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foradecision · 3 years

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‘ the agony of my feelings allowed me no respite; no incident occurred from which my rage and misery could not extract its food. ’ — mary shelley ; frankenstein.

HARRAN COUNTRYSIDE, DAY 175 ; 14:56:23.

“— goddamn it. of course.”

the tank is dry, nothing but stale air coming through the siphon hose. same as the last one. same as the last dozen fucking vehicles he’d checked, gutted, stripped, and abandoned, up and down this fissured backroad to nowhere. from nowhere. this whole place is nowhere.

a thin line of trees borders the gravel to his left, curtaining the wide spread of empty fields like a patchwork quilt. farmland, mostly. dead and disused. to his right, past the scrub, the ground slopes gently downward to a rock - lined creek. there’s a spitting toad nearby; he can hear the guttural heave of its bloated throat from here.

distantly, high up on a cliffside, an eagle’s cry goes unanswered.

the creek is tempting. he’s tired. sore. filthy, to the point where it’s getting to be a concern. where, if he were to walk up to the gates of jasir’s place looking the way he does right now, they might mistake him for a zombie and shoot him on sight. threadbare amusement curls the edges of that chasm in his chest, just for a second: then it’s gone again.

leaving his buggy where it’s parked, fishtailed at the road’s grassy shoulder — useless, gas gauge riding on empty — crane hangs a right and heads for the water.

a bolt is loosed from his crossbow. the toad falls before it can hit him with an acid burn. there’s a scar on his neck from the last time, an inch or so of rougher tissue that runs above the line of his collar.

he does a quick scan of the shoreline. two or three biters linger maybe a hundred yards away, but they haven’t noticed him. they’re slow. far enough that he’ll see them long before they get too close.

fuck it.

he unloads his gear. strips off gloves, vest, boots; clothing peeled from his skin layer by layer until he’s bare except shorts and the grime - caked chain around his neck, dog tags sticking to his chest. one set, of the two he was issued. deanna has the other set.

no. no goodbyes.

no goodbyes. just hold onto ‘em for me.

it’s a freshwater creek; murky and tinged green with algae, but clean. uncontaminated. he wades out until he’s waist - deep, takes a breath, and dives beneath the surface. the shock of cold wakes him up like a rush of adrenaline. he stays under until he can’t, and then he stays a few seconds more. when he comes back up, there’s a clarity to it: a sharpness to his senses, focused as the finely whetted edge of a knife. he swims again to the shallows and starts to wash.

this is day ten, since the others returned to the slums. since they’d chased a clue given to them by a dying man delirious with fever. since their last - ditch, desperate search for a cure had come up empty and every move he’d made leading up to it — everything they’d done, everything they’d lost — slipped through his fingers like fine sand. he couldn’t face them. none of them. couldn’t stomach the thought of going back, of walking into the tower to tell lena and brecken and everyone else that it was all for nothing. he just needed time. that’s what he’d said. just a little time to work through it all, get it straight again in his head. camden was still working, sure. still holed up in old town in a lab littered with corpses. he’d hit some kind of breakthrough, but his labors since then hadn’t borne fruit. bad samples. limited testing material. crane doesn’t understand the science of it. what he understands is that a month after that radio call, people keep getting sick. people keep turning. people keep dying.

crane, why do you even give a fuck what happens to these people? you don’t belong here! this is just a job for you!

no. not anymore it’s not.

there’s no contract now. no mission objective. no target. there’s just him, and them, and a long stretch of nothing.

this is day ten.

the afternoon sun hikes steadily across the cloudless sky. six hours ‘til nightfall. he fills his canteen, redresses, gathers his gear. shuffling footfalls and the solitary groan of a biter drifts downwind towards him. a pause, mid - step. a glance over his shoulder.

she trips up the slope as she tries to follow. he doesn’t glance at her again.

there’s a gas station up the road, beyond the fields and half a klick east of the creek. a ten minute walk without interruptions. all told, he makes it in less than fifteen. the pumps are a no - go, but he finds enough fuel left in a semi and a rusted jeep to fill his jerrycan two thirds of the way. gnats hum in his ears as he cuts through the tree line and he’s sweating again by the time he returns to the buggy. fucking gnats. fucking heat.

fucking harran.

the buggy itself is a battered thing. mesh and steel, spikes up front, hood rigged with electrical cylinders to fry at the push of a button. UV lights mounted to a protective cage around the single seat. at some point, the paint job was blue. it’s lost under a spattering of mud and streaks of dust, blood in varying shades: dark brown to copper to fresh sprays of red. she’s not quiet, and her suspension’s been shot halfway to hell since he flew off that overpass near the train tracks, but she’s solid. fast. decent off - road traction, even through the roughest terrain. she gets the job done.

crane turns the keys in the ignition. a loud, vibrating rev, a scrape of tires against gravel. behind him, the biter from the creek makes a clumsy lunge for the vehicle’s rear. he leaves her in the dust and drives.

he’s been doing a lot of that. driving. maybe he missed it. maybe he likes the solitude, except for that ribbon of isolation that runs through him constantly like a wound spreading poison. no: what draws him is something else.

static crackles through the radio hooked to his dash.

“kyle, can you hear me?”

the skip of his heartbeat drops back to a dull rhythm. he should have known better. communication between here and the slums is shaky on a good day, worse down here behind the mountains.

“yeah, bilal, i hear you.”

“i’ve got the parts to fix your ride, if you want to come by and let me take a look.”

“she’s doin’ fine for now.”

“you sure? it’s no trouble. hell, i can probably have her running again by —”

“yeah, listen, i’ll stop by tomorrow, alright?” he says it without the intent to follow through on it.

“whatever you say, brother. hey — don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“sure thing.”

he ends it there. veers left to avoid an upended van and a spill of toxic waste. doesn’t correct to avoid clipping the biter crouched over a strewn mess of gore, greedily devouring someone’s remains. or several someones. the buggy jumps a little. his expression stays as unmoved as if he’d just bucked over a speed bump or a pothole.

the sun is behind him now, dipping westward.

he drives.

it’s beautiful out here, in its own right. the kind of place he might’ve visited by choice, before, when the world wasn’t like it is now. the road unspools behind him, twisting south towards the dam. he hears the water before he sees it. rushing noise off to the right. he doesn’t stop. keeps going past the turnoff and down a winding side - road until he pulls over onto a patch of asphalt that used to be a small parking lot. a couple of vehicles, a truck, a trailer hitched to a hatchback with luggage piled high. he’s checked them all before. cleaned out the bags and the gas tanks, salvaged what parts he could from under their hoods. there’s a single building, a two - story cottage converted to a restaurant converted to a safe house, UV bulbs strung along the balcony railing like christmas lights.

past it, where the road dips into a curve, the open maw of a half - collapsed tunnel is just visible beyond the scattering of trees and abandoned cars, biters meandering listlessly in the afternoon heat.

four hours.

he parks the buggy and climbs up to the balcony, barricading the door once he’s inside.

