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fuckyeahscienceparty · 3 years

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Fighter (Lover)

Call me fighter, I'll mop the floor with you

Call me lover, I'll take you for a drink or two

You'll get older, and maybe then you'll feel some control...

HOO longest thing i've ever written lads :V hope y'all enjoy! title/description based on fighter by jack stauber bc i thought it was very fitting lol

Engie let out a strangled yell as he finally managed to land a solid hit on RED's Spy with his wrench, the familiar sound of crunching bone and the squelches of blood that accompanied it filling the air and splattering his overalls in French flavored crimson.

Not a very pretty way to die, and he almost felt bad for the fella, knowing from.... rather painful experience how excruciating it was to go through respawn after having your skull caved in. But almost was the keyword here, especially considering the fact that the bastard had unfortunately managed to sap both his dispenser and his sentry in the process, leaving him not only vulnerable to his fellow REDs but without the resources to actually get things up and running again.

What was extra unfortunate was that before he could get to either of them, they'd both managed to practically destroy both affected buildings, causing his dispenser to spark and sputter to a halt and his sentry to explode, sending components and pieces of shrapnel flying everywhere and barely giving Engie a chance to shield himself while hanging on to less than half of his health points.

Great. Just great.

He let out an annoyed grumble, anger rising in himself as he began to at least attempt damage control by basically tearing the sapper off of his dispenser with his bare hand. He didn't even care about all the little metal bits in his skin that tore through his shirt and were starting to make blood ooze out, staining his already sullied uniform. What he cared about was making sure that RED didn't take their final point and not having sentry up, even if it was just a level 1, was going to make that exceedingly difficult.

That being said, if he made it out of this alive, he was gonna have a field day getting all these stains out he mused to himself as his pried open the side panel of his dispenser. He reached for his toolbox, rummaging around for his wire cutters, twist on connectors, and a new set of wires to replace the ones the sapper had fried as he heard a chorus of bullets being fired from somewhere around the next point over.

He frowned. Those were much closer than they were 15 minutes ago. Better pick up the pace.

With a deft hand, he pulled out the wires and snipped out all the unsalvageable ones, tossing them in his toolbox to properly dispose of later. Twist on connectors wasn't exactly a Good fix to all the problems he knew that damn shock box had caused, but it would be good enough to last him until the end of the round.

...He hoped, at least.

After making quick work of the internals and closing the panel back up, he flipped the switch back on, waiting a few agonizing moments before the dispenser beeped at him a few times and whirred back to life.

Engie let out a weary sigh of relief as it slowly started healing his wounds, giving it a couple whacks with his wrench to get it into somewhat working order. It may have been knocked back down to level 1, but hey, at least it actually started up again! Finally, he had one thing was working in his favor!...

...But only the one thing. Now was the issue of getting his sentry back up, and with his dispenser back at level 1, just waiting around for metal wasn't exactly going to be an option this time.

After scanning the battlefield a few times, a disgruntled noise escaped him. Pyro was nowhere to be found. Just his luck. He grumbled to himself more as he picked his dispenser up and moved it to where he thought it would be at least a little less visible so he could go search for an ammo kit himself, keeping a hand on his pistol and his wits about him as he ventured into a nearby building.

He hated to leave any of his buildings unattended without Pyro around to cover for him (usually in return for a joyride into town the following weekend along with the sugariest fruit flavored item they could get from the local candy store), but he really didn't have the time to sit around and hope for the Chance that they'd 1). be in his field of view and 2). not be too busy to play guard dog for 5 or so minutes (5 minutes they could very understandably use to set some REDs running for the hills. or a fire extinguisher).

And as much as he would love to just waltz into BLU's resupply and pick up all the things he needed with little to no effort, he was currently stationed at second to last and the time it would take him to get there and back would be more than enough time for the REDs to not only destroy BLU's hopes and dreams but also to give way for his teammates to complain about how he hadn't been there to defend them.

(As if he wasn't doing enough for this damn team already.)

So taking a gamble with getting an ammo box was objectively his best bet at the moment. Was he happy about it in any metric? Absolutely not. Sure, he knew his way around the place and he actually knew that the building he was currently in housed the largest ammo kit you could find out in the field, but he also knew that other people knew that too. And that meant that there was a very real chance of running into one of them and not only failing to defend BLU's points and having to put up with his teammates' negging but also dying and gettin sent through respawn in the process.

But that's as if anything was really going his way today.

He hopped up the wooden stairs two at a time, knowing that the ammo kit was somewhere up on the top floor. He'd actually passed by the Medkit on the first and as tempted as he was to heal himself up a little, he also knew that any more time he wasted in there was time that could be used getting a sentry back up.

When he'd reached the second floor, the ammo box was just where he expected it to be, sitting next to a window that looked out over the battlefield, giving him a front and center view of BLU's second to last point. He could just about see a sliver of his dispenser, silently relieved that it was still there. From what he could see, RED and BLU were still fighting it out over the mid point, both teams having captured and then recaptured it several times already, only for the other to take it back.

Currently, it was still BLU's but something told him that if he didn't hurry, that was going to change soon.

He quickly scooped up the ammo box, eyebrows furrowing when the top of it came off with relative ease. Odd. You usually need to do at least a little prying with these suckers to get the tops to pop off. He then rummaged around in it to make sure it had what he needed, confusion deepening when he realized that there weren't any syringe cartridges in the box.

And that's when he heard a slight rustling from somewhere just out of his peripheral vision.

He immediately dropped the box, bullets and miscellaneous parts spilling everywhere as he turned around and reached for his pistol.

However, he ended up getting a spray of syringes to the arm, letting out a strained cry as he instead grabbed his pistol with his other hand and randomly fired it in the direction of where the syringes had come from.

His guesswork was pleasantly met with a very loud "FUCK", his eyes finally focusing on a very irritated looking RED Medic who now sported a bullet wound in his non dominant shoulder.

"You wanna dance? Let's fuckin' tango, buddy," Engie muttered mainly to himself, only just about bearing the pain as he tore anywhere from 4-7 syringes out of his arm and dropped them to the floor.

He tried to shoot his newfound opponent again but his bullets made splinters rather than punctured flesh, Engie fully aware that his normally serviceable aim was probably off thanks to the searing pain in his... well, everything, cursing under his breath regardless.

However, before he could even process what to do next, the enemy Medic made a dive for him, the two of them tussling to the floor and struggling with each other for the right to end someone's life.

Engie was able to momentarily able to wiggle his arm out of the other's grasp, managing a solid hit on RED Medic's face that he was pretty sure ended up breaking his nose.

That really only seemed to make him angrier though, the two of them continuing to wrestle it out until Medic finally managed to come out on top, having practically straddled Engie's chest as he pinned down both of his arms to the ground. The both of them struggled to take in air, Engie still making feeble attempts to escape his captivity with little success.

If this weren't a life or death situation, he probably would've told RED Medic that he was rather handsome, even with a broken nose and blood dripping out his mouth and onto Engie's shirt. Truth be told, Engie had always thought him attractive and if the two of them weren't enemies by uniform color, he probably would've asked him if he wanted to go out for a drink some time.

But even if life or death prevented him from attempting to woo the man who he'd just shot, Engie couldn't help but be immensely frustrated with himself, eventually just letting out a wheeze of defeat as he gave out from exhaustion.

"Just- just fucking do it please, I'm really not goddamn having it right now," He growled out, causing RED Medic to squint and tilt his head at him. After all, it wasn't every day that your enemy practically begged you to off them after they (quite understandably) just tried to strangle you.

"Hey, Stitches, you hear me? Just cut my head off or steal my organs or whatever, make my godawful day into an even more godawful one," He reiterated, Medic unable to suppress a chuckle despite how tired he was.

"Sorry- steal your organs? Do you really think I'm going to do that?" He grinned incredulously.

"Dunno. You just seem like the type," Engie said dryly, Medic letting out a cackle.

"Well just because you made me laugh, I'll make this quick. You don't seem particularly happy right now," Medic vocalized, shifting so that he could pin both of Engie's arms down with one hand and reach for Engie's pistol that had gotten knocked out of his grasp in their scuffle with the other.

Stronger than he looks. Engie couldn't tell if his heart beating faster because he was literally about to die or because an item was added to the list of "reasons why I want to take my enemy out to dinner."

...Might be both.

"Golly gee, what gave that away?" Engie deadpanned, feeling the muzzle of his own pistol pushing against his forehead. RED Medic chuckled again.

"No hard feelings, right my friend?" he smiled at him, almost apologetically. At least Engie thinks it's apologetically. Kinda hard to tell with all the blood that wasn't in his body.

He closed his eyes, bracing himself.

"Nah. None at all."

...

BANG!

...And not even 20 seconds later, he suddenly materialized in BLU's main respawn room, immediately grimacing from the skull splitting headache he was saddled with; the unfortunate side effects of being shot in the head. Respawn could only do so much, after all.

He moved to open the resupply cabinet to just get what he needed and get the hell out of there before he was startled by the intercom crackling to life, Engie's stomach sinking when he heard the very familiar "YOU FAILED" accompanied by almost comically sad music.

Had he really been gone that long? He didn't even hear the Admin announcing that mid had been capped, let alone second to last, and surely he would've heard it even if he was being held up by RED's local handsome devil.

But his teammates slowly filing in with various injuries seemed to confirm their defeat, Engie sighing as he reached into the cabinet for a bottle of aspirin instead of a case of bullets.

"Hrr Mrnrph!" Pyro mumbled out as they made their way in, Scout with his arm around their shoulders for support as he hobbled in as well.

"Yo, Engie, where the hell were you?" Scout frowned, clearly peeved about losing that day's round.

"Yeah, maggot, we thought you were on second to last! Their damn Scout somehow slipped by us and ended up capping both of ours after RED capped mid again," Soldier added, Engie sighing. Of course this was going to be blamed on him.

"Sorry, fellas. Spy managed to sap both my sentry and my dispenser and their Medic got me when I was tryin' to get supplies. I was hoping y'all would be able to hold mid long enough for me to get back but that. Obviously did not happen."

"Oh, so it's our fault now?"

"Hey, I'm not sayin' it's anyone's fault, I'm just sayin' that they got the best of us today. We'll give it another go tomorrow, like we always do."

Scout obviously seemed unhappy by the notion but decided it best to shut his trap when Demo gave him A Look because even Scout knew that Demo was not one to fuck with. Engie knew he didn't actually intend real harm, he just tended to run his mouth with things he didn't necessarily mean. Didn't make his life any easier, though.

"Listen, I think we've all had a long day. Let's just get patched up an' relax before tomorrow," Demo interjected, the rest of the team making various sounds of agreement as the final members of their menagerie made their way in.

As he walked past, Medic gave him a conciliatory look that Engie could only give him a knowing smile in return for. They both knew what it was like for the entire team's failure to be blamed on their shoulders alone. Usually it was Medic who received the brunt of it, especially when he'd just been transferred in, but Engie was no stranger to complaints on his off days about how he should've been better or how could've done more.

It made him want to tear his own ears off. Not only because it was annoying as all hell because you didn't see him out here blaming the entire team's loss on one damn person's slip up, but because it was the kind of shit that he told himself when he was younger and it brought him back to times he didn't necessarily want to remember.

He was suddenly brought out of his brooding by Pyro walking up to him, Scout seemingly having limped his way back into base on his own.

"Mrr rrhrrh hrrph phr nrr rphmm hrr rr phrrhrrk phr rrr," They mumbled out sadly, holding their arms out to offer an apology hug and very much looking like a kicked puppy. Engie let off a soft "aw."

"Shucks, Firefly, it ain't your fault. Can't expect ya to baby me all the time, can I?" He joked, pulling them in anyways. Only a monster could refuse Pyro hugs, after all.

Pyro squeezed him tightly, nearly lifting him off the ground despite the fact that they were only a couple inches taller than he was as Engie was momentarily overwhelmed with the familiar scent of kerosene and singed rubber.

When they finally let go, Engie gave them a gentle pat on the head.l

"You go inside now, hey? I gotta check if my dispenser's still out there and you probably got your own injuries you should have Doc look at," He told them, Pyro nodding at him and giving him an affirmatory wheeze. They then gave him another quick squeeze before waddling their way inside, boots squeaking every so often.

Engie sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. Oh well. Nothing he could do now but prep for tomorrow.

He sat in respawn for a little while waiting for the aspirin to kick in and only decide it was time to get going when he finally felt like his brain wasn't trying to squeeze itself down his spinal cord.

After making the trek to second to last, he was pleasantly surprised to see that his dispenser was still on. And also there at all.

(To be fair, RED and BLU had been fighting over mid for so long that RED's Scout probably hadn't bothered to destroy what wasn't shooting at him in a desperate attempt to end the godforsaken match already. He couldn't say that he'd blame him.)

He was also surprised, though not as pleasantly, to see someone waiting for him. Specifically, someone in glasses and a tie that, even though it was covered in blood, had a face that was both painfully smug and oddly endearing.

Though they were technically now in ceasefire until battle tomorrow, he still instinctively reached for his pistol, blinking and looking down when he realized his holster was empty.

"I believe you're looking for this?" RED Medic asked as he picked said pistol up off of his dispenser, Engie nodding cautiously.

"Relax, dummkopf, I'm not going to shoot you. The bullet that was in your head was actually the last one in the magazine anyways," Medic snorted, demonstrating by pulling the trigger while pointing the weapon to the ground and coming up with nothing but empty clicks.

Regardless, he still offered it to Engie butt first, Engie himself still wary but a little less hesitant as he took a few more steps forward and took it in his hand.

"Apologies. I actually meant to put it back into your holster before you went through respawn but I didn't have adequate time. You pack quite a punch," Medic smirked lightly, Engie's attention suddenly being drawn to his still broken nose.

He grinned sheepishly.

"Heheh, yeah, mama taught me well... No hard feelin's though, yeah?" Engie sticking his pistol in its place and his hand out to the doctor, Medic letting out an amused huff at his own words being used against him.

"No hard feelings," He assured, shaking Engie's hand.

"I should probably be off now, I can practically hear my gaggle of idiots begging me to heal their boo boos from all the way out here," He then snorted, Engie letting out a chuckle.

"All good. I should prolly get the ol' girl back to the workshop. Damn sappers always do a number on the internals," He grimaced, thinking about all proper rewiring and circuit board replacement he was going to have to do, not to mention normal maintenance and cleanup.

"As I've heard. Our own Engineer has some particularly... colorful words on what he thinks of your Spy."

"Bit of a wily bastard, that one. Can't say I blame him," Engie shrugged, leaning against his dispenser for support and suddenly feeling face flush as Medic did the same, the two of them now so close that their elbows touched in the middle.

If Medic noticed, he didn't immediately let on, merely smiling at him.

"That we can all agree on, I think. What is it with Spies and deciding to be bastards? Is it a profession thing, does it just come naturally to them?" He said mirthfully, leaning in close enough that their noses were close to touching.

...Never mind, he absolutely noticed.

"'s gotta be, right? I mean, it's the only explanation for why they're all so dickish. That or the ones we've been in contact with just happen to be persnickety lil fucks," Engie grinned, Medic laughing loudly in response.

It only made him grin even wider. Medic's laugh had to be in a class of its own. Borderline obnoxious in nature but somehow brash and unapologetic while still being absolutely ridiculous.

Man, was it just something to die for (which he.. technically supposed he did).

"Ah, look at me, babbling about. I really should get going before I waste any more of your time," he said when giggles finally stoped threatening to rise out of his throat, Engie feeling a sudden pang of disappointment in his chest. He merely waved him off with a soft "shucks, weren't nothin'" as he tipped his hat, Medic giving him a firm pat on the shoulder.

"It was nice talking with you, Herr Engineer. Perhaps we can meet again some time," He smiled before turning to make his leave.

Engie closed his eyes. This was a bad idea, this was a bad idea, don't do it, don't do it Dell, don't FUCKING do it-

"Hey, uh. Stitches."

Medic paused before turning around again.

"Are you... free this weekend?"

An amused glint suddenly appeared in Medic's eyes.

"Well seeing as we all have weekends off, yes, I should be. Why do you ask?"

"You, uh. You wanna grab a drink with me, this Saturday, maybe? I know this pretty good place not too far out and uh. I dunno, 'd be fun to uh. See ya again outside of work, I guess," Engie stumbled out, putting a hand on the back of his neck.

"...I'd like that. I'd like that a lot," Medic smiled, Engie's face lighting up.

"Great! Uhm. I uh, I guess. Meet me on y'all's second to last at about 6? I know how to avoid all the cameras, so," Engie offered, Medic raising an eyebrow at him.

"...Hey, when you live out your days fighting people to the death for an old dinosaur who would skin you alive and turn you into the coat given the chance, finding out where her cameras and all their blindspots are isn't that much of a hassle. We're actually in one right now. Wouldn't've asked you out otherwise," He shrugged, Medic holding his hands up in response.

