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lucyintheskywithxanax · 3 years

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What Fun! The Apocalypse (PART 6)

Pairing: Wilhemina Venable x Fem Reader

A/N: my already poor health has been particularly bad and I lost a few thousands brain cells so probably this part could have been better. But I kind of like it as it is. I could, too, have been less cruel to Wilhemina, but I hate stories that are like, “it took exactly 2 seconds and a half for this character to overcome their trauma welcome to rainbow land”. This part may be the last part, or I may write more, idk yet. Thank you for your kind feeback and thank your for reading, lovelies. x

PART 1 // PART 2 // PART 3 // PART 4 // PART 5

Word count: ~ 7 000

Warnings: physical violence, self-harm (kind of?), ongoing battle btw me and English prepositions

You awoke, opened your eyes, and remembered. Today was the Apocalypse.

Everyone from Kineros Robotics who had been chosen to survive gathered in the lunch room at 8am, and waited there to board their respective planes. Most of the outposts were a long flight from California, so you and Wilhemina were to leave the place last. You had packed a small suitcase with a few of your belongings, objects you could not get rid of. You ignored the disapproving glare from Wilhemina. She was flying with nothing but her cane and a stock of painkillers for her back.

Wilhemina scanned the faces in the room. Everyone here was a longtime employee at Kineros, deemed worthy and clever enough to build and rule a new world. Pathetic, all of them. Wilhemina tapped her cane threateningly on the floor as a tall woman walked past her too close for comfort; the woman turned her head at the sound, slowly ran her eyes down and up Wilhemina’s figure, and smiled condescendingly.

Eyes were Wilhemina’s least favourite part of the human face. They were dull, and only reflected the stupidity of the brain. Eyes had stared at her and sneered and derided. Eyes had crinkled with mocking laughter and narrowed with disgust or judgment. They pried and pitied and wondered as they wonder at rare, exotic zoo animals. Other people’s eyes were only acceptable (safe) when lowered in fear or respect.

But your eyes were different. Your eyes were kind. They were loving and caring. She could get lost in them and know she was safe.

The plane to Outpost 4 departed at 10am. The one to Outpost 2 departed at 10:30. By noon, Wilhemina and you were the only one left in the room. The mysterious Ms Mead had driven to Outpost 3 the day before, to make sure everything was ready. Wilhemina had met her and decided she was trustworthy. A robot. Her mind programmed to obey her. Her heart had jumped with excitement at the thought.

The plane to Outpost 3 was to leave at exactly 2:40pm, five minutes before a ballistic missile would hit the nearest city. At 2:20 you jumped down from the table you were sitting on and ran to the nearest bathroom. An employee, who was to stay and die and did not even have the slightest idea of what was about to happen, walked past the lunch room and shot Wilhemina a curious glance. She gave him her coldest, most condescending smile in return. Another man walked past, quickly and with his shoulders bent. Wilhemina caught a glimpse of his face. Her heart did something weird in her chest.

Now, that was simply impossible, her brain told her. His plane had left hours ago. Her eyes had tricked her mind, excitement and anticipation made her see things that were not real.

You hurried back into the room, your hands fidgeting anxiously, completely unable to stand still. “Let’s go,” you said quickly, “let’s go board our plane.”

“Wait,” Wilhemina said without thinking.

You stopped in front of her.

“Wilhemina it’s 2:25 we have to –“

Here it was again, the impossible shape, hovering on one side of the door. Something in Wilhemina’s mind whispered a warning. Her eyes shifted to your face. Protect her, urged the whisper.

“I forgot an important file on my desk,” Wilhemina lied in a very calm voice.

“Are you kidding me?!” you exclaimed.

The shape moved and disappeared.

“It has all the names and information on the people who will stay with us at the outpost,” Wilhemina went on. “Go and get it. You walk faster than I do.”

“For God’s sake you must be kidding me,” you growled.

“Go,” she ordered you. “You’re wasting time.”

You scowled at her, but stormed out of the room. She listened as your footsteps faded away. Then she straightened up, pulling her shoulders back, and her right hand clenched around the knob of her cane.

“Hello, hunchback.

Rory leaned against the door, his arms folded across his chest, a stupid smirk plastered on his face. Anger rose in Wilhemina’s throat.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she snapped.

Rory’s smirk widened and he started walking towards her.

“Thought I should come and say hi. Long time no see. Honestly, I’m surprised you remember me. You didn’t seem to care much about my person last time we talked.” He stopped a few inches away from Wilhemina, looking down on her, his eyes full of a triumphant, predatory light. “Last time we talked,” he repeated slowly in his drawling voice, “and you so rudely fired me. Now, I think that surely you have regrets. I think that surely you regret treating me so badly.” He raised a hand to caress her cheek, but she slapped it away.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” Wilhemina hissed.

He was too close, so close she could feel the heat emanating from his body, but she would be damned before she took a step back.

“Now, that’s not how one expresses regret,” Rory said.

Without warning, he kicked her cane over and sent it rolling on the floor and under a table. Wilhemina stumbled, regained her balance with a wince.

Rory grabbed her arm and leaned in. “Tell me,” he whispered in her ear, “can you bend low enough to blow me or will I have to break your back?”

“Go to Hell,” Wilhemina hissed, and spat on his face.

Rory’s knee came up and slammed into her stomach. Wilhemina crumpled to the floor, winded, and let out a cry as Rory kicked her side.

“Good news, hunchback!” he cried excitedly. “It’s the fucking Apocalypse! D’you know what it means?” Another kick. “It means –“ another kick, “there’ll be no police –“ another kick, “which means I can do whatever the fuck –“ another kick, ”I want to you.”

Wilhemina let him hit her. She had no way of fighting back, and even if she had, she wasn’t sure she would have. Every kick awakened the sneering voice in her head that reminded her just how monstrous her body was. How it was only fair she should hurt. How she deserved the pain he was causing her, and so much more of it. The pain she was feeling was the pain she had wanted to inflict on herself for so long, a punishment for being such a hideous, such a deformed monstrosity and now she could feel joy, there was joy in her heart and she was laughing –

“What the hell?!” came a voice, loud and angry and threatening like the growl of a storm. Rory’s kicking stopped and Wilhemina almost raised her head to beg him to continue, not to stop until he’d broken every single rotten bone.

“What. The. Fucking hell Rory!” you roared, flinging yourself at him and slapping him violently in the face. “How dare you, you fucking fuck!”

Rory stumbled away from you, his hand covering his cheek where you had hit him, too stunned to speak. His back touched the wall.

“Get out!” you roared. “Get out or I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

You watched him scurry away, then you ran to where Wilhemina lay curled up on the floor.

Laughing. She was laughing. Loud, painful laughs that shook her chest and tore their way out of her throat like shards of glass.

“Wilhemina? Oh God.” Your hands were shaking. “Oh God. Wilhemina, can you hear me?”

You grabbed her hand, but she jerked it free and moved it to cover her face. Her laughter still came out through her palm.

You stared at her, at a loss for what to do. Your heart was hammering in your ears but couldn’t drown out the terrible sound of her laughter. And above it all, like a red blaring light, rose a terrifying sense of urgency.

“Wilhemina,” you called, as bitter tears pooled in your eyes. This was all your fault. You had ignored Muff’s warning and put Wilhemina in danger because of your goddamn pride. You had thought you knew better than everyone else. Thought people were books, thought you could predict exactly how everyone would behave - thought that nothing harmful could come in the way of two people in love.

“Wilhemina, baby,” you pleaded through your tears, ”please, can you hear me?”

Hurry, hurry, hurry, blared the light in your head.

Something in your voice must have gotten to Wilhemina, for her laughter slowly died out. She nodded. You reached out for the hand that was covering her face, tentatively slipping your fingers between hers.

“Wilhemina, tell me where he hurt you? Can you stand up? Baby, I’m so sorry, we have to move, we have to catch that plane, we have to –“

Your voice broke. You dropped your head, sobbing out an “Oh God” as Wilhemina’s fingers tightened around yours.

She was already trying to sit up, wincing in pain and coughing out blood, so brave, so strong in the face of it all. You wrapped your arms around her waist and lifted her to her feet, and she cried out in pain.

“I’m so sorry baby,” you cried, over and over again, “I’m so sorry, we have to go, we have to catch that plane.”

She pointed to her cane and you hastily grabbed it, pressed it into her hand, slipped your arm higher up her waist to support her as you hobbled out of the lunch room and oh God, Wilhemina coughed out blood again. Tears and sweat rolled down her face as she pushed on, hurrying as fast as she could along too many corridors, the place endless, it was spreading endlessly everywhere and expanding by the second and you would never make it.

Wilhemina’s knees buckled. She collapsed on the ground with a cry.

“Go,” she croaked between her teeth. “Just go.”

“Don’t be stupid,” you growled. You heaved her to her feet. “Lean on me, sweetie, just lean on me. I know you can do it.” You pressed a quick kiss on her cheek. “I’m not leaving you, you fool.”

A tiny part of you screamed in rebellion. Death terrified you. Run, screamed a frantic voice in your head, just run for your life, who cares about her you will both die. You shook your head violently, tightened your grip around Wilhemina. Uttered words of encouragement to her. Shut the fuck up, you barked at the voice in your head. The voice roared. You roared louder.

There was a loud, distant explosion. The walls shook all around you, and the lights flickered. Wilhemina groaned, but did not stop.

You turned a corner, slammed your shoulder into a door and stumbled outside. There was something wrong with the light, a sick quality to it, it was too orange and too misty, but you barely paid attention to it, your eyes falling on the beautiful, shining small plane waiting for you just a few feet away. The pilot was standing in the narrow door, waving his arms at you and calling out.

“Come on, baby, almost there,” you growled, your heart beating madly in your chest. Wilhemina’s arm spasmed. You gripped onto her tighter.

And then your brain took over. On auto-pilot you hobbled the short distance to the plane, half carried Wilhemina up the airstair, past the man as he hurriedly closed the door and shut out the light that was too orange, too misty, the light that was so hideously sick. You collapsed on the floor with Wilhemina in your arms, crying and laughing, and peppered her face with wet kisses. When you finally pulled away for air her face was very pale, blood drying on her lower lip and chin, but she offered you a small smile.

“You made it, honeybunch,” you panted, and burst into a laugh.

The plane took off. You made Wilhemina lie down on a row of seats, then ran to the bathroom and dampened a hand towel. Your hands were shaking, your breathing was quick and shallow. Now that the exhilaration of victory and the rush of adrenaline were subsiding, something dark was settling in your chest like lead. You shook your head, scowled at your reflection in the mirror. Get a grip, you ordered yourself. Your eyes in the mirror were wide with fear and guilt.

Wilhemina had sat up while you were gone, but you made her lie down again and gently wiped the blood off her face with the wet towel. She was way too pale, her body too rigid, her jaw clenched tight against the pain. Your fault. Your goddamn fault for being such a fucking brag who thought she had some sort of superpower and could guess everything about everyone. You shook your head again, gulped back tears, and focused on Wilhemina.

“I don’t need this, Y/N,” Wilhemina said as you gently swiped the towel across her forehead - her voice was low and gravelly and her diction was weird, every word perfectly enunciated but coming out thick and heavy. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” you retorted, your voice breaking. “Wilhemina, let me – you’ve just been beaten up let me take care of –“

Your hand gently caressed her cheek; Wilhemina flinched, her neck tensing and curving away from you.

“I’m sorry,” you said, immediately withdrawing your hand. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she answered, almost a snap. It wasn’t fear that was vibrating through her, she wasn’t afraid of your touch, - it was something entirely different you couldn’t quite understand yet. She was glaring at the ceiling, her body incredibly tense, her eyes glassy and angry.

“Can I touch you?” you asked softly.

Wilhemina’s eyes briefly shifted to you, then back to the ceiling. One of her arms wrapped around her stomach and squeezed, hard.

“I need to make sure you’re not bleeding anywhere,” you explained.

“I’m not bleeding.”

“Where does it hurt the most? Wilhemina if there’s any wound we need to make sure and clean it bef –“

“There’s no wound,” she snapped. “A few bruises at worst.”

You paused, swallowing down your fear.

“Alright,” you said, raising both hands in the air – they were visibly shaking, so you quickly lowered them -, “alright. Just let me get you some water.”

She was still glaring at the ceiling when you came back, but you weren’t sure she was seeing it. Her eyes were burning with a kind of anger that had something terribly sad about it, something that made your heart ache for her. You unscrewed the bottle of water and offered it to her.

She took exactly one sip and handed the bottle back to you.

“Stop being so stubborn,” you said. “Drink some more –“

“I am being stubborn? Stop acting so stupid.“

“I’m not stupid, I’m worried about you.“

Automatically your hand landed on her ankle and your thumb stroked her skin. Again, she flinched, and her leg gave a kick.

“Stop it!” she snapped, her voice too high, her eyes meeting yours, desperate and angry, as her arm squeezed harder still around her stomach, her elbow digging into her ribs. “Leave me alone! I don’t deserve –”

She cut herself off, her jaw twitching once, her face hard and cold, that terrible, terrible feeling in her eyes expanding and expanding until it submerged her whole body. Her head fell back on the seat and her nails dug into her arm.

“You don’t deserve what, Mina?” you asked. Your throat closed up.

She had been laughing, when you had found her. Rory was kicking her with a crazed look on his face and she had been laughing.

“Talk to me,” you pleaded, your voice too thin.

“Why would I want to talk to you?” she snapped contemptuously, her voice laced with poison, but you could see right through her act.

This was an attempt to make you leave, because she could not stand tenderness and care right now. Every fiber in her body was rebelling against love and crying out for pain. She needed to open the gates and let the self-loathing engulf her, for she couldn’t win against it - as one has to dive headfirst into a wave that is so high and so terrifying and cannot be avoided. Sometimes, the only way out is through.

“Alright,” your voice wavered, “alright, I’ll just sit here next to you, ok? I’m here if you need me.”

It was torture. Staying still as she hurt, and hurt herself, as you waited for her to come back to you, as the whole plane filled up with her pain and anger and it was a miracle it could still fly. You made small talk with her, anything to try and distract her. Your voice wavered again, three, four times. You had lowered the blind on the window nearest you to block out the sick orange light. Wilhemina kept glaring unseeingly at the ceiling. You talked, and talked, and talked, trying to drown out the sound of her loathing that you could hear like the scraping of stormy waves on a shingle beach. And on top of it all was that gnawing feeling of guilt. For you had caused this. Stupid, stupid you, blinded by your own pride.

Slowly, Wilhemina’s body started to relax. Her nails withdrew from her arm. You tentatively offered her the bottle of water again. She scowled at you, but she took the bottle and drank half of it.

The pilot’s voice came out through the intercom, telling you to prepare for landing.

Wilhemina sat up with a wince and fastened her seatbelt. She smoothed her hair and her clothes. You glanced at her, blinking back tears, your mouth too dry.

“Are you ok?” you asked. It was a stupid question, but it flew out of your mouth desperate and urgent before you could stop it.

Her eyes met yours, dark and completely unreadable.

“Of course,” she said.

A tear rolled down your cheek. You wiped it with the back of your hand, nodded.

“I want to address everyone at the Outpost as soon as we arrive,” Wilhemina went on.

You sniffed, offered her a broken smile.

“Ok.”

“They need to be perfectly apprised of the house rules.”

“Alright, you’re right.”

Another tear rolled down your cheek, which you quickly swiped away.

“Please don’t cry,” came Wilhemina’s voice.

“I - sorry,” you said quickly, wiping yet another tear. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”

As if your heart wasn’t breaking for her, as if you could ever forget the look in her eyes as she lay still with her nails digging deep into her skin.

There was a short pause, and then Wilhemina took your hand.

“I love you,” she said, as one says ‘it’s okay, I’ll be okay’.

You tried to offer her a smile, but it looked like a grimace, your mouth twisting as if it were full of shards of glass. You squeezed her hand, then raised it to your lips and pressed a long kiss on one of her knuckles.

“I love you, too,” you said, your voice shaking. You breathed in to add “I’m so sorry”, but breathed out wordlessly.

You squeezed Wilhemina’s hand again, swallowing down your guilt. You couldn’t bother her with it now that she was about to take on responsibility for the survival of the human race; you had to be a strong rock she could lean on, not a burden.

You sat on the seat next to Wilhemina’s and fastened your seat belt. Wilhemina raised the blind to peer outside. You turned your head away.

The plane landed, and the pilot came out of the cockpit. He was a tall, stout man with a kind face. You reached out to help Wilhemina get up her seat but she refused your help, shooting you a glance of warning. She stood up straight and proud without so much as a wince of pain, and walked up to the pilot.

He gave Wilhemina a smile and extended his right hand as if to shake to hers. He wore a thin, gold ring on his middle finger that looked very expensive.

“You’ll have to take that off,” Wilhemina said sternly. “Greys are not allowed to wear jewelry.”

“What are Greys?” you and the pilot asked at the exact same time. Wilhemina had not told you anything about the rules at Oupost 3. You had asked, more than once, but she had never answered you, and pretended not to hear you after the third or fourth time.

Wilhemina winked at you. “Our worker hands. “ She glared at the pilot, nodding in your direction. “Your job will be to serve her and the rest of the elite.”

The kindness faded from the pilot’s face.

“I’m not sure I like that,” he muttered.

Wilhemina’s cane tapped on the floor.

“Are you stupid?” she said, in a very slow, threatening voice. “You’re alive. Look around you. The world is no longer. Tell me, what exactly have you done to deserve surviving it?”

“I flew you here, lady,” the pilot grumbled. “You’d be dead without me.”

Wilhemina’s cane tapped on the floor again, louder.

“I’m making the rules here. You can either know your place and follow them, or take your chances, alone, in the nuclear winter.”

The pilot glanced desperately at you. You almost defended him. Part of you wasn’t sure this whole Grey thing was fair. But you could hardly imagine the devastating consequences of your challenging Wilhemina now, when she was finally in a position of power, when she trusted you to back her up. You had hurt her enough for the day.

“You better listen to her,” you said, forcing your voice to sound commanding. The colour drained from the man’s face.

You followed Wilhemina out of the plane – a thick fog was slowly swallowing the world, replacing the sick orange light with a pale grey that looked sicker somehow – and into the outpost. The place was no longer lit by electrical light but by hundreds of candles and every fireplace was alive with huge, crackling fires. You kept your eyes on Wilhemina, alert for signs of pain. There wasn’t any. As you passed a fireplace, the warmth from the fire briefly engulfed you, an unhoped-for comfort, a temporary balm to your heart.

Wilhemina turned left, and suddenly stopped. A small, stout woman with cropped black hair stood in the corridor, her hands crossed in front of her, her eyes two piercing lights ringed with black make-up. She bowed her head respectfully as she saw Wilhemina. Unconsciously you straightened your shoulders. A feeling, not exactly of authority, but of ruthless order oozed out from this woman. If you had to invent her a past, you would say quite confidently that she had spent years in the army as a high-ranked commanding officer.

Wilhemina introduced her as Ms Mead. The woman’s eyes slid to your face and she bowed her head to you, too, a quick, mechanical bending of the neck. She informed Wilhemina everything had been made ready as requested.

“It is so refreshing to work with someone who knows how to take orders and how to be efficient,” Wilhemina told her with an appreciative smile. She gestured towards the nearest door, a bathroom. “I’ll be a minute.”

Tap, tap, tap, went her cane, a cold, sharp sound; in the candlelight her hair was a deep red.

The bathroom door closed behind her. You counted five seconds before you turned to Ms Mead.

“Where’s the doctor?” you whispered urgently. You knew a doctor had been sent to every outpost, to make sure the survivors stayed safe and healthy.

Ms Mead shot you a glance that expressed absolutely nothing.

“Not here,” she answered in a robotic, toneless voice.

“What do you mean, not here?” you insisted, tiny sparks of fear flying up into your chest. Your throat tightened.

“He was supposed to arrive at 3, but he never did.” Ms Mead shrugged. “I guess we’ll have to do without him.”

More sparks, too many sparks. You almost screamed at her.

“My best guess is,” Ms Mead went on, entirely unaware of the frantic storm rising in you, “he decided to stay behind with his family. To die a useless death among his loved ones instead of taking on the honorable duty of caring for the survivors.”

“Some people are incredibly selfish,” came Wilhemina’s voice.

You jumped, turning around sharply as Wilhemina’s proud figure loomed up on your left side. “Ms Mead, gather everyone in the music room,” she ordered. “We’ll join them shortly.”

Ms Mead nodded and walked off. You glanced up nervously at Wilhemina.

“For the hundredth time, Y/N, I’m fine,” Wilhemina scolded.

You glanced up at her, scanned her face for any trace of pain, but it was completely blank. You glanced down at her hands. They rested on top of each other on the knob of her cane.

You glanced up at her face again. You figured she had no broken ribs, since she could move, and she was breathing just fine so probably nothing had damaged or punctured her lungs, but what if she were hemorrhaging, or what if she had broken something and was being very good at hiding it? That seemed to you very likely.

“Y/N?”

“What?” Your voice shot out too nervous, too aggressive.

Wilhemina’s face hardened. Tap, threatened her cane.

“We have no doctor,” you started. Your throat was so tight with fear it was a miracle your voice could get through.

“So I heard.”

“Wilhemina, someone needs to make sure you’re okay. And what will we do without a doctor? Oh God, Mina, and what about your back and what if –“

“None of that,” Wilhemina cut you off sharply. “Y/N, you need to calm down. I am fine.” She paused. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. “We survived the Apocalypse, Y/N. Now I need you to calm down, get a grip on yourself, and go and join the others in the music room. “

You closed your eyes, forced yourself to take a few deep breaths. I’m sorry, said your heart to hers, praying, praying it would hear, I’m so sorry.

You walked into the music room in a haze, barely registering the hum of worried voices and the few “Hello”s that were thrown your way. You collapsed on an armchair in a corner and buried your face in your hands. Tried to focus on your breathing. Images and sounds flashed in your mind; Wilhemina’s laugh as Rory kicked her, that terrible look in her eyes, her nails digging into her skin. Your eyes flew open as one wakes from a nightmare.

A young, fashionable man wearing sunglasses with purple-tinted lenses was staring at you. He didn’t look particularly worried, just interested.

“Are you alright, dear?” he asked in a mellow voice.

“Never better,” you growled.

“Aw,” the man said, “I know how it feels. I was supposed to fucking die in L.A.. It’s a stroke of luck I’m here, a stroke of luck. That, and my friend Coco’s crocodile wallet.” The man sat down on a chair next to you. His musky, minty perfume tickled your nose – it was so out-of-place, this smell, reminded you of lavishness and exuberance and self-confidence. If Outpost 3 had a smell, it would be that of the smoke of a candle that has just fizzled out.

The man, who introduced himself as a hairdresser, kept on talking, but you stopped listening. Your eyes scanned the people in the room, one face after the other, features blurring into each other, your brain unable to register details and to make observations. Your hands were sweaty. Your eyes fell on the familiar face of the pilot. Before you knew it you had abruptly stood up and walked to him, the hairdresser’s mouth falling open in consternation, his eyes glaring at your back through his purple-tinted sunglasses.

“Hey,” you said to the pilot. He had watched you approach with weary eyes, his lips a thin, tight, angry line. He acknowledged your presence with a stiff nod. “I wanted to thank you,” you went on, forcing your mouth into a smile. “For waiting for us. You didn’t have to.”

The pilot pursed his lips. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have,” he grumbled, but there was no hostility in his voice. His fingers started playing with a loose thread on his coat. “I guess I’m just too kind for my own good.”

“Um,” you pretended to consider his words. “I think the world would have fared better if there had been more kind people in it. You know, people who take the trouble to wait those extra five minutes to help others, instead of running for their lives.” You tried for another smile, and this time it came more easily.

The pilot glanced up at you suspiciously, but the kindness was returning to his face. “What’s going to happen, now?” he asked after a pause.

“I don’t really know.”

“The man who boarded the plane just before you did said such improper, rude things about the redhead, and even though she didn’t give me any reason to like her, I don’t think folks should –“

“Excuse me,” you cut the pilot off, your heart suddenly freezing in your chest, “what man?”

“Young fellow, the one sitting over there. He appeared out of nowhere saying he’d missed his transportation to Outpost 2 and he begged me to let him in, I couldn’t just leave him to his death.”

There was not a single drop of blood left in your veins. Your heart was steadily pumping ice, biting, burning ice that froze every thought and every emotion in your brain except anger – and the anger spread. It spread everywhere, sprang from your body and crashed against the ceiling and the walls where it crystallized into sharp, fang-like icicles.

Rory had not seen you yet. He was comforting a crying young woman when you reached him, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and half jerked him up on his feet. His eyes met yours in surprise as you growled into his face, “Boarding this plane was the worst mistake you ever made.” Rory tried to draw away but you tightened your grip on him and leaned in closer still, your breath ghosting his lips. “I swear to God, Rory, I’m going to turn your pathetic life into a nightmare and there will be blood.”

A loud tap cut you off. Both Rory and you jumped. Wilhemina had just entered the room, standing proud and dominating, her complexion warm in the candlelight, her eyes very dark. She had changed into a black Victorian-esque dress that brushed regally over the floor, with a high collar of intricate white lacework hugging her graceful, long neck. Her hair no longer was in her signature high ponytail but wrapped up into a perfectly centered, sophisticated bun. She looked so strong, so imposing, so perfectly in control of everything down to the dust that danced in the candlelight, that your fingers loosened their grip on Rory’s collar. You stepped away from him. Not in fear, not in defeat, but rather as a young predator respectfully makes way for the alpha that silently crawls through the grass towards the defenseless prey grazing in the shade.

Wilhemina’s gaze fell on Rory. Her eyes were as bottomless and terrifying as the inside of a cave sunlight never reaches. For Rory it meant there would be no peace, no warmth, no salvation. Another tap of her cane, and Rory flinched. Actually took a step towards you for protection.

Wilhemina walked up to him, her upper body gracefully swaying from side to side as it always did, her gait as nonchalant and powerful as a big cat’s. She stopped a few inches away from Rory and rested both hands on the knob of her cane.

“Welcome,” she breathed in his face, “to Outpost 3.”

You grinned. In the dark building with devastation outside the doors and despair within you grinned, warmth like that of a fire in a cold winter night spreading down your body and wrapping soothingly around your heart. Wilhemina’s eyes briefly shifted to yours. Oh, she would be alright. You lowered your head, staring down at the ugly floor to hide the pride and relief that painted themselves all across your face and twinkled in your eyes. Caught in the eye of a tornado this woman would be alright and with the flick of her fingers bend the howling winds to her command.

Rory’s body looked like it had lost several inches and pounds. Probably part of him had fled in fear. He gulped, tried to maintain eye contact with Wilhemina, failed, stared down at his feet as heat flooded his face.

“Unless I’m mistaken, you’re not on my list,” Wilhemina went on. Her voice was melodic, as if she were about to break into a song. “Take him to the cell,” she ordered a giant of a woman who stood in the doorway. The woman grabbed Rory and dragged him out of the room. His eyes shot a frightened look your way before he disappeared, the darkness swallowing his pale and quivering form.

A hush had fallen upon the room. Everyone stood rigid with their eyes lowered respectfully or inspecting a piece of furniture or the ceiling or their own fingers. You saw the hairdresser glance up at Wilhemina, curious and intimidated, his gaze lingering no more than a second on her face before focusing back on the cuff of his right sleeve.

Wilhemina tapped her cane on the floor and briefly introduced herself in a firm, authoritative voice. Her eyes coldly scanned the room as she talked, explaining what the Cooperative was, how hard they had worked to save the human race, how grateful the survivors should be, how humbled. Before explaining the house rules she reminded everyone that survival required order and strict obedience. She would be ruthless, she assured them sternly. Anyone who broke the rules would be kicked out of the building or immediately shot.

You frowned at that. Death seemed too extreme a punishment. Just as the thought crossed your mind, an old woman voiced it in consternation. Wilhemina’s gaze fell on her and a cold, condescending smile grazed her lips.

“It would be too extreme in the world we used to know,” she said very slowly. “But here, we are the last vestige of the human race. Error and insubordination simply cannot be tolerated, not when they could result in the complete eradication of our species.”

Hierarchy is the key, Wilhemina went on. In Outpost 3, everyone would know their place. Here she paused to unfold a piece of paper and slowly read out the names of “the Elite” and of “those who would serve them”, the Purples and the Greys respectively. You nervously shifted your weight from one foot to the other. Hushed whispers were exchanged before another sharp tap of Wilhemina’s cane commanded silence.

There would be no leaving the building. Greys and Purples alike would be on a strict timetable. Each Purple would be attributed a Grey to serve and obey them. Here a few voices rose in protest, but quickly died down. Good manners and proper dressing should be observed, for appearances did wonders on one’s morale. There should be no indulging in improper activities, and no unauthorized copulation.

Your jaw dropped open at that.

“Excuse me?” the hairdresser exclaimed, his voice louder and clearer than all the others which chimed in angry protest. “It’s already Hell down here, no need to make it worse!“

“Now that’s bullshit,” you heard yourself growl.

Wilhemina’s eyes met yours. “I said,” she enunciated, “no unauthorized copulation.”

Oh. Your shoulders relaxed. You bit down on a smirk. You swore, Wilhemina’s mouth twitched just so, as if she, too, were holding back a smug smile.

After that, Ms Mead was ordered to show everyone to their rooms. You lingered behind as the others crowded to the door, voices grumbling and shoulders bending in defeat, like a pack of children gathering for class after recess. Wilhemina watched them leave, and then she turned on her heel and disappeared in the corridor.

You followed her, assuming a nonchalant expression, sticking your hands into your pockets. Wilhemina walked into the bedroom she had chosen for herself and you on your first visit of the Outpost. You glanced right and left, then followed her inside.

As soon as you closed the door, Wilhemina sat heavily on the bed, her shoulders sagging, and closed her eyes. You kneeled in front of her, peering up worriedly at her.

