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gatheringofdawn · 3 years

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Akumatized!Adrien Agreste x Reader: “In the Name of Justice and Love”

(Non-canon Miraculous Ladybug & Miraculous Ladybug AU: Akumatized victims can stay akumatized for days or weeks and their activity is darker than what the show shows—also in special circumstances, a close loved one to the akuma victim can gain powers to counter the akuma’s/Hawkmoth’s powers.)

[This is only a work of fiction and not to be taken as non-fiction]

“Saturday night. You. Me. And an oversized bucket of buttered popcorn,” Adrian finished up your idea on what the two of you were going to do after school. “There’s a new film from oversees. American. Heard the reviews were mostly near 100 percent in the worth it category.”

“Black Panther?” you asked, remembering the French trailer that played on multiple YouTube videos as ads.

“Exacta-mundo!” Adrian smiled.

“Is it in English or French?”

“Can’t say. We can always wait for the English adaption to come out. I can wait.” Knowing that you preferred watching movies in your native-born tongue, Adrian added, “I heard there’s some other movies preceding it. Wanna check ‘em out?”

You shook your head. “Do you wanna see it?”

Adrian rubbed the back of his head and smiled meekly, blocking out the dozens of times he watched the trailers and might have fantasized a couple of fantasies of Black Panther meeting Chat Noir, being the test subject of Shuri’s experiments for an upgraded suit...

“Well, I’d be a lion if I didn’t.” Did he let that slip out?

You blinked multiple times. “Nice try.”

Adrien chuckled.

“Then yeah, lets go see it,” you bumped his shoulder with yours. “It’d be nice to see something from home, and it’d be nice to show you what it’s like there.”

Adrien nodded. “See you Saturday night. 8pm. Out in front.”

You agreed, then both you and your friend parted ways, back to your houses.

***

Mud. Grime. Stale old popcorn and sticky soda spills splattered everywhere on your back, in your hair, on the back of your neck......

.......................sweat stains, rancid-smelling drool sticky on your cheeks and swollen lips. White and clear male bodily fluids falling from trembling thighs. The memory echoes of sensations long gone but ghosting over your paralyzed body. A male. Pale, sickly, sweaty, cursing, deep nasally voice, tall. A brown beard scratching up and down your neck and cheeks. Thin, slender, and physically strong from one hand holding down your mouth from screaming and the other violently, violently stimulating himself on you by whatever means got him off...

—You explained over and over to the police officers. Their faces were grim, asking for your parents phone numbers. You told them of your foreign exchange program in return for leaving their abusive home. There was no one of bloodline to call for help.

Around the fifth or seventh time you repeated the violent rape and violent rapist, did you notice Adrien standing there. Right in front of you with wide eyes.

Words scrambled out of his mouth and towards you. And you scrambled them back to him. A mess of blurry, fuzzy scrambles.

Alya and Nino were conveniently there. And watched after you the moment Adrian pushed a police officer into his car with surprising strength. Other officers physically restrained Adrien, yelled at him warnings and more scrambles to your ears.

He fiested himself out of the officers’ grip and tasked Alya and Nino with the duty of watching over you the moment he spotted the familiar black butterfly fluttering in his direction.

To you or him? He backed out of the scene, and the butterfly followed him. You watched him leave the scene altogether.

“I’m sorry-I’m sorry this happened to you...” the whispered utterings, so frail, so soft crept into your ears, like warm milk on the tongue. Adrien held your hand with frailty. His forehead against the hospital bedside.

Your own consciousness dripped in and out of his mutterings. But it was darkness when he was there, and morning when he was gone.

No trial.

The very next day, in the morning, what lay at your doorstep was the mangled dead body of the rapist. Mangled and maimed, almost recognizable save for that rancid scent of his doused in overpriced cologne... mixed with the heavy scent of his blood.

All your emotions numbed out. The shock from last night carried over to the morning, numbing out your response. Alya, who stayed the night as a comfort support, yelped in shock for you and immediately began dialing 1-1-4.

You kicked the body, making certain of its permanent state then closed the door. You whispered faintly to Alya how you would be in your room, going back to sleep (forget school today). With the most friendliest you’ve ever experienced, Alya was accepting of your need and closed the door to your room behind you.

Two pills of sleep aid would knock you out. And so, you slipped into a deep, lukewarm sleep again. Heavy, heavy nerves as weightless as feathers....

***

The scratching at your door led you to wake up at... noon. The sleep aid carried over a handful of heaviness to your weight and starvation, but you opened the door anyways to find Adrian crouched like that of a cat and looking up at you.

...you thought you’d seen the black butterfly that causes akumatizatuions last night.

Adrian smiled up at you. Appearing averagely himself, save for his eyes. Like a hybrid of feline and human. Round, green orbs with giant black irises within them, made him look excited to see you.

“Did you like my gift?”

Instead of answering, you backed against the doorway and slid to the floor. Adrian cautiously approached you on all fours, as best he could with a human body.

“I...I heard that, males like me, after an attack like this...” he said very clearly, eyes downcast. “I can leave if you want. If that’ll make you more comfortable.”

***

On the news was the last remaining body camera video of the rapist’s last moments.

“In case you’re wondering, I took the videos he made of you. Everything in his apartment too like the computer in case... well... I burned everything else in there.”

And in that video was his torturer. A large male in all-black, fighting and fighting ferociously and more violent than soldiers in the trenches, than mercenaries on the hunt, than boxers would ever hope to reach for in the ring. Glowing green feline eyes, howls and yowls of that of a lynx.

The news accused an overzealous Black Panther fan of going too far.

“Well, a fan, yeah! What could be a better match up in partnership than Black Panther and Chat Noir, milady?” He scooted up from your lap and pressed the side of his head against your chest, and purred. He hummed in pleasantry, the soothing coo of his purrs softening. “For you, to protect you—that guy had it coming.”

Your answer fell soft on your lips. Words you tried to form but to no avail. The depths of your hiding heart knew the answer and if only Adrien could hear it echo.

And he returned his eyes to the television, resuming his comfortable cat position in your lap. You held his hand, squeezing affectionately.

***

Over the weeks, Adrian eventually stopped coming to school. You met him and found his appearance has yet changed again.

He spoke from the shadows that coated so well with him they could’ve been him, and he would’ve been everywhere under this bridge in the dark of the night. “I’ve gotten rid of a few more. For all women, men... children... for you.”

You shook your head. No longer were you in the daze of trauma. An accusing voice shouted that you should’ve stopped him that very day this all started.

“The rapists and white supremacists, two of them are hanging from the US Embassy’s flagpole. God bless America. Home of the brave enough to corrupt justice and land of free to oppress.” His outline in the shadows, you could see him on all fours, slithering closer to you in a manner paralleling a lioness on the hunt. “The rest are spelled out clear as modern truth on their pavement. Starting with the first American rapist that terrorized you—“

A vibrant and loudly attentive purr elicited from Adrien. “My friend~”

A shiver ran up your spine. His glowing green feline eyes showed complete delight towards you.

How could you have stopped him? What could you have said to the akumatized feline-Adrien in those moments? Dazed in trauma, depersonalize to reality and even your own sense of self. Then, you’ll just have to say it now as Adrien stood much taller, much bulkier, much more alive right in front of you, with his clawed fingers resting underneath your chin to lift it up.

Small simmers of memories between the two of you, hiding on the roof at school during lunch, from Nino, Alya, and Marionette, reading to each other whatever either of you had on hand and by the flip of a coin: Adrien’s fashion magazine, your “Spirited Away” graphic novel, Adrien’s “The Boy and the Beast” graphic novel, Adrien’s “The Wind Rises”, your “The Raven”, Adrien’s “Sherlock Holmes”...

Adrien chuckled, a soupy mix of harsh purr and his own lighthearted chuckles. “Around 36 Americans criminals have already been rounded up in less than three days.” His neck cracked, revealing a thin layer of a black pelt under his obsidian bodysuit. “And I haven’t even moved on to Purr~risians yet~”

“Adrien, that’s the Akuma talking, not you.”

“I let Hawkmoth akumatize me, ______, and it was all for you.” He cranes his neck and spine down, leveling eye to eye with you. The gesture would’ve been normally sweetly teasing, friendly, if not for the malice and stench of blood perforating from Adrien like cologne. Heavy in his messy, unkempt black hair where matted pieces held together by brown-crust. Stained red in his whitened-yellowing sharper teeth. And his eyes danced with delight, but all you could see was potential betrayal. “Seeing what that putrid, evil man reduced you down to, how could I have taken that? How could I, even as Chat Noir, be okay with that guy walking free?”

You blinked, confused but for a second before it clicked in your head what he had been subtly expressing. “You’ve seen him. The way he looks. Influential, charming, intelligent, and a promising college student. I looked up his background on his computer, and no way would your country have prosecuted him. Justice would not have been served, ma chérie.”

His quick switch to English with that phrase threw you off into dozens of memories from America. Flashbacks. And you said, “My friend, my best friend,” and you gently slid your hand into his, scratching yourself only slightly on his claws and feline pads. “Adrien. Just please. Let me know where the akuma is.”

In a sudden, his arms wrapped around you. His heavier and bigger body towering, entrapping you. “My best friend...” his silky, sultrier than warm milk voice slid into your ears. “I’m not Adrien anymore. That weakling gave himself to me because he knew what had to be done and what could be made.”

“So now, and forever, all there is, is Dark Justice.”

And he disappeared with the shadows helping me.

***

He barged into school, having changed more into a feline-human hybrid and wielding a sword 🗡, that had once only been a lasso at his side, pointed at Chloe Bougarais. With kind, alight feline eyes, he spoke, “Even despicable women like you will be served justice, so tell me, Chloe Bougarais, who was the male that assaulted your privates?”

It took most of the class by shock and storm, hearing their gasps and whimpers. You lowered your chin. This was too much, so much. Your rape, your best friend akumatized into a twisted justicebringing mass murderer, Chloe’s hidden sexual assault...

And with her chin upturned, lips twisted but trembling, Chloe appeared to murmur out a name. Adrien sheathed his sword and crept down on all fours, sitting like a cat would with his tail swishing nonchalantly below the desk. “Don’t worry, he will never see another daylight. As have others.”

***

Adrien coughed out spittal and obvious pain. He glared at the ground then at Hugh, who’d just ran out of the courtyard by the aid of Ladybug.

“Have you any idea what that boy has done?" Adrian gasped, voice purring-rumbling in anger. "My lady?"

"Chat Noir?" Ladybug gasped.

"Not even you will stop me from taking his life. I won't allow it. Not now," he raised his sword and charged. "Not ever!"

Ladybug and Chat Noir clashed. Sword and dodging, she was doing really well. "Adrian Agreste, snap out of it! This isn't you. You wouldn't do this! Not even if someone hurt you enough that you were in the hospital, you would never hurt anyone! You always forgave them, you always found a way to deny their evil ways in a peaceful manner!"

Dark Justice had Ladybug pinned against the wall. "I changed for my best friend over there, for my lady. So do not think I won't go to extremes to supply justice. You've no idea what legal systems let him go free despite the evidence larger than a mountain."

The cameraman was filming all of Adrian's rant. All of Paris would see this.

"He would be stopped. If not by the ones we put our faith in, then by me. That's all there is to it, Ladybug; Justice!" Adrian clipped off Ladybug's ponytail. "The right to get what is earned! The right to end evil once and for all! Aren't I just a descendent of the French Revolution, savior of Paris?! Aren't I just barging down the mansion to drag the pigs who are protecting their fellow pigs out of their comfortable, lush halls -- I am dragging them, my lady, and they don't want that but I've kept dragging them out--"

Ladybug's other ponytail fell to Dark Justice's sword. She was looking panicked. Dark Justice's moves were obviously too much for her, and she was already crippled without Chat Noir to help her -- but instead, had to fight her well-experienced partner, akumatized and fueled higher and more terrible than the sun.

"And I will slice open their bellies, I will gut them in the center for all of Paris to see at the slaughter that'll never end! Never will it end! Not by you, not by the military, not by the president of the fucking United States of America, not by my father once I find him and gut him too!"

You stumbled backwards.

You heard an agreement somewhere, two, multiple.

You heard a loud cheer somewhere outside of the school.

Adrian dominated Ladybug in power and strength. His fangs clenched, not even a smile, he was too into this, too attentive to his justice. Ladybug would have to activate her winning move -- her Lucky Charm -- as her last shot.

"Is this what you want to do forever!" Ladybug screamed.

