#disregard how fucking weird those last two sound and just. bear with me for a second

[meyhew]

.

#lottie's post from a week ago popped up on my explore page and i am. 🙃can people STOP engaging with her #when she posted that blm statement post for tanologist she shared some stats abt their 40 corporate members #2.5% black 5% woc 12% lgbtq 85% woman-identifying 15% man-identifying #disregard how fucking weird those last two sound and just. bear with me for a second #those percents translated into real numbers look like this: #1 black person 2 woc 4.8 queer ppl 35 women 6 men #if there's 35 women and 2 are woc that means 33 white women are running a tanning business #targeting other WHITE girls to tan excessively to the point of looking Not White At All Times #just. the ONE black person and a measly TWO woc really stands out like how fucking embarrassing #what was the point in sharing something like that how does it help their case #not to mention that she posed next to a black model and looks nearly as dark as her #how is that helping ur case!!!!!!!!!!!!!! HOW!!!!! #and im sick of grown white women in this fandom trying to brush it aside and instead praising her?? #for starting a business from the ground up????? like FULL offense to ur white feminism but #we all know that you support her actions bc she's louis tomlinson's little sister #if some other white girl was doing this im also certain the response to it would look very different #just bc she's had a great deal of tragedy in her personal life at such a young age doesnt mean any of this is okay #racism and capitalizing off of the aesthetics of poc isn't a coping mechanism #empty statements to 'do better' arent enough when she continues to exploit black and brown features #and now has an instagram post with a black model #we dont need her to ‘represent the Black and POC community more across everything’ she does #we need her to STOP with her nonsense and we need YOU to stop engaging with her promoting her shitty business #like lets not even pull on the other thread of all this which is the incredibly negative consequences on young girls' body image issues #especially in the long run. just fucking stop liking her posts i mean what r u getting out of it???????? #you'll tear down any woman but somehow she gets a pass? for being a successful business woman? i'll tear u new one bby #yall spammed the hell out of the tl with ur blm posts but when it comes time to contextualize it all #and actually BE anti racist in different situations.. so many of u simply fall flat ❤️

[whitehotharlots]

CRT and the sad state of educational politics

If our culture is studied 100 years from now, the predominant theme of the research will be a sense of perplexed revulsion toward how we did nothing to address the climate crisis in spite of having decades of forewarning. If there is a second theme, it will be a profound confusion regarding our immense and unearned sense of self-certainty. A retrospective of the early twenty first century would be titled something like Who the Fuck Did These People Think They Were? 

The latter theme is illustrated in the debacle surrounding a recent slew of municipal and statewide bills that seek to ban the teaching of Critical Race Theory (CRT) in public schools. For the record, I am strongly against these bans. But I’m also self-aware enough to know my opinion matters very little, and therefore realize that an analysis of the discussion surrounding the bills will yield much more worthwhile observations than a simple delimitation of their pros and cons. Regardless of your personal opinion, I hope you’ll humor me.

I am, in some regards, a moral absolutist. But I also realize that abstract morality has very little bearing on material and political realities. In my ideal world, classrooms are free from political meddling. Teachers teach to the best of their ability, presenting students with truths that are confidently unvarnished due to the thorough amount of work that was required to reach them. I don’t cotton any of that socratic bullshit. Students are there to learn, not to engage in weird Gotchas with some perverted elder. The teacher’s job is to teach. The material they teach needs to be subjected to some graspable and standardized mechanism of truth adjudication before it is worthy of being taught. Teaching is not therapy. Teaching is not poetry. Teaching is not love, nor is it religion, nor is it a means of social or political indoctrination. There are plenty of other avenues available to accomplish all of those other things. Teaching is teaching. 

That’s the ideal. But ideals are just ideals. They never come true. The art of teaching, regardless of setting--from overpacked classrooms to face-to-face instruction to curricular design to nationwide pedagogical initiatives--boils down to a teacher’s ability to reconcile the need to convey truths with social and political pressures that are heavily invested in the suppression of truth. 

I have formally studied and practiced education for nearly two decades. In that time, the prevailing political thrust toward education has been a desire to casualize the practice of teaching, to render educators as cheap and fungible as iphones. The thrust takes different shapes depending on the political affiliation of whomever happens to be in charge of the state and federal governments that fund education, but the ultimate desire is always the same. The goal is always to attempt to make teaching rote and algorithmic, something akin to running a google search for How to do math? or What is morality?. The framing is always just windowdressing, empty culture war bullshit. 

Maybe it’s the inescapability of this thrust that’s rendered so many educators so blind to it? We only have nominal political choice, after all. The discourse gets more blinkered and vicious as the stakes decrease. At any rate, this is the undeniable reality, and anyone who doesn’t see that isn’t worth listening to. 

Non-administrative per-pupil spending as been on a steady decline since George W. Bush was president. Administrative bloat and meddling are becoming as common in k-12 as they are in higher education. The will of parasitic NGOs are implemented as common sense pedagogy without anyone even bothering to ask for any proof that they work. The so-called Education Reform movement is sputtering out due both to its manifest failures and rare, bipartisan backlash. But it will be replaced with something just as idiotic and pernicious. The thrust of causalization will not abate. 

And so what do we decide to do? What’s the next big thing on the education policy horizon? Critical Race Theory. 

Okay, this makes sense. In 2021, a local paper can’t run a news story about a lost cat without explicitly mentioning the race of every human involved and possibly also nodding toward the implied cisnormativity of pet ownership. So it makes sense that this broad rhetorical mandate would come to dominate the transitional period between Bush-Obama Education Reform and whatever bleak future awaits us. The controversy is so perfectly inefficacious that its adoption was inevitable. Because, seriously, it doesn’t matter. Regardless of the outcome of this kerfuffle, no problems will be solved. The real shortcomings of public education will not be addressed. Larger social problems that are typically blamed on public education in spite of having little to do with public education will especially not be addressed. Maybe white kids will have to do struggle sessions in lieu of the Pledge of Allegiance. Maybe black kids will get full credit for drawing the Slayer logo in the part of the test where their geometric proof is supposed to go. Or maybe it won’t happen. Maybe instead these practices will be banned, and in turn liberals will begin to embrace homeschooling, the charter movement will be given new life as a refuge against the terrors of white supremacist behaviors such as, uhh, teaching kids to show their work. Whatever.

Within the context of public education, the outcome will not matter. It cannot matter. There will be broader social impacts, sure. It will continue to drive Democrats more rightward, providing their party’s newly woke corporate wing with progressive-sounding rationales for austerity. But so far as teachers and students are concerned, it won’t matter.

Why do I give a shit about this, then? To put it bluntly, I’m struck by the utter fucking inartfulness of CRT’s proponents. At no point has any advocate of CRT presented a case for their approach to education that was at all concerned with persuading people who aren’t already 100% in their camp. There’s been no demonstration of positive impacts, or even an explanation of how the impacts could hypothetically be positive. In fact, so much as asking for such a rationale is considered proof of racism. Advocates posit an image of existing educational policies that is absolutely fantastical, suggesting that kids never learn about slavery or racism or civil rights. But then... then they don’t even stick with the kayfabe. They’ll say “kids never learn about racism.” In response, people--mostly well-meaning--say “wait, umm, I’m pretty sure they do learn about racism.” The response is “we never said they don’t learn about racism.” You’ll see this shift from one paragraph to the next. It’s insane. Absolutely insane. 

Or take this talk from a pro-CRT workshop in Oregon. The speaker freely admits that proto-CRT leanings like anti-bias education, multiculturalism, and centering race in historical discussions have been the norm since the late 1980s. The speaker admits that these practices have been commonplace for 30+ years, as anyone my age or younger will attest. Then, seconds later, the speaker discusses the results of this shift: it failed. Unequivocally:

We had this huge, huge, huge focus on culturally relevant teaching and research. [ ... ] So you would think that with 40+ years of research and really focusing and a lot of lip service and a lot of policies and, you know, a lot of rhetoric about cultural relevancy and about equity and about anti-bias that we would see trends that are significantly different, [but] that’s not what we’re finding. What we’re finding that you see [is] that some cases, particularly black and brown [students] the results, the academic achievement has either stayed the same and gotten worse.

Translation: here’s this approach to teaching. It’s new and vital but also we’ve been doing it for 40 years. It doesn’t work. But we need to keep doing it. Anyone who is in any way confused by this is a dangerous racist. 

Even in the darkest days of the Bush-era culture war, I never saw such a complete and open disregard for honesty. This isn’t to say that Bush-era conservatives weren’t shit-eating liars. They were. But they had enough savvy to realize that self-righteousness alone is not an effective way of doing politics. You need to at least pretend to be engaging with issues in good faith. 

This is what happens when a movement has its head so far up its own ass that it cannot comprehend the notion of good-faith criticism. These people do not believe that there can exist anyone who shares their basic goals but has concerns that their methods might not work. Their self-certainty is so absolute and unshakeable that they can proffer data demonstrating the complete ineffectiveness of their methods as proof of the necessity of their methods.

For decades, the most effective inoculation against pernicious meddling in education has been to lean upon the ideal form of teaching I described earlier in this post. We claimed that teaching is apolitical and that no one is trying to indoctrinate anybody. Regardless of the abstract impossibility of this claim, it has immense and lasting appeal, and it was upheld by a system of pedagogical standards that allowed teachers to evoke a sense of neutrality. The prevailing thrust in liberal education is to explicitly reject any such notions, and no one--not a single goddamn person--has proffered a convincing replacement for it. We still say, laughably, that we’re eschewing indoctrination. But people aren’t that stupid. If you find it beneath yourself to make your lies digestible, people will be able to tell when you’re lying to them. 

This, my friends, bodes very poorly for the future of education, regardless of whatever happens in the coming months. A movement that cannot articulate its own worth is not one that is long for this world. Teachers themselves are the only force that can resit the slow press toward the eventual elimination of public education, and they have embraced a worldview and comportment style that renders them absolutely unable to mount any worthwhile resistance. 