“Are you okay? Are you hurting? Wilhemina, are you okay?” you inquired urgently, your hands coming up to cup her face.

A soft smile slowly spread over her lips, and her eyes fluttered open. “I’m fine, Y/N,” she answered, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

You scrambled up to your feet and sat on the bed next to her, pressing your shoulder to hers, reaching for her hand.

“You should lie down,” you urged, ”have some rest. You did so much, Mina you did so good.”

She closed her eyes again, and shook her head.

“I don’t have time to rest, Y/N. I need to make sure everyone is settling in properly.”

“Let me do it,” you offered, pushing your palm to hers and lacing your fingers together. “I can do it. You lie down and I’ll see to everything.”

She let out a sigh and rested her head on your shoulder.

“I’m grateful for the offer, Y/N, but you have no idea how this place is to be run. Besides, it’s not your job.”

Her head was pressing more and more heavily on your shoulder. She looked so exhausted, so vulnerable in contrast to her earlier show of strength and power that you felt fear clench at your throat once more.

You wrapped one arm around her shoulders to support her and she let her body sag against your side. She buried her face in the crook of your neck and let out one shaky breath that tickled your skin.

“Where did he hurt you?” you asked in a whisper, nuzzling into her hair.

Something wet rolled down your neck. There was silence, broken by a sniffle and then Wilhemina’s voice, barely audible, “My stomach and ribs feel like they’re broken into pieces.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, breathed out angrily through your nose and gently stroked your thumb over her shoulder, back and forth.

“Let me have a look?” you tried softly.

She shook her head. “It’s not pretty.”

“I don’t care,” you retorted, the words leaving your mouth confident and strong.

Wilhemina pulled herself away from you as if she meant to stand, but she stayed on the bed, making no effort to straighten her shoulders. She sighed, lifted one hand to pinch the bridge of her nose.

“I really do have to go,” she said. She opened one eye to look at you. “You can play the doctor tonight when my day is done.”

You watched her as she stood up and scrutinized her reflection in the mirror, smoothing her left hand over her dress, tilting her head on one side then the other, tugging at her right sleeve that rode up her arm.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there,” you whispered, so low you thought she could not hear you, but her eyes met yours in the mirror. The next words left your mouth coated with such sadness and so heavy with guilt it was a miracle they made it all the way to Wilhemina. “I’m so sorry I didn’t take Mutt’s warning seriously. I was wrong about Rory, and I put you in danger, and I can’t -” Your voice trailed off. You closed your eyes, unable to hold Wilhemina’s gaze, and gulped back tears.

For a few, agonizingly long seconds, there was only silence. Stupid, you scolded yourself, not for the first time today. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You had sworn to yourself you would not burden Wilhemina with your useless feelings of guilt, sworn you would keep them to yourself. You kept putting her in uncomfortable, dangerous situations and you –

There was the sound of Wilhemina’s cane, the rustle of her dress, and then you felt warmth on your cheeks as her hands cupped your face.

“It wasn’t your fault, Y/N,” you heard her voice, soft and loving. You opened your eyes. Wilhemina’s brow was slightly pushed up, her eyes were big and very brown and God, how you loved her eyes. You leaned in, as if to dive into them. “Please don’t hold yourself responsible for anything that happened today.”

You were about to protest, but you closed your mouth at the last second and kept the words captive. No burdening her, you reminded yourself sharply. She already had so much to carry. So you gave her a smile instead, hoping it looked convincing; it must have, for Wilhemina let go of your face and drew away.

You watched her walk slowly to the door, pressed your lips tightly closed as another apology violently slammed against them, desperate for a way out. No burdening her. Wilhemina stopped in front of the door, straightened her back and shoulders, and took a deep breath. She stood as regal and powerful as you had ever seen her, the candlelight dancing in awe on her hair.

She put one hand on the door handle, offered you a smile like a bouquet of flowers, opened the door, and walked off.

#didn't it bug you there wasn't any doctor in Outpost 3?#what kind of bad organisation was that #so now there was one but he's dead #ahs #sarah paulson #sarah paulson x reader #wilhemina venable x reader #wilhemina venable #fics #ahs imagines

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bubonickitten · 3 years

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Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: Jon and Basira make their way to Ny-Ålesund; Daisy and Martin have a long-overdue conversation.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 26: panic/anxiety symptoms; brief descriptions of Flesh-domain-typical imagery; discussion of police violence, intimidation tactics, & abuse of authority (re: Daisy’s past actions); mentions of canonical character deaths & murder; reference to a canonical instance of a character being outed (re: Jon’s coworkers gossiping about him being ace); allusions to childhood emotional neglect; a bit of internalized ableism re: ADHD symptoms; discussions of strict religious indoctrination; a physical altercation, including being restrained with a hold; swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 26: Remains To Be Seen

The journey to Tromsø is… uneventful, comparatively speaking.

Almost worryingly so, Jon observes at one point.

You’re fretting because something hasn’t gone horribly wrong? Basira asks.

Aren’t you?

The tension in Basira’s shoulders is answer enough. They’re both on tenterhooks, all too aware of the dreadful species of things that lurk in the margins of the world, any number of which could be waiting in the wings for them.

That’s not to say there are no complications at all. There’s a learning curve to navigating the world blindfolded, but the two of them settle into something of a routine: Basira guiding Jon with a hand on his arm, talking him around obstacles, across gaps, and up and down stairs. An improvised system of nudges and taps develops organically over the course of their travels, starting when Basira realizes that Jon has trouble parsing her words over the noise of a crowd. It becomes their go-to mode of communication with surprising ease.

It’s an exercise in trust oddly refreshing in its mundanity.

Jon finds the blindfold comforting, in its own way: surreal, but somehow not as surreal as the evidence of normalcy all around him. Consistent, straightforward geography is disorientating enough after so long traversing a world knitted together by nightmare logic and allegory. Even more bewildering are the people. Throngs of them go about their day-to-day routines, each preoccupied with their own affairs, taking for granted their relative anonymity against the vast backdrop of the bustling world around them, secure in the privacy of their own thoughts – and blissfully unaware of the alternative.

This is how it should be, he admonishes himself in a weary refrain. People deserve ownership over their own minds, their stories, their secrets. The Archivist in him vehemently disagrees, of course. It’s exhausting, how relentlessly Jon has to challenge that instinctual voyeurism.

Prone to sensory overload, he’s always hated crowds: the noise, the flurry of movement, the press of bodies, the constant threat of unwanted touches, the lack of freedom to move at his own pace. Becoming the Archivist made the experience infinitely worse. The combination of the blindfold and Daisy’s noise-cancelling headphones does little to stem the tide of intrusive knowledge: random scraps of disconcerting trivia, a steady stream of morbid statistics, insights into the deep-seated anxieties of passersby – and, on a few occasions, the whisper of a story to be chronicled. At least the blindfold prevents him from inadvertently locking eyes with anyone.

They try to avoid traveling during peak commuting hours, but not every crowd can be evaded. The first time he wanders into the path of a potential statement giver, Jon nearly causes a pile-up in a congested station, stopping so abruptly in his tracks that the person in the queue behind him crashes headlong into him. Basira manages to catch him before he’s knocked off his feet, keeping a firm grasp on his arm when the panicked urge to flee overtakes him and nearly sends him careening blindly in the opposite direction. When a nearby stranger snipes at him for the nuisance, Jon is surprised at how immediately Basira leaps to his defense.

Back off, she says, the hint of a threat in her tone, before steering Jon out of the crowd and off to the side, where he can lean against the wall and catch his breath. She stands firm between him and the masses, diverting traffic and warding off anyone else who might seek a confrontation, giving him the sorely-needed time to compose himself. He’s certain that she’ll be cross with him after, but… she isn’t.

Tense, certainly. Concerned even. But criticism is bafflingly, mercifully absent.

There are a few more incidents after that, but none quite so dramatic. The instant he senses the Archivist in him stirring, he chokes out a warning to Basira, who turns out to be preternaturally adept at finding (or creating) spaces for him to recoup. With both of them on guard and communicating freely, they manage to avoid being in close quarters with anyone who might have a story to tell.

Tromsø offers a temporary reprieve from all of that. There are people, of course – it’s the busiest fishing port in Norway, the Eye interposes for the fourth time this hour. Jon takes an aggravated swipe at the empty air beside him, once again momentarily forgetting that there’s no pesky swarm of Watchers tagging along for this particular journey. Not visibly, at least.

Still, the open-air piers of a busy fishing port are a far cry from a densely-packed train. There’s a cargo ship scheduled to leave for Ny-Ålesund within the next hour, and Basira is further down the docks meeting with its captain to (hopefully) arrange for passage. Apparently Jon has earned some trust over the course of their travels, because she didn’t object when he requested to stay back and take a breather.

Although the docks of Tromsø bear little resemblance to the beaches of Bournemouth, the calls of seabirds are familiar enough to be meditative. Nostalgic, albeit in an uneasy, bittersweet way. His childhood was riddled enough with nightmares and alienation that thoughts of the place where he grew up are always laced with remembered horror and punctuated by a nebulous sense of grief for what could have been. If he never caught the Spider’s eye; if he never opened the book; if he wasn’t quite so demanding and easily bored and difficult to manage; if his eccentric reading habits were just a bit less finicky, even…

Left to his own devices, Jon could drown himself in what ifs.

A frigid gust of wind whips his hair about. When he reaches up to smooth it down, he finds it coarse from the brine-saturated breeze. Rubbing his fingertips together and grimacing at the faint gritty residue, Jon pulls Georgie’s scarf up over his nose to fend against the nip in the air and he turns his sight to the sky. It’s a stark, pallid grey, the kind of overcast that manages to be blinding-bright despite the sun’s concealment. The sight stings his eyes, but still he does not blink.

It should be exhilarating to look up and see nothing staring back. Instead, the sight fills him with… well, it’s difficult for him to define succinctly. Some peculiar species of dread, mingled with a disquieting, ill-defined sense of longing. Perhaps he’s simply becoming adrift in time again: remembering how it felt to look up at a Watching sky and hopelessly wish for a return to the world as it was, to clouds and stars and void. But he can’t shake the suspicion that it’s at least partly a monstrous yearning for the ruined future from which he came.

He doesn’t know what that says about him. Nothing good, probably.

You miss it, a gloating, sinister little voice concurs from one of the murky, thorny corners of Jon’s mind. You don’t belong here. You Know where you–

Jon’s phone dings several times, yanking him away from that ill-fated train of thought. Grateful for the interruption, he digs it out of his pocket, instantly brightening when Naomi’s name greets him and eagerly opening their text thread.

Jon is too busy smiling to himself to notice Basira’s approach.

“What’s – oh, sorry,” she says when he starts. “Keep expecting you to just sort of… Know I’m here.”

“The Eye doesn’t seem inclined to help me out on that front, unfortunately,” Jon says with an embarrassed chuckle. “If anything, my being jumpy probably feeds it.”

Basira glances down at his phone, then back up at him. “Everything alright?”

“Hm? Oh, yes. Naomi.” Jon’s grin returns. “All her texts from the last couple days just came through at once. She wants to know whether Krampus is real.”

“And what did you tell her?”

“Haven’t replied just yet.”

“Oh.” Basira opens her mouth to say more, then promptly closes it.

A delighted smirk twitches into being at the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Now you want to know as well, don’t you?”

Basira rolls her eyes, but doesn’t deny it. “Later. We have a boat to catch.”

When Jon reaches into his pocket to retrieve his blindfold, Basira shakes her head.

“Best not,” she says. “The captain agreed to take us, but she was leery about the whole thing. I don’t want to give her a reason to reconsider. The less suspicious we seem, the better.”

“Still getting odd stares, then?”

“Getting used to people looking at me like I’m transporting a hostage,” she replies with a tired, beleaguered smile. It fades into a frown as she looks him up and down, taking stock of his shaking hands and the way he leans heavily on his cane. “Alright?”

“A bit sore,” Jon admits, glancing down at his leg. “Probably just been putting weight on it for too long a stretch.”

“We should be able to sit soon. Until then, try not to fall.”

“Or freeze,” Jon says distractedly, glancing warily upwards again.

“Daisy says the cold always gets to her,” Basira says, quietly enough that Jon suspects it wasn’t meant for him. “Seriously, though – you alright? You keep staring at the sky like it’s going to crack open.”

“I’m fine.” Jon shuts his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath. “Just… apprehensive.”

“Sense anything?” Despite her carefully bland tone, the crux of the question is clear.

“Nothing concrete.” No statement givers, he does not say – but Basira nods, understanding his meaning. “I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Come on, then.” She starts off down the dock – at a brisk pace at first, but slowing when she looks back to ensure that Jon is following and observes his stiffer, more deliberate gait.

He grimaces apologetically. Up until Jane Prentiss and her worms, he was inclined towards speed walking as much as Basira is. Always in a hurry to get nowhere at all, Georgie used to say, simultaneously lamenting and teasing. Not everyone is a power walker, Jon, Martin would gripe from time to time during the apocalypse.

Maybe some of us want to slow down and take in the scenery, he grumbled on one occasion, as they traipsed through a predictably grisly Flesh domain.

The forest of pulsating meat sculptures, you mean? Jon replied primly.

Oh, you’re telling me you don’t feel the overwhelming urge to stop and take notes on the ecology of flesh spiders?

Not as much as I want to get to a place where the ground isn’t a spongy skin trampoline.

Flesh domains always had a tendency to bring out the worst (best?) of their morbid humor, Jon notes upon reflection.

In any case, Jon has always had a tendency to hurry, too impatient to reach his destination to appreciate the journey. Internally, that impulse is still there. On good days, he can almost satisfy that restlessness. Today is not a good day.

Basira stops and waits. It’s a practice that has become second nature to her ever since Daisy emerged from the Buried: learning all the unspoken signals and warning signs of a bad pain day, from barely-suppressed winces and cold sweat to waspishness and stifled, winded breaths; gauging all the fickle fluctuations in mobility in real time through careful, constant observation; and discreetly adjusting her own walking pace to accommodate without question or complaint.

“You know, I haven’t spent much time on boats,” Basira says, apropos of nothing – probably to break the silence as she waits for Jon to catch up. “I’m hoping motion sickness during long car rides isn’t correlated with seasickness. Does the Eye have any statistics handy? Seems like it would qualify as terrible knowledge.”

“Let’s just say you should keep the Dramamine at the ready,” Jon says wryly as he reaches her position.

“Wonderful,” Basira sighs, and she resumes walking, this time matching Jon’s stride.

Martin will be the first to admit that, between the two of them, Jon doesn’t have a monopoly on obsessiveness.

Case in point: Jon and Basira have been gone for five days now, and – in between bouts of worrying over their safety and mounting apprehension about Peter’s inexplicable, persistent hiatus – Martin is still replaying everything he said and did in the moments leading up to Jon’s departure.

Or, more precisely, what he didn’t say.

Nearly two months have passed since Jon returned from the Buried. It’s been nice, it really has, spending time with him. He’s changed – How could he not have? – but he’s still Jon. Even more wounded and jaded than he was before – How much abuse can one person take? – but it hasn’t made him cruel or cold. Harder in some respects, to be sure – namely on himself.

Which is saying something, Martin thinks with a pang. In all the time that Martin has known him, Jon has never been kind to himself. It’s always been a struggle to convince him to take care of himself in the most basic of ways, let alone spare a thought for comfort.

But in other respects, Jon has grown softer. More open, more communicative – more trusting, somehow, despite this world and the next piling on reason after reason for him to detach and withdraw. Martin thinks about that every time the Lonely starts to whisper in his ear. The fog is still there, firmly planted in his mind, choking out his thoughts from time to time like an invasive weed. It won’t be easily uprooted. Seeing Jon alive and trying, reaching out, grasping at warmth, clinging to humanity with all his trademark stubbornness… it makes Martin want to try, too. It makes him want to hope, to look forward and see – to fight for – a future where things are better.

So, yes, Jon has changed. They both have.

I’m not the person you remember, Martin said the first time they spoke after Jon came back. I’m not the person you fell in love with.

Jon had locked eyes with him then, and Martin found that he could not look away.

Martin has spent the majority of his life walking a tightrope, striking an uneasy balance between competing instincts. The part of him that excels in flying under the radar takes comfort in being inconspicuous. There are people out there who see kindness as naivety and trust as a weakness to be exploited. The best way to avoid their notice is to avoid being seen at all, and Martin learned early on that to be unremarkable has its own advantages. All too often, to go unnoticed is to survive.

It isn’t enough to just survive, though, is it? Barely hidden underneath all the abysmal self-esteem and the carefully constructed mask of agreeability, there is a spark of indignation and outrage and want. To be seen is fundamentally terrifying; to demand acknowledgment is to welcome exposure. But Martin has always had a rebellious streak, carving out a space for itself amongst all the loneliness and fear and self-deprecation.

Look at me, it seethes. See me.

And when Jon did look at him – Saw him – an unmistakably pleased little voice jostled its way to the forefront to triumphantly declare, Finally.

Martin, I fell in love with this version of you, Jon said. With every version of you.

It was difficult to believe. Martin didn’t want to believe it. He was afraid to believe it. But he did, and he does, and he feels the same way, and he has for so, so long, and that defiant chip on his shoulder never truly let him forget it, even when isolation had him by the throat–

So why can’t you say it?

Since that day, it hasn’t come up again. Jon is affectionate, far more than Martin would have expected. Sure, Jon has always seemed more natural at expressing his feelings through actions rather than words, but Martin never imagined he would be so… well, cuddly. Jon always struck Martin as averse to touch, keeping people at arm’s length both figuratively and literally. He still is, sometimes. But more often than not, Martin gets the impression that Jon would cling like a limpet if given explicit permission. Martin doesn’t know whether that’s a new development, or whether it’s just that he now numbers among Jon’s rare exceptions.

Maybe I should ask Georgie, Martin thinks, only partly in jest.

There’s still a lingering hesitancy there, though. Yes, when Martin invites contact, Jon jumps at the opportunity to be close. Initiating, though… Jon doesn’t quite walk on eggshells per se, but he moves with a gentleness perhaps too gentle at times. Excessively tentative – but not subtle.

Martin long ago perfected the art of stealing furtive glances at Jon. It’s not difficult. Jon is prone to tunnel vision, predisposed to lose himself in his work or a book or his own mind until the rest of the world outside his narrow focus dissolves around him. If he ever noticed Martin’s eyes on him, Jon never called attention to it.

Jon’s staring doesn’t have the same finesse. His gaze is heavy. Concentrated, unwavering, penetrating – and Jon is painfully self-conscious about that. Prompt to stammer apologies whenever he’s caught watching, quick to avert his eyes. According to him, most people find the Archivist’s attention unnerving. Martin supposes it can be at times, but he’s long since become acclimated to it. Endeared to it, even. It’s grounding, despite how ruthlessly being Seen clashes with the Lonely aspects of Martin’s existence.

Maybe that disharmony is precisely why it’s grounding.

So Jon’s eyes flit to Martin whenever he thinks Martin isn’t looking, and cautious glimpses stretch into riveted, unconscious watching, and Martin graciously pretends not to notice. This has been the status quo for weeks now: faltering not-quite-touches and longing, not-so-surreptitious gazes, interspersed with understated handholding and a few sporadic sessions of what Martin can only call cuddling. All of it has been underscored by three simple words dangling in the scant expanse of empty space between them, waiting for acknowledgment.

Jon is waiting – waiting for Martin – and Jon… Jon has never been good at waiting, has he? Not like Martin. Jon’s directionless fidgeting and bitten-short declarations and absentminded stares betray his buzzing impatience despite his best efforts, but still he’s waiting, with as much valiant restraint as he can muster.

I love you. It’s a truth so obvious that speaking it aloud would hardly qualify as a confession. I love you, Martin thinks, and he feels it down to his bones, woven into the very atoms of him.

It’s difficult to pinpoint when it began. Early on, Martin only wanted to appear qualified to his new supervisor, then to impress him, then to prove him wrong – and then, eventually, to genuinely take care of him. Jon was in need of care, and resistant to receiving it, and that was familiar, wasn’t it? Maybe some desperate, stubborn part of Martin just wanted to be useful for once. To be seen. To succeed with Jon where he had failed with his mother.

Then Prentiss happened. Martin had been certain that Jon would dismiss Martin’s story, reprimand him for his prolonged absence, and snap at him to get back to work. And then… he didn’t.

Your safety is my responsibility, Jon said curtly, showing Martin to his new, hopefully temporary lodgings. I failed you, Jon’s contrite grimace read. I won’t fail you again. Then he immediately strode off to meet with Elias, leaving Martin loitering idly in Document Storage, speechless and bemused.

Maybe that’s where it started: Jon barging unannounced and uninvited into Elias’ office with brazen, unapologetic demands for safe haven and fire extinguishers and heightened security. He even went so far as to persistently badger Elias for customizations to the building’s sprinkler system. That tenacity may have been partly driven by guilt and obligation, but Martin swore he caught glimpses of something more from time to time. Something deeper and more personal, sympathetic and kind.

It started, as so many significant shifts do, with the small things.

Martin retired to Document Storage one night that first week to find extra blankets folded neatly at the end of his cot. I thought you might be cold, Jon admitted upon questioning. It can get chilly in here at night. The pressing question of exactly how many times Jon must have slept here overnight in order to know that was promptly crowded out by a vivid mental image of Jon wrestling a heavy quilt onto the Tube during the morning commuter rush. The thought brought a smile to Martin’s face. He said as much, and Jon immediately fabricated a clumsy excuse to exit the conversation.

On another occasion, Martin opened the break room cabinet to find his favorite tea restocked. He’d been putting off shopping, too anxious to leave the relative safety of the Institute’s walls. I noticed you were running low, Jon mumbled. And I was already at the store anyway, he added almost defensively, eyes narrowing in a stern glare to discourage comment – as if drawing attention to Jon’s random acts of kindness would destroy his curmudgeonly reputation.

Those circumspect displays of consideration were touching in their awkwardness. Jon was gruff and reticent, to be sure, but he cared, in his own unpracticed, idiosyncratic way. And one day, when Martin looked at him, he thought, I’d like to kiss him, and then: Oh no. Oh, fuck.

Jon never seemed to pick up on Martin’s feelings back then. But he knows now – not Knows, just knows – and, impossible as still seems, he returns those feelings. Jon said the words in no uncertain terms, left them in Martin’s care – and now he’s waiting for Martin to make the next move.

So why haven’t you? What are you waiting for?

“Want some tea?”

Martin jumps at the sound of Daisy’s voice.

“Sorry,” she snorts. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“I –” Martin clears his throat, recovering. “Tea. Right. Uh, I can get it–”

“Let me. I need to stretch my legs anyway. And I wouldn’t want to interrupt your pining.”

“Wh-what?” Martin sputters.

“You haven’t turned the page in at least twenty minutes,” Daisy informs him, nodding at the statement resting on the table in front of him. “Liable to burn yourself on the kettle while you’re spacing out, fantasizing about snogging Jon or whatever.”

“Wh– I – you – I’m – why would–”

“Don’t know why you’re being so coy about it.” Her blasé shrug is offset by the devious grin on her face. “Not like it’s a secret you’re on kissing terms.”

“We… we haven’t,” Martin blurts out, heat rising in his cheeks. Immediately, he kicks himself. Given what he knows of Daisy, there’s no avoiding an interrogation now.

“You – wait, really?” Daisy raises her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“It just hasn’t – I – it’s really none of your–” Martin huffs, flustered. “I don’t even know if he does that.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“B-because, he…”

Because Martin has a tendency to fade into the background, and people will say a lot of things when they assume no one else is in earshot.

Do you know if he and Jon ever…

No clue, and not interested! Although… according to Georgie, Jon doesn’t.

Like, at all?

Yeah.

Martin cringes at the memory. He wasn’t trying to eavesdrop. He still wishes he hadn’t overheard. Jon was always so tight-lipped about his personal life back then. It felt like a violation of his privacy, knowing something that he would in all likelihood have preferred to keep to himself and share only at his own discretion. Martin tried to put it out of his head, to avoid thinking too hard on the specifics of what Jon “doesn’t” – and, conversely, what he maybe, possibly does – but, well…

Martin shakes his head to clear his thoughts before they can meander any further into the realm of imagination. In any case, he certainly isn’t about to repeat that piece of gossip to Daisy now.

“I – I just don’t want to assume,” he says instead.

Daisy tilts her head, considering. “Well, have you asked him?”

“W-well, no.”

“Why not? Sure, some people aren’t into kissing, I guess, but I doubt he’d mind you asking. Even if the answer is ‘no,’ I guarantee he wants to be close in other ways.” At Martin’s lack of response, Daisy heaves an exaggerated sigh. “He reaches for you every time you’re not looking, you know. Always fidgeting with his hands, like he wants to touch but he doesn’t know how to ask. He’s as bad as you are, pining face and all.”

“I do not have a ‘pining face,’” Martin says. “If you must know, I was worrying just now.”

“You definitely have a pining face, and it’s different from your worried face. When you’re worried, you get all scowly and you chew your lip bloody. You’re focused, intense. When you’re pining, you get this faraway look to you, like you’re not taking anything in. And you touch your fingers to your lips a lot – yeah, like that.”

Martin yanks his fingers away from his mouth as if scalded, glowering indignantly at an increasingly smug Daisy. “What are you, a mentalist?”

“I’ve gotten used to reading people – picking up on openings, weak spots, stress signals, you know. Don’t know whether that’s a Hunt thing or a me thing. Both, maybe.” She shakes her head. “Anyway, you went from worried to pining about ten minutes ago now. And Jon, he’s even easier to read than you are. He’s so far gone for you, I can tease him mercilessly about it and never get a rise out of him. Even when I can get him to bat an eye, he never does that… that flustered denial thing he usually does when you hit a nerve. He just goes all… soft and wistful. Retreats into his own head, gets that smitten little smile – you know the one?”

“Yes.” Martin is blushing furiously now, he’s certain. Daisy flashes him another knowing, unabashedly victorious smirk.

“Point is, our lives are messed up, water is wet, and Jon Sims loves cats and Martin Blackwood, but he’s terrified of crossing some invisible line, so instead he’s just openly pining and it isn’t even fun to tease him about it because he’s too lovestruck to be properly embarrassed about it.” Daisy pauses for a breath. “So, if you want to kiss Jon, you should ask him, because I doubt he’s going to make the first move anytime soon, and it’s getting ridiculous watching the two of you tiptoe around the elephant in the room. So what are you waiting for?”

“How is any of this your business, anyway?” Martin snaps.

“Well, seeing as Jon’s my friend–”

That strikes a nerve, and Martin is reacting before he can properly evaluate the feeling.

“Okay, yeah, about that,” he says sharply. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Well, all you wanted to do before was hunt him down and hurt him.” Instantaneously, Daisy’s playful demeanor evaporates. “Even after Elias blackmailed you into working for him, you still looked at Jon like he wasn’t human. Not even a monster, either, just – just something you wanted to tear apart, just because you wanted to see him afraid. And now all of a sudden you’re friends? I mean, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Jon’s willing to overlook a murder attempt. He… he has so little respect for himself, his standards are so…” Martin captures his lower lip between his teeth and bites down until it aches. “He’s so used to being treated badly, the bar is six feet below ground.”

“Yeah,” Daisy whispers.

“But – but what I can’t figure out is what your angle is. You wanted to hurt him, you did hurt him – he still has a scar from where you held a knife to his throat. You would’ve killed him if Basira didn’t stop you.”

“I–”

“He was so afraid of disappearing without a trace, did you know that?” Martin interjects, his face growing hotter as over a year’s worth of pent-up fury boils to the surface.

Martin has read enough statements to know that even one of the encounters representative of the Institute’s collection is one traumatic experience too many. Even so, it’s only a small fraction of the horror stories that have plagued humanity throughout history – that continue to unfold in the present day. How many people suffer something horrible and don’t live long enough to tell the story? The Archive, chock-full of terror though it may be, is an ongoing study in survivorship bias.

“When Prentiss attacked the Institute,” Martin fumes, “Jon was more afraid of that – of leaving nothing behind – than he was of dying. You were going to bury him where no one would ever find him, and no one would ever know what happened to him, and now… now you say you want to be his friend, like nothing ever happened? And I’m supposed to just trust you?”

For a long minute, the only sound is Martin’s rapid, heavy breathing. He doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Combativeness, maybe. For Daisy to get her hackles up, to defend herself against Martin’s implications, to take offense to his accusatory tone. Instead, her entire posture wilts and her shoulders curl inward. It’s as if an invisible weight is pressing against her on all sides, crushing her into something small and taut.

“I guess we’re doing this now, then,” she mumbles.

“Guess we are,” Martin says stiffly, one foot tapping frenetically against the floor as his agitation continues creeping ever upward.

Daisy nods and releases a heavy exhale. “This isn’t just about Jon, is it?”

“I…” Martin trails off as he considers the question. “No. I guess it’s not.”

“Well.” Daisy rubs at her upper arms, eyes fixed on the floor. “Go on.”

“When you questioned all of us – when you interrogated me, you didn’t – you didn’t actually want to find out the truth. You just wanted to get to Jon, because you assumed he was guilty, and…” Martin huffs. “No, it wasn’t even about guilt, was it? You didn’t care about solving Leitner’s murder, you didn’t care about finding Sasha – she could’ve still been alive for all we knew at the time, but you didn’t care whether she was in danger, whether she could be saved. And – and even if we did have proof that she was dead, we deserved to know what happened to her. She deserved better than to be a mystery.”

“You’re right.” Daisy’s soft agreement does nothing to temper Martin’s burgeoning wrath.

“She was my friend, you know that? She was my friend, and you just – dismissed her, like she wasn’t worth remembering, like her life was some – some trivial detail. I didn’t know whether to be afraid for her or – or – or to mourn for her, and all you had to offer was, ‘Jon probably killed her, tell me where he is or else.’ You were a detective, you were supposed to help, but all you cared about was getting to Jon, and you – you – you threatened me because you thought I could tell you where to find him. That you could use me to hurt him.” Martin breathes a bitter chuckle. “I guess Jon was right not to trust the police to figure out what happened to Gertrude.”