no one uses this place. that’s why he’d picked it. quiet, deserted, off the beaten path. no one uses it because of its proximity to the tunnel. deep within the reeking darkness, volatiles nest and thrive. they prowl too close after nightfall. no one wants the risk.

no one except crane.

the note was pinned up on an old door used as a bulletin board at jasir’s farm. warning people away from the area, to steer clear at any cost. during the day, the hive is full. they only scatter when darkness falls, emerging to hunt, to feed, to roam the countryside freely and without borders. that’s what he’s counting on.

but there’s a trick to it. something he discovered — stumbled upon — when he went looking for sabit and found a nest instead. volatiles can breed. they’re not made exclusively through the natural evolution of the virus, but nor do they procreate in a traditional sense. hive mother is the closest comparison he can make: sentient creatures within the hives that somehow trigger the mutation. again, it’s a science he doesn’t fully understand. he knows the logistics. he knows enough. destroying those things stops the spread.

kill the beating heart, and you kill the beast.

he hefts his duffel bag onto one of the tables and unzips it, a side pocket where a tightly - wrapped pouch is nestled within the folds of a spare shirt. inside, a medical injector and tool slots that used to house five vials of antizin. the final vial is loaded into the injector. the shot is quick. practiced. another four days bought on the calendar; beyond that, the pages are blank.

it should worry him more than it does.

after he checks the alarm on his watch, crane moves to the sleeping bag unrolled on the floor and lies down fully clothed. he’s trained himself to fall asleep like he’s stepping off a curb. no thought, just muscle memory.

four hours, then he can go.

dreams are less muscle, all memory. he sees them every time: living faces turned to dead ones turned to taunting, hungry ghosts. children screaming. a little girl and then a little boy, the plush yield of a bloodstained teddy bear under the tread of his boot. you can’t go yet, i thought of a name!

someplace safe.

the monsters are gone.

semper fi, marine.

residual hallucinations blend seamlessly, threading sepia and bronze through the black and mottled grey, the arterial red. jade’s voice brushes the threads like a hand searching for fever; soft, then bleeding, then telling him to let her go, and then jade isn’t jade, she’s deanna, and she isn’t saying let her go — she’s saying let go.

no goodbyes, remember?

make it count.

you don’t know what suffering is.

there’s an old ache just under the hook of his left clavicle. a starburst of pain sings sharply outward with the waking breath he sucks in, then pushes back out. he presses the heel of his right hand against the scar from rais’ dagger, the one he didn’t dodge fast enough. that’s a running theme. not fast enough. not soon enough. not enough. his other hand lifts, wrist tipping, as the digital numbers on his watch go from 20:59 to 21:00.

he cuts the alarm.

night out here sounds nothing like night in the slums, or in old town. there, it’s all infected moans, wind rippling through tarps and rustling trash; it’s all crackling fires and the creak of scaffolding, clangs of metal as virals throw aside manhole covers to scrabble out into the streets.

here, it’s quiet. crickets chirp, cicadas chitter and hum. an owl hoots from somewhere in the trees off to the right of the cottage.

he waits by the balcony door until he hears them passing by. ragged, growling breaths. heavy steps. they come out of the nest in droves but then they scatter. then they fade into the dark.

crane hops the railing and heads toward the tunnel’s waiting mouth.

years ago, on the ground in fallujah, he led a stealth mission of five other marines to infiltrate a hostile - run outpost at the city’s downtown core. tactics he relied on then to evade detection are called back on now. he stays low. hugs the shadows. mindful of every move, every breath, every beat of his heart. the first biter he kills doesn’t have the time to react. he snaps its neck, fast and clean. drags it off into the cover of the trees and slices a deep line across its swollen belly. then a second line, stem to stern.

bandanna tightly secured over his mouth and nose, he reaches gloved hands inside the wound and begins to cover himself in gore.

the smell is overpowering. sour and almost chemical, thick with rot, seeping through the fabric. but overpowering is the entire point. dahlia claimed she had a magic potion to move amongst infected, to blend in; everyone thought she was crazy. so did he, or delusional at the least — until she’d asked him to gather what she needed to make more tincture. one whiff of those mushrooms, and he understood.

she didn’t have a magic potion. she just knew which plants were odorous enough to mask the scent of living flesh.

and if that worked, crane figures this will too.

three measured strides into the tunnel confirms it. the biters don’t turn. don’t react at all. he passes them in silence, a chameleon, unnoticed and undisturbed. this is the easy part. the deeper he goes, the more perilous the risk. virals twitch and mutter, grouped around piles of reeking carnage mounted nearly ceiling - high in some places. he doesn’t turn on his flashlight for chancing exposure. it takes his eyes a few minutes to adjust to the gloom.

he has eight hours, give or take, before the volatiles return and this excursion goes from dangerous to suicidal. eight hours is plenty.

bones. the ground is littered with them, crunching underfoot. some are smaller; animal, maybe — birds, rodents — but most aren’t. bigger things. human. skull fragments that are all teeth. the smell has gotten incrementally worse, distinguishable even through his own cloak of viscera. it’s suffocating and rank. biological. metallic like a slaughterhouse. choked with dirt like a grave.

edging a pool of stagnant water that fills the crevice between cracked slabs of cement, he pushes on.

he’s getting closer. he can hear it now. an unearthly vocalization that pitches above the rest, echoing off stone. it’s a howl and a groan and a wail and a scream all in one, wordless, feral, made of pain and desperate hunger.

he sees it near a blocked door to a maintenance hall, in front of a wide wall of concrete debris. tethered to the earth by flesh and tendon like roots. there’s no lower half: only a head and torso, its other parts impossible to identify. the head is thrown back. spikes of bone push through bloody sinew in odd places, and the jaw is split along both sides, a wide, disjointed yawn. nothing about it is human. nothing about it suggests that it once was human.

circling behind it, crane braces one hand on its shoulder and draws his blade with the other. the machete is driven clean through, back to front, gleaming point emerging from its chest.

kill the beating heart —

the death rattle is jarring, a wet, retching sustain, and then it stops. the thing stills, goes limp. he pulls his blade out again.

— you kill the beast.

there are three more of them, nestled deep within the labyrinth. he finds them by sound, repeats the same routine with each. in a way, it feels merciful. killing sabit was merciful. he wasn’t long in this state when crane had found him; too far gone to save, but with enough human left in him to plead for release.

these ones don’t plead, but release is granted anyway.

because of how deep the nest goes, of how careful he is in navigating it, it’s coming up on midnight by the time he turns around to work his way back. that isn’t worrisome: sunrise starts washing the horizon in swaths of pale peach at 5:30, doesn’t fully spread her rays ‘til six. he still has a seven - hour window, and all he has to do is reach the cottage again. the camouflage is working. his pulse is steady.

everything is playing out accordingly, right up until it’s not.

a viral staggers from behind one of the vehicles in the tunnel, an old city bus that blocked it from view. he misses it, focused on a through - path to avoid the others. it knocks into his shoulder. hard.

crane stumbles a little. it wouldn’t be enough to throw him had his footing been on even ground.

his boot slips off the edge of the crevice.

his ankle, the same one roman had fucked up months before, torques harshly in a direction it isn’t supposed to go, skewing his balance sideways.

