#fictional weapon game | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

poll-ventures · 11 months

Text

Perdition 1.10

< ≡ >

I did not raise my hand.

Professor Mecardi looked at me, then turned to Stash, Isaiah, and Max. The vote had been decided. I watched a pale grimace overtake his face as he looked behind him at the large wooden crate covering the pit.

“If we’re not killing him… Now what?” Isaiah asked quietly.

“We’re letting him out,” I said, then stood. Max glared up at me as I spoke. “I’m not going to let him go, but nothing should be-. Be…”

There was a sharp pain inside my stomach. It grew, like a blade of ice rending me from the inside. It was worse than anything I’d ever felt, sliding from my stomach out into my chest, thin tendrils of burning pain scraping up my spine, setting my brain stem on fire.

I fell forward onto my knees, and fell into blissful unconsciousness.

My next few memories passed flashing, spots of voices, phrases and visions. I knew instantly that I was dying.

After all, it had felt the same way last time.

There was no glass in my knuckles now, no blood on my forehead, no stench of death. It was a different pain, but the tearing was the same. I could feel myself going, palpably dying. It was comforting in a way, the only recognizable thing I’d felt since I slipped under the mountainous drug trip.

Somewhere far away, a woman I’d met just a few hours ago rushed to my side, holding me up, so I didn’t choke. Her red dress fluttered, pinned down by leather belts. She was pale faced, but pretty, with rosy little cheeks. Her name was Stash.

I blinked, the pain growing deeper, less subtle and spreading from my chest and gut down into my legs.

“It wasn’t enough,” someone said.

Another person: “He’s dying.”

I blinked again, and they changed positions. I realized that I was falling in and out of consciousness. I tried to speak, and someone put their hand on my head, shushing me quietly. Their hand was very cold.

Mother?

“No,” you said.

And I felt you for the first time, actually felt you within me. The ichor had been used up, but it had awakened you. Arisen from a deep slumber with the blood of the goddess.

You. I could feel you budding like a flower, somewhere near my left hip.

“Hello,” you said. There was a hint of a smile in your voice.

Who are you?

“We will see.”

I blinked again, and I had been moved next to the pit. It was open, and Max was pulling on the chain that bound Kyle Montgomery. Her hands were slick and black, and the chain spooled at her feet, flecked with the mess that stained her hands.

Isaiah and Alex stood by, swords free of their scabbard as they watched him rise slowly out of the pit. I nodded into semi-consciousness again, staring at Max’s large arms flex as she worked, one foot against the lip of the pit.

She had a cigarette in her mouth, and was puffing it hard as she worked.

I blinked again, and the next thing I saw made me scream.

It was a horrid scream, wordless and thick with pain and bile. It filled the large chamber, echoing out into the sands, spooking Bella to rear against her bindings, her voice joining mine.

My professor had his arms around my employer, robes fluttering as he restrained him with a great deal of effort. Mr. Montgomery writhed in pain, a thick sword impaled in his stomach. Max held the blade, and it was drinking from him.

A thick, black liquid was seeping up the sword, filling in the microscopic lines that ran up and down the blade with unnervingly fast capillary action.

The black blood arched over the thick hilt, some dripping off and hissing on the metal floor, more climbing up Max’s finger to seep under her fingernails, pouring into her skin like water into thirsty dirt.

Max pulled the sword out, and Montgomery went limp. The black liquid left on the sword quickly reversed direction, dripping off the tip and onto the floor, hissing like water on hot blacktop. It bubbled into thick, smoky clouds, then dissipated into the thin layer of mist rolling over the floor.

The screaming had spread the pain even further, and I turned back, staring up at the stalactite as I blinked into unconsciousness again. I felt myself being pulled toward the blissful lack of pain. It did not beckon, but it was still incessant.

“Not yet. Just a little bit longer.” You know it has to be just a few moments more.

Fine. I gritted my teeth, opening my eyes to see Stash standing above me, holding my head with her other hand on my chest. There was something in my mouth, a thick liquid that tasted like burnt roadkill.

“That filth doesn’t work,” she was saying, looking across my body at someone. “It’s wrong, we have to give him-”

“Pure,” Isaiah said. I heard him rushing across the room. “Where the hell do you keep it!?”

“Fresh out. We already gave it all to him.” Professor Mecardi spoke calmly, then walked into my field of view, hand on the hilt of his sword.

“So what do we do?” Stash asked him, voice wavering. “He is going to die.”

My professor didn’t blink, only shaking his head quickly. “No. The next decantation is in just a few minutes.”

“Don’t have minutes,” Max said, sounding strained.

“I know,” he said again, calmly. He looked up at the spire, slowly unsheathing his sword. Lantern light played in the space between his scruffy almost-beard.

“No!” Isaiah shouted across the room.

Stash shook her head at my Professor, then spoke carefully. “We all agreed to become part of this. He did not. We can’t just force it upon him.”

The professor continued staring at the spire, as if waiting for something. “It’s either that or die,” he said matter-of-factly.

“That is not a fucking choice!” Isaiah screamed, his voice drawing closer as he spoke.

“We needed one more,” Max said, stepping into my field of view next to the professor, looking down at me. “Five to match their five.”

“Fuck your magic number,” Isaiah said, and a metal crash sounded from behind me. I stared unblinkingly up at the spire, watching it carefully. Stash looked up too, and was quickly joined by Max.

“The First Kingdom requires it,” the Professor spoke quietly. “We will see, in just a few more moments.”

Bells rung, somewhere far away, echoing towards us over the miles of sands. Isaiah stepped up to my left. Everyone had fallen silent.

The bells rang for minutes. I blinked in and out of the pain twice before the air was free of their vibration. The deafening silence played tricks in my head, and I almost nodded again before I saw it.

The spire. Everyone was staring at it. It had begun to glow.

It was a beautiful, golden light that seemed to come from the inside of it, pouring down from the top at first, then suffusing every little running vein along its massive surface. The mist in the pool slowly began to dissipate, then disappeared, revealing the large golden chalice in the center.