Daisy doesn’t deny it.

“So… yeah.” Martin shrugs as his rant tapers off. “That’s where I am, I guess. I know you’ve changed – haven’t we all – but… every time I see you near Jon, there’s a part of me that panics. Maybe I’m not being fair, but I – I can’t forget. I don’t know how to feel.”

Daisy is quiet for a long minute, fingers digging into her arms now, a pained expression lingering on her face.

“I’ve done… a lot of things I’m not proud of,” she says slowly. “Hurt a lot of people. Most more than they deserved. Many who didn’t deserve it at all. Can’t even make apologies to most of them, let alone make amends. I don’t even know if I could make amends. Some things are unforgivable.”

It doesn’t undo what I did, Jon’s voice plays in Martin’s mind. I can’t erase it.

“You should know,” Daisy says, “complete lack of self-respect aside, Jon doesn’t… he doesn’t overlook what I did.”

“What?”

“He knows what I am. What I’ve done. He doesn’t pretend I’m something I’m not, he doesn’t lie to me about what I could become, he doesn’t offer me forgiveness that I don’t deserve, but he still… he still doesn’t expect the worst from me, either. He expects me to make the right choice, even though I gave him every reason not to trust me.”

“He’s still too forgiving,” Martin mutters.

“That’s another thing. I… I don’t think he does. Forgive me, that is.”

“Have you asked him?”

“No.”

“Because you’re afraid to know the answer?” Maybe that’s uncharitable, but Martin never claimed to be an easily forgiving soul. Most people wouldn’t assume it at first glance, but he’s always had a tendency to nurse a grudge.

Daisy hunches even further, her shoulders drawing in tighter.

“Because if he did forgive me, he would tell me,” she says, her throat bobbing as she struggles to swallow. “But he doesn’t. I know he doesn’t, and he shouldn’t, and I’m not going to put him in a position where he has to justify himself, or sugarcoat it, or comfort me for what I did to him.”

Martin doesn’t know what to say to that.

“And the same goes for you.” Daisy steals a quick glimpse at Martin before lowering her head again. “I won’t ask you to forgive me. Ever. But I am sorry – for how I treated you, for what I did to Jon. I’ll never stop being sorry. That doesn’t make it better, I know. But I want to do better. I’m trying to be better. Too little too late, maybe, but I won’t go back to how I was before. I can’t take it all back, but I can at least make sure I don’t hurt anyone else.”

“You sound like Jon.”

“First and second place for guiltiest conscience, us,” Daisy says with a tired chuckle. “And I don’t know which of us is in first.” She sighs. “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me, but I do see Jon as a friend. Not just because I’m sorry, or because he saved me, or because I owe him, but because he… well, he sees me as I am, and he sees me for who I want to be, and he doesn’t see those as mutually exclusive, but he also doesn’t deny the contradiction.”

“Wish he could apply the same logic to himself.”

“Yeah. He’s an absolute mess of double standards. Best we can do is call him on it at every opportunity. Maybe eventually he’ll get it through his head.”

“Yeah,” Martin scoffs. “Maybe.”

“Anyway,” she says, “I care about him, and he cares about you, so…”

“So you thought you’d appoint yourself his wingman?”

“Maybe a little.” Daisy gives him a hesitant, sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Martin sighs. The resentment is still there, but he does feel a bit lighter after getting it all out in the open. Besides, he's so emotionally drained from his outburst, he can’t quite work up the energy for mild annoyance right this moment.

“Well, in that case – if you want to kiss him, you should ask. That’s all I’m saying,” Daisy says hurriedly, holding up her palms in a placating gesture when Martin gives her a tired glare. “I’ll drop it now. I meant it when I said I wanted tea.”

Daisy winces as she rises to her feet.

“And I meant it when I said I can get it,” Martin says.

“I’ve got it.”

“Then at least let me come along and–”

“Uh, no.” Daisy gives him a quelling look. “Jon warned me about how you are with tea.”

“What?”

“Says you’re a micromanager.”

“He what?” Martin demands.

“Okay, he didn’t say it like that. Actually, I think the word he used was persnickety.”

“Oh, as if he has room to talk,” Martin mutters. “He’s just miffed that I caught him microwaving tea once and I refuse to let him live it down.”

“What’s wrong with microwaving tea?” Martin recoils, affronted – and then Daisy snorts. “Settle down. I’m just messing with you.” She starts to leave, pausing only briefly to glance over her shoulder. “I won’t be long. Yell if Peter decides to finally show his face.”

“Will do,” Martin groans, reluctantly returning to the statement in front of him. Yet another alleged Extinction sighting, courtesy of Peter, for Martin to dutifully pretend to research.

Stringing Peter along is the best way Martin knows to keep in check. In that sense, it’s an important job – one only Martin can do. Nonetheless, it’s reminiscent of how it felt to be left behind when the others went to stop the Unknowing. Distracting Elias was important, sure, and dangerous in its own way, but it wasn’t exactly on the same level as storming the Circus to stop the apocalypse. Comparatively, Martin felt useless.

Now, with Basira and Jon off on their mission, Martin is beset by a similar sense of futility. There’s certainly enough work to keep him busy, given that Peter delegates most of his job responsibilities to Martin. (Martin is fairly certain that, fraudulent CV or not, he’s more qualified to run the Institute at this point than Peter is.) Performing routine administrative duties can be a boring and demoralizing enough endeavor in the context of a mundane underpaid office job; doing so in service to an unfathomable cosmic evil is, to put it mildly, soul-destroying. Perhaps in a literal sense, as far as Martin knows.

That’s not to mention the customary gloom that comes with reading account after dreadful account of senseless, indiscriminate suffering.

Martin wishes there was something practical he could do, is his point. Patient though he may be, indefinite waiting is less tolerable when what he’s waiting for is the other shoe to drop, so to speak. He has no desire to interact with Peter in any capacity, but the longer he remains scarce, the more Martin’s trepidation soars.

There’s no way Peter has conceded his bet with Jonah, but there’s no telling whether he’s simply biding his time and observing how events unfold, actively plotting his next moves, or already enacting an revised scheme from the shadows. Regardless, he’s a clear and present danger for as long as he’s around. He may not be hasty, but he’s still a wildcard. Jon told Martin about the last time: how Peter released the NotThem to rampage through the Institute, solely for the sake of causing a distraction. As long as he has The Seven Lamps of Architecture in his possession, he–

Oh.

Martin smiles to himself. Maybe there is something more he can do.

The warehouse is, unsurprisingly, dark. Even with the door propped open, the daylight filtering through illuminates a radius of only a few yards before it’s swallowed by unnatural gloom. As Jon and Basira move further into the cavernous space, the beams of their torches barely penetrate the velvety murk.

“Any idea where she is?” Basira whispers from Jon’s left.

“Waiting in ambush, I assume. I can’t See much of anything.”

“See or See?”

“Either. Both.”

“And you’re certain that applies to Elias as well? He won’t be able to See us here?”

“Positive,” Jon says. “The Dark has–”

An enraged bellow sounds out from behind them. Basira’s torch clatters to the concrete floor, its light promptly extinguished as the casing cracks and the batteries come loose. In a flash, Basira is on the ground, locked in a furious scuffle with–

“Manuela Dominguez!” Jon says. Manuela looks up reflexively, surprised to hear her name. It’s all the opening Basira needs to gain the upper hand, grappling Manuela into a prone position on the floor and pinning her in place with a wristlock. Manuela cries out in pain, but her wild thrashing continues unabated.

“Jon,” Basira grunts, increasingly winded as Manuela attempts to break the hold. “A little help?”

“Manuela, listen, we – we’re just here to talk–”

Manuela briefly pauses in her struggling to spit at Jon’s feet. Funny, how some details remain the same. A second later, she’s resisting again, now attempting to twist around and bite at whatever exposed skin she can find.

“Stop.”

The command crackles up Jon’s throat and sparks off the tip of his tongue like a static shock, hundreds of iterations of the word coinciding. The air itself seems to quake with the force of it, and Jon is left shivering in its wake.

So, it seems, is Manuela: her voice shudders out of her when she speaks.

“Who are you?” she hisses. “What do you want?”

“To make a deal,” Jon says, the words slightly slurred.

“Why would I deal with you?” In the flickering glow of his torchlight, Jon can see the baleful glint in Manuela’s eyes. “You’re of the Eye, aren’t you? What could you even possibly want? You’ve already taken everything – you lot and your Archivist. Where is she, anyway?” Manuela makes a show of scanning the room as best she can, pinioned as she is. “Too much of a coward to witness the wreckage she’s wrought?”

“Gertrude is dead,” Basira says.

“Stopping us took everything she had, then.” Manuela smirks. “Serves her right.”

“You wish,” Basira scoffs. “She was murdered. Completely unrelated.”

“That’s –” Manuela’s smug expression vanishes. “Who–?”

“Elias,” Jon says. “She was too much of a thorn in his side. Too much of a force to be reckoned with.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I told you,” Jon says. “We want to make a deal. A temporary alliance.”

“An alliance?” Manuela repeats. What starts as a weak, dismissive laugh dissolves into a wheeze.

“We have a mutual enemy.” Manuela’s eyes narrow in something more like curiosity now. “I take it I’ve piqued your interest. Will you hear us out?”

Manuela deliberates for a protracted moment, torn between rebellion and intrigue. “Let me up.”

“What, so you can throw more punches?” Basira says.

“It’s fine, Basira,” Jon says. Manuela is still seething with defiance. The more powerless she feels, the less open she’ll be to negotiation. Better to make a few concessions and let her feel some control over the situation.

Judging from her furrowed brow, Basira is running through the same calculations. She hesitates a moment longer before sighing, releasing her hold, and standing. Manuela staggers to her feet and backs away several steps, brushing herself off and panting shallowly as she catches her breath.

“Did you come here alone?” she asks, massaging her abused wrist as her suspicious gaze flits back and forth between Basira and Jon. “Just the two of you?”

“Yes,” Jon answers. Basira shakes her head with an impatient tsk – which Jon interprets as something like stop volunteering free information to every Avatar you parley with, Jon. “Like I said, we’re just here to talk. And to offer you the opportunity for revenge.”

“What revenge? Gertrude is dead,” Manuela spits out. “Who else is there? Her replacement?”

“I’m her replacement.”

With that, Manuela lunges in Jon’s direction. Basira swiftly moves to intercept her, but Manuela stops in her tracks before Basira can grab her. A tension-filled standoff ensues, the two of them eyeing each other warily. After nearly a full minute, Basira seems satisfied enough that the situation has been defused to take her eyes off Manuela and treat Jon to an exasperated glare.

“Do you have to antagonize every single person who wants to kill you?” she scolds.

Jon ignores her grievance in favor of addressing Manuela directly: “You wouldn’t have any luck killing me.”

Basira dips her head down and plants the heel of her hand on her forehead, grumbling under her breath. It’s mostly unintelligible, but Jon thinks he can make out the words fuck’s sake somewhere in there.

“I could try,” Manuela snarls. Her hands ball into tighter fists, trembling with rage at her sides, but she continues to stand her ground.

“You could,” Jon says mildly. “And you would fail.”

“You’ll just compel me, you mean.”

“I could.” He would rather avoid it if possible, but Manuela doesn’t need to know that. He can only hope she can’t tell just how much he’s only pretending at nerve. “Or, you can listen to what we have to say. Gertrude is dead, and lashing out at me isn’t going to satisfy your thirst for revenge. We can offer up a more satisfying target.”

“Unless you have a way for me to unmake the Power your Archivist served.” When Jon doesn’t deny it, Manuela lets out another harsh, scornful laugh. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Well – arguably, Gertrude didn’t serve the Eye. She followed her own path.” Manuela breathes a derisive huff. “Like her or not, she did. Formidable as she was, none of that was due to the Beholding’s favor. That was all her. She never embraced the power it promised – not like most Archivists do. Striking a blow against the Eye wouldn’t be an insult to Gertrude’s memory. If anything, it would do her proud.”

“Killing it with the sales pitch,” Basira carps.

“But the head of the Institute does serve the Eye,” Jon presses on, “and he’s the one responsible for appointing Gertrude the Archivist in the first place. Hurt the Eye, and you hurt him.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Manuela says, bristling. “Your patron may pale in comparison to my god, but I’m not arrogant enough to believe that I would stand a chance of vanquishing it.”

“We can’t vanquish it, no. But we could destroy the Institute that serves it. Same as happened to the Dark’s faithful.”

“An eye for an eye,” Basira adds.

“Well, you’ve wasted your time coming all this way.” Manuela’s disparaging chuckle gets caught in her throat. “I’m the only one here. An abandoned disciple, guarding a lost cause. There’s nothing left of our former power.”

“The Dark Sun,” Basira says.

Manuela tenses. Then her shoulders slump, weighed down by dawning, solemn resignation.

“Of course,” she says bitterly. “It isn’t enough to decimate our numbers. You need to steal the only remnant of our crusade.”

“We’re giving you the opportunity to reclaim its purpose,” Jon says. “Or would you rather it rot away here, diminishing until it collapses in on itself?”

Manuela is silent for a long minute, a shrewd look in her eye. “Why would you want to betray your god?”

“The Beholding isn’t my god,” Jon says. “I’m not a willing convert. I was drafted into someone else’s crusade without my consent – and you know what that’s like, don’t you?”

Manuela just scowls.

“I Know your story.” Jon’s voice turns sibilant with power as the Archive rears its head. “Indoctrinated into a faith that never spoke to you –”

“– brought up to believe in the light of God, his radiant, illuminating presence –”

“Shut up,” Manuela says in a low growl.

“– deep down they were vicious, spiteful people who used their faith to hurt others, and I fondly imagined them discovering themselves in an afterlife other than the one they had assumed was their destination – I broke with them as soon as I could –”

“Jon,” Basira interrupts. The firm squeeze of her hand on his shoulder is enough to snap him out of his shallow trance. She jerks her head at Manuela, who looks about ready to charge him again. “Maybe not the time?”

“S-sorry,” he gasps. He shakes his head to clear the residual static clouding his thoughts before looking back to Manuela with genuine contrition. “Didn’t mean to do that, I swear. I only meant to say that I – I read the statement you gave to Gertrude. I know that your parents were zealots. They envisioned a perfect world that seemed to you like hell on earth, and you did everything you could to rebel against their arrogance. To spite the god they worshiped. We have some common ground there, you and I.”

Granted, Jon didn’t grow up in a religious household. His grandmother was content to let him explore – and he did.

Even as a child, he had an inclination for research. A topic would catch his attention and he would voraciously seek out as much information as he could. His grandmother didn’t take much interest in the content of those fixations, but she did encourage them as a general principle. Not with overt praise, necessarily, but by facilitating his endeavors: procuring reading material on the obsession of the month, escorting him to the library every so often and allowing him to max out his card. He suspects now that she was simply grateful for some way to occupy his attention. If his nose was in a book, he was keeping out of trouble.

He never told her how wrong she turned out to be.

In any case, one of his many early “phases,” as she liked to call them, was comparative religion. Part of it was simple curiosity. Part of it was a genuine desire to find something to believe: some conception of the afterlife that would resonate with him, some straightforward framework for understanding the world, some sort of certainty to assuage his fear of the unknown. His grandmother never seemed to care whether he found what he was looking for. She never really asked.

It was for the best. He never liked admitting defeat. Not back then.

They returned all the books to the library on the day they were due, and Jon brought home a new haul, this one centered around the field of oceanography. The seas were brimming with mystery, but at least there was a very real possibility of turning those unknowns into knowns. New discoveries were being made every day, newer and newer technology being developed to push the boundaries of that knowledge. There were sure answers, and they could be grasped, so long as humanity could invent the right tools for the job.

Still, Jon found himself envying people of faith from time to time. Sometimes he wished he had someone to point him in some sort of direction, like many other children seemed to have. But hearing of Manuela’s upbringing… well, if Jon was forced to choose between extremes, he has to admit that he prefers the complete lack of guidance he received as opposed to strict proselytization. His grandmother may not have shown interest in his opinions, but at least she gave him the freedom to come to his own conclusions. She may not have had reassurances to offer, but at least she didn’t foist upon him a worldview that made no place for him in it.

“It’s not the same thing as childhood indoctrination,” he tells Manuela, “but… becoming the Archivist – it was like being drafted into the service of a god that I never would have chosen for myself. Had Elias told me the terms, I never would have signed the contract.”

“I take it he didn’t tell you beforehand that he murdered your predecessor?”

“That I had to find out the hard way, unfortunately.”

“So you’re saying you’re not so much a traitor to your faith as you are a disgruntled employee.”

“Elias is my boss. Is that a trick question?” Jon is surprised to hear Manuela give an amused snort. “But yes. I’d like to… tender my resignation, so to speak.”

Manuela scrutinizes him intently, as if trying to solve a riddle. “You would give up your power?”

“I don’t want it,” Jon says truthfully.

If he’s perfectly honest with himself, there was a time that at least some aspects of that power were alluring. There was something intoxicating and liberating about being able to ask a question and not only receive a guaranteed answer, but be certain he wasn’t being presented with an outright lie – especially after spending so many months beholden to unchecked paranoia, distrust, and frantic, futile investigation.

But there was never anything benign or inconsequential about invading a victim’s privacy or compelling someone to surrender a secret, no matter how he tried to justify it to himself. Even if there was, even if it wasn’t both reprehensible in principle and harmful in practice, it still wouldn’t be worth the irrevocable costs.

“I want out,” he says, “and if getting out isn’t an option, then I at least want Elias to know what it is to be offered up to a god inimical to every atom of his existence. I thought you might be able to assist with that.”

“How?”

“The Institute is a seat of power for the Beholding,” Basira says. ��If we introduce it to your Dark Sun…”

“A mote in the Eye,” Manuela says, intrigued. Her attention swivels back to Jon. “Do you Know what would happen?”

“No,” he says. “But I imagine it will hurt.”

“And then what? What happens after? You let me pack up my relic and walk away?”

“I don’t see why not.”

“I don’t believe you,” Manuela says.

“You don’t pose an existential threat,” Jon says with a shrug. “I have no doubt that the Dark will attempt another Ritual someday, but it won’t happen in our lifetimes. We have no qualms letting you walk away after our alliance is finished.”

“And the Dark Sun?” Manuela presses.

“I don’t know what condition it will be in after exposure to the Eye,” Jon admits. “But you’re free to do as you wish with it after. We won’t stop you.”

So she can hurt more people, Jon’s battered conscience chimes in.

“And if I say no?”

“Then I walk in there right now, Behold it, and destroy it entirely.” It comes out sounding more menacing than Jon had initially intended, but maybe that’s not a bad thing, given the way Manuela freezes up.

“You wouldn’t survive.” Manuela sounds far from certain.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But your Sun certainly wouldn’t.” Jon pauses for a moment to let that sink in. “Do you want to see its potential wasted here and now, or do you want to make all that sacrifice worth something?”

“If you’re so certain you have the upper hand, what’s stopping you from just taking it, then?”

“I’m not its engineer or its keeper. I wouldn’t even Know how to safely transport it. Too many unknown variables.”

“So you need me.”

“Yes. Beneath the Institute, there’s a… a sanctum of the Eye. A place of power, like Ny-Ålesund is for your patron. If you can bring the Dark Sun there, I… well, I’m hoping it will sever the Eye’s connection to that place. Destroy the Institute.”

“How would that work?”

“I’m… not certain,” Jon confesses. “Call it a… a hunch.”

“There’s precedent,” Basira says. “We found a statement that hinted at worshipers of the Dark destroying a temple to the Eye in 4th century Alexandria.”

Manuela’s eyes light up with interest. “How?”

“We don’t know,” Jon says.

“Oh, right. Foolish of me to ask,” Manuela says pertly. “Why would I expect you to know things? It’s only the entire point of you.”

“I never claimed to be good at my job,” Jon retorts. “Look, maybe I don’t Know exactly what will happen, but a focus of the Dark should hurt the Eye in some capacity, I think.”

“You think,” Manuela mutters under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear the derision in her tone.

“Whatever happens, it’ll be more satisfying than anything you’ve got going on here,” Basira points out.

Manuela barks out a contemptuous laugh. “You don’t even have the shadow of a plan!”

“We… haven’t ironed out the details, no.” Jon rubs the back of his neck, chagrinned. “We figured that if you did agree to an alliance, you would want to be part of the actual planning process.”

“And if you don’t cooperate, it’s a moot point,” Basira says.

“Also, I was… I suppose I was hoping you could offer insight,” Jon says. “The Dark is something of a blind spot for me, shockingly.” Manuela shoots him a withering look. “So even if I had any clue how to wield the Dark Sun, I wouldn’t be able to channel its full potential. Not like you could.”

“That much is obvious,” Manuela sneers, teeth gleaming in the torchlight as her lips stretch in a taut, wolfish grin. “You Beholding types always assume that knowledge is synonymous with control. Putting yourselves on the level of Powers greater than any mortal, assuming insight into things you could not possibly understand… you fly too close to the sun and then have the gall to indulge in outrage when you burn.”

We didn’t come here for a sermon, Jon almost says, but he bites his tongue.

“But I accept that I am a supplicant, not a god,” Manuela says, reverence seeping into her tone to supplant the reproach. “It’s pure hubris to assume that you could wield the Black Sun like a tool. It’s a communion, and only those with true and dutiful faith could ever hope to win its favor. Approach it with anything less than respect and devotion, and it will devour you.”

“If you’re done pontificating?” Basira says. She doesn’t give Manuela an opening to respond. “We’re well aware that we stand no chance of wielding–” Manuela looks up sharply, and Basira hastily corrects herself. “Fine – communing with the Dark Sun ourselves. That’s why we’re looking for an alliance rather than just taking it.”

“Do you think you could–” Jon pauses as he searches for a way to phrase his question that won’t unleash another tirade. “Would you be able to arrange for the Dark Sun to be brought into the Eye’s stronghold? Expose them to one another, let them… I don’t know – have it out with each other?”

“I’m capable of bringing it to London, if that’s what you’re asking,” Manuela says primly. “But it would be at a disadvantage on the Beholding’s home turf. If – if – I were willing to test this hypothesis, I would only do so on the condition that I could level the playing field as much as possible. Wait for ideal circumstances, as it were.”

“Which would be…?” Basira asks.

“The winter solstice. The Dark Sun will be the strongest on the night of the winter solstice.”

“That’s months from now,” Basira protests. “Can’t you just –”

“Ideally, I would insist on a total solar eclipse,” Manuela snaps, “but it will be quite some time before London witnesses another. Not until 2090.”

“Looking ahead, are you?” Basira asks.

“It is likely the soonest opportunity for another attempt at a Ritual.” Manuela pretends at nonchalance with a shrug, but she can’t quite conceal her profound disappointment as her voice grows measurably more subdued. “It gives me ample time to study our failure. To discover what went wrong.”

“To refine your Ritual, you mean.”

“There will always be faithful to take up the mantle,” Manuela says, her chin lifting marginally in defiance as she stares Basira down.

“But you won’t be around to see it.” Basira meets Manuela’s eyes with equal nerve. Jon remains silent, looking from one to the other as they face off against one another.

“No,” Manuela replies evenly. “I’ll have to settle for passing on my findings to those who come after. Leave behind a legacy to guide their steps.”

“In the meantime, the Dark Sun will stagnate,” Jon chimes in. It’s a bluff, of course: he has no idea whether or not it’s true. Judging from the unsettled look on Manuela’s face, neither does she. Jon latches onto that uncertainty, carefully twisting the knife just a little further: “Or, you could let it serve a purpose.”

“Its purpose was to usher in a world of true and holy Darkness,” Manuela says acidly. “You’re proposing I give it scraps.”

“Like it or not, you can’t give it the apocalypse it was promised,” Jon says.

Manuela’s fingers flex and clench back into fists. Jon suspects she would love nothing more than to wring his neck. She’s a truth seeker at heart, though. Ambitious, rebellious – idealistic even, albeit in a twisted sort of way, harboring an aspiration that most would rightfully find horrific. Adept at detecting and exploiting the more malleable aspects of material reality where possible, infusing the scientific method with just enough magical thinking to bend natural laws.

However, there are some truths that even she cannot deny, and she isn’t the type to ignore a certainty when it’s right in front of her face. And so, despite the unconcealed vitriol in her eyes and the contrariness sitting at the tip of her tongue, she does not deny his assertion.

“But it can still pay tribute to your god,” Jon coaxes, striving to stop short of needling. It’s a razor’s edge he’s always struggled to walk, but Manuela is still right there with him, toeing the line. “It’s better than nothing at all.”

Manuela directs a venomous glower towards the floor as she vacillates between summary dismissal and the temptation of vengeance. Basira side-eyes Jon as the standstill stretches from seconds into minutes, but all Jon can offer her is an awkward shrug. The ball is in Manuela’s court, and it seems she has no qualms leaving them in indefinite suspense as she painstakingly examines all the variables and weighs her options. The best they can do is wait and hope that tangible revenge will prove more enticing than spiteful noncooperation.

Eventually, she lets out a sharp exhale, raises her head, and breaks her silence.

“The winter solstice,” she repeats, her voice teeming with tension and lingering aversion. “Barring an eclipse, I would have to settle for the winter solstice. The longest, darkest night of the year… it’s second best, but it should suffice. Shame about the light pollution, of course,” she adds, wrinkling her nose with disdain, “but the power is in the symbolism.”

“Jon?” Basira prompts.

“Dream logic,” he says, massaging his forehead wearily. “It tracks.”

“Fine,” Basira sighs. She looks back to Manuela. “So does this mean you’ll do it?”

“I’m tired of haunting this place like a ghost.” There’s a sharp, predatory look in Manuela’s eyes now. “The Dark has lost its crusaders. The Watcher should have a taste of loss.”

Just then, a loud, metallic thunk interrupts the negotiations, reverberating through the space and drawing everyone’s attention to warehouse entrance. The light that had been percolating through from outside had been preternaturally dimmed before, but now it’s been snuffed out entirely.

Jon glances anxiously at Basira. “The wind, maybe?”

“There was no wind.” Basira is already drawing her gun. Like a switch has been flipped at the prospect of danger, her voice goes steely with manufactured composure. “Not strong enough to blow the door shut. I propped it open very securely.”

“We’re near the water, though,” Jon murmurs. “Strong gusts sometimes blow in off the sea–”

Jon’s mouth snaps shut at Basira’s quelling look. Manuela’s posture is defensive again, eyes darting suspiciously between Jon and Basira in the muted torchlight.

“I thought you said you came here alone,” she says accusingly.

“We – we did,” Jon says. “We–”

“Oh, Archivist,” a new voice sings out, oozing with an exultant malice. “Long time no see!”

It’s been ages since Jon last heard that cadence, but it’s horrifyingly, heart-stoppingly familiar even after all this time. It pierces Jon like a knife in the dark. He takes a frantic step back, nearly tripping over his own feet as his panic skyrockets and a tidal wave of adrenaline crashes over him.

“We just want to talk,” croons a different voice, rougher and more ragged-sounding. It’s difficult to gauge the newcomers’ positions through the impermeable gloom, but judging from the sounds of their voices, they’re drawing ever nearer. “Won’t you come out?”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Jon breathes an incredulous laugh, distraught enough to border on a whimper. “Now?”

“Who are they?” Basira asks urgently. Jon is still frozen in place, eyes straining against the darkness. Any answer he could make is bogged down with terror, snagging in his throat and forestalling coherence. “Jon!”

Jon swallows hard and finally looks at Basira, his eyes wide with dread.

“Hunters.”

End Notes:

naomi: hey jon. jon. consider: surveillance state kink jon: shut the hell your mouth

____

Both instances of Archive-speak are from MAG 135. A few pieces of dialogue from the beginning of the conversation with Manuela are taken/reworked from MAG 143. The Melanie and Basira gossip is from MAG 106.

Once again, had way too much fun with the text convo btwn Naomi and Jon. Cannot resist those chatfic shenanigans vibes.

In other news, Daisy WILL point at Jon and loudly exclaim, “Is anyone gonna volunteer as wingman for this lovesick disaster or do I have to do everything myself?” and not even wait for an answer. (Jon made the mistake of confirming that he doesn’t mind her lovingly dunking on him about this sort of thing and now she’s a menace. Listen, playful ribbing is basically her platonic love language.)

Sorry for the cliffhanger!! But hey, I think we all knew that there’s no way things would go entirely smoothly for Jon and Basira. And now I finally get to add some new character tags.

I’m very behind on replying to comments. (Tbh, spent most of the last month grappling with this chapter. I was stuck on a scene that REALLY didn’t want to cooperate.) I’m gonna try to catch up this weekend, though. <3 As always, thank you for reading!

#the magnus archives #magpod #tma #tma fic #tma spoilers #long post

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pl-panda · 4 years

Text

Damienette arranged marriage: part 25

Credits: Miraculous Ladybug team for the elements I take from MLB show. DC for their characters, @ozmav for the AU, @maribat-archive for giving me access to so many different stories to have take inspirations from, @thyladyanput for idea for Chat Damian and me for the plot.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 part 14 part 15

part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21

Part 22 Part 23

Part 24

Damienette arranged marriage: part 25

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Tossing her weapon at him and using some of the moves she learned from maman over the years.

This was like a spark. Immediately after Ladybug’s charge, other heroes also attacked. The battle has begun. At least until there was an ear-piercing cry of pain that got everyone’s attention.

----------------------

During previous encounters with the superheroes Mayura had much less trouble. It was clear that Pink Tigress was much better trained. Nathalie herself was a master martial artist even outside of the suit and her skill only increased when she put on the feathered outfit. But this was something entirely different.