[thinkyoureholy]

Fragile Figures [18]

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Pairing : Choi San / [fem] Reader

Genre : Angst, Violence, Language, Fluff, Smut, Character Death, Mafia! AU, Hired Assassin! AU

Words : 2.6k

Previous Chapter -  Next Chapter

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-Yunho’s P.O.V-

I crouched down in front of her, reaching out to cup her face in my hands. She was looking at me but I could tell she was looking right through me. She had been like this for the past two days, not uttering a single word, I was beginning to worry. Seonghwa had been unconscious for about half a day, his wounds weren’t severe or anything, he had just lost a bit of blood but his life wasn’t in danger. And the answers I got from him had me worrying even more.

-Two Nights Ago-

I pulled a chair up next to Seonghwa who was gingerly pulling his shirt over his head, “What happened that night? Did she really do this to you?”

He let out a deep breath, wincing as he pulled the shirt over the bandages on his rib cage, “No, one of his people did but...she blacked out again.”

“You mean-” I cut myself off, not even wanting to believe something like this happened again.

Seonghwa sighed heavily, leaning back against the bed as he ran his fingers through his hair, “Yeah...and worse than the last time. We thought she went off the rails with Kanda betraying her. But with San…” he trailed off, staring at the wall with a faraway look in her eyes, “I’m afraid that if we don’t get any information within the next few days, and that’s stretching it thin, she might lose it completely and when she does, she won’t know the difference between friend or foe anymore.”

My shoulders slumped at the words that fell from his mouth, my mind racing as I tried to figure out the best solution. We need to find San and we need to do it now. And I knew just the man that would give me the answers I needed, unfortunately he was unconscious and Yeosang said the possibility of him waking up within the next few days was near impossible. That is if he even wakes up at all.

“Did he at least say anything before she blacked out?” I asked, hoping for something, anything that could help at this point.

Seonghwa furrowed his brow, a dazed look in his eyes as he met my gaze, “It’s all still a blur but I remember him saying San wasn’t there and that he didn’t know where he was either. I vaguely remember him trying to say more but by that time she had already snapped. Had she let him speak for just a minute longer we would’ve gotten a bit more information. It’s odd but he looked willing to help, even if he was the one that kidnapped San in the first place.”

I cocked a brow, looking at him as if he had sprouted a second head, “Don’t be ridiculous. Kanda would never be willing to help us, he used and betrayed us, not to mention he’s tried to kill us all multiple times. If anything he was probably lying to save his own skin.”

Seonghwa averted his eyes, scratching the back of his head, “I’m just saying...he’s been acting weird the past few attacks.”

“Have you forgotten who gave you the burn scars that claim your entire right arm, shoulder blade, and neck? What? Are you going to forgive him now?” 

His eyes snapped back to meet mine, the glare he was giving me was enough to make a chill run down the length of my spine, “Never. Once we get all the information we can from him I’m going to kill that son of a bitch myself. Just because I’ve picked up on some changes of his behavior doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven him. I’ll never forgive him for what he did to me, to Y/N, to us,” He narrowed his eyes as he spoke, the fire that was burning in them was so intense that I had to look away, “Y/N and Joong might let talk like that slide but I sure as hell won’t. Throw shit like that in my face again and we’re going to have a problem, understand?”

I scoffed, acting as defiant as ever, “Whatever,” I pushed myself up from the chair, avoiding his gaze as I looked around, my eyes landing on Kanda who lay as still as ever two beds away, “Just try and remember everything that happened.”

I turned my back on him and began to walk out, hearing Wooyoung calm him down as he called after me.

-Present Day-

I heaved out a sigh, letting my hands fall back to my sides. I furrowed my brows when I took a good look at her eyes, the small light that had been resparked days prior was now gone. She...looked empty inside and there’s not a damn thing I can do. I won’t and can’t be the one that returns the light to her eyes. The only way she’d go back to normal is if we managed to bring San back to her.

"Yunho he's awake!" Jongho came over to me, breathing heavily as if he ran the whole way here.

I looked at him in shock, standing up to run over to the infirmary but a blur of red that passed but stopped me. I caught a glimpse of her red jacket just before she vanished. I cursed and ran after her, chasing her down to the infirmary. She had just managed to open the door but before she could take a step inside I wrapped my arms around her waist and dragged her back.

"Kanda! Tell me where he is! Please! Tell me!" She shouted desperately, kicking her legs to break free of my hold but I held on tightly.

I tried dragging her out of the room but she held onto the door frame, her strength surprising me. I mean, I always knew she was strong and that she'd have me on my ass within seconds in a fight but damn, I didn't think she'd be strong enough to keep me from dragging her out of a room by hanging onto the damn door frame. Even with Jongho’s help she wouldn’t let go. The frame is only two inches thick for fuck's sake! How the hell is she still holding on?!

-Seonghwa's P.O.V- [ayyyeeee first Seonghwa p.o.v. noice]

I grabbed onto Wooyoung's shoulder, using him to help me stand upright. It had been a few days and I've been getting better each day but I still felt weak at times and right now was one of those times. I guess it has something to do with the amount of blood I lost. 

"Take me over to Kanda then help those two get her out of here." I told Wooyoung, my voice low.

I left no room for any arguments and he didn't offer any, simply giving me a nod of his head. He helped me get over to where Yeosang was leaning over Kanda, checking his vitals. Yeosang glanced over his shoulder and gave me a silent warning, one I disregarded. I was going to get the answers I wanted from this bastard and then I was going to kill him. The moment Wooyoung left to help drag Y/N out of the room I reached over to grab Kanda’s collar but before my fingers could even graze him Yeosang grabbed onto my wrist tightly.

“He’s just woken up after, days, Seonghwa. He can barely even talk, if he can even muster the energy it requires to do that simple action that is. Any questions you have for him can wait a few more hours.” He said, his voice calm but an underlying threat came through in his tone.

“San could die in those few hours. He can already be dead for all I know and you’re telling me to wait?” I spat out through my teeth, clenching my hand into a fist and yanked it out of his grip, “Move aside, now.”

But he didn’t budge, standing in front of Kanda protectively. I knew he wasn’t doing this because he was loyal to Kanda, no this was the doctor side of him I was seeing. Any patient he had, whether it was one of us or an enemy, he protected with everything he had. He didn’t care what happened afterward but while he was treating them they were untouchable. He would even go as far as fight for them. Yeosang isn’t just some doctor either, his our second best fighter, second only to me.

“Yeosang,” I said his name in a low voice, warning him one last time, “Move before I move you out of the way.”

He scoffed, a smirk crossing his features, “In your condition you’re better off picking a fight with a cat. You may be able to beat me when you’re at your best but right now I’d have you on your knees within seconds.”

I set my jaw but said nothing. In my weakened state I won’t even be able to fight off a small child, much less a full grown man who had the same training I did. And I should know how strong he is more than anyone, I was his teacher. I clenched my hands at my sides, hoping I could deter him by simply staring him down but he was strong-willed, as usual.

“Sho…”

We broke out of our staring match to look over at Kanda. His eyes were darting all over the place, his hands fisting the sheets underneath him. He looked like he was trying to get up but he was too weak to even lift his head. The room was dead silent, Y/N had been dragged out by now and  both Yeosang and I were too surprised to do anything. That is until I snapped out of it. I reached over and grabbed Kanda’s arm, ignoring the death grip Yeosang had on my forearm.

“Seonghwa I said-”

“I don’t give a fuck what you said. He just spoke so that means he has enough energy to answer my questions," I snarled, giving Yeosang a glare before turning my attention back to Kanda, “Where is San?”

He stared at me wide-eyed for a second before shaking his head to the best of his ability, “I...I don’t know. The last time...I saw him...was...a week ago. I swear. I don’t know...where...they took him…”

Kanda was struggling to speak, his breathing labored, the monitor by his bed going haywire with the quick beating of his heart. Yeosang tightened his grip on me, placing his other hand on my shoulder as he tried to get me to leave but I refused to do so.

“Who took him? Who the hell did you hand him over to?!” I prodded, needing these questions to be answered more than anything.

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing heavily. If I didn’t know any better I’d say he’s about ready to pass out. But he opened his eyes, the desperate look in them surprising me.

“Mei. Choi Mei. That’s--That’s all I...know. Please...I’m telling...the truth. So--So don’t...kill me. I...can’t die...yet. Shoyo...I have to save...Shoyo. I’m all...he has...left. Please.” 

He sounded so...broken. He had tears running down the sides of his face, the look in his eyes was almost too much to bear. I looked away, my hand lost its strength. I was beginning to pull away from him but he mustered up all the strength he had and grabbed my hand, his grip stronger than I thought he’d be capable of in his condition.

“If you...find them...can you...get Sho out? I know...I have no right...to ask this...of you. But...he’s--he’s only nine. If you...can...get him out...safely...and give me...your word...that you’ll...look after him...I will give...my life to you. My betrayal...will mean absolutely nothing...if I can’t get him...out of her clutches. She’s the one...that pushed me...to betray you all. If not for...her threats...then I never...would’ve dreamed of...doing what...I did to you,” He paused, his voice getting smaller and smaller with every word he spoke but I was still able to hear him loud and clear

I averted my gaze, staring at the white sheets on the bed. I didn’t know whether to believe him or not, a part of me was yelling at me to kill him now but another part of me, a smaller part was telling me to believe him. On what basis, I don’t know.

“Hwa...please. I’m begging you.” He whispered, his hold on me loosened until his hand fell back to his side.

I snapped my gaze back to look at him but when I did he had already closed his eyes. My heart skipped a beat when I thought about him being dead but the heart monitor he was hooked up to reassured me that was was still alive. Wait. Why was I worried about this bastard?

“Get out, Seonghwa. I need to stabilize him, again. Go tell Y/N all the information you just found out. I want all of you to stay out of this room unless you’re injured. No more interrogations until he can sit up on his own.” Yeosang said in a firm voice.

I didn’t bother arguing with him as I turned on my heel and began walking out the door. I kept repeating the name Kanda had given over and over in my head. 

Mei. 

Choi Mei. 

Where have I heard that name before?

