their nature. It is so… humbling - to listen to the dead speak… Begin.”

The techie turns a switch and Johnny’s optics start to glitch, distort. Cyan fuzz piercing through the world as a UI screen appears. Soulkiller Primed: Commencing Engram Transfer. An crackle of electricity starts to course through him, a scream leaving him as his body convulses, Neurons cracking and frying as the world around his shakes, trembles, then finally cracks apart.

And V dies, not for the first time.

Darkness overtakes him, near oblivion. Only the vaguest notion of existence, suspended in time and reality. In a cold black choking void. Enough awareness, just enough, to know fear. Overwhelming fear, terror, trapped under the thumb of Arasaka. Never knowing when, if, there’s an escape. Never knowing what can, will, or has happened.

Time loses all meaning in digital purgatory.

And then sunlight starts to breach through. A haze over his vision, like watching sunlight through fogged glass. He can see the sunlight but he can’t feel it, maybe it’s an Arasaka trick. Trying to convince him he’s free, that he’ll ever see the sun again, just to rip it away before he can ever feel it’s warmth on his skin.

Then the view shifts, like someone turning their head, seeing the world through someone’s eyes. The sun beating down on a campsite, nomads, but their cuts and colors unlike any he’s seen. Not the Aldecaldos for sure, that much he knows. Might be some sort of experiment? Corps have never been above testing shit on people, nomads seen as less than human by most folks in the city, means they get away with it.

Someone calls the name Aidan, a mother calling for her child, the girl...he’s seeing the world through That feeling that knowledge seeping into him. A tent with an older woman and a young girl, a mirror in the tent catches a reflection, showing him Aidan. A young sunburnt nomad child with dark hair and gray eyes Nearly identical to the other child he’d just seen.

And in a blink, like a slide changing, the world changes again. Training sessions for the nomad kids. Taught to be strong. The kids made to fight each other, to spar, and losing meant going without food for the rest of the day if they were lucky. A beating if they were considered particularly pathetic. Some nights she won. Other nights watching other kids eat. The worst nights spent in a tent, mother rubbing salve on her injuries.

She’s taught how to load a gun, repair an engine, and kill without shaking before she’s seen her seventh birthday.

Members of the ‘family’ culled before everyone. Because they were sick. Because they were weak. Because they were a burden. They could drag the rest of the family down, The Herd must be culled so that they can stay strong. For the best of the family.

Gareth, an older man of the nomad family, gets sick. cancer running rampant in his body, treatment available but timely… expensive. He’d sneak toasted marshmallows to Aidan on nights she’d be made to go without anything….

He begs to die on his feet rather than his knees like most cullings.

His wish is denied.

Aidan’s father forces a dying man to his knees, pressing a captive bolt pistol to the back of his skull and killing him in front of the family. For their own good.

And one day, Aidan gets sick too. Johnny can’t feel it through her, through the snapshots, too disconnected. But he gets a rumbling of it through her. Body aching, head in agony, world constantly spinning enough to make her puke.

She tells no one. Refuses to be the next one culled, no doubt her father’s rules apply to her. Her sister, the same age and near a picture perfect copy, frets over her as they go to pick through a landfill. Instructed to spend evenings in search of anything useful to the family, to earn their keep. A ringing in her ears, world spinning as the noise builds and builds until silence strikes and she drops to the ground.

The world has gone silent. She wakes up in a med tent, but can hear nothing. A world of noises and chaos now silent.

And a stone faced father comes barging in, he’s saying something, but she doesn’t know what. Flinching in threadbare sheets, knowing the signs of his cold anger, but not what’s driving it, not how to fix it. Nails dig into her shoulder, dragged from the medical tent and out into the midst of the camp sigh. Vision blurred by tears. She yells out what’s happening, but can’t hear the words.

But she knows the press of the barrel against her head, the touch of the captive bolt pistol, how they cull the herd. She was weak, defective, broken. Nomad family gathered around, watching her cry and scream, unable to hear herself. Weak and pathetic before them all.

Then a pair of hands grab her, save her, pull her away and into a hug. Her mother holds her tight, crying, screaming, then kissing the top of her daughter’s head. Whispering words she knows won’t reach her. Aidan is saved, she doesn’t know what’s said. What spared her life. But she’s allowed to live on.

Her mother and sister learn ASL with her; the only two who never shun her, protecting her too much if anything. The implication clear whether in kindness or anger, she’s weak now. Defected. But her father expects her to work harder, to prove his mercy wasn’t a mistake. That this child earned her right to live.

She earns hearing aids years later[ and cries when she first puts them in; the world is too loud, too painful. Aidan keeps them low and continues using ASL.

A homeless teenage girl in a town they ransack; long dark hair and heavy makeup. Calls herself Avarice, they call her Ava. She tries to sign to Aidan and the young nomad girl is in love that easy, desperate for someone who cares enough to meet her even halfway. Despite it all, she begs Ava to join The Herd. Because maybe hell is more bearable when you’re in love.

She’s dragged to the med tent one night, told she needs a checkup, no rhyme or reason. Knowing better than to fight her father when he’s barking orders. They sedate her, clan doctor holding her down and forcing her into unconsciousness. She awakes with a scar across her lower stomach. Sterilized. So, she’ll never pass along defective genes.

The next snapshot doesn’t feel much longer after, older but not by much, a year maybe. When The Herd is swarmed by an rival nomad clan, one they’ve fucked over one time too many. Aidan trying to drive one of the cars to get her sister and mother away from the ambush. When a rival vehicle slams into them, a screech of tires, the gnash of metal. Eira and Aidan safe, but their mother is pinned between a caved-in door and the center console, bleeding where shrapnel pierces deep into her legs.

Trapped until Aidan’s father and a group from the family find them, The three women pulled from a crushed vehicle, the mother the only one gravely injured. Aidan follows as she’s dragged to an emergency medical set up.

Legs too damaged, it'd require a double amputation, prosthetics or cyberware. Easily doable. Nowhere near beyond saving if they’d act in time, take the time. But they never do, never truly will. Aidan begs for her mother’s life, like her mother did for her. For her father to have mercy just one more time.

And the bolt pistol is put in her hands. She’s told to do it. To cull her mother, to be strong, to put the family above the individual. A test of her strength.

She refuses, screams, and points the gun at him. And he mocks her tears, mocks the way her hands shake. He rips the pistol from her hands, she fights and pulls with him. But he’s over a foot taller, stronger, leaves her black and blue; crying on the ground with his boot on her back as he takes the gun and kills her mother.

And once her mother’s body is burned to ash, she runs.

Years of traveling, towns across NUSA, some faces are kinder than others. Eira and Ava sent to track her down, to kill the traitor.

Eventually she finds herself in Night City, but not the one Johnny knows. Newer, slicker, brighter. But the corruption and apathy remain, chrome even more common place than it was before. Folks more metal than flesh, every ripper doc with back alley tech.

She meets a friend, Jackie, Johnny knows his name despite never hearing it. A big ‘tino fucker covered in gaudy gold chains who helps her settle in. Taken into his home. Merc work, scummy nothing jobs, merc janitors at best. Jackie pulls her into a tight hug, the nomad unsure of what to do as his arms wrap around her, face pressed into his chest.

Then there’s a sharp pain, nerves and neurons firing off as everything is suddenly real. No haze or glass between him and her memories. Face tucked in against fabric, a chest, but there’s no warmth. No heartbeat. Arms wrapped tight around a body that’s cold and limp, one hurting like it’s been ripped open. They feel like his own, it feels like it’s his body.

He can feel the movement of muscles, the beat of the body’s heart. How the face is twisted up with tears running wet and hot down the cheeks. It feels like him, but it's not. Smaller, thinner.

No more ‘chicas’, ‘jainas’, or the odd ‘mija’. No more smiles that outshine the sun. No more nagging her to look on the bright side. No more bear hugs or hands the size of her head ruffling through her hair. No more Jackie….

Thoughts not his own swim around his head, the voice feminine. What the hell is Arasaka playing at? Playing someone else’s memories, trying to make him sit in the backseat of someone else's life? An experiment, they going to try to twist him, fuck with his head?

“Mr. Welles has passed. Where shall I take his remains?” An AI voice asks, in some tech cab with a bleached digital butler staring at her.

He’s got to find a way out, there’s got to be a way? But how do you leave someone’s head?

The body, her body, moves without his permission. Able to feel it like it’s his own and he can see just who’s corpse she was clinging to. Jackie… The same guy who took her in, now dead in the back of a cab. There’s a pit in her stomach, a tightness in her chest; he can feel her pain…

He’s both separate and intrinsically connected, his thoughts and feelings distinct enough, but her own still overwhelming.

”W-what?” She says...what was her name Aidan, Brayden, Hayden, some shit... Frat boy name on a nomad brat.

She stumbles over her words, sounds like she barely knows how to talk, might be the blubbering. Fuck if he knows or cares. Her grief, while he can feel it around him, surrounding him from where he sits in her head, is her own. He’s got bigger worries, bigger fish to fry. Former nomad, now a merc, but that doesn’t meant she can’t be with Arasaka. Corps hire mercs, use nomads as scapegoats, all sorts of shit. She could be in on whatever the fuck this is.

He’s just got to figure out what exactly the fuck this is, what Arasaka’s plan is. A way to get intel from him? Prodding at memories by seeing if someone else’s sparks something?

“The Excelsior package provides for the disposal of passenger remains free of charge. I merely require a destination.”

“I…he-he’d want to be with his family.”

“Mr. Welles' closest blood relative is Guadalupe Alejandra Welles, proprietress of the El Coyote Cojo bar. I will make sure to deliver him safely. Mr. DeShawn awaits you in room number two-oh-four. ”

Her hands are stained with blood, her forearm has a gash down it. He can see the traces of Mantis Blades, one ripped out. Something happened, flashes of dangling off an Arasaka branded hotel, holding her friend up. Red everywhere, fighting Arasaka guards. Doesn’t mean she didn’t work with them, how else would they somehow plant him in her head, in her memories.

She squeezes her friend’s shoulders and presses her forehead to his, feeling the cold of his corpse.

“See ya in the major leagues, Jack…”

She gets out of the back of the cab, she’s dressed like a corpo, he realizes when her eyesight catches her body. White blouse, stained red with blood, black slacks. Rain is pouring down on her, as she walks through a dirty alley. She doesn’t seem to notice Johnny’s existence, his presence in her head. Everything he thinks, tries to scream without a mouth, doesn’t earn him a response.

Then again, if she is with Arasaka, might be told to ignore him. He’d be pulling his hair out if he had a body, if he existed beyond some former tarmac rat’s mind. She walks through a door into a filthy excuse for a motel, the No-Tell. There's chatter around them and he catches the rambling of a tv, something about Saburo Arasaka. But she doesn’t stay to linger, doesn’t let him fully hear it. Something about the old fucker’s life.

But she’s at the door of a hotel room before he can hear much, bloodied knuckles knocking against the door.

“It's V,” She says, knocking again when there’s no answer. V? Since when is she V? Where the fuck did she get V from?

The door opens and a guy comes out, giant fucker around a foot or so taller than her, so was her newly departed friend. Which begs the question, how tall is she?

God, he’s stuck in the skull of some munchkin merc, isn’t he?

Everyone, everything is… bigger. A hand on her shoulder, nearly the size of her head stops her from stepping forward. And he hates it, someone putting hands on him, controlling him so easily, he tries to force her hands to punch the ugly fucker. But it doesn’t happen, hands clenched at her side. How the hell does she fight anyone like this anyway, she’s half the height of everyone she meets.

“He waiting.”

V, Aidan; whatever dumb fuck name she has is allowed into the motel room. A man inside, puffing away on a cigar, watching the news. He can feel her worry swelling inside of her as she clears her throat, the man doesn’t look Arasaka. But the little runt of a merc has to be attached to them somehow. He’s not one to give Arasaka too much credit, be none if he had his way, but they’re not dumb enough to put his engram in any klepto punk’s head.

Arasaka uploaded his engram, scorching him with Soukiller, he remembers that. Mikoshi is where they store them, digital souls tucked away, where they got the tech to play with the human mind. If she made it there, they had to have trusted her.

“WNS… N54… Even the pirate networks… You blowin' up everywhere! And the Jackster? He out in the car?”

“He’s...dead.” Having to say it, having to hear it from her own lips. Stuck in the whiny mind of an Arasaka asslicker, wonderful.

“Condolences friend and the relic?”

The relic? Arasaka’s ultimate project, what they needed Soulkiller before. There’s always been a constant murmur about it, Arasaka looking to commodify the human soul. Must have finally rolled it out after they fried him.

“Here,” she explains by tapping her chipslot, is that how he’s here?

“Hmm, I was afraid of that…”

“What?!”

But the relic, they advertised it like imaginary friends, or some shit. If he was on that, she’d be able to see and hear him right? Unless Arasaka fucked up…

“Saburo Arasaka,” the man, Dex, paces, “Dead…?! You got any notion of the shit you pulled me into?! You offed the fuckin' emperor! His majesty! Anyone with so much as a pinky toe dipped in this mess is as good as dead!”

Saburo’s dead, old sack of shit finally kicked it… and Johnny’s in the killer’s head. Memories, her’s, creep up. Ones he didn’t get in the brief glitches of memories before. Saburo’s body, dead limp and collapsed on a hotel floor. Ripping the dogtags from his bruised neck. Means Johnny won’t get the satisfaction of offing the bastard himself.

“I didn’t kill Saburo! I- I-”

She stumbles and trips over every word; can she act like she didn’t fuck up any of this? Like she has no role in Jackie and Bug’s deaths… He’d gag on her feelings if he could, a blubbering child, those memories may be a mystery to him right now. But he buys it, if he couldn’t manage to kill Saburo, he doubts some miserable little half pint could, chick can barely get a sentence out. Which means he very well may still be tripping around in the neurons of some shitty nomad turned bootlicker.

"No shit?l Tell that to the ‘Saka ninjas they send after you!”

“We...we got to leave Night City.”

“You don’t say.”

“Call Parker, we close the deal, collect our eddies, and go off the radar.”

“A’ight, settle down, Gotta be tactical about this. Parker, eddies, then we leave the city limits behind. But first… Your face… got blood all over it. Bathroom's there. Go get yourself cleaned up.”

She nods and makes her, their, way to the bathroom. Dex is going to trick her, pull some shit, Johnny can see it a mile away. Chick’s outnumbered, outstrength, if they think she’s a risk and Dex made it clear he does, he’ll drop her. But she doesn’t see it, walking into the bathroom and settling at the sink. The mirror lights up, showing her face, giving him the first good look at her since those foggy memories of childhood.

He sees traces of that kid; gray eyes and her face is soft. Young, delicate, but with a heavy layer of blood coating iit.

Her blood and Jackie’s.

He can taste the bile in her throat, as if his own, can feel the burn of it and the churn of her gut as she pukes into the sink. It's not the first time he’s ended up with the taste of someone elses puke in his mouth, though it’s her mouth, he supposes. She pushes her bleached blonde hair off her face as she retches, streaking blood through it.

If she would have refused the job.

If she had gotten them up the ladder.

If she had been stronger.

If she had been stealthier.

If she had gotten them through the lobby quicker.

If she could have convinced Delamain to get him to a doc.

If she knew better first aid.

He tries to shut it out, the knots in her guts, the ache in her chest. Her thoughts spinning around her head and what feels like his. Surrounded by the feelings of another, he can’t fucking live like this, there’s got to be a way out.

She washes the blood from her hands and face; Jackie wanted this for her, one of the only people who ever wanted anything good for her. If only for him, she owes it to him to finish this job.

Can she fucking hear him? He tries to mentally scream at her, he’s going to find a way out of this, if he has to claw his way out of her damn head! Slamming him in the head of some grieving merc, that Saburo’s idea of a sick final joke? Making him feel someone else’s pain meant to make him talk? Meant to give everything away? If hell exists, Saburo better be burning or Johnny will set the son of a bitch on fire himself.

Nothing works, nothing seems to draw her attention. Johnny thinking to a void as she leaves the bathroom.

She’s punched clean in the head as soon as she steps out the door, to the surprise of no one but her, the rattling of her skull and shock of pain hitting Johnny like it’s his own head. The merc is knocked to the floor and a boot kicks into her gut for good measure. Her head stomped on, beaten to the ground like all five feet of her is a truly dangerous threat.

“Can’t risk it, V,” Dex levels a pistol with her temple as she writhes on the ground, “‘Member our first convo?”

“I’ll fucking kill you!”

“Seems I've chosen the quiet life, after all. No blaze o' glory for me.”

And Dex pulls the trigger, a bang in the dirty motel room as he fires a shot into the merc’s head. Agony and terror, gagging on blood, darkness, cold, and fear… then nothing.

And Johnny dies, not for the first time.

Death relived, but through the eyes of another. The bullet hits. Soulkiller scorches. And the world around the two rewrites at the moment of their second deaths. Reconstructs and digitizes. A liminal space within the net. Structures like the squared mazes of balconies and stairs within Arasaka Tower of 2023.

But everything made up of digital matter, pixels of color collected loosely to form the shapes against a black backdrop. Nearly everything a shade of blue, but hints of red bleeding through.

Nothing moves or feels like reality, floatier, less certain. And it all moves, pixels twitching, it all shifts, all seems… alive.

That where V finds herself, dying again but through Johnny, an echo of the pain from his torture still seeming to stick to her. But when she looks down, it’s her, but not. Like the world around her she knows seems to be constructed of these pixels, data, a bright red hue to her But it all forms to be her. Her arms, her painted nails, her freckles, her scars. They move with her permission, no one else’s.

But what is happening?

The biochip, maybe? But it’s meant to show someone like an imaginary friend, not put you in their lives, then send you to the net. At least she thinks this is the net, remembering descriptions Bug had given her. And by all intents and purposes, she should be dead.

Data around her shakes, reverberates, brightens and stretches across the hall around her. There’s a thrum to it all, that she can hear, no physical limitation in the net… Then it stops only to reveal something new. A flash of bright red, standing out in a sea of blue data. It forms the shape of a person, composed of red data and negative space, their back to her as they lean forward on the banister.

V signs from instinct, but finds no translator, forcing her to speak, “Hey!”

She rushes towards the figure, they don’t answer her call, maybe they know what’s happening? But as she gets close, they push off the banister and turn. Their figure blurs as they move away from her, but she sees a closer glimpse.

It’s a man, not as tall as Jackie, but still over a foot taller than her. Shoulder length dark hair and what looks to be the outline of sunglasses on his digital form. Even in the strange form, she recognizes him. The man’s who’s death she just lived, moment after her own. Johnny Silverhand. He blips away as he turns.

The flash of red, his form, now further away, on the stairs of the lobby.

“Hey, sir!” she calls out again, trying to sound vaguely polite as she rushes towards the stairs, he has to know what’s going on. He stands from the stairs and blips away just as she reaches them.

She runs up that first set of steps seeing his form sitting on the second, “Johnny!”

And he’s gone as soon as she reaches him, like they’re playing some sort of game, does he not hear her? She knows damn well he’s not deaf, if she can hear in this place, he should be able to. She reaches the top of the stairs, reaching another balcony railing, him around the corner on the adjacent side of the square floor. His back is to the banister, hands on it. Paying her no mind.

“Robert!” She yells his full first name, remembering seeing it scrawled in chicken scratch across an enlistment form. But she turns the corner and he’s gone.

But when she turns her head she sees his back again, down a narrow passageway made of more negative space than blue data. She walks across the negative space, hands skimming the data that forms it’s walls, each step taking her closer to him. She heard three different names, unsure of which may earn her an answer.

“Robbie! Robert!”

Neither name spurs a reaction, he doesn’t turn, doesn’t speak. Only stands at the end of hall, shifting in pace, as she continues her way to him. And she stops when she’s within arm’s reach, he hasn’t blipped away, hasn’t ran off. Able to see fully now, the red data particles that form a bullet proof vest, the cyberware left arm. V reaches out and taps a finger against his shoulder.

“Johnny?”

He turns to face her and she doesn’t know if she should feel relieved, or terrified.

“And you? Who are you?”

Her answer catches in her throat, mouth half open when it hits. White hot blinding pain ripping through every nerve, head and world shattering as she screams. Like she’s been torn open, every part of her stripped raw and set on fire. Everything vanishes from her sight as she cries out.

V’s contact UI blips, blurry as data fills it, system reboot. Her senses return to her, slowly and steadily as systems reload. The arm her blade was ripped from burns, open nerves exposed to the air. Her head feels shattered, aching as if it’s been broken apart. There’s a stench of trash and filth around her. There’s a weight on top of her, heavy, firm, crushing down onto her lungs. The warmth and stick mess of blood clings to everything. Caked across her skull, down her neck, her arm.

The diagnostics flicker away, but her vision still struggles. A cyan fuzz clings around and distorts it all. Her depth of field is cut off, half her vision seemingly gone. Not aided by the fact that it’s dark, looking around she can see trash thrown atop her. a cold sheet of metal lays on top of her. Metal and plastic of discarded goods lay beneath and around her, jabbing uncomfortably into her flesh.

A landfill, if she were to wager a guess, Dex tossed her out like trash. How is she not dead? How hasn’t she bled out?

She doesn’t know the answer, but she knows if she doesn’t do something, she’ll die anyway. Favoring her left arm, the right still damaged, she pushes up on the sheet of metal. Muscles scream in protest, pain shooting through them as she forces herself to put her weight into it. And she rolls it off of her and she can breathe a little easier, move a little better. A bit more light allowed on her. But she still can’t see very well, like her right eye is closed.

Tempting fate, she presses her hand to it, sees nothing, when she closes her left. The world goes black. She touches the lid, feeling the blood that mats her eyelashes, she pries her eyelid open with her fingers. Nothing. Down a blade and an eye, she needs to move. Vik can fix those, he can fix this.

She shoves a TV off of her legs, twists up s to see the sky. Silver and orange light color the world, moonlight and fire, plumes of dark smoke coming from somewhere she’s in some sort of pit or ravine within the landfill, a wall of dirt and trash around her. An upward climb to save herself.

V forces her body to move even as it aches and screams in pain, forces her shredded arm to grip even as she can see the tendons twitching through the mangled remains of it. She forces blood soaked fingernails to dig into dirt and grip abandoned pizza boxes for traction, slips her aching feet in between wires and appliances for foot holds.

“Fuck!” she screams out loud, but can’t hear it, as she loses her traction and starts to slip. She extends her left blade, sinking it into the wall of muck and trash. Her right arm stings, throbs, begs to release a tool it no longer has.

She uses her blade to help pulls herself, dragging herself up and up with every sink of it into the muck. V’s thankful she’s lost her hearing aids in the process, hell maybe Dex stole them back to recoup some losses, but it means she can’t hear her own curses, her own groans of pain, her own rattling breaths with bruised lungs

And she reaches the surface. Rusted remains of god knows what surrounds her and a trashcan fire burns not far away, but she’s out of the pit. She pulls her feet under her and she tries to stand, body shaking, swaying, trembling with blood loss and pain.

But for a moment, she rises.

She stands, looking out across the landfill of trash, cyan fuzz still glitching around her, and for a moment...maybe she’s okay. Maybe she can walk out of this, find Vik, maybe she can be okay.

V collapses with the next step, body all at once going out from under her, mocking her hope. Mocking her moment of stupid fucking hope as her back meets the mud. It mingles with blood, collides with her gore, and sticks to her open wounds. She lays there in muck, just breathing, her lungs ache with the strength needed just to do that. Each one feels fainter than the last. Her eyes start to close, feel too heavy, her right one might very well already be shut… she wouldn’t know. A mangled mess of who she once was, now laying in filth, surrounded by trash.

Maybe she’ll not move again… maybe this is a fitting end. A childhood of scavenging landfills, thrown in a dumpster her first night in the city, and dying in a landfill; maybe the world has been trying to tell her something all along. She’d never have to face Mama Welles, Misty, or Vik; never have to tell them she failed Jackie. Maybe she’ll just let all go, never even have time to grieve, maybe it’s best to just let it all go…

“Wake the fuck up, Samurai. We got a city to burn.”

A rasp of a voice rings out and she gasps, opening her eyes. A man kneeled over her, one she knows well, but he’s no longer digitized and she’s not looking through his eyes. Silver fingers pull his aviators off of his face, dark brown eyes scrutinizing her. His form isn’t solid, glitches like old vhs footage.

But...

She heard him.

#cyberpunk 2077 #silverv #johnny silverhand #cp2077 #fem v #aidan v becker #aidan becker

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fordarkisthesuede · 3 years

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The Tolls of Justice: the Tarot, Name Meanings, and More!

Gentlepeople…

BEHOLD!

All the tarot-aligned hints! All the future foretellings! All the silly references! :) Everything you might have overlooked is here for you easy-to-read pleasure!

Naturally, there be spoilers a-plenty ahead for Batman the TellTale Series: The Tolls of Justice, so if you haven't read it (or maybe you're thinking about reading it, or this is your first time hearing about it), I'd advise waiting until you're done with each chapter to read through the sections. You can either click the link and be redirected to Ao3, or look through my tumblr tag #ttoj!

