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rosieartsie · 2 years

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CHAPTER 1

TW: body horror, gore, religious stuff, child harm

Eyes and hands are up towards heaven, but cannot reach, can never reach. The body itself is held down by an invisible force and liquid, too much liquid, all sickly and humid and human. Too impure, to ever do more than reach. There is a palpable sinking instead, a drawing downward, or outward, or somewhere else, nowhere near heaven, and away, far away from where Mercutio is standing and watching an eight year old boy writhe and reach and cry out in the darkness. His body is no longer a body as much as a bag, skin and flesh and liquids, human parts spilling out to make room for something too big for fragile bones and a child’s identity. Even the smallness of eight years of life, of catching fire flies and crying over broken toys is too big. It must go, to make room for this thing that wants the body for itself. Wants to turn the body, the bag, into something else, if it can be emptied and survive the purging of its humanness.

Mercutio’s skin is burning in specific places-- it does that, the ink stamped into rings and symbols on his arms designed to tell him what his eyes can’t, what his senses can’t. Holiness from all over the world is inscribed upon his flesh and when he comes upon things like this, tries to help, certain spots will sizzle like he’s touching a hot stove with his elbow or his bicep or his shoulder blade. The symbols say with this incandescent burning, what he is dealing with, who he is looking at, who is turning a human into a bag to be emptied, into a glove and a suit and a machine of evil.

The burning is telling him he’s out of his fucking depth. The burning is telling him that he doesn’t have the right tools to save this child. His eyes are telling him that even if he could wrench this dark entity free from the boy, the body would not survive-- too much of who he was, little boy, little dreams and little ideas and little understanding of the world, has been dumped out onto his bed, rocket ships and stars and bright blue planets caked in blood, fecal matter, sweat, saliva, all the human parts of him that people are so repulsed by because they should remain inside, or outside in very specific places. Certainly not on the sheets of a bed, certainly not pouring out of eyes and ears, certainly not squelching from the wide, smiling slice in the boy’s abdomen where his organs, dark and festering and so small, are being shoved out by the evil trying to move into the body.

The boy, before Mercutio’s eyes, is rising from the wet, human slimed trench in his bed, his arms wrenched down and out, away from heaven, spread too wide. More human things leave him, gravity and shape and size all abandoned as his body lifts off the bed completely and his limbs are stretched out, out, out, sinews plucking like snapping strings, bones crunching and twisting and expanding outward, unfurling in the moonlight in a sickening, off beat percussion ladened by the high notes of the boy’s mother shrieking and gasping. She is calling the boy’s name.

Mercutio does not remember the boy’s name just then, and neither does the boy. The thing that is unwinding him, forcing him into some new, not human silhouette does not care about the boy’s name. The tiny finger bones sheer through tiny, pudgy fingertips, hands now stumps of meat and gore. His feet land in the sick of what he was, bones of his feet exposed and contorted into strange sickle shapes, talons that tear through blood soaked duvet, sheets, mattress, sinking and pulling and balancing upon mattress springs. The boy is barely boy now, made into something else covered in boy meat. It is a bird of prey, made of prey, only vaguely bird in shape. It feels for gravity in its new form, flesh trembling and shifting as the body is claimed, innards falling out of the boy, who is gone now, with a gushing, flat thud. The insides are made empty, light, the skin stretched open. This creature, now shaping the bag into its preferred design, lets little brown eyes, bloodshot and yellowed, tumble out of its face, gnashes fragile teeth together, crunching and clanking until the little white bits are forced loose and replaced with bladed, blood soaked spikes of bone, too big for the mouth, but made room for as chubby child cheeks are stretched and torn open, split into a smile not meant for a boy because the boy is gone. The boy is gone. The boy is gone. And Mercutio thinks, perhaps, he is going to die too, with the boy, and the mother who has fainted in a limp heap upon the floor.

He knows what this creature is, he can feel it burning him now like a brand… but all he can do is focus on another feeling that is special to him, an emotional reach beyond his own body and feelings, a connection, an unwanted empathy that he feels with all things. He feels the boy’s fear, the boy’s pain, the boy’s confusion because a little boy would never, even in his wildest nightmares inspired by too much tv or scary books for children, imagine this, let alone imagine it within him. Mercutio feels it in his throat under his adam’s apple, feels it in his gut, deep in his pelvis where it presses up against his bladder. Feels it in his legs and the back of his neck, in his muscles as the part of him that is most human of all screams for him to run. The boy’s feelings fall away like sand, like cigarette smoke… the boy is gone.

The creature stares with empty holes and the remains of the boy’s face at him, opens its new teeth and gives a rasping, gurgling chuckle. The sound winds around its criss crossing teeth and torn open maw, riding on an upheaval of blood that drains down the split open chin of the no longer boy. It is laughing because Mercutio is afraid. These things can feel fear just the same as he does, but different-- they smell it and taste it, like walking past a kitchen full of good cooking. Every person is a kitchen full of delicious potential. The boy, whatever his name was, is, was, a kitchen full of potential, made full use of, now a feast for this thing that has sent all of his eight-year-old-boyness away. Mercutio’s hands tremble around the holy book and cross he is holding so tightly it feels like they might shatter, even though neither are made of things that shatter or crack. They might as well shatter with how useless they are, now.

Mercutio feels a wide spread burning on his back as he takes a step backward, helpless but to show some weakness, because he is weak and powerless now, and the creature is reaching for him. It says his name, licking up the syllables of it, soaking them in the blood of the boy. The burning gets brighter, and the demon says his name again as it crawls towards him, urgent somehow, familiar in a way that is strange to Mercutio. Then, suddenly, it is a voice he knows, and the burning is not his array of tattoos warning him of danger, but a broad, open hand pressed against his bare, sweat soaked back.

He gasps, shouts, struggles, and finds not one hand, but two hands upon him as he is met with a familiar face, a human one, concerned and a little frustrated, tired around the eyes.

“Mercutio, quiet down, you’re alright.” Vincente says, and Vincente is right, because he is in his home, with Vincente, horribly hungover. It is even morning, and daylight helps to draw him back from the nightmare, trembling and breathless as he is.

“Hey. Hey, sorry.” Mercutio chokes, knowing that the apology will be dismissed as Vincente grasps at his biceps, steadying him, sitting down beside him. Mercutio can feel Vincente's concern and a sharp annoyance that he is trying to reason with-- he must have just gotten to sleep when Mercutio started screaming or thrashing or whimpering… It’s hard for Vincente to sleep, always has been. He shouldn’t have stayed the night, he should’ve just gone home is what Vincente is probably thinking, but Mercutio can only feel his feelings, he cannot read his thoughts.

The fact that Mercutio can remember the name of the boy lets him know as securely as Vincente’s grip that he is in the waking world, safe, far from that past and the fear that gripped his mind so tightly he could not remember the name even as it was being shrieked. But Mercutio is just as much of a mess for the memory, sweaty, exhausted, and he’s almost certain he’s pissed himself. It’s embarrassing, even though Vincente doesn’t seem perturbed, doesn’t feel perturbed, just tired and quietly relieved now. Vincente’s hands are in his lap, folded like a prayer, gaze away in some gentle, considerate modesty.

“You probably should get up and shower.” He suggests, and Mercutio groans and sinks against the pillow, only to be motivated to move and get out of bed when there is wetness on his sheets he cannot turn over and ignore.

”Stay for a bit? I’ll get cleaned up and make you breakfast.” Mercutio offers over a high, whining buzz in his ears that vibrates in his temples, alcohol working its dark magic on him now that he’s had his fun. He feels awful, sick from the dream, from his body reacting so violently to it, and from the remains of a night spent on shots of tequila and giggling, nonsensical laughter.He spends more time in that state than Vincente, and far more time in that state than Vincente would like him to, but drink and drugs quiet the empathic ripples he picks up from other people, dulls the crashing waves of everyone else’s bullshit.

“Fine.” Is all Vincente offers him, rising from his spot on the bed with squared shoulders and a sigh that doesn’t match his upright, alert, constantly determined posture.

“I’ll get coffee started.” He leaves the room without looking back, which isn’t unusual, but does serve to give Mercutio another bitter tang of embarrassment-- he is dressed down like this, not only wearing nothing but boxers that are soaked at their front, but exposed in a way he has been working to lock away somewhere since he stopped dealing with the darkness, since he decided, they decided together, that it was a problem they couldn’t solve.

He strips himself and his bed, gathering up all the fabric to dump into a hamper that already is overflowing. Cleaning is not something he enjoys doing-- he’s not a clean person in any way one could be clean, and the only reason his home is manageable is because sometimes he has literally nothing better to do than clean and other times Vincente’s pinched look of disgust is enough to motivate him to tidy up. When he’s in the bathroom he looks at himself, and he is definitely not clean, visibly filthy and speckled by dried splash marks that are actually on the mirror, but might as well be on him. He is a handsome man at least. His hair is long and dark, dyed red with henna. It is thick and healthy and does some work to hide his age, his brown skin and bright grey eyes doing just as much to maintain an appearance of youthfulness. All things considered, he’s really not that old. Forty one feels younger than it should, given everything, given all the life he’s lived and the belief that he’d never see forty...but he doesn’t look forty at least. He looks, perhaps... thirty two, a tired thirty two year old, freshly realizing that being twenty-something wasn’t all it was advertised to be and being thirty something comes with much less clarity than promised.

He is so different from Vincente in that way. Vincente looks like he’s forty three, like he’s handsomely settled into it. He still looks like a preacher too, like a priest, dark skin and large hands, full lips and warm smile, kind eyes and a touch of greying around his temples where his tightly waved hair is cut short and clean, faded and trimmed by hands that have known his head for years. He’s classical in that way, what most people envision when the word ‘preacher’ comes up, along with the caveat ‘but not white’. He’s beautiful. He’s still built like a brick house, scarred from those old days, but so very clean comparatively. He looks like he’s always known God, always been a good man, meant to be married and settled down rather than alone and marred by the hauntings of very real supernatural terror.

Mercutio looks like someone who does not know God, or who found God after a near-death drug overdose or some other self-inflicted calamity, which isn’t entirely inaccurate, though he certainly wasn’t starry eyed and in church every sunday after he found that his particular brand of empathy could sense the otherworldly evil of demons and that religious ritual was not all made up to soothe the common human fear of the darkness and all that might lurk there. Mercutio also looks like what he is, in an annoying, stereotype indulging sort of way. He looks like a gay man, long hair and painted nails and thin frame, pierced nipples and tattoos-- as though that proves anything these days-- and that, among other things, kept him of the church but not in it. A drug-addled twink has no place in the houses of God, especially not one that wears his drug-addled twinkness like a badge of honor.

The tattoos at least, are not frivolous like his nipple piercings and his long hair-- religious symbols from everywhere are wound in a tapestry across his skin, divided by thick black rings, his arms segmented like the inner rings of a tree if that tree held all the talismans of the world’s major religions nestled in its layers. They are a bit disorganized -- after all, it was on a hunch that he began the work of marking religious iconography upon himself. He had no idea it would work to signal to him what sort of evil he was up against until it did, Mother Mary charing his shoulder like a third degree sunburn the first time he’d really gotten himself into some supernatural shit trying to help a family that could not convince a priest of their child’s affliction or afford an exorcism from some freelancer who more likely than not would be a hack making a quick buck off of their desperation.

Mercutio washes his face, or at least pretends at it with cold water and brushes his teeth until he can no longer taste his own fear and bile before climbing into the shower, making quick work of bathing. This ritual is as fast paced as it is because it’s what he’s been used to for years and years and because Vincente is waiting for him in the kitchen, probably staring blindly at the coffee pot bubbling away thinking about Alejandro Perez. That boy happened before Mercutio met Vincente, but for someone who is not at all an empath, the other retired exorcist has a particularly soft heart for those tragic, horrific stories, and Mercutio can tell that his own tales haunt Vincente as much as Vincente’s own tragedies and failings. Better to get to him before the grief does. Fill him with eggs and toast and butter, joke at him a bit, raise his heavy, heavy spirit.

When Mercutio makes his way out to the kitchen to do just that, he finds it almost funny that he knows his friend so well, since Vincente is, in fact, staring without seeing at the coffee pot, its soft bubbling only interrupted by the mellow click of Vincente’s nails tapping at a coffee mug. Mercutio takes a chance to glance at what mug he’s chosen, and this is equally amusing-- written across the curved, porcelain white outside are the words ‘I don’t give a sip’. Mercutio has mugs with all sorts of profanity and pun decorating them and Vincente always attempts to choose the most harmless ones for whatever reason, clucking and scoffing and turning all of them this way and that, looking for one that wouldn’t get him scolded by his mother or something.

“Wouldn’t it be cool, if staring at that thing made it make coffee faster?” Mercutio breaks the silence, standing close to Vincente and having a little commonplace revel in the fact that Vincente does not flinch away from him, instead just looking his way. He used to flinch, used to pull himself back at what he imagined was a safe distance-- safe for what?-- before he’d speak, even going so far as to clear his throat or blink his eyes in an obvious show of startle. Now, Vincente just looks Mercutio’s way, eyes half moons of exhaustion and deep, dark brown.

“That would be ‘pretty cool’.” Vincente responds in a raspy lilt of sarcasm-- he doesn’t like slang of any kind, which is also funny and easy to tease at in a way that doesn’t get Vincente’s hackles up.

“Pret.Ty. Cool.” Mercutio punctuates back as he goes into his cabinets and refrigerator, habit alone guiding him through the process of starting a meal for them both because breakfast is easy and requires only a little attention not to fuck it up completely. He only knows how to make over easy eggs because Vincente likes them. He only has strawberry jam in his home because Vincente likes it. The ritual of breakfast is a good one for both of them of course, but even tired like this, Mercutio knows breakfast is the way to recalibrate Vincente for the day. He sets an egg carton on the counter next to the stove and a pretty glass butter holder his neighbor Margaret Dorothy gave him, opening it with more gentility than he’s dealt the eggs to slice butter for the pan.

“Did you sleep?” He asks, even though he can guess the answer.