-San’s P.O.V-

A wet cough wracked through my body, blood coating the inside of my mouth. I kept my head down as I swiped the back of my hand over my mouth, refusing to meet her gaze, that is until she forced me to look into her eyes. Her index finger and thumb dug into my chin roughly, moving my head up so I could meet her icy gaze. The smile that adorned her face didn’t match well with the murderous look in her eyes.

“Now, little brother, I want you to answer me truthfully this time. List all of their weaknesses. Their individual weaknesses, their group weaknesses, and the weaknesses in the place they’re at right now. I want you to tell me everything you learned in the time you spent in their presence.” She said, her voice was so sweet it made me want to gag.

“Go to hell.” I snarled, earning myself another punch to the face. 

“This is your last chance, San.” She warned, standing over me with a dark cloud looming over her shoulders.

I spat the blood that was in my mouth at her feet, glaring up at her, “Fuck you.”

Her eye twitched the slightest bit, the vein on the side of her neck looking close to bursting and I thought it would, until a laugh fell from her lips. The mere sound of it had a sense of dread washing over me. She never laughed, never, unless she was about to inflict some serious harm seconds later. When she turned her attention to the table next to her I felt my whole body begin to shake, the fear finally setting it. She glanced over her tools thoughtfully, a calm look on her face while I couldn’t be more terrified. I dragged myself away from her, crawling back until my back hit the wall. I instinctively shielded my head with my arms, trembling violently as the memories of the times she’s pulled out her tools started to pour in one after another.

“You could’ve made this so much easier for yourself, little brother. Why must you always force my hand, hmm?” 

I just wanted to live my life the way I wanted to. Why? Why was I born into this wretched family?

#ateez fic #ateez scenarios #ateez angst #ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fluff #ateez fanfiction #ateez ff #ateez series #ateez smut #ateez san #ateez au #ateez choi san #choi san ff #choi san fic #choi san fanfic #choi san fluff #choi san smut #choi san scenarios #choi san series #choi san angst #choi san #san ff #san smut #san au #san fanfic #san fluff #san angst

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Changing Channels: Part One

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2,123

Warnings: typical supernatural violence, language, angst, blood, you know the usual

Author’s Note: I am so sorry this is out late. I’ve been dealing with shit the past few days.

I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Any and all comments on these are appreciated. I really want to hear what you guys think about this one!

Feedback is the glue that holds my writing together.

Tags at the bottom

“Dean, do you have to watch that here? I’m trying to eat,” you half-joked, throwing your wrapper of the candy you bought from the vending machine earlier.

He disregarded your comment as he stared at the TV as Dr. Sexy MD played. He was channel surfing, this was on, and he hasn’t taken his eyes off the TV yet. Right now, a doctor was making out with a woman in an elevator while you were eating on the bed next to him and Sam was in the bathroom.

“Dean, your girlfriend is right here. If you want a make out session, I’d be glad to give you one,” you added.

“What are you watching?” Sam asked from the bathroom door.

His brother’s voice made Dean snap out of his trance, but he didn’t look away from the TV.

“Hospital show. Dr. Sexy, MD. I think it's based on a book.”

“When did you hit menopause?” Sam scoffed.

Tipping your head back, you let out a loud laugh as you got off the bed.

“It's called channel surfing,” Dean pouted, getting up and turning off the TV.

Sam grabbed his suit jacket off the other bed and put it on.

“You boys ready?” you asked, putting on your grey blazer.

“Are you?” Sam asked Dean.

The older brother just rolled his eyes, grabbed his keys, and left the motel room with you and Sam snickering from behind him. The drive to the police station wasn’t long since you were down the street from it. As soon as you walked in flashed your important badges, the sheriff came out and started talking to you.

“The FBI is here why, exactly?”

“It might have something to do with one of your locals getting his head ripped off,” you said in a monotone voice.

“Bill Randolph died from a bear attack.”

“How sure are you that it was a bear?” you questioned.

“What else would it be?”

“Well, whatever it was it chased Mr. Randolph through the woods, smashed through his front door, followed him up the stairs, and killed him in his bedroom. Is that common? A bear doing all that?” Dean asked.

“Depends how pissed off it is, I guess. Look, the Randolphs live way up in high country. You got trout runs to make a grown man weep… and bears.”

“Right, and what about Mrs. Randolph? The file says she saw the whole thing,” Sam commented.

“Yes, she did. My heart goes out to that poor woman.”

“She said it was a bear.”

“Kathy Randolph went through a hell of a trauma. She's confused,” the sheriff said after a few reluctant pauses.

“What did she say?” you asked.

“I think you’d rather hear it from her. Take a seat in the interview room, and I’ll call her down to the station.”

“Thanks,” you nodded, leading the brothers to the room.

After taking a seat, you leaned back in exhaustion.

“What do you think she saw? Was it really a bear?” you wondered.

“I guess we have to wait and see,” Sam sighed as he took a seat.

Due to it being a small town, it didn’t take long for Kathy to show up at the police station. Once she was escorted into the room, she took a seat across from the three of you with a nervous look.

“Hi, Kathy, would you mind telling us what you saw the other day?” you asked gently.

She shook her head with a mutter as if she was talking to herself about what she might have sawn.

“It must have been a bear. I mean, what else could it have been?”

“What do you think you saw?” you asked.

“No, I—I remember clearly now. It was definitely a bear,” she nodded.

She was obviously hiding something from the three of you, and there was only one logical way to go about getting the information.

“Kathy, I’m sure it was a bear, but it really helps us if we can evaluate every single angle. Whatever you say, I promise you, we’ve heard it all. Just tell us what you thought you saw.”

“It's impossible, but,” she sighed, “I could have sworn I saw... the Incredible Hulk.”

“The Incredible Hulk…?” Sam questioned.

“I told you it was crazy.”

“Bana or Norton?” Dean asked, and you kicked him lightly underneath the table for teasing her.

“Oh, no, those movies were terrible. The TV Hulk.”

“Lou Ferrigno. Spiky-hair, Lou Ferrigno?”

“Yes.”

“Huh.”

“You think I'm crazy,” she sighed.

“No. Uh, no, it's just... would there be any reason that Lou Ferrigno, the Incredible Hulk, would have a grudge against your husband?”

“No. Why would he?” she asked.

“I think that’s all the information we need right now. Thank you so much for coming in and telling us the truth,” you smiled.

Getting up, you escorted her out of the room before turning to the brothers once you knew it was secure.

“The Incredible Hulk?”

“I think we need to look back on the police and news reports while someone goes and checks out the house.”

“I’ll check out the house. You can drop me off on the way,” Sam declared.

“Then, let’s go,” you agreed.

“This report is just weird,” you commented as you read an article in the Wellington Guardian about a "Local man killed in bear attack".

There was a picture of the victim holding a fish proudly that you assumed he caught. The door to the motel opened and Sam walked in with a look of seldom.

“Find anything?” you asked based on his expression.

“There is a giant eight-foot-wide hole where the front door used to be. Almost like a hulk-sized hole. What do you two got?”

“Well, it turns out that Bill Randolph had quite the temper. He's got two counts of spousal battery, bar brawls, and court-ordered anger management sessions. You might say you wouldn't like him when he's angry,” Dean read.

“So, a hothead getting killed by TV's greatest hothead. Kinda sounds like just desserts, doesn't it? It's all starting to make sense.”

“How is making sense?” you asked.

“Well, I found something else at the crime scene,” he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of candy wrappers. He drops them on the table to show just how much he’s got. “Candy wrappers. Lots of them.”

“Just desserts, sweet tooth, and screwing with people before you kill 'em,” Dean observed and started to put the pieces together. “We're dealing with the Trickster, aren't we?”

“Sure looks like it.”

“Good. I've wanted to gank that mother since Mystery Spot.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah, I’m fucking positive.”

“No, I mean are you sure you wanna kill him?”

“That son of a bitch didn’t think twice about killing Dean a thousand times,” you argued.

“No, I know. I mean, I'm just saying maybe we should talk to him.”

“Excuse me?”

“Think about it, Y/N. He's one of the most powerful creatures we've ever met. Maybe we can use him.”

“For what?” Dean asked.

“Okay, the Trickster's like a Hugh Hefner type, right? Wine, women, song—maybe he doesn't want the party to end. Maybe he hates this ‘angels and demons’ stuff as much as we do. Maybe he'll help us.”

“You’re actually serious about this,” you gasped.

“Yeah.”

“Ally with the Trickster. A bloody, violent monster, and you wanna be Facebook friends with him? Nice, Sammy.”

“The world is gonna end, Dean. We don't have the luxury of a moral stand. Look, I'm just saying it's worth a shot. That's all. If it doesn't work, we'll kill him.”

“How are we going to find him anyway?” Dean wondered.

“He doesn’t ever just take one victim. He’ll show somehow. I’m sure of it,” you sighed, taking a seat on one of the beds.

“I better make the weapons,” Dean declared, grabbing his keys to get the stuff out of the trunk.

Dean was almost done with sharpening the wooden stake that would kill the Trickster. There was something off about this whole thing and with the Trickster. Why was the name Gabriel coming to your mind whenever you thought of him? Why did he appear now, of all times? It’s been a long gap between the Mystery Spot events and now, so why pick now to show up again? There was something about this eating at your brain, and it bugged the hell out of you not knowing what it was.

Sam was sitting at the table with a police scanner on, waiting and listening for the right kind of call to come in that might point you in the right direction of the Trickster. Dean was on the last stake, although, he seemed pretty much finished. You, on the other hand, were nervously biting your nails in anticipation. Dean looked over at you, and he reached up and removed your hand from your mouth.

“Don’t bite your nails,” he stated.

Sighing, you were about to get up and start pacing when the police scanner started going off with chatter.

“Um, Dispatch? I, I got a possible 187 out here at the old paper mill on Route 6?”

“Roger that. What are you looking at there, son?” Dispatch asked.

“Honestly, Walt, I wouldn't even know how to describe what I'm seeing. Just send everybody,” the officer panicked.

“Alright, stay calm, stay by your car. Help's on the way.”

“That sounded weird, right? Like, weird enough to be our guy?” you asked.