Professor Mecardi knelt, one hand raising his thin saber to the tip of the stalactite. The lines that run the length of the blade, the same as those on the spire and the blades I’d seen in the dunes, began to glow with the golden light.

The others bowed as well, silently raising their blades to the tip of the spire. The honey gold light began to coalesce into a thick, clear liquid, pouring down the lengths of their blades. The liquid sped up the lines of their blades, just as I’d seen on Max’s.

I watched, enamored as it seeped into everyone’s skin. A smile grew on Stash’s face, she seemed to be holding in a joyous laugh as the honey-like liquid was swallowed by her skin.

It crept up her bare arm, slipping under her sleeve, and caressing her face and shoulder. She turned her neck into it, like the embrace of a lover.

Isaiah had much the same smile, not holding back even a little bit as he quietly giggled, in pure bliss. Where Max had grimaced as the black, sooty ichor entered her, she smiled around the half smoked cigarette in her mouth, the golden liquid sliding between the larger panels of leather armor.

Only Professor Mecardi knelt, stock-still, a faint smile the only evidence the liquid was sliding under his robes and into his skin.

Then, all at once, they stood, placing their swords’ tips at the lip of the white and gold chalice. The leftover liquid slowly sloughed off into the bowl. With the pain writhing in my stomach, I arched my back.

I caught a glimpse of the spire, still glowing, but now seeming to drip the golden liquid freely from its tip, directly into the golden pot.

I closed my eyes, finally just too tired of this. I felt the cold, nothing embrace of death, just as I heard the clamber of someone picking up the pot.

They’re going to make me drink it.

“Yes.”

I will die first. Whatever happens, it’ll happen to a dead body.

Somewhere far behind me, I felt the golden chalice chip my front teeth as it was shoved into my mouth. They were shouting. There was nothing they could do, I was already dead.

I took a small amount of comfort in this as I felt my heart fail, slipping into painless death. As I died, I thought of my Mother and my sister.

Would I see them, wherever I was going? I could feel myself already sliding into another place.

“That’s the idea.”

I froze at the sound of the voice, halfway between this world and the next one. Why could I still hear it? Shouldn’t I be free of all of this?

“Why aren’t you mad?”

“What do you mean?”

“You are a child, dead in your youth. You barely lived, and what living you did was fraught with strife. Why are you so eager to die? Where is your anger? Don’t you want to fight for a better life?”

Of course I did. I wanted a better life for a lot of people. Fighting for it, though… Hadn’t I already fought hard enough? Skirting out my own existence at the edge of a cold, nearly forgotten love. It had been hard, unpleasant. I had not been a happy person.

“It hurts,” I said, sounding like a child.

“Then hurt it back,” you said simply.

I creased my brow, then reached out. My sword was in my hand. At once, it was mine. I could tell, it was weighted perfectly for me, and me alone. It was…

“An extension of the self,” we said.

I was not gone, only dead. You were keeping me here, heavy in my hand. I was still here, but so was the pain, horrible and deadly, but distant. It needed to be purged.

It was there in front of me, red, pulsing and angry. The only thing left in my body that still hurt, that still felt at all. I was dead, there was no need to breathe, no need for the heart to beat, but the ichor… It was slow, rhythmic, and golden, aching inside me perfectly, like it was always meant to be.

It was so perfect on the inside of my skin that I could already tell I was an imperfect vessel. It was the epitome of perfection, and I was not the intended host.

“But you’re doing just fine, Parker.” You smiled.

The golden light pulsed with every syllable, not English, but something more pure. Speaking directly to me, from within me. Speaking with love.

I spun with my blade in hand, dancing with it in perfect step. It led me in the same dance my father had, spinning me as we flew about the onlookers at my sixteenth birthday.

I held to the hilt tightly, and it seemed to hold me as well, the fluttering lines of the blade seeming to hold me close, wrapping my body in its warm golden life and suffusing me with it.

“It’s exhausting being so perfect for everyone, isn’t it, baby dear?”

The self embrace was violently pleasant, fiercely and joyously becoming something else. In our dance, I slid the sword across the body in front of me, shearing away first layers of performance, then the unbridled humanity that no social contract can fully erode.

Next was the white lies, misremembered self-stories and faux-realities, everything taught to me that when learned allowed me to function in society. Past this, wrapping the core of my true self like a diseased and protective mother, lay the final layer.

It was the big lies that even the speaker of the lie believed. My dance died, and I stilled my blade.

This would hurt. More than that, it would kill me. Not just physically, I somehow knew that shedding this final layer would actually kill me. Parker, Natalie, me.

“Go on,” you goaded.

I was struck with the sudden, fearful realization that I could see you now. Not your face, but your embodiment. In this enlightened form, I locked eyes with you, seeing your hungry smile as I stood at the precipice of self.

I still felt true, perfect, and alive… But not like myself. It was an alien sensation, and somewhere in the back of my near-abandoned mind, a memory played, worn and torn away, discarded with the previous layers, but still faintly accessible.

It was a lecture I’d had to attend, a lecture on how opioids work, and why they’re so effective as pain inhibitors.

They simply turn off the pain receptors.

Whatever you are, are you just playing with my brain? Like a mouse inside a piano, plucking strings to pour pleasure into my head?

I turned back to the final layer, sick and clinging to my true form within. They would both have to die. “Will it grow back?” I asked, no tremble in my voice.

“Yes, but it will not be you,” you say, almost singing it.

“It’ll be us,” I finished, eyes simultaneously screwed shut and wide open.

I saw you smile, naked in your sincere thirst for this rebirth, vulnerable in your greed to be given life. I looked down at my sword in my hand. If it had shed these layers, these abstractions of personage and self… Why not the alien voice in my mind?

“I am yours. I am your sword.”

Reading my thoughts now?

“A blind woman knows her home,” you said plainly.

“How could I walk into a room without seeing it?” I agreed. I nodded without nodding, enacting some ancient and essential form of non verbal assent, turning back to the final layers of my soul.