Mayura redirected a very quick jab of the Chakram with her fan, but she had no chance to counterattack because Pink Tigress did not lose balance and instead followed up with low kick. The blue villainess jumped up to avoid it and used the opportunity for a scissor kick of her own. Her opponent reacted in time to cross her hands in front and rebound her, but it only led to further stand-off. They proceeded to meet each other in close quarter, exchanging quick, but viscious strikes. They were pretty evenly matched, at least it looked like that for first minute or so. But with each move it became clearer that even if Mayura had skill to back her up, she lacked in terms of deadliness. Tigress was silent and composed as the fight went on, while the peacock miraculous started to panic. It might have been just three minutes at best, but Nathalie found herself at complete defence, being pushed back constantly.

While the two women were fighting between themselves, Chat Noir and Ladybug had their own battle going on. Over the course of last month Marinette trained with her mother to utilize her yo-yo as more than just a simple thrown weapon. Before she didn’t really connect her fighting style with the projectile. It sometimes served as a shield for her to block the attacks but offensively it was much harder to utilize. At least until her mother helped her change perspective. The yo-yo was basically a blunt version of rope dart. She could use it both as a projectile as well as at close range. Sometimes the young girl even grabbed the weapon and used it like a stone to add weight to her attacks.

At the same time, it was clear that Chat Noir did not stop training. Marinette kicked herself over and over that she did not recognize clear fencing training before, but right now it was different. Adrien was now fighting with much more aggression than before. He did not back away or dodge the attacks, instead taking them on the weapon or even forearms or legs. He just pushed ahead. At first Ladybug tried to regain control and momentum she had in the beginning, but this new viciousness force her to stay defencive. She rather quickly got pressed to the wall.

“You don’t deserve to be Ladybug!” Chat Noir shouted at her. “Cataclysm!” The pasisian heroine managed to dodge the last second as the black bubbling energy crashed into the wall. The structure crumbled and cracks started to go up and onto the roof. Adrien turned where Ladybug lunged to to avoid his attack and fumed with anger. “You took everything from me Ladybug! You turned her against me! You corrupted her! But it doesn’t matter. She is the true ladybug and not some imposter. After my father is done I will give her your miraculous and we will be the greatest heroes Paris… No! The Wor…” He didn’t finish his speech because Ladybug lunged and pushed him away as a large chunk of debris fell where he just stood. Marinette could be disgusted with what Adrien has become, but deep down she still saw a friend. A friend she would not let die. In the impact, the ring slipped from his finger and rolled away. Adrien wanted to grab it, but a quick punch from his former partner knocked him out cold.

Elsewhere in the room, Viperion just managed to get the akumatized object. He quickly broke it and released the Akuma, causing the gorilla to fall down exhausted. Luka did not have time to focus on this. He turned to where Ryuko and Hawkmoth were going at it. She was a world-class fencer, but somehow Gabriel Agreste could match her and even overpower her. He was pushing the girl back. Then, he suddenly drawn a hidden sword from his cane and lunged at Ryuko. Without second thought, Viperion tossed his lyre like a frisbee to stop the attack. It worked, but he didn’t notice Mayura and Tigress fight getting dangerously close to him. Before he even realize the blue vilanness held him in front of her like a human shield, making it impossible for him to use second chance.

“Give up Tigress. Or the boy will suffer.” She threatened and to make it more real, she pressed the bladed fan to his neck. “We wouldn’t want to spill any snake blood today, now would we?”

Instead of answering, Pink Tigress tossed her chakram up. The spinning weapon bounced from the roof and fell at Mayura. She had no time to follow up on her threat and instead pushed the boy forward while she jumped back. She did slip the bracelet from his hand at the same time, making him detransform.

Ryuko noted the whole event in the corner of her eye. She was grateful to Luka for helping her, but she would berate the reckless boy later. For someone so composed he rushed in too often. She refocused on her battle. The plan was to keep Hawkmoth busy while other heroes get rid of any support so they could overwhelm the villain. So far it didn’t work as planned. She was on constant defensive.

“Tell me, miss Tsurugi. What would your mother say if she saw you get defeated by a civilian with so little training.” Hawkmoth teased her. “She would be so disappointed in you.” He added in mocking tone. Ryuko withstood the banter without even blinking. She tried to shrug it off, but he started to get to her. He also had to notice that her moves became more sloppy, because Gabriel continued with the mockery. “Or maybe she already resent you for skipping so many classes and trainings to just play hero? I can’t imagine what will she say…” He finally managed to catch her sword in place long enough with his own blade to use the cane he still held in the other hand to strike her arm. The pain made her let go of her weapon, but she made no notable sound. She tried to punch him, but Hawkmoth stepped out of the way and grabbed her choker instead. Kagami detransformed and fell on the ground, panting from exhaustion.

The whole building was falling apart and more debris now landed. A particularly big chunk would crush the fencer, but Sabine noticed in time.

“Power Up! Strength!” She jumped to where the girl stood and stopped her from turing into a wet puddle. At the same time, more chunks fell, cutting them off for the most part.

“Thank you madame.” Kagami bowed while still lying on the ground. “I owe you my life.”

“No worry sweety. Let’s finish it and go skin a cat, okay?” Sabine focused and used her enchanted strength to push the large chunk away and release them. She picked the girl and jumped out.

In front of her, the scene was mortifying. Hawkmoth held blade at Ladybug’s neck while she was forced to kneel before him. Next to him, Mayura had Luka in similar position.

“I think that was enough of the show.” The villain commented. You’ve all proven just how strong and heroic you are… But it ends here.” He was about to grab the earrings of Ladybug, but she started to toss around.

“Hold still girl if you want to see your friend and yourself walk out of here alive!” Mayura threatened her. To enforce the point made by his partner, Hawkmoth pressed the blade closer, drawing some blood. A single droplet traveled along the edge and hit the floor. The heroine felt her whole body go stiff with fear. She silently accepted her fate when suddenly there was an ear-piercing cry of pain behind her. The blade, together with hand that was holding it, fell to the ground. Hawkmoth stumbled holding the stump that used to be his hand. Behind him Damian wiped the blood from his blade.

“Leave. My Wife. Alone!” He barked and turned to Mayura. “The game is over.”

——————————————————————————————————–

Taglist (sorry if I missed you)@pheonixashtree @sassakitty @unabashedbookworm @vixen-uchiha @maggiecc12 @actualdisasterwoman @tired-butterfly @shizukiryuu @floralfi @imanerddealwith @northernbluetongue @krispydefendorpolice @toodaloo-kangaroo @dast218 @bluesoulblueheart @theatreandcomicfreak @disneyfoxuniverse @mindfulmagics @alwaysnumberonetruth @nyaabinch @jardimazul @lenamau @rosep16 @dramatic-squirrel @sonif50 @daminett4life @lulutheawkwardess @weird-pale-blonde-person @mooshoon @jeminiikrystal @mochegato @moonlightstar64 @dragonflyswing @silverwhiteraven @shamefullove @magic-miraculous @valeks-princess @heaven428 @mlbchaosqueen @winter-gardenflower @spicybelladonna @emo-elaine13 @vetilora @karukofox21 @my-name-is-michell @sturchling @lokiifriggasonn @redscarlet95 @melicmusicmagic @interobanginyourmom @the-fusionist @razzledazzle247 @miss-mysterys-blog @darkthunder1589 @i-is-mysterious @catthhay @the-one-woman-army @zestyzealot @dahjokester @write-for-your-life2 @mermaidreject @peachedpocky @sassakitty @dahjokester @crazylittlemunchkin @novicevoice @justafanwarrior @eliza-bitch @schrodingers25 @tired-butterfly @toodaloo-kangaroo @redscarlet95 @miukiiu @sassakitty @corabeth11 @vixen-uchiha @lilypos03

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shameless-selfship-indulgence · 3 years

Text

Girl Help Part 2

I wrote this in a fucking frenzy

there’s no, like, content worth warning about in this one though

"calais," said Marvus. "cuh-LIE-is. soundz like a troll name."

"A troll name?" asked Calais.

"fo sho babe," said Marvus. "six n six. marvus xoloto. trizza tethis. all part o da fxxked up hellawhack shiznack dat dictates r planets whole history n shit. twelves all over da dam place."

"Is that what you are?" asked Calais. "A...troll?"

Marvus blinked at her, a slow, lizard-like blink. He gave a low whistle. "dam we gotta start w da basics here."

The planet was called Alternia, the species was called trolls. The entire society revolved around a rigid caste system based on blood color, which divided trolls into twelve distinct subtypes with different physical traits. Red was at the bottom, Fuchsia at the top.

"its all bullshit tho," he added at the end. There was a flash of something in his eyes.

"What was that thing you were doing?" asked Calais. "Earlier. To me."

Did Marvus stiffen ever so slightly? Was that a flare in his nostrils? His eyes flicked up and down Calais with lightning speed before he leaned back with affected nonchalance.

"chucklevoodoos," he said. There was something guarded in his voice.

Calais blinked at him for a second, hoping that the jumble of noise he had just poured at them would sort itself out. No luck.

"Chuck-a-what?"

"chuck-el-voo-doos," said Marvus again. "purpleblood shit. wuz doin it 2 every1, not jus u."

"You mean like...mind control?" Calais guessed.

Marvus frowned. "controlz a strong word 4 it, my dude. its more like vibez."

Calais suddenly understood something.

Should she say it? She usually liked to have her cards on the table. She did it as often as she could, in the hopes that the other person would do the same. She got the feeling this man wouldn't, though.

But then again, he already had all the power in this situation. The only hope that she had was to try to build some sort of relationship with him, and she liked it when those were built on trust. Besides, she liked being honest better. Easier to remember her answers.

But still, a voice in the back of her head screamed at her to think it through a bit more, even as she opened her mouth and blurted out-

"You don't like that you can't control me."

Marvus looked slightly taken aback. He narrowed his eyes a bit. "no, I don't," he said slowly. Candidly. His hand started to edge towards his cane.

Oh shit, he thought she was trying to flex on him. Calais started to fumble, multiple different de-escalators and disclaimers colliding on the way out of her mouth and throwing random sounds everywhere.

Eventually she managed to concentrate enough to form real words.

"I-I mean you CAN," said Calais. "You CAN control me. I just hate it. I hate it enough that I can tell that it's happening."

Marvus paused. Calais continued, trying to explain everything in a rush.

"Not that it feels bad. It feels good. That's what I hate about it. I can tell in my head that it's not how I'd normally feel. I know that normally I'd be...repulsed. Normally I'd have a sense of...boundaries. And what's gross and what's not. And whatever the chuckle thing does, it doesn't stop me from being scared. I'm always scared of that."

"scared of wat?" Marvus asked. His teeth glinted in a smirk. "gettin ur pail on?"

"My what?"

"dam. dunno wat pailing is? gettin freaky, babe. all concupiscent n shit."

"Oh. I mean. Yeah? I'm kind of scared of it...I mean." Calais stress stimmed a little. "It's more that I'm scared of not being in control? Like, did you know that being horny actively lowers your disgust response? Even without the voodoos or whatever. Literally, the only reason that we can enjoy reproducing is because we no longer have an accurate sense of what's gross and what isn't. That's what I don't like. The idea that I could be in a situation where I'm doing all these, just. Objectively disgusting things? And LIKING it? And not being able to tell that it's nasty? Or even being able to tell and not caring. I hate it. I hate it so much. It scares me. And I definitely don't want to be like that around another person."

"huh," said Marvus. "never met any1 else like dat."

Calais shrugged. "Maybe because they don't come to whatever it was you were doing."

"nah," said Marvus. "I seen ppl roll up who didn't want 2 b there. they come around in the end." He tilted his head at them. "prolly cause ur an alien," he said, seeming to decide it as he said it. "pailing n murder r pretty normal mental states 4 us. disinhibition doesn't bother ppl."

He looked a little more relaxed now for having come to this conclusion. Calais figured that was a good thing.

"so wat r u?" he asked.

"Oh! Um. We call ourselves humans," said Calais. "Uh, we all have the same blood color, so that's not a thing...and I'm pretty sure nobody has any psychic powers, either."

"dam. wat do u do then?"

"Uh..." Calais puffed air through her cheeks. "I dunno. I'm not sure what to tell you. Whatever it is would be completely normal for me, so..."

"wat color's ur blood?"

"Um, red?" said Calais.

Marvus winced, but he was smiling. "ooh. dats gonna b rough."

"Yeah, I was gonna say..." Calais curled into herself a little, then remembered her ribs and winced, stopping up short.

"how'd u get here?" asked Marvus.

"I...have no idea," said Calais. She blinked. "I don't know. I don't know at all. I was suddenly just. Here."

"where were u b4?"

Calais looked around, as if the answer were written somewhere in the room. "I...I don't know!" she exclaimed. "I mean, I must have been somewhere, but I don't...I can't..." she started to wring her hands.

"woah, woah, babe, calm down," said Marvus, lifting his hands in a placating gesture. "it's all gonna b ok."

Calais shied away from him instinctively. He was awfully close. But she realized that the fact that this bothered her was a good thing.

"What did you see?" she asked.

Marvus shrugged. "u weren't there. then u were."

Calais wondered briefly if he was telling the truth. But even if he weren't, there was no way they would be able to tell. They would have to take him at his word.

"That's...not very helpful," they said absently.

Marvus laughed. "guess not. dam."

"I don't know what I was doing before I came here, I don't know how I got here, and I don't know how to get back." Calais thought for a bit, chewing her lip. "M-maybe someone at the concert saw? Someone in the mosh pit?"

"m tellin u babe, there was nuthin 2 c," said Marvus.

"Can we...check?" Calais asked carefully, looking warily at her clown host.

Marvus smiled, a somewhat easygoing smile that was nevertheless a little too toothy. "my concerts r wild, my dude," he said. "they was deffs all distracted. n they're all prolly all hells 2 the indisposed atm."

Calais dimly remembered the general reaction - or lack of reaction - to their appearance and realized that this was probably true.

Calais looked at Marvus, running calculations in her head. She was starting to realize how this was going to go, although she didn't want to believe it. Didn't want to need him. But she needed somebody, and...

"u don't have anywhere 2 go, do u," said Marvus. It wasn't really a question.

Calais flinched. "Yes," they said.

Marvus drummed his fingertips against the table he was leaning on. They clicked on the wood. Calais realized that his fingernails were claws and swallowed hard.

. "tell u wat, babe," said Marvus. "m on the homeward part of my tour atm. y don't u come w me n we'll see if we can figure out how 2 get u home."

Calais closed their eyes and took a deep breath. Don't think about the creepy clown, don't think about how you feel, just consider him, consider yourself, consider the situation, there's no need to be scared if you just figure out what's going on and why you're afraid...

Blessedly, Marvus let her sit there in shut-eyed silence until she was able to put her thoughts together and turn to him.

Direct communication. It was something that she liked.

"You want to keep me near you," she said. "You don't know what to make of me, and you want me in...in, like, your hand."

"well yh," said Marvus. "dats all true. but dat doesn't mean it can't b mutually beneficial, ufeelme? yeah ur an alien n u might b useful n shit but dat doesn't mean I can't help u 2. u do need somewhere to stay right? alternia is vy dangerous. 'specially 4 mutants n aliens. 'specially 4 mutants n aliens w red blood."

"I do need your help," said Calais. "I just..." pain and trauma emboldened her; fear wasn't enough to keep her quiet. "I just don't want you to pretend your motives aren't selfish. I don't want you to pretend anything. It's okay that you want to use me...I mean, it's not okay, but I don't exactly have a choice and I probably can't fight you so at the very least I want to know that that's what's happening, get it?"

She picked at flecks of teal under her fingernails and realized for the first time that it was blood. Their stomach lurched and they froze, setting their hand back down. "I'll probably be more cooperative than you think," she said quietly. "As long as I know what I'm getting into. I mean. When you manipulate someone, you want to make them feel at ease, right? Like they can trust you? So they'll do what you want? Well, I'll feel way more at ease if I think I can trust you. If I know you're telling the truth. Even if it's bad. So just...don't try to sell me anything. Do you understand?"

She glanced up at Marvus. He was shaking his head slowly. "ur a rlly weird alien," he said. "sure. if dats wat u want."

"Do you promise?" asked Calais.

Marvus nodded. "fo sho, babe. promise. but m not tryna use u. not yet @ least. ur a wild card. jus wanna keep an eye on u 4 now."

"Right," said Calais.

"so it's a deal, then?" asked Marvus with a smirk. He held out his hand.

Calais looked at his hand, then back up to his face. Hesitated. Then reached out and took his hand.

Marvus' grip was strong, and his hand seemed to swallow up her own. Calais strengthened her grip, but she got the feeling that no matter how tight she squeezed, it wouldn't impress him.

He grinned at her and gave her hand a quick up and down shake. She seriously doubted that he was trying to make a show of strength, but it still felt as though he could wrench her shoulder from its socket, just by shaking her hand.

"alrite then. it's a deal," he said.

Calais pulled their arm back against her chest. A deal.

This creature was, evidently, not Satan. Just an alien with horns and freaky mind powers. But that didn't keep the phrase "deal with the devil" from reverberating wryly through her mind.

#Selfship hours #calais' words #💜 Clownfucker 💜

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catgirlthecrazy · 4 years

Text

To Love and To Cherish

After being extremely mean to Jon and Martin in my last fic, I had to make it up to them with 2,000 words of domestic softness (and a side helping of character development)

AO3

Summary: What if the Scottish Honeymoon lasted through retirement?

***

Martin was washing dishes when the fog rolled in. He didn't notice it right away. He was bent over the kitchen sink and didn't see much beyond the plates and soapy water. It wasn't until Martin straightened to work a kink out of his back that he saw the soft white curtains of vapor drifting across the yard. And Jon was down in the village at the moment, and hadn't said when he planned to come home.

When he'd first come to Scotland for years ago, that had been enough to send him into a panic attack. Slumped against the kitchen counter, knees hugged to his chest, sweating and struggling to breathe for god knew how long until Jon came home and found him like that. He'd held Martin's hand, softly rubbing circles in his palm. Come on Martin, breathe with me, he'd said, voice soft and steady as a highland cow. Breathe in to a count of ten.

Decades had passed since then. Somewhat less since his last real panic attack. Martin knew now, with a rock solid certainty, that Jon would come back. He knew he had friends waiting for him.

Still. Martin Blackwood might not be Lonely anymore, but that didn't mean the scars couldn't ache in the wrong weather. He stared out the window into the fog, hands still dripping with suds. He could remember the day when that fog had filled his eyes and lungs and heart and mind. When he'd been certain that no one in the world cared if he lived or died, and that he would spend the rest of eternity with that numbing fog. Without even the mercy of death to look forward to.

Martin closed his eyes and breathed in. One. Two. He thought of Sophie and Rasheed, who ran the chemist's shop down in the village and invited them to dinner every once a week. Three. Four. Their children, Maryam and Noah, who Martin had known since they came home from the hospital and were now graduated from university. Five. Six. Robin and Daniel, who ran the pub that Jon and Martin went to every Wednesday, and had done so ever since taking it over from Robin's father ten years ago. Seven. Eight. Georgie and Melanie, who hosted Christmas every year down in London. Nine. Ten. Daisy and Basira, who came up to visit for two weeks every summer. Now hold.

Jon. Who woke up beside him every morning. Who could go on and on about the strangest things. Whose brusque demeanor hid a surprising depth of kindness that still delighted Martin even to this day. Who'd plunged himself into that cold and numbing fog to save Martin, and pulled him out again with love. Who'd given up his own sight for a life with Martin, away from eyes and fear. Martin breathed out to another count of ten. He opened his eyes, and the fog was just fog. Just water vapor brought about by a closeness of air temperature and dew point. He went back to washing dishes.

Some time later, something meowed at his feet. Martin looked down and smiled. "Hello Percy," he said to the regal ball of fluff twining itself around his ankles. Percy looked up and meowed again.

"Don't give me that. It's not dinner time for another hour."

Percy gave him a withering look and meowed again, as if to say You are most certainly mistaken. Your clocks must be running slow.

"I think you'll find it's your clock that needs winding, not mine."

Another plaintive meow. You must make an exception! Can you not see how I am malnourished and dying?

"Not falling for that one either."

Percy gave him a look of pure pleading, and mewed.

"That won't work on me. Jon's the cat person, not me."

Percy's expression grew more plaintive. He mewed pitifully. Martin turned back to his dishwashing before he could give into weakness.

Percy's full name was Sergeant Major Percival Pike. The naming of cats was one thing Jon and Martin had never really been able to see eye to eye on. One day many years ago, Jon had come home with a stray kitten and informed Martin that they were calling her The Commandant. Martin hadn't had the heart to argue at the time. Jon had been so adorably besotted with the tiny thing, how could he tell him no? But Martin always felt a little ridiculous calling such a squeaky little fuzzball by such a weighty title. So he'd nicknamed her Manda, and called her that until she passed away from old age in front of the fireplace. Jon had only lightly teased him for it, and Manda didn't seem to mind answering to two different names.

When they adopted their second cat, three years after rescuing Manda, Jon had wanted to name him Lord Chancellor. This time, Martin put his foot down.

Please Jon, can't we give the cat a normal name?

Jon scoffed. What self respecting cat would accept a normal name?

You think a cat's going to care if it's called Whiskers? Or Mittens? Or Fluffy?

Yes, and their owners should be hanged for lack of creativity.

In the end, they compromised, and the cat was dubbed Lord Chancellor Reginald Roberts III. Martin called him Reggie. And so it continued for every subsequent cat they owned, down to their current pair. In addition to the Sergeant Major aka Percy, they were also graced with the presence of Brigadier General Eleanor Evans, aka Ellie. People who didn't know them well sometimes assumed they actually had four cats instead of two.

The scraping of a white cane on concrete announced Jon coming up the front walk. Percy alerted to the sound and trotted over to the front door to wait. A moment later Jon came in, Ellie following closely on his heels like a mother shepherding a slow kitten. She did that often these days. There had been a time some years ago when Jon had been clipped by a drunk driver while walking up the lane, fallen into a ditch, and broken his leg. Ellie had found him on her daily ramble outside, then gone home to Martin and refused to stop screeching until he followed her to see what the problem was. She had appointed herself Jon's official outdoor chaperone ever since. Jon didn't put up with overprotectiveness from humans, but apparently he could tolerate it in cats just fine.

"Sophie and Rasheed say hello," Jon said. He shuffled over to the counter and set down two bags. One had the logo of the chemist's shop, containing the month's assorted prescriptions (arthritis medications for Jon, blood pressure and thyroid medications for Martin). The other had a container of something thick and brown and spicy-smelling. "They insisted on giving us some of their leftover curry, so I think we're having that tonight, unless you have any objections."

Martin smiled. Percy leaned his front paws on the counter walls and meowed insistently, as if to say Yes, that is clearly meant for me, please serve it up straight away. "Sounds better than omelettes. I'll go put on some rice." He leaned in to kiss Jon on the cheek.

***

The curry was excellent. Rich and warm and exactly as spicy as Jon liked it. After dinner found him and Martin on the couch, Jon leaning sleepily into Martin's shoulder. The fabric of Martin's sweater was soft against Jon's cheek, and it smelled faintly of lavender scented soap. Somewhere close by, the Sergeant Major was purring like a well oiled car engine. No doubt he was using Martin's lap as his own personal heated cat bed. Good taste in laps, that cat.

"Let's see, where did we leave off," Martin said. Jon heard the distinctive paper scrape of flipping pages. Real paper books were something of a rarity these days, but Martin wouldn't hear of replacing his collection with more convenient electronic versions. Jon couldn't afford to be as picky. Paper books were satisfying to hold, but they didn't come with built in text-to-speech software. Except when Martin owned those books, then they sort of did.

"Ah, here we are." Martin cleared his throat.

"Nevertheless I long—I pine, all my days—

to travel home and see the dawn of my return.

And if a god will wreck me yet again on the wine-dark sea,

I can bear that too, with a spirit tempered to endure."

Martin read in a calm, gentle voice. A slight shift in the cushions told him the Brigadier General was settling herself down above them on top of the couch. Aloof, but still part of things. With care, Jon reached up, found her chin, and offered scritches. The Brigadier General graciously accepted. What a picture they must make.

Jon didn't actually know what Martin looked like anymore. That was a statement that was true on a couple of different levels. Jon's mental image of Martin was still of a smiling, round-faced man with freckles in his late twenties. Jon knew Martin couldn't look like that anymore. His skin was dry and papery, his arms soft and flabby his hair thin and wispy and bald on top. And that was before considering the visual changes that other people (including Martin) commented on, like white hair and liver spots. Jon tried to overlay those facts onto his mental image of Martin, like a police artist trying to age up a photo of a long-missing person. But Jon would never know how closely that image matched the real thing.

On a deeper level though, Jon wasn't even sure if his image of young Martin was still accurate anymore. He'd made a point of memorizing every feature of Martin's face the day he'd decided to take his own sight. Every night for weeks after that, he'd conjured up the image in his mind, gone over every single detail with a mental microscope. He'd hoped that by sheer repetition Martin's face would wear a groove on his memory that could not be wiped away. But memory didn't work like that. Like an image that had been through the photocopier too many times, each act of recall changed the memory, altering and embellishing it until it was a caricature of its original form.

Once, that would have horrified Jon. He'd already had Sasha's face stolen from him, and no amount of terrible eldritch knowing power had been able to retrieve that knowledge for him. The thought of losing Martin's face? That had kept him up nights in a cold sweat. But if the decades since had taught him anything, it was this: the Not Them might have stolen Sasha's face from him, but it had also stolen every other part of her. Her voice, her laugh, even her manner. Jon still had every other part of Martin, waking up beside him each morning.

Jon awoke to gentle shaking. "Jon? Jon, you'll get a crick in your back if you fall asleep like that."

Jon grumbled and sat up. His spine screeched at him for forcing it back into a normal alignment. He grimaced. "What time is it?"

"Half past nine. You want to go to bed? Or I could make Percy let you have my lap."

Half past nine. In his younger days that barely counted as night. One of the lesser known adjustments of old age was the way it had completely obliterated his night owl tendencies. Jon considered Martin's offer. One last nap on his beloved's lap before moving to bed? "Tempting. But I think if I stay much longer I'll stick to it permanently."

With some considerable effort, Jon levered himself out of the couch. He offered a hand to help Martin up, which he readily took. "C'mere a minute," Martin said, tugging Jon gently back before Jon could turn towards the bedroom. Martin placed a hand under Jon's chin and tilted it up slightly. The gesture was both invitation and request, codified through decades of habit together. If the answer was no, Jon just needed to pull away, and that would be that.

Instead, Jon leaned in. There was the subtle but unmistakeable crackle of electricity that came before their lips met. Martin pressed his mouth into Jon's with a somewhat surprising level of intensity. Had something happened while he'd been out that day? Well, if it had, Martin would tell him. Or he wouldn't, if he didn't want to. Either way, it wasn't something Jon needed to know. Jon reached up to caress one cheek. It was dry and cracked, but covered in a soft peach fuzz he'd always been fond of. His other hand stretched around Martin's back, still soft and warm and huggable as an overlarge teddy bear. Jon might not know what Martin looked like anymore. But he didn't need to.

#jonmartin #tma #the magnus archives #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #my fanfic #i will handwave as much canon as I have to to give these boys the soft ending they deserve

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ververa · 5 years

Text

“Monkey...”

@misssmephisto thank you for help <3

Wilhemina Venable x reader

Going to the university you knew that your future was already planned. You’re going to work with your cousin at the company that he had established with his friend. You didn’t really like your cousin Jeff neither his friend Mutt, as you considered them as arseholes. But you didn’t have a choice. And so you graduated and began to work with them, as it had been planned by your parents.

You were sure that you would hate the job, but you changed your mind as soon as you arrived there. Or rather when you met her.

“Wilhemina Venable” she introduced herself

And suddenly all the confidence, that was running in your family, was gone. The woman dressed in purple from head to toe made you speechless. The only thing you were able to do was admiring her beauty and dignity in silence.

“It’s rude to stare, Miss” she said offended

You wanted to say something. Anything. Though you remained silent, as yo u weren’t able to form any coherent sentence.

“I can see that courtesy is an unfamiliar thing in your family” she stated swinging round using her cane for support

“I-I…” you were trying your best to form some apologies, but it felt as if your brain was unable to work

“Yes?” she faced you once again

“I’m Y/N” you offered her your hand “I’m…” you rubbed the back of your neck nervously “I’m so sorry. I… normally I don’t act like this”

“There is no need to excuse yourself, Miss Y/N. Let’s just end this unfortunate conversation already”

You weren’t sure what exactly it was, but it felt as if she had put a spell on you – simply by speaking and being close to you. You were so stunned by her presence that gathering any thoughts was impossible. Since that very moment you wanted nothing more, but to be around her. She didn’t need to talk to you or be nice to you. Her looking at you while passing by your office or just breathing in your direction was enough to make you feel butterflies in your stomach.

You were entranced by every little thing about the woman. Her red hair, lavender suit, the cane, the way she moved or how she was treating other people. She wasn’t particularly nice to them, actually she was insulting them for most of the time, but it only made her more attractive to you.

You had always been an observant and bright person. Somehow you could manage to find the right words in every situation, but not with her.

Every attempt of showing her your interest failed miserably, because that was how Venable was affecting you. You stuttered every time you tried to speak and couldn’t form any logical sentence, especially when she smirked, which was almost all the time when she was around you.

She couldn’t help it, you thought to yourself, as you made yourself come off as a clown or a monkey that desperately seeks attention.

You were sick for any kind of interaction with her. She was just so exceptional, so different to all the women you had met. She was one in million and that intrigued you. However, no matter how bad you tried it always ended the same – with you trying to be funny, but coming up with something so stupid that, when you finally process it, you began to pity yourself.

You hadn’t planned it and you definitely didn’t want it. But there you were. Having the red head on your mind constantly. You were so done with it that once, during the lunch break, when Wilhemina spoke up you snapped. You managed to form one coherent sentence – in which you told her that she makes you wanna cry. It wasn’t what you mean. It didn’t come out properly, but you freaked out too much to explain it, so simply you came back to your office leaving the HR dumbfounded.