“Let’s go find out,” Dean declared, getting up and gathering the weapons he made.

After packing the car, you three jumped inside. Dean took off down the road to the old paper mill on route six which was a longer drive than you thought it was. However, when you arrived, you frowned at the lack of officers and people.

“Where is everyone? There was a murder here. No police, no anyone. How’s that look to you?” Dean asked as he got out of the car.

Both you and Sam followed his action, and you walked to the trunk to retrieve your weapon.

“I don’t like this at all. Something is wrong,” you muttered loud enough for the brothers to hear it.

“It’s the Trickster. Don’t worry, he must be inside,” Dean shrugged, handing out the flashlights and bloodied stakes.

After he closed the trunk, he and his brother began walking to one of the warehouse doors.

“No, don’t open it!” you gasped too late.

Dean opened the door and walked in, you and Sam following behind. As soon as the door closed, you were no longer in the warehouse, but a hospital. Gone were your worn-out hunter clothes and stakes, only to be replaced with white lab coats and stethoscopes around your neck.

“What the hell?” Dean muttered in confusion.

A blonde doctor and an Asian doctor passed by the three of you, and they gave Sam and Dean sly looks.

“Doctor,” they said as they disappeared into a room.

“Doctor?” Sam asked.

“You shouldn’t have opened those doors,” you sighed.

Turning around, you opened the door you three walked through, expecting to see the outside of the warehouse. Instead, you saw two people making out, and you quickly closed it. A dark-haired male doctor walked past you, and as soon as he did, he slapped your ass with a grin.

“What the fuck?” you snapped angrily.

“Call me,” he winked at you.

Your body jerked forward at the thought of ripping him a new one when Dean held you back. There was no use in fighting anyone when you didn’t know what was going on and the circumstances of this. A brunette doctor quickly approached Sam from the side, muttering his name before slapping him across the cheek.

“Ow!” Sam gasped, your focus shifting from the perverted doctor to the new presence.

“Seriously.”

“What?”

“Seriously? You're brilliant, you know that? And a coward. You're a brilliant coward,” the woman sighed.

“Um, what are you talking about?” he asked, clearly confused.

She reached up and slapped him once more in the same spot.

“As if you don't know!” she sniffled, stalking off in the opposite direction.

While Sam had a look of complete befuddlement, Dean’s was more shocked and admired.

“I don’t believe this,” he smiled.

“What?” you asked.

“That's Dr. Piccolo. Dr. Ellen Piccolo.”

“Who?”

“The sexy yet earnest doctor at,” he walked as he looked around before spotting the name of the hospital on the wall, “Seattle Mercy Hospital.”

“Dean,” Sam sighed, “what the hell are you talking about?”

“The doctor getups. The, the sexy interns. The 'seriously’s’. It all makes sense,” he laughed.

“What is going on, Dean?” you urged.

“We're in Dr. Sexy, MD,” he chuckled.

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[polyamorous-mysme]

What's your opinion on Jimin and V? They both infuriate me because of the way they handled things in the routes. I think Jimin gets a little bit better at the end of his route, but V doesn't seem too. He doesn't tell Saeyoung about his brother, just shows up one day Saeran in tow and is just like 'I'm back'. Even if Saeran didn't want to go back yet, he could at least told Saeyoung what was going on.

tbh most of my opinions on every mm character is that you just have to completely disregard how Normal ppl would act given that the plots of mm are so wild and unbelievable. on the other had though i get why people have qualms w certain characters for how they handle the plot. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ eso si que es

But. as far as jumins route goes i think they just fucking did him dirty w it. with the second bad end/chats leading to it especially. I know it sounds weird to say given that it's his route but those few days are so fucking OOC for jumin. i mean I'll find my own ways to rationalize it bc it Can be rationalized if you care to, but not everyone will. because its fucking weird. not even the end itself but jumin leading up to it.

that being said i LIKE jumin and i like his route save for that. jumins hidden or has Had to hide his emotions and opinions his whole life. his father frequently brings new women in and out of his life, one of the only two people hes ever been able to trust has just committed suicide and he feels like he doesnt even Know either of them anymore, and then MC comes along getting him to open up making him Trust them again and hes worried something similar is going to happen. yeah yeah cat ran away whatever but to ignore what its ACTUALLY about is impossible. rika was one one of the only people and the only Woman he really trusted wholeheartedly as an equal and shes dead the cat she gave him is missing and being overprotective of MC is his one way of gaining control again. if I couldn't rationalize that though it absolutely would have skeeved me out from the get-go, though. so im not surprised Or affronted by the fact that ppl find it irredeemable ig.

now V. V is an even weirder story. he clings to rika from the moment they first met because dont ask me why. i dont know why. is she supposed to remind him of his mother? weird. is he genuinely just that nice of a person? probably. and rika is fucked. rika is traumatized and has been since young childhood. she suffers from what someone who doesnt experience delusions thinks delusions are or how they feel. whatever. and V loves her So Much that if she wont GET help he wont force her so hes going to do whatever He can to help her. until it goes really fucking wrong.

and let's all just be honest and say everything about seven and saeran and especially their backstory doesnt make sense. it ABSOLUTELY hinges on suspension of disbelief. but there are some aspects that do make sense. the stronger older brother in an abusive household is trying to keep himself And his sickly younger brother safe and sane. stumbles across v and rika and we already know mm doesnt Quite take place in our world as we know it and i know fuck all about typical korean life and families so I couldnt tell you why they didnt report their home life to the authorities from the get go. also this whole thing doesnt fucking make sense bc seven and saeran look like MAYBE 10 at this point and V is only 5 years older than them max but him and rika have obviously been together for a while and are Adults here. doesnt track. timeline dont make sense. angway.

but the way I see it is rika had Already started to plot mint eye yadda yadda here and knew that if the boys were separated she could control seven publicly as the stronger twin in a way that makes it seem like they're helping and protecting them both, they just have to be separated. seven can roll w the loneliness and grief of having to leave his brother behind as long as it means hes safe. and w saeran, she can use that same grief and loneliness to manipulate him a different way. behind the scenes. create her perfect believer who will do Anything she says because she saved him, why shouldnt she save everyone else? and j think by the time V realized just how bad rikas mental state was it was too late to Fix it. but he loved her he loved the RFA and the RFA loved rika. he didnt want to taint or tarnish her image w the reality of who she is what shes been doing etc.

after that it's a series of unfortunate events and fucking stupid decisions v thinks hes making for the good and sanity of everyone else. hes given himself a "I'm not a hero i just Have to bear all this by myself forever and fix it alone with no help and save Everyone in the end" complex that sure is with great intentions but leads down a rabbit hole of hurt and fuckery that he cant fix. ever. and I think he was worried about telling seven about saeran because if he had he KNOWS seven would have gone after him alone. and he would have been hurt or killed or worse. he would have been. and V was still trying to save whoever he could. save rika and Hope he could save saeran? save saeran and Hope he could save rika? who knows. I dont. I think V had the BEST intentions. i do. i think he was just a bit of a Rudely untrusting dumbass carrying them out.

but that's what mm is. MC is the character that is meant to push the characters into healing from their fatal flaw. yoosung is slipping from success because up to that point hes hinged his entire future on his older cousin. zen. i dont remember. has to find a happy balance between shooting for the stars but not hiding himself or who he is while doing it? something gay like that. jaehee pushes herself too hard to be successful. to not be a burden. to be financially and socially stable and safe above her own happiness. jumin is cold and untrusting and hides himself because the last time he wasnt/didnt, he got Hurt. seven is the same gay shit as jumin and zen with the added bonus of needing to learn that mc can make their own decisions wrt danger. v needs to stop carrying the world on his shoulders. saeran . . . needs to heal. learn that his life is not intrinsically tied to the lives of others and he can still love people but be his Own person, whole and healed. whether or not you the individual player believe that by the end of the route theyve gotten their first real step in the right direction is up to you.

anyway stream room 206 ep by elah hale on spotify.

#not headcanons #onions have layers

[vestigialtext]

Euphorroria

[TW suicide, self-harm] 

Imagine you turn around there’s suddenly a perfectly circular swirling hole open in the floor, emanating a hazy purple glow and a kind of pulsing, reverb-drenched celestial siren song, like the single sickest shoegaze riff you’ve ever heard.

You think, huh, wow, that’s a pretty weird trip-hazard, and erect some cordons to stop anyone falling in. But you become fixated on the hole, staring in unblinking for hours. It’s curious, it’s beautiful, it’s sonically enchanting, it’s perfumed with a kind of partially floral, partially cardomomic, partially metallic scent which just encroaches on the sickly-sweet – but you still want a taste.

The hole, as it happens, is a portal to insanity.

This is how I experience hypomania; standing steady-of-foot behind the barrier, gazing at wonder to the insanity, hearing its call but keeping a safe distance.

Mania would see me leap the barrier, approach too close, and invariably slip in screaming.

Psychosis, meanwhile, would see me fall in, try to either fight it or fuck it, turn it inside out and prolapse it back through into rational reality, the fabric of which world begin to collapse as internal and external landscapes collide and splinter into one and other and I approach self-oblivion.

A full psychotic break has only happened twice in my lifetime, and frankly I’m lucky to be here writing this drivel – my second episode, nearly a decade ago, almost killed me and left me with almost impossible-to-comprehend scars I’ll bear for the rest of my life, scars invisible to the observer but forever altering my perception of the world, scars I’ve made peace with but which continue to niggle every day. Without getting deep into the nightmarish details, I tried – and, thank fuck, failed – to blind myself, resulting in bilateral scarred corneas which mean that, while my vision remains entirely functional and luckily unimpaired to any significant degree, I experience constant, curious aberrations, especially in low-light where the world melts into a sea of halos.

Importantly, I’m still alive. I very nearly leapt into the Thames on the morning of 10/03/2010, and not through depressive, I-can’t-bear-to-live anguish, but due to chasing immensely powerful delusions and hallucinations to the same place that almost cost me my sight. There’s a lot I’ve written and lot I will write about my experiences of psychosis – particularly re the corrupted internal logic that catalysed much of my bizarre, life-ruining behaviour in 2003 and 2010 – but not here, not now.