“oh, f—”

the curse is caught before it’s anything more than a breath.

he falls. water splashes around him.

four feet away, the viral lets out a screech.

the noise. that’s all, he tells himself: just the sudden noise drawing attention. but the filthy pool around him begins to turn filthier, a runoff of blood and entrails slipping from his clothes. he freezes. holds absolutely still, unblinking, barely breathing. three more virals and a handful of shuffling biters are starting to congregate around the water. sensing some disturbance, some change in the air. one of them presses in closer. he realizes what’s about to happen a microsecond before.

the biter trips over the slab and lands in the pool with him, dousing him in a second wave. he scrambles backward, kicks it back when it lunges, but the damage is already done.

they smell him now. they see him.

crane jumps from the pool and bodies the first viral that comes at him. the tunnel fills with shrieks and groans, a ravenous stampede with a single piece of prey.

his machete cuts through the nearest throat. then he breaks into a run.

the firecrackers he throws behind him buy enough time to clear the tunnel’s entrance, to dip into the trees, to move at a flat sprint until ultraviolet lights wink at him between the black canopy. he vaults the awning, grabs hold of the balcony rail.

a volatile’s hunting cry reverberates through the moonlit night.

HARRAN COUNTRYSIDE, DAY 176 ; 6:02:45.

“lena. lena, do you copy? ... shit.”

still nothing, just the static noise of a poor signal. the transmission is weak. he curses under his breath, throws a glance down the ridge behind him, hikes further up the crest. the air thins. he stops and tries again.

“lena, come in. do you copy?”

this time, finally, the static catches traction.

“crane? is that you?"

“thank god. yeah — yeah, brecken, it’s me.”

“holy shit.” relief, even through a weak transmission, hits him center mass. “it’s good to hear your voice, mate. it’s been too fucking long.”

“i — i know, man. i’m sorry. really. i —”

“nah, nah, save that for later, okay? tell me you’re finally through with this poxy country holiday and you’re ready to come home.”

home. that hits, too. emotion swells in his throat. a dammed flood he’s been so diligent to keep at bay.

last night was sleepless. he’d kept watch until sunrise, kept alert, because it occurred to him when he’d hit the water: he doesn’t want to die. losing hope is a dangerous thing. and maybe it is hopeless. maybe the antizin will run dry and he’ll turn, and one of them will have to put him down, like he did rahim and jade, and there won’t be any stopping it. no cure. no way out.

maybe he thought he did want to die — or maybe it was just that he didn’t care if he lived.

home. come back home.

it’s not about him. it’s not himself that he’s living for.

not anymore.

“yeah,” he manages. “yeah. i, uh — i think it’s past time for that.”

brecken blows out a breath. “sanest thing i’ve heard you say in a while. look, let me grab the others and —”

“no. no, don’t do that. i don’t have a lot of time — could lose the signal again at any second. brecken ... listen, just — just tell ‘em i’m on my way, huh? tell ‘em ...”

“yeah. i will.”

“i’m sorry.”

“i know, crane."

a steady inhale is pulled and released.

he hears something. something that seems to shake the air around him, above him; something a lot like the whirring engine of an aircraft. but it can’t be that. there haven’t been any drops in months. squinting against the sun’s rays, crane scans the skyline, searching —

“hang on,” brecken says, “you hear that?”

“what? you’re not tellin’ me it’s loud enough t—”

“there’s a — oi, get ayo up here, right now! — there’s a fucking plane. what the fuck, crane, i thought the GRE weren’t dropping supplies anymore?”

“no, they’re not, they’re — wh— hang on, what do you mean there’s a plane? there’s a plane right —”

“listen, call me again once you’re close, okay? get your ass back here as soon as possible, we’ll talk then.”

“n— wait — brecken, don’t —”

the radio goes dead.

overhead, a fixed - wing transport plane banks left and makes a hairpin turn to circle the cliffside. minimum altitude over rural land is five hundred feet. it’s close.

close enough to catch a flash of color from the massive logo painted on its fuselage.

a medical cross inside a circle, bold letters spelling out GRE.

#battle journals.*#ii / i. hell is empty and all the devils are here.*#are we anywhere near this point in the arc? no #did i write this anyway? absolutely i did

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keelywolfe · 5 years

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FIC: Terms of Engagement ch.4

Summary: Rus is still a kid himself and with his life turned upside-down, he has no idea how he’s going to take care of his baby brother. Having other kid skeletons appear in his world wasn’t exactly the help he was looking for.

Tags: Pre-Spicyhoney, Underfell Papyrus, Underfell Sans, Underswap Papyrus, Underswap Sans, Undertale Sans, Undertale Papyrus, Babybones, Scientist W. D. Gaster, Possible Past Child Abuse, Skellie Daycare, Growing Up Together, Big Brothers Caring For Their Little Bros, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Angst

Notes: Ah, the days of skellie daycare are over. Our boys are grown, but things aren’t well in their worlds. Something is wrong and Rus is going to find out what. Whether he wants to or not.

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

Read Chapter Four on AO3

Read It Here!

~~*~~

Some Fifteen Years Later

“Time to get up, brother!”

Rus rolled over on his bare mattress with a groan, pulling his blanket back over his head. Not that a flimsy barrier was going to stop his bro, not a chance. Nothing short of a brick wall could stop him once he got going, and Rus didn’t keep one of those in his inventory.

Maybe he should look into it.

In the meantime, he could only hiss like a new vampire when Blue yanked open the curtains to let in the artificial light. It gleamed blindingly off the snow and through the window, directly into Rus’s cringing sockets. Satisfied at his brother’s betrayed howls, Blue dusted off his hands and turning back to Rus to scold, “Brother! Get up!”

“c’mon, bro!” Rus’s words were muffled into his pillow. “can’t you see i’ve been working myself to the bone?”

He peeked out in time to see Blue stamp one of his booted feet indignantly, gloved hands on his hips. “You have sentry duty in an hour! How can I catch a Human if we aren’t watching for one!”

Rus rolled over with a yawn, “don’t worry, bro, ulna be late.”

“Ugh, brother!” Blue shook his head, but beneath his pained disgust was a glimmer of humor. “All right, I’m leaving, but I’ll check on your post later!” He left, but poked his head back in to add, “I wasn’t bone yesterday, mweh heh heh!”

Blue vanished again as Rus chuckled to himself. He waited until he heard the front door close before rolling over to snag his cigarettes. His bro couldn’t stand the smell and he had enough to gripe about already this morning. A flick of his lighter and Rus drew in a long breath of smoke, held it in even as trickles escaped through his ribs, and exhaled it in a pale cloud. He flopped back in bed, careful to let the ash fall to the messy floor rather than into the sheets.