"Until the last droplets of evil is extinguished and the pigs can no longer breed, I will be their inevitable reckoning!" Dark Justice responded, "Don't you get it by now, Ladybug? I can do something about the people who escape the system, the ones who deserve to be punished and to the ones who contiuosly cause harm to other people without mercy. All I have to do is be given a name. I will hear them. I will avenge them. I will end their tormentors!”

Dark Justice's growls increased in volume, like the growling of a tiger and a chainsaw merged as one. He grunted and arched his back as his body increased in muscle mass — and slenders of black protective silky fur spread across his skin. Dark Justice completely overwhelmed Ladybug's strength as he threw her over his head. His pants tore and a loincloth grew from the sudden belt around his waist. His anatomy now that of an anthropomorphic big cat as his face violently changed into that of the creature's, and two masses formed on his abnormally large shoulders. He hissed and clenched his fangs as the masses broke from the surface. His growls and howls of agony of the transformation as the two masses shaped into similar heads like his own and roared upon their birthing.

Adrian really was no longer there, now there was Dark Justice -- the Judge, the Prosecuter, and the Executioner.

“OUR JUSTICE.”

“OUR FRIEND.”

“OUR PEACE.”

“WILL REIGN FOREVER!” yowling from all three mouths simultaneously.

And his sword glowed a bright silvery-white and transformed into a massive Hammer of Justice.

You watched all of this, falling to your knees, and knew how far this was going. But you would get your best friend back.

(POV switches and changes)

“Adrien!” I shouted his name like a vehicle was about to run him over, but that love and warning combusted in and through my veins like fire poppers. The pressure, the height in sensation, I continued walking towards my changed friend, slowly gaining speed until I was in a sprint.

Then I collided paws with Adrien’s. Mine and his. Locked in strength. My jaws stretched open to show their gigantic, lethal lioness teeth and let out a warning yowl.

Adrien was forced back by my strength. I held the form nearly identical in stature and prowess to him, but I was a lioness. Surprise clear to see on his feline features, but then your strength held steady against his.

“I’m not going to fight you, ______. I refuse to.”

Your nostrils flared. The scent of him permeated with blood, old blood, sweat from sudden shock and anxiety, rotting flesh. You growled, "I won't fight you either."

Adrian's eyes showed recognition. "What are you doing then?"

"Doing justice.” Her teeth locked on Adrian’s neck and held. One of his heads yowled. Adrian appeared surprised. Her teeth didn’t dig too far into him but just long enough to immobilize him... and discover where his akuma was hiding.

She spotted the oddity on his loincloth. Some sort of ticket. Their movie ticket. She grabbed at it but missed. It was lodged into his side right.

In all this, Dark Justice struggled to free himself. But her lioness form was much to integral against him, and she hurried. She grabbed the ticket and punched a hole in it with her claws. Dark Justice felt as if his heart had stopped. He fell forwards into her arms as Ladybug began to purify the akuma and the damage done.

***

Adrian stayed in most days after his akumatization. He played video games with ________ and talked with only a few of his classmates. Most everyone at school was wary of him now, but he still went, he enjoyed his time on the roof with _______ and learning new things in class, staying out of the house, finishing his homework and ignoring the near constant hammering of what he had done.

________ grabbed his hand in class. He tightened his group. Soul shaken, but smiling. Things could’ve gone worse.

Thanks to the Paris-Catacomb Accords of 2015, Adrian was completely clean of any and all wrong doing he had brought on everyone, as every Akuma victim was given.

_______ and Adrian looked each other in the eye. “One day, we’ll catch Hawkmoth and make end his reign of terror.”

[This is only a work of fiction and not to be taken as non-fiction]

#miraculoustalesofladybugandcatnoir #miraculous ladybug #fanfiction #Adrien x reader #akumatized chat noir #akumatized adrien #akumatized Adrien x reader #dark #reader insert

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maatryoshkaa · 4 years

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young god | chapter 15

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11| 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | epilogue |

word count: 12.0k

warnings: descriptions of violence, sexual assault, mental illness. dark themes and foul language. all information regarding psychiatric conditions or courtroom procedures are to be taken with a fat grain of salt.

description: As Han Jisung’s trial steadily approaches, Hwang Hyunjin struggles to decide where his loyalties lie. Prosecutor Kang is as ruthless as he is greedy, and a startling confession from Yang Jeongin reveals that the ugliest pasts often lie behind the brightest of smiles. Old scars run deep, and all wounds are finally reopened on the day of the trial.

watch the trailer here!

ryu says: “holy h*cking shit.”

15| the devil’s advocate.

“Is Miroh Heights rallying for the death of a 20-year-old orphan? Is justice always this heartless?

“The only existing psychological analysis of alleged serial killer Han Jisung has now been revealed to the public eye, painting a stark contrast with the image of the stone-cold murderer we were all introduced to before. What else is the prosecution hiding? Is Han Jisung at the mercy of a system that has failed him once — and will it fail him again? More on this complex case, next week.”

You set the school paper down on the diner table. Across from you, Bang Chan gave a low whistle. “Lee Felix, is it? You really outdid yourself, kid.”

Felix grinned. He was glowing, not just from the detective’s praise, but with a light sheen of sweat — you two had woken up at the crack of dawn to deliver the newspapers around town, Felix on Jeongin’s bike, and you and Chan in Woojin’s police cruiser. The delivery boy had even drawn out a map of all the shortcuts he knew, and so you had all made it back to Glow Cafe — where Hyunjin was waiting with fresh mugs of coffee — before noon.

Jeongin scanned the front-page article again, nodding excitedly. “I read the local press’ papers every day while I was in the hospital — this basically goes directly against everything they’ve been saying.” He still had weeks before he was allowed to be discharged from the hospital, but had managed to bribe a nurse into letting him take ‘short walks for fresh air’ during the day.

“Why’re we fighting against the local media, though?” Hyunjin asked. The barista looked much better now that Jeongin was awake — the colour had returned to his once-pale cheeks, and he had opened the cafe back up for business again. “I mean, what does the news have to do with the trial? Knowing the prosecutor, he probably doesn’t even care.”

Chan shook his head. “The media plays a huge role in cases like these — mass murder allegations, things that’ll implicate the entire town. In smaller cases, yeah, no one would look twice at the news. But for cases like Jisung’s, they’re going to bring in a jury for the trial — and most times, what the jury agrees on ends up being the final verdict.”

“But the jury isn’t supposed to have heard of the case beforehand.”

Woojin grimaced. “In theory. Miroh Heights is a big town, but it’s old — not to mention it’s a campus area.” When Hyunjin still looked confused, Woojin continued, “That all makes it a close-knit community. There’s only so many people who qualify for jury duty — and I’m willing to bet that there’s not a single person in Miroh Heights who isn’t keeping up with Jisung’s case by now.”

“Kang’s a top-tier scumbag, but he’s far from stupid,” Chan mused, reaching for his mug and frowning when there was no more coffee left. “It definitely wouldn’t be beyond him to pull some strings to make sure he gets to choose the people on the jury: the ones exposed to the case — the news — the most—”

You finished his thought for him. “Students. Professors. Citizens.”

“Exactly.”

There was a brief silence. Chan began a side conversation with Felix, and you snuck a look at Hyunjin. He had disappeared behind the counter, and was fiddling with the cash register with his head down.

You glanced back at the table. Woojin and Jeongin were sitting in a strangely awkward silence — the delivery boy’s expression was oddly closed off, you thought to yourself. It was almost...cold, a side of Jeongin you had never seen before. Shrugging, you excused yourself from your seat and retreated behind the bar to where Hyunjin was standing quietly. The barista was idly unrolling packets of coins to refill the cash register, and didn’t look up at you.

You nudged him gently. “Hey, ‘jinnie.” Nothing. “Hwang Hyunjin, talk to me.”

The long silence was broken only by the clinking of coins, until Hyunjin finally mumbled, “What d’you mean?”

You sighed, fiddling with an empty coin tube and trying to find the right words. “It’s— it’s a lot to ask for, I know.” You didn’t have to mention Jisung’s name for him to know what you were referring to — your boyfriend’s case hung over all of your heads like a guillotine every second of the day.

Still, your mind flashed back to his sudden outburst months ago, when he had first met Jisung face-to-face in the cafe. His cold, guarded wariness towards the other boy, and how he’d spent the next two months practically soulless by Jeongin’s bedside. You tried to meet his eyes. “You’ve been through a lot.”

The coins were trembling in Hyunjin’s long fingers. “You’ve been through more,” he muttered back. You didn’t have to follow his gaze to know he was looking at the site of your stab wound, hidden under the layers of your sweater. “How’d they let you out so early, anyways?”

“Hey, I was in there for nearly a month — they said I slept for three weeks straight, you know?” You laughed lightly, trying to ease the tension, but Hyunjin didn’t return the smile. “I’m okay, ‘jin.”

Your eyes searched his face for a response. Despite everything, Hyunjin still looked weary — like he had gotten older, more tired. He had seen things in the past few months that could never be erased — you all had. And you knew Hyunjin like the back of your hand — he had been one of the first faces you’d met when you’d moved to Miroh Heights, the unlikely first close friend you’d made. With absent parents who ran businesses abroad, Hyunjin had been on his own for most of his life. You knew how he always kept his worries and doubts to himself, how his polite, casual demeanor hid a heart full of emotions he didn’t know how to deal with or express.

“Are you okay, though?” Hyunjin asked, finally lifting his eyes to meet yours, and you felt your heart pang at how helpless he looked. “Every time you see something wrong — someone in trouble, you stop at nothing until you can help them. And I love that about you, y/n. I really do—but—” Hyunjin gestured his hands wildly, voice wavering as if he was struggling to get the words out, “You can’t save everyone, y/n.” The familiar words made you shrink back as Hyunjin kept talking. “The last time you tried, you nearly ended up— d-dead. I’m worried like hell, okay?. Worried that if you keep trying to save others, you’ll just be the one hurt in the end.”

“Hyunjin—” You reached out to grab his shaking hands, to calm him down, but your elbow knocked over a roll of coins. They spilled across the floor, making everyone jump and look up.

“Everything okay back there?” Chan called, and you nodded, waving him away distractedly as Hyunjin dropped down to pick the change up. As you knelt down to help him, you heard footsteps approach the counter, and looked up to see Jeongin behind you. Back at the table, Chan and Felix were still talking like newfound frat brothers, but Woojin was fiddling with his mug silently.

“Can I talk to him for a moment?” Jeongin asked you quietly, and you glanced back down at Hyunjin. Jeongin had been sitting the closest to the bar counter, you realised — he had probably heard a good chunk of your conversation. You nodded, placing the change on the countertop, and headed back to the table.

Hyunjin watched Jeongin dive for a quarter that was rolling away. Underneath Jeongin’s sleeves, Hyunjin could see fading scratches peeking out — where the skin had scraped away when he’d fallen to the ground, bloody and unconscious, the night of the attacks. They were nearly healed, but the memory alone still made Hyunjin’s gut twist, and he tore his gaze away.

“Do you still think about that night?”

Both Jeongin’s quiet voice and his question took Hyunjin by surprise, and he couldn’t help but look up. The younger boy’s eyes were soft, gentle — a contradiction to his naturally fox-like features — and it was as if he’d spoken Hyunjin’s thoughts out loud. You never had to explain anything to Jeongin, Hyunjin thought. Growing up with no one but his sickly grandmother, Hyunjin had never truly opened up to anyone before — but Jeongin always seemed to understand exactly how Hyunjin was feeling, and there was something about the younger boy that could always calm Hyunjin down.

He’d always looked at Jeongin like a younger brother, a bright presence Hyunjin wanted to protect and take care of at all costs.

Now, Hyunjin found himself wondering if Jeongin had been the one taking care of him, all along.

“I see it every time I close my eyes,” Jeongin finally continued, and the question repeated itself in Hyunjin’s head — that night. The night Han Jisung had killed another student, and sent Jeongin into a two-month coma. The night Hyunjin had woken up to find his closest friend bleeding out on his storefront. No matter how many times the memory crept up on Hyunjin, it still made his blood run cold.

Hyunjin could only nod, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat.

“Sometimes...I think about how things might’ve been different. If I hadn’t stopped — no, if I hadn’t even taken that shortcut through the Yellow Wood. Or...if I didn’t have to work the night shift in the first place.” Jeongin huffed a soft laugh, then drew quiet. “But we don’t really get to decide what happens to us, huh? One thing leads to another, and the next thing you know, the world’s turned upside down.” He paused. Something in the younger boy’s voice made Hyunjin think he wasn’t just talking about the Yellow Wood anymore.

“I wonder if he...if Jisung thinks about that, too.” Jeongin continued. “How things would have changed if he hadn’t taken that path that night. Or, if he never had to do the things he did...” Jeongin trailed off, and a question was left hanging in the air.

