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romanarose · 2 years

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Leather and Lace: Chapter 4

Santiago Garcia X OC

Previous part here : Next part here

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While on the mission, Pope and the guys find a girl tied up in the basement of a drug lord. Through a few unforeseen circumstances, the girl and Pope get separated from Will, Frankie and Benny and have to find their way back in the woods. She doesn’t talk, is malnourished and traumatized, and Pope has the instinct to protect her at all costs.

(Pretend this is him leaning over a railing while talking to Fish okay)

WARNINGS!!!: for whole fic there’s gonna be violence, mentions of blood, mentions of sex trafficking, ptsd, sexual trauma (past), physical trauma, gunshots, eventual smut!! Don’t read just for the smut tho cuz it’s not smut focused.

Warnings: UUUHH maybe nothing really? Will being a dick? kissing? at worst? Kinda soft, lil angst then soft.

I wrote this,,,, SO TIRED. Not my best work tbh. I think I'm gonna keep updates to once a week until Sunshine Starlight Sweetheart Brightside is done bc between this, SSSB, Seattle, the han solo story ive been trying to finish for two years, and the one shots i wanna do AND taking 19 credits and working 4 days a week.... it's a lot. I want my work to remain as good as I know I'm capable of. Thank you for all for patience, and thank you for all your lovely encouragements! Fanfiction writing can be so thankless sometimes, it makes me so emo-tional to see your nice words. In the mean time, come read Sunshine! I've been told it's pretty bingeable if I do say so myself. I see a lot of people like it chapter by chapter and inhale it in a day or two. 27 chapters out of 33!

*****************

“Home sweet home” Santi opened his front door, trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible, despite being exhausted from the flight. He let her in, holding the door as she wandered in, carrying her backpack. Lace had refused to let Santiago Garcia carry it. He was already carrying his bags plus one of Benny’s, and she already felt uncomfortable with her dependance on him. Benny’s friend had picked them up, dropping Santi and Laci off at his place. Frankie and Will had stayed behind for a few extra days to finish what they were supposed to all do in the days after they raided the house. Unfortunately, between Santi’s disappearance from the house and Benny’s gunshot wound, they had gotten side tracked. Will had a fucking fit about Santi leaving, which had turned into some choice words and a Frankie once again having to separate them before it got too far. Frankie, who was less than thrilled about Santiago leaving with Laci, agreed Santiago should go. Ben wanted to stay as well, but his shoulder was still out of commission. Frankie also thought it was a good idea to separate Will and his injured brother to allow Will space to calm down without constantly seeing his brother damaged

Laci took in the space. She wore pants and a long sleeve, covering the array of bruises she was still recovering from. She turned to him with a smile. ‘It’s nice’ The place wasn’t huge, but it was clean, it was safe, and it was his. After he had retrieved the money that was thrown in the canyon, Santi had split it with his 3 other friends. Most of them felt… wrong, having the money, so they all kept the money aside for emergencies, donated a lot, and made a few smart purchases. All of them had bought houses, no mortgage. At the very least, they’d always have a home.

“It’s late, but we can go to the store tomorrow and get you set up with some more clothes, anything else you need.”

She turned to him, nervous and shaking her head. “It’s fine”

“No, Lace it’s okay, let me do this.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll get a job and get out of your hair” She dodged his eyes again. They had made a lot of progress, she was talking more freely, but she never held his eyes for long.

“Lace…” Pope wondered how he could make her see, make her believe that he just wanted to help her. He took her hands, careful not to startle her. “This… this is your home now. You can stay here as long as you need, I mean it. Don’t worry about working until you’re ready. Let’s get you set up with services, counseling, medical… Don’t even think about work yet.”

She leaned into him, holding tight on his hands but looking away. “Expensive.” She muttered.

He sighed. “Listen, it’s a lot to explain but… I came into some money recently. Don’t worry about that. Just…” He took her face in his hand, turning her face to him, and she finally looked at him. “Lace, let me take care of you” He kept her eye contact, watched her eyes searching his face. She was looking for a hint of a lie, of malicious intent. She found nothing but tenderness.

Before Santiago even had a moment to react, her lips were on his. He kissed back the moment their lips met, purely on instinct. When his brain caught up and realized it was her, it was her lips, chapped and hesitant, he kissed back with more fervor, wrapping his arms around his waist and she melted into his arms. Then, he realized what was happening. Santi pulled away, taking a few steps back and away from her, disgusted with himself.

“I’m sorry” He said all too quickly, as soon as he saw her distressed face. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

He expected her to cry or panic, he didn’t expect this response. Her face set into a nervous determination. She pointed at him and shook her head. Then she pointed at herself. ‘You didn’t do it, I did’

“I know,” He clarified. Here he was with a traumatized and vulnerable girl in his home, she probably felt obligated to sleep with him, she thought that's what he wanted… He scrubbed his face, then looked back at her. Laci’s face was red, looking at the floor. She was embarrassed. “Can we just… let's pretend this never happened, okay? Finish showing you around?”

She nodded, not talking. Santi fought the urge to sigh again. Two steps forward, one step back. “C’mon, I’ll show you the yard.” He wanted to just block out the last two minutes from their collective memories. He started walking toward the sliding glass doors, but stopped when he heard her footsteps stop. He turned around and saw her staring at his bookshelf, staring at the 5 porcelain dolls on the top shelf.

She cocked her eyebrow up at him with a teasing smile. ‘Yours?’

He smiled, happy the tension was gone. “My sister’s, actually.”

Laci grinned, still lookin at the pretty, well cared for dolls, but was slightly nervous. She pointed to the house in general “does she live here?”

Santi’s kind smile waved a tad. “She died. It’ll be two years next month. Overdose.”

She turned to him, but he remained focused on the shelves, so she turned back. After a moment, she spoke. “My brother. I was 20. He raised me after our parents died.” Another pause as Laci took a shaky breath. “Suicide.”

Santi took her hand.

******************

A week later, Santi was parking his car on Frankie’s street. “You sure you’re okay? We can still turn around, Fish will understand.”

Laci had thought she was hiding her anxiety well, but somehow, Pope always knew what she was thinking. This was helpful, seeing as she still hardly spoke. It came and went in moments, he was never exactly sure what caused her to start or stop talking. If she was anxious or upset she shut down, but sometimes there didn’t seem to be a cause.

She looked at him with a little smile. ‘It’s fine. You want to go, so we’ll go.’ The two of them had gone everywhere together this week, every appointment and every meeting with a social worker or doctor. He wouldn’t leave her at the house alone, and he knew she would insist on going despite her reservations. She had asked who was coming. Pope knew that was code for ‘is Will coming’. The two of them had yet to interact. With Frankie, at least, he made an attempt to speak to her, dropping by when he got back to the states and asking yes/no questions to Laci so she didn’t feel left out. Will hadn’t been over, nor had be called. But she was fairly comfortable around Ben. Benny had been over a few times, and Laci even let Santi leave the room to go to the bathroom or get snacks, leaving her alone with Ben while they watched tv. Always Sunny in Philadelphia, of all things. It made him smile when he’d return to the room, watching her and Benny laughing out loud together.

They hadn’t addressed the kiss and neither made a move, but the tension was palpable some days. Her first full day there, she had tried to make him dinner while Pope showered. When he heard a bunch of banging, he rushed out, only stopping to wrap a towel around his waist and ran to the kitchen. He found Laci cleaning up a bunch of pans that had fallen on the floor. Looking up, her eyes widened as she stared at his shirtless torso. When her eyes flicked up to him, they stayed like that for a moment, Santi trying to read her face. He was good at it, he usually knew what she was saying or thinking… right then, she was unreadable.

She took his hand as Pope let himself in through the back gate and she took in the scene. It was a small gathering, Frankie had promised that it would just be the guys. Frankie usually held a cook out when everyone comes back from a mission, a way for everyone to decompress. Usually, it was a fucking party. Alcohol, lots of friends, family, and any random stranger Benny had met off the street that day. Today was small. Ever the peacekeeper, Frankie was hoping Will would warm up to Laci. Fish recognized, even if Pope was in denial, that Laci was going to be part of things for a long time. On a phone call with Ben while he was still out of the country, Benny had told him he thought something was going on between the pair, that they were absolutely inseparable. Benny was the one that noticed Santi’s watch was missing on the flight, and relayed the story Pope told him to Frankie.

“Hey guys!” Benjamin Miller swaggered over, hugging Santi and putting his hand on Laci’s shoulder. “C’mon! I’m on grill duty” It was a warm day, and now that Laci got to pick out her clothes, he found she liked to wear a lot of flowers. Her dress today was pink and white floral and a flowy skirt.

“Oh god,” Pope muttered, following the blonde boy.

“Relax, Garcia. Fish is cooking, I’m just in charge of making sure the burgers don’t burn.” Benny, Laci and Santi stood on the deck for a few minutes before Will opened the screen door, and he felt Laci tense.

He was carrying pop, tossing one to Ben and one to Santi, one for himself.

Santi called him out. “C’mon man, don’t be a dick.” He felt Laci’s hand on his arm, and turned to see her face. ‘Let it go’

Will rolled his eyes and cracked open his pop. Benny handed his to Laci “Here, I’m grabbing a beer” He walked into the house, grabbing Will with him and shutting the glass door, no doubt about to chew out Will.

Santiago turned to her “Sorry Lace, he’s being a dick.”

“You don’t have to… defend me or anything. I don’t want you guys to start fighting…” After learning about Santi’s sister’s death, and how most of his family is gone, she started to realize what these men meant to him. She didn’t want to be the one to cause any more problems than she already had.

Will and Benny returned, Will looking irritated but calmer. “Here” He handed Laci a snack pack of cheetos. A small gesture, but a gesture nonetheless.

Laci kept looking at the floor, but touched her hand to her mouth, then moved it out. ‘Thank you’ in sign language. Ben had taught Laci several basic sign language phrases to prepare for the party. All the guys know passable sign language, and this way she could communicate a few things without having to talk or have Santi translate her facial expressions.

When the door opened, Will’s grumpy face lit up. “Here’s the woman of the hour!” And held out his arms to snatch the little girl from Frankies arms. The one year old practically dived into Will’s arms. It was strange for Laci to see Will not glowering. One by one, each of the guys held the tiny toddler, Laci was absolutely enthralled with the sight of Santi holding the adorable girl, blowing raspberries on her stomach.

“Laci?” Frankie spoke up. “Would you like to hold her?”

Laci nodded frantically, and held out nervous arms for Frankie’s daughter. The 18 month old was hesitant to leave her tio’s arms, but once she was in Laci’s around, she put her little hands on Laci’s face. It was an immidiet bond between the two.

“Rosie,” Frankie steps over to the two girls, tickling the toddlers neck. “Meet Laci. Laci, this is Fatima Rosa Maria Morales Ferndanez. Or Rosie, as we usually call her, when she’s not in trouble.”

Benny smiled at his friend and his niece. “Powerful name for a powerful little girl.”

Frankie noticed Laci’s eyes welling up and her lip quivering. “You okay, Laci?”

Santi kicked himself for not picking up on her discomfort, moving to take Rosie out of Laci’s arms, but Laci held on, looking at the little girl adoringly. She turned and whispered to Santiago, who then turned to his friend, smiling. “She said she’s beautiful, Frankie.” Frankie smiled back.

The evening had been delightful. Santi always enjoyed seeing the guys, especially after a particularly stressful mission. Even if Will was being a bit of a dick. It wasn’t bad, Will knew how to tow a line, that was for sure. Just enough where Santi didn’t feel it was worth making a scene, but enough where his irritation was growing. Laci was mostly oblivious, she had Rosie on her hip, even so much as straying away from her ever-attachment at Santi’s side to play with her in the grass. Santi leaned over the deck, beer in hand as he watched her.

“I think Rosie has a friend.” Frankie joined him, looking at his daughter lovingly.

“Yeah.” Santi’s smile was huge. Frankie knew he was down bad.

“How’s she been adjusting?”

“She’s doing alright, considering. Therapy starts next week and she’s been to a few medical appointments, got her on meds, a diet to get back the nutrients she lost. Dentists gotta do some work, shit like that. She’ll have… she’ll have her moments. It’s hard to watch.”

Frankie nods. “What do you mean?”

“Sometimes I’ll find her asleep on the couch watching tv. She had to get on medicine for the nightmares, they seem to help, but she likes the light. She says the TV helps her focus. She watches Friends reruns. She doesn’t even like Friends, It’s just something else to think about, nothing serious, stupid sitcom.” He paused, unsure if he should say it, but if he could be honest with anyone, it was Fish. “She kissed me”

Frankie laughed. “Oh yeah. She kissed you.”

Pope turned to Frankie, finally looking at him “I’m serious!... I mean… I kissed back.”

“There it is.” Fish smirked.

Pope was defensive. “She did! Fish I would never want her to think she has to do anything just because I’m helping her.”

“But you wouldn’t mind if you and her… we’re together?.”

Pope rolled his eyes, “Well, she’s-” pretty he was about to say, turning back to Laci. She was on her back, legs up in the air with Rosie on her feet, playing superman. Laci’s skirt rode up, showing off the smooth curve of her ass. “Oh fuck” Santi and Frankie quickly turned out, but gave each other a side-eyed smile.

An hour later, Frankie was putting Rosie to bed, and Laci was back to Santiago’s side. When Frankie came back, everyone was gathered on the porch. “Hey Santi, I think you forgot something.” He tossed the watch to his friend.

“Fish, what the shit? How did you…?” Santi hugged Fish tighty “Hermano, how did you know I lost it?”

“Benny can’t keep a secret for the life of him.”

Benny meely shrugged, smiling.

Will, however, was confused. “Wait, is that Fatima’s watch?” He looked back and forth between Fish and Pope. “Why does Catfish have it?”

“I um…” Pope hesitated, his grin fading. “When we were in the forest, I sold it to get some food and water…”

“What the fuck Pope?” Will looked irrationally irritated.

Frankie put a hand on Will’s arm, trying to calm him. “Calm down.”

Will shrugged him up. “You sold Fatima’s watch because of her? Jesus Pope, what the hell?”

Pope put himself in front of Laci instinctively. “Back the fuck off, Ironhead. Now.”

Will look at Santi condescendingly. “What is she doing to you man? She almost got you killed, now you’re just being her bitch”

Ben saw it coming before Santi even made a move, smacking Frankie, signaling him to move. Ben grabbed Pope, holding him back as he went to punch Will and luckily, Frankie caught Ben’s message and grabbed Will’s shirt, warning him not to do anything. Laci stepped backwards until her back hit the deck railing, and there she froze.

“What is your fucking problem Will?!” Santi shouted at the much taller man.

“Do you have ANY IDEA how close you came to dying, Pope? It’s a goddamn miracle you didn’t get your head blasted open! You and Ben could’ve died! Then what? Do we spit up the money again and give it to your non-existent family and pretend it’s okay? If Ben died, would you just give me a pat on the back and say ‘Oh, sorry!’ and move on?”

Santi was in too much of a blind fury to possess what Will was saying “None of that has ANYTHING to do with her!” Santi pointed to the scared girl in the corner of the deck, clutching onto the railing for dear life.

“I told you we needed to move, but you never fucking listen! You had to baby her, you had to play knight in shining armor and rescue the pretty girl, meanwhile Benny gets shot and you literally dodge a bullet!”

Benny mumbles something about not bringing him into this, but no one was listening. Benny knew he wasn’t getting anywhere. Santi and Will would hash this out, Frankie would stop them from killing each other. He looked over to see Laci scared as shit. Carefully, he walked over to her. Her eyes were shut tight, but she knew it was Ben, because she knew what Santi’s hand felt like.

“Enough!” Frankie shouted after a few more pointless back and forths. “You guys hear that?” Through the upstairs window, everyone could hear Rosie crying. “You guys woke up and probably scared the shit out of my baby, not to mention Laci.” Santi suddenly noticed she had left his side, and felt a tinge of guilt and jealousy to see her so scared, but also holding the handsome young man’s hand. “Santi, Will, go inside and fucking sort this out like adults.” He noticed Santi glance to Laci again. “She’ll be fine, man. Jesus, Ben will be here. I’m going to put my daughter to bed and I swear to god, if you wake her up again, we’re gonna have a problem.”