*One forwarding note: the tarot references build slowly in this story, and I only use the traditional Major & Minor Arcana. You'll see a lot of jokes and name-type references before we get to the tarot. I also simplified the numerics, but they're often displayed as roman numerals on cards, hint hint.

Prologue

gang member "Four Ears" - a very very off-the-collar reference to the line "Listen up, four-ears!" from J-Men Forever; in context, it was an off-shoot of the insult "four-eyes" but for music taste, also implying the person's taste was "square".

gang member "Muddy Nye" - his name can be boiled down to "muddy river". It works as an allusion to the messy, unclear case ahead of Bruce and the Batfam, but also as a hint to Clayface, who acted as Muddy in his first sighting of the story.

"Sunset" - a reference to everyone's favorite vampire series to pick on, the Twilight series; back when it was at the height of it's popularity, some drug dealers sold heroin marketed towards the crowd based off it's terrible and unfortunately iconic(?) line from Edward Cullen, "You're my own personal brand of heroin"…hence why the drug of choice BM is shipping here is heroin. Essentially, this plot setup is one big joke.

"FIGS" - a reference to POP! vinyls, hence the capitalized name and spiky word balloon on the packages.

"Gray Ghost [memorabilia]" - one of my (and everyone else's) favorite BtAS episodes, which proves definitively that Bruce Wayne | Batman is not only a Huge Nerd™, but also a massive collector of normal fandom things. (Do you think he troughs through blogs and fanwikis…? What am I saying, of course he does. He edits them.)

gang members "Jack Whendleham and Kirby Noltz" - nod to Jack Kirby, comic artist extraordinaire!

Ch.1: A Different Ceiling

[chapter title] - John does not wake up in Arkham at the start of the story, hence waking up to a different ceiling. He also hits different limitations on what he can do, so it's also a different kind of "ceiling". (Like the term "the glass ceiling", the invisible barrier a demographic hits in a hierarchy.)

St. Dymphna New Life Home - named after Saint Dymphna, the patron saint of mental illness. There's no "'s" at the end because I saw other clinics named after Saints didn't use the possessive form when referencing them.

The Lucky Hotel - an oxymoron, really; the unluckiest place to get stuck at with it's seedy history, but also the place where John "gets lucky"…in a couple of different ways!

Stitched Up Alterations - a heavy nod to the wonderful batjokesy line from S2, "We're two threads in the same stitch". It's pretty deeply ingrained in fanon (and technically canon, if you go with The Dark Knight) that Joker makes his own clothes, hence Batman rarely finding him through his tailor. Since John's thrifty and clearly made his original Joker outfit(s), I piggybacked off it as a legit skill to give him. I mean, come on, the guy is always so stylish! And you're really going to look at me and say he didn't alter his thrifted shirts and vests to fit his sleek frame? Puh-leeease.

13th Street - 13 is a traditionally unlucky number in western culture; hence the "Lucky Hotel" there having a bloody history, along with a failed, closed casino nearby.

Corazón gang - okay, I admit…I'm still a weeb at heart. It's a One Piece reference. Corazon was one of the few post-timeskip new characters I really liked; his name is Spanish for "heart", and he sported a heart motif. Like the gang in this story, he also died before the start of the main storyline.

Ch. 2: Face Values

[chapter title] - A reference to the phrase "not taking things at face value", which is very evident in this story. Also doubles as a rather loose reference to the upcoming Tarot cards.

Sebastian Overfield - The name Sebastian means "from Sebaste", as is derived from the Greek word sebastos ("venerable", someone who has a lot of respect). Overfield of course is "over" and "field", implying the family is on a high hill overlooking/overseeing/maintaining a certain field. As Seb is a reverend, this name is well-fit for him.

orange rose [gift from John] - means "passion" in the language of flowers, and can allude to fascination; this can be taken platonically or romantically…but it's definitely romantic when it's coming from John.

blue iris [gift from John] - means "faith and hope" in the language of flowers, and sometimes are associated with royalty; an allusion to Batman/Bruce's overall symbolism in the eyes of Gotham…and John.

Chandis [ship, circa Prologue] - A reference to Chandi | Chandika, the Hindu deity; the short version of their story is that they are a demon slayer, known to be angry and passionate, wield multiple weapons, and ride a lion. And who was on the ship? Hmm…

Ch. 3: Ink Trails

[chapter title] - A reference to the Alterations' claim slip John finds, which ends up leading back to the Court of Owls. It doubles as a reference to the mask tattoo/clue on Ian 'Nito'.

Faith Ackart - "Ackart" is a variant of "ackhart", derived from "ekkehard", which we can say roughly means "brave/hardy". The name "faith" and "hardy" together is another very subtle clue for the audience towards the villains' motives. (Well, I say that, but it was really more of a joke-clue for me to giggle at. And it makes a good reporter name!)

Lou Monger - the guy's a fish monger…with the last name Monger. It's-a joke! ;D

Ian 'Nito' Coggs - first mentioned without his real last name, but "Ian Coggs, Nito", is a pun on the word "incognito"…which is what Clayface is here.

FriendBook/Chirp/bloggr/uBox - takes on Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and YouTube respectively. (This started back in my 'Season 3' story, At the Brink of Midnight, though I've since learned that bloggr was a real thing. :T) The 'uBox' is meant to be a play on 'jumping box'/'the box' as other terms for TV, like 'the tube'.

"whole tomato of pins" - the supposed history of tomato-shaped pincushions is that tomatoes placed on mantels repelled evil spirits and guaranteed prosperity, but I really wanted to just allude to the common pin-cushion shape. (My mom once had a whole little basket of strawberry shaped pin-cushions. I remember "borrowing" them a lot as a kid to play with. And then "losing" them.)

"sock and buskin masks" - these are a reference to the "comedic sock" and "tragic buskin (i.e. boot)" of the Greek comedy-tragedy theatre masks. I figured something like them would be a good logo for the "false faces", as BM is obsessed with masks. It also doubles as a natural callback to the "your relationship with x has changed" feature of TT games.

Ch. 4: Suite of Cups

[chapter title] - the first chapter to be a reference to the Tarot, in specific the Minor Arcana of Cups; rather than specifying the card at play outright, this title is a pun on the aforementioned arcana "suite", as the main location of events this chapter are in a casino's hotel suite. One can interpret many Cups cards at play here, but...

○ Specifically, in the Casino's suite/crime scene, there are 8 visible seats, but 7 cups on the table. The 7 of Cups refers to choices, fantasy, and illusion, an indicates there are multiple opportunities or many paths you can take, but they should be chosen carefully; when reversed, it can mean confusion, diversion, and temptation, and indicate a lack of choice or failure to choose.

○ The upright version is definitely in play, with the overall root of TellTale games being choices, and some "the player" makes this chapter will move your relationships with Tiffany and John in different ways, which can strengthen your relationships with them. If "the player" has chosen to be a more violent Batman, the way the Talon - and later, the Court - treats Batman is different.

○ The Reversed reading can be interpreted for the Court's complete disregard for the mere notion of choice.

Bauta - a Venetian carnival mask, meant to represent 'anonymous decisions' via it's original design of protecting identities. It's quite common in carnivals.

Melpomene-Thalia - the Venetian masks for comedy and tragedy, a la 'sock and buskin', the masks used as a general symbol for theatre. You can practically taste the irony, given who's shown wearing it...

Volto - a Venetian mask, meant to represent 'anonymity, quiet exit' for it's blank face. It's also known as the "Citizen Mask" because of it's worn by the common folk (in comparison to the more elaborate masks).

The Lot [casino] - named for "drawing lots", like drawing straws or matches to pick a person to do a task (usually with the shortest straw having to do the task, but it varies). This is both a pun on the fact that it's a casino - where you try your luck at gambling - and corresponds with the theme of foretelling the future that's woven throughout much of the story.

The Wednesday Nighters gang - this doesn't mean anything in particular. I'm a big fan of Midsomer Murders, and there's an episode ("Death in a Chocolate Box") where it references a few dirty cops who frequently took the Friday night shift at a station for episode-plot-reasons, who called themselves The Friday Nighters. It's an off-shoot reference to it, hence the corrupt cops on the gang in this story. :)

[John's voicemail] - Another BtAS episode I love is "the terrible secret of Bruce Wayne". In particular, I loved Joker's voicemail when Dr. Strange calls in ("Boy, do YOU have the wrong number!") and I wanted to do something like that. But, y'know, way less murdery.

"F85H4ND" - l33t-written "Fate's Hand", for…well, the hand of fate, supposedly guiding you through life/events. Another correspondent to the foretelling the future theme.

Michael Hodgson - not all of the names I pick for characters mean anything. Sometimes their names are just loose references to things I like. This is a silly mish-mashup of the original hosts of Mystery Science Theater 3000, Michael [Nelson] and [Joel] Hodgeson. (Joel was the first host + show creator, and Mike was the second host who closed out the original series run.)

"40F5WRD5" [Batcomputer archive] - l33t for the 4 of Swords, a card in the Minor Arcana for rest and restoration; since the archives and file names are randomly generated when not prompted otherwise with manual input, an otherworldly force seems to be saying 'get some damn sleep Bruce'.

[John's ringtone] - I know, TT always has everyone's phone on silent. I don't care. Bruce's ringtone for John is "Mack the Knife", a song about a violent mobster, played on a carnival organ. Chosen because 1) John probably loves that song, 2) I thought it was funny that it has the line "the shark bites - with his teeth, dear - when he shows them pearly whites" and how well that goes with John's A+ dental care... 3) TeamFourStar made jokes in their BtTTS S2 playthrough about having "a special ringtone whenever John calls [them]"…why would I not carry that through? They did get me to where we are now, you know. ;)

Ryde - the in-game stand-in for Lyft, the not-a-taxi service.

Ch. 5: The Wheel Still Spins on the Upturned Chariot

[chapter title] - a reference to 2 tarot cards in the Major Arcana. 1) "The Wheel"/"The Wheel of Fortune", which is a sign for continuous cycles, inevitable fate, and usually indicates good fortune and pre-destiny when the card is presented upright. When reversed, it can signify bad luck and an unfavorable fate. 2) "The Chariot", symbolizing a path forward to success, confidence, and overcoming obstacles; when reversed, it's stands for recklessness and lack of direction/control. 3) As the Chariot is upside down, John's original plans have been upended and everything goes out of his control in a chaotic situation. He’s essentially "not at the driver’s seat" for a little while. "The player" decides which direction to take the wheel in - either letting him lash out violently and send him on more solitary and dangerous path, or satisfy his need for stability by embracing his new relationships. The Chariot is always upturned here, but whether the wheel spins forward or backward is up to "the player's" decisions.

511 N. Blade Street - this one's a bit messy. 511 = V I I, or VII in roman numerals, which =7. The tarot cards are traditionally numbered in roman numerals. North, for pointing upright, and "blade" is synonymous with "sword". So it’s the "7 of Swords", in the upright position – referring to deception and trickery, which is of course what's going on in regards to who Ian 'Nito' Coggs really is…

Apt 1005 - even muddier, but this is referring to the 10 of Swords, which is for betrayal and backstabbing, hinting at the true motives of "Ian" | Clayface. 10-0-5, so 10 and the l33t for "OS" = 10-o-S.

900 Wanda Way - Both a pun on the phrase “wander away” and the 9 of Wands in the Minor Arcana, which alludes to pushing forward to achieve victory. A good allusion for a clinic, me-thought.

400 Wanda Way - The 4 of Wands in the Minor Arcana stands for community, another good allusion for a clinic.

Karen McCarthy - named after the most stereotypically uptight narcissistic asshole the masses have agreed to call 'Karen', and both McCarthyism and another famous lady with the surname McCarthy. Because I wanted you to know the second you see her name that she is *horrible*. (Funny, though, there's 2 senators named McCarthy that are pieces of shit and one infamous quasi-celeb who's the face of the anti-vax scene. Is it just a cursed family name?)

Ch. 6: The Tips of Our Swords

[chapter title] - Refers to the 4 of Swords card in the Minor Arcana, as the "swords" are alluding to the four active members in the Batfam - Bruce, John, Tiffany, and Iman - who work together on the case[s]; you can infer this title to a presentation not unlike the Musketeers joining swords to affirm themselves as a team, as they all gather together. The reversed reading of the card is for restlessness/stress in Bruce's case, and the clear signal of the universe to tell him to relax, and the reading when presented right-side up is for the break it gives to "the player", with the homey atmosphere of the Batfam spending time together. Either reading is completely valid here.

○ BUT, as Alfred is a non-active member of the Batfam, we could also say that 5 of Swords is also at play, right-side-up for the fighting and resentment with Alfred, and John's hinted budding conflict with him; and 5 reversed for Bruce's attempts at making up with Tiffany. If one illustrated the gathering of our four heroes joining swords like the musketeers over a breakfast table, then Alfred would be sitting drinking tea, standing as a symbol of the Ace of Cups, signifying new emotions or stirrings of feelings.

○ If we stretch the metaphor eeeven further, the title can also be a loose reference to the Sword of Damocles; threats always hang above the heads of powerful people, and in this case the looming threat of Black Mask and the mysterious assassin, ever-present in Batman's world…

Dr. Brandi September - literally "Sword" and "Seventh Month", alluding to the 7 of Swords, hinting to deception and manipulation at play.

"I was tired of the soup du jour" - a shameless Devo reference; a tiring of the routine/everyday. "I'm tired of the soup du jour - I want to end this prophylactic tour - ain't nobody around me - understands my potato - I'm only a spud boy - lookin' for a real tomato" - DEVO, "Mr DNA/Smart Patrol".

Motel 11, Augury Road - "augury" is another word for crows; as a gathering of crows can be a method of fortune-telling, this a reference to a gathering of 11 crows, which when seen is supposed to be indicative of disguising or revealing secrets.

Ch. 7: Drawing the Strings

[chapter title] - meant to allude to John aligning the strings connecting the people and crimes together, like an old-fashioned way of mapping clues; can be interpreted as these crime-strings on the proverbial board being drawn closer together, marking the center of the "web" as the Court of Owls

Frieda Baast - Frieda, an allusion to the Norse goddess Freya, who rode on a chariot driven by cats, and Baast, the Egyptian goddess who had the form of a cat. It makes it really obvious who was staying at the Motel 11, huh?

room 14 [Selina Kyle's motel room] - a reference to the 14th tarot card, "Temperance", which when upright is meant for choosing the middle path between choices. This is meant to reference Selina herself, currently at a secret, personal crossroads and being in "the middle"; John can influence her hidden choice by either making her think about what her potential job's employers are really aligning themselves with, or taunting her into how she can't leave her old life behind. (Whether John is violent or not doesn't completely impact her choice, but it does impact how they interact later if Selina winds up in the hands of our villains.)

Oracle, Spoiler, Batgirl, Spectrum - Batman's had a lot of non-Robin sidekicks in comics, including Batgirl (originally Barbara Gordon), Oracle (Barbara Gordon, post-Batgirl-forced-retirement and computer hacker extraordinaire), and Spoiler (Stephanie Brown, who "spoiled" crimes). As a fan of Ao3/tumblr's @fractualized 's own Telltale Bat-verse fics (the "Release John Doe" series), I added in the reference to "Spectrum", which Tiffany became in lieu of "Robin". A wink from one fan-writer to another! ;)

"I'm steppin' out, my dear - to breathe an atmosphere […] - that simply reeks […] with class" - John's singing a classic Fred Astaire hit, "Top Hat, White Tie, and Tails".

Eric, Jerome, Jeremiah, Jack [John's "Normal name" ideas] - As this story allows "the player" to pick a name for John to use in place of his own, you can pick between some classic and modern references to Joker's alternate personas over the years. Eric White Border (edit: goddang it that's what i get for looking at White Knight while writing this up and never double-checking), Joker's regular persona in the New 52 Batman comic line; Jerome or Jeremiah of the Gotham TV series, both of which are different aspects of Joker's personality through media, with a more modern gritty version in Jerome (think Heath Ledger's Joker) and a more modern take on Joker's sociopathy in Jeremiah; and last but not least Jack Napier, the first official name of Joker circa Tim Burton's Batman (1989), and the one most popularly used (BtAS and other comics throughout the years since use this name). "The player"'s choice doesn't impact the story or the way John acts, but it does give a surprise feature later. ;)

Matt Chaney - Aka, "Clayface", Matt has both new and old elements in his name alone. Matt, for Matt Hagen, the most well-known/used of the Clayface personas, and Chaney, for classic film actor Lon Chaney, AKA the man of a thousand faces. This Clayface is an aspiring actor who is psychologically dependent on Moddy to keep him handsome after a terrible car accident left his face marred. He uses his excellent makeup skills and acting to infiltrate the False Face Society, and double-plays them and the Court of Owls.

Root / MuSec - stand-ins for Vine and TikTok, respectively. "MuSec" is both a play on the word "musac" (the word for 'elevator music' and generic produced music you hear in fake stores and the like) and the mish-mash of the words "music" and "second", referencing the short length of the videos. "Root" was used in a prior story (At the Brink of Midnight), and acts as another "natural network" type name akin to Vine; though I do recognize "Vine" might have come along as part of the phrase "I heard it through the grape-vine". I have a feeling some Aussie fans might find the fake-Vine name funny...or just awkward.

Ch. 8: It Had to Be You

[chapter title] - A reference to the classic crooner song, "It Had to Be You"; specifically, the one that flows through the first scene is a cover done by Frank Sinatra, meant to align with other Bat-media's use of Sinatra where Joker and Batman are concerned. The Arkham games got his famous "Under My Skin", and another crooner's "Only You". Batjokes fans/content creators have also used "Strangers in the Night" for their relationship. I wanted to present one that would feel at-home in the TellTale universe regardless of what route you end up with, and what's more perfect than a song about finally discovering the love of your life? The song fits them to a tee, in my humble opinion…

Estella Art Gallery - Selina's art gallery, mentioned previously to have been the site of a Talon attack. "Estella" translates to "star", for the tarot card "The Star". When presented upright, it means hope and rebirth; this card can be presented after a disaster, such as an event like "The Tower". Normally, it can be interpreted as a card to show a phase where you have trust and faith in yourself and the universe. Selina was turning over a new leaf and enjoying her new life until the Owls found out who she was.

Mrs. Bollard - "bald-headed person"…this poor woman got her wig snatched as John stole Bruce from her on the dance floor. xD

"I knew today's horoscope was bullshit" - a nod to earlier, where Roman mentioned his horoscope when visiting Bruce; "a friend will help you out of a tight bind." Not that it was mentioned like that... still! I wonder what today's was? "You will be fortunate in your business endeavors"? Ha ha ha! But really, the horoscope is another nod to the theme of foretelling the future, as it's a popular method to try and see how your day, month, season, or year will be. Not that I know what sign Roman is… *thinking face*

[Achievement Unlocked: Batman Who Laughs] - John showing up in the Batman cowl was not only funny, but a direct nod to the Batman Who Laughs. The TT games had Batman comic titles often used as Achievements, so I figured I'd put in some…

[Achievement Unlocked: Batwoman Rises] - Iman helping the team out in the spare Batman suit is naturally a nod to Batwoman, and something I wanted to do for a while. ;D

Brighella - a Venetian mask taken from a play now used to depict a cunning and mischievous servant. Originally the mask was used to depict a greedy villain character.

The Two Gilded Cups - A restaurant in-story that references "The Two of Cups" tarot card, a card representing unity, partnership, and two becoming one. When upright, it's a card that can reference lovers or a new relationship; when reversed, it can represent broken communication, imbalance, or tension. As such, the couple who were seen at the restaurant - Sonja Townsend and her husband - are established lovers who work together for the Court of Owls, but those who were really there are Jackie Lant and Matt Chaney, who are in an imbalanced relationship. "Gilded" implies that "The Cups" are covered unnecessarily with gold - this is both in reference to Jackie and Matt's disguise of the Townsends and the truth about their relationship. Matt's lies are covering for his narcissism and selfishness, and ultimately is the only thing holding him and Jackie's relationship together.

Moddy - A fictional body modification clay-mud-putty that's a product of Janus Industries, this makeup is the favorite of Matt Chaney and the reason we can call him "Clayface". Like the traditional Clayface, Matt is in dire need to have his fix of the makeup, despite what it does to him - as John notes, it leaves a weird burn-like sensation, and since Matt has deep scar tissue he covers every minute of every day, it's made the skin damage worse.

"You’re really committed to drowning in that river" - A riff on the old joke "denial ("de Nile") isn't just a river in Egypt".

"Your words are honey in my ears, but my brain always turns it into bitter wax" - In Futurama, Fry has a silly line of “Sweet words! Sweet words that turn into bitter wax in my ears!”. It always had the potential to be a great metaphor if the words were twisted around! :) Plus, I mean, come on, this is a totally On Brand™ thing for John to say!

Ch. 9: Strength in Numbers

[chapter title] - Referencing the Strength card, for bravery, compassion, and inner strength; the title also doubles as a play on “different kinds of strengths”. Strength is the will the expose your truths. Strength is finding compassion to help others. Strength is staying true to your convictions in the face of opposition. We see all different kinds of strength on display here.

○ It can also a reference to the different partnerships going on, with Jackie joining the team (unofficially), Bruce and Tiffany going off to tackle the other half of our case, and John and Iman’s team-up. :)

"[John] could barely hear it over the tinny electronic whistling tune emitting from his own phone, telling him the person on the other end was a mystery" - this is referencing an old tumblr joke! Yes, John has the “It is a mystery” tone on his phone for unknown calls…complete with the little (:o) ghost icon.

CUP5K1NG [license plate] - Referring to the King of Cups card, a card portraying emotional balance and compassion. As it's not written as "K1NGCUP5", it implies it's a reversed card, signifying there's manipulation and instability at work. Even though Matt doesn't own the car this license plate belongs to, it's definitely tied to him since it's his getaway ride, and thus hints at what's to be revealed in his and Jackie's hotel room.

Aylin Street - the name "Alyin" translates into “moon halo; one that belongs to the moon”, thereby being a reference to the Moon card, representing mysteries and illusions. An investigation is afoot!

“Looks like I’ve got the red light, kiddo.” - In stage acts, the red light is to indicate to the performer their time on stage is up. Generally, it’s reserved for comedians who either overrun their time or are losing the audience. John's joking that he's been given the red light to exit stage left (but not persued by bear).

"What’s the ‘G’ for?” - Iman's 'Gotham Construction' jumpsuit has a G different from John's - it's shaped more like a gear. This is another Mystery Science Theater reference, in particular the logo for Gizmonic Institute, the company/labs that "employed" original host Joel and the mad scientist Dr. Forrester (and his assistant, TV's Frank), who started the experiments of forcing a guy and his robot friends to watch reeeally bad movies. The result was 12 (soon to be 13!) seasons of some guys making hilarious and very memorable jokes at said bad movies' expense. Does this reference mean that Bruce is just as huge a dork as I am, or does it mean that MST3K is real in this universe?! You make the call! ;D

○ …if you read 'What's the 'G' for?' in Invader Zim's voice, that's also valid. Especially if you followed it with “I dON’t know!” in GIR's. (There is no cringing here! We openly embrace our childhood silliness!)

MasterOfClayFace / #IdW3arThat [Matt Chaney's social media login] - naturally Matt is so far up on his high horse that he considers himself a master of clay work…and of course his nickname is ClayFace! His password is a joke in and out of canon, being a riff on Lemon Demon song: “A mask of my own face – I’d wear that” ~ Lemon Demon, “Mask of My Own Face” [Nature Tapes].

3055 [Jackie Lant's InstaPic followers] - According to research, the average Instagram following is about 1000, so Jackie is above average popularity. Anything above 10k is usually(?) celeb status. The number 3055 is meant to be broken up and turned partially into l33t, to make 3-O-S-S, or 3 of Sword[s]. The 3 of Swords card in the tarot signifies heartbreak and grief, stemming from betrayal, loneliness, and rejection. Jackie experienced all three of these heart-piercing swords during her return to Gotham, with Matt basically forcing her into isolation, betraying her trust, and rejecting her input and values in favor of his own; but she didn't really know it until the truth was exposed.

8055 [Matt Chaney's InstaPic followers] - similarly, Matt's follower count is meant to be 8-O-S-S, or the 8 of Swords card. It signifies self-victimization and imprisonment. In particular, the card shows a person restrained and trapped, but their helplessness is a show…they could choose to get out, if they got over themselves. Matt is incredibly selfish, so it comes as no surprise that he will play the victim card.

#OnlyInGotham - Another tumblr reference! I love the @hashtagonlyingotham blog! ( ^3^)

The Herold Rite's Theatre - A play on the word "Hierophant": Herold, like “herald (ruler/champion)” and Rites, like “sacred rites”. In the tarot, the Hierophant card represents following tradition and values, which for the Owls is their very core. This is basically a big ol' hint that Iman and John are heading into Owl territory, but also foreshadows the religious undercut of The Court and Reverend Sebastian Overfield's role.