Mania, the losing control of my inhibitions and tripping headfirst into hyperactive chaos, has occurred three times in my life, but only progressed through to psychosis twice. I had my first (and to date, only quickly-controlled) manic episode age 16, following a few months as an inpatient at an adolescent psychiatric in Newcastle (remember when the NHS used to offer those kind of services lol). Up until that point, I had been being treated for major depression, which was my diagnosis until the mania emerged. I don’t quite remember the specifics – I celebrated the 20th anniversary of my bipolar 1 diagnosis last month – but one day it seems the depressive fog suddenly cleared and my mind, robbed of feel-good shit for so long, lurched as far as it could in the opposite direction as some kind of bizarre compensatory push.

Perhaps the flip was inevitable, perhaps it was triggered by a chemical predisposition to mania plus guzzling down combinations of all the anti-depressant variants that could be feasibly prescribed for the preceding three months. Who can say. Whatever the case, suddenly I was bouncing around the hospital halls like Sonic the Hedgehog, talking borderline-gibberish garbage incessantly, getting back deep into abandoned A-level art projects and attempting to start roughly 1,000 extracurricular projects simultaneously. The doctors quickly took notice, brought me down with lithium and revised my diagnosis.

Hypomania, (literally “below mania”), is something I experience on average a few times a year, hitting in waves, usually with a clear trigger. It’s a glimpse at the maelstrom of insanity without actually dipping a toe. Delusional ideas can creep into my head, but I can analyse and dismiss them rationally with a firm “No.” I now have enough insight and experience of my own sensations and mood pattern recognition to usually ward off a manic episode, typically with self-seclusion and/or self-management, sometimes with medication. Zopiclone, a sedative, has proven to be something of a magic bullet at sniping down incoming mania, so I try to keep a stash handy – I popped one Saturday gone just to try and keep the train on the rails after barely sleeping for two weeks straight.

After accepting I was an alcoholic six years ago, I’ve gone entirely teetotal, and that itself has greatly improved my ability to monitor myself, to try and regulate my own mood – previously, I’d (technically binge)-drink more or less every single day, and drown out any troublesome hypomanic episode with even more booze, remaining entirely functional (if prone to starting each day with a big purging sick and then having a couple of practically clockwork spew breaks at work) until my liver and my nervous system started wildly red-flagging at the sheer relentless demands I was asking of them, the perpetual nature of my misguided self-medication, so I decided to stop dead drinking or risk further ruining my health.

Without in any way wishing to belittle or underestimate the impact of the disease (severe, bulk-of-a-year depression episodes have also nearly killed me) I feel like depression is something even people who don’t suffer from mental health problems can at least begin to comprehend, can take a stab at imagining the experience. Perhaps not the depths – the eroding, claustrophobic mental space, the glimmer of hope on the horizon disappearing into darkness, all sensory input turning to a grey mush, the head-in-a–tomb depersonalisation – but most people can relate to being “sad”, most people have experienced tragedy at some point in their lives. Hypomania, however, is a trickier prospect to explain. But I’ll try.

I can’t speak for others who experience the condition, but in my case, hypomania manifests itself across my whole physical, mental, emotional spectrum. Although other factors come into play, the biggest single trigger for me seems to be sleep deprivation. It’s no news that circadian rhythms and bipolar disorder are intrinsically interlinked, and I have very real first-hand experience. As a shiftworker (occasional nightshift worker) who lives on the opposite side of London to my office and has a four-month old daughter, my current sleep hygiene is pretty... ropey to say the least, so I’m trying to be extra vigilant. A few nights back-to-back of little sleep (I’m talking a hour or two, at the best of times my sleep is shit anyway and five hours is a good stint) I can often feel my mood changing gears.

Simply put, when I’m hypomanic, the world is a more engaging place; more detail fills the cracks, more edges pique my interest. All of my senses sharpen up – my vision becomes cleaner, brighter, more vivid, sound seemingly has additional frequency space, imperceptible before. My senses of smell and taste overwhelm me, aromas become intoxicating and normal food takes on gourmet qualities. My energy level skyrockets without any additional external input; I have much more impetus, enthusiasm about life, work, whatever. I can literally feel my mind starting to function differently – but not necessarily more efficiently – taking shortcuts, randomly accessing memories in remarkable detail without any prompt. I can think faster, but with less focus; I’m more distractible and will happily shoot off on wild tangents with complete disregard for my goal. Depending on circumstances at home or work, hypomania is a mixed bag – any lethargy is dispelled and my agency and job satisfaction is heightened, but I might, say, approach 20 tasks simultaneously when sequentially would be more rational.

Depending on social context, I expend varyingly extreme amounts of effort to varying degrees of success attempting to mask a hypomanic episode. You know how your body never really “heals”, and scurvy horrifyingly opens up old scars and shit? That’s kind of what my ever-simmering mental illness feels like when i’m consistently deprived of sleep for whatever reason, the cracks start appearing and it kinda seeps out a bit lol. I am well aware my hypomanic demeanour and delivery can alarm people, and I do try really, really, really hard to suppress things or if absolutely required, just remove myself from situations where a lasting, detrimental opinion could be formed. I am also fully aware I can become borderline intolerable to my long-suffering and remarkably patient wife, and I try to mitigate the condition’s impact on domesticity, again, only ever partially-successfully (sorry, Kate). On any given day, high, low, or creamy middle, I’d estimate around about 90% of my effort is put towards just trying to appear normal to others, trying to blend in. I imagine many other mentally ill people are broadly intolerant to open-plan hotdesking (not to mention the insatiable clock-in-and-hit-marks demands of capitalism).

I can physically feel my body “running hotter” when I’m hypomanic, like an overclocked CPU frazzling on a motherboard; headaches spark quickly if I don’t drink enough water. I’m not especially clued up on chemical synthesis of naturally-occurring hormones etc. but I kinda get the impression hypomania is little like organic, high-on-your-own-supply MDMA.

Hypomania seems to foster within me a deeper connection to and longing to revisit all of my favourite music, art, writing, films, games, people – chiefly, I go on obsessive listening binges of records I adore. As I mentioned earlier, my hearing changes when I’m hypomanic – songs sound better, richer, more punchy. One of my fondest ever memories of mental illness (sadly ruined by slipping into psychosis shortly afterwards) was walking around out at night listening to My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless on shitty earbuds via a Spotify stream and still hearing subtle elements blossoming from the mix I’d never clocked before; layers of what sounded like processed flutes fluttering under the wall of guitars, gentle tonal ebs and flows, what seemed to be entire hidden tracks I was only just tuning in to, a secret sound world unveiled.

This might well just be wild conjecture, but I like to think maybe some bands – the bands who “get it” – deliberately bury this audio information deep within the mix, only to be decoded by specific mental setups, be they drug-indicted or naturally, hormonally occurring, breadcrumb trails left in the studio production as a little nod by whoever put the music together that they understand the confusion, the dislocation and alienation of mental illness, something extra beyond the lyrics. It might well be bullshit but it brings me great comfort. I’ve put together a playlist of some favourite tunes I suspect were written about hypomanic states, knowingly or otherwise, or instead conjure up that specific vibe.

To be honest, the hardest thing I find about dealing with episodes of hypomania is that they can feel so good it’s very hard to not attempt to stoke the sensation, prolong it, succumb deeper to it. That way oblivion lies; please stand behind the yellow line at all times.

#hypomania #bipolar #mentalillness

[shootwinterfest]

fumbling through the grey

Secret Santa Gift by @fulmentus!

—

“Fancy seeing you here.”

Shaw blinks once, twice. Thinks about slamming the window shut again because are you serious? “Root,” she says, voice low, “what the hell are you doing?”

(She should be used to this, Root dropping by when she least expects. But Shaw figured that she’d be out doing whatever the Machine told her to do.

Since the whole Samaritan thing is going down soon.)

Root shrugs, and Shaw can’t exactly see her in the lack of light, her silhouette only highlighted by the streetlights that glow several floors below them. She shifts her weight from one leg to the other.

“I’m in need of your doctor abilities.”

And Shaw definitely wants to shut the window and pretend this never happened.

“So you thought the best way to ask was to stand on my fire escape at,” Shaw pulls her phone from her back pocket, checks the time, “two in the morning?”

Shaw should sleeping, honestly, warm underneath her blankets while plotting the best way to steal Bear (and hoping that the Machine doesn’t send her out on another early morning number), and not doing whatever this is. Standing here, letting the cold draft in while Root stands on her fire escape, expecting entry.

She mulls over sending Root on her way, but thinks better of it. Shaw sighs, shakes her head, and steps away from the window.

“Fine. Get in.”

And she doesn’t need to see Root to know that she’s smirking in that infuriating way of hers. Shaw moves to the bathroom where she keeps her supplies, calculates the fastest way to deal with Root’s injuries so she can get to sleep.

She listens to the sounds of Root scrambling off the metal escape and fumbling her way through the window. It’s a miracle she doesn’t trip over herself with all of those gangly limbs.

When she returns, Root hasn’t moved far from the window sill, her eyes catching on the relatively empty place Shaw calls her living space (not a home, not a home at all). Shaw takes a moment to look her over, bundled in a coat, her face flushed from the cold.

“You gonna show me or not?”

And Shaw regrets the way she phrased it the second Root’s eyes train on her, a more pronounced smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

She shrugs off her coat. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Shaw rolls her eyes and opens her hefty first aid kit. She removes the supplies she needs and settles into the familiar role of patching someone up.

(The last time she did this, there’d been a hole in Root’s shoulder and a glazed expression on her face after she saved Cyrus Wells.)

Root, oddly, says nothing when Shaw begins cleaning the blood around the gash on her arm, stays quiet and still and lets Shaw work in peace. Only supplies knife when Shaw asks what did it.

“What did the Machine have you doing?” Shaw asks after a moment, unnerved by Root’s silence and not knowing why she’s encouraging this. But the ire from having been disturbed so late has faded, and maybe she’s a little bit curious.