I raised my sword to the final lie, and slid it slowly across the surface. It writhed in pain, and dissolved to reveal the shape of my body. He stared back at me, naked, eyes dead. His neck was purple and black with rings of bruises, and his cheeks were gaunt.

This Parker was dead. He had been for sometime.

February 15th, 2020.

I stabbed my sword into his stomach. The tight tug of friction on the blade's end never came. I waved my blade’s tip through the dissipating cloud that had been my truest self. It puffed away into nothing.

Revealing the final me in its place.

It was fetal. It was perfect. It was poisoned. It was me.

It was us.

We turned our focus to the red, poisoned region of our body. There was work to do.

It was aching, eating away at our already dead organs. It was not a thing of love, just a thing of uncaring, scientific decay that happened to be in the wrong place. It wasn’t malicious, just lost and confused.

“Get the fuck out of our body,” we growled. I grabbed our sword with two hands, and thrust into the poisoned flesh.

****

We awoke.

And my body felt different.

The first thing I felt was the stretching. It was a vile feeling, like something moving on the inside of my skin, all across my body.

That, and my two front teeth had been chipped.

I opened my eyes to see three faces looking down at me, blurry in my still-half-asleep vision. They were all wearing odd clothes, like they were at a renaissance fair. Beyond them was the glowing stalactite, slowly fading back to darkness. Home.

When the light from the spire died, the golden light in the room didn’t disappear. There was still a faint glow on the floor next to me. It was coming from me, I realized, moving in time with the unnerving stretching feeling. I brought my arms up to my eyes.

A brackish golden glow slithered down my arteries, rolling into and bulging the veins on my hands. I could feel it violently shifting my skin and organs to better fit itself within me. It didn’t hurt, in fact it felt somehow right.

Slowly, I sat up, looking up at the audience I’d gathered. All three had their swords in their hands, watching me carefully. The golden light shining from me faded, and with it, the stretching ceased. Whatever was inside me had made itself at home.

“Parker?” Isaiah asked quietly, sliding his sturdy blade back into its sheath as he offered me a hand.

“That’s me,” I said, then took his hand to help me stand. I expected a wave of nausea, or even a rush of blood, but instead there was nothing. I just felt fine.

I turned to look over the others. Max and Stash stared back, swords still out and at the ready. Professor Mercardi was nowhere to be seen.

“Wow,” Isaiah whispered, staring down at my waist.

My sword hung at my left hip, satisfyingly heavy in its metal scabbard. My left hand was perched on the pommel, idly fingering the dried leather grip. At once, I knew the scabbard and belt wasn’t actually necessary. The blade was fused to my body, literally part of myself.

I glanced across the room, registering that Max and Stash still hadn’t sheathed their blades. “Where’s the Professor?”

Stash lowered her gaze to my left hand on my blade, unblinking.

“In his study,” Max answered. She stood back, perfectly relaxed, holding the large slab of metal with a handle steady with just one hand.

I slowly took my hand off of my sword. Everyone instantly took a step back, easing off.

“What just happened?” Isaiah asked, now looking at my face in a brilliant shade of wonder.

“Same thing that happened to you,” Stash said, still staring at me.

I felt like I was in a zoo, behind a thick plate of glass. Are they afraid of me? I stepped out of the circle of people and over one of the benches. The room had rearranged itself again, and a thin coat of mist had resumed wafting its way across the metallic floor.

“Can I ask some questions now?” I said, looking across the room at them.

“Ask away,” Max said, turning with my movement to watch me carefully. Stash had replaced her sword on her hip, but Max hadn’t.

“For starters,” Stash began, hands on her hips, “you are dead.”

That wasn’t exactly shocking. I had known that, deep down, but… I felt for a pulse in my neck. My heart was still beating, but at an incredibly slow pace. The physicality of it was bizarre.

“Okay,” I said, a little shakily. “Don’t feel that way. I’m talking and walking.” I stepped past a table with the professor’s chemistry equipment on it. I stared into the many glass vials, and saw as many reflections of myself doing the same.

I stepped away, slowly making my way around the outer rim of the room. They all followed me with their eyes. I was looking for something.

“It takes getting used to” Isaiah shifted uncomfortably, then stepped onto a nearby bench and sat on the table it lay in front of. “Roll with the punches for now, but soon, it’ll catch you off guard. I don’t think I’ve even really processed it yet, either.”

“So you’re all dead?”

Stash and Isaiah nodded, followed shortly after by Max.

“Well,” Stash paused, “Not dead. Not alive either.”

“We don’t have a good name for it,” Isaiah sighed. “Think of it like this: Your body's a car running down the highway. On a full tank, you’re good for a day, maybe a couple of days if you don’t exert yourself. But eventually, you need to fill up again.”

“On what, food?” I’d found what I was looking for. The entrance to the pit in the ground, where Kyle Montgomery had been held. It was empty now, save for a stained line of chain leading down into the black, freezing water.

They had become silent. I turned to look at them, and the truth was written on their faces.

“Then you are just like him. You all subsist on the blood of others, don’t you?” Without thinking, my hand was on my sword.

Stash and Max matched my stance, upper lips jutting upward to reveal their upper teeth. If they had fangs, they would be clearly visible. Isaiah shifted, still sitting as he looked away from me and into the dimly lit dunes outside the tower.

“And you killed me,” I shouted, “Made me into one of you!”

“It was either that or die,” Max shouted back, her blade never wavering in the air. “You made that choice, not us.”

“You fucking poisoned me!” My voice wasn’t cracking, only growing stronger as I grew nearer to the three. “Did I have any choice in that? Did I miss the letter in the mail asking for me to volunteer for your stupid fucking heist?”

That had shut them up. Isaiah stood, hand sheepishly on the back of his neck as he stepped out of the inner circle, leaning on a metallic pillar.

“Look at me,” I said at him, voice low. “You look at the person you killed when they speak to you.”

He turned, face ashen. He stared down at me, then glanced at the other two. “Put your swords down,” he said quietly. “If he runs us through, we deserve it.”