Idly, he considered the glowing tip of the cigarette dangling between his fingers. He’d started smoking not long after they came to Snowdin. Couldn’t really hurt him much and it made him seem older to Monsters who weren’t interested in looking too closely. Back then, anything he could use to make others not question him raising his brother had been helpful.

Mostly he’d fooled everyone with a trick as simple as abandoning his stripes early. That made it easy to pretend to be older than he was. He’d been tall even then and no one asked any troublesome questions. They’d let him come into Muffet’s after a long day of napping on sentry duty, let him drink alongside them and no one questioned that he preferred honey to whiskey; all Monsters had their preferences. It’d worked until he was old enough for it to not matter, and no one had been the wiser.

That was years ago now, though and Blue was of age himself, for whatever good it did him here. Ah, his wonderful, sweet-natured bro. So desperate to be liked and to make friends. The residents of Snowdin were nice enough, but outside of Muffet’s, they tended to keep to themselves. The cold weather and being trapped Underground tended to sap away friendly impulses and no matter how hard Blue tried, no one had been willing to step into the role of friend for him.

It hurt a little to know that Blue probably hadn’t had a decent friend since they’d stopped using the machine.

Since he’d lost Edge and Papyrus.

Damn, but it’d been a while since he’d thought of them. Rus sat up a little more in bed and lit another cigarette as he thought of his bro’s childhood playmates.

The scrapbook Blue made with their pictures all those years ago still sat on his bookshelf, but it was dusty with disuse. It was a wonder Blue remembered them at all, he’d still been a wee baby bones back then.

~~*~~

Barely a month after whatever happened to Red and Edge was when it all finally fell apart. Their little shared worlds were already beginning to unravel on the day it was Rus’s turn to watch the kiddos. Sans came right on time to drop off Papyrus. Kid was as wriggly as ever in his cheery orange-striped shirt, squirming down from his brother’s arms and off to play with Blue.

The two of them stopped asking when Edge and Red were coming back, but Blue still sniffled about it at night, lying in bed with Red’s worn-out jacket clutched in his arms.

To Rus’s surprise, Sans lingered and his grim expression brought no comfort. Not after what happened with their missing friends.

“what is it?” Rus asked, low to keep the kiddos from hearing him.

“we need to talk.”

Shit. Rus nodded and led Sans to his room. Their bros would be okay to play on their own for a little while. He sprawled out in his bed cushions, drawing up a knee to rest his chin on.

“okay, spill, what’s going on?”

But Sans wouldn’t be rushed. He settled to sit on one of the larger cushions that passed for a chair, legs crossed under him, and said bluntly, “we need to talk about what that fucker did to us.”

Rus could only blink, shocked to his core. They all had a fair idea of what had gone down before, even if their memories were pretty damn shaky. None of them ever compared notes, but they’d been to each other’s worlds, dozens of times. They’d seen the equipment, the tables with the straps on them. They all knew without a word, so Rus wasn’t sure why Sans wanted to share any now. “i don't want to talk—”

“i know you don't!” Sans said and his normal amicable tone was lost in a fury that jumbled in even more confusion. “me either, but we hafta. someone came to our lab yesterday.”

That nugget of information froze Rus’s soul. “what?”

“someone in a white coat,” Sans picked at the ragged hem of his shorts moodily. “don’t think she was looking for us, but she was with some others, poking around. they looked like they might be trying to open it again. and if they’re trying to do it in my world, they’ll try it here, you know. that’s how this works.”

It was true. They’d all noticed odd parallels between their worlds past people looking alike and if someone was coming to Sans’s lab...a painful thought occurred and it hurt to think it, of that sweet little baby bones who’d craved hugs being hurt or afraid, but Rus forced out, “do you think that’s what happened to red and edge?”

“i dunno what happened to them, maybe.” Sans blew out a long breath, his finger bones scraping his skull as he rubbed the back of his head agitatedly. “look, you guys weren’t the first worlds i came to. found another one first, another pair like us. those two seemed nice enough. they lived with the queen, took me to see her. but i gave her a hard look, i saw her. i saw her soul was bad.”

Rus looked away. He didn’t like talking about seeing souls. Neither had Red. The way it felt, someone else’s sins crawling up their spine like a bloated spider, ugh. It was horrible and Rus preferred not to, thanks. “she wanted me to stay, see,” Sans went on, doggedly, “wanted me to show them how the machine worked. i said i was gonna, played like it was all dandy. and then i ran back and got the hell out of there. scrambled the coordinates, but they still have a machine. if they figured out how to use it on their own?” He shook his head. “we’ve been using the machine for our own piddly shit, started all this back when we were kids and didn’t know better. but i don’t like to think what could happen if someone else tried it. someone with a little more determination.”

“what are you saying?” Rus whispered. But he already knew.

“come on, let’s be honest.” Sans was always grinning; with his skull structure, he didn’t have much choice. But there was nothing pleasant in the way he smiled now, “we can do that with each other, yeah? d’you trust anyone in your world with the machine? bet the nice cream gal is a real sweetheart, but you really think the old doc was the only bad soul around?”

“but…” He could feel the tears stinging in his sockets. He and Red had never been besties, but Rus found he missed the little asshole more than he’d ever thought he could. Losing Edge hurt even worse, that sweet baby bones, and remembering the last time he’d seen the kid, those thin, strong arms hugging him so tightly. If he’d known, had even an inkling what might happen, he never would’ve let the kid go.

Now Sans was saying he was losing him and Papyrus, too.

“we could move in together—“ but Rus trailed off, already knowing the answer even as Sans shook his head. All of them living in the same world would mean leaving the machine behind for anyone to use. That would kinda miss the point of it all. “fuck it, this sucks!”

Sans looked as miserable as Rus felt, blinking too hard. “i know. and it’s gonna break our bros hearts. but we can’t know what all is on the other side and i’m not sure i wanna wait until they step through to find out. and i definitely don’t wanna leave them for some other white coat to find. we need to shut them down, get them someplace where no one else can use ‘em ever again.”

Everything Sans was saying made sense, no matter how much Rus didn’t want to hear it. Hot resentment welled up, filling Rus’s soul; against the scientist, the machine, even against Sans. This wasn’t fair, none of this, why did they have to be the ones to do this shit? All Rus ever wanted was to be like the other Monster kids he’d seen, playing and getting nice cream, waiting for Gyftmas and a Santa who never managed to find his way to laboratory where little skeletons waited hopefully, thinking maybe this time, maybe they’d been good enough, and never were.

But there was no point to being mad about it, never was. All they’d ever had was each other, and someone had to do it. The same way someone had to clumsily wrap little presents for all the baby bones because if Santa couldn’t be bothered to show up, then a trio of big brothers weren’t about to let their little bros be disappointed again.

Someone had to and much as Rus hated to admit it, Sans was right.

“how can we move the machines?” Rus swiped at his damp sockets with his sleeve impatiently, “not like we can piggyback it around like we do our bros.”

“that’s another idea i got. follow me, i wanna show you something.”

