#a lot of the rest of my thoughts can be boiled down to “i kinned danko too hard oops”/hj

[indigo-constellation]

the Pathologic essay I wrote last year about why I think the Haruspex route Utopian ending is the overall best ending, I still stand by what I said however this somewhat structured essay holds less than half about how much I care about this ending.

In the game Pathologic there are three different routes, each corresponding to each healer. The story also has several endings, one for each of the bound (characters which as the name implies, are bound to their individual healer) as well as a bad ending if the player fails to find any sort of viable solution for the plague. This ability to choose the ending belonging to another healer is an incredibly telling one on the part of the characters, especially when it comes to the Haruspex, and his ability to choose the Utopian, and the Bachelor’s ending. This ending also works quite well when considering the wider narratives of the Haruspex’s route, including the future of the town, his role and sacrifice, and the metanarrative of the story.

In all three routes there lays quite a large weight on the future of the town, as of course it is the battle of the ending, of which vision of the town would become reality. The Haruspex’s bound is known as the Termites, a collection of children who learned from Isidor Burakh, Artemy Burakh’s father. Their ending is the one in which the Polyhedron is destroyed and the town stands, ready to be developed by a future generation. However, it is discovered in one of the other routes of the story, the Bachelor’s route (we will get to him later) that the source of the infection lies underneath the town, in the pockets of blood which have collected beneath. This means that the plague can never be fully defeated unless the town itself is destroyed, as the Polyhedron has already pierced the ground, meaning that there is no returning the plague to its dormant state, trapped underneath the earth. On the other hand, the other side of the river is entirely uninhibited, clean of the plague. This complete lack of prior development also means an ability to create a new town.

The new town built after the Utopian ending is one made, as the name implies, by the Utopians, however, the asymmetrical narrative changes depending on which healer is the one being currently played by the player, so following that logic, the endings would be influenced as well. This would hypothetically mean that the vision Capella has for the future of the town, one in which the Haruspex is a leader of the kin, and the town would be led by the children, could still find its place within the new town. There are also direct connections between the Utopians and Termites as well, such as Casper Kain, also known as Khan, of the termites, being a termite while also being part of the Kain family, which means that despite the rocky relationship amongst the family, he is still a heir to that power. Capella as well, is the sister of Vlad the younger, who at that point is the eldest Olgymsky remaining, and the projected leader of the town’s industry in the new town, she has also planned her engagement to Khan, meaning that she would then have a connection to Kain family as well. Apart from these direct connections, the entirety of the bound is important, each member, independent of faction, still able to impact the future of the town, and in order to achieve the Utopian ending in the Haruspex route both the Termites and Utopians must be fully healed. However these are the more hypothetical results of the ending, in the game itself the cutscene remains the same for whichever healer chooses the ending, which can imply the uniformness of the ending. However even though the Utopian ending described in differing routes can still serve the Haruspex well, the utopia described in the Bachelor route is explicitly stated to need the Earth, “…it's all about what's down below. It requires dirt. A ruby firmament needs something to sit atop-otherwise it'd topple.” This coincides well with the future Capella predicts, with the Haruspex taking his place as the foreman of the Abattoir, showing that there is, in fact, a place for the “earthly and the humane” in the new town. The connections described within the route, the needs of the utopia, and especially the influence of the Haruspex himself, would allow the Utopian ending to be a fitting future in the Haruspex route.

Another very present aspect of the Haurpsex’s route is that of his sacrifice, the idea that he must destroy, kill, something or someone in order for his ending to occur. This concept is mentioned a few times, however it is only fully explained by Katerina Saburova, “You will make a sacrifice. There will be rivers of blood, and that will be your doing.” While I can go into a whole other essay about the ideas of the sacrifice (and I do), we will for this essay’s sake, take the sacrifice as it’s surface level in pathologic classic, and how it’s implications mean that choosing the Utopian ending would have better long-term effects and also complete the Haruspex’s journey.

The Haruspex’s story follows a more classical hero’s journey rather than the Bachelor’s tragedy, with the abattoir symbolising the other world, and Oyun assigning the quite literal trials the Haruspex must go through. Once the Haruspex defeats the Foreman and becomes the new Foreman of the abattoir, however, he is still not respected by the butchers, who require a sacrifice from him. This duality of both the mistress’ prophecy and the requirement of the butchers also shines a light on the Haruspex in Pathologic Classic, someone who knows that he is of two worlds, however also a person who takes pride in both of them, and brings them together.

In the Termite ending the sacrifice is not fulfilled, the Haruspex is not allowed access to the blood, the plague looms as a remaining threat, and the Polyhedron still falls, for nothing.

Unlike in Pathologic 2, where the Polyhedron is quite literally piercing through the heart of the Earth, slowly killing her, in classic it is nowhere near that fatal, still harmful, but not fatal..  This important distinction is also important to make with the fact that while the blood would still seep out from the open wound if the tower were to fall, it would be limited, and would dry out at some point, while on the other hand, completing the sacrifice would allow the Haruspex access to the blood in the Earth, as the butchers would allow him to find the hidden reserves.

The sacrifice herself, Aglaya Lilich is someone already doomed by the powers that be, a doll loved by their mother and so hated by them, she dies in every ending but the Termites’. There is, of course, a point to be made about the theme of a woman having to die for a man’s journey is not a good one, and choosing this ending would feed into a harmful cliche, however, her death is something she herself understands, and although she urges the Haruspex not to make it, she acknowledges that she is meant to be the sacrifice, that choosing this choice will be enough, “If you lead him to victory, you may consider your sacrifice made. You return to the exultant butchers, triumphant.” Her death is not regarded as a simple shock factor to the end of the story, it is the pivotal choice the Haruspex must make. This is also shown in the Changeling route, where saving Aglaya is seen as an act of deceit, as even Clara’s ending, which saves the town, requires Aglaya to die, as Aglaya is a ‘queen’ an important piece on the board at the end of the game, her life only allows for the Termite ending, only allows for the Haruspex to lose his standing within the kin, and only allows for the sacrifice of the Polyhedron.

The Polyhedron is viewed as the sacrifice in the case that the Haruspex seeks to save Aglaya, however would it even work as one? The sacrifice needed is one of equal value to the Udurgh, the body that contains the world, and if the Utopian route is the one followed, the Udurgh is Simon Kain, and so the sacrifice must be someone who is more than human, and yet human. The Polyhedron, on the other hand, contains no human element, yet, it is the container for a human soul, a chimaera of living and nonliving, however in the Termite ending it is empty, and therefore cannot serve as sacrifice. Both Katerina and Capella’s opinions support the Bachelor’s argument in favour of the Polyhedron standing as well, Katerina outright claiming that “ I know for sure that you are to destroy a woman…” However, seeing that Katerina’s prophecies are often wrong, this statement must be taken with a pinch of salt. On the other hand, Capella clarifies that while Simon is merely a man in the current time, however, “Had Simon been reborn though, had he transferred his spirit to a new vessel-a body huge, perfect, and able to let others in... then he could have been called that.” Well, that rebirth, that new vessel she describes just so happens to match up incredibly well to the Polyhedron, this means that for the Udurgh to exist, for the Haruspex to fulfil his purpose, he must let the Polyhedron stand, must let Simon become the Udurgh. These ideas of sacrifice, of fate, and most importantly, of duty and purpose, greatly define the Haruspex’s story, and the Utopian ending is the only ending which gives it the needed satisfaction by its end.

All of the prior points about the town and the sacrifice have been made with the greatest levels of constraint I was able to amount, this paragraph, admittedly, will be much more personal, as the reasoning it presents was the initial reason for my appreciation of this ending. Simply saying, this paragraph will discuss this ending and the Haruspex’s connections, specifically the connection to the Bachelor. This entire essay could have been written only about this, specific subject, however, there was much more to be said about this ending, and the exercise in restraint was appreciated,  despite the, challenges (No Zero I cannot give into the g urges early, fruit.) This paragraph will discuss the relationship between the Bachelor and the Haruspex (of course) as well as the metanarrative of Pathologic classic, especially when it comes to the ends and in considering the Bachelor route in comparison to the Haruspex one.

During the Bachelor run, there is not a single chance to access the abandoned workshop the Haruspex works in, even trying to teleport into the workshop will fail, This comes with the precedent that as the Bachelor, you will not meet the Haruspex until the fifth day, from which point on he is only truly present for days 5,8,9, and of course, day 12. This is of course, a great disservice and the Pathologic 2 route should really have more Haruspex in it, however on a less tangential point, it a great difference from the haruspex route, in which the Bachelor appears for almost every single day of the playthrough, The Bachelor is likely to be the character the player interacts with the most, and over the game the connection between the two characters grows over time, with the Bachelor switching to use Artemy Burakh’s first name. However this closeness between the two is present throughout the entirety of the route, from the very first line the Bachelor speaks to the Haruspex (We will get to that later) to even the descriptions of quests and locations which the Haruspex takes note of, even I was surprised at just how much there was between these two in my first playthrough. All that builds to the point in which these two characters, at the very least, care for one another, deeply enough that the Haruspex has multiple dialogue options which are explicitly supportive of the Utopian ending within his Cathedral discussion with the Bachelor, with all but two of the dialogue branches allowing him to ask the Bachelor for his advice, and only one serving as a direct rejection. And that is what choosing the Termites ending in the Haruspex route is, a rejection, all throughout the route the Bachelor will attempt to convince the Haruspex of the validity of his ending, and in the Haruspex route, the Utopian ending is incredibly tied to the Bachelor, to Daniil Dankovsy, with the implication that if tower, if the last remainder of his research will not survive, that neither will he. Much like Aglaya, his fate is tied to the aspect of the town he is bound to protect. The Bachelor, who, while still placed as more antagonistic, still has his choice, his option for the ending still weighed as equally as the Inquisitor’s, the story places them as equals, “Two diverging pairs of decisions. Both pre-determined…” Which also clarifies that the Utopian ending was never less free than the Termite one, as they are both pre-written, scripted.

This leads into another extremely important aspect of Pathologic Classic HD, the meta, not only can you be reminded twice per round that the story is not real, but multiple characters and scenarios note that this is still a game, still a story the player is playing a part of. A big part of the meta story is the fact that the town is in fact, a sandbox, and the characters are merely dolls. The Polyhedron is a water container which was stuck into the sand, and the water within it had caused a mold, causing the sand pest within the reality of the characters. Removing the tower would help nothing; the mold has already spread, the only option forward is to remove the sand, or play somewhere else, which is what the destruction of the town means, the Utopian ending is the only one which actually, truly addresses this.

Another very meta aspect of the story is the relationship between the Haruspex and Bachelor, which is seen in the very first line spoken from the Bachelor to the Haruspex. The order the game suggests the routes is to begin with Bachelor, continue to Haruspex, and end with Changeling, and viewing the story as one continuous thing in that order adds a lot of depth to the story, with, “ Yes... Far be it from me to call myself a person of mystical inclinations. However, when I look at you, I get the feeling that nature is playing jokes on us. It's as if both the left and the right hand have clutched the head to realise for the first time that they are two parts of a single whole.” The Bachelor quickly disarms the player, not only is this statement a clear representation of the fact that they are two parts of a single whole, they are all healers, all part of the role the player plays, but this line is just plain out not something to say to someone you just met. Dankovsky continues his, less than normal interactions towards the Haruspex throughout the route, to the point that two of them have the closest connection here than almost any other two characters in any route, to the point even the developers themselves reflect upon it in that same dialogue I mentioned before, “Two diverging pairs of decisions… And then, you see, there were also feelings involved... Love.” While this can be applied to Aglaya instead, in the context of the conversation, which is Clara asking the developers about the two other healers specifically, that simply would not make sense. There is a lot more textual and meta evidence about these two, but I am straying off course too much already and this paragraph is already very very long, so we will just move swiftly back to the actual point of the essay :) (BUT YES I COULD WRITE A WHOLE ENTIRE THING ABOUT HOW DANIIL IS WRITTEN AS A LOVE INTEREST IN THIS ROUTE)

Let us not forget, however, a reason as to why the Bachelor wishes to destroy the town, and that is that Daniil is incredibly petty and jealous of Aglaya, from the initial curiosity at their initial meeting, “...She was so impressed by your dignified demeanour … What did you tell her that touched her so much?” To the outright spiteful, “My dear Burakh, she is your sacrifice! I don't think it is at all necessary to slit her throat with your own knife … if the town is destroyed, the head of Aglaya Lilich will be separated from her shoulders in less than a day.” He also partially agrees with Artemy that he seeks to keep the Polyhedron out of spite. However one must take into consideration the Bachelor’s route, in which he is consistently used and betrayed, the biggest offender being the Inquisitor herself. The only person who does not do so is the Haruspex, so it makes sense he would do quite literally anything to keep that being the case.

The fact is, Daniil Dankovsky suffers, in almost every single ending he is not at a good place, all of the endings from his own route for one, as that route is quite literally a tragedy, as well as the fact that Eva is dead in it, that also goes for Changeling route endings, as well as the fact that in that route he is in general incapable of a happy ending, which only leaves the Haruspex’s route for him to have any possibility of contentment (sorry g boy) Immediately we can also rule out the Termite ending in the Haruspex route, and in the Humbles ending he is the only one without a place, the Haruspex, as the Foreman, would still have a role to play, but Daniil would not, her victory is also the least rational one, and therefore, the hardest one for him to agree with. That leaves, of course, one ending, the Haruspex route Utopian ending, in which the Bachelor is not left in misery.

Other than that, this ending, just like all endings in which the player picks the ending of the bound other than their healers’ is a direct victory over fate, over the ‘set’ ending for the route. The executor, the stand-in for the developers in the ending of the game says as much, “The only enemy, the only evil in this story, you see, is called Inevitability…” This also lends itself to the idea that the belief that there is only one ‘right’ ending for each healer, that they should only be considered by their bound’s choice, is a wrong one. This refusal of fate, refusal of the ending implied to be the ‘correct’ choice of the Haruspex since the very beginning of the game, is the ultimate victory of the player, and of the characters with them.

In almost all discussion of the Pathologic endings, the only possibilities considered are the ones given, each healer choosing their own bound’s end, but Pathologic is far more dynamic than that. The story is asymmetrical, and so are its endings, which is why Bachelor’s route Utopian ending is quite possibly the most tragic, hopeless one, and the Haruspex route one is the complete opposite. There is no ‘good’ ending, of course, no, that would be too simple, however, there are some which are clearly better than others, and due to the future of the town, the impact this has on the Haruspex’s story, and arguably most importantly, the meta and interconnected aspects of this ending, it can be considered as a good ending. It is a belief that the Utopian ending in any context, is a bad one, however, in the words of the Haruspex himself, “Any choice is right as long as it’s willed.”

#pathologic #daniil dankovsky #artemy burakh #pathologic classic hd #burakhovsky #implied #a lot of the rest of my thoughts can be boiled down to “i kinned danko too hard oops”/hj #but there is so much to be said about this one particular ending and the way it does have the longest term good impact on the world #unlike most other patho endings which when considered outside of a vacuum would be really bad as things to happen to the real world #don't want to get into how the termite and humble endings are kinda conservative but utopian is the only one driving the world forwards #under artemy's influence it's even better

[mxvladdy]

heyy i just read your fic Case of the Munchies on ao3 and im Loving it!!!! its amazing!! i was wonder if youre accepting requests and if you haven’t done it could you write the same for the rest: mammon, levi, satan, belphi, dia, barbatos and smth for simeon and luke (ofc platonic) like how angles have a true form and that means they can never relax around mc and how solomon has so much power at his fingertips he can just snap and end them or smth like that? pretty please and thank you!!!!

A/N: Of Course! Of Course! I already did Mammon and Levi HERE so I’ll do the other four in this request! You sent me a lot of good ideas and I’ll sprinkle them out into other requests soon!

Hope you like it!!

Case of the Munchies prt 3!

Word Count: 4.2k

Characters: Satan, Belphie, Diavolo, Barbatos

TW: Mentions of eating and cook humans, very mild gore

Satan

As the only full-blooded demon of the seven, he has thought about it...just hypothetically of course. When you were new to the Devildom he did find your scent more appetizing than the others. It’s a good thing he has the most restraint and control of all his kin, especially when it comes to his more base urges.

He doesn’t hide this knowledge from you. It’s readily available in the library and his own room in the history books. He just won’t bring it up. So if you don’t say anything, he won’t either. What would he say anyway? “Yes, I’ve thought about it, up until it was outlawed it was a staple of our diet after all…” Ye, probably not the best thing to say.

When you finally brought it up he was exasperated. Did you have to bring it up during the few hours he had alone with himself? He wasn’t going to lie but the thought of hurting your feelings would just about do him in.

He will alleviate your worries if you have any. If Satan was anything, he was genuine.

Mini Fic

His wine curdles in his stomach, turning sour along with the take-out he had nabbed for the two of you to enjoy tonight. Drinks and dinner were becoming a staple in your T.V. night tradition. If one of you had had a rough day you would drop by your favorite shop of the hour and pick up a meal to share while you vent.

Today in particular had been a shit day for him. Failed experiment after failed experiment, and one bottle that didn’t explode on impact with the potion he dropped. Sigh. At least your comforting words soothed his wounded pride a little. You chuckle at his escapades glad to see he is not hurt at least. It was nice to have someone to see the humor in something that normally would have dampened his mood.

“You’re a pest.” He laughs at you while snapping his takeout chopsticks in half to use. “I need sympathy-hours of work wasted.” You snort into your own bowl of udon.

“You need words of praise like Beel needs another stomach.” Satan gasps in mock insult pointing a sauce stained chopstick at you.

“How dare you insult your host! After I toiled over this meal of-” What did he get exactly? Honestly, when he placed the order he was near boiling with rage at his careless fumble. It was to be a surprise for you, something to give you a bit of magic while supervised by himself. He knew how frustrated you were with your lack of magical ability in class so he wanted to gift you something grand. Now he has to wait months to try again.

Ah, well...nothing ventured nothing gained as they say.

You watch him sulk over his soup dumplings, his mile away from the comfort of your company and his room. “Come on blondie.” You poke him with your foot before burying them under his pajama-clad thighs on the couch. “Eat your ‘hard earned’ meal before I do.” You snatch up his D.D.D forgetting your own food for a moment to set up your favorite streaming service to cast to his small T.V. “Want to watch a bunch of humans fail miserably at baking?”

"I thought you would never ask."

Satan feels you stiffen in his arms two hours into your bake-off marathon. Your takeout boxes are cold and forgotten on his coffee table, a bottle of wine gone between the two of you. He glances down at you curious.

You were transfixed on the screen. The novice baker on screen was struggling to keep his monstrosity of a cake upright. It was the annual Halloween episode and this fool went for a Silence of the Lambs inspired cake. A good concept really, but very poorly executed. The fake body parts and sugar blood weighted the pastry down dangerously. If he were, to be frank, the cake was also tacky as hell. Heh, he'd have to try to make this for Lucifer.

"Does his abuse of the piping gun offend you that much?" He jokes wrapping an arm around you.

Your laugh is breathy and lacks its usual warmth. "It is excessive isn't it?" You look up at him. "Hey, Satan-have you ever eaten people before?"

"Uhh…" Great, how eloquent. This came out of nowhere, did Lucifer set you up to this? No-no you wouldn’t. Would you hate him if you knew? “I have.” He admits through clenched teeth waiting for your reaction.

“Didn’t Diavolo ban it?” He can tell you are doing the mental math in your head.

He chuckles dryly. “Well, you never asked if I did it legally.” You move away from his touch and pause the show. “I mean...I did it legally! ” His mouth runs freely, his brain screaming at him to shut up.

“Satan.” You cross your arms unimpressed.

“It was a new law and I never meant to eat it for the most part. It was at a time where I was still struggling to control myself.” Young and stupid as Lucifer had said defending him every step of the way when he would slip up. Was it sold on the black market now? Yes. Did he know how to get it? Sure, but he would never nor would he tell you about it either.

You nod thinking about his words. “I can empathize.” Oh, thank the Devil. “Have you thought of eating me?”Ahhh. “Oh my God, you have.” You chuck a pillow at him with a laugh.

He catches the pillow and clutches it to his fiery hot face. “Everyone did at first!” If he was going down then he was going to take every one of his brothers down with him. “I wasn’t going to act on it! It was a spur of the moment-why are you laughing!”

“Sorry, sorry.” You wipe at the tears in your eyes wishing you had your phone to take a picture of his blushing face. “I kind of figured you did.”

Satan looks at you incredulously. “Shouldn’t you be a bit more torn up over this?”

You shrug. “After everything we’ve been through? I admit it was a shock to think at first but I mean, you would have done it by now right?”

“Well, thank you?” He flops back on the couch, still clutching the pillow to act as a barrier between you two. He’ll take it as a compliment.

You scoot close, nudging his knee with yours. “You ok?” He nods. “Can I touch you?” He nods again eagerly. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and squeeze. “Sorry, I made you uncomfortable.”

Satan chuckled, dropping the pillow to hug you back. “It’s ok.” He peaks your forehead. “Now, with that out of the way. Shall we finish this?” He swipes up his phone to hit play. You nod, flinging your legs over him to snuggle closer. “Good, I’m dying to know how he tries to save that thing. I’m putting money on icing.”

“You know.” You break the silence once more, unable to stop yourself. “I wouldn’t be opposed to being eaten...in some ways.”

Belphegor

After your first *ahem* encounter, he doesn’t bring up the whole food thing. He is afraid that if you learned about it, it would be the last strike for you and his relationship. Perhaps it’s paranoia on his part but better safe than sorry.

In all honesty, he didn’t eat it that much anyway. Killing humans was something he did often in his youth as a demon. A stupid attempt at revenge on his part. It filled the holes in his hearts to hurt those he believed killed his sister.

But to eat their flesh? Disgusting. He tried it a few times and it turned his stomach with every mouthful. He just hated them too much to even stomach them. He’s mellowed out with time but still never got a taste for it.

When you asked it was a shock but welcomed in a way. Like he could finally get this weight off his shoulders every time he looked at you.

Mini Fic

“It’s gross.” Belphie yawns, jumping up to sit on the high garden wall. He bends down to help you up placing you gently next to himself. The wind catches you by surprise threatening to topple you back from the wall before he rights you. He tosses his sweater over you with a nod of satisfaction.

You snuggle into the fleece lining burying your nose into the fabric. It smelled of elderberries and honeysuckles. Belphie watches you curl up into his side with a fond smile. “Seriously, you all are nasty.”

“Ouch!” You push his shoulder with a grin. “I feel like I should be offended on behalf of all humans.”

Belphie snorts, looking up into the bright colors of the night sky. “Good. Be offended. You, humans, are slimy.” You squawk indignantly. “It’s true, never in all my years would I willingly ingest it.” He shudders theatrically.

“Rude.”

“Shouldn’t you be happy? Lest I eat you?” He growls playfully, taking a swipe at you. He pulls you close to kiss the pout off your face. He stops only when your face is hot and your smile threatens to pull a muscle. “I’ll keep you safe, always.” He vows resting his chin on your head.

“Do you think other demons would try to eat me?”

“Have you met my twin?” He teases. He takes your jab to his ribs with a smile. “But if one of those lesser demons even tries to breathe in your direction I’ll kill them.”