Stash took her hand off of her hilt, while Max’s large blade still pointed unerringly at my chest.

“I’ll make this quick, cause we don’t have much time,” Isaiah said, a little louder now. “You wouldn’t be here right now, if you weren’t like us.”

I pulled my sword from its scabbard, filling the air with a pure tone. The sword shone in the flickering lamp light. “Don’t you dare fucking compare us,” I whispered.

“He’s right,” Stash said, holding her hands out toward my sword, glancing towards Isaiah. “You…” Her lips made a line as she thought. “You wouldn’t have made it if you hadn’t… killed, before.”

I blinked. “Great. So we’re all murderers?”

“I don’t know why,” she continued, slowly stepping closer, “but the process you just went through does not work unless you’ve taken a life in the past.”

I opened my mouth, then bit my lip. I’d taken two.

How many people had these three strangers killed? Silence reigned over the tower for a few tense moments. Then, Isaiah broke it softly.

“It’s why he picked you. He said you were perfect.”

Mecardi. I’d been in town for over a year, in his classes for most of that time. How long had he been watching me from the front of the classroom, waiting for the chance to watch me die?

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, slowly lowering my sword and then sliding it into my scabbard.

“Okay. Basics?” I asked. “Like I said earlier, this is my life now, right?”

Isaiah perked up at my change in mood. “Welcome to the rest of your unlife,” he said, gravely smiling.

“Do not fucking call it that,” Max said quietly.

And like that, the atmosphere of hostility had vanished. I sat, unthinkingly moving my scabbard to allow for the movement.

“Basics,” Stash nodded, looking up at the ceiling with a finger to her chin. Max moved to sit next to her, finally putting her massive blade back into its home.

“Ah,” Isaiah snapped, “We don’t need to breathe anymore.”

The other two looked across the room at him, Stash curious, Max disapproving.

“What? It’s true. I could stay underwater in my bath for like five minutes. Could save your life someday!”

Stash clicked her tongue and nodded. “Day. Sunlight kills.”

“Wait, really?” Max and her nodded. “Fuck.” I loved the summer months. “Okay, wait,” I said. “Sunlight kills and you drink blood? And you couldn’t come up with a name for what you are?”

“We don’t wanna say-. Say that,” Isaiah said, a little sheepishly. “Vamps are evil. We are not evil. Plus we get super powers.”

“Don’t call them…” Max sighed, shaking her head. “The ichor and the voice,” she tapped her head, “grant us abilities that we need to survive. Everyone gets something different.”

“What do you have?” I asked Max.

“He’s got invisibility,” Isaiah stage whispered.

“It’s not--. Look, kid.” Max looked me in the eyes, her brow set seriously. “What’s important is that you know the basics. What you need to keep you safe. Got it?”

I shook my head. “I guess so… I’m having trouble wrapping my head around all of this. Does garlic hurt? What about reflections?”

“No and no,” Max said. “And we can cross running water, but we can’t drink it. Well, we can, but it tastes like shit.” She pulled a single cigarette that appeared to be hand rolled from a clasped pocket on the back of her leather armor.

“Why? Why does whatever we have inside of us want blood instead of food and water?”

Max shrugged, then stood to light her cigarette in a nearby lantern. She inhaled smoke deeply, then walked to the back of the room. “Ask the professor. You saw what’s inside of you, just like we did when we died. It isn’t meant for us.”

She turned away from us to untie Bella, and started to step out into the sand, then stopped, and looked back at me.

“Stay safe, kid.” She took her step past the tower and into the sand, then disappeared. Bella quickly followed suit, a whinny cut short as she vanished.

“He thinks he’s so cool,” Isaiah said disgustedly.

“That,” I said, gesturing to where Max had just been. “What the hell was that? Frankly, what the hell is all of this place?” As if waiting for my question, the room’s furniture puffed into dust. It was now less formal, but still quite well organized, like a clean communal studying spot.

Isaiah held up a finger as Stash began to speak. He turned around, then pointed into the dimly lit desert. “Look,” he said.

I peered out at the dunes, then blinked as I saw something flicker in their place. A hallway. It had vanished as quickly as I’d seen it, but if I focused…

It revealed itself.

The hallway was in the same style of the tower, metal floors and walls with the spidery nerve decal spilling down their lengths. It was lit by lanterns hanging on the wall, and had several closed wooden doors set into the walls.

“Who the hell built this place?” I wondered aloud, blinking between the two different realities.

“Truth,” Stash said, then blushing a little, she clarified. “The ichor you saw decant from the Mothervein… We think it’s been here for a very long time. Longer than humans, even. It is the source of the ichor that makes us into our truest form. Without us, it leaked into the surrounding landscape for billions of years, so even the land is… true.”

“Like the whole Platonic ideals thing,” Isaiah said.

I raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, the pizza delivery boy can’t be well read?!” He said, throwing his hands in the air, his serape throwing gusts of mist across the floor.

“That’s what we are, essentially,” Stash said. “Perfect, more idealized humans.”

I looked at her skeptically. “And the swords?”

“The perfect, idealized weapon.” She touched a hand to the pommel of her long blade. “The sword,” then she turned her eyes to the spire, “from the stone.”

“It feels more like metal,” Isaiah said simply. “But the sword is where the power comes from. You’re a host, it’s a…” He looked at Stash. “What’s a nice word for a parasite?”

“The professor says some of the notes call it a regent, or viceroy. Maybe passenger?" she tried. "It's definitely symbiotic, not parasitic..."

“Notes?” I asked, turning back to where the professor’s chemistry kit had been. They were gone, having moved when Max left with Bella.

“The professor has found some notes kept by the… Let’s call them the previous tenants.” She smiled, but only with the corner of her mouth.

I looked around the room, staring down each of the half visible hallways in turn as I made a circle. “How many people have been in this room?”

“Many sets of five,” Stash said reverently, looking up at the spire “Now that we are five, the power will recognize us.”

I blinked at her. “God, this day just keeps getting weirder. I’m exhausted.”