"I'm not one to judge. Whatever gets me out of playing team mama for the night. I'll just tell them I joined a book club or whatever. And if they don't believe me... well I think a saw to the skull might convince them," Medic said, suddenly pulling out his Ubersaw with a malicious grin.

Engie had to physically restrain himself from saying "hot" in response.

"Heheh, yeah, I bet it might. I'll uh. See you later then," He coughed out, moving to put his dispenser into compact mode and pack it back into his toolbox.

When he stood up with it resting on his shoulder, however, Medic was standing right in front of him, nearly causing it to slip out of his hands.

Medic barely stifled a laugh at his shock, gently removing his hardhat and leaning down to give him a kiss on the forehead.

"It's a date then," He hummed cheerily before putting Engie's hardhat back on his head and making his return to RED, leaving Engie with his hat slightly askew and his face moderately flushed.

And that's when if hit him. A date. He had just asked his actual, literal enemy who had shot him in the head about 30 minutes ago, on a date. And he said yes.

He didn't know if he wanted to scream, punch something, or throw himself off a bridge. Probably all three, if he was honest.

Despite all that, he practically forced himself to turn around and begin making his way back to BLU, readjusting his tool box every so often so it wouldn't slip out of his hands. What the hell was he doing, breaking contract like this? He means sure, he wasn't particularly one for rules anyhow, he's pretty sure he's committed more than a few atrocities against the heavens in his lifetime, and the Admin wasn't always on his case for every little infraction he'd ever made anyways. But between her and God, it was the Admin he feared more and he knew that if there was one rule that the she enforced, it was that cross faction relations were NOT tolerated and were more than a warrant for termination.

Termination of contract or termination of your life? Depended on how nice she was feeling that day.

Needless to say, he was very frustrated with himself.

But then he remembered how drop dead (haha) gorgeous Medic was even when he was bleeding all over Engie's shirt and the way hearing his laugh had made him felt and the way that glint made it look like he had stars in his eyes and...

...Aw hell, if he was going to get fired (or die! both was very possible) for this he might as well go down after having had a good time.

Now all he had to do was make it to Saturday. While also not giving anything away.

Piece of fucking cake.

#tf2 #tf2 engineer #tf2 medic #tf2 science party #medic x engineer #am #fic #c's writing

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writing-with-whiplash · 3 years

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Stealing More Than Kisses

“Stealing More Than Kisses”

Hey guys! This is a fanfic of @jangofctts amazing clone oc Sweets! Go check out her awesome clone oc’s by searching for “sunburst squadron” on her blog and also check out all the other amazing fics she has! Sweets is her creation. I do not own his character, I’m just writing for him.

Sweets x mechanic!reader

Word Count: 2450

Warnings: clone discrimination, stealing, mild swearing, fluff, gender-neutral reader

This is my first fic, so I’d appreciate any constructive comments and reblogs! Have an awesome day!

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When you had been assigned as the new mechanic to the Sunburst Squadron, you had no idea why all the others before you had quit. That is, until you met the wild bunch that you affectionately called the Sunburst Boys. Although they were loyal and dependable soldiers, and your closest friends, you couldn’t help but think of the squadron as a bit chaotic. Between the death-defying trick flying of the pilot Kamikaze and the reckless altruism of the trooper Blue, it’s no wonder that you and Commander Blanche hadn’t had heart attacks trying to keep the squad together. Or in your case, keep the ship together, which brought you to your current predicament.

“Kamikaze!” you hollered across the hangar as the Sunburst Boys unloaded from their battered spacecraft. “What did I tell you about bringing the ship back all banged up?”

Kami turned sheepishly toward you, raising his hands in defeat. “Couldn’t help it,” he shrugged. He must’ve been exhausted to not send a snippy quip your way about the ship’s state. In fact, all of the soldiers looked worse for wear, their shoulders sagging under the weight of their brightly colored armor.

You decided to take it easy on him today. There would be more opportunities in the future to drag him for his dare-devil piloting. “You boys go rest. I’ll take care of the scrap pile,” you huffed. Kami rolled his eyes and slumped past you toward the barracks. The rest of the squadron followed suit, although one trooper lingered by the ship’s ramp. “What’s up, Sweets?” you asked softly, hoping to not startle the shy sharp shooter. Sweets lifted his eyes from the floor to meet your own, his teal bangs plastered to his forehead. He offered a half-hearted shrug and quickly shifted his eyes back to the floor. “Was the mission rough?” you asked, although you could already guess the answer. Sweets was normally quiet, but this time seemed different. The trooper nodded at your question and shook his head when you asked if he wanted to talk about it. “You just wanna hang out with me while I try to fix whatever Kami’s done to the ship this time?” The ghost of an amused smile danced across Sweets’ lips as he nodded again.

Sweets had been the first trooper of the squadron to grow on you when you first started out. Out of the rambunctious bunch, he was the youngest and quietest. While his brothers preferred to bond through roughhousing and swapping insults, Sweets preferred to just be near you. He didn’t talk much, but he loved to listen to you talk or hum while you tinkered on the ship. The quiet sharpshooter also loved to bring you little gifts that he picked up while on missions--a rock here, a bead there, a little figurine from a market on some backwater planet or another. You knew that not everything he brought back was...purchased, per say, but you didn’t mind. Everything he gave you was small and heartfelt and it’s not like the soldiers were paid anyway. If these boys were risking their lives on the frontlines to protect the entire galaxy, then you figured they deserved to swipe the occasional small item without worrying about what anyone would say. Maker, you knew they deserved so much more than that.

Recently, Sweets had been bringing back items that felt more personal than random rocks. He always had a knack for figuring out what you liked best. Not long after mentioning offhand that a particular type of stone had caught your eye in a jewelry shop, you found a pendant in the same stone in your tool box. When you talked about your favorite kind of candy that you hadn’t been able to find in a while, a few pieces of it appeared in your locker. Sweets had always been such a sweetheart to you and you had begun to fall for him as soon as you started working with him. You didn’t want to ruin your friendship by telling the shy soldier that you had feelings for him. Instead, you simply enjoyed his company as he hovered around your work station in the hangar.

The ship was truly a mess. Carbon scoring painted the hull that, miraculously, had stayed intact despite heavy damages. The edge of the starboard wing was crinkled and battered--there was an endless amount of reckless maneuvers Kami normally pulled that would cause that kind of damage. You clicked your tongue and shook your head, making a list of all the replacement parts you would need to buy for it. A wiring harness here, a set of gears there, a few durasteel panels damaged beyond repair. You had a lot of welding to do. The hangar had most of the replacement parts you needed, but working on such a small base on an Outer Rim planet left you with a few things to be had. Ah well, you grinned to yourself, all that meant was a chance to stretch your legs at the local market and swap meet.

“Hey, Sweets,” you called from beneath the ship, scooting toward him on your creeper seat. “Do you want to run to the market with me for some parts?”

Sweets’ eyes lit up as he nodded enthusiastically, making you chuckle at him and smile. Had you looked at him a little closer, you would have seen the quiet blush spread across his cheeks, highlighting the heart tattoo beneath his eye as he averted his gaze. The sniper couldn’t find the words to say it aloud to you, but he would go with you anywhere in the entire galaxy, just as long as he got to spend time with you.

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The marketplace was bustling when the two of you arrived, the sounds of vendors hollering and the scents of various foods wafting through the crowds. The sea of customers and travelers parted around you as you wandered from stall to stall, quietly stretching your parts-run as long as possible. Although you could make it through a crowd just fine, you knew that many of the onlookers gave you a wide berth on account of the helmeted clone trooper who hovered over your shoulder at every stall you stopped at.

Sweets always kept his helmet on during your frequent market outings, telling you that he preferred to see rather than be seen, but secretly he just wanted to watch you without you noticing. He loved the way your fingers danced across the items you touched, the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled at friendly vendors, the way you fidgeted while waiting in line or running parts numbers in your head. All of these little observations over the past several months had allowed Sweets to figure out all the little quirks about you and the interests you never verbally divulged. He knew by the way that you tilted your head and looked at the ground while talking to a vendor that you were about to turn down his price on some wiring. Just as he predicted, you walked back toward him empty handed, a small frown pulling your soft lips down.

“If I were allowed a bigger budget for replacement parts I wouldn’t mind buying from that guy, but I just don’t have enough to cover it.” Sweets nodded sympathetically as you shrugged. “Guess we’ll have to keep going on down the line. What a shame that we’ll have to spend so much more time in the market, rather than sitting around the base.” You winked at Sweets, earning a quiet chuckle from his helmet’s vocoder.

The two of you wandered aimlessly throughout the market, striding slowly by stall after stall of alien fruits, handmade items, and spacecraft parts that weren’t on your shopping list. You had to practically drag Sweets away from a booth boasting several species of small cage pets, knowing that he would try to pocket one of the adorable, squishy-cheeked rodents. Just as you turned to tell him not to get in trouble with the vendor, a particular booth caught your eye.

“Ooh, look at this one!” The pet vendor didn’t have the chance to chew Sweets out as you grabbed the trooper lightly by the arm and pulled him to a booth full of wood bead jewelry.

Sweets was once again grateful for the cover of his helmet, as his face flushed at your contact. He leaned slightly into your touch, craving more, but, in your intense focus on the beads, you didn’t notice his change in demeanor.

“Look at this one,” you murmured to him, plucking a bracelet from the top of a large pile of wooden jewelry and displaying it in your hand. Your fingers swiped over the central bead, a little carved heart the same color as Sweets’ tattoo. “It’s you as a bracelet,” you beamed, staring directly into Sweets’ melting gaze, although his eyes were hidden behind his dark visor. Sweets swore his heart completely stopped when you looked at him like that, but all he could do was sheepishly nod. You had already turned around, grabbing a near identical bracelet, this time with the heart painted in what Sweets knew was your favorite color. “We should get matching ones.”

The old lady running the booth finally made her way over to you after you said that, eyeing you with suspicion. “Can I help you, dear?” she asked flatly. You noted how she only addressed you, almost refusing to look at the soldier standing beside you.

“Yes, my friend and I would like these two bracelets here,” you offered, already fishing the credits out of your pocket.

The old shopkeeper huffed. “Honey, this fella here ain’t your friend. He’s a soldier. A clone,” she sneered, arching an eyebrow at him. “He’s only here to shoot droids and serve the Republic, not buddy up with you. And I know for a fact that he can’t even pay for his own bracelet. Just shameful.”

You tensed and grabbed Sweets’ hand as he attempted to back away from the woman. Anger boiled in your stomach, threatening to spill out of your mouth. That old vendor had no right to speak about any soldier like that, especially not in front of one. Not in front of Sweets. You tossed the bracelets back onto the pile with a little more force than necessary. “Well if that’s how you feel about the men giving their lives to make sure that you can sell your cheap jewelry and bitch about them, then I don’t want to buy from you anyway.” You squeezed Sweets’ hand lightly with your own shaky one and turned to leave.

Before the rude shopkeeper could say anything, a small boy ran up to the booth screeching, “Nan!” The old woman cast one last seething glare at you before plastering on a smile for who appeared to be her grandson.

The instant she turned her back on you you felt a surge of boldness. You quickly snatched the bracelets you had thrown down and rushed back in the direction of the army base, sniper in tow. He had definitely begun to rub off on you. When you felt that you were far enough away from the booth you had just stolen from, you slowed down, heart still racing. Sweets pulled you into the alleyway between a noisy cantina and a bustling restaurant. Nobody seemed to notice the pair of you as Sweets pulled his helmet off and cupped your cheek. Your breath hitched at the contact and your eyes flitted up to his soft gaze.

“Are you okay?” he murmured. His other hand grabbed your wrist, rubbing small circles into the soft skin there.

“Yah, I’m fine,” you whispered breathlessly. “I just can’t believe she’d say something like that! That little--” Sweets cut you off with his thumb against your bottom lip.

“It’s fine,” he mumbled. You watched forlornly as his normally bright eyes cast down and away from you. His shoulders began to curl inward and you placed your free hand against his chestplate.

“No, it’s not. I’m so sorry that you had to hear that. You don’t deserve that. None of you do. You deserve so much better than that.” You sniffed as your voice cracked, throat tightening. Sweets dropped your wrist and leaned closer at your words. You took the opportunity to pull the first bracelet out of your pocket and slide it up between his vambrace and glove. “I hope you actually wanted this,” you chuckled, “because it’s yours now. I’m not taking it back.”

Sweets rolled his eyes and stepped even closer, his face mere inches from yours. “I love it,” he breathed. The words fanned across your face and you pulled yours even closer to his, noses just brushing. Eyes closing, Sweets dipped his mouth down to press against you. You returned the kiss softly, your lips slotting gently together.

A fire lit within your chest at that first soft, slow kiss. You gently twisted your fingers through Sweets’ mop of curls while he pulled you close to his chest. You caught his breath between your lips when you parted mouths, panting slightly and pressing the tip of your nose to his. Sweets gazed into your eyes with such warmth and admiration that your knees almost buckled, but he was there to catch you. He nuzzled into your neck, breathing a quiet “thank you” into your ear. You responded with a kiss to his cheek and a sweet smile in his hair.

Neither of you wanted the moment to end. Days could have passed and the suns would have gazed down upon the two of you standing in the alleway, never parting. But, eventually your comm buzzed with orders to return to base. Reluctantly, the pair of you headed back, hand in hand, wearing matching stolen bracelets, and feeling the happiest you had ever felt in your life. Sweets snuck in one more kiss before replacing his helmet, smirking slightly at your flustered giggle. If this was the kind of response you got from getting Sweets gifts, then you thought you’d be okay with stealing more little things for him. Afterall, he had already stolen the best prize in the galaxy in his opinion: your heart.

#clone oc #clone oc x reader #jangofctts #sunburst squadron #not my oc #clone trooper x reader #clone wars #star wars the clone wars #star wars fanfic #clone wars fanfic #my writing

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crucible-memes-4-salem-teens · 2 years

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my trans!hale "study" is below the cut. this piece is fairly important to me, one, as the first completed fan work i've ever made (at least in the narrative writing sense), and two, as a fic that really has some cathartic value for me personally as an afab trans person. this will be cross-posted to ao3 when i decide how many chapters to split it into/where to split the chapters.

!!warning!!: this is long as fuck (~10.5k words) so maybe set aside time to read it rather than just jumping in. it also features some depictions of transphobia, deadnaming, allusions to death in childbirth and suicide ideation (though mild), as well as assault and period-typical misogyny (guys. fellas. we're still set in the 17th century). i try to be as sensitive and polite about these topics as possible, so feel free to yell at me for doing something egregious. still, read at your own risk/discretion. peace and love to you guys <3. (apologies for this not being in chapters here! there's not a lot of good places to cut it, imo.)

reading time is probably at least a half hour to an hour. idk.

enjoy "the implications of the cloak in modern literature" vvv

Even if he thought hard enough, John could not recall when it was that he discovered the person he’d been known as for the entirety of his life was not who he was. Who he really was. What was the catalyst for changing him forever? When had the floodgates opened?

Maybe around his twelfth birthday? The others, in their rare free time from working and learning and praying, were beginning to imagine how married life would treat them, whispering to one another which boys would grow up into handsome and hardworking young men and become their husbands. In their fantasizing, they would ask him what he wanted to do and who he wanted to be, and every time, he would fail to come up with an acceptable answer; the truth of it all being forbidden.

Their cruel words still passed through his ears. “... is so strange! I’d wager that…” The way they said his name felt like spiders crawling up his back. The person they spoke of, surely that was not him, right?

Of course, the words of children meant nothing, but it still stung knowing no one would understand what it was like to be him. That no one supported him. So on the day he took one final glance in the looking glass and still failed to recognize who it was he saw, John took the shears and cut his hair. He was thankful that it needed not to be too much shorter, having never seemed to grow far past his shoulders.

Now that it was done, what was he to do now? He stopped to think. He definitely could not leave today. He was unprepared for what the world outside of what he’d known would bring. How soon would it be before…?

Shaking his head, he decided the best course of action was writing a letter to his father, telling him that he needed to leave, without much further explanation. After searching for a quill, ink, and paper to write on, he sat down at the desk in the corner of the small room, thankful that his father was away tending to business for a few days and would be back after John was long gone.

"Father," the letter started. "I am writing to alert you to the fact that I have-"

What would he say he was doing? Perhaps he had accepted a marriage proposal from a young man in another town, far from here? It felt wrong to lie, but he was nineteen now: a full adult who would be expected to marry eventually; even if the idea made his stomach turn.

So, he continued. "I have accepted a marriage proposal from a young man who lives far away from here. He comes from a respectable family, and if you must, you may search for him."

What would this mysterious (and absolutely fictitious) suitor's name be? He racked his brain for an answer.