"a familiar red-pyramid-and-floating-eyeball" [graffiti] - A reference to my icon! ;D You think I can't self-promo?

trading cards [found in theatre storage] - In the Theatre, John finds "old promotional trading cards for an old sci-fi film with big-brained aliens". This is a shameless and loving reference to Tim Burton's 1996 film Mars Attacks!, of which my AO3/tumblr icon and username is lifted - the movie was based on a series of Topps trading cards from the 1960's, and had it's own set of cards with movie scenes and behind-the-scenes pictures (and summaries of events) printed for the movie! They also used them as promotional tools, and if you get very lucky purchasing a copy of the old single-issue comic books from the 1995 Mars Attacks run from Image Comics, you can get a promo card.

https://bit.gt.gd/S3272019F?=RO - Originally "gd" stood for a derivative of Google Drive, but I can’t look at it and not see “get good”. The "S3272019F?" is meant to stand for "Started: March 27, 2019 Finished: ?". I can't believe I started uploading the story in March of 2019! Man, 2020 really messed with my sense of time…

Ch. 10: Tantara Bounces Off of Moonlit Walls

[chapter title] - "Tantara" is defined as "the blare of a trumpet or horn", as seen in the Judgement card, which stands for self-reflection as well as reckoning, and can indicate rebirth. There's of course another reference to the Moon card, for intuitions and the unconscious being. Then what are the "[Moonlit] Walls"? Well, they're the part of the only Major Arcana tarot card to represent a building - they are the walls of the Tower, symbolizing destruction and disaster. When all the cards' meanings are put all together, this alludes to a time of discovery among absolute disaster.

○ Expanded, the whole title is a reference to both forms of Judgement occurring – self-reflection and change are happening with Bruce and John as their mysteries and anxieties are finally put to rest: John is undergoing his final "rebirth", seeing his reality clearly in Arkham’s padded cell; Bruce seems to finally come to terms with working with Tiffany, as his fear of not being able to protect her comes through with her showing she's able take care of herself and prove she's a true asset to the team; and the Court of Owls finally comes to light, with Matt Chaney, the Talon Adam, and the Talon Sonja Townsend finally showing their real motivations.

○ We can also interpret the title as a reckoning coming for the Owls, who have long been obscuring the truth of their deeds and whose true motives have been murky. They've built their own tower of disaster with bricks of delusion, and judgement's horn is blaring a warning through their hallways…

"X-Sharp Manufacturing" - a reference to the 10 of Swords (hence the "sharp"), the tarot card for betrayal, backstabbing, and defeat. For Bruce, there is disaster here beyond his control that ends in a [temporary] defeat. For Roman Sionis, owner of the small factory as part of Janus Inc., he's unwittingly walked into his own betrayal.

"Merlin's Flower Arrangements" - Merlin, a famous wizard, is a reference to The Magician card, who defines “as above, so below”… And as John is taken to a secondary location, so is Bruce. :)

"La Luna Painting" - La Luna, aka The Moon; remember, shadows can play tricks on your eye, so something’s afoot here… Aka "HEY GUYS THIS TOTALLY ISN’T SUSPICIOUS OR ANYTHING NO SIR"

Yelsnia Theater - Yelsnia is…actually a name. But searching for it shows my true hint, as it's "Ainsley" backwards. "Ainsley" derives from Scottish words meaning “alone, solitary” or “hermitage”. This is a reference to the Hermit card – in this case, it's blatantly upside down, referring to loneliness, isolation, and a general disconnection with mankind. AKA, the path Matt is on.

"the looming pillar tower" [Arkham] - A blatant representation of The Tower. It stands for impending disaster and "an upheaval of a foundation of reality". Of course, this can be taken in two ways. 1) That John has overcome/avoided the disaster of another mental breakdown. 2) That John’s foundation of his delusions - that he’ll wake up in or get sent back to Arkham for his sickness - was wrong in a realistic sense, as he’s made serious progress in managing his emotional issues, and right in an unrealistic one, where the only way he could be sent back was through an outside force, i.e. the Owls.

10210475 [inmate number] - When separated for the numeric cipher, we get 10-21-4-7-5, or J-U-D-G-E

13051420 [inmate number] - When separated for the numeric cipher, we get 13-5-14-20, or M-E-N-T

○ When put together, the inmate numbers read "Judgement", the tarot card is shown here for John's choices and character arc on display throughout this chapter. When the card is reversed, it implies a lack of self-awareness, which we can also attribute to "the player's" choices for John if they make Bad Decisions. If you simply take the word "judgement" at face-value (without involving the tarot) it also works wonderfully, applying to John's entire situation as being a trial/judgement set by a higher force.

"The prince returned to the tower" dialogue [the prophetic cell mate] - Whether the person speaking is physical or not, John notes he can hear the scratching of pencil on paper within the cell, implying a person is writing their words down like a story… “The prince,” (John Doe, alias Joker, traditionally the ‘Clown Prince’ of Gotham) “having returned to the tower” (Arkham Asylum, the foundations of John's issues) “to reclaim his crown,” (assurance in himself and his reality; the completion of John's "self" with his final choices and becoming Vigilante!Joker for good) “trails after the fiend” (confronts the Talon Adam, alias Owl-man) “who's flying on wings of retribution” (core beliefs, perceived sense of justice). “The fiend’s wings are big, but the bones are brittle” (the Owl-man is imposing and persistent, but his physical "wings" are his weakness).

○ If you couple the Court of Owl's belief that G*d has written down the destinies of everyone in the world [as they are each born] with the knowledge that someone was writing down a short version of John's events at Arkham…hmmm.....

Room 11 [Iman's cell room] - The 11th card in the Major Arcana is "Justice". This can reference either 1) The just-desserts coming for Talon Adam/"The Owlman", or 2) The outcome of the player’s choice to take Iman with them or not.

11 minutes + 16 seconds [remaining time on bomb timer] - 11:16. 11/16, aka my birthday! :) I only wish I had finished Chapter 10 in time for the chapter's publishing year (2020), lol~

"Our Faith brings Perseverance, and Our Perseverance guides Justice, for Mercy to God." - The Court of Owls' beliefs circle around 3 principles bringing people closer to G*d: Faith, Perseverance, and Justice. Their belief hardens their persistence in their actions (as they are written and not guided by "Evil"), and their goals are ultimately to deliver justice where the human system failed and "Evil" prevailed in "escaping", hence the guiding of one principle to another. "Mercy to God" is what is granted by righting the injustices of the world; as G*d wrote your future down exactly, Evil can corrupt it, and once corrupted this does G*d a harmful injustice. The Court considers themselves close to G*d by "mercifully" stopping further corruption via eliminating "Evil" in all it's worldly forms…

Speaking of the 3 principles, our main Owls are meant to be "embodiments" of these in the story.

○ Talon Sonja Townsend represents Faith, driving home her belief in G*d's absolute destiny. She is corrupted by her own selfish goal of eliminating her son-in-law, but is also so by-the-book she does not think to look at the obvious double-standards of the Court, and doesn't think her underlying actions are guided by "Evil".

○ Talon Adam represents Perseverance, having fought Joker to unconsciousness, and was willing to blow up Arkham with himself still inside just to eliminate it; he is the most brainwashed, but the least corrupt in motivations, only striving to get what he feels is "justice". On the flip side of Adam is Talon Evan, who despite serious injury still appeared in Court and jumped at the chance to kill Joker and Batman, despite the Court's general appreciation of Batman; he is corrupt in personal selfishness, as he possesses no "real" faith in the Court's belief system and doesn't like others getting credit by stealing his targets.

§ ...it's also worth mentioning that the names for Adam and Evan are meant to be derivative of "Adam and Eve". In this way, it can also be seen as a parallel to The Lovers card, which one can attribute to Bruce and John. While Bruce + John are oddly harmonious and undeniably have a strong bond regardless of story paths, Adam + Evan are discontent rivals, with Adam "stealing" Evan's target and good graces with the Court, and Evan very pointedly beating up and kidnapping Batman (who Adam admires) to set up Batman's eventual Judgement.

○ Reverend Sebastian Overfield is the main representation of Justice, though he embodies all 3 principles. The Court’s belief is that their pursuit of justice – stopping Evil/chaos via deaths of criminals – overrides their own traditional sins. Because they are being helpful to G*d, granting Them mercy by righting the injustices of Evil and putting G*d’s Word back on the right path, they are in G*d’s favor. Therefore, as the leader of the Court and the one who organized everything by handing down "God's word", he is the carrier of Justice; without him, the Court would be nowhere and G*d would be shedding more tears over their ruined work…at least, in his mind. Naturally, he is the exact opposite of what justice should be. He is biased and unwavering in strict faith, as much a carrier of chaos as he doesn't want to be…

○ Of course, this is all also up to interpretation. One can interpret Adam as "justice", Evan as "perseverance", and Sebastian as the stand-in for "God", as he is the Court's ruler and is the sole person to hand down "the word of God".

"[…]if two people you normally count on for one reason or another" - Alfred made a subtle dig at John being Bruce's boy-toy. Ouch, Al'…

"[…]given it's your pet project, and all" - Even though Selina is talking about Arkham, she's making a dig at former-Arkham-resident John being Bruce's "pet", who in her eyes was Bruce's main reason for getting Arkham revitalized. :\ Man, everybody's picking on their relationship…

petrichor - The smell proceeding rain. Because it's not a climactic fight scene in Gotham city without rain.

Ch. 11: The Tolls of Justice

[chapter title] - Naturally referring to the Justice card of the tarot, this title is the same as the story title. Funnily enough, this is the 11th chapter, and the 11th card in the tarot deck. (I guarantee you I did not plan this bit… Funny how these things play out, ain't it?) The Justice card naturally stands for cause and effect, clarity, or truth; ultimately, it's a representation of karmic retribution, and what the Owls are in dire need of facing. The title overall is referring to both the [para]phrase "do not ask for whom the bell tolls, for it tolls for thee" (in the original context: a grievance over death for all out of love for community/mankind, not just one person) and the "toll" - as in cost or damage - of enacting justice. What Bruce has put himself through to become and keep being Batman, the enactor of vengeance for all those wronged in the city of Gotham, and what ultimately the Court of Owls has sacrificed - either wittingly or unwittingly - in the name of justice. It also extends to John, who for the sake of "justice" is routinely stuck in Arkham, in one way or another, and has never had a conceivably just or fair life at all - thus paying the unwilling toll opposing Bruce and the Owls. We can also extend it to Tiffany, who is making good on her work with Bruce to "pay her toll" for her own crime, with her toll being seen in a positive light as Robin, compared to what life sentence she might have been paying otherwise.

[the sword in the pulpit] - a symbolic reference to The Justice card, as the Justice card in the major arcana often depicts a sword, either alone or in someone's hand. This can also be interpreted as a reference to the Ace of Swords in the minor arcana, which is normally pointing upwards, referring to victory, truth, or ideas; when flipped, as it would be when looking at the initial depiction of the sword as a "cross", it stands for lies and confusion. The sword in the story itself is a symbol of justice, and uses snakes as the stand-in for the forces of Evil, which are destroyed by the owl making up the handle and supposedly wielding the blade.

"the skull peeking out of the knight’s helmet" [card in the box on Reverend's desk] - A very clear reference to the Death card, famous in the tarot deck. It signifies change, inevitable cycles, and new beginnings/directions. Depending on the reading, it can be interpreted as an actual death, but more often than not it’s merely showing of a life change. As this is the Reverend’s deck, it seems the last card he drew was Death… The viewer can interpret this as a reading from the Reverend into the Arkham plot, where Death is representing John’s own changes, the end of Talon Adam’s latest “cycle”, or the actual deaths that had occurred (no matter how many there are in the end). The viewer can also read this as the Reverend trying to find his own fate, the fate of Roman Sionis for his trial, or Batman’s fate. All of them are quite valid, but I feel the most accurate interpretation is that the Rev' was trying to read the future of the Court of Owls.

○ …as mentioned above, the Death card is the most overt reference to the Tarot. This way, if someone didn't piece together the weird chapter titles, the specified numbers and number-letter strings, and/or the odd names of people and places, they'd be able to double-back and see them as clues. They are put there purely as a storytelling clue for the audience. As you can tell, the tarot references increased with each chapter…almost like someone is trying to get your attention…

[the framed painting] - a reference to The High Priestess, aka card II of the tarot. This card is indicative of intuition and looking within, and can signal to mysteries at hand or a higher power at work. The pillars on the card are (hilariously enough) marked with a B and J, and are in black and white, respectively. They stand for Boaz (Strength) and Jachin (Establishment), and are meant to represent the duality of nature, good/evil, masculine/femine, etc. Naturally, both pillars are equal. In this depiction, it is both relating to “the player’s” own duality, with the ability to be flexible as Bruce and John and have both good and bad decisions play through the story, and as a strong hint to a higher power being present.

8-9-6-3 [candle puzzle] - It takes a bit to work out by sorting through the alphabetic values to each number, but it doesn’t make a complete word. On ye olde phone keypad, 1 is always null in value, so it’s always unlit in the candle sequence, and since there are 4 other numbers present we know it doesn’t count as part of the string. (If there were only 3, you could guess a year from your notes.) My idea for the “game” specs of this part would be that the key-code would be somewhat randomized, either using a specific year (if Tiffany and/or Iman are not present, this is *always* the case, as you have to utilize your background notes and the candles by yourself), a few translated letter combinations just for fun, or an occasional number-card type combo, as presented here. (In some lucky scenarios, “the player” doesn’t have to solve the candle puzzle, since Tiffany can figure out the year by herself and just call you over when she opens the door. You still have the option of looking around, though!) In this case, the values are another tarot-themed hint, using the card number first: 8-w-n-d, for the 8 of Wands, which alludes to quick actions. AKA “Get ready for quick-time events!!!”

"looking more like the king on the throne than a judge" - Meant to allude to The Emperor card, the ultimate royal symbol in the major arcana and always depicted with a king. Traditionally this symbolizes power, authority, control, etc., but when reversed it alludes to overbearingness, arrogance, and chaos. For the Owls, they would likely see themselves as the upright depictions, even when presented upside down before the person doing their reading… And here is no better example, with the Reverend Overfield taking place as the ultimate authority over the Court.

"like [Sonja] had a say in commanding the room" - Alluding to The Empress, in conjunction with Rev’s position, this card alludes to femininity, motherhood, nurturing, creativity, and/or abundance. When reversed, it stands for neglect, creative blocks, overbearing, and/or uncaring. Sonja is a good example of an overbearing mother, trying to make decisions for her child because she thinks she knows best - thus fits the reversed reading well.

[Courtroom layout] - How curious is it that I haven't referenced The Devil when we have so many opportunities? That's because I strove to show this card rather than reference it overtly. The Devil card depicts El Diablo in the upper middle, lording over the card, with two souls chained to him at the bottom. The classic depiction shows a female demon-like human on one side and a male demon-like human on the other. As such, Rev. Sebastian sits on the high bench as the judge, overlooking the courtroom, and Sonja and Evan sit beneath him, one embedded on each side of the lower bench, sitting before him rather than beside him. Naturally, The Devil card represents temptation, manipulation, and materialism (though not necessarily of physical things). There is nothing more suited to The Devil card than the Reverend Sebastian Overfield and the Talons.

Circe | Cindy Peterson - Circe was the original Black Mask's downfall, or at least serious decent into who would be Black Mask. In her origin, she was a model who seduced Roman and ended up being blamed for his poor business choices, as he completely revolved Janus Inc.'s new direction around her image, somewhat at her insistence. Roman seemed to love her, but grew vengeful when she dumped him. She was named Circe, after the witch who lured men to their doom. In this story, she plays a much less active role but ultimately still serves as Roman's downfall, though in a very different way. : she does seem to care about Roman, going so far as to hide him on her yacht, not rat him out for his overt gang activities, and even leave Gotham with him for good to run from Batman despite not being in a relationship with him for long. But Bruce is able to spin this to his advantage, openly lying that she was working for him undercover and twisting Roman's affection for her into paranoid doubt, which he eventually lashed out with and ended up being caught because of. Circe never got a ~proper~ name in the original canon, so I dubbed her Cindy. The name "Cindy" can be boiled down to “person from Kynthos” and since Circe is Greek… Well, it fits well enough!

"[…]waltzing into the danger-zone without his wingman" - It’s Top Gun's “You can be my wingman anytime”, but with ALL the homoerotic implications!

"the Degnah Club" - The Degnah Club can be inferred to be one of Roman Sionis’ clubs, or just one his False-Face Society visited on occasion, but the event that happened there is implied to have taken place before the start of the story. “Degnah” when written backwards is “hanged”, referencing the Hanged Man card. When upright, this card means sacrifice and selfless acts. When reversed, as very much implied here, it’s an unnecessary sacrifice. This is both a play on what Roman’s implying – which is likely a very violent event – being an “unnecessary sacrifice” as part of Matt Chaney’s greater scheme for the Court of Owls, and as an allusion to Matt’s fate, where his morals/good choices/old law-abiding life were thrown away for an inevitably failed pursuit.

"[Tiffany | Robin's] personal count of 13" - The 13th card in the tarot is Death, bringer of change and ender of cycles. It’s also a traditionally unlucky number. This number is the “body-count” of Tiffany’s run through the Court so far. Does it reference the end of the Court's latest cycle, or something else…?

Accompanying the Tarot, as mentioned earlier I also tied in other fortune-telling methods, with the counting of crows and reference to the zodiacal horoscope. I also threw in allusions to luck, with The Lucky Hotel and The Lot (in both name and the fact that it's a casino). This is all tied entirely around the concept of fate and being able to change it with the choices you have made or currently make as "the player". Luck itself has nothing to do with your choices and the fates you guide Bruce and John to, and it's not something "the player" can control - it's an illusion, with things seemingly lucky for our heroes having already been written in on purpose to lead to the next event. It's essentially a long, drawn-out joke.

Talons/Reverend's Owl Masks - I wanted the Talons to be set apart from the rest of the Court and have special owl faces. The Court's owl masks are as follows:

○ Talon Adam - Great Horned Owl; chosen for the owl's large size and hunting ability, as well as the protruding "horn" feathers mimicking Batman's cowl. This is the most common owl used in media. The "horns" are meant to clue the reader into the culprit early on. Adam's a Batman-fan, so he mimicked Bats' style.

○ Talon Sonja - Snowy Owl; chosen for the owl's fairly elegant feather pattern and Sonja's ~colder~ personality. Sonja had a masquerade one to show her "humane" side to prospective Owls, but always wears a full-faced mask for the rest of the Court.

○ Talon Evan - Barn Owl; chosen for it's ghost-like face and screeching call, and it's hunting skills. They sometimes are seen as bad omens. While Adam was a mysterious stalker, Evan is overtly dangerous upon appearance, in no due part to his temper.

○ Reverend Sebastian Overfield - Eastern Screech Owl; this owl is smaller than the other, but has similar "horn" feathers to the Great Horned, and a gray face. The "horns" are meant to be another a mirror to Batman, but can be considered another allusion to The Devil. It isn't the largest or flashiest owl of the bunch, but Sebastian has the most power of all the Court members.

[The "Justice" bell-toll] - traditionally, a church bell tolls to signify someone passing into death. In the Court/Church of Mercy's case, they use a bell rung at midnight to signify a complete "trial" and a carry-out of their own brand of "justice"…which also culminates in death. The "trial" shown in this chapter is a rarity, as the offenders are actually present to get a talking-to before their sentencing - generally, the Church will hold a mock-trial to decide the fates of the perpetrators…after some previous counseling with Talons and select older members. (Think of the Trial like a ceremonial conference for the majority of the time.)

Chapter 12: Ten Cheers to the World!

[title] - The act of cheering, aka toasting, is to raise a cup and drink towards someone or something in celebration or tribute. Here, it's referring to the tarot's Ten (X) of Cups, which is pretty much the best card you could pull in a reading - when upright, as it is here, it means celebration, fulfillment, and happiness! The World card is the final card in the Major Arcana, encapsulating completion, accomplishment, and harmony, all from inner and outer sources. It might seem redundant at first, but the Cups suite in the Minor Arcana is all in regards to emotions, relationships, and love; in comparison, the Major Arcana represents a journey from innocence and ignorance to wisdom and completion. So you have an emotional celebration with fulfilling relationships, and the story's path marked as complete in both a literal and figurative sense.

"An accident at Ace Chemicals" [Iman & John's convo] - Referencing the majority of Joker origins, wherein pre-Joker fell into the vat of chemicals at Ace Chemicals and survived, leading to a psychotic breakdown due to his changed appearance and/or the circumstances around to what led him to Ace Chemicals in the first place.

"the string of deaths in the Velestra mafia" [Iman & John's convo] - a ref to the former mafia/main antagonists in Batman: Mask of the Phantom that kept getting killed off one by one by the Phantom. Whether The Phantom exists in this world…we'll have to wait and see, I guess!

"an unrecoverable ‘data loss’ at the Agency" [Iman & John's convo] - not a reference to canon, but my own theory on a potential background for John being a former Agent…(see further below)

"Et tu, Peeps?" - a riff on "Et tu, Brute?", Julius Ceasar's last words as he was betrayed and stabbed to death.

"Maybe I was someone in the wrong place at the wrong time" / "someone at the right place at the wrong time" [John monologue] - Another reference to the most popular background choice, the Ace Chemical origin story, and it’s variations. Though probably lacking Batsy’s involvement, considering the timeframe…

"Maybe I was some experiment gone wrong" [John monologue] - A reference to a different author's Season 3 replacement fanfic, where John ended up being a genetically modified human/test tube baby. Unfortunately the work got deleted from Ao3??? And my bookmark is gone, so I can't name the fic… But I still remember you, Unknown Author!!! It was a fun story and I've never forgotten that twist!!!! \( >o< )/

"Maybe I was even an Agent, like you" [John monologue] - My own little theory as to why the Agency was so keen on getting him for the Suicide Squad – and why he was considered a dangerous part of the gang despite not doing too much of interest in Season 1 (even if you consider the theory that he was helping Lady Arkham get her chemicals/drugs) – was that he was part of the Agency somehow. Either an agent who screwed up on the job, a rogue agent that escaped death via Agency trap…or maybe a guy who knew too much! But it's a fun, fresh idea to bring to Joker's multi-choice past, right? (( ;w;)) <(please say yes)

hippocampus - The region(s) of the brain that primarily deals with memory.

[the photo] - I wanted to leave it up to the reader/"player" to decide what kind of pre-Arkham past the TellTale!Joker has… So whether you think the picture Iman has is a "real" photo of him or not is entirely up to you.

"[…]'you're the moon to my sun'" [John, 'paraphrasing' Bruce] - In Tarot terms, this is a reference to the Sun card, representing joy, success, and masculinity, as well as another reference to the Moon card. One can also interpret the Sun card as "success in overcoming your obstacles or fears". As the Moon card can represent inner fears and femininity, it's a fitting opposite for interpreting this romantic line. While Bruce doesn't exactly embody the "positivity" and "joy" that this card represents, he brings that feeling into John's life, and Bruce is more traditionally masculine in contrast to John. This is also an overt use of the phrase "[they're] the moon to their sun" - a romantic notion that one person, though the opposite to the other, is completely complementary, like a One True Love. TeamFourStar's playthrough of TellTale Batman: The Enemy Within had not one, but TWO mentions of the "moon to [their] sun" line, the second of which was referring to John and Bruce. This one's for you, fellas!!! ( ^3^)

○ Funnily enough, The Moon is a very broadly interpreted card. Sometimes it's not a good card to have because deception, manipulation, illusion, and mystery/confusion are all potentially at work in your life. Sometimes it's an excellent card, because it tells you examine your feelings to resolve a problem, or tells you that you aren't seeing the whole picture. The reversed of the card is often attributed to avoidance of one's problems and further confusion, but also clarity, truth, and the full view of what's going on. If John is the embodiment of The Moon in the upright position, then I say Bruce is that of the Reversed Moon…

"[…] two lovers against the world" - Another classic romantic phrase that can be turned into a Tarot reference. The original phrase is meaning two romantic partners are pitted against "the world"/external forces that threaten to tear them apart, but they are committed to each other regardless. You can't really pit cards against each other in a reading, but you can read Past-Present-Future. In which case, in story terms, The Fool is always the Past, The Lovers is the Present here, and The World is the Future. As mentioned earlier, The World represents harmony and completion - if reversed, it would mean incompletion and chaos. The Lovers card is representing a strong union being forged between two people, very often romantic in terms of the Tarot. The meaning is usually attributed to decisions in a relationship being made (whether to start a new one, or to deepen the one you have), but it can also represent people outright, as well as an indication that a new partnership/relationship is on the way. When reversed, Lovers represents disharmony, imbalance, or a loss of relationship. In our story, of course, our two lovers are representing the upright reading of the card in the Present, showing as a strong couple. As it's "against", it implies that The World is something that will be a challenge, so it's likely Reversed. Which is a pretty good representation of Gotham in general, isn't it? lol~

○ The Lovers can also be seen symbolically in chapters 8 and 9, when Bruce and John are laying opposite each other and linking pinkies/holding hands at the hotel. :)

○ John uses the romantic line regardless of whether he's a vigilante or not! If you didn't get the Best Ending, aka our Sleepover Ending, Bruce would wind up back in the parlor with John as usual, and once the rest of the fam are gone (if they were there at all), he uses it to describe themselves. In the villain route, Bruce and John converse in the Batmobile on the way back to Arkham, and John uses the line there, too. ;3c

○ Naturally, you don't really get this complete scene if "your" Bruce is with Selina in the vigilante route.