“Well, it’s not every day you stab the metaphysical embodiment of thallium poisoning,” Isaiah said. “But you’re right. The sun is coming quickly. We should get to our rooms as fast as we can.”

“We only sleep during the day?” I asked.

Stash stepped toward the tower. “Less like sleep… More like hibernation. Tonight will be different, though, right?” She looked at Isaiah, then put one hand flat against the spire, whispering something under her breath with her eyes closed.

“Prof says with five of us, we’ll actually have a dream this time. Something about the First Kingdom.” He looked down at his bony wrist, and then smacked his head as he realized he had no watch. “We gotta go quick.”

“Where are we going? Here isn’t safe?” I looked around at the empty dunes, lit eerily by the half-light above. I imagined an army of skeletons lifting themselves out of the sand, pulling out the half decayed swords and charging us.

“The sunrise is beautiful. Want to stay and see it?” Stash asked, her arm on Isaiah’s back, steering him toward one of the half glimpsed hallways. He reluctantly followed, beckoning me to do the same. I hurried through the furniture to join them.

Just as I reached them, they both stepped over the boundary, and disappeared. The furniture puffed into misty nonexistence, taking a few moments to choose their next shape.

I watched, curiosity shifting to worry as they coalesced into a concentric ring of mirrors, all facing me. I was deep within the bowels of a mountain, surrounded by mist and mirrors, all shrouded in a complete and utter silence.

The wan shuffle of my boots was a cacophony, and I watched myself step backward, reflected five times. The mirrors seemed to whisper, “You are alone.”

“Never,” you said. Your voice is filled with warmth, and love.

You have found a home within me, and no matter the coming struggle, you’ll always be at my side. Calling the shots when I’m lost in indecision.

I stepped forward, staring into the mirror.

For a horrified, lovely moment, I did not recognize who stared back.

Thick green cloak, leather boots, brown hair, brown eyes, too short… It was me., but not Parker. Not just Parker, not any more.

“Who are you?”

What is your name?

< ≡ >

#tw vomit #tw blood #tw captivity #tw torture #tw smoking #tw poisoning #tw animal death #tw suffocation #tw bladed weapons #tw blades #perdition #perdition 1.10 #interactive writing #non adventur #interactive fiction #interactive game #interactive novel #choose your own adventure #cyoa

7 notes · View notes

spider-stark · 24 days

Text

INFINITELY YOU

part two // crullers & constants

SUMMARY - In every universe, Peter Parker seems destined to fall in love with you. And, in every universe, he realizes it too late. When universes collide and two of them are granted a second chance at rectifying their biggest mistake, neither of them are willing to let the opportunity go to waste–even if you end up not being the person they thought you were.

WARNINGS - 18+, story will contain mentions of blood, broken bones, weapons, suggestive language, and more. I will try to update warnings accordingly for each chapter, but please read at your own discretion

WORD COUNT - 4.2k

// masterlist // series masterlist // send me your thoughts // no way home fan fiction // rewrite

name key: tom!peter = peter // andrew!peter = parker

Peter Pan Donuts is a sacred place.

Or, rather, it was a sacred place—and walking back into the shop now felt awfully strange.

Back when you and Peter first started high school, it had become a tradition to end every Friday with one of the renowned pastry shop’s legendary frosted crullers. You considered it a well-deserved reward for surviving another week of more drama than either of you could stomach, thankful that the weekend was finally upon you and that you could finally breathe without inhaling the reek of the unwashed teenage boys that lined the halls of Midtown.

Peter Pan’s quickly became a haven. A safe place where the two of you could tuck yourselves away at the end of the bar, talking for hours about the teachers you hated and the bullies you hoped would fall from the face of the Earth. There was nothing that you couldn’t talk about, no secrets kept between you and Peter.

Or, at least, none that mattered.

But things changed as time passed, as they so often do.

It started with the inclusion of Ned. You didn’t particularly mind his presence, even if the conversations had begun to shift towards less intimate topics, focusing instead on movies that you all wanted to see or upcoming video games that you would all try to play.

Then came the inclusion of Mj a few months later, after she landed a job at the shop. That was when everything truly changed—when it was no longer you and Peter tucked away at the bar, but you and Ned, left to pick at your food and watch as Peter leaned across the front counter and talked to Mj over her shift.

After a few months of testing every donut on the menu with Ned, you stopped going altogether.

And Peter never even asked why.

“I was surprised to see you texted me,” you quip as you slid onto the free barstool, “what happened to not wanting me to get involved?”

Peter exhales sharply through his nose, and even though his eyes are glued to his phone, you can tell that he was already regretting asking you to meet him here. “I already told you that what I want doesn’t matter.”

And how true that must have been.

There had been nothing kind about his text to you this morning, although there was nothing inherently rude about it either, you supposed. It was simple—meet me at Peter Pan’s asap, need 2 talk—but you could almost sense the begrudging nature with which he had typed it. And, sitting next to him now, you could almost feel it, too.

He didn’t want you here, even if he had been the one to invite you, and you couldn’t help but wonder why he had decided to involve you at all—especially so soon. What had changed in a single night?

Sitting on the barstool to your left, Parker pops his lips. “Well this is fun. I’m not at all uncomfortable right now.”

You turned towards him, acknowledging just how different he looked in the civilian clothes that he donned in place of his suit—black jeans that certainly looked worse for wear and an old Ramone’s t-shirt that you immediately recognized as yours. Oversized on you, the short sleeves clung rather tightly to his well-muscled arms. Did he seriously go through your stuff?!

“Why are you even here?” You ask, perhaps a little sharper than necessary. You weren’t angry that he had gone sifting through the armoire in the spare bedroom, especially since he couldn’t just parade around as Spider-Man all of the time. But he could’ve at least asked. “Shouldn’t one of you be busy patrolling?”

It was hard to tell if the offense on his face was real or feigned, but you didn’t care much either way. “Peter wanted answers about my world, I wanted food,” he shrugs, gesturing at the crème-filled donut in front of him. “And Peter 2’s handling patrol.”