Mark? Ezekiel? Thomas? Samuel? None of those quite fit right. Instead of thinking more, he stared at the wall, counting the panels of wood in his immediate field of view. There were… four.

Suddenly, a thought hit him like a heavy sack, full of grain. John. This "suitor" would be called John. There were plenty of men around with that as their given names, so hiding among them would be nothing short of simple.

This spurred him on to finish the rest of his letter. "I am apologetic for telling you this news now, as I am aware it is unexpected. However, I cannot deny how I feel for him, and I pray that in time, we should be reunited as family. Humbly …"

Content with the way this presented what was actually going on, John went over to the chest that contained his father's clothing. Most of it appeared to be much too large for his frame (though having some room in his clothes would be preferable), but tailoring was not something he was unfamiliar with. Even though that was the case, he wished, against his better judgment, that his mother was there in the silence of the evening with him, rather than watching from (hopefully) heaven. He couldn’t linger on that, he would be leaving in two days' time.

To start himself off, he only selected two shirts, one white, or as close to white as possible, and another black. Holding them up in comparison to his own body, he noted the bottom hems stopped near his knees, and the sleeves covered his hands completely. That would not do.

After adjusting those, he continued to search, finding a vest, and miraculously, a cloak.

Holding the cloak up, he inspected it. The garment showed no signs of visible wear, and the dark leather it appeared to be made of was sturdy. It was wide and large and felt warm. Good against the winters of the Massachusetts Bay; and for other things. He set it aside, knowing it would be of use to him.

The vest was, like the shirts, too large for him, having belonged to someone who sometimes seemed to be twice his size. He made quick work of it, adjusting its length and the size of the holes for the arms. The strings, arguably the most important part, he left as they were. Maybe it would have been wiser to adjust their length too, but this was not the time for wise decisions. This was the time for living the truth.

Everything about him had felt wrong for so long, slightly off. He never had the words for it, but what he had been conditioned to be was not who he wanted to be. Even with this path in his mind, he knew the Lord did not make mistakes. Ever.

Was it that John was the one making a mistake? Nothing about what he was doing felt that way. In fact, it felt freeing, like he was truly setting down a burden that had been plaguing him for eternity.

Finally, he found trousers in the chest, shutting it, and examining his collection. His father never allowed him to wear trousers before, despite the obvious comfort they seemed to possess. Though, now he realized that most others like him, who were "blessed" with the sensitivities of … well … did not long to wear the garments.

The pants were too wide and long, but something he would need to deal with on the morrow. For now he needed to rest. It was dark outside, as he could see from the square cutout in the wall that functioned as a window. Anyone who was inclined to notice "by happenstance" what their neighbors were doing would definitely notice the candlelight coming from the upper floor of the residence and could do with it what they wished. Not ideal.

He changed his clothes, blew out the candle on the desk, and climbed into his bed, praying that the days to come would be better.

---

When the day came to leave, John set aside his clothes, waiting for night to fall before changing, feeling the weight of his actions on his shoulders increase tenfold. He went out into the village as normal, going to work in the house where he had been serving for two years.

There, he greeted the closest friend he'd had, the family's elder daughter, Catherine. She had no clue what he’d been planning, only knowing that today would be his last in their house. Like others, she knew of the "betrothal" he had, and in the same way, she was curious as to why he'd waited so long to tell anyone and why his father was not the one doing so.

After exchanging pleasantries, she gave him instructions on what he should do for the day, claiming it was "light work as a reward for such loyalty", though it was quite literally the same amount. Occasionally, she would have him redo something, saying it was not up to her mother's standards, to which he'd snappily reply that if she wanted it on that level, Catherine could do it herself. She would just laugh and say she already had other work to do, holding eye contact with him for a little too long, as if she was trying to figure him out.

He'd never admit it, not to her especially, that she made his heart race and him question the entire world whenever they made eye contact. Definitely not.

Once the day was done and Catherine's mother returned from her work in the fields surrounding the family's home, she handed him his final pay and told him to be safe, offhandedly commenting that something about him seemed different. What exactly she said, he could not remember.

Rushing back to his childhood home, avoiding the main roads so he wouldn't have to greet or hold conversation with the people whose cutting words from childhood still played through his mind at the worst moments, John made it safely inside, checking once over that nothing had been taken. Ensuring the lack of a break in, he sat down in his chair in the kitchen, breathing heavily with anxiety. No one would figure out he lied about, well, everything until he was long gone.

Once the sun had retreated back below the horizon and the moon was beginning to take its place, John finished the final touches on his escape. He placed the letter on his father's seat at the table, then went upstairs to change into his clothes.

After putting everything on, he sighed. Something about his appearance was … euphoric for him. For the first time, he saw someone familiar on the looking glass. Someone who had been there the entire time, waiting to see the light of day, rather, the light of the moon.

Stuffing the rest of the clothes he planned on taking with him into a sack, he quickly rushed down the stairs (not that there were many) and put on the boots that he thankfully already owned. He grabbed the singular hat off of the hook, which he'd found on a second look into the chest of clothes, feeling as though it symbolized his new freedom. It was dark and had a wide, slightly flopping brim, good for shielding his eyes from the sun or people who could recognize him.

At the door, he peeked out of the window, seeing that the moon was now high in the sky, meaning the right people would be asleep. He walked around to the back of the house, where the second of his father's horses was waiting, tied to a post by a length of rope attached to it.

He smiled at the beast, for she was gentle, and knew her way home from anywhere. The horse was strong, able to carry the most ridiculous of burdens, her fur a midnight black, appropriate for this surreptitious action. In the moment, he mourned her lack of a name, especially considering he had finally found his own. Standing for a moment, he thought, fully aware that he would need to leave soon.

"I do not know what to call you. We have spent years around one another, yet I have nothing by which I can identify you," he said, petting the animal's nose as he untied her, "How does it feel? Knowing you have no identity?"

Hearing his own voice in the air reminded him, he would need to change it before he interacted with someone on his journey, lest they figure him out.

No response came, not that he expected one, so he climbed up onto her back and felt around the top of his head, making sure his hat was still there. Gently, he squeezed her sides with his legs and rode off into the night.

As he went, he prayed for God's protection, hoping he was really making the right decision.

---

Days, possibly weeks, later, he arrived in Cambridge, and began asking locals where he might find the college. Many people pointed him in many different directions, some commenting on how tired or hungry he looked, offering him if nothing else, a meal. All of these he refused, claiming he needed to get to the school as quickly as possible. He told them that he had always longed to go into the ministry and soon realized it was not a lie. He began adding this whenever he spoke to someone.

Soon enough, there were whispers around the area, speaking of a rather queer young man, who had a strange accent and never removed his cloak despite the weather. Some of these were malicious, nearly hitting exactly where no one was intended to, but most were concerned. Maybe John could live comfortably among these people.

He was able to meet the requirements for enrollment, and joined his classes in the new semester. Everyone there seemed dedicated to their study of the Word, so few bothered him, though he did make friends… and one enemy, for lack of a better word. There would be light teasing about his devotion to wearing his cloak occasionally, but nothing beyond that. If any of his classmates beside the one ever noticed the days where he appeared to be sick to his stomach or doubled over in pain, they never said a word. If the others happened to see something peculiar about his body's form in the rare moment he took off his cloak, they were silent. He was thankful for it.

In his time at the college, John began to take an interest in witches, the Devil's agents among the good Christians in the colonies. He furthered his study of them, learning the familiar signs of them, suddenly feeling an urge to seek them and cast them out.

With all of this, his father had somehow found him, sending letters that asked when he would come back and visit, as well as other more invasive questions. His responses to these messages were always vague, not quite answering the questions or saying too much about the life he was still technically pretending to lead, over a year and a half later. Because of these letters, he prayed his father would never come visit, not knowing how to handle the encounter.

Maybe he could say that he died, suffering from some ailment or tragic accident. It was happening all the time these days, with the end times coming soon and all. In truth, it felt doubly immoral to lie, having already done so many times before.

Would this be his life until death? Lying? Pretending? This was not the pure and holy life he intended to have. Contemplating one evening in his room, he realized what he needed to do. It was certainly not the right way, but it was the safer way.

He realized then that he had to fake his own death. Rather, the death of the person his father always knew. It was a necessity.

So that's exactly what he did. Waiting for the next letter to respond to, he began spinning a story.

The "couple" were (supposedly) expecting their first child. When this letter would be sent, the next two would be written by the time his father read the news and responded. Due to the speed (or lack thereof) of the mail, the story of what happened would be more believable.

The second letter was simply an update, stating that everything was well, and that he should not be concerned in any way. The third and final letter was the shortest, written from the perspective of the imaginary husband. John paid extra attention to change his handwriting to be more convincing. It essentially explained that during the delivery, complications arose and both mother and child had passed.

He made sure to emphasize the cause of death was something natural, instead of being able to be perceived as a result of neglect, which his father was sure to investigate. The letter ended with an invitation to visit and an apology. Well enough.

He repented lying and causing his father grief, but this was important. The double life he led was tiresome, so having one part no longer exist was necessary.

On the day his father arrived, John was not in class, making sure to greet his father as soon as he was able. Their unknown reunion was mournful, with both men walking around the town, talking about what a wonderful person he’d been, and how it was "such a shame to see a young person go on so soon". His father said that he had no doubts he'd see what was promised in the afterlife, and this warmed his heart. Not enough to give up the lie, though.

They carefully avoided the locals, keeping up the balancing act that was ensuring they didn't hear the story of his "poor young wife" who died "pitifully soon" and his father not hearing about the weird young man who'd come to the town conveniently in the time period of the marriage who happened to match the description of who his father was looking for.

The visit did not last for long, only a few days, and in those days John managed to get around the questions thrown his way, except one. What were his plans, now that his wife was dead? Would he remarry, since he was still young? Would he move away in order to forget what happened to his family?

These were not things he expected to answer at all. In thinking of everything, he managed to forget something. He ultimately danced around it (not that he would dance) saying that because the wound was so fresh, he did not know. His father gave suggestions before dropping it and leaving, saying he would keep in touch.

He never did write again.

---

The rest of his time in college was uneventful. He completed his studies and was assigned a family to live with, the Williams family. He was grateful they were not too… nosy, for lack of a better word. In fact, they largely left him alone, only ever interrupting his studies of the hefty books on the tricks of the Lord of Lies at meal times or when he was needed in the fields. He ate with the adults, and retreated back to his room shortly after. Every day.

It was beginning to become a habit. Wake up, study. Help with work around their small farm, go back to studying. Eat. Study. Sleep. Repeating endlessly in a cycle for years.

In that time, three things happened. One, he’d gained weight, both muscle and fat, which made it increasingly difficult to hide his changing shape. However, he'd managed to find thicker, looser clothing, which nearly eliminated the potential for exposure.

Two, he had been relocated to Beverly, where he became the head of the church there. This, in and of itself, was an honor, and he was afraid to let his congregation down. They were his flock, he the shepherd, and the idea of letting them down was… he couldn’t bear the thought.

Finally, he had been pressured into marrying. He was apprehensive to the idea, and for good reason: were he to be discovered, that would mean the end of his life. He had to choose a wife logically, someone who would be able to help him conceal the truth for their mutual safety, as well as someone he could get along with. It would be of no use to find someone willing to keep his secret, only to constantly bicker and disagree on everything else.

He did eventually find such a lady, though he guessed her “acceptance” was more confusion than anything. After all, people like John were incredibly rare, most gone on for one reason or another.

His wife, Sarah, was young, younger than he was, twenty-four years of age to his twenty-nine, with pale skin, large, round eyes and dark, curled hair that made her appear almost like a teenager. He didn’t like the youthfulness of her appearance all that much; it reminded him too much of himself when he was freshly an adult, but realized if he wanted to be accepted, he would have to put up with it. She would age eventually anyway.

Stories about her upbringing had not helped him see her as the adult she was. Apparently, she had been largely sheltered, having had few friends, and never once venturing out of the village she was raised in until about a year before their marriage, when they’d begun courting. He hadn’t been to too many places either, not until he ran away from home at nineteen. Often Sarah would ask questions about his condition, but largely was able to be polite, and John was glad to answer what he could, since she followed the basic guidelines he’d set in relation to it.

Until one day she’d asked him a question he was unable to answer.

“Excuse me, John,” she’d said, approaching in her demure way. “I had another question regarding your… condition.” She spoke softly, as though someone was listening behind a door or from outside.

He’d been studying one of his books on witchcraft, feeling as though he’d need his knowledge soon, so he was refreshing his memory. He actually paid her no mind until she walked directly up to his side, footsteps silent on the wood floor.

“John? I said I had another question.”

He jumped when he finally noticed she was there, voice cracking due to him being startled. “Yes? What is it, Sarah?”

“So, you see yourself as a man.”

“Yes. You do as well, correct? You still view me as a man?” His voice held no small amount of fear, knowing that at any point she could stop agreeing to keep his secret and report him to a government official.

“O-of course, I was just curious: do you find that you are attracted to men, or are you attracted to women? I know you married me, but from what I recall, you said our union was arranged by the family you stayed with.” Her eyes were dark with sadness, and he knew he should say something to reassure her, but he didn’t know what to tell himself.

“I… I truthfully can say that I do love you, and I appreciate all that you have done for me, both as my wife and my friend. I understand the power you hold over my life, though I am sure some of your aversion to exposing me is fear for yourself and what people will say of you, but I ultimately am unsure. Please wait a moment, I will return shortly.”

He shut his book, taking care to remember which chapter he stopped on. Walking out of the room, he retrieved a chair from the table in the kitchen and brought it back to where Sarah was waiting for him. He sat in the chair he brought from the kitchen, and motioned for her to sit in his desk chair, knowing it was more comfortable, and began to explain, thinking of how long this conversation would take.

“If I may speak freely, I would like to explain myself,” John said, the words he was aching to say poised on the tip of his tongue.

Sarah waited expectantly.

“In truth, our marriage was arranged, but I was the one who chose you. I knew I needed someone I could trust with my secret, and that I was going to need to marry eventually, otherwise the lady of the family I was living with would hassle me until I did.

"There was a time when I struggled with who I was meant to be. I asked God to take away the feelings I was experiencing; leave only those that were of Him. I know now that He left exactly what was deemed necessary. Among what was left, there was some residual attraction to men from … before, but there was also attraction to women. I would not have been drawn to you without those feelings, I think.”

This explanation was perhaps a bit convoluted, since he did not know what else to say. There were no apt metaphors for what he felt, only that he held feelings that only he himself would answer for in the end.

“I have no words to name my feelings, but I humbly ask of you that you try to ignore them. When I embrace you, please know that I am thinking of no other.” That final statement felt complete enough, so John left what he had to say at that. The entire time he’d spoken, he looked at the floor or out of the window, carefully avoiding his wife’s eyes, but when he finished, he looked up.

She had tears in her eyes. Did his words upset her? He did love her, regardless of everything, and prayed she believed him.

Finally, she spoke. “We - we are the same.” Sarah was smiling, though she still was crying.

“The same? What do you mean?” Her vagueness concerned him.

“I … also struggled; I was unsure if I should tell you or not, but now I feel as though I can. I am like you: attracted to both men and women. I believed I was imagining things, seeing certain ladies around town and feeling a burning in my chest I could not explain.

“I am afraid, however. I want to try and ignore those feelings. It will hurt me more than I can say, but it will be better, I feel. Thank you for listening to me.”

“You are quite welcome, and I will keep your secret. I promise you will never be exposed to any harm by words from my own mouth.”

That conversation was the last of any of that type, since Sarah no longer asked questions. John believed a weight had been lifted from her chest, the same way it had for him when he’d explained himself to her the first time. It was the beginning of true understanding between them, in his opinion.

A few people in the village whispered about the peculiarity of the reverend and his wife. Some speculated as to how she had yet to bear a child, others questioned the validity of their union based on the fact that no one knew anything about the minister or his background. Neither of them paid it any mind, since it was irrelevant, and no one had come to either of them directly in confrontation.

—

It was the summer of 1690, and he'd turned 30 years of age. Instead of feeling blessed and grateful, he instead felt sick to his stomach. And really, he was glad to make it this far in his life, but he felt guilt more than joy because of the things he'd had to do to survive.

Yes, it was for his protection and happiness, but it had him bound in chains that he forged himself. The deceit and lying and trickery were both working for him and against him.

Sarah, whom he had been married to for almost three years by this point, had been excited in his stead, cooking his favorite meal and alerting her close friend (who happened to be the local gossip) of the occasion, causing the entire town to know by the next evening. On his way into the church the next day he was met with congratulations and a few "I was unaware of how young you were"s here and there.

The attention was stifling, and he swore everyone was scrutinizing him more than usual. Realistically, nothing of the sort was happening; he could always command a congregation, having their rapt attention. Today was no different, beside his aging. However, his guilt was the main culprit in his conviction.