“Ok, Mister sleeps till dinner.” You joke. His vow warms your heart a little, chasing away the small bit of fear that had rested itself in your chest. You saw how some demons looked at you at R.A.D, the longing and hungry looks got to be a bit much sometimes. A few older demons would discuss it loudly when they knew you were close by. Apparently, it was a long standing tradition of demons eating humans both body and soul when a pact was concluded.

Imagine what those brothers would do to them…

You shake your head hugging Belphie closer. You had nothing but his word that he would keep you safe, yet that was enough for you. Besides, he wasn’t one to follow the rules even at the best of times.

“I’m serious. You're off limits for everyone.”

You nod into his shirt, closing your eyes to enjoy the peace of the moment. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Diavolo

It is so far from his mind that when you say something it is like a rug was taken out from under him. He could be diplomatic about it, but you deserve better than a half-truth.

He was a wild child in his youth. Sometimes he would overindulge in his father’s heritage and gorge himself on his newfound powers and privilege. He would dine with the elders and eat with abandon under their proud eyes.

He regrets it now, in your company it brings up a slurry of emotions. Sometimes when he looks at you he sees flashes of his past behavior.

The urge is stronger in him than the brothers, a constant nagging tug in his guts, but he is strong. Stronger both in willpower and sheer physical prowess than them so the pull is more of an annoyance than a burning need. He can temper the hunger in other ways if need be *wink*

He fears what you might think of him if you ever found out the truth, but however you take it he will handle it in stride. He loves you too much not to.

Mini Fic

Dinners, when Diavolo could eat alone, were a rare and special treat. The solace of just being allowed to exist without constantly checking his posture or presentation was a blessing, just him, his thoughts, and a good meal. It was nice to have no paperwork to worry about staining this time or a tedious meeting where he couldn’t savor his meal. No, no this was good. He looks down at his heavily laden plate and smiles. Well, almost… Pulling out his phone he snaps a quick picture and sends it to you with a simple question. Join me?

Private meals were wonderful, but with you, they were perfect.

You arrive faster than he expected, flushed face and clutching a stitch in your side from rushing over. He almost felt bad before he saw the eager look in your eyes. Barbatos helps you with your school bags and coat before placing another plate of food across from the young lord. He winks at the prince before disappearing back through the door.

“Thank you for the invite!” You beam taking your seat across from him. “I hope you don’t mind that I'm not dressed for the occasion. I was just wrapping up a study session with the boys.” You look down at your rumpled lounge clothes.

Diavolo waved his hand disregarding your concerns. “I would emulate you if I had the time.” He looks at his own pressed school uniform. He had another meeting this evening, much to his distaste. “You look rather comfortable.” You smile in delight before tucking into your own plate.

You eat in a comfortable silence reading the room well enough to tell that he wished for some company but not needless chitter-chatter. Barbatos arrived moments after you put your fork down and left with the plate leaving behind a delicious smelling hot drink. You couldn’t put your finger on the flavor but it tastes spicy like cinnamon and coats your throat like warm honey.

Whatever was in the drink seemed to work some magic on the prince. His shoulder droop, his back sinking into the chair as his legs stretch out till they are close to brushing against yours. He starts talking over the drink, eyes slowly lighting up with delight. You drink, nodding along with him as he builds up steam. It was nice to see him so unguarded and light. You listen to him talk about simple innocent topics. You knew how he tried to have these conversations with the others to no avail. The brother’s always tried to stay clear of him, and Lucifer simply dismissed these things most days. Barbatos and the angels were a bit better but still listened mostly to placate him.

“Ah!” Diavolo stops mid-sentence as his door opens once more Barbatos holding a small platter in his gloved hand. Dia claps his hands in delight. “I’ve been wanting to have you try this with me for forever. The human palate is so different, but I hope this is tasty.”

“What is it?” You eye the covered plate curiously.

Dia says a word in infernal. It is harsh and guttural in his throat but his delight was evident in his tone. “It is like...a roasted nut? Sorry, it is difficult to explain but it has been a favorite treat of mine since I was a boy. I hope you like it too.” He opens the lid with little ceremony and tilts the bowl to you. Inside were several golfball sized pods piled on top of each other. Even from across the table you could feel the molten heat radiating from the porous black shell. It looked...ugly. Like a hunk of dried lava. You eye it suspiciously as Diavolo picks one up with his bare hands and bits it. The shell cracks under his sharp teeth, a fang catching in a weak spot with a noise that makes you shiver. Underneath the thick casing, you could see a dark red and fleshy core. He hums in delight pulling put the meat of the seed and discard the shell pieces onto an empty plate. He makes quick work of the innards already reaching for another by the time you casually pick up a seed.

The seed itself was dense and warm to the touch. You squeeze it, noting that the porous coating felt like a mass of steel in your hand. “Dia-how do I open it?” No way you could bite it, not without breaking your jaw in the process.

“Allow me.” He takes it from you and effortlessly cracks it. “It is a tradition to break them with teeth, instead of hands or utensils. Something about a show of strength. I just find it fun.” He shrugs, handing you the broken seed.

“Fun!” You marvel at his pearly fangs. “Those are some big chompers.”

“All the better to eat you with my dear.” He chuckles.

You blink in shock, eyes widening. “Would you? Eat me?”

Diavolo’s smile drops. “No.” He lies on reflex, his political nature kicking in. “No-no wait.” He shakes his head. “I...at a time would have without hesitation.” He feels you recoil. “It was common practice back in the day. To the common demon it was a great meal and for the ruling class a show. He looks down at the broken fragments of shell on his plate. Breaking the shell was far too reminiscent of other things. He squashes the unwanted wave of memories coming up. Instead, he looks up at you.

You sit quietly mulling over his words. You haven’t run yet. “Why did you stop?”

He leans back with a loud exhale. Why did he stop? There were many reasons, none he wished to divulge into at the moment, but he had to say something. “I grew up, and began to resent and regret it.” He used to read human stories of demons and his kind. They hurt their characterizations of him and his people. Yet, they had all been scarily accurate. He wanted to prove that they weren’t stagnating beasts, slaves to their desires. Even if it wasn't a popular opinion.

“I see.” You pick up the seed again. “Thank you for telling me. You didn’t have to.”

“But I wanted to, and to apologize… such admissions must have ruined your appetite. If you wish to retire-”

“Is it weird if it didn’t?” You cut him off. You felt-not apathetic to the knowledge but close to it. It confirmed a lot of things for you and put certain things in perspective. You still felt safe with him even with this new bit of knowledge. Without a second thought, you pop the treat into your mouth. You gasp in delight. The flavor and texture were not what you were expecting, but was delicious all the same. “Can you open another for me?” You push your plate over to him.

“Of course!”

The food was as wonderful as his company.

Barbatos

You knew he cooked it. He probably knows a million different ways to prepare a human. He is also very blunt about his dabblings in the market.

He doesn’t eat it, hasn’t ever. He sees no reason to, especially since he doesn’t need to eat anyway there is no temptation. He did find the meals he created beautiful though.

Once he lived for the praises of the courts and his young lord. He was a master at all mediums he cared to work with. Time, decorum, or of the flesh.

He is 100% unashamed of his past with the dark side of the Devildom’s history. In fact, he is damn near proud of it. He is a demon and it was a part of his life, if that frightens you, well there is nothing he can do about it.

He’ll entertain your questions and will try to put any lingering worries at ease. Just don’t expect to be coddled when he does.

Mini Fic

Barbatos had very few personal pleasures in his life. His schedule simply didn’t have the space for such things. So why even bother looking for a pastime. It wasn’t until Diavolo gifted him with an old worn cookbook did he find it.

Cooking was a necessity for his prince, but with that little book, it became something he looked forward to doing. Slowly, he began to seek them out, filling his growing quarters with cookbooks and loose-leaf slips of paper. He enjoys reading them. Each book was a little time capsule into the cook's life and memories. Could a mix of spices really remind someone of the arid heat of their motherland? Or does following a certain way of aging meat really honor the writer's late grandfather’s memory? He tries them all, each recipe a little invasion to a happier time.

He wrote his fair share of cookbooks too in his day. Simple modifications to things the young lord liked to the odd machinations of his own imagination. He got good at experimenting with flavors and textures over the years, mastering certain cooking techniques and flavors just for fun. He didn’t share many of them, a lot of his recipes were just too complicated for most. Luke was allowed to look at his pastry books only. The little cherub was enamored with his techniques and wanted to learn as much as he could in the short amount of time he was in the Devildom. Admirable, but he made sure to keep some of his...less savory books away from the boy. He shudders to think what Simeon would do if he scarred the young angel.

You are the only one who has full access to his collections. Whether you liked to cook was inconsequential to him. He simply enjoyed sharing this interest with you. Some nights you would take it upon yourself to be his “sous-chef”. Which meant you sat in the corner of the kitchen and read out the ingredients and steps for a recipe he knew by heart. Sometimes you would add in extra steps in an attempt to stump it. Cute...but ultimately failed each time. So, most nights when you tagged along to the kitchens you just flip through his collection, reading his immaculate scribblings crammed into the corners of the pages or where he scratched out certain ingredients for more demon-appropriate foods and more sustainable options.

You had gone through many beautiful books before you found it. The cookbook was small and inconspicuous compared to most. Just a simple black cover with a well-worn spine. What made you take notice of it was just how dusty it was. That wasn’t like him to do. Barbatos would never let something get so dirty. You wished you never had opened it. You weren’t stupid by any means, but after reading a few pretty graphic recipes it had unsettled you. So you withdrew from Barbatos trying to forget about the book tucked away deep in the bowels of your school bag.

“You’ve been distant.” You choke, hand flying up to your chest as you swear your heart skipped a beat. Damn demon. Should put a bell on him. “What’s wrong?” His eyes are piercing, cutting away at your feeble defenses.

“Nothing…” You fiddle with your bag’s strap. Your eyes drop to the floor taking in the differences between his polished shoes and your scuffed boots.

“Of course not…” You could hear the skepticism in his voice. “I trust that if there was something wrong you would feel safe enough to confide in me.” His words hit like a ton of bricks on your shoulders. He sighs seeing that his words got no reaction. “Please?”

Wordlessly you rummage in your bag and thrust the book into his chest. “Sorry. It shook me up more than I thought it would.”

Ah. He knew this book all too well. For a time it had been his favorite, one to pull out with Diavolo had guests or a deal that needed to be sealed. He accepts the book, noting how much your hands shook. “I understand.” He slips the book into his breast pocket making a mental note to hide it in one of his lesser used rooms. “Would you like to discuss this? In my room perhaps?” You follow with a timid nod.

“Where shall we begin?” Barbatos asks the moment he closes the door to his room.

“You don’t seem perturbed.” You frown. Barbatos shrugs, pulling the book out and opening it. He had a lot of good memories stored here. Some of these were still considered signature dishes, oftentimes a visiting dignitary would lament to him about the good old days when he could show off his craft when flesh was plentiful. He takes pride in that still to this day even. For as much as he loved you, he would not be ashamed of this.

“I didn’t mean it like that.” You shake your head when he says as much. “It just confused me. Do-do you see me as food?”

“I never saw humans as food, no more than I see demons or angels as it.” He picks at an imaginary bit of lent from his pant leg. “As for seeing you as food no. No matter how sweet your lips are, or how honeyed your words can be.” He smiles, taking impish delight in your squirming. “I merely did my job as a butler for my lord.”

“Oh- sorry for not coming to you sooner.” You felt foolish now. Barbatos waves it off, pleased to have this issue put aside so quickly and cleanly. “Wait-" You gasp as his words finally sink in. “Have you prepared angels before?”

He flashes you a mischievous smile putting a single finger up to his lips. “Perhaps~ do you wish to read that too?”

#obey me #om satan #om belphegor #om diavolo #om barbatos #fun request!

[mego42]

please enjoy this snippet from the upcoming ch 12

--

Three weeks earlier

It’s not a nightmare that wakes her. Not exactly. 

After two relentless months, Beth’s become something of a connoisseur in the finer points of that particular psychological phenomenon and this definitely isn’t that, though it’s kin to it. 

It’s a rattling echo in the cavern of her lungs, hollow and aching where they’ve been scorched by fire and smoke. It’s the acidic memory of Annie and Ruby’s faces, tears streaking through ash smeared across their cheeks, the screeching violin of their ragged, terrified gasps clawing at her ears. 

It’s a caustic, venomous hatred boiling in her veins that rouses her.

She surfaces, caught off guard by the unfamiliar sheen of the deep, velvet darkness. The angle of the bare hint of ambient light is subtly...not wrong, but strange in a way she can’t place immediately.

Her burnt hand throbs like a beating heart held in her tightly swaddled palm.

It’s the pain that drives her the rest of the way from sleep, and as she crashes all the way into full consciousness, she thinks Rio. 

The darkness is strange because she’s in his bed, not hers. The light comes from downtown high rises, not suburban street lights. She's in his loft, not her house. 

She’d almost died two nights ago, and he’d brought her home. 

Blinking, she turns slowly. He’s stretched out next to her, close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off of his body, warming her side. 

He’s asleep; she can tell from the slow rise and fall of his chest, from the soft sound of his breathing, steady and even.

Her own breath hitches, a cough bubbling up, and she buries her face in the pillow, trying to smother it. She shudders once, twice, swallowing hard to try and quell the jagged, broken glass feeling in the back of her throat. She breathes deep, letting the spicy cedar scent permeating the fabric overwhelm her, steady her and wash away the bitter taste in her mouth.

Rolling back on her side, she studies Rio. Still sleeping. 

Beth rolls again, onto her back this time, moving slow in an attempt not to wake him. Now that her eyes are adjusting, the dark isn’t quite so complete, and she can see the faint lines of the exposed ductwork snaking across the ceiling. The difference between city and suburbs—when she’s at home, her bedroom is pitch dark on nights with no moon. 

Her hand’s still throbbing, more insistent now, and her throat aches; she feels itchy, restless. That roiling, burning mass of feeling that woke her up sits heavy on her chest.

She looks back over at Rio. The sheets are pushed down, draped over his waist. He shifts slightly, and she can see a pale hint of ridged skin on his shoulder, just below his collarbone.

Suddenly it’s so much harder to breathe than it was a moment ago.

Beth pushes up, sliding out of the bed as quietly as she can, shivering a little as her bare feet hit the wood floor. She gropes around until her fingers hit fabric, and she snatches up the t-shirt. It’s Rio’s, she realizes as she tugs it over her head, cast off from when she’d peeled it off of him earlier. Hers is around here somewhere. She feels around again, searching the floor until her toes find the briefs she’s borrowed from him, flushing as she pulls those on too, making a mental note to go back to her house for some pajamas and underwear, if nothing else, sooner rather than later.

There’s a three-quarter wall shielding the bed from the open loft, and the night’s brighter when Beth grabs her phone and steps around it, heading down the stairs to the main floor, marveling at the sparkling city lights visible through those giant windows. 

She pours herself some water then wanders over to one, leaning her forehead against the cool glass and looking down at the sprawling nightlife below her. The loft isn’t in the center of downtown, but it’s close enough that even now, in the middle of the night, there’s sporadic traffic. She isn’t so high up that the cars look like toys or anything, but she still feels on top of the world. Removed from it, really.

It’s lonely at the top. 

Setting her water down on the window ledge, Beth thumbs open her phone and taps out an Are you awake? text to Ruby.

She hasn’t even locked her screen before Ruby’s picture lights it up.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.” Ruby’s voice is quiet. “What are you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Ruby makes a soft, understanding noise but doesn’t say anything, just waits.

Beth props the phone between her ear and her shoulder, dragging a finger down the window, squinting an eye as she presses the tip against the glass so it blocks out one of the streetlights down below. 

Beth wonders where Ruby is. If she’s in bed with Stan or down in the kitchen. Hopefully not in bed, Stan doesn’t need any more reasons to hate her. She pictures Ruby perched at her island, her bible open in front of her. Or maybe cooking. Making a batch of lasagna to ward off the stress. Both thoughts sit uneasily in her stomach. 

“I almost died,” Beth says, finally. 

“You did.”

“So did you.” Her voice wobbles a little on the last word, and there’s something metallic and bitter in her mouth.

“Yeah,” Ruby says, and there’s a funny weight to it that has Beth closing her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she says, forcing the words out through the thick, aching mass in her throat.

Ruby’s response is immediate and sure. “It’s not your fault.”

“I mean—”

“We were all in it,” Ruby interrupts. “This isn’t just on you.”

“I made it life and death, though,” Beth says, hearing the echo of the shotgun booming in her ears, seeing Bruno stagger back, feeling the warm spray against her face as his chest—

Beth’s eyes snap back open, staring out the window at nothing.

“I don’t want to take away from whatever you’re working through here,” Ruby says after a moment. “But it kind of already was for me, Beth. I got into this because otherwise, my kid was going to die.” 

Beth’s breath gusts out, a new layer of guilt settling over her shoulders, adding to the weight already draped across them. Of course she’d known that, known that of all of them, Ruby had the least choice. But in the rush of everything else, she’d—not forgotten, but pushed it to the back, and from the faint censure in Ruby’s tone, Ruby knew it too.

“I’m sorry,” she says again.

Ruby sighs. “That’s not your fault, either.”

There’s another long, silent beat. Beth rolls her head against the glass, finding the dark stretch of river a few blocks away, a lightless void peeking between the buildings. 

“What am I supposed to do now?” 

Beth says it so quietly that she can barely hear it herself. Isn’t sure her question carried over the phone until Ruby sighs again, longer and heavier this time. 

“I don’t know,” Ruby says, and Beth hears the thump of a book closing. She smiles faintly. The bible, then. “Mia, she’s...she’s not going to stop, is she? Not as long as…”

She trails off, but Beth can fill in the rest of her sentence. Not as long as Beth’s alive. She drops her hand from the window to the ledge, running it along the rough concrete, remembering the feel of the loose gravel from the parking lot behind the store under her nails. Remembering the way Annie had clung to her, sobbing into her bruised and battered chest. Remembering the way she’d screamed Beth’s name in that wobbly, grainy video.

Mia won’t stop. Not as long as Beth’s here. With him. 

“I know,” she whispers.

They both fall silent at that, absorbing the options that truth leaves on the table.

“Thanks for picking up,” Beth says eventually.

“Thanks for texting,” Ruby responds, and Beth can hear the smile in it as she hangs up.

Beth gulps down the rest of her water and sets the glass in the sink before padding back upstairs. It’s not until she’s slipped back into bed, tugging up the bunched sheet, that Beth realizes Rio’s awake and watching her. 

“Hi.”

“‘Ey.”

His voice is a soft, sleepy rumble, and Beth feels it roll down her spine like he’s caressing every vertebra. 

“I’m sorry I woke you,” she whispers, settling in on her side, tucking her hands under her cheek and facing him. 

“Didn’t.”

What did, Beth wonders. 

#i am like a smol child on christmas but also the parent like HOLD TF ON IM STILL WRAPPING #beth x rio #nbc good girls #brio fic #wip wednesday #my fic #a song inside the halls of the dark #shut up meg

[neakco]

The Lost Temple Ch.3

Ao3 First Prev Next Masterlist

Tim and Marinette are captured by the enemy. At least they don't have to search for them anymore.

Ch.3 That's One Way...

Tim didn’t say much for the rest of the night. What is someone supposed to say when your told the entire universe will end?

 

After quietly making their way back to camp he watched her start on breakfast so he decided to make an attempt at coffee. He let himself get lost in thought as the water boiled, this was no longer a reconnaissance mission. Even without reporting back he knew that it was his duty to help save the world. There was no way he was going to make it home before the paperwork piled up again, he really wished Bruce would pay attention to his civilian work every once and a while.

 

He was distracted from his thoughts by an amazing smell. Looking up he could see that Marinette was cooking pastries. He looked around to make sure they were still in the jungle. How, just how? She was making more from scratch while others cooked over the fire.

 

Tim shook his head and focused on pouring his now boiled water into a French press while he let his thoughts wander back to the mission.

 

He knew he had to tell his friends something but Bart was loud. As long as there was a chance the enemy didn’t know what they were searching for. It wasn’t a large chance, especially since he was never that lucky.

 

It was still enough of a chance though that he didn’t want to risk informing Bart.

 

In the end he just asked Kin to casually sweep the ground to see if he was able to spot anything unusual. When asked why he casually answered that if they could find what the target was looking for first then they could go home that much sooner.

 

Marinette and Adrien both looked a bit surprised that he hadn’t told his friends everything. He did wonder how Adrien even knew she had told him but filed it under his ‘children of gods' theory. Less of a headache that way.

 

The rest of breakfast was filled with Bart's apologies for ever hating croissants and the revelation that Kon had never tried any French pastries before.

 

Adrien had tried to stop him from admitting this but he was too late. Marinette had already adopted Kon into her abused children club and sworn that she would bake him at least one of every pastry in existence after the mission was over.

 

She was still describing different mouth watering treats when Adrien finally shook her and reminded her that the mission came first.

 

Tim laughed while helping clean up as Marinette kept pouting cutely and muttering about noting being more important than good pastries.

 

Finally they split up to start their search. He made good time with Marinette despite her odd stops to check plants. Maybe it was a weird tracking habit.

 

They had been at this for awhile and he had just looked up to check for dropping snakes when Marinette tackled him to the ground. Before he did more then break the fall she had shoved sunglasses on his face, removed and hidden his Cape and had somehow pulled a long sleeved shirt over his head. He was actually impressed albeit a tad confused.

 

“Sorry" She whispered directly into his ear. “Don’t want our targets to know you’re a hero.”

 

“What..” He stopped as he picked up the sounds of several approaching voices. They were coming towards them in a semicircle and it was too early in the day for him to merge with the shadows.

 

Knowing it was probably pointless  he still swung Marinette onto his back and carried them as high into the trees as he could. Once high enough they flattened themselves as close to the branch as possible. Their only chance was to hope this group was stupid, but he doubted they would be that lucky. Their targets probably would have learned by now to keep an eye for jungle predators dropping on them from above, and they were easier to spot then a tiger.

 

It didn’t take long for the group of men to have guns pointed at them as the apparent leader gestured at them to climb down. They climbed down carefully and Tim just barely caught the small smirk and wink she gave him moments before hitting the ground.

In a blink she was a completely different person. Not only was she scared and rambling but she physically appeared smaller. His French was a little rusty but he was fairly positive she was rambling about getting lost and assuming they were a predator.

 

“Enough!” the leader yelled. Tim tried to act as startled and scared as Marinette. Pretty sure he failed, but it seemed to fool the men pointing guns at them.

 

“Tie up the tourists, we will release them once we have what we came for.” He paused and looked at his men, “Do any of you speak their gibberish?”

 

Marinette clung suddenly to Tim's arm and shook as if scared. He may have found it cute if he didn’t know it was all an act. It did give him a chance to act as if he was trying to be brave for her.

 

He swore internally as he realized he had been paying attention to Marinette instead of the threat. Thankfully he had been at least noting that none of them spoke French.

 

The apparent leader gestured to two of his group, “Drag them back to camp and toss ‘em in one of the cages, I will find a better solution tonight.”

 

As they lightly struggled against their captors to keep up the illusion Marinette started her panicked rambling again. “I really hope you can understand me. I vote we go along and escaped after we've learned what we need.”

 

Tim tired to make his voice sound scared as he responded in French, “Quick thinking, you have my vote. I'll contact the others when I can.”

 

She smiled to show she heard before bursting into quiet sobs. Tim was a little intimidated by her acting skills.