Peter 2—you had almost forgotten about him, the version of Peter that hadn’t wanted to come with Ned and Mj to your apartment last night. As far as you could tell when you woke up this morning, he hadn’t shown up in the middle of the night, either—no trace of Parker or anyone else when you had finally stumbled out of your room to get ready after reading the text from Peter.

You didn’t figure it was really your business where the mystery Peter was, but you were a little surprised to hear that he was still out patrolling. Was he not exhausted?

“Ametaur move getting crème-filled,” you tell him, ignoring everything he said. “Should’ve gone with the frosted vanilla cruller, it’s way better.”

“No way,” he gapes, grabbing the half-eaten pastry and shaking it for emphasis as he said, “this is god-tier, alright? No way anything’s topping it.”

The expression on his face was actually hilarious, his brown doe eyes alight with pure euphoria as he took another bite of the donut. An exaggerated moan slipped his lips, coated with bits of sugar and crème. It was hard not to laugh at him, especially when you knew that was probably his goal—to combat the evident tension between you and Peter.

Chuckling, you lift your hands in mock defense. “Suit yourself, Parker. But if you ever wanna experience true pleasure, then you know what to order.”

Parker looks as if he's about to continue his borderline-lustful tangent about the donut, but Peter spoke up instead, his attention snagging on the name you used.

“Parker?” He echoes in disbelief, letting his phone clatter against the bar.

Peter’s sudden resurgence to the real world left Parker silent, sinking back against his stool and taking another bite.

“What?” Your brow arches, your voice laced with incredulity. “Did you really think I’d keep calling him Peter 2? No offense to Ned, but everything about that feels stupid.”

Peter’s eyes narrow, coupled with a subtle shake of his head that indicates he doesn't care nearly enough to have this conversation right now.

You didn’t care much either, and so you steered the conversation in a more productive direction. “So what is this grand plan of yours?” You ask with a somewhat sarcastic lilt. “And where do I fit into it?”

Another huff of breath escaped his nostrils. “We don’t even have a plan. Not yet,” he reluctantly admits. “But I tried talking to Doctor Strange last night, to see if he had some sort of magical spell or something that would let us go back and fix all of this.”

Your lips press together, nibbling on the skin and pretending you didn’t notice the hidden meaning behind his words. He hadn’t just gone to Doctor Strange to find a way to get rid of the villains now lurking in your world, because if he had, then he wouldn’t have gone specifically seeking out a spell that would let him go back—not just to stop the villains from ever coming here, but to save May, too.

“Did he?”

Peter reached for his cup of iced coffee, if only to occupy his now-fidgeting fingers. “No,” he murmurs, the sound of sloshing ice nearly overpowering him as he swirled the cup. “He didn’t.”

You frown at the tinge of disappointment that snuck through his otherwise even tone, your chest aching. You had to fight against the urge to say I’m sorry, remembering what he had said to you last night—he didn’t want your apologies, nor did he seem to want anyone else's.

In truth, you weren’t sure what Peter wanted; or what you could do to help him.

“Well did he have anything useful?”

He shook his head, lifting the cup to his mouth. “Define useful,” he scoffed, sounding uncharacteristically sharp. He took a sip of his drink, his nose scrunching as soon as the coffee hit his tongue—too bitter.

Despite the coffee’s pale color that indicated it was more cream than coffee, you weren’t surprised that it was still too strong for him. Peter had never truly developed a taste for coffee, only pursuing a caffeine addiction for the sake of combating the exhaustion that came with being Spider-Man. That didn’t mean he had ever grown to like it though, masking the taste with copious amounts of sugar and syrups.

“Something that will keep multiversal villains from tearing our world apart?” You venture half-heartedly, guided by pure instinct and muscle memory as you reached over to take his cup from him, snagging a few packs of sugar from the plastic canister on the bar to0.

“He has a theory,” Peter gives you a tight-lipped smile, born of pure frustration.

“A theory? And he expects us to save the world with this theory?” You ask, a bit more derisive than you would have been if Doctor Strange were around to hear.

Peter scoots closer to you, his voice purposefully low. “Do you remember when I told you about him using the Time Stone before Mr. Stark died? To look through all the different outcomes with Thanos?”

Ripping open the sugar packets and dumping them in his cup, you managed to mask a wince at the mention of Peter’s dead mentor. You only nodded, not trusting your voice to stay steady if you tried for any sort of verbal affirmation.

“Well… when he did that, he thinks that he might have actually seen through the multiverse—he just didn’t know for sure at the time.”

Your forehead creased as you popped the lid back onto his cup, sliding it back towards him. Given his advantage of Spidey-sense, he easily caught it before it could slide too far and end up on the floor—which is what would have definitely happened pre-Spider bite.

“And you don’t consider that to be useful to our current situation?”

“No. I don’t.” Peter answers firmly. “Because at the center of it all—in every universe the Stone showed him—all he saw was you.”

You nearly laugh, your lips curving as you rose a brow at him. “Me?”

Peter gave a nod as he took another sip of his drink. This time, his nose didn’t scrunch.

“But it’s been almost a year since the Avengers took down Thanos,” you reminded him, your stunned amusement beginning to fade into confusion. “If he saw.. Me, when he used the Stone, then why didn’t he say anything until now?”

By no means would you consider yourself to be close with New York’s resident Sorcerer, and so you wouldn’t have expected him to come to you with this knowledge. But Peter—he knew Peter, and he knew that you were Peter’s best friend, and so it didn’t make any sense to you why Doctor Strange chose to wait until now to mention what the Stone had shown him.

Given the aggravated expression Peter wore, it was clear that he was thinking the same. “I don’t know, and trying to get answers out of Doctor Strange that he clearly doesn’t want to give is like pulling teeth.”

“But what does that mean?” You couldn’t stop yourself from pressing further, concern starting to bubble up inside of you. Regardless of his answer—if he had one—you had a feeling you wouldn’t like it. “I don’t get how I’m at the center of every universe.”