No one paid him any mind, really. Sarah told him so. The day was ultimately uneventful. He was glad for that.

—

About four months later, rumors of a witch in the village were brought to John’s attention. He made sure to let his congregation know that he would find the supposed witch and put an end to their wrongdoings, were there any. His intuition had been right, those few months ago, when he had been studying to refresh his memory.

The accused was a young woman who he’d had few, if any interactions with, but her name was constantly mentioned among the townspeople, so she had a reputation. Her primary accuser and possible victim was another young woman, the younger sister of the man the former was a known admirer of. Based on hearsay, her parents had gone to the parents of the siblings and asked to arrange a marriage between their daughter and the son. When they refused, the girl’s parents returned to their own home, appearing saddened, and shortly thereafter the victim began to experience pains in her abdomen.

The accuser claimed to have been awoken in the night by a voice telling her to rise out of her bed and attack her parents and brother. When she opened her eyes, there she saw the familiar spirit of the accused, who then attacked her, leaving a bruise on her abdomen.

The first thing that needed to be done was have the local doctor examine the victim, Hope Cochran, for any real injuries. Sure enough, on her lower stomach, there was a bruise. This did not bode well for the accused, Margaret Smith.

However, John knew there were definitive signs of the Devil that had to appear on the witch's body. Meaning there would be an examination of Miss Smith. That he would be the one examining her.

***

He shivered seeing her there in the examination room, though he was not the one who had to remove his clothing. Right away he could tell that this girl was not guilty of anything, annoying may she have been.

He walked towards her, saying a prayer that he would find nothing incriminating, but not counting on his personal opinion of her innocence.

"Hello," his voice was soft, and his trained voice nearly slipped. "I will try to complete this as expeditiously as possible. I believe we are both uncomfortable at the moment."

Margaret nodded. "Yes, sir."

"You may drop the formalities. There is the potential that I may discover a symbol of the occult."

That statement was met with silence. He didn't like that. He would much rather there was some conversation to avoid the awkward nature of this interaction.

Beginning his examination, he started talking; if nothing else, to hear something beside the ringing in his ears. He wanted to throw up. "How many years are you, Margaret? Surely one as young as I believe you to be could not possibly be involved with Satan."

"Twenty and one year, Mister Hale. I can hardly call myself young, however. Not anymore."

This troubled him beyond words. "Whatever do you mean? You are still quite young, I assure you."

She motioned around the two of them with her right arm. "This does not happen to one who is young and pure and good. This happens to people like me, who crave more than what they deserve."

"Trust me, I know when young people want more than what is necessary," he said, letting his voice slip a bit; on purpose, this time.

"Mister -?"

Before she could finish asking the inevitable question, another man burst through the door, the marshal, Mister Hooper, who had been searching for them.

John looked between the others in the room, and felt a palpable sense of unease. Being ever cautious, he quickly fixed his voice by clearing his throat. Thankfully this was a quick action, considering he had been doing it for over a decade. He looked at Margaret, and noticed something disturbing.

He saw the fear in her eyes, the way she made a quick and conscious effort to cover herself once again, and was almost immediately taken back to one evening during his time at Harvard; the day he'd made an enemy.

****

He had been studying in the library. There was a test soon, over both Psalms. He knew not the time, only that it was evening and he should have been in his room, asleep.

Suddenly, a classmate of his erupted into the room, startling him to such a degree that he screeched, causing his voice to lose its diminutive amount of depth.

Behind him was none other than Ezekiel Dickenson, a verbally aggressive and accusatory little man. Well, not a physically small man, but one who was, in no uncertain terms, morally inept. In times away from class he ranted and raved and cursed all the while, putting on a fairly convincing facade for the professors.

John had never been entirely fond of him, but tolerated him and regarded him as his equal in study and work. They could never hold a conversation with each other for long, and he always stared at John, making him anxious. There was no singular explanation as to how or why he'd tracked him to this place.

"Mister Hale. For what reason could you be here so late at night? You want to be well-rested for the exam tomorrow," he said, ice lacing the first word. Almost derogatory.

John turned in his chair to face him.

"Mister Dickenson. To what do I owe the pleasure of your company? I, personally, am studying. It would not fare well for me to slip up now, with the end of the semester coming so soon."

"I simply came across some … interesting … information regarding you, and I had to inquire with the most accurate source. You understand, of course."

Nothing about this conversation played right with him. It was sour, like a dying bell, melodious chimes turned sinister bangs. In fact, he was alarmed, but felt as though he could not waver, lest Ezekiel pinpoint the truth.

"Oh? Pray tell, what did you find?"

"The existence of a girl called Patience who apparently came all this way to be wed around the time you arrived for school. Yet, when I searched for her, there were no records of a 'Patience' anywhere. That is quite peculiar, is it not?"

He felt his heart stop. Nothing about what was being implied should ever see the light. Not while he was living and breathing. His voice shook. "Quite. What else did you hear about this girl?"

"That you seem to know her. Her full name was Patience; Patience Hale."

The statement hung in the air, and Ezekiel took the opportunity to continue.

"You, sir, personally said you had no living siblings, meaning no sisters. You are also unwed, and are not from here."

His face got closer and closer as he went on about 'Patience'.

"H-how do you know that I have no wife? She could reside away from here, you have no proof otherwise."

"How do I know? You would have said so when I mentioned her."

Heaven above. Caught; finally.

"Oh Patience …" Ezekiel sing-songed. "You could never hide yourself from me."

Before he realized, the larger man was on him, placing his disgusting and foul lips on his own. His tongue pushed past his lips and was a sluggish invader of his personal space. This was not how this was meant to be, having heard so from the few positive interactions he had in his youth. John struggled and wrestled the man off of him.

"What do you want from me?!?" he yelled. "I have nothing for you!" By this point, he had entirely eliminated all bass from his voice, deciding it was too much effort. He was poised to run at any moment.

"I want to see. I want to know you."

"Or what?" He was still yelling, mentally praying that no one could hear what was happening or would come through the door.

"Or I will tell, and you will be exposed for your deviant nature. Is that what you want, Patience?" The ice never left Ezekiel's words, but this was the worst of it.

"I will comply with your demands for my safety, but that is not my name! Never call me that again." Just speaking the words made him feel ill. Were these the lengths he would have to go to for the rest of his life? Just to feel whole and safe?

"So aggressive for someone so vulnerable," He laughed darkly and the sinking feeling in John's stomach only got worse. "No matter. Now; undress."

***

John left that encounter crying. He could typically keep his emotions under check, yet that night brought out the worst of it all: the anxiety, the pain, the frustration, the disillusion. Nothing beyond a few cold touches occurred, but he did not rest properly before his exam as a result. Or the next. Or the next. Or any after that. Every day was the same, feeling ill and afraid through the end of his time at school.

He could never tell anyone, of course. It would risk his life and the lives of innocent bystanders, like his friends, who genuinely knew nothing, or at the least were courteous to ignore anything incriminating.

****

Now more than ever he felt like a fraud, and realized he was staring off into oblivion.

"Umm… Reverend Hale? Are you quite all right? The townspeople need to know the results of your evaluation before a letter is sent to the higher courts." Marshall Hooper. He was still there in the room.

Think, John. No one needs to see you panicked. Not now.

"Tell - tell the townspeople there is no cause for worry. There is no witch in our midst. Least of all Margaret Smith."

His heart was beating faster than it ever had, and he could feel himself grow cold. He did not long to stay here any longer. He wanted to be in his own home, back poring over his books, making notes and feeling confident in something for once in his life.

"Let us go away from here. I think Miss Smith deserves her privacy now," he said, heading for the door and feeling the sweat pour down his brow in full, cold drops. "And send for my wife. Alert her that I am unwell."

"Do you need the doctor as well? Have you been witched?"

"No, sir. This is a natural illness, but not one that requires the aid of medicine." John was dry heaving, the panic setting in almost completely now.

"Oh. Umm … yes, sir. Right away."

He made it home safely, traveling the back road he had come to know so well in the time he’d lived here. He came across it by pure accident while walking and thinking one day, divine providence allowing him to see a new path through the forest and wilderness. By the time he walked through the door and into his office, the attack had seized him completely.

The pace of his heart and breath were together inhuman, his body oscillating between burning and freezing all the while. The room seemed to get smaller, miniscule around him, and he realized he was crying. The only thing he could do was shiver and wait. Eventually it would pass, despite the unending nature of the thing.

This was a consequence of his own lack of work and faith. He knew that. Knowing only made the pain he felt worse, and his stomach ached. He felt like he was going to expel every bit of food he'd ever eaten and every bit he ever would eat.

Removing his coat, he began sobbing uncontrollably at an increasing volume. He could very easily be on display, but at this moment it was irrelevant. It was by this point that Sarah returned from where she had gone. She rushed to his side and held him close to her, rocking him back and forth the way one might do to an infant, whispering a prayer over him all the while. Maybe she cried. He couldn’t tell.

"I fear I may retch upon your dress, Sarah. In the event that occurs, be prepared." He sounded absolutely miserable, and felt that way as well.

"If it means you will be fine, then I will allow it." She moved his body so he could face her. "I want you to be well, John. Who else will lead these people in their journey with God if not you? Who will I have?"

Sarah was becoming wise beyond her years, growing into her own finally, so long after their union. She was no longer the picture of fragility and youth that he thought she had been. Mayhap he imagined it, but there seemed to be a line or two of aging around those round eyes. Mayhap.

He smiled at her, the first real one he'd had grace his lips in what felt like years. By now, the attack had released him, and he felt limp and loose. He sighed, and allowed himself to relax rather than force his trained voice.

"Would you like to tell me what happened?"

"I was taken by a vision, is all. Nothing to worry about."

"Nothing?" She was still clearly worried about him, a crease forming along her brow.

"I promise." He sat up and pressed a kiss to her forehead, almost immediately erasing the lines there. "I humbly thank you for being here in my hour of need."

She blushed like a schoolgirl, looking away from him for a moment, and he knew that she was still youthful in her heart. "It was what any good wife would do."

—

The year was 1690, and he had successfully averted a crisis in his congregation. He knew now for certain there were no witches around, and the very idea sounded preposterous at the moment.

Things would hopefully stay that way.

—

Spring of 1692 was underway, bringing along with the season change new troubles to face.

"Mister Hale," a voice came from behind, causing him to jump.

He nearly screamed.

Turning around to see who it was that startled him, he tried to readjust, failing slightly and making his voice crack. "Yes, sir? Is there something for me?"

He noted the folded paper in the man's hand. A message.

"From the Revered Mister Parris in Salem, sir. Specifically requesting your aid."

Specifically? Whatever for?

Cautiously, he accepted the letter from the messenger, giving him thanks and bidding him farewell before returning directly to his home to read it.

He sat down in his desk chair and began to skim over the short message, picking out a few eye-catching words: Mystery illness. Supernatural cause. Suspicions of witchcraft. Trials.

Deciding this was enough to pique his interest, he read the letter in its entirety:

"Mister Hale,

I understand the sudden nature of this request, however I believe you are the most capable of assisting with this pressing matter. Two of the young girls from our village, my own daughter and another, have been struck with a mystery illness. When I inquired with the physician, he determined there was no human explanation for their affliction. Many have looked to a supernatural cause, and I myself am slowly believing the same. There are suspicions of witchcraft among the townspeople, and while I try to dispel all talks of superstition, the call for further investigation and trials of those accused is becoming deafening in my own ears. Therefore, I humbly beseech you, would you find it in your good soul to aid us in our battle against the Lord of Lies?

With urgency,

Samuel Parris"

A witch problem? He couldn't say he had no experience with this, yet the thought of playing a part in the persecution of any innocent people made him anxious. However, an illness that potentially threatened the lives of two children? He could not sit idly by, knowing he was qualified to help.

Grabbing an available sheet of paper and his quill and ink, he began to scrawl a reply, praying he was not too late.

—

Sarah found him later, pacing the bedroom, whispering to himself.

"Are you well? Are you ill again?" She asked, preparing to assist him.

"I must leave for Salem in the coming days. There is a problem of an occult nature, and I was specifically called upon to lend my aid." He stopped pacing to say this, making eye contact with his wife.

"How long will you be gone?"

"That I know not. I would allow you to come along, however there may be things that even you are not prepared to see. I will be going alone; I have already sent a message ahead, announcing my arrival, and did not mention anyone beside myself."

"Oh - oh. Well, I will help you pack for your journey. Surely the time that it will take to travel will be great. I fear you may become burdened with misery without enough available to you." The way she said the last part implied the hidden truth they both were loath to have possibly enter the public sphere.

"I believe I will survive. I do appreciate your concern, however." He smiled at her; having made a habit of it after she assisted him the first time he was hit with the attack. "When I return, I will return with stories to tell and new friends made. I promise you that, at the least."

—

On the day of his leaving, the couple parted very publicly with a heart wrenching farewell. If nothing else, most of the townspeople would not think he was leaving to meet a secret lover or retreating in cowardice from his duty to the church. Those who speculated or theorized would do what they pleased.

"Send me letters, please. I will need all the encouragement I may get," he whispered to her, holding her face in his hands.

"I love you," she whispered back. Very rarely were those words uttered from the lips of either, fear taking away most opportunities, making everything too real.

"And I you. Be safe, Sarah." He punctuated his statement by gently kissing her forehead. Public displays of affection were also rare, due to the rules of their society and the seemingly forbidden nature of their relationship. This time was different though, even the most strict and steadfast would agree.

Releasing her, he turned to climb onto his horse, ready to race toward Salem and their witch problem. Maybe he would return to Beverly a hero, saving another town from the clutches of Satan and his wiles. Maybe nothing of the sort would happen, and he would determine that the Devil had no influence over them after all.

John did not know, nor did he pretend to know, what God had in store for him during these trials, but he prayed there would be a swift conclusion in the favor of the righteous.

—

Upon his arrival he noticed one thing: a growing discontent among the townspeople. Perhaps it was the fear of a witch (or several witches) in their midst; maybe some other thing that tugged at their collective consciousness. Regardless, something was amiss, and he feared the day he would discover what it was.

A large portion of his time had been spent in fear: fear of damnation, of himself, of how he felt. Now, he added a new fear to the list: failing those in need of his help. Indecision would not fare well in this instance, and every need would be met according to his ability.

***

Most of his work had been plainly signing off on warrants. So far he was doing what he intended, helping eliminate the evil from the village. It made him proud … almost. Excessive pride was unbecoming of a man such as himself.

He often found himself alone, which enabled him to write letters to Sarah while working. He perfected his handwriting, especially his signature, finally used to signing things with both hands. Whenever others were around, he was careful to never use his left hand. It was common belief that writing with the left hand was a sign of demonic possession. Just another thing he preferred to keep a secret, despite knowing the consequences he would face in his afterlife.

—

His nerves were fraught with tension. He was sending so many into the mercy of the hangman and his noose or into the jail. There was no guarantee that all of these people were truly guilty of a most heinous crime, but he had to soldier on. No suspicion befell the most pious of souls, however. Not yet.

One such person he became particularly fond of was Mister John Proctor.

This man was someone he could imagine looking up to, a true role model. Though Mister Proctor was an outspoken opponent of the Trials and the court, he found himself inexplicably drawn to him. He wanted to be like him; to be able to speak his mind and hold fast to his beliefs. To be bold and live without obvious fear.

It also did not help that every time he thought about the man, which was becoming more frequent these days, he flushed and could barely speak. He shook when speaking of him, and his heart panged in his chest. It was a feeling similar to illness or fear, which he might’ve mistaken it for, did he not know better. He promised that he was dedicated to his wife, and he was, but in truth he did not harbor these particular feelings for her.

No; these were closer to what he felt about Catherine, wherever she was now. If she was alive she would be almost thirty and four years, always two his senior, and the only person he ever held in such high esteem. At least she used to be the only one he looked to for guidance. If only he knew where she was; he would reach out, possibly explain where he actually disappeared to. Hopefully she was far from the death and grief that stained this village.

Regardless, these were not the things he needed to focus his attention on. At his left was a stack of warrants, and to his right there were letters he planned to send to Sarah. The warrants would be easy, all he had to do was sign. They should have been easy. Yet his heart was so heavy that the mere thought of lifting his quill to send another to face the court made him tired. The letters.

Sarah had been telling him of the goings-on in Beverly while he was gone: who was betrothed, who was having a child, who was leaving. These things were trivial at best, but they were the lifeblood of a small town. If one could not gossip in their sparse free time, what else would they do? So, he tried to think of responses. No doubt these would be read over time and time again by their recipient, therefore there had to be some vaguely interesting content relating to something other than death and hysteria.

That was surprisingly hard. Sure, he had his own opinions of specific people around the town, but he felt as though it would be improper to share them in any form barring spoken word. Since that was impossible to do without traveling the distance back to his home, he would settle for anything else. He sat staring at the wall for an unbearable amount of time, being drawn back to the day he finally allowed himself to tell the truth. That time, John unlocked an infinitely important detail about his own life, maybe this time he would do the same for someone else’s.