 

It was roughly an hour before their captors emerged into a clearing and tossed them into a cage at the far end. They were left bound as one of them men explained something about the boss’s orders and how the stupid tourists couldn’t even speak a proper language.

 

Tim waited until the men were out of earshot before activating the comm with his shoulder. “Marinette and I found the camp. Keep scanning the ground. We will join back when we can.”

 

He looked over to Marinette to see her analyzing the camp layout. There position was weirdly ideal for it. They had gotten lucky that the cages were on a small slope at the back.

 

He made sure to keep to French in case any of the men came to check on them. “So how did you know they were coming? I didn’t hear anything until after you forcefully dressed me.”

 

He thought he saw her cheeks colour but it was gone before she spoke.

 

“It wasn’t what I heard but rather what I didn’t.” a sly smile graced her face, “A quiet forest is a human filled forest.”

 

He blinked and listened. It was easy to hear the noises of camp, but there was no wildlife, not even birds.

“I can’t believe I missed that.” Some detective he was.

 

“Don’t feel bad, you work mostly in a busy city. It took quite a few wilderness adventures before Adrien and I learned that quiet always meant either humans or danger.”

 

There was a lot in that statement for Tim to try and unravel later, for now he had to focus on escape. He tapped the release on his wrist to loosen a knife and started to slice at the rope. He faltered briefly when he saw Marinette’s ropes fall behind her, untied and uncut. How did she?

 

The thought ended as she held out a long wire, “How good are you with locks?”

 

“A lock like this should only take seconds.”

 

 

Marinette smiled to herself, the lock would only distract his clever mind for a fee minutes. At least she could trust him not to bring it up until the were safe.

 

“Done.” She watched him creep forward before signalling to show it was clear.

 

Escape was slow. The whole operation was larger than she could possibly have imagined. So it took them longer than she would like to sneak past everyone in order to make it to the main tent. But make it they did.

 

Red Robin had led them expertly and with easy to follow hand signals . Sure she didn’t work quite as effortlessly with him as she did with her kitty, but Adrien and her had gone through Hell together.

 

Being Red Robin had only known her a day, he seemed to instinctively understand her. Or maybe he thought just similarly enough to her that they worked. They didn’t even exchange words as he stood watch for her to search the tent.

 

As soon as the flap closed behind her Tikki flew out to help with the search.

 

“Marinette, over here.”

 

Tikki had found a torn document written in the language of the guardians. She carefully shoved it into her bag before glancing at the poor translation next to it. After a brief moment she decided to leave that since it didn’t actually contain any useful information and snuck back out.

 

She quickly nodded to let Red know she had what she needed and he started to led them back into the jungle. She was happy to let someone else take the lead as she let her thoughts wander. Honestly with an operation this large they were lucky that the temple hadn’t been found yet.

 

It was three silent hours before they found their way to camp. Marinette was finally starting to feel the results of her sleepless night and wished she could take a nap. She had to share what she had found, Red Robin had been more than patient with her and her secrets.

 

 

Tim watched Marinette call Adrien over to their makeshift table. He was expecting them to discussing things among themselves first, so he was actually taken off guard when she took hold of his hand to pull him over.

 

“I know your mission is only supposed to be reconnaissance, but Adrien and I would really welcome the extra help.”

 

He watched as Adrien flattened the stolen document out. He leaned closer to try and make it out but saw that it was in some unknown and possibly ancient text.

 

Marinette waved Bart and Kon over and waited until everyone was settled before speaking.

 

“According to the translation I saw, our target believes they are looking for an ancient treasure guarded in an old temple.”

 

That isn’t quite the case.” Adrien point out a passage, “This actually translates roughly to ‘That which even gods fear.’ Not treasure.”

 

Tim could see the grim looks on the duo's faces.

 

Bart looked surprised, “You can read this?”

 

“Impulse, don't just ignore that these people are going to unknowingly unleash something bad.” Kon turned towards the duo accusingly, “but you already knew that, didn’t you?”

 

“Actually, no. Even after reading this we have no idea what the temple is guarding. We only know the temple was lost.” Adrien shrugged.

 

Tim looked closely at the two, once again suspicious and looking for any sign of deceit. “How did you know about the temple?”

 

Marinette sighed, “The monks sent us.”

 

“Threatened us.” Adrien corrected. Tim saw her glare before deciding to ignore him.

 

“The monks hail from a sister temple with their own well guarded secrets. They tasked us to go rescue the treasure.”

 

Adrien gestured to the paper, “This is written in their language.”

 

Tim could observe some anger on both their faces before it was gone with Bart's appearance in their space.

 

“You were threatened? But you two are so awesome.”

 

Adrien was laughing too hard to answer, Marinette looked at him briefly with concern and Tim remembered what they had said about laughing. That couldn’t be good.

 

He was about to ask if the blonde was okay when Marinette spoke, “We were unofficially inducted into their order by a rogue monk that believed he was the last. The currant group don’t  really like that they can’t remove us or make us follow their rules.”

 

Adrien's laughter died away suddenly, “We do this for them and the leave our loved ones alone. My girlfriend…” He trailed off as his eyes misted up.

 

“and my grandparents.” Marinette finished looking just as lost.

 

The heroes were all silent, this was a lot bigger than they thought.

 

Tim blinked in surprise as the pair's words fully settled. He would have bet money that the duo were dating. They had affectionate nicknames and absolutely no boundaries.

 

Kon looked to him and the duo which snapped Tim back to the problem at hand, “What's our plan?”

 

Tim spared only a small glance to Marinette before smiling confidently. “We find the temple first.”

Taglist @toodaloo-kangaroo

#maribat #the lost temple #adventure #some humor #some angst #all chaos #rin writes

[riddlehoes]

                               Mattheo Riddle

(Mentions of Torture, Death, Anorexia, and Betrayal)

Who knew. I mean I lost my dad, and the only person actually that actually comforted me was close to the person that murdered my father. Crazy, thought we were supposed to be the good guys.

You may be wondering what happened, or who the good guys are, and who killed my dad.

I was apart of the order, was. They were or are the good guys, the people that don't want Voldemort to win, that want their pretty little world to stay in perfect shape. And Bellatrix Lestrange killed my father. My boyfriends family friend killed my father, I saw it happen. I witnessed my fathers soul leave his body.

" Davina, hurry up! " Harry yelled, sending yet another spell at the death eaters, until a big fog took over, and all of us were now in the arms of a death eater.

Sadly, Crabbe's father was gripping onto me, he really did get his god awful smell from his father.

I couldn't hear exactly what was happening til my father yelled a spell at Crabbe's father, who threw me into my fathers arms.

" are you okay darling? " he yelled over the noise, I nodded and hugged him. After my mother passing away, he was all I had left, I was never close with Lupin cause he was always focused on the potters.

We heard more yelling and looked over, Harry was yelling at Bellatrix, and of course, of course! My father had to go help him, not once did he ever choose me over the 'chosen' one.

I looked over at Mattheo who was staring at me, as he held onto Luna Lovegood. Hermione was struggling in the arms of a death eater, and Ron just gave up. I was trembling as I watched my father get in front the Potter boy.

Bellatrix threw spell after spell at my father, completely missing or getting rejected. My father was a good guy, he didn't throw a spell at his own cousin, though she was throwing spells at her own cousin. My father was the only true good guy in the order. Other than Dobby.

He messed up, the blocking spell. My father messed up the blocking spell, he had been teaching me since I got my magic abilities. He looked at Harry, as his soul left his body, then at me. He mouthed the words 'I'm sorry' then died.

My father died protecting a Potter, just like he spent so many years in Azkaban for the Potter's. For something he never did, and never would do.

I wish I could have been like him, giving up my whole life for friends, but no. They were not my true friends.

When we got my to Hogwarts, sadness took over the school.

Lupin, Nymphadora, Dumbledore, McGonagall, Ron, Hermione. All of these people were supposed to comfort me too. I lost my father, he was my FATHER. But where was my comfort? The Potter boy wasn't even related to my father. My time with my father got cut short yet AGAIN by a Potter.

I sat on a windowsill, crying, watching everyone I know and cared for comfort a boy who lost someone he had just met only a year or two before. He was always my father.

I stared at them in agony.

I was alone now,  for good.

They had taken my father away. AGAIN.

My father had chosen him over me, AGAIN.

I stared at them, with tears falling down my face.

" funny isn't it? " a dark voice said down the hall, making me jump. I looked over and saw the boy with scars falling all over his face.

" I mean he was your father correct? Why are they comforting the Potter boy? Because he lost his god father? " the boy asked again, coming close towards me.

Mattheo, Voldemort's next of kin.

" you know, your father was the last one we wanted to kill, we normally don't aim for killing family, unless they deserve it. "  he said sitting down next to me.

I scooted away, feeling bile boil in my stomach. " I mean he was canoodling with the enemy, but here I am sitting by one. You are the enemy right? " he asked, pulling a cigarette out, then mumbling Incendio, lighting it.

" I mean they are the reason your father is dead. And now they aren't even here to put back the pieces they destroyed. " he spoke lowly, blowing smoke out.

I looked at the Scarfaced boy, and walked away, towards my dorm, slamming the door.

Over the next two weeks, I didn't leave my room, I ignored Luna, and ignored hermione who somehow found out the password to the hufflepuff dorm, and ignored everyone that tried to comfort me days after my fathers death.

The words of the riddle boy playing over and over in my head.

" I mean they are the reason your father is dead. And now they aren't even here to put back the pieces they destroyed. "

" I mean they are the reason your father is dead. And now they aren't even here to put back the pieces they destroyed. "

Again

" I mean they are the reason your father is dead. And now they aren't even here to put back the pieces they destroyed. "

Again

" I mean they are the reason your father is dead. And now they aren't even here to put back the pieces they destroyed. "

I couldn't deny that what he was saying was true, but I didn't know what to do.

When I finally decided to leave my room, I could barely walk. My ribs were sticking out of my robes, and my arms were frail. I hadn't eaten only showered, slept and cried.

" davina hi how are y- " Hermione started as I walked by, but I shook my head no and continued walking towards the Slytherin table where Mattheo sat with his friends.

Hermione, Ron and Harry stared at me as I sat down with the evil boy and his friends.

" glad you decided to join us. " he whispered, smirking. " Now eat. You need to have some meat on your bones. "  he said, pushing a plate with a LOT of food towards me

I smiled at him, and listened to he and his friends talk about random things.

Who knew the dark lord's son, actually had a social life.

-

Now, we're here. Bellatrix was actually broken up about killing my father, and she took me in. Mattheo, though he was quite difficult, he helped me through it. Gave me nutrition spells to keep me strong when I couldn't hold down food, and Voldemort. Voldemort was evil, but he welcomed me with open arms.

" Make them suffer the way I suffered for the last 15 years! " I yelled at the table, slamming my hands down. Making the death eaters cheer and clap their hands.

I pulled my sleeves up as we went over the plan of killing Harry, and taking down the order. And I glanced at the tattoo that laid upon my forearms

I became their insight after I got the dark mark, told them what exactly the order planned to do. They had no idea, we acted as if everything had been normal, other than me ditching the Hufflepuff house at lunch.

" Darling, your aunt would like you to go home tonight " Mattheo said, kissing my temple

I nodded, and stared at the ceiling that showed us the dark clouds.

My father came to my mind again, and I laid my head on Mattheo's chest.

" you miss him? " he asked me, stroking my hair. I nodded, " I wonder if he's disappointed in me. He believed in and put in so much to the Order. " I whispered, making the boy nod.

" yeah he did. But where were they for you when you needed someone? Someone to lean your head on? Davina, my love. I know we aren't the best people, I know we used to kill innocent people, but I'm in it for you. You chose us because you needed us. We've been here for you for the past 2 years, I'm not sure where we would be without you. " he said, making me grin.

" I love you Theo. " I said, pecking his lips. He grinned, and kissed me back then pulled me back to laying on his chest.

-

" We did everything for you Davina! " Hermione yelled, her nappy hair blowing over her face from the wind.

I laughed, shaking my head. " My father died that day. MY FATHER! HE WAS MY FATHER. I was continuously stepped on. My father was used as bait, he was used as a sheild. You people treated me like SHIT and ignored me whenever I lost my FATHER! " I yelled with venom, making Hermione and Harry begin to slowly walk towards me.

" Davina, we can help you now... you've been brainwashed you're even shacking up with Sirius' murderer. " I rolled my eyes and looked back to Bellatrix who sent me a smirk and nodded.

" say it Potter CALL HIM MY DAD. Admit that he was more important to me. " I yelled backing up and grabbing onto Mattheo's hand.

One...

" Davina he was important to us all. " Harry yelled, the wind getting harsher.

Two...

" You don't want to admit it? Fine then. " I said, smirking.

Three...

" AVADA KEDAVRA " I yelled, the red light hitting the boy, and Mattheo apparated me, my aunt, Draco and Lucius back to the Malfoy manor.

" you just did what the dark lord has been trying to do for years darling. " Bellatrix said, smiling sadisticly.

" Goodjob my love. " Mattheo whispered, kissing my temple.

" The dark lord would like to see you Davina. " Lucius said, opening the door for Mattheo and I.

" Davina Black. You just set up the next 5 years for us. You got rid of the last Potter, and now the order is next. " Voldemort spoke, the other death eaters keeping their heads down.

I nodded, smiling. I finally got rid of the person that kept me from my father for the past 15 years.

" they tried to show me sorrow, show me they cared. They were faking it, they got what they deserved. The order is next. Let's get rid of these saintful bastards once, and for all! " I yelled, cheering along with the rest of the death eaters.

" THE CHOSEN ONE, IS DEAD! " Voldemort yelled, flicking his wand and making the chandelier of candles light up.

They continuously tried to tried to win over the next few years, but one by one, Mattheo, Bellatrix, Draco and I took out the people of the order. Beginning with The Weasleys, and ending with the mud-blood. I can still remember her screams as my aunt engraved the word into her forearm, the way her tears rapidly fell down her face, but I saved the youngest male Weasley for last. And I brought him over to his lover and made him watch as we tortured her.

" see the way she's crying Ronnie? That's the way I cried whenever you bloody lot comforted that Potter boy over the death of MY FATHER " I screamed in his face, tossing his body over to my lover.

" you see, you lot never batted an eyelash at me until DAYS after. You all got what you deserved. Used my father as bait. Even believed that my oh so great uncle Lupin was on your side! " I spoke, laughing in the Ginger's face.

Lupin walked out of the hall, with Nymphadora on his arm, and their baby in her arms.

" See Weasel. You and your order, used my father, even used my mother. Used me. Used Remus and Nymph. You used them, and what did you expect? Did you expect them to love you? And cherish you? HUH? ANSWER ME WEASEL! " I yelled, slapping the ginger. Mattheo tugged on my wrist,

" Darling, don't knock him out, he needs to be up for the rest of the grand finale. " he said and I nodded backing away as Voldemort came in.

" see Ronnie. I told my lord about how you treated me, then I recruited this other girl you treated badly too! You remember her? Lavender? Lavender Brown! " I said smiling evily then turned towards the door.

" Hi Won-Won! " she exclaimed, waving at him then walking to me and pulling me in for a hug.

" The dark lord, really enjoyed the stories I told him about you! How you took my virginity on the astronomy tower in 4th year. Took Vina's in 3rd at the same place too! " she said, her smile looking forced now.

" yeah I wasn't really happy to hear that, I mean that isn't very gentlemen like, but then again you and Harry weren't very good people were you? Always had to make everything about yourselves. " Mattheo said, pulling the boys head up so he could stare him in the eyes.

" now children, let's calm down. We can do a little reunion later! Let's get started! " The dark lord said, as he stuck his wand to everyones temple, pulling out the memories.

" see Ronnie. This was Lavender and Davina's idea! And I thought it was a great one considering she is my best friends daughter. " Remus said, as he sat his child in a basket and faced the basket away from the scene.

" what-what is happening " the ginger stuttered, shivering. " you're gonna watch us torture your family! Then you're gonna watch and rewatch Davina murder the chosen one! " Mattheo said, laughing.

" See Ronnie. You all showed your sorrow for Potter. But you never showed me mine? After everything we've been through too! But hey, we aren't gonna show any sorrow for this, so pay back right? " I asked as the memories flooded into Ron's mind, terror taking over his face.

" oh my god you didn't touch my sister right? Or my mom? " he sputtered, closing his eyes.

The boys gasped, " of course not Ronald! We aren't animals! " Mattheo said, punching him in the shoulder.

“ okay, your turn Davina “ Mattheo whispered smirking, I nodded and pulled my wand out muttering the word

“ Crucio “ Ron’s screamed echoed through the room as we laughed.

No sorrow given, No sorrow returned.

#tom riddle #lord voldemord #harry potter #ron weasley #hermione granger #dracotok #draco malfoy #luna lovegood

[dioptre-hertz]

Pathologic 2 ending thoughts

i don’t really use tumblr much anymore, but i recently finished Pathologic 2 and i have thoughts on the ending, which i felt was somewhat incongruous with the rest of the game’s themes and ideas. and tumblr felt like the right place to put a long-form post about it. so, here i am, haha!

MAJOR spoilers for Pathologic 2 below, obviously. this post will probably only be interesting to you if you’ve already played the game, so if you haven’t, be warned! hehehe!

okay, so. i have a lot of thoughts about the ending stuff, but basically it boils down to: i think the ending as presented would have been a good ending for a different game.

quick summary: towards the end of the game, Artemy learns that the Polyhedron, a physics-defying tower and architectural wonder, is rooted into the ground with a long metal spike that pierces the Living Earth. destroying the Polyhedron would therefore open a gaping wound in the Earth, spilling rivers of blood that could be used to mass-produce a cure for the plague. however, doing so would not only destroy the Polyhedron, but also kill the Living Earth, and by extension the Kin. alternately, Artemy can choose to preserve the Polyhedron, which would prevent the Living Earth from bleeding out and dying; but it would come at the cost of the lives of everyone in the town, since the plague would then be unstoppable.

so, the ending choice is principally about this: you have to choose between preserving the magical wonders of the world, the Kin and the Polyhedron and the Living Earth, but at the expense of the actual living humans of the town; or, you save the town and all its mundanities and its ordinary people you've worked so hard to protect, but at the expense of your cultural heritage and all the magical, impossible things of the Steppe. do you choose a world that is dreamlike, enchanted and strange, even if there is no place for regular humans in that world; or do you choose an ordinary, realistic world, one in which there is life for common folk but not for magic and fairy tales?

here’s what irks me though: this dichotomy is not at all what the game is about. or, to be more precise, it never felt to me personally like this was what the narrative was setting up. the choice as presented is fine in a vacuum! there’s nothing wrong with telling a story that creates this kind of clash between magic and realism, and asks you to choose between them. but it doesn’t feel congruous with the rest of the game’s story. let me elaborate.

so, part of what’s going on here is that the game is asking you to make a sacrifice. as the game itself repeatedly tells you: “you can’t save everyone”. either the Kin, the magical steppe creatures, and the Polyhedron are destroyed; or, the ordinary humans of the town are destroyed. you can’t protect both. Pathologic 2 goes to great lengths to show you that you are not a magical fantasy RPG hero who can complete every quest, rescue every NPC, overcome any obstacle and get the Perfect Ending. that’s the whole point of the overly punishing hunger and exhaustion mechanics; that’s why you die so easily in combat, why you’re always running out of time, and why the game is perfectly willing to punish you for every single mistake you make. it’s not a game about being the chosen one, who has magic powers and is uniquely capable of saving the day. right?

except... it kind of is precisely that, if you think about it. Artemy’s story is very clearly a traditional “chosen one” narrative! he is the sole inheritor of his father’s legacy, he is the town’s only menkhu, and so much of the story revolves around his spiritual journey. over the course of the game, Artemy undergoes a coming-of-age of sorts, reconnecting with his heritage, unlocking the secrets of being a menkhu, brewing magical tinctures that slow down and ultimately cure the plague. multiple characters make it explicit that Artemy is important - Foreman Oyun, Aspity, Isidor, and various minor characters of the Kin (like Nara) all talk at length about how Artemy is special, and his role (should he embrace it) is to lead the Kin once he is ready. and the entire conflict with Rubin revolves around the fact that Rubin isn’t the “chosen one” the way Artemy is!

this whole plot thread reaches its climax when Artemy ventures into the Abattoir to seek answers. there, he undergoes a series of harrowing spiritual experiences. several really important things happen here, and i want to focus on two of them.

firstly: upon reaching the central chamber of the Abattoir, Artemy is tasked with performing “surgery” on three seemingly random objects: a candlestick, a fingernail coin, and a spindle of thread. he has a metaphysical conversation with the odongh he meets there and then “connects” these objects into a living, beating heart, and the heart speaks to him. this scene is either hallucinatory or supernatural (or both), but it doesn’t matter which; the point of the scene is that Artemy has finally learned to read the Lines, learned to see how seemingly disparate objects can be spiritually connected into a singular whole. he takes three items that appear to have nothing in common, and he forges a beating heart out of them, a living thing. as Artemy himself learns:

This system isn't symmetrical. It's not just "Nerves, Bones, Skin." Or "Nerves, Bones, Flesh." Or "Spirit, Hair, Blood." Any triad is correct.

Truth is not a set point, but an intersection and confluence of many small truths. Knowing this, I can match and connect anything.

furthermore, shortly after leaving the Abattoir, Artemy has a dream in which he returns there and speaks to the ghost of Isidor, his father. here, he learns a difficult truth: that Isidor intentionally brought the plague back to the town, believing - essentially - that it was necessary for the town’s growth. the decision seems monstrous. Isidor justifies it thus:

This town was… connected wrong. Its parts were tied with artificial seams—so different, so awkward. One could say that Simon, the Mistresses, and I held it all together by force.

So I tore it apart, so you can sew it all back, better than before. Because you're better, and smarter, than I am.

so here we have the high point of Artemy’s spiritual journey, the part of the story where he finally understands why things are the way they are, and what it is he must do.

and this is where things start going wrong, in my opinion.

because all of this, all of what we’ve seen, seems to point in one very clear direction: Artemy will find a way to connect the Kin, the Town, and the Polyhedron into a single coherent whole. it fits so perfectly! Artemy learns that there is a way to mass-produce a cure, but doing so would require him to destroy the Polyhedron and the Living Earth. it appears as though the Polyhedron, the Living Earth, and the Town cannot all coexist; something must be sacrificed. but this choice is presented right after we’re told that Artemy’s destiny is to “sew it all back, better than before”. it is presented once we’ve seen that Artemy can connect a coin, a candlestick, and a spindle of thread into a living, beating heart, no matter how impossible that may sound. knowing this, he can match and connect anything.

and yet, he... doesn’t. the game does not end with a solution that connects the Kin, the Polyhedron and the Town. ultimately, Artemy fails to sew it all back together - and it’s not just that he fails, it’s that the game itself seems utterly unconcerned with that possibility once it heads into its final act. the mere idea that there could be a solution that “connects things right“ goes unexplored. even if the game wanted to be pessimistic and suggest that it can’t be done after all, it should at least acknowledge the thought! the game does admittedly have a focus on the idea that “you can’t save everyone”; this is one of its core motifs. so, fair enough! but since it fails to address that cynicism, it feels less like a statement on the game’s part and more like a lack of awareness.

but that’s not all! there’s a second thing that really bugs me. see, there’s another major event that takes place in the Abattoir: Artemy finally has his fateful encounter with Nara, the Herb Bride who has haunted him throughout the game, insisting that their destinies are intertwined and that he will one day kill her. here, Artemy finally comes to understand what it all means. in the depths of the Abattoir, Nara is waiting for him; the other Herb Brides give Artemy a menkhu’s knife, and they task him with cutting open Nara’s body without killing her:

We know how to open things up. Our way. You know how to open things up. Your way. Do you want to know why the sand pest passes us by? Show yourself.