Ending Type - …it's not a tarot reference or anything specific. I just wanted to let you know that you can ONLY get the Sleepover Ending if you have Tiffany and John in Bruce's party on good terms with each other AND with Bruce.

○ You can drive Tiffy away from Bruce by saying she shouldn't be with them at the Court Battle, but also by generally not believing in her/being mean and giving a neutral reaction to her staying during Battle; she won't go back to the cave with Bruce, so you don't get a chance to speak to her directly afterwards as either character. (John can still have his conversation with her via text, and they can still end on the same terms.)

○ If you don't have vigilante!John, there's no one else to help lift the things, so Tiffy's idea is never brought up.

○ John is always simping desperate for Bruce's attention, so even if you don't treat him as well in a platonic relationship, he'll still be there for this Ending type. ;_;

○ If you have a Romanced!Selina in your party, Selina will join you in both Court Battle and the Ending as seen in this story. It'll either cause her to take Iman's place (if she is not present) or to have extra spot suddenly appear above the rest of the group. Like Tiffy, she overheats and needs more space too cool off.

§ You can also talk to her as John, and sort of makeup/say your part of the team now. (But John will still be somewhat jealous of the attention she gets.)

§ John doesn't get the emotional hug with Bruce if Selina is around - especially since she doesn't temporarily leave with Tiffany and Iman - but the conversation is almost the same.

§ Naturally you can talk to her as Bruce, too. I don't think on her options too much, but they'll likely talk about change and what it means to have this "job" and internalizing too much of their emotions/themselves.

§ If you and Selina are only friends, Selina can join you in the Court Battle, but will text you instead of sticking around.

1:06 A.M & [Clock time on Belltower in Chapter 11] - Bruce's sense of time is off, which is why he's surprised it's after 1AM and not closer to 2AM. (Can't blame him, he was unconscious for a while and a whole bunch of stuff happened.) I figured if Bruce broke out of his kidnapping ropes at 10PM sharp, and drove all the way to the GCPD, that's about 20-30 minutes in his supercharged car, if not a little less, plus with 5 minutes to escape proper. If we think GCPD is sort of a halfway point to Old Gotham/The Coventry district, it's another 15 minutes to there. So he'd arrive at the Church of Mercy before 11PM, and wait John for around another 10-15 minutes, including with all the investigating inside. The "trial" scene probably took another 10 minutes until Batman crashed it, and fight scenes seem long because of all the action going on, but by the time Bruce and co' leave, it's not 12AM yet. The bell-tower in the Church of Mercy is actually off by about 20 minutes… And what do you know, card XX (20) of the tarot's Major Arcana is Judgement, alluding to karma at work! It can also be attributed to a life change. ;D

"11:43:20PM" - this wasn't deliberately meant to allude to anything. It took the batfam about 2 minutes from the last toll to leave the church. Bells' tolling speed is varying between clocks and towers, but you can estimate about 30-45 seconds for a full twelve. If it rang at 11:40 exactly, then…ugh, this is sounding like math homework.

Epilogue:

[Still a WIP, so will be updated after it's uploaded! Shouldn't have much, though! Saay, isn't there a Major Arcana card missing? (9v9) I wonder what that iiiiis~]

So that was [just about] all of them! I had a lot of fun weaving them throughout the story this time, especially with the story's themes! AtBoM didn't have as nearly as many, so they weren't really worth mentioning before.

I hope this was helpful to those of you who were interested in diving beneath the surface of BtTTS: TToJ~!

#ttoj #ttoj reference guide #telltale batman #batman the telltale series #tarot cards #I made it a goal to use all the Major Arcana!#fortune-telling #it took me a month to compile this whole guide #I had notes scattered between my Word doc and google doc #hopefully this wasn't too hard to read #even if no one got any of these i'm satisfied!#they were really fun to write!!#edit: corrected Eric's last name (my bad)

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kryptsune · 4 years

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Happy Birthday UT... -_-;

🌼Ok I am going to say a few things that may be off putting to some people... please be aware this is my opinion and just how I feel in general. This is just something I want to get off my chest... this is a very serious topic so please read with that in mind.

I am sure some people remember the Dear UT Fandom post that I made a while back. This is an extension to that. After stepping away from the fandom I have seen more trends that have left a VERY sour taste in my mouth. This fandom used to be welcoming and passionate but lately I have seen some behaviors that I can only classify as immature, narcissistic, and entitled. Now I am not saying everyone in the fandom is like this, no, far from but as someone that has been in the UT pit for a very long time... It is disheartening to say that the more of this I see the more I begin to question if people actually UNDERSTAND what the game was trying to say to begin with. I am going to go on record here to say that I am seriously tired. On a level that I did not think was possible. I still love what I have created and I still enjoy the content that my friends put forth that will never change. At the same time with my split from the fandom I have realized that if you are not in then you are out. In other words those connections you once had seem to break down because you are no longer in the fandom 24/7? Is that... ok? Sure people have different interests but you don’t just drop people because they aren’t in the thick of it like they used to be. What... how? I don’t even understand that. In addition I have been seeing some highly toxic people spouting some shipping war garbage. Now I know what you are thinking... but Kit you have been dealing with that for years! Yes, sadly but this is where I draw the line. Look I know certain ships are not everyones cup of tea. You all know I am personally uncomfortable with Fontcest and Sanscest content. THAT IS MY OPINION. I am and will always be a RISK girl. That said... I have increasingly seen people become extraordinarily hostile when it comes to this.

I am not going to name who I saw this from because honestly I don’t want to give them the platform but... come on guys. It’s easy to filter tags. Does it always work? No.. but it’s a start. It’s what I do. You really have to check yourself when you go on your blog to call out a specific group of people calling them things like “sick fucks”. Just because you don’t like something doesn’t mean you can tear down the people that do. Their argument for this was something along the lines of... again the same beaten to death annoying excuse I get every single damn time, pedophilia. They are even claiming that those that make older adult versions are also in this category. The truth of the matter is they are spouting out mindless generalizations in favor of their own outcome... Yes, I am a Frans shipper. It makes me happy but let me tell you a little story. When I first played the game I had no shipping at all. It was a cute little game that I thought had a very profound message to tell. Then I got into the RP side of things. I have always kind of been a person that is into the dark stuff so I auditioned for Fell Frisk, hence my old username. Do you know why I started shipping Frisk with Red? Because of the interactions between my version of Frisk, which would eventually grow into Underworld Frisk, and my friends version of Red. Let’s be honest here... Red is NOT Sans. At least their version wasn’t. It was their own, an OC in a Sans the skeleton skin. That is where my love came from because I will tell you right now... the Red that existed and one I still see from time to time... I LOATHED. I hated his character so much.

My point in telling this story is that people automatically assume that I looked at the game and went HECK YEAH they should be a couple. Absolutely not. In fact it was quite the opposite. I fell in love with a characterization under that same same. So before people go pointing fingers maybe they should stop and actually think. Not everything is cut and dry. I am sorry if I am pontificating a little bit but I can’t help myself. I am sick of seeing “you need to see help” posts by people that refuse to actually take the time to get to know people.

That is one of the main problems of social media. How well do you actually know someone? The answer... you probably don’t. Ok I am going to pull back from my soap box. Look... I love this fandom it has been very good to me but I am glad that I am out of it now. I made the @fallenfellfrisk blog for you all who have supported me and enjoy that kind of content because as a creator I love interacting with people. I know people want to see more of those designs and I eventually will deliver them but for now... I hope you enjoy and support this massive Hell Lore world build I have been working on. It’s going to be crazy and it’s honestly a lot of fun to play in. So to end this very long “vent” enjoy what you enjoy and don’t be a jerk about it. Don’t put others down and accuse them of things that are not even remotely true. Instead of being so one way or the other people need to really think about a few things. We are all human beings. We are all individuals. Not everyone is going to agree with what you have to say. THAT IS OK. There are ways to shield yourself from the content you do not like. Do not attack your followers. Do not call them names. Do not treat people like garbage or spread rumors about them effectively separating them from the ones they care about.

Try to remember that your actions have consequences and that your behaviors even more so. Be the best person you can be and remember the humanity of others. Be a positive influence in life and not a toxic egotistical and narcissistic asshole demanding something of someone else. Be... well... kind.

Today is the day... Happy birthday... Undertale.

#kit talks #vent #undertale #thoughts

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zuzu-firequeen · 4 years

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Fire Queen

Fire Queen Masterlist

Tagged: @redryderdesigns @luleck @melacholy

~Zuko X OC~

~DEAD~

-Zuko-

I stand on deck, watching as we rush through the sea, passing the mountains on the other side. The moon shines brightly through the clouds. I’ve become a custom to not rest until the late hours of the night. Truble and I made a habit of keeping each other awake until one of us couldn’t keep our eyes open.

I feel the corner of my lips curve in a smile, only for my heart to ache. I shake my head, putting it in my hands. “What have I done?” I mumble to myself remembering her body falling to the ground.

How could I be so dumb? So blinded?

“Aren't you cold?” I turn around spotting Mai. That’s right… Now Mai.

I turn around to look up to the moon, avoiding her gaze. “I've got a lot on my mind. It's been so long. Over three years since I was home. I wonder what's changed. I wonder how I've changed.” She sighs, “I just asked if you were cold. I didn't ask for your whole life story.” I bite my cheek. It was simple banter that kept a fling alive when we were younger, just children. Truble understand emotions. She understood I had to be forced to ring my feelings out. Mai will just push them away until I rot. She smiles and wraps her arms around me. “Stop worrying.” I tense in her grasp. Her arms felt like frayed rope against my skin. It doesn’t feel right.

She reaches towards me, leaning into my face attempting to kiss me. I back away and turn my body to the railing of the ship. “I’m sorry, Mai.” She crosses her arms. “It’s that rat. Isn’t it? Azula told me you’re fond of her.” I narrow my eyes, glaring into the sea. “She’s not a rat.” Mai shrugs, “She died like one.” The words leaving her lips catch me off guard. Had I considered that fate? Yes. Had I accepted it into a reality? Absolutely not.

“Leave me alone, Mai.” Her fading footsteps allow me to be free. Free to let my lips quiver and tears to fall from my eyes.

-Truble-

Two hands push the stray hair away from my face. I’m so weak. Can I even open my eyes? “I’m so sorry, Truble.” Zuko’s voice drifts on, “I was going to take your hand. I saw how hurt you were. Your eyes were broken, and I was the one who caused that.” He cries for me.

I slowly open my eyes looking at the bright sun. I groan, turning my head. “Where are we?”

“She’s awake!” I head Aang gasp as the entire group runs up to my weak figure. We’re in a forest… in a campsite…

I look around and down at my neck. My necklace in place. “What’s going on?” Zuko hulls me to his chest tightly. “I love you. I love you so much.” Everyone around me smiles warm-heartedly.

This is… nice.

Too nice.

Zuko pulls away and kisses my head. “Wake up. You have work to do.” He lets me go lightly and they all back away. “Yes, I suppose you do have some catching up to do,” Azula smirks as she comes into view. She draws near and I struggle to sit up. I stand to my feet but fall, she catches me at my throat, forcing me up.

Her thin smirk burns into my eyes. “No more resting, rat.” She snaps my necklace off and I fall down into the depths. Just falling, falling, falling past echoing screams.

I scream, throwing my body up. A sweat layered my body as I looked around. No forest, no camp, no Team Avatar, no Zuko. I reach for my necklace but find the space empty.

Azula…

I reach behind my head and run my fingers over the back of my neck. I gasp as I remember the intense pain.

I stand up looking around the small room, I move to peer out into the crack of the doorway, but a body tackles me, hugging close. “You’re okay. We’ve been so worried!” Katara says, swaying me lightly in her motherly grip.

She holds me at arm's length and sighs. “How are you feeling?” I look at her tilting my head. “Like I should be dead.” Her blue eyes show sadness. “You were on the verge. You and Aang.” “Aang?” She nods before leading me out the door into the hall. “He woke up a few days ago. We’ve just been waiting for you.”

We walk into the control deck and I am immediately tackled in another set of arms. “I thought I lost you,” Zori mumbles into my stomach. Her eyes bore a sight of relief I’ve never seen. Something is hidden within them.

“Glad to see you causing trouble, Truble,” I smirk at Sokka. “It’s what I do best.” I reach up to my neck out of habit and bring my hand down when I find nothing.

“Azula took your necklace.” Aang says softly. I meet his soft eyes and smile at his new look. “If you grew hair I must've passed out for a while.” Aang nods. “Both of us were out for a few weeks, but now that we’re awake I think it’s time we all talked as a team.” I nod feeling weak. “I’m sure you have questions for me.”

“Yeah, starting with you dating the one-eyed prince with anger issues!” Sokka screams, causing an elbow from his sister. “Let’s start somewhere else. How about why Azula was after you in the first place. Is that why you came running to the earth kingdom? For safety?” I shove my head in my hands. “This is a lot more complicated than you think.”

Toph kicks her feet up. “Bring it on.”

“Okay well-“ “NO! I’ll tell you!” Zori says rushing to the floor in front of everybody.

“Once upon a time a mighty fire General had discovered a new bending ability when certain elements were combined. His name… Savrar Kamie.”

The ALL gasp. Zori continues.

“He could manipulate the function of time. Rip it open. Step into another timeline and create cause and effect. All was well at first… THEN THE EVIL FIRE LORD FOUND OUT!”

“NO!” Sokka shouts.

“The fire lord demanded Savrar go back in time and get rid of the avatar as an infant…” they gasp again. Aang leans forward, “what happened!”

“HE REFUSED!” They let out a breath of relief.

“Savrar spit in the fire lord's face and ran to escape with his wife before they were captured. The beautiful Killo Kamie, 8 months pregnant, was pulled from her life in the fire nation. The two escaped through time-bending and ripping their way into the future.” They cheer.

“BUT! This future wasn’t peaceful or bliss. No. It is full of FIRE AND MORE SUFFERING!! Sav and Killo knew they had to do something! That’s when our girl Truble was brought into the universe. Trained every single day to come back, save the Avatar, and help end the war.” They all clap at Zori’s performance before turning their heads to me.

“So you jump through time and you’re a fire bender? CAN YOUR DAD ADOPT ME?” Sokka asks. “I wanna go on a time trip!” “Me too!”

“Hey!” Katara shouts. “This isn’t a joke. Truble was sent here for a purpose. To help Aang learn fire bending so he can win.” Aang looks at me with sad eyes. “I vowed to never firebend again. Not after I hurt Katara.”

“We all get burned when we play with fire, Aang. Plus if I had my necklace maybe you’d be okay without fire, but, Azula took it, so this is our option now.” I state before sitting on my knees.

He looks down thinking over my words. He has to learn to firebend. If not we will lose the war and everything I’ve done will be worthless. I looked down at my clothes and noticed the fire nation rags. “Wait! Why are we on a fire nation ship?!” I panic quickly. Azula could be right behind us! Sokka grabs my shoulders and drapes his arm over me. “Calm down, Red. After what happened in Ba Sing Se, we had to get you and Aang to safety. We flew back to Chameleon Bay, where we found my father and the other Water Tribe men. The Earth King decided he wanted to travel the world in disguise, so he set off alone. Well, not completely alone. He has his bear. Soon, the bay was overrun with Fire Nation ships. Rather than fight them all, we captured a single ship and made it our disguise. Since then, we've been traveling west. We crossed through The Serpent's Pass a few days ago. We've seen a few Fire Nation ships, but none have bothered us.” I open my mouth in shock. I understood this team was crafty but… “That… is… Badass.” They all giggle freely. It’s also at this point I take notice of my hair. “It’s (h/c)!” Aang shuffles his feet. “I told you she would be mad!”

“If we’re going to survive we all need to blend in. It’s only temporary so… it will… wash out.” I stare at her. “You dyed my hair… While I was unconscious?” Zori smiles. “It was really hard too. I like it.” She lifts a strand, smiling. “Now they won’t suspect anything.”

“We've been working on a modified version of the invasion plan.” Katara scoffs, “It's Sokka's invasion plan.” “Yes, Sokka's plan. We won't be able to mount a massive invasion without the Earth King's armies, but the solar eclipse will still leave the Fire Nation vulnerable.”

“So we're planning a smaller invasion. Just a ragtag team of our friends and allies from around the Earth Kingdom. We already ran into Pipsqueak and The Duke. And the best part is, the eclipse isn't even our biggest advantage! We have a secret!” Sokka looks left and right to Aang and I. “You two!”

“US?”

Sokka smiles, nodding his head, “Yep, the whole world thinks you two are dead! Isn't that great?!”

Dead? I stand up in a rush. Zuko thinks I’m dead?

Zuko… His name tastes like soured juice in my mouth. He thinks I’m dead.

Good. It’s what he wanted by siding with Azula.

“Someone catch her I think she’s going to-“

“I got her!” Aang calls out ready to catch me on my right, but I fall to the ground on my left.

-Zuko-

I sit at the edge of the turtle duck pond at the Fire Nation capital. My old home. I tear Cut to a bread bun in half before throwing it into the pond. Zoir would’ve enjoyed the ducklings. Truble would be amazed at the sight of them. My heart hurts at every thought of her… Hence my chest never relaxed.

The mother turtle duck and its ducklings swimming up to the floating bread and feeding on it. A shadow encompasses the pond, scaring the turtle ducks off. “You seem so downcast.” I sigh, “I haven't seen Dad yet. I haven't seen him in three years since I was banished.”

“So what?”

“So, I didn't capture the Avatar.”

Azula shrugs, spinning a golden chain. “Who cares? The Avatar's dead… Unless you think he somehow miraculously survived.” I remember how he fell from Azula’s lightning. Then the memory of Katara holding the spirit oasis water when I was trapped. She said she was saving it for something special…

I glare at the ground. “No. There's no way he could've survived.”

She smiles. “Then you have nothing to worry about. The Avatar is dead. The Time Bender is too.” Azula drops the golden pendant in front of my eyes, swinging it back and forth. Azula didn’t even care to wash the blood away on the coin. Sickening. Twisted.

“I might keep this. Maybe I’ll give it to Ty Lee. Or Maybe, Mai. She could use some color.” I snatch the chair from her fingers. “It’s mine.”

Azula’s smirk tears away at my soul. She knew she was playing with my feelings. Trying to sway me off into the darkness. She can’t sway me any further into something I’m already in. The moment Truble’s eyes closed, was when my heart died. That’s when the fire burnt out. My light was gone.

An ignited boulder hits the water, just missing our stolen ship. “They’re firing at us!” I yell to the crew. “Tell us something we don’t know!” Sokka yells back.

As she gains her balance, Toph enters an earthbending stance as The Duke stands behind her. “Load the Toph!”

Pipsqueak heaves a big stone dis cover his head. He sets the disc in front of Toph. She takes two steps forward, slamming her left foot into the floor and popping the disc into the air in front of her. She turns and shoves the stone disc with her palms, shooting it at the enemy ship. The flaming boulder and the stone disc collide in the air and explode.

The chained, metal projectile shoots into the water and punctures the hull of our stolen ship. Inside of the hull is pierced by the projectile, causing a huge leak. The chain connected to the projectile is pulled taught and inside of the hull as the projectile is pulled out, expanding the breach and flooding the space even more.

I run over to Katara on the edge of the deck looking down at the breach. “What can you do?” I ask her in hope. Katara waves her arms upwards and pushes her palms down and exhales freezing mist towards the hole in the hull. The mist descends down the ship toward the breach. I watch in amazement. “I knew I came to the right girl.”

“I'm gonna give us some cover! You need to hide!” Katara presses her arms down, pushing down the water between the two ships. A cloud of mist forms and rises up. Katara pushes her arms out, making the mist float behind our stolen ship, clouding the view. Suddenly a fireball pierces through the mist. I gasp jumping out and blasting my own burst of flames, deflecting the rocks. “Hey!” Sokka yells from his hiding place. He grabs my arm pulling to the floor. “No firebending!” “But I’m-” “Shh!” Sokka puts his hand on my mouth, halting my augment.

Aang shakes his head in defense. “I can't just stand by and do nothing!” Aang rushes outside. I bite Sokka’s finger causing him to scream. “OW!!” I ran away from his hold behind Aang.

Sokka catches up to us and grabs Aang’s staff blocking our path. “Both of you are still hurt, and you have to stay secret. Just let us handle this.” Aang huffs before pulling me with him. “Fine!”

Hours later when the ship is repaired and the sea is calm Zori plays with my new (H/C) hair. “I really like it.” I look over her frame and smile. “He still loves you.” I look up at her in shock. Why would she bring this up now? “Zori, I’d rather not-” “We can go get him! I still have my pin your dad let me use! We can-” “Stop!” Her words pause as she looks at my eyes. Cold, I’m sure. When Zuko left me for the honor he so wrongfully craved was when I broke. His eyes said it all. I wouldn’t be enough without the titles. Without his crown.

“You were not there, Zori.” “I’m sure he can explain-” “I said stop!” I raise my voice with tears brimming my eyes. “He doesn't care. He never did. We’re against him now. It’s time you grow up.” Zori’s eyes harden as she glares. “He is good.” “He almost got me killed!” “He didn’t do it!” “ZORI! NOT ANOTHER WORD!” I roar at her. She never cowers, just pushes a thin line on her lips before walking out the door with a high head.

Not long after a knock rings out on the metal door. Sokka’s head pops out from the side with a soft smile. “Hey, is there a sibling rivalry? Zori was heated when she passed me. I roll my eyes. “She’ll be fine.” “Well, we're going into town to find some dinner if you’re up for it. Toph and Katara are getting Aang.” I smile standing up and straightening out my fire nation threads. “So you got stuck with me. How’d that happen?” I punch his arm as I pass. He flings an arm over my shoulder as we walk. “Shortest straw.”

We meet Katara and Toph on the dock. “Where’s Aang?” “He won’t wear the bandanna,” Toph says kicking a pebble around. “He thinks he failed. Said he had to regain his honor.” Katara longs at the ship with sadness.

What is it with guys and their honor?

-Zuko-

I walk down the large familiar hallway of the Fire Nation palace. I hold my composure as I feel the nerves shoot through my blood. I stand in front of an archway covered by a red curtain with a gold symbol of the Fire Nation. I take a deep breath, bracing myself, and walk forward, parting the curtain.

There he sits. My father in all his feared glory. Fire Lord Ozai sits on his throne upon the dais, separated from the rest of the throne room by a trench of fire. I fall to my knees and bowed before my father, awaiting his words.

“You have been away for a long time. I see the weight of your travels has changed you. You have redeemed yourself, my son.” He stands, walking closer to me. He pushes a grin my way. A respectable grin towards me, his son. “Welcome home.”

“I am proud of you, Prince Zuko. I am proud because your sister conquered Ba Sing Se. I am proud because when your loyalty was tested by your treacherous uncle and that vile girl, but you did the right thing, and captured the traitor. And I am proudest of all of your most legendary accomplishments. You slayed the Avatar along with the Time Bender.” I look down making my hand to grip the golden coin in my fingers. My father trails behind my figure quietly. I didn’t kill them. Azula did…

“What did you hear?”

“Azula told me everything. She said she was amazed and impressed with your power and ferocity at the moment of truth.”

I nod in appreciation. He dismisses me without another word.

I make my way to Azula’s room with several questions. I open her door and glare at her as she lays in bed. “Why'd you do it?” Azula raises her brow. “You're going to have to be a little more specific.”

“Why did you tell Father That I was the one who killed the Avatar and Truble.” Azula sighs as if it’s not important. “Can't this wait until morning?”

“It can't.”

She sits up glaring at me. “Fine. You seemed so worried about how father would treat you because you hadn't captured the Avatar. I figured, if I gave you the credit, you'd have nothing to worry about. The Rat was just for fun. Two kills are better than one.” I grip my sleeve. “I didn’t kill, Truble. Why? Why would you do this?” I feel the raw tears making their way to my eyes, but I refuse. She will not see me like this.

“Call it a generous gesture. I wanted to thank you for your help, and I was happy to share the glory.”

“You're lying.”

“If you say so.” She moves past me swiftly. “You have another motive for doing this. I just haven't figured out what it is.”

“Please, Zuko. What ulterior motive could I have? What could I possibly gain by letting you get all the glory for defeating the Avatar? Unless somehow… the Avatar was actually alive. All that glory would suddenly turn to shame and foolishness. But you said yourself that was impossible. Sleep well, Zuzu.” She pushes me out of her room and slams the door in my face.