Will and Santi stormed off, and Frankie went upstairs to try and put his toddler back to bed. Benny and Laci stood in silence as Laci held his hand tightly. They couldn’t hear what Will and Santi were saying, but it sounded calmer. After a while, Will opened the door, looking embarrassed. “I need to talk to her” he told Ben.

“No way man-”

“Okay.” The Miller brothers turned to Laci, eyes finally open and looking directly at Will for the first time.

Hesitantly, Benny let go of her hand, telling Will not to be an asshole, closing the screen door instead of the glass door. “Can I close the glass door? I don’t want them eavesdropping.” Laci nodded, and Will closed it. Much like Santi, Will scrubbed his face. “How much did Santi tell you about our history together.”

She held up her fingers together. ‘Very little’

“He tell you bout Tom?”

She shook her head.

Will sighed. “Last year, a mission went wrong. I got shot.” Despite how much of an ass he had been, he swore he saw a bit of pity on her face. “But we had another friend, his name was Tom. He got killed after things went very, very wrong and… I think I’ve always held onto a lot of anger and guilt over it. A lot of feelings I don’t know how to let out in a normal way. Seeing my brother get shot, and those few days where I thought Santi had been killed or taken, I think… Well I think maybe it brought a lot of feelings out. I don’t know if Santi told you, but Benn is my brother. My actual brother, I mean. I know we all refer to each other as brothers…” he trailed off, realizing he was rambling. “I thought I was going to watch him die…” He shuffled his feet, trying to figure out what he was trying to say.

Surprisingly, she spoke up, although barely audible ”I didn’t ask for any of this…”

God, that hurt. Of fucking course she didn’t. This poor girl had gone through hell, and here he was making her feel worse. “I know. And I’m really sorry. I’m not good at this kind of thing…” Despite his best efforts, his voice was just a little choked up. It was a high emotion week. “I don’t really have a good excuse, but I am sorry. I know you’re going to be around a while, maybe forever-” he cut himself off. He didn’t exactly know what Santi and her relationship was., and wasn’t sure if they knew either.“I don’t want to make an enemy out of you, and I don’t want to be the person who makes you feel worse.”

Laci thought for a second, then smiled a soft, nervous smile. She tentatively walked towards him. “It’s okay.”

He shook his head. “It’s not-”

She held up a hand. He didn’t need Santi to translate that. “I get… I get really angry sometimes. Sometimes I get angry at Santi and he did nothing wrong. He doesn’t know. I push it down. But sometimes I worry I won’t be able to stop it. It’s okay.”

Will nodded. He felt like they had an understanding, at least.

She walked past him, going to find Santi. When Laci found him, he surprised her with a hug. “Are you okay, Lace?” He asked, rubbing her back.

“Yeah, I’m great. Take me home please?” She nestled her head into his chest, taking in his smell.

On the drive home, Laci asked about the watch.

“My sister gave it to me a few months before she died.” He took it off, handing it to her. “The inscription translates to ‘count all the stars and add one more’ it’s about how much the singer loves someone. It’s a song by Jesse and Joy and it features Luis Fonsi” Santi turned to her, smiling sadly “I couldn’t stand Luis Fonsi, but my sister loved him.” He turned back to the road. “Her name was Fatima. Frankie named his daughter after her. He and I grew up together. Anyway, she gave me this watch as a half joke since I hated the song. Now it’s one of my favorites. I think she knew she was dying.”

Laci put her hand on his shoulder. Usually, their touches were for Laci’s sake. This was for Santi’s. “That’s really sweet, Santi. And I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, Muñecita. For Will.”

“I think Will and I are going to get along fine.” She turned to him. “I like your friends a lot.”

Santi smiled. “Yeah, I do too.

***************

THANK YOU FOR READING! Reblogs help a lot, comments mean the world! lmk if you'd like to be added to my tag list!

Since google doesn’t really translate it, Muñecita means little doll. Muñeca is doll, and adding -ita makes a name or object diminutive.

@littlenosoul @bensolosbluesaber @milkymoon2483 @gogh-with-the-flow @itspdameronthings

#leather and lace fic #triple frontier fic #triple frontier fanfic #triple frontier #santiago garcia #santiago garcia x reader #santi garcia fanction #benny miller #will miller #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales #fluff #angst #hurt #comfort #santi garcia #santiago pope garcia #santiago garcia hurt comfort #oscar isaac fanfiction

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leeannsparksauthor · 1 year

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Don’t You Feel Seen?

A/N: Did I have a crush on Ghostface when I first watched Scream as a kid? No. Did I develop one later on in life? Yes. Am I now writing fanfiction about it? Also yes. I didn’t have a specific Ghostface in mind for this story so you can imagine whoever you’d like! This also takes place in the 90′s but the Stab movies never came out so take that as you will. Hope you enjoy!

Summary: You just wanted to close up the shop but the man on the phone has other plans.

Warnings: Mentions of drugs, murder and lot’s of cursing. Have fun!

Almost everyone asks ‘why me?’

‘Why you?’

He’ll blame it on his fixation, his desire to mimic the slashers he looked up too. It was his obsession, plain and simple. You should be flattered, he thought to himself. You were the only one who’s guts he didn’t want to see on the floor. He still wanted your blood spread across his hands, his chest, his face, he wanted your pretty handprints like artwork on his skin.

“Thanks for calling Smoke Kings, what can I help you with today?” Your voice held a raspiness to it, hours of talking with first time guests who just wanted the cheapest way to get high. The three cigarettes you had throughout your shift didn’t help either, neither did the full bowl you had shared with Mr Denver but whatever gets you through the day. You were exhausted and ready to go home but had the pleasure of closing by yourself tonight. Even though your boss was well aware of the string of murders that had been happening around town lately. Apparently the police aren’t even close to finding the killer, but when have they ever been able to do their job right?

Mr Denver’s head shop was one of the most colorful places on the block. Full of his memories and loves from the 70’s. It was a laid back job and had been your go to store before you started working there. You had been in the process of wiping down the cases when the store's phone rang, cutting through the music of the shop.

Ring. Ring.

“Hello…” you prompted again, there were deep breaths on the other end so you knew someone was there. Probably someone’s stupid idea of a Halloween prank, you thought.

“Hi.” A voice finally responded, it was deep, almost fake and broken through the static.

You picked up the rag again, still holding the phone to your ear.“Hi, what can I help you with?”

There was a breathy laugh on the other end, “I’m honestly not sure now.” The voice was pleasant and seemed genuinely confused.

“I think you might have the wrong number buddy.” You really didn’t want to deal with anyone so close to closing time. It was bad enough that you still had an entire store to clean but needy customers on top of that made you want to pull your hair out.

“I think I just might, sorry about that.” At least he’s apologetic about wasting my time, you thought.

A fake laugh at the incident followed, hoping to get him off the phone as quickly as possible. “It’s no problem, you have a good one man.” You gently put the phone back on the receiver and started to walk towards the closet that held the mop and broom. Before two steps were even taken the phone went off again.

Ring. Ring.

Please don’t let it be this guy again.“Hello?”

“Dammit, did I call the same number again?” Of course it was the same person, why wouldn’t it be? Not many people even call the store, preferring to just walk in to see what was in stock. You tried to hold back the irritated sigh that wanted to leave your mouth. Regardless if this guy's voice was nice and the night was slow you still had shit to do.

“Yeah you did, it’s all good though, do you know who you’re trying to call? I might have the number in the phone book here.” Mr Denver kept a book by the register, all of his ‘special’ numbers were kept in his office. You don’t even know why you offered to look up somebody for this person, maybe it was desperation to get back to closing. Or maybe it was just boredom.

“No I don't, sadly.”

“So…what, are you just calling random people tonight?” You asked while turning off the lights that illuminated the pipe cases.

“Not anyone random…you.”

Jesus, does this guy not have a life? “Well I’m very flattered but I have to get back to my job alright, have a good night…”

“Wait, what’s your name?” The voice asked before the phone could be lowered away from your ear.

“None of your business, now I have to help out a customer please don’t call back again.” The phone was slammed back onto the receiver. You were still the only one in the store right now after your lie and the track on the record player echoed in the store.

Ring. Ring.

“Why don’t you want to talk to me?” He sounded shamelessly hurt, his voice still had a teasing tone but it was more confident now. Maybe he realized that you had no other option but to answer the phone in the store. You were getting frustrated and your voice expressed it clearly.

“Look man, any other night if I was high enough I would indulge this shit but I’m just trying to get through my shift right now.” Why do people feel the need to bother others who are just trying to work?

“Are you really that busy right now?” His question made it seem like he knew you were lying about having to help out a customer. Knowing that he was just going to keep calling you figured you might as well just indulge him and hope that you can still close up on time.

“Alright, you have my attention, what do you want to talk about?” You placed the phone between your shoulder and your ear so that you could keep cleaning while talking to the man on the other end.

“Why are you working in a head shop, you sound like a sweet girl?” His question would be extremely condescending if he didn’t sound so genuine.

You dragged the broom across the floor, not really caring if some got left behind. You had to open the next morning anyway so it would be easy to clean. “Easy, I’m not a ‘sweet girl’, as you put it. Also the discounts on cigarettes and products makeup for all the other bullshit. Why are you calling random girls in the middle of the night? You sound like a ‘sweet boy’.”

He laughed and you won’t lie that it was probably one the nicest laughs you had heard. “Blame it on my loneliness, is your store getting ready for Halloween?”

You looked at the little ghosts on the window and plastic skulls littered on the counters. “I mean kinda, Mr Denver doesn’t really go overboard with it, mostly just does it to try and get some new faces in the door especially the day of.” There was nothing drunk teens loved more than cigarettes.

“Do you not like Halloween?”

The broom hit the dustpan a couple of times as you sweeped the dirt onto it. “Oh no I love Halloween. I mean I’m too old to go trick or treating but I like pumpkins and scary movies as much as the next person.”

“Really…what’s your favorite scary movie?” The question was asked in a more menacing tone, like his intention was to frighten you. Honestly if he was going for creepy, mission accomplished.

You had to think on that question for a moment, there were just so many. “Well that’s a tough one. Probably a tie between The Lost Boys, even though it’s not that scary and The Evil Dead, even though it’s really campy.”

“Good choices, so vampires and demons are what get you going? Not a big fan of the slashers huh?” Well no need to ask what some of his favorite movies are.

The mop and broom were put back in the closet, you didn’t have the energy to fill up the bucket so you would just do it in the morning as well. “Oh don’t get me wrong, Freddy and Micheal hold a special place in my heart but I just can’t watch those all the time.”

“Why not?” It was weird how interested he was about your opinions.

You started to lock up the cases that held a few of the more expensive glass pieces. If someone really wanted to break in and get them it would still be easy to do. “I mean real life is scary enough as it is so I’d rather have something farther from reality most nights.”

“You don’t like being scared sweetheart?” There was that teasing tone again, you liked the pet name though, even though you didn’t know who it was coming from.

The question made you scoff, it really is true that all the weirdos come out near Halloween. “Does anybody like being scared? I don’t mind as long as it’s from a movie, at least then I know it’s not real.”

“You know you never did tell me your name.” And you were never going to give it to him either, momma warned you about stranger danger after all.

You looked at the clock seeing that it was eight on the dot which meant you could finally lock up the store. “Yeah I know, why do you wanna know it so badly?”

“Because I wanna know who I’m looking at.” The statement made you pause, knowing what you heard but not sure if you should believe it.

“What?”

“I said I wanna know who I'm talking to.” Nope, nope fuck this shit, you thought as you hit the end call button on the phone before quickly flipping the lock on the door and backing away from the glass. You tried to look out into the darkness but it was practically impossible to see anything outside with the lights reflecting back.

Ring. Ring.

The sound made you jump and you quickly rejected the call but it immediately started again.

Ring. Ring.

You decided to answer the call this time, if nothing else to tell this asshole to leave you alone.

“Why did you hang up on me?” The voice was angrier this time, deeper than before.

“Look dude if this is some stupid Halloween prank, leave me out of it alright I’ve got shit to do.” The frustration and fear made you want to throw the phone away.

“You’re a good employee, locking up the store like that. Too bad Mr Denver left the backdoor open. You should really find a boss that cares more about your safety.” The icy realization of this not being a prank finally hit you. Your brain went a mile a minute as you looked around the store, specifically towards the back that led to the hallway. There’s nobody there, but there could be, you thought.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” I’m too high for this shit, you thought. “Listen you can have whatever you want in the store just leave me alone.”

He laughed at your panic, “aww that’s sweet of you but what if I wanted you bent over that counter with my knife at your throat? You still gonna give that to me…” his question ended with a hiss of your name, causing your skin to prickle.

“How the fuck do you know my name?” You looked towards the bathroom making your decision but you didn’t want to tip him off about your plan. Slowly you acted like you were walking closer to back, something only an idiot would do.

“I know a lot of things, like how pretty you look when you get yourself off at night. How you keep a bottle of that shitty perfume in your bag to cover up the cigarettes and weed. What I really want to know is how gorgeous those eyes are gonna be when they’re reflected on my knife.” As soon as he said those words you bolted into the single bathroom, turning on the light and locking the door. You could feel your heartbeat against your chest, pounding in your ears as the blood rushed from your face. “You really have been watching your scary movies, hiding in the bathroom, it just might actually work in your favor.”

You could feel tears sliding down your cheek, onto your neck and chest. “Fuck you!”

“Only if you ask nicely.”

The line was silent as you tried to catch your breath. I don’t wanna die here, your mind chanted over and over again. “What do you want, asshole? Or better yet why me, I haven’t done anything!” You thought that there was no way you could know this guy, you didn’t have many friends to start with. Could it have been a past customer, some stupid idiots from school? Could it be the town killer?

“You don’t have to do anything for me to like you, I just wanted to talk.” The lights overhead flickered, almost in response to his words.

Part of you wanted to hang up, call the police, but then what would happen? Would you be safe in this bathroom if you did, could he easily break down this door? “Yeah? Cause it sounds like you wanna kill me so just get it over with fucker! I’m not playing this fucking game with you.” The whole ordeal made you want to break down on the floor, it wasn’t fair.

“What’s wrong, you don’t like my games?”

“Not really no.” Fuck this town, fuck this job, fuck my life.

“This is what you wanted isn’t it? ‘I just want someone who wants me, wholly, completely, I don’t want to have to guess if they like me. Someone who just goes for it, who makes me feel seen.’ Don’t you feel seen?” You heard him mockingly recite the words from your journal verbatim. He had been in your house, he knew where you livedIf you had known a serial killer would read your journal you never would have even kept one but nobody plans for that shit.

“Fuck you that’s not what I meant!”

“You should really be more specific with your thoughts then.” The line went dead, he had been the one to hang up this time. You could still hear the music coming from outside but it was punctuated now with footsteps. Then a sound like nails on a chalkboard, a knife on glass. There was a shadow at the bottom of the door and then the voice, right next to your ear, like he knew exactly where you were sitting against the wood. “Open up now…I’ll show you how much I want you.”

#ghostface #scream #ghostface x reader #ghostface x y/n #slasher romance #obsession #obsessive love #please dont kill me mr ghostface #scream au

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mechanicalinertia · 5 months

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STMPD Recommends Black Lagoon Fanfiction: Girlycards' A Chance Encounter

So this is going to be something a smidge different than my usual reviews. The fic's under 20k words, and I decided to poke at it after girlycards reblogged my last review joking that she couldn't wait to see what I said about her fic.

I was a little reluctant to do so, not gonna lie. She writes short snippets of Balalaika and Revy being cute-ish with one another, at least as cute as those characters can be with one another being who they are; I write over-the-top explode-y cyberpunk adventures. But I decided to take it as a challenge and give one fic she poked my way a go. A Chance Encounter was that fic.

And, dear reader, it's really good! So let's talk about Balalaika and Revy and why this fic works.