After that you got to the conclusion that you’re not able to function like a fully-developed human being in front of Wilhemina. So as not to make things even worse you decided it would be better to get out of her way, and consequently you began avoiding her.

You focused on your work and stopped leaving your office almost completely. And soon the only companion that you had was the computer in front of you.

Your strange behaviour didn’t go unnoticed, by Jeff and Mutt. They weren’t as stupid as you thought and worked out, what seemed for them to be, a perfect plan.

You were furious when you found out that they hacked all your devices. The row you started was beyond anything that ever happened in the company. Not only were you shouting so loud that everyone, including Venable, could here you, but also you broke a few things. Little did you know that it all was a part of their plan.

They had been working with Wilhemina long enough to know how to draw her attention. You shouting and throwing things at them definitely was that thing. She immediately stopped, as she was passing by their office, simply to admire you. And that was probably the moment, when she realised that she may like you.

She didn’t admit it, of course, but when Jeff and Mutt asked her to come to the birthday party they were organizing for you, she agreed without hesitation.

You weren’t the one to celebrate birthday, but they made you. Your cousin and his friend threw the biggest party ever just for you. You had to admit it was a real fun and you did enjoy it.

You were dancing for almost the whole evening and you could swear that Venable was staring at you. Although you didn’t dare to try talking to her.

She was the woman of your dreams, but nobody besides you and your best friend knew it. Your friend was the only person with whom you shared all the thoughts you had. Your messages were, literally, the only evidence for you having feeling for the other woman. But how could you know that anybody, but your friend would read them. You definitely didn’t expect Jeff and Mutt to did. And Venable? If you had any idea at all you would never even dared to refer to her as ‘Wilhemina fuck me Venable’ or any other of this sort.

“Where are you taking me?” you asked as Jeff and Mutt were leading you somewhere you could see, as you’re blindfolded

“You will see” Mutt said

“But you’ll be satisfied with your present, I can assure you”

“What is it? And where am I?” you asked when you stopped

“We’re at your destination, sunshine” Jeff said

“It’s 20 minutes in heaven. Just for you” Mutt whispered

“You don’t need to thank us” Jeff added forcing you to the room, that you still couldn’t see

“Wit! What the fuck?” you asked confused hearing the click of the locking door

You slowly took the blindfold off only to see you were in your room.

“Guys?” you tried to open the door “Hey! It’s not funny”

“Maybe we should change it”

You jumped as you heard a familiar female voice. You slowly turned back only to see Venable sitting in the huge armchair located in the corner of your bedroom.

“M-Miss Venable?” you stood there dumbfound not able to move “W-what are you doing here?”

“Since it’s your birthday today I thought that I should probably give you a present”

You looked at her confused. She brought you a present? Did that mean she does not hate you?

“Y/N!” you were brought back by her stern voice

“Y-yes?”

“Before you can get your present I need you to do something”

“Yes, Miss Venable?”

“Dance for me”

“What?”

“Dance for me” she repeated

“How? What? Why? How do you...” but you weren’t allowed to finish

Venable interrupted you tapping her cane.

“I said dance for me” she said sternly not leaving a place for objections “Move for me, sweetheart” she smirked

“Miss Venable I don’t think I understand…”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake” she rolled her eyes “Dance monkey!”

That was when you realised what was going on. ‘Monkey’ that’s how your best friend was calling you. She had read your messages.

Your brain was speeding. You heart began beating so fast that you were sure you may lose consciousness at any time. You were trying to form some kind of explanation, but before you could say anything Venable was right next to you.

She firmly tapped her cane as she stopped right in front of you and took your chin making you look at her.

“So, monkey” she started “we have a lot to catch up”

You were more than confused, and so you didn’t dare to speak.

“Is it all true? That messages, were they for real?” she asked lightly squeezing your chin

You nodded sighing. That definitely wasn’t how you wanted her to find out

“You’re the most incapable person I’ve ever met”

You closed your eyes wanting to avoid hers. You were sure that after what she had read she must have hated you even more.

“You left me puzzled, but now I understand everything”

“Miss Venable… I’m really sorry. I didn’t want you to find out this way. Well, actually… I suppose I didn’t want you to find out at all”

The woman chuckled freeing your chin

“My god, Y/N, you really are into me, aren’t you?”

You nodded shyly.

“I am” you admitted “I like you since the first moment I saw you. I didn’t want it. It just happened. And after our first meeting it felt as if you were the only thing I could see. I saw you… always. Every time. Only you. And I wanted it so badly that it made me wanna cry…”

“What did you want so badly?” Venable asked smirking

“Oh my God… You! I wanted you topping me. And every time I saw you that was my first thought and I… I just couldn’t stop it”

Wilhelmina came even closer making you took a few steps back. However you were soon pinned against the door with no possibility of escape. But did you want to escape from her? After so long you wanted nothing more, but to be in her arms. Though her stern look made you a bit insecure.

“I’ll be honest with you” she stated

“O-okay”

“You are a walking mess”

You lowered your gaze, sure that she’s mad at you.

“But” she took you chin and made you look at her again “From now on you are my mess”

“M-miss Venable I…” she didn’t give you a chance to finish your sentence interrupting you with a gentle kiss

When she pulled away you were breathless.

“Call me Wilhemina” she said with a smirk seeing how dazed you were “Now, tell me. What do you want sweetheart? Since it’s your birthday today I think we can do whatever you desire” she caressed your cheek

“Wel… I… umm. Just hold me and stay with me and I will be more than happy. That’s all I want”

Wilhelmina smiled and offered you her hand before leading you to the bed.

You stayed in your room for the rest of the evening, talking about your feelings. And as she was holding you like that you were sure that nothing could make you that happy as her being right next to you.

#wilhemina venable #wilhemina venable x reader #sarah paulson x reader #sarah paulson imagine #AHS #ahs apocalypse #american horror story imagine

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antics-pedantic · 4 years

Text

RALLY CO. #4: THE GATE TO WITHIN, PART 2

“It’s not unlike the one we saw the Golden Shadow’s puppet body use some time ago.”

Solomon tapped at the gate with his cane once more, before taking a greater analysis of the stone arch. It had recently been donated to the Century University archaeological department, with special instructions to allow for a space and equipment, only to be utilized by Solomon himself as well as his approved charges. And it helped that Solomon had collected the spare stone arch pieces from Morocco that were intact, adding them to this gate.

“But of course, old friend.”

There stood a construct of rounded form and malleable clay. Humblest among ancients was the kindly Blockhouse, as children came to call him. Born from the dawn time magicks that filled the volatile, young Earth. Though by no means a magician, Blockhouse saw fit to aid his longtime friend in understanding this occult mechanism.

“Yes… it could still work. Lead us to where that cad departed in Morocco, Solomon. I can feel it still working, if a bit muddled by the action…”

Solomon snapped his fingers.

“Splendid! Help me to organize it proper, chum. I’ve a feeling it’ll be needed soon enough. Have you a guess as to the realm it might take us to?”

The clay construct shrugged.

“There is more than one realm to be had. Modern science has not explored this frontier. It may be too perilous to properly chart.”

“For now, Blockhouse. For now. Until then, let us make the most of what the university has been gracious enough to loan us, eh?”

“Aye. And any thoughts as to our anonymous benefactor?”

Solomon took a moment to turn away and wipe the smudges from his glasses lenses with a cloth.

“None welcomed. Not right now at least.”

And as the two set to work, the rest of Rally Co. set about town in the meantime, leaving behind the campus, and the roadster parked by the science building. No shortage of familiar art deco architecture in this city: More than anywhere else Arcadia, Maryland had boasted more than just a trend. The whole city was stylized carefully as per the wish of some dreamy-minded visionary.

Katrina had insisted on picking up fresh groceries: They hadn’t been to Morocco for too long, but the psychic girl was wary of the produce back at Solomon’s place. A fine excuse for Solomon to grant them some pocket change to stop by a new pharmacy: Mostly since it boasted a soda shoppe.

“Oi, jerk.” said Tycho. “Gimme a tall glass with a few scoops!”

“Tycho! That is most rude.” gasped Katrina.

“Eh?! They’re all called soda jerks.”

“Still. Perhaps say the ‘soda’ part so as to… to differentiate? Yes?”

“I gotcher, dear! Now c’mon and try one o’ these. Nectar, it is, I tells ya!”

Ez picked up a few things from the actual pharmacy, that she would need later for her lab work, before joining Felix outside.

“Any errands you’ve got there, private eye?”

“Mmm?”

Felix turned to face the other woman.

“Ah, none come to mind. I should really make a list… Katrina tells me all the time that it would help me remember things.”

Ez however, rolled her eyes.

“Confound the lists, I’ve no need for such things.”

“Really? Then what’s that sticking out of your side pocket?”

“Oh! An arrangement of the names of items on paper.”

“So a list? To remind you of the important things?”

“Getting smart, are we?! And what science are you going into, hm? How’s about I introduce you to the sweet science?”

Ez playfully punched Felix in the arm before the two laughed it off. That is, until a man in a long coat and hat, with a greying handlebar mustache bumped into Esmerelda.

“Ach! Verzeihung!” apologized the fellow. “Esmerelda darling, I’ve not seen you on campus in some time. We are missing our favorite bio-chemist extraordinaire.”

“Mueller, wasn’t it?” said Ez. “Felix, this is Mr. Mueller. Ruprecht Mueller. He’s volunteered to accompany some of our foreign exchange students around town. I’ve been reporting to him as a promise the science majors from his university in Sweden are all in good health.”

“Charmed.” said Felix. But when she offered a hand to shake, she noticed something, and instead fixed her ponytail.

“Apologies! I am buying some night medicines to help sleep properly. I tell you both, the shifting seasons… they are a nightmare upon allergies! Haw haw!!”

With that, Mueller bid his farewell and Ez turned to glance at Felix.

“What’s wrong? Scrunching your nose at his cologne?”

“No, strong as it was—along with that loud laugh of his, I noticed one of his purchases went beyond personal medicines and included chloroform. For those students you mentioned both looking out for? Some experiment of theirs?”

“Ruprecht isn’t on the approved faculty to handle restocking.” said Ez, starting to get suspicious as well.

“What’s say you and I take guard duty at the university tonight?”

“I don’t imagine the security guards will object to having Rally Co. take over some of their duties.”

Later that night, the whole group was on the university campus. Tycho and Blockhouse were in the roadster with the hood up, playing some card games to pass the time. It had been a dull stakeout thus far, but the two were determined to see it through.

“Got any kings?” said Blockhouse. Tycho might have said ‘go fish,’ but found himself startled when there was a sound from the car’s portable radio set.

“Felix here. Tycho? Blockhouse?”

Blockhouse took up the radio microphone and offered it over, giggling as Tycho snatched it from the construct’s hand and spoke.

“Ye ye, we’re ‘ere.” grumbled Tycho, fishing for a pair of binoculars. “Gimme a sec here, the last few sweeps haven’t turned much up—eh?!”

“What is it, Tycho?”

“I see yer lad now. Not on the sidewalk, but the light’s gone on in the gate room! He’s damn near evaded us I’ll bet he has.”

“Alright, we’re going in. See you there.”

Tycho shut off the radio for the time being, scrambling out of the roadster. Blockhouse shifted his shape slightly on the way out, as the two entered the building.

“When will Solomon take my advice about a new car?” said Blockhouse.

“We’d have to total his current ride, and for that we’d get some new wheels—and surer deaths.”

“Oh bother.”

They reunited with Felix, Ez, and Katrina, the three of whom had reached the room and found no trace of anyone. The gate had not been tampered with either.

“Still begs the question of who turned on the lights.” said Felix. Just then, as she was about to search more of the room, she had moved out of the way of a stray stapler: On the ground, scurrying away on all fours was none other than that boastful mercenary, Duke Luke!

“Lemme at that blight!” exclaimed Tycho. “We can figure how he got back here afterwards.”

“Wait hold on—” said Ez. “This fink’s real shaken. Blockhouse, grab him!”

“I should be so delighted, to make him ready for questioning.” responded Blockhouse, taking up Duke Luke by the back of his jacket like a kitten by the scruff after the mercenary started swinging a yardstick at him. But before any questioning could occur, the door into the room opened and a piece of metal gleamed under the light.

“Ruprecht Mueller!” gasped Ez.

“Midnight tidings.” Said Ruprecht, leveling his pistol. “I don’t know about your clay guardian, but if the rest of this motley bunch are meant to survive, you’ll not make a move against me until I’ve given you each a ‘bedtime wishing’ with my handkerchief. Ah, and thank you for bringing Mr. Luke ahead of schedule: he’ll be joining me through the gate momentarily as my guide.”

“You’re aware he’s gone through?” asked Felix. She noticed Duke Luke starting to get antsy in Blockhouse’s grasp.

“Our agents are always watching, miss. Keeping tabs on the most particular of interests.”

With his other hand, Ruprecht moved to a table to soak a rag with the chloroform he’d bought earlier. Felix nodded to Katrina, who nodded back in response and began to focus her telekinesis so that the bottle would slip from Ruprecht’s grasp. Just in that moment, Duke Luke slipped out of his jacket, and ran for the door.

“You can’t make me go back!” cried Duke Luke. “I won’t! Not to that hell!”

Ruprecht fired his pistol off. Duke Luke had stumbled, the bullet shooting a gas valve at one of the tables. In a mad bid to escape before any of Rally Co. could catch him, Ruprecht produced an amulet from his coat pocket, quickly activating the stone gate. Once he felt he was in a safe enough distance, he tore off part of his handkerchief and stuck it into a bottle—not the chloroform, but rather something more flammable.

“He’s gonna toss towards the broken valve!” screamed Duke Luke. “We’ll be blown to smithereens!”

As the bottle flew through the air, Ez grabbed Katrina and dived for the gate. Felix and Tycho were not far off. Blockhouse took special care to toss Duke Luke in with them, before shielding the open gate with his own enchanted form.

“BLOCKHOUSE!!—”

But before Blockhouse could speak, the explosion went off. It tore into his back, causing him to cry out in pain. And then the gate ceased its portal, separating them at last.

“Blockhouse!”

The clay construct was in a daze. The room around himself was charred and blasted. Solomon had made it into the room alongside a handful of firefighters. The two made it back to the roadster where Solomon kept some extra enchanted clay in the trunk. Just enough for the construct to absorb if he had taken sufficient damage.

“Are you well, old friend?”

“Yes… of course Solomon. I have weathered worse.” sobbed Blockhouse.

“What is it? The others—they went through the gate didn’t they? Safe from the explosion?”

“Aye… But I fear we have lost them a great and terrible distance Solomon. If only I’d stopped those mad fools Luke and Mueller. We’d all be safe here, and the university science building intact.”

Solomon looked to the window of the room his charges had just been in not so long ago. He trusted them to fend for themselves if need be, but he hated to leave them without guidance.

“I’ll keep trying to reach Katrina with my telepathy if I can. Let’s see if we can salvage the gate and go after them.”

“Stow it, old man. You’re not the only one on this trail.”

Solomon and Blockhouse were astonished by who they saw before them now: Descending from a perch atop some street lamp came The Junker!

“I believe I’ve found… just the thing. But listen well or I’ll set about this alone.”

Solomon wanted to say a million things. Pertaining to other things, to the matter at hand. To argue that Junker wouldn’t have come here if he could handle this by himself, to apologize for some secret dealings in their shared past.

But for the sake of the others, that had to wait.

“… Hello again, Blockhouse.” said Junker. Somewhat more warmly, fonder than he was used to.

“I am glad you are well, my friend.” said Blockhouse, as he stood up once more, hoping to mediate for the two before him. “Lead on once again.”

Tycho had never quite seen anything like this. After some trudging around through various tight tunnels, Rally Co. had happened upon more of a valley area with some sections of lush greenery that felt not unlike a tropical locale. And right now he was behind cover with his friends, as Mueller—an agent to some unknown party, be it an organization or an agency of some nation, was shooting at them, and dragging the panicking Duke Luke away. He loaded up his impellet gun, and rose from his cover with a battle cry, offering returning fire. Once Felix and Ez had drawn theirs they could outgun the older man, not just skirmish with him.

But then came a responding roar. An ear-splitting bellow that announced the arrival of the terrible lizard: Like the tyrannosaurus rex, but unlike it. Perhaps a little larger, some features different. Rather, this was the T-Rex’s mutated descendant. An inhabitant of the subterranean world. And it was currently barreling right for the group!

“Cheese it, gang!” exclaimed Ez. She pushed Katrina and Tycho forward first. She and Felix pelted the beast with a barrage of impellets. The force of the rounds was a nuisance to it. And while the tranquilizer chemical was taking effect, it was occurring too slowly for an adventurer’s taste. At least, an adventurer that had some greater value for their own continued existence.

A mortifying sort of miracle occurred at least then: As a giant centipede emerged from above, scaling a side of the stony Earth before extending outwards to begin using its dreaded crushing parts of the mouth: The mandibles!

“Ply my trade, I says.” huffed Tycho. “Follow in dear old dad’s footsteps me says. I don’t think anybody outta the cryptozoology department anywhere’s got any entries on those horrors!”

Felix was out of her league, to say the least. Even in their first adventures thus far Rally Co. had the advantage of operating within Arcadia or Morocco, Paris once (to help pick up some things and sell off Katrina’s old apartment). This was more the explorer’s game, less the investigator. But Duke Luke was out there with knowledge on the Golden Shadow’s business. And she was still designated leader without Solomon’s expertise to defer to. Everyone was counting on her—and she’d start slowly by giving Katrina a pat on the back. Ez and Tycho still kept their cool for the most part…

Dieter Leistung had been running for as long as he could remember. He could have sworn he’d ran into a mirage some time ago. After all: What kind of name was Duke Luke? It was almost enough to distract him from this subterranean world that might just have been hell itself, the likes of which no mortal could thrive.

“Halt, damn you!”

Dieter heard that before the click of the pistol’s firing hammer. He turned to look at Ruprecht, who had Duke Luke standing just a step in front of him. And the strangest thing happened.

“… Ha! Hahaha, ha!” cackled Ruprecht. “Of course you found another gate and used it! I’d expect nothing less from one of Arkavalia’s sharpest minds.”

But where Ruprecht knew him, Dieter did not. In fact, he was afraid of this fanatical appreciation. This recognition of service.

“I do not believe we’ve met, Herr?...”

“I’m Agent Mueller, brother Leistung. We will have need of your mind… to make sense of this place. Its secrets, and to form the network that will give our country the world!”

#Rally Co. 4 #Web Fiction

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a-collection-of-villainous-aus · 5 years

Text

Coffee Shop au

Why.... Because I can XD

I mean I could do a whole this guy was working at Hat Manor instead of Flug , Demencia isn't there either and other people are in their place to have this au, but our good doctor and Hit woman are both in this and of course our dastardly Hat man we all love lol, it would not work without the entire crew right...manages to forget 505 for this one pffft maybe he’s Flugs stuffed bear from childhood?

For now let's just focus on Amadeus Black Hat.

(yes named after Mozart and I personally like the name.)

Also focusing on how this all began with him wanting a regular but decent cup of coffee without concerning ourselves on the other details of who would be in place of our favourite characters in his home.

So let's begin.

Early morning, shall we say six, despite being up since five, curtains still closed, our good (not so good) demon was curled up in bed eye closed, grumbling, his pyjamas kept riding up and irritating him and one of his bed socks had come off in the night.

That was another thing that was bothering him, half assedly trying to find it only to discover the damn thing had somehow managed to get on the floor, he glared at said object, how dare it be so far away.

Light peeked around heavy black drapes making him groan again, pulling the covers up over his shoulder trying to settle back and snuggle in pillows that were supposed to be the softest money could buy but today his bed just seemed so ARGH!

"Fine! You win you stupid contraption!"

He snapped at the inanimate object, kicking off the covers in frustration.

(We all know this feeling I'm sure!)

Stretching, bones popping, his yawn much like a cats, small and then stretching to reveal rows of fangs with a curling tongue.

Another glance at his bed sock as he pulled the other off simply to throw it at the offending one while pouting

"Traitor."

So now let's move on to him stripping down to shower as the instrumental of careless whisper plays in our minds and Hat washes himself, soap bubbles and steam miraculously censoring out all the spicy bits, long sweeping shots of legs, hands cleaning his neck and suggestively over two smallish horns protruding just above his brow, looking like he's enjoying his shower way more than any actual person would be.

Waves hand hello, yes hello you there, you can stop drooling now he's out of the shower, in a bathrobe and towel on head despite being lack there of in the hair department.

Toe claws tapping on kitchen tiles, of course he could have someone make his coffee, but he was not ready in the slightest to socialise with the idiots who worked here.

Cupboard doors open, fingers curled around handles, standing there in silence looking over the contents, a clock ticking somewhere in his sterile kitchen.

That's it! He was going out, who in the nine circles could enjoy coffee here!

His bed was uncomfortable, his socks had committed mutiny and now even his kitchen was unwelcoming.

Clapping his hands his suit appearing on him the towels going who knows where, even he did not care!

There was that new coffee shop, it had recently opened, of course he was going to know everything that went on in his town, no one could slip anything past him.

Yes that would be the perfect place to go, being new probably meant the place was not yet popular...hopefully, so then it would not be over crowded, just please don't let it be one of those copy and paste places that held absolutely no charm.

While he was a monster that did not mean he could not appreciate a good atmosphere while enjoying certain beverages.

Heels clicking against marble flooring, cane tucked under his arm, perhaps walking would also lighten his mood, was his lobby always so big?

Hmm perhaps a change was in order.

Upon opening the doors to his home he looked up at the sky, there was a chance of snow or so the weather forecast had predicted, obviously it wouldn’t when he was out.

Black Hat squinted at the clouds, they wouldn't dare.

Of course controlling the weather was not something our miserable fellow here could have charge over and here now we introduce Demencia and Flug, also because I am writing this I've named the doctor /barista Acylius Flug...so... Blep on you.

Now Acylius was in the kitchen, working on making the first batch of muffins, they did not open until at least seven, if they were popular enough they would certainly change it to six to make sure everything was ready on time.

Their café was indeed an inviting place, with deep red walls, high back comfy chairs, circular tables made of dark oak, four books between book ends on each one so someone could read something if they so wished, footstools tucked under chairs and blankets folded on the seats.

Children were not allowed.

Charging ports were optional, though phones had to be on silent.

Wooden beams giving off the impression this place was much older than it was and what art lined the walls which were an assortment of landscapes and portraits Flug would never admit to being their artist.

Demencia was using this job to hopefully pay off outstanding college debts from some years back, there was a two bedroom apartment above the Café where they lived, she got to live here rent free and was still going to be paid.

Apparently her boss and friend was not exactly short handed and sometimes she questioned where the money came from...

Pffft of course she knew about the sedated man down stairs.

"Hey stop panicking gigantor, business is gonna be slow, we just gotta get word out there or listen to customer suggestions, they always like to feel important."

Oh yes did I mention he is also six ft seven and when not torturing keeps his hologuise device off, so you would never compare him to his shorter self with the paper bag and goggles or slight nasally voice...come on now a lot of us have our own design and thoughts on Flug under the bag don't we.

His hologuise has of course been worked so that no one can see his real tall self unless he has it switched off.

"You do not think I am over doing it with the Victorian decor?"

Flug asked awkwardly, while working the white chocolate and raspberry muffin batter.

Nothing was going to come in a premixed cardboard box in his kitchen.

"With that roaring fireplace keeping the place nice n toasty absolutely not, people are gonna love that."

She had a shoulder resting against the door frame and arms folded, watching as Acylius evenly spread the batter into each muffin case.

"Though if no one shows up I am going back to bed, you know you can always join me if you want, help keep it nice and hot."

"Demencia!"

Flug returned, clearly getting flustered a blush forming on his pale skin, placing the tray in the oven, the door clanging shut.

"Now is not the time and anyway would you not prefer someone who does not have a smile permanently carved into their face, I look like I should be quoting Batman Dark Knight lines."

"Awww why so serious!"

The lizard girl teased and only laughed more at his deadpan look only then to be hit in the face by a flying tea towel .

Demencia couldn't help but laugh even more as it was sarcastically followed by

"Oops my hand slipped."

They both paused though when the chiming of the little bell went off, it was their first customer of the day, their first one to arrive at this time...mainly because they actually weren't open yet, not at least for another hour.

Black Hat stood there in the door way, snow thick on his Hat and shoulders, his frown so set in as he shook the cold powder off it could have hit the bloody floor.

The weather had dared to defy him.

Blasted cold wet frozen rain urgh...well this place...it reminded him of a home he’d once known...its styling far too similar it felt like an old parlour , comfortably furnished, a form of nostalgic peace.

The old demon wanted nothing more than to shrug off his coat, put on his fuzzy slippers with bat wings...which of course he'd never in a million years would admit were his and sit by that roaring fire.

(Heh even Mr grumpy pants can be adorable sometimes ;3)

He could hear people around here somewhere, no doubt the kitchen, cane over his arm he walked up to the counter, noticing the empty displays besides a few things in factory sealed plastics.

Sniffing he let out a sigh, a dessert treat was baking, its sweet aroma filling the air, usually our cranky demon here did not care for such things but he would be lying if he said that scent of raspberry and white chocolate with jussst a hint of vanilla did not seem appealing, he could already imagine the tart taste of raspberries on his tongue, wondering how long until those would be ready.

Like kisses from a lover he'd lost so long ago...but that was his story to keep.

Tapping the bell on the desk Demencia came running out paused and went running back, Black Hat rolled his eye and nearly left what awful customer service...when the other one came through, wearing animal oven mitts, he couldn't help but let a small smile form at the corner of his mouth, they were amusing to see on such a tall man...

Time slowed as he turned to face him, like when you see in movies, hair blowing, lighting perfect looking ridiculously gorgeous as the one staring is entranced while the chorus of take my breath away plays out of no where.

He knew that face, pale skin, ebony hair, how did he have the same scars...this man was a duplicate of...

"Sir are you alright?"

Flug asked, shifting as Black Hat had been staring, damn it he knew he should have covered his face up.

Pulling up his white Doctors mask and sighing

"Apologies, I forgot myself, I usually cover them up, did you have an order to make?"

It took Black Hat a moment to come back to reality, clearing his throat and nodding

"Uhhh Black coffee, goats milk-"

"And a dash of Hazelnut!"

Acylius blurted out and froze a moment, crap what if Black Hat didn't like that and he'd just assumed he would and the demon would get mad.

Demencia raised a brow at her friends suggestion, did he just try and finish THEE BLACK HAT'S ORDER!

"Please forgive me sir, I have no idea where that came from."

It was clear while it seemed this man did not remember him, there were old memories lost within that mind, still lingering even in this new life...a part of him still remembered perhaps...he hoped.

"Well there is no need to apologise Acylius, though perhaps I should find out where you are getting your information from."

He teased, leaning in a little.

That made Flug nervous, knocking over the thankfully empty cup, setting it up right again he was about to ask how he knew his name...of course then realising he was wearing his name tag, must've seen it and after all this was Black Hat.

No doubt he knew about the sedated man in the basement.

What our dear six foot seven Barista was really worried about was the demons presence in his newly opened coffee shop.

If the King of darkness hated it no one else would come, then there was a matter of no one else would come unless it was to see Black Hat if he was here all the time.

No that was ridiculous Black Hat would not be here everyday.

So perhaps if this went well, word of mouth would spread that if this place was good enough for Black Hat it was good enough for them and bring in business....oh my god stop thinking and make his drink!

"Please find yourself a seat, I will bring it over, Demencia please turn off the oven, no doubt the muffins are ready now."

"I would like to order one of those to."

"Yes sir, one devil's brew and muffin coming right up!"

Black Hat lingered a moment longer.

Acylius, his Acylius could not have been reborn...no this had to be some peculiar...cruel act of nature.

Karma was finally catching up with him... Yes that was it.

Taking a chair in front of the fire, crimson with a high back, he pulled out the footstool tucked underneath, of course it was facing the counter, he could barely stop looking at him.

Awww our little demon's heart is going boom boom da boom...yes I know cannon wise Hat doesn't have one but that's what Au's are for, free the imagination, anything is possible!

Acylius could still feel his eyes on him, he shivered subtlety, honestly being watched like prey was somewhat thrilling.

All the while though he was concerned he was taking too long to make his coffee as he brewed it and refused to use that instant crap.

(That most of us drink XD)

Turning back , Demencia returned with the display plate now full of muffins, one on a saucer with napkins and small fork.

Placing it on a tray she went on to put the rest where they belonged and noticed the demon watching Flug and grinned

"You like what you see, he's single you know!"

She of course held back nothing with hands on hips adding

"I'm single to but I'm not really looking for anything but come on you've been staring at him like you want him to serve himself on your lap as if he were the most tasty treat on the planet! Long legs, keeps fit-"

"Demencia PLEASE STOP!"

Acylius snapped, blushing bright red, oh god he wanted hell to swallow him up whole, could he just fucking die now please.

" I am so sorry for my co workers behaviour I-"

Flug was so embarrassed that he was completely missing the fact that Black Hat was trying not to laugh.

In any other case he would have simply just left and found it all inane but it was endearing if not bittersweet to see features resembling a lost one look so flustered, he'd always found it cute when his Acylius blushed.

Legs out on his footstool, ankles crossed, he laced his fingers and looked as serious as this entire scenario would possibly allow.

The fire crackling as both co workers stood there in silence, Demencia still grinning, oh ho the legendary master of all evil was actually considering Acylius as a snack!

Of course if her ridiculously tall friend didn't want any of that, she would be more than happy to mount the beast to her wall...bed...any available surface.

Black Hat waved a hand and spoke evenly

"I will let it slide on one condition."

Acylius gripped the tray, where was this going.

"What is it sir?"