Rus scrambled back to his feet, almost on Sans’s heels as they went out the door. But something felt odd as they walked through, a wavering of some sort and when Rus blinked, they weren’t in the hallway. They were standing outside the lab where the sweltering heat of Hotland was already making them sweat.

“how did you—“ Rus whirled around, blinking hard, but the scenery didn’t change. They were outside somehow and Sans’s grin was showing a little more humor.

“neat, huh? that’s why i said we needed to talk, cause if i can do it, i bet you can. and it’s not just monsters i can move, i can take things, too. maybe with a lil’ more practice…” He trailed off meaningfully.

“yeah, i get you, but i still don’t get how. or why.”

Sans could only shrug. “ain’t like we can ask. if i was gonna guess, i’d say he was hedging his bets that if the machine didn’t work, we’d be a different way through the barrier.” That grin twisted sourly. “shame none of his shit worked the way it's supposed to.”

Wasn’t a shame at all in Rus’s opinion. The real shame was the use they’d found for the machine was about to get dumped like so much trash. But when he thought of that other world Sans described, thought of Monsters coming through with bad souls filled with LV. Like the world Red was from.

Yeah, no. That wasn’t happening.

“show me how,” Rus said and Sans did.

It was exhausting and painful at first, worse even than the machine. He’d step out from a shortcut chilled to his marrow and it would be hours before his shivering stopped.

But it was easy, right within reach, and soon he was good at it, too good, good enough to take other people and things with him, and when he learned about the sentry job opening in Snowdin, he knew it was time.

After that, they’d only needed to say goodbye.

~~*~~

Rus stared up at the ceiling as he finished his cigarette, quietly consumed by memory.

Damn, but that was a long time ago now. It’d been what, fourteen, fifteen years? Their faces were reduced to blurred smears in his mind, maybe he needed to have a look of his own in Blue’s scrapbook tonight.

But even if the faces weren’t clear, he remembered Papyrus’s exuberance, his laughter. He remembered little Edge’s shy sweetness, the precious giggles from the kid who was so determined to marry him someday. Red and Sans, so like him and yet not, big bros determined to protect the baby bones.

So long ago but it still felt like there was gap in his soul where they’d all been once.

Rus snorted and smashed out his butt. Why was he thinking about them, anyway? Today wasn’t some kind of fucked up anniversary or anything. It was just another day in the Underground, another day, another G, and tonight it would be the same as any other. Watching Napstaton on the television he’d scrounged from the dump, choking down his brother’s less than appetizing version of tacos and secretly eating over at Muffet’s on the sly. Write another post-it to put by his sock for Blue to howl about tomorrow, and maybe head out for a drink, maybe even something else depending on who was there.

Nothing happened in Underswap, nothing changed.

So why the hell did he feel so agitated?

A niggling idea occurred, shaken loose by his nostalgia. Might be that there was a little something something he needed to check on, a thing he hadn’t looked at in years. He still had a little time before he had to get to his sentry post and it wasn’t like it took him longer than a minute to get there, anyway. He had the time, but the place he was heading wasn’t one he liked to shortcut into.

Rus pulled on a pair of shorts and a hoodie, scrounged from the pile of ‘not too stanky to wear again’ clothes and headed downstairs to shove his feet into his untied shoes. He lit another cigarette while he walked around back, standing uncomfortably by a door he rarely opened and Blue never seemed to notice. That was something right there, wasn’t it, that his little bro didn’t even see this door. Hard for Rus to figure out what that meant, and he wasn’t much one for puzzles or mysteries, anyway. Knock knock jokes, that was his gig and he wanted to keep it that way.

So why was he here, then, unlocking the door and pushing it open, all creaking and wheezy like a fucking late-night Halloween Special.

The lights still worked, thank the stars, or Rus might’ve said fuck it and headed off for his morning nap sentry duty after all.

Down in the cold basement, the machine sat hulking in the corner where Rus had dumped it after a painfully exhausting shortcut and there was a memory Rus could do without. Laying quivering on the dirty floor, close to vomiting from the burnt dregs of magic in the back of his throat along with bitter satisfaction and tears.

It was covered in a heavy cloth that was dusty and untouched. Useless. The machine didn’t have any power, cut off and starved to keep away any of the other Universes.

But Rus still shivered from something other than the cold. That feeling was still there, the same sensation he remembered as a kid. Like it wanted to be used.

“stop it,” Rus said aloud. Stupid. Like anyone was here to hear it? But his soul was crawling, a prickly sensation tiptoeing up his spine. He was alone, but it felt like something was here, a presence.

Rus wasn’t afraid of ghosts, knew a couple personally. This wasn’t a ghost and he couldn’t tell if it was malevolent or kind, only that it was there. And it wanted something from him.

“knock it off. i’m not listening,” Rus said, but it was a lie. He was listening to the throb in his head, the faint hiss like white noise echoing. Thin panic was starting to rise and he’d had enough of being here on his own. Let the machine crumble to dust, he was out of here.

He ignored the creepflesh feeling in his soul; he wanted out of here now and he reached out for a shortcut, the same way he had since he’d learned how and a thousand times since.

But the moment he stepped into it, he knew something was wrong. Colder than it’d ever been and it wasn’t gone in an instant as it should be. The dark/not dark lingered, his vision rattled, shaken in a psychedelic kaleidoscope. It hurt like his very molecules were being squeezed in an vice.

All together it only lasted an instant, but when Rus could see again, he was blinking through tears, staring uncomprehendingly at what was in front of him.

That…was not his sentry post. His shortcut should’ve plopped him right into his chair where he’d been a hundred times before, ready to sink down with his head on his arms and nap away the morning. This was wrong.

The trees were wrong, the sentry station, the snow, even the fucking light, everything was wrong, the world tilted to the side and off.

He felt like he’d walked through a door and ended up someplace else, which yeah, that was what a shortcut was, but this was a grotesque parody of where he was supposed to be.

This sentry post looked like a fucking fortress, crisscrossed with razor wire and there were bars in the windowed section. Warnings were graffitied on it in garish paint and what the fuck was a LV hunter? Not something Rus wanted to meet, that much he knew.

Rus stepped backwards and away, the sharp taste of fear heavy on the back of tongue. He was already reaching automatically for another shortcut, felt that unnatural cold in his grasp a split second before unexpected pain broke his focus. Rus yelped as he fell, hot agony zigzagging up his leg as a bone in his ankle snapped when he hit the ground.

The snow was as cold as the void, maybe colder, seeping wetly through his clothes. Painfully, Rus managed to roll over only to stare downward in disbelief. There was a trap around his foot, winding up his leg like a cruel vine. Nothing like the childish games his brother designed. This was a fucking snare made of barbed wire and springs that dug dusty gouges into his bones, and he was caught but good in it. He tried to kick it loose and had to stifle another scream, dull agony flaring sickeningly from his broken ankle.

Fuck, what was going on, what? Something was wrong, this whole place was wrong, not his shabby little cardboard post with the rickety chair he’d scrounged from the dump. This was someplace else, someplace terrible.