“I was sleeping, yes.” Vincente answers, and he doesn’t mean to make Mercutio feel guilty, it’s just in the nature of his upbringing to invoke guilt. Luckily, Mercutio is resistant to it after all this time, enough to click his tongue, suck his teeth and reach over to sympathetically pat Vincente’s back as though it wasn’t his screaming or whining that drew Vincente out of rare, much needed rest.

“Guess a nap is on your very full schedule, Mr.Flores.” Mercutio charms, like he’s offering Vincente a free pass with it.

“Probably not,” Vincente counters, deciding the coffee pot is full enough that he can pour himself a cup. “Vanessa’s baby is due, I told Marcus I’d be there with them for it. Godfather duties.” Mercutio smiles at this bit of information that was discussed at length while they’d been drinking the night before.

Vanessa and Marcus Dowager are an ambitious young couple that keep bees in town. They can talk anyone’s face off about honey, love each other so much it’s sickening, and are so painfully white it’s no surprise that they are living the American Dream proper, picket fence and baby on the way in their early twenties and all. The picket fence is navy blue, at least-- they’re not so plain and simple that they carry with them sentiments of 1950’s politics, and as such, when Mercutio and Vincente moved into this town and actively chose separate homes, the couple welcomed them warmly, found it curious that such ‘close friends’ would live separately, and all but adopted Vincente into their happy little picket fence life.Mercutio would be jealous if he didn’t know better not to be, what with Thursday nights dedicated to dinner at the Dowagers over the last three years and Vincente being chosen to be the Godfather of their first born-- Kelly if a girl, Alex if a boy, Vincente had told him with drunken enthusiasm the night before.

Mercutio doesn’t need to be jealous because four to five days out of the week, mornings are spent like this for him, so the Dowagers can have Thursday nights. Of all Mercutio’s vices, greed isn’t one of them, and seeing Vincente wander into his home with his own key, insisting that going to the little diner in town for his breakfast is too greasy and they always burn their coffee or whatever other excuse is plenty for Mercutio to enjoy.

“So are you hoping for a Kelly or an Alex?” He asks while rolling a quickly melting bit of butter around his warmed pan, pretending he doesn’t remember Vincente’s stereotypical and endearing answer from the night before to give Vincente something to talk about that is far away from dead little boys and blood. Let him think of the living, the safe and well.

“I told you,” Vincente says, blowing over the surface of his coffee, guilt wielded less accidentally, “I don’t care, as long as the baby is healthy. Which it should be. Vanessa’s pregnancy has gone very smoothly, all things considered-- better than most women could hope for.” He seats himself at the dinner table in the seat he always chooses, and opens up a news paper Mercutio figures he brought in at the crack of dawn when he hadn’t quite gotten his eyes to shut yet. It is painfully, beautifully domestic, so like always, Mercutio keeps his back turned, head tucked down to watch the pan as he cracks eggs on the rim, smiling over something that isn’t his, but feels like it might as well be.

“Oh yes, very lucky- minimal morning sickness, no swelling feet or back aches for the most part. That baby loves her already.” Mercutio says, amused because he knows this information not from Vanessa herself, but because Vincente has informed him on the play by play of Pregnant Vanessa for the last nine months like her pregnancy is the biggest news in the world. The small town life suits Vincente for this reason. He’s completely unaware that he’s a gossip-- a well meaning one, certainly, but a gossip nonetheless, filling their hour or two of breakfast each day with what the grocer said about the rising import price of tropical fruits or Melinda Huckabee losing her mind over a flag thrown at her boy during the most recent high school football game. This place is just like the church for Mercutio, big city boy that he is, living in it but not of it… but Vincente lets him peek inside, and that’s plenty.

Mercutio feels warmth from behind him, a tingling, tickling sensation that rides up his right side and cups the back of his neck, and he knows immediately that what he’s said has pleased Vincente in some heartfelt way, and that he is looking at Mercutio’s back with that sentiment. He knows if he looks back, if he smiles, Vincente will whip his head down and duck into that newspaper like he’s under fire, so he doesn’t… he just quietly enjoys the gift he didn’t ask for, being able to feel what Vincente has never been willing to admit because he is so very, very catholic and so deeply determined to be uncertain of his own feelings. He won’t give Vincente his daily dose of Catholic Shame by exposing those feelings, leave that to some other local who knows everyone and everything in their tiny town, to the lucky one hundredth person to gently ask after what sort of relationship Vincente and Mercutio have.

The newspaper flaps behind him and the feeling is gone, just a brush of accidental affection, something that goes unnoticed because Mercutio has never really told Vincente how his empathic abilities work, only that they do and that they were useful back then, back when they were dealing with demons together and Mercutio could feel the suffocating torment of a demonic presence off of someone from fifty feet away. Eggs, toast, plates and his own cup of coffee are made up by hands that work without his mind on them, and when he sits himself down beside Vincente, corner of the table making an edge between them, he notices a new, less pleasant feeling dully pulsing off his friend.

Worry. An unusual sort of worry when it comes to Vincente but a common worry for most people. The sort of worry that makes one reach for the nearest sharp thing, the sort of worry that leaves all the lights in the house on and double checks the door locks. Vincente is glaring at the newspaper, eyes scanning quickly, reading line for line, then up and again, searching for specific details that are not there. Mercutio already knows what he’s reading, and knows not to ask, knows he’ll read it with the same worry, the same expression later.

What is written in the paper, has been written in vague, mainstream-media populus soothing terms for the last several months, are news reports about small towns all across the country evolving into strange, violent cults. A new, dangerous faith the papers call it when they want to be dramatic to sell their stories, a growing religion being studied and under control when they don’t want anyone panicking over it. The most recent story Mercutio read described a place up in Wisconsin during christmas time, the tiny town of 307 caught up in a storm that snowed in the place so securely that by the time police had gotten to it, everyone in the town had been dead. A mass suicide, bodies decorating the town literally, a festival of the macabre with all of the denizens posed in the streets in various states of torn apart and frozen over from the storm, all wearing smiling faces and wide, dead, white-eyed stares. Several of the bodies, according to the report, had severe frostbite and many of the people of the town were in varying states of undress, as though the cold was no matter to them, wanting to celebrate some unknown, deadly holiday in the whipping winds and subzero temperatures, to feel nature’s might upon their skin regardless of the damage it would do.

Mercutio knows that these stories would be ‘their territory’, if they were still exorcists. If they hadn’t decided wholesale to stop looking straight into the dark, putting their bodies, minds and souls at risk, he knows that he and Vincente would be piling equipment into Vincente’s car and be on their way to the nearest town with whispers of this dangerous strangeness. It sounds like demons, alright. But not in a way Mercutio has seen. Demons don’t wrap themselves around whole towns, they don’t provoke mass hysteria and prey upon large groups. At least this is a thing that movies about demons get right… isolation is a demon’s very best friend. A family? Certainly. That family and their neighbors? On occasion, but usually? It’s one person and as much suffering as can be squeezed out of them, along with the suffering their suffering can invoke from those who love them and want to see them well or those who are frightened of how they’ve been changed. Baffled doctors, priests who hardly believe demons are real in that way, weeping mothers and headstrong but horrified fathers, confused lovers who lie next to the victims at night and siblings who notice the changes instantly, those are all tasty treats surrounding the main dish of a demon’s victim, so these stories of towns that reek of all the signs of possession but are too big to be that, are exactly the sort of thing that would make Vincente and Mercutio haul ass out to see, barreling carelessly into danger in hopes to be useful.

That’s why they don’t talk about it, even though they both know they’re reading the stories. They said they’d stop, didn’t they? There are enough priests in the world, and while churches with exorcists will happily extort wealthy white families with possessed pretty blonde daughters and leave poorer families suffering from supernatural plight to continue suffering, there has to be plenty of reward in saving whole towns from damnation. A pretty penny in rescuing so many souls, maybe even a kiss from the Pope. Mercutio tells himself that at least, to quiet the urge to ask Vincente about it, and he is sure Vincente has much the same reasons to glare at the newspaper and say nothing of what is disturbing him. There is a Kelly or an Alex on the way, a new park is being set up that might have blackberry bushes and cyprus trees, the weather is perfect this summer and on every corner some sweet little child has decided to throw their hat into the capitalist rat race with home-made lemonade stands. They said they’d stop. They can’t talk about it, if they want it to stay that way.

Mercutio does wonder, has wondered, if Vincente has gotten in contact with any of the priests he used to know about all of this. After all, Vincente was part of an order, a proper Catholic exorcist with training and faith and an iron will against all things damned. His reputation often proceeded him, and he had potential to become quite renown back then, which was a major matter of grief for his colleagues when he chose to work independently with a tattoo covered, foul mouthed, obviously gay druggy with some strange luck for picking up on possessions. Mercutio doubts that Vincente gave any of those complaints the time or energy to explain, he simply told Mercutio to get into his car one day, and after that they were a team, but Mercutio remembers how changed Vincente had been after they’d first met, concerned with the same possessed young man but taking totally different approaches with their intent to help him.

Mercutio had been cocky back then, he remembers so distinctly how he jutted his chin at Vincente and told him so plainly that he was barking up the wrong tree, that Saints and prayer beads wouldn’t save this one from his affliction. It had baffled and offended Vincente then, but when Mercutio had bothered to explain over midnight breakfast in a diner out in the grain-field nowhere of the midwest a month into their unusual new partnership, Vincente had accepted Mercutio’s explanation without much fuss. America is a strange place, after all, a melting pot in all the positive ways America loves to flaunt to more homogenous, xenophobic nations as though Americans don’t try their best to be quietly homogenous and xenophobic in their own right. A melting pot of people, of ideas, of religions, of living, breathing faith. With all those different versions of salvation and spiritual safety, matching darkness and damnation follows, all sorts of good and evil .

So the Good Book wasn’t always the answer. A lot of the time, sure, Christians are a dime a dozen in America and while the ideas of how to Do The Faith Thing are fractious and on a wide spectrum, the Book holds the Words all the same.The mass acceptance of Christianity makes its evils more persistent, more present than other rarer entities of darkness. But there’s lots of books, Mercutio had told Vincente, lots of versions and ideas and ways of being. And with it, lots of sin, temptation, and evil. Lots of demons, lots of kinds of demons, lots of kinds of supernatural torment. Vincente had taken to this idea like a fish to water, almost suspiciously for someone who was so palpably dedicated to the Catholic Church, and after that even though he wore the robe, it wasn’t beyond him to pick up another holy book, study the banishing words of some far off land or consider the dangers of a foreign darkness.

Mercutio supposes after looking back upon those difficult works that Vincente’s goodness, the desire to be good, outweighed the dogma of one way being the right way. Vincente still prayed to God, still stopped in towns to go to confession while Mercutio sat half sunk into the passenger seat of his car smoking cigarettes, still kissed the rosary with all the reverence of whole-hearted belief. But the work, whatever it entailed, was good, so Vincente had done the work and had held back judgement for Mercutio’s opposing state of debauchery and sin not out of necessity but out of kindness. A good man, Vincente Flores. A good man who had quit the business the moment Mercutio said he was done himself.

They’d said they’d stop.

“Eat your breakfast or you’re gonna miss the baby.” Mercutio tells Vincente over the edge of his mug. Normally, he jokes about whatever it is Vincente is glaring at or grumbling about, but this thing he will not touch. Vincente sighs, but sets the paper aside to eat, and typical to a man who has seen too much but can’t afford to let all of those nightmares keep him from sustaining his body, he digs in, cutting yokes open and smearing butter and jelly on his toast, taking big bites, content once more or at least pretending at it. He checks his phone just to be sure he isn’t missing the baby, but it seems so far, there’s no news, since Vincente puts his phone away almost as quickly as he pulls it out.

“What’s on your schedule?” Vincente asks Mercutio when his mouth isn’t full, a touch accusatory in a way that is like the guilt tripping, accidental for Vincente, comfortably tolerable for Mercutio.

“I’ve got to go get more eggs…” Mercutio drawls, glancing up at his ceiling, “No work today, so I’ll do laundry, maybe go for a run. Ms. Dorothy said she wanted me to come over, she’s got something she wants to give me-- probably more dishes.” Mercutio taps the edge of his plate, another gift from Ms.Dorothy like the butter dish and their silverware, the handles decorated with finely drawn ornate swirls and flowers that Mercutio and Vincente have debated to be either holly leaves or lilies.

This vague outline of Mercutio’s day seems to suffice because Vincente gives a small, sharp nod and goes back to eating. After nights of drinking it's always a bit more quiet like this-- they’ve already talked about the town gossip, chuckled away at what few good memories they have of the past and said coded things they both pretend to forget by morning. Mercutio does not mind that quiet, but the worry is still there and Vincente is thinking loudly enough that Mercutio might as well be telepathic along with an empath, if only being able to guess Vincente’s thoughts would count for proper telepathy.

“Don’t worry,” Mercutio says, cutting through the quiet like he does, but drawing a look from Vincente that is shock, a warning, uncertainty, and something dangerously like hope. “The baby will be here before you know it… You don’t want the first time it meets you for you to be scowling like that at it, do you?” The smile that breaks across Vincente’s face is a relief.

“Just getting all of my scowling out now.” He explains and Mercutio huffs, eyes rolling. “Why would I want to see you scowling?” He asks, a whining complaint that has Vincente shaking his head. “Just eat your breakfast.” His teasing is dismissed. It often is. Vincente’s phone chimes and it's out before it finishes the little, repeating tune. He answers, listens, looks at Mercutio and his face is more beautiful than salvation. The baby is coming.

#original story #new faith #mercutio #vincente #lemme know if you liked it!#been workin on this for a while now #writeblr #writing community #queer horror #body horror

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onceandfutureoshainspector · 4 months

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- oh, for fuck's sake, what in the goddamn are you doing here?

---- i gotta say, i'm very surprised at this. i think this is the first time i've seen Maxson outside of his Brooding Room, let alone this far from the Mothership. the fact that he's not surrounded by guards implies to me that he flew himself here, too. no backup, no witnesses, presumably nobody told where he was going - what the fuck is up with this??????