"Call me Jefecito."

"But I, you are not..."

He sighed and gave a momentary glare at Demencia, bringing over the coffee and cake.

"Coffee is served, Jefecito, is there anything else you would like?"

"Yes, when I am here, only you are to serve me."

Hat replied, holding his coffee, the bottom of the cup making a clinking sound on the saucer, drinking he felt a comforting familiar warmth spilling down his throat.

"Kinky."

Demencia chirped out.

In which Acylius hid his face behind the tray wishing for death and Hat near choked on his coffee.

#Coffee au #Paperhat #Villainous #villainous au #Black hat #Flug #Acylius

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purkinje-effect · 4 years

Text

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 54

Table of Contents. Second Instar, Chapter 21. Go to previous. Go to next. TW: Surveillance, drugging, lascivious behavior, heavy inebriation. Giving toasts and getting toasted.

______________________________

Outside the rowhouse, ‘Choly mounted Angel, but between the rigidity of his orthotics and the weight of the uniform fabric, he struggled to sustain the jockey-esque crouch he had used to ride the Mister Handy. He knew he’d need to modify they way he rode Angel in order to be able to ride it.

“We’re visiting the storage hangar before we go see Olivia.”

A Mister Gutsy intercepted them before they got to the door.

“State your intent,” Green-One barked. “This is not the destination that’s been requested of you.”

“We wanted to stock up before we left,” ‘Choly began, dismounting with some difficulty. Angel handed him his cane, which he took appreciatively. “Do you... happen to have any straps? I’d take a fistful of uniform belts, if that’s all you’ve got.”

Sticks had decided, after the argument at the rowhouse, that he’d keep his mouth shut for the rest of their time on base, if he could help it. This decision, however, did not prevent a wide range of facial expressions. To the request, the ghoul cocked his head to one side.

“Request to enter the storage hangar has been confirmed,” the Gutsy replied after a minute of floating idly. “Come in, gentlemen.”

Although 'Choly disliked the awareness that she could communicate wirelessly with her network of robots, he, Angel, and Sticks all followed regardless. As the rolling hangar door peeled fully open, the Gutsy sped off into the uniforms section of the hangar, returning with its pincer full of various leather, fiber, and metal.

“I have five belts, as well as lengths of rope and chain, if they’d be of use, Colonel. I take it these are for better affixing what your Handy’s traveling with?”

“No, well, yes. It is carrying me. I’ll take all three things, if that’s all right. So I can figure out what will work best.” It handed over the things readily.

“Will you need any materiel stock?” it pressed gruffly. “I’m instructed to ask if it’s the real reason you came here first.”

“We came here for the belts,” Angel started before anyone else could reply, let alone explain why ‘Choly had wanted to come to the hangar first. “But if you could top me off on fusion cells, that would be truly divine, G-1.”

“Of course, Handy Angel.”

As G-1 worked, Sticks eyed the incendiary laser attachment customization Olivia had done for Angel.

“I could use a fresh tank for my flamer,” the ghoul requested, to deflect G-1 from its tinkering.

“We always try to keep another tank handy for the next time you pop on base, Sticks. Just have to leave the low tank with Deenwood.”

The ghoul shrugged explicitly, setting the flamer on the ground where G-1 could do as asked. Between the physical exertion and soup of charged emotions, ‘Choly’s head had begun swimming hours ago and had yet to stop.

“--And anything else for you, Colonel? Or will the ropes and such suffice?”

“--Oh!” He jerked back to reality with an unpalatable high-brow squint to shove down his mental state. “I don’t-- Actually. If you’ve got ammunition on hand for Sticks, you’ve likely got something for me as well. What variety of Syringer darts might you have?”

“Variety, we do not have, Sir, but we most certainly have darts for your Syringer. Pax darts don’t come free, mind you. They’re not standard military issue.”

The chemist nearly blurted out incredulity that the flamer was considered such, but he recalled the flamethrowing Assaultrons that chased him and Angel onto base. He dry swallowed and nodded as his face tightened, motioning to Angel to gain access to its storage compartment. He rifled in the false bottom, his wallet in many ways.

“You still accept the American dollar, don’t you? Silly of me to ask such an obvious question, but--”

“--Caps only,” it snipped, showing its first impatience with him.

He straightened in an instant with a thin smile and a cap-stuffed paper sack in hand. He disliked affirmation that caps were, in fact, a common currency these days.

“Say no more. How many for a case?”

“Three-hundred fifty, Sir.”

Any color left in his face washed out, but he grinned and simply handed over the bag without counting. In its pincer it scaled out the value of what it had been given. Its programming sounded off in the affirmative, and it left to the aisles and returned with the requested ammunition. The bag of caps had vanished in the shuffle.

“Here are three cases, plus two. You forfeited a little over a thousand, so that should be to your liking.”

‘Choly warmed to the exchange once the ammo cases fell into his hands. He gave G-1 a genuine smile, and nodded, then used the strap-snaps to affix them to the harness under his coat. The loose darts went into one of the incomplete cases already threaded onto his person.

G-1 escorted them to the R&D building personally, but vanished once they had entered. They came to Wing IV to find the heavily encrypted door already open, and Liv on a desk sprawled out atop a recumbent Helen. The ghoul general didn’t wholly unglue from her mate or tidy herself when she realized they had company, but she did sit up. Disheveled and incredibly drunk, she grinned broadly with heavy lids, patting to either side of her to suggest her guests take a seat.

“Oh, yes, please, thank you,” ‘Choly wheezed out without hesitation, slouching back in the office chair.

Sticks did not follow in kind, and crossed his arms to listen.

“So good to see you both again,” she murmured. “I hope your visit to the hangar was benefih-shul.”

“Very.” ‘Choly glanced to Sticks for a cue what more to say, but gleaned nothing.

“The case on that one desk over there is the X-Cell-Root Voire’s requested. There’s enough Furriers partaking in the conflict, that I didn’t have enough inhalers on hand. So! I used ampuoles instead.” She couldn’t keep one hand from wandering the inside of Helen’s thigh while she spoke. “It’s been mixed with adjuice-- advu-- adjuvant. Adjuvant! It’ll last longer. Ideally, long enough to carry over into shepherding maneuvers. My Eyebots scouted the past two days. The Back Central Rust Devils are holed up in the Robert House Charter School.”

The red-headed ghoul kissed the Assaultron on the breastplate, unable to resist another moment without her tongue against its chassis, then stood to retrieve the flare gun from atop the aforementioned enameled metal pharmaceutical case.

“‘Choly, you’re to instruct the Furriers to herd the Back Central Devils off school property and out onto the South Common. Sticks, you’re to use this flare gun so I know everything’s in position for my Sentries to fire. If you don’t wanna get hit, don’t fire unless you’re on the other side of the river.”

“We wouldn’t want to get hit with Rad-I-Canned, now, would we?” Seeing her so inebriated disenchanted ‘Choly, and he couldn’t read whether this was celebratory or as a consequence of stress.

She gave him a dopey smile as she sat again, in Helen’s lap.

“I forgot just how well you clean up, ‘Choly. It suits you.”

“I noticed you did more than edit the RFID in my ribbon rack... What exactly does this ribbon suggest?” He pointed to it.

“Oh, silly, that’s not a new ribbon. Your memory must not be too sharp. Certainly a new concept, though! Much like the addition of stars shows count of things other ribbons signify, I applied a star to your Meritorious Service bar. Consider it simple gratitude for having attended active duty two separate occasions. Though, it will be your first time having attended the battlefront proper, hm?”

She laughed, bubbling into pointed mocking as she sank comfortably across Helen and ran an arm behind the Assaultron’s neck.

“It didn’t have to be civil war for it to be bad and you know it. It was worse here than the front line every day of the Battle of Anchorage.” He gnashed his teeth at her, desperately shoving down anger as he eyed her. Deeply unbecoming of a commanding officer. “Have I missed the wedding?”

“Wedding?” Olivia glanced up to Helen, brow raised. “Don’t we seem already long-since wed?” Sweetly, she kissed the front side of Helen’s skull-plate.

“Olivia has a point,” Helen seconded. “Though my programming predates our meeting, I feel as though I were manufactured just to be hers.”

“And I’m yours,” Olivia beamed.

“And did she--” ‘Choly flinched in recognition, his brain processing what he was saying as he said it. His eyes widened as his volume escalated. “...Take your name or keep her own?” He waved a finger at his commanding officer indistinctly. “You... your offer to wipe Angel’s imprint matrix. That’s not the only way to achieve the same results and you know that.”

“Liquor’s even quicker,” she slurred through another bolt of cognac. She got up again, to pull two more glasses from the makeshift wet bar by the storage closet. “Gentlemen! Join me in a toas-scht.”

A Mister Handy that had idled in the far corner came to her, and with unspoken instruction it mulled the glasses and iced them. She then filled them with cognac. It stirred them and brought them to ‘Choly and Sticks. The ghoul broker’s tension didn’t go unnoticed, but he didn’t interrupt the ritual. ‘Choly didn’t object, either, but the offer of spirits certainly dulled his anger.

“To the success-sh of Deenwood! And to Voire, and their bi-shen-tennial alliance with the base! We’ll stamp out the Devils once and for all.”

Olivia raised her glass, and they followed suit. Once the glasses clinked together, Sticks wrenched ‘Choly’s from him and knocked it back in three swallows. ‘Choly staggered back. Olivia choked on her own drink in incredulity. ‘Choly immediately understood Sticks suspected it was drugged as usual.

“It’s just Daytripper, isn’t it!” The chemist nearly hissed in exasperation.

Furious and fed up, he tried to grab Sticks’s glass for himself. To get it away from ‘Choly, he drank that one too, and set down the glasses on the next nearest desk to catch his breath. When he turned around again, ‘Choly slapped him in the face, but he didn’t budge otherwise.

Olivia stared softly at ‘Choly, nearly sobered.

“Just what exactly do you think I do to the drinks I offer friends?”

“You think of either of us as friends?” Sticks choked out, terse. “Could have fooled me.”

“Well, you two are sher-tainly more than friends,” she quipped, poorly concealing her hurt. “We don’t we all just lay bare some honesty while we’re at it?”

“It wasn’t Daytripper, was it.” ‘Choly began to melt apart mentally, finally forefront with what had been chewing steadily away at him since the argument at the rowhouse. “What did you do to him. All the years you had him here on base, what did you DO to him? It all comes so easily for you, doesn’t it!?”

“He told you I experimented on him?” She laughed, elated again. “Who do you think helped me perfect the Daytripper formula? Most chems aren’t potent enough to work on ghouls. Nerves are deadened, chem receptors broken, by the mutations and keloidal scarring. There’s no short supply of ferals in Lowell, but they’re not viable to test charisma. I needed a shub-ject of like physiology. The day he could convince me to let him out was the day I knew I had it right.”

“...And the artificial hand?” he asked, carefully sitting back down.

“Serves him much better than the Pipboy did, if you ask me.”

The chemist slouched into a stupor, between how bad he ached, and how mentally frayed he grew. He failed to shove down trembling.

“So it really wasn’t Daytripper, then,” Sticks began at last. “And you were testing me. To see that I’d step in, and keep ‘Choly from taking whatever you gave him. If it was meant for me, it had to have been Klutz.”

“It was meant for you, and it was Magnetizer. I did expect you to drink it, but I didn’t expect you to drink both of them. Have fun overdosing, Hawthorne.” Ignoring the dread in Sticks’s eyes, she instead concerned herself with Angel. “You sure are traveling heavy, Angel, dear. Aren’t you bogged down with all that?”

“--I want to be as prepared as possible on site at Voire,” ‘Choly interjected dumbly. “I’d be remiss to have left something behind, only to end up needing it.”

Sticks disliked the transparency, but let it go unaddressed when Liv shrugged off any tension she could read on the chemist or the other ghoul.

“You always were one to be over-prepared. Mm mmh.” She clicked her tongue.

“We’re going to get going before we lose anymore daylight,” Sticks blurted out in pointed impatience.

“Oh, don’t let me stop you,” she pouted, slinking against her Assaultron again. “Blow it out for anyone but me, Sticks. The faster the two of us can regain our privacy, the better. Isn’t that right, Helen?”

“Affirmative, Tiger. Please leave.”

Angel grabbed the case and carried it behind itself as they exited. On their way off base, the trio all felt like Deenwood’s every eye was upon them, as though every robot set to ensure these potential defectors followed through with their announced intentions. Once off base, the whole perimeter came to life, complete with locking mechanisms, rotating warning lights, and a low bleating siren.

“Deenwood Compound will fully enter DEFCON One in sixty seconds,” the robotic speakers announced. “After this time, approach by any entity, personnel or not, will be met with lethal force.” It would repeat this announcement for the next minute, but the trio did not wait around to observe the final stages of lockdown.

Once they were two blocks away, ‘Choly stopped them so he could catch his breath.

“Guess you were right,” the chemist wheezed, sweating. He remembered the straps he’d shoved into Angel’s storage, and he requested them. Without them in the storage compartment, Angel could fit the Voire crate inside. “About Liv locking us out.”

“We’ll get back on base,” Sticks said, distracted. “We just have to do it on her terms now. What are those straps for, anyway?”

“I’m having trouble, crouching on top of Angel, in this uniform.” He continued speaking as he could, while he worked, in stuttered phrases. Angel helped him string the twist of straps through its car door handles. “I figured, some kind of reins might work better, than the handles. These reinforced gloves, make it easier, to grip things.” He hooked them all together into a loop, then mounted the foot pegs and steadied himself upright with this latest fixture to Angel’s body. “This works much better. Almost like jewelry for you, hm, Angel?”

“It’s for more than simple decoration, Mister Carey. Ha-ha!”

Silence followed as they made their way North through the residential Highlands. Sticks led them a different way than how ‘Choly and Angel had come the first time, but while they passed more housing this way, they encountered no ferals. They ended up again on the street that became Rourke Bridge, but before they got to the bridge itself, Sticks fumbled with the flamer and sniveled, only to snort-chuckle when he picked it back up with some difficulty. ‘Choly wasn’t sure whether to say anything, certain the chem had begun to take effect.

“Should I ask what Magnetizer is? Or what it does?”

“Magnetizer is like Daytripper, but dialed up. All the way up. The mood enhancement is more potent, but the side effects are, too. My muscle power and stamina are both gonna be shit for a few hours.”

“Guess it’s a good thing we’ve planned to unload the majority of our stuff at your place, then.”

“You’re not going to like me once it takes full effect.” Sticks choked up his grip on the flamer, but still didn’t look to ‘Choly. “Fuck, actually-- you of all people might.”

Words eluded ‘Choly, and he stewed on his worries. Sticks pressed on across the bridge, weaving carefully between the weather-rotted vehicles congesting the way.

“...Why did you drink it, without knowing what it was? If you thought it was anything at all?”

“I was confident I knew what it was. And I didn’t want her to poison you.”

“--Why drink it, if you thought it was poison? Couldn’t you have just... poured it out on the floor or something?”

“We don’t always make the most rational decisions when someone’s life might be on the line.”

“Are you... glad it wasn’t poison, at least?”

“That much Magnetizer would have killed a lightweight like you, that’s for sure.”

Silence overwhelmed the trio again, and they crossed the bridge without further comment. By the time they were on solid ground again, ‘Choly hemmed.

“...You had the feeling, too, right, that we were being watched on base?”

“Yeah. Definitely. Why?”

“Do you still feel it?”

“I want to be wrong, but honestly? Yes.”

“I didn’t want to mention it,” Angel agrees sheepishly. “I still don’t trust my sensors, I’m afraid.”

“What is it?” ‘Choly asked his Handy.

“Something robotic, I believe.”

“Fuck-me-in-the-mouth, she tailed us.”

An Eyebot rattled through, with a prerecorded script on loop. Anytime a specific name or noun came up, a different quality of voice and recording interrupted with it. The spherical hovering robot, with a grill plate guarding its front and a myriad of antennae jutting backwards off it, did not seem bothered at all that it had an audience, and announced its information readily and repeatedly without a care. ‘Choly unclenched when he realized it was just an Eyebot, but Sticks remained poised, watching.

“RobCo Industries. A household and industrial power-House since 2042! Are you looking for a rewarding career in computer technologies? RobCo Towers is now hiring for a variety of positions specializing in data processing! Apply--”

The ghoul lost his composure and let loose with the flamer, immolating the robot. It turned hostile, and got off a single unaimed laser shot in their direction before it crashed to the shore sand. Its speaker crackled and sputtered, and at first the three of them thought the sound an indicator how quickly the robot was melting, but then a third voice came through.

“--Olivia, it doesn’t have to end like this--”

The trio jerked back when the Eyebot exploded.

‘Choly started to yell at Sticks for having destroyed it, but the ghoul cut him off.

“--I haven’t seen a robot Pawtucketville side in decades. Can’t be a coincidence. And it didn’t come from Deenwood, that’s for damn sure.”

‘Choly’s face slacked. “...The Devils. They know we’re mobile.”

“No, they think The General’s mobile. I guarantee you, she’s about to get some very surprised unannounced visitors. I don’t think the DEFCON One was for us.”

The chemist dismounted, to walk the remainder of the way to the Sampas parlor. He didn’t like what Sticks was insinuating the Eyebot signified.

“...She dressed me up as a high ranking officer to decoy the Devils’ surveillance. They think I’m her. They think no one’s home. Am I really that disposable to her--”

“--Ideally, she’ll have knocked out most of their robotic assets before we have to deal with ‘em. Stressful as it sounds, it’s bought us a little time for me to let this stuff wear off before we get to Voire. Let’s get inside, hm?” Sticks thumbed at the parlor expectantly. Once he had the security mechanisms disarmed, he held the door open for the Handy and its owner. “Angel, get in there so we can unload ya. We’ve got some time to kill, and a lot to get done today.”

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#fallout 4 #fallout fanfic #fo4 #fo4 fanfic #sole survivor #fallout #the anatomy of melancholy #melancholy #sticks #olivia francis #ghoul oc #mister handy #mister gutsy #angel #we have one more detour before we see how messy voire can get

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exponentialdisasters · 4 years

Text

[Quest One: The Challenge of Newcomers]

[WORD COUNT: 5,935]

She jolted awake. Something was wrong. She knew that without even taking a first breath. She had- fallen asleep on her bed, correct?

Then why was she jolting and whirling in time with the rumble of an engine?

Paz rubbed her eyes, noticing after the action that her- her hands... They were so much... Pudgier, if that made any sense. Paz nearly jumped back. Her back was up against something... Leather. She finally took a moment to examine her surroundings.

The blazing-hot brown leather was attached to a seat... At the very back of a bus. A few other people were on the bus- mostly folks with big bags of luggage that Paz could probably carry if she used both hands. A sun hung outside, flickering in and out of the bus between thick pine trees.

“..... Hmmnnn?-!” A boy was sitting beside her. He looked... Maybe twelve, with a lean build that evidenced much running and physical dexterity. “Wh- but I-?? What???” Paz glanced to him. He felt.... Familiar.

“I don’t know.” Her voice was even, trying to hide her own surprise and terror. “Last I knew, I was.. Well, I fell asleep in my bed.” Paz breathed in gently, trying to focus on the air moving in and out of her body. The bus was blazingly hot.

“I-... That’s what happened to me.” Paz’s eyes shot to the boy. He was semi-tall for his age, with a slightly buzzy set of short brown hair. His gray eyes burned with... Something... Too similar. Too close.

“.... But if one of us is dreaming, we should be lucid dreaming, which means we should have control over the environment... And last I checked, my dreams never involved hopping into another... Person.” Paz gestured to her hands. She could not see herself, but she had a guess. The boy stared, eyes locked into the midway with imagination churning. Paz gave pause.

“..... It isn’t me. Are you dreaming?” Paz exhaled, before whacking her arm- quite suddenly and harshly- against the seat side in front of the two. The pain that burst like a firecracker from the injury was message enough. She hadn’t woken up cradling her arm, in her bed.

“No.” The boy was eerily calm about this- perhaps he was a construct, and Paz was still sleeping... It would be far-fetched, but she had suffered some decently real dreams before. “..... I’m Oberon.” He held out his hand, although his eyes betrayed his real emotion. Paz would recognize- that-... Oh.... No...

“.... I- Oberon?- Smith?” The boy blinked, shifting back in his bus seat.- It was the very back seat, so it spanned the length of the bus’ width.

“.... Yes? How did you kno….” He stopped, mouth still open in a silent ‘o’. Paz held out one hand, letting her pointer and pinky go up while her thumb extended out. Oberon matched the sign. “..... P-... Paz?”

“..... But you’re a-?!” The two stopped, each staring at the other. They had both spoken at once. There was no way this child was Oberon. No. Way.- He was at least two feet shorter than her sibling!... But everything else was scarily alike. Burning gray eyes, dirty brown hair, peach skin that was nearly a light level of unhealthy pale, even the bags from college life... It was all there.

The boy wore a red zip-up hoodie, currently unzipped to allow for better air. An orange shirt was tearing its color into Paz’s retinas, leading down to a set of plaid shorts. The colors were caught between red and orange, giving them the sense of fire. He also had on a pair of red tennis shoes, covering up (almost entirely) a pair of black socks. A necklace hung from his neck. On it rested a symbol- infinity divided by zero.

“.... I....” The boy- Oberon?- reached out a hand, letting his smaller and more fatty digits run against her arm. Paz blinked, pushing the offending thing off.

“...… Are- are you really Oberon?”

“Well I can’t exactly prove it to you. If you’re not Paz, then you won’t know our stuff, but if I’m not Oberon, I won’t know our history.” Paz exhaled for a moment. Think of something... Something only Oberon would know. Something that she, as Paz, would be the only living soul to ever know.

“..... Pi. List it out, as far as you can.”

“.... 3.1415926535897...…. 9...” Paz felt a small syringe of relief push into her veins. Her heart was still attempting suicide, beating so fast in panic that it could be mistaken for a car engine.

“You are- Oberon?” Paz shuffled closer. Oberon didn’t move away. The two siblings stared at each other in silence.

“Last stop, Gravity Falls!”

That yell broke the two from their shocked silence. They somehow... Sensed... Like a pull, or a tug... That they needed to be leaving the bus. Oberon stooped down under the seat, tugging out a small dark green suitcase. Paz glanced underneath where she was sat, noticing a similar suitcase. The only difference between the two was that one was covered in pictures of eyes and artist quotes, while the other had forms of puzzles and math equations.

“... My luggage?..” Paz murmured. She drifted from her seat, nearly floating down the aisle in a realm of confusion far removed from the moment. Her brother was easily behind her, having less trouble carrying his suitcase than she was. Paz grunted as she pulled the accursed item to the front. She dragged it down the steps, letting the green object hit nearly every step on the way off. “... Thank you, sir.”

Paz waved to the bus driver. The man blinked, his eyes unfocused and twitchy. Oberon hopped off. The doors squealed closed. A loud rumble filled the air as the bus began moving once more, engine churning and burning through diesel like there was no tomorrow. Paz could see her reflection in the windows.

She... Looked like Oberon. Not- not twenty-three year old him, but.. The boy next to her. She had similar dirty brown hair, although hers was a little more straightened than his. Her skin was just as pale, eyes an ember of flaming gray. Unlike him, she wore a gray collared shirt and navy pants, with black shoes that had some white marking on them. Looking down, she noticed what it was. The square root of negative one.

Paz sneezed. She covered her nose, but it was already too late. Oberon sneezed a few seconds after her. The two- now twins- spent a few seconds sneezing and coughing, expelling the offending dust from their lungs. After waving off the equivalent of a wall, Paz’s eyes finally cut through enough of the mist.

“Mystery Shack”. She knew that sign. She knew it... But didn’t know it. The sign was so painfully familiar, and she was sure she should have recognized it...

“... ‘Mystery Shack’?” Paz’s own voice- she could finally figure out what was wrong with it. It was higher. More feminine. Far more than she had heard in many a year.

“..... It... I guess we should go there.” Oberon exhaled. “Not like we know what else to do. Maybe they have a phone or something, and we can- no... The parents... Won’t recognize us like this.” The idea was shot down before he could even speak of it. Paz took less than a moment to pick up on what it had been.

“I guess we just go to the Mystery Shack for now, and we’ll figure it out from there.” Paz’s words were more confident than she felt. She knew her brother could see right through her tough-girl façade- he had been able to for a long time. Still. She couldn’t lose face.

“Can you say ‘tourist trap’?” Oberon’s hopeful humor managed a short laugh from Paz. Focus on that. Not on this situation. Not now.

“Nope, physically incapable.” She began pulling the suitcase over the dirt road.

“Suuuuuuureeeee….”

{<>}

“So you’re the great niece and great nephew, huh?” Paz... Was confused. She had- just knocked- on the door. “Well, I’m your great uncle Stan!” She knew him. Paz could barely remember anyone outside of her immediate family- so perhaps he was family? It was possible, since looking at him stirred up long-awaited emotions from her gut. Mistrust, but care. Concern, but joy. Annoyance was also buried deep in the edges.

“... I- I guess?” Paz cast an eye to her brother. Oberon shrugged his shoulders. The man before them was easily in his forties, if not his fifties or sixties. He had a massive set of stubble that ran up to short, gray hair hidden by a red fez. A sort of golden fish symbol was inscribed into it, alongside a hanging black tail. She couldn’t recall what it was called, but it reminded her of the- ahhhh tassel! A suit- fresh pressed and clean- covered most of his body. He had on a pair of cleaned dress shoes, and was leaning on a golden cane to match. Two mischevious, twinkling brown eyes looked the twins over.

“Well, welcome to the Mystery Shack! You guys will be staying in the attic because I can’t be bothered to find a decent room.” The man waved his hand to the side with a grin. His glasses reflected the blazing sunlight. The fact that he barely bothered to do anything-... It was annoying. It made sense though. She knew it did. A part of her wanted to laugh, while another wanted to slap him and explain manners.

“..... Thanks?” Paz tried, tilting her head to the side. “Grunkle Stan?” The phrase was foreign but familiar, all at once. The man blinked. Oberon grinned just slightly, nodding his head.

“Yeah- Grunkle Stan! That’s your name.” He chuckled, smile alight in his eyes. Grunkle Stan rolled one of his shoulders.

“Whatever kids. Just make sure you don’t stop the profits, got it?” He pointed his cane at the two, eyes narrowed to beady slits. Paz and Oberon nodded in perfect sync with one another. “.... Creepy...” Grunkle Stan shuddered, moving back inside. Paz and Oberon followed him.

The ‘gift shop’ (as labeled outside of the worn-down wooden shack) was very much in the realm of tourism. If there was a joke to be made about the words ‘Mystery Shack’ or about mysteries in general, it was there. Everything was sold on racks, shelves, and even circle-racks. Shirts, snow globes, ‘crystal shards’... That looked like shards of glass... It was all there.

“Now head up to your room, I have more tourists to rip off.” Grunkle Stan shoved the two towards the ‘Employee Only’ door, beyond a register from which Paz noticed a ‘no refunds’ sign. Grunkle Stan managed to shove the two through the door with one hand after opening it with his other. Paz and Oberon tumbled over one another, nearly smacking into the floor before they managed to right themselves.

By the time they did, the door had been slammed closed by Stan. They could easily hear him on the other side, now using a perfect salesman voice.

“.... Race you up the stairs.” Paz grinned.

“I won’t race you, but-!” And she was already gone. Oberon yelped.

“HEY!” And he took off, laughing all the while. The two sped across the living-room like area, tearing over the rug and crashing their suitcases into the miniature step-stair that was at the open doorway. Paz instantly turned left, avoiding the entry to the kitchen and instead leaping onto the stairs. She pulled her suitcase up, finding her upper strength lacking just enough to make the task difficult.

“Crap crap crap!” She giggled. Oberon tore off, overtaking his sister with ease. Despite being in a twelve-year old body, the boy was still strong as ever. Oberon made it to the door, nearly crashing into it. He turned the knob, and the two siblings fell into the attic with peals of laughter. Paz was instantly on the floor, sucking in air from the short but fast outburst.

The two snickered and laughed on, taking a solid minute to let their actual laughter die down anywhere near enough to speak.

“Okay- o-okay!” Paz chuckled. “You won. But I so wasn’t racing!” The girl smirked. Oberon rolled his eyes, clapping his hands together for a moment.

“Sure, Paz, sure. Anything to save your ‘fragile’ ego.” Paz and Oberon were silent for a moment. And then.... They broke down into even bigger fits of laughter.

{<>}

“.... I really don’t wanna hang in the cabin if Grunkle Stan’s going to be busy with tourists....” Paz muttered as she placed a small stuffed animal that looked... Just like her own... On her ‘bed’. The scruffy-looking dragon stared back at Paz with an empty, soulless gaze.

“We could just explore outside.” Oberon pointed out. He folded some of his clothes, having checked his suitcase to see what all was packed. There was little variety, almost none honestly.

“Yes, but what if that makes Grunkle Stan’s profits go down?”

“We’ll just check out the woods.-” A knock at the attic door interrupted any further thought. Oberon and Paz glanced to one another, each nodding and receiving a nod in return.

“Come in!” Paz internally laughed. She could not believe they had just successfully spoken at the same time!

Grunkle Stan knocked the door to the side, his smile now a soft frown. He pulled a set of signs out from under his armpit, holding them out to Oberon. They were all faded gold in color, with red lettering that read ‘Mystery Shack This Way!’.

“Oberon, stick these up in the woods so I can get more customers.” Paz quirked an eyebrow. She remembered the woods. Well, ‘remember’ wasn’t the right word. It was as if... She knew there was something out there. Something fun, but dangerous. Exciting, like a new kind of donut or update to a game.

“Can I help him?” They were planning to explore- or at least have fun. This technically counted. Grunkle Stan huffed, before waving his cane absently.

“Yeah. Go- just- do whatever it is you kids do.” His mouth crinkled to the left, a half-smirk half-frown. His large nose was pulled up slightly into his face. Paz nodded. A jar of nails and a hammer were placed in her open hands.