I walk down the halls leading to the pond. As I near the green grass, a purple hue lights a few feet above the pond. A light purple portal swirls open and a figure drops into the pond. They spring up coughing. “Who are you?” I demand loudly. “Reveal yourself!” I grab the soaked hood of the figure and pull it back revealing Zori.

She smiles and wraps her arms around me. I stare at her in shock. “Zori?” She pulls back, sending me a confused look. “Yeah?” I kneel down to her level. “What are you doing here? How’d you get here?” I smile at seeing the child. She’s okay. I frown, “Truble…” Zori shakes her head silencing my questions then and there. So it’s true. She is gone. “I had nowhere else to go.” I nod holding the girl. “I’ll take care of you.” It’s the very least I can do for Truble. Make sure Zori withstands.

66 notes · View notes

xmxisxforxmaybe · 4 years

Text

Decryption_Error: “Undefined^Behavior”

Summary: Refusing to give up, refusing to shatter the trust she had worked so hard to build, Y/N fights to get Elliot back; only, when she reaches out, she meets someone new.

Decryption_Error: All Chapters

Word Count: 6200

Tags: @sherlollydramoine @rami-malek-trash @teamwolf2411 @limabein @txmel @alottanothing @ouatlovr @backoftheroomandnotbelonging @moon-stars-soul @free-rami @ramimedley @hopplessdreamer @sweet-charmie @polarcrystall @hah0106 @clumsybookworm18 @diasimar @ramisgirl512 @aboutthatmelancholystorm

Warnings: Angst and believe it or not, SMUT

I hung up the phone and pushed my chair back from my desk, standing to stretch and shake away the agitations of the day and of my life. Lying for Elliot all week had my mind bouncing between irritation and a desperate, black sadness threatening to swallow me whole if I let myself get too close to it.

As I walked to the panel of windows in my office, I thought back to my conversation with Darlene. When Elliot missed work on Friday, I had texted her that evening to see when she could meet me. Leaning against the cool class of the window, a comforting chill creeping across my arm and my forehead, I was reminded of how she and I watched the people from the coffee shop window as we talked about her brother.

Darlene was not one to get out of bed until double-digits popped up on her alarm clock, so we agreed to meet at a coffee shop about a block from Lafayette and Broome at noon on Saturday.

My eyes swept over the muted beige walls and the dark wooden tables of the small, cozy seating area, and I saw she had snagged a corner stool at the high-table built to look out onto the street. I smiled as I took in her legs as they stretched out across the stool beside her, unapologetically taking up twice the space a person needed. My smile split into a grin as I saw the two extra-large coffees clearly purchased without her even bothering to take off her heart-shaped sunglasses.

Darlene let her legs flop to the underside of her stool as I approached. She spun to face the window, reaching up to slide her sunglasses to the top of her head while I shrugged out of my coat and sat down.

“Thanks for meeting me. And for caffeinating me,” I said as I took a cautious sip, cringing slightly as the scalding coffee washed over my tongue. I longed to guzzle it considering I had barely slept since the incident with Elliot.

Darlene looked over to give me a flicker of a smile as she twisted her coffee cup between her fingers, her apprehension palpable.

“No big. What’s up?”

I pressed my lips together as I took a breath to buy a moment as Darlene watched me from the corner of her eye.

“Have you talked to Elliot, uhm, since Thursday night?”

I glanced at Darlene’s profile as her big eyes watched the people on the sidewalk scurry by. For once, she was holding back.

“Don’t,” I pressed. “We know each other too well to start holding shit back now.”

Darlene huffed and swirled on her stool. She leaned back into the wall as she looked at me in that same searching way as Elliot, like a child deciding whether or not to reveal their secret for fear of being punished.

“I haven’t talked to him, okay?”

“You know what happened.”

Darlene fidgeted as she plucked at the tights she was wearing under a pair of a stone-washed denim shorts. “He wasn’t answering my texts so I went to see him last night. He was a dick. So I left. We didn’t really chat.”

I took another sip of coffee, formulating what to say next. Any conversation with either of the Aldersons had the potential to turn bad pretty fast. Darlene was always the easiest of the two to be straight with, but if she felt like she needed to protect her brother, I knew I wasn’t going to get very far.

Mostly, I didn’t want her to feel like she was making a choice: me or him. Darlene and I were both on the same side, whether she fully believed it or not.

“He wasn’t himself on Thursday night,” I stated, opting to avoid another question.

“That’s just it, Y/N. He is himself, right? Isn’t that what’s so fucked up about this whole thing?” Darlene pushed off from the wall and swiveled on her stool again, returning her gaze to the sidewalk. “And he wasn’t, like, the crazy version of himself. He was just . . . a dick. He gets like that sometimes, too.”

“We can all be dicks.”

“Duh. But this was different,” Darlene said, her voice quieting. “I interrupted him.”

A prickle of fear crept down my spine and I tightened my grip on my cup.

“Interrupted what?”

“He was writing a kernel rootkit. When he noticed me looking, that’s when he told me to get the fuck out.”

“And I’m sure you smiled politely and did as he asked,” I said with a huff of a laugh. “I’m guessing there’s no way to swing that it was work-related?”

Darlene chuckled darkly, “Maybe your ship’s gone to shit since you moved up to the big office?”

“Elliot was supposed to be working on new scripts to track WiFi vulnerabilities.”

“Definitely not what he was doing,” she said as exasperation tinged the edges of her words.

I turned away from Darlene’s profile. People were passing quickly by on the sidewalk, tucked into their coats to stop the early-spring wind that always seemed to hold the threat of rain. I watched as cars sat bumper to bumper, waiting for the light at the crosswalk to change.

The longer our silence wore on, the longer I watched such seemingly normal bits of life pass by, the louder my mind repeated the names of the people who had been hacked at my company and at Dad’s.

Colin. Bill. Kurt.

The other anonymous hacks flashed through my mind, the ones I couldn’t assign a name to, and I wondered, really wondered if Elliot was responsible.

Don’t be crazy.

Elliot and I were together more than we were apart up until a few weeks ago. What could Elliot have even gained from those hacks? They had nothing to do with E Corp, which was the only hack I was really worried about him committing: a vengeance hack.

“This is such a mess,” I forced myself to say to distract my thoughts before they could spiral. “I need to see him.”

“Give him space. It can be awhile before he’s normal again.”

“He missed work, Darlene. I . . .”

“What?” she said, turning her light blue eyes to my face.

“I lied. Said he had a death in the family.”

“Fuck!” Darlene said too loudly, making me jump and drawing the eyes of other patrons.

“Jesus,” I hissed, “What’s wrong?”

“I fucking hate this!” she said, her voice low again. “We were hanging out more. Having fun. He was . . . happy. I was happy. Things felt normal for fucking once and here we fucking go again. I can’t keep doing this shit.”

My lips turned down in a frown of compassion. Sometimes I forgot how young Darlene really was.

“You aren’t his keeper, Darlene. He should be taking care of you. Actually, you should be taking care of each other.”

She made a little huff of derision.

“Yeah fucking right.”

“I’m serious. You need to prioritize your own well-being.”

“He’s all I have, Y/N. He’s all I’ve ever had,” Darlene said sadly, then with irritation, “But I’m sick of his fucking shit.”

“I wanted to talk to you today because I’m not giving up on him without a damn good fight. I promised you that.”

Darlene took a big gulp of her coffee and without turning to look at me, she linked her arm in mine as it sat on the tabletop and leaned into me, resting her head on my upper arm.

I sighed, “Let me take care of him this time,” and tilted my head so it was resting on top of hers, the slight warmth radiating out to my cheek.

We sat like that for a long time as I reminded myself that all Elliot needed was one more reason to close himself off forever. I started our relationship knowing he had an inability to trust people, an inability to even like people. It was clear he had never let someone in this far before and the appearance of this other told me I was right.

We watched the people outside, feeling like we were actually the outsiders, looking in on something we couldn’t understand. As I breathed in her scent, oddly similar to Elliot’s, I realized that Darlene hadn’t let anyone in this far either, not in a long, long time.

* * * * *

I pushed back from my office window and rubbed at the cool spot on my arm, nibbling at my lower lip as I thought about how I took Darlene’s advice and gave Elliot space.

Except that under the guise of giving him space, I was actually scratching a very selfish itch.

My parents had kept their apartment uptown as they transitioned to permanently living in Greenwich, deciding that it was more convenient to keep it while Dad still sat on the board. Their apartment was close to a library that was open late into the evenings because of the slew of after-school programs it ran for kids with nowhere else to go. So, instead of going home to my empty apartment, I took the 4 uptown and spent most of the evening diving through psychiatric volumes on disorders that fit Elliot’s symptoms. I was smart enough not to so much as google anything slightly related to Elliot’s possible condition; I didn’t trust that he wasn’t keeping tabs on me in the best, safest way he knew how.

I started with the list Jill had ticked off months ago, and after eliminating anxiety and most stress disorders, I was left straddling dissociative identity disorder and schizophrenia.

After spending so much time with Elliot, I couldn’t recall any instances when he seemed to hear or see things that weren’t there. I couldn’t even really recall him being flat or withdrawn, something schizophrenics tended to be as a result of everything that was going on in their minds. Elliot was almost always happy, or at least content and relaxed, when he was with me; if he was distant, it was because he was sad and it almost always had to do with him believing I was unhappy or upset with him.

I also hadn’t noticed any episodes of him losing time aside from the server room incident and Jared’s smashed nose, which both surely qualified as being traumatic enough to trigger a flashback.

According to my research, traumatic experiences didn’t trigger schizophrenia—that was DID. And what I witnessed on the Fourth and on Thursday was someone protecting Elliot. The more I pushed about the cause of his changes or outbursts, the angrier that protective personality got.

Both disorders scared me because I knew neither one could be addressed without psychiatric care. Schizophrenia, at least, could be managed with medication, but DID was a developmental disorder with no medication available to treat it, psychotherapy and behavioral modification being the most practiced options.

After nearly a week had passed with no word from Elliot, I texted Jill. I was armed with my research and ready to seek a medical opinion. Being a PA in an ER had exposed her to a lot of patients with mental health issues. If anyone could discreetly give me some more information, it would be her.

I finally walked away from the window and back to my desk, settling in to answer the cache of emails that never seem to stop growing. I glanced at the clock on my computer five times before I squeezed my eyes shut and willed myself to focus on work until I needed to leave.

I kept all my texts ambiguous, no longer trusting in Elliot’s promise to ask, not hack. My message to Jill was lighthearted, a simple, friendly check-in since I hadn’t seen her much since Christmas.

It was just after 7 when I popped into the hospital cafeteria, my eyes catching the wave of Jill’s hand as I scanned the room.

“Hey, babe! It’s been a minute!”

“A long, long minute,” I said as I sat down in front of her, twisting to hang my tote off the back of my chair.

“What happened?” Jill asked, as she bit into her sandwich wrap.

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“Weren’t things literally rosy on Valentine’s Day?” she asked, her words slightly muffled as she chewed.

“Yeah,” I sighed, “Things were.”

I stopped and bit my lip, surprised by the tears that filled my eyes. Sometimes friends could bring out your vulnerabilities just because you knew they loved you without condition.

Jill put her wrap down and waited, her face soft, compassionate. It was no wonder she was so damn good at taking care of people.

“I guess … we just stopped communicating. And it built into this weird tension.”

I knew I had to be careful—I trusted Jill, but there was no way I could tell her, or anyone, about E Corp.

“Do you remember the night you met Elliot?” I asked in a rush.

“Hard to forget. Handsome and wounded. Rescued by the one person who’s always trying to save everyone from their worst selves.”

I smiled, a quick upturn of my lips to show my appreciation for her assessment of me.

“You have no idea just how wounded, Jill.”

I took a deep breath and recounted what happened in my apartment a week ago with as much detail as I could. My eyes were fixed on her sandwich as I fought to maintain an even tone.

When I finally lifted my eyes, to meet her serious gaze, I continued, “And he—whoever he is … was—that was the last I saw of him. I’ve tried calling, texting, emailing. And I tried from work, too. I had to lie to HR today so I know I’ve got to go see him. I can’t just let him fall into the void, but I need to know—what the fuck was that?”

“Shit, Y/N,” Jill breathed.

“Any ideas? I know you’re not a psychiatrist, but you see a lot of people in a day.”

“You said it was like he wasn’t himself? Like he was a completely different person?”

“Yes.”

“Did his voice change pitch?”

“No … but the intonation was different. The words he used were different. It wasn’t like Elliot at all.”

“Was he Elliot when you first got home—like for sure?”

I thought for a moment and nodded yes.

“Did anything happen, even something seemingly normal before he changed?”

“What do you mean?

“Well, like a tic. A neck crack, a twitch, body tensing, fluttering eyelids—even a prolonged blink.”

“Yeees,” I said slowly, then excitedly, “Yes! His eyelids fluttered and … and it seemed like he was withdrawing into himself.”

Jill was quiet, her brows furrowed as she thought. With an even voice, one that I recognized as her doctor-voice, she said, “I really think it’s dissociative identity disorder.”

“I do, too,” I replied with a sigh of relief. “I’ve been researching.”

“Unsurprising,” Jill said with a small smile.

“What do I do? Do I tell him—”

“No,” Jill answered quickly. “He needs to see a psychiatrist. DID is an incredibly complex disorder. People who have it spend a lot of time pretending to be normal, and there are parts of Elliot that may believe they are perfectly normal—maybe not normal, but at least in control. It’s all a part of the system’s coping mechanisms. If DID was easy to detect, it wouldn’t serve its purpose of protecting the core from their trauma.”

“So my research was right—DID is the result of severe trauma.”

“Severe, yes. Also, prolonged emotional, physical, or sexual abuse. Because DID usually begins in childhood, most cases involve parental neglect. A child is rarely able to cope with any sort of abuse on their own, so without a parental protector, the mind copes with that abuse anyway it can.”

“From what Elliot’s sister told me, neglect only begins to describe what their mother did to them.”

“Y/N. You can’t fix everyone who needs fixing.”

“You sound like Franco.”

Jill sighed, a smirk turning up the corners of her lips.

“I just want you to be careful. You absolutely cannot handle this on your own. Elliot needs professional help.”

“Can he—” I struggled to ask the one thing that scared me the most, the one thing never clearly answered in my research, “Can he ever get better?”

Jill frowned, “There’s no definitive answer. Some psychologists believe that if the alters can be integrated, a person with DID can live a normal life. But that doesn’t mean it’s a cure. A person with DID will always run the risk of dissociating. And if more trauma occurs, more alters may be created. It’s—complicated.”

“I never really knew there was anything wrong until Elliot was triggered. What if he’s not triggered anymore?”

“Well, that’s part of the most effective treatment. He needs to explore his triggers, learn his trauma, and heal. It’s years of therapy,” Jill said as she reached out and squeezed my arm.

“I love him.”

Jill finally smiled, “I know you do. And he loves you. I have no doubt about that, babe. But you have to realize there are no guarantees with this disorder. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“He’s worth the risk.”

I was already resigned to fight for Elliot. Every bit of our relationship was one step forward, two steps back, so it came as no surprise that with a leap forward, it was time to damn near fall back off a cliff.

* * * * *

Later that evening, close to 10, I used my key to let myself into Elliot’s apartment.

I was unsurprised to find it empty but surprised to find it in the same state of mess it had been over Memorial Day weekend: Dishes in the sink, unmade bed, clothes scattered, an ashtray near the window almost overflowing, and the trash full.

I took a step toward the garbage bin and realized that it was full of packaging materials and old computer parts.

Why the hell did he need to do a complete scrub?

I walked over to his computer desk and realized everything was new—tower, monitors, all of it had to have been purchased since the last time I had spent the night.

My mind again flashed to the hacks, and there was a gnawing in my stomach that I knew I couldn’t dismiss. Maybe Elliot wasn’t capable of such destruction and manipulation, but whoever he was when he wasn’t Elliot sure as hell might be.

With a sigh of mental exhaustion and because I had no idea how long I’d need to wait, I started fusspotting. I made Elliot’s bed, or at least I started to. As soon as I caught that sweet, citrusy scent of his shampoo mixed in with stale cigarette smoke, I spent the next few minutes sobbing into his pillow. He was broken and I was helpless to put him back together.

But I wasn’t helpless to pull myself together, so I sat up, scrubbed the tears off my cheeks and after a hearty sniff, I finished making his bed.

I glanced at his computer again, and felt a strong pull, like when high tide is coming in and the ocean’s waves are crashing and pulling with a ferocity. I could feel the water rushing past me, sucking me into the abyss.

I took another step toward his desk, my fingers twitching at my sides. I glanced at the door to his apartment before I slid my hand over the cool wood of the back of the chair.

My mind was at war.

Elliot hacked me.

Because he didn’t trust me yet.

He hacked my ex-boyfriends.

Because he didn’t trust himself.

He hurt me.

I withheld information about his own father.

Elliot loves me.

And I love him.

I backed away from the desk, swallowing thickly, my heart beating fast. I ran a shaky hand through my hair as I made my way into the kitchen and flung open the cupboard where Elliot kept his dish soap. I filled the sink with scalding water and concentrated on getting the few dishes in the sink commercial-clean.

I cleared the counter of the few take out containers that let me know he had at least eaten something this past week, and I stuffed them into the already full trash. I took the trash out to the dumpster alongside the building, and returned to the apartment, still empty.

I looked around for Elliot’s weed box and contemplated smoking up, but there was nothing inside. He was either too busy to refill or he was smoking that much now.

I scrolled through my phone, blindly reading a few work emails before I stopped and pulled up my messages. I stared at the screen, Elliot’s name already typed, a stupid black heart beside his name which felt achingly symbolic now. I had thought it was funny once—my dark little soul in his dark jeans with his dark hair.

I typed a message telling him I was waiting at his place but I deleted it, realizing that if I spooked him, I had no idea when I’d get another chance to talk to him.

Tossing my phone on his worn couch, I stood up and began pacing. After several laps, I pulled a book off the shelf and settled on Elliot’s mattress to read, my nervous energy slowly giving way to tiredness as the night wore into morning.

My head snapped up when I heard the keys in the lock; it was 2:30 in the morning when he finally came home, backpack on, hood up, my little black heart finally in front of me for the first time in a week.

He started to shrug out of his backpack as he walked further into the room, but he noticed me as I shifted on his bed, my feet sliding off the mattress to ground myself on the floor.

He froze.

His eyes were wide, staring at me like this was the first time he had ever seen me. Then they started to dart all around his apartment. I could see the panic settle across his features, and I tossed the book off my lap as I stood.

“Where the hell have you been?” I said with an anger that startled us both.

Elliot’s eyes washed over my face in a wave of apprehension, but he remained silent, his eyes moving away from my gaze to focus on the book I had dropped on the bed.

The longer he was silent, the more agitated I got. I knew what was going on wasn’t his fault, but it wasn’t fair he got a pass for walking out on me, consciously or not, I really didn’t care at the moment.

“I lied for you, Elliot. First Ali, then HR. I told them your mother died because you’ve been gone for a fucking week.”

His head snapped up and he fixed his eyes on me for a few seconds before reverting them to the floor. He shrugged the rest of the way out of his backpack, tossing it beside the kitchen table. He glanced up again, his gaze traveling slowly up my face to look at me once more, his eyes a stormy hue as they peered at me from beneath his hood.

Still, he said nothing.

“Well? Where have you been?”

He took a deep breath, his mouth hanging open just a bit as he pulled his hood down and subconsciously fixed his hair.

I froze, my own face twisting into confusion.

There was something different about his movements.

This Elliot was slower, more deliberate, as if he were carrying on a conversation inside of his head before he decided to do anything, even blink.

“You know what—fine,” I said quietly, my mind swirling with a confused anger that I was now using to build a barrier between us. “You win. Everything is always on your terms. Fuck you, Elliot.”

His eyes snapped to mine as I took a few bold steps forward, determined to brush past him and get the fuck out of his apartment.

But he closed the distance between us, moving more swiftly than he had since he walked in the door. He grabbed my shoulders and stilled me. My eyes were burning into his as his searched my face, as he looked at me as if maybe he’d never seen me clearly before.

“How could you do this to us?” I asked, my voice a choked whisper, my eyes bouncing between his as I prayed to whatever god that was listening that he would finally answer me.

“Us?” he questioned in a gruff voice, his brows drawn and his eyes still the dark grey of a sky before a storm, still searching.

“Us,” I repeated, my voice barely audible.

His eyes bore into mine, contemplating, struggling to understand, then suddenly he closed what distance was left between us and kissed me.

When my lips parted with a soft oh of surprise, he pushed his tongue into my mouth as his fingers dug into my shoulders, steadying me.

My mind raced.

Elliot didn’t kiss like this.

Elliot didn’t move like this.

Elliot didn’t burn like this.

I pushed him back and stared at him, wondering if he was the same as he’d been in my apartment, but there was no iciness in his gaze, no boldness: only an unabashed want, a need. He seemed . . . more Elliot than not.

And I missed him.

I stepped closer to him, my hands shaky as they reached up to cradle the back of his head and the side of his face.

“Is this—is this okay?” he asked, his voice thick with lack of use, as one of his hands circled my waist and flattened against the small of my back while the other moved to tangle in my hair.

“I’ve missed you,” I said in answer, leaning in to kiss him, to get lost in this not-quite-Elliot.

I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t stop myself. Looking back, I should have known in that moment that if I was too weak to resist him, I was going to be powerless when he needed me to stop him—when he needed me to protect him from this part of himself, a part that would prove far more dangerous than his protector.

His hands were roaming over my body, grasping and kneading as we made quick work of each other’s clothes. He walked me back toward the bed, and I expected him to comment on the fact I made it, but he didn’t.

This Elliot didn’t care.

His hands found my shoulders and pushed me down, my breasts bouncing as they hit the mattress, but he was on top of me before my heart could even hammer out its next beat.

He stopped attacking my mouth long enough to pull back as he dragged his fingers over my body, pressing into my soft flesh and leaving little red lines that seemed to fascinate him until he bent to lick along wherever he left a trail.

His want was palpable, as if he had gone without human contact for far too long.

I tried to push him off so I could settle on top of him and slow things down, but he pushed back, clearly craving control.

His body was heavy on top of mine, pressing into me as he slid his hand between my legs, his fingers becoming slick with my arousal, especially once he pushed two of them inside of me, pumping once … twice, before he replaced his fingers with his cock.

I groaned as I yielded to him, my eyes slipping shut for a moment as I shuddered when he bottomed out.

His eyes were shut tight as he began to move in me, so I reached up and squeezed his shoulders before sliding my hands around the base of his neck, squeezing at his throat until his eyes shot open, his mouth parting in a long sigh of satisfaction.

I couldn’t read him at all as he looked at me, his eyes now making a solid argument for dark blue.

His eyes stayed locked on mine as he bucked his hips into me.

I moved my hands down to his chest, grasping at his pecs before he grabbed one of my wrists and squeezed, shifting as he pinned it above my head. He did the same to my other hand and I clutched onto the edge of the mattress since he didn’t have a headboard.

He stretched out over me, holding my hands in place as he fucked me.

“Control? Is that what you need?” I breathed out.

He said nothing, but he released my wrists and moved onto his haunches, pulling me with him.

Elliot did not have sex like this.

He grasped me around my rib cage as he pushed into me, fucking me slowly until his fingers crawled to the flesh of my breasts. He kneaded them, tweaking my hard nipples before he grasped onto the sides, pushing them together as he started to pound into me.

His fingers dug into the flesh of my tits as he picked up his pace and pounded into me, and I knew there would be tiny bruises in the morning. Air was escaping his mouth in breathy little pants, and still, he didn’t speak.

My fingers clenched around the edge of the mattress as I braced myself against him, wanting to take it all, wishing I could give it back—I wanted to consume his anger and his hurt, but I also wanted to feed him mine.

He pulled out of me with a hiss and scrambled to stand beside the bed. He held his hand out for me and when he yanked me to the edge of the mattress, he reached down and gathered a handful of my hair. He held me still as he pressed his cock against my lips, silently commanding me to open for him.

He was so quiet as he slid past my lips and onto my tongue; the only noises he emitted were sighs and low moans. He didn’t ask permission to come in my mouth and I added that to the list of reasons this was not-Elliot.

Not-Elliot, who watched with fascination as I swallowed every bitter drop he left in my mouth.

I barely had time to take a breath before I found myself pushed back on the mattress with his face between my legs. His lips immediately wrapped around my clit and sucked with fervor, demanding my orgasm instead of coaxing it. I tried to squirm away, the feeling too much, too soon, and when I firmly told him to stop, he did.

He looked up, his lips still glossy with my arousal, his face a twisted combination of confusion and frustration. It was clear a very strong part of him did not want to obey my request.

“Ease up. Please.”

He lowered his gaze slowly before he dipped his face back between my legs; this time, his tongue worked my clit and the little noises that escaped from his mouth made me impossibly wet.