Where did it all go wrong?

It wasn’t like Hyunjin had never seen Jisung in passing — the kid whose bright smile and boisterous laugh masked his strangely wide, dark eyes. Who seemed to linger alone on the streets and in the shadows of murky alleyways after curfew, just wandering. As if the boy was constantly looking for something he’d lost — but had long since forgotten what it was.

“I just...” Hyunjin’s own voice surprised him, but as soon as he got the words out, he could no longer stop them. “I just want everything to go back to normal. The way things used to be. I—” Hyunjin looked around the cafe, letting out a shaky sigh. “I’ve grown up in this town all my life. Maybe I’ve grown scared of change — scared of how it could make me lose everything. Scared of how it could make me lose you guys.” He put his throbbing head in his hands. “Maybe that’s what makes me a coward. I don’t know Jisung. But I’ve seen the things he’s done, and I can’t — I can’t watch it happen again. I don’t think I could take it.” He looked at Jeongin helplessly. “How do you...forgive someone who could have killed you?”

Jeongin was silent, pensive. He picked up the last coin and slid it into the cash register before saying quietly, “Did I ever tell you about my dad?”

Hyunjin frowned in confusion. “You don’t...talk about your family often.”

“Most of the time, I’d rather not.” Jeongin gave a small smile. “But these days, I keep thinking about them. I know people talk about them behind my back — why a freshman has to work delivery jobs all day, and study all night. Why no one came to visit me in the hospital, except for you.” The younger boy shifted his feet, gaze dropping to his hands. “My dad’s in prison. Third-degree murder.”

Hyunjin’s hands stilled, and Jeongin continued talking. “My mum was your typical office worker — real big company, too. We were never that well off to begin with — maybe that’s why she stayed silent about the...the abuse for so long. About the stuff her higher-ups would do to her behind locked doors, when they’d make her stay overtime in their offices.” Jeongin’s voice wavered, and he cleared his throat shakily.

“I don’t know how my dad finally found out, I...I could never bring myself to ask.” Jeongin was gripping the count[er, knuckles white and voice barely audible. “I’ve never seen my dad angry before. He doesn’t get angry. He’d always take the short end of the stick with a smile, you know? This was the first time he’d ever...picked a fight with anyone.” Jeongin paused, eyes glazed over in memory. “That night, Mum was staying late again. But this time...my dad showed up at her workplace. Burst in after-hours, like a madman. And that night, neither of them came home.

“The police came knocking on our door the next morning. And they told me my father killed three men in a fight. A fight.” Jeongin looked up at Hyunjin now, smiling, but his crescent eyes were filled with tears. “No one cares about an office woman’s sexual abuse story. Not when you have the families of three rich businessmen bribing law enforcement any way they can to keep their reputations clean. You can guess who the lead prosecutor of the trial was.”

“Prosecutor Kang,” Hyunjin breathed, not daring to believe it, but Jeongin nodded.

“The trial was easy. My dad would spend the rest of his life in prison.”

“That’s not fair,” Hyunjin blurted, voice barely a whisper. “They can’t—it’s not—”

“The system isn’t fair,” Jeongin replied. It sounded like he was quoting someone. “It’s been a long time since the system’s chosen morals over money.”

Hyunjin’s gaze wandered back towards the table, where Woojin was sitting, and thought back to the tense atmosphere between Jeongin and the young police captain earlier. “Is that why you and Captain Kim…”

“His parents put mine in prison. It’s more than a little awkward, really.” Jeongin laughed, but the sound didn’t quite reach his eyes. The younger boy always tried to put on a bright face, Hyunjin realised with a pang, no matter the pain he might be hiding underneath.

“I’m not trying to compare my dad to Jisung. Jisung, everything he’s done…” Jeongin shook his head. “He has too much to make up for, I wouldn’t even know where to start. We all knew that going into this.” He glanced over his shoulder at the table where his friends were seated. “y/n more than anyone. If we make Han Jisung out to be innocent, if we try to get him pardoned...that makes us just as bad as Kang.” Jeongin sighed. “But I can’t just watch them treat him like they did my dad. Make him out to be a psychopath, until even he starts to believe it.

“My mum can’t find work anywhere. She doesn’t sleep, barely eats, never leaves the bed because she’s so sick. The doctors all say she has lifelong trama. I don’t want to watch the system...end another life that doesn’t deserve it.” Jeongin glanced behind him. Hyunjin followed his line of sight towards the table, where everyone was chatting. Jisung’s friends — Felix, Chan, maybe even Woojin; and his girlfriend, you. “I don’t want to see what it does to the people that love him.”

Hyunjin was silent for a long moment. The chatter at the table and the clinking of the coffee mugs seemed like background noise as Jeongin watched the older boy take in everything he had said. Outside, students and citizens were beginning to fill the streets as rush hour approached — it was the end of the school term, and the bustle of summer life was humming beyond the glass windows of Glow Cafe.

Before Hyunjin could respond, though, the cafe doors swung open, the CLOSED sign clattering against the glass in protest and making everyone look up at the sudden commotion. A middle-aged woman in a tweed blazer and pencil skirt was marching straight towards the table you were seated at, a younger woman with a notebook stumbling after her.

Hyunjin straightened up, tone professional despite the weary look on his face. “I’m sorry, but we’re closed today under special circumstances—”

She cut him off impatiently. “Where is Felix Lee?”

Bewildered, Felix stood, holding out his hand to attempt a handshake. Instead, the woman reached into her bag and slammed down a newspaper identical to the one you already had on the table — the school paper.

“What is the meaning of this?” Her voice was high and reedy as she jabbed a red-nailed finger onto the front page, where Jisung’s article had been printed. “Who do you think you are to publish these—these baseless stories?”

“With all due respect, ma’am,” you responded tensely, “I think you’ll find that this article contains more truth in it than all the articles the local press has published, combined.”

She turned on you, sneering in disbelief. “Do you know who I am?” You glanced outside uneasily, where a sleek black car was parked.

“Why do rich people always assume we know who they are? Listen, lady, we don’t care—” Chan began, but was interrupted by a sputtering sound Felix made.

“I think we should care,” your best friend choked out. In his hands was a business card that the woman’s assistant had handed him, and the blood had drained from his freckled face. “She’s the head of the local press.”

Everyone fell silent, and the woman smiled slyly. “Precisely. Publishing articles like these…” she glanced down at the school newspapers on the table, clicking her tongue. “Your school should be ashamed of you. An amateur school newsletter, overstepping their boundaries.”

You saw Felix’s expression darken at her words, ears red. “A good newspaper reports on all sides of the story. We publish the truth here, and nothing but the truth—”

“Why? So you can all bail your psychopath friend out of prison? Do you even care about the implications? Your truth is hindering the investigation of a convicted murderer. People like him should not get their story told. Your truth will put this town in danger if he walks free, you understand? It will get more people killed.” She fixed Felix with a withering look of contempt. “Let me give you a word of advice, young man, if you even think of surviving in this industry—sometimes, you need to know when to keep your mouth shut.”

Your mouth was burning with countless words to bite back with but your tongue stayed stubbornly tied, mind racing. The woman had spoken out loud what you had all thought of at one point, what you had been most afraid of the public believing. You stole a look at Hyunjin behind the counter. The barista was avoiding eye contact, but you knew he had been thinking the same thing. His stormy, unreadable expression made your stomach churn — you knew he had been the most hesitant and unsure of Jisung’s case out of everyone, but seeing it written on his face now made you feel even worse.

Sensing that things were beginning to get out of control, Woojin cleared his throat. “Ma’am, if you’re finished, I would kindly ask you to leave—”

“I have every right to stay here,” the woman interrupted viciously, snatching up the campus newspaper again, “until your journalist friend revokes these articles—and promises not to interfere with the investigation until the trial has concluded.”

You started in protest. “You—”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” Hyunjin’s calm voice cutting through the growing chaos made everyone freeze and turn towards the barista. He pushed the cash register shut with a bit too much force, and leaned down to rest his forearms on the bar counter. “I told you we were closed, yes? You have no more business here. If you choose to continue infringing on my property, we can bring this to the police.” His eyes were still stormy as he stared the stunned woman down — but the words coming from his mouth were the complete opposite from what you had been expecting. “Now get out of my cafe.”

“I—why, you—” The woman could only sputter for several seconds as you all stared at Hyunjin in awe, the most self-assured expression you had seen on the barista in ages — as if he had finally made up his mind about something. Behind him, Jeongin had a small smile on his face.

“Preposterous,” the head of the press stammered, taken aback by Hyunjin’s bluntness. Her mouth opened and closed like a puppet’s, but no words came out. Finally, glaring daggers at all of you, she snatched her bag and stormed out in a whirlwind of nauseating perfume, her poor assistant barely keeping up behind her.

The silence lasted for several more moments. Hyunjin was still staring after her with a reserved expression, his shaking hazel pupils the only indication of how nervous he was.

Felix was the one who finally spoke first, the wide grin in his voice breaking the tension. “Hwang Hyunjin. You are the man.”

━━━━━━━━

Opening the door to Bang Chan’s office sent clouds of dust into the stale air, and the detective into a coughing fit. Chan moved to snap the blinds open, letting evening sunlight warm the musty room.

“Bloody hell, Chan,” Woojin groaned as he patted the dust from the coffee table in the corner. “I was joking about your office being a coffin before, but—how did you let it get this bad?”

You, Hyunjin, and Jeongin followed the police captain into the room, taking tentative seats around the coffee table as the detective tried in vain to open a window and clear the stuffy air.

“I haven’t had any new clients since this case was taken from me by that damn prosecutor,” Chan protested indignantly, grabbing a notebook and pen. “I’m taking a well-deserved hiatus. B’sides,” he added, sighing, “I don’t exactly have the heart to focus on anything else right now.”

Woojin grimaced, and looked around the room. “We’re waiting on Felix?”

You nodded. It had been nearly a month since the first article had been released — a whole month since the head of the press herself had come storming into Glow Cafe, demanding for the publication to be stopped. You weren’t sure if it had been the woman’s biting remarks or the newfound support from Hyunjin, but Felix seemed to have hit the ground running, publishing story after story and going head-to-head with every article the local press put out.

The articles were beginning to pick up steam, too — as soon as the school year had ended, the entire town had begun buzzing with talk about the contradicting stories. You should have felt relieved that your last-resort plan had even stood a chance — but the longer the fight and investigation went on, the more you could feel the stress weighing down on your shoulders. Though removed from the investigation, Chan and Woojin came to you with more and more bad news they were able to overhear with each passing day. The trial was scheduled for next week, and you hadn’t heard from Jisung since...well, since you had found him, bloody and broken, in the back lot of Mia’s Diner.

“Things aren’t looking too good,” Woojin began, expression grim. “The prosecution’s claimed custody of the camcorder footage and Jeongin’s Walkman tapes. Seungmin’s legally not allowed to touch them anymore—not without Kang’s permission.”

Your heart plummeted to your stomach at the police captain’s words. You, Chan, and Seungmin had all been warned separately to stay out of the investigation by legal officials, but that hadn’t stopped you from gathering what information you could. You should have known Kang would find a way to get ahold of all the evidence, but nothing could have prepared you for the sick feeling the confirmation stirred in your gut.

Chan sighed, tapping his pen on his cheek. “Far as I know, Jisung still isn’t taking a lawyer. The kid won’t even talk to me now.”

“How’s the trial going to work, then?” Hyunjin asked. “If the kid doesn’t take an attorney…”

“It’ll be his word against Kang’s,” Chan nodded glumly. “It’s a trial held under special circumstances. The prosecution will present all the evidence they choose, the judge and jury’ll listen to all the witnesses who decide to come forward, and then they’ll use that to form the final verdict.” He paused, then added, “And if Jisung chooses to defend himself, he has the right to speak, too.”

“Except he won’t,” you interjected, heart heavy, remembering Jisung’s face when he had told you about his parents’ deaths. Jisung had spent his entire life living in the shadow of guilt his childhood cast over him, a self-induced hell he forced himself to relive every day.

“Kang has the jury, the witnesses, and the evidence,” Jeongin thought aloud, the sentence alone making the air feel heavy.

“We’ve all been called to attend the trial, yeah?” Chan nodded at you, Woojin, and Hyunjin. “Us, Felix, and Seungmin can only come as spectators. Jeongin’s been called in as an eyewitness.” He frowned, counting off his fingers. “The only other type of witness Kang can bring in would be an expert witness. Medics, psychologists, that sort of thing.”