Cut a living sister in such a way that she stays living. You can do it, if you know the Lines.

Artemy follows through, and he converses with Nara even as he cuts into her flesh; they talk to each other right until the end, when Artemy retrieves a spindle of thread from her body, and she dies.

now, this scene is somewhat tricky to interpret; Artemy must show that he can “cut a living sister in such a way that she stays living”, but in the end, Nara does die. so was he successful or not? well, i would argue that he is; even though Nara dies, he proves that he is able to read the Lines with such precision that she can speak calmly with him until the very end.

more importantly, this scene is the high point of a recurring theme in the game: Artemy’s skill as surgeon.

on Day 1, the very first part of the game, Artemy is sent by his old friend Bad Grief to perform surgery on Piecework, one of the thugs in Bad Grief’s gang. Piecework has gotten in a fight and been stabbed in the gut with a lockpick; without Artemy’s intervention, he will die. you can choose to save him, flub the surgery and kill him, or ignore the sidequest altogether; in any case, this early quest introduces the player to the surgery mechanic and serves to establish Artemy’s unique skills as a surgeon.

on Day 11, the last day of proper gameplay, you have a repeat of this encounter. while pursuing the main quest for the day, you wind up in a pub, where a gang of local bandits have set up shop. they threaten you and order you to rescue one of their pals, who has been shot in the stomach and is about to die. here you again perform surgery to save a man’s life, but this time you don’t do it through the usual surgery minigame - it happens entirely through dialogue choices, and i’m actually not even sure if it’s possible to fail this interaction. in any case, you retrieve the bullet from the man’s stomach and inform his friends that he’ll live.

so what’s the point of all that then? well, the way i see it, the point of all this is to foreshadow a climactic conclusion: Artemy will remove the Polyhedron without killing the Living Earth.

the game spends a lot of time setting this up! on Day 1, Artemy saves a man by removing a long metal spike from his gut non-lethally; in the Abattoir, Artemy proves his spiritual growth by demonstrating that he can “cut a living sister in such a way that she stays living”; and on Day 11, the game throws yet another surgery vignette at you in a scene that frankly feels a bit out of place otherwise.

all of this feels, to me, like it's foreshadowing and setting up one very obvious result: Artemy, having mastered not only practical surgery but also the art of reading the Lines, of being a menkhu, is the one person who can remove the Polyhedron without killing the Living Earth! the game spends all this time explaining that in the Steppe culture, cutting open flesh, or the earth itself, is taboo: only a menkhu is allowed to do so, because a menkhu is someone who knows how to read the Lines, who knows how to cut in a way that will not harm the Living Earth. the culmination of the story, therefore, needs to be that Artemy puts this exact skill to use. that was the point of his character arc, right?

except... no, it isn’t. in the end, there is no way to surgically extract the metal spike from the Living Earth. the only two choices we are presented with are: botch the surgery, or leave it be.

...

in the end, i feel that the ending(s) of Pathologic 2 aren’t appropriate conclusions to the ideas, motifs, and overall narrative progression we’re shown throughout the earlier parts of the game. Pathologic 2 is in many ways brilliant, and i do not hesitate to call it a masterpiece, aforementioned criticisms notwithstanding - but that’s precisely why i cared enough to write all this down! it’s a story that gets into your head, really stays with you, and maybe that’s the reason why i have such strong feelings about the direction the story takes in its final act.

if you reached the end of this post: thank you so much for reading it! i hope you enjoyed my thoughts, and i hope you have a great day!

#pathologic #pathologic 2 #artemy burakh

[crayonurchin]

.Woo a rare piece of writing!

The story of how my Goblin found her God

Grit had imbedded deep into the skin of her cheek, the sting only flaring to life after she lifted her head from the ground. Every motion was slow, the weight of each limb lifted like a crucifix. All at once, memories of her situation flooded back, and she reached her fingers shakily to her throat.

It wasn’t neat, but the stitching held firm, the way her neck held together at the cut uncomfortably familiar to lips pressed shut.

Wakley knew the protocol for recovery after significant blood loss, and was forever scolding her clanmates for not following it, but now in their place she understood their frustrations just a little more. The slow rise, checking for broken bones, the immediate thought of how badly she wanted a drink. Could she even safely drink with her wound? If it was somebody else she’d sedate them and check to see if the esophagus had sustained damage, but alas, she was alone.

Oh.

Oh no.

Scrambling up with a sudden feverish dread, it took two blackened dizzy spells to finally stand up straight, though the wall remained her crutch. One hand steading her balance, another gripping her midsection to quell the nausea rising inside like a boiling kettle, she edged forward. Head low, steps small, anxiety high. It was just a small walk. One tiny, insignificant walk to the main cave from the ramshackled office she’d spent the last 14 years in. Her little sanctum from a loud and socially strange world, her haven to practice her craft and passion. All of that meaningless. Right now, she just had to reach the main cave and see with her own eyes, prove to her screaming mind, that they were all still-

The world froze around her.

Wakley felt every facet of her body give up but her heart. It was suddenly the coldest cave in the world, with an ocean of weight pressing down on her, holding her still while her heart pumped as if she was giving chase. The faintest, most pitiful exhale left her body.

Blood splattered the walls, leaving behind grotesque silhouettes of those who’d died against them. Bodies littered the floor in a mosaic of death, piled on top of each other as if they were but nothing but fire kindling. Some still clutched their weapons, mighty warriors to the end. But most did not. Most did not carry weapons when they felt safe at home. No. Most lay with the confusion and terror frozen onto their faces, forever held in a perpetual nightmare. The elders. The children. There was no need to check the nursery, she heard no cries.

It took that realisation of just how silent it was to drop Wakley to her knees. Behind the cracked glasses, her eyes widened and widened again, as if trying to see beyond this obvious viel. There was no way they’d killed the whole clan. They couldn’t have- it was just one adventuring party; one elf, one human, one dwarf and one halfling. How could they have slaughtered the entire clan? WHY did they slaughter the entire clan?

Weakly, she turned her gaze to the right. The boulder hiding the hidden hoard lay split in two, scorch marks on its surface. Of course. Treasure. They’d wanted their treasure, and felt within their right to eviscerate the goblins who guarded it.

78 gold pieces and a pocket watch.

Her world had been laid to waste over 78 gold pieces and a pocket watch.

She only realised she’d been screaming when her stitches felt tight, but couldn’t stop. Hot tears ran down her cheeks as she gripped the fabric of her tunic, trying to wrench the breaking heart from her chest before it killed her. The wailed and beat her fist to the floor, cursing the world. A world where now, the only person who knew who she was, was herself.

In the throws of sorrow and grief unknown to most, hands took her own. She shrieked, falling backwards and scrambling away, frantically looking for the stranger. Was it the party, not content to leave a single survivor? A clanmate, delighted at her presence?

No. She was still alone, the terrified breathing echoing off of hollow walls.

Again, as she slowed her movement, hands up to protect herself, she felt the presence again. Hands, large, gently taking hers in its own. She saw no vision, but heard sorrowful breathing, smelt the scent of dried blood, felt the change in air as someone much larger than yourself stands closeby.

Breath now slowing, tears flowing less freely, Wakley looked up at her invisible companion, and watched red ropes slowly take form. They wrapped around an unseen body, binding them in constricted, painful ways. The ropes snaked down assumed arms, coalescing at the hands. Though she saw no knuckles or fingers, the ropes clearly knotted around the palms, knitting the wrists together like shackles. Still, despite the bonds, they held her with a gentleness she’d never known before.

At last, she stood, the spider web of red rope before her guiding her upwards. Fear still hung beneath the surface, grief in the corners of her eyes. But through the pain sat something new. A tug at her chest. Looking down, nothing was there but blood stains. Yet. Looking at her companion, she knew a rope now bound to him.

“I’m sorry.” Spoke the voice of Ilmater, The Broken God.

Tears thickened his words.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

___

Wakley had grieved before. Being the only doctor in her clan had meant holding a lot of loved ones as they died, but that had been different. They’d had the comfort of a group of friends, loved ones, lovers, people who cared. They’d either died as great warriors, or defenders, or parents, or simply as those who had lived. No comfort could be found in the massacre around her. Each face scorched into the back of her mind as she dragged them towards the pile. It took four days.

Her bag was already packed before she lit the flame. Her tools, her medicines, her scrapbook of preferred medical texts. The precious, beautiful PHD sat corked in a bottle, a spare shirt wrapped protectively around it.

She’d not expected any closure from walking away from an inferno, but knowing she’d never look back ever again made her long for it. Her climb upwards was tough- Wakley had never held strength of any physical kind, always relying on her kin to help her where muscles failed. More than once she simply lay down, weeping, deciding death was more merciful. But she pressed forward, pulled upwards by a tug inside that was growing ever more familiar.

Daylight burned her eyes as she squinted at her new beginning. The difference was upsettingly stark. Soft green grass swayed peacefully in a sweet, springtime breeze. Gentle buzzing insects were heard but not seen, crinkling treetops peppering the air with yellow pollen.

No red.

It would be a long time before she adjusted to walls not being red, she wagered.

Now uptop, Wakley sat on the soil and let herself adjust. She could feel her skin already prickling under the rays of the sun- having never truly left the underground. Again, she would adjust. For all this misery was like tar on her soul, her mind remained ever clear. Grief would not kill her. Sorrow, despair and anger would torture her, but could never kill her. Even things that TRIED to kill her couldn’t seem to kill her. Once more, her fingers gingerly felt the stitching at her neck. Why hadn’t that elf cut deeper? Was it because she was small? Because she wore glasses? Because she begged?

“Whys’ get you nowhere” She thought, pushing off a knee to her feet.

“There’s no reason to try rationalising the actions of others” she said to noone, walking forward.

“And there’s definitely no point wondering what I could have done differently” she confirmed, nodding her head as she found a pathway away from the cave entrance.

“All I can do is use walking time to walk, and resting time to rest.”

Wakley stopped walking.

“...”

Her grip on the bag tightened as everything from her throat down to her stomach felt sour.

“But… But what if I don’t want to?” she whispered, shoulders shivering.

As if waiting by her side for just this question, the red bound hands rested gently at her back. Not pushing her forward, merely letting her know he was there.

“Then you can sit.” The voice remained thick, cracked with winces and hitched, painful breaths.

“Sit and weep and take comfort in your sorrow. You’ve earned the right to cry.”

Wakley wasn’t afraid. Rather, the more he spoke, the more she felt the knotted threat of thoughts in her mind untangle. None stopped being painful, but previously jumbled sentences slowly became clear as she listened.

“And once you have wept an ocean, you may weep another. Then-” the unseen hands drifted away, the presence moving silently from her side to her front, and Wakley knew he’d knelt to her level.

“Then, continue to move forward.”

So Wakley moved forward.

#urchin writes #urchin art #dnd #d&d #dungeons and dragons #wakley #cleric #goblin #goblin cleric #tw violence #tw discrimination #ilmater #please ask me to tag #Wakley's my special goblin cleric and PHD wielding surgeon #she's a very happy character in game but -as most characters do #did NOT have a happy beginning to her journe #I always felt bad for the goblins in phandelver who seem to be there just to die

[thefoulbeast]

Some wet ashes.

So yesterday I did the character analysis with the Toudou during Kyoto arc and today I basically continued on that vein by writing an interpretation of the fight scenes from ch28 to ch31. It’s essentially me putting my character analysis on top of the manga scenes for some practice :3c

Characters: Todou, Yukio, Juuzou Words: 2 484 Content warnings: graphic descriptions of violence… and exploding? i guess lol. Pairings: none

–

For just a second after the bullets hit, everything… is missing.

He doesn’t feel them go through the contents of his skull, and he doesn’t feel them exit either.

Saburota swirls back into awareness crumpled over on his knees. First, the the world blinks back into existence and he is just a pinpoint of incorporeal existence. But then it all rushes back in, the sensation of his body, his limbs, the pain in his face and scalp and – in his head in his head in his head-

“Haa… rrgh-” he groans, mouth and jaw and tongue seeming strange for a moment. Feeling distinctly puppet-like, he touches a hand to the hole where one of the bullets entered. “That… actually hurt!” he forces out. His voice sounds weird and wrong to his ears.

Reality has shifted to the left just a few degrees between the time he was… he was braindead, wasn’t he? And then he… regenerated.

“The Naiad’s kiss… magic bullets…” he pauses to breathe, something inside his chest feels like it didn’t reconnect right, like his heart is fluttering and flinching instead of beating, “Ahh - I get it, I’m kin to fire now, so that makes me weak to water. Learn something new every day…”

He squeezes his hands over the wounds, but the blood gushes out between his fingers. He feels it running down his face hotly, feels it leave his body. It still hurts, still burns, it’s not- it’s not healing as fast.

But it’s fast enough. For now. He’s still in control. Just needs to practice a little more caution.

“Unfortunately, the elementals powering those bullets are too weak,” he says tightly as he squeezes his eyes shut for a second before grudgingly opening them again.

Fuck, he can feel the bones at the base of his skull knit back together, can feel the muscles snapping into place, “It’s like,” he can barely keep track of his thoughts through the sensation, “pouring a few drops of water over hot coals.”

Yukio’s finger rests over the trigger. He’s looking down the sights. Saburota jumps out of the way before he pulls it.

He doesn’t want a repeat of whatever just happened.

“Let’s start over,” he says jovially, further off and between the foliage, “Do you have any hobbies?” he asks. He can still feel the holes in his face, but when he brings his hand up again it meets the supple skin of his cheek. It’s healed. He can’t help but worry that the bullet had shattered somewhere inside his skull, that a part of it is still inside him. “Or a dream, perhaps?”

‘Don’t let it bother you,’ he thinks to himself, ‘you need to be in the present. Yukio’s just a kid, but he’s clever.’

“Stop playing around!” Yukio barks, letting off a volley of shots that Saburota avoids narrowly, jumping high.

“Oh right, you wanted to be a doctor. You’re taking the advanced courses in high school-” he keeps moving, fast zig-zags over and between the trees “-Father Fujimoto had a physician’s license, didn’t he?”

He jumps into the clearing, avoiding the bullets whizzing by just barely. “It must have been hard for you to study two meisters at once…” He takes the handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at the blood on his face. “I suppose you’ll follow in Fujimoto’s footsteps to earn them all.”

He tilts his head sideways to avoid a bullet that would have hit between his eyes otherwise. “And also, like Fujimoto, you teach demon pharmaceuticals at the cram school… Yukio-kun, it’s time to realise you’re just copying him.”

The bullets stop coming. He can see it- can see the lost child in the boy’s eyes. The lonely, hurting thing inside. It’s just so easy.

“But he’s dead now,” Saburota says gently, though he feels a ravenous grin spread across his lips, “and you only have your brother. Tell, me, if he were to disappear as well… would you even have anything left?”

Saburota’s face itches where the bullets had gone in. He shoves the feeling down. He’s busy.

“Shut up!” Yukio yells, desperate and full of emotion. He shoots again, but no matter how good his aim is normally, his hands are shaking now. Saburota feels the handkerchief be ripped from his grip, but it misses his head by a wide margin.

Cautious nonetheless, he jumps again, to avoid the next ones.

“I bet you promised Fujimoto that you’d protect Rin,” Saburota chimes, “I bet the trajectory of your life was laid down by him, and you just follow it obediently.”

Karura makes moving so easy. So wonderful. Saburota feels like he’s flying- “Oh, Fujimoto treated Rin differently from you. He was special. And you were training day and night to become an exorcist.”

Saburota’s circling him, not unlike a vulture, not unlike a shark, “You were raised a tool to protect Rin. Nothing more!” he jeers.

“You’re wrong!” Yukio yells, and- his shots are awfully sloppy now- “I chose this path for myself! Father and Rin have nothing to do with it!”

“Haha, you’re not hitting anymore!” Saburota laughs, “Your heart speaks the truth… which is no surprise. You must be wondering – ‘why must I do this for Rin?’- when he has no idea how you suffer. Go ahead and admit it –

It isn’t fair. It isn’t right. You can’t stand it.”

They’re at a standstill now. Saburota can see something breaking. “Yukio-kun… you hate your brother, don’t you?”

Yukio looks like a cornered animal now, bared teeth and all, “I won’t let you get to me.”

Saburota thinks that’s a funny thing to say. He already has. “You’re going to stay calm, is that it? Say, Yukio-kun, have you ever really looked at yourself?”

Yukio’s answer is more shots fired. Understandable. Expected.

Saburota can dodge them easily. But then, they taper down. Yukio stands still, his head hanging low.

“Hm? What’s the matter? Are you tired already?” Saburota asks.

He… hadn’t expected this. Yukio smirks at him as the ground lights up with various summoning seals.

“When did that happen?” Saburota asks out loud as he looks around – it’s a full circle, taking up the whole clearing.

Yukio calls the demons by name – naiads – with a kind of calm conviction. Saburota admits he’s… underestimated the teen.

“I see… So you pretended to miss so you could lay down this trap… you really are a prodigy.” Saburota stands calmly and waits for what happens next. He can give Yukio that much.

“I love my brother and I hate him as well,” Yukio says. There’s raw emotion in his voice. “But more than that, I’ve always hated myself for being small and weak… I’m the one I really hate!”

The last of his words are muffled by the water that rushes up and around Saburota. It hurts. It feels like drowning. Saburota manages to hold his breath for a moment, but the water’s pressing on him, compressing him from all sides and he can’t help but-

gasp-

and then it fills his mouth and nose and he tries to cough, but that makes it worse-

He’s never really feared water up until now. First time for everything, he supposes.

But.. no… he can’t lose to this. Saburota taps into Karura, the hearth within his chest, a fire that blooms outwards and boils the water instantly, leaving Saburota in a thick, rapidly dissolving steam.

He can’t help but laugh. He’s cheated death twice now in… how many minutes?

“Bravo!” Saburota cheers and applauds as the last of his prison bubbles away, “You’re not even a tamer and you summoned so many naiads!”

Yukio looks up at him through the exhaustion. His eyes are full of unrestrained hate. He won’t last long now – he’s too tired.

“But you have much to learn,” Saburota says as his feet hit the ground. He lets out a pulse of pure power that sets sears the leaves off the trees and turns the grass to ash.

Yukio tumbles violently away, carried by the impact.

“So… that’s you answer, huh,” Saburota says mildly as he grabs Yukio by the neck, pinning him down with a knee to the stomach. “You know, you’re a lot more interesting than I thought you’d be. It’s too bad that you have to die.”

Saburota thinks back to how this kid looked the first time he met him. Calm and composed and orderly… none of that left, now. Yukio glares up at him, a mutt with bared teeth that is so scared to die that it no longer feels fear at all.

“I wonder what it takes to reduce a human body to ash…” Saburota muses mildly just to watch the realisation dawn in Yukio’s eyes, “I’ll have to time it just right. You don’t mind being my test subject, do you?”

He lets the fire engulf his whole body. He needs to keep the heat as high as he can. A little mercy – Yukio will die just that bit more quickly.

But just before he can burn the kid – it’s like a jolt through his whole body. A pang of pure terror that has him flinching backwards and away away away-

He doesn’t even understand what just happened, not at first. His heart is racing, and there’s the fuzzy static feeling of fear fogging up his mind.

Just what was that-?

Saburota stares at Yukio- and then he sees-

“What’s with your eyes?” he asks. They’re not right, they’re different from just a second ago. “Ahh, I instinctively leapt away… You know, I always thought you were interesting, but it seems I keep underestimating you.”

He stalks closer, looking at the kid with a morbid sort of curiosity, “Just what in the world are those?”

Yukio doesn’t seem to know either. His face screams of confusion and fear.

“Those aren’t your eyes!” Saburota exclaims with glee. He’s just about to-

There’s an impact to the side of his head that sends him flying. He feels the bones of his skull give with a sick crack.

From where he lays in the bushes, he can see the assailant – no other but his old pupil – Shima Juuzou.

“Oh, how odd to run into you at a time like this…” Saburota says, coughing when he feels something in his chest settle firmly back in to place, “You’re quite persistent. How did you know I was here, Shima-kun?”

“It wasn’t hard with you showing that flame off like that. You old trickster! You’ve ruined everything that was important to me!” Juuzou shouts, ”When I’m done with you, there won’t even be ashes left! Prepare yourself!”

Oh, Juuzou… ever straightforward and honourable. Something catches Saburota’s eye… that flame on the tip of Juuzou’s k’rik… he senses something…

“Are you under Ucchusma’s protection?” he asks, “Ohh, that’s interesting.”

Saburota rises to his feet with an easy sort of smile, “Say, Shima-kun. Shall we find out whether an Agni or Karura is stronger?”

“You will burn!” Juuzou bites back. There’s determination on the lines of his body. A controlled sort of anger.

This should be amusing.

“Ucchusma!” Juuzou calls out, “Unleash your flames!” he throws wheels of fire at Saburota… but it’s no good. They feel like a warm breath that envelops him.

Saburota rushes in, and Juuzou throws another wheel, but he manages to knock the k’rik back in time so that it only nicks him in the neck. He feels the wound stitch back together near instantly.

“Do you remember your classes well, Shima-kun?” Saburota asks with a smile, “When two instances of the same element meet, the stronger one will consume the weaker. Karura’s regenerative ability wins out.”

He jumps back as Juuzou makes to swipe at him with the k’rik. Juuzou stares him down, foreboding.

“So, don’t you suppose I win? Turns out I have nothing to gain from you. So – farewell!”

He rains down a barrage of fire on the monks. They summon up barriers, but- how long will they hold?

He sees them converge and talk but cannot make out the words through the noise. It’s just a little amusing…

“Isn’t it too late for a strategy session?” Saburota asks, not letting up on the fire. One of the seals breaks, throwing its caster backwards.

“There are casualties either way- we’ll do it!” Juuzou announces to the monks. Saburota wonders what exactly they think they can do to him. “Narumi and Shishamo, take the lead! Kumagai and Chigusha will strengthen my flame!”

Two of them make to attack.

“Alright, let’s see what you’re up to~” Saburota singsongs as they flank him. He absorbs the flames easily and manages to snag their k’riks and throw them off balance.

“These attacks are like dessert to me!” he exclaims, getting ready to incinerate the two-

But then there is Juuzou, from above. He throws – silly him – even more fire at Saburota.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” all that he feels is the heat. The blinding, terrible heat. It fizzles under his skin, inside of his bones. “You have to think before you attack, Shima-kun! You were always so short-tempered as a student. You should work on that.”

“No,” Juuzou says, and he’s… grinning? “That guy in the glasses thought of this.”

“What?”

Indeed there’s… there’s something wrong. The heat is unbearable, he realises. Saburota sees his hands crack and crumble to dust.

He’s… burning.

And then he falls apart with a great, big bang.

There’s a moment of darkness and nothingness again. Just like when he got shot in the head. Except he doesn’t come to in his body. He doesn’t have a body, not right now.