Through the haze of pain, Rus could hear the distant baying of dogs.

~~*~~

TBC

#spicyhoney #papcest #keelywolfe #underfell #underswap #underfell papyrus #underswap papyrus #underswap sans #underfell sans #undertale papyrus #undertale sans #baby bones #terms of engagement

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theofficersacademy · 4 years

Photo

The little oaken box still sits in its corner of the cathedral, a few months’ worth of dust coating it like snow. Rumors abound about the short-lived advice box–that it had been used as kindling for the Midsommar festival, that the Cardinal Beasts were created when an unwitting student opened the box and unleashed the terrible evil kept inside, even that it could predict the future and foretell the winner of the upcoming Battle of the Eagle and Lion.

The advice box is a font of evil, exposing the precious secrets and fears of the Officers Academy for all to gawk at and judge.

The advice box is a force of good, gathering the empathetic hearts of Garreg Mach Monastery together to give advice to their anxious peers.

Regardless of opinion, everyone could agree on one thing: The advice box must return.

....

A familiar monk wipes down the table before placing down a fresh stack of paper and quills. He blows off the dust from the little oaken box, then pats it affectionately like an old friend. The box has been in disuse for quite some time, and no notes await him inside. The monk resolves to be its first query.

There is 1 note. Would you like to read the note from the advice box?

Welcome to TOA’s Advice Box!

Let’s get this out of the way, we haven’t opened the Advice Box since September, and we’ve grown so much since then that there are a lot of people here looking at this and going, “What the hell, I didn’t know that this was here!” We hope that 2020 will be the year we open the box to questions more regularly, and we thank everyone who wanted the Advice Box to make a comeback!

While the Advice Box is open, characters may submit questions or scenarios, and/or respond to questions their peers are asking! The advice box will be open from January 17th to January 31st. We hope that you enjoy this mini-event!

It’s been a while, so here is a refresher on how the Advice box works. Even if you were here when the Advice Box was last open, please keep reading as we have made a few important changes to the rules.

Sending questions in:

Please follow the @toa-advicebox blog. This is where the advice box will work out of.

During the mini-event period, send in-character asks to this blog asking for advice on anything your character would like. In accordance with the tradition, all asks must be sent anonymously.

TOA’s Advice Box is based on the ingame Advice Box mechanic, so all submissions should be formatted as questions. This isn’t simply a rumor mill or meme generator, but that doesn’t mean that rumors can’t be made into questions.

Your question will be published here! Wait with bated breath to see if it gets answered.

Answering questions:

Please follow the @toa-advicebox blog. It will publish questions that are sent in anonymously.

Reblog the question you’d like your character to answer, rather than make a new text post.

Please tag all advice box answers with #toa advice box so others can easily find them.

If the sender of the question chooses, they may decide to reveal themselves however they would like: using the reply function to comment on your post, reblogging it with an acknowledgement, etc.

This mini-event is meant to serve as a fun, mysteriously anon way to interact with each other! You can choose to just send in questions, just answer questions, or both (though of course we have to receive questions in order for anyone to answer anything!).

Frequently Asked Questions

Is there a limit to how many questions I can send in or answer?

Nope! As long as the advice box is open, you can keep sending in questions. You can also continue to answer questions after the box closes, too, but there won’t be any more new ones coming in. Additionally, there’s no limit to how many answers a question can have. Just because someone else has answered it already doesn’t mean your character can’t offer their own opinion!

What should the answers be like?

However you want, as long as it’s in-character! You can do a drabble; you can do just a couple lines. It’s as intensive or laid-back as you want to make it. All you need to do is tag with #toa advice box

Do I have to reveal that I sent the question?

No, you don’t! You can remain anonymous forever if you’d like. But if you do want to show your face to your responder, feel free! The comment function is great for that, or you can reblog it.

What if I want to make it into a thread?

Feel free! If the answer so inspires you that you think a great interaction might come out of it, there’s nothing stopping you. Of course, it’s always good etiquette to run it by the other mun first.

Does this count towards anything, like monthly activity or skill points?

Yes, any answers you post will count towards monthly activity! However, at this time, there won’t be any rewards for participating in this mini-event.

#toa announcements #toa mini events

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waves--6821 · 4 years

Text

Ardent ~ Chp. 23

- no real warnings except some fluff..

- gif belongs to original creator, not me..

Bright lights are the first thing seen above her, blinding her sensitive eyes as her body softly moved. Her bones, joints, and brain aching from disuse. She grunts, hearing soft noises in the background as her eyes blink to adjust.

“Curve ball, high and outside for ball one. So the Dodgers are tied, 4-4. And the crowd well knows that with one swing of his bat, this fellow’s capable of making it a brand-new game again. Just an absolutely gorgeous day here at Ebbets Field. The Phillies have managed to tie up at 4-4. But the Dodgers have three men on. Pearson beaned Reiser in Philadelphia last month. Wouldn’t the youngster like a hit here to return the favour? Pete leans in. Here’s the pitch. Swung on. A line to the right. And it gets past Rizzo. Three runs will score. Reiser heads to third. Durocher’s going to wave him in. Here comes the relay, but they won’t get him.”

She grunts as she finally decides to move, letting her muscles contract and release as she sits up in a plain twin bed, the sheets a stiff cotton and the blanket a soft beige colour. Her mind feeling the baseball game on the radio was familiar, letting it go as she pushed to stand. Her legs wobble as she stumbles to touch a wall, her eyes seeing two windows covered with a thin curtain to block sunlight.

“Ms. Grant! You’re awake. You need to lay back, you’re very sick ma’am.” A woman dressed as a nurse says, her light hair softly tucked into her hat.

“Where am I?” She grumbles out, her voice rough as she turns and goes to take a drink of water that was next to the bed on an end table. Her eyes finally noticing her medical dress, making her pause before looking back.

“The Dodgers take the lead, 8-4. Oh, Dodgers! Everyone is on their feet. What a game we have here today, folks. What a game indeed.”

“Ms. Grant? Please, you need to calm and lay back down.” The nurse says, watching her glance back to the small radio set on a dresser next to the nurse.

“Louise.” She mumbles out her name, glancing back to the radio as the nurse stood more tense than before.

“Where am I?” Louise asks again, her body now moving swiftly as she took a step to the radio next to the nurse. She switches it off softly glancing to the woman with no emotion, connecting their eyes.

“A hospital in New York City.” The nurse responds almost robotically, as Louise’s mind already invaded her brain without much effort.

“The game, it’s from May, nineteen forty one. I was there, I saw the winning hit.” Louise speaks up looking at herself in a mirror. Staring at her brunette shoulder length hair, her smooth skin; her hands fumbly tear the side of the medical dress. Finding the scar from her energy gunshot wrapped in gauze, a soft red spot leaking through it.

“Open the door.” Louise commands, and the nurse opens it showcasing the modern exterior of the room. The nurse moves to sit on the bed, being released from command as Louise leaves. Men ran towards her, their guns raised high as they were dressed in black and stopped many feet before her.