Maxson: How dare you betray the Brotherhood! Danse: It's not her fault. It's mine.

- ah, dagnabit. my process at the moment is that i play through a little chunk, making notes and taking screenshots, and then i type out the dialogue from the screenshots in the appropriate spaces in my notes (and format in html as i go because the sad fact is that that's less aggravating than trying to format with tumblr's rich text editor >_<). except now my xbox is being a shit, and i've apparently missed a few lines of dialogue, after i've overwritten the file saved before this conversation. i'm so mad.

- physically placing myself between my grandson and this lunatic.

Maxson: [missed line? screenshot unclear] Cat: He's not a "thing". He's one of your best men. Maxson: Have you taken leave of your senses? Danse isn't a man, it's a machine... an automaton created by the Institute! It wasn't born from the womb of a loving mother, it was grown within the cold confines of a laboratory! Flesh is flesh! Machine is machine! The two were never meant to intertwine! By attempting to play God, the Institute has taken the sanctity of human life and corrupted it beyond measure!

Danse: After all I've done for the Brotherhood... all the blood I've spilled in our name, how can you say that about me? Maxson: You're the physical embodiment of what we hate most! Technology that's gone too far! Look around you, Danse! Look at the scorched earth and the bones that litter the wasteland! Millions... perhaps even billions, died because science outpaced man's restraint! They called it a "new frontier" and "pushing the envelope", completely disregarding the repercussions! Can't you see that the same thing is happening again?! You're a single bomb in an arsenal of thousands preparing to lay waste to what's left of mankind!

- Maxson really, fundamentally doesn't get what the Institute's whole deal is, does he? like, their thing is sinister and horrific, but he's talking about them like they're the Brotherhood. this entire crusade was never about any of the actual harm the Institute were doing, it was because he heard someone else had power and technology and assumed that they'd use it like he would if he had the chance.

Cat: That's insane. He dedicated his life to protecting mankind. Maxson: Is that what it told you? How can you trust the word of a machine that thinks it's alive? Those ethics that it's striving to champion aren't even its own. They were artificially inserted in an attempt to have it blend in to society.

- WELCOME TO BEING AUTISTIC MOTHERFUCKER YOU JUST DESCRIBED *LEARNED SOCIAL BEHAVIOURS*!!!!!!!!!!!!

Danse: It's true. I was built within the confines of a laboratory, and some of my memories aren't my own. But when I saw my brothers dying at my feet, I felt sorrow. When I defeated an enemy of the Brotherhood, I felt pride. And when I heard your speech about saving the Commonwealth... I felt hope. Don't you understand? I thought I was human, Arthur! From the moment I was taken in by the Brotherhood, I've done absolutely nothing to betray your trust, and I never will. Maxson: It's too late for that now. I don't intend to debate this any longer. My orders stand. Danse: You've convinced me that I was wrong to be ashamed of my true identity, and I thank you for it. Whatever you decide, know that I'm going to my grave with no anger and no regrets.

- dude, come on! we just talked about this!

Maxson: Touching.

- YOU shut the fuck up!

Cat: After all the sacrifices I've made and all the battles I've fought for the Brotherhood, you need to listen to me. You owe me that much. Maxson: Very well, I'm listening.

- :3

Cat: If Danse dies, then you lose me as well. I can't stay in good conscience if his life means that little to you.

- this is very similar to the position i was in with High Confessor Tetris. i have too much clout for even Lord Eyeshadow to sweep me under the rug now, and i think he's just now realising it. literally anyone else, even renowned heroes like THE Paladin Danse, he can do away with if he's quick and quiet and doesn't let them get a word in edgeways, but me? i go loud, and i go messy, and i take the bastard with me.

---- check.

Maxson: Unbelievable. You'd be willing to sacrifice your career... for the sake of a machine. So. It appears we've arrived at an impasse. Allowing Danse to live undermines everything the Brotherhood stands for, yet you insist that he remains alive. Which leaves me with only a single alternative. Danse. As far as I'm concerned, you're dead. From this day forward, you are forbidden to set foot on the Prydwen, or speak to anyone from the Brotherhood of Steel. Should you choose to ignore me, know that you'll be fired upon immediately. Do we understand each other? Danse: I do. [missed line i think] Maxson: Don't mistake my mercy for acceptance. I'm returning to the Prydwen, Knight. Take some time, say your goodbyes, and then I expect to see you there. We still have the Institute to deal with.

- good move, buster.

#fuckyalife buddy boi #fallout 4: the resurrection of osha #fallout 4

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chaosxwrites · 2 years

Text

Clocktower of Babel

can you inherit hubris?

is it even yours to inherit regardless?

you are a being of magic and machinery in the shape of a beautiful doll. delicate features hide grinding gears that could crush bone to dust. a heart of crystal that infuses the water that is your blood with the essence of a goddess slumbering beneath the earth. veins of rubber tubing carry the magic through you as it breathes life into your shell of metal and porcelain. your false lungs carry you forward ceaselessly, and your glass eyes somehow allow you to see the world you can never fully be a part of.

at your core, you are a man-made horror fueled by the essence of a primordial force. at your core, you are something not quite meant to exist. at your core, you do not belong anywhere.

too human for a machine, yet made of clockwork and water instead of flesh and blood.

your siblings are the only ones to fully understand this purgatory that is your existance.

but your creator...

he is a kind man.

he... was a kind man.

you think of the love in his eyes when he looked at you and your siblings. that soft, melancholy expression as one of your sisters and one of your brothers bickered about who would help him the most. that baffling joy when your sibling rebelled against him for the first time. the pride tempered by grief when one by one, everyone but you found purpose outside his tower.

outside your home.

the reluctant happiness when you told him you would stay behind with him. you knew your company was adored and appreciated, but nonetheless he always wondered if you would find a purpose beyond him.

you could.

you had, once.

yet you stayed anyway.

you think that might be what love is.

warmth is your antithesis, but the gentle touch of his hand against your cheek as he called you his beloved daughter... you think if burning could feel wonderful, that's what it would be like.

despite his dreaming, he was simply a lonely old man who craved companionship. despite his ambition, his heart was so full of love for his creations he couldn't bear to shackle them. despite his children being machines of magic and clockwork, he made them human enough that connection wasn't beyond them. despite his compassion, he was a selfish man that doomed his beloved children to an existance of being in-between.

to be human is to be flawed.

and perhaps your flaws are what make you so human.

staring out across this endless, twisted dream, your crystal heart feels close to shattering.

if it's possible to inherit hubris, you are sure that you inherited your creator's.

he was a kind man. an ambitious man. a prideful man.

he wanted to advance the field of science related to machinery and magic, and so he dedicated his life to creating more advanced machines. he craved companionship after his life's work isolated him, so he went further beyond and made machine children with souls derived from the world's magic. he didn't want to let go, and so he fell to the cursed dreams that poisoned the land instead of fleeing his workshop and home.

his workshop fell into disrepair, the tower nearly crumbling even with your careful upkeep. you tried to hold on even as he laid, dreaming and pale, in his bed. you did all you could to keep your world from falling apart.

and yet he....

the clocktower around you tick tick ticks ever onward, though the gears stutter occasionally. it has grown impossibly, its spire reaching into the misty sky of this terrible dream. you know the face of it has warped beyond repair, the hands bent and crooked as the numbers shimmer into runes meant to preserve knowledge.

preserve memories.

you wonder if, as you continue to refuse reality in your creator's stead, the spire will eventually breach the heavens.

you wonder if such a feat would gain the gods' ire or respect.

you wonder if this distorted memory of the tower that is- was- your home will fall to your inherited hubris.

you wonder....

#dream no more.txt #dream no more.doc #original.txt #stream of consciousness #c: ariel

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fucktupeftru · 2 years

Text

Deep down I know men know that they are small and pathetic. They are expendable. They think themselves as God but are incapable of creating life, so they exact their jealousy and revenge upon the true God[desses] of the world in order to gain some sense of control.

They rape and pillage the earth because they believe the world belongs to them, hoping that the treasures of the earth stolen from the ground will fill the emptiness of their black hearts and the supple, leather folds of their back wallets. This will never satisfy them, and slowly I start to see more and more men realize this as well. “This is too easy,” they say. “Where is the fight? This does not make me feel big and strong at all. All I feel is….” And they cannot finish their thought because to do so would fill their head like a hornet’s nest. Each sting of knowledge on their brain would hurt more than the last, continually swelling with knowledge that could never escape or be drained. Soon the swelling of knowledge would become too great and too painful and too unavoidable. So rather than face the pain that comes with the stinging revelation they accept another day of being another dying, rusty cog in a well-oiled killing machine, a cog that will be replaced within the hour of your death — this cog is sure to be much rustier, perhaps a few nuts and bolts may be missing, so of course he must not need as much as the cog before to survive, but this ensures that the man running the machine is well fed and taken care of with the earnings he’s decided we don’t need. How could we, us lowly cogs, ever understand how this well-oiled killing machine works? How could we ever dream of dismantling it? The man running the machine would never give us such knowledge—he says the machine is what keeps us alive! And yet I’ve seen friends ground up, pulverized, and spat into that machine to keep the flames stoked. And yet again I’ve seen those same friends, as their bones are crushed between the gears, their teeth explode out of their sweet smiles, blood dribbling down their sweaty bodies, oiling the parts, that the man running the machine keeps us alive. He keeps us alive, and fed, and clothed and so we should be thankful to those cogs, those men who are made to feel small, for pillaging and raping the bodies of women which makes them feel big. For without these small men and their delusions of feeling big to toss our lifeless bodies back into the gears we would no longer have any blood to lubricate this machine.

The land doesn’t fight back as you bury excavators into her earthy flesh. She doesn’t cry as you rip her rooted veins out and sever the underground connection she’s had with her sisters for thousands of years. Her caretakers may cry and mourn her loss, but the land will always find new ways to grow back into the beautiful mother she once was and has always been.

Many women, unfortunately, have not been blessed with this mother’s strength and resilience. We cry. We fight. We thrash. We put up a challenge for these small men and when they have taken our life as their prize they feel big again. Almost as big as the man running the machine.

#I wrote this last night on like 6 Xanax so it probably doesn’t make sense or is just bitter

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frostahesmegabite · 3 years

Text

The Judgement of Carrion

@daily-writing-challenge - Day 4 - Accomplish/Macabre [ Content warning: Blood, Guts, Gore, Bits of Torture, That sort of stuff. While there aren't pages and pages of it, it is present in this short story. I tried to find a balance of detail and keeping things light without going into ‘Hostel’ territory. ]

Human forts were a dime a dozen, easily found and half of them forgotten or falling to ruin due to the numerous war fronts that were constantly moving across the face of Azeroth to fight one force or another. Some lost to time, others to ruin, some to marauding forces and others simply abandoned because they were no longer needed. It was one of these Forts that Megahes had put to use for himself and probably his most comprehensive and long lasting pastime.

Clever little devices put into play to keep things looking abandoned and misused, neglected and falling to ruin. The place had not only been repaired but also reinforced with Magical and Mechanical Goblin ingenuity that was built upon with knowledge gained over the past several decades.

Inside of this fort, despite the fact it was never intended to receive an actual willful audience, was decorative furniture made of fine dark woods embroidered with rich velvets, soft silks and the finest wools and cottons coin could acquire. Tables stretching about with plates and goldware that no man or woman other than Megahes would ever see sat to present an atmosphere of riches on display. Trophy cases and stands line the walls with numerous weapons of both magical and mundane descent that perch over Armor Stands holding protective metal layers meant not just for Goblins, but all races.

If any ever came to somehow find the place and took the time to inspect any of it, they’d find that all of these items weren’t as ‘pristine’ as they may appear at a distance. Damage came to them all at some point or another. Blunted blades, shattered axe heads assembled to look presentable. Armor with gashes, pierced helmets or chest pieces, greaves with shorn metal by the thighs that most likely led to bleed outs.

The more one could look, the more they’d note that all of the gear was like walking through a museum of deathly wounds. All that stood or hung from the walls had a story of defeat and loss and probably before then, great triumphs, valor and victory… just to have their stories end here.

Megahes pays no mind to these things now though as he walks with his back rigid and straight, his arms back behind him with hands clasping the other arms elbow in some overly formal glide across the stone floor. His bright white and gold attire is a stark beacon amongst the dark colors and atmosphere of the room that one should have found comforting, but for some reason, only brought worry and dread with it as he moves about his untold business.

[ Artwork by the Magnificent Fishadee. No Fire or Light Shards floating about in this scene, purely put for clothing example. https://twitter.com/fishadee ] He stops, not worrying to look around for any watchers, for he knows there are none as he stops at a small wall just behind a staircase. “Rehorur decno Kudex.” A series of flashes occur around our Goblin and once completed a small stone panel slides off to the side and Megahes puts his hand into the slot. A sudden sharp ‘shing!’ sound is head and Mega’s neck tenses but for a moment before his hand is withdrawn. A mechanical but feminine voice perks up from the slot. “Welcome back.” “Hmm.” The only sound Megahes makes before he takes a step back and then to the left. The stone wall jars forward at an alarming speed, spikes erupting from her stone crevices meant to impale and kill any would-be intruders while giving Megahes the solitary moment that was needed to pass behind the crude defense into the wall beyond. Whether by measured practice or perhaps sensors, the trap quickly retreats and returns to normal, giving off no telltale signs of a hidden door or of Mega’s earlier passing.

The reason for all this secrecy? Hidden at the end of the staircase Mega was already descending. Humans had their specialties sure, jacks of all trades those people. But the one thing they never fail to make well?

Jail Cells and Prisons.

It was this singular reason that Megahes took over this once ramshackle Fort for himself. Though there weren’t many cells, there was no need. Three of them sat in a row at the bottom of the stairs, each outfitted with custom Arcano-tech that allowed for the arrival of a singular occupant that was soon set to magical and electrical suppression to keep them docile and incapable of action while time slowly allowed them to become dehydrated and starved to where strength or speed was no longer an issue either.