I felt my orgasm building, my body desperate to clench around something, but he was either denying me intentionally or denying me because he didn’t know my body like Elliot did.

I had to settle for thrusting my hand into his hair and grinding up against his face as I came; he took it, burying his face against my heat as if he couldn’t get enough.

For only a moment, a hummingbird heartbeat, I relaxed into the mattress as my senses returned.

But before I even opened my eyes, he maneuvered my body onto all fours and was sliding into me with a long, low moan.

Elliot and I had a solid, satisfying sexual connection, but tonight, this part of himself was unleashed, like he had been caging some form of an animal-self.

We fucked for well over another hour and by the time he came again, this time while buried deep inside me, we were both spent, sweaty, bruised and scratched.

By the time I came out of the bathroom, he was asleep, passed out on his back, the sheet barely covering his body despite the chill that had crept into the apartment. I laid down and pulled the comforter up over both of us, keeping to myself on one side of his bed and wondering what the fuck just happened.

I didn’t want to fall asleep because I needed to be at work in a few hours, but I must have dozed off because I woke up to Elliot’s fingers ghosting over his handywork on my chest. When I opened my eyes, I startled him, his hand freezing along with his face.

With one long look into his eyes, I knew; whoever he was last night, was gone.

“If you want to keep your job, you’re going to have to come back to work on Monday.”

I knew he was listening, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the fingerprint bruises on my breasts. He swallowed thickly as his fingers brushed across a red scratch on my arm.

“You were a little rough last night.”

“I hurt you.”

“I let you.”

Elliot’s eyes filled with tears and he began to move away from me, his hand lifting off of my skin like it was poison.

“Do you remember last night? Or the past few days?”

He looked at me, helpless and hopeless, as a tear crested and slid down his face.

“You have to see someone, El. I can’t handle this on my own.”

He swiped at his eyes and at his cheek before he nodded in agreement.

“Come here,” I said softly, opening my arms so he could settle onto my chest.

I held him tightly, refusing to let him put anymore distance between us, and eventually, I felt his body shift and his arms circle around me.

“I—” he croaked and then tightened his grip.

“I’ll go. I’ll do whatever you want because I can’t lose you.”

“That’s the problem, El. You have to want to get better. Not because I want you to—but because you want to.”

“I want to be normal,” he said, his voice a desperate ache.

“At least I finally understand what that means,” I said with a dark, soft chuckle. “I fought you on it, but you’ve been right all along. You hurt so deeply. Until you stop hurting, you’re never going to feel normal.”

“Don’t—please don’t leave me.”

“I don’t want to leave you. But if you can’t stop hurting, you’re not going to stop hurting me. I can’t—I’m not a saint, Elliot. I get angry, depressed, and when you hurt me, it’s the scariest, most empty feeling I’ve ever had.”

I felt his tears start to spill onto my chest, hot and wet, and my own eyes welled up in response.

“I’m so sorry,” he rasped, his voice thick with tears.

“Oh, El,” I breathed, burying my face in his hair. “I love you.”

“I’ll go. I want to go,” he said with a determined desperation, his voice breaking its characteristic monotone.

“Okay,” I whispered into his hair, not bothering to hide the relief I felt.

* * * * *

Glassy-eyed and in yesterday’s clothes, I texted my secretary to let her know I was running late. I wanted nothing more than to crawl into my bed, my exhaustion a malignance, settled deep, all the way to my bones.

But I had Elliot, my Elliot, back.

And more importantly, he knew he had a problem that was beyond his control and he was finally willing to face it. If we could just get through this next stage, I knew there wouldn’t be anything left that our relationship couldn’t weather.

I snagged a seat on the train and I leaned back, my body gently lurching from side to side as the train sped toward my apartment.

The clatter of the train and the quiet of the early-morning car permitted my mind to drift back to the Fourth of July, and I was assaulted by a deep sense of happiness, by a longing for a real future with Elliot.

I saw him, my little niece sitting on his lap, but slowly, Molly’s hair darkened and instead, there was a little boy, the spitting image of his beautiful father, sitting in Elliot’s lap. The little boy’s face was filled with awe as he watched the fireworks explode overhead.

This imagined Elliot turned to me and smiled with a picture-perfect grin of contentment.

Yes, I thought, my mind flirting with the edges of sleep, falling into a dreamy, dangerous state of half-consciousness, dangerous because my mind was too awake to ever forget the image I had just created.

Yes, I thought. It’s possible.

#Elliot Alderson #elliot alderson x reader #female reader #rami malek #mr robot #mr robot fanfiction #Elliot x reader #rami malek character

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lilywoood · 4 years

Text

Small Bump 5/?

I know I still have a lot of prompts and request on hold, and I’m working on it I have two almost done that I’ll post later this week, also I’m still sick, so I’m concentrating on my recovery too and I can be a bit absent or non responsive, anyway as I promised yesterday here is part 5 with finally some Eddie in it, he’s going to be more present now I already have the beginning of part 6 ready sooo, I hope y’all like part five thought !

Tag List : @diazbuckleysworld @felicitous-one @cherishingstydia @translucent-bisexual @gxtop @profangirl1999 @zola9612 @impossiblealice @sergeant-barnes-and-his-captain @meloingly @shipping-queen @my-name-i-we @reecedaddario @fyeahhipsterdoctor @evan-diaz-buckley @duckcollectorus @gracieemma16 @snorlaxishere @fandomfullofgayness @zeethebooknerd @nilshki @adamngoodbuck @reenesie @hardychick89 @lovegiveortakefivethousandyears @peroquenotevean @thegreatgherkin87 @chrrlees

Once again if you want to be tagged on Small Bump just hit the askbox ♥️

Words count : 1062

Song : Small Bump- Ed Sheeran

Trigger warning ⚠️ : miscarriage scare

Something changed between them, something shifted, the dynamic wasn’t the same anymore, as if a glass broke, as if he punched a mirror and finally saw the possibility, the what if, the different versions of them, the better one, the happy one, something changed between him and Buck, and what he witnessed after that night, what he felt, what he discovered was too much too soon, he didn’t know if he was ready or if he wanted to be ready, if he wanted to jump through the looking glass.

He noticed the shift in their relationship, he remarked how it was more tense, different, awkward, he was aware that it was his fault, that he’d been the one causing the tension between him and Buck, he knew that Buck lied when he pretended not remembering that night, he knew it because he noticed the lingering look and the sadness in the other man eyes, he noticed how the light was gone in them, remarked how he missed it, how he missed being the only one able to provoke that glim, that light, that love, something broke between them and he wasn’t sure he was able or ready to fix it just yet.

Their relationship wasn’t the only thing that changed thought, he wasn’t blind he’d remarked how he seemed to be more tired, how he was getting thinner and thinner, how he wasn’t taking care of himself properly, how Buck started to draw himself away from the team, how he seemed more dependent of Bobby, as if they shared some kind of secret, Buck was slowly becoming a mere shadow of his former self and that what worried Eddie the most.

Still he couldn’t bring himself to have that conversation, couldn’t help but cowardly turn a blind eyes and act as if nothing happened, he wasn’t ready to tell Buck the truth, wasn’t ready to tell him why he left him that night.

———————————————————----

Sometimes when he closed his eyes Buck could remember it, remember that infamous the night that changed everything, the night were he’d been bold enough to try to further things with Eddie, the night where he mistakenly thought that they were on the same page, that he shared his feeling, that he felt it too, that burning fire in the pit of his stomach, those butterflies that were tickling him, the painful yet delightful heartache you feel when in love, and then he’ll open his eyes, turn his head left on his bed and remember how cold and empty it had been the morning after.

He’ll remember how he didn’t smell coffee and burned eggs, how for two days Eddie’s ringtone didn’t chime, how it had been awkward when they crossed each other in the locker-room, he’d remember the not so discreet relieved sigh Eddie let after he’d pretended not to remember that night, he remembered how he felt his heart explode in his chest and how a void took it place, waking up without Eddie at his side hadn’t be the painfullest, no what hurt him the most was the clear relief he saw in the older man eyes, the guilt, the remorse, that what destroyed him…

———————————————————----

However Buck was an hopeless romantic, a dreamer, and even though some parts of him knew Eddie wouldn’t accept him, wouldn’t accept them, he couldn’t help but imagine a life where they would have been a family, couldn’t help himself from wearing the other man shirt when he felt low and lonely, couldn’t help but look at his reflection at his growing belly and picture Eddie and Chris there with him.

As fast as that fantasy came it was already gone, shaking himself from his slumber he quickly dressed up keeping Eddies shirt under his flannel, he didn’t took it off after changing in his uniform, it was cold after all and nobody would notice it, he was wrong thought…

———————————————————----

It was supposed to be a quiet day, a calm one, it was Sunday after all, nobody was reckless on Sunday, the call they had were just minor emergency, cliché emergency such as a cat stuck in a tree, or someone accepting a stupid dare, it was a painfully long day and Buck couldn’t wait to go home, go back to his bed, to his wallowing, go back to worry about what he was going to do next….

———————————————————----

It was supposed to be quiet, it was supposed to be safe, he wasn’t supposed to be on field, Bobby specifically told him, promised him that he would only solicit him for simple and safe field mission, neither of them had predicted the massive car crash, none of them predicted that Jameson would be forced to take the day off due to his kids giving him the flu they contracted, nobody predicted that one of the car would literally explode in front of them giving them déjà vu feeling of months ago…

People were screaming around them, they were panicking, running in search of shelter and safety, in search of reassurance, they desperately were trying to control the crowd, trying to take care of them without noticing that among themselves they were a victim…

Buck couldn’t move, he felt panic and bile raise up in his throat, he saw himself stuck under the stuck, he could taste the blood on his tongue, the metallic and bitter taste of blood, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t utter a sound, everything was blurry around him, he tried to regain his composure, tried to calm down, tried to convince himself that he wasn’t stuck, he wasn’t hurt, he looked at his feet to shake the bad memories out of his head, to ground himself…

And then he felt it dripping down his leg, he saw it, the first drop of blood hitting the ground, he felt the dreadful feeling in the pit of his stomach, and he knew something was wrong with the baby, knew that he had to get to hospital fast.

Bobby was looking at him slightly worried, following Buck sight, remarking the four little drops at his feet, his eyes immediately went from Buck to Eddie, wondering if the older man knew...

-Bobby, Buck croaked frozen in place, Bobby, he hyperventilated, you have to take me to the nearest hospital, he cried panicking, I can’t...I, he teared before everything went black.

#buddie #buddie small bump #buddie mpreg #mpreg #angst #hurt comfort #buck x eddie #eddie x buck #eddie diaz #evan buckley #all the 118 #bobby nash #911fic #tv: 911 #911 fox #911 fanfic

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capricornus-rex · 4 years

Note

Hiii!💖 I hope that you are doing well! I just wanted to request a little something with Cal if you don’t mind or aren’t busy. I just failed an exam and I’m feeling really bad an dumb so uh I guess I would want something to make me feel better. This request sucks lmao I’m sorry, I am in crisis🥺 i’ll stop crying now hahaha you can ignore this ily

Oh no sweetie, I hope you’re doing okay! Sorry if the fic is a day overdue and I couldn’t help but consider this as an emergency—no one gets sad on my watch! ÙωÚ I hope this fic can make you feel better. And no, sweetie, you’re not dumb—YOU’RE ABSOLUTELY WONDERFUL!! 💖💖💖

I know I’m knee-deep with requests but if someone is sad and relies on me to cheer them up, I can’t simply ignore that~ :”) I hope sooner or later, I’ll hear from you smiling already~ :3

Oh and little fun fact, I took inspiration from your previous profile icon—the one with Rapunzel—and listened to I See The Light while writing this for an extra personal touch *finger guns* 😉 I also referenced a festival that we usually celebrate here in my country UwU

“Festival of Flowers” | Cal Kestis x Reader

Tags: Flower Festival, Inspired by Tangled

Also posted in AO3

Masterlist

Cal noticed that you have been awfully quiet the whole day ever since you two got back from Dathomir. You couldn’t help but keep recalling the moment where you flunked a move that allowed the Nightbrother to strike you with his mace. You feared that you’ve lost your touch, your skill, and grace and lost to someone with a crude fighting style.

Asking you if you’re okay didn’t exactly do much, whenever Cal looked away, you’d go back to skulking; now, you’re whiling away your time reading BD-1’s databank entries uploaded to your datapad at the couch. He pretended to go to the galley, fixed himself a glass of water, and peered over your shoulder and found you reviewing lightsaber combat forms.

He didn’t say anything, he finished his glass and marched back to the cockpit, leaving you in the solace of your privacy. Cal went to the holotable and typed the coordinates of a planet. It was a planet that he had heard from Master Tapal as a child.

“Setting course for…” Cal shushed Greez before he could say the name of the planet out loud. The captain got the hint. “Aggio? Never heard of it.”

“It’s a planet my master told me about, I’ve never been there myself,”

“And we’re going here because?”

“It’s a surprise,” Cal smirked. “For her.”

Cere and the captain exchanged glances as soon as Cal stepped out of the cockpit to join you at the couch. He casually settled himself next to you on the sofa, propping his foot over his knee and slouching his back against the backrest.

“Hey,”

You turned to face him and parroted his greeting.

“What are you up to?”

You stammered, “Oh, um, studying… reading…”

“That’s a new thing I’ve heard from you,”

“I was a bit of a study bug when I was a Padawan whenever Master and I are back at the temple,”

You heard the humming of the ship and saw the flash of blue light through the windshield.

“Where are we headed?”

“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough,” he cooed.

Now that he has piqued your interest, the first phase of his plan is proceeding accordingly. You took his statement with a grain of salt and continued studying. Hours later, you have completed the learning modules of the lightsaber forms from Form I to Form IV—all that time you spent studying and figuring out if one form is compatible to mix with the other was the exact travel time the Mantis needed to get to Cal’s secret planet.

When you felt the suspension bounce against the surface, you put the datapad away and joined Cal by the cockpit. The Mantis landed in a high forest clearing, in the north, a town can be reached with just a short trek. Cal abruptly grabbed you by the hand and dragged you out of the ship, clearly, he was excited to show you everything there is to see about the planet.

You stand at the edge of the small rise of land that overlooks the town. Even in broad daylight, the town radiated a certain kind of brightness around it—as if its aura pooled and then burst for everyone to see.

“Where are we?”

“This is Aggio, it’s a planet that I’ve only heard from Master Tapal, the stories he used to tell me about this planet was something straight out of a fairy tale,”

“Oh?” you cooed, your curiosity obviously more piqued than earlier.

Not once did Cal ever let go of your hand as he brought you into the town. Left and right, colors flooded your vision—the sparkling blue of its lake, the vibrant colors of the flowers that are too many to name, even the most neutral of colors like white and beige pop out just right in the spectrum! All the townsfolk—diverse as they are—were in all sorts of cheer, it was the contagious kind and you can’t help but smile as well.

All of a sudden, you forgot all of your worries drowned by the colors and the music.

Street musicians filled with the air with their instruments, artists joined by children color the streets with paint and chalk, and vendors offered you their trinkets. For each and every thing the two of you pass by, BD-1 was there to scan everything he could get his lenses on.

“Slow down with the scanning, buddy! I don’t want you overworking your processor!”

“Boo! Bee, trill woop!”

“This place is so beautiful,” you gasped. “I’ve never seen anything like it!”

The two of you came across what ought to be the town’s main plaza, you were separated when a group of children tugged you by the hem of your shirt and asked you to join them in painting the road. You drew the Shyyyo Bird and told its story to the children, enamored with the fantastic beast, they decided to draw their own versions of the bird in different sizes and colors.

Meanwhile, an elderly vendor has been noticing Cal fawning over you as you play with the children; he then offered Cal a bright-colored flower and spoke in his native dialect, it was a foreign one that Cal wasn’t fluent in. Luckily, BD-1 was there to translate it word-for-word.

“Give it to the person with whom you share a deep, special connection to,” Cal repeated. “Since when did you have a translator?”

“Bee, woop!”

“[y/n] did that, huh?”

He stared at the flower and then spotted you sitting with the children, continuing to draw pictures on the street, this time you were drawing BD-1 for them and then explained to them what it is. He smiled to himself and the elderly vendor spoke to him again adding more bits to the lore, shortly after, a woman approached the two of them.

“My apologies, my father is not used to Galactic Basic,” said the young woman. “He said that it is in Aggio’s culture, especially during the Pabena Festival, for a lover to give a flower to their beloved. It’s what makes the celebration all the more special—it deepens the lovers’ relationship.”

“I see, I’ve only heard much from someone. I didn’t know about this one until now,”

“I see that you are a traveler, this is my first time seeing you,”

“Frankly, I didn’t know there’d be a festival. I only decided to bring her over,” he returned his attention to you. “Though, I do know that this place was very festive. Please, let me pay for this.”

“No, no need. It’s a gift. My father likes giving them often. Besides, we have enough from this month’s harvest!”

One child walked up to you and tied a ribbon strewn with flowers on your hair. The woman spotted you as she glanced past Cal’s shoulder and she got the hint.

When the parents from the crowd began waving their hands at their children, beckoning them to come to them, they towed you along. The children were so small that you had to lean a bit lower so you could understand them when you’re spoken to.

“It’s time for the parade!” the little boy chirped as his tiny hand held onto your three fingers together, but his mother snatched him up and settled her boy on top of his father’s shoulders.

“I’ll watch it, don’t worry!” you cooed.

You found Cal in the crowd. He showed you the flower that he had been hiding behind his back. It was a pleasant surprise to you, Cal’s heart fluttered when he saw your smile.

Your eyes lit up as you held the flower close to you, “I’ve seen this flower before, but only in pictures at the Jedi Archives. It’s so much more beautiful in person.”

“They said it’s part of their culture to give flowers to their beloved. It gets extra special when they do it during the Pabena Festival,”

“Really? That’s such a beautiful tradition, perhaps the best one I’ve heard by far!”

The entrance of the parade began with a rhapsody of trumpets, drums, and whistles. A chorus of singers marching in the frontline of the band. A column of dancers brandished their colorful costumes and lithe movements on both sides of the marchers.

You held onto the flower as you hooked your arm around Cal’s, the two of you continued to watch the parade until its last segment. When the energy from the town subsided after the performance, Cal decided to be your tour guide and strolled along the town. BD-1 is still having his fill of scanning everything you pass by in the town. The three of you came across a mosaic mural depicting the first dwellers of the planet, possibly hinting how the festival came to be.

You were enjoying your time in Aggio so much that you didn’t realize that it was already dusk. Although the sky was still so clear, hints of golden sunlight began to deepen in color as the sun sank.

Cal leaned closer to your ear, “Come on, there’s another thing I want to show you.”

He led you to the docks by the town’s vast lake and bought a candle fixed in front of a water lily on a pad.

“They said these candles and flowers are offerings to keep the land fertile so they can still grow more crops and flowers,” Cal explained as he inched it closer so he and you hold it on both sides. “And we have to make a wish before we set it out to the water. Ready?”

The glow danced about in your faces as the candlelight flickered.

“Yeah,” you beamed, even in a whisper.

There was brief moment of silence between you and him. He peeped his one eye open and watched you solemnly saying your wish in your mind. It was only a few seconds’ worth and then you’re ready to sail it to the lake. Carefully setting down the lily pad on the water, you and Cal gently push it at the same time so it flows along the current with the others.

You and Cal sat down by the shore, he wrapped his arm around you as the sky began to darken and the candles illuminated the lake. You snuggled close to him with a smile that you can’t seem to take off of your face even if you wanted to.

“This has been the best evening I’ve ever had, Cal,”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Thank you,”

He inched closer to you until your lips met, he shifted in his seat and caressed your face as he locked lips with you. He’s certain that he felt your smile in between kisses, your heart fluttered, goosebumps pelted your skin, and your hand wandered to his cheek. When you pulled away, you kept your gentle hands on his face, nose-to-nose with each other, the two of you exchanged smiles while watching the night drift by the sea of candlelight with your fingers intertwined.

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skyfallensoldier · 4 years

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Mobile Navigation || Rules & Mun ↓

DISCLAIMER: I just want to note here at the beginning that while I am considering this RP blog to be historically based, i.e. remaining true to the time period and overall details of John Laurens' biographical information and whatnot, I do not consider myself a historically accurate blog, not entirely. Historical fiction is a well known genre of literature and many, MANY creative liberties are taken within that genre. Think of this blog like you would if you saw an Anastasia Romanov blog. She's dead, we know she didn't survive, and she's been dead a long-ass time; so has Laurens. People still have included her in many works of fiction, even after her body was identified and it was proven she did not survive her family's massacre. I saw a romance book a couple of months ago where she survived that was recently published. Historical fiction, while a controversial thing at times, is a legitimate form of literature.

You don't have to tell me if you think John isn't acting exactly like the real man himself would have, I know that. I'm not going to call John my 'perfect sunshine boy cinnamon roll' or dismiss the privilege he was raised on due to his father, I'm aware he was a real person who had his own personality, virtues and prejudices. I won't deny that while he was certainly a progressive thinking man for the time he grew up in he definitely still had racist thoughts and actions that were indicative of his upbringing. But I'm not on here to debate modern, real life politics, or get into arguments about whether he was a good abolitionist or not. At the end of the day, this is still a hobby for me, and I'm writing for fun.

Basically, don't take it too seriously. I'm a 21st century bisexual woman writing from the POV of an 18th century (likely gay) male soldier, the way I write him is obviously not going to be a perfect representation of who he was. I know he wasn't an amazing, perfect person, but I've still chosen to write a fictionalized version of him for my own entertainment. Please try to respect that; thank you.

Mun Stuff

Name: Luna Gender: Female (She/Her or They/Them) D.o.B: July 23rd, 1996 Age: 24 Nationality: Canadian Sexuality: Bisexual Timezone: Eastern Time (US & Canada) Activity: Daily BIOGRAPHY (SORT OF)

Hello, there! You can call me Luna! I've been interested in writing ever since I first got the internet when I was 14 and discovered FanFiction.Net and now I'm an aspiring author and Roleplay enthusiast. If you include acting/talking out DnD like games with friends then I've been 'roleplaying' since the fifth grade, but I like to think there's always room for improvement. If you ever want to chat I'd love to make a new friend or plot out a roleplay, so don't be afraid to shoot me an ask or send me a private message. Just because my muse can be a jackass doesn't mean I am! I’m a huge advocate for mental health, and if you ever need someone to talk to, please don’t ever hesitate to reach out! Some of my hobbies including literature and writing (of course), digging into mythology from various cultures, practicing solitary eclectic paganism/new age spirituality, drinking tea, and collecting crystals/minerals.

Please note that for the sake of disclosure, I am considered ‘Neurodivergent’, in that I suffer from ADHD, diagnosed at about age six, and have Anxiety and Depression which are directly tied to it. This doesn’t often effect my life on here, but I sometimes have an unpredictable sleep schedule (stay up all night, sleep in late into the morning, etc). I’m usually quick to reply to threads for the most part! I work every Tuesday and Thursday from 5pm to 7pm in addition to odd jobs here and there, during which time I won’t have access to the Internet. The rest of the week I’m on and off all day basically, so you can feel free to contact me any time.

RP Style

⭐️ Please use basic spelling/grammar/punctuation when you RP with me. I'm not a drill sergeant about these kinds of things, I know that typos happen, and if you have a vision problem or such we can absolutely find a way to work around that, I also have no problem roleplaying with people whose first language is not English, so that's totally fine and I’m happy to accomodate in whatever way I can, but it does make it a little difficult to play with you if I don't know what you're trying to say. For this reason I prefer if you not use any text shorthand (lol, idk, brb, jk, etc) unless our muses are messaging each other. Using it in the tags is fine.

⭐️ I roleplay Laurens in a past-tense 3rd Person Point of View (think story-telling format), and generally I don't use icons or text formatting unless I notice my partner does, then I will try to match their style (for example if you use icons and small-text, I will try to do the same, though because formatting isn't possible on mobile, any mobile replies might take longer to be posted than if I were on my laptop). If you have any issues with how I'm writing or need me to adjust my style for any reason don't be afraid to ask.

Contact

⭐️ If you spam me with messages over and over again about something I haven't replied to, chances are I'll drop the thread. I don't mind being reminded because I know Tumblr's notifications are notoriously unreliable sometimes, and humans can forget/lose things, but if you keep poking at me after I've acknowledged you the first and second time, I won't be pleased. Things can get busy on here, or in real life, or sometimes you're just lacking muse for that particular thread, y'know? It doesn't mean I hate you and don't want to RP, I'm almost always up for plotting, but muse tends to fluctuate.

⭐️ My ‘Discord’ is available to mutuals upon request. I don't mind roleplaying on there if Tumblr is being glitchy or you're just not feeling up to formatted/heavily plotted threads, sometimes Discord is fun in that you can do immediate replies without needing the effort of putting icons and formatting into it. I also have a Kik but I never use it. I don't RP in Tumblr's IMs, that's purely for OOC interaction.