“Kang’s clever — he’ll probably bring in child psychologists or medical specialists,” Woojin noted, frowning. “It’d be easy for them to cherry-pick the evidence to use it against Jisung — especially since he refuses to speak to anyone right now.”

“Haven’t they found anyone for Jisung?” You asked desperately. “His old social workers, foster families —”

“He was abandoned over a decade ago. None of his social workers have come forward.” Woojin sighed. “But you’re right — they have found a forensics specialist to come testify.”

Jeongin perked up. “Who?”

Chan looked grim. “Head coroner Lee Minho.”

Your heart sank. Lee Minho. No one was willing to address the elephant in the room: that Minho admitting to his own crimes would be one of the easiest ways to avoid a death penalty. Except…

“No one on the prosecution knows what Minho’s done, and we don’t have any incriminating evidence against him, either. They won’t believe us, and there’s no way he would confess,” you muttered, remembering the uneasy conversation you had had with the coroner on the rooftop. Minho had been hiding in the shadows of Jisung’s self-destructive crossfire his entire life. From the coroner’s unreadable eyes to his strange, reserved attitude, you had no idea how to guess his next move.

There was a knock on the door, and everyone looked up as Felix walked into the office, backpack sliding off one shoulder. “I have good news and bad news,” your best friend announced, taking a seat on the edge of the sofa.

“Bad news first,” you answered immediately, groaning. Good news was rare these days. “I want to get it over with.” Hyunjin nodded in agreement, looking at Felix expectantly.

“The head of the press is still up our asses, believe it or not. She’s changed her strategy — they’re making bribes now.” Felix fished a slip of paper from his bag. “Someone came in today — dressed real proper and business-like — and told me that if I halted publications, they’d be willing to pay a pretty hefty sum.” He flipped the slip over onto the coffee table.

It was a cheque, you realised. Chan whistled as he read out the amount. You looked back up at Felix, holding your breath.

“I took the bribe,” Felix admitted, tone apologetic, and your shoulders slumped. Your last connection to the investigation, gone — but Felix kept talking, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “I took the bribe, and we used the money to buy everyone in our department the most expensive coffee on campus. Actually, thanks to them, we pulled an all-nighter and published the last part of your case study this morni—oof!”

Your best friend was cut off when you tackled him into a hug, nearly tumbling backwards as Felix laughed and patted your back. “Felix,” you declared, voice still shaking from how scared you had been, “You are ruthless.”

“One of my many charms,” he grinned, Hyunjin clapping him on the shoulder. Felix pulled away from you, and his hazel eyes suddenly grew serious as he scanned your face.

Out of everyone at Miroh Heights, Felix had known you the longest — if anything was wrong with the other person, you were always able to pick up on it. Despite your relieved smile, Felix could see how overworked you were — you had been reading up on past cases nonstop, making phone calls, and making notes on the camcorder footage, no matter how much rewatching it traumatised you to the core. From your bloodshot eyes to your pale lips, anyone could see that the upcoming trial had taken the worst toll on you. “y/n,” he said worriedly, “you need to take it easy.”

You sighed, scrabbling a hand through your dishevelled hair. “How can I? I need to keep working on this — I need to be strong.”

“You’ve always been strong.” Surprisingly, it was Hyunjin who spoke up this time. For the first time in weeks, there was no more anger or bitterness in his voice — only sincerity. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

You tried to give him a small, grateful smile, but even that couldn’t staunch the bubbling anxiety in your gut. “The trial’s in a week. We can’t let up now.”

You could sense the boys looking at you anxiously until Chan finally clapped his hands, breaking the grim silence. “Well, you heard the boss lady.” The detective winked at you. “Let’s get back to work, boys.”

━━━━━━━━

The courthouse lobby was already overflowing with chaos and reporters by the time Prosecutor Kim Seungmin arrived at its doors.

This wasn’t his first time attending a trial, of course, but the scale of it all was what made him uneasy. Citizens of Miroh Heights were huddled outside the gates, catching whatever glimpses of the trial and snippets of information they could. When Seungmin had elbowed his way into the building, he spotted security guards flanking all the entrances.

There was a sign for the bathroom on his left hand side. Seungmin made a beeline for it, pushing open the doors and allowing himself to escape the pandemonium for a couple of moments. As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, he saw a familiar figure standing by the sink.

Prosecutor Kang’s eyes met Seungmin’s through the mirror and the older man straightened up, snakelike mouth curving into a smile. “Ah, Prosecutor Kim. Good to see you.”

Seungmin nodded stiffly as he tried to muster up the courage to walk past his colleague. He could feel Kang’s beady eyes watching him contemplatively.

“Are you still beat-up about the case? You must be,” Kang mused, turning back towards the sink and flicking on the tap. “Don’t get yourself too down about losing it. It was only a matter of time.” If Seungmin didn’t look at him, Kang’s tone sounded almost kind.

Almost.

Kang was here on behalf of the prosecution, with his team of carefully selected witnesses and—Seungmin was willing to bet—jurors. Seungmin had barely landed a spot as a spectator in the trial, alongside Felix, the school journalist. If things went Kang’s way, anything and everything that happened in today’s trial would be completely out of Seungmin’s control.

“Rookie mistakes,” Kang continued, wiping his spectacles. “It’s to be expected at your age, really—”

Seungmin ignored his passive insult and turned back towards Kang, tone pleading as he tried one last time. “Mr. Kang, you don’t have to do this. Han Jisung—”

Kang barked a laugh, cutting him off. Behind his spectacles, his eyes were filled with equal parts amusement and resentment. “I’m not sure why you young people always have such blinded judgement,” he seethed. “He’s a monster.”

“He’s just a boy,” Seungmin shot back, heart pounding at the way surprise flashed on Kang’s face. He had never dared to challenge his colleagues before — especially not Prosecutor Kang — but he forced himself to stand his ground as Kang finally turned around to face Seungmin. He was silent for several tense moments, slowly drying his hands before picking up his briefcase. Then, Kang’s expression smoothed over as he raised an eyebrow at the younger prosecutor.

“Not in my court of law, he isn’t.”

He had walked briskly out the door before Seungmin could muster a reply. The commotion outside grew louder before it was muffled again by the closing doors, and the younger male was left in the dark, empty washroom, filled with an increasing feeling of dread.

━━━━━━━━

Jisung jerked forward when the prison bus came to an abrupt halt, nearly slamming his head against the front seat. He tried to shake himself out of his daze and turned towards the window, tired eyes adjusting to the morning sunlight. Outside was the town he had grown up in, and yet everything felt so...different.

As soon as the bus doors swung open, swarms of reporters surrounded its sides. Two policemen roughly escorted him through the crowd, and he could vaguely register the questions being screamed at him from every angle.

“Han Jisung, is it true?”

“Did you kill all those people? Did you set fire to your own home?”

“Will you plead guilty? Will you plead insanity?”

Insanity? Jisung’s mind flashed to the memory lapses every time he...killed, the gaping black spots in his thoughts, the endless throbbing in his temples that never quite went away. His head was swimming, but his body felt numb. Have I gone insane?

Once they were inside, he was ushered further down the hallway into a side room. A stone-faced clerk in a grey suit nodded at the policemen, then fixed his hawk-like eyes on Jisung’s unfocused face.

“This is him?” He asked dubiously, then cleared his throat. He didn’t move to shake Jisung’s hand. “Well, then. You refused to take an attorney or public defender, so, uh...your trial will be held under special circumstances. The judge will hear the witnesses, the evidence, and anything you have to say. Got it, kid?”

Jisung couldn’t will himself to form any words. Everything sounded as if he were underwater.

The man coughed nervously. “As long as you cooperate, things shouldn’t be too bad, eh? Although from what I’ve heard about you, I wouldn’t keep my hopes up.”

Jisung could sense the official’s eyes raking him up and down in slight distaste at his silence. As Jisung quietly took a seat in the corner, he could hear the man muttering irritatedly to the guard by the door and chuckling.

“It’s always the messed-up kids, huh?”

━━━━━━━━

You watched as the courtroom slowly filled with people — reporters and spectators huddling around you, clerks and attorneys taking their places in their respective boxes. You were sitting with Bang Chan, Felix, Woojin, Hyunjin, and Seungmin near the bar, watching the members of the jury shuffle in. They were all somewhat familiar faces — students, professors, and citizens, as Bang Chan had guessed — and you felt a small glimmer of hope every time you recognised someone.

The prosecution’s witnesses were beginning to file in on the opposite side of the room, as well: A stocky boy with a swollen, bandaged nose, and a scrawnier one, also heavily bandaged — the only survivors, you realised, shuddering — from that terrible night at Mia’s Diner. Then there was Jeongin, whose face made you relax slightly. Next to him, though, there was a nervous old woman who you didn’t recognise, and an unfamiliar middle-aged man. And of course, pacing back and forth behind them, like a panther on the prowl, was Prosecutor Kang.

Every time the doors swung open you couldn’t help but look up, heart hammering in your chest.

You were really only looking for one person, after all.

Sure enough, the heavy oak door in the corner creaked open, and a familiar flash of golden hair made your breath catch in your throat. Flanked by two stone-faced officers, Jisung entered the courtroom.

You immediately leapt to your feet, and heard Chan whisper in warning. “y/n.”. The detective’s tone was gentle, but you didn’t have to turn back around to imagine the alarmed look on his face. Your eyes were glued on Jisung, and it took every fibre of your being not to sprint up to him, push past the guards, and pull him into your arms. You were shaking with equal parts relief and horror as you took in the sight of him.

He’d lost weight, his skin was pale and bruised, but his eyes — you felt your mouth go dry. The eyes you had seen fill with both laughter and sadness, light and darkness, were now completely lifeless. As if he wasn’t really seeing anything at all. You felt hot tears prick at the back of your throat and you clapped a hand over your mouth to keep from calling out his name. You had thought you were prepared, that you would force yourself to stay calm at all costs — but now, as the weight of the situation was finally beginning to sink down on your shoulders, you weren’t so sure you would be able to.

You felt Felix’s hand gently tug at yours, the only thing anchoring you to reality, and slowly sat back down, your hands grabbing fistfuls of your cardigan to keep from shaking.

Jisung found you in the crowded courtroom before you did, and the split second he caught your face soothed an ache in his chest he’d been trying to ignore, like a long-neglected wound. Seeing you alive and breathing — when the last memory he had of you had been one where you were bleeding out in his own hands — sent a bittersweet pang through him, the sheer relief overwhelming him to the point that he felt his own knees buckle. To anyone else, you looked almost normal, he thought — but he would have been a fool not to catch the dark circles under your eyes, your shaking hands, the raw worry that had etched itself into your weary features.

As soon as your eyes flickered up to him, Jisung immediately looked away, a voice in the back of his head seething. Coward.

His gaze wandered around the room and he was instantly met with a mix of hostile glares and fascinated stares — like an animal that had been chained down. Wherever he looked, dozens of eyes were on him, dozens of blazing lights searing through him and pinning him to the spot. It was almost as if he could hear the spectators’ thoughts, the countless names that the local press had called him ringing through his head. The youngest mass murderer of Miroh Heights. A walking psychopath. The soon-to-be-convicted serial killer.

“Order in the court,” you heard a man next to the judge call out, and a hush swept across the room. The judge — a middle-aged woman in sombre black robes — nodded. “The trial is now in session. The case of Han Jisung, and the Miroh Heights Murders, Your Honour.”

Kang moved forward and cleared his throat.

“Your Honour, today I intend to prove the defendant guilty of nineteen counts of first degree murder, as well as a history of crimes spanning over a period of thirteen years. This includes eight counts of arson, including the defendant’s own home, and five counts of aggravated assault, including the attack of Yang Jeongin three months prior. The numbers are based on the images of the victims we showed him that he recognised.” Kang gave a deliberate pause, flashing a look of disdain over where Jisung was seated. “He has violated Sections 235 and 435 of the Criminal Code, and the prosecution intends to prove him fit to receive capital punishment.”

Capital punishment — the death penalty. Kang was doing exactly what you all had feared, and his words and self-assured attitude made you feel sick.

“Does the defendant have any opening statements?”

Your eyes flickered to Jisung’s face — had his expression darkened? His features had stiffened into a cold mask — lifeless eyes, sickly pallor, clenched jaw. It was almost as if he was trying to fit into Kang’s description of him, you realised with a sinking feeling. To your dismay, Jisung stayed silent, and the judge cleared her throat.

“Please call upon your first witness.”

You watched the nervous old woman from earlier wobble forward and introduce herself.