The work put into this place was one of Mega’s hidden creations of pride and in the past, its use went towards a sorted pastime of torturing whoever was unfortunate enough to get caught by one of his traps. Times change however and with Mega’s newfound religion, came the need to change how and why he did things while applying them to old hobbies. Today’s hobby however, only involved one other person beyond himself and Mega comes to stand right before him as electricity pulses through his frail, nearly starved frame.

“Brother Abacus.” A stupid name, false to be sure, but one that Megahes didn’t really care about either way. “I realize you don’t know who I am and that’s quite alright.” He leans in, voice dialing down as he speaks through the bars just as another tide of electricity bombards the ‘Brother’, causing him to whimper and whine in pain. “You have been found guilty of being a member of a Twilight Cult, one in fact, that was run by Dinthoqaf the Defiler.”

The cultist looks up, arms shaking in heavy tremors as he tries to look his would-be captor in the eye. They give out however, causing him to hit the ground with an exhale. His cracked and bleeding lips wobble, trying to say something, but the lack of strength made their efforts near useless. It was sad really, or at least it would be if Megahes cared about the man's condition in the slightest.

Megah glides over to a control panel on the wall and proceeds to flip a series of switches and dials which cause several mechanical tendrils to tear from the wall in Abacus’ cell that soon lash him to the same wall they originated from. His body was quickly drawn into an ‘X’ shape with limbs pulled tight and to their limits.

“You see. Your former… Employer? Boss? Leader.” Megahes hands lift and tumble in slow methodical circles as he tries to find the right word, but leaves it be. “Him and I don’t get along very well and thanks to his efforts, I find myself needing to improvise my tactics a bit. While I know he’s dead, face turned to slag and glass, I wanna make sure I get the job done correctly, meaning none of his followers try to take up his mantle. I’m sure you understand.”

He turns around and heads into the cell, worry of electrocution now gone thanks to the current state of affairs. “You see. I have this…” He pauses. “...Macabre little ritual I have to do every so often and believe me.” The Goblin laughs while looking up at the man while proceeding to straighten up his clothes, as if it mattered. “As much as people might want me to say I hate doing this… I don’t. I’ve been doing this to people way before you all found me and now. Now I get to put my hobbies to better use.”

Megahes’ hand comes up, his index finger pressing to his lips to tell Brother Abacus to be silent. His smile fades with the gesture and he reaches up, pressing his black and gold painted claw against the clothing of this man's thigh. Downward, slowly, it runs. Fabric quickly turns from a peasant-y brown to a heavy red and brown as flesh below seems to split before the clothing itself can.

Magic? Possibly. Insanely sharp claws? Not likely. But whatever it was, the man's thigh split open as if by scalpel and despite his starvation, he thrashes weakly in an effort to pull away. The machines holding his wrists tighten and continue to do so until the sound of bone is heard crunching.

This process continues on not just for mere moments but stretches of hours, lines drawn across flesh like sand. Megahes had nothing else to say and so, despite the protests and pleading, begging to let him go and he’d tell no one, Mega continued.

Soon, details were carved away, facial features, scalp and its rooted hair, ears. Nearly anything that could be taken and removed without outright killing this poor cultist was taken in some macabre movie of silence and torture and finally, when the man was nearest his end, Megahes opens his own shirt.

The metal embedded into his Chest that shines with the Light like a beacon in this squalor, practically vibrates as Mega runs his blood coated hands across its surface. Red blood made semi-translucent by the sheer shine, soon was baked and cooked black, all Vitae devoured, leaving Megahes to sigh in relief.

“I would ask you to tell the Defiler thank you for giving me this. But… we both know you’re never going to have that opportunity.”

Megahes runs his hand up from Brother Abacus' groin clear up to his collarbone, shearing clean through flesh and muscle alike. What came next was a grotesque shower of innards that began to fall and slop to the floor, leaving our would-be cultist inanimate and lifeless.

“Now to clean up and go home. Tonight’s my date night and I have so many things to accomplish before She gets home…” Soon, the jail cells were left dark and eventually the slow trickling of blood and various other liquids came to silence in the dark, waiting to be cleaned up and for a new subject to be taken.

#blood #gore #gif #warning #torture #goblin #daily-writing-challenge #Megahes #Day4DWC #Macabre #murder

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hellraisered · 3 years

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drabble / the riddler

When he felt any strong emotion, Edward Nygma’s hands had a tendency to shake. It was by no means a new occurrence, developed in his youth out of necessity when he was clenching his teeth underneath covers, suppressing sobs in hopes of not incurring the wrath of a father who regarded his bottle, more than he did his own flesh and blood.

The trait itself was little more than annoying - it was something he wasn't in control of, and the Riddler was not particularly fond of lacking control. That, and it made tinkering in hopes of blowing off steam harder, not to mention marginally riskier. The still pink, glistening scar on his right knuckle that was the result of holding a boxcutter with shaking fingers, was one of the more recent, but many available examples.

Regardless of the risk, Edward always gravitated toward machinery. After all, wires were much easier to deal with than people; circuit boards didn't speak too loudly, didn't ask him questions. Injuries incurred while working, such as the occasional shock or singe, were not ones given out of malice - nothing like pain from brutal fists and broken bones that breached the skin, worming their way into crystalline memory.

LED's were much more understanding, and provided far better company. Processors never interrupted him while he spoke, didn’t accuse him of lying, and code never made snide remarks. Yes, Edward thinks, his hands might shake, and it often made his handwriting look like chicken-scratch, or caused him to slice open his thumb, but the internal mechanisms of a complex machine provided better companionship than any human being ever could.

#edward nygma #the riddler #i did not feel like doing my drafts.#hmm edward is autistic . in my mind #no verse specified. but arkhamverse heavily implied me thinks

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the-silentium · 3 years

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Murphy day Pt. 4

Masterlist - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Epilogue

Pairing: Bad Batch x Reader

Words: 3480 words.

Warnings: Medical stuff without much detail.

A/N: YAY last chapter of this series! This was a lot of fun! Hope you guys stay tuned for more Bad Batch fics! Don’t forget to leave comments, always much appreciated!

Fors is an Original planet. I do not give permission to people to use it for their own fics, the planet, the animals, the Nightmares, the lore or anything related to Fors. Thank you.

At first, you felt numb. It felt like your mind was wandering around, completely separated from your body. Where you should be feeling your hands and feet, there was only nothingness, a way too cold nothingness.

Then the soreness poked at the corner of your brain, slowly assaulting your nerves, crawling up your body until all you could feel was a mass of terribly aching limbs. A constant discomfort deep within your throat prompted you to cough it out to relieve yourself of the nagging feeling, the weak attempts miserably failing to alleviate the sensation of something invading your throat.

As you tried to raise a hand to rub at your neck, you realized that something was keeping it down. Something warm. And tight.

Like Tech's hand when he was pulling you away from the predator on your tail. Or when he was dangling in the air on the verge of death, the only thing keeping him from disappearing into the abyss being your fingers clutching his hand.

Fear flooded your system, fighting the exhaustion paralyzing your limbs. Your hand closed around the warm soft object in your grip, your hold tightening despite the pain radiating from your fingers. You couldn't let go. He would die. Your friend would die.

You didn't hear the yelp over the frenetic heartbeat booming in your ears, your closed eyes projecting you directly to that day when the dark sky offered the perfect camouflage to the draconic reptile. He was concealed in the dark, waiting for you to drop your guard. No. He was waiting for you to drop Tech so he could feast on his flesh.

Your eyes flew open in terror as the hand in yours slipped slightly, your fist crushing it with all your might to keep it secure.

The unexpected brightness brings tears to your eyes, the first droplets falling down your cheeks before a familiar figure invaded your personal space, his other hand flying to your shoulder in a comforting grip.

His lips were moving, trying to tell you something that you couldn't hear over the hammering of your heart or your quick breathing or the hectic beeping sound on your left.

Lifting your head a little, pain exploded behind your eyes, forcing your head back down immediately. Your eyes moved to your hand, still imprisoning another's in its vice grip. The sight made you relax slightly. You'd not dropped him.

Before your attention could return to the person hovering above you, his hand on your shoulder retreated as someone else took his place from your other side, a total stranger that looked oddly familiar in some way. He moved quickly around you, talking to you while putting something terribly cold onto your chest multiple times before removing something taped to your face and removing the thing down your throat.

You coughed as you felt the thing move out, more tears leaking down your face at the effort.

"You're okay Y/N." You finally heard, your mind concentrating on what was around instead of yourself. "You're okay." He repeated in case you still didn't hear him, his other hand returning to your shoulder.

His dark locks seemed even wilder than they were in the jungle, although they weren't slick with sweat and rain anymore. His armor was off, leaving him in a black skin fitted suit that allowed you to appreciate just perfectly fit he was beneath all that composite. His tattoo was still intriguing, but his eyes reminded you too much of someone else to let yourself wander about how soft the ink would feel beneath your fingertips.

"T-" You coughed at the roughness of your throat, increasing the pulsing feeling into your skull.

"Don't talk yet." Hunter chided, getting closer as the other man moved around, checking machines and bags disposed all around you. Where was water when you needed it?

"Tech's fine. All he got was a bruised hand." His gaze moved to your joined hands on the bed. "No wonder. You've got a hell of a grip."

Your eyes widen in realization that you were still clutching him in a terribly tight grasp, pain erupting from your white fingers as soon as you relaxed the tension.

He shook his hand once before massaging his digits to resume the blood flow. He turned to you, all traces of pain washed off his face, relief, and exhaustion taking its place.

"You scared us all to death, you know that?"

You frowned, unsure as to why.

"Tech said that the fall should have been fatal." It clicked in your head, your fall replaying back in your head, the air hitting you full force, your stomach on the verge of your lips, the screams resonating in your ears.

"Somehow, you survived the fall and we took you to the closest GAR medical outpost."

You frowned, looking around to the room but were interrupted by a light flashing directly into your eyes. You blinked, surprised but tried to maintain them open for the apparent exam.

"Follow the light." The doctor softly instructed, obliging as he moved the light from right to left. He nodded in approval. "Does it hurt somewhere?"

You nodded slowly, a finger pointing at your head the best you could with your stiff joints.

"Your head?" You nodded in confirmation.

"Your pilot will be monitored closely for a while. As of now, her vitals are good and I'll give her something for the pain." He addressed Hunter, the latter nodding in understanding. Your head tilted to the side, your eyebrows dipped in a frown. Pilot? "Keep her rested, no moving around like the other one." He finished on a disapproving tone and pointed look, pressed some buttons on a machine right beside you, and left the room when Hunter promised to keep you in bed.

"We had to pass you as our pilot so you could be treated here, so play the game." He whispered when the doctor exited the room and turned to meet your confused face.

Your eyes widened, quickly shaking your head because you don't know shit about ships! What if someone asked you about stuff GAR related? Hissing, you abruptly stopped, your head spinning and hurting.

"Stop that. You may have survived but you had a severe concussion, some internal injuries, broke an arm, a few ribs, and have lots and lots of bruises." His eyes roamed your face, analyzing the different colors painting your skin, although you couldn't care less because your eyes caught the cast enveloping your right arm.

You were fucked. You'd never be able to go home and act like you didn't go out on Murphy day. You'll get punished, your life will become more miserable, people will avoid you even more than they already did. Maybe they'll quick you out of the village!

Your face must have shown your panic or maybe it was the fact that the beeping sound accelerated along with your heartbeat, but Hunter got closer, his hand reaching for your shoulder once more.

"What's wrong?"

"T-" You coughed before clearing your throat. Your mouth felt like it was full of sand, but you had to get it out. "They'll know-" You winced. "-I was out."

"Well. I'm sure they know by now." He looked sheepish, scratching the back of his head like that, almost uncomfortable to tell you some precious information. "You've been out for a bit less than a month."

"A month?!" You choked, eyes widening in shock. This couldn't be possible. He must have hit his head too.

"You're awake!" The door to your room opened swiftly, letting inside the rest of the batch, all without armor. Tech hurried to your side first, taking your bruised hand in his and staring at you like he couldn't believe it.

"I am." You answered in a daze, still distracted by the fact that you missed a month.

"You should be dead." He whispered in awe.

"Jeez, thanks for the vote of confidence." You coughed as Hunter called his brother, horrified.

"No, I mean… I'm happy that you're alive! All I'm saying is that you had a 50% chance to die from a 48 feet high fall. But headfirst?! Your chances were close to none!"

You gulped. "Cool?"

"He should be thanking you instead of telling you all that." Hunter pointed out, a hard look on his face directly focussed on his little brother.

"Thanks," Said brother whispered, his free hand scratching his neck in shame. "for saving my life. Twice."

"No thanks needed. You'd have done the same." You moved your hand so you could give him a comforting squeeze.

"Sarge told you you'd survive the day Y/N!" Wrecker approached from Hunter's side, happiness lacing his voice.

"And I told you guys would give me your bad lu-" Your smile disappeared as soon as you took in the bandages covering his naked chest. Some patches of exposed skin were tainted from a sick yellow to some dark green, worrying you to no end.

"What happened to you?" You croaked, coughing when your voice raised in pitch.

"There." You heard Crosshair’s low voice before a cup appeared in front of you.

"I don't think she shoul-"

"I want it!" You hurried out of breath, cutting Tech before anyone could think about following his instructions.

Taking the cup from Crosshair's hand, Hunter approached it to your hand not attached to a cast.

"Good to do it yourself?"

"I'll try." You shrugged, fighting past the exhaustion in your bone to lift your hand to the white carton cup, only for it to burn up all your energy. "Shit."

The good point was that whatever the doctor gave you was working perfectly, the throbbing in your head was gone and the pulsing in your hand as well.

"Here." The cup reached your lips and very slowly, Hunter tilted it to appease your thirst without drowning you in the process. You would have been mortified at the idea of being helped like this, but in this very precise situation, all you could think of was drink.

Lie. This is not sweet! Bacterias! You almost spit it out by reflex but remembered at the last second that they surely wouldn't give you undrinkable water. It was difficult, but you forced yourself to swallow.