“Stop, ma’am.” A man yells with his helmet on, Louise’s influence spreading to each man as she spoke.

“Who do you work for?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D.” The man says and their guns lower as Louise nods and passes them. She stops before one, checking his brown trousers and grey and white jacket.

“Give me your jacket and pants.” She orders and the man, the other guards touring their back along with the now half naked one. She changed into the pants and the jacket, letting the men free and forgetful as she left. Leaving the building she was hidden in, freezing as she exited and heard car horns screech, bright signs hanging around her showcasing videos and vibrant pictures absurdly different from what she was used to.

Louise walked freely, her feet bare as she walked across a sidewalk, her head turned up and staring at the signs. Many people bypass her, slowing as they watched her walk quietly along. She disappears among the crowd, going to places she knows by heart through New York, quickly picking information from signs as she walks peacefully.

Hours and hours surpass, her body finally freezing before an abandoned building in Brooklyn. She sits at a wooden bench before it, just staring at its emptiness and down. Her hands are folded across her lap, just staring, slight thoughts fill her mind as her hand absentmindedly reaches beneath her shirt to grab her dog tags, rather Bucky’s.

The tags jingle as she pulls them out and stares down at the name. Running her finger over his rusted name, his numbers. Louise’s feet quickly move to make her stand, her body moving to the closed door of the building. She takes a step close to the door, her hand jerking the handle to open. A cracking sound alerts her to the door breaking through old wood as it opens slowly.

She takes soft steps into the old, musty room, memories filling her mind in reminiscence.

‘Luisa’ Louise hears her mother shout from the kitchen, her head looking up from the opened counter surface in the bakery display.

‘Luisa, hai fatto fiori??’ (Luisa,did you make flowers?) Her mother asks, staring at her from the back.

‘Yes, mamma.’ She replies as she piped a final petal on a specialty cake for one of her mother’s co-workers. Her mother moves near her, seeing her beautiful display of flowers along to the top of the cake.

‘È perfetto, il mio fiore.’ (It’s perfect, my flower.)

Louise smiles at the memory, stepping to a small box in the large empty dark building. She kneels down, grabbing the first thing sticking out. She pulls back a dusty picture frame, blowing lightly to clear a layer of dust off. She smiles widely as she sees the aged photo; her father holding her 3 year old self upon his shoulder, her mother hugging his side as they stood before the bakery at it’s opening. She sets the frame to the side next to her, her hand grabbing another one that was smaller.

Her hands wipe the dust off this time, pausing at the photo inside it. Her smile widens before a few tears fall down her cheeks.

‘Bucky. You need to look at the camera.’ Louise’s father yells, trying to get a photo of the Golden Trio’s last carnival celebration for the summer. Steve stands next to Bucky on his right, smiling and laughing at Bucky’s excuses. Louise next to him on his left wearing a light blue dress with a smile from laughing.

‘Okay, last one.’ Her father yells as the photographer readies his camera and goes to take the picture. Bucky had his arms around each of their shoulders, his head once again turned to look as Louise next to him. Steve smiles at the camera as Louise shares a glimpse with Bucky, as the camera takes its picture.’

Footsteps sound next to her, causing her to tense till she feels a familiar presence behind her. Louise rises to a stand, turning softly as she looks back.

“Steve?” She says, seeing her best friend in perfect health in a white shirt and khaki pants. She quickly steps from the bench, jogging near Steve as he takes steps near her. Their arms barely reach each other before they both cling to one another. She holds him tightly, keeping her emotions intact as she immersed herself into him, his smell, the feeling of their bonds.

Steve pulls back after a minute, brushing her hair from her face so he could see her. He leans in and kisses her forehead once before leaning back slightly and speaking.

“You scared me for a second.” Steve speaks up, his feelings evident in his voice and his eyes that were tired and saddened.

“Same here, Steven.” She jokes with a smile, making her ache as it's been a long time since she’d last done it. Steve glances to the frame in her hand, lifting it to see the photo of them.

“He wouldn’t stop looking at you that day.” Steve murmurs, making Louise chuckle as her tears dried and she wiped her eyes.

“It seems your adjustment was rather quick, Miss Grant.” A voice says behind them, and she calms her mind to control and turns from Steve.

“It was.” She responds as she sees the dark skinned man standing a few feet away in all black with a long black coat and eye patch on his left side.

“You’ve been asleep for about seventy years, Miss Grant. Along with you companion Mr. Rogers, who awoke just days ago.”

“Who are you and what year is it?” Lousie plays along, feeling Steve hold her hand in assurance as the man spoke.

“Name’s Nick Fury, the year is 2011.” Fury says and Louise tenses, feeling something unknown fill her mind and thoughts with doubt. She glances to Steve with his own eyes giving her a look of agreement as they look back at Fury in uncertainty and hesitancy.

‘We need to sedate her deeper, doctor.’ A muffle male voice says near Louise, her body immoble, and her eyes shut.

‘She’s calm enough, man. Keep it together. We’re on a tight schedule. We must finish her swipe before having to return her. Now hand me the syringe, we need to hurry.’ Louise lays silent, her body calm before pain takes over her senses, overwhelming her in fear.

Louise shoots up on the couch she laid in, her head shooting around to find something. Her hands twist on a lamp light, giving the darkness of an office it’s light. She sighs, shaking of her dreariness and going to stand. She moves to look around, seeing that she is still at a gym.

Grunts fill the air as she takes a step out the door to the small office. Her head perks up to see Steve knocking and destroying another punching bag.

“Trouble sleeping?” She hears a voice speak up, seeing Nick Fury once again holding a file. His eye looked towards Louise then back to Steve who did the same. Louise took a few steps to meet them halfway, Steve grabbing another punching bag and hanging it up, as she neared him.

“You’re here with a mission, sir?” Steve speaks up as Louise intended to listen.

“I am.” Fury responds and hands the file to Louise.

“Trying to get us back in the world?” Steve continues, glancing at Louise and the file.

“Trying to save it.” Fury adds with his arm at his back, Louise reads a few lines before looking back up to him.

“Stark, huh?” Louise finally speaks, reading the file for an operation, a team, the Avengers.

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

- I hope you enjoyed this series, this is only the first technical movie of the series. Let me know what you thought of it, and any feedback is great.

- Quotev account

- Wattpad account

- @knivesoutcivilwar

#captain america #captain america the first avenger #Steve Rogers #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x oc #red skull #peggy carter #action #love #fluff #Avengers #nick fury

0 notes

spectrumscribe · 7 years

Text

And the lightning that strikes it.

sequel to the previous part of this, The Tower.

(and also, @donniedrinkscoffee, since you asked specifically to be tagged if I ever sequeled this.)

——————————————–

Donnie knows there’s tenseness, between him and Leo, after he kills Vizioso. He feels it in the glances his brother gives him, and sees the wide birth he’s granted when they’re in a room together. He hears it in the tone Leo addresses him with during training, and notices in the light pats on his shoulder in the rare moments Leo will touch him.

And.