Kang had pulled out images of a familiar crime scene — the burnt-down flat on the outskirts of town, where the remains of a woman identified as a local sex worker had been found. The night of your first date, you thought, grimacing. “Where were you, the night of this fire?”

“I was making my rounds through this neighbourhood,” the old woman began, fingers trembling as she pointed at the images. “I happen to live ‘round there, and I own some of these flats myself. This woman is—was—a tenant of mine.”

“Did you see anything suspicious prior to the fire?”

The old lady paused. “I thought I saw a boy lingering ‘round the alleyways. Holding his head and stumbling around real bad, pacing back ‘n forth like he couldn’t see clearly. ‘twas near the red-light district, so I thought he was just another drunkard.”

“Could you point to the boy you saw, stumbling through the alleyways?”

The old woman slowly pointed at Jisung.

“And what did you see, at around 10 o’clock, sundown?”

“I-I saw the roofs in my neighbourhood go up in flames. Ran as quick as I could, but the blaze was already too big to stop —” She shuddered. “But through the smoke, I could see the figure of a boy in the fire, escapin’ from the house.”

“Could you point to the boy you saw escaping the burning building?”

You watched in muted dread as she lifted another quivering finger in Jisung’s direction.

“There’s no way she could have seen clearly through all that smoke and fire,” you heard Woojin mutter behind you.

“Your tenant had no prior connection to him — no negative relations beforehand, correct?”

The old woman nodded. “Not that I know of.”

Prosecutor Kang hummed. “We have no reasons to believe this murder was provoked by the victim. And yet, that night, Han Jisung set fire to an innocent woman’s home — in cold blood. She was an outcast, no family or friends — he likely chose a victim that wouldn’t be missed.” He smiled, turning towards the judge. “That is all for the eyewitness, Your Honour.”

You grit your teeth as the old woman sat back down. Kang had called on his next witness — a chubby, red-nosed man who introduced himself as a child psychiatrist.

“The defendant refused to answer questions during the psychological evaluation,” Kang informed the judge smoothly. “We researched his past thoroughly—”

“Bullshit,” Felix muttered.

“—and reached our conclusions by analyzing the nature of his criminal history during his adolescence. We will also be consulting—” Kang motioned for the two boys to step forward, “His former classmates, who will testify on Mr. Han’s character.”

“He’s insane,” Chan whispered in horror, “He’s letting the kids from the diner attack testify on Jisung’s mental condition?”

“Please state your affiliation with the defendant.”

“We grew up in the same orphanage,” the boy in the buzzcut answered, his voice thick from his swollen nose. “Kid always stuck out like a sore thumb.”

“Did the defendant ever exhibit any strange behaviours during his adolescence?” Kang asked.

“He’d be missing from classes for days,” the scrawny boy piped up. “Always hoverin’ in the corner like a little creep. Sometimes even lightin’ things on fire. Never got in trouble though — always real charming towards the teachers.”

“Changed his expressions like masks,” the boy in the buzzcut added quickly.

Kang turned towards the child psychiatrist. “How would you describe the mental condition of a patient like Mr. Han, taking these testimonies and the defendant’s criminal history into account?”

“W-well,” the red-faced man began, sweaty brow furrowing. “Starting with his unexplained history of pyromanic tendencies — this destructive behaviour indicates the patient harboured violent habits from a young age. That’s often a strong indicator of various conduct disorders in young children.”

“But isn’t it normal for children to be curious, to cause a little trouble?” Kang smiled — he was playing the devil’s advocate, you realised uneasily. “You surely can’t sum up his fascination with fire as a dangerous condition.”

The psychiatrist nodded. “Of course not. But the patient was able to shift between personas from a very young age — like his classmates have said, he could be cold and reserved to them, but charming and cunning towards authority figures. This constant deception in young children, along with the destructive tendencies, is what often leads to sociopathic behaviour.”

“Sociopathy,” Kang repeated, and turned towards the judge. “Oh, dear.”

You looked on in dismay as Kang kept twisting the case like the strings of an ugly puppet, clearly aware of the way the jury and spectators were beginning to lean towards the prosecution’s arguments. With Kang’s carefully crafted questions directed at nervous, unsuspecting witnesses, everything seemed to point to one obvious answer. Han Jisung was a guilty serial murderer, there could be no question of it. Even the testimonies were beginning to blur together:

He went all psycho on us.

Laughing like some maniac, like he enjoyed it.

Murdered my friends for no reason.

At this rate, you didn’t stand a chance.

Kang needed one more witness — one more witness was all it would take for the trial to shift completely in his favour, and for you to finally lose hope. You looked around the room in desperation and spotted Minho seated on the prosecution’s side, the coroner’s smooth and mask-like expression doing nothing to calm your frazzled nerves. His words from the rooftop rang in your head, sending chills down your spine.

There is little you can do with people who don’t want to be helped, y/n. You’re just like how I was.

Was that why Minho had cooperated with the prosecution? Because he thought that Jisung was already beyond saving? As if he could feel your gaze burning into him, Minho’s eyes darted upwards to meet yours. You were startled to find that there was something unfamiliar in his expression; something that hadn’t been there the last time you’d met him — like a crack in a mask, a ripple in smooth water. Before you could decipher what it was, you heard Kang’s haughty voice calling Minho up to the stand, and the coroner turned away.

“Please state your name and status.”

“Lee Minho, forensic pathologist and head coroner of the Miroh Heights murder cases.”

“Could you describe the autopsy results of the confirmed victims?” Kang held up a remote and projected images of various crime scenes onto a screen. An uneasy murmur rippled through the jury and spectators at the graphic images — some, like the burned body of the woman, and caved-in skull of the man at the Yellow Wood, you recognized, but there were several more you never had the courage to look at before.

Minho glanced at the photos Kang had projected onto the screen, expression unchanging. You remembered his oddly empty smile when you had first met him, when you had asked him if the endless rows of corpses ever made him uncomfortable.

“I’m sure it did, at some point. Sooner or later, they all start to look the same.”

“Yes. Well, as you can see, the victims’ bodies almost always showed signs of excessive force and trauma. Victim #1, Na Jangmin, was pronounced dead on scene from smoke inhalation and respiratory burns from the combustion of various chemicals found in the science laboratory.” Minho pointed to a gruesome image of a peeling, shrivelled corpse that made your skin crawl.

“Victim #2, Park Beomsoo. Died from asphyxiation. The victim had a high dosage of flunitrazepam — Rohypnol — in his system prior to his death.”

“And what is Rohypnol, Mr. Lee?” Kang interjected.

“It’s a powerful tranquilizer drug. Small amounts are sold as sleeping pills, but high concentrations can cause paralysis, or even loss of consciousness. It’s a common date rape drug.”

“Did the victim consume the drug of their own accord?”

“The concentration is too high to have been used as a sleeping pill dosage. The victim’s time of death was around noon, on campus, so there would have been no reason to for him to consume the drug. We detected traces of food in Park’s body along with the drug, but we don’t know where the drug came from.”

Kang turned towards the judge triumphantly. “Shortly after the drug took effect, the victim was pronounced dead. This was a premeditated crime. The defendant drugged the victim’s food, and slowly suffocated Park Beomsoo to death. Taking the defendant’s mental condition into consideration, Your Honour—” Kang gave a meaningful nod, a dark glint in his hawklike eyes, “I would argue that the defendant may have enjoyed the process of committing the murder.”

It took the last ounce of your self-control not to leap up from your chair at his words. Seemingly unfazed, Minho kept talking. “You can also find strange correlations between the victims. We always deduce signs of brute force exerted, and a pattern of victims: people with a history of abuse, adultery, and harassment. You could say that this killer...hunted killers.”

“The defendant’s M.O., Your Honour,” Kang added, nodding. “The constant pattern of victims and killing styles confirm that these were premeditated murders, habitual murders.”

You felt your heart sink, feeling sick. Beside you, Woojin had his head in his hands. Your last hope had gone down the drain. You should have known the coroner would play along, that he would never give himself in; that Lee Minho was the type to always save his own skin before saving others’—

“However,” Minho spoke up again, “I’d like to add that all the crime scenes are also always impeccably clean. We observed minimal blood spattering, DNA evidence, and even fingerprints. Some wounds on the victims’ corpses didn’t match the hypothesised murder weapons, and were ready to become cold cases.”

“Evidence that the perpetrator of these murders was also able to plan their clean-up afterwards,” Kang flashed the coroner a strange look. “Ladies and gentlemen, this only shows that the killer is meticulous and calculated in his attacks. As I’ve said, this is an insidious, long-seasoned killer we have on our hands—”

“You might be wondering why the evidence for this case is so scattered,” Minho’s mild voice cut him off, and Kang looked irritated at the sudden interruption but let the coroner continue. “Why the killings are so sporadic, always occurring at irregular intervals.” He paused, thinking. “Why nothing seems to fit together.”

It took several moments for his words to hit you, and you lifted your head in disbelief.

What? You turned to your friends, who all looked equally confused.

What is he trying to say?

“I remember recording that the deduced weapon at the Yellow Wood attacks was a hammer, or crowbar.” Minho nodded at the papers in the Judge’s hands. “That’s not true.”

All the heads in the room seemed to snap up in shock at the coroner’s blunt words. You felt your breath stop, and looked over at Chan, whose expression was just as stunned.

“The weapon of choice was actually a stone from the Yellow Wood,” Minho shrugged. The coroner set down the papers Prosecutor Kang had handed him, turning to face the jury. “If you dig around in the lake outside Miroh Heights Hospital, you might be able to find it. Then there’s the vodka from the fire, the knocked-over chemicals in the science laboratory, a janitor’s rope from the rooftop. They were all impulsive weapon choices,” Minho nodded at the judge, “all from the scene of the crime. As if the perpetrator had chosen it on the spot, in a fleeting moment of impulsive judgment.”

You saw Kang sputtering behind him, mouth opening and closing uselessly. The Judge was evidently taken aback, too, peering at Minho from over her half-moon glasses. “What are you trying to say, Mr. Lee?”

“That it should be obvious that these crimes were almost never premeditated.” Minho glanced at the pictures of the crime scene. His voice was quiet — nearly inaudible — but exasperated, as if he were surprised at the words coming out of his own mouth. The entire room seemed to be leaning forward, listening to his words with bated breath. “They were done in the heat of the moment, and someone else had to tamper with the evidence afterwards.”

“How could you possibly know—”

“Because I’m the one who’s been cleaning up after Han Jisung for the past thirteen years.”

Your mouth dropped open in shock as a hush fell over the room, reporters gasping and scribbling in their notepads. Minho had a small smile on his face as he took in the entire room’s response — how everyone had fallen quiet, speechless at the sudden turn the trial had taken. The smile wasn’t gloating or cruel, you realised slowly. It was filled with a simple curiosity and wonder, like a child who had finally tried something new for the first time.

Even Jisung had looked up, his eyes widened in surprise. “Minho—” His voice was raw from disuse as he called out to his first friend, his oldest friend — but Minho only smiled at him and shook his head slightly.

The room was shifting uneasily around him. He should have been scared, Minho thought. He could already feel lies instinctively forming on his tongue, a thousand ways he could backpedal and take back what he had just said. It had become second nature to him, he realised — covering up murders first, and his own emotions second; the two things he had always feared the most. He could hear Kang angrily stammering and calling his name behind him, but Minho ignored him.

The judge cleared her throat unsteadily, fixing her piercing gaze on him. “Why are you doing this? You are aware that a confession like this will lose you much more than your job? That it may very well condemn you to a lifetime in prison?”

“I’m aware,” Minho replied softly, eyes wandering across the room and landing on Jisung’s distraught face. The boy he had clung onto as his only family, the boy who he had both loved and feared for thirteen years. There was nothing left for him to lose. “I thought for the longest time that covering the murders were my own twisted way of...saving the boy. I don’t think I had the courage in me to do much else.” He looked around the courtroom, and his eyes finally landed on you. The girl who wore her heart on her sleeve, but was strong enough to challenge him with a steady voice and blazing eyes. The girl who was an unapologetic contradiction, he remembered, almost fondly. The girl who had reminded him what it was like to be brave, to finally start living for himself.

Yes, he thought. This was the least he could do.

“Han Jisung had nothing to do with the cover-ups of the crime scenes,” Minho raised his voice, surprised at the strength in it. Behind him, he could hear the prosecution stirring, and felt two security guards seize his arms to remove him from the podium. “He is not the depraved killer the prosecution wants you to think—”

“Your Honour, this must be a set-up between the coroner and the defendant,” Kang cut him off furiously, shooting Minho a death glare behind his spectacles. The murmuring of the jury and reporters drowned out the coroner’s last words as he was dragged from the room. “Your Honour, do not be deceived—”

“Order in the court!” The judge banged the gavel repeatedly, holding her head in her hand as if she had a migraine. “The—the coroner’s statements will be deemed faulty, and Lee Minho will be dealt with separately. The trial will continue.”