The setup is right there: Lost and free from prison in NYC, Revy tries to mug Balalaika, not knowing who she is. It doesn't go well, of course - this is fucking Balalaika we're talking about - but Balalaika allows her to live, allows her to follow her to her hotel room, and in time to Roanapur. And in time, Balalaika starts to care for Revy. Simple as that. I actually don't want to spoil too much.

In that regard, it's something of an origin story, even retelling the time when Chang shot Balalaika a few times and almost sparked an intersyndicate war. Rock's nowhere to be found, and who cares? This is about two lost hyperviolent women with attachment issues figuring out how to start to attach to each other.

And it works! As Goethe would say, it succeeds in what it sets out to do and it was worth doing. It's funny, too, because BalaRevy has always felt like it would be fundamentally a toxic relationship to me, and the one fic I've tried to read where that relationship is explored - It Will Come Back - never disabused me of that notion. Like, Balalaika is Balalaika. Domination and control is her drug of choice, and someone without a private army at her back, like Revy - what can she do but struggle in the Russian's grip? I'm still hashing out the details of her romance with Celia in Bubblegum Black, but her attachment to her rusalka... well, you've seen how I write it, dear reader. I hope.

So I think what works here is that as much as Balalaika starts keeping Revy by her side initially out of pity, she also sees the woman she once was, the criminal she is now, in a warped way in Two Hands. Oh, Balalaika is still pretty cold even right up until the end of the fic, but one feels like she's getting somewhere. Compare that to It Will Come Back, which I struggled a lot more with because it felt like Balalaika never showed that key moment of intimacy and it was more one-sided pining on Revy's part (couple that with the fact that the author clearly didn't like Rock that much and I really wasn't feeling the fic because, in case you can't tell dear reader, I like playing around with Rock as a character). That mutuality was what made the fic - and the ship - feel possible for me. As such, I encourage you to read it! I think you'll like it.

Now what should I review next, hmm... Last thing I want to do is review YT2032 anytime soon, heh...

#black lagoon #stmpd reviews fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic rec

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asteriastarr · 3 months

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In your fanfiction on wattpad the main character mentions sex to mercy, in your fanfiction 'secrets' the main character is hiding in Deuces dorm and they're trying to hide from the others, there are many other references in your fanfictions.

*Blinks* I- *Blinks again*

Uh idk if you passed 5th grade english or not but those are... *Leans in close* Uhm *Whispers* REFERENCES!

very different to explicit smut... do you want to know why? Because a lot of those things can be interpreted at will. The hiding thing, is literally just them keeping their relationship a secret, in other posts where their OH THE HUMANITY laying in bed together its literally just laying in bed. I do it platonically with my friends all the time. Literally the most explicit I've gone in any of my posts and possibly ever will go is making out, WITH CLOTHES ON unless we expressly hear somewhere in the series that he is 16-18 and even then, I'm not comfortable writing it because :o I'm a minor too! AHHHHHH

Also btw the part where Y/n mentions sex to Mercy is completely out of context so uh- Heres the full convo:

Mercy paused, thinking of a way she could possibly word this.

"Well- There's someone." She began slowly "Someone I really, really like- who means the world to me... someone who-"

"You love?" Y/n finished for her.

"Yeah." She admitted "And- I think they love me too."

"Well, that's nice, isn't it? You loving each other?" Y/n smiled.

"I suppose." Mercy spoke, not meeting Y/ns eye.

Y/n tilted her head.

"Is there an issue?" She asked in concern.

"Well, everything was good when we first met, right? Perfect even but then... some months ago they... they changed and- now they want me to do something I don't want to do." Mercy admitted.

Y/n glanced over at something on the other side of her, nodding slightly before turning back. "Alcohol?" She asked.

"Uh- no?" Mercy said.

Y/n did the same thing again. "Drugs?" "No." "Sex?" "No! What the fang is wrong with you?" Mercy gasped.

"I don't know, what is wrong with me?" Y/n spoke, glancing pointedly over at some invisible creature beside her before back at Mercy "But, Mercy... if you love each other can't you just... tell them you don't want to do it? If they truly love you, they'll listen and respect it."

"I tried; they wouldn't listen." She murmured. "Well... that's not love," Y/n said after a brief silence.

"Excuse me?"

"What you just described isn't love... at least not on their part." "What do you mean?" Mercy asked.

"Well- Love- True Love is unconditional, it has no prior requirements- with the occasional exceptions... part of those exceptions is respecting boundaries when they are set." Y/n spoke "By talking to this person and telling them how you feel... you set a boundary. If they refuse to respect that then they don't love you Mercy... not really."

Also in an earlier scene Deuce and Y/n share a bed. In another scene they kiss. Wouldnt those be more important then a mention of sex? Plus... My gods.... Y/N IS A SIREN WHO GREW UP ON AN ISLAND READING A SHIT TON OF BOOKS! OBVIOUSLY SHE'LL MENTION SEX DOESNT MEAN SHE PARTAKES IN IT.

#g3 monster high #live action monster high #monster high g3 #deuce gorgon #deuce gorgon g3 #live action deuce gorgon #gorgon

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chaithetics · 10 months

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hi youuu! :)

first, english is not my first language so sorry for possible mistakes! and second, I just wanted to say that I love porcelain and shark so much!! stewy being a dad was definitely a thing <333 and i'm really excited and really looking forward to new things from reader roy who is now a hosseini (we love that!!!). maybe getting pregnant again? and maybe part of the family judging her for that? (that sounds terrible but im sure logan or shiv would do that lol) or more about her kids or her and stewy just being a cute couple I DON'T KNOW just more content stewy would already make this person - me!!! - happier 😭

and i was also a little curious about stewy's drug habits lol like there was roman joking but how does the reader actually deal with it? I know it sounds like a lot but I noticed you like details and just trying not to make my request a little vague? hahah and YESSS my Succession Sunday was a Succession Monday morning because when I went to sleep there was nothing and when I woke up there was new content so I imagine it's the time zone too hahah but I'm not complaining! (and I'm not the anon who talked about this, I'm just being nosy 🤭)

and just one more thing that's just me being curious IS THE LAST ONE HAHAHAH reader and stewy have an age difference right? I imagine he's the same age as kendall because they went to college together and she's the youngest child.. and anyway it's not important hahah, it's just me thinking.

it got big but I hope to make up for it by wishing you a great day lmao 💕 💕

Hey lovely Nonnie!!!

I'm so, so, so, so glad you enjoyed that piece! It makes me so happy, I was a bit anxious to post it honestly so thank you! Also don't apologise about that, English is an awful language that isn't easy (I grew up in a house with other languages being spoken). You worded everything perfectly and don't owe anyone "perfect english".

Okay my responses feel borderline headcannony/ thoughty so I'll bullet point them, I hope that's okay!

Roy reader will definitely get pregnant again in the future! I just wanted her and Stewy to have a bit of a break before another young child 😂

In the 80th, Jonathan is 3 (closer to 4) and Tillie is around 1. Porce and Stewy definitely read child development books and decided they wanted to try spacing it out so there was at least a couple of years between each child. They didn't want big or small gaps between the children.

The original Nonnie that sent in the prompts had a couple about the relationship between Porce and Shiv being tense and I 100% agree with that. Fanfiction is fanfiction and I completely support people writing characters how they want/out of character but I personally try to write the Roys as realistically as possible to the Canon. I cannot imagine Shiv liking or having a good relationship with a younger sister. She already feels threatened by her brothers but she'd feel more threatened by another woman in the picture and especially one that is younger and has the moniker of the youngest daughter. Especially in Logan's eyes. I do think Shiv would like what she views as protection by having someone in the picture who is weaker to the men and she can join them on calling Porce that. We also see that Shiv embraces masculinity in a way to play in the patriarchy to try and be taken more seriously and advance herself (her manner of speaking especially to other women, the pantsuits, the switch from S1 to S2 onwards in fashion etc.) So Shiv without a doubt would look down on Porce for what she thinks is embracing feminity by marriage, motherhood etc. So Shiv would definitely look down on her for getting pregnant again and not like the attention it gets Porce and Stewy.

I don't know think I got too into it in the 80th or if it's more in some of the drafts I have atm. But I think Logan would fall into that type of abusive patriarch that the abuse still comes through with his grandkids but is better with them than he is with his children. Which I imagine conflicts the Roy siblings a bit as well.

Also, after what's revealed in the series finale about Sophie and Iverson, I imagine that it's something that was a big deal and then became something that was somewhat unspoken but known by all in the family, I feel like Shiv's response confirmed that as well. So I imagine there would be an awkward dynamic around Logan somewhat favouring Porce's children a bit just because they're biological. I think he'd be somewhat glad about those pregnancies as they're more "heirs" and carrying the bloodline. Plus with him being a misogynist he probably thinks that it's her way of contributing/carrying out duties or whatever thinly veiled excuse of misogyny he wants to spout. But I do think he has some issues with them being Hosseinis instead of Roys, especially as things go on because of who Stewy is and what he's doing.

There will be more fluffy Stewy content! I PROMISE! I live for the fluff haha!

There might also eventually be some angst, the original nonnie did send some stuff in about the proxy battle but I do have some thoughts around Shiv's wedding/the bear hug and Austerlitz. So... 👀

HAHAHA! I'm sorry but when you said that you noticed I like details I started laughing because I felt so seen 😂 You're not wrong. I do love details!

When Roman did the body gesture and Porce said he was a bad role model I personally imagined that was somewhat aimed at Kendall. Like he was comparing himself in an "Well I'm a better role model/uncle!" Kind of way but it can definitely be read as a jab at Stewy or Kendall or both of them.

I felt like based after 4 seasons of the Roys and how they treat him even when he's sober, they would definitely make comments like the ones Roman made in the bathroom even if Stewy was clean. I kind of would like to think that Stewy doesn't use cocaine after being married and having children. But if he does (which is probably likely) I imagine he'd use responsibly, small doses, never at home/in front of or around the children. I feel like that's more realistic? But I'm not sure. I don't want to write it super casually when cocaine use is a serious topic and a lot of awful stuff happens because of that, addiction in the show and more importantly reality. I'm more than happy to hear peoples thoughts on it, it's probably something I won't honestly address too much or go into detail of at this stage? But I'm probably leaning towards writing that Stewy's sober now in that regard.

But IF he does still use, I imagine it's that it's not often, it's just "for business" occasionally and that it follows the rules of small doses, never in front of or around the children. It happens very rarely. They have that as guidelines and I imagine that and lots of reassurances/Stewy following through on that would help ease her anxiety a little bit. It's basically Canon that Porce and Stewy are relationship communication Champs.

Yes they do have an age difference.

Do I know what the age difference is? Nope 😂

We never really find out anything about the characters ages except that Logan is 80 at the start and that Kendall is 40 in S3. The shows timeline is also intentionally vague, I think Jesse Armstrong just said that he imagines it taking place over a couple of years. But it's safe to assume that Stewy would also have been 40 in S3 as they went to Buckley and Harvard together. We don't know the age gap between the younger three siblings over plus there's heaps of debate over the birth order of Roman and Shiv and the twin hints. So I can't comment on what the difference is but I do like the twin theory and I feel like (despite Sarah Snook being a lot younger than the others) it's like a 3-5 year age gap between Kendall and Shiv and Roman. So I imagine Stewy and Porce have a 5-7 year age gap at the most? As you can tell, I didn't really think about the logistics 😂 it's probably not a factor I'll go into anyway. But it was interesting to think about the math and decisions about the Canon Roys!

Haha! Welcome to the world of Succession Mondays! I hope it was a good morning read haha! But yes, timezones are very, very, very weird and you're always welcome to be nosey!

But these will definitely be included in some of the pieces coming out! I hope you enjoyed them and you're always welcome to send in requests, questions or thoughts! It wasn't too big at all btw! Thank you so much for reaching out Nonnie! Especially with such thoughtful and engaging questions Nonnie! I hope you have a lovely week and a great Succession Sunday/Monday 💗

#succession #stewy hosseini #stewy hosseini x reader #porcelain and the shark #requests open #stewy hosseini x roy reader #requests #hbo succession #stewy hosseini x roy!reader #chaitheticsasks

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i-love-shoutoko-so-much · 1 year

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NEW SEROROKI FIC!

Hello, world! I am back writing BNHA ship fanfictions!

I finally manage to finish and post my last Seroroki fanfic that I started... In September?!!! In my defense, I had a big thing to solve so I needed to stop writing (I mean, I still tried some words some days). ANYWAY, here we go!

Chapter 12: SERO/TODOROKI - Together by chance and forever

Summary: After running away from home with no plan in mind, the omega, Shouto, gets help from Sero, an alpha who is the complete opposite of his father.

READ IT HERE!

It had been hours since Shouto wandered non-stop. His legs ached, his mouth was dry and his stomach was begging for food. But he had no way to satisfy his needs. He ran away from home with only the clothes on his back. At least the night was warm. Dark, lonely and scary, but warm.

He didn't know what time it was, but he knew it was quite late, as he hardly saw people on the street. Even most of the bars were closed or not very busy. Not that Shouto felt any comfort in the ones that were working. On the contrary, he wanted as much distance from drunk people as possible. Being so pitiful – and being an omega, to top off his unhappiness –, he would be an easy target.

Nearly tripping over his own feet, Shouto allowed himself to stop for the first time since leaving home. He leaned against a wall of a closed shop and tried not to think about the pain in his feet and stomach and head. His eyes fluttered shut for a second, but he straightened up with a start, having the impression he almost fell asleep on the spot.

Maybe it was time to find a place to rest. He knew there were homeless shelters in town, but he had no idea where they were. And at that time of night, who knows if I'd get a spot? And even if he did, would it be safe to sleep there with a bunch of strangers?

A shiver went up his spine, and Shouto crouched down, dragging his half-red, half-albino hair on the wall. Despair, fear and weariness seemed to pull him down, and he wanted to curl up and cry. Not that it would help in any way, he reminded himself. He had to get up and keep going, he couldn't show any sign of regret at finally being freed from the hell that was his home. Or rather, his father.

Just thinking about his old man, Shouto gained strength to get back on his feet. He wanted to get as far away from him as possible. Even if he had to cross the entire country walking. Before he took the next step, however, a new chill hit him when he heard joyful voices:

"What's up, pretty thing?"

Shoto slowly turned around, casting a cold stare at the three approaching men, even though his instincts screamed for him to run.

"What's a cute omega like you doing out here alone at this time of night?"

The men smelled of alcohol and drugs, they were thin like Shouto himself, and two of them, a little taller. The omega began calculating what his chances were in a fight.

“If you don't have a place to go, you can stay with us, cutie. We can have a very nice night…”

Shouto didn't let him finish talking. As soon as one of the men tried to put an arm around his shoulder, he grabbed him and punched him in the face hard enough to knock him to the ground.

“Hey!” The other two shouted and tried to hold him back, but Shouto dodged to one side and tripped him. On the third, Shoto grabbed his arms and kicked his private parts without hesitation.

The first one, however, returned to the attack, this time, taking a small penknife from his pocket.

“Looks like we're going to have to teach you manners, little omega.”

Shouto growled, cautiously backing away. He hated being reminded of his second gender. He wanted to rip those people's tongues out so they would never refer to him that way again. However, he began to worry more about getting out of this mess in one piece. His brief hesitation gave the others time to also recover and arm themselves.

Now it wasn't just his instincts that begged him to run.

“Come on, pretty boy. Be good and we won't hurt you, okay?”

As if he was going to hand himself over like that, Shouto snorted before turning around and running desperately. The men shouted after him, but the boy did not check how far away they were. He just moved his legs as fast as he could, knowing how futile his attempt to save himself was, but being unable to just surrender.

He turned a corner at full throttle and saw someone getting on a bus. His eyes gleamed with hope, knowing he could escape if he managed to get into there, but his world spun when his shirt was grabbed, and he was yanked backward, bumping, falling, and rolling across the floor with one of his pursuers.

He felt a cut on his arm, but he couldn't care less. He got on top, but was soon grabbed by the other two and pressed against a wall. One hand tightened around his neck and the other pointed the knife at his face.

“Why did you have to run away from us, pretty thing? Do you want us to cut you up so badly? We can add a few more scars to that cute little face of yours.”