⭐️ I also occasionally stream movies/TV shows in group chats or play “in character” Cards Against Humanity game nights, Among Us, etc. If you’re interested, lemme know, I’m always looking for more people to hang out with!

Important

I have no actual triggers that I'm aware of, although snakes do creep me out (mostly shots of them coiled up or images of their pupils), but there are some things I will not roleplay personally for comfort reasons:

⭐️ Cannibalism. You can mention it, for example I won't freak out if someone tells my muse that somebody else ate a person (he might, assuming its not a Supernatural type verse), but I won't RP him engaging in cannibalism, not even in AUs (blood-drinking vampires are fine). I'm just not sure I could stomach writing about eating people. I managed to watch Hannibal, barely, but writing about it? Nah. I can handle lots of horror, gore and disturbing content but not this. Sorry.

⭐ Incest/Pedophilia. I do not SEXUALLY ship with characters under the age of 18. John is not attracted to children, and would never consider sleeping with someone much younger than him.

⭐ I will not write anything sexual with muns who are under 18 years old, even if your muse is an adult. I'll still ROLEPLAY with you if you are under 18 but probably no younger than 16 just because things tend to get explicit on my blogs and I don't want to be accused of corrupting the youth with my foul language and weird opinions, lol. Seriously though, this blog covers a lot of dark subjects and while I’m all for minors exploring that safely through writing rather than in real life, some people aren’t comfortable with interacting with under age people for legal or personal reasons, please respect that.

⭐ Necrophilia. Just... no. Vampire threads don't count, as they're undead and not 'dead dead'.

⭐ Rape. I won't write it with you. I'm okay with mentions of rape, with rape/sexual assault survivor/recovery plots, and even with one character intervening to rescue another from an attempted sexual assault (if an attempted assault does occur, it will be thoroughly tagged and under a cut). I'm fully open to discussing rape recovery/trauma plots as those are things that happen in real life, and it can be interesting to explore how a character reacts to trauma. But anything else is a no-go, sorry!

⭐ Please be aware that I write Laurens as a gay man. However! Because of the time period, violent homophobia and social stigma, he has slept with women before and may be seen flirting with or referencing relationships with women in the past. He is still gay, and still uninterested in being with women long term, he's simply closeted to all but a few individuals. So, unless your muse is Martha Manning (who Laurens DOES love in a manner, and he always will), shipping with female characters on here most likely isn't going to happen unless it's heavily plotted/developed and part of an overall plot, and you understand that it will not be a conventional sexual relationship. I'm sorry if that disappoints you but I've read Laurens as a gay male for so long I have trouble seeing him any other way.

⭐ I will not roleplay slavery plots. This is not up for debate. Roleplaying a highly fictionalized version of a long dead real person who existed during a troubling time is one thing, but I draw the line at that. For this reason, while I'll happily play with non-white muses, muses using non white faceclaims, and crossovers with characters of all sorts, I'll have to decline playing with any muse claiming to actually be writing slavery. There’s a difference between, say, roleplaying a character like Daenerys, a fictional character who was technically a slave-bride sold by her brother, and writing actual slavery from a very real, horrible time period. Slave ownership will of course be mentioned on this blog, that's unavoidable, but just like the mention of rape may happen on this blog from time to time, it will be in reference to a past event or speaking about the subject in general, not roleplaying a scene of it. Please respect this rule, I was hesitant to make this blog at first, because I know it makes some people uncomfortable, but I won't glorify such a horrible real thing that happened to so many people.

Exclusives/Mains

Just a head's up, unless I develop a bunch of chemistry with a particular portrayal of a muse I'm not likely to agree to being exclusives with anyone, unless perhaps it's a very niche or divergent character that has formed a good relationship of some sort with John and I'd have trouble interacting with other versions of that muse. For major characters I just feel it would be unfair to say no to someone who I click with in every other way, solely because I have already befriended someone else writing that character.

I will, however, discuss becoming mains with someone whom I've either developed or plotted out detailed storylines/interactions with regarding our specific portrayals of our characters. This means that I tend to reply to them quickly when I'm online, or may make little gifts (moodboards, aesthetic things, mini ficlets, whatever) for them unprompted, have a verse dedicated just to them, etc. Even if it seems like we haven't done much on Tumblr, there may be a lot of off-site development on Discord or whatnot that led to us plotting out intricate stories for our muses.

Current Mains:

Alexander Hamilton - @quillborn

⭐️ Send private messages.

⭐️ Send my character asks/starters/memes.

⭐️ Tag me in things.

⭐️ Ask to plot or ship.

⭐️ Ask for angst, fluff, etc.

⭐️ Submit things to me & my muse.

⭐️ Do crack and other ridiculous things with me!

⭐️ Like my RP threads.

⭐️ Like my personal posts.

⭐️ Comment on my personal/OOC posts (if you want to).

⭐️ Comment on my crack threads.

⭐️ Instant Message (IM) me if you'd like to talk, whether we're friends already or not!

DON'T

⭐️ Send hateful messages to me about other people and especially my mutuals; doesn't count if it's about the muse and not the person playing them, however. Also, if I’ve got beef with someone for whatever reason, don’t harass them/send hate to them on my behalf, please. I don’t condone anonymous abuse, attacking others, or harassment. I’m a big girl and I can take care of myself, I promise.

⭐️ Introduce yourself with ‘wanna ship?’ For one, I prefer if we’ve at least started a roleplay together, or have spoken OOC. Auto shipping doesn’t always work out and I hate promising people something only to realize there’s zero chemistry, because then I feel like I’m letting them down.

⭐️ Come into my inbox with just ‘wanna rp?’ and that’s it. Please at least have some idea of what you want to roleplay, it’s not very fun when someone approaches you to RP but then doesn’t offer up any suggestions at all. Remember, you are always free to send me memes, whether we’re mutuals or not, and hit me up for whatever plot you think might interest me! I want to hear about it!

⭐️ Spam me with "reminder" messages if I've already acknowledged you the first few times.

⭐️ Reblog my RP threads if you're not a participant in them.

⭐️ Send me anonymous OOC hate. Hate for Laurens is fine, it's just another form of roleplay.

⭐️ Kill off my character or severely injure/maim my character without permission or having plotted something involving that with me first.

⭐️ Follow me if you're a porn blog. I don't mind blogs that post NSFW content, or smut a lot, etc. I mean blogs that aren't for RP and are literally just a normal looking blog until you click on it and the header and first twenty posts are hardcore nudity and porn. I hate those things.

⭐️ Shame my ships.

⭐️ Complain about my tagging. I put my smut under a 'read more' without exception and tag them as "NSFW //" with two dashes. Things that are not necessarily graphic but still have sexual undertones go under "Suggestive //". I use these tags to avoid attracting attention from porn blogs and porn bots that track certain key words, as such I do not tag my content with "Smut" or trigger words such as "dick, oral, anal, nudity, etc", please block my NSFW and Suggestive tags if you're uncomfortable. Triggery subjects (mentions of rape, animal abuse, torture, mental illness) will be tagged under the name of said trigger with a space and two dashes, example: "Self Harm //", “Suicidal Ideation //” or "PTSD //".

⭐️ Godmod my character. If you’re not sure what is/isn’t okay, come talk to me! I don’t bite! If you’re looking for an example of god mod behavior, here: “X lunged at Laurens, taking him by surprise, and hit him square in the nose, causing blood to spurt.” It might not seem like a big deal but it means that you decided how your character’s actions affected my muse, and not only that, didn’t give him a chance to dodge or anything. Not cool.

⭐️ Ship with me without permission (sending in shippy asks is A-Ok if you're interested in exploring a ship between our muses, I'm talking about things like claiming that our muses are in a relationship without discussing it with me, referencing dates or sexual acts that never happened, etc. I ship mainly with chemistry otherwise things get boring fast.

⭐️ Assume/act like our characters know each other/are closely connected (friends/family/lovers) if we've never discussed it unless it is established in canon/history. This especially goes for original characters. I'm open to Laurens forming deep relationships with OCs obviously, but those have to be developed in character, not just assumed from the first interaction.

⭐️ Attempt to roleplay with me if you are not a roleplay blog/or if you're just trying to RP as "yourself." I don't do Character X Reader imagines stuff. I don't RP with 'fan' accounts, only RP blogs. You can still send asks so long as you're not trying to initiate an RP scenario. For example, asking Laurens what his hobbies are, asking for a blessing etc? That's fine. Spamming me with different actions "you" are talking to Laurens is weird. Stop that. I will also not RP with blogs that claim to roleplay as real life people, such as Markiplier, that's super creepy. This does NOT apply to "historical fiction" roleplay (obviously since that's what this blog is), which is considered its own genre of literature. I'm talking about the above where people will 'roleplay' as real life, currently alive people like YouTube celebrities and ship them with their friends, even if they've made it clear that they're uncomfortable with it.

⭐️ Get angry at me for doing something you don't like if you don't even have a rules page for me to go by. It's not fair; you can't expect your partners to just read your mind and magically know how you feel. If something bothers you let me know, I’ll make a note about it so I avoid it during our interactions!

⭐️ Use me as a meme resource blog without ever interacting with me. I don't require "reblog karma" for you to follow me, partners are more than welcome to reblog from me, but if we never interact and I just occasionally see you reblog fifteen posts from my meme tag and then disappear again I'm not gonna be happy. Go to the source or to an archived blog no longer getting notifications, please!

⭐️ Reblog my Meta/Headcanons. If they're from a different blog it's fine but the ones I've personally written are for MY portrayal of Laurens. I work hard on most of my stuff and I'd prefer if you didn't reblog it, not because you aren't allowed to have the same headcanon ideas as me, but because then it ends up getting liked or reblogged by lots of other people, spamming my notifications, etc.

OCs & Multimuses

I love OCs and multi-muse blogs (I have my own multimuse sideblog over at @historyremembers, which has other 18th century characters including the Hamilton children and some OCs), so feel free to interact! That being said, please have an about page of some sort on your blog. I can't follow back blogs that have absolutely no information available regarding their character(s). I don't RP with OC children of Laurens. This is nothing personal, but I'm fairly certain he was gay in real life and prefer to play him that way, and he only had one child - who he never even got to meet - in real life, so it just wouldn't make sense to me for him to have other kids running around unless he'd adopted some. If you're a multimuse, I may not follow you back if I'm only familiar with two of your muses if you have a blog of fifteen characters, simply because I'd prefer to keep my dash clean and only have characters/fandoms I'm familiar with on it. I'll still RP with you if you have a character I'm interested in! I just might not follow back if the majority of your characters I do not know, I apologize for this.

If you’ve made it to the end of this, congrats! I know it couldn’t be easy (my ADHD brain was frustrated trying to just write all this up) but it’s necessary so there’s not misunderstandings on what I am/am not willing to RP. I won’t ask for a password since I trust most people to have the courtesy to at least skim the rules of those they want to RP with.

Have a nice day!

#Everybody Listen Up! {PSA}#Out Of The Field {OOC}#Long Post //

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subasekabang · 5 years

Text

A Redbud’s Name in an Ink-Splattered World

Rating: T Word Count: 7676 Pairings/Characters: Neku Sakuraba/Yoshiya “Joshua” Kiryu; Neku & Joshua & Beat & Rhyme & Shiki & Eri; Neku Sakuraba, Yoshiya “Joshua” Kiryu, Daisukenojou “Beat” Bito, Raimu “Rhyme” Bito, Sanae Hanekoma, Yodai Higashizawa. [Other Characters(9)/Ships(1) to appear in later chapters.] Warnings: Frequent Canon-Typical Violence, Injury; alluded to, but neither appear in the chapter. Swearing, mostly from Neku. Summary: It’s summer in Inkopolis, just after the chaos that broke loose during the last celebrations—and yet, even in its aftermath, a delicate balance meant to be enough to wrap up the mess that was made isn’t anything close to scrubbing the grime and stone under the city’s waves. Yet, when something pulls at the balance and tugs the seas of color too far and too thin, he finds himself of all people squidnapped and sunk into an underwater espionage, stubbornly searching for what hides in Inkopolis’s murky depths. As much as he hates the ‘people’ part of it…

Well, maybe he’ll find he’s submerged himself in much more than he agreed to—both in his missions and in the hearts of those he works with.

Partners: Vi, Turtel Author’s Note: I’ll be posting this on ao3 eventually (probably with way more gushing than I can fit here!!) This was the only chapter I managed to complete, but I’m happy with how it turned out. Thank you so much to everyone I talked to and worked with along the way!!

The day that Neku’s world starts isn’t when he’s born, but it is the last Saturday of July.

It’s a day when less than a week has passed since the last Splatfest, at a time when both celebration and cleanup are as remarkably chaotic as any of the other 18,994 or so weeks Neku has endured have ever been. Now, the sun pours over Inkopolis Square like a cast in a mold. The city, absolved of the mess and dissonance that had fully collected itself nine days prior, wafts a gentle balance into the air once again, its citizens ambling once more along its glowing streets and sunlit buildings.

So it claims.

By all means, Inkopolis should be—and is far better, if it is—a place of peace. In the days following the final festivities, Neku and his mother saw lotuses and water lilies hung from the other tenants’ windows in rows. All turf wars and activities had declined, even during peak hours. Any hints of disaster from the Splatfest should have dissolved, leaving its hosts, participants, and spectators behind with the precarious rubble—and to Inkopolis, that was exactly how it seemed. If this had kept up for longer, Neku would have been pretty pleased.

It does not take long for him, a normal, law-abiding, doing his best to survive now and that’s it Inkling, to walk straight into disaster.

He doesn’t even mean to, honest! It’s a complete and utter mistake that shouldn’t be one—the most glaring reason being that this was the quickest way home, and his normal path home. Plus, it was supposed to be relatively safe; sure, maybe he could find people fighting or tagging the walls, but that was a rare occurrence and a given for Inkopolis. Turf wars and art were indispensable to the city: the two together were its blood, its infrastructure, and its entire world.

Perhaps it’s the absence of both on his way home that hurls him into another world.

When Neku walks home from Inkopolis Square, often a twenty-seven minute trip if he speedwalks, there are no brawlers and no graffitists. Every drop of ink that dripped and spilled was gathered up by the air before sunset. Now, there is he, his bag and tank, his cherry-blossom sketchbook, his Permanent Inkbrush and the concrete floor. He walks with only one companion, and that is the music streaming through his headphones—not a single other being is in sight.

And then, of course, it happens. Because nothing can go without a hitch in Inkopolis.

Neku doesn’t register exactly when he bumps into a stranger, but it’s after three songs and four seconds into a “Twister” remix, which seems to place it at a solid fourteen minutes into his walk. When he does, it’s because he’s falling face-flat onto the floor, and because he almost hits it if not for his last-second scrambling.

That’s weird, is the first sentence that comes to mind. There’s nothing to trip over on this way home. Unless someone thinks that kicking rocks into incoming pedestrians’ paths is supposed to be funny, Neku knows this route enough to use his phone or daydream on the way back, and that requires a very specific amount of certitude in the neighbors’ goodwill.

In an uncontrollable wave of curiosity, Neku turns his head, then his arm and bag, then his legs—

And he finds himself staring not exactly face-to-face with a towering, 100 percent glowering Inkling. He has dark brown hair, ancient ram symbols all over his clothes, and fluorescent sneakers that disrupt the menacing vibe he’s trying to pull off, and Neku swears that he’s never met him before in his life.

As unexpected as this is, Neku devises a plan. It’s short and simple; after all, there’s only one solution to this, panic-led or not.

He breathes. Sighs.

Then, he turns back around and starts walking away.

It is an incredibly ingenious plan, which is also probably why it fails so quickly. No more than four steps forward and Neku swears the start of the lyrics in this remix sounds horrendously off-beat, which shouldn’t be a problem when he’s listened to this version again and again.

Then, of course, the obvious sets itself into motion. The drums thud closer and faster until they cease; the air shifts behind Neku and sends goosebumps through his shirt; in one swift motion, Neku yanks his Inkbrush off of his shoulders and jerks his ink tank back in place, and dashes forward in a stroke of ink before any foreboding hell can break loose.

A few seconds pass before he pivots back around, granting an unwavering stare towards his imposing assailant. His Inkbrush drips at his side, knuckles white around one of the two black grips as the others brush against his walkman.

The song skips and a different mix encompasses the fray, swallowing all but the stranger’s words.

“You,” he rumbles, shaking the ground but little of Neku himself, “why swing that measly pastry brush along this concrete?”

Neku grimaces. Nobody calls a paintbrush, let alone his Inkbrush, a goddamn pastry brush, and gets away with attempted murder. It’s an insult and injury he isn’t standing for, so he weighs out his conversational choices and comes up with, “Pretty sure we both know the reason why, dude,” and gives a shrug with his spare hand.

“Hmph.” The man scowls, and he drags his roller back. Neku studies the length of the roller and the gold paint covering it; he realizes how normal it looks in comparison to the man, who looms over both him and his own weapon with ease. “Of all foods, I could not have expected you to be a citrus peel. Your bitter bark is just that: a bark that none dare bite.”

“And your point is…?” Neku could laugh at how bad that was if he wasn’t in danger. “I think you’ve got the wrong person.”

“You need not play coy. You are just the same as them. Unlike the raw morsels of this city, you are consumed by your desire.” The roller draws in further, and Neku steps back. “Even after this haluhalo of chaos and order, there is still something you want, isn’t there? No matter what it is, they are just the same—and soon enough, you—”

“That’s enough out of you, isn’t it?” a voice echoes from the nearby alley, stepping out of its maw and into the fray. Out tumbles a boy made of shades of platinum and lavender, the bell sleeves of a silvery blouse trailing behind him as he tiptoes past the puddles of orange and brown. When he stops, he stares straight up towards Neku’s assailant. “I would think your group would have more dignity than go after odd passerby on the street, but I must have overestimated you.”

“Quite the way to prove a point, isn’t it? Perhaps next time, you should be more covert in your preparations.”

“I see no point when there won’t be a ‘next time,’” Neku’s ally—maybe an ally? he can’t really tell—shrugs, still turned away from him. “He has no relation to our missions. If you’re looking for a fight, then I regret to say that it’s me you’ll challenge.”

“I desire no challenge. This recipe was issued to me not so long ago, and it was purely to the point. But, if you must stand in my way—”

The man lifts the roller behind him, high in the air, and the boy in front of Neku sidesteps out of the ink, glancing to him as he does. Neku’s gaze lingers on his odd acquaintance; he even squints until the man’s attack comes back to mind, and he springs off of the sidewalk, possessions rattling behind and around him as he rolls onto the road. The roller meets the concrete and thuds, cracking the tiles Neku had once stood over as he drags himself off of the asphalt.

Smooth, he grimaces, rubbing a red spot on his shoulder. Dangerous, too, considering his lack of skill with rolling.

Cods, if this is some kind of evaluation, he’s certainly failing it.

“How long do you intend to keep this up, Higashizawa?” the boy asks, crossing his arms. “You should know by know that you can’t defeat us.”

Neku’s eyes narrow. He’s not particularly keen on being included—hell, he hasn’t even done anything himself, but… has this guy even pulled out a weapon yet?

He tries to ignore that fact to focus on his assailant. Higashizawa—that must be his name, if not ‘the man who tried to kill Neku, like, twice with shitty food jokes’—stands like a statue, unmoving, his eyes trailing their every move and nothing else. For a while, the noise is deafening. The cold stone reverberates fire and whistles. The strange boy hums an odd, harmonic tune. Neku observes both, his hearts rasping a fast, arrhythmic beat, and waits for a signal.

Higashizawa moves first. He slings his roller over his shoulders and turns away from them, sending a wave of nervous heat over Neku as he remains silent. Then, finally, he speaks, slow and steady.

“How shameful. You would prefer the table set and appetizers cold before cooking the main dish?” a ‘tsk’ slips from under his breath. “It will be an unpleasant meal. Let us see if you liven it up once all has been said and done.”

Neku watches the man turn away and disappear on the path to the square, and a final wave of relief washes over him, letting his breath escape like steam. He looks back to the boy, who turns at the same time that he does and quirks a small smile.

“You’d best be getting home, wouldn’t you? Go on. He won’t be back for a while.”

“Yeah, great hearing that from a stranger.” Neku snorts, but he considers it. He turns around and takes a step forward before a realization settles in his head, and he jerks his head back to the boy.

“Hey—who even are you, anyways?” One of ‘them’ might be a good guess, considering what Higashizawa said, but… who the hell, and why?

The boy is already a good distance away when Neku yells at him, but still within hearing range. It doesn’t stop him from continuing onwards, giving naught but a cryptic silence in response.

“Hey! Answer me!” he yells again, and the boy stops, pivoting on his heel and leaning back. His phone glows, tinting his face blue as he speaks.

“I’m sure you’ll find out soon enough, won’t you?”

The boy doesn’t deign Neku with another response after that, even when he yells once more. He turns the corner up to Inkopolis Square, and Neku spins back around, leaving the dissipating puddles behind.

What the fuck just happened? He wishes he knew. Maybe that would’ve helped him give his mother a reason it took five extra minutes to get home and get ink over his shoes.

The next day, Neku takes the time to process what the hell happened, and doesn’t come up with shit.

The day after is when they—unfortunately—cross paths again.

Call him an idiot for it, don’t call him one—whatever. It shouldn’t exactly be Neku’s fault that Inkopolis Square is at the peak of popularity and Inkopolis Plaza is the ghost town four minutes away from his house, or that that means that all of his clients are up and kicking ink at the Deca Tower instead, but maybe it should be his fault for taking a trip outside to sketch their commissions in the face of possible danger.

But it should so not be his fault that they meet at one of the freshest coffee shops downtown. That’s a factor he doesn’t take credit for.

All things considered, it’s quite possible that he should: Neku has always found solace from the city’s constant chatter within a corner of CATfish Café, where a small table and two chairs are enough for him to seat himself, his things, and his coffee while doing whatever. But that is exactly why—because after a year and a half of visiting the store, from the moment winter froze the rest of the town over to now, when summer burned it to a crisp, he’s never seen the other enter the store once.

Until now.

It’s like a freaky coincidence—the chance that they meet while waiting near the pick-up counter, standing side-by-side because there’s no other place to stand when it’s so crowded. Neku doesn’t notice until he turns left out of curiosity and looks straight into the same hair and shade of lavenders. He has on a periwinkle button-up and dark jeans, and the longer that he stares into that orange phone, the more Neku realizes he’s either ignoring him or he genuinely hasn’t seen him.

For four seconds, Neku considers what to do, until he resolves to speak first, harshly, “It’s you. You’re that kid from Saturday.”

All that Neku gets is another flick down the blue screen.

He tugs the boy’s right sleeve once, twice as he continues, “Hey, you didn’t answer me last time. What the hell did you mean by—”

“Shh.” The boy budges away from his pull. He places the index finger of his free hand over his mouth, even as he continues to look over his phone. “Try not to be loud about it, will you, Neku? We’re in a public space. We wouldn’t want to drag anyone else into this fiasco, would we?”

“As if I signed up for this in the first place,” Neku grumbles. He pauses, processing every word as two Inklings, teal and fern hair respectively, take an order from the counter.

Wait.

“How do you—”

“Oh, you know.”

No, he glares pointedly, I certainly do not know! “Fine. Fine,” he sighs, throwing his hands out in front of him. “Okay. What do you want from me?”

The boy smiles again. “Isn’t that obvious? I came to talk. Go find us a seat, will you?”

“Only if you get my order,” Neku mutters, but he doesn’t give him his receipt and swivels to find a seat instead. Luckily enough, the corner is still open, and he drops all of his belongings gracelessly over one of the seats before leaning back in it himself. He waits, tapping his foot over the wooden panels and glancing at the mural-like segments which pop in bright colors from the walls. Eventually, the other arrives, their coffees both landing like airplanes over two runways and the stranger following suit in an opposing chair.

“Alright, first things first,” Neku starts, crossing his arms. “Name. So I don’t need to make a stupid name for you like ‘Salted Cod’ or whatever that ancient jellyfish says.”

“Straightforward,” he notes, and clears his throat before responding. “My name is Yoshiya Kiryu. My parents would call me Joshua, however—and seeing as how we’ll be meeting in the future, feel free to say the same.”

Oh, he really hates that.

“Okay. Joshua. Great,” he says, uncrossing his arms and pointedly avoiding his loathing. “I don’t need to introduce myself, so shoot: what the hell happened yesterday?”

The boy replies quickly. “You were attacked by Higashizawa on the way home.”

“Dude, I’m not dumb.”

“Of course,” he lilts, though the smile on his face says otherwise. “But he did have a reason, as incorrect as it may have been. He thought you were one of ours.”

“Is this that ‘them’ thing he mentioned yesterday?”

“Correct! You’re rather smart, aren’t you?” he hums, “He was talking about the ‘Cephalosquad.’ I suppose the other group would call it a ‘secret society of heroes,’ but there’s nothing quite heroic about defeating lower-level fighters.”

“What a name,” Neku rolls his eyes. Cephalosquad. “And the reason he thought I was involved was…?”