Root tilts her head to the side, Shaw catches a brief glance of the pink scar behind her ear before it disappears behind a curtain of hair, and makes a face, clearly listening to the Machine.

“Preparing.” Shaw arches a brow. “There’s a war coming, Shaw. We need to be ready.”

Shaw knows that. Has heard it countless times since their encounter with Control, but no one has told her anything about it. Just another AI looming in the near future. But Shaw and Reese aren’t doing much about it.

Just Root.

“You ever gonna let us in on whatever plans you have?” Shaw asks as she finishes the neat row of stitches, pulling the thread taut.

“When She tells me it’s time,” Root replies, pulling that whole mysterious bullshit.

“Whatever.” She places a bandage over the stitches, folding the edges across Root’s skin, and Shaw can feel Root’s attention on her then, eyes burning into the the top of her head. She pulls back. “All set.”

Root grins, rises to her feet. “Thanks, Doc.” She slides her arms through her coat.

“You heading out?”

Shaw wonders where she sleeps — or if she ever sleeps. Root always flits in and out of the library, providing cryptic clues and answers whenever she sweeps by. Bizarre how the Machine makes her the interface and doesn’t give her a place to stay.

“Are you inviting me to stay?” Root steps into Shaw’s space, and Shaw tilts her chin up to meet her gaze, blinks slowly.

“No.”

To her credit, Root doesn’t appear put out.

“But try the door next time.”

“Next time?”

Shaw regrets letting Root through her window.

—

Except she lets Root through the door the next time, and the next time.

Casual encounters that start with an ill-timed come-on and end with Shaw scowling at Root’s lack of self-care. Not only that, but Root has a habit of appearing at her doorstep in the late hours of the night, looking like she was swept in a whirlwind.

And there’s a sort of disconnect there, Shaw notices after she patches up Root for the third time in a month. A disconnect from her body.

It’s different, noting that about her. Because Shaw has always been firmly planted within herself, aware of how her body moves, where it’s positioned in relation to her adversaries. A connection she’s honed since her residency and carried with her through the Marines and the ISA.

But Root doesn’t share that, doesn’t seem to want to spend time on such trivial things like making sure she doesn’t bleed to death.

(Weird how the Machine chose someone with such a blatant disregard for her health to be its eyes and ears.)

Shaw doesn’t comment, just stitches up Root’s newest injury, and watches her disappear out the door and into the night.

—

Once Samaritan comes online, letting Root through her door happens fairly less often.

With all of them in hiding, keeping their heads down, it’s too risky for any of them to be seen together. Being in hiding also comes with the worst job ever, and Shaw has to resist stabbing someone with a stiletto at every turn.

(Working in environment filled with entitled people and others who think she cares about which color lipstick matches them best leaves much to be desired.)

(Shaw is going to take a hammer to the Machine for putting her here.)

But the numbers eventually return, and Shaw no longer has to sit idle behind her make-up counter and pretend to be a normal aspect of society. She gets to out there, shooting people, and fucking with Reese.

And with the numbers, Root follows. Flitting in and out of their new subway base like a coming breeze. They barely have time to say more than a few sentences to each other before Root leaves on another mission. Not that Shaw is particularly bothered.

But there’s this persistent nagging in the back of her mind whenever Root leaves on a mission for the Machine. This urge to know if Root’s taking care of herself properly — she never did even when Samaritan wasn’t a threat.

Shaw keeps that strange feeling tucked in the back of her mind and focuses on the numbers that come her way. Works alongside Reese to ensure the safety of the civilians, and makes sure to keep Bear company.

Because that’s the mission. And Shaw knows how to handle the mission better than anything else.

—

“We really have to stop meeting like this.”

That’s what Root goes with after she’s been shot twice, combatted that blonde bitch without backup, and disappeared for a day without a word. That’s what Root goes with as she leans heavily against Shaw’s doorframe at half-past midnight, clutching her arm, and smiling dazedly.

Shaw would never admit the tinge of relief she felt when she saw Root in once piece, but she buries that beneath the familiar sting of annoyance.

She tugs Root inside and into the bathroom, flicking on the light as she steps through the door.

“Moving fast, are we?” Root murmurs, teetering in place, unbalanced, when Shaw releases her to rummage through the cabinets.

She shakes her head, placing the kit of her supplies on the sink with a clatter. “You’re an idiot,” she remarks when she looks at Root again, noting the shadows under her eyes and the stark white bandage peeking from underneath her shirt.

“I’ve actually been known to be a genius.” Root grins, but it fades when she winces, having jostled her arm as she settles on top of the sink.

Shaw tugs at the hem of Root’s shirt. “Off.”

Root tries to put on a show, but the effect is lost when she attempts to get her injured arm out of the sleeve, only to grimace in pain at every try.

After several moments of struggle, Shaw stepping in to assist her, the shirt is finally off and Shaw can examine the poor stitching job of whichever intern patched Root up after the shootout in the hotel.

“You should’ve had backup,” Shaw mutters, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves.

Root sighs. “We’ve been over this, Shaw.” She shakes her head, messy waves of brown hair cascading over her uninjured shoulder. “It would have blown your cover.”

(Covers. That’s all Root’s been focused on since Samaritan came online. Their covers and running around for the Machine.

Covers, covers, covers. Damn them if the Machine is going to be sending out her assets alone.)

“Bitch could’ve killed you,” Shaw says instead, swallowing down the flood of angry words. “What then?”

“She didn’t,” Root reminds her, like that means anything. Like she isn’t sitting in Shaw’s apartment bleeding from yet another bullet wound.

“You’re not bulletproof.”

“Clearly.”

“Next time, you’re getting back up.” Shaw neatly ties off the end of the stitches. “Don’t care what the Machine thinks.”

Root peers through her lashes, lips quirking into a tiny smile. “Is that concern I hear, Sameen?”

Shaw purposefully focuses on returning all of her supplies to their proper places, slamming the cabinet doors shut a little too loudly.

When she turns back around, Root is still staring at her, eyes sharp and intense, but there’s something about it that’s different than the flirtation Shaw is accustomed to. And it’s not the first time she’s noticed.

Lately, the way Root looks at her has changed. Less of the intention to unnerve and more… more of something much heavier. Something Shaw is certain she knows the name of but adamantly refuses to label.

(She doesn’t do feelings. Not at the intensity of everyone else.

They are shallow echoes in her chest — like when her father died, when Cole died — quiet murmurs in the back of her mind. Ones that have compelled her to become a doctor, become a Marine, accept the ISA’s request.

The feeling of doing the right thing because she has the choice to.)

She doesn’t do what Root is doing. Doesn’t look at her with potent emotion searing through every tick of her expression. She knows Root regards her in some special light (not unlike how she views the Machine).

Knows that this is different.

(For both of them.)

“You can take the couch.”

Root’s brows rise, and she cants her head to the side. “Are you asking me to stay?” It’s less flirtation and more confusion, and yeah, Shaw is asking her to stay.

And maybe because it has to do with the way Root seemed so drained of life the previous day, so tired and weary. Maybe it’s the way that Root seems generally unmoored, lost.

“I’m saying the couch is open.” Shaw points to the wound she just patched up. “Shouldn’t be doing anything extensive with that.”

Root blinks, opens her mouth to say something, but the Machine must pitch in because she shuts her mouth with an audible click and nods. Shaw helps her into a more comfortable shirt, presses a pillow and blanket into her grasp. Ushers her to the couch.

As Shaw turns away, ready to catch some sleep of her own, Root calls her name.

Shaw pivots on her heel, hitches a brow.

“Thank you.”

It’s said so genuinely, so unlike how Root typically is, and Shaw does nothing but nod and flick off the lamp, retreating to her bedroom to sleep off the energy that’s been buzzing through her since she knew Root was still relatively intact.

—

“The Machine, she isn’t talking to you, is she?”

It’s after another long number, another number that required Shaw saving Reese’s ass, again, and Shaw is decompressing in her living room with the lights off, only the faint illumination of the streetlights outside allowing her to see Root, who sits across from her on the couch, cheek pressed into her palm.

(She forgets to be annoyed at the fact that Root stole her extra key and let herself in.)

Shaw takes a drink from her beer, sets it down on the table. The glass briefly reflects the dull orange light spilling across the apartment floor, and Shaw turns her attention back to Root, who hasn’t said a word.

“That’s why you’ve been all Eeyore lately?”

And with Root half-shrouded in shadow, it’s hard to read her face, but Shaw likes to think she knows her well enough to recognize when Root is hiding something.

“I get murmurs,” Root finally answers, voice barely above a whisper. “She can’t talk with Samaritan online.”

Shaw can hear the sadness bleeding through her tone, doesn’t know what to say to that. How do you comfort someone who’s lost their connection to an artificial super intelligence they view as a god?

(Not that Shaw has ever been one to comfort someone.)

“Root,” she starts, weirdly uncertain of why she’s even bothering to speak, “sorry she can’t talk to you right now.”

Shaw resists the urge to roll her eyes at herself, takes up her beer again to avoid having to say anything else. But she must have said something right because the space beside her dips with additional weight, and Root’s warmth is mixing with her own.

Shaw stiffens when Root rests her head on her shoulder, but she doesn’t shove her off. Kind of enjoys the way Root’s hair is soft against her neck.

They don’t speak after that, and Shaw doesn’t remove Root from her shoulder until she starts to feel it go numb.

(She does offer the couch to her again, so at least there’s that.)

—

Afterwards, Root crashing into her apartment becomes a near regular thing whenever she’s in town, which isn’t very often since she’s constantly being shipped off all over the world.

But she always appears at Shaw’s doorstep when she returns, a smirk on her lips and a glint in her eyes.

They fuck in the comfort of the darkness, carve out a space in each other as the night paints them in greys and silvers. Burn impressions of of themselves into skin and bone, brand each other with fire on their lips.

And Shaw’s never had someone match her heat with equal fervor.

(Maybe it’s the desperation of the war, or maybe it’s because Root knows how to read into everything Shaw wants in a sexual partner.

But it’s better than any sex Shaw has experienced.)