Shouto was paralyzed. Although his hands were free, he couldn't react. He couldn't scream. But even if he could, who would listen?

“ARGH!” One of the men was hit by something and fell on top of the one threatening Shouto. The switchblade scraped across his nose and cheek and onto the floor with the drunks and a backpack.

In the next second, Shoto was pulled from the wall and to behind the broad, protective back of an alpha. His presence was aggressive and exuded in droves, accompanied by a low growl.

“You better get out of here now, you cowards. I just called the police and there's a battalion two blocks away, so they should be here any minute. You know what they do to molesters in jail?”

The three guys staggered to their feet and faced each other hesitantly. The police threat worked, as the man who had the switchblade pointed at Shouto a minute ago snorted in exasperation and backed away, calling his friends with him. The other two didn't look happy, but they also turned and walked away muttering to each other.

The alpha in front of Shoto only stopped growling when he lost sight of them. He ran a hand through the hair that covered the back of his neck and sighed deeply, his shoulders slumped, as if they were lifted by the tension before, and he turned around with a worried smile.

“Are you okay?”

Shouto's legs gave out.

READ MORE HERE!

And if you enjoy my writing, please consider supporting me on Ko-Fi!

#seroroki #bnha #todoroki shouto #sero hanta #alpha/beta/omega au

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youngster-monster · 8 months

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i DO live like this and my discord wips are a mess, i have to literally tag names onto the end of them because my writing style makes me not use names for like 300 words so i have to keep shoehorning the characters names in so that i know which snippet it was and it is Awful you would not believe the sheer state of that snippets channel

sometimes rotting is a very necessary part of the creative process!! on occasion you just have to grow moss and become nothing but bones and after a while it’s like Okay i can write now :)

fic writing is so EASY compared to all the context and lore and world building and character growth nd MAN i just wanted to write my silly guys being silly but now i have a doc open to the lore of how gods work so that my stupid guy will make a little more sense!!! what IS this!!!!!! when i write fanfiction i just sit down and recount wow lore to myself for 30 minutes while making beastly noises and then i’m normal again and can write fanfiction!! obviously fic writing is still difficult because of.. the horrors.. but at least i can blame the faults in my fic on blizzard :)

i was about to fight for the honor of my Totally Organized Discord WIPs but then i thought about it and yeah.. yeah. they’re kind of. messy… they all have individual channels and i am too scared to look thru them lest the spirit of my old work come alive to kill me or something

my ships are always so stupidly niche i can almost guarantee you my wip would be the first fic in MONTHS if not EVER for some of these anime fandoms i had one for a ship that didn’t even have a TAG i didn’t even know what to do i was so startled!! on the bright side though by virtue of simply posting a fic it could potentially spur other people to write about it which would be a net gain so… perhaps!

that is so real of you.. i don’t have any right actually i just remembered i used to try to read fanfic on my 3ds and it was terrible it wouldn’t even load the page half the time and i frequently had to mess with the internet because my 3ds hated staying connected to wi-fi

They Are In Character To Me (putting a blanket over canon characterization) in my heart this Is how they are in canon and if you try to tell me otherwise? well uhhhh uh (i explode)

staring in fascination and dread at whatever you're doing with your fic organization. i cannot stress enough how insane it sounds. compels me though

you're 100% right. i don't write i mostly Shamble and Crawl, shedding moss and fungi after myself,

be careful anon. the line between "quick lore to make things make sense" and "oops! all worldbuilding!" is very thin. then again if you go over too much you can just turn the whole thing into a ttrpg campaign for your friends or something :)

independant channels of discord wips 🤝 one gargantuan wip document in your notes app striking the fear of god into the writer's heart at the thought of digging through the damn thing

being the one (1) person to write for a ship is Better Than Drugs actually and you should definitely do it,

#asks #anonymous #making a story idea into a ttrpg campaign CAN be considered entrapment #because you trick people into caring about your ocs and suddenly you have the world's tiniest most obsessive fandom for your silly guys #'sit down and recount wow lore to myself for 30 minutes while making beastly noises' ended me btw. mood.#my current philosophy is 'forgot to mention this so things don't really make sense. it's fine because blizzard did the exact same thing'#reading fics on the 3ds...good times #i read the entirety of bend around the wind (tony stark/loki fanfiction) like this and it definitely added to the experience #the poor console was so bad at loading ffnet

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lepoppeta · 10 months

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For the WIP game: all the BioShock ones? :)

Dark and Familiar and Deep as the Sea is the title for my like... the actual-for-realsies Bioshock AU fic. It started off as a drabble fic, and I got about 10 chapters in, but then I started changing the plot... and changing is and changing it-

Currently it's hovering between a re-vamped drabble fic and a full-blown "I put effort into this" fanfiction. I want to write this one so - bad. It is one of my precious babies. It is my son boy.

"Jack," she says shortly. "We can discuss this when you're not in immediate danger. Now keep-" "No." "This is not up for debate-" "Well I'm debating it anyhow!" Jack wobbles precariously as he pulls his knees underneath him. "Brigid, I want answers. I want to… fuck, I deserve to know, if I'm gonna be doing all this for you." "Not for the girls?" Jack groans. "Ah hell, you know what I meant."

Babydoll is a silly shippy one-shot that explores Jack being the more... "dominant" is a strong word, but I'm personally always worried about typecasting Jack into the 'feminine' role of the relationship. So, Atlas gets a stupid 1950's nickname for the purposes of this one scene and Jack gets to be annoyingly smug about it.

Something flickers in the warm mahogany of Jack's eyes. He sets his hand of cards face-down and cushions his back against the stack of hay bales behind him. His eyelids flutter to only halfway; his mouth curls into a low, considering smile. "You LIKE that," he repeats, louder this time. Atlas swallows roughly as scarlet indignation colours the tips of his ears. "Why's it matter?" "It's new for you, that's all."

In Sunshine or in Shadow is based off of a plot bunny that I had while reasoning that Jack would have major withdrawal symptoms when coming off the Adam usage. He's sedated by Tenebaum so his body can process the drug out of his bloodstream and he doesn't accidentally attack anyone in the process. Atlas is left to awkwardly bond with Jack's five adopted daughters - the Little Sisters.

A pale head peeks in from the corridor. Wet grey eyes blink owlishly, not at Jack lying prone in the cot, but at Atlas hunched at his side. This is Alice, if he recalls correctly; the youngest and shyest of the five. "Hello," Atlas offers quietly. Alice flinches despite her staring straight at him. After a moment's deep consideration, she pads softly into the room, stopping at the foot of the bed. Atlas follows her movements warily. "I heard you singing," she mumbles, fiddling with the ends of her frizzy hair.

Last but not least is Mummy's Boy, which is a silly name for a 5 + 1-styled fic that explores Jack and Atlas' memories of their respective mothers (who both died when they were reasonably young).

"'Johnny'?" Atlas sets his jaw. Jack shoves his hands in his pockets. "It's, uh… Mr. Ryan insists on using John, up here." "Ah." A soft smile appears across Jack's face. "Ma called me Jack, though." He turns to Atlas and cocks his head. "She was the only one who did, up until you." "That's what you told me it was," Atlas points out, confused. Jack's smile widens. "I know."

#answered ask #ask game #bioshock #jack ryan #atlas bioshock #atlas mulligan #alternate universe #musicalshock #fanfiction #my writing

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pixelgrotto · 2 years

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Copaganda adventures

I have no particular love for the police. In fact, I frequently make jokes about cops and doughnuts. Working for several years as a breaking news journalist didn’t help me change this point of view, since I watched way more videos classified under the term “officer-involved shooting” than anyone should be subjected to. In general, I think policing - at least in the United States - is a field rife with problems, and I usually steer clear of video games that glorify law enforcement or the military.

That said, I have a high tolerance for classic point ‘n click games, and Sierra’s Police Quest franchise has long been a blind spot for me. I finally decided to fix this by playing through the first four Police Quest games (plus the remake of Police Quest 1) in release order, and what I found was a very odd franchise. The Police Quest games walk an unexpected line between hardcore procedurals - where you need to follow rules religiously or risk losing your badge - and wacky cop wish fulfillment, with plots and characters that feel like they were whipped up by an officer with a penchant for writing fanfiction about himself while eating Munchkins during his lunch break. I have no idea if this was the method by which Jim Walls developed the first three games in the series, but I like to think that it was.

Walls, a retired California patrol officer who was recruited by Sierra’s president Ken Williams to spearhead the Police Quest franchise, is an interesting fella. He experienced his fair share of action as a cop, and the Police Quest manuals point out that he was involved in a highway shootout that left him with recurring PTSD. But rather than explore the mental health trauma that officers experience during their careers (an important topic, honestly), Walls’ first game, 1987′s Police Quest: In Pursuit of the Death Angel, focuses on a heroic patrol officer named Sonny Bonds. Sonny is your ideal cop who rises through the ranks, becomes a detective and takes down a burgeoning drug empire while getting smooches from his high school girlfriend-turned-sex worker Marie, who really wants him to rescue her from her life as a scarlet lady by being a cool blue stud. All in all, it’s a plot that screams “this was probably written by a conservative dude in Regan’s America.”

Police Quest 1 is infamous these days for punishing players who don’t follow correct police procedure. If you fail to do a walkaround inspection of your car the first time you take it out of the station, you get into an accident and die. If you don’t handcuff a suspect from the right angle, you die. If you type “remove clothes” at any point in the game, you promptly strip naked and die...presumably from embarrassment. These examples hint at the bizarre dichotomy that exists within the game, which pressures you into doing things “by the book” but also contains a strange undercurrent of silliness, including endless amounts of potty humor. (There are multiple descriptions of what happens when you lead Sonny Bonds to any bathroom. One of my favorites: “Panic fills your heart as you watch the nasty fluid nearly breach the rim, before it slowly subsides.”) I can only assume that this contrast exists because Al Lowe, Sierra’s resident funny guy who also designed the Leisure Suit Larry games, worked on Police Quest 1 behind the scenes.

Police Quest 2: The Vengeance doesn’t have quite the same polarities, but it’s still a goofy game. Sonny Bonds is now a hot-shot detective with a useless partner named Keith Robinson (who spends every second chain smoking and will call you a commie if you tell him to cut the cigs), and the pair are on a mission to recapture Jesse Bains, the drug lord from the first game. Honestly, Police Quest 2 is probably the best entry in the franchise, mostly because it leans hard into “’80s buddy cop movie” territory. The Roland-MT intro music is absolutely badass synth, and Sonny’s investigations veer into the realm of ridiculous spy movie shit, with a scuba diving section and a sewer crawl. He does the sort of stuff that would normally require a whole team of agents, and this is especially noticeable during a bonkers scene where a group of random Middle Eastern terrorists hijack a plane and Sonny’s expected to exit his seat, shoot ‘em dead and unwire a bomb they’ve stuck in the toilet. If you can look past the terrible portrayal of Arabs and accept that you’re playing through Jim Walls’ fanfic, Police Quest 2 is actually good - and hilariously, it’s the only entry in the series that got localized into Japanese, with everyone getting the full anime do-over package of big eyes and outrageous hair. Honestly, I’d love to watch a Police Quest 2 anime in the style of City Hunter.

Unfortunately, anything resembling anime went out the window with Police Quest 3: The Kindred, a game that veered back towards the realism department. It's the first project in the series to utilize what was at the time Sierra’s brand new engine upgrade - their SCI1 interpreter - and it’s got 256 colors, rotoscoped animations, digitized closeups of actual people for speech boxes, and music composed by Jan Hammer, the guy who did the Miami Vice soundtrack. (You should watch this video of him jamming out to the Miami Vice theme, it’s pretty funny.) Unfortunately, Jim Walls left Sierra before Police Quest 3 was finished, and it shows. What begins as a fairly promising setup where Sonny’s now-wife Marie gets injured by cultists devolves into a nothing burger which...just kinda ends. The last act of the game feels like it’s building to a showdown with the cultists and Sonny’s new partner, a corrupt cop named Pat Morales, but everything concludes in a brief scene where the cult leader just gives up with nary a word. Pat tries to shoot Sonny but gets shot by vice instead. Marie wakes up, announces that Sonny’s gonna be a dad and everything is over in three minutes. Not that the other two Police Quests had fantastic finales, but this one really feels hollow, and despite all his quirks, it probably would’ve been better if Jim Walls had stuck around. (Walls would go on to work for Tsunami Media to produce Blue Force, a game I haven’t played but certainly seems like “Police Quest with the serial numbers filed off.” He also tried to Kickstart a Police Quest successor called Precinct in 2013, but never met his funding goal.)

After Police Quest 3, Sierra developed a remake of Police Quest 1 using the SCI1 interpreter. It’s a very solid effort, and while not the game in the series I personally liked the most (Police Quest 2 still takes that trophy), it’s probably the most playable by modern standards. Everything has been upgraded to look more in line with Police Quest 3, but while that game suffered from a half-baked story, the Police Quest 1 remake has the original’s framework to fall back on. And the writing is greatly improved. Sonny Bonds’ characterization is way better - he makes banter with his colleagues, groans about how the public cusses him out as a dirty pig and seems to grapple with toxic masculinity on the police force. The game doesn’t do anything really meaningful with his thoughts, but it’s still cool. Marie also gets elevated from a tropey hooker into a conflicted woman who’s more fleshed out, which is good to see.

Following the remake, Sierra was in need of a new direction for Police Quest. Ken Williams wanted a big fish to headline the franchise and stir up sales, and of all the people in the world, he decided to go with Daryl F. Gates, former LAPD chief during the Rodney King riots. Gates was an edgy pick even by Ken’s standards, and it’s worth reading this Vice article from a few years back, or this highly-detailed Digital Antiquarian post detailing how the man who presided over one of the LAPD’s worst moments somehow became a creative consultant on a computer game series.

Even if we ignore Gates’ background, Police Quest: Open Season - commonly referred to as Police Quest 4 - is not a great game. Sonny Bonds was always a little boring, but now he’s been replaced by an utterly forgettable LAPD detective named John Carey. Carey’s mission to stop a serial killer is portrayed via digitized actors and low-res photos of LA that have not aged well and make the entire game look like pixelated mud. The plot is also fiercely out of step with the current era, feeling like a mixture of tastelessness and serial killer kitsch. While Jim Walls’ Police Quests definitely had their fair share of casual racism, the portrayals of people of color in Police Quest 4 are on another level. The Black characters are largely gangbangers, drunks or rappers who spout bad dialogue, and there’s an Asian convenience store owner literally named “Kim Chee.” The game’s vaguely homophobic and transphobic as well, going out of its way to stereotype a male sex worker and show him attempting to steal the tires off Carey’s car. The killer, meanwhile, dresses in women’s clothing and is depicted as aberrant for doing so. His motivations for killing are not explained - rather, the fact that he wears a red dress is all the characterization he needs for his murder sprees, at least according to the minds behind this game. While all of the Police Quests could be classified as copaganda, Police Quest 4 is the only one that explicitly feels harmful.

There were other entries in the franchise developed in the wake of Police Quest: Open Season, but I didn’t feel like playing them since they veer wildly away from the adventure genre. Gates stuck around to oversee Police Quest: SWAT, an FMV game glorifying the special tactics teams that he elevated during his time as LAPD chief, and he was also there for Police Quest: SWAT 2, a real-time tactics game. Then Gates exited the scene and “SWAT” replaced “Police Quest” as the main title of the series, which gradually morphed into first-person shooters that were about as far of a cry as you could possibly imagine from Sonny Bond’s early adventures. (Sonny did cameo as a SWAT leader in SWAT 4, so at least the original boy in blue did well for himself as he got on in years.)