“Presumably the wrong place at the wrong time. We’ve had missions all over the city.”

“So that just prompts premeditated murder? I could’ve died there—”

“And it’s likely that you wouldn’t have. You wouldn’t have given up and died, would you?”

“…No,” Neku resigns, and Joshua smirks, “Exactly.”

It’s unfortunate that he has a point.

“Now that that’s settled…” Joshua takes a sip from his coffee, setting it down before steepling his hands. “How would you feel about actually joining?”

Neku’s hand freezes over his own coffee, the heat ineffective to thaw it. “What.”

“It’s nothing complicated, really. You’re already rather involved in this, regardless, so it’s not like you have much of a choice.”

Joshua’s voice is careless, as fluous as honey and as calm as the snowfalls in storybooks. Neku’s bridges the gap between nettles and marcato notes as he leans forward. “I told you, I didn’t ask to be a part of it. What, do you want me to say ‘yes?’ Oh, sure,” he hisses, voice bristling yet dulcet in tone, “I’d be happy to die the next time I go outside, thanks a bunch for the offer!”

“…So you’re saying no.”

“With pleasure.”

The table falls silent. When the sound over their coffee returns, it’s from Joshua chuckling, his smile even more evident on his face. It’s saccharine, and it’s sickening, and—

“So, did you have anything else to tell me, or can I go? I have a job to do,” he says, even though his sketchbook is the first thing he meant to grab when he got to the table and not anywhere else.

“…Hmph,” Joshua frowns, his eyes narrowing. “No, I don’t. If that’s what you really want, then I won’t stop you.”

He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it; by the time he can possibly say a word, however, Neku’s already gone on his way, his person and belongings wholly absent from the opposite chair and his shadow ten steps away from that of the café overhang.

He doesn’t see Joshua again for a while, but it doesn’t mean the boy’s presence ever leaves him.

Which is godawful unfortunate. When he had said that he wouldn’t sign up for whatever joke of a ‘Cephalosquad’ that the boy was a part of, he had meant it—and he still does, even three days after their talk.

And, technically, one could say that the other had done the same, following through with the words that he had said before Neku had left—but it seems today that it isn’t the case, not when Neku’s pocket is yet again disrupted by someone out of the crowds.

It happens when he’s drawing those same commissions that he had meant to the day of the past incident, right in the midst of a more complex one: it’s a poster for two twins, an Inkling and an Octoling clad in yellow and purple as they gesture and yell through a microphone in close composition. It’s not as special as it’s been made out to be, whether by him or the client—their mom, apparently, even though she’s got hair dyed with lime and not sunstone or amethyst—but considering the quality, it’s an oddly significant one.

He can’t really fathom why someone would request so much from a high school student, but he doesn’t have much time to dwell on it.

“Excuse me,” a voice snaps him out of his thoughts, tapping the table before lifting their hand back up, “Did someone named Yoshiya Kiryu come by here yesterday?”

An Inkling looks down at him from the tableside, a cup of coffee wrapped in her hands. Her fingers peek from rosy sweater sleeves, and she smiles the sun from under a black beanie and a skull pin. For every second that she speaks, a brown bag around her shoulder and her hip rustles, blown by the wind of every note nearby.

He’d feel bad snarking to her, but she’s the one who sought him out. She should definitely see this coming.

“Sure did. And I met him.” Twice, he doesn’t add.

“Oh, good.” she speaks, and then there’s a look of regret on her face that adds, well, not really. “I was wondering if I could talk to you. About—well, what he was supposed to talk about.”

“I think he talked plenty,” Neku grumbles, erasing a harsh line, and the girl winces.

“Well…” her voice trails off. A finger taps her chin before resting over the cup sleeve again. “Yes. I’m sure he did. But I don’t think he said the right things. Otherwise, we probably would have met somewhere else.”

“What, are you expecting me to join because you’ll say something he didn’t? ” Neku rolls his eyes, glaring up to the Inkling shortly afterward. “ You’re bullshitting it at this point, aren’t you.”

“I’m not, really,” she sighs, and she pauses. The music overhead drowns as it ends in the crowds, and she speaks as the next track plays. “Please, will you hear me out? I don’t have any reason for funny business, honest.”

Neku feels a little sorry for her, actually. She came all this way and now he’s turning her down without a second thought, his mouth opening not seconds after to respond—

And then he looks up at her one last time, her eyes pleading under knotted brows and her fingers cutting small dents in the paper mold, and his first words fade to naught.

The beat of a drum echoes through the speakers. It is quiet, waiting, expectant.

Neku groans. This is going to kick his ass, and he knows it.

“…Fine. Go ahead.”

Her face lights up like the sun, and as she nears the opposite chair, Neku just knows that he’s screwed more than a hundred times over.

“May I?” she gestures. Neku nods, and her face nearly glows, the effect only disrupted as she sets her coffee down with a ‘clink.’

“Alright. Thank you,” she smiles, steadying herself in spite of the shakes and glee in her voice.

“Before we get started, we should introduce ourselves, shouldn’t we?” The chair drags along the white tile and she slides swiftly into the seat as she speaks. “My name is Raimu Bito, but Rhyme’s just fine. Joshua and I have been working together for the past eight months.”

She nods once again, then twice, eyes training on him and waiting, and Neku jolts himself out of his commission-induced stupor to speak.

“Neku Sakuraba. I’m, uh—pretty sure you know how we met.”

Rhyme interlaces her hands in her lap, barely visible between the table and the loops of pink. The edges of her mouth turn upward, and her eyes narrow in turn, apologetic but almost laughing in Neku’s eyes. “Well, Neku, it’s nice to meet you!”

He doesn’t grant her a response. The weariness pales her face.

“Alright—back to business,” she says, and sips her coffee. “So, did Joshua at least tell you about the Cephalosquad?”

“Yeah. And why I’m stuck in this mess.” Neku says, leaning into his sketch. “That’s it.”

“Is… that when you left?”

“No, I left after he said I didn’t have the choice to join or not.”

Rhyme pauses, fidgeting her hands as she mulls over what to say. Eventually, she half-whispers, “…Neku, I think you might be barking up the wrong tree.”

Unbelievable.

“What the hell is there to mishear from that?” Neku leans back, eyes narrowing. Rhyme continues to stare up at him, no sign of being unfazed. “Well, nothing. It’s what he didn’t tell you that might’ve helped, you know?”

She takes another sip of her coffee—although by now, Neku’s pretty convinced it’s just tea. “He probably said you got caught up in this because of a coincidence, right? It’s partially true. Sometimes, you just happened to be somewhere by chance. But other times, it would be on purpose.”

“We’ve got a little… no, a big problem on our hands,” she whispers, her eyes now glancing between Neku and her own palms. “To tell the truth, we’re not a big group—after all, we haven’t worked together for long, and we can’t reach out to too many people. We wouldn’t want anyone to catch on, you know?” her shoulders lift and plummet. “But, of course, that means that we’re not prepared when something like this happens.”

“Like… what, exactly?”

“Something’s… happening. We’re all sure of it,” Rhyme murmurs, and Neku raises a brow. “We’ve been hearing about these people in town called the ‘Reefers,’ and their name hasn’t yet sunk to the bottom of the sea. We’ve been tracking them ever since we first heard about them—and one of them was the guy who nearly killed you.”

Her fingers interlace again, twisting into untangleable knots. “After what happened… we really have to be on full alert. Whatever they’re after, they’ll get it—and if they’ll harm strangers, then they’ll likely get rid of anyone in their way if they have to.”

She falls silent. The café, from the people to the music, takes in a breath, a pause.

“Sorry. That’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” Rhyme sighs once more, and her hands fall apart, the palms briefly white as a sheet. “We really need the help, though. I know it might be a fixed decision, but would you at least think about it?”

Neku stares at her, gaze unmoving. She locks eye contact with him, and they stare and stare, the café and music picking back up in their place.

…Ugh. “Okay. And what are you going to do if I don’t?”

Rhyme regards it quickly, thoughtlessly, like she’s considering the tirade of a fifth grader. “We’ll find someone else who’ll help.”

“And if you don’t?”

“We have to,” she says, hope persistent in her voice.

“But if you don’t,” Neku snaps, and she smiles.

“I think we will. But, if not, then… I guess we’ll try to do it on our own.”

The silence returns. This time, it drags on, stretching as thin as a wire. Neku watches it pull along, focusing on Rhyme, her drink, his own and the notebook and the table, until it finally snaps in two with his own voice.

“Your damn team isn’t gonna leave me be, will it.”

“Well, I will, and I’ll try to stop them. I can’t make any promises, though.”

Something in her eyes shifts; then, her seat creaks, and she rises from the table, taking her drink with her. The clasp around her bag opens as she starts walking—but she doesn’t leave the vicinity before turning back to Neku one last time.

“Neku? Thank you, at least, for hearing us out. It really means a lot.”

And then, before Neku can say even the smallest of words—she’s gone. All that’s left is all that belongs in his hands, and a thin sheet of paper with cursive letters and neat prints of numbers.

How clever.

He tucks it away between the pages of his sketchbook, and his world shifts back to normal once more.

Frankly, Neku isn’t sure how he got so caught up in this.

The Great Zapfish casts a shadow overhead. It slinks around the Deca Tower and chimes like a bell. Neku catches a glimpse of its oil black skin when he looks up, its whiskers jittering as it appears and disappears. With its departure, he glances back down to the conversation in the palm of his hands, the bright hues fluorescent under both shadow and sun as he scrolls through the few messages from the night before.

> August 1, XX19.

neku. (20:07) hey. this is neku neku. (20:08) ill do it

rhyme! (20:19) Perfect!! rhyme! (20:19) Can you meet in front of the Deca Tower, tomorrow, at 12?

neku. (20:22) sure w/e

rhyme! (20:22) ٩(•̤̀ᵕ•̤́๑)彡ᵒᵏᵎᵎᵎᵎ I’ll see you there!

He’s dumber than a stream of minnows. Why did he agree to this when that’s the equivalent of casting away any normalcy in his life?

He sighs again, peering around for any sign of rose knit or black. There’s little to find in the crowds of people, all arranged in a spectrum of designs as usual, so Neku casts his eyes back to his phone and the headphones slung for once around his shoulder.

“Neku, over here—!” A familiar voice bursts from the crowd, and Neku turns his head, one hand halfway through to pulling his headphones back up. He ducks through some of the passing crowds, ensures any chance of actually bumping into them never becomes true as he makes his way to Rhyme. When he finally catches sight of them, he notices another next to her—another Inkling with the same color hair, taller, and dressed in a loose tank top and cargo pants—and he seems to recognize him at the same time, his voice raising as he looks Neku over.

“So’s this the guy you and priss kid were talkin’ about?”

Rhyme beams. “Yep! Neku, this is my brother, Beat. Beat, this is Neku. He’s going to be working with us from now on.”

“Yo!” He grins as well, waving his hand halfway in the air. “Wassup?”

Neku responds with silence.

“Well, jeez,” Beat mutters, crossing his arms, “if that’s what you wanna do.”

Rhyme cuts through the tension with a tilt of her head and a step forward, then another as she walks past them. “Okay—we should get going, right? I bet those two are waiting for us back there!”

“They can’t have been for a while,” Neku shrugs, following behind her and her brother. “Why’s your brother here, anyways?”

“You got a problem with that?”

“Beat!” Rhyme yells, turning around once before continuing. “He kinda wanted to go with me. Plus, I thought it’d be a good idea—you guys could get to know each other on the way!”

“How long is the walk?”

“Not too far! But striking a conversation like this never hurt, right?”

Honestly, Neku’s surprised that she can keep up a smile for this long, stop, and bring it back so quickly after. Still, instead of arguing with her, he merely resigns, “…Sure.”

He’s gotta say, though, the silence that follows seems almost laughable. Finally, after a few minutes of it, Rhyme brings up another topic again, drifting to Beat’s side and leaning past him as she does.

“So, what’ve you been up to this summer?”

“…Nothing.”

Rhyme tilts her head, a finger tapping her chin in thought. “Really? I mean, besides turf wars or Grizzco? Like, at The Reef, or Arowana, or— ” suddenly, she nearly jumps, eyes widening as she notes, “ Oh! What about the Splatocalypse?”

“You mean the last Splatfest?” Neku raises an eyebrow, and Rhyme continues on.

“Yeah! But calling it the Splatocalypse is pretty fitting, too, isn’t it? It makes it unique.”

He’ll ignore the destructive parameters of that name—cods and carps, of all things those hosts could call it, it didn’t need to be that—and pretend like it’s still just the ‘Final Splatfest’ that they held. “Whatever. What do you mean, ‘what about’ it?”

“Well, which team were you on? It’s always interesting to hear about everyone’s teams and opinions during the Splatfest.” Before Neku can swat away her and her question, she adds, “C’mon, we‘d never make fun of your decision!”

Well. Now she’s just forcing him to. He should get some kind of reward for this, like what they give in games when you tell the truth or a good option.

Neku glances around them, then back to their group, and finally gives in. “…Pretty sure I joined Chaos.”

“Someone like you joined Chaos?” Beat says, and Neku almost laughs at how contrary his words are to Rhyme’s own.

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Nah, there’s nothin’—” Beat gives up, and leans a ways back— “I just didn’ expect you to join it.”

“You don’t have to say why. I’m sure you had a good reason,” Rhyme hums, “But, if it says anything, Beat and I actually joined Chaos, too! Right?”

Beat grins and yells, “Hell yeah we did! And those Team Order punks got their asses beat hard!”

“…Well, basically,” Rhyme laughs, though she jabs him lightly in the shoulder soon after. “You’re exaggerating, though. We lost a few of those rounds, didn’t we?”

“Well—yeah, but what about the other rounds? Order got served, and most of it’s ‘cause of us!”

“I can’t disagree with that,” she sighs, but she smiles again before looking back in front of them. “Hey, Neku, guess where we are?”

“…‘Here’?” It doesn’t take much skill to notice the difference in setting, but only when Neku actually bothers to look around. When she gives him a small nod and affirmation, he’s only even more stunned than he was prior. Color him surprised more by the fact that they barely needed one topic to cover the distance—though maybe they were walking pretty fast, and maybe most of that time was covered by a wash of silence.

Something’s… kind of weird about this, though. Taking a look around, most of the walls and path has faded to a dull grey and obsidian; Neku faintly thinks he’s seen this before as they pass by the sound of rushing water, a background noise that only heightens as they pass through the area. When they step over panels of white chalk and splatters of old graffiti, Neku realizes exactly where they are, and the shock nearly escapes through his voice.

“Wait, isn’t this Angelfish Canal?”

“Yep. But we built the base over here since it was quiet. Nobody would notice us.” She gestures to him to approach a grey door, the windows covered by blinds and steel frames, and knocks twice before pushing the door open. “Anyways, welcome!”

Neku steps through, not expecting much from the dreary exterior, and subsequently tries to avoid the shock that resurges and follows.

They’re in a main room, vast in size but nearly void of spare space. Instead of the light steel from the windows, black steel melds around the clear glass windows, the stark white shelves and hangers, and all else that hangs around and in the room. A white tile snakes from one entrance to another, passing white napkins and containers and a glassy table with white borders prominent in the room’s center. The only difference in color are the chairs surrounding it, black but splattered with color alike a construction paper and crayons.

“…Yeah,” he winds up hissing, “I did not see that coming.”

Rhyme shrugs and responds, “That’s fair.”

“Is that the new kid?” A voice bursts from a separate room. Its speaker soon follows: a man with similar monochromatic tones in his clothes and hair, walking calmly through the doorway almost incognizant of anything that had occurred prior. He slouches back, one hand in the front pocket of his pants and one against the doorway. Rhyme waves to him as she notices him.

“Yep! He said he’d do it!”

“Nice,” he pushes himself off the frame and waves, wrapping his free hand around the nape of his neck. “Well. Welcome, Phones! Feel free to make yourself at home.”

Oh, Neku has absolutely seen that face before. He’s exactly sure he knows where, too.

“Mr. H?!” he sputters, falling back onto one leg. “Aren’t you normally at—”

“Nah, we’re closed this morning. Had some ‘deliveries’ to make.” The man laughs; his shades glint, the same ones Neku’s always seen him wear behind the counter, and continues on. “But, hey, thanks for joining. Really livens up the place, you know?”

And here Neku thought it was lively enough with the cast and decor, but now, this— “Sorry, are—am I getting some kind of explanation for this? Like, what’s going on?”

“ Yeah, of course, Phones. ”

“Neku,” he frowns. “It’s Neku Sakuraba. I’ve told you this a million times before.”

“Gotcha! Sorry, Phones,” Hanekoma gives a thumbs-up in response, and Neku wishes the door weren’t so far away now.

“As for your question, though: what we’re doing is all top secret.” He walks towards Neku and the rest of the group, pointing at the two around him once before bringing his hand back to his neck. “We have agents, here, so to say—like Rhyme and Beat, here. That’s three down. Then, there’s support: there’s two on communication and three on designs. They‘re the same; you’ll see ‘em soon enough.”

“Then, of course, there’s me. Sanae Hanekoma. Blood type A, March 3. By day, your hip café barista. By night, local sponsor, leader, third designer, the works.” He jabs a thumb towards his chest, and Neku raises an eyebrow. He’s pretty sure he’s heard the first half of this before.

Hey, though. Maybe he should be glad the guy didn’t give even more of a personal ad than before.

“Okay. Sure,” he groans. “So what am I supposed to do?”

“How good are you at Turf Wars?” He asks.

“What, is that going to affect what I do?” Neku says, raising a hand up in a half-shrug.

“Nah, it won’t. But it’ll affect how good you are at it.” Hanekoma looks around, even past Neku and the others and even lowering his shades to squint past the window blinds and the front door. “…Seriously, he can’t be this backed up. I know the others are workin’ shop, but where’s—”

A single, sound knock echoes on the door, and the door creaks open. Neku whips around, nerves and fears filling his head at the singular knock versus the two of Rhyme’s own, and looks back to a bright lifevest. It soars through the air, the original orange and white just barely visible under layers of cream and neon pink ink as its owner enters. “Sorry, did I miss something?”

The owner’s hair is noticeable first, a pale silver and lavender against the black and contrasting hues. Even then, his hair and his skin seems to be covered or singed in patches of the same hues of ink, and Neku doesn’t think he’s ever regretted a decision so much in his life as this.

“There’s the kid of the hour!” Hanekoma yells, waving in the agent; Rhyme gives a smaller wave, short and curt, and follows up with a soft, “Welcome back, Joshua.”

“Why, thank you both. My apologies for the delay—I was rather caught up during the mission.” He grabs a hand towel off of one of the racks and swats the ink off and away from him, and Hanekoma waves him off.

“’s alright. Actually, you showed up just in time.”

“Oh?” Joshua looks up from the towel, already stained in the foreign ink, and his eyes widen slightly before he speaks. “Oh, Neku! You actually showed up. Color me surprised.”

Neku crosses his arms and scoffs, stepping back from the boy. “…Yeah, no thanks to you.”

“Not even one? I’d like to think I had some effect on your joining.”

Beat jumps in, standing solidly between his group and Joshua alone as he yells, “Yeah, well, you almost ruined it! What if Rhyme hadn’t stepped in to help, huh?”

Joshua wipes the last of the ink off and drops the towel in a small hamper nearby as he points out, “But she did.”

“Guys, not the point.” Hanekoma steps in the center between all of them, both of his hands out towards the two. When they’ve both backed down—though, arguably, Beat certainly hasn’t, a hand still held out in front of Rhyme—he straightens up and turns to Neku. “Anyways. Neku—you’ll be working with Josh as an agent.”

Neku feels his mouth go dry, his gaze unmoving from the other as he struggles to speak.

“Excuse me?”

“Do you have a problem with that?” Hanekoma sighs, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “I know you might have some qualms with it, but we’ve been needing a second agent for a while. Our team’s usually out in partners. Safety reasons, y’know?”

Frankly, Neku’s calling bullshit.

“Okay,” he says, throwing his hands in front of him, “well—then why can’t Beat or Rhyme go with him?”

Beat turns, his face scrunched up as he mutters, “‘Cause I ain’t goin’ with that priss.”

“Beat…!” Rhyme says, half-gasping and half-warning as she places a hand over Beat’s arm.

“Sheesh, see what I put up with?” Hanekoma sighs, his hands digging deeper into the ends of his pockets. His voice cracks with amusement soon after. “…Kiddin’. But he already was—and then after a mission, he didn’t want to. He’s been with Rhyme ever since—and hey, that’s why you’re goin’ in his place!”

“I—” Neku feels his voice rising into a yell— “You could have told me beforehand!”

“Does it really matter, Phones? It’s the same goal either way! You’ll just be farther out on the field than the rest. Isn’t that what you signed up for?”

He hates to admit it, but… he does have a point, and it’s hardly refutable with how he’s phrased it. “…Sure. Yeah,” he gives in, and Hanekoma grins.

“That’s the spirit! Now, Neku, apologize to the kid, will ya?”

Wow, this is not getting any better, is it? “…What?”

“Did I stutter? I told you two you’d be workin’ together, didn’t I? How are you gonna work together if you won’t even talk nice?”

Neku glares daggers at him, at Joshua, at all of them—and, in the end, it doesn’t do anything. He sighs, “…Fine. Okay,” and takes a deep breath, and he runs through the few points he can apologize for. “I… am. Sorry. For being a jerk and telling you off five or so days ago.”

It doesn’t seem like more than a half-canned response to him—at least, that’s the amount of effort he put into it, anyways, and Rhyme’s clouded stare back must have noticed it, too—but Hanekoma nods and turns away. “Alright. Josh?”

The boy looks up towards him, a smile faint on his face as he says, “Yes?”

“C’mon, get over here. You’re included in this, too.”

“Really?” The smile falls from his face, drowning quickly under the waves of apprehension before he shrugs it off. “…Well, alright. I’m sorry for what happened four days ago. I understand that it jeopardized our objective, and I apologize to Rhyme for just the same.” He looks back to Hanekoma with the same expression: Is that good enough for you?

Apparently, it is.

What a damn low standard.

“Good! See? You two are talking to another! That’s an improvement from before, isn’t it?” Hanekoma turns back to all of them. His face, momentarily alight, grows pale. The lights around them flicker once, twice, and again, and for a moment, it feels like all of the winter has seeped past the summer heat. “Now, before I can dismiss you four, I’m gonna need you all to remember something—especially so this sort of thing doesn’t happen again. Alright?”

“Trust your partner. You remember when I said that last time, right?” He looks through to all of them but Neku, watching each of them nod slightly before he continues. “I meant it. You can’t face these Reefers without one another. You can trust yourself all you want, but you’ve got to trust each other—and more than ever, you’ve got to trust your partner when you’re here. No matter how far apart, no matter what happens: you need to remember you’re not alone. All of you are stronger together. If you can open up, reach out, and tell them what you’re thinking, then you’ll only grow stronger. You all got that?”

Beat and Rhyme nod once more. Neku tries, as fake as a nod would be, but his chin and his mouth clam up, frozen by frost and wind, and all that comes out is silence.

“…Josh?” Hanekoma asks. “Phones?”

His voice is a fire, quick and unsteady to the ice; Neku places his hands to his elbows, and musters the little strength and masks he has after to mumble out, “Yeah, sure.”

“Yep,” Joshua follows him, nods. “Got it.”

Neku spots the man’s eyebrow raise just above his shades—and then, he sees it lower, falling in place of a sigh. He takes his hands out of his pockets and places them firm around his waist.

“Alright! Well, class—you’re all dismissed.”

The lacking reception begins, and it ends almost as soon as it starts. “…Kidding, kidding. I’ll see you kids back soon, yeah? I’ve gotta open up shop. Why don’t you all stop by later? Especially you, Phones—maybe you’ll see the others, while you’re at it.”

“…It’s fine. I think I’ve had enough coffee for one day.” Neku grumbles. “I’m just gonna go.”

“That’s cool. Hurts a little, but it’s cool.” Hanekoma places a hand over his chest; it falls from it just as easily, and he laughs Neku’s words off with a wave of his hand. “I’m kiddin’. Go and be on your way.”

Neku doesn’t take long to approach the door before he hears another yell.

“Hey, Phones: one more thing?”

“…What?”

“Get a good rest. You never know when a mission could pop up, you know. We try to be available whenever we can.”

“…Sure,” he chokes out, half between laughter and half between exhaustion. Hanekoma? Acting as some kind of dad for him? Where did that come from?

The answer never comes—he pushes the door open and enters the open canal again, and the visions of jet black and white and silver hues fades back to a dull grey. The water fills his ears once more. But just as easily as he pulls his headphones over his ears, everything floods back in a blur—what happened six days ago, four, one day ago, and today, all else washing away with the waves and debris—

and, honestly, the whole way back, Neku wonders what the hell he got himself into, because he sure as hell never thought it’d be this.

…It’s going to be a long summer.

#TWEWY #The World Ends With You #TWEWY Bang 2019 #inkresistup #Subarashiki Kono Sekai #fanfic #submission

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