***

Some unknown amount of time passed, and he was back to signing warrants (with his left hand) when he heard the footsteps of another person entering the home he had been staying in. Immediately, he dropped the quill, thankful it did not land on the papers, knowing how it would appear if one of God’s own men was writing using a sinner’s hand.

If only they knew. The thought did not comfort or amuse him; it set him on edge. He rubbed the back of his neck, almost like he felt the burn of a rope being pulled ever tighter.

“Mister Hale. A message for you.”

He nodded his thanks to the messenger, and accepted his mail. He inspected the note, feigning curiosity, before the other man finally left him alone.

It was another letter from Sarah. He expected another, but not so soon after the last. This made him anxious. Was there really so much he left behind? He could not recall any time as eventful as now. None of the letters he already received contained much to worry over. Had a mysterious plague taken control of the village, and this was a warning to wait before returning? Was there an outbreak in unruly behavior among the youth, demanding things no mortal could ever give them? Maybe it was news of how well things were running without him, the fictitious and sinning pastor. Shame bubbled up in him. This was not the first time he believed that everything he had accomplished was all a farce, and that his worst enemies were waiting for him to make a mistake; unravel before their very eyes so they could say no one should ever put any faith in a liar like him.

Cautiously, he unfolded the paper. The message was short, barely three sentences, yet it shocked him to his core. Sarah was, naturally not by input on his part, with child. In her brief message, she requested he not tell a soul, stating that he should not worry about her well-being. She “understood what occurred, and knew what would occur,” and supposedly needed to prove a point.

John almost immediately started writing his reply, forgetting the job he had to do. Questions swirled around his mind. Whom? When? Most importantly, why? Why put their collective safety in danger, to prove something? In no uncertain terms he inquired these facts in his letter, adding little detail about his work. It was unimportant. He rushed out of the house and found the nearest person able to deliver messages.

Despite knowing what he knew, he said nothing of his wife’s condition when questioned about her, and proceeded as normal. All the while, he waited patiently for a reply where he got an explanation. One needed certain virtues if they were to understand the reasoning behind these covert and outlandish operations.

—

The court moved on, and so did he. Unfortunately, it turned its sights on those pious and upstanding individuals whom he had become so fond of in the months he spent in Salem. He knew, based on intuition, without a single book, these people were guilty of no type of witchcraft. It did not take any special knowledge of the spiritual world where Satan and his minions hid to see that. Yet there was persecution, and a call for necks snapped, holy bodies swinging from the gallows.

Despite his acute awareness of these wrongs, he knew he could never call it into question. These proceedings were heinous, an affront to justice, the last thing he would have wanted to be involved in and the guilt ate away at his conscience.

Let one word of his opposition escape his lips, and there would be an investigation into his life. People would realize he was a liar and a fraud. Could he face those consequences? Would he want to put Sarah in danger? To allow her the shame of being associated with him and his body of sin?

He wanted to cry, not realizing this was not going to be the worst of it. Unfortunately, this was a hole he dug for himself, just by stepping outside of his role and the life he had been given. Maybe he could find his father and explain what actually happened, beg for his forgiveness; tell Sarah to go and marry her child's real father, repent her sins, and say that John died from a disease while away.

He contemplated his role in life, not for the first time.

—

The final straw. That righteous man along with others, accused of some despicable action they would never even consider. It made him ill. Sick to his stomach. So he walked out.

John stormed out of their court and did not look back, one arm covering his face lest the others hear or see him cry. There was no justice in Salem; no righteous fury used against evildoers who threatened God's standing in the colony. He kept walking, far as his legs would take him, stopping only to get his cloak and his horse. He wiped his eyes and decided he would never return. Not so long as he believed in truth and what was right. Maybe these people would feel the impact of their actions later, after he was long gone and could not be impacted.

—

August, possibly September, 1692. He was unsure. Sarah reported that she and the child grew. John knew she hoped for a daughter, and the very idea made him afraid: girls were fragile, but rebellious. They could bring you joy or end the same feeling at a moment's notice. He didn't even think he would ever become a parent, knowing he would either be forced to pretend to be happy or die for just trying to live a forbidden truth.

He received a letter in the time he traveled away from that awful village, around the colony while carefully avoiding Beverly, stating that his own wife had been named as a witch, a statement he knew was patently false. Headstrong and cunning though she may have been, no such thing was true; he told the others as much. Not much came from the accusation, besides his continued hiatus from his service in Salem.

***

Eventually he was called back there by his own guilt, in order to convince Mister Proctor’s wife, Elizabeth, to convince her husband that he should try and save his own life. John was unsure of how he might do that, considering he walked out on his own duty to those people out of anger. Fearing what the man's answer might be, he went anyway.

—

He saw him there, in that cell. He was dirty, covered head to toe in the grime of others' iniquity; shackles heavy on holy and blameless (in this, at least) skin. He was sure to school his expression, in the event his voice betrayed him.

"Oh dear…" he whispered to himself, balling his hands into fists to prevent speaking too loud. With no other words, he watched as the larger men moved to assist the man in standing. They removed his shackles and the minister cringed at the scars around his wrists. His brief time in prison had not been kind to him in the slightest.

Silently, he followed the group out, his eyes searching for the main person he’d gone to see. When he spotted her, his heart grew ever heavier with grief and guilt. This was not the woman he’d spoken to that day at the Proctor residence before … before she had been taken to the prison for a crime he was absolutely sure she did not commit. If he were being completely honest with himself, he felt out of his depth; like a child once again, navigating through the world with so little guidance. All he could do was watch as she went off to speak with her husband.

The briefly reunited couple spoke for an inconsequential amount of time, having somehow reached a conclusion and agreement in such a short instance.

Mister Proctor was … walking to sign his name! He was going to confess, and John would know that he spared at least one soul purer than his own. Preparing to send a prayer of thanks to the Most High, his thoughts were interrupted by commotion.

Why was he changing his mind? This was not what John was expecting when he arrived back in Salem at the early hour he did. This was not what he wanted. And he rarely let himself want, because wanting is what got him here in the first place.

He pleaded with both Proctors, but they seemed steadfast and resolute; accepting an end that was undeserved. This was less than ideal. An innocent man was set to hang in minutes, and he could do nothing but stand idly by.

—

He watched as the man he’d grown fond of in the short time they’d known one another was strung up on the gallows. It was loud; too loud. The noise of people yelling for the “sinners” to be hanged, drums that he was unsure were actually being hit, his own heart in his ears. Overwhelming, overstimulating, too much for him to handle. At the last second he turned away, only to hear the sharp *crack* of a life ended clearly above every other noise. The sound reverberated in his mind a million and one times. He shut his eyes tight and pretended he was anywhere but here, among these people who were unknowingly accomplices in the murders of pious people. He would pray for them.

And what of himself? John felt largely responsible for all of it. He should have stayed home all those years ago, let his father marry him off to some suitor whose parents would agree to a union with the most bizarre ‘girl’ in the village. He would not have been happy, but at least that way he would be away from here, from these people; especially away from the now dead body of a man he could not even admit entirely to himself that he loved. He was not happy now, nor did he think he ever would be again.

—

The early morning was quiet to a truly stifling degree. Not a creature stirred outdoors in the freezing January dawn. John had been largely unable to sleep; it seemed that he was waking up more frequently from the same nightmare: he was back in that awful place, and that man … that man was being killed senselessly, over and over again. He could not escape it, no matter how he yearned to forget it all. When would the Lord free his spirit of this guilt?

Never, he supposed. Maybe that was his fault.

His life had been too long regardless, a sinner does not deserve to relish in the blessings of life while those who were proper and faithful until the end have to meet an unfortunate and untimely demise. Thinking, he grabbed up supplies, and stepped carefully, avoiding those floorboards that might creak. It was of no use to wake Sarah or their child.

Finding his desk in the low light, he found his quill and ink, lit the candle for more proper light, and began to write. When he finished, the sun was almost completely above the horizon line. He waited for the ink to dry while staring at the wall, counting planks of wood in that same way he always seemed to during these times writing his letters.

This letter, were it ever to be found, would explain it all. From beginning to end. No matter the consequence, the truth would be open and his mind would be clear.

From this point, regardless of what he did, Patience was dead and gone. Heartless though it may have seemed, he did not mourn the loss.

#can you tell i like italics #can you #writing forged in fire #<- fic tag! get it. 'fire'. because it's the crucible. guys i'm unfunny and it shows #i guess this gets the standard tags too #arthur miller #the crucible #classic literature #classic lit #not a meme #if i need to tag something down here let me know #long post

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jgvfhl · 3 years

Text

The Number Lads

Part 1/???? 3K words, no warnings :)

So I’ve created an audience on Tumblr for the Number Lads, and I’ve happened to got 3K words here for them. So! Here are the origins of the Number Lads! More to follow.... eventually....

For future reference:

Sevenset = ARC-7777 = ARCBoiiiii

Do-si-do = CT-2222 = Double Trouble

Trees = CT-3333 = Green Bean

Loops = CT-8888 = Loopy

Sixes = CC-6666

Double Trouble: i meant it as a joke sevens

ARCBoiiiiii: i didn’t

ARCBoiiiii: what you think you can drop that information on me and i wont use it??? how long have you known me

Double Trouble: okay okay but if you die i’m not mourning you

Loopy: ouch

Green Bean: how do you have this much time to comm us when you’re at ARC training, sevenset

Green Bean: who changed my name

Double Trouble: :3c

ARCBoiiiii: what you don’t like it? thought it suited you, trees

Green Bean: why did i let you guys talk me into this club…

ARCBoiiiii: we’re awfully convincing that way

Double Trouble: you felt compelled

Double Trouble: it’s the numbers gang bond

Green Bean: it was not that

ARCBoiiiii: was it loops space buns

ARCBoiiiii: i bet it was loops space buns

Loopy: what

Double Trouble: they are adorable

Loopy: oh kriff you, don’t you have arc stuff to do, sevenset?

ARCBoiiiii: ehhhhh my next training block doesnt start for another 4min, so....

Double Trouble: well i gotta run, we’re going hyperspace in a min or so--remember the meeting next week!!! be there or be square!

ARCBoiiiii: we dont have any perfect squares yet ;-;

Green Bean: Yeah, yeah, i’ll see you weirdos eventually

Loopy: stay alive out there

Double Trouble: especially the guy who wants to recruit Commander Death over there

ARCBoiiiii: I’ll be fiiinnnne whats the worst that can happen

Green Bean: i mean. his name. is DEATH?

ARCBoiiiii: ..... a fair point.... i guess you’ll just have to wait until the next numbers gang meeting huh :)

Loopy: maker help you

----

Sevenset was uncharacteristically quiet that day during second meal, but only because his mouth was continually occupied with food, not talking. He was on the clock today.

“Hey, Sevenset, are you inhaling those rations, or…?”

He looked over at Buster next to him, quickly swallowing his food. “I just got something I wanna do,” he said, taking a glug of water.

“Something so important you’re taking one of the few unscheduled breaks we have to do it? Okay then.”

Sevenset cleaned the rest of his tray, flashing a grin at Buster as he stood up. “Don’t wanna be late. Got a meeting with death.” He really couldn’t resist the pun. Honestly.

Buster’s eyebrow raised skeptically. His friend next to him, Sketch, asked, “Is this about some new way you’ve managed to piss off the trainers? Because yeah, I’m sure Alpha could arrange a meeting with death for you if you… I dunno, painted pink hearts on his armor.”

“Amazing idea,” Sevenset admitted, his brain automatically figuring out where the pink paint was (he’d have to make it), where Alpha-17’s armor lived (not sure on that one), and how possible it would be to sneak in and out to accomplish the task (a challenge). “However, no, not this time. See you guys later!” He deposited his tray and utensils in the proper area to be cleaned, then jogged out of the mess hall.

Kamino’s winding halls and levels really weren’t efficient--but compared to Coruscant… he couldn’t really argue. A healthy stretch of time in the Guard had given him plenty of tools to make his way around inefficient, crowded, twisty places like this. It didn’t take long before he reached where he was going. Aside from the resident Rancor Battalion, there were often troopers on Kamino from various groups throughout the GAR. They stayed out of the way of those training in separate wings of Tipoca City, and right now, Sevenset was very keen to speak to a visiting commander.

He slipped into a lift with two other troopers--visiting, by the looks of their battered armor. Luckily, they were too engrossed in their own conversation to really notice him, despite his rather colorful tattoos that usually made him stick out. But it was for the best this time. He got off at the level above and started down the hall, reading door labels as he went, searching….

Ah. Here. He pushed a button to open the door, but it was locked. Not entirely surprising, but… now what? If his internal clock was still fairly accurate, he had about ten minutes before he needed to be back for the next training block.

“It’s locked for a reason.”

He whirled, his body almost automatically snapping to attention at the low voice behind him.

Commander Sixes (AKA Commander Death, remember) surveyed him with a disturbing lack of expression. He was tall, for a clone. Probably closer in height to some of the Alphas than to Sevenset. His black armor stuck out like green plants on Coruscant in the brightly lit halls of Tipoca City, making him somehow look even bigger. Even more unnerving, he still had his helmet on, the visor lit with a dull green light, and fixed pointedly on him. Sevenset hated not being able to read people...

Sevenset hadn’t planned for this. Come to think of it, a lot of the “plan” he’d concocted relied on a few assumptions, and all of them seemed to be fading. One of them had been that he would have no problem talking to a CO--he never had before. “Sir, hi--hello--I was uhm…” He managed to clamp down on the first coherent thought to float through his head, so instead of blurting, “You’re a lot taller than I thought you’d be,” he stumbled upon, “It’s a nice room you’ve got. From the outside,” and immediately wanted to bash his head in on the wall.

The commander’s helmet never moved, just kept staring him down. “Get out of my way,” he finally growled, taking a step forward.

Against all better judgement, Sevenset stood his ground, although he squished himself a bit closer against the door. “Yessir, of course, just--one thing, really quick thing, I promise.” When the commander didn’t kill him or rip his arms off or something, he went on, finally finding his words were cooperating with him. “So, you’re CC-6666, naturally. I happen to be CT-7777--Sevenset, I’m Sevenset. There’s a group of us, see, sir--with the repeating numbers, and we have little meetings--”

“No.”

“--is what I thought you’d say, but just--” he paused, fumbling a bit to pull a piece of flimsi out of his pocket. “There’s the frequency, there’s the date of the next meeting,” he said, holding out the flimsi scrap. “I’m sure the other boys would love it if you dropped by.” The end of his final sentence shriveled into an undignified squawk when Commander Sixes reached out, grabbed his collar, and shoved him bodily out of the way of the door.

“Get back to training before I have some of my boys drag you there,” he said, entering the door’s access code.

“I’ve got six minutes--”

The door slid shut in his face. Well. He was still alive. So… that counted as a success. Perhaps not a resounding success, but a success. He stood in stunned silence for a moment, still clutching the scrap of flimsi in his hand, wondering if he should stick it in the door so the commander would find it later. However, he had no trouble believing the commander’s threat that his men literally would drag him back to the ARCs if he told them to, so it was probably best not to linger.

Sevenset jumped to attention for the second time that day when the door slid open again. He just stood there, dumb, as Commander Sixes stepped out, plucked the scrap of flimsi from his fingers, then returned to his room with about as much ceremony as befitted dumping pebbles out of a boot.

Oh, yeah. Definitely a success.

---

The first thing Sixes did once back in the privacy of his albeit temporary rooms was remove the top half of his armor, only leaving the gauntlet with his wrist comm. Turning his attention to said wrist comm, he entered Colt’s number. There was a short wait before the other commander answered it.

“Everything alright over there, Sixes, sir?”

“It’s about one of the ARC candidates.”

There was a pause. Understandable. The ARCs weren’t supposed to be in this wing of Tipoca City. “Which one?” His tone suggested he already had his suspicions.

“Calls himself Sevenset.”

He heard inaudible muttering on the other end. “What’d he do this time?” Sixes had suspected as much.

“Quite a pair he’s got on him, hasn’t he?”

Colt laughed dryly. “Yeah, sure. Hopefully, he’s worth the trouble.”

Sixes looked over the scrap of flimsi in his other hand. “Yeah… I think he might be.”

~+~

Leaning back in his pilot’s chair, Do-si-do watched the little light on the ship’s holoprojector, waiting for the others to join the meeting. He always took the calls in his ship. It was more private than his bunk most of the time, and frankly, the audio quality was so much better than on the hand-held devices.

Trees was the first to join, punctual as usual.

“Hey, Trees,” he smiled.

“Have you heard from Sevenset yet?” he asked.

Do-si-do shook his head, combing strands of his bleached curls out of his face. “Nah. Figure he’s been too busy. Graduation was supposed to be a couple days ago, right?”