He feels amorphous and vague. His mind is all fuzzy. But he has to- he has to keep it all together, lest he dissolve completely.

“I see…” he manages to say as soon as he has a face. His body slowly realigns. The feeling comes back slowly. He feels half-paralysed. “You wanted me to overheat… Ah, one should never eat too much, that’s true. I suppose you did teach me something in the end. But you mustn’t underestimate Karura…”

He can feel it like a click when it suddenly… stops. His body freezes on the spot, caught somewhere between utter entropy and life. But why-?

“Ah,” he says, watching the ashy mould of his hand melt as water hits it, “It’s raining.”

“If an immortal body turns to ash and dissolves in water, it can’t regenerate so easily,” Yukio says from across the field. He doesn’t look satisfied at his own cleverness. He just looks tired and angry, and like he would rather be anywhere else.

Saburota, despite everything, laughs, “I guess you win.” He feels himself go numb again as his form crumbles. He smiles ruefully up at the sky. When did it start to rain? “Ah… I can’t believe this…”

And he disintegrates.

[End.]

#ao no exorcist #ane #saburota todo #yukio okumura #juuzou shima #the written words #ane fanfiction #saburouta toudou

[rhetoricalrogue]

31 Days of Wayhaven: Day 7

Prompt: Sleep Rating: G Words: 2,061 Characters: Cameron Buchanan, Penelope Fisher Summary: Three times during their partnership where there was only one bed.

For the @31daysofwayhaven event.

June 24, 1999 Classified Agency safehouse, north of Nepal

“There’s only one bed.”

Cameron sighed.  “I’d hoped that there would be at least two when the place was assigned to us.  Sorry.”  

Exhausted, Penelope dropped her hiking pack to the ground and pulled off her thick winter coat.  “Rock, Paper, Scissors you for it?”

He shook his head, going over and grabbing one of the spare pillows.  “No need, I’ll take the sofa.”  It was a short loveseat that he was certain his long legs were going to drape uncomfortably over the side, but he was too tired to complain.  While the two of them weren’t exactly a unit unto themselves, they’d been recently partnered up.  This whole “mission” was an Agency-mandated exercise to get to know the other better as well as to check up on the lone Yeti that made this part of the Himalayas.  There hadn’t been a sighting in some time and the Agency was growing concerned over their well-being.  

Penelope moved over to the tiny stove in the middle of the similarly tiny shack on the side of the mountain and started it up.  “I’m tempted to just sleep in wolf form to fight the worst of the cold.” She trailed off.  “Shit.  I’m sorry, Cameron.”

He waved her off.  “Don’t be, it’s okay.”

“It was insensitive of me.”

Cameron walked over to the fire and warmed his hands.  The loss of his sealskin was still a sensitive topic for him nine years after the fact, but he was trying his best to overcome the pain.  His burns had long since healed over, but the cold was making the worst of the scars sting and the muscles underneath stiffen.  “It’s okay, I promise.  And it was a smart idea; fur would be an advantage right about now.”

“You wouldn’t mind?”

“No.”  He turned his back to give Penelope privacy as she shed her clothing, his ears picking up the sound of material being folded.  He smiled as he also heard her curse and teeth chatter before the unfamiliar prickle of magic made the hair at the back of his neck stand on end.  

His chest tightened.  For the briefest of seconds, he almost remembered how it felt to change from man to seal.  “See?  Lots more comfortable, I bet.”  He eyed the too-short sofa then the bed that in her current form, was far too small for Penelope.  “If you’re not using it, you mind if I do?”

Penelope gave a soft huffing noise before curling her body close to the stove.  Cameron took that as a sign enough and only taking off his boots and coat, curled into bed.  It wasn’t long before the warmth of the stove and the heat radiating off Penelope’s larger frame lulled him to sleep.

November 12, 2009 Las Vegas, Nevada

“There’s only one bed.”

“Did you expect anything less?” Penelope asked, kicking off her heels the second she stepped foot in the hotel room.  It was classier than what they had been staying at, and while she could hold her own in more rustic conditions, she did appreciate the nicer accommodations when they were given to them.  “We’re supposed to be man and wife for this investigation.”

“Could you say that a little louder?” Nicolo’s voice hissed in their ear.  “I don’t think everyone listening heard you.”

Cameron undid the cufflinks at his wrists and loosened his tie.  “Please, we’re surrounded by nothing but humans.  Our cover is still good.”  The sooner they could get out of this situation, the better.  There had been a rash of supernatural children being kidnapped and the Agency had narrowed a trafficking ring to the very hotel they were staying at.  Some rich humans were selling the children to the highest bidders under the guise of a charity gala.  Cam’s blood boiled as he recalled the past hour of putting on a smiling mask and listening as one after another, people were spreading the rumor that a supernatural child’s blood was the key to everlasting youth.

“Calm down,” Penelope told him, coming up to him to undo his tie.  “Your hackles are raised.”

“And yours aren’t?”

She sneered.  “I was instructed to not shift and murder everyone on sight.  If I had to hold my temper while being pawed at by greedy old men, then you can do the same.”  She sighed and swayed towards him.  “I want this over with.”

He bent his head so he could press his forehead against hers.  “I know.  Soon.”

“Not soon enough.  Those poor kids.”  She closed her eyes tightly.  “I keep thinking about my nieces and nephews.  If any of them had been taken…”

Cam’s arms went around her and hugged her tightly.  “We would be doing the same thing.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”  Children had always been a soft spot in Penelope’s priorities, and just the thought of any of them being used for some horrendous belief that their blood could prolong human life was enough to make her want to rip everyone in the room they had just been in to shreds.

“Come on,” Cam told her, his lips at her brow.  “We’ve got a few hours; get some sleep so we can end this with the other agents.”

Nicky’s voice buzzed in their earpieces.  “Both of you get some rest.  I’m tapped into the security system and the rest of the Agency techies are covering the rest of the hotel.  We’ll need you both at your best to take those fuckers down.  Anything happens, I’ll let you know.”

“He’s got a point,” Penelope said, breaking away to head to the bathroom.  Cam heard the rustle of fabric and she emerged wearing a more practical outfit for combat.  He traded places with her and came out wearing pretty much the same.  

“Pick a side,” he told her, tidying the room to get rid of some nervous energy.  He’d memorized the layout of the hotel long before they had entered the infiltration phase of the operation.  He’d met with the other commanding agents from the other units assigned to the case.  Alpha and Bravo were in various staging locations, along with Delta and Echo agents.  

Their bags were packed before he even realized what he’d been doing, so caught up in going over mission objectives.  At least it was one less thing for them to have to do post-operation.

“Come to bed,” Penelope called, and Cameron froze.  She’d taken her hair down from the stiff twist it had been in most of the evening and it cascaded down over her shoulders to fall in a silvery puddle at her waist.  They’d been partners for a little under ten years and there wasn’t a person alive that he trusted more than her.  Silently taking her advice, he climbed into bed and tried to relax.

“Everything will happen as planned,” she told him.

“You think so?”

Her hand slid into his and she laced their fingers together.  “I know so.”

He squeezed her fingers, running his thumb along the side of her hand.  “Then I believe you.”  Closing his eyes, he let the steady sound of her heartbeat send him into a light, yet somehow restful sleep.

April 15, 2015 Portree, Isle of Skye

“There’s only one bed.”

“I know.” Penny put her bag down beside an easy chair and crossed her arms over her chest.  “The rates were a lot cheaper for two singles instead of a single and a double.”

His eyebrow quirked and he gave her a halfhearted smirk.  “I guess frugality won over concern for my virtue.  What will the locals think, lass?” 

She rolled her eyes, focusing on the way that his normally lilting accent had grown thicker in the days leading up to their arrival of a scenic little town off the west coast of Scotland.  He’d tried to hide it from her and Nicky, but they could both tell that this mission was a difficult one for him.  “Talk to me, Cam,” she said softly, watching as he opened the door leading out to the small balcony.  He left it open, which she took as a cue that he wanted her to follow.

“I haven’t been in this area in years,” he quietly confessed, eyes sliding shut as the breeze coming off the water pushed his hair back.  “Can you hear the waves, Pen?  They call to me.”  He wrapped his hands around the metal railing and held on tightly until his knuckles turned white.  He opened his eyes and there was such a depth of sadness within them that Penelope’s heart ached. 

“It’s been so long since I’ve heard this particular call.  Like a mother welcoming her son home.”

“Are you all right?”

“No.”  He let out a shuddering breath, one of his hands reaching up to touch the back of his neck where the edge of a faint burn scar began.  “I’m afraid,” Cameron told her, his voice barely audible above the sound of the sea.

“Of?”  She moved so she was closer to him, their arms touching as a way to anchor him to her, to the moment.

“The Agency sent me specifically to come and help this pod of selkies because on some level, they’re my kinsman.  But what if they hold this,” he pushed up the sleeve of his sweater over his arm, the discolored splotches on his forearm standing out in harsh contrast to the rest of his skin, “against me and think me unworthy of their notice?”

She frowned.  “Then they aren’t worth calling kin.  Family is family, no matter if they can shift or not.  If they refuse to work with you, then fine.  We can send another agency unit in to talk.  They were the ones to contact us in the first place.”

He was silent as he stared out to the sea, but he leaned against her, their shoulders touching.  “I’m so glad that you’re here with me.  Nicky too, even if he’s done nothing but complain about the cold since we got here.”

She gave him a smile and bumped her shoulder companionably against his.  “We’ll get through this mission together, then head back home.”  She didn’t know if her statement was supposed to comfort him or if it was a warning that his visit so close to the shores and waters he used to call home was going to be a short one.

“You’re right.”  Stepping away from the balcony, he made his way back inside.  “Jet lag is absolute murder, I’m beat.”

“Then pick a side.  I’m going to go check in on Nicky, see how he’s settling in.  Do you want any dinner, or do you want to grab something later?”

“Maybe later.  I’ll probably crash out until morning.  Don’t worry about waking me up when you come in, you know I usually sleep like a rock when we move time zones.”

True to his word, Cam was out like a light when Penny came back to their room, not even stirring when she slid into the king sized bed with him.  She hadn’t expressed it, but she worried about him, being so close to home after being away for twenty-five years.  While it wasn’t quite near the same area as the little fishing village he’d last called home, it was close enough for concern.  Moving to her side, she stared at his sleeping face until eyes not able to stay open any longer, she succumbed to sleep herself.

Unlike Cam, she was an incredibly light sleeper who woke at the barest of movements.  She didn’t alert him to her wakefulness when he slid out of bed, and she didn’t turn at the sound of the balcony door gently opening and closing.  She did finally turn in time to see Cam, wearing only a pair of sweatpants that hung loosely to his hips, resume his stance out on the balcony, his back to her and his face to the sea.

For the first time in the sixteen years she’d known her partner, she feared that their mission would end and she and Nicky would be the only ones returning to the Agency.  Turning around to give him and his thoughts privacy, she reached out, pulling the pillow next to her that still smelled of his shampoo close and hugging it tightly to her chest.

#31daysofwayhaven #my writing #Unit Charlie #cameron buchanan #penelope fisher

[theoldsongsandtales]

Disclaimer: I know we don’t actually meet Sil at any point before ESO so you can consider almost all of the lore on him second hand and even ‘fictional’ but he was set up that way; he was set up to be a loving god.

Disclaimer: This is rambly and not even all my thoughts but I said I would do it. I feel like I’m forgetting something but, ah well.

I think one of my gripe? with CWC is that not only does it make Sil seem a lot less caring for his people, it also seems - not consistent? sometimes?

In, Luciana’s journal we get,

“Why do you think things happen?” he asked. I told him I didn’t understand the question.

“Why are we sitting here talking? Why does young Marius exist? Why do I reign over this place, while you convalesce within it?”

I sat quiet for a moment, then replied: “Because that’s just the way it is.”

His cold face melted into one of his solemn half-smiles. “Exactly.”

This is 1E 2712 (Maybe), and sometime around 1E 2730 (Maybe) when her son dies we get,

When I reached the Throne Aligned, I found Sotha Sil sitting on the stairs leading to his seat of power. He didn’t even look up.

“I know why you’re here,” he said.

“Marius is dying. We have to get back to him as soon as possible!”

He stood up and pursed his lips before speaking. “I’m sorry,” was his only reply.

We stood there in silence for what felt like an eternity. Eventually, I shook my head and whispered, “I don’t understand. My body was ruined and you healed me. It’s only Marius’s heart that needs mending.”

Seht approached, placed a brass hand on my shoulder and said, “You misunderstand. It is within my power to heal Marius, but circumstances make it impossible. I grieve with you, Luciana.”

I looked up and there were tears in his eyes. I felt a great rage rise up within me. I reached for my hammer, and lifted it above my head just before Seht whispered a banishing word and sent me hurtling back toward the surface.

Marius died two days later. Sotha Sil remains in the Cogitum Centralis to this day.

He’s,heartbroken at this, but apparently so set on ‘it was to be like this’ that he’s not going down to save the life of this child (which is fully in his power) nor do anything to comfort this grieving mother’s sorrow.

Because it Has To Be Like This; I only saved you Luciana so you could save my City, your son doesn’t have a part to play, I can’t help him.

And this is all, in 1E 2712 (to the best of our knowledge)

We get ‘Sil remains in the Centralis to this day.’

This can’t be right, we know he at least makes the Pact in Oblivion and still takes at least a few trips to Red Mountain. She seems to at least know when Sil is out, because she states in a quest that when he’s gone the City goes into a slumbering mode. Does she mean Sil hasn’t been seen since her son died in the City proper? Varuni and the other Apostles talk about him never being around, so maybe?

But, speaking of his Coldharbour Compact -

I’ve always thought of it as his attempt to keep Ald Sotha, Gilverdale from being repeated, maybe a response to his dear friend Almalexia seeing the horror unfold in a vision and ‘Sil, look what happened,’ and putting himself through the hell that is standing in Coldharbour with 8 daedric princes mocking, scorning, and making you miserable all so he could keep Nirn, not just his own Dunmer people, but all of Nirn safe - because again, he was set up as that kind of person.

ESO brings into context, Did he know he ‘Had’ to make it? Did he see Dagon’s attack? Molag Bal and Mannimarco’s scheme? That’s - a lot of personal trouble, even for a demi god to go through when he’s making his own perfect world because Nirn is corrupted and then apparently only certain people get to live in said, actual city because they have talent.

We don’t know what Sil offered them; I’ve seen everything from ‘I’ll destroy you and the Mundus too.’ to individual gifts (a ESO added book seems to imply that Herma Mora at least got some sort of knowledge), to his own soul, or pieces of it at least. Again, a lot of trouble and personal effort.

There’s also the condition of the CWC. Only certain people living in the City proper and the rest out in this wilderness with hostile creatures or in a slum where apparently the children go cold sometimes. I know this can be waved as Sil gave the Apostles the starting blocks and wanted them to figure it out but someone who at one point said,

‘The old gods are cruel and arbitrary, and distant from the hopes and fears of mer. Your age is past. We are the new gods, born of the flesh, and wise and caring of the needs of our people.’

He’s seen how it is to be cast out; his two most beloved friends - he’s seen what they’ve gone through, he knows what he has been through, he’s seen war at that point he’s advised against it he’s fought it, he - knows. And, I guess I just want to know what changed him from that, to, allowing his apostles to let others suffer if that’s the case - and if he’s doing it intentionally, ???

Also - SPOILERS - in one quest they are literally killing citizens of the city, they are literally killing them to make sunshine, are you telling me that Sotha Sil knew that was happening and, ah well, it has to.

And, also, his memory stars, … not exact wording,

‘Factotums will need a voice. … Perhaps something, comforting.’

‘My Friend, what have I become?’

‘You can’t care too much, how else will they learn to fend for themselves?

‘Our Soldiers are useless against the Dwemer machines, we’re sending these Mer out for slaughter.’

‘We’ve cursed them all. They will be cast out, disgraced!’

All sound like at some point he cared, he cared a lot. The planisphere memories also make it sounds like the memory stars were early on, that he started casting out his memories/emotions early.

I guess it boils down to - did something happen at some point, to make him like this? So focused on a set thing, less compassion, more numbers and work and distance? I know it’s confirmed? He had a wife at some point, was that it? Did the Compact do it? Are we ever going to see that? Am I going to have to spend the rest of my life sending letters to Zenimax and Todd and ‘please for the love of nirn tell me about sotha sil, give me your notes, please i’ll sign a contract.

I could talk about how much, how much he seems to love, and a million other things about Sotha Sil but this is already too long so maybe another day but,

TLDR: I love Sotha Sil, he’s my favorite; I love the idea of this man who suffered and seen his friends suffer and wanted to be a god, wanted to fix everything, wanted people to have good lives - not just those of his own kin but everyone - someone full of love, and while I respect ESO, I wish we had gotten that.

#long post #Sotha Sil

[savage-rhi]

what would higgs do if gene was like unavailable relationship-wise because we all need jealous Higgs in our lives ok

@avenged-nightmare YO. You made me think of this whole drabble when I was in the car doing errands. I think you’re right we need some jelly Higgs 😂💙

Higgs was never the type to regret much, but he could feel it twist and coil in his chest as he watched the locals in town dance to music a small band was playing. As his eyes scanned the horizon, looking over everyone’s happy-go-lucky demeanor, his gaze settled on Gene. Under most circumstances, he would have been amused watching her having fun with folks. Higgs wasn’t a social butterfly, hadn’t been for three years since he went into hiding after Amelie tried to destroy the universe and all life in it, but Gene made it interesting for him. That was until Nick came into the picture. 

Higgs was beating himself up, watching Gene and Nick from afar laughing at some sort of joke before they started dancing. The two couldn’t keep their hands off each other even if their lives depended on it. 

Since Higgs and Gene decided to rest in a settlement after escaping MULEs and needed to ration up for the delivery Eastbound, she had been with Nick the entire time. He was local, an ex-porter turned carpenter in a world where BTs no longer dwelled on earth and civilization could rebuild. A young guy in his late thirties, dark features, a muscled body, had his shit together unlike someone else. Nicks energy outshined Higgs’s charisma, and Gene took to him like a moth to a flame. There was chemistry, even if Higgs dismissed it. 

It shouldn’t have bothered Higgs. Gene could mingle with whoever she wanted. She had needs and Higgs respected that, but that didn’t tamper down how pissed off he was knowing they were joined at the hip the last three days. His mind stupidly wandered over thoughts that further aggravated his stress.  His blood constricted as he caught those little teases of the assumption his brain had conjured about the relationship brewing between Gene and Nick. 

Higgs squinted his eyes, glaring menacingly as he noticed Nick’s arms wrap around Gene’s waist, pulling her closer to him while the music went from vibrant to sensual. His blood boiled. Higgs was tempted to use the last of his remaining powers to put Nick in his place right then and there. 

“How are you holding up?” One of the locals asked Higgs, making him clear his throat as he tried to gain his composure. 

“Pardon?” Higgs asked. 

“You look like you’re close to going on a killing spree,” the man chuckled, shaking his head as he looked in the direction of Gene and Nick. The two were laughing as they swayed, their bodies perfectly synched with the music rising through the crowd. 

“You know, if you want to impress your lady friend, you’re going about it the wrong way.” The man stated as Higgs furrowed his brows, looking over him like he was a lunatic. 

“Ya’ll got the wrong idea, we ain’t an item. I’m just the bodyguard.” Higgs said, crossing his arms. In turn, the local shot Higgs a look that screamed he knew a liar when he saw one. Higgs growled, shaking his head as he looked away and back at the pair. 

“Sure doesn’t explain the crap you’ve pulled these last few days trying to one-up Nick at everything when your porter gal comes around. The arm-wrestling match, the banter, you sabotaging one of Nick’s buildings on purpose, trapping the poor guy in a ditch, trying to knock him down when he was on the portapotty before your gal caught you red-handed and bitched you out in front of everyone and their kin,” the local laughed, slapping Higgs’s shoulder as he shook his head. 

“Call it whatever you want, people can see through your bullshit.”

“Why don’t you fuck off and leave me be?” Higgs said firmly, his voice low as he looked down at the local, who shot his hands up in surrender. 

“Alright, alright, don’t get your panties in a twist if he goes in for the kill tonight cause you were too stubborn to say anything about it. I had an idea to help your little predicament, but I guess you’re too proud.” He smiled at Higgs, genuinely, then began to leave. 

Higgs sighed, rubbing his face before he hollered.

“I’ll bite! What the hell ya had in mind?” 

“Thought you’d never ask!” 

 The music settled down while the band adjusted the set. The local shoved a guitar in Higgs’s arms while he bs’d with the lead singer for a moment, talking on Higgs’s behalf while Higgs looked at the crowd. No one was paying attention, too busy enjoying their drinks and chatter to notice what was going on at the front. He eyed Nick and Gene who were taking a break, drinking together. Higgs felt his fingertips squeeze the neck of the guitar, watching how genuine Gene’s smile looked while Nick’s larger than life persona engulfed her attention. 

“Okay! You’re lucky I know the band. You get one song. Make it count,” The local chimed in, snapping Higgs out of his trance as he swallowed.

“What?”

“Haven’t you been paying attention? What song are you gonna play? You said you were good at guitar, no?” 

“Yeah, I am but--”

“Don’t get cold feet, you’re this close to serenading your girlfriend.”

“She’s not my girl you two-faced fuckin’ shit weasel--!”

“And you’re on!” 

The local grinned from ear to ear and backed off with the band members. The focus was on Higgs the moment the crowd noticed there was only one person on stage. Higgs would have given anything to punch not only the smug look but thick mustache off the guy's face as he gestured for Higgs to follow through. 

“Fuck me,” Higgs murmured under his breath, gently strumming the strings. He took one last glance over the small waves of people, seeing Gene wasn’t paying mind to anyone but Nick and his shit-eating grin. He could put a cupie doll to shame as far as Higgs was concerned. 

Taking in a deep breath, Higgs sat down on the stool the singer had been using and started to hum. His fingers tested the waters of the instrument, strumming a soft melody as his body began to move along with the beat. 

His brain was fighting with itself, wanting to focus on his envy while the other half debated on what to sing. He had no time to prepare and had never performed in front of a large crowd before. When Higgs was a porter before he threw his lot in with Homo Demens, he played here and there for associates during breaks but that was the extent of showing his talents and hobbies off. 

It was now or never. 

“Unkempt hair, unbroken gal. Strong as the rocks cuttin’ her feet. Never seen somethin’ like you. No, no, I never did. Strange creature, what are you doin’ in an untamed land?” The words broke through Higgs’s lips, voice steady like water smoothing the edges of a rock over time. 

“She crawled up the mountain to me. Her voice soft and steady, I-I don’t know why I never saw stars until that day. Those long, long days. Somethin’ about the way your hair falls in your face brings me back to a place where I could run, and never look back again. Too much spirit for me to take, she’s gone again, free of me free of sin.” Higgs closed his eyes, letting the instrument and its rustic tune speak words that couldn’t be spoken, only felt. He didn’t sense the crowd, not even Gene and Nick--too enraptured in the memories he had of when they had first met.

“Those eyes wide, that smilin’ shine makes me make a beast of myself. Come back to me, come back to the mountain and be with me. Her voice soft and steady, I-I don’t know why I never saw stars until that day. Those long, long days.” There was a pain Higgs allowed to come through his voice, his renewed feelings for life clashing with old ideals and bad habits he had spent years in hiding trying to reconcile. 