Donnie doesn’t care.

His weapon is clean again, blade sheathed until he needs it once more. The Don’s body has long since been removed from the hotel, carted off to a morgue and then a gravesite. Said hotel has long since been closed down; due to the amount of damage they’d done to it during the fight with Kravaxas.

Donnie’s hands have been scrubbed clean, and he’s continued his nightly life with his friends and family.

He doesn’t care that Leo still looks at him. Still looks at him, soft horror and deep confusion in each of those looks.

He doesn’t care that sometimes his hands will clench suddenly, and remember the sensation of slicing through Vizioso’s throat. He’s killed before, oh has he killed, but never with such intention. Not against an ordinary human, as powerful the Don might have been with money and sway.

He doesn’t care that Leo’s words of their father’s disappointment ring in his ears, sometimes. His father always found something in him to be disappointed about, as concealed and quiet he kept that disappointment.

Donnie doesn’t care. He can’t.

Because Donnie knows, he knows, for sure that there’s one less threat to his family. One less thing to wake up to every evening and wonder if that’s what will finally get them, what will finally take one of his brothers or friends from him. From all of them. The way the Shredder took his father.

Donnie’s anger simmers and settles, quiet and calm again. It’s still there, soft and insidious, just beneath his other thoughts. But it’s silent, now that he’s removed at least one of his waking and sleeping nightmares from his life.

Leo’s words though, to not lose sight of himself, still come back to him on occasion. Especially when Donnie sees his brother see him, and he looks the other way. Or leaves the room completely.

They don’t bring shame or guilt to his mind, though. They bring a resignation of sorts, and a distant feeling of wonder.

Just who does his brother think he is?

After their wars, their losses, the endless months of fighting, who does Leo think Donnie to be?

Leo knew the path they would have to take, even when they were kids, young and naïve to what the world really was. Their father had told them himself that there would always be adversity against them. Always someone looking to harm them in some way. They were always going to have to make hard decisions, and as their leader, Leo should have known that better than anyone.

It seemed though, that he didn’t. And perhaps their father hadn’t as well.

Because for all his warnings, Splinter had never actually made those hard decisions. Not like Donnie has. Always preaching for the conservation of life, the sparing of enemy lives. He tried to teach them to act with deft, but soft hands. And those things still confuse Donnie, for their contradictions and impracticality, especially now that they’ve moved on. Become independent of their guardian’s watchful eye.

Because Splinter is dead, and his ideals led him to that death.

Ideals are for children, in Donnie’s opinion. The wishful hopes of young minds that don’t know just how harsh the world truly is.

Some ideals are acceptable, Donnie supposes, but most are just not realistic. Not for them. Never for them. Not in a world that will look at them, scream monster, and aim a weapon at them in response. In fear.

Donnie has always known those things, that no one would ever accept them. That there was only ever going to be the slimmest, slightest chance that someone would look at his family, and not want to kill them all.

After seeing his father killed three times over, fought more battles he cares to remember, and struggled for three years running to keep his brothers alive and whole- Donnie is suspicious of every shadow, of every potential ally, and of every chance they take. Fate has never been kind to them, but these last months have been particularly hard. Their father is gone, and while Donnie doesn’t miss certain aspects of their lives before, he misses the safety of having a guardian. Of knowing that when things came down to the line, his father’s sword would protect them.

There isn’t anyone but them now, and their father’s sword gathers dust in the dojo. Donnie has, and will continue, to see that no one else’s weapons join that sword in disuse.

Days go by, and the newspapers stop running stories of a murdered gang lord. Leo keeps hiding from Donnie; eyes skimming to the side, and posture becoming defensive, every time they meet. Donnie keeps not caring.

Donnie loves his brother, loved his father, but he will never let their remaining family die for their ideals and morals.

Morality isn’t simple as their father taught them it was. It’s a mess of grey shades everywhere, darkening and lightening depending on who or what is aiming a threat at them that night. It will never be easy to understand and wield, and Donnie knows that well now days.

Maybe, because they say nothing of what Donnie has done, Raph and Mikey agree. That there is a point where you either have to take the chance of further, and more grievous, harm in the future, or put a permanent end to it. Or maybe they’ve just got enough sense and respect to let Donnie do what needs to be done, and not continue to cling to how things used to be.

Mikey treats Donnie no different than he always has, and Raph’s curt attitude never changes. It seems, whatever their thoughts on Donnie’s bloodied hands are, they won’t be voicing them to him.

Leo is the only one who skirts Donnie’s presence, the only one who still darts glances at his staff during training. It seems hypocritical, considering that Donnie hadn’t even flinched when Leo had dropped the mask of a man he’d murdered, right in front of them all. Leo’s swords remain what they’ve always been to Donnie; tools, to protect and defend their family with. Such was what the Shredder’s death had been.

Leo has done the same thing as Donnie, killing in the name of preserving their family’s lives. Why he’s so upset about Don Vizioso, Donnie can’t tell.

And, he still doesn’t care.

(Or maybe he does, and it hurts a little more every time his brother looks at him like he’s seeing a stranger, and watches him like one too.

But Donnie has never shied from doing what needed doing, and has rarely faltered when faced with a task upon which his family depended. He won’t start now. Not even for this.)

Donnie’s hands are clean, but sometimes feel dirty, and he doesn’t care. They’ve been dirty for a long time now, years now, and he just needs to wash a little more. Not think about himself a little harder, and focus on continuing to reinforce the lair’s defenses with a bit more concentration.

Leo keeps looking away from Donnie, and Donnie keeps not caring. Because, having Leo here to give him those annoying (hurtful) looks is better than the alternative.

There’s a stone, a large stone, one that Donnie carved with his own tools and hands, and it sits somewhere far from New York. Donnie knows its exact placement, and measurements, down to the square inch. He knows that one day another stone will join it, maybe more than just one, maybe two, or three, or god forbid four, but not for a long time. Not while he still breathes.

Having Leo here to disapprove of Donnie’s choices is better than not having him here at all. It always will be, no matter how many looks and glances his brother gives him that land on Donnie’s scales and- (hurt)- rankle his temper.

The morals that Leo clings to are the remaining pieces of their father, and he continues trying to lead their family by them. Donnie can feel that the morals have little to no effect on him anymore, and the same can be said for his other brothers.

They loved their father, but they won’t die for him. Not now, not when they’re finally free of war and ready to try living outside it. Not when Splinter is months dead, and now only controlling how their family runs through Leo’s weakening voice.

Donnie’s blade is clean and sheathed, ready for when he next needs it. And he will, he knows he will. He always will. And he’ll use it again and again, and not regret it even once.

Leo keeps giving him looks, and Donnie lets him. After all, better he be here to give them, than to be lying underground by their father’s side.

#my writing #Donatello #leonardo #still salty about this #always will be salty about this #so here's some more salt for you all #The Heart of Evil #tmnt #TMNT 2012 #love murder children don't you guys?#i need more intense donnie #this is me #asking the fandom #for more intense donnie things #pls and thanks

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