The silence that settled over the room after the coroner’s outburst was eerie. You could feel your heart still pounding, mind racing over the words Minho had shouted over Kang’s, the almost wistful smile on his face as he let the guards drag him from the room. The coroner had been a wildcard, you thought uneasily, your gut churning with a cocktail of anticipation and anxiety. There was no telling which way the trial would go from here.

“Does the prosecution have any other witnesses?” The judge called out, and you saw Jeongin finally stand up. Words and whispers began flying as he made his way forward to the witness box, the citizens recognising the delivery boy immediately. You glanced over at Kang, who looked more relaxed than ever — and you knew why. Everything from Jisung’s camcorder footage to Jeongin’s salvaged Walkman tapes had either been confiscated by the prosecution, or were in Seungmin’s hands. Kang had been meticulous making sure that the younger prosecutor had no power over the case, banning him from interfering with the investigation for good.

Which meant that all Jeongin had to sway the jury was his own verbal testimony. One young boy’s word against Prosecutor Kang’s.

“State your name and status.”

“Yang Jeongin. Um, student at Miroh Heights University.”

Kang looked down at his papers, then back up at the judge. “On the night of the Yellow Wood attacks, Yang Jeongin was biking home after closing shift before he was brutally attacked by the defendant with a blow to the skull. He is the only living witness that has come forward to testify, and the only person who witnessed the defendant’s attack firsthand. Luckily, he was able to regain consciousness after the horrific attack.” He turned towards Jeongin, smiling triumphantly. “What he has to say may well turn the entire case upside down.”

He was clearly expecting Jeongin to give away evidence against Jisung, you realised. After they had told Jeongin that his tapes had been withdrawn from the investigation, the delivery boy had hit a dead end in his testimony. No matter what he said, Kang would be able to find a way to use it against Jisung. Sure enough, he was watching the young boy now like a vulture, ready to pick him apart.

But Jeongin only smiled back at Kang. “Actually, it’s not what I have to say, sir.” When the prosecutor’s face contorted in confusion, Jeongin continued, “It’s the things that you’ve said.”

Before Kang could reply, Jeongin reached into his pocket and pulled out something silver. The guards instantly moved forward, but Jeongin set it onto the clerk’s table, motioning for him to take it. After several moments, the low crackle of speakers connecting began filling the tense silence, and you realised what it was that Jeongin had brought with him.

A voice recorder.

“He didn’t tell anyone to make sure it wouldn’t get confiscated, too,” Chan realised, eyes widening. “Smart kid. But what could he have possibly recor—”

The detective’s awed voice was drowned out by a recording of another very familiar voice.

“Kim Seungmin. As you may have heard, the serial killer — ah, the Han Jisung case, I could say — has been transferred to me.”

Prosecutor Kang.

The room froze. When you looked at Kang, you saw that all the blood had drained from his face.

“Now, now — don’t feel too ashamed, Kim. Everyone makes rookie mistakes. They may have assigned the wrong case to you, but rest assured — it’s in proper hands now.”

“Is it?”

You winced, peeking at Seungmin beside you when you heard his voice on the recording as well. Seungmin had never mentioned the way Kang treated him to anyone, and the younger prosecutor’s jaw was clenched, but his eyes were blazing.

Still, you weren’t exactly sure why Jeongin was playing a recording of Kang and Seungmin’s conversation. What could he have possibly overheard, that made him look so confident now?

“Have something to say to me, Kim?”

“I’ve just — never understood the way you handled cases, sir.”

“Seungmin.” You could almost see the condescending look on Kang’s face. “Allow me to share a word of advice. They won’t teach you this in law school.”

Seungmin watched realisation flash across Kang’s face like he had been struck by lightning, but it was too late.

“Your job as a prosecutor is not to judge the defendant fairly.”

“Wh—”

“If you want a smooth career...all you need to do is make sure you’re appealing to the right people. In other words, listen to what the public wants. Please the public; don’t waste a single damn about the defendant. You spent all your precious time worrying your little head over the killer’s motives, and now that we finally have him, you’re still worrying over the severity of his sentence? Murder is murder, Kim Seungmin, and actions speak louder than motives. You can show lenience towards a mass-murderer, or you can sweep his sorry past under the rug and bring closure to dozens of families. Which would make you a richer, more popular man?”

“Your Honour,” Kang stammered, face white, “This is—improper use of evidence, this shouldn’t—” The recording cut him off again, the judge’s face stony as she motioned for the clerk to keep going.

“Is that how you got to where you are?”

“Think, boy. As far as anyone needs to be concerned, the cold-blooded killer is caught, peace is re-established, families are soothed, justice is served once again — and I come out the hero. You saw that boy’s wretched past. Even he can’t handle it. So why poke at wounds that aren’t meant to be re-opened?”

You didn’t realise how hard you were clenching your fists until you felt your palms sting from your nails. The entire room seemed to be holding its breath. Kang looked stricken, pale mouth opening and closing frantically like a fish out of water, but no words were coming out.

“You think you’re being kind? Justice isn’t meant to be kind, Kim. Make up the easiest case to solve, and do everyone a favour.”

The judge stopped the tape, her face livid. The room had gone deadly silent, your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. ““Your job as a prosector is not to judge the defendant fairly?””

Kang could only shake his head wildly as she continued, raising her voice, ““Make up the easiest case to solve, and do everyone a favour?” From a faulty forensics expert to this — Prosecutor Kang, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“Your Honour, I—” Kang sputtered out, beady eyes darting around furiously — at Jisung, and at Jeongin. “L-lies! It’s all lies, this is absurd!” He laughed, trying to make himself sound nonchalant, but his voice was weak. “This must be a—a fabrication perpetrated by the defendant—” The room was erupting in chaos now, the jury and reporters bickering amongst themselves.

You had never seen the prosecutor so worked up before as he continued to protest frantically, “Your Honour, the defendant must have coerced the victim to do this, to—to frame me. Please listen to me, we must conduct another investigation—”

There was a deafening bang as the Judge slammed the gavel down, making the room jump. “There will be no investigation,” she thundered. “Prosecutor Kang, you are hereby removed from the Han Jisung case.”

Kang leapt up from his seat as officers appeared on either side of the prosecutor, seizing his thrashing arms. “Let go of me! Your Honour! Your Honour, you cannot do this. Han Jisung must be condemned — you cannot let this murderer walk free—”

“Silence!” The judge bellowed, and the last of Kang’s words were drowned out, the heavy oak doors banging shut as he was thrown from the room. Jeongin looked evidently shaken. He had been right. His last existing recording — the unlikely trump card — had flipped the case on its head. You heard frenzied whispers all around you as your heartbeat pounded erratically in your chest.

“Does this mean the prosecutor’s been fabricating all the evidence? Who can we trust now?”

“I’ve never seen a case like this before.”

“What’s going to happen to the trial now that the lead prosecutor’s been detained?”

The banging of the gavel eventually brought the restless audience to a strained silence. The Judge looked weary. “We need to take an emergency intermission. The trial...will recommence shortly.”

━━━━━━━━

You let the sea of people push you through the courtroom’s double doors, your legs threatening to collapse at any moment. Outside was hardly a breath of fresh air — all around you, cameras were flashing, reporters were gossiping, and officials were arguing. You tried to focus — to process what had happened, but the incessant buzzing of people chattering around you made your head pound so hard you swore your skull was splitting.

A firm hand on your shoulder yanked you out of your migraine, and you whipped around to see Hyunjin. You let out a small sigh of relief.

“Hey, it might be good to get out of this crowd for a bit,” Hyunjin said, taking in your exhausted expression worriedly. “I, uh, lost everyone, but if we step outside—”

Before he could finish, you both caught sight a blond head bobbing towards you in the sea of people. Felix pushed through, cradling his camera for dear life. His freckled face was sweaty and breathless.

“Kang—Kang’s lost all power,” he gasped out when he reached you. “Detective Bang’s managed to convince the guards to let him talk to Jisung for a few minutes—”

You had already seized your best friend by the shoulders and spun him around. He instantly got the message and the three of you began elbowing through the hordes of people, Felix leading the way.

The clamour died down to a quiet hum as you reached the hallways, Felix ushering you past an OFF-LIMITS sign. The corridors were nearly empty now, and the three of you sprinted to the end until you reached a heavy oak door. It was slightly ajar. You caught a glimpse of Jisung’s expressionless face through the dim crack, and your hand hesitated on the door handle.

“I told you and Woojin I wouldn’t give you any counter evidence.” Jisung’s voice was cold and lifeless.

“And you didn’t.” You could hear the growing agitation in Chan’s voice as the detective pleaded. “But you’ve got to listen to me. More people want you — need you — to keep living, more than you give yourself credit for.”

“Stop, Chan. You don’t have to do this anymore—”

“Han Jisung.” You couldn’t help his name falling from your lips, voice louder than you’d intended as you threw open the heavy door. The guards rushed to block you before you could get any closer, but you pushed back, forcing Jisung to meet your eyes. His were flat, dark, horribly cold.

“y/n,” he replied softly, and you felt your heart break.

“Why are you doing this?” You fought to keep your voice steady. “You have the right to speak for yourself. Defend yourself. You know what they’re saying isn’t true. So why are you letting them keep accusing you?”

“How do you know it isn’t true?” Jisung laughed humourlessly, shaking his head. “Don’t lie to yourself. I did kill all those people, and you know that.”

“I do. But you’re not the psychopath Kang is making you out to be,” you protested. “I know you.”

“You don’t.” Jisung’s voice was bitter. “You don’t, actually. I’ve always — always hidden parts of myself from you. What you’re hearing from Kang is the closest you’ll ever get. He — he knows me better than I know myself.” He smiled weakly, but it fell flat. “I’ve always been like this, drawn to murder and blood and fire. It can’t be fixed.”

Each one of his words pierced through you like bullets, and you searched his face frantically for a sign, anything left of the rain-drenched, smiling boy from the diner; the wounded, soft-hearted boy you had fallen in love with. Your heart was hammering in your throat as a horrible question echoed through your head.

Did he mean it?

It was as if Jisung had pulled on a mask, you thought. His face was absolutely still — but for a fleeting moment, you could swear you saw a flash of pain

No.

You had grown to know him, grown to know that he was the kind of boy who was willing to play the part of a depraved monster, just so you would push him away first.

Jisung stared back at you, and for once, the darkness in his wide eyes no longer scared you. Instead, endless memories were flashing through your mind.

Jisung making you laugh until you choked on Chinese food, and apologising profusely for hours afterwards.

Jisung spilling pancake batter all over your kitchen counter, and feeding you blueberries to make sure you didn’t notice.

Jisung, holding you in his arms until you fell asleep, hands as gentle as if he thought you were made of glass.

“You need to go,” Jisung broke your long silence. “Stop hurting yourself. You need to let me go.”

You looked up, taking in his slumped shoulders, the note of defeat in his voice, the facade he had pulled on during the trial, and everything hit you all at once. Maybe it was the stress of the weeks leading up to trial or your hatred towards Kang had finally reached its breaking point. Either way, an overwhelming feeling of sheer frustration was washing away the anxiety that had been thrumming in your veins for weeks, and it left in its place an unbearable, burning anger.

You felt yourself push past the guards as if in slow motion, a voice in your head telling you that maybe this wasn’t the best idea — and slapped your boyfriend across the face.

The slap wasn’t hard, but the sound that rang through the room felt deafening.

“Han Jisung, you are such an idiot,” you yelled. Guards immediately surrounded you, dragging you backwards, but you didn’t take your eyes off Jisung. He was staring at you, stunned, the stone-cold facade he had put on earlier now cracked wide open. “What do you think you’re solving this way? Do you know how many people have been working nonstop to make sure you don’t get yourself killed?” You could feel hot tears of frustration spilling onto your cheeks. “Your friends want you to stay alive. Your mother wanted you to stay alive. I need you to stay alive.” Your voice was hoarse as you screamed over the guards pushing you out of the room, and the heavy door swung shut with a deafening bang.

The silence in the hallway seemed to swallow you up, the weight of what you had just said and done crashing down on you like a ton of bricks. You felt your knees finally buckle as you sank to the ground, burying your face in your arms and finally letting all your pent-up tears fall freely.

Hyunjin and Felix were by your side, exchanging worried looks as they patted your back gingerly. You weren’t sure exactly how long the three of you stayed like that, your exhausted body racking with frustrated, mortified sobs, until you heard footsteps running down the corridor towards you.