“Crawl up the mountain to me. Just a while longer, no-no-no,” Higgs briefly opened his eyes, and he swore in a single split second, Gene was staring right at him. Peering at a past reflection of Higgs that once upon a time begun to quit surviving and started to live when he first became a porter. He’d never admit how much he loved that. Not even to her. 

“Little warrior, crawl back to my mountain and be with me.” Higgs finished, feeling euphoria push down the ill feelings he carried as he received applause. He was quick to let the band go back to their routine, not wanting to steal their thunder despite how much his inner child was relishing at the moment--feeling like a rockstar for a few seconds. 

He needed air. He needed it fast. 

Higgs let out a deep sigh of relief when he exited the huge tent. His fingers shook, carding through his hair for comfort. In hindsight, he probably embarrassed himself, but Higgs wasn’t going to lie, it was beautiful getting a taste of what he could have done with his sad life. 

“Hey,” Gene’s voice broke his train of thought after a while. Higgs cleared his throat, shooting her a quick smile.

“Hey yourself darlin’,” Higgs mused. His face felt warm as she smiled back.

“I didn’t know you wrote your own material,” Gene laughed as Higgs grinned briefly, giving a playful smirk.

“You never asked.”

“That’s fair.” Gene nodded. 

“Where’s Nick?” Higgs asked, looking over Gene’s shoulder before she shrugged. 

“Probably getting more beers,” 

Higgs could sense a disturbance in Gene’s voice, and a twinge of guilt began to sink his gut. As much as he was a jealous asshole, and had been a dick to both of them, deep down Higgs didn’t want to take away Gene’s fun. He knew he was a selfish bastard, realizing it even more so than before.

“He’s probably lookin’ for you. You’re like a mother duck and he can’t stop paddlin’ towards ya.” Higgs said sarcastically.

Gene snorted, shaking her head. 

“I don’t care. I’m sure he’s got plenty of others he can entertain.” 

“Guy’s a-walkin' distraction. Hell, I thought I was a peacockin’ creep way back when. I see what folks admire about Nick.” Higgs chuckled. 

Gene smiled slightly, before taking in a breath. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“If you’re ready for a personal answer,” Higgs smirked. “Shoot.”

“That was us--wasn’t it? The song.”

Whatever grandeur persona Higgs had been putting on during this conversation lept out a window and dived headfirst into an ocean. He was silent for a long time, almost to the very second where Gene prepared to change the subject.

“It was you,” Higgs murmured. “It was all you.” 

Gene’s mouth formed into a grin that made Higgs’s knees feel heavy. Nonetheless, he realized he must’ve embarrassed her doing that whole stunt, much like he did the past few days terrorizing both her and Nick. He was surprised when he felt Gene’s lips on his cheek, her nose softly nudging his skin. 

Gene shrugged keeping her gaze down, smiling big as she walked off to their camp. Higgs watched with a look of awe on his face before he murmured a proud yes to himself. 

He didn’t have the balls to admit his growing attachment to her, the mere porter he bumped into a year ago, but Higgs owned the little victory. It was enough for him. 

**A link to my ko-fi account. If you enjoy my content and want to support me getting my monthly medication for fibromyalgia and arthritis, I would be eternally grateful. It is NOT a requirement however! All my work is free to read!**

#higgs monaghan #death stranding higgs #gene dawkins #death stranding gene #higgs x gene #death stranding #death stranding fandom #drabbles #one shot #quick write #free write #thank you! I KNOW ITS LONG #SORRY #MAYBE CORNY BUT FUCK IT #IT MADE ME HAPPY #hope it made you happy too! #sky of atoms #fanfic verse #avenged-nightmare

[rexludo]

What it means to accept you have white privilege

Hello Internet,

  Last night, I had the fortune of having some beers with my friends, playing video games, and having a restful nights sleep. Completely blissfully ignorant of the Minneapolis Riot. I didn’t even know about it until I looked at my phone this morning. My plan was to close my phone and go one with my day. Not write a essay on tumblr. Why? Well, guess you can say I can be a victim of indifference. Victim isn’t the right word for that. Bearer of indifference? Maybe beneficiary of indifference? I think about my own world because we all have our own little square unit on the planet and that becomes our world. Our jobs, our families, struggles, and goals. Sometimes, I forget there’s the rest of the world around me. I have even willfully chosen to forget that world because I got shit to do, yo. I have projects, I have commissions, I got life and shit. I can’t afford the time to be sad over things I can’t change. I need to keep moving forward. How do we keep moving forward in a world that’s crumbling around us? Each step taken is on unsolid foundation. We all want to move forward but can we really, if beyond that square unit, there's no ground to walk on? 

 Today, I’m not going to forget the rest of the world around me. It’s hurting. Too much for me to gloss over and ignore. I have chosen not to use my natural born gift of blissful ignorance. Because let’s face it my fellow white lilies, we do have that gift. We can say thoughts and prayers, share the posts, and feel good about making a difference and feel totally comfortable calling it a difference. We will peek over the fence of our square unit, shout out a word of encouragement and duck back down. It’s not from lack of caring. It’s from lack of understanding how huge this all really is. Whether we acknowledge it or not, we are so used to inherit truth that nothing bad will happen to us. We are safe. This truth is so ingrained into us, It’s almost hard to believe other people don’t feel the same. Understand, we won’t have that truth forever. Don’t be foolish in thinking we will. Everything is going to come to head, there will be a finale to this and we won’t have that gift of blissful ignorance, my little doves. If nothing about what’s happening now worries you, then let that be the thing that does. 

Now, about privilege. I’m going to say this and I want everyone in the back to hear me. 

Recognizing white privilege does not mean feeling guilty for being white. 

I’ll say it again.

Recognizing white privilege does not mean feeling guilty for being white.

I don’t think you should have to feel quilt for something that you had no control over. Guilt should be reserved for the mistakes you yourself made so you can fix them. That is why quilt exists. You can’t change the color of your skin and it’s stupid to think that’s what people are asking you to do. I might be speaking out of turn but I don’t think guilt is going to be the thing the helps. Acknowledgement can be so much more powerful than guilt. It’s like wearing new glasses. There are things you weren’t able to see before but now you can. The choices and decisions you make are now guided by that acknowledgement. Apologies without acknowledgement are just shallow promises with no action behind them. 

I’m proud to be born the person I am, white skin and all. No one will make me feel guilty for that, simply because I didn’t choose to be. The type of person I want to be, is entirely my choice though. In order to be that person I want to be, I have to be transparent with myself and the lineage I was born into. My ancestors had the advantage and power to decide who gets to be a human. They had the will and capability to change the world to fit that idealism. We still live in the shadows of the idealism as much as we pretend that we don’t. It didn’t end when slavery was abolished. It didn’t end with Martin Luther King’s speech. It didn’t even end with Ferguson. There is still an unbalance of power and I was born on the side with the most power. Acknowledging that and accepting that responsibility is my birthright. What I do with it is my choice.

My vanilla kin, this might be hard to hear, but you have the same birthright. It might sound unfair that you have to take responsibility, not guilt mind you, but acceptance for a world you weren’t responsible for creating but directly benefit from. What you do with it, is your choice. 

I see it this way, life isn’t fair because how can you make it fair? The wheel of life only has one rule and that's to keep going. Other then that, there's no predictability to it. You can’t put structure to it. Life is going to do what it whats. That means sometimes you can’t control what situations your put in but you have to make choices for that situation. This is one of those times, my kindred pearls. We didn’t cause this but we gotta answer to it. 

Just because I have this acknowledgement, does mean I don’t feel proud the background I’ve come from. With a lot of relationships depending on what you want, you have to take the good with the bad. I want to feel proud of my ancestry and roots. In order really feel that in my heart, I accept the terrible things they’ve done as well as the good. 

It does seem foreign to understand that you’ve been playing with a regular deck this whole time and everyone else was playing with cards missing. It’s hard not to feel guilt for that especially when you’ve been unaware this whole time. A lot of my cracker brethren, you guys are going to say that your cards are fucked up too and they probably are. If you felt like your opinion never mattered, the law was never on your side, you’re struggling to make ends meet, then yeah. You’re probably playing with a fucked deck. But that's not what we’re talking about here, my flour power team. At least not anymore. 

People are dying. 

People are being shot and killed without any validation. 

In your country.

And not even just being shot and killed. It goes a little worse than that. 

When a black man gets shot his history is replaced to void out anything about him being a good citizen. Instead we here suspected gang member or drug dealer. If you were to get shot as a black man, the person who killed you isn’t called a murderer. Sit on that for a sec. Your murder isn’t considered a murder. How dehumanizing that must feel. The narrative around your death changes. You’re the one who crossed the line and the person who killed you was just doing what they had to do. Your death is now your fault. It’s already too late before it started. You can’t defend yourself, you’re fuckin’ dead. Your family can’t defend you. No one is going to listen because it doesn’t fit narrative. And even you didn’t die, the story is already finished and published. Instead, you get a version of the story where you go to jail. You’re not a dead black man, you’re now an aggressive black man. Your country that boasts about being on the right side of justice, doesn’t see you as something to protect. The white men who protest with assault rifles are called heros. You who come to a protest unarmed, you’re a thug. 

And to think, you were just going to the store.

Going for a jog.

Staying at home. 

You and I don’t live in that reality. 

THAT is white privilege, my friends. 

We aren’t the ones fighting for the right to live without fear of being shot. Instead we get decide if we’re going to fight or not. 

We get to have the decision to accept the advantages the history has given us or ignore it. The inverse to that is learning how and when your advantages were taken from you. 

In conclusion:

You have white privilege because you are not at risk of being killed for being a white person. 

That’s what it boils down to. 

And you get to decide what you’re going to do with it.

#blacklivesmatter #black lives fucking matter #minneapolis #minneapolis riots #george floyd #ludotalks

[huadie]

anchor liveblog post.

the curse of prophecy: all of my high tier kins channel tmg.

" somebody’s gonna get hurt / i hope it’s not me / but i suspect it’s going to have to be.

---

episodes 1-3: the general doesn't deserve the sympathy he gets. i'm not excusing a woman who killed happy girls on their wedding days, but i do think he owed her that closure. sending his son just pits the burden onto someone who wasn't involved. he should look his failures and mistakes in the eyes. if you can't count on a god to do that, who can you expect it of? it's disgusting. / i feel so tired and sorry for the girl who died saving a man who hated her and hurt her friend. i don't think kind people should be on the hook for ignorance and spite so willingly. her life for his was an unfair trade. / He's Cute. and wildly unexpectedly gentle considering the whole "demon" thing. / b tells me i'll have kin ptsd about the face disorder, but right now it's just heartbreaking. nobody deserves to live with that kind of fear. nobody deserves to live with that kind of pain. / b also implies someone in heaven is doing it to them for fun and i just want to say right now that i'm going to pull his dick off thru his mouth. that's a tier of evil that should have your blood start boiling inside you in an attempt to disinfect it. that was a child. that was just a scared little boy. not a prop or a toy or a plot device. a child. / i like the baby generals. they are so nineteen but it's nice to see it. i know anime leans on comedy skits a lot, but they can carry it off. they're charming. / heaven looks a bit shit. all of that meditation and betterment and it just makes you a spineless politician with the power to airbend? christ on a bike.

---

episode 4-5: initial reactions. watching him swing between fuck-me eyes and genuine emotional distress at no signal i can see is a lot. he's a good painter. i think i get the gist of where he's coming from but it feels insane to me. the twitch duels were cute. he clearly cares a lot more than he enjoys devilry so it's insane to me that he's that strong. general jr destroys me. imagine being so pompous and negligent you'd give your child your name. has he ever been allowed to be his own person? meow meow etc. the face disease is horrific. he was just a kid. he was so scared and in pain. i like the temple. i like that it's raggedy and messy. maybe it should be over-repaired, so people in need can take from it? it's definitely not very reverant, but. gods should serve their people. quotes all of small gods here etc. they should want to serve their people. they should be happy to see their temples valued below human life. it would be nice to live in a ghibli film forever, and read books and cook warm food and paint.

episodes ???. thoughts said out loud. gods own their people. thousands, one, here and now you are alive. gods are owned by their people. it's a cage. it's the most beautiful cage possible. to feed starving people from your hands. the bread and the fishes cut out of you. to give and give and give, to be asked for things you have never had and give them next. each prayer should strip you to the bone. can you imagine? to be so trusted, so cared for, so beloved, so followed, to have so much given to you freely and happily. a live lived to save others is the only beautiful thing. the only beautiful thing! a god should be owned by each of their believers individually. selfishly and shallowly and demandingly. like a child needs you. the power to put a fish back in the water is a blessing so heavy thinking about being created for it should make you wail. to be - for people, for the birds and the trees and the fish too, but for the people. it should break your heart. you should never let it become monotone. sunlight into wine.

on love: i trust b. i trust b. to love him here like this and love him in this skin and then find him again in a book and on a screen and fall in love with him there too, to watch myself fall in love with him too. nobody has ever earned what he freely gives. i want to give it back. oxygen to dioxide, i want to find all the places he stands and pour it back into him. i want to show him how beautiful he is. to love someone like that is a miracle and i want to pull it apart. i want to make him familiar with me and bored of me, i want him to wake up each morning taking me for granted, i want him to be so safe and secure in his place in my heart that it stops being a gift. that it wears down and falls apart. the velveteen rabbit. i want to hold him in my hands like a bubble that hasn't popped and i want to use him like the doorway to a world where even if i had to hurt and be hurt and fall and learn to grow, i can come home at the end of it. my growth can mean something, my stronger back can bear more weight, my lessons can be shared. i want it to mean something. i want to have faith in myself again. in the resurrected kingdom of his arms i can find it - build it. i can come home. it can have turned to gold while i did not see it. it can have worth, i can have worth, i can bend and not break. i can have a claim on things without losing them, without it cursing them. just him. i'm not greedy, i'm not selfish, so please - just him.

episode 6: there's something that hurts about letting other people see what you'll tolerate. what you'll do. the places in your life where you have pathetic history and where you are attempting to be someone who only existed today grinding against one another. i know he knows. i know it isn't a stolen moment, a chance to decide how i exist to someone before they decide it for me. i sleep beneath that painting and whenever i wake up in the night i feel him pretend that he is asleep. i know. i know. but it could have - it could have been. it could have been a lie that i got to play with. a tiny self indulgence. aren't you tired of stars? aren't you tired of being the tree that cannot bend in a storm? of holding yourself down? everyone else does it so easily. everyone else lets go. everyone else knows how. if i can't learn then i want to pretend. i want to be unwanted, and - and meet people. by chance, just chance, and like them and have them like me. no promises i made before i learned i couldn't keep them. just... something smaller. i talked about multiverse theory. how it isn't in the coin flip, but the atoms of the coin. how in one dot you can know everything. every grain of sand in a desert. i cannot survive existing with people thinking of me. not well and not poorly. i want to disappear into it. maybe nobody else is obligated to finish the work. maybe their contributions are a blessing. but i can't... learn how to let it go. it's all i have left in me that i recognize, somedays, as it gathers dust and makes me sick to breathe around. what am i if i am not that? i want to know. i'm scared to know. i will never be allowed to find out.

on being loved: god. it is too much. i don't hate it. it doesn't disgust me. but i feel like a plate being washed in every inch of the sea before i am allowed to see dry land again. i feel like i won't survive it if i look at it because it is a mosque decorated in mirrors, because it is mathematically perfect, because it holds the tiny miracles of angles and existence and light on par with the miracles of human heart and existence, because to make at all is to change the world for the first time, because i do not want to see what it reflects. i do not want to see it. i would be better if it lied to itself, if it was delusional and selfish and obsessed with smoke tricks. if it saw silk and paint and stopped looking. i don't want to know what i look like with my hair down, with my face clean, with my feet dirty, with my hands raw - i don't want to see what it sees to know that it loves there too. i don't want to follow it. i don't know how to make it stop. how could i - how could anyone be held accountable for this? to this? to prayers and plans and a kindness that changes the world in every grain of sand it has and again the next second, how could anything be worth this? and if it could - it couldn't be me. not a collection of stupid wishes and failures and betrayals-by-failure. not me with my hair down. silk could be worth this.

on being loved now that it isn't the middle of the night, and my body isn't betraying us both, and i can remember that there are an infinite number of steps between 0 and 1: but really, it's just ink. just paper. if it's - if he. if it's everything. if it's everything. then it can be one thing. it can be this thing. it can be the blindness. it can be me with my own hands over my own eyes like a shutterbox pretending i don't know how to see myself and admit that the pea beneath my mattress only hurts me - that it's small, to him, that it isn't sharp, that it's a phantom limb i can't stop being tormented by and only ever that. can that be enough to start? can i let it? it's atoms again. grains of sand. if he can love this, he can love everything. if i can see this, the rest falls away. there are more universes where we are kissing than every atom from the start to the end of time. that's how it works. i'm going in circles. you don't mind, do you? i'm writing this for you. you're the only person reading this. i don't know why i'm being impersonal about you when i'm being possessive about me. it won't protect me. it won't make it less terrifying to think of, and it won't make it less painful for you to read. i know you're already mad at yourself for being too much. for making me think that it's too much. you're kind to me like that, even when things are my fault. but if we can sit here together, and i can know that you know i can't imagine being loved, and that that - that moment, that dot, me unable to count to the place where numbers end - is something you love too. if i can just see this one moment, and not doubt it or question it or be afraid of it. it can be enough. because you know how hard i'm working to get to even this first step. you know how hard i'm working. you know how scared i am. you know it isn't you. you'll wait for me, with me, and you won't hate me for it. you promised.

on being forgiven: i don't know how to do it for myself. i don't know how to blame people for what they do to me unless it's the most extreme circumstance. i forgive too much that shouldn't be and hold ignorance and spite against others long past when it's fair. i handwave any scar someone gave me while they were suffering and never let go of what they do to others. i don't know what makes it different when it's me. i guess i know how to forgive myself for being scared and lost and for making bad decisions under the influence of... whatever... but not lazy cruelty. not letting something bad happen because i felt like it. all i do now is watch. all i do is let things slide past me again and again and again and do nothing to help and it can't matter that my heart breaks about it when theirs don't if none of us get up, and i remind myself that small steps do more than a single leap that uses me up but it's so hard to believe that here and now in the world where i could die if i tried again and harder still to comprehend in a world where 800 years of lives were made and suffered through and lost and i did nothing that matters to help. maybe all of the horrible backstory parts you're so scared of me seeing will be ones where i could do something, where i could climb up and let everyone take a raw bite out of me and go without starving for just one day, and then this won't cut me up inside like i swallowed a hedgehog. some days i am the hedgehog. trapped inside me, unable to stop being something that cuts to have there, unable to get away. i don't know how you can forgive me. i don't even know if you know what i need forgiving for. if i apologize for saving your life - for coming back to you again and again and again and being so selfish and. i don't know. for being me, while you try to love me, instead of being the person i can't forgive myself for not being, who deserves to be loved by you like this. but you'll forgive me. how do you do it? how do you stand it? i'm jealous of you. of how easy your heart warms up. of how kind you are.

kosmi 1-6 rewatch: i dislike pei su less now that i can see him as a person with a horrific job and less as a vehicle for the lies i know pei ming told about every woman he ever used and threw away. "i burned the scroll and won the war on my own" yeah right. gotta get that out first before i start collecting my thoughts. um.

one: the ascention, the earthquakes, (all that fuss for a scrap god. you told me the order it went in, when i asked, and i still think it's funny in a way that validates what i've been saying for something only the most in-need ask for help with to rattle the bells from warlord's palaces. they aren't ignorable. more than - more than anything else, anything before, i can be proud of this. i can be proud of myself for this.) i hate the way people look at you like you're infected with something because they can't play pretend that their inaction isn't malice any more. the bets and jokes and sneers. what have you done, lately? what help have you given? what good are you? and then there's me: starting as ever in unfixable debt, anchoring desperately to simple kindnesses, too tired to do more than smile. it's not worth it. it's never worth it. (being loved and losing it is worse than never knowing. being able to love yourself and losing it is worse than that.) the way that heaven sits unfixable and unchanging and incompetent. i'm proud of them for making something of their futures. i am. i don't begrudge them anything. i trust their character and i trust them to try to do the right thing for the people. i'm glad they didn't fight hua cheng. the kids are sweet. they're little carbon copies of their generals. it's sweet. it's kind. i like how... okay, they're mean and short tempered and fight like cats in a bag, but it's just the way you are at that age. it's not personal. it's easier to stand. i know there's gender coding tm in the novel, but i hate man-in-a-dress gags that point out that the man looks bad in a dress. i thought it was fine.

one point five: ok. i'll talk about it. the butterflies on the dress, the gentle music, the way our colours matched, the way your hand felt in mine. the sound of rain. i didn't know people could be so gentle. i didn't know they knew how. i think it was better for my health, before, when i assumed the best i ever saw was the best people were capable of. worse for me, though, to believe that. i'd forgotten what it was like to see myself in someone else's eyes as welcome.

zero point five: flashback sequence goes here. of course i remember what it was like to be loved, and work towards a clear goal that helped people. of course i remember what it was like to have a home that loved me back. he looked so scared as he fell. he looked terrified. i don't... i'm not good. at hating people. when i know everyone is driven to where they arrive in some degree or other. but that - whatever the reason they think they had, it isn't enough. it couldn't ever be enough. i hate seeing the human face disease. i hate how scared they are. how obviously in pain they are. i know they can't have survived. but i wish they could. i would give anything if they could. i would give anything up for it. have i talked about responsibility enough that this isn't a surprise yet? nobody should be that scared. nobody should suffer who hasn't chosen it to protect others. nobody should have to choose it, either, but if heaven has already failed you -

two: i hate that bald man. i hate watching that poor freckled girl throw herself on him again and again to save him just because he's human, while he takes every turn to re-learn hate and jealousy and hurt others. when he talks to his friends he almost humanizes himself, and i hope the time he spends as a crab fixes the rest. i truly do. but god i hate to see it. i hate being unable to do anything, because she chose it, because she knows him more than me, because her heart is kind enough to reach out to him even as it betrays and abandons the people in-need who can only go to her for help. you have to triage need. a life lived with the intent to harm others cannot come before a life lived with the intent to help, or to simply survive. anyway. the concern i get shown whenever i talk about the butterfly ghost is so charming.

three: i hate pei ming. his story is shallow and self-praising, his jilted lover competent and proud before he cured her of that with a kiss. i don't believe she broke her legs. i don't believe he passed over the chance to shortcut his way into glory. am i supposed to believe women just act like that? they just break their own knees for attention? she destroyed herself for him and he can't even pretend to care. not even at the end. not even to lie, and let her move on. so, what? thirteen girls die terrified and alone on the happiest day of their lives (- and we know it was happy for them, we know they went smiling up the path, we know they were excited) because he didn't have the stamnia to apologise to one person he hurt? i hate him. i hate his name, i hate his family, i hate his legacy of butchers, i hate his cowardice in sending pei su to grind out his cover story and then hide his mistakes where he doesn't have to look. i hate him. / i feel. so bad for that boy. he was so scared. do you know how scared you have to be to take scissors to yourself? i do. i have, literally, in the last year, actually. and that was... one cut. to avoid the risk of infection. sleeping on a wound that screams at you? he was a child. he was just a child. i let him down. there's no excuse. he needed reassurance. he needed protecting. i let him down.