“Thanks Grunkle Stan!” Paz smiled, her eyes closing for a moment to form one of those strange internet facial expressions. Grunkle Stan shuddered, turning around.

“Don’t ever do that again.” He marched out of the room. Just as the two thought the coast was clear, they were pulled from their ruminations by their Grunkle opening the door once more. “.... Also I bought too many ice popsicles, so.... There are extras downstairs.” And he vanished once more.

“I say popsicles after we work. You?” Paz glanced to Oberon. He nodded.

“That’s what I was thinking.” Paz tiptoed to the door, opening it all the way with the softest creak she could manage. She snuck her way down the stairs, hearing Grunkle Stan having fun with customers- sorry, ‘tourists’- in the main lobby. She motioned to the kitchen. Oberon seemed to get the idea. They slid across the wooden flooring, shoes thankfully not causing too many loud squeaking noises.

They made it all the way to the door in the kitchen- it was white, surrounded by dirty white counters with wooden cupboards. Paz touched the handle, turning it... And the thing let out a squeal loud enough to wake the dead. She flinched, going even slower. The noise only got louder.

Oberon was shaking his head. Paz turned the handle quick as a whip, snapping the door open and racing out with her hammer and nails. Oberon was hot on her heels, closing the door as fast as humanely possible. The two dashed for the tree line, slowing only when they vanished into the shadows underneath the pines.

Paz stopped, turning her head to look at Oberon.

“Where should... We set up... The first one?”

“I’m thinking near the trail- probably close enough to see the cabin?” Oberon’s suggestion was met with a compliant nod.

{<>}

“.... Do you think we’ll ever get back?” Oberon’s question was whispered in the silence of their walk. The two were just... Meandering. Never too far from the beaten path, but enough to feel alone.

“.... I dunno, bro.” Paz raised her hands, interlocking them behind her head and leaning just slightly back. “I’m trying not to think about it.” Truth be told, the very idea sent shivers down her spine. She found her heart picking up, breathing trying to deepen as terror began to lock around her soul. “I just hope we get back. For now, we’re stuck in children’s bodies.” She cast her brother a silent eye.

“.... That’s true, but.” Oberon’s swinging arms lessened in their swing, albeit slightly. “We have things to do- work, college, Monday night gatherings.... We can’t just abandon all that.”

“Look.” Paz stopped walking, pulling her hands apart to cross her arms before her chest. “As far as I can tell, we’re kids. We can’t exactly change that fact.- For some reason that guy at the shack- Grunkle Stan- thinks we’re his great niece and nephew, and we woke up on the bus with our previous memories intact. Whether this is a fever dream or something entirely different, I don’t know. What I do know is that I can’t afford to think about it right now. I don’t want the parents to worry- and I know you don’t either- but we have no way of consoling them, especially in the bodies of children.”

“.... We still need to find a way back.” Oberon’s persistence was faintly annoying Paz. She knew that annoyance was a wall. She could not afford this conversation much more thought.

“Bro...” Paz breathed out, lowering her head and letting one hand catch it while her eyes closed. One foot extended, pressing into the grass to keep her balance. “.... I’m just as freaked as you are, and I know we’ll have to look for a solution... But if we spend every second doing that, we’ll burn ourselves out. Can we just... Drop the topic?... It’s freaking me out... I’m sorry, but... I can’t... I can’t think about it, okay?”

Oberon frowned. Nonetheless, he dropped the subject from discussion. Paz exhaled, trying to find something else to focus on. She noticed a tree that was in the middle of a clearing. She hummed, changing her path to head towards it. Oberon easily followed suit, the two stopping only when they were just before it. Paz leaned on the tree.

“How many bets I can eat this?” She pointed to the bark, a smirk resting on her face. Oberon hummed. He scratched his chin, ‘deep in thought’. In this moment, he took the time to hop aboard a fallen tree log that Paz had not previously noticed.

“..... None. I’ll eat it.”

“Oh pl-” Paz wrapped her pointer’s knuckle against the ‘bark’. It produced a hollow... Clanking noise. Paz spun, eyes now flashing all over the tree’s trunk. She found a frankly rigid root sticking out near the base. “Lever?”

“I don’t think ‘plever’ is a word.” Oberon’s joy at Paz’s groan was palpable. She still stooped down and plunged her hands into the strangely loose dirt. Paz pulled up. Her feet pushed into the ground before the darn lever- probably stuck from years of disuse- finally creaked up.

“Hey! It opened a hatch over here!” Oberon leaped off of his position atop the fallen tree. He landed on the other side. Paz snapped forth, using momentum to slam into the tree and propel herself over it. Oberon was looking down into the depths of a small square opening in the ground. His hands were fidgeting, blacks of his eyes shrunk down to pinpricks. “... I.... But is-...?” His eyes found Paz. His mouth moved silently.

Paz stepped up, sitting down on her knees to see what was in the square opening.

She froze in place.

A leather-bound book, with a six-fingered golden hand glued on the front. A letter ‘three’ emblazoned the thing, burning bright against the dingy red book’s background. The space had a few spider webs on every side, trying to encroach on the slowly-eroding book.

Paz reached in. Her mind was blank. She needed that book. They needed that book. It- it was important. She couldn’t even figure out why- just that it was. Her hands were wrapped around the book’s casing. The book was out of the hole. Her brother was just as silent as she.

“.... Jour-...” Oberon went silent for a moment. “..... Journal Three....?” Paz tried to speak. Her mouth moved, but no words exited her lips.

“.... I-... Y-... What?...” The words were gone. What had her brother said.... What had she said? The two stared at the book in silence. This object... It was important. But WHY was it important? Why did they care? It was just a book- one among a billion.

Paz flipped the thing open. She skimmed through the pages for a moment, eyebrows creasing down with each additional page.

“TRUST NO ONE.” Paz’s eyes froze on that page. Oberon breathed in sharply behind her.

The book was snapped closed.

“We need to get out of here.” Something swished by nearby. Oberon and Paz took off running.

{<>}

The burning rage of the sun was nullified. Paz took another lick of her popsicle. She kept one eye out the strange red-tinted window. The window itself had a strange pattern- a triangle with an eye in the center. Paz knew there were eyes on her. Eyes she couldn’t see. Either that or she was paranoid.

Hopefully the eyes thing.

There were small creatures outside. They looked almost like lawn gnomes, stealing into the garbage cans of the shack and snacking on what they could. Paz passively took another lick of her popsicle.

“.. Bro, look outside and tell me what you see....” Paz tried to keep her voice calm. It came out flimsy and half-dead.

“.... I- see tiny men?...” Oberon put the Journal down, staring outside for a few moments before snatching the journal up again. “Tiny men- tiny men- gnomes!” Oberon turned the Journal around, showing the page to Paz. She speedily read the entry, noting the ‘steal sacrifice for queen’ and ‘nibbling’. So... More dangerous than racoons, but basically sentient racoons.

“.... We should probably get rid of them.” That was all that needed to be said. Paz and Oberon silently got up from the small couch-cut out in the wall, sneaking out of the cabin for the second time that day. Paz managed to smash her foot into the fallen leafblower when she got outside.

“Holysonova…” The gnomes that had been sneaking portions of food from the garbage all stared at the two newcomers. They had abandoned their food. Paz noticed that... Their eyes... Were all on her.

“.... Queeeeeen….” She heard that whisper. It sent a chill down her spine. “.... Queeeen…” There it was again. Two gnomes had murmured it. “.... Queen....” It was getting louder. Oberon took a step forward, moving Paz aside.

“No.”

“Queen!” The gnomes all leapt forward. Oberon was buried under a pile of gnomes.

“HEY!-” Paz attempted to punch the crap out of them, smashing projectile gnomes to the ground left and right. The darn things just attacked faster. She found herself being overwhelmed far too quickly for her liking. Ropes were tied taught over her arms, locking her down as more gnomes piled on. “-MMMPH!!!!”

“LEAVE. HER. ALONE!!!” There was a noise- several gnomes grunted in pain after wind. Tiny hands smacked against Paz’s back and legs. She tried to move, but the ropes were everywhere now. Her brother shouted something again, but his voice was already faint. Paz tried to struggle, but to no avail.

“Queen! Queen!”

“OVER MY DEAD BODY TINY DEMONS!”

{<>}

Oberon’s fists clenched. He was bruised and scratched, one arm suffering a fair number of bites from the tiny monsters that attacked him and his sister. He could just barely hear the far-off voice of her screaming at the gnomes in anger. Oberon stomped back to the shack, his eyes latching on to a cart nearby. He couldn’t outrun the gnomes when there were that many... But if he had the cart....

Oberon marched over. He went to step inside, only to remember something crucial. Keys.

“Hey, takin’ the cart for a joyride?” He was stopped by a red-haired teenager in a flannel jacket. She had freckles and long jeans, stopped only by a set of army boots. Some strange Russian-style hat rested on her head. “Knock yourself out!” She tossed Oberon the keys before he could reply.

“Thank you!” He jammed the keys into the ignition faster than light. He was pleasantly surprised to find that he was at least tall enough to reach the gas and break pedal, as well as the steering wheel. Oberon shoved the cart into drive. He gunned the engine.

“Dude, wait!” He was stopped again. This time, a pudgy man with a muddy-green t-shirt had stopped him. He was at least five feet tall, if not six. The slight stubble on his face hinted to his age, and the hat on his head was blank. A pair of khaki shorts coated his waist, and two brown loafers protected his feet. “In case of werewolves!” He held out a shovel.

Oberon blinked. He took the item. He needed to get out of here- to save his sister!- And another item was held out to him.

“In case of piñatas.” It... Was a bat. Oberon took the bat. The man stepped back. “Good luck dude!”

“... Thanks?” And he smashed the gas into the floor. Oberon followed the screams of his sister, one hand wrapping tighter and tighter around the shovel’s handle. The scenery blurred and swirled together the faster he went. The cart nearly toppled over as he found it swiveling down a mountainside. Oberon narrowed his eyes.

His sister was in danger.

Everything became a blur after that, racing across the mountains of Gravity Falls with the rumble of the cart. He followed his sister’s annoyed yells, easily recognizing the voice. Several minutes of tracking in this order led him to a strange section of the woods.

The cart suddenly slid down into a hidden cavern. Oberon yelped, slamming his foot into the brake. The cart screeched to a stop, only to unveil a very... Distressing scene.

Paz was roped down to the ground, still struggling profusely against her bonds. Several gnomes were trying to keep her down. Their pointy hats wavered with each of her escape attempts. The surrounding cave system was filled to the brim with mushrooms, glimmering little flies, and glittery green moss. Gnomes were absolutely EVERYWHERE.

The lead gnome- presumably- glanced Oberon’s way. He then smiled and spun to fully face the newcomer. He had a brown beard, and sparkling blue eyes that were half-obscured by a pointy red hat.

“Hi! I’m Jeff, have you come for the wedding ceremony?” The gnome had a standard gnome outfit- overalls and a t-shirt of sorts. His tiny shoes looked very breakable.

Oberon’s brain stopped.

“The what.”

“The wedding ceremony! You see, we’re making this lovely girl here our queen!” Jeff beamed. Oberon’s mouth dropped open. One eye twitched. “She’ll be marrying all 1,000 of us, isn’t that just awesome?”

Jeff was plastered against a mushroom before he could utter another syllable. A number of gnomes were sent flying into the rock walls with a single leaping swipe. Another slash of metal freed Paz.

“GET AWAY FROM MY SISTER YOU CREEPS!” Paz and Oberon were hand-in-hand within seconds. Paz leaped up, chasing her brother as he led them to the cart. The cart’s reverse was activated the moment their butts hit the cushions.

A gnome launched at them. A wooden bat slapped it away with ferocious accuracy.

“GET AWAY YOU FRICKS!!!” Oberon spun the cart around. The two slashed into the sunlight. The sun was beginning to dim. Paz was smacking away a few gnomes that dared to follow them. “..... Hol- BRO SPEED UP!!!” Oberon didn’t dare look back. He gripped the shovel- which he still had yet to let go of- tighter.

Paz yelped. She smashed into the cart’s seat. Wood flew. Several gnomes tore into the roof. More gnomes cried out as they were smashed away.

“WATCH OUT!” Paz’s scream snapped Oberon out of his adrenaline-fueled stupor. A tree was crashing down ahead. He pulled the steering wheel harshly to the right. The cart left the ground.

Paz and Oberon screamed in unison.

The cart- amazingly- bounced off the ground. It landed on the next fall. Oberon thought his teeth were going to smash clear into his skull. The gas pedal was nailed into the floor. The cart’s engine squealed.

“SO CYCLOPS-!” A gnome’s yelp interrupted her.

“SCHMEBULOCK!!!!” One gnome went tumbling by. Oberon tried to focus more on the road. A gnome’s body appeared out of nowhere on his arm. It bit down. He cried out. The gnome’s skull collided with wood.

“LEAVE MY BRO ALONE!”

He could see the shack. It was just out of sight. A sign of familiarity and home. Oberon cut through the tree line. The cart careened over sticks and stones. The materials kicked up and back. Some hideous, malformed roar followed him. Oberon knew his heart had never beat this fast in his life. The cart’s wheels caught on something.

Oberon and Paz went soaring. They crashed into the ground. Oberon bit on dirt. It coated his tongue. Brittle and harsh. Paz landed beside him, the bat now resting on her head. Oberon knew the shovel had landed on top of his legs. They would be bruised in the morning, easily.

He growled. That same ungodly roar echoed him. He stood up slowly. The shovel became a support. It held him upright. He glared down the strange beast that had followed them through the woods.

It was a giant gnome... Made of gnomes. Had he not been fearful for his life, the sight would have been amazing. Oberon tugged the shovel upwards. He brandished it, glaring down the pointy monstrosity. It was easily twenty feet tall, made of beings that were barely two.

“You’re not touching her.” Paz’s hand gently tugged his sleeve. She was glancing every few seconds to the leaf blower from earlier. She had scratches all up and down her face, and one gash at her cheek.

“I’ll marry you.” Paz’s words completely froze Oberon’s brain. He tried to fit it all together.- Leaf blower, gnome monster... It was so... Unique. But it was there. A niggling idea. A thought that nuzzled only to run away.

“R- really? You will?- Oh this is great- guys let me get down there!” The summer sun was opposing the shack, sending a bloody red glare over the gnome monstrosity. “Sorry Carl- is that a growth Steve- move aside, Paul!” The leg opened up, gnomes parting to reveal the leader from earlier- Jeff. Oberon silently glared at the accursed gnome, trying with everything in him not to gnash his teeth.

“Of course.” Paz extended her hand gently. She took a step to the side, kneeling so that she could be at the gnome’s height- or at least closer to it. Jeff pulled out a box from his back, opening it to reveal a gold ring encrusted with green gems. Paz extended one finger. Jeff slipped the ring on.

“I-!” Paz cast him a look. She was planning something. Oberon finally put it together. Paz’s free arm- her left- extended back. It flipped the switch to the leaf blower. The engine roared to life. Paz sprung back, hands clasping the instrument and targeting Jeff instantly.

Jeff was sucked in.

His form slipped up the mouth of the leaf blower, until only his face and cap remained.

“Guess what.” Paz smirked down to the gnome as he yelped in pain. “.... I ain’t that kind of girl.” Paz swung the reverse back to normal. The leaf blower was tilted up. Jeff shot like a rocket. He crashed into the giant gnome-construct, exploding it on impact. Gnomes rained from the sky, yelping and scurrying around in a blind panic.

Paz slid over to Oberon with a laugh. It was airy, filled with terror and adrenaline.

“I am so surprised that worked.” The gnomes began fleeing for the trees. “SEE YA’LL ON YOUR GRAVES!” Several screamed in panic. Paz snickered, her grin mischievous and dark. “Okay, that was fu-”

“You’ll never stop us all!” Jeff tried to command. He had a large bruise that was quickly swelling on his cheek. “We’ll come back in bigger numbers-!”

The leaf blower swung his way, and Jeff went tumbling to the tree line.

“Can’t hear you over the sounds of yoUR DESTRUCTION!” Paz laughed openly, shaking her head at the gnomes as they raced away in a blind sprint. She came down from the laughing high the instant the gnomes were gone, a few giggles escaping her. “.... Return of the googly eye~...” Paz hit the off switch.

“.... You’re still crazy.” Oberon smiled faintly. He felt so tired- all the running and screaming was a real drain.

“And you’re still male, what else is new?” Paz moved, crossing the short distance between them to rest her elbow on his arm. “.... Holy...” She staggered, as if just then being smacked with the energy differential. “.... We should probably... Sleep soon.” Oberon chuckled.

“Yeah, yeah.” Paz opened her arms, dropping the leaf blower to face her brother.

“.... Hug?”

“... Yeah.” The two siblings gently embraced one another. It was stiff and awkward on Paz’s end, but Oberon embraced her warmly.

“Love you, bro..”

“Love you too, Paz.”

{<>}

“Wow, you two look wrecked!” Grunkle Stan grinned, pausing only when he noticed how bedraggled the two truly were. Paz honestly felt like she was about to drop through the floor. She kept her head at a decent level. Paz and Oberon trudged by Grunkle Stan.

Of course the old coot was counting money. Based on his earlier conversations, it made sense.

“... Hey kids!” The two stopped. If it was another task, Paz wasn’t sure she would be happy. Already ne eyebrow was twitching down at the very concept of another chore today. “... Wouldn’t you know it, I overstocked the gift shop- why don’t you two take a lil’ something?” Paz slowly let her body turn on a dime, eyes half-dead and set on the old man.

He shrugged, closing his eyes as he somehow continued counting money.

“Look- just take something before I regret it.” Paz didn’t need to be told twice. She silently trekked through the gift shop, eyes half-hazed from exhaustion. Her fingers wrapped around the cold metal of an item. It seemed almost like a gun, but there was no way Grunkle Stan would have a gun in his shop, right?

Paz let her eyes focus blearily. Resting in her hands was-....

Something familiar.

Something unique.

Something that tugged at her mind.

But why, she had no idea.

“... You sure you don’t want something else? There are plenty of dolls for girls in the shop.”

“...…. No. It needs to be this.”

She couldn’t explain it.

It made no sense.

But she knew it was necessary....

.... One day....

#chapter one #[logic cat: paz]#[excited dog: oberon]#[Gravity Falls: Exponential Disasters]#long chapter holy crap-#some chapters will be super short and some will be long apparently #so uh fair warning XD

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ariadnelives · 5 years

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Chapter 7 -- The Nightmare

[Missed earlier chapters? Go catch up here! Otherwise, welcome back! Oh, and make sure to join our discord server! Chapter can also be found @ ao3]

“I hate this lady so much,” Pilar practically snarled as she adjusted the ship's course. “Was she ever young, do you think?”

“Nah,” Ariadne said from the passenger seat, trying in vain to get a spoon to stick to her nose, “I feel like she's probably been an unpleasant old crone forever.”

“She was probably already on Calisto when they got there and they just built the bio-dome around her stupid rocking chair.”

The Jovian moon Calisto was now within visual range, and the rest of the viewport was filled with yellow and orange swirls. No matter how many operations they ran through the colonial moons, they never quite got used to the scale of a gas giant. Jupiter and Saturn took their breath away every time they looked at them. Something primal and hard-coded into their DNA told them that this was not something they were meant to see, and yet, here they were, a stone's throw from Jupiter.

The ship pulled closer to Calisto and Ariadne abandoned her spoon effort to pull out fake IDs to get into the bio-dome.

They got into the dome without incident, found a small garage to park in, and gave an almost comically large tip to the downtrodden-looking lot attendant.

La Pesadilla's high-rise apartment was at the top of a building whose elevator was constantly broken. While a woman of her means would be able to have it fixed, she liked that it was broken because it meant anyone who wanted to visit her would have to take the stairs.

Ariadne quickly repaired the electromagnets, actually making the elevator much faster than it was before it had broken, and wrote “HA” on the “Out of Order” sign. They were at her door in seconds.

La Pesadilla answered and, like Jupiter, her appearance never ceased to shock Ariadne and Pilar. At a glance, one might guess she was 90 years old. Her skin was eerily reminiscent to a well-worn catcher's mitt both in texture and coloration. Her expression was about as friendly as a large-mouth grouper, and under her tattered bathrobe was an inexplicable t-shirt depicting what appeared to be a zebra wearing sunglasses and smoking a cigar. Whether she wore pants under the bathrobe was up for speculation.

She walked with a cane, even though she did not need one, simply because she liked to jab it at people when speaking.

“You didn't fix my elevator, did you?” she more snarled than said.

“Nope,” Ariadne lied.

“Good, I like it broken,” La Pesadilla grumbled, “makes it harder for people to drop by and ask me favors.”

There was a moment of silence in the hall as Pilar and Ariadne struggled to find the words to respond to this statement.

“Well, come in if you're coming in,” she said, gesturing into the apartment with her cane, “I pay to air condition the inside of the apartment, not the hallway. Every second this door is open is a waste of my money.”

Ariadne and Spacebreather, still at a loss for response, stepped into La Pesadilla's apartment.

The place was decorated like a family-style restaurant, which is to say, the walls were covered with hundreds of curios, oddities, and other units of nonsense which begged the question, “what exactly is the difference between vintage collectibles and old garbage?”

Two other women sat on an overstuffed couch in the corner, their focus divided between small information terminals affixed to the armrests and a holographic table at the center of the room playing an old rerun of Val Deimos, P.I. at an almost obscenely loud volume.

“Balotelli's cheating on his wife again,” said the one on the left, a relaxed-looking black woman of approximately 70 with wraparound sunglasses (worn indoors for reasons that were known only to her) and a blue-and-purple sweater knitted to look like a particularly starry galaxy that Ariadne thought might be subtly swirling and twinkling. “How much do you think he'll pay us to keep it under wraps this time?”

“No dice,” replied the one on the right, a strong-jawed white woman of perhaps 65, wearing a tank top, cargo pants, and combat boots with an iron-gray buzz cut. With one hand, she rapidly tapped on her terminal. With the other, she repeatedly lifted a rather heavy hand weight. She did not seem to break eye contact at any point with the flickering rerun streaming on the surface of the coffee table. “His wife knows. Hired a private dick to tail them last week. Tried to have 'em whacked but lost her nerve at the last second.”

“Do we have the records?” Galaxy-sweater asked.

“I have the contract here,” Tank-top replied.

“We double down. He's up for reelection in May, and I'm sure neither of them wants the scandal breaking in April. Probably pay a pretty penny to keep it under wraps.”

“Sex, betrayal, and intrigue?” Tank-top asked. “This sounds like a pretty valuable story. It'd be a shame if some reporter outbid them for it.”

“Oh my god,” Ariadne cut in, “do you always talk in clichéd banter or is this for our benefit?”

Tank-top stopped her arm curls for half a second and then continued. Galaxy-sweater raised an eyebrow at her.

“Who's this lunchbox?” Galaxy-sweater asked in a derisive way that seemed to be second nature to mean old ladies and made even the most baffling of insults seem to make sense.

“This is that brat I was telling you about,” La Pesadilla growled.

Tank-top did not look away from her television program. “The one who always fixes the elevator?”

“I think so,” La Pesadilla grumbled. She wandered into the kitchen but continued speaking, incrementally increasing the volume of her voice so she could still be heard. “Her name starts with an A, and her wife here is named after … I don't know, some kind of rice dish.”

Pilar pondered this for a moment and resolved to ask Cookie about it later on.

“Shoot, hope that elevator is fixed.” Galaxy-sweater smiled, “I got bad knees and shit to do.”

La Pesadilla returned with two brightly colored plastic cups, filled with a cloudy yellow substance. She practically shoved these into the hands of her guests with a grunt.

“What do… what is…” Ariadne was uncharacteristically at a loss for words. She was barely reaching adulthood herself and she still had very little experience in the department of respecting her elders. She suspected that perhaps sixty percent of the people in the room were not acting as they should, but she was unsure of where she fell in that ratio.

“It's lemonade.” La Pesadilla removed a smallish disc-shaped tin from her bathrobe pocket, pulled out a handful of leaves, jammed them into her cheek, and began chewing them. “You're kids, you drink lemonade. You're in my house, I offer you a drink. The elevator's out of order, you take the fucking stairs instead of trying to fix it. There's rules to this sort of thing.”

“I said I didn't fix your elevator,” Ariadne stammered.

“You always say that.” La Pesadilla rolled her eyes. “What do you want? You're talking through our program.” She gestured at the hologram. The show was popular enough that Pilar had seen this particular episode several times with her parents, and since she had not had parents in approximately a decade, it was a safe bet it was not their first viewing.

“You could always pause it while we conduct our business,” Pilar offered in a tone she hoped would come across as helpful. She took a polite sip of her lemonade, which had no ice and seemed to be little more than powdered mix stirred into room-temperature tap water.

“You could've shown up on the hour, like a normal person, so you don't interrupt the last five minutes of my show.” La Pesadilla slumped into an old, heavily-patched recliner, searched for a small metal jar, and spat the leaves out into it. “So, spit it out.”

Galaxy-sweater let out a small “heh” at her phrasing.

“Why do you come here and bother me again?”

Ariadne finally seemed to find her voice. “We're looking for information.”

“Well, you've come to the right place,” Tank-top grunted, somehow still lifting her weight, “we've got all of it.”

“The Red God cult that's formed on Mars in the last year or so. We need to know everything we can about them.”

“What do we get?” La Pesadilla asked. “I mean, you're asking me to do the opposite of my job here. People pay me to keep their secrets. If I tell you about these guys, I ain't got no leverage on 'em, can't charge 'em for my services, feel? If I'm gonna spill the beans, I gotta know it's worth more than keeping my mouth shut.”

“Cut the crap,” Pilar said simply, “money is no object to us, and I think you'll be pleased with the amount we've deposited in your account as an act of good faith.”

La Pesadilla tapped at her display and raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Well, I'll be damned.”

“You'll get the other half when we have our information,” Pilar said.

La Pesadilla looked at Galaxy-sweater and nodded.

“Think we got something on them.” Galaxy-sweater said, tapping away on her own display. “Yeah, their leader's this fancy scientist turned whacked-out bible nut, calls himself the Zealot.”

“Real original nickname,” Tank-top added.

“Got into some real shady shit.” Galaxy-sweater furrowed her brow at the display. “We got our hands on a few black market ledgers about 20 years back, and the shit he was buying? Banned on just about every rock in the system.”

“Why would someone selling illegal goods on the black market keep a ledger of their customers?” Ariadne wondered out loud. Galaxy-sweater looked at her flatly and gestured vaguely at the blackmail operation they were currently sitting in the middle of. Ariadne took a sip of her lemonade. “I see.”

“You said 20 years ago?” Pilar looked confused. “These guys have only been operating for the past year, year and a half.”

“Nah,” La Pesadilla grunted, “they been around longer'n you kids have been alive. The Red God stuff is new. They used to walk around the moons, door to door, saying that the Earth was a New Sodom that was to be destroyed due to its sin and heresy and that the only way to be sure Jesus would spare the rest of the system was to join their church.”

“Or make a donation,” Tank-top said.

“Course, the day they predicted came and went.” Galaxy-sweater chuckled. “The Earth was still there. Then that happened, oh, five or six more times before everyone stopped giving them the time of day.”

“Buncha idjits,” La Pesadilla mumbled, “Jesus don't need our money, and he's got a whole universe to run. He doesn't go around blowing up planets because some people didn't pray right. All he cares about is if you're a good person. He don't even care if you believe in him if you ask me, just live your life best you can and he won't bother you.”

“Like bees?” Galaxy-sweater asked, smirking.

“Exactly, like bees. You don't bother him, he don't bother you.”

Ariadne thought this moralizing was rich coming from a professional blackmailer, and she couldn't help but think she'd been given the same advice about what to do when you encounter a swarm of bees, but she bit her tongue to avoid starting another tangent.

La Pesadilla took a sip from a nearby mug that seemed to be full of red wine. “Anyway, nobody bought his end-is-nigh crock and, last I heard, he was a pretty sick fucker. He bought a bunch of illegal shit and went underground. Nobody heard from them for a while, and they came back with a new god and a shiny new preacher. Little white girl, 'bout your age.”

Ariadne scowled. “Not even close.”

La Pesadilla matched her scowl. “Kid, if we're talking years, I'm easily five of you. You both got all your original teeth? You're the same age, far as I'm concerned.”

“What exactly did he buy?” Pilar attempted to break the tension. She, at times, was confused by Ariadne's talent for locking horns with grumpy older women, but suspected this was a deeper issue than they had time to unpack at the moment.

Galaxy-sweater looked at her screen. “We got three Cortex brand neural implants. Those things were all the rage back in the 90s, companies used to get them for all the employees so memos would go right to their brain.”

Tank-top laughed slightly. “Yeah, but they got banned pretty quick.”

La Pesadilla took another sip of mug-wine. “Security risk… a lot of bosses got caught snooping in their employee's thoughts. There was one big scandal where a manager tried to increase productivity by planting thoughts in his employees heads while they slept. An entire office working 16-hour shifts and sleeping at their desks because their brain was telling them 'if I stop working I'll die, if I ask for overtime I'll die, if I make a mistake I'll die.'”

“Yikes,” Ariadne concluded. “Go on, what else?”

“Blueprints for immersion pod,” Galaxy-sweater explained, “That's a VR capsule that uses the brain's visualization center as a processor to create realistic simulations of pre-programmed scenarios. Originally designed for video gaming, scrapped because every focus tester who attempted to play a children's shoot-em-up game had to be treated for very real PTSD, and made illegal after the prototypes were found being used as training simulators for a radical Earth-based supremacist paramilitary corps.”

“I'm sensing a theme here,” Pilar chimed in.

“Here's where it gets really interesting,” Galaxy-sweater said, pointing at the screen, “he bought up a bunch of medical equipment. Machines for growing and implanting new organs.”