“Three, yes.”

Loops’ holographic miniature appeared beside Trees’. He looked exhausted, but awake. His long hair was down from his signature twin buns, and he leaned his chin on his hand, fingers resting just over the infinity symbol tattoo on his cheek.

“Loops,” Trees greeted him.

“Mph.”

“What happened to you?” Do-si-do asked.

“Supply shipment,” Loops sighed. “General Koon’s having skeleton crews tonight so we can get some sleep.” After a stifled yawn, he asked, “Is Sevenset dead yet?”

Do-si-do smiled. “Trees asked the same thing, and I have no idea.”

As if on cue, a third hologram popped up on the ship’s control panel. Sevenset beamed at them, his new ARC pauldrons proudly on display. “Guess who’s not dead, fellas!”

“Hey hey! Look at you, ARC-7777,” Do-si-do grinned, leaning forward in his seat. “How’s it feel?”

“I really love the kama, gotta be honest.” He was only visible from the waist up, but they could see him sway his hips back and forth, clearly enjoying his new gear.

“Show us the paint,” Loops demanded, as firmly has he could demand it in his half-asleep state.

Sevenset obliged, setting down his holoprojector--his personal one, now he had graduated--and stepping back so more of his body was visible. The paint job was fairly similar to his previous armor--the sharp edges, the circle on his right shoulder bell holding four stylized sevens--but the new armor on his chest and arms had forced some alterations. They could see just about all of the kama now, the bright red sevens standing out against the dark grey fabric. Predictable, maybe, but still eye-catching. That was Sevenset’s main goal, if it weren’t already clear from the tapestry of tattoos on his bald head that ran down his neck under his blacks, and the several glinting piercings in his ears and nose.

“It’s definitely you.” Trees, bluntly.

“They let you keep the red paint, huh?” Do-si-do said. Sevenset had previously been assigned to the Coruscant Guard. After proving a bit more trouble than the Guard could take, and catching some CO’s eye, he’d been shipped back to Kamino a couple months ago to join Rancor.

“Hey, if Commander Colt can have it, I guess I can too. No one stopped me.”

Without warning, a fourth hologram appeared beside the others in front of Do-si-do’s eyes. A trooper--a big trooper, even in miniature--and in dark armor, helmet included. His brows scrunched together as he studied the person, failing to recognize them.

Sevenset did. “Commander!”

“I see Colt decided against tossing you overboard.”

Oh, no karking way. “Commander Sixes?” Do-si-do blurted.

At the same time, Loops made some unintelligible noise and suddenly disconnected, and Trees froze like a lizard when a hawk flies overhead, his eyes gone wide, one arm half-way to a salute. Frankly, Do-si-do could understand their reactions. Commander Sixes--like many of the CCs--was legendary. His wing of Star Fighters had fought through some of the toughest space battles so far, and always came out of it. As a pilot himself, Do-si-do had heard story after story about their skills. The fighter wing and the commander now wore the nickname Death, thanks to their brutal but effective tactics.

There was a brief and painfully quiet pause before the commander said, “Pride of the GAR, this lot.”

“Eh, they’ll get over it,” Sevenset shrugged, his hologram appearing to zoom in as he came closer again. “Right, Trees?” he added with a grin. Their friend was still in shock, it looked like. “Might have to tell him to relax, sir.”

The commander’s helmet turned towards Trees. “At ease. Take a breath before you pass out.”

Trees blinked, lowering his arm. “Yessir,” he said quietly, throwing a glance over his shoulder.

“I’ll try to get Loops back,” Sevenset said, a datapad appearing in his hands. Damn, ARCs really did get all the good stuff. Do-si-do still had to share a datapad with his squad of pilots.

“Shouldn’t there be more?” Commander Sixes asked.

“Of us? Yeah,” Do-si-do answered. “I guess there should be nine of us, in theory.”

“Nine or ten,” Trees said, his tone still a bit clipped.

“Ten or eleven, actually,” Sevenset corrected, still looking at his datapad. “We don’t know if a CT designation can be all zeroes. Might have been taken out of the system, who knows.”

“It’s hard when we don’t have access to the full GAR database,” Do-si-do went on. “We have to rely on hearsay and brothers from other battalions. Sevenset and I met by chance on Coruscant.” Loops’ hologram reappeared. He looked a bit more awake now, still visibly on edge from the commander’s arrival, and with a glower on his face. “Loopy! Welcome back.”

“I hate you.”

“Whoa, hey, I didn’t know he was coming either,” he defended himself. “Blame Sevenset.”

“I’m blaming both of you,” Loops said. “You told Sevenset about him, and Sevenset was stupid enough to go through with it.”

Sevenset, his attention off his datapad and back on the meeting, put a hand over his heart. “Stupid enough?” he repeated, doing his best to sound utterly wounded. “I think you mean ballsy enough.”

“He meant stupid enough,” the commander replied immediately and without emotion. “And I agree.”

Do-si-do snorted a laugh at the look of utter indignation on Sevenset’s face. Even Trees relaxed a bit more. “Okay, I can get used to having a CC around,” he grinned.

“Finally, someone with the authority to tell him off,” Loops said, expressing Do-si-do’s feelings exactly.

The recipient of their mocking pouted at them, folding his arms as best he could with his new armor. “Now I just feel unloved.”

“Why do I get the feeling Commander Fox was only too happy to get you qualified for ARC training?” the commander asked, his tone remaining impassive.

“For your information,” Sevenset said, then stopped, realizing, as they all had, that the commander had known where Sevenset had previously served. No one had told him this information. “How did you know I was in the Guard?”

They all turned to the commander. “I’m a commander. I can look anyone up. I looked you all up.”

Do-si-do leaned even farther forward in his seat, a huge smile on his face. “You have access to the full database?”

“You can find the others!” Sevenset completed, a similar smile on his face as well.

There was a pause. Do-si-do was starting to think Commander Sixes just liked the drama they created. In fact, judging by how he had yet to show his face and was wearing all black armor, it seemed Commander Death was fond of the dramatic in a few ways. “In theory, sure.”

“Yes! Oh, fantastic,” Sevenset went on, rubbing his hands together. “You can tell us where they’re stationed--”

“If they’re still alive,” Trees added in. He had a point.

“--and then we can find them!”

The commander’s helmet tilted, his expression hidden. “I’m guessing Fox declined membership,” he said.

Do-si-do snorted a gain, and Trees and Loops both smiled. They all remembered Sevenset’s story of trying to recruit Commander Fox to be number ten for their little group.

“If by ‘declined membership’ you mean, ‘shipped me out to Kamino for someone else to deal with,’ then yes,” Sevenset answered. “He declined.”

“Maybe you can ask him,” Loops said.

“Hey, yeah--”

“No.” The commander’s tone didn’t leave much room for argument, but that had never stopped Sevenset a day in his life, and Do-si-do was more than content to sit back and enjoy the show.

“But you’re his big brother, right? You can drag him into things--”

“I’m not a damn recruiter, ARC, now stand down.”

The effect was instantaneous. They all recognized a CO’s “talk back and you’ll be cleaning ‘freshers for the next month” voice. Combined with Commander Sixes’ already awe-inspiring reputation, his order shut them all up. Trees once again straightened to attention, and this time they all joined him, even Sevenset.

“Understood, sir,” he replied. Do-si-do could see the new training in him now. Sevenset wouldn’t be an ARC if he didn’t know when to drop the comic act, but the speed and discipline with which he’d done so just now was different.

The commander waited a second or two, then he nodded once. “At ease.”

They relaxed, mostly. It was hard to ignore the mood shift that had taken place. As cool as it was having a commander in the club… there were some obvious issues that needed addressing if this was going to remain a “just for fun” place.

Do-si-do found himself as the one breaking the uneasy silence. “But… you can help us find where the others are stationed, right, sir?”

The commander’s helmet dipped. “Yeah, I can do that.”

“Can you do that… now?” Sevenset ventured.

The commander’s helmet tilted to one side, and it looked like he sighed. “Fine.” The others perked up. “But, I can only find their assignments, not their current locations.”

“We can work with that,” Do-si-do agreed, and the others nodded along. “Who’s writing this down?”

“I can!” Sevenset volunteered.

Trees reminded him, “Your handwriting is entirely illegible. Even to you.”

“Yes, but now I have a datapad. I can type all my notes.”

“I’m just going to start talking if you boys don’t figure it out,” the commander warned.

“Okay, okay, fine, Trees can copy it.”

Trees’ organization skills would always beat out Sevenset’s anyway. Maybe ARC training had fixed that, though. Trees shifted around, grabbing what he needed, then looked up and nodded when he was ready.

The commander’s helmet tipped down to look at something--presumably a datapad--as he spoke. “CT-4444 is with the Marines under Bacara. Probably has limited contact availability depending on the mission. Infrequent leave.” Do-si-do’s eyebrows raised, and he glanced at Sevenset and Loops. They hadn’t been expecting a tactical rundown of each person. But… they wouldn’t complain. “CT-27-5555 is the only ‘fives’ trooper in the GAR. He’s one of Rex’s freaks, so good luck getting your hands on him.”

“That’s the five-oh-first, right?” Loops asked. “Torrent, or something?”

“Yeah. Rex’s freaks. I’m sure he’ll fit right in.” Do-si-do smirked. He probably would. “And CT-9999 is with Ghost Company in the two-twelfth. Pretty decent chance he and number five have run missions together. Or will in the future, anyway.”

“Is there a CT-0000?” Loops wanted to know.

“What about eleven-eleven?” Sevenset added.

The commander glanced up at them, then back to his materials. “Yeah, the one-eighteenth has a CT-0000. Didn’t find an eleven-eleven, though.”

Do-si-do frowned. “Not even a casualty report?”

“No.”

“But… he could still be on Kamino, right?” Trees said. “Cadets don’t show up in the main database until they graduate and deploy.”

The commander nodded. “He could be a cadet.”

“I could look,” Sevenset offered. “I mean. I live here now, so I should be able to find out if a CT-1111 exists. It’ll just take a bit longer.”

“Yeah, we’ll figure it out,” Do-si-do nodded. “In the meantime,” he continued, leaning forward, “who’re we going after first?”

Ta-daaa!! @blsmjoon @nintendolover13-ts4 (I couldn’t tag your side blog sorry) @alamogirl80 (idk why I can’t tag you either ;-;) @23-bears @theultimatesandwich

#my writing #my fanfic #clone ocs #number lads #numbers gang #tcw fanfic #sixes my beloved #I love how min started that tag #and like #three other people have started using it #sixes bein all mysterious oooo #not taking off his helmet ooooo #I finished this #then realized #I've put sevenset and fives #right in the battle of kamino #WHOOPS #lol

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coraxaviary · 4 years

Text

Spier(s)

Summary: A discussion about the name Speirs, and what it implies.

Word Count: 1.5K

Author’s Note: At end

Warnings: Basically none.

Taglist: I don’t think this kind of fic is what taglists are for

“So uh, you ever wonder why his name is Speirs?” Skip says from one of the barn beams, far above. He has a single straw of hay between his teeth, and he talks around it, slurring slightly.

“Whatcha mean?” responds Malarkey, who lazily cranes to look up at Skip, whose legs are dangling so he can’t see his face. Malarkey absently worries his rifle strap between his fingers, and lays farther back into the hay. “You mean his first name?”

“Nah, his name. Speirs,” says Skip back with overly hollowed-out vowels, and he spits out the hay. “Like, why?”

“Don’t think it does good to wonder anything ‘bout him,” says Penkala, sitting against the wall, fiddling with a field ration package. The sky is darkening outside, and there are only a few rays of sunlight that slip through the cracks between the wooden slats in the barn. Soon there would be none. Penkala moves into the spotlight of one last white streak of light, and makes small foil crunching sounds until the bag opens.

“His name is Speirs. But, like,” says Skip, echoing from above. “Two of ‘em. Two Speirs.”

“It’s not spelled the same,” says Malarkey. The barn door creaks open, and the three men see a pair of silhouettes slip inside and close the door.

“Hey fellas,” says a strange voice. It’s not exactly deep, but it is familiar.

“Sir?” says Penkala, straightening in sudden fear.

“Hell naw,” says Luz, bursting out in laughter. The other tall man -- Toye, it seems -- laughs quietly behind Luz. “It was that good?”

“Yeah,” says Penkala shortly, and he goes to sit back down in the hay.

“Hear y’all talking about Speirs,” says Luz loudly, and all the other men shush him. “Not like he’s gonna appear if ya say his name.”

“Don’t tempt fate,” says Skip.

“How’d ya get up there?” asks Toye, looking up at Skip, who is swinging his legs but not really able to do anything but sit.

“Ova there,” says Skip, pointing to a ladder that leads to a shallow loft. “Climbed on the beam.” Skip looks down at the ground, a long distance away. “Maybe I should get back, huh. Should get some sleep.”

Toye doesn’t say anything, just hums in passive agreement. Penkala eats his rations, staring somewhere distant.

“So, whatcha think, Luz?” says Skip, voice moving back eerily in the barn as he scoots along the beam back to the loft. “Why ‘Speirs?’ Why ain’t he named ‘Speir?’“

Malarkey snorts. Penkala chews. Toye moves around fluffing up hay to find a good place to sleep, and Luz shuffles.

“Ain’t names just... passed down?” says Luz. Malarkey mm-hmms in agreement.

“I guess,” says Skip, who is now trying to dismount from the beam and get into the loft, hanging awkwardly with one leg and both arms hooked over the beam, and his other leg -- too short -- scooping for purchase, inches away from the loft floor. He untangles himself, hangs by only his arms, and makes it onto the loft with a hollow bang and a cloud of dust. “But his name. Implies there may be a Speir. A single Speir.”

There’s silence, broken at this point only by Skip thumping down the creaking ladder and Penkala spooning more rations into his mouth with a clack of teeth on metal.

Luz makes a sound of revelation. “I got a story.”

“Thought you were gonna answer my question, Luz, but okay--”

“It’s the answer.”

“Oh, alright,” says Skip, finally on the floor, and he crashes down next to Malarkey, sending flicks of hay into the air. Malarkey coughs, waving a hand uselessly through the dust.

“So, uh,” says Luz. “I read somewhere in an article or something--”

“Didn’t know you read, Luz,” interrupts Malarkey.

Luz continues, unperturbed. “That sometimes you got siblings, like twins or something. But one’a them doesn’t make it. Dies, I think. Can’t exactly remember.”

Penkala shifts uncomfortably, and shoots a glance out a crack in the wooden panels to look in the general direction of Dog Company.

“So, like, inside the mom, like... the womb,” says Luz, “One’a them eats the other. And they become, like, uh, one kid.”

There is silence for a few beats.

“You’re saying his name is Speirs because he ate his twin in the womb,” Malarkey says sarcastically, not so much a question as a sarcastic statement of conformation.

Luz nods uselessly in the darkness. “Yeah.”

Malarkey turns to Skip. “Ask dumb questions, get dumb answers,” he says.

Penkala suddenly laughs through a mouthful of food. “So there were two’a them Speirs and then he ate one? He’s actually two combined separate Speirses?”

“Well, where else would he get his creepy personality?” says Luz.

“Hey, he’s not creepy,” interjects Toye. “Just got some dark rumors around him.”

“Rumors which are based on reality,” says Malarkey. “Remember I told you, when I was walkin’ away after he handed ‘em all--”

“Yeah, yeah, you told us this story a thousand times, Malark,” says Skip. “But I mean, it would explain some things if he did eat a twin in the womb--”

“Wait, wait,” says Penkala. “You got this all wrong. For Speirs to have his name, it got passed down by his dad, right?”

The men chorus a series of mm-hmms, except for Malarkey, who sighs.

“So it was someone way before his dad. The original Speirs. The original Speirs started out a Speir, and it was him who ate his twin.”

“Hey, this is all based on an assumption,” Malarkey begins, sitting up straight with his M-1 in his lap. “I’m sure Luz isn’t even right about eating babies. It sounds like bullshit news to me--”

The barn door creaks, and all the men go quiet, eyeing the door with trepidation. It’s someone tall and straight-backed, an officer. Toye stands up, and all the others do too, until a voice from the door tells them to go back to whatever they were doing.

“Just checking up,” says Winters with a comforting nod that is lost in the dark to half of the men. He gives no sign that he had heard their conversation, except perhaps a slightly raised eyebrow. The men who notice tell themselves that they are overreacting. Winters wouldn’t believe they were seriously discussing the eating of babies, would he? He drums on the door with his fingers, and starts to close it. “Goodnight, boys.”

“ ‘Night, sir,” the enlisted men say, and the door shuts with a creak and a small thud. The men stay in silence for a while, thinking, and the sound of crickets rises in the distance. Someone shifts against the hay, and Penkala rustles with the last of his ration pack, and clangs around with his spoon.