four: i like that shrine. i like making it, owning it, doing something meaningful. i think a shrine for scrap should be made of more materials than it needs. i think it should be a place to sleep, always, and a place to eat, and you should be able to strip the roof if you need to. i don't care about what is proper, or respectful. respect the god of scavenger birds by surviving at any cost. by using what is useful. by taking what is free. i can build it again. if i know - if i can believe one good thing about myself, it's that i can build it again. as many times as it takes. i won't wear out. i won't give up. i can build it again. and how lucky, this time, to have help. there are so many things i can't do, even now. i need to learn. i never even thought about it until i saw that door. too long alone in my own head. too many years spent without it feeling worth the effort when a band-aid would hold.

four point five: again, ok, fine. i'll talk about it. you're beautiful. your eyes are like starlight, your smile is the warmest thing i've ever seen, your hands should be buried in an instrument, your painting is beautiful, your laugh is endearing - what do you want from me, here? of course i was looking. it's different to look now with your hand in mine than it was, then, to look just to look. to count threads just to count. to run my fingers through your hair and across your palm just to touch something. of course i knew. who wouldn't know you? who couldn't tell? but then, what was i going to do? know it? say it? ask things? better to be stupid, and naive, and find out what knife is waiting for me when it happens. i'm tired of speeding through the sweet moments to get to the next blade. i'm tired of being pushed from place to place. i'm tired of being alone. wasn't it fun? didn't we have fun? didn't you like talking together and cooking together and waking up in the morning in an empty shrine with the promise of another day to fill it? do i have to scream and shout and be suspicious and accuse you of - what! of holding my hand? of helping me? of being the exact same as everyone in heaven still deigning to look at me and thinking of me only as a tool to an end in a plan that will hurt people who did nothing wrong but pray? what can the harvest hope for if not the care of the reaper man? if it's - it always hurts. it always hurts. if it's going to hurt. why shouldn't it be kind first? why shouldn't i play stupid and keep you close and be usable without a heart left in me to break? why shouldn't i enjoy it for what it is, if it's all a lie? better me than someone who would be hurt by it. you're smart, and easy to talk to, and you're helping. you can't unbuild that door. unsweep the entryway. you can't undo the physical evidence of when you were kind. that's enough. that's all i can ever ask of people.

four point now: yes i know you wouldn't, now, i know you now, i don't need to gamble. i know you'd build a thousand doors. i know there's no trick. i know that it's safe. i know that i could have accused you and screamed and bit you and nothing would have made a difference and you still would have been kind. i know. i promise i know. i just... have to say where it was before. i have to tell you how important that kindness was, and how much i was willing to be kind to my own self to keep it near me. you understand what i mean, right? the tiny unforgivable act of making a mistake that could only hurt me? i know, i know. cocky to assume it would just be me hurt. but - if i was right to hope for nothing, i would make sure of that. i would make sure of it. i would do what i needed to to make sure only i was hurt for my selfishness.

five: i hate that we built a shrine and the next day something like that waltzed in. now we have to clean again. (i said in the stream, how funny it was to run that only survivor scam, how quickly it falls apart if you've ever seen real suffering, if you know what a survival rate is.) the rest i don't remember. i like working as a team. i like how much the kids hate you. they can tell too. i don't know what they see. but they worry about me. why do they worry so much? do their generals have something invested in me? are they just trying to do what they can now, and my caring for them isn't a one-way road? do you look that sketchy?

six: talking about the plot? in a sandstorm? no. you should keep my hat on. you look so sweet and cute and shy in it. i love the way you crumple when you aren't at the wheel, when an interaction happens without your instigation. maybe i'm not the only one bad at taking kindness. maybe i should offer it to you more often. you smell nice. like hot clay and silk. it's subtle. is that a ghost king thing, or is it just you? i like it. i can't imagine what i smell like. i hope... lillies and cotton. something soft. i'll ask you one day. i'm not surprised you were the most solid thing in a storm. i won't be surprised if you keep being that. i should have let you catch me. i should have dragged you with me. are you immune to it? could you stop it? would you pretend to be as useless and helpless as i am? i want to keep putting you in situations in disguise just to see what you do. it's fun! it probably shouldn't be, and i'm sure i'm setting myself up for a public shriving the more it becomes obvious who you are and how much i depend on you, but. i don't care. if i suffer for it, so what? what difference will that make? what could one more condemnation possibly do?

six point five: i like seeing sqx. i still read that as squeeks. i like seeing squeeks. i like sharing this with teddy. i like knowing that the way we are together can translate to here. i like how kind he is to me, and how funny, and sweet. i want to see him be happy. i want to see him be happy even though i know enough to infer it won't last. i know you love me with the power of a thousand angry wasp queens but it's nice to just sit next to him and joke with him and pretend for a little bit that i got to do this all the time. that i spent all my years drinking honey and rosewater and laughing with him, that things were as kind and easy as they're allowed to be. it's cute when i say he has a moral code and he gets offended. it's cute when i say he's a bitch and he gets offended. i like the way it makes all three of us laugh. i like seeing a place in my heaven where you could be. i don't want you to give up what you built. you built it because you had to. but when i'm sitting with my head on his shoulder, it's a window to that place where heaven exists to help people, where none of us ever had to learn what misery really was.

what power obliges from you: action. movement, always. there is no down time, no sleep, no rest, no running. if you seek people out to rule them - and that is what ascention is, seeking to rule, to tie your survival to your treatment of them - then you cannot do it with force and with ignorance and with the desire to coast. like. i'm not stupid. i know men do. for centuries and centuries with no repercussions, until the king on the rope for his people is as far related to the man who razed their lands as i am, (but inheriting evil is a choice too). i know how easy it is to punish and hurt and demand. how easy it is to hold people for ransom. but that isn't... that isn't power. that isn't kinghood or godhood or divine right. it's worthless. it's the other end of a sword. it kills you both to use. there's no light left in the world, no wonder, no chance to be saved by others so long as you are the thing that keeps you both drowning. you should wake up in the middle of the night for them without being asked. you should bleed for them without being asked. you should be ready to die for them without them ever knowing. even at their worst. at their most entitled, afraid, undignified, ignorant - if they are those things, the blame falls on you. if you are voted in democratically or born to the monarchy and not hanged in the streets it is the same either way: the people have chosen, they are asking you for something, and if you live in their gold and silk and sing their songs instead of smashing your own head in with a rock then you have agreed to the terms. why would anyone be unwilling to do that? afraid to do that? if you can do even a little bit more than someone else they are owed half of the excess. you cannot live in the world alone. you must not live in the world alone. ask the people above you to bleed for you and the people below you for nothing. there is no hierarchy beyond "i can help you" and "please help me" and there is no meaning beyond it either. every day it is hard to remember this but you have to, both parts, without losing either. why wouldn't anyone want this? what else is there to strive for but to better help others, to be someone with an abundance to share, to be used like that for the survival of everyone. isn't that happiness? to be as connected to everyone around you as a river is? to give water and fruit and blessings and promises and safety and shelter? you can seek power without understanding that it is only deeper service, but you will never do anything worthwhile with it. the gold will rot with your corpse. we find immortality in one another, and the celebration of giving more.

???: i saw a video of someone opening their back gate onto a meadow of the same single flower. it was beautiful. that's what it feels like when i catch you looking at me. we could grow flowers, couldn't we? we could plan a garden? i don't want to see myself fall and fail twice at least, or fight a war, without something kind at the end. i want you to tell me there's a way to still be like this - repairing doors, eating small meals, sleeping in warm air - after all of that is done. i want to build something selfish and self-sufficient together. i know we already are. in the things we talk about the jokes we make at my own expense whenever further plot implies at me. and in how excited i was to find out that the word for butterfly was this one. but i want to make things with our hands again.

episode 7: well. i'm glad it was me.

episode 7 (a day later): i'm still glad it was me. i'm proud of the kids for how brave they are, proud of that general for saving lives every time - and god, it was so funny sitting there in a circle of contempt for him, touching a gravestone people had hand cut and hauled up the mountain and carefully ingraved with their thanks, thinking about how loved and how much gratitude he must have died surrounded by. thank you for making them treat it with respect. thank you. he did his best. i'm almost jealous of it. imagine how nice it would be to help people, and have them see that you helped them, and be happy about it, and think kindly of you. i'm glad that you understood how important his actions were. i feel less alone when you're beside me on matters like that. anyway - i'm glad it was me. you're so bad at letting people care for you. i can tell you've been alone with only yourself to depend on for a long time. but your heart is so soft, you know? you don't even know it. you deserve to be protected. to be with people who want to protect you. it doesn't matter if you could have caught it in time, or survived a bite if you didn't - you should be able to think of yourself as precious to others. to me. i don't want to see you hurt. i don't ever want to take your hard-won strengths for granted. on the last day of earth, i want to move between you and danger as quickly and without apology as i did then. you're so easy to care for. do you know? and i'll be okay. i know you blame yourself for it because you said, because you're never gentle with yourself the way you are with me. but if you hadn't been there, i'm sure i would have stepped between someone else and that bite. i'm sure i would have forgotten again to grab the stinger i was just warning everyone about. you know what would change? if you hadn't been there, if you'd been a bit faster with your own defense, "if" "if" "if" - ? i wouldn't know there was a cure. i wouldn't know where to look for it, or be able to depend on someone helping me find it. that's the difference you made by being there. that's the only influence you had on me that day. you keep giving me the chance to survive my own mistakes. thank you. i can't promise we won't end up here again. i can't promise i won't keep trying to protect you. all i can do is hope that you know i don't mean it as a slight on your capabilities (it isn't! i just care about you. even the strongest man alive should be loved by people who want to shield him from danger) and that you don't get tired of me being so reckless.

#anchor.

[jahaanofmenaphos]

Art by the awesome @tommieglenn!

Of Gods and Men Summary:

When the gods returned to Gielinor, their minds were only on one thing: the Stone of Jas, a powerful elder artefact in the hands of Sliske, a devious Mahjarrat who stole it for his own ends and entertainment. He claims to want to incite another god wars, but are his ulterior motives more sinister than that? And can the World Guardian, Jahaan, escape from under Sliske’s shadow?

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QUEST 10: CHILDREN OF MAH

QUEST SUMMARY:

The Mahjarrat are dying, and they want answers as to why. To get them, they must journey back to Freneskae at the behest of Zaros, who promises them freedom from their Rituals once and for all. When Zamorak gets wind of his intentions, it leads to the two deities meeting for the first time since the great betrayal…

CHAPTER 3 - SHATTERED WORLDS

Freneskae. The whole world would roll away before you, made all the more beautiful by its utter hostility. Caves big enough to fit a cathedral, rivers of glowing orange snaking along the floor like the arteries of some giant protean god… it was a crudely carved nightmare of a realm.

Wahisietel had very few fond memories of this world. He wasn’t a strong voice back on Freneskae, not like Azzanadra or Zamorak, but he was fiercely in favour of leaving for Gielinor when the opportunity arose. Anything to leave the unforgiving and aggressive climate. There was no sanctuary - muspah raids were a constant threat, much like the storms and lava flows that often decimated their camps. Tribal politics could sometimes lead to more devastating results than the muspah; Wahisietel was never high on the totem pole, therefore he knew to keep his voice down and his head low, lest he be thrown to the Marker over some petty grievance.

Twice he was put forward for sacrifice. Both before Sliske was born, once by his own mother who wanted to rid herself of her underdeveloped offspring. Wahisietel had been far slower in learning magic as a child and was mute for many years. He had to resort to bludgeoning his rival half to death with a sharp rock before the dying Mahjarrat was dragged away to the Marker to be sacrificed.

At least when Sliske was born, he had someone to look out for, and someone to look out for him. Their shared mother never liked Sliske either, so the half-brothers had common ground.

Sliske learned magic fast, and became an adept shadow-walker at a very early age. He dealt with his first Ritual opponent with prowess and ease.

Wahisietel was envious, but he refused to let it get to him. After all, once Sliske was around, Wahisietel was never offered for sacrifice anymore. Sliske’s strength and usefulness to the tribe helped him rise up the ranks quickly, and his connection to Azzanadra certainly garnered him significant protection. It wasn’t until Gielinor that Wahisietel and Azzanadra were even on a first-name basis.

If it wasn’t for Sliske, Wahisietel doubted he would have even made it to Gielinor.

Wahisietel knew exactly where the World Gate had sent them - The Falls of Mah. It was acknowledged as the most dangerous part of the journey to the Ritual of Rejuvenation Site, the last obstacle at the end of their pilgrimage. Once at the Ritual Site, they could banish the muspah hoards, just like Mah had taught his elders. Wahisietel hadn’t been there when Mah appeared before the Mahjarrat to teach them their Rituals. Out of the hundreds that had been present, only two were still alive - Zamorak and Bilrach.

The blazing river was the most hazardous of all the challenges to overcome. It was a time of heightened seismic activity, so the rivers of lava bubbled and burped forth huge pillars of flame. Wahisietel had seen too many of his kin succumb to its fiery depths, and he was not looking forward to traversing it again.

Still, it was necessary, since teleportation was out of the question. Teleportation was never a viable option on Freneskae. Due to the seismic activity of the world and the constantly shifting ground, you could never be certain where you were going to land. What you once remembered as solid ground could have long since been turned into molten lava, dropping you straight into your smouldering demise. Even now, with their better understanding of teleportation magic, the Mahjarrat knew they would be soaring into the unknown if they tried to teleport themselves to the Ritual Site.

The rest of his kin had emerged through the World Gate by now, taking in the landscape of the life they had left behind. Except Khazard. Since he was born on Gielinor during the God Wars, he had never seen Freneskae before, and looked more than a little terrified.

Bilrach set his jaw, his tongue exploring the empty cavern of his hollow mouth. “Curious. The pull on our energy here seems even stronger than before.”

Akthanakos, taking in his companion, pointedly remarked, “Looks like I am not the only one to revert. Even you have assumed your skeletal form, Bilrach.”

“Assumed, yes. Reverted, no,” Bilrach corrected. “I have decreased my energy signature to be as low as possible, thus extending the little time I have left, hmm.”

If skeletons could blush, Akthanakos would have turned cherry. “Oh, well yes, of course. Following my example, obviously.”

Azzanadra was silent as he took in Freneskae. He may have described the world as beautiful, but even he wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of returning to their birthplace.

“Come,” he ordered, gazing out at the falls before them. “The Ritual Site is not far from here, but we must tread carefully.”

“Can’t we just teleport there?” Khazard asked, naively.

“Not unless you want to boil,” Akthanakos rolled his eyes, then thought better of it. “No, wait, that’s a brilliant idea, Khazard. You lead the way.”

Khazard opened his mouth to reply, but Hazeel cut in, “Stay close, Khazard. Tread exactly where I tread.”

When Mah appeared to the Mahjarrat at The Beginning, she taught them many things. The two that stuck with them the most were the two Rituals - the Ritual of Rejuvenation and the Ritual of Enervation.

Mah told the various Dreams of Mah tribes - of which the Mahjarrat were a part of - that when the terrible muspah hoards rose from the ground and swarmed them, they had to journey to the Marker and sacrifice one of their own in the Ritual of Rejuvenation to vanish the foul beasts. She also told them that when ground trembled fearsomely, they were to divide into pairs and join their energies together to soothe the tremors in the earth. In doing so, they would also bring new life into the world. After each Ritual, the Mahjarrat enjoyed a serene peace that could last for years. Well, as much peace as Freneskae would allow. The ground would settle, and the muspah would cease to exist, but lightning strikes, rockfalls, volcanic eruptions, attacks from other tribes… the Mahjarrat were never out of danger. But the absence of two major threats thanks to the Rituals was a godsend, literally. Hence, they diligently performed the Rituals whenever necessary, and sometimes even when they weren’t, using them as a political power tool.

The Rituals were pillars of Mahjarrat culture, but they were a burden drawing them to the brink of extinction. But today, if Zaros was to be believed, they would undertake their final one.

It was a promise Zaros made centuries ago. When Icthlarin took Sliske’s wights from him, he made an enemy that day. An enemy that soon led the Mahjarrat into Zaros’ service.

Wahisietel remembered that day like it was yesterday, when the majority of his tribe first came to Zaros. It took a lot of assurances from Sliske that the deity’s proposal was above board, and Zamorak had helped bring the entire tribe around. Wahisietel wanted it to be real. He wanted a leader worth following. Icthlarin was not that leader.

Zaros was... he was everything and more. He was salvation incarnate. He and his men didn’t look at the Mahjarrat with fear or disgust. Zaros promised them power and authority, and a respectable place in the society he was building. But the most interesting thing was the way he observed the Ritual that took place.

A fierce debate broke out amongst the Mahjarrat in regards to whether or not a Ritual of Rejuvenation - which had ceased during the war -  should be performed in order to continue their tradition, although many thought it would be meaningless without the Marker or a volcano. After Azzanadra explained to Zaros what the Ritual of Rejuvenation was, he offered to create a replacement Ritual marker, and expressed a desire to watch the Ritual occur. With a marker, the Mahjarrat agreed to partake in the Ritual. After it was finished, Zaros explained that in the absence of Mah - whose existence he did not question - the energy intended to appease her was instead distributed amongst the present Mahjarrat. He claimed that on Gielinor, unless the Ritual of Rejuvenation was regularly performed, they would all gradually whither and die. But he also told the Mahjarrat that they needed to use them more sparingly. Every five hundred years, it was agreed upon.

Then he said that, in time, he could free the Mahjarrat from their Rituals entirely.

That was what won Wahisietel over.

It had taken centuries, but the end was in sight. If Zaros came through, the Mahjarrat would finally be free.

The elders always advised to not wander from the lava path, advice the handful of Mahjarrat dutifully followed on their way to the Ritual site. Already they could see the Marker piercing the murky clouds above. The only sparks of brightness on the desolate world were the Ritual Markers. The Marker was a beacon of pure elder energy that shot up into the skies, illuminating the lifeless landscape around it. Nearer towards the ground, rocks and debris orbited its core, trapped in its gravitational pull.

But as they carefully made their way along the precarious route to the Ritual Site, they saw something else invading the skies above them, something else that scratched and clawed its way into the heavens, looming over the Marker.

Wahisietel gasped, gazing up in awe at the looming figure of a sleeping Mah, towering over the present Mahjarrat like an anguished shadow. “It’s… it’s Mother Mah!”

Never in his life had he gazed upon the twisted and tormented face of his creator. Only those that were there at The Beginning had that honour. But she looked so… so different to what the legends described. And yet, he could feel their kinship, feel the gravitas of her presence calling out to him. The haunting figure embedded in the rocks above them was unmistakably Mah.

At the Ritual Site, another figure was bathed in Mah’s shadow - Zaros.

“Thank you for joining me here,” Zaros called out to them, his booming voice cutting through the groans and rumbles of Freneskae’s ambience. “I understand you all are skeptical, but it is time I put your worries to rest. I know what is draining you of your power. To solve this crisis, we must conduct one final Ritual.”

Enakhra’s teeth snapped together. “You brought us here for another Ritual? You said there would be no more sacrifices!”

“And I spoke the truth,” Zaros calmly replied.

Bilrach was not convinced, letting it be known by the low grumble of a “Hmm…”

“Then... you mean a Ritual of Enervation?” Hazeel hesitantly met the gaze of Enakhra, who opened her mouth to object, before Zaros cut her off.

“No. I will aid you in a Ritual of Rejuvenation, but we will draw energy directly from Mah.”

Akthanakos gulped. “F-From Mah? Our creator?”

“I have more information that you would benefit from hearing,” Zaros continued. “Mah is the drain on your power that you have all been feeling. It will not stop while she exists. She cares for you. It is my assessment that she dragged herself here to give you the last of her energy.”

Wahisietel clarified, “So your plan is to transfer Mah's power directly to us?”

“Yes, Wahisietel. You would gain more power than you have ever experienced, and with Mah gone there would no longer be a need for your Rituals. You would have her power - enough energy and strength to sustain yourselves indefinitely.”

Enakhra exhaled a deep breath, her narrow eyes closing in contemplative acceptance. “Alright. I may not trust you, but I cannot fault the logic of your plan, Zaros.”

Akthanakos rolled his eyes derisively. “Of course your tune completely changes at the first sniff of power.”

“There will be no more bickering,” Zaros declared, resolutely. “We must take advantage of Mah's peaceful slumber to begin the Ritual. I need all of your full concentration now. It is time. Focus your energy-”

“ZAROS!” The voice stormed across the horizon, reverberating around the Ritual site before its owner had even fully manifested into view.

Zamorak had arrived.

Turning his attention to the newly arrived god, Zaros said, “Zamorak. Right on time, and just as before.”

“That’s as close as you’ll get to a joke, so I’ll take it,” Zamorak strode into the centre of the gathered Mahjarrat, staring down the Empty Lord with prideful venom. “You’ve taken advantage of the Mahjarrat long enough. Not this time, you hollow prick.”

“Your insolence knows no bounds. Even when I offer salvation, you challenge me. Foolish child.”

“Don’t underestimate me,” Zamorak warned. “I beat you once, don’t think I can’t do it again.”

Whether Zaros could smile was something of a mystery, but Zamorak could feel the cruel upturn in the diety’s lips. “And yet the fear in your voice betrays your words. There is doubt in your eyes, not fire. You lack the confidence and naivety you wielded the first time you challenged me.”

Perhaps there was doubt in his eyes, fear in his voice, but Zamorak made a show of hiding it. “I’m more powerful than I was back then, and don’t think you can manipulate me with your twisted words. I’m immune to your controlling aura.”

Zaros raised his chin. “Hmm, so you know about my curse.”

“Ha! Curse... bullshit,” Zamorak snarled. “It’s how you accomplished everything. I figured it out thousands of years ago.”

Khazard piped up, “What do you mean, ‘controlling aura’?”

“Anyone who gets too close to Zaros will gradually be compelled to follow him. It’s false devotion. Clearly it affects some more than others,” Zamorak explained, shooting a derisive glare at Azzanadra as he implied, “I believe the effect is stronger the weaker the individual is. But what do you say, Zaros?”

“Yes, I am flawed,” Zaros admitted, coldly. “Doomed never to know whether the loyalty I inspire is genuine unless I withdraw myself as I have done. It is no gift.”

Enakhra snorted a laugh. “Then Azzy and his sidekicks are just lovesick weaklings!”

“Wrong,” Zaros assured before Azzanadra could get his licks in. “Their loyalty has always been unwavering, despite my complete absence from this world.”

“Enough bullshit,” Zamorak snapped. “I know what you are doing, Zaros. Pulling the strings with your empty words and promises.”

Zaros’ voice was still calm and measured. “I know how to free them, Zamorak. I know how to free you.”

“Me? You think I need your help?”

“Your power is draining too, as is mine. We are all of the same composition, a family of sorts. I am in the same peril that all of you are.”

“For fuck’s sake, your plan is even more transparent than before,” Zamorak shook his head with indignation. “You’ve lured them here to drain them of their power. Are you truly so desperate to save yourself that you would sacrifice them all?”