Once satisfied, you lifted your head to signal to Hunter to back off. You hummed your thanks, smiling gratefully and totally ignoring the smirk Crosshair send his tattooed brother, focussing your attention on Wrecker instead.

"What happened?" You repeated yourself.

"The giant snake hit me with its tail." He shrugged like it was nothing. "I'm fine, don't worry. I've survived worse!"

You stared him up and down, wondering how in the universe he could have survived that. Its tail was rock hard to allow it to move underground. There was no way-

"What could be worse than a Basilisk wanting you for dinner?!"

"That'll be a story for another time." A woman said from the door. "Now that you are awake we need to run some more exams." She smiled warmly at you, and you immediately knew that you liked her. "You can all come back later."

"Aw already?" You chuckled slightly at Wrecker's disappointment.

"Unfortunately. But I promise to take good care of her for you all." She replied, entering the room to get to the machines at your side.

"We'll be back." Hunter promised before bending to your ear, whispering cheekily, "You're a hell of a catch. Never think otherwise." Leaving you agape to follow the others out without a glance back. He didn't need to, the heart monitor told him all he needed to know. You were mortified. He had heard you by the river.

Crosshair saluted you in the doorway, Tech patted your hand, Wrecker waved and Hunter smirked before closing the door.

"I've never seen them so worried about someone else other than the four of them. It's nice to see them opening to someone else." She smiled, noting information on her datapad.

If only you knew… I know them for only 2 hours top.

________________________

You gulped down the last bit of your small breakfast, the tasteless bread leaving a soggy feeling in your mouth.

You'd slept like a baby after Mylana finished to examine your cast, reflexes, and more. Your strength returned during the night, allowing you to lift your cast-free left arm to feed yourself.

Patch, the clone doctor assigned to your case passed to assess your improvement and informed you that he'd remove the nasogastric tube so you could eat by yourself. Removing the thing was nasty, definitely something you didn't want to live again but it was worth it. Or so you thought. Because the food here was depressing compared to Fors’ vast variety of fresh fruits, meat, and vegetables.

It was only when Patch presented himself that you realized how different the Bad Batch was from the rest of the clones. He was the very first 'normal' clone you encountered. It pushed you to think about how the batchers must have had it hard, to live in a world where everything must be identical and you're not. They had no chance to conceal it, to be themselves like all the others because they were physically different. They had no chance to try and save themselves. It was infuriating and unfair.

"How's breakfast?" Tech asked from the door, moving uncomfortably from a foot to the other.

"Not what I'm used to but it’s edible." You shrugged, waving him in. "Don't be a stranger, I'm your pilot after all."

Tech chuckled at that, closed the door to sit at the foot of the bed. For a while he sat there, watching his fingers, sometimes pressing them together but never facing you.

"You don't have to apologize for anything Tech. I don't know what's bugging you, but it's fine. I'm alive." You told him honestly, surprising him.

"I-What I said yesterday was inappropriate and I'm very sorry. It's just- I watched the recording times and times again and- Why did you let go of my hand?" He finally met your eyes offering you disbelief, confusion, sadness, and betrayal on a golden plate.

"I told you there was nothing to apologize for. I let go of your hand because I didn't want to drag you down with me." You lifted your hand when he opened his mouth to interrupt you, effectively shutting him up. "I'd do it again. Don't beat yourself over it, because it's not your fault Tech." You ended firmly, no trace of your previous amusement on your face.

He analyzed your face for a second before averting his eyes.

"How's your hand?" You asked, eager to fill the silence.

"Still bruised." The corner of his lips lifted slightly as he showed you his colorful hand. "I couldn't close it at first, but it passed." He chuckled. "Oh, and I had to wash my armor at least 3 times to get rid of the phosphorescence."

You laughed full-on before pain shot through your chest at the movement.

"Don't make me laugh!"

"Slept well then." Hunter entered followed by Crosshair and Wrecker with a black shirt on this time.

"Best night of sleep I had in a while Sarge." You beamed. It was true, the life in the village was hard enough. Not because of your work, but because the incessant persecution was heavy to bear.

"Good to hear. We came back after the exam but you were asleep." He positioned himself at the foot of the bed, letting Wrecker all the place to sit in the chair at your side.

"Thanks for letting me sleep then!"

"Even if we wanted to wake you, Patch would've had our asses before we even opened the door!" Wrecker laughed, stopping his poking of the fluid bag hanging near his shoulder to smile at you.

"He just wants me to be discharged sooner than later." You batted his hand away as he resumed his movement.

"Speaking of discharge, we'll take you back to Fors as soon as you're cleared." The playful smile fell of your face in a heartbeat.

"Oh. Ok. Thanks."

"What's the matter?" Crosshair approached at Hunter's question, clearly wanting to know the answer.

"Nothing. Can't wait to go back." You faked a smile that didn’t reach your eyes, not fooling a single clone in the room.

"What is it?" The sniper inquired, surprising you that he'd care about your feelings and well, you.

"It's just… I'm done. People know that I went out on Murphy day and they certainly think me dead right now." You explained.

"Well, they'll be happy to see that you're not." Tech tilted his head, not understanding where the problem was.

"No one misses the village's freak. Ever. They won't throw a celebration because I'm alive, they'll kick me out for breaking the law, and because I'll attract them bad luck."

Silence fell over the room and suddenly you felt an urge to pull on the needles in your arms and hand and run out the door to avoid the conversation and all the shame accompanying it.

"You're not a freak." You scoffed at Wrecker, all the insults thrown at you during your life echoing in your head like a curse.

"Wanting more than just living the life that was imposed on me at birth doesn't fit under the norms on Fors. A female having weapons is not acceptable, even less a female hunting. Working a physical job instead of stayin' at home is not exemplary. Plus, I'm still single! I told off the guy who asked for my hand after my dad died and went as far as menacing him with a knife. After that, I was pretty much a goner." You recalled painfully, hands clenching around the sheets, eyes closing in shame.

"I'm always being stared at like a freak show, pushed around by my supposed peers, thrown in the mud when possible, or let behind in a storm. Oh let's not forget that I went out on Murphy day. Now, that's the dumbest shit I've ever done but damn did it felt good to break their stupid law! I'm sure I'll be exiled at best or executed at worse."

You finally took a deep breath in, canalizing your frustration to not take it out on the medical equipment helping you get better. The silence was heavier than before and you thought that maybe the drip Patch showed you for the episodes of pain could help you relieve some of the pressure crushing you.

"Your planet is hell." Was all Crosshair had to say for you to smile again.

"It is." You confirmed, eyes still closed.

"We need a pilot." That got you to open your eyes, confused at Hunter.

"So? I'm not a pilot. My planet doesn't even have datapads."

"We'll train you." Tech and Wrecker were as surprised as you were, although your big friend was the most enthusiast out of the group.

"Really Sarge?" He asked, hopeful.

"Wo there, calm down. We've known each other for 2 hours!" You reasoned in disbelief. He couldn't possibly offer you a job, an escape route out of your misery, after walking alongside you for 2 hours more or less. "You don't know me!"

"On the contrary, I've learned plenty in 2 hours." He countered, his serious eyes telling you that he passed his time analyzing your actions, your motives, who you were.

It was really tempting, but you couldn't help to feel that this was rushed. It was, right?

"Freaks help each other." Crosshair added putting a stop to your doubt. They were the same as you.

"I told you already Cross." You smirked at him. "You're not defects. Simply the improved versions of your species." You nudged his arm pressed at the foot of the bed that he was leaning on next to Hunter with your sheet covered toes.

"You seen Patch?" He lifted an eyebrow at you, not believing that after seeing the real deal you still talked highly of them.

"I did. Really handsome." You paused, to bit your bottom lip. "But that just means that you guys are even more handsome." He scoffed and you laughed, happy to get a smirk out of him.

"So, wanna become a pilot?" Hunter reiterated, waiting. He seemed so patient, unbothered, but you could see it beneath the surface. He was anxious to know the answer.

"On one condition." Held your chin high, ignoring how Wrecker's face split into a wide grin and how Tech straightened at your side.

"Name it."

"I wanna touch that tattoo of yours." You smirked.

Wrecker exploded in laughter, Tech blinked in incredulity until it dawned on him and his cheeks became pink from the blood rush and Crosshair simply rolled his eyes, pushing himself off the bed.

"Deal." He smirked in turn, not once moving his eyes from your lips.

Finally.

#bad batch x reader #wrecker x reader #tech x reader #crosshair x reader #hunter x reader #bad batch #star wars #clone wars #clone force 99 #this is the end!!!!#murphy day

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virgil-writes · 3 years

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ash & soot

Long before the Winters come into play, a monster stalks the Forbidden Forest that surrounds the Village. Karl Heisenberg is sent to investigate, and heads deeper into darkness to find his prey, a thorn on his side and someone just like him. (Heisenberg x OC)

chapter 11 - fever dream

trigger warning, body horror and blood, lots of blood. around 3.8K words.

He knew he had overstayed his welcome by the tiredness in her eyes, a stab of guilt very close to piercing through his skin though he resisted. He had struck a nerve without meaning to, his flirting and prodding taken too far, what he intended to bring them closer making her recoil instead. Heisenberg had left her cabin with shoulders slumped and heart heavy, but the way she had bid him goodbye told him everything would be just fine. It was all forgotten by the time he turned the corner to go further into the forest, all suppressed under a boot-clad stomp. He would not consider how he might have personally hurt her, how he might have dug in too deep and crossed the few lines she had established. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a stupid little voice told him that he cared, even if he didn’t mean to, and there was only so much he could ignore it before it bubbled to the surface. He had dealt with worse. Keeping feelings and memories buried was a skill he had developed over almost a hundred years.

Her feelings were not important right now, he reminded himself, because the plan took all precedence. There would be no more village if Miranda saw her plans fulfilled, no little witch to offend and no metal man to call stupid nicknames. Maybe once they were free he would be interested in truly making friends, sitting down to talk things through and giving her time to answer his questions, not when he pressed but when she was ready. Bah, who was he kidding? He was not a man meant to play house, to have healthy relationships that were based on dialogue and mutual understanding with. He was the worst friend a person could have. She could die mad.

Still, perhaps there were lines he would better not cross, at least to keep her complacent. From the very beginning he had intended to keep her in the dark as much as possible, only tell her what was strictly necessary to have her help him. Learn what she could truly do, exploit it as covertly as possible, then unceremoniously dump her so he could finally fight his battles. Get from point A to point B, make himself an ally, but not a friend. She was a tool, as were all others, living or dead. He would see his ambition realized. He would set himself free.

Hours bled into days and into a week before he saw her again. His days once again become a blur of planning and building, head empty if not for the thoughts of revenge and the rage that fueled him ever onward. Research at the factory was going smoothly enough, problems here and there. Miranda was mostly out of his hair, as was Alcina, having finally given up after he told her, time and again, that nothing other than lycans inhabited the woods. Some power failures in Eins were a true head-scratcher, night after night of writing and drawing, assembling and disassembling. It was a good way to pass the time. Sturm was still a failure, a project put on the back burner until the right inspiration hit him.

It all reached a boiling point not soon after, stress catching up to him when a mining drill down the mine shafts malfunctioned and exploded, the cave-in cutting off a whole team of haulers and all the resources they had gathered. The bodies soon began to rot and the stench filled the vents, crept through tunnels to find him in all rooms he thought he could hide in. Night and day his soldiers would drill and get nowhere, night and day he would work to see no returns. He had descended into a fit of rage that brought out the worst within him, his transformation no longer his to control after the first few minutes of thrashing and shouting. It hurt as much this time as it did every other, flesh tearing and pulsing and twisting and expanding, tendons pulled, muscles sore, skin stretching far beyond what it should ever be able to. Pain seared through every inch of him, a gust of flame where his blood should be. It burned unbearably hot while chilling him to the bone with the sheer horror of it.

His conscience would never fully slip him in those moments. He would not recognize himself in the mirror, his appearance no longer that of a man, but he was still him, still a genius of engineering, still a silver fox that could charm the pants off of anyone if he wanted to. At least that was what he told himself, though there was definitely and underlying hunger that he could not suppress, that was not entirely his. Not for meat like the Duke’s, not for blood like Alcina’s. Not at all physical, but gnawing on his bones nonetheless. A need for violence, for terror, to destroy everything and crush everyone. Turn every living being to a pulp and make art with the carnage, paint the walls red and hang their insides from the ceiling. His fingers itched for it even when they no longer existed, his heart pulsating with rage and anticipation. It was hard to keep himself in check sometimes, to stop the spiral that brought him ever downward, towards the blackened waters of oblivion that he felt were always so dangerously close to consuming him. He would be no better than any of them if he gave in, he repeated it as a mantra, no better than the family of abominations who consumed flesh and drank blood like the finest wine, no better than the lycans who toyed with the villagers only to eviscerate them and then suck the marrow out of their bones. But how would it feel, a small voice asked in the back of his mind, to be so free, to let his rage flow with the blood he spilled, vindication for thousands of days of suffering. He could almost taste it, feel his sins washed away by the sacrifice, dangerously within reach, so very tempting. Every time he resisted, and every time it became harder to do so.

He can’t remember the last time he’d lost control, the last time he’d blacked out and woken up a day later in his birthday suit and covered in guts that weren’t his. He can’t remember if it had been yesterday or last year or thirty years ago, but he remembers the feeling all too well, the sickening soft touch of tissue, foul smelling bits of flesh underneath his nails. He could never know who, or why, or how, and could only hope he hadn’t blown his cover, hadn’t killed someone Mother would miss. The last time, he never quite managed to wash the contents of the poor soul’s stomach from his hair, the stench nauseating. It had been the first time he had taken scissors to his hair and cut it with a fury and desperation he did not know he possessed. Ther uneven strands only served to remind him that his monstrous self was but a failed project away, looming in the darkness, a return to the bloody roots Miranda had ingrained within him on that operating table all those years ago.

Fists slam against the table in an attempt to let off some steam as he curses his temper, his family, that crow bitch for ruining him forever. But it only serves to stoke the fires, to anger him further, cloth rips as he yells and everything goes downhill from there.