She lets Root stay.

—

It’s almost a year later when Shaw is able to open the door to Root again.

Open the door in reality, and not welcome Root into the vulnerable crevices of herself in some fucked up simulation that blurs her reality and leaves her head spinning for hours until she can catch her breath, remember how to think clearly.

(Thinking clearly, now that’s a thought.

Everything around her is tainted, and Shaw finds herself trying to remember what was real and what wasn’t more than she does anything else.)

But Root helps.

When the sun dips and the sky darkens and every nerve ending in Shaw’s body is on fire — it’s not real, that didn’t happen — Root is there. Gentle fingers wrapped around Shaw’s wrist, tugging her hand away from the side of her neck.

Away from the skin Shaw’s rubbed raw ever since she’s returned from Samaritan hell.

Contrasted against the shadows and the pale moonlight, Root tries to pull Shaw away from the lingering imprint the simulations left in Shaw’s mind. Tells Shaw about the numbers she and Reese worked when Shaw was gone.

Tells her of the wedding they crashed — well, I crashed, Root amends with a crooked smile, fingers running through the strands of hair at Shaw’s temple, I wasn’t technically invited. Tells her about Bear.

Bear, who sits at the end of the bed, watching them with pricked ears and a wagging tail.

And Shaw is able to resettle herself for the time being, with Root’s voice in her ear, and Bear’s presence anchoring her to the present.

—

It takes time. Takes an annoyingly long amount of time for Shaw to stop questioning every little thing that’s off (it never goes away, that clawing doubt in the back of her mind, that scraping at her throat that this isn’t real), but she gets there.

Gets to a point where she’s more or less like to her old self.

(No one could have survived what you went through, Root assures her, confident in Shaw — always confident in Shaw — vehement in the face of Shaw’s doubt. You are so strong, Sameen.)

She gets back to the numbers, to messing with Reese, to fucking with Fusco. She gets back to her early morning jogs, gets back to walking Bear around the park.

Gets back to disentangling herself from Root to make breakfast.

She still stumbles at times, jerks awake from the phantom burning in the side of her neck. But Root is there every time, helping her fumble through the faint grey light of pre-dawn. There to reassure Shaw that this is reality.

That she escaped Samaritan.

It takes time. But Shaw is nothing if not resilient. Strong, deeply connected to herself. Samaritan may have tried to break that, may have taken parts of Shaw that she won’t get back, but they didn’t succeed.

Shaw didn’t break.

And with Root with her at every step of the way, knowing when to back off, knowing when to be near, knowing that Shaw opened that door to her months ago and let her slip right in, Shaw rebuilds.

#shootsecretsanta #shootsecretsanta2018 #shoot #person of interest #fulmentus

[most-likely-terrible-dr-imagines]

The ‘Secret Project’ is finally done!

Now this is a story I’ve had on my mind for a while now, since Another Episode first came out in the West in 2015 (holy crap I can’t believe it’s been that long. It feels like it came out a couple months ago.) so this isn’t a request, but your regularly scheduled imagines will be continuing soon. 

If you liked this please give it some support (I really love comments because I don’t think I’ve ever gotten a comment on any of my works) and I may do something like this again sometime. This was super fun to do so I hope this is received well.

- Modaca

Warnings: Death, Monaca Towa, child abuse, and cursing

“Everyone!” Called Monaca, her voice immediately getting all of the Warriors of Hope’s attention. They all quickly found themselves running up to their ‘princess’. She seemed happy that they were all so willingly at her beck and call. 

“What is it, Monaca?” Nagisa asked, showing genuine concern for Ex-Elementary student. “Did something happen?”

At the question, the girl could only giggle; seeming to disregard the kindness the boy was attempting to show. “Oh that’s not it, it’s about demon hunting silly! We just got a fresh batch of demons that are waiting for us to hunt them down!”

“Shouldn’t we be focusing on the paradise-” Nagisa was about to interject but he saw the look on Monaca’s face that indicated that she was about to start crying and begin throwing one of her fits. So he quickly stopped his sentence to avoid activating the mona-bomb. “Right, sorry...” He apologized. 

“Yeah! Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Nagisa!” The ‘Leader’ said, a wide grin on his face. It was clear that he was ready for demon hunting, being pent up within the walls of their base was causing him to get bored and have too much excess energy to do nothing with.

“It’s not like we have much left to do for the paradise.” Kotoko stepped into the conversation, her arms wobbled idly at her sides as she spoke. “So getting rid of more of those dirty demons is what we should be focusing on anyway!”

“If that’s what everyone else thinks, then I guess I have to agree or else everyone will hate me... I would have agreed anyway...” Jataro piped up for just a moment, even if he was seemingly ignored by the rest of the group. 

“Exactly! So everyone get ready!”

On a bright sunny day, a while before the tragedy brought on by Junko Enoshima had even occurred, there was still small bits of despair that existed in the world. A victim of despair was Masaru Daimon, who now sat down on the edge of the pathway outside of his school. He had to walk home, this was no different from any other kid since most of their parents didn’t pick them up.

He just didn’t want to go home yet despite his other friends from the ‘troubled’ class had already left, he knew that there would be consequences if his Dad was awake and drunk but if he waited long enough his father might be passed out and drunk. It made things a lot easier for the both of them. His focus turned to pushing a small rock around with his finger, just waiting for the time to pass. 

This went on for about five minutes or so until he heard footsteps. Soon a shadow loomed above him, causing him to flinch back. “Oh hey, did I scare you? I’m sorry.” He heard a voice say, and looking up he confirmed that it was a girl... She looked about two or three years older than him, even if he wasn’t always great at guessing ages he could tell that her school uniform seemed like one Middle-Schoolers wore.

“I don’t get scared.” Was his simple reply, hoping that if he ignored her presence she would go away. It that seemed to do the opposite for she sat down beside him, pulling her knees up to her chest with her chin resting on them. 

“Right, right my apologies.” The way she said this almost seemed to have a mocking tone to it, and he confirmed that when he saw a snicker on her lips. What came next seemed a little more caring, something that he wasn’t used to. “So what are you doing here all alone? It’s been a while since school let out. Won’t your parents get worried?” 

“No. Won’t your parents get worried?”

She rolled the eyes, but he wasn’t sure if it was about the question or the thought about her parents caring. “I doubt it.” With that said, the two sat in silence for a few seconds before the girl let out a small puff of breath. “I’m Yukari. Yukari Nanase.” 

Skeptical of this girl’s odd friendly nature, he didn’t want to say his name to her. She was still younger, and kids could still be trusted so he decided to at least give her his name. As he introduced himself, he actually felt his mood improve a bit and go back to his normal happy self. “I’m Masaru Daimon!”

Hearing his reply, Yukari pursed her lips as she thought about just where she had heard that name. After a moment she snapped her fingers. “You’re Super Elementary School Level P.E., aren’t you?” 

“That’s right! You’ve heard of me?” It wasn’t surprising, his achievements were often in the newspaper and once even on television! 

She laughed at his excitement, humming in response. “Yep, I know people who could only wish that they had a fraction of your talent. There’s a reason you’re at a Hope’s Peak school.” 

Masaru grinned, with his ego being boosted his reluctance to talk to her had disappeared. “Well not everyone can-” He noticed how much time had gone by, so he stood up and wiped the dirt off of his knees. “I have to go now, see you later Yukari!” He shouted towards her, having already began to run off towards his home. 

“F-Fuck...” A girl in her mid-teens muttered in pain, leaning against the wall as she clutched her wounded left arm. It was ironic that she got this wound while she was wandering inside of a hospital, she had been attacked by one of those weird bears. That green haired girl told her that it was a Monokuma when she forcefully gave her this dumb bracelet, the moment she had been given her death sentence. 

She grit her teeth when the bandages touched her wound, wrapping the ones she had found in the hospital in hopes that it would at very least stop the blood. Regardless, it would get infected if she didn’t find someone to help her. If she was able to stay in the hospital longer she could have found something to help, if it hadn’t been for the demon bear. 

Sitting on the ground, she buried her face into her hands as she tried to get herself together. Towa had been the one place that was able to escape the outside world, but now it seems as if the tragedy was finally striking back two-fold. The only difference was it wasn’t Junko Enoshima, it was children, which was just as disturbing if not more so. 

She was worried that a child close to her was part of this and had been one of these evil children with masks on, what if she had come across him already? Is this the reason he disappeared? For this sick mind control to convert him to despair? The thought didn’t help any of her worrying, and even if she would never see him again, she hoped that he was alright.

Her thoughts of escaping were interrupted whenever she heard the distant sound of adult screaming, causing her eyes to well up with tears. “I’m going to die here.” She thought, running on of her hands through her dark brown hair before she got back to her feet. “I can’t keep thinking like that, if I think that it’s going to happen.” She tried to pump herself up, praying that if she convinced herself that everything would be fine, then it would be. She had been living in Towa for a while and after the tragedy happened she had tried to find ways of escaping in case she ever needed to evacuate, luckily enough that knowledge would come in handy now. “It’s time to go, to escape Towa City.” 

Yukari hummed as she sat in front of the same tree she had met the excitable boy just a few months ago, every day after that first meeting she had come to sit with him until he had to go. It was nice and pleasant for the both of them, and so much better than being home. 

Finally she heard the sounds of footsteps of the second wave of children coming out from their extra-curricular activities but her friend always seemed to be the last one out with his little group but she had never really talked to any of them or really even seen any of them due to where she always sat and most of the kids in his group walked the opposite way. 

Eventually, she noticed the boy sit next to him. “Hey.” He greeted, somewhat begrudgingly and it wasn’t long before she realized why. He was hiding half of his face away from her, and she couldn’t help but frown. This was the second time this week he had a large bruise... This was the first time he had a wound on his face. 

“Can you look at me?” Yukari asked him, not touching him to make her look at him. She knew better than to do that. “You know I just want to help.” She said quietly, reaching into her backpack and pulling out a small first-aid kit. 