“Shouldn't need that,” Tank-top piped up, still watching her show but seeming to slow down on the weights. “I know he was sick, but if he needed a transplant he could get one at any hospital and be home for supper.”

“Could've been for implanting the Cortex device,” Ariadne suggested.

“Could be,” La Pesadilla said. “We ain't here to speculate, we just give you the information.”

“Aaaaand,” Galaxy-sweater reached the end of her list, “one Quantum Shift Generator. Weird little devices, designed for the Shop-n-Go corporation. They had this idea for expanding to the colonial moons that they could just build a single store interior which all of their storefronts would lead into, that way they could have a dozen stores in a bio-dome but only pay one set of overworked employees.”

“Wonder why that got banned.” Ariadne smirked.

“If you're thinkin' it's some worker's rights whatever, you're wrong,” La Pesadilla grumbled, pouring herself another mug of wine from a bottle that had been conveniently located next to the mug on the table. “It's because all the exterior doors led to the same interior, but they ain't give you the same courtesy on the way out.”

“What she's trying to say,” Tank-top said, placing her weight on the ground and reaching for a nearby bottle of water, “is that people would attempt to leave the store only to find themselves coming out of the wrong one. You could end up 15 miles across town in the 40 seconds it took you to buy an iced tea and a candy bar.”

“Would've made a great public transit system if there was some way to predict which storefront you'd come out of,” Galaxy-sweater offered.

“That's all we've got,” La Pesadilla said. “Where's the rest of my money?”

“Now, hang on,” Galaxy-sweater said, easing herself off the couch, “these girls paid good money and we have got one more thing. Been meaning to get rid of it anyway.”

She ambled over to a bookshelf, grabbed a small, shabby-looking paperback, ripped the back cover clean off, and handed it to Ariadne. “They dropped this in our mailslot back when they were still pretending to be Christian. Got a picture of the Zealot on the back. Might help.”

La Pesadilla jabbed her cane towards the closed door. “Now, get out of my house and put that money in my account.”

Ariadne and Pilar put down their half-finished lemonades, more than glad to not have to finish drinking them, and walked towards the door. As they exited, they heard La Pesadilla mumble, “and so help me if that elevator is working.” The door closed behind them and they immediately heard it lock.

In the elevator ride down to the first floor, Ariadne looked at the laminated cover she'd been handed. The photograph was of a white man, perhaps in his 40s, with squinting, intense eyes, a full but neatly trimmed gray beard, a straight, pointed nose, and a wide-brimmed black hat.

She felt uneasy and turned the book over. Something about him, something she couldn't quite place but knew very few others would see, hit upsettingly close to home. She didn't look at it again for the rest of the trip back.

#core story

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allykat4416 · 5 years

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Meme Trip 2k19, Pt. 1

Dates: May 16 and 17th

Park: Kings Island in Mason, Ohio

I didn’t make trip reports for my second meme-trip in August of 2018. At the time, I thought I was doing myself a favor. Now, I incredibly regret not sharing that stuff straight away. I missed the chance to talk about my first visits to two parks that have very unique spots in my life. The first of those, obviously, is Six Flags New England, a park I’d been dying to go to because of one certain Superman. {And I did leave Massachusetts as a Super Stan.} The other of these parks is Kings Island.

Kings Island and I have a long, storied history filled with intense emotions. Like Carowinds, a lot of my plans to visit KI fell dead along the way— Dad didn’t win the tickets, I didn’t like my classmates enough to justify the trip, I wasn’t able to make the drive up, etc. It’s a park that means a lot to my dad, and he took my mom there when she came to meet his family for the first time. He was one of the first riders of Beast, there for her birthday as a gift for his own.

I cried in 2018 because I didn’t want it to be my home park when I thought I would be going to Northern Kentucky University. I used to crusade hard as hell for KI to never get a giga. The park gave me the largest heebie-jeebies when I visited in August of 2018. I don’t think I feel emotions as intensely for theme parks as some of my comrades, but Kings Island is one of those parks that almost makes me believe I can.

It was a rainy Thursday after a day of nothing but car-riding [and driving for Casie, bless her soul] when we pulled up into the parking lot. We saw that infamous “HELL IS REAL” billboard about an hour out, and I found it quite ironic. For a park that’s been so full of death and negative energy, it was fitting that that’s where we saw the iconic sign.

When we got into the park, both of the Not-Evil Wooden Coasters [NEWC, as it is] were down. We didn’t know why regarding Beast, but we did find out later that Mystic was struggling from electrical issues that day. We liked to think they were conspiring to make the 2020 giga not suck and help everyone else with half a soul say “fuck off” to Steve. Enemy of the enemy is my friend and whatnot.

Instead, we decided to get a snake in our boot since we were already in Rivertown. Diamondback has always been a solid ride—I maintain that B&M hypers are like ordering chicken tenders at a new restaurant because it’s very, very hard to mess them up and even 232 is fun when the trims don’t hit—but she was running really well that day. Diamondback ended up being our final ride of the day in the pouring rain. Rain at 80 mph doesn’t feel very great, but it was a laugh riot and worth it. I keep meaning to get a front-row ride on this, but the back row is such a tantalizing experience that I can’t quite pull myself away from it.

As far as B&M hypers go (and I’m not counting Fury), Diamondback is now my favorite. At any other park, it would probably be my second favorite in the overall roster, but Snek is actually my third at KI because of the aforementioned NEWCs. I wish we were able to get a ride in the following day, but Coasterstock had her queues slammed. Oh well.

After that, we headed over to see our favorite little anxiety boy, Flight of Fear. I don’t get the hate these rides receive. I find both this and his twin at KD to be fine, upstanding rides that are always worth at least one lap when I go. It’s one of those rare rides where stopping on the MCBR actually works in its favor. We were also assigned to the front row, which gives me the biggest uwus. We came up with a really cool character concept if Orion/Polaris sucks in the queue for FOF, and even if the ride is underwhelming, we’re happy Felix has a vaguely-powerful ally. There’s not a whole lot else about FOF to say- the transitions were nice and whippy, the little alien as you pull into the exit station is adorable, and I like the enclosure of it. I hope FOF is around for a nice long while.

(Obligatory RIP Firehawk comment here as well. Thanks for being a good flyer. Piss off, Nighthawk.)

Since it was the only wooden coaster open, it’s time to talk about Racer. I don’t want to talk about Racer. But sadly, I have to talk about Racer. Everything about this ride feels wrong- the aerial view of the turnarounds, the tunnels on the brake runs, the way almost literally everyone else universally adores this ride… Racer holds a lot of energy, and all of it is cryptic. It makes me wish I’d ridden Thunder Road, because Rebel Yell does not have this sense of permanent creeping dread. Ride-wise, Racer is inoffensive. But the vibe that ride gives me isn’t good. At all. We rode twice, red and blue. We raced Deb, Kat, and Brandon while in red and lost. We were the only people on red train, but we did not feel alone in the worst possible way. We won when we rode blue to peek at construction. The cheering in the tunnels had us fucked up.

I hate that, if there are any personifications that have a chance of being real, it’s most likely Abraham and Thaddeus. I’ve never been so wrong about a coaster’s personification before I rode it in my life.

We needed an exorcism after that ride on blue train, so we went to Banshee next. Again, while not my favorite invert, I don’t understand why so many people seem to hate this ride. I think a B&M invert complements their park nicely, and that slow roll at the end is nothing short of fire-hot. It’s also tons of fun to flip off Outpost 5 while you’re on it. It’s what Brynn would want us to do. Plus, missing the pre-drop never fails to give me butterflies! I do wish they had played the audio scream before we dropped though.

We got to ride this with one of our Insta friends, Wild, and we were both really happy to see her. She’s a great kid, and Banshee is a fun ride. We love our pastel goth icon, and we love our Junkrat Stan of a little sister. We also befriended a Banshee ride operator, and their group chat is called “Banshee’s Hot Topic” and that makes me want to cry in a good way.

Bat is awful in the sense that it breaks my heart. Yes, Tanner as a character is very sad (especially so in the Project Shooting Star universe), but it always hammers home how badly I miss Big Bad Wolf. What I’d give for one last ride on the Rhine with my lupine friend… Bat’s in a beautiful area, but that queue makes me feel like I’m at Camp Crystal Lake and Jason’s about to have some fun. Also, can we all say how much we hate seeing SOB’s old station? Because I hate that! A lot!!

Again. Like Racer, Bat as a ride is objectively inoffensive. But there’s so much energy around it, and I’m not sure if it’s residual garbage leftover from Son, the gunpowder factory, and the safari or what. Bat feels so detached from the rest of the park, but I don’t think there’s a more perfect place than KI for a ride that feels this full of sorrow.

Vortex was a one-and-done for us after some sinfully delicious blue ice cream, but I do admit it was better in the rain. The drop actually provided some decent air, and while the transitions are pretty janky, it’s an Arrow from the 80s. You can’t go into it expecting something butter smooth like B&M. That isn’t fair. It’s still not my favorite Arrow looper, and it wasn’t even my favorite one of this trip, but I do think I might have judged it a tad too harshly before. Like FOF, there isn’t much else to say about this ride.

The people we met also made the day phenomenal! Wild, Brandon, Kat, Debra…this one’s for you. I raise my Raisin’ Cane’s tea to ya’ll, stay funky and ride on.

But one day at that cryptic-ass park is never enough, shit’s like Hotel California. Being gluttons for punishment, we returned to Cursed Island.

Kings Island is so different in bright sunshine. It almost feels like a normal amusement park. Almost. We went for the first couple of hours, since Coasterstock people were there and it was a Friday on top of that. It was also hot as a ghost pepper outside. I’m still really sad we missed Tristin and Plummy!! Maybe next time. We did, however, finally get to meet Stephanie in real-life, and she’s pretty chill. We did the dumbest shit for our picture. However, I’m 99% sure the ride operator said “Enjoy your ride on Son of Beast!” when she was with us and I heavily dislike that.

We’d done basically everything else that we had wanted to the day prior. We already had the credits for Backlot, Invertigo, and Adventure Express, and none of those really warranted waiting in the lines. Vortex and Bat had been ridden already this visit. We have mad love for Banshee, FOF, and Diamondback, but those waits were gnarly. We didn’t want to even look at Racer again, let alone ride it. So now, we went to the NEWCs.

Since Five is dead, we rode Beast three times that morning. She was over her alcoholic shitfit, I suppose, and was running very well. Brandon called Beast a good noodle. From a ride standpoint, you can make the case that until that final helix, Beast doesn’t do very much. I personally like how it’s a bit more speed-oriented, but I understand why some others might not. Like Boulder Dash, I think a lot of the ride experience comes from the scenery. I also think knowing Beast’s history makes it the marvel it is. We got some pretty good air on the first hill after the main drop, and that helix is always so damn scary to me. Top 10 coaster moment for sure.

Beast has a TON of energy to it, but unlike Racer or Bat, it isn’t malicious. You may not like Beast, but you WILL respect Beast, you feel? And that energy is why I think Beast will always be my favorite in the park, even over the giga (and especially so if those blueprints are real.) Beast isn’t just a coaster. It’s an experience, and one that makes the park so worth visiting. My only regret is we didn’t get one of those fantastic night-rides.

If those blueprints are real, it’s time to talk about what will most likely still be my second favorite coaster at KI come 2020. Since Thunderhead was my first major coaster, I always have held a soft spot for GCI. And while I do still believe Thunderhead is better, boy howdy do I love Mystic Timbers. It’s a shitshow of a name for a kickass ride. Lines only allowed us to ride once, but we were lucky enough to be assigned to row one. Mystic is definitely better towards the front, I believe. You feel better air there, and while I still don’t think MyTi’s got ejector, it’s stronger floater in the front. (The truck out front played Survivor and I had to scream “WOW I LOVE SIX FLAGS”, so maybe she was just pissy over that.)

I understand why people were disappointed with the shed. Holograms can’t hold a candle when you’re expecting a Verbolten-style drop track. But the shed is cute for what it is, and it’s better than being stacked in the sunshine. We saw the snake scene this time, which is probably my favorite since Tatzelwurm doesn’t even exist in PSS universe anymore. Killer Cat was the best shed scene, but snakes will do.

Also, fun fact about Mystic. When we visited in October, I kept saying how badly I wanted to hear Bonnie Tyler in the shed. We hear it. Friday, I jokingly went “oh booooy I hope I hear my girl Bonnie again!” Lo and behold, we hit the shed and it plays Total Eclipse of the Heart. I lost my goddamn mind. Mystic Timbers said 80s retro. Hate that name, but man oh man, do I love that ride. We love our GCIs with big tiddys and bad personalities.

We rode the train to snag some pictures of Mystic and Snake Friend, but then we dipped and hit Taco Bell as one does. It was better that way. Kings Island had told us all it wanted to for now, and it let us take our time to mosey to the next park and really digest what we’d seen. We also had the opportunity to meet back up with Bee and spend some time with her since we left!

All in all, KI is such a cursed park. I know saying that makes it sound like I really dislike KI, but that’s not the case. I adore Kings Island BECAUSE it’s so cryptic. Their lineup is solid, and even though we can’t truly judge the giga before it opens, I don’t think it’s going to elevate them any but it won’t necessarily bring the park down. There’s so, so much in Mason to unpack, especially in the months to come. I can’t wait to see them again.

#trip reports #cursed island makes me do the big uwu

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hymn2000 · 6 years

Text

Freeze - MCU AU Fanfic - C19

Previous chapter(s): 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18

Story synopsis:- When a burst gas main destroys everything and leaves Peter with nothing, the Stark’s take him in. Thrown together by necessity, they then need to try to keep it together and build a new life. Devastated by loss, Peter doesn’t make things easy for them, and Loki and Tony struggle with their own grief and the responsibility of having someone completely dependant on them.

Chapter description:- Life takes another turn as the rest of Peter’s classmates rejoin the class after their trip

Story warnings/themes: character death, hurt/comfort, trauma, grief, depression/mental health issues, bullying, corporal punishment

Relationships: Frostiron (Loki x Tony) (romantic), Tony and Peter (platonic), Loki and Peter (platonic)

From the same AU as Called To Be A Rock

Chapter 19 - And They Call Themselves Friends

True to his word, Peter slept most of the weekend. He was wiped out, physically and emotionally. Malaki hadn’t been back on Friday, so he had another tired, lonely day at school. Taking his school uniform off on Friday after school felt great. He flopped down on his bed and slept soundly until 9am on Saturday. He got up and had something to eat and went down to the lab with Tony, but by 1pm his head was nodding and Tony told him to go and have a lie down.

On Sunday, Tony was out, so Thor came round to keep an eye on him, which was easy work, as the boy was asleep for the most part.

It ended up feeling like a bit of a wasted weekend, and Monday morning came as a bit of a shock. Peter hid under the covers, hoping that if he was found all hot and sweaty, and if he put on a croaky voice, Tony might let him stay home. All the kids who had been on the Spanish trip were going to be back today. Peter just knew they’d all be Nigel’s and Wendy’s, and he wasn’t prepared to deal with that. He wasn’t strong enough.

His plan of pulling a sickie didn’t work. Tony just shook his head and said; “Nice try”, and made him get up and get ready for school anyway.

“The rest of your class will be back, won’t they?” Tony said. “You should be able to settle into the routine a bit better now”

Peter didn’t bother telling him that that was exactly why he was dreading going. He decided he’d just have to grin and bear it - but he didn’t feel much like smiling.

Peter sat on the end of the front right hand row in the form room, pretending to be really interested in his white board. The classroom was already fuller than last week, and the new voices and noisy chatter were most off-putting. He fiddled with a dry-erase marker, picking at the sponge on the top of the cap. He had horrible heart palpitations. He was just waiting for one of these new voices to start scoffing about Common Muck with Scholarships.

Three girls entered the form room, arms linked, talking together. The girl in the middle stopped, spotting Peter.

“Oooh, new kid” she said, glancing to either friend. “He’s cute, don’t you think?”

One of the other girls laughed. “You really have no filter. Well, go and say hello then!”

The girl unlinked herself from her friends, jumping forward, planting her hands on the desk in front of Peter, making him jump.

“Hi! You’re new, aren’t you? I’m Millie!” she looked over her shoulder at her friends. “That’s Florence and Macy”

“It’s Flo” Florence said. “Everyone calls me Flo”

Peter blinked at them, unsure how to react to their sunny, friendly personalities. A voice behind him piped up:

“That’s Peter. He doesn’t talk much”

“Oooh” Millie tapped the white board on the desk. “Is that why you’ve got this?”

Peter nodded, and jumped again as Ms Hathersage appeared.

“Quiet now, you lot! You have exactly four minutes until the bell, and I want absolute silence”

No one else seemed phased by her. Flo tapped Peter’s desk.

“This is our row”

Peter’s heart beat faster. This was it. They’d turn on him now.

“I always sit at the end” Flo said. “Do you mind moving up one?”

“Honestly Flo, you are so particular sometimes” Macy said, scooting past the back of Peter’s chair and taking the seat at the other end of the row, up against the wall.

Millie sat next to Macy, and patted the chair beside her. Peter obediently moved over, and Flo took his place. She smiled gratefully at him.

“Thank you” she put her bag down, and spotted Peter’s satchel. “Oh wow, I love your bag! It’s brand new, isn’t it? Where ever did you get it?”

“Flo! Stop badgering him!” Millie laughed. “Ignore her, Peter. She’s got about a million bags already - she doesn’t need to copy you”

“Amelia, quiet now” Ms Hathersage said, and started to take the register.

“She thinks I talk too much” Millie whispered to Peter. “Flo talks lots more than I do, though”

“Amelia, I’ve already asked you once!”

Millie put a hand up in apology, but as soon as Ms Hathersage’s back was turned, she rolled her eyes. Peter smiled slightly. He liked her.

Peter did worry that they were all just being polite, but when the bell rang, Millie and Flo linked arms with him while Macy danced ahead. In Geography, they insisted that he joined them on their table, and Mr Tucker didn’t object.

Peter felt almost comfortable. These girls were kind, and they didn’t act weirdly about him not speaking. They included him in their conversation and gossiped about the teachers and other students.

Peter looked at them.

Millie was definitely the leader of the pack. She was a conventionally attractive girl, with shoulder-length dark brown, almost black hair, with sparkling green eyes in her round face. She radiated confidence.

Flo was definitely the most attractive of the group. She was sweet and bubbly, with porcelain skin and long blonde, almost white hair all the way down her back. She seemed happier daydreaming and doodling in her notebook than paying attention in lessons.

Macy was a bit of a mix. She was calm and collected in class, a little mad outside of it, and she knew exactly how to manage her friends. She had short, medium-brown hair, mostly covered by a headband. She seemed distracted, somehow, but happy.

Peter thought they were all very real people.

The three waited at the end of the lesson, making sure Peter didn’t get left behind. They all sighed in an exaggerated fashion as soon as they’d left Mr Tucker’s classroom.

“Thank God for that! I hate Geography more and more every day” Millie said, linking Peter’s arm.

“Me too” Flo said, linking Peter’s other arm.

“What? Geography’s a laugh - it’s the teacher that’s the problem!” Macy said, prancing ahead.

Peter suddenly realised that she might be a show-off. She seemed to perform her part of the conversation as they went down the corridor, spinning on her toes and clapping and somehow managing to never crash into anyone.

Peter decided he might like her best.

“Hey, Peter!” Macy said, stopping suddenly. “Have you had the bagels yet?”

Peter blinked at her.

“Aww, no way! You must try one: they’re the best! I’ll buy today, ok?”

Peter nodded. He didn’t see the need to protest.

Macy went off to join the queue in the dining hall, while Millie and Flo took Peter over to a round table at the back of the hall by the coffee machine. He still felt a little nervous. These girls all had big personalities, and he still couldn’t shake the feeling that they were just taking pity on him.

“So, why have you joined in the middle of the term?” Flo asked.

Peter didn’t really want to share his story with them. Still, he got out his whiteboard.

I moved house and my old school was too far away to keep going to.

Flo nodded. “Oh, right. That’s a bit rubbish”

Peter nodded slightly. Millie smiled at him.

“Are you cold? You’re shaking”

He didn’t want to tell her that he was scared, so he just nodded.

“Aww. You’ll warm up after you’ve eaten”

At that moment, Macy appeared and handed them all cheese and tomato bagels.

“The food here is great, trust me” she said, taking a seat.

Peter didn’t feel hungry, but didn’t want to seem rude, so he took a bite when the others did. He was pleasantly surprised. These bagels really were good. He was quite content sat back eating and listening to the girls talking.

Once he’d finished, he wrote them a question.

Are you all boarders?

Millie shook her head. “Flo and I live with our families not too far away from here. Macy boards though, don’t you, Mace?”

Macy looked up from filing her nails. “Yes, I live Bay Laurel. That’s the girls house. I go home during the holidays though. What about you? Are you boarding?”

I live with my guardians

“I wish I did” Macy said. “But they live in Canada. It would be a long daily commute”

How long have you been boarding for?

“Since I was six. I was at the sister school, and then I moved into Bay Laurel when I was ten, going on eleven. I had some friends moving up with me, so that was nice. We helped each other pack and it made the move easier”

“I used to board” Flo said. “When I was really little, I went to a boarding school a few states over. But it didn’t work out, so father brought me over to St Hendricks so I was closer to home”

“Well” Millie said. “I’m glad I don’t board. We all know the boarding master in Scotts-Pine has a cane”

“Don’t get into trouble and it’s not a problem” Macy said, grinning. “I love how you say it like your father doesn’t own one! Peter? What are you looking so worried about?”

Peter didn’t respond. He knew they might think he was weird if he started asking questions of the corporal-punishment-in-schools variety.

“You know, I hope I’m not overstepping the mark” Macy said. “But I heard Nigel talking in the queue. He said your family are all gone and that’s why you moved here”

Peter was horrified. How did Nigel know about that? He sighed deeply, looking down at his whiteboard. Millie squeezed his hand.

“You don’t have to tell us”

Peter nodded, but decided he did. If he got it out of the way now, he wouldn’t have to do it again.

My parents both died when I was little, so I lived with my aunt and uncle. My uncle died years ago, and my aunt died in January. I couldn’t stay in Queen’s on my own, so a family friend and their partner took me in.

Tears filled his eyes, and he looked away quickly. The girls exchanged shocked looks, and Millie took control of the situation.

“Aww, don’t cry! Oh Peter!” she hugged him tight, and he hugged her back. “How awful! I’m so sorry to hear that”

The other two joined in the hug.

“I’m sorry for your loss. I know it’s hard” Macy said.

“It really does get easier” Flo said. “Thank you for telling us. You didn’t need to do that. We didn’t want to upset you”

Peter couldn’t help crying, not only because of what had happened, but also because these girls were being so kind to him.

The three looked after Peter, getting him a drink and making him laugh to take his mind off it all. Peter appreciated their efforts, although his tears of sadness were very nearly replaced with ones of happiness. Everything that had happened with Ryan and his gang at the other school had left him so isolated and hopeless, so much so that it felt as though kindness was a thing of the past. These girls had proved that theory wrong.

The girls stayed with him throughout the next two lessons, and all through lunch. His appetite still wasn’t great, but Millie introduced him to the pasta queue, and somehow a bowl of pasta and cheese was all he needed. He’d never known it taste so good.

Peter had to see Miss Marns in fourth period, but they came and found him just before fifth so they could go together.

“This is literally a dream come true” Macy said, rereading the brief.

“Snakes don’t often feature in my dreams” Millie said. “Why are we making snakes? Textiles should be dresses, skirts, maybe even bags!! Not snakes!”

“Make a snake wearing a dress then” Macy said, as though it were an obvious solution. “I’m totally tattooing mine”

“How can you tattoo something made of cloth?” Flo said.

“By drawing them on! Honestly Flo, stop asking silly questions” she shook her head, and looked at Peter. “What are you thinking for yours?”

Glass eyes

“I don’t think there’s any in here. Maybe you can use buttons?” she said. “Are you any good at sewing?”

Peter shrugged.

“I’m rubbish at it” Millie said. “At least, I’m rubbish at sewing machines. I can hand-sew ok”

Peter looked down at the brief. He wasn’t sure he’d be any good at sewing, and he didn’t have any ideas about how to design it. He kept thinking about Loki. A part of him wanted to make it for him, but the overwhelming reality that no one knew where he was right now was enough to stunt his idea. He sighed.

“What about this?” Macy said, shoving an IPad under his nose. “Do you think you could make one like this? I like its little fangs”

“That snake would destroy you, given half the chance” Flo said, peering at the cobra on the screen. She took the IPad and started typing. “You want a cute snake for a toy, surely. Something like this”

She showed them a photo of a corn snake.

“It’s got massive eyes” Millie said. “We could always use Marlin for inspiration”

Peter looked at her.

“Marlin is my brothers snake” Millie said. “It’s a ball python. I don’t see it often because it lives in his room, but sometimes we put it in the paddling pool just to watch it swim”

“It wiggles” Macy nodded. “I’m not making a boring snake. I’m having a king cobra-type tattooed snake. Can snakes have piercings? I might make a gangster snake”

She looked so serious that Peter couldn’t help but laugh. She glanced at him, and then nodded triumphantly at the other two.

“Peter likes my idea” she stuck her tongue out at them.

“Macy!” Ms Castleton snapped. “Don’t be so rude! That was very unladylike”

“Sorry, Ms Castleton” Macy said, but she crossed her fingers behind her back.

Peter saw this, and looked at her fondly.

“What are you staring at?” she said, and stuck her tongue out at him when Ms Castleton’s back was turned.

Peter hesitated and returned the favour. Macy grinned, moving her chair closer to his and pretending to look at his work over his shoulder.

“You’re gonna be just fine here”

Tony watched out of the car window as Peter was hugged goodbye. A minute later, Peter opened the passenger door and climbed into the car.

“Hey kiddo”

Peter pulled the door closed, flopping back in his seat.

“I’ve gotta go to the shops to pick up a few bits before we go home, ok?”

Peter nodded.

“I’ll try to be quick”

Peter fell asleep in the car after they’d been to the shops. Tony was worried, as he hadn’t said a word since he’d picked him up. Sure, Peter didn’t really talk to strangers any more, and he didn’t speak at school, but he’d mostly stayed talkative with him and Loki.

He gave him a little shake when they got back to the house, and they went to the kitchen together.

“So” Tony said, switching the kettle on. “How was school?”

Peter just shrugged.

“I saw those girls hugging you. Friends of yours?”

“Oh” Peter didn’t realise he’d been seen. “Um”

“Are they some of the people who were away on the Spanish trip?” Tony pressed.

Peter nodded.

Tony sighed. “What’s up with you today?? Cat got your tongue?”

Peter just shrugged again. Tony sighed again, and shook his head.

“Go and get changed, and then get your homework done”

Peter sat doing his homework in silence. Tony gave him a poke.

“Hey, do you want a snack?”

Peter shook his head. Tony watched him working for a minute.

“Are you ok?”

Peter shook his head again.

“Talk to me?”

Another shake of the head. Tony didn’t know what to do. He tried to give him a hug, but Peter leant away from him and wouldn’t let him. Tony sighed and left the kitchen, going downstairs and checking the post. He sighed heavily and threw the letters down on the cabinet. Nothing of importance. Still no word from Loki. It was a worrying development, or lack thereof. He didn’t know what to think.

Tony caught Peter on the way to his room.

“What’s the matter? You know you can talk to me”

Peter shook his head and tried to wriggle free. Tony held on tighter.

“You can’t bottle it up forever, kiddo”

Peter pushed his hands away and darted into his room, shutting the door behind him. He wasn’t in the mood for an ultimatum.

Tony kept his distance for a while, but soon time was getting on, so he knocked on Peter’s door.

“Peter?” There was no reply. “I’m coming in now”

He opened the door and found the boy fast asleep. He sighed and gave him a good shake, waking him up.

“We need to think about getting you fed”

“...’m not hungry”

Tony seized him under the arms and sat him up.

“Oww! That hurt!”

“Sorry. Right, you need to tell me what’s going on with you” he said. “Are you just tired? Is that it?”

Peter shrugged.

“Peter, stop being so evasive”

“I don’t want to talk to you! Leave me alone!”

“Peter-”

“No!”

“Oh fine then, be that way” Tony snapped. He checked his watch. “Ok, it’s half seven now. If you’re not in the kitchen by eight o’ clock, you’re not having any tea tonight”

Peter went into a sulk. He decided he didn’t care, he didn’t want to speak, and he wasn’t hungry - certainly not for anything made by the likes of Tony.

But, sulking was hard work. He was determined not to show his face, but he started clock-watching, and at five to eight he cracked. He rushed to the kitchen and buried his face in Tony’s chest.

“I need to talk to you!”

He told him about Millie and Macy and Flo, and his fears that they were just hanging out with him out of pity. He told him everything that had happened that day, and started talking about textiles.

“-so I thought, y’know, I could make it for Loki, but he’s not here any more, and so there’s no point, and I was so horrible to him before he left and now I feel so guilty and a miss him so much and, and-”

“Ok, ok, sweetheart, shh” Tony hugged him close. “It’s ok, chick”

“I want him to come back!”

“I know. I know you do. He’ll come back when he’s ready”

“No he won’t! He won’t ever want to be near me again! I was so hateful to him”

“It’s not your fault he left. He will come back; he promised he would” Tony said firmly. “When he’s ready, and not a moment before”

Peter rested his forehead against Tony’s shoulder, breathing deeply. He knew he needed to believe Tony. After all, he knew him better than anyone else.

“I just want him to hurry up”

“I know. Try not to think about it. You’ve got other stuff to focus on. School, for a start, and your new friends”

Peter stood back slightly. “Do you really think they’re friends?”

“Sure” Tony said. “They’ll come running up to you tomorrow morning, you’ll see”

“What if you’re wrong?”

Tony smiled. “What if I’m not? Come on, lets get you fed”

#my writing #fanfiction #mcu #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #frostiron #peter parker #spiderman homecoming

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