These moments between man and beast are always the most difficult, the ones that seem to last forever, the ones that plague him with so many thoughts he feels his head will explode. Would an army be enough to stop her? Hundreds upon hundreds of lost souls hanging overhead, conveyor belts transporting his army on an endless display of his greatest accomplishments. He could only hope enough of his machines would survive the waves of lycans she would throw at them; he could practically see it, teeth bared and eyes gaunt, claws reaching to grab onto something, anything that would give it purchase, an armor plate, perhaps the tube that kept the soldier’s blood pumping. One after the other the lycans would fall, until they had become too many, a pile of writhing half-humans feasting on its disgusting prey. He could practically hear it, and every exploded reactor chipped away a sliver of his confidence - and his sanity.

He never intended to get involved, never intended to join the battle and cut through monsters. His eyes had always been set on Mother, Mother and the stupid lieutenants she called her children. Moreau crying for it all to stop, Donna cowering with Angie behind moldy wings. Alcina would be the only one to face him head on, he knew, and finally he would be able to tear her apart with her own nails. He would then pluck one out to shoot it right at the dollmaker’s face, right onto the squirming parasite that inhabited the half of her face where her eye ought to be. To Moreau he would give a present, a grenade for him to swallow whether he felt hungry or not, a tasty last meal for the disgusting fish man who scraped the bottom of the muddy river. As for Miranda, he hoped it was enough, he was enough, all of his experimentations and studying and training coming together to make him unstoppable. Only time would tell, and with each passing day he grew wearier, and the beast stronger.

But what did he have to lose?

His mind barely registered his actions as he made his way out of the factory, a bundle of papers tucked under his arm, hammer and cigar long forgotten. The world greeted him with a sheen of milky fog, of faded colors that threatened to jump at him in full vibrancy at a moment’s notice, threatened to overwhelm his already weakened perception. His tendons pulled and muscles ached with each agonizing step, left knee and elbow burning like he had shoved them inside a furnace and forgotten to take them out. His head hurt worse than the most gruesome of hangovers, light swimming in his eyes and creating a dozen blind spots that could lead him to any number of traps. Beads of perspiration had gathered on his brow despite the cold, the kind of feverish sweat that keeps you awake at night and makes you see stars and aliens, eyes rolling back but somehow wide open in a never ending fever dream. He had grown accustomed to it, the high of growing into a behemoth of flesh and steel, and the lows that came with it when it was all over and he had to return to being a shell of a man with enough rage to make the devil jealous.

Most times he would lie face down against the factory floor, let the stone ease him into restless sleep, until some hauler tripped over him and decided to drag him along and out of the way. It had become so common he had instructed them for it, too, to leave him at his quarters and then carry on working, so that he could also carry on working as soon as this hurdle was over with. But then sometimes the fever grew so hot he would stumble out into the yard to find the nearest mound of snow to flop onto, and he could swear he could hear it fizzle under his skin.

This time he had taken to walking, the only thing in his mind as his body protested and he pretended not to listen, one foot after the other, though he had no clue where they would take him. His wounds bled as they always did, a new collection of scars every time he transformed and the metal lodged itself deep within his flesh, left a trail behind as he made his way down towards the river, the trees his only support. It was then he heard it, the faintest of whispers, the most alluring of laughs. He raised his head to catch a glimpse of her, running away to hide from him, inviting him to chase her and catch her, lay her on a bed of twigs and thorns and explore her endless delights.

His little witch in the woods, naked under the moonlight just like he had imagined, standing right in the middle of the bridge that shook more violently than ever before. She did not seem to mind the cold, did not care about her dignity, her cheeks flushed and desire in her eyes as she called to him, and he could not help but follow.

He had stumbled on the last plank, foot stuck between a rusty nail and loose splinter just as he was about to catch her, when he reached out his hand and felt her hair slipping between his fingers. His face had hit the ground before he could register what happened, his little witch gone, a mouthful of snow and dirt all he had, papers scattering in the wind with the fall.

In his clarity he could hear the shuffling of feet in the distance, the frantic sniffing as the wolfmen smelled its prey in the air. Dozens of pairs of eyes watched him from behind the trees, hungry, desperate, waiting for his conscience to slip, for him to never get up, for him to stop walking, to heed their call and fall into their trap. The anxious tingle on his fingertips tells him he’s on edge, that fear creeps up his bones and into his blood and out of his pores like the sweetest of perfumes. But his bones hurt, so very much that there is no space for anything else in his mind. He picks himself up and walks, walks like he has a purpose, like he knows where to go and just what to say. Heisenberg no longer strode with the confidence of a man who knows there is nothing in this world more dangerous than himself, but with the sensation of being so small, so insignificant, a bundle of flesh and blood that could be torn and consumed. All that was left was the hope, the knowledge that something old prowled the woods, older than himself, something immensely powerful that meant him no harm.

He cannot tell if the sigh of relief stays only in his head when he sees the fence in the distance, rounds the yard lightning fast for a feverish man, the sound of his steps crunching the snow almost comical as he tried to run faster than his legs could take him. He catches himself on the porch railing before his teeth can hit the wood as he stumbles once again. There is no fear, only humor in his laughter, because he has made it, reached the safe haven of that decrepit cabin hidden between the mountains.

The witch stood at the porch, basket of laundry at her hip as she made her way out the door, an improvised clothesline strung between a post and a lantern hook. She was not startled this time, the expression on her face telling him he was expected, the smell coming from inside the cabin making his stomach rumble. He tries not to stare too long, not to pay attention to her beautiful features; every second they seem more twisted, a sinister smile, a hole where her face should be, a multitude of eyes, a pair of antlers. The disappointment was perhaps the worst of all, the look of disgust in her eyes. He cannot tell apart reality and dream and at this point he would prefer not to.

She blinked once, twice, confusion adorning her features as she looked him up and down but surely failed to understand just why Karl Heisenberg had dragged himself all the way up to her home wounded, naked except for his trench coat and hat, and looking like a man so high he could see beyond time. He had no shame left in him, between his confidence and the fever, and despite the weirdness of the situation, she was unfazed after the first few seconds, even when she lifted his chin to look him in the eye and he recoiled like an injured beast. If she hounded him for answers, she would get none. She would be lucky if he managed to mutter his own name.

He can’t tell if he had found the sanity to greet her, mind relaxing and patting itself in the back for successfully bringing him to his destination. She sets the basket down and walks towards him to come fetch him, one hand on his shoulder and the other settling on his waist as she guided him inside, and he cannot help but notice there are fingers and toes where her laundry should be, a bountiful, but gruesome harvest. A warning light flashes in his head when the cabin looks different, hands and organs and heads displayed in a macabre backdrop of blood and guts. He is shaking like a leaf when she sits him down on the couch, papers (papers?) taken away from him to be placed on the dinner table, and only when he motioned to grab them did he notice his hand was long gone, blown away like it had been caught in a shrapnel blast. He bites down on his lip as a last ditch attempt not to scream in horror, teary eyed and hurting. An entire mess and a half, with no explanation to give either him or her, but she did not seem to mind, busy grabbing her tools (saw, knife, cutters), wearing the bloodshed like a cape that was made to fit her.

She left him unattended but a moment before returning with the same box of supplies she had used when they first met (surely the tools she had hid within her apron pockets), cloth and antiseptic and the promise that this would burn, bad. He had half a mind to tell her not to worry, to let him bleed and heal on his own like he knew he would. He meant to tell her it was all good, and he had lost that hand before, and the leg, and the blood, and the sanity. It hurt but would not kill him, nothing could, even though he had tried. Instead he said nothing, for he had vastly overestimated his capabilities, less than half a mind at this point, pain and fear sloshing within him like a furious tide. The hat was the first to come off, and he tried to ignore how gentle her touch felt when she brushed back his hair to get a better look at his face.

“Are you still with us, my lord?” Her voice was but an echo inside his head, light as a feather as he rested against the couch and felt sleep tugging at his conscience, though the shock would not let him go. He is unsure whether he is asleep or awake after that, if the feeling of her fingers tracing over his skin are a hallucination or reality, but he sees it clearly regardless, feels it just the same. He taps his foot on the floor impatiently and notices that it is wet, it is all wet, the waters come in through the open door and flood every nook and cranny, only a matter of time before they are both drowned. Not water, no, blood, viscous, fresh, warm blood.

His trench coat is gently pushed off his shoulders, blood staining the throw that lined the couch but getting lost in the scenery, and dexterous fingers run over his scars, find their way to the open wounds speckled on his skin like a starry sky. Her touch was gentle but it hurt regardless, the haze in his mind imprisoning him in what felt like a perpetual state of suffering. The burning turned instead to the raw sensation of being torn apart, the flesh of his abdomen rending impossibly under her ministrations. He looks down to see her hand has disappeared on him, no, in him, the corners of her mouth stretched into an impossible smile. He is fully gone when something tugs at him, within him, bile gathering in his throat at the thought, at the feeling of having someone poke around his insides - again.

It is then that it all hits him, laughter explodes and he bellows - he has finally died. He sees it now, how it was all an illusion, and in reality he had been splayed in the snow all this time, blood pooling around his body and inviting all manner of predators to feast on him when the bones of the earth failed to claim him so many times before. A clever lycan had found a nice open spot to wedge its claws in and pull his guts out to munch on, another tore unceremoniously through to the same effect, and his visions of the witch were nothing but a pleasant mirage his brain had decided to afford him, a small mercy as he bid his consciousness goodbye at long last.

Tree tops and the dark sky are all he sees when he opens his eyes. At least he’d go in style, he thought with a snicker, and the hallucinations of her hands on him just like he’d fantasized spurred something within and made him stand to attention. What a fitting end, open and spilled like a bag of grain, guts wrapped around the papers he had brought with like an exotic crimson ribbon, and the biggest hard-on he had ever had.

#resident evil village #karl heisenberg #karl heisenberg x oc #karl heisenberg x reader #only the gods can judge me #virgil writes

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detectiveidiotboy · 3 years

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His Time In The Commonwealth III: Deacon's Story

so as my beloved fanfiction, The Black Widow’s Waltz, comes to an end, i’ve decided that i am going to re-release the backstory chapters as their own stand-alone fic, since they read well as their own story. before that, i thought i might do a fun little thing where i release each of the companions backstories as their own post here on tumblr under the tag #his time in the commonwealth.

it is now time for part three of this little mini series i have. now that we’ve seen what happened to nick, let’s see how good ol’ deacon ended up where he is...

Deacon stood in the center of the burning remains of the Mercer Safehouse, staring at the man who set the place on fire not two hours earlier. The arsonist's back was turned, cropped black hair shining in the red-and-yellow flashes of the house fire. A woman crawled out from the debris - a synth who’d arrived just weeks before. She was shouldering a sobbing agent with cracked, bloody glasses and leg twisted backward. The man raised his rifle and gunned the two women down with an honest-to-god smile on his face.

Nate, you are one fucked up guy, Deacon thought as he stepped over the burning remains of an agent trapped under a beam.

“Deacon? Is that you?” Nate turned, eyes shining against the flames illuminating the light. “I thought I’d run into you sooner or later.”

“Yeah,” Deacon snarked, unstrapping his shotgun from his back, “I’ve been a little hard to pin down lately - Dez was always the one who assigned my ops in my downtime, but she’s been pretty distracted lately. You know, being dead ‘n all.”

“Morbid.” Nate chuckled. “I always did like your sense of humor.”

“I’ve been told I’m one hell of a comedian.”

Deacon pressed the barrel of his shotgun against Nate’s chest. The man stared at him, seeming far more interested than worried about the twelve gage of death aimed at his sternum. Nate was tough shit - but even he couldn’t survive getting all his organs blasted out by a point-blank shotgun round. At least, that was the hope Deacon clung to. “So, you wanna die here? Or is there somewhere else you want me to shoot you?”

“A surprisingly generous offer,” Nate said, lowering the gun with a finger, “but I’m afraid I have to decline. I have more important things to do than help you get some petty revenge.”

“Sorry, not happening,” Deacon cocked the gun, raising the barrel until it rested just beneath Nate’s chin. “Actually, you know what, nah - I’m not sorry at all.”

“I assumed not,” Nate said, raising his hands. “Fine, Deacon.” He said with a sigh. “If this is really how you want things to go, then shoot me - but wouldn’t you rather know why I’m doing what I’m doing?”

“Nope,” Deacon said as he blasted the fucker’s head off his body.

Except, that wasn’t entirely what happened. Nate stumbled back, almost fell over entirely, but despite the scattershot tearing through his throat just seconds before, his head was still stubbornly attached to his body. Nate laughed, slowly rolling his head forward until it was back on top of his shoulders, smiling widely. Deacon’s own vindictive smile dropped as he lowered the gun. “Shit… you really are immortal.” He said.

“That’s right,” Nate said in a sing-song voice. “Immortal and invulnerable. I’m basically the closest thing this world has to a god,” He laughed as he took a step forward, and Deacon took one back. “Now, since your idea was a miserable failure, let’s try mine.” He said, stretching his legs on the tips of his toes and clasping his hands behind his back. “Don’t you want to hear the reason behind my supposed betrayal?”

Deacon answered Nate’s question by bashing the butt of his gun against the psychotic killer’s face. Nate, momentarily stunned, staggered to the side and Deacon was able to retreat back towards the woods that surrounded the safehouse. At the very least he could act as bait to lure Nate away from any possible survivors. It was the least he could do for them, since he was the one who brought their murderer into the fold.

All of this was Deacon’s fault; he’d accepted the risk when he brought Nate on board. Desdemona had told him it was a bad plan - hell, P.A.M had reservations about it. Deacon should have listened to the future-telling robot instead of trusting his own chronically poor judgment. It had just seemed too good to be true - a supposedly immortal killing machine who resented authority and had a major bone to pick with the Institute? It was like the Atom itself had popped down into the Commonwealth and built them a savior out of clay and nuclear ash. Deacon couldn’t have let an opportunity like that go - and really, he’d asked himself, what was the worst that could happen?