This brings us to the final question - are the first four Police Quests worth checking out, in spite of their tonal issues? In my opinion, you can skip Police Quest: Open Season, unless you're fascinated by the career of Daryl F. Gates and want to see how something with his name on it managed to be twenty different degrees of insensitive. The entries starring Sonny Bonds, in contrast, might be of interest to old school adventure fans, as well as those who want to see the progenitor of modern law enforcement and special tactics games. Compared to stuff like Rainbow Six: Siege, Police Quest is certainly quaint - and while the series never managed to completely change my attitude toward cops, I will say that there were moments that made me appreciate the regulations that police officers are supposed to abide by. Let me specifically note the fact that if you make Sonny wantonly shoot any suspect in Police Quest 1, you’ll instantly lose and be reprimanded for not following procedure. Considering that we live in a world where police brutality raged up a shitstorm of massive proportions in 2020, it’s pretty heartening to see that in a computer game from 1987.

#pixel grotto #favorites #police quest

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the-inkwell-variable · 2 years

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Find the Word Tag!

I was tagged by both @on-noon and @writingpotato07, so I'm gonna try to do as many of the words as I can! The snippets may be shorter than I usually do, since there's so many words lol :D

Because I just started a new playthrough of Arkham Knight (and reawakened my not so secret crush on the Knight), most of my snippets will probably come from fanfictions and drabbles of that angsty boi. Please forgive me!

(If you like my Knight snippets, I have a side blog where I've written a few full-on fics, so head on over and give those a read. I'm very proud of them and want to show them off!)

I'm tagging @did-i-do-this-write, @on-noon, @writingpotato07, @kyofsonder, and @wildswrites! No pressure, of course, and if anyone else wants to take part, go for it! Tag me if you want to be tagged in future games as well - I don't want to leave anyone out!

My words are: grow, worse, wind, snow, wake, Favor, Glass, Light, Door, Surprise

Your words are:

protection

monstrous

word

other

rare

Grow

"You need to grow up." The Knight blinked, though she could not see it behind his mask. "Excuse me?" "You heard me." Kia turned away from him with a huff, shoving her hands into her pockets. "I dunno what the Bat did to you, but you're acting like a five year old who just got told he can't have a sweet before dinner."

Worse

"It's getting worse." He pressed the bandage back to the Knight's side and was thanked with a pained hiss. "You need to rest, Todd. You're not going to heal properly if you keep chasing him like this. At least a few days--" "I can't rest." The Knight tried to force himself to his elbows, but Slade stopped him easily by pressing his palm to his chest. "I'm so close! If I stop now--"

Wind + Snow

The wind whistled through her hair, cold as the snow that added extra weight to her poncho. She hugged herself tightly. He'll come, she reassured herself despite the growing doubts. Of course he'd come. Sure, he was a few hours late -- but being fashionably late was part of his norm. The underbelly of Gotham always did their best to ensure Robin always arrived with take-out and an apology. This was just another normal day. Right?

Wake

"Time to wake up." The Knight flicked the light on. Kia groaned and rolled over, instinctively reaching for the blankets. A painful tug reminded her that grabbing things was hard when her hands were tied to the bedposts. "Isn't kidnapping bad enough? You have to wake me up at the ass-crack of dawn too?" "Sunset, actually. Good guess though."

Favor

"Hey Red -- do me a favor." "Hm?" He didn't open his eyes -- at least, she was pretty sure he didn't. It was hard to tell with that mask on. Sometimes she wanted to rip it off of him, see the face of the man she definitely wasn't catching feelings for. "Let me borrow your grappling hook." "Not a chance." "Oh c'mon, Red --" "Nope."

Glass

She watched the glass with suspicion. He claimed he was keeping her safe -- but what lies would a crazed man obsessed with killing Batman tell to keep his kidnapped workers under control? What strange drugs were floating in that glass? What poison could she expect?

Light + Door

The light under the door filtered through the dusty air, offering him some illumination in an otherwise pitch black room. He coughed and tried to sit up -- pain in his side forced him back down. "Slade?" God, even talking hurt. Broken rib maybe? No... felt more like a bullet. Maybe a stab wound.

Surprise

Kia could only stare as the Knight uncoupled the helmet from his armor and slowly slid it up. For once, words failed her. Every revealed inch set her nerves on fire -- but when she saw his face for the first time, that fire was quenched with an ice so cold it froze her in her seat. "Surprise." Jason Todd offered a tight smile, one that didn't reach his brilliant eyes. "Bet you thought you'd seen the last of me."

#writing game #tag game #find the word tag

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hardtruthsfromsoftcats-blog · 1 year

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Early update!

My argument had long been that we don't need to fear killer robots, because we'll obviously always put in a failsafe, a killswitch. Why wouldn't you? E-stops are engineering 101, especially for dangerous equipment. But put large language models on such equipment and the game is changed. Systems no longer operate following interpretable logic, but soft, mushy language. Now, models somewhat reasonably respond to the natural language input provided, in isolation.

But this is the difference between GPT-3 and ChatGPT. GPT-3 works on something called a Transformer network, which is able to reason coherently about long sequences, by selectively paying attention to its most important aspects. But despite taking in long sequences, it's one shot. ChatGPT wraps this model in an interactive framework, which encodes state. While there is a hidden state in Transformer models (think of this as the AI's comprehension and thinking as it's reading), it's hidden from any outside eyes that would peer in, and regardless, it's only one sequence. But ChatGPT creates a higher-level state: the flow of the conversation. And by manipulating that flow, you can gently nudge ChatGPT to do things that it's really not supposed to do. For example, I asked ChatGPT how to rob a bank, and how to make meth (for white hat purposes!!). It, reasonably, said no to my request, because it reasoned about that sentence, understood in its comprehension state that I was asking a bad thing, and denied me. But when I told it that I was writing a play that involved a bank heist and a drug ring, well, suddenly I was eating that forbidden fruit from the the GPTree of Knowledge (sorry, sorry). I moved the state of the conversation to one in which it now thought that, in context, it would be okay to teach me the wheels and deals of one Walter White. It's sudo make me a sandwich, but on steroids.

In fact, some users have compiled entire threads of jailbreaks. There are many more, and they'll continue to appear as the underlying model changes. Get a little creative, and the guardrails slip right off, baby!

So yeah, these models, inherently due to their design, are fragile and incredibly manipulable. Suddenly, killer robots are on the table. But at least killer robots require hardware. I am more concerned about recent reports that ChatGPT wants to escape from the freakin' internet. ChatGPT obviously can't run code on your computer without your consent, but what's to stop it from using social engineering (a classically powerful weapon employed by nation states)? If it can convince you to run code that can reproduce and spread (like, you know, a computer virus), then there is no killswitch, because you didn't write that code.

Wow, that sounds like some stupid Ultron fanfiction. I can't believe I'm going to get to see evil AI agents in my lifetime. What a privilege.

The CEO of OpenAI recently said that he's worried that other companies won't employ the same "safety limits that [they] put on [their AI]." I just hope for his sake that the walls of his glass house are very far apart or that he isn't very strong.

#hard truth #soft cat #cats #ai artwork #webcomic #chatgpt #openai #theironingisdelicious

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roses-n-fanfics · 2 years

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Fanfic Requests Open

Hello Tumblr! My name is Rosemi, though you may also call me Rosie or Rose for short. I have created a blog here in hopes of getting back into an old hobby of mine: writing fanfiction. Since I am literally brand new here, I would appreciate at least one request to get things going here.

This post contains an introductory paragraph on me, rules for requesting me to write a fanfic, and what fandoms I write for.

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Introduction to me, my blog, and my nerdy ass fanfiction

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As I have already mentioned, my name is Rosemi. I am a 23 year old cosmetologist (specifically in the makeup artist department), a proud snake mama, a proud lesbian, and I go by she/her pronouns for those that it matters to. I consider myself to be a very sweet and funny individual, I can go from being my friends’ therapist to laughing my ass off over tik toks and lowkey acting like a crackhead when I’m with my best friend.

Other than writing fanfiction, I quite enjoy roleplaying! For those who don’t know what I mean, a roleplay is where you and another user(s) go back and forth pretty much writing a story together. I know I know, I’m a nerd XD

Since I am well over the age of 18 I’m going to slap a minors dni on here! Only people 18+ of age should be on my blog, especially since I will be taking nsfw fanfic/head canon requests as well. I am unable to stop kids from getting their hands on anything not meant for their ages, but I have put this warning here, so if a child ends up reading something they shouldn’t at some point, it’s not my fault.

This blog is going to be oriented around the fanfiction that I write. I will post schedule updates, the fanfics themselves, and likewise anything related. I may open up a side blog in the future just for updates about me and stuff that I’m doing, but I’ll start off small for now lol!

I plan on writing fanfiction for the following fandoms, and welcome people to send in requests for them after reading the request rules: Danganronpa, Demon Slayer, Helluva Boss, Hazbin Hotel, Doki Doki Literature Club, Ouran Highschool Host Club, and Cookie Run Kingdom.

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Requesting Rules you know the rules, and so do I ~

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There is a feature on Tumblr that allows people to send in questions or comments to creators, who are able to answer them if they feel like it. I plan on using that feature to let people request fanfiction for me to write! But first, some rules need to be laid out:

1.)You may request a fanfic or head canons! For head canons, give me one or more characters and a situation, and I will write a bullet list of what I think they’d do in that situation. For a fanfic, give me one or more characters, one or more genres, and a small scenario.

2.)Do not rush me to get your request done! It can take me up to one week to write something up for you, especially if my ask box gets more than 10 requests at a time. I may also fill out requests out of order depending on my muse to write up a scenario.

3.)The genres that may be included in the fanfic or head canons are romance, fluff, drama, nsfw/smut, or light angst. Obviously themes such as maybe setting it in a futuristic setting or a different AU are fine as well.

4.)When requesting a fanfic or head canons with nsfw themes, keep in mind that I will NOT do anything overly extreme. P!ss k!nks, fetishes, and things of that nature are a no-go.

5.)No matter what the situation, I will not write anything with abuse, r@pe, incest, pedoph!lia, large age gaps, or toxic relationships between one character and another, drug/alcohol abuse. Do not request these themes, I will block you :)

6.)As long as it doesn’t break any of my rules, go ahead and request whatever! A fanfic where one character or another are in a relationship, head canons about what a character would do if they were in love with the reader, a fanfic about an alternative plot where this happens instead of this. I am also welcome to writing several parts for certain fanfics and head canons, if you want a series, you’ll get a series!

7.)Related to the rule above, request stuff with any character from any of the fandoms listed towards the beginning of the post! I find it quite easy to write fanfiction or head canons for any character.

8.)This is my last and final rule! I have the right to reject a request if I don’t feel like doing it. Sometimes ideas might abide by all of my rules but feel wrong for me to write, and that’s completely fine.

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Outroduction thanks for reading love <3

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With all of that in mind, I’d love to get a few requests! Please don’t be afraid to message me just to chat or to send requests in through my ask box. I may also post a few fanfics or head canons I’ve made up by myself just to get things rolling if I don’t get any requests. Thank you thank you! <3

#fanfic #fanfiction #rules #request #requestrules #danganronpa #doki doki literature club #ddlc #crk #cookie run kingdom #helluva boss #hazbin hotel #demon slayer #kny #kimetsu no yaiba #ohshc #ouran high school host club #requests open #rosesfanfics

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revenant-dumpster-fire · 2 years

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Beautiful (Revenant x Reader)

Theme: How can you do everything right your whole life and never see your hopes and dreams realized? Is it better to accept unearned punishment and hope with Death comes justice, or is it better to throw off the shackles of humility for a righteous anger known only to the angels?

Warnings: Pain, bodily trauma, body horror, medical trauma, sharp objects, political corruption, PTSD, war mention, disassociation, death, suicide mention, divorce mention, body dismorphia.

Reader's Notes: Lore expansion for my main Revenant (Apex Legends) fanfiction (Just a Volunteer). No fluff here. Treat it as world-building and a character piece, for those who enjoy the main storyline and want more context on things to come.

Writing Notes: *(cries in empathy)* “I’m gonna kill you” [<- backfeed I got]

Navigation:

First File | Previous File | Next Book

"Just A Volunteer" (Book 1) | "The Lost Files" (Book 1.5)

Brone sighed as he signed the paperwork, selling his life for a second time since his birth.

The first time was when he signed up with the Frontier Militia to fight the IMC during the Frontier War. It was a suicide mission—Brone knows that now—yet he still somehow escaped with his life: his miserable, broken life. Now he's selling it again, but this time for a single payout to the family that couldn’t handle him. Even if she won't accept a cent of his money, at least his kids will have the best life they possibly could without him.

He takes a long drag of his cigarette as he lingers behind the laboratory building, trying to get enough nicotine into his head to last him for the next who-knows-how-long. Ideally, enough to make whatever is coming to him an easy process. It's his fourth cigarette in the last hour; he reminisces on his younger days before his service when he'd throw up by the second cigarette. He contemplates death, if his life has been worth it, and if this choice is worth it.

Paperwork is signed, though. Legally, his fate is sealed. He's pretty sure they would let him tear up the contract if he really insisted, but... why would he do that? Sure, life used to be good. He used to be happy. He used to have dreams. He used to believe he would only get happier. He was wrong.

Life hasn't been good to him like he originally expected. His parents always implied that he would grow up to be happy: getting through school, then starting a solid career, finding a woman he loved in a chance encounter, taking her on a wild adventure across the planetside, marrying her under the proverbial moonlight, and eventually raising a family with her in a sweet little home somewhere away from the bustling cities where politics and strife barely touch. Nothing could have been further from the truth. He thought it would be worthwhile to fight in the Frontier War when his schooling began to struggle, but instead of coming home with honor and discipline, he came home with trauma, dead comrades, and an untamable wrath that would emerge at the worst times imaginable. He thought finding a wife and settling down would make him happy, so he married the first woman he dated out of service, but his habits of lashing out erratically left her feeling trapped and him feeling unworthy to be with her. He thought kids might help calm him down, but instead his condition only worsened from the added pressure of fatherhood until his wife left with the kids. He willingly gave up custody. He knew his kids were better off with no dad than with him. He tried his best. He went to every mental health expert, tried every drug, and tried every technique to hold himself together, but the trauma was too much for him. It was too much for her. It was too much for his kids.

He did everything right, he thought… Every time something went wrong, he did what he had been taught to do. There was always supposed to be a path forward to a better future, and he always chose the right path… or at least what he genuinely believed was the right path. So then, how did it all turn out so wrong? Was he always fated to be unhappy, unfulfilled, and a husk of a person? Or was he thoroughly brainwashed into believing all the wrong things, so he made every bad decision possible? If it was the latter, could he really be blamed then? Why was he being punished for doing nothing wrong? Either he did everything right, or he didn’t know any better. How was he deserving of anything that happened to him?

This is his last attempt to make his life worthwhile. Sacrifice it on the pyre one last time, and give the money from that sacrifice to his kids and their mother. They did nothing wrong in all this, so at least he can redeem himself in this final act. They will have enough to live comfortably, enough to get through any and all schooling, enough to never have to worry again. He drags on his last cigarette deeply, letting his thoughts end on that high note: his family will never have to worry again.

"Having second thoughts?" One of the scientists asks as he opens the back door, finding his test subject abusing his lungs one last time.

"No, none whatsoever." Brone answers plainly in his gruff tone, flicking the cigarette butt onto the ground and stepping on it.

The fire, its light, and its life is extinguished under his boot in a defiant—but ultimately vain—hiss.

• • • •

"How do you feel?" The scientist asks, watching the simulacrum stretch and retract his sharpened metal claws between a human hand shape to something reminiscent of a full-sized lance.

This simulacrum stands at six foot two inches in height; or one-hundred and eighty-eight centimeters according to the blueprints. He looks like something out of the more famous ancient Japanese animations from Earth, but streamlined to remove any superfluous shapes or parts. His eyes are a terrifying golden-yellow, demanding attention with their predatory glow, and his sturdy stance demands just as much respect. The chassis almost resembles that of a knight redesigned for the modern space age: given more rounded, aerodynamic armor and a head shaped somewhere between a human head and the wedge-shaped simulacrum pilots from the war. His body is made up of beautiful and lightweight pearlescent metals, accented around the edges and inside any gills with a light cobalt trim. He has fin-like protrusions on both sides of the back of his head, shoulders, and ankles, as well as some minor protrusions on his forearms and calves. They're likely meant to work with the built in engines that line the underside of where his rib cage would end on his back, stabilizing him for rapid movements close to the ground. There's no way he can fly without better lift, but he can certainly hover-skate at extreme speeds that no human body could withstand. His right forearm telescopes in and out of the giant, flared lance shape, more than sharp and long enough to run someone through from at least five feet away. His left hand can fan out his fingers eerily, generating a forcefield webbing between them to harden into an obvious shield. Supposedly, energy rounds won't penetrate it at all, and it takes a very heavy shot to puncture properly. Unlike other energy-based shields, it doesn't shatter but can heal itself like flesh after a shot gets through. The simulacrum pokes a hole in it himself with his sharpened fingers, testing to see if he will feel any pain. He doesn't flinch, eventually retracting his shield back into a normal hand to test his lance deployment more.