“There you are— I’ve been looking for you guys for—” Kim Woojin’s breathless voice made you look up, and the captain did a double take. “Bloody hell, what happened?”

You wiped your reddened eyes furiously as Felix shook his head at the police captain, who was kind enough to take the hint.

“The thing is —” Woojin began again, tripping over his words. It was the first time you had seen the police captain so frantic. “It’s — it’s an emergency situation right now. A mistrial. The head prosecutor’s been thrown off the case, people are rioting—”

“This is a fucking mess,” Hyunjin muttered, but Woojin shook his head.

“No, it’s not,” the police captain exclaimed excitedly, “Not for us. They’re calling for a prosecutor who’s familiar with Jisung’s case to step up, asap. If there’s any prosecutor who was also working on the case—”

As if on cue, the intercom buzzed above you, making you jolt. “The court hearing for Han Jisung and Miroh Heights Murders will be resuming in five minutes. All attorneys, jurors, and participants of the trial, please report to the courtroom immediately—”

“Seungmin,” you, Felix, and Hyunjin all said simultaneously, and Woojin nodded. Felix was already pulling you to your feet, and the four of you broke into a run towards the courtroom.

828 notes · View notes

the-acid-pear · 3 years

Text

I did my homework and i did my chores, time to tackle on the third book of this series, Son of Ogre

Chapter 1

Okay but the fuck is Baki planning to do if he stops fighting? That's literally all he has, he's not smart

WOOH THATS A BIT REALISTIC

PREHISTORIC ELEPHANT?!

King just went to have a snack. Also FUCK does that meat look tasty FUCKKK

This baby so cute 🥺

I'm so glad Yuji is doing stupid hilarious shit again it had been a while

Congrats on Baki for that mantis

Chapter 2

Who tf is this kid?

Poor kid lmao, i assume he will meet Baki

Look at my boyyy

HSTSRFAYDF DON'T CALL HIM A MANLET

Imagine Baki actually kills this kid HSJDYSSHCBT

Third comment with a ton of likes is "we do not condone child violence. We do, however, find it hilarious"

Chapter 3

AH SHUT UPPP KIDDO

But i like Baki memeing a round a lil

Chapter 4

🥺🥺 that's so sweet...

HELLOOOO STRYDUM MY GOD YOUR TITS GOT FATTER SIR 😳😳

Yujiro is such a fucking threat to society lmao

I love seeing Baki with his eyes open, he's looking more like his old self

Oh, shadow boxing incoming, alright

Chapter 5

Yuri? 🥺 /j

THE RETURN OF IRON MICHAEL?!

Chapter 6

I love how there's our silly little mains after every cover LUV em <33

Baki just dissociating his ass out and using it on his favor, the king

Why is Baki eating sour prunes aren't those meant to be sweet?

We all salivating

Chapter 7

Love to see there are even more swears there now

I can put my face next to my foot too tho

FAGDRJSEHARD YUJIRO CAN BEAT THE CANCER HOW ICONIC 😍

Also i would LOVE to see Yuji fight an Orca

WHAT?!

I love how everyone in the comments is calling out Rumina for not seeing issue going down to a dark hidden basement with a shirtless man older than him

Chapter 8

"piggy back me" USHSYFLFUDSY

This fight is going to be good

Chapter 9

Imagine Baki dies right here right know against an imaginary mantis lmao

Okay Baki getting damaged makes sense but the WALL?

Baki's dead (GOD IT HAS BEEN SO LONG SINCE I HAVE SAID THAT)

Ffs it's true Baki COULD create himself a stand 😰

Chapter 10

OH FUCK IT'S TRUE

Chapter 11

This fight is so boring i had to take a 6 hour break

Baki just can't win against nature eh

This reminds me of Garland pulling a suplex on that Anaconda

Chapter 12

I can't wait for the main cast to ACTUALLY appear, instead of just, you know, them in the covers

This fight is slow but cool but slow

To fight a mantis you must think like a mantis 😎

Though it's true in this manga you will most likely win if you steal your opponent techniques so

Chapter 13

I MISS IGARI FUCKKK

This is so dumb i luv it

That mantis be swearing lmao

Love it when Baki goes full Yujiro

Chapter 14

TOBA...

Holy fuck do mantis fly?

Secret Chapter?

Is this how Yujiro got born?

Idk girl i would have killed him if i was you

WHAT.

I KNOW THOSE FROGS THEY ARE FROM PUERTO RICO I THINK

I might just be sleepy but this is so confusing

AKSHSKGSKSGSJSG JUST KILL THE BABY IT AINT THAT HARD

Chapter 15

GAIA...

Why is he like this?

Is "he" with us right now?

...gotta admit that IS true...

I love Strydum sksgwhwg

Yujiro really went XD

I don't think my man Arun in the comments is aware how gay what he said is, though maybe I'm wrong

Chapter 16

GOD THESE FUCKING COVERS MAKING ME SO NOSTALGIC, LOOK AT SPEC!

ANIME KENNEDY?!

I can't believe Bush is dead

AN ASIAN BOY HAS JUST KIDNAPPED THE PRESIDENT...

8 of January? My god he's a Capricorn

I'm sorry, what?

LAHQIGWKQFWKSFWIWG 😭😭

I love Baki so much, THIS IS THE KID THAT I MISSED SO MUCH

This explains why Baki was in prison clothes in the anime teaser

Chapter 17

BIG NUMBER

That one mf like 😐

Glad Baki is 18 now at least 😌

Love to see Oliva back

Chapter 18

This page not even bothering to charge the pages anymore

I'm sure there were better ways to go to jail, well, actually, no, but still

Toba used to just chew that off

Baki did that mantis hit you in the head too hard?

I. I watched way too many prison movies and shows. I don't like seeing someone as young and pretty as Baki in such a place. I rlly don't.

Chapter 19

Yanagi baby i miss you...

IRON MICHAEL?!

Mfkhsjsys 😳🥴

Eh got my hopes too high

CHE BAKI PIBE... LA PUTA MADRE NI ACA ME ESCAPO DE MIS COMPATRIOTAS

I hope he swears too i want to see a boludo o pelotudo PLEASE

I mean para pelotudos lo veo a Yujiro todo el tiempo pero igual JSGWKEGWG me pone bien argento ver al Che carajo

Chapter 20

HE SAID BOLUDO SUAHWKWGAKSGSKSGSKGD

I can't take this omfg new fav I'm sorry Doppo but he just said boludo 😭

Pendejo is more used as pibe here but i will let it pass bc idk the lingo in Cuba and he spent some time there so

Why don't i speak like this too ffs? All i do is say eh and call it a day

He's cocky enough to call anybody any age pibe so I'll let that pass too

Por favor no lo hagas che sksgwj

Chapter 21

Che, pibe, it's a good day to die...

Chapter 22

GSHAGSTSG he should have said "no boludo"

I'm falling in love with this boludo myself

That's talented and brutal

OH RIGHT YOU LOSE YOUR BALANCE WHEN YOU DONT HAVE THAT

Chapter 23

Hm that's, cringe

YESSS HE SAID PELOTUDO

OAHWLGWKQFSKSGSJS SIII ROMPELO TODO CHE, ROMPELO TODO POR DECIRTE YANKEE KSGSSJGS

Honestly i too get pissed off when called American or European, though i won't throw shit to Baki, he's some random 18 yo japanese boy, no way he would recognize latinoamerican lingo lmao

King shit Baki boy

Chapter 24

Oh that's why he's called Jun Guevara, that's fair

I like how they are mixing a bit of truth and a bit of lie it's fun at least

Chapter 25

I like how they are drawing nipples now, occasionally

I can't wait for Viêt to complain about propaganda in the comments

OH SHIT

😳 :Y

He's sooo nice 😍

Chapter 26

Only three? You mean the third is... 👁️👁️

HAHA YEAH YUJI-CHAN <3

I can't believe he works for the USA I'm crying and shaking rn

What a progressive manga, the three strongest and most dangerous men and none of them are white 😍

GET HIS ASS BAKI

Chapter 27

Why is this guy sweating sm?

LDYDYSUGFUDT BAKI PLS

I like how the only time Baki was willing to kill a person was when he thought Sikorsky had hurt his girl

Chapter 28

I feel like Ian will die

Man i love how Baki is drawn in this book

Ffs i called it, i have watched way too many prison things to know how shit goes down

I have seen these three before in fanart but I'm curious to see what they can do

Chapter 29

Their faces remind me of Doyle

OH I CANT WAIT TO SEE EM IN THE ANIME

ASSHOLE DON'T CALL ME STUPID 😢💔

I'm gonna struggle to tell em apart but i think I'll manage

Okay I'm not the only one who thinks they look like Doyle, fair

Chapter 30

The mouth vs Yujiro when?

Someone mentioned the have the same vibe as the dudes that worked with Gaia and like 👁️👁️

Chapter 31

Lmao someone in the comments recommended the same thing

These three must be great at sex (sorry)

KSHALDHDKD NEW FAV COMMENT: "go to Japan and look for the word "defeat". That way you won't feel cocky anymore"

Chapter 32

Hehe hello Junnn~

KSHAKDHKWGS

La luna

Chapter 33

LOS TRES...

Okay that's funny, hocico instead of mouth (hocico is used for animal mouths)

I'm so glad i know Spanish

The two things that drive me insane and make me ramble are Doppo's beauty and this stupid argentinian

OSHSKWGSKSG

Chapter 34

Imagine he's doing that illusion thing Dorian did

With his own blood, that's so cool...

Hoho...!

I did that once when i had a terrible nose bleed, didn't go well

Chapter 35

This book is fucking boring NGL

"now that you got no more urine left in you"

AH.

GAHDYR LMAO

Chapter 36

HO THAT TITLE, PLEEEASE I NEED SOMETHING, ANYTHING, TO HAPPEN

HHH he kinda cute...

Oww :(

JDJSJFRGAJ

God piantao is an old word i had never heard it before

AND he took a piss.

LOCO NO SEAS HOMOFÓBICO NINGUNA MINA ACA ES MEJOR QUE ESTE PIBITO TE LO ASEGURO SKSGSKGSJAAGS

Se me cayó un ídolo y yo que le quería dar 😔

ÑSHWQLSGOSGDKW

Let's see if he lied to Baki about just liking eh /j

Chapter 37

I luv Oliva lol

AJSGSKSLAGHS BAKI SNAPPED

I too wonder where the fuck Kozue is

Chapter 38

LSHSLDGSLSGSIEG

He is jealous of what you two have, it's normal, el Che just rejected his love after all ;/

Oliva is a king

OH A HANKERCHIEF I THOUGHT THAT WAS UNDERWEAR SHSGS-

Oh shit Oliva is like 45?! He looked so young

Te fuiste a la mierda, Che, el chabón estaba siendo re bueno con vos

Baki is just dead

Chapter 39

I love how realistic Che's fear is, he's rather smart, though not this time

POOR GUY AJSGSWJW

I didn't realize Che said "what more, it may be a woman!" but to be fair they ARE in jail so

Chapter 40

I'm feeling kinda bad for him ngl

I feel happy for him tho 🥺

Bruh they added one page after the ending of some naked anime girl tf 😐

Chapter 41

These prisoners having fun is kinda sweet

YO INSANE

Bitches be complaining about Maria's looks are just jealous 🥰

Chapter 42

Damn she lorge

He loves fighting naked eh

Only valid person is the one saying Oliva deserves better treatment which tbh true

Chapter 43

Fun fact i wear my jacket like El Che too, unless it's too cold

El che with the hair lose is so cute bro,,,

Something something fingering joke

Sikorski could fold a coin too

I bet the bandana will break

Chapter 44

I would have just fallen on top of him, how is he gonna counter that, eh?

Oh that super fun to know!

Oh the good ol dirty technique, i have seen this one before!

Chapter 45

NOOO MARIA DON'T DO THIS TO HIM

This fight is super cool tho i love these two characters

Chapter 46

They just keep changing the rules i think Itagaki is just flexing at this point

LAAOSFKAGSKAGSKAF???

Baki wants his protagonism back

I'm getting pissed off they keep putting semi naked underaged girls at the end of every chapter 😐

Chapter 47

Bruh just realized, the mouth got so hyped as this new cool villain and they died in their first appearance 😭

His damn bandana...

#luly talks #i hit character limit already waaa :(#but I'm too into this to stop reading lol #btg #this saga is a bit boring but el che is funny :)#baki liveblog

17 notes · View notes

glitchtech-industries · 3 years

Text

Bang Bang

Magnus flipped a coin between his fingers, showing off to his friend, Pamille. The girl watched in awe, as he did seemingly impossible things with the coin. He tossed it in the air, spun it on his middle finger, and made it dance.