Peter blew out a breath, his fingers going back to tapping against the sides of his plastic cup. “Alright, so there are probably well-over a hundred thousand different parallel universes, okay? Some of them are probably super similar to ours, and then there are others that are the complete opposite.”

“O-kay,” you drone, your brows drawing together. You felt the start of a headache coming on as you prepared yourself for the confusing science-talk that was surely about to start pouring out of his mouth.

Perhaps noticing your pained expression, Peter tries to find a way to simplify whatever explanation he was about to use. “Try and look at it like this,” he started, “think of the multiverse as some giant, cosmic loom, alright? Now imagine that each thread on the loom signifies a person. As the loom weaves all of these different threads together, different decisions get made and different actions are taken—and with every choice, a new thread is spun, branching off and creating a variation of the original tapestry.”

“So it’s like you and Parker, right?” You interrupt him, rubbing at your temples. “Same thread, different reality?”

“Exactly! And, technically speaking, that’s how it’s supposed to be. As the loom weaves and alters reality, each thread continuously evolves into something different.” He paused, his fingers finally falling still. “But now imagine that—in the center of all of these branching tapestries—there exists one thread, entirely unbroken and unaltered by this ever-weaving tapestry of existence, okay? A glitch in the cosmic fabric, a constant that’s woven into infinite realities and yet, somehow, remains fundamentally unchanged. How does that work?”

You couldn’t ignore the sense of dread creeping up your spine, nor could you escape the slight wobble in your voice as you said, “It doesn’t sound like it should.”

“You’re right, it shouldn’t work.” Peter confirmed, his expression nearly impossible to read. “But according to Doctor Strange, you are that thread. A constant anomaly that defies every potential law of the multiverse.”

Nausea bubbled in your gut. God, you did not want to deal with this right now!

“And let me guess,” a bitter laugh follows your words, “that’s as much information as he was willing to give, wasn’t it?”

“Yep,” Peter pops his lips, leaning back into his stool. His brows raise slightly in a silent I told you so before he says, “Hey, you’re the one that wanted to be involved, right? Now you’re at the center of everything-”

“I said I wanted to help you,” you correct him sharply. “Not that I wanted to be at the center of Doctor Strange’s weird Time Stones fantasies!”

He only shrugs, barely acknowledging the dirty look you gave him as he plucks his phone off of the counter, clicking on a notification. “Same thing, isn’t it? Either way, you get what you want.”

“What I want?” You echoed, your mouth hung open in disbelief.

“Doctor Strange seems to think that whatever is wrong with you might help us solve all of this. That you might be connected to the multiverse somehow, or that you’re at least immune to it. So yeah, you get what you want. You get to help,” he spat the word out like an insult, too focused on typing something to even notice how rude he sounded.

If it weren’t for the feeling that stomach acid was about to come crawling up your throat, then you might have taken some time to unpack the bitterness in his tone or be hurt by the claim that something was wrong with you—but you didn’t. Even if you had, you weren’t sure that it would have gotten you anywhere.

You weren’t stupid. Peter was wielding his insolence like a shield, purposefully trying to hurt you as an effort to keep you at arms length—and, if you had to guess, Mj and Ned were probably receiving the same treatment right now.

“Well this isn’t exactly what I had in mind when I said I wanted to help,” you admitted, one hand going to rest against your cramping stomach. At least the throbbing in your temples had died down…

Peter only shrugged at you, shoving his phone in his back pocket and rising to his feet. “Too bad,” he told you, offering a smile that most definitely wasn’t genuine. “I’ve gotta go, but make him walk you home, alright? I’ll text you if I hear anything else from Doctor Strange.”

Parker frowned beside you, and whether it was because Peter was speaking about him like he wasn’t here or because of his attitude in general, you couldn’t tell.

“Whoa, hold up! You didn’t even tell me what your plan is until you hear from him!” You argue, reaching for his wrist to keep him from walking past you until he answered.

He pulls his hand back from your grip, but not before your stare snags on the reddish hue that stains his nails—blood. Noticing it only served to make you feel sicker, and to make your concern for Peter grow larger. Was he really still walking around with May’s blood caked under his nails? Has he rested at all since last night?

“Same plan as always,” he told you, your eyes snapping up to meet his, suddenly noticing how rimmed with exhaustion they were. “Stop the bad guys.”

He didn’t leave any time for protests or further questions before turning his back to you and heading straight for the exit. When the little bell on the door chimed as he shoved his way back out onto the streets, you couldn’t stop the worried sigh that escaped your lips.

Peter was an Avenger by every right. He had battled alongside a Norse God and helped take down a literal Titan, and so knew that you shouldn’t have any reason to doubt his capability when it came to taking down whatever villains had crossed into your world.

But it wasn’t that you doubted his ability to survive against them, or even his ability to stop them—you were worried about whether he could handle the weight of it all.

The weight of him placing yet another thing on his shoulders. Another villain, another fight, another burden, another chance to lose someone.

Thinking of that, it suddenly dawned on you that maybe Mj and Ned weren’t getting the same treatment as you. Maybe you were getting the worst of it, if only because now whatever connection you had to the multiverse was just another weight he thought he had to bear, another person he had to worry about protecting.

Guilt flooded your veins, and even as you tried to remind yourself that you hadn’t caused this, you still couldn’t shake the anxious feeling that it was somehow your fault anyway.

“Y’know, I get that this probably isn’t the right time for this,” Parker starts. When you look at him, your attention immediately snags on the dozen donuts that he had ordered while you were talking to Peter. “But I think it’s so cool that you guys have magic in your world!”

He takes another bite of the donut in his hand, powdered sugar falling from his lips as he says, “And these donuts! It’s a tough call, but they might be even better than magic!”

You didn’t know him well enough to be able to tell if he was intentionally trying to lighten the mood or if it was just incidental, but it worked all the same. Laughter poured from your mouth, and it wasn’t until it died down that he said anything else.

“Sooo… That was tense, wasn’t it? Like, it wasn’t just me, right?”