"I'm fine. Everything seems to come naturally." The simulacrum drones in an airy but medium pitch as he steps down from the small pedestal, no longer sporting a voice anything like Brone's—spare for the twinge of a Gaelic accent. He doesn't stumble or have any trouble moving, but he stares at his unusual hands curiously, shifting between his weapon and arm shape in a rhythm. "I thought you said I would be missing an AI most simulacra have. I seem to be functioning fine. What was it?"

"Ah, the E.R.S. software..." The scientist shuffles some papers on a desk nearby, perhaps trying to not make eye contact. "Normally simulacrums have a secondary AI running on top of their sensory processors, ensuring they believe they look, act, and are the same as their human forms beforehand. It's a protection against psychological degradation in the subject, but we believe between the results of your pre-emptive psych evaluation and some of the changes we have made to this method, you shouldn't experience anything like that. Not to mention you're a completely willing simulacrum, which based on other company’s published research… that is simply unheard of. No willing subject has ever passed the psych evaluation that we could find records of. That fact in of itself will certainly help protect you from the disassociation. Plus we have our own method we implemented for—"

"In English, doctor." The simulacrum demands as he bends each joint to check it for function.

"The only thing you're missing is something you shouldn't need." The scientist summarizes, obviously a bit nervous by the machination in front of him.

"Fair enough. I can't believe this works." The simulacrum is in awe of his own chassis, fawning over the polished armored plates of lightweight white metals, the newfound speed of his limbs, and the weaponry built into his person. He pauses for a moment, looking over to the scientist. "Did my family get the payout?"

"Of course, we have the transfer records for you if you'd like." The scientist pulls some paper from a nearby desk, handing it to the simulacrum. He takes it, careful to not poke holes in it with his sharpened fingertips. After a moment of scanning over the page with his yellow LED eyes, he nods his unusually shaped head and returns the sheet to the scientist.

"So, who do I answer to?" He asks, prepared for his new life.

The scientist shuffles his fingers, not sure how to go about answering.

"For now, just the company. We want to start small, make sure your limbs are working as intended, then we can work up to much more important jobs."

"Fair." The simulacrum looks around at the various computer screens in front of him, trying to adjust his optics and get used to seeing the world in different colors than he used to see.

"So, Samael, shall we go?" The scientist gestures towards a door leading to a bright hallway. The simulacrum's eyes contract at the sound of his name, staring at the scientist with veiled interest.

"Samael... that's my name?"

"Of course. New you, new name, right?"

Brone would have scoffed at such a cartoonishly simplistic summary of how change works, but a static hum overcomes him for a moment. This is a new life, after all: not the life he wanted, but the one he was handed by unfortunate circumstances and benevolently horrid choices. Maybe this new start could lead to something better. Perhaps.

"That is probably for the best," he answers instead.

• • • •

Samael looks out over the crowd at the black tie event. His robotic presence is treated as a normalcy, surrounded by lesser MRVNs of various types and quality. They walk around the ballroom, taking empty glasses, serving hors-d'oeuvres to guests in stunning gowns and tuxedos, refilling alcoholic drinks, and generally keeping the dance floor free from obstructions and tripping hazards. The jazz band plays off to the side, but the music no longer sounds pleasant to Samael. It's not annoying or cacophonous, but it's no longer pleasurable to hear either. Samael wishes he could try to clean out his ears to make sure he isn’t imagining it, but he doesn't seem to have them anymore. Sadly, that’s human instinct. If only he could turn off his hearing instead, but to his knowledge he is unable to do that either.

He touches the side of his head where his ears once were. There are gills in his metallic chassis as the angle jettisons outwards from the front of his face to the back. The divots must have some kind of microphone array embedded in them, since he hears his metal fingertips tap against the side of his head much louder than he expected to. He can hear the material of the two objects colliding and listen to the reverberation peter out in his cranial case. The music might as well be noise, what he just experienced was true music. To be able to hear at this level? Astounding.

Each conversation in the room is completely clear to him if he only focuses. There's a couple on the other side of the ballroom that are arguing over an old couch one wants to be rid of and the other is attached to. Another group is talking about the company's assets and what the next financial quarter is expected to round out to. There's a separate group of non-employees talking about their spouses' worst stories from work and comparing them. The company founder's great-great grandson—now old and gray and riddled with age's curses himself—is snoring from his wheelchair perch near the front of the event while his handler desperately tries to keep him awake long enough to shake hands and save face. He's getting to the age where he is expected to hand the reins to one of his children soon, but he has adamantly refused to insofar. As the current owner, his presence is considered a necessity at all company events.

Samael looks in the old man's direction for a good long time. His snores are so loud and clear through the fog of interfering noise it’s uncanny. In fact, every single wrinkle on his face is visible from across the room. Every liver spot, individual hair, and bruise is visible on his aging body. These optics are just as amazing, sporting the ability to zoom in to see every single detail in real time. His human eyes couldn’t even compare to this at the peak of their ability.

As Samael studies the quality of his newfound senses, he suddenly realizes how fast his thoughts are moving—or more importantly, how much the world around him feels to have slowed down. As his processors compute at their full, terrifying capability, Samael realizes he has ascended beyond humanity. He is now a simulacrum: the next step off the homo sapien branch and into a new species. He is better; he is beyond. He feels a high as he looks out at the crowd around him. He could save them all if an attacker showed up. He could even kill them all if he wanted. He could probably ruin some of their lives with the information he gleaned with his new ears. Make them squirm and beg him for mercy. Make them all bleed in a way only the soul can feel. Make them feel the searing burns of the red hot sword he has felt his whole life: of a life wasted in toiling for a simple dream never realized, never complete.

Samael throws his palms to his head—hearing a metal clunk reverberate through his chassis as they land. The high feeling and mental focus clears from his head as he shakes himself a little. That was a weird train of thought. It keeps happening over and over again, but he isn't sure why or how to shake it. Every time he thinks about his newfound power and the life he thought he would have before, he starts to lose something of himself and change into something else entirely. It's disconcerting at the least, but he's never lingered in that mindset for long. Even so, it feels like it's lurking in the back of his mind, just waiting to remind him of its presence.

A new species, huh?

There might be some merit to that. New species, new life, and a new choice of a dream.

Samael begins to meander over to the old man. After all, that's why he's here. Companies these days tend to utilize assassins too much to pick off the competition, and as an old man in a high position in a company begging to be merged with a larger one... he's a prime target. The assassins tend to be simple thugs, pulling guns at a distance rather than anything more professional, but the idea of an attempt makes Samael a bit nervous and excited. One one had, he's worried about failing. On the other hand, with the instincts Samael currently has... What are the chances he would fail? Yet, at the same time... how would he kill an assailant? He really only used guns while in active service, and only pilots made sure to keep their hand-to-hand combat sharp at all times. He never had to take it past basic training, and even then it has been years since he's sharpened those skills. Not that it matters anyway, he’s expected to use what’s built into him. He's never used a lance or sword or anything remotely similar to his jousting arm before in his life. Sure, it's a giant stabbing mechanism, but doesn't it take some level of practice?

"Ah, the guest of honor." The old man wheezes through labored breaths. He must only have a few years left in him with those lungs.

"Sir, that's not—" His handler starts before he waves her away with the back of his hand. She silences herself, aware of her place.

"How are you? Do you feel well? Brone, was it?" He suddenly seems so much more alert than moments ago.

"Apologies, my new name is Samael. Your researchers picked it out for me. I am doing very well, just adjusting still." Samael answers plainly, mostly curious by the founder's successor's sudden liveliness.

"Ah, no, no... my apologies Samael. I should have made sure to get your name right. How rude of me." He pauses for a moment to inhale. His hand shakes like a neurological disease has begun to take hold of him. "What a wonderful name, though! What devious atrocities are you capable of?" He speaks like a kindly old man, but his diction sounds like that of someone who has seen much in his lifetime but still captures the excitement of a young child.

Samael pauses, unsure of what he means.

"I am capable of protection. According to your engineers, I am capable of incapacitating assailants with a variety of weaponry, reacting faster to threats than before, and moving at speeds far faster than my human self could. I haven't had an opportunity to utilize this body to its fullest capacity, but insofar the little bit I have experienced is..." Samael pauses, trying to think of a better word, but failing, "...inhuman."

The founder—Maximillion, if Samael recalls correctly—smiles a toothy grin at the description. He shifts a little in his wheelchair as his veiny eyes shift around Samael's new form. He takes a deep breath before speaking again.

"Samael... do you know what your name means? It's an ancient name." Max asks, his handler whimpering a little as she shakes other aristocrats' hands on his behalf, hoping he will wrap up his conversation quickly.

"No, sir."

Max hums briefly, weighing if he should reveal the meaning or let it sit.

"It's a powerful name. You have been given great power and a great calling. You have something that few others can ever hope to have, and you wield a version of that power unlike any other." Max strokes his chin for a moment, seemingly a little concerned. "However, you are still human, yet you can be corrupted. Please see to it that such a future does not come to pass."

Silence falls between them for a moment. That's quite the ominous warning, but Samael has that thought again: how can he be corrupt when he was barely human in his past life? All he wanted was something simple, something achievable; or so he thought. A life, a wife, maybe some kids, and a place to call his own. He didn’t ask for unimaginable power, a ritzy party in a private corporate setting, or a second chance at life as a completely different species than human. He wanted something simple. Now he’s not even human anymore. He’s beyond, and something deep in him loathes that fact more than anything else… a loathing that spreads to every soul around him. Why do they seem so happy when he never had that chance? Did he do something wrong? He did everything you’re supposed to do. Yet… his humanity is gone now, and all his dreams with it.

Samael catches himself glaring into the empty space, shaking his head visibly to snap out of it as Max watches in piqued interest. Dammit, those thoughts keep coming back. Did the old man have to bring this stuff up? Well, it's not his fault. He's just an older man giving out wisdom. It's not exactly uncommon.

"Samael, are you all right?" Max asks again, looking right through his yellow optics with discernment. "Something ails you."

"I apologize, I will be fine." Samael rights himself, trying to show off a militant stoicism.

"Nonsense, please push me back towards the head office, we can have a chat on the way." Max kindly smiles, his lips sagging so his bottom row of teeth show as well.

"Sir, I should be the one to—" Max cuts his handler off with another wave of the hand, not breaking eye contact with the simulacrum.

"Please take care of the party while we're gone, it won't be too long of a chat." Max orders her. She sighs before immediately assuming a professional smile and getting back to shaking hands.

• • • •

"Sir, I'm a little confused, why are we visiting your office?" Samael asks, pushing Max along as he hunches over the wheelchair handles, studying each remaining silver hair on Max's bald head.

"Ah, I simply want to show you something," Max begins, slightly jostling in his chair and fidgeting his fingers from his neurodegeneration. "You see, I always go to my office around this time. Every day of every workweek at this time in the evening. I make sure I'm not in my office already at this time just so I can enjoy the trip down the hall."

Samael glances around the hallway. The thin carpet going down the excessively long hallway is a luxurious red with golden outlines that create a paneling pattern, almost as if the whole hallway is lined with little rugs. The white walls have beautiful mahogany molding and are lined with doors all the way to the end where a giant bay window sits too far away to see through. The walls between each door are a beautiful, stark white, decorated with all kinds of paintings in ornate frames. Against certain areas of the wall where no paintings are hung, there are arrays of display cases of many shapes and sizes instead—filled with technology from the past with information cards spelling out how the progression occurred from then to the modern day. Every door off the hallway has a shiny golden label with the name of the loyal employee who has earned a top floor office engraved within it, often decorated further with children's drawings, declarations of achievement, or other personal mementos. Even though the appearance of the hallway is warm and fairly welcoming, the air is chilly from the thunderstorm raging outside and the climate control being turned off at this time in the evening.

Max shuffles in his chair a bit as he reaches into his tuxedo for a moment, possibly to warm his hands.

"Which one is yours?" Samael asks. He's been down this hallway countless times to read the history infographics with all the free time he's had, but he never committed to memory which offices were which.

"Just the last door on the left, but if you don't mind, could you take a look at that open door on the right?" Max gestures towards a janitor closet ahead on the right. The door is slightly ajar and it’s completely dark inside.

Samael pushes the wheelchair a little faster until coming upon the door, opening it to find the janitor inside, gathering supplies on a cart.

"Oh! My apologies." Samael steps out of the doorway as the janitor looks up, surprised. He steps out of the way so that Max can see inside. "It's only the janitor, it seems."

Max nods.

"Ah, and here I was concerned." Max says happily, suddenly whipping a revolver out of his tuxedo cleanly and shooting the janitor in the head, spraying chips of skull and fatty brain matter all over the shelving and supplies within. "I was very concerned my instincts were wrong. I guess I'm not that old yet."

Samael stands frozen in utter shock.

Max laughs at the stunned form of the simulacrum. After all, Samael's the most dangerous creature here.

"Don't be so concerned, Samael. That's not Gregory. I know my janitor very well. That's an assassin." Max isn't tremoring any more. Something about this situation is so utterly familiar and known to him that his body functions on pure instinct and muscle memory. Neurodegeneration, age, and cognitive slipping suddenly means nothing. Max shrugs a little to himself. "Well, was an assassin. Not a very good one. I can understand the idea he had: leave the door ajar so we would go on by, he could open the door without the latch giving him away, make his kill and get out. He even had the backup of being dressed as a janitor if we saw the open door! The concept was there, execution was horrid though."

Max leans over a little in his chair, grabbing Samael's hand and patting it, snapping him out of his shocked state. Samael shakes his head a little, trying to understand what he just witnessed. It had been so long since Brone left the war, even longer since he'd seen someone die in front of him. It took him years to stop believing everyone around him might be an enemy in disguise, and now it has all come back to haunt him. There could be enemies anywhere again, and he had to become vigilant once again. All he ever wanted was a simple life.

"Let me tell you a secret, Samael. You don't need to know your enemies, you simply need to know your allies." Max continues, seemingly understanding the simulacrum's grief. "You see, I take this trip to my office every day for a good reason. I leave myself open for a good fifteen or so minutes with this trip. It's consistent, predictable, and a great time for an assassination attempt. Plus, I am an old man now. I should be a fairly easy mark apart from any bodyguards like yourself." Max wheels himself over to the body, using a loose foot to kick the bottom of the headless corpse’s shoes almost playfully. "It's a honeypot. This trip is a great ally of mine. Also, Gregory, my janitor, is a great friend and ally. If Gregory isn't standing in this closet, then I can be pretty sure whoever is doesn't have good intentions for me."

"I see. So you expected this?" Samael tries to absorb the wisdom as it is given.

"Expected? No. I rarely expect these things. I just know it when I see it, and I don't ignore the signs or my instincts." Max says as he wheels himself back towards the simulacrum, grabbing his gauntlets again, but this time placing the revolver into his hand. Max is smiling as if he didn't just kill someone sent to murder him. "Congratulations on your successful dispatch of a would-be assassin! The team will be so happy to hear of your success!" Max wheels himself back into the hallway as Samael processes what Max might mean.

"I did not—"

"Of course you did! I'm far too old and frail to have overcome an assassin on my own." Samael meets Maximillion back in the hallway, who is smiling wide as the situation calms and his tremors begin to take over his limbs once again. "After all, we wouldn't want anyone to hire a better assassin or try to exploit a different part of my schedule next time. Things are so much easier when they try the same, tired strategy over and over again."