“Hey, guys?” says the voice of Skip into the silence. Malarkey groans, already thinking he knows what Skip is going to say. If it isn’t what he predicts, it would probably still be a brain-dead statement anyway. “If Speirs ate the other Speir and that’s why his name is Speirs, then did Winters eat a Winter?”

The silence that follows is short and shocked. Penkala and Luz gasp momentarily, and Toye sputters out a sound of indignance.

“Oh my God,” said Malarkey, and he settles back deeper into the piles of hay, trying to close his eyes and drift off to sleep.

The sounds of argument drift far over the barn and out past the thin wood slats, carried by the cold French wind eastwards over Dog Company. Ronald Speirs, at the edge of his company, sitting by himself with a can of rations, wonders what the men in the barn are talking about.

He lights a cigarette for himself, and takes a drag, feeling the burn in his lungs and the smoke going down and then circling in his sinuses when he blows it out through his nose. Someone on the border of Easy stumbles by in the deep, murky darkness, and he swears to himself, kicking at the rock in his path. Speirs can’t tell who it is, but he still keeps his cigarette case in his hand, knowing the low flame-colored glow of his lit one will illuminate a small area in the relative dark.

“Cigarette?” asks Speirs into the impenetrable black of night.

“N-no, sir,” gets out the man, who lingers for a second before absconding westwards into the safety of his company and the seeing eyes of the watchers stationed around the border.

Speirs almost smiles to himself, tucking the case back into his pocket, and he enjoys the cigarette while it lasts. It doesn’t last long, like most things, and he drops it onto the ground and watches it sputter before grinding it into the dirt with the heel of his boot.

He listens to the drifting conversation of the East men in the barn until it becomes wavering static, and the sky and its stars become too bright.

And he thinks briefly of his family -- Mother, Father, and the four others. He lays down in the grass and dirt, and then thinks of the one who had been.

It is not now, and yet a part of him. He smiles, eyes sparkling and teeth gleaming, and he lets himself dig deep, for a millisecond, for the other.

And then they sleep.

Hi, this is a 2:00 am random idea that me and my sister were scream-laughing about: Why is Speirs plural? And what do the men think about it?

I don’t usually write in present tense, but today it kind of came out and I think it lends the prose a kinda weird, immediate, present feel, kinda like you enter the void of starless night where you encounter Keter-class abominations and eldritch terrors for one dream a day and then this strange universe that contains a nightmare Speirs is what plays in your head lol

As always, this is not meant to reference the real historical soldiers. This is based on the fictionalized HBO versions.

I made art for this, by the way.

#band of brothers #band of brothers fic #crack fic #writing #ronald speirs #ron speirs #fanfiction

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fallout4holmes · 3 years

Text

Nuka-World 5

Holmes held off on putting up a flag in Kiddie Kingdom; he wanted to give Oswald plenty of time to round up his remaining friends and leave town before raiders moved in. Holmes also wanted to see more of Nuka-Town's exterior, keep going before we attracted attention with his absence. I think part of him was hoping to see some chink in the wall, some flaw we could use to our advantage. Heck, I know I was.

All we found was a foul-tempered deathclaw.

"Did you ever hear Danse's recommendation for how to hunt deathclaws?" Holmes hissed as I got a stimpack in him afterward. "'Return to base and forget about it. You'll live longer.'"

I chuckled, "Man's got a sense of humor I never give him credit for. You alright?" He nodded. "Honest answer, Sherlock," I said with a small smile.

Holmes frowned and admitted, "There is a ringing in my ears, but the rest of me will be fine as soon as the stimpak does its work."

I gently tilted his head back to get a look at his eyes. "Vision blurry?"

He hesitated, "Slightly."

"I want that Dr. Mackenzie to check you out. Might have a concussion."

"We can't waste the opportunity—"

"I'm not risking you being hurt worse than you look," I said, firm. "I know I'm killing a great chance for intel, make a plan, get the hell out of this place… but damn it, Sherlock, it doesn't do me any good if you wind up getting hurt beyond repair."

"If it meant you at least could get home—"

"You're gonna stop that kind of talk right now. You're seeing the doc," I helped him up, "and we'll figure something out."

I helped him back, but he insisted on going in through the front gate on his own. He pulled it off too, not that I thought he wouldn’t. The guy’s impressively stubborn. Maybe I should have said “infuriatingly,” but I guess it’s a bit of both. The doc checked him over, with the marketplace guards looking curious all the while. No one asked any questions, and Dr. Mackenzie said he probably suffered a mild concussion and needed to take it easy a couple days.

“Limited physical exertion and mental concentration, if possible,” she suggested. I guess it’s hard for a doctor to be firm with her patient when she’s got a shock collar around her neck.

Holmes sighed, “Unfortunately, I don’t think that’s going to be an option.”

With that, we headed back to the Overboss’s room. Gage was waiting for us by the lift and followed us up. As soon as we were safely above listening ears, Gage helped himself to the bar. “Shit,” the raider chugged a swallow of what was probably vodka, “The fuck were you thinking, boss?! Everyone’s talking about how all of a sudden Kiddie Kingdom ain’t got a rads problem anymore, you can see the fucking park instead of a green haze! Then you come walking back in, go straight to the doc, and she tells you to take it easy?”

He slammed the bottle down on the bar and started pacing. “So you went in, cleaned out the park, nearly got yourself killed, and didn’t put up a flag. What the Fuck am I supposed to do with that?” He turned to me, “Shut up, I don’t want an answer, I got an answer already lined up. You gotta understand, the new Overboss getting his ass kicked doesn’t look good.” He turned back to Holmes, “You made it here without help, that’s good, but you look like shit. Cleaning out Kiddie Kingdom, rads central. Makes sense you’d get sick. I can run that angle. No flag? Eh, who wants the kid town anyway. Besides, wanna give it time to air out or whatever. That’ll keep folks… not happy, but not angry, which is the important part. Soon as you're ready, we’ll head out for one of the other parks." Gage walked right up to Holmes then, "This time, I’m coming with. Can’t let anyone get the idea I don’t care about the Overboss’s health.”

So much for finding a way out on our own.

The Galactic Zone was west of Nuka-Town and, according to Gage, the traders used to scavenge for scrap in the space-themed park before the raiders moved in. The dead bodies by the entrance weren’t encouraging.

Holmes looked at Gage. Gage shrugged, “I dunno what killed ‘em, they were here when we took over the place.”

Holmes searched the bodies and found a holotape. It was a diary; the dead traders had come to salvage the tech in the park, but something had gone wrong. Something called a "Star Control."

"The fuck is a star control?" Gage grumbled.

"I don't know," Holmes said, pistol drawn, "but activating it somehow caused these people's deaths."

Gage was not impressed, "Killing a bunch of traders already running away don't mean much."

"I have found it is best to be cautious when dealing with technology one does not understand," Holmes said flatly.

We headed in. Considering the theme of the park, the hostile robots weren't much of a surprise, but the number and variety was a bit of a shock.

"Didn't think I'd be getting shot at by a walking refrigerator today!" I shouted to Holmes as we took cover from the bot's blue blasts.

"Is it really shooting that Quantum shit??" Gage sounded offended. He got off a few shots with his rifle, shattering the display screen on top of the fridge. It didn't seem to slow it down. “Never did have the aim to knock the batteries out of 'em,” Gage shouted, “Always had to take down robots the hard way!”

Holmes drew Oswald's sword and charged. I swore, loudly, “Damn it, Gage, don’t give him ideas!!” Gage and I rushed after Holmes as he crippled the robot. Then I saw the eyebots. And the protectron. “We got company!”

“C’mere, spare parts!” Gage growled and opened fire.

I’ll give Gage some small credit; the man’s good in a fight, even if I hate how he shanghaied us into this mess. The three of us took the robots out, but that was just the welcoming committee. The whole park was populated by modified models of robots, painted in Nuka colors. Holmes wanted to find the Star Control, figuring that whatever it was probably had something to do with the robots run amok, and the dead traders out front.

None of us were expecting it to be a huge military-grade computer mainframe.

Gage whistled low, “Well ain't this somethin'. Probably don't all work, but... I'm gonna keep my hands to myself just the same.”

“You’re smarter than you look,” I muttered.

“Least I look like something, instead of falling apart.”

“Enough,” Holmes ordered. He approached a corpse holding a black circuit board with glowing red lights. The board was the same size and shape as the empty panels all across the mainframe. Holmes placed the board in one of the panels, and the mainframe powered up.

“Guess shooting it won’t do the trick, huh?” Gage joked as Holmes accessed the terminal.

“Shooting things is rarely an effective way to gain information, Mr. Gage,” Holmes said.

“Sure it is,” Gage shrugged, “you just gotta be careful not to kill ‘em on the first shot.”

While Holmes read, I looked around. The building was a military and space exhibit, a diorama of a Quantum-blue suit of power armor on the moon enclosed by glass in the middle. The fella Holmes had taken the gadget from had a holotape on him. Turned out he was the one that turned on the robots to defend his people from Colter's raiders, before making sure that the system could handle it. ‘What’s the worst that could happen,’ he wondered.

Well.

Holmes stepped away from the terminal and gestured to the panels, “The system is a Systemized Telemetry for Automated Robot Control, or S.T.A.R. Control. These cores enable communication to all of the robots in the park. If we can find the cores, we can shut the robots down and eventually disable the defense mode they’re currently in.”

“Find the shiny rectangle things? That’s it?” Gage said.

“And not get killed by rampaging robots in the process,” Holmes nodded.

“Right. I’m so glad we picked this park to start off,” Gage headed toward the entrance, “who’s bright idea was that?”

“Yours,” I said.

It’s hard to imagine Nuka-World as a place families once came to when you’re shooting robots alongside a raider who essentially kidnapped you and your partner to force you into being his front for power… but the Galactic Zone was probably pretty impressive back in its day. RobCo sponsored a battle arena to show off its robots, there was a movie theater featuring whatever sci-fi flick of the day, a space-adventure roller coaster, everything a kid with a fascination for robots and astronauts could want. There was also a Vault-Tec exhibit.

The attraction was obviously just a way to attract customers to purchase spots in vaults. I got a kick out of the "Mutations: It Could Happen To You” pamphlet we found behind a desk. Of course, it’s not really Vault-Tec if there’s not some sort of immoral experimentation going on, and sure enough this facsimile of a vault had all the requirements. Vault-Tec used the ride to experiment on visitors. After everything we’ve found in Vaults, you’d think I’d stop being surprised.

“You ask me, whole idea of these ‘Vaults’ was messed up,” Gage grumbled as we walked through. “Sure, stick me underground with no control over anything... What could go wrong?”

“You would have made a fascinating specimen for some of the horrific experiments I’ve seen,” Holmes muttered.

Gage frowned, “I don’t know if that was an insult or not, so I’m gonna keep my mouth shut this time. But if—”

Whatever threat was lined up got cut off by the protectrons on display coming to life.

We fought our way through the park, explored the nooks and crannies of every ride and exhibit until we’d collected a hefty haul of star cores. Once we were back at the Star Control, Holmes loaded them into the panels. There were only a few empty spots left, and that was more than enough for our purposes.

“There,” Holmes announced as he accessed the terminal again. “The robots have been taken off defense mode.”

“Good,” Gage said. “Means they won’t cause any trouble for whatever gang gets this place, right?”

“Yes.” Holmes kept neutral.

“So which is it gonna be?”

“I hadn’t given it much thought.”

Gage rolled his eyes, “Well start thinkin’, boss. Sooner you hoist a flag, the sooner we can get back to Nuka-Town and get ready for the next park.”

Holmes thought for a moment. He rifled through the pack of flags and pulled out a tattered sheet with a red knife crossing four black blades painted in the middle. As he headed up one of the ramps to the second floor of the building, Gage laughed, “Shit, the Disciples? Really? Figured you’d be more fond of the Operators.”

I was frowning as Holmes came back down. He gestured that we leave. The three of us got moving, Gage leading the way back to town. “Disciples?” I asked in a low voice.

“To paraphrase something Gage said earlier, raiders aren’t good with technology. I don’t imagine the Disciples will find much relief for their bloodlust in fighting robots.”

“Unless they make the robots fight other people.”

“That’s something the Pack might attempt, but not the Disciples. They enjoy getting their own hands dirty too much. And if any of these raiders could figure out how to use the Star Control system, I imagine it would be the Operators.”

“So you gave it to the gang that would get the least use and satisfaction out of it.”

He nodded.

I smiled, just a little.

#fallout4holmes #fallout 4 #nuka world #sherlock holmes #fan fiction #catching up on past posts

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oosteven-universe · 3 years

Text

Casual Fling #2

Casual Fling #2 AWA Upshot Comics 2021 Written by Jason Star Illustrated by Dalibor Talajić Coloured by Marco Lesko Lettered by Steve Wands Jennifer Ryan has the perfect life. A loving family. A high paying job in corporate law. A luxurious apartment in upper Manhattan. Then one day she steps out of her marriage...and finds that her new lover isn't the one night stand she expected. Stalked and threatened with exposure, Jennifer attempts to unravel the true identity of her tormentor, discovering valuable clues in the trail of destruction left in this mysterious man's wake. This is a modern day Fatal Attraction and the implications in the real world are as incredibly frightening ass this story is incredibly entertaining. Leave it to Jason to come up with a dated concept, revitalise it for a modern audience and use today’s technology to create something that leaves the reader as uncomfortable as they are fascinated by what we see. Also I really do like that the predator is a man in this instance and Jen is a married woman who made one indiscretion because of how frustrated she is with the situation at home. It isn’t like her home life is horrible or anything but I get the feeling it’s an adjustment time and it’s new and difficult for everyone involved, more so since she’s now the family’s sole breadwinner. I love the way that th is is being told. The story & plot development that we see through how the sequence of events unfold as well as how the reader learns information is presented exceptionally well. I mean just the fact that we never know when or where Alex is going to show up next adds this whole tension filled drama to the mix that manages to keep the reader on edge. The character development is utterly amazing and to see just how charming a handsome fella can be and still remain threatening and ambiguous creeps the hell outta me. The pacing is superb and as it takes us through the pages revealing what’s next in this saga it leaves you at the edge of your seat. I am very much enjoying the way that this is being structured and how the layers within the story keep growing, evolving and seemingly taking on a life of their own. Plus how we see everything working to create the story’s ebb & flow is pretty amazing. I love the interiors here as there is something very classic comic book style about them. With the linework and it’s varying weights we are treated to some really nice detail work. Every single panel that has backgrounds being utilised is brilliantly done and how they work within the composition of the panels to bring us depth perception, a sense of scale and that overall sense of size and scope to the story is perfection. The utilisation of the page layouts and how we see the angles and perspective in the panels show such a remarkable eye for storytelling. The colour work is beautifully rendered as well. How we see the various hues and tones within the colours being utilised to create the shading, highlights and shadow work is fantastic. There is so much going on this issue and yet it all has this amazing natural progression to the story. From what Jen is going through to how those around her react to it and what she’s done to her family it all has full circle kind of effect to it. I’m not sure humans were ever meant to be truly monogamous, though I hope so cause i’ve always been, but that’s something we all have to decide on our own. The real question we have to ask ourselves is what lengths will you go to to keep your loved ones safe from harm and keep your family intact?

#Comic Books #Comics Reviews #AWA Upshot Studios

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makeste · 4 years

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BnHA Chapter 270: Harry Potter Rules

Previously on BnHA: Present Mic punched Ujiko in the face! It was awesome. I’m thinking about getting a tattoo of it. Meanwhile Endeavor saved Mirko’s life by setting her on fire (reason #15 why I will never become a superhero), and Aizawa did some sexy Spider-Man poses for our viewing pleasure while fighting the rest of these Noumus which are still annoyingly refusing to die. Anyway but back to Present Mic, the undisputed MVP of this chapter. Because you see, in addition to the punching, he also used his Loud Voice attack (literally the actual attack name; Horikoshi will steal all of my jokes and leave me with nothing) to smash open Tomura’s Noumutank! Which I really thought was going to immediately lead to Everyone Dying, but apparently I was wrong! Anyways so yeah, right now Tomura’s just lying down all heart-stopped and not-breathing. Which seems very anticlimactic, BUT I JUST HAVE THE CRAZIEST FEELING that maybe, just maybe, the super powerful villain lad who just spent the last three arcs slowly upgrading his bad self just in time to wage war on the world as the story reaches its climax, might not actually be dead though.