Apparently, the worst that could happen was that the Brotherhood of Steel made their little savior an offer he couldn’t refuse. Now Tom, Desdemona, Glory, P.A.M… hell even Cartington ! They were all gone. Deacon hadn’t been at the base at the time of the attack - Nate had seen to that. Told him to head over to Sanctuary for a surprise. Well, surprise! Everyone Deacon loved was dead. He didn’t know - nor did he care - why he was spared; the only thing that mattered now was putting a stop to Nate before even more lives were lost, both synth and human alike.

Deacon dodged and weaved through the trees. He could hear Nate following him not far behind. It wasn’t long before Deacon’s lungs were straining and each breath was like a stab in the chest - god dammit he was a spy , not a runner. His body was not designed for prolonged exercise. Deacon’s heart was beating in his throat by the time he was forced to slow down. He’d put some distance between him and Nate, but it wouldn’t last. Nate never exhausted, Deacon had seen evidence of that. His stamina was endless - must come standard as part of the whole ‘god among men’ package.

Deacon reached into his pocket and pressed down on a button. It was the last stealth boy he had, and it wasn’t entirely full. It gave him only a few seconds to breathe while he tried to figure out his next move. To his right there were woods, to his left… more woods, and in front of him was, as one might guess, a large expanse of woods. Deacon wasn’t nearly as familiar as he needed to be with this part of the Commonwealth, his basic mental map was insufficient for a midnight life-or-death sprint.

He had less than ten seconds left on the stealth boy. Deacon could hear Nate closing in, so he did the only thing he could think of and backed himself up against the bark of an irradiated tree. He pressed his lips together firmly as Nate wove through the clearing, head swinging back and forth like an attack dog. It was as if he was tracking Deacon down by the scent of his fear. Again, considering Nate's otherworldly nature, not entirely out of the realm of possibility.

“I know you’re here,” Nate said, a manic laugh following the words. He drew a silenced 10mm pistol from his jacket pocket, showing it off to the seemingly-empty clearing. “Recognize this, D?” He said. Deacon did - it was Tommy’s gun, Deliverer . The very same handgun that Deacon had gifted Nate on his official entry to the Railroad. “Seems poetic, don’t it? Whispers died hiding in the shadows, and now I’m gonna kill you while you’re curled up with a Stealth Boy in your pocket.”

Deacon lunged for Nate just as the effects of the stealth device wore off. He caught the man off guard, at least, wrapping both arms around him in a bearhug of death and tackling him to the ground. Deacon had no idea how he was going to kill his target if even a point-blank shot to the neck wasn’t enough to do it, but at the very least he was going to make Nate suffer .

Deacon grabbed Nate’s arm and yanked, using his foot to pin down the man’s back and dislocate the appendage with a swift movement. Nate choked on a cry - it was the first time Deacon had even seen the man externally express pain. Maybe it was the first time he’d ever been hurt - good. Deacon slammed the heel of his boot into the back of Nate’s head, aiming for the spine. Nate’s good hand darted up, snatching Deacon by the ankle and pulling him to the ground.

Suddenly, their positions were reversed, and Nate was on top of Deacon, pilling him down with the gun pressed to Deacon’s cheek. The dislocated arm was already back into place, its hand closed around Deacon’s neck and choking him. Deacon clawed at the fingers, trying to pry them off. Nate was unbelievably strong - even with how thin and nimble his fingers appeared they were perfectly capable of crushing Deacon’s windpipe.

“Tsk, how disappointing,” Nate muttered, probably to himself. Deacon snarled as the 10mm dug into his flesh. “I really did hope I would have a chance with you. You have such a pretty face.” Deacon felt the silenced barrel trail down his cheek and press against his left breast, “be a shame to ruin it.”

Six silenced shots rang out. Deacon seized as he felt the bullets slide through him, tearing his heart to ribbons. The delicate organ came to a spasming, sudden stop in his chest, and before Deacon realized what had happened he was dead.

Once the spy had stopped moving, Nate put the gun back into his pocket. Deacon's fists relaxed and fell away from the hand still clutching his throat. Nate's fingers lingered on the bruises he’d put on Deacon’s neck, savoring the feel of indents on the other’s flesh. Nate reached up and gently removed the sunglasses from the dead man’s face, folding them up and putting them in his pocket. “I never did understand how you could see out of these things when it was dark.”

Deacon’s eyes stared back at him, expression still caught between rage, terror, and agony. Nate frowned, reaching over to shut Deacon’s eyes for him. “Pity. You really were cute.” Nate leaned over and pressed a kiss to Deacon’s still warm cheek, then stood to leave.

Seconds after his heartbeat could no longer be detected, the auto-stimpack anklet Deacon was wearing deployed. There was no blood flow to carry the medicine through his system, but through the power of osmosis, defusion, and several other pre-war science words Deacon didn’t understand, the contents of a dozen stimpacks made it to the shredded remains of his heart. Veins reconstructed themselves, weaving together tissue and cells to produce a mass of blood vessels that would just barely manage to function as a pump. Five minutes after the drugs did their best to fix a literal broken heart, the taser went off, sending waves of electricity through the corpse of one Johnathan Deacon and starting up his pitiful excuse for a new heart.

The first breath Deacon took after dying was both the single best, and most painful breath of his entire life. The bright lights and sense of calm that death had brought him were replaced with an agony that the words ‘living hell’ didn’t even begin to touch. He couldn’t even scream, the pain in his chest consuming him so completely that all that was left were small, gasping whimpers as he curled onto his side and clawed at himself.

Every muscle burned as his body worked to repair the damage of going several minutes without breathing along with all the other things that were wrong with him. Nearly half a gallon of blood was misplaced in him, and there were still at least three of the six bullets still somewhere inside him pressed up against his recently revived nerves. Deacon’s vision went black and every muscle in his body was tensed. Part of him wondered how long this would last before he died again because there was no way he could be in this much pain without something being vitally wrong with him. The other, much larger part, trusted his friends’ genius and reminded him to wait the pain out.

“So, you guys want me to wear this thing?” Deacon said, holding up the ankle brace that had been given to him by Tom and Carrington. “Like, on my person?”

“Is something wrong with the design?” Tinker Tom asked, genuinely concerned.

“It’s kind of a fashion disaster,” Deacon said, fidgeting with the thick, untreated leather that made up the strap.

“It is a highly advanced revival device, not a fashion statement.” Dr. Carrington said with a roll of his eyes. “Since when have you cared about your appearance anyways?”

“Hey, my appearance is my life,” Deacon countered. “You should know - you’ve done, like, at least three of my face jobs.”

“Four,” Carrington corrected.

“It’s meant to be worn under your clothes anyways,” Tinker Tom said. “The design was my idea - Carrington’s work here is nothing short of genius, but if we wanted any practical use for this thing with our field agents we needed something easily concealed.”

“Easily concealed, right,” Deacon said as he snapped the brace around his leg. “Unless I want to wear shorts. Man, there goes my summer plans.”

“Would you at least try to take this seriously?” Carrington snapped. “This is just a prototype, but if we can verify that it works it could save the lives of countless agents. Unfortunately, the only way to test it is for one of our agents to become mortally wounded while wearing it.”

“And so you’re giving it to me? Gosh, guys, I’m honored, really.” Deacon placed a hand to his heart. “Voted most likely to die on a mission by his peers.”

“You are the one Dez assigns to the most dangerous operations,” Tinker Tom said with a shrug. “Don’t take it too personally. If anything, it means we want you around the most.”

Deacon couldn’t admit it, but that did make him feel a little warm in the chest area, but he and ‘genuine emotions’ hadn’t seen eye-to-eye in years, so Deacon gave his co-conspirators a wink and a smile and said, “Alright, but don’t expect me to run head-first into danger just to give you guys some data. If this thing actually works like you say it will, I’ll buy the first round of the night when I get back to the land of the living.”

“Hmfph,” Carrington huffed, predictably. Then, less predictably, he smiled and said. “I’ll hold you to that, you know.”

Deacon laughed as he came down from the high of agony that was recovering from a mortal chest wound, the sound pitiful and weak. The worst of the pain wasn't done yet, he could tell, this was just a short reprieve while his body geared up to continue its tantrum. “Carrington, you crazy bastard,” He muttered against the blood-soaked grass. “When I get to hell, remind me to buy you that drink.”

Deacon laughed and sobbed and spasmed until the sun was high in the sky.

#fallout 4 #fo4 #fallout #fallout 4 fanfic #fallout 4 fanfiction #fo4 fanfic #fo4 fanfiction #fallout fanfic #fallout fanfiction #fallout deacon #deacon fallout #fallout 4 deacon #deacon fallout 4 #deacon #my writing #fanfic #fanfiction #the black widow's waltz #his time in the commonwealth

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ghostesez · 3 years

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I’ve been seeing that post going around claiming that FFN is dying. So, I’ve decided to slowly bring my fanfics from FFN/AO3 here to Tumblr as well just so they’re archived in more than one place. They’re all kind of old, but I still want to save them.

This one is probably my best, Atramentous Inferno. Warnings for vivisection/dissection, blood, gore, and implied character death. Word count: 1480

Finally! Finally we caught that damnable specter. Now, we can get to work…

Nice to know that the new guns are calibrated correctly.

—

Danny’s eyes flickered open, struggling to take in even the small amount of light in the darkened room. Around him, familiar sounds and smells filled his head, cutting through his mind like daggers of onyx. Even before his vision fully adjusted, he was well aware that he was in a laboratory. The smell was of latex and bleach, the sounds of clicks a rough dragging of a pen over a roll of paper, no doubt monitoring him. Next to his head, a few feet above, an IV dripped a bright, green liquid through a small tube. The tube wrapped around the pole of the IV machine like a venomous viper before burrowing into his bare arm, the needle taped down snuggly against his skin. The sleeve of his right arm had been cut up to make access to the needle easier, his glove sat on the table next to him.

As Danny’s eyes began to adjust, he took in even more of his surroundings. It soon became obvious that he was not in FentonWorks. This lab was strange, alien and foreign. Danny lifted his head, only vaguely aware of the IV in his arm. He glanced around, observing the computer to his left, automatically logging his breathing and heartrate. Spread out on the desk across the lab was a mountain of paperwork. Scrawled across the papers in hastily, but well thought-out handwriting was a vast array of mathematical calculations and words that Danny could not quite make out. The clock on the wall read a bit past four. Danny was unsure which four it meant to convey.

Danny peered down his body, ready to take in what exactly was happening.

He screamed.

—

Stand back! Something’s happening.

What in the world? Rings? He’s… he’s changing? Oh my God. It can’t be…

It’s a trick. Don’t be fooled by the face. This is some defense mechanism.

It’s… it’s…

—

His suit was shredded, having been cut unceremoniously with dull scissors. The few scraps which remained hung limply upon what remained of his torso. Pins were stuck into flaps of skin, piercing through the flesh below. Grayish bones and greened organs were visible in a hole the size of a basketball. Danny could see the bones of his ribcage move with his expanding and contracting lungs. His intestines twitched as he moved, like a swarm of snakes in his gut. An organ he didn’t recognize was nearly sawn in half, a clean cut, as though the experimenter has taken great care in the slice. Danny felt his heartrate escalate, as the computer next to him confirmed. Danny beat his head back against the stainless steel table which held him, clenching his restrained hands as hard as he could.

What had happened? There was a fight… Skulker? Danny had defeated Skulker, sucking him into the thermos as a white van of the Guys in White screeched onto the scene. It all went fuzzy after that. Danny felt that he could vaguely remember other non-Guys in White ghost hunters being there. A scream in the distance was audible. He recognized that scream… Was it Jazz? No. It was Sam. It was definitely Sam. She had been there. Of course she had been there. It was a routine fight… It was only Skulker. He’d fought Skulker an uncountable number of times before.

Now, everything was silent, save for the whirls and clicks of machines. Danny couldn’t even hear the ticks of the clock on the wall. The clicks in between the silence became deafening. As he twitched, more of his ectoplasm tricked out the gaping maw in his abdomen. His chest rose and fell as he breathed. Everything went dark again and Danny slipped from consciousness into blissful blackness. He was only slightly aware of light pouring in as a door was opened.

—

I don’t care, I really don’t. I just don’t care who this is… or was. He’s a ghost. He’s a monster. We have to do this.

We can’t possibly vivisect him. I don’t understand why you think that we can. It doesn’t feel right… he’s… he’s…

No. He isn’t. This is what ghosts do. They trick you. Demean you. Manipulate you. Don’t give in. This must be done for the advancement of science. For the good of the human race.

How could you possibly…?

—

Danny awoke to a torrential flood of light. A lamp had been placed above his head, searing a brightness into his eyes. He shut his eyes, tightening his eyelids as much as possible in an effort to drown out the blinding incandescence. A squeak was heard and the lamp was pushed away. Danny slowly opened his eyes as a scientist came into view. Even under the complete, white hazmat suit and helmet, he could make out that this scientist was female. She leaned over him, hands gripped the examination table tightly. She made eye contact with him, or at least Danny thought she did. Her goggles were as black as midnight, shadowy abysses in their own right.

The scientist began to move around the room, gathering papers and tapping her pen on various machines. She ignored the ghost boy’s pleas for mercy and questions as to who she was and why she was doing this. In fact, she seemed completely indifferent to the struggling and pained child in the room with her. The blackness of her goggles made even worse to Danny. Not being able to see her eyes made its seem as though she had no soul at all- a monstrous being of pure hate and loathing.

After what seemed like days to the subject, the scientist wheeled over a small table used to hold scalpels. Stopping it a foot from the examination table. Danny began to hyperventilate in fear of what was happening. The scientist said nothing as she picked a blade and cut into his cheek, just below the eye. Red and green liquids alike flowed from the slice, staining his face and shoulder with blood and ectoplasm. The overwhelming scents of iron and chemicals filled the air. The scientist scoffed and leaned over a table behind her, jotting down a few sentences on the papers which were strewn there. After a moment, she chose another scalpel from the tray beside her. She carefully lifted a flap of skin near the top of his gaping wound, slicing further up. She exposed a broken sternum and began to pick away the bones there as Danny shrieked in pain. All he could see was red now, a bright, blinding red of pain.