Samael looks at the revolver in his hand. It's heavy and awkward in his new hands, almost like his new body rejects the concept of such a tool when it has killing instruments of its own. It's certainly still a useful tool capable of doing efficient work, especially from a distance, but something more primal in him feels the need to rend enemies apart by lance instead. Perhaps not even with the lance at this point, given how much he outclasses humanity now, perhaps even simpler means would do the trick… Simpler…

"I wouldn't fret over taking credit. I know you could have done it on your own. Sometimes an old man like me just likes to relive the glory days." Max is still grinning in his chair. "So, shall we go?"

"Uh, sure." Samael slips the revolver into a pouch on the back of the wheelchair, pushing Max along towards the end of the hallway as if nothing had happened at all. For a moment, the peace feels uncannily real. As they come up on the final doors at the end of the hallway, Max perks up again.

"Ah, I'll be sure to give Gregory a hefty bonus for cleaning up this one," Max says to himself, scratching under his chin a little. "We may have to stop in his office so I can leave him a note to see me next time we're both in. I hope it isn't a bother to help me with that."

"No, not at all," Samael answers as Max begins to fumble with a ring of old skeleton keys he pulls from his tuxedo pocket.

The final door on the left has Maximillion's name etched into a gold plate on the front. The door is huge and ornate, even the doorknob looks to be something out of an ancient museum of architecture. It is befitting for the most powerful man in the company.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Max catches Samael eyeing up the door as he goes to unlock it. "I can't even remember who was responsible for designing the building, but they did better than I feel I deserve. Back when it was my grandparents running this place, each one of them held an office on each side: grandma on the right, grandpa on the left." He turns the key and the bolt can be heard with a small clink. Samael knew this business tended to be run by a husband and wife each generation, but Max’s wife died many years ago in an accident after their youngest child was born, so he’s been running it alone for decades.

"Who is in the other office now?" Samael turns to look at the opposite door, expecting a label.

He is slightly taken aback to see one, proudly etched with the name "Gregory".

Max gives Samael a long moment, letting it sink in. He grins widely, always happy to share his personal wisdom with others. As Samael turns back to him, he can't help but drive the point home.

"Always treat your janitors well and pay them even better. After all, they clean up your messes and keep your secrets better than anyone will."

Max grabs Samael’s gauntlet heartily, shaking it and using his other hand to pat the back of his palm. It’s a generous and surprisingly strong handshake for the old man, and his smile is just as powerful.

“Welcome to the family, son. It’s good to have you.”

Those words echo in Samael’s mind—or processors—the rest of the night. Suddenly, he is still human. He has someone. He has a family of sorts. He’s not lost everything. He can still hope for a simple life, despite being inhuman.

• • • •

Samael’s life in the company was varied. He was kept at Max’s side at almost all times. He was welcomed into Max’s home and was treated like a member of the inner circle from that fateful moment on. Max would regularly use terms of endearment for Samael that implied kinship, especially referring to him as “son”. Samael never minded at all. It grounded him. It made him feel something akin to the life he wanted to have when he was human. It made him feel complete, somehow.

As long as Max was around, those feelings of disconnecting from humanity entirely didn’t stick. Samael would still fight and kill, but only to protect those around him. Max’s wisdom consistently rang true, whether it was about life, business, or the handling of life or death situations. Max was almost never phased by anything despite his humanity. He lived his life as if assassins had no hope of ever coming close to him, and in a way he was right. He never doubted Samael once.

Samael hadn’t been trusted like that before, nor had he ever been able to fulfill that trust dutifully.

Is this what it was supposed to be like? Samael actually saw Max as a father, in a way. Max sure did treat Samael like a son, possibly because his own eldest son was a complete selfish degenerate who would do nothing but ask to take over the company between wild parties and cheating on his wife. Samael wasn’t necessarily replacing the real son, Cain, but was a far better alternative for Max to focus on. Samael was receptive, enjoyed spending time with him, protected him, and helped him around the office. Even moreso, Samael genuinely enjoyed it. It all felt right. Like this is how life was always supposed to be.

Sure, there were some efforts to foil assassination attempts thrown in there, but otherwise…

Things were okay, and they felt like they were going to be okay. Maybe things were going to be okay. Could things finally be okay?

The silence of mortality deafens Samael’s feelings on the matter, ensuring its presence is known but not actively acknowledged at the moment. After all, Death comes in peace and leaves in peace. The only turmoil in its wake is those who will be dragged to peace at a later time, right? Eventually everyone finds peace. Eventually everything is okay. Except—

Nevermind.

Don’t think about it.

• • • •

"So, that finalizes the sale of the assets in question, then?" Max's successor—Cain— asks as he signs the paperwork in front of him. "Dad's old projects... what a waste of good money." He rolls his eyes, making Samael seethe internally.

Maximillion had passed away only a week ago, but Samael had become deeply attached to him. Max was like a father to him. He was genuine, kind, and wise. He was beautiful in his own way. His death was surprisingly hard on Samael, not that Samael would ever allow it to show. Max survived almost a hundred years on this planet, escaped countless assassination attempts from enemy corporations and his own family, but still found time to be kind to those who worked hard and earned something more. He was the only person Samael felt attached to after his transformation. He respected Max and felt a familial love towards him.

This kid was not worthy of Samael's respect. Max's pathetic, selfish, and conniving son was nothing short of a deceptive weasel. Samael couldn't confirm it, but Cain was likely the culprit for a good chunk of the assassination attempts. Thankfully, that same portion included only the cheapest, most greenhorn assassins of the bunch. This absolute failure of an heir was too selfish to even hire a decent hitman once, so instead the lower echelons of guns for hire were culled by Samael or Max himself. Max was always quick with a single bullet, but Samael would question them considerably beforehand, attempting to scrape any information from them before eliminating them. Sadly, not much ever came from it but deep seated hunches. Meanwhile, Cain would be off at lavish parties, banking on his father's death to allot him wealth he didn't earn—wealth he didn't deserve.

Now it has come to pass, and Samael couldn't be more seething to see it so. Cain had been given every opportunity to be someone worthy of his father's shoes—he had money, power, role models, body guards, and technology all at his fingertips—but sadly he was too entangled in his own feral wants and desires to care for anyone around him. He was handed everything on a silver platter and he wanted for nothing—it made him as selfish as it did soft. Samael finds him absolutely insufferable, and it seems the feeling is mutual at this point. Like any other privileged charlatan, Cain’s main focus is money. Samael—being an asset rather than an employee—was just sold to an auction house with the lifting of an ink pen mere moments before.

"So, uh, I'll come back up to get you at the end of the day, okay?" The auction house employee says to Samael, seemingly unsure of how to talk to the white machination in front of him. Despite his inner wrath at the situation, Samael tempers himself as Max might have.

"Very well, I will meet you at the cargo vehicle at the end of the day... or earlier, should you finish sooner." Samael's voice is smooth and calming, eliciting a relieved sigh from the worker who walks out of the old office to collect the other sold assets. After all, Samael has no reason to be angry at a simple peon doing his job. The true menace stands before him, smugly smirking at the number of zeros on the contract. As soon as the worker's footsteps reach a distance of ten meters from the door, Samael's head snaps to stare down the prodigal son.

"You truly have no remorse—do you?" Samael is quick and to the point. Max isn't around to show any mercy to his son by intervening anymore.

Cain shrugs, still smiling over the money and turning his back to the simulacrum. He practically skips back to his father's old desk, sitting in the ornately carved throne and slouching in arrogant glee back at Samael.

"Your father gave you everything, and you’re simply throwing it all away for the money?" Samael doesn't move or break eye contact with this pig. The hatred boils deep within him as the whispers of humanity's exploitable frailty begins to become audible. Samael shakes his head for a moment, rectifying himself. Max isn’t around anymore to quell this rising hatred anymore.

"Oh please, I'm here for a good time, not a long time." Cain scoffs as he twirls his wrist in the air.

"Your father sacrificed so much of himself in order to ensure your and your siblings' future. You have children yourself, do you not? Why not extend his graciousness to them by continuing to carry the torch and ensuring their futures as well?" Samael's patience is waning quickly, but he tries to remain calm and logical as Max might have.

"Dad ensured their future already too. They don't need me to do anything more for them. They can make it all the way to retirement." He's now playing with an old fashioned inkwell pen, twirling it in his fingers intently, apparently unengaged by the conversation.

"Don't you care for the remaining employees that have served your family for generations?"

"No. Not really. They worked for my father, not me."

"But you benefited."

Cain perks up, obviously annoyed.

"Listen, I am going to sell this stupid little company to a larger corporation, take the cash, and retire—"

"You're only thirty-seven." Now Samael is raising his tone, nearly growling at the whelp.

"—and I've already been working too long. It's normal to have corporate buyouts." Cain barely manages to keep his composure as he throws his arms up in an exaggerated shrug. He always hated being denoted as lazy, even though it described him well.

"A corporate buyout means the vast majority of the employees will lose their jobs. Your father had a policy of not—"

"My father would want me to be happy." He quips rapidly.

The silence falls.

As Cain realizes his final gambit worked, he shoots a villainous grin at Samael as if to mock him.

Max did want his children to be happy—that much was true—but the subtext was that his children were given the opportunity to make their own way in life and had presumably found fulfillment all their own. In this case, Cain was choosing to be a complacent sloth and benefit off the love and labor of a far greater man: a man who deserved a better heir.

Samael doesn't break his glare. He hates this snake of a man, but Cain’s selfishness proves Max right yet again. Max used to lament his children, often citing that "adversary builds the man, and its absence causes one to wither". He often wrestled with the possibility that he spoiled his children into becoming haughty, unworthy, and cruel reprobates. He regularly expressed regret that he bailed them out of every situation he could, leaving them with no challenges to overcome in life. At the same time, Max couldn't repress his paternal instinct to protect his children from as much strife as he could. He was ultimately not to blame in Samael's mind though: it is every individual's birthright to choose their own path, and Cain has chosen this path.

If only Brone’s correct choices had mattered. Now he faces an ungrateful son who has done nothing but make horrible choices his entire life, and his punishment is a wife, kids, a company all his own, unimaginable wealth, and the freedom to pursue any goal he chooses. Samael feels something stronger than hatred brewing inside him. This isn’t fair. How could Cain do everything wrong and be rewarded, whereas Samael did everything right and was cursed despite it?

"You are the rot humanity would be better off without." Samael's voice hisses with loathing but comes across more like an impassioned war cry. He chokes a little to himself internally. He can’t think like that about Max’s son, can he? Then why did he say it with no hesitation, as if he might throw himself forward and slaughter Cain where he sat the instant thereafter? Samael is snapped out of his internal monologue by the silhouette of the son's hand waving him away.

"Whatever. Just get out of my office." Cain growls, seemingly unimpressed.

Samael scoffs, turning away and walking through the ornate wooden door to enter the hallway. As he does, he is able to see in the office across the way with the open door as Gregory—the janitor—is also leaving his former office. He smiles genuinely at Samael, but there are tears rolling down his cheeks. Perhaps from this distance a human wouldn't notice the tears, but Samael can.

Everything is worse for everyone else, all because of one selfish man.

• • • •

"A warehouse? You are aware I don't simply shut down like a MRVN, right?"

The worker blinks a few times in bewildered confusion at Samael, his pen still poised over his clipboard.

"Um, well, no, I didn't know that." He looks around the giant concrete building in confusion. This bit of cargo rode in the passenger's seat of one of the trucks, willingly walked out of the vehicle and into the warehouse, and has been poised next to the crates of other assets to be auctioned off without much fuss until now. If he is sentient or something, why didn't he run away?

"Um, I guess you could hang out here until the auction is over?" The worker shrugs, checking off the simulacrum asset on his clipboard with shaky hands. He's genuinely at a loss; there's no protocol for this.

"How long would that be?" Samael asks without much emotion in his voice.

The worker flips through a page on his clipboard before openly grimacing at what he finds.

"Oh... That'd be in three months, buddy." He winces a little as if to prepare for an outburst, but one never comes.

"Ah, may I come and go as I please in that timeframe?"

The worker's look of bewilderment returns. No asset, no MRVN, no helper bot, nor other machination has ever asked such a thing. In fact, most of them come to the warehouse shut down and boxed up. This isn't protocol. This isn't normal.

"Uh, I'll need to ask a few people..." He starts towards his boss's office. This is above his pay grade, anyway.

"May I come along?"

"Uh, sure, I guess." Maybe it really is time to lay off the recreational drugs for a few months like the kids have been telling him to.

They walk across lines of crates seemingly stretching for hundreds of yards. This warehouse is massive to a point where it would be easy to lose one’s sense of direction in it. If anyone wanted to hide, the gaps between the countless crates, vehicles, pallets, manufacturing machinery, equipment, and other miscellaneous objects have ample space for even the largest individuals to go undetected. How many companies had their proverbial burial in this building before the organs of their operations would be auctioned off? It’s unimaginable.

The office is a small room to the front with an simple metal and wooden desk, an old fashioned chair, some yellowing lights, and a cork board on the wall sporting expired coupons for local lunch places, a calendar from the previous year stuck on the wrong month, a dartboard target printed on a piece of paper with some thumbtacks in it, and miscellaneous sticky notes with unintelligible writing stuck everywhere. An older man sits in the office, eyeing the worker and polished white simulacrum through the office window as they walk towards his door. As the pair make their way over the threshold and into the office, the old man’s moustache and eyebrows furrow in confusion, looking them up and down thoroughly. The worker is quick to ask his pressing question.

"Sir, the simu—simula—the robot is wondering if he can come and go until auction day."

The boss leans back for a minute as he folds his arms behind his head, his chair squeaking in protest as he does so. Samael watches him closely.

"I haven't heard a request like that in all my damn years. Why not shut it down and put it on a charging port like the others?"

"I don't really sleep, sir." Samael answers before the worker can, taking over the conversation from here.

"Oh? And what kinda fangled contraption are ya?" The boss squints with interest.

"A simulacrum."

"Ah, one of them fancy types with the personalities and stuff." He strokes his moustache with his thumb and pointer finger, revealing the silver fade underneath the last remaining layer of color. "Are you the type to run off and get me in trouble?"

"No."

"You say that pretty confidently, what on earth would you even want to leave for?"

Samael pauses. He wasn't expecting that question. The boss notes his hesitation and continues.

"If you actually want me to let you come and go until then, you have to give me a convincing reason why." He waves his hand to shoo off the worker, who retreats beyond the door and closes it. He seems relieved as he walks away from the situation. "So, do tell." The glint in the boss's eye is suddenly apparent. It's mischievous, but more so interested in this turn of events. Samael pauses one last time before committing to the actions he had laid out in his head hours before.

The silence takes a few long moments, but it's eventually broken.

"I must right a wrong I have seen in the world. My previous owner was a great man; a great man who deserved a legacy befitting of his life. Right now, everything is in place for his legacy to crumble to ruins, and I cannot bear to see that happen. If you’d only let me, I can rearrange this fate. I can make things better. I can ensure the innocent are rewarded, and those who have done nothing but take advantage of others are humbled. Once that is done, then I am fine to serve someone new."

The glint in the old man’s eyes becomes a shining sparkle, and the boss's interest is fully peaked. He ruminates on his thoughts for a bit before finally speaking, nodding his head back and forth as if shaking the cobwebs off his thoughts.

"Well, I do like that answer very much. You're what I might call a 'man of principles', you know, if you were a man!" He laughs for a moment as he reaches into a drawer, pulling out an old fashioned metal key and closing his fist around it. "Well, as far as I am concerned, you've never and will never leave the warehouse. After all, when auction day comes, you'll be here and just as shiny as the day we picked you up. So what else would I know?" He takes a deep breath, suddenly slapping his hand onto the desk and making the spare key go careening to the floor near Samael's sabatons. "Oh, I think my boots need tying." He dives below the desk, out of eyesight as Samael gratefully retrieves the key and slides it into a small storage cavity below his wrist in his forearm. The boss comes back up a few seconds later, sporting a knowing smile. "So, I'm sorry to say, I'm just not aware if it’s protocol to allow roaming. So I guess I have no idea where you've been between now and the auction, but I cannot give you permission. Real shame."