Today on BnHA: DON’T MIND THAT OMINOUS ORGAN MUSIC PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND, IT’S NOTHING, IGNORE IT. Ahem. So first of all, as some of the bolder among us dared to speculate, Tomura is not, in fact, dead. He’s still very much kicking it with his nipple-less pecs and truffula tree hair, putzing around in his mental landscape filled with crumbled buildings and disembodied Theatrical Gesture Hands. For some reason he doesn’t have shoes or a shirt in his mental landscape, which was a very interesting choice on Horikoshi’s part, but we will speak no more of it. Anyway so to sum things up, Tomura’s family is all “TENKO WE LOVE YOU” and he’s all “oh hey” and then AFO fucking appears and he’s all “COME HERE MY BOY” which is exactly as creepy as you would expect, and for some fucking reason TOMURA ACTUALLY DOES COME HERE. And lol it turns out Ujiko gave him AFO. Like the quirk. Yes, that quirk. So long story short, Tomura is about to be possessed by AFO’s evil soul or some shit, and to put the cherry on top, fucking Deku out of fucking nowhere, MILES AWAY, is all “HE’S COMING.” Because of course he can sense it, because AFOFA IS REAL, AND FUCK ME THIS IS ALL HAPPENING TOO FAST, FUCK.

I know this chapter has been out since like 1pm, but I’m not getting to read it until 5 hours later because for once in my life I was trying to be responsible and actually get some work done on a Friday. I thought this might lead to less oh-god-I-still-have-to-get-that-done anxiety hovering over my weekend, but instead it just led to oh-god-I-have-to-get-the-chapter-recap-done anxiety hovering over my now! anyways so this might be a bit rushed lol

(ETA: yeah turns out this wasn’t exactly the kind of chapter you could just read quickly and get on with your life lmao. so, then!)

what a nice panel of Present Mic taking out the trash

you heard ‘em fellas. the doctor is secured. good job everyone we did it, manga over, congratulations. now to cut away to a two-page spread of Dark Shadow comically smothering Dabi’s flames with a giant stock pot lid, and that’ll be that! what a wonderful, extremely short and strangely underwhelming arc in which we haven’t even seen the actual main characters do anything yet. but I guess we don’t need them since the main bad guy is lying dead on the floor! everything is just so fucking dead and secured!! do you think if I keep repeating it enough Horikoshi will finally be like “okay geez I get it” and reveal his hand already

Mic is now ordering Ujiko to power down the Noumu, which again, I’m sure he will definitely do without a fuss since after all the good guys have clearly won the day

OH SHIT OH FUCK

rip X-Less. gonna just take a moment here to imprint your beautiful face onto my memory before it turns into a pile of ash. your face, I mean. not my memory. well my memory more or less already is a pile of ash but that’s neither here nor there ANYWAYS

:’)

what are these little sound effects. I think that’s supposed to be a buzzing noise?? anyways whatever it is PLEASE STOP IT, I AM NOT HAVING A NICE TIME SO STOP

ffff Horikoshi sure has done an excellent job of setting the mood in such a way that all of these panels of X-Less doing incredibly mild things are sending my stress levels through the roof. like is anyone else reading his lines more or less like “WELP, TIME FOR ME TO DIE, ANY SECOND NOW, WE’RE REALLY DOING THIS, THIS IS REALLY HAPPENING, HERE IT COMES”

(ETA: when is this poor sweet innocent man going to fucking die already.)

LET’S CUT BACK TO MIC ESCAPING THE IMMEDIATE VICINITY

I have the clearest mental image of Horikoshi standing by with a walkie talkie in one hand and one of those remote bomb detonation clicky switch thingies in the other, patiently waiting to receive the go-ahead once all of the important characters have gotten to safety

anyway so now Ujiko is talking again

no fear everyone this is just the beginning of his verbal noumu deactivation sequence. nothing to worry about. everything is fine

yes for some reason his code phrase to put all the noumus back to sleep involves going into rambling detail about his work researching quirk singularities and shit. it’s fine. it’s not a big deal. code phrases are just like that sometimes all right

just ignore the increasingly panicked look in Mic’s eye as he slowly realizes he was way too fucking keen to just leave the “dead” Tomura back there with his laser-eyed hero buddy. anyway so let’s continue learning all about the Quirk Illuminati or whatever the fuck

okay so... he faked his own death? 70 years ago, at age 50 or thereabouts? I mean, that’s interesting and all I guess. not saying I wouldn’t be thrilled to spend the rest of this chapter learning all about Ujiko’s boring evil life. I don’t need to say it because it’s implied on account of Ujiko sucks and is the worst. so yeah can we get a move on though

oh shit?!?

WHOSE NARRATION IS THAT IN THE BOXES TOMURA IS THAT YOU OH GOD OH GOD

also, comparing AFO’s smile to a buddha’s really sent an actual shudder of disgust down my spine for some reason lmao. I personally would have steered that comparison in a different area, maybe less to buddhas and more to Norman Bates from Psycho, but to each their own

oh shit wait up

okay but this is actually a pretty big revelation though, isn’t it? because it’s been hinted for a while now that AFO and Ujiko had some method of duplicating quirks (the fact that all the Noumu share the same regeneration quirk was the biggest clue, but there was also John-chan’s quirk, as well as Hood’s Muscular-esque quirk), but as far as I can recall, this is the first time we’ve had it confirmed. though to be fair I wasn’t joking when I said my memory really has been shit lately sob

anyway so for real though, can you really call it a BnHA chapter if you’re not spending a good chunk of it being hopelessly confused over the ownership of some ambiguous thought bubbles. WHO IS THIS. I do seriously feel like it’s Tomura, because he’s the wrathful one, but another hallmark of a typical BnHA chapter is me constantly questioning everything I know as I muddle my way through

(ETA: yeah I’m pretty sure it was him. still impressive how vague it is though! it could also potentially be Ujiko, Mic, or even Deku. hopefully Caleb’s translation on Sunday can shed some more light on this. though he wasn’t really helpful last time this happened lol.)

SOMEBODY PLEASE TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON

didn’t... you just... say that “preservation” was your quirk?? what do you mean that you wanted it?? CAN YOU JUST FINISH YOUR SENTENCES LIKE A NORMAL PERSON

anyway so here’s a summary of this chapter thus far

present mic: okay goodbye forever x-less

x-less: what a strange thing to say! :) also is it just me or is this machine fucking staring at me

present mic: turn the noumu off please

ujiko: seventy years ago... society... singularity... he’d be 120 years old now...

??: [REPULSIVE FEELING EW WHO’S TOUCHING ME]

ujiko: all for one has the smile of an angel...

??: [SON OF A BITCH I’M SO FUCKING WRATHFUL]

ujiko: my quirk... preservation... the truth is... my quirk... preservation... the truth is... my quirk...

all caught up?? grand. also btw is anyone else super disturbed by the fact that Ujiko recognizes Mic as being “Kurogiri’s friend”, like holy shit though? how would he know that. I can’t think of any implications of this that aren’t super disturbing tbh

anyways back to -- LOL WHAT THE

Horikoshi Kouhei: [furiously scribbling notes to himself at 3am] BUT WHAT IF THE FOLDING CITY FROM “INCEPTION” HAD MORE GIANT HANDS

jesus christ. is this like some mental representation of what shit is currently like in Tomura’s mind? lots of crumbly destruction and traffic lights and the house his father built (isn’t it? I feel like it looks familiar), and SO MANY HANDS, HE JUST LOVES HIS HANDS

anyway so at this point it’s a coin toss whether or not anything in this fucking chapter is ever going to make any kind of fucking sense! but here I am voluntarily along for the ride while Gene Wilder sings that creepy boat song right in my ear!

DSFKLDSJ

ACCURATE REPRESENTATION OF SOMEONE WHO HAS BEEN FLOATING IN A JAR FOR THREE MONTHS TBH. that is some luscious quarantine hair

SDFLKJSDLFKJSLKFDHLKSDJFLKJLKSDJL:FKJSDL:KJ

(ETA: that Tomura in the top left may be my new favorite panel. look at him. all he is is a nose and chin and ~*~HAIR~*~.)

HANAAAAAA AHHHHHH OH MY LORD OH MY LORD! OKAY I’M FINALLY PAYING ATTENTION NOW FOR REAL! NO MORE JOKES! EVERYBODY SHHHH!!!

FFFFFFFFFF

“LOOK AT ME I’M A MAIN CHARACTER I CAN HAVE STRANGE VISIONS AND TALK TO DEAD PEOPLE IN MY DREAMS, SOUND LIKE ANYBODY ELSE YOU KNOW?” TOMURA SHUT UP I DON’T HAVE TIME TO ANALYZE THIS SCENE THEMATICALLY RIGHT NOW I’M TOO BUSY BEING SAD ABOUT YOUR DEAD SISTER WHILE SIMULTANEOUSLY CALCULATING THE ODDS OF THIS SOMEHOW BEING FORESHADOWING FOR HER NOT REALLY BEING DEAD. OH GOD, OH FUCK YOU GUYS, I’M FREAKING OUT

WHAT KIND OF YOUNGER BROTHER DOESN’T CALL HIS OLDER SISTER “NEECHAN” TOMURA WHAT KIND OF ANIME CHARACTER ARE YOU

AT THIS POINT HIS HAIR IS ITS OWN INDIVIDUAL CHARACTER WITH THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS WOW

HORIKOSHI PLEASE STOP SHAKING THIS CHAMPAGNE BOTTLE OF SIBLING FEELS SO VIGOROUSLY I AM SO TERRIBLY AFRAID OH GOD

“BY THE WAY TENKO I JUST HAVE TO SAY, YOUR MAN BOOBS ARE SERIOUSLY IMPRESSIVE AND YOU SHOULD BE VERY PROUD.” YES HANA I WAS JUST GOING TO SAY. HOW ASTUTE OF YOU TO POINT THAT OUT. BOY HAS BEEN HITTING THAT BOWFLEX

WTAF IS HIS HAIR THOUGH SERIOUSLY??!

IS IT JUST ME OR IS THIS DIALOGUE BUBBLE ACTUALLY COMING FROM THE HAIR ITSELF. TOMURA. TOMURA BLINK TWICE IF YOU ARE IN DANGER

SJJKJSKJSW

TENKO IT’S ME YOUR GIANT MOM I’M BEHIND YOU HONEY TURN AROUND AND LOOK HELLO HI I LOVE YOU DO YOU STILL WANT TO BE A HERO

ffff why is he so pretty all the time lately

you are very handsome with your billowy hair and ken doll abs, you. sure are having a lot of trippy visions for a dead guy too there

HEY!!!!

WHO SAID YOU WERE ALLOWED -- DO YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST -- ffffffffff I need to be alone with my thoughts for a few minutes fuck

okay well. but since it is getting late I guess we’ll just pack these feelings up real quick and put them inside a box and neatly label it “feelings I have about Tomura having a vision of his mom and immediately turning back into his innocent little boy self in said vision as soon as he sees her.” not too sure about the contents of this box yet but I will have to explore them thoroughly at a later date

oh hey it’s this asshole

“THAT WAS TWENTY YEARS AGO, DAD.” jesus Kotaro. get over it

and also guess what, if you go and get Tomura all riled up so he wakes up grumpy and disintegrates the first hapless guy he sees, I will hold you solely responsible for that poor man’s death. I’m just warning you now

oh my

I remember this conversation going a bit differently the last time, but hey

LOOOOOOL

HIGH FIVE. PUT ‘ER THERE

WHY WOULD YOU LOOK SO SURPRISED LOL DID YOU NOT JUST TURN TOWARDS HIM WITH A SINISTER MURDER FACE LIKE TWO SECONDS AGO. LIKE WTF DID YOU THINK WAS GONNA HAPPEN

OH NO OH SHIT

FUCK ME, GUESS IT WOULDN’T BE A DRAMATIC BNHA DREAM SEQUENCE IF THIS ASSHOLE DIDN’T MAKE AN APPEARANCE AT SOME POINT OR OTHER NOW WOULD IT

-- HOLY SHIT?!

RECORD SCRATCH, FREEZE FRAME??

holy shit. holy shit. holy shit. holy shit. holy shit. holy shit

holy shit. fuck

...okay so

is this implying that AFO has been Noumufied? but that doesn’t make any sense, does it? he already had multiple quirks. what other advantages could there be to him becoming a Noumu. well whatever I’m just typing out all of my thoughts real fast for the time being and I’ll try to make sense of them later

or is it because he sees Kurogiri as a father figure? and AFO also?

or is he using Kurogiri’s quirk????? IS HE SOMEHOW WARPING INTO TOMURA’S DREAMS

because that third one, to me, is what this panel most looks like? Tomura says he looks like Kuro, but he doesn’t though. Kuro has a very distinctive face which this is very much lacking. instead it looks to me much more like one of Kurogiri’s portals, with AFO’s buddhaesque smile sticking out. so yeah. I got nothin’. except, again, fuck

(ETA: yeah I obviously have more thoughts about this now, but we’ll get to those in a bit.)

...

.......

-- !!!!!!!!!!LKJLK!JLKJ

oh shit oh shit oh shit

OH SHIT

NO BABY NO DON’T DO IT

GASP

THEY’RE TRYING TO SAVE HIM AHHHH

I HAVE LIKE TEN THOUSAND THOUGHTS IN MY BRAIN RIGHT NOW YET SOMEHOW MY MIND IS ALSO STRANGELY BLANK?? I DON’T EVEN KNOW?? I’LL JUST KEEP READING

KOTARO ARE YOU TRYING TO HELP HIM OR ARE YOU PULLING HIM TOWARD AFO??

OH HE’S PUSHING HIM BACK!! OH SHIT IT’S A WHOLE FAMILY EFFORT

THEY’RE TRYING TO SAVE HIM AFO IS GOING TO TAKE HIM OVER AND THEY’RE TRYING TO PROTECT HIM OH GOD OH JESUS

BABY TENKO EYES OH MY GOD HE LOOKS SO MUCH LIKE DEKU THAT I THOUGHT IT WAS DEKU FOR A MOMENT

NO TENKO!!!

FUCK -- DOES HE NOT CARE? HE ACTUALLY UNDERSTANDS WHAT’S ABOUT TO HAPPEN BUT HE DOESN’T CARE?? IS HE TRULY SO PROFOUNDLY MISERABLE THAT HE’D GO AHEAD AND ACCEPT THIS FATE WILLINGLY

NO SOUNDS. NO WORDS. YOU COULD HEAR A PIN DROP IN MY ROOM RIGHT NOW

except that I have the most incredible, chilling, disturbing, electrifying feeling that my mental soundtrack is about to start blaring AFO’s theme from the anime on full blast...!

LOOOOOL SOB OH FUCKK

THE MOST TERRIFYING, DRAMATIC KIP UP YOU’VE EVER SEEN IN YOUR LIFE!! THIS IS IT, IT’S BEEN REAL FRIENDS, THIS IS WHERE WE DIE

-- ARE YOU REALLY, TRULY, GENUINELY SHITTING ME RIGHT NOW

NOW OF ALL TIMES IS WHEN WE FINALLY CUT TO THE TRIO, I’M CAN’T, I’M FUCK

AND THAT’S THE END AHHHHH

holy shit holy shit holy shit. wow

okay so. I don’t really have any sort of neat and tidy way to wrap up this hot mess of a recap lol. so, just... have a whole mess of all of my stupid whirling thoughts

those first four pages really did nothing to brace me at all lol

okay, so. here’s my understanding of all this, I guess. basically we’re going full Harry Potter rules here. AFO horcruxed his quirk, and from the looks of it, a piece of his soul (perhaps even the main piece) along with it. he then passed it on to Ujiko to implant into Tomura

horcrux!AFO then wakes up, and takes over Tomura. so then my understanding is that he’s going to be possessed by him. and I also got the impression that he’s fully aware of that, but just doesn’t care at this point. he knew his family was trying to warn him, but he didn’t care. and that look in his eyes when he disintegrated them just seemed so fucking resigned to me, though. jesus

but now the more interesting thing! so we can liken Tomura to the resurrected Voldemort from book 5 and onward, reborn after transferring his power into a new vessel. which would go a long way toward explaining how AFO was able to sense what was happening from all the way in Tartarus; because if we liken it to Voldemort and his horcruxes, it would mean that he still has a connection to them (similar to the connection between Voldemort’s mind and Harry’s)

but so now comes the really interesting thing -- what does this then imply about the connection between AFO and Deku? because you’ll recall that AFO alluded to a similar mental connection back when Deku first activated SIXQUIRKS. and now we have Deku somehow being magically aware of AFO’s sudden resurgent presence in this chapter. but why?? if the reason AFO and Tomura share a psychic link is because of a shared quirk, why would Deku also be experiencing the same link? the answer is, he wouldn’t -- unless he, too, had the same shared quirk

in other words, I think All for One for All is fucking confirmed you guys. I can’t think of any explanation for this other than that OFA is also a horcrux quirk. a little piece of AFO broken off and embedded in his brother, and then passed along through the generations. and now residing within Deku

anyway. so that’s a hell of a lot to ponder lol. I guess we can at least be grateful for the fact that we’re not waiting two weeks for chapter 271 like Hori originally planned. can you fucking imagine. what a fucking asshole lol

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