—

The Ecto-Dejecto should keep him from changing shape again.

Maddie, what if he’s not changing shape? What if…

Don’t think that way. This isn’t Danny. This… thing… has never been Danny. It’s all a trick. Can’t you see that?

I can’t Maddie. I just can’t.

Fine, Jack. Leave. You’re a spineless oaf anyways. I’ll do this on my own.

—

As she chipped away at the bones protecting his heart, the scientist ignored a desperate and bleeding phantom. She stopped only occasionally to scribble on the papers behind her. Ultimately, she ceased chipping away the sternum, and began to break and yank out the ribs which interfered with her work. She took six in total, examining and observing each as she pulled them out. Each landed on the surgical tray as she went. Eventually, her path to the hybrid’s heart had become unobstructed.

Danny pleaded with her, promising to tell her everything if only she would stop. She did not listen, only choosing a new blade in which to use in her experiments. The scientist did not hesitate as the she placed the scalpel and dragged, slicing open his heart. Blood and ectoplasm in equal amounts gushed forward into the maw of his chest like a demented sort of floodgate. As he gasped in his final breath, Danny could make out a pair of purple eyes and a wisp of reddish-brown hair behind those goggles of inky blackness.

#I formatted this on my phone so it might be a bit weird #Danny phantom #my fanfic #ghosty talks

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years

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Humans are Space Orcs, “Rumors.”

This one is going to be interesting and contains a list of some random and outlandish rumors. Feel free to comment the rumors you have heard about humans and where, in the galaxy, they came from :)

As it turns out, there are a lot of misconceptions in the galaxy about humans especially from those aliens who have not yet seen a human. I, as a scientist, was interested in learning about these different viewpoints and how they diverge from each other because t-- in my experience -- there are many outlandish and sometimes wildly opposing rumors related to their species.

So as a little experiment, I have gone around the galaxy and asked all of the different species to describe a human to me in as much detail as they possibly can thinking it would be an interesting experiment to compare the different sides.

As a disclaimer, this will not be a full list, because I couldn’t get access to some of the species, but hopefully the scientific community might find this interesting.

Bran: Hulking monsters, that’s what I heard, hulking monsters with an immunity to poison. They can walk through water like it’s nothing, and they are absolutely unstoppable. You can't outrun them, you can’t outclimb them. They have a ravening, raving biological urge to hunt and kill. I have a relative who has met a human, and he told me that if you ever run into a human your best bet is to back away slowly. If you run they have a predatory instinct to chase you, so you have to be careful.

Celzex: The humans are nothing special really. Sure they are rather tall, and they have the proper thoughts of mighty warriors, but when you get right down to it they are merely naked giants. They have very long legs, and strangely enough they are not intimidated by our demonstrations of superior might in battle. Furthermore humans are very touchy-feely. They are always trying to touch you when they get the chance, which seems rather odd since they don’t seem to do it to any other species.

Iotins: Humans are like nothing we've ever seen or known. They are almost like magic, did you know that humans can detect, sense, and identify particles in the air at only a millionth of a percentile. There is no way to hide form a human , and if they want to find you they can do it. Humans are always hungry, and if it weren't for GA laws they would probably eat everyone. As far as a description goes, humans are…… bony and lumpy with legs that are too long and fingers that are too long.

Tvek: They’re beautiful…. Beautiful gods. So graceful like when they move they flow like water, when they smile they light up a room, and when they laugh it's like the twinkling of stars overhead. They are so wise, and just and fair and they understand so much that we never could. Humans are so powerful, and they could easily dominate the galaxy if they chose to do so, but they do not because they are wise and gentle. If you ever get the chance to hear a human sing, you should do it because it is as if the creator of all things lent secret power to their voices. Humans have the power to fly you know and they can control the element of fire.

Vrul: Illogical infuriating, and down right annoying in most cases. Even if you were to learn the human language, you would never be able to understand them because often they say things they do not mean or they say something and mean the opposite. Everything they do is in a strange code, like they will be talking about cats and dogs but really be referring to the weather. Not to mention they have a plethora of bodily signals that are impossible to read. They have too few limbs, to much hair, and an excessive amount of extra senses, like particle detection. Everything about humans is aggressive and violent and they should be treated as such.

Tesraki: Well I’ll tell ou about humans. I have heard so many stories that I might as well be an expert. First of all humans are freaky and hairless with massive holes in the side of their head and sharp bones sticking out of their faces that they use to crush their prey. Their skin is supposedly translucent so you can see their innards from the outside, like veins and stuff under the skin. I heard they are all rubbery and stretchy and their fingers have extra joints in them. They have full laws and you can see their bones protruding ready to break from their skin. Humans can hear almost as well as we do, but they can see hundreds of different wavelengths of color. People say that humans drink meat, but I am pretty sure they don’t drink blood. My uncle tells me that you should never sign a contract with a human because they will probably steal your soul. Oh, and never give a human your true name because they might come find you later.

Burg: Humans! Humans are rotting scum, absolute filth. They are a pathetic squishy maggoty creature that wins all of its engagements through cheating and guile. They have venomous saliva and are a walking biohazard. Everywhere they go they shed disease and dead molecules to permeate the air. I am told, if you live long enough with a human, you will be forced to clean your space of germs and dead human particles built up about your home. They have no honor, and their words are filled with lies. Their skin is soft and they hide their skeleton on the inside, and when they talk it is a grating screech all cut up and sharp. Humans are dul creatures, but they are useful in battle because of how durable they are.

Drev: Humans are strange creatures. They are a great warrior race, though they are small and weak in body. They have no armor to speak of and thus are very easy to kill. However, they grow stronger the more limbs of theirs you remove because they will replace them with machines. Humans are much more vicious than any other species we know because they kill to kill they do not kill for honor.

Rundi: humans are an absolute PR nightmare, that is what they are. Every time there is a human involved you can be sure they are going to do something reckless stupid or scary. Make sure that everything in your vicinity is non toxic to humans because they WILL put it in their mouths. Humans are like children, they are curious in a bad way and they have no issue lying to you if they see the need, especially in politics. If you have to oversee a human you will be constantly trying to justify their mistakes or getting them to behave. They are especially annoying in large groups were their social nature creates unusual hierarchies which are difficult to work with.

Prodigum An inconsequential might. A mere trifling interest. Humans are small, soft and weak, However they do have lovely singing voices. I have a colleague who owns humans. He keeps them in a cage and has them sing to him. Really humans are pretty easy to control as long as you feed them and give them shelter. Other than that they are no more useful than an exotic pet.

Gibb (one of the crazy ones): They are dark gods, dark gods concealed within a flesh prison just waiting to be released. They are a creature of immense power and strength being dampened by the hindrance of a physical form. Why do you think humans are so powerful, why do you think humans have an innate sense of danger because they are connected to the ether around them, and they long to return to the embrace of the universe as a being of pure power.

Gromm: To put it lightly, humans are kind of dumb. I mean they are very brave and they are very generous, don’t get us wrong but they are generally bumbling and like fun more than they are serious. I would suggest having a human as a friend but not a work colleague.

Common rumors about humans.

They drink blood

They eat flesh raw

They have control of fire.

They can divine the future.

They cannot pass through a circle made of ground sulfur.

They can hypnotize you with their singing.

They can hypnotize you if you look them in the eye.

They are really a parasite living inside a human meat suit.

If you make a deal with one, you are bound for life

You should never tell one your true name.

If you use their rue name they can hear you and will be able to find you.

They breathe acid.

They are venomous.

They are magic

They are indestructible.

They have wings.

They can smell fear.

You can fend of humans with talismans made of copper

Feel free to add to the list of myths about humans if I have missed some your help would be greatly appreciated.

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honourablejester · 4 years

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Ideas for Warforged (D&D)

Because magic robots/constructs are the best idea. I will admit that backstory/inspiration-wise, I’m fonder of things like Discworld’s golems or the Muses from Girl Genius. I like the feeling of ancient constructed things learning to be people.

(I also like the caster classes, which will possibly be really obvious in a minute)

Cleric

I love the Grave Domain for warforged. How does a constructed being conceptualise death? Especially if they get slapped in the face by it. Take the standard warforged background, the machine built for war, a constructed, immortal child created for violence. Have them watch their squishy biological comrades die. A lot. Do they have an epiphany? Do they become curious about the beliefs and fears around death? Do they want to give comfort to their friends? Do they start to think of mortal death as a reprieve from a life of endless service and violence? (Do they view undeath as a horrific corruption of their own constructed service and immortality, taking relief away from those who have earned it in death?) Imagine a warforged priest of a grave god. The serene, mechanical face. The slightly off, dispassionate gentility. The curiosity and care. I love it.

Druid

Circle of Spores! Sorry, but we are continuing the theme of decay and the undying here. But with spores there’s a lot of … I’m thinking post-apocalyptic fiction. Robots in the remnants. Wall-E, even. Your trash-heap, rusted, bucket-of-bolts survivor of a dead world or colony or underground kingdom. The curious innocent finding beauty in decay, or perhaps a wiser, more melancholy survivor. Or a darker one, cynical about the cycles of extinction and regrowth. Also, just the image. A strange, skeletal metal creature, crystal eyes glowing uranium green, strange mushrooms growing from their rusted plates and darkwood sinews, surrounded by an almost-sound, a subaudible buzzing that people feel in their teeth. Watching warily as new creatures wander through their ruins, or spurred by their own curiosity to venture up into some strange new world.

Bard

The Muses, here, so very much. 18thC automata. The music box song from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. A construct built for beauty, grace, skill, to be the epitome of a craft, but also a construct that is very old. Built for kings, because who else could afford such breath-taking craftsmanship? Built to entertain or advise a ruler and their court, and so a lot wiser to the passions and vices underneath the pretty words than they seem. Students of history, who’ve seen it cycle through a few times. Maybe trying to escape, now. Find a simpler life. Or trying to affect things rather than just witness them, trying to be a hero or the villain or the spy instead of just the historian or the muse.

Paladin

Clockwork angels. Hubris and innocence all in one neat package. Constructs made in the image of celestials, complete with flightless bronze-and-silk wings, out of arrogance or hope or despair or for mysterious purposes that even they don’t know. Found in the laboratories of dead mages, or manufactured by warmongers for propaganda purposes. Innocent, still, hopeful, or else deeply, deeply cynical. Struggling to find or maintain a sense of their own identity, choosing oaths in honour or defiance of their image. Redemption, Crown, Conquest, Vengeance. Lots to have fun with.

Sorceror

We’re going more for the ‘touched by cosmic power’ angle than bloodlines, obviously, though there’s possibly some wiggle room if you go for weirder origins. Constructed with a little flesh and bone and blood from your creator, maybe? But I really like Shadow Sorceror here. A construct made in a dark ritual, touched by the fell energies of the Shadowfell. A strange, half-alive being, shadowed by darkness, who ‘woke’ in an empty ritual chamber with no idea of their nature or their purpose. Honestly, shadow sorceror is as good as warlock for the gothic, haunted end of origin stories, so might as well go full Frankenstein on the confused horror of a constructed being. Might lean a bit more on the ‘organic’ end of warforged construction here, darkwood, living stone, black metal. Just to match the aesthetic. Warforged are great for aesthetic.

Warlock

Speaking of. Just. I have already mentioned, but I love both warlocks and warforged, and they’re a lovely mix together. The Lurker Patron. A construct built to dredge a long-lost harbour, finding sentience and a strange ‘friendship’ while wandering the deeps. The Great Old One, a strange, mad being who cobbled you together from spare parts in an attempt to understand the life forms of this foreign plane. Fiend, the demon who was baffled and intrigued by the concept of an artificial soul, granting power just to see what temptation looks like in a heart made of crystal and stone (or the puppet master who stole the most beautiful and extraordinary puppet, to call back to the muses). The Archfey who built or stole themselves the perfect knight, a mobile statue or plaything that was never meant to win its own soul. There’s so many things to play with.

Rogue

To throw a bone to the non-caster classes. But. There is a lot of potential to the rogue, too. Assassin, particularly. One of the things that’s so cool with warforged is not only their own choices and motivations, but those of the ones who built them. Why train a perfect killing machine when you can build one? But then what happens when they become sentient? When they start to have feelings and opinions of their own? Rogue warforged have a lot of the same appeal as bard and paladin warforged for me. Beings built for the machinations of those around them, and struggling to free themselves and forge their own path. (Also I loved the Zeta Project cartoon as a kid and it rubbed off on me, and there’s something half-humorous and half-terrifying about a seven foot metal skeleton somehow built for stealth and infiltration).

Barbarian

My other favourite non-caster class, but there also some lovely things to work with here. Perhaps the flipside of the grave cleric above? The soldier warforged who grew to love battle instead, whose first emotions were the rage and terror and thrill of the battlefield. I like the Zealot barbarian here. The being literally made for the fight, who channelled it so perfectly that it drew the attentions of the gods of battle. But there’s also … the opposite of rage. When it’s a robot, a machine. There’s the image of the blank, emotionless killing frenzy. An anime I watched, Pumpkin Scissors, had a supersoldier as one of the main characters. A normally extremely sweet and gentle man, who could be brainwashed into a mindless killing state by a blue lantern. He was terrifying and tragic and unstoppable and broken. Imagine a warforged barbarian like that. A being terrified of the truly emotionless machine they become in battle, the remorseless frenzy they enter when injured or struck by the sight of blood, but believing they were built for nothing but war, knowing no way of living other than that.

… Um. In summary? Magic robots are great and, depending who built them and what for, can delve into tragic very quickly and easily. Heh. Though you can also easily go the benevolent creator route, the parent who taught them well, and take some much gentler angles on all of this. I’m just in a gothic mood tonight, apparently.

Also, there is just no beating the imagery you can build up around a living wood-and-metal being. And I’m not just saying that because I love a) robots, b) skeletons, and c) robot skeletons.

Honest, yer honour.

#d&d #dnd #warforged #character concepts #robots #skeletons #i am in a gothic mood #okay then

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