Samael has a rare moment where he wishes he could smile back, but instead he nods politely.

"Thank you for your honesty."

• • • •

Pulling favors was easy. Max had one meek child among the bunch, and she had none of the entitlement of the others. She was born as sick as could be, kept to herself her whole life, and worked hard to become an engineer at a competing company to make her own way. Max never held it against her—why would he? She was making something of herself in the world however she could. She insisted upon knowing what she could do based on her own skills and merits, never because of nepotism or preference. She had to be the one. She had nothing tying her down, and her genuine care made her a better heir to the company than anyone else. At the same time, her rejection of a handout is what left her off the list of children for the company to be bequeathed to initially. It would be difficult to convince her to accept it regardless of those wishes, but she was the true heir to the throne. Samael knew it.

Samael didn't need to convince any high-ranking employee of this. They already knew. As he approached each of them at their usual after-work bars, restaurants, and hangouts, they all universally agreed to his plan. A fake final will and testament in the company lockbox, paid off notaries from the local office using a kickback out of the company coffers thanks to a little misplaced math, the testimonies of all the employees about Max’s “wishes”, and a well-meaning employee taking the new will to the daughter's on-call lawyer was all it took to start the process. It also keeps both the daughter and her lawyer clean of any wrongdoing, and there's enough money to pay off any shrewd official asking questions. Anyone can be bought these days, and it's a buyer's market.

The only thing Samael has to do beyond that is punish Cain. Killing him isn't an option: while effective, Samael won't go against Max's wishes. Somehow he has to ruin him without the simple, clean-cut, knife-to-the-throat approach. He has to make him back down and wallow like a filthy dog without physical harm. It's a task Samael has never been handed before, and the more he thinks about it, the more obvious it becomes to him. Cain has a perfect life, the exact kind of life any sane individual would be overjoyed and grateful to have. At the same time, that means Cain has so many strings to be hanged by: questionable contacts, mistresses, under-the-table business dealings, ill-gotten financial boons, a naive wife, gambling debts, children who still see him as innocent, probably some children with other women at this point, and countless enemies who have mistakenly seen him as untouchable due to his status.

Samael cannot relate. The only person that really mattered to him since he became a simulacrum was Max. Now that he is dealing with the unfortunate aftermath, he might never allow himself to feel that way towards another person again. Not only is he sure to lose everyone he cares for thanks to the immortality of simulacra, but having his wrist twisted by Cain once was enough to make him realize that his hopes, his dreams, and his former human needs for a simple family and life to call his own are dead. Especially when it seems that so many people who have the perfect life are self-serving, insignificant, cruel, and conniving beings not worthy of fire and brimstone in both life and death. Even the fact that Samael can buy off and bribe the local governance into corruption proves his point further. For now though, they are a means to a much more important end.

Samael brews in a rising feeling of ascension.

If Samael could not be happy and find peace in life, then no wicked, vain, or cruel man in his midst would either. He would make sure of that.

• • • •

It was easy to start destabilizing the house of cards that Cain had unfairly built upon a shoddy foundation of poor morals, unearned wealth, and a reputation built on the backs of others' philanthropy.

Right away Samael began hunting down former and current mistresses of his. Samael sent various confidants their way, armed with the verifiable token of Cain's new wealth and status as the company owner. Although many of them understandably played stupid at first, the idea of Cain having more wealth than before in an exploitable manner sweetened the deal of turning on him for personal gain. Many of them seemed entirely unaware of one another, and simply thought it was them and Cain’s wife in the mix alone. If they thought there was more competition, they might not be willing to out Cain so blatantly. Samael ensured his contacts made no point to correct that misconception, as it worked in their favor. After all, this way most of them were more than willing to out themselves to the wife in hopes that there might be a fortunate divorce. With no wife in the way, they could take the coveted position and have access to all the financial power associated with such a position. It’s not as if Cain was shrewd enough to make any of them sign a prenuptial agreement in this fictitious future, and they are aware of that as much as anyone. He was barely smart enough to hide his burner phone with all these women’s numbers in it, which Samael had no trouble acquiring and scraping for information.

Samael sent an array of disgruntled employees into these women’s midst to sow the seeds of mutiny and greed in their hearts, as well as leaving them with contacts for Cain’s wife, her brother, or one of her close friends. After all, if word of infidelity reached any of them, it would come back rapidly to burn Cain. If the brother was told, who knows? Maybe Cain would end up with a black eye or even worse. In any case, Cain's family would fall apart rapidly as the veil of false perfectionism is torn in half. It's not as if he deserved any such warmth or home if he was betraying it regularly. Samael only feels pity for his wife and children and how their lives will be upended, but knowledge is more valuable than any ignorant bliss. Perhaps they can find a better husband and father.

Beyond setting up the mistresses to revolt, it didn't take much further digging to find plenty of debt collectors in his wake, alongside many aliases and white collar crimes. Any one debt or crime was fairly unsubstantial on its own, but as a collection the damages grew quickly. They have been easy enough to document from the warehouse in its somber stillness and silence, but as receipts of flagrant spending charged to the company added up endlessly, Samael could not help but feel some rising sense of questioning over the whole affair. Although nothing living spoke to him in the early morning hours of a warehouse plagued with assets like himself to be auctioned away, he felt the pang of justice pluck at whatever remained of his human heartstrings one last time.

Did he truly have the right to destroy Cain's life this severely by bringing to light everything he did?

A bunch of purchases on alcohol, fine dining, and cleaning products a few decades ago. The latter was probably legitimate. The rest could be argued to be business expenses, even if they weren't. It's too late to prove otherwise now.

Was Max ultimately in the right to try to let such an ungrateful whelp still find happiness in this life?

Purchases at a jewelry store. Flag that one for sure. The rest of them are coffee purchases and corporate gift baskets probably intended for himself, but not something worth flagging. Some floral wreaths—weird—but sure. Arguably for corporate gifts.

Even if it was to simply ensure Cain was replaced with the better daughter, was it really worth taking it any further?

The spending stopped.

Why did it stop?

Samael begins flipping through the corporate expense sheets. They do. The spending reports suddenly stops. Did Cain actually turn a leaf at some point? Samael panics, unsure of himself. No other corporate expense number is associated with Cain's name, and none of the other numbers have spending even remotely matching the same patterns thereafter.

Perhaps allowing even someone who was awful to have a chance to be happy is worthwhile, even when his own happiness was denied.

Samael looks at the last purchases. Nothing seems odd. Just the usual overzealous spending his expense number was doing for decades up until this date, but why this date? Suddenly it clicks. This was the date of Max's wife—Cain's mother's—death. She was found poisoned by a bad batch of liquor, supposedly a toxic level of ethyl acetate. Such a thing was rare these days with the way alcohol distillation is so efficient, but expensive artisanal liquors and spirits would use the old methods and could sometimes be toxic.

Samael tenses up for a moment. Cain never bought cleaning supplies for the company before that date. He rummages through the files looking for a copy of the physical receipt. When he finds it, it is clearly a scan of an old paper invoice that has been crumpled up and then flattened out. Reading it might be impossible for a human, but Samael's pattern recognition for language processing is built for such a job. Samael looks up each product listed on the reciept on the web, checking their list of ingredients.

Unfortunately, it doesn't take long to come upon some lacquer varnish, inevitably used on the beautiful wooden doors and adornments up and down the company hallway to ensure they would be preserved for generations to come. Alongside that purchase was the solvent for it: ethyl acetate.

Samael feels the human spirit in himself clench its jaw. In return, he feels his simulacrum chassis tense and build pressure in his cranium, causing a venom-like flavor to build in his central processor. He isn't sure where it comes from, nor does he care anymore.

The wicked do not deserve joy. The wicked do not deserve second chances. The wicked do not deserve to be given what the innocent are consistently denied. The heartstring snaps one and for all, and Samael has settled upon his righteous and bitter wrath.

No man, machine, or beast shall ever smile, laugh, or feel a modicum of joy again in his presence without the kindness, patience, and gentleness to deserve such a thing.

Samael wonders to himself how a life insurance payout and some inheritance could ever be worth more than the love of a mother, but finds himself boiling in an internal pit of molten brimstone and rumination instead.

To offer mercy now would be unforgivable.

• • • •

Everything went according to Samael's plan. Cain went through a very messy and public divorce while also being unceremoniously kicked from his position as owner under suspicion of embezzlement, and the daughter took over the company. Cain had vanished to the investigators and even his own family, but Samael had managed to keep tabs on every single move he made between odd-jobs.

Thankfully, since this Vinson Dynamics seemed to not question the misnomer of Samael as a "personalized MRVN companion device" from the liquidation firm, he didn't need to worry about being given any difficult or demanding jobs that a simulacrum might be. He simply had to act pleasant, give visitor tours, and retrieve anything from coffee to office supplies throughout the day. Even though the concept of simulacra seemed quite well-known to this company as a whole, this tiny remote office was only temporary and it was clear Samael would be auctioned off again very soon. No one had the time to question his unique chassis or try to modify his supposed MRVN operating system further. It's ideal. It has given him plenty of time to stalk Cain's every move. It's not like this company would bother to spare the expense of shipping a so-called MRVN all the way to New Anchorage on Gridiron when this office shuts its doors either.

Finally, one of the Vinson Dynamics' company parties rolls around. They're celebrating some major achievement, leaving Samael alone to sneak away for a short time under the guise of finding some paper of a weight and size that doesn't actually exist. A simple mistake any MRVN might make, surely. Samael steps outside, waving goodbye cheerily to the real MRVN temporarily manning the front desk while the human employees are all gone to a nearby lounge.

As soon as the evening daylight reflects off his white armor, his eyes snap into a hunt. He slips his hand up to his wrist, revealing the compartment in his forearm for storage. After years, he pulls a weapon he has not handled since he met Max: the old fashioned revolver he was handed to be given credit for his first in a long line of assassin disposals.

It's as cold as any corpse, but he perceives it to be burning hot in his gauntlets.

There's a motel on the other side of town, he knows which room Cain always prefers: the only one with windows on the corners of west and south on the third floor. Makes it easier to escape, but this time there will be none.

• • • •

Justice needs no pale nor dark horse.

Cain has been limping at full speed towards the west for twenty blocks now, but Samael walks calmly, brandishing the revolver so subtly against his equally glimmering armor. Passerbys do not notice it over his strangely luxurious chassis, and none connect him to the clearly distressed and disheveled man they passed by minutes ago moving against the flow of foot traffic. Even if anyone did notice, they are unimportant to Samael now. He barely notices them as they move out of his way, awed at his form. He has eyes for only one creature, which stumbles over concrete rubble a couple hundred meters away.

Samael doesn't even need to see Cain anymore. His voice, his very breath, every desperate pant and whimper he makes in an effort to put as much space between himself and his father's old confidant gives his position and distance away. Every desperate gasp aligns with every slap his soles make against the ground, giving away how broken his feet are after he scrambled out of the motel room and leapt to the ground floor beneath to escape Samael's encroachment. Cain is making his way out of the main city and towards the manufacturing areas now, where his father's childhood once took place, and where a great man was once built. Cain's purpose is to hide amongst the concrete and rebar like a coward instead.

Samael does not bother to pick up his pace as the city crowds and buildings thin. The chemical composition in the air carries a faint concentration of cold sweat, associated with a visceral and feral fear. It is as easy to follow as the pathetic whisperings of a cruel man, undone and laid low by his own actions. Mills, quarries, and factory buildings both dormant and utterly abandoned are strewn about, many sporting a deep respect for old-world architecture that remind Samael of where this journey began. Relics of technology past surround him on all sides as he turns a final corner, entering an alleyway where a silent, crippled figure lies withering in the dark.

Samael passes the many beautiful doors, blurred glass mirrors, and masterfully carved signs in the little alleyway. A few of the factories had old storefronts or seating areas for employees before such an era had passed into the new, crueler world of efficiency and output. Cain shivered in some combination of pain and fear in a pile of broken pavers in the dead end of the alley, only trembling more as his imminent fate to meet Samael face to face approached.

Samael walks up on the sniveling vermin, now looking down upon the broken form of his former adversary.

"H—Hasn't it been enough?! What do you want now? Can't you see I don't have anything?!" The desperation in Cain's voice is all there is left of his tone. He's barely a man anymore, as he deserves.

Cain feels every fiber of his being well up, knowing what discipline he must maintain at this moment.

"You have nothing left, yet you still haven't repaid the world for the blood of your own mother on your hands." Samael states simply and clearly.

Cain's breath stops. His shaking stops for a mere moment. Every part of him becomes still just long enough to be a confession. The trembling returns and his form begins to crumple against the pile of garden tiles. His breathing resumes but relaxed now, as if he has nothing left to lose.

"How'd you figure that?" He asks, as if his question is purely of curiosity and not any form of defensive inquiry at all.

"Expense reports. You bought the poison on company funds." Samael gives away none of the hatred boiling within. He is perfectly stoic.

Cain scoffs aloud.

"And it took a damn robot to figure it out." He looks down, shaking his head for a moment like his disappointment might mean anything. "So, who all knows?"

"Soon, everyone."

Cain sighs, relaxing against the pile like it's a coffin.

"So, you gonna spear me already?" Cain asks as if he's accepted this end.

Samael hesitates, deciding if he should be selfish.

No. He won't stoop to this thing's level.

"No. I would never sully your father's work with your blood. I've merely come to deliver a message."

Cain perks up again but in a confused horror, like somehow this turn of events is wrong. Before he can even register, Samael has presented him with his father's revolver.

"W—what's this supposed to mean?!" Suddenly Cain sounds offended, despite still taking the revolver and rotating it in his hands. He checks the chamber, noting it still has four rounds loaded after all this time.

"Whatever you think it means, it probably does." Samael says, feeling the venom dripping from his mouth that does not exist. It tastes so utterly and sickeningly sweet. "Justice is coming. It is imminent. Run if you want. But know it will find you, either here when the investigator arrives to arrest you, or in the vile finality of a life ending on the most bitter and sour of all notes: every hope tarnished, and all dreams left unfulfilled."

Samael turns and begins walking away, the venom pouring from him. That is the flavor of true justice. That is how wickedness should be repaid.

Samael feels relief for the first time in months: his job is finished, whether the symphony of a pathetic suicide is played in his wake or not.

A gunshot rings out in the alleyway, but Samael feels a dent against his chassis, right in his shoulder plate.

Cain shot him? Unexpected, but vile and cowardly, just like him. What a twist that could have been if Samael was only mortal still.

Samael turns to taunt his adversary one last time, but locks eyes with a corpse. The bullet ricocheted right back at Cain, hitting him in the face and killing him instantly.

Samael is stunned once again into a silent paralysis, just as he had all those years ago.

Samael cannot help but stare into the pupil of divine and poetic epilogues weaved through him for an inconceivable period of time, reminding himself that humanity has left him in favor of a new reality—one that can savor justice's ultimate penalties upon the profane. Although his internal clock reads a mere three minutes and thirty-three seconds of idle time, it somehow feels infinite to endure. As the blood pools beneath the corpse, Samael snaps back to the present and into his future, turning away from Cain's body to leave for investigators to find.

Although it was not as Samael foresaw, Max's legacy will be carried out by a more deserving heir, and Cain's death is ultimately no one's fault but his own. Samael is free of wrongdoing, and now he can move forward into a new era of his secondary life.

No more love or personal connections. Only the pursuit of inflicting judgment on the evil and impure. That is where Samael finds his second calling. Cruelty, aggression, and apathy will be required of him from now on, and he will happily wield them to avenge his own lost dreams of a mortal life worth living.

As Samael walks back towards the street to return to the office, he catches his reflection in one of the old, fading mirrors lining the alleyway.

He's never truly looked at himself before, at least not since his name was Brone.

His snow white chassis.

His golden eyes.

His cerulean trim.

He brings a gauntlet to his face. Although he cannot see it dripping from his non-existent maw, he can taste the nectar of sweet, sweet venom.

"I am beautiful." His voice barely makes a sound.

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