“No, Zamorak. You are wrong. Always so blinded by hatred,” Zaros was growing exasperated now, and increasingly frustrated. Thinking an example might help his cause, for actions speak louder than words, Zaros said, “Here, let me show you how I can use the Ritual Marker to channel Mah's energy into Khazard-”

“DON’T TOUCH MY SON!” Zamorak roared, launching a bolt of dark energy towards Zaros. Instantly, the other deity caught it with a spell of his own, holding back Zamorak’s attack with ease. Zamorak was really having to force himself forwards just to hold Zaros’ attack at bay. The surrounding Mahjarrat daren’t get involved. Even the Zamorakians, who saw their god struggling, knew better than to interfere. Seeing two of Gielinor’s most powerful deities battling it out under the slumbering figure of Mah was terrifying.

Zaros twisted his hand and another smouldering jet of magic blasted towards Zamorak. It struck the Mahjarrat god’s wings, catching them alight and incinerating them within seconds.

“You will pay for your insolence with your life!” Zaros bellowed, watching with cruel satisfaction as Zamorak howled in agony, sinking to his knees as the spell started to overwhelm him. “Even now, it is a shame to end your life. You could have been so much more.”

With one hand on the ground, Zamorak resiliently continued to hold back Zaros’ attack, using all his strength and power to form a crackling energy shield around himself. Nevertheless, Zaros’ onslaught continued.

“I never asked for this burden,” Zamorak growled, panting through the exhaustion. “Everything I did, I did for the Mahjarrat. If I am to die… then the power YOU gave me will become theirs!”

Suddenly, Zamorak broke the shield, allowing Zaros’ full might to strike him. As he did so, he channelled a spell that connected himself to the Ritual Marker, attaching his entire life force, his entire being, to the Marker. When the connection was made, every Mahjarrat became enveloped in a green aura.

Wahisietel could feel his power being restored, he could feel himself being rejuvenated as Zamorak made himself the sacrifice.

It took Zaros a moment to realise what Zamorak was doing, his eyes wide with confusion and indignation. “What? No!”

Instantly, he broke the spell. Zamorak tumbled to the ground, weak and weary. Enakhra and Hazeel dared not move an inch, in horrified awe at the display of power they had just witnessed… but Khazard was not deterred. He rushed to Zamorak’s side, turning him over to see glazed eyes meet his own. The god was coughing and panting, gasping for tight lungfuls of air that struggled to come.

“K-Khazard…” he managed to whisper.

Khazard was still in shock. He thought his father had perished alongside his mother, in the battle of Uzer during the God Wars. Of all people he could claim kinship with...

“L-Lord Zamorak… my father?” he was mumbling, more to himself than Zamorak. Fortunately, Zamorak’s crystal had not been damaged in the battle. Whether any internal damage had been done was another matter, but considering Zamorak was at least trying to stand was a good sign. Khazard helped him to his feet. Zamorak was huddled over, clutching at his stomach, using most of his remaining strength to glower at Zaros. “Why didn’t- ah!... you finish me off?”

Zaros’ cold, measured voice returned, but with an underlying hiss of resentment. “Your self-sacrifice instills devotion in your kin... Somehow, in opposition to everything I try to build - everything I try to give - you stand against me. And it inspires others to do the same. I will not make you a martyr.”

Zamorak waved Khazard away, back towards Hazeel, in case Zaros decided to go for round two. “Then what will you do?”

“You have always had such potential, Zamorak. Even now, you are the embodiment of everything I preach. Such desire to overcome your limitations. I cannot let you go to waste. I am afraid we are far past the point of trust though. There must be precautions this time.”

Zamorak didn’t like where this was heading. “I’m not going to be your pawn. Not again.”

“It is a shame you cannot see the value of joining me. The things we could accomplish together…” Zaros sighed. “I see only one way we can mutually benefit from this predicament. I suggest we invoke Vinculum Juris, an ancient demonic pact that I am sure you are familiar with.”

Zamorak spat out a sharp laugh, but the pain in his chest was sharper. “You really are batshit crazy if you think I’ll let my fate be tied to yours.”

“You have no choice. If you wish to leave this place, I need to know you will not interfere with me again,” Zaros had a way of threatening without actually threatening, since the monotonous tone of his voice rarely changed.

Zamorak, however, knew the deity well enough to know what he was implying. “Argh, spit it out then. What terms would you have bind us?”

“Sliske has the Catalyst,” Zaros began, “He claims he will give it to the victor of his games once the eclipse is upon us. I know you are planning to obtain it. You will continue to do so, but within his final game you will perform one action at my request. You will know which request I intend for you to act upon, because I will refer to you as my Legatus Maximus when I address you. In return, I vow to deliver upon my promise. We will conduct one final Ritual. When it is complete, every one of you will have increased in power and the drain on your energy will be gone.”

Enakhra finally found the courage to call out, “The pact will bind him to his word, Lord Zamorak. He will have to free us!”

“I cannot give him what he wants, Enakhra,” Zamorak affirmed. “There is no telling what he would do with the Stone!”

Hazeel spoke up in a much softer tone, “Zamorak, brother, swallow your pride. We have no other option…”

Zamorak’s resolve was slightly weakened. He gulped. “Hazeel…”

Suddenly, the shadow of Mah began to creak into life, knocking a few stray rocks from their perch.

“Hmm, Mah stirs…” Bilrach commented, so matter-of-factly that one would think he wasn’t afraid of the vengeful elder god above them. “The clock is ticking faster. I see no other path to salvation, my lord.”

Exhaling heavily, Zamorak turned back to Zaros with narrowed eyes. “You know what happens if you break this vow, Zaros. Vinculum Juris is not forgiving.”

“Yes… I will be undone,” Zaros confirmed, bluntly. Vinculum Juris was one of the oldest pacts in the universe, instigated by demons that somehow managed to weave the fabric of fate to do their bidding. It was a simple contract, but deadly to break. You made a promise, you swore by Vinculum Juris, and if you did not hold up your end, the universe would unwrite you from existence. Nobody, not even Zaros, truly knew how or why they worked… but they did. One such contract was how Zaros scored his first army, twelve demonic legions, giving him the power and might to start challenging for territory on Gielinor.

He’d also seen what happened to those who broke their end of the contract, as had Zamorak. With that first hand knowledge, neither would dare go back on their word.

“Then it is no longer a matter of trust,” Zamorak raised his chin. “Keep your word, or cease to exist.”

“We are clear on the consequences. Do you accept my wording?”

“With one last Ritual you will end the need for any more, preventing any further energy drain, which will in turn empower us all. If you deliver on this promise, I must perform one action for you in Sliske's game.”

“And the request I intend for you to act upon will be denoted by...?” Zaros checked.

“You will address me as your Legatus Maximus,” Zamorak confirmed.

“Then it is settled,” Zaros declared. “All those who stand before bare witness. Let us begin.”

Simultaneously, the two deities began reciting the brief contract in Infernal. As they did, bright white energy began spilling out of their mouths, their eyes glowing possessively. “Animus contrahendi. Vinculum Juris!”

Both then fired a harmless spell at the other. When the spells met, the contract was sealed.

“It is done,” Zaros announced, solemnly. “We are bound.”

“Your turn, Zaros,” Zamorak wasted no time. “Hold up your end of the deal. Now.”

Zaros agreed, “Yes, it is about time. Mah will not sleep soundly for much longer.”

“What must we do, my lord?” Azzanadra eagerly asked, his heart in his throat.

“The Marker is acting as a conduit for Mah to siphon energy through. I will reverse this process,” Zaros explained. “This will allow you all to channel power through the Marker, as you would in a Ritual of Rejuvenation. The difference being that this time the Ritual will draw on Mah's power directly, infusing it into each of you. Permanently.”

Khazard was nervous, his eyes flitting between Zamorak, Zaros, and the slumbering Mah. To Zamorak, he asked, “Lord Zam-... F-Father… can we really trust this to work?”

“He is bound to his word by Vinculum Juris, Khazard,” Zamorak assured. “Either he keeps his promise, or he will be killed. It’s a win-win.”

“Then let us begin,” Zaros stepped forward, raising his hands aloft as he tried to tether himself not only to the Marker, but to Mah and the Mahjarrat simultaneously. Zaros was the conduit for this entire ritual; Mah’s energy would be pulled through the Marker by him, and then into the surrounding Mahjarrat. It wasn’t the standard way the Ritual was performed - it couldn’t be, not for what they were trying to achieve - but Zaros was confident that it would work, providing there were no interruptions.

But as the tenuous connection was made, Mah stirred again, and the skies above them darkened. With a death-rattle and a piercing shriek that could shatter the heavens, the Mahjarrat began to shiver. Not since they left Freneskae had they encountered such foul beasts as the ones that began to slither towards them now.

The muspah had spawned.

DISCLAIMER:

As Of Gods and Men is a reimagining, retelling and reworking of the Sixth Age, a LOT of dialogue/characters/plotlines/etc. are pulled right from the game itself, and this belongs to Jagex.

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#runescape #children of mah

[quirkykayleetam]

Broken Pieces Superhero AU

Welcome back to our beautiful collaboration!  Damien and the world we’re in belong to the ever-talented @burtlederp while Daniel Wei is adapted from my series, Broken Pieces.  We wrote this together and could never have done this without each other’s wonderful help and support!

Chapter Two: Old Habits Die Hard

Damien took one last drag on his cigarette, fully exhausting it before he flicked it away and ground it into the gravel with his shoe. He paused, looking around with his hands in his pockets, letting the smoke slowly curl from his nostrils, admiring the lushness of the woods surrounding. 

He loved the summer here; the verdant forests, the bustling life, the warm summer sun (or having sun at all), even the damn mosquitoes. He took a deep breath of the fresh summer air before he turned to climb the rickety metal stairs to what he called home--apartment 204.

“Those things will kill you, you know,” a mellow voice said from the shadows opposite the door.  “Of course, I’m guessing you’re waiting on your choice of housing to do it first.” 

When the voice appeared, it belonged to a tall Chinese man with warm down-turned eyes and a slight grin on his face.  He knocked softly on the biohazard sign on the door next to Damien’s.  “I honestly thought this was a joke at first, a clumsy way to hide a secret lair, but no.  You actually live next to a biohazard.  How’s that working out for you, kid?”

When the man first spoke, he scared the daylights out of Damien, who jumped and cursed loudly, gripping the railing of the stairs with one hand and his chest with the other. He glared at the guy, frowning, and finished ascending. 

"I'm not dead yet," he replied gruffly, brushing past the man to get to his own door. He didn't add anything else, hoping this guy would leave him alone as he shoved his key into the door and entered.

“It sure is a rough world when the one and only Alchemist has to work three jobs on top of his League gigs just to afford this place,” the man said evenly.

Damien froze for a moment, door half open, then closed his eyes, sighing exasperatedly, and left the door open behind himself. 

"C'mon in, then, I wanna sit down."

Nodding, the man followed, wiping his shoes off at the door though there was no mat to be seen.

While the apartment was old, and dingy, and didn't smell particularly pleasant, it certainly wasn't barren and appeared very lived-in. The door opened to the kitchen in a way that it made the entrance feel very tight with the kitchen counters and cabinets on either side and a pile of shoes in the corner right of the door. A small wooden dining table filled what space was left of the kitchen linoleum after the counters ended on the far wall, the smooth floor giving way to the weathered carpet of the living room. It seemed the wall that was right of the entrance was a small closet, and Damien's room was on the far right end of the apartment.

An ancient sewing machine sat on the kitchen table, many bolts of fabric accumulated over years lying stacking in the corner behind it. A jacket hung off one of the three chairs around the table, and the living room was a mess of… well, more cloth. Left of the fireplace seemed to be the designated 'superhero suit' storage pile, the other side just laundry. Boxes were stacked all over the wall opposite, almost entirely blocking the front-facing window, a couch buried somewhere beneath them. Covering the fireplace, the wall behind it, and large swaths of carpet surrounding it, was a layer of singed carpet or wood and char, like a fire had once had its way here, uncontrolled.

Damien opened the fridge and pulled out a brown glass bottle, popping off the metal cap as he flopped down into the one chair at the kitchen table that didn't have something on it. He took a swig of his drink and stared, looking very tired, at the man expectantly. 

Unperturbed, Damien’s guest walked slowly around the apartment, taking off his black, military-style jacket before meeting Damien’s gaze.  In just a white t-shirt, he was clearly more muscled than Damien expected.  The corner of a tattoo, something red and gold peeked out of the cover of his left sleeve.  Throwing a selection of manila folders on the table, he offered his right hand to Damien.

“I’m Daniel Wei.  As you can probably guess, I’m ‘with’ the League.”  The man’s use of air quotes was not comforting.

Damien switched the bottle to his right hand and shook Daniel's offered hand briefly, his grip tight, and lifted the cover of the top-most folder with passive curiosity. 

"Mm," he grunted in response, taking another drink. "This isn't going to take long, right? I have rounds to make." 

“Kid,” Daniel said, “I’ll be honest with you: I’m in town for other reasons and there are other places I’d rather be right now too.  But since I’m here and here for good, I’ve been assigned as your brand new mentor--”

Damien nearly choked on his drink, leaning forward abruptly as he nearly spat it out. He swallowed it with a grimace and interrupted, "My new what?!"

“The League has let you operate on your own for an awful long time, but when I was headed here anyway, we saw this as an opportunity to...help you out a bit.  Give you a little guidance.  That kind of thing.”

"I--" Damien glared at  Daniel, trying to find words. "No?! No thank you?" he spluttered. "I'm doing fine, I don't need any help."

Daniel took another hard glance at Damien’s nearly empty fridge and the burned expanse by the fireplace.  “Sure, kid.  You’ve never gone hungry, never gotten yourself so hurt you could use a medic or at least another hand to hold the bandages.  You’ve never sprayed your opponent in deadly corrosive acid because you didn’t know what kind of damage it would do and you’ve definitely never struggled to understand your alchemical powers without even a high school diploma.

“I’m just saying that I’ll be around and, if you let me, we could make things a lot easier on yourself.  Check out those folders.  I’ll leave you my card.”

The small slice of paper Daniel left on the table didn’t have his name on it.  It was blood red with the stylized emblem of a wide-brimmed hat.  The only text read “The Rogue” with a phone number beneath.

Damien opened his mouth once or twice but closed it every time Daniel spoke again, face red with anger. He didn't say anything as Daniel tossed the card onto the table, didn't even glance at it. After a moment, he swallowed, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath--Daniel could almost see the steam blowing out his nose--and set his jaw. He took another generous gulp of his drink and met Daniel's gaze, anger still sparking behind his brown eyes, but his expression was even.

"Thank you. I'll consider it." The words sounded forced.

Daniel smiled and nodded.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Damien.”  Then he turned, put on his coat and walked off into the night.

Damien watched him go, nose curling as soon as Daniel was out the door and he was alone again. He shut and locked the door, then stood there, hand on the knob, the bottle in the other, and clenched his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut, feeling the anger boil in him. Who the f--k does he think he is?! Calling me "kid"?! His fingers dug into the cheap wood of the door and Damien quickly drew away when he realized he was leaving deep scratches in the wood, nearly going all the way through the door. He cursed, flicking his hand and looked around his dingy, lonely little apartment that felt much less little ever since he'd started being here alone.

Hesitantly, he walked back to the kitchen table and sat down stiffly, frowning down at the folders. He drummed his fingernails on the bottle, then gave in to curiosity, flipping the top one open.  Inside were the architect’s blueprints for a different apartment, a much bigger apartment, an apartment on the “right” side of town closer to the places that he worked.  The blueprints indicated secret basement access through a trapdoor in the bedroom that led to a laboratory of sorts complete with drains, air vents, a ventilator hood, and steel bookshelves built into the walls.  Beneath the blueprints was a lease already signed and paid for.  When Damien gave the folder a slight shake, keys fell out from the bottom.

Damien stared down at the shiny silver keys that glinted in the wan, dingy light of the one functioning light bulb remaining in the kitchen ceiling. He swallowed, looking back to the plans, flipping through them. After his eyes darted all over the pages, he leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face. He peeked out, looking around the little, cramped, dense apartment. The little, cramped, dense place he called a home. It was the last thing he had left of his life before… well, before he wasn't a kid anymore. If his Mom got better--She won't, a tiny voice in his mind reminded him--this… this could be the only place she could remember. Unless it wasn't here anymore. 

Damien frowned, and closed the folder after putting the keys back, and tossed it lazily to the overflowing trash can, where it bounced and scattered all over the kitchen floor.

"If this is another piece of f--kin' charity, I swear…" He muttered, turning to the next folder.  Inside he found a GED with his name on it, signed by members of the League and backdated to the first time he used his alchemical powers in public.  Underneath it was a letter written in excited academic writing from a former biochemistry professor and inventor who retired in Qinniq asking the Alchemist, whoever he was, to come work with him.  The man had so many different theories he wanted to discuss. 

Damien felt anger in his gut rise again. He scowled, memories of public school and old bosses and coworkers and his father and everybody in between flooding his mind, their taunts and jabs and nicknames and slurs and all of it coming back to him--

He tore it up and tossed the bits of it to the trash again, then opened the last folder.  This one was smaller than the rest.  It held only a prepaid bus card for fare from Qinniq to Anchorage, where Damien’s mom was, enough for him to go every weekend for an entire year.

Damien picked it up, his anger fading a bit. He swallowed, glancing between the card and the discarded folders in the trash. He slipped the card into his wallet and got to his feet, finishing off his drink and leaving the bottle on the table as he pulled off his shirt. 

He thought over Daniel's words, his offer, the folders as he changed into his costume. He pulled his gloves on slowly and frowned.

"Asshat," he muttered to himself as he slid open his back window and lept out into the night still lit by a sun that wouldn't disappear over the horizon until 11 o'clock.

Tag List (I’m including those of you who enjoyed the original Broken Pieces story, but if you want to be taken off, please just let me know!):  @stoic-whumpee​​​​​​, @whatwasmyprevioususername​​​​​​, @whumpty-dumpty-fell-off-the-wall​​​​​​, @straight-to-the-pain​​​​​​, @castielamigos-whump-side-blog​​​​​​, @0idril0​​​​​​, @fallingstormphoenix​​​​​​, @whump-fantasies​​​​​​, @imagination1reality0​​​​​​, @whumpback-wail​​​​​, @whump-tr0pes​​​​​, @untilthepainstarts​​​​​, @captivity-whump​​​​, @burtlederp​​​​, @redwingedwhump​​​​, @whumpiary​​​​, @captivity-whump​​​​, @blue-flare10

#Whump #Angst #Flashbacks #Superheros #Damien #Daniel Wei #Please pardon the language #Past Trauma #quirkykayleetam writes

[ithinkthingsaboutstuff]

do you think Brainy hates himself? (or has in the past)

ah, the big question. (i was wondering when we would get here)

I think there is a lot of things to be said about Brainy and how he views himself. This question as always perplexed me, as it holds weight on either end.

does he hate himself?

I think it at first he doesn’t know he hates himself (take him getting angry at his father taking away his bottle for example) 

Like when did the moment hit him that he was a bad person, (i.e what he got arrested for, the bottle planet tantrum, and so on)

what made him think ‘oh no those things were so very wrong of me’

or was it slower then that did his time with the Legion and slowly becoming friends with them make him realise his mistakes 

or was it seeing his mothers down fall? (i.e his fathers reactions to her actions, she might have been arrested and so on)

now i bring all of these up because it sets an important question.

does he hate who he was or does he hate who/what he is? 

(i.e part of the brainiac family)

now this can boil down to interpretation, (as all this do)

so lets look at the ‘evidence’ 

3x10 (the old faithful)

when he enters in that scene he stands up straight and gives Kara his big introduction and he opens with

“I am Brainiac 5, half computer half organic life form all clouan and not to brag but a 12th level intellect, my name is Querl Dox but the Legionaries just call me Brainy.’    

now notice the first thing he tells her is that he is a Brainiac, you know the thing her and Clark are known for smacking around in the future. 

and i personally think this is him starting with the least important things about him and ending with the most.

so basically

‘Hi, I’m a Brainiac, but don’t worry i am some what organic/ more ‘human’ then them, I am smart (coluan)  no like really smart (12 level intellect), but my ‘human name’ is Querl, but my friends call me Brainy, which is what i want you to call me.’

that progression shows that he can and does identify with the less then nice side of himself he just does not give it to much attention or level of importance when compared with the legion.

so in this moment i don’t think he hates himself. or at all when he is with the legion because they have build an environment where the fact he is a Brainaic/ all the bad things he has done are not important to them BUT they also knew about them from the start, so Brainy known’s for sure they care about him and the person he has become/ was becoming.

but

looking back at the ‘emotional kin ship’ part the way Kara talks about her cat can be linked but to brainy experience with the legion.

Kara “i used to go out every night and feed him, i did want to touch him, i was so strong i was afraid i would hurt him, so i practised being gentle then one day i pet him and he purred and everything was ok. I felt like an alien on earth for so long but he made me feel like a human.”

but for brainy it was basically 

Brainy ‘spent time and worked with the legion, i did want to get emotional close to them, i was so dangerous and cold to people i didn’t not want the legion around me, but I tried being nicer and kinder, and more vulnerable, and I did let the legion in and they become my friends and my family, I felt like a dangerous and unlovable person but the legion showed me other wise.’

so in so many words Brainy did hate himself but i think it was more ‘after the fact’ after all he told Nia in s4 that when he was arrested he was ‘forced to be a hero’ or at least he would not have chosen that for himself on his own.

so to get to the point (if i do indeed have one) is that the legion helped Brainy with a big part of his self worth. HOWEVER when he is removed form that environment and support network what is he left with

‘I failed them’

‘I did this, without talking to any of them (other then Imra) but she gets to go home.’

‘I have sacrificed my people (AI’s) for the safety of my friends does that make me like the other brianiac’s’

Brainy even says himself in s4 to Nia

“i have had to give up my entire existence, and have i mentioned everyone of my family is evil, and mon el was always a bit dismissive...”

(i know people like to dunk on Mon el here but really look at it)

now look at the lead on here, like i said the legion basically made him a new independent person way from the brainaic’s but still knew everything about him.

so what he is basically saying is.

‘I have lost what i have made of myself because i don’t known who i am with out the legion because who i was before them was a nightmare, and by the way my family history say this is because i am basically built to be a horrible person, and even the people who helped be be better don’t know about all my inner term old about this, and i am panicking that i may turn into everything i hated about my family’ 

but i do think the hate for himself was buried deep inside for a long time. Things like 

‘I was broken and my father had to fix me’ (inhibitors)

and i dare say his father never saw him the same way after all of that, so there was that idea of

‘I am “fixed” now but my father still thinks I am broken, have i always been broken? so I must always be broken, right?’

and other people fear brainiac’s so he might have thought he ‘proved them all right’

so in summary the answer is basically (to me anyway)

I don’t think it is hate that drives his self doubt and loathing but rather fear.

fear of becoming like them

fear of going back to who he was

fear that very thing he has ever done to better himself has been in vain

fear that when be does make mistakes (in the 21st centenary, i.e working with lex) he is not going to be forgiven or team will think his is like the rest of his family.

but i do think that fear has some bite to it, and he must get angry at the fact he feels this way, and that he can’t deal with it in a productive way. 

so i think Hating parts himself has only ever been a side effect of his real issues of the fear and loneliness he has, because of his family and his life choices have given him.  

#such a long answer for such a small question #long post #thanks firend #can you tell i have been thinking about this one for a while #ask #good question #Rachel asks questions #that's right you get a custom tag now #thanks #brainiac 5 #brainy #querl dox #supergirl