You groan, propping your elbows against the counter and placing your cheeks in your palms. “Was it that noticeable?”

Parker snorts a laugh, stretching an arm past you to reach for Peter’s abandoned coffee. “Oh, yeah. It’s actually painful to be in a room with you two.”

His playful tone made it clear that it was just a joke, but it still made you feel bad. You already didn’t like how hostile things felt between you and Peter, even if it was only one-sided, and to know that others felt it too just made it that much worse.

“Things are just.. Difficult, right now.” You tell him, choosing your words carefully.

“So it hasn’t always been like that with you guys?” He asks, and the delicate arch of his brow made it seem as though he were shocked by the possibility that things had ever been civil between you and Peter.

There was a chance that you had misread his expression though, as it was very quickly wiped away once he took a sip of Peter’s half-drank coffee, gagging as soon as it hit his tongue. “Holy shi-” he started coughing, cutting off the vulgarities that threatened to spill out. “How does he drink this?!” Parker yelped as soon as he could take a full breath, looking utterly disgusted as he shoved the cup back across the bar. “It’s literally just liquid sugar!”

You found it hard to stifle your amusement at his suffering, even as he shot you a teasing scowl for it. “No,” you answer his previous question, trying to ignore his melodramatic display, “believe it or not, things between us actually used to be really… I don’t know—easy, I guess.”

Parker was still smacking his lips to try and rid himself of the cloying aftertaste. “What changed?”

In retrospect, you realized that it probably would have been smarter for you to bite your tongue. To offer him some cheap, cop-out excuse rather than tell him the truth. After all, you already had experience in hiding from the truth and it wasn’t like you really knew Parker, and so lying to him shouldn’t have been a hard task.

Yet, for some reason, you told him the truth anyway.

“Mj happened.”

Parker’s brows furrows. “The girl from last night, right?”

“Yep. That’s the one.”

“Y’know, I don’t really like her all that much,” his words were spoken like a balm, seeking to ease the dejected look etched upon your face, but tinged with enough playful sarcasm for you to know he didn’t actually mean them. “She threw a bread roll at me. A few of them, actually.”

It was hard not to laugh at the thought considering that it was such an Mj thing to do. “Sounds about right,” you crack a smile, although you don't feel particularly happy. “She’s always been slow to trust, especially complete strangers.”

In an odd sort of way, the statement felt like a lie. Not because it actually wasn’t true—because Mj was wary of strangers—but because Parker didn’t quite feel like a stranger in your mind. While last night had been a bit awkward, you now felt like talking to him was effortless, each sentence rolling off your tongue with unnatural ease.

“But she trusts you?” Parker asks, picking a crumb off another one of the pastries and popping it into his mouth.

You sucked in a breath.

“I don’t know,” you answer him, with a bit more honesty than you're comfortable with. “I mean, I know that she used to trust me. But now… I’m not even sure if she likes me anymore.”

His brow snapped up. “What changed?”

Suddenly the truth no longer felt so easy, and you found yourself wishing that you could change the subject altogether. You didn’t want to talk about this—especially not with him, some boy that you had known for less than twenty-four hours.

But you had backed yourself into a corner, and so in an effort to try and satiate whatever interest he had developed in the story you had told, you settled on offering a vague half-truth.

“She started dating Peter,” you tell him simply, putting effort into looking disinterested. “They got together a few months ago and things just… It just got weird, y’know? It’s always awkward when two of your friends get together, I guess. Creates too much drama.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Parker hums, agreeing with you. “Especially when you have feelings for him, right?”

An incomprehensible noise escaped your throat, best categorized as something between a laugh and a cough. Your mouth fell open to try and defend yourself, to try and deny his claim—but he didn’t even give you a chance.

“Oh c’mon!” Parker groans, grinning when he notices the now rosy complexion of your cheeks. “Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? I mean, let’s be real here, alright? That whole sugar thing earlier?” He jutted a finger towards Peter’s abandoned iced coffee, “Was a dead giveaway.”

“You’re insane,” You declare, shaking your head and masking your embarrassment with uncomfortable laughter. “I don’t have feelings for Peter—and even if I did, it wouldn’t matter! Regardless of what it’s done to our friendship, Mj is literally perfect for him and-”

“I think it’s cute,” he interrupts, a delicate smile gracing his lips. Noticing the way your brows furrow, he elaborated, “How much you care about him. And how much you care about her, too, since you’re so willing to pretend like you don’t like him.”

“I’m not pretending-”

Parker jokingly cut his eyes. “Yeah, sureee.”

Blowing a frustrated breath, you push yourself up from the barstool. “Alright, I think it’s time to go home.” You tell him, far too flustered to try and come up with a good defense to his teasing. “You can take the rest of your donuts to go, Bug-boy.”

There was a subtle shift in his demeanor as the taunting nickname fell from your lips, and he almost felt as though his heart had stopped dead in his chest.

“Fine,” Parker yields, rising to his feet and snagging the box of donuts from the bar. “But I really hope that you have your wallet—cause I definitely don’t have a way to pay for these.” He flashed a crooked smile before continuing, “Or we can just run really fast and hope they don’t call the police on us for stealing pastries.”

“I can’t imagine that robbery would be very good for your reputation as a hero,” you chide sarcastically, your own lips curling into a half-smile, “so I’ll pay—but only if you give me every cruller in that box. Deal?”

Parker spares a quick glance down at the dozen box of donuts in his hands. Half of them were already gone, but through the small cellophane window he could see that there were three frosted crullers left. “Deal.”

series masterlist

a/n - for those who read IY before the rewrite, you may already be able to note some rather major changes going on lmao. i genuinely can't describe how much i actually enjoy rewriting this story, as i'm finally able to collect my thoughts enough to write the plot the way i originally wanted to.

as always, please leave any feedback, opinions, etc.! any and all comments/reblogs definitely encourage me to write/edit faster! and, if you'd like to be added to the tag list, just let me know!

part three, titled "spitfire", to be released april 15th

545 notes · View notes