He didn’t make up stories about what happened anymore since she never believed them, but he refused to say what had happened either. He didn’t want his father to hate him or not want to be his dad anymore, the thought terrified him and he knew if Yukari told anyone then he’d be taken away. 

“Masaru, please.” Eventually he turned towards her, revealing his shabby job of covering up his black eye. “It’s worse than normal.” She sighed, opening up the first-aid kit and taking out an instant cold-pack. Squeezing it until it was cold, she then proceeded to gently press it against his eye causing him to flinch back against her. “It’s alright, it’ll feel better soon.” She promised him, trying her best not to get angry at his father for doing this to him. 

Masaru stayed silent, trying his best not to move away from her as it was almost an instinct within him. He didn’t understand why she never got mad at him for moving away, was it just because she was a kid? She would soon be an about-to-be, would that mean she would start getting mad? The thought bothered him, and it showed through the look on his face. 

“What is it?” She asked, raising an eyebrow at the look he was giving her. She moved the cold-press into his hands to let him hold it onto his face. If she remembered right they’d also have to use a warm press as well, but she didn’t have anything in her kit at the time. 

He pressed the package to his eye before shrugging and leaning his back against the tree. “Just wondering why you care, no one else really has before.” The only exception were his friends in the troubled class, but he was talking about people older than him. 

“Is that it?” She laughed, leaning against the tree with him. “Well because you’re my friend, almost like my little brother.” Yukari explained, her brown eyes looking down at her legs as she face twisted. “I’ve always wanted a little brother, I almost had one once but one thing led to another and... Well things just didn’t work out, but I hope you don’t mind me thinking about you as a sibling.”

His eyes seemed to shine at the thought of someone caring for him like that, someone that would try and help him out. He thought it would have been cooler to have an older brother but a big sister would also be pretty good despite the fact he thought girls to be cowards because ‘they didn’t have dicks’. He guessed he could make an exception. “No way, having a big sister would be awesome!” He gave her a grin, causing her to laugh and pat his head gently. 

“Well then, I’m glad.”

So far, it seemed as if Yukari’s plan of believing in herself was actually working. After she stopped being so afraid, she ended up coming across a crow bar which she was able to use as a weapon against the Monokumas. As a matter-of-fact she had pulled the weapon out of the broken ‘corpse’ just a few moments ago, and defeating one of them despite her injury gave her a little more confidence. 

Now we come to the moment of truth, soon she would be free from this hellhole and into another... Although she had heard that this hellhole was a little bit nicer and was becoming somewhat less filled with death due to a ‘Future Foundation’. She just hoped that it could be somewhat better. 

After the stairs of the underground came to a halt, stopping at a large lift-up door that you would normally see at a storage unit, Yukari summoned all of her strength to open it up and just barely was able to slip under it before it closed on her. 

The next room was very dark, making it hard to see. The darkness caused panic inside her, and she almost went to turn around only to find that there was something that felt like a gate now in her way. A pit formed in her stomach as she took a few steps back and nearly stumbled when the lights came on, having to hold her right arm to block the bright light as her eyes adjusted. 

On every side of her other than the exit there were kids in those masks cheering as loudly as possible, it wasn’t long before she realized the reason why. Behind her she heard a loud child-like laugh that came from a speaker, turning around on her heel and her long hair wiping around with her she now faced the stage that was devoid of anyone. 

“I bet you thought you could escape, huh?” That voice sounded all too familiar but it couldn’t be... “That’s too bad!” The faceless voice announced from over the speaker, making it somewhat distorted but still recognizable. It wasn’t until the owner of the voice did several flips out from where it was hiding was her fears fully confirmed. “I’m the super duper hero of the Warriors of Hope!” He announced to the demon, his smug look not looking down at his next victim just yet. “Little Ultimate P.E. Masaru Daimon!” He shouted, his eyes turning towards the girl standing in the arena only to see the face of someone he knew and thought of as a sibling. 

Yukari stared up at the stage, completely in shock at what she was seeing. He was a leader in all of this? She had missed the announcement earlier that day when the Warriors of Hope had introduced themselves, so she was completely in the dark about him.

Masaru’s face paled at seeing this person as a victim, someone that had been with him before he had even met Big Sis Junko... However he knew he’d have to kill her, because if he didn’t then Monaca would hate him and say he was becoming one of them. She made that clear when she said that they had to kill every single demon, and one couldn’t be spared and he knew exactly why.

So he continued on, pretending that she was just any other demon. “Alright! Get ready you demon!” He shouted at her, putting on a fake grin as if he were happy with this. 

She took a step back, understanding well what he was getting at and she didn’t like it. “Stop this, please! We don’t have to fight or anything! You know me and I swear I’m no demon!” She called out to him, holding the crow-bar tightly in her hand despite the fact she didn’t want to fight him. She was so tired from running, but adrenaline would soon be pumping through her once again. 

“Stop talking you lousy demon!” He shouted at her, stomping his foot on the ground and causing some dust to fly up from the impact. “You’re a demon and that’s that! You’re an about-to-be so you count as a demon and demons are completely scum!”

“What’s gotten into you? Masaru it’s me Yukari!” She tried to get through him, seeing the angry look that he had on his face it was clear that she was only riling him up.

“I don’t associate with demons.” His voice was cold, he had changed so much. “Now get ready because I’m going to destroy you and every adult in this city so that we can make a paradise for kids!” Masaru shouted at her, ignoring her pleas to listen to her. His words made the crowd go crazy and their cheering had started up once again if only for a second. 

“Please this isn’t you! Not all people are bad, you just have to trust me! You can’t hurt anyone.” Yukari tried once more, hoping that maybe this time she could get through to him. 

This time he went silent for a moment, she smiled a little, thinking that she was getting through to him. Unfortunately that wasn’t the case, and she only realized this when the compartment under his stage opened up and revealed all of the dead bodies that formed into one disgusting mountain of corpses. 

Yukari covered her mouth, tears welling into her eyes as she saw what he was capable of. What had happened to him since he disappeared when the tragedy first struck? All of these people had died by the hands of someone she considered a little brother.

“Ha! See that, demon?! I’m doing what every good leader should do!” He shouted to her, but she was still without words as she stared at the corpses. The sight of them staying in her mind even after the doors closed once more. “Defeating all of the demons and that includes you! So none of us have to be afraid anymore! I’m doing you a favor so you won’t become a completely nasty adult!” He shouted, his face becoming angrier with every sentence he spoke. 

“With you and everyone gone none of us will have to be afraid of anything!” His attitude turned from angry to upset. Just that same upset little kid that Yukari recognized, and her instincts that she used to get when she saw him crying back when they sat at the tree together. 

“Masaru it’s okay, you don’t have to be afraid. The two of us we can leave Towa altogether, we can get away from all of the bad people and have a better life. Even with the tragedy getting worse it’s-” 

“Shut up! I-I don’t hafta be... A-Afraid of anything... I’m not afraid of anything...” His cries came out in forms of sniffles and stutters, his body trembling due to his own fears that he tried to suppress. “I... I’m not a-afraid of n-nothing... I d-don’t have to be afraid of a-anything!” He shouted, holding his head and the cries came out while Yukari helplessly looked on. “I-It’s doing it again... Dammit... Stop!” He shouted at himself, beginning to hit himself in his shaking arm and taking his aggression out on it. 

“Stop! Please don’t hurt yourself!” She tried to get to him, reaching out in her helpless space so she began to look around in hopes of finding some way to get to him. Running up to the gate close to the stage she tried to climb up it, but found that it wasn’t possible due to her bleeding arm. 

After pulling and trying to pry open the gate from the ground with her crowbar she barely got it open enough for her to get through. The crowd boo’d her as she had gotten out of the arena, it seemed like she was going to hurt their ‘hero’ as she began to climb up the stairs leading up to Masaru. She winced as the children through objects at her back, but she didn’t stop. 

The boy had been on his knees, hitting his own arm as he screamed in hopes of making the shaking stop. He didn’t even notice that she had gotten through to him even when her shadow was over him and she had kneeled down next to him, her weapon having fallen a few feet away from her. “Please.” She tried to stop his hands, only resulting in him hitting her instead. Even when she hugged him close to her, hoping that maybe a nice embrace could calm him down... The warmth of her embrace used to calm him, but now things had changed. 

“Let go of me you filthy demon!” He shouted at her, trying to fight against her grip. If he was at his normal strength he could have easily overpowered her, but due to his mental state it became much harder. 

“Please Masaru, it’s okay.” She tried to tell him through tears and forcing on a smile, she knew it was a lie. As she was doing this, and knowing what he had done... None of this was okay. 

“G-Get off!” He shouted again, punching her in the back and trying to break free. He just needed to kill her and get this over with but she was making this too hard, and due to his cloudy mind he could barely focus. 

“Calm down, please.” She begged him, wincing with each punch that was thrown to her back despite the force that was being used not even being his full potential. 

After enough fighting he had gotten away from Yukari, his immediate thought was to go for her discarded weapon. It wasn’t as extravagant as his robot, but he just needed to get this over with. 

“Just go away already!” He shouted at her, swinging at her with full force. This caused the crowd to start cheering again, even if this didn’t kill her due to him ending up hitting her in the stomach when she stood up; he had gotten her on the ground. The girl gripping where she had been fit, pain shooting all at once. 

Coughing and sputtering, Yukari ended up spitting out blood into her hand. “P-Please stop.” Her pleads that had previously been used to get him to stop hurting himself now being used to beg for her life. 

“Leave me alone!” He shouted, his tears returning to his angry state as he was about to hit her one more time. She reached out, trying to stop the crowbar from swinging down on her but it only caused her arm to be broken in half due to the force he was using. 

“D-Do you even remember me? It-It’s me, Yukari. Your big sister.” Yukari begged through her tears, hoping that it would calm him down. 

“Oh I remember you, but you’re not my big sister! The only sister I have is big sis Junko!” He shouted, raising the crowbar up. “Now! Just die!” He begged, swinging down his weapon with all the force he could muster. 

#masaru daimon #Danganronpa another episode #another episode #warriors of hope #I'm such a shitty writer holyshiiiit #danganronpa #danganronpa imagines #mod-writings