"Cool, huh?"

She nodded and leaned against Magnus. He smiled at her and pushed a hand through her hair. She was adorable to the teenager. He smiled at her and kissed her forehead before continuing their walk.

The large building was easy to point out to the two. It was their workplace and it was hard to miss. A huge pink and white building with "GlitchTech Industries", very hard to miss.

"It's such a nice day! Maybe we should go to a park later!"

"That would be nice," She signed.

Magnus looked around the area. It really was a nice day. He sighed and closed his eyes. There was a stinging sensation in his brain that he was trying to ignore.

'There's nothing wrong. Everything's fine.'

"Stop that man!"

There was a man who ran past the two. Magnus' eyes widened and tried to grab Pamille's arm, but she took off. She ran after the man and reached down to grab his pant leg. She was able to and pulled on it, making the man trip and fall. When he turned around and glared at her. Pamille backed up and looked around, hoping someone was pursuing him.

"You bitch! I'll get you!"

The man pulled out a gun, and Magnus' face paled. He wasn't thinking when he ran over to her when he heard the gun cock. He moved in front of Pamille and tried to activate his quirk, but it was too late.

BANG BANG

The man ran away from the scene and left the two. Pamille's eyes opened and looked at her friend. He was keeping himself upright on the wall and turned to smile at her.

"Hey... you're okay..."

He slumped against her and she held him, before turning him around. There were two bullet holes in his side. Pamille gasped and quickly picked him up.

"Pamille- no... you shouldn't carry me..."

Pamille frowned deeply and pulled him onto her back. He'd done so much for her.

---

"Alright! Time for two worlds to meet! Purcell, Pamille, this is Magnus and Rento. Rento, Magnus, this is Purcell and Pamille."

The two duos nodded at each other and Glitch bit her thumbnail.

"The sucky thing is there's a language barrier. The girls speak French and the boys speak Japanese."

"Parlant français? Alors, je m'appelle Magnus!"

Pamille and Purcell's faces lit up at Magnus' French. Glitch's eyebrows raised and smiled at him.

"You really are a genius, huh?

"Heh, yeah, I am. Pamille's a pretty name, y'know."

Pamille was taken aback by the compliment. As the others, the ones who were able to speak, talked amongst themselves, Pamille was focused on Magnus. Suddenly, she walked over to them and hugged Magnus.

"Hey-" Rento objected, but Rento was taken aback when he saw Magnus' reaction. His best friend was crying. Silently, like normal. But... the tears were just slipping from his eyes.

"Magnus..?"

"I... I can't remember the last time I got a hug... that was like this."

The memory was saved in both their minds.

---

The first time he let her into his lab was about 2 weeks after they were introduced to each other. Pamille looked around at the lab.

"Y'know, if you were to bring me into a lab a while ago, I'm sure I would have broken down into tears... however..." Magnus smiles at the room, "This is a tech lab. It's amazing and doesn't remind me of where I used to be."

Pamille cocked her head and walked over to him. She pulled a notepad off of the counter and wrote "What happened at another lab?" before handing it to him. He read it over and frowned.

"I... have been friends with Rento for a long time. Through our friendship, there was a time when we were the closest we'd ever been. When we were kidnapped by these scientists."

Pamille gasped and covered her mouth. Magnus snorted at her reaction.

"Yeah, it was awful. They prodded at my brain and made me 'smarter'. That's why I know so much French. How're you doing with your Japanese lessons?"

Pamille gave him a thumbs-up before grabbing the notepad and writing something in Japanese. When she handed it to him, a smile broke across his face.

"As a certified genius and Japanese citizen, I approve."

The memory was saved in both their minds, but it was a turning point in the trust factor in their relationship.

---

It was about 4 months since the two duos had met, and it was a special day. Pamille's birthday. She got a "Happy Birthday" from Rento, a card from Glitch, and a kiss and a few knives from Purcell. However, she hadn't received anything from Magnus. She went to the lab and looked around. Magnus was putting something in a box before he noticed her.

"Ah, Pamille! You know you can't sneak up on me! My ears are too strong!"

Pamille frowned at him and pulled on his lab coat sleeve. He knew from her face and the way she pulled on his sleeve that she was upset. He patted her head and smiled.

"You thought I forgot? Don't worry, I didn't~"

He handed her the box and she looked at it. She opened the box and pulled out the contents. It was... a giant lollipop.

"Oh, and a membership for a candy shop nearby."

He handed her a card and she directed her attention back to the giant lollipop.

"Click that button right there."

She clicked a button that was on the stick of it and when she did, the lollipop transformed into a giant battleax.

"Tadah! Your very own battleax! I made it special for- Oh!"

Pamille hugged him and he hugged her back.

"Glad you like it, Pam."

---

This was the least she could do. She carried him to the building and when she got into the lobby, she couldn't see anyone there. Why would she, the lobby was her job.

She wanted to scream out. Let anyone know what had happened. She couldn't use her phone, since she needed both hands for carrying Magnus. He might be dead. She wasn't strong enough, and now Magnus could be dead.

"Pam..."

She heard his weak voice, letting her know he was still alive. She carried him to the elevator and desperately mashed the floor the lab was on. The doors finally closed and the elevator was silent. On any other day, it would be anything but silent. Magnus would be talking about a new invention or an update on his favorite anime.

Pamille didn't like the silence.

The doors opened and she lumbered out, dragging him into the lab. Pamille was a strong girl, but natural strength can only take a person so far. When she entered the lab, her legs gave out and she fell to the ground.

"Pamille?"

Thank god Rento was in.

The young boy went to check on her and gasped at the scene. He quickly picked his friend up and carried him in and placed him on a table. He then carried Pamille into a chair before working on his friend.

---

Magnus was stabilized. Rento and Pamille looked at him in his hospital bed. They each had downcast expressions.

"What happened?"

"A thief I think. He had a gun and Magnus' quirk didn't work fast enough."

Rento nodded and looked at his friend, "You're always putting yourself in danger, Magnus."

"It's my fault."

"It is not your fault. He chose to save you."

"I went after the thief."

"You did the right thing."

"I don't even have a quirk."

"That doesn't mean anything-"

Pamille slammed her hands down on the table. She was breathing heavily and wheezed.

"Pamille... you can say anything to me."

"No, I can't."

"Why not?"

Pamille grabbed the notepad and began scribbling angrily. She shoved the notepad into his hands and crossed her arms. She watched his eyes as they scanned across the page and watched as they widened.

"...I see."

That was a response she'd never heard. Most people said, "I'm sorry" or "That's so sad". She knew Rento wasn't the best with feelings and past experiences due to his own.

"So... you really can't."

She shook her head. He looked back down at Magnus who was still in his coma.

"This is the most peaceful he's looked."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Even when he was asleep, he wouldn't be this peaceful. He'd be moving, he'd be talking. Sometimes even shouting. I can't blame him, he went through some awful things."

"You did too."

"So did you."

Pamille nodded and watched Magnus. His chest rose and fell; up and down. He really was peaceful.

---

It was a week.

A week since he was shot. Pamille spent all day every day, by his side. She wished each day for him to wake up.

"He kissed me once, he kissed me twice, and kissed me once again..."

Pamille was asleep in the chair, an old portable radio.

"You'll never know how many dreams..."

That was a different... yet familiar voice. Pamille opened her eyes and saw Magnus with his eyes opened. He was softly singing along to his favorite song. Pamille's eyes widened and she stood up, wheezing.

"Don't strain yourself."

Rento ran in and ran over to the bed, "Magnus! Your thing sensed a spike in your heart rate!"

"Wow... I made you forget a word. Impressive."

Rento teared up and cried, a smile breaking out on his face. The two friends hugged Magnus carefully, and he hugged them back.

"So, uh, what did I miss?"

"Does that even matter? How're you feeling?!"

"Uh, it so does matter. Were we attacked? Did Percy get a boyfriend? C'mon, guys, I need answers!"

Pamille pulled on Magnus' sleeve to get his attention.

"Yes, Pam?"

"I want you to promise me something."

"Yeah?"

"Never change."

#bnha ocs #glitchtech squad #pamille #rento #magnus #injury tw

7 notes · View notes

amintyworld · 3 years

Text

Doubts - Beginnings Part 4

WATERFALL (Part One), SUNSET (Part Two), SECRETS (Part Three)

A/N: Guess who back, back again-! Anyway, thanks to all the support in the last three parts, this series has been such a blast to write! I’ve finally decided on a name for it - Beginnings, so that’s what they’ll be titled with from now on to avoid any confusion. As always, links to the last three parts are above. I hope you enjoy! - Minty

TW: Surprise Pregnancy, anxiety/worry, blood/gore, alcohol/drinking, implied major character death, sickness, cursing. (Let me know if I need to tag anything else!)

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

They started construction on a house around a 15-minute walk from Phil’s house, on a hill that overlooked the waterfall in the distance. They didn’t know what they were doing, but Phil did his best to help out when he could and give advice, having been in a similar situation not too long ago. Wilbur went out searching for jobs when he could and managed to get gigs every now and then as he saved up cash to get everything they needed. It was a new feeling for the couple - Wilbur’s constant worry over his girlfriend, and Sally’s determination to not let the pregnancy control her. All in all, it was a bit of a frazzle. Tommy and Tubbo were a bit off-put at the fact that they’d be uncles at such a young age - nonetheless, they tried to take it all in stride.

Phil answered a lot of questions in the following weeks from his two younger sons, who didn’t understand how it all worked. A good example could be just last week when Tubbo gave Sally ginger ale and straw, leaving Phil slightly confused until he figured out Tubbo was trying to help her out since ‘her stomach hurt’. Tommy’s confused ideas of helping were a bit more out there than his brother’s - the Carrot Incident was a pretty good example - but it was clear that their hearts were always in the right place.

Technoblade was distanced and tried not to get too involved but helped out when he needed to - he told Phil that this was more Wilbur’s responsibility than his, which Phil couldn’t deny. The pig hybrid still hung around the couple and even eased their worries when he realized how absurd some of Wilbur’s concerns became - “You’re reading too much on those books, Wil. Just because it could happen doesn’t mean it will!” Technoblade was always available to talk and support his brother, who became a bit of a mess from it all.

Still, they were a happy family who was nothing but excited for the baby’s arrival - they were going on five months, and things had been going smoothly… at least, mostly smoothly.

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

Wilbur pulled up the covers on the bed as he left a tender kiss on Sally’s forehead. She smiled, yawning. “Wake me up for dinner…?”

“Of course, my salmon. You rest, I’ll make sure Tubbo and Tommy are quiet.”

Another yawn escaped the shifter’s lips. “You tell them if they wake me up they’ll be dealing with a very pissed off pregnant lady who…*yawn* won’t hesitate to kick their asses.” Wilbur giggled softly, brushing the hair out of his girlfriend’s face in a simple loving gesture.

“Get some sleep, okay?” Wilbur said. “I won’t be far.”

“I love you, Wil.”

“I love you too, Sally,” Wilbur said, turning off the lights to darken the room as he gently and softly closed the door behind him. Over time, most of his worries had eased, thankfully - but a few lingered in his mind that fizzled around his brain. Wilbur tried to push them away as he moved downstairs, resting his head against the counter for a brief moment, sitting on one of the kitchen stools. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding as he ran his hands through his hair once again. He had a gig later that night, but his body craved rest. Wilbur chose to ignore it, there wasn’t much use anyway. If he napped at this point he’d miss the job altogether, and he needed the cash. Bored, trying to distract himself, he pulled out his notepad and flipped to a fresh page as he rhythmically tapped the pencil against the paper, willing himself to focus his thoughts.

It felt strange to Wilbur to stare down at a blank page and not have anything to write. It was hard to describe how he felt, much less think of rhymes. So much was overwhelming his emotions and feelings, still, he tried to focus and scribble words across the page. Maybe if he wrote it all down, he’d feel better somehow - it always worked for him before. His notepad held all the times he was happy, all the times he was sad, upset, angry, confused… all hidden in words like a code only he could understand. It was the closest thing to a journal or diary that he owned, one of his most prized possessions.

Maybe it’ll comfort him now.

I’m struggling to breathe

Keep going

Protect her

Push forward

Wilbur looked down, his mouth turning down in distaste - this wasn’t exactly the lyrical poem that he usually formed. There was, as always, some truth in the words. It felt like he was ranting, almost. It didn’t make sense.

Everything will be okay

Wilbur’s eyebrows furrowed in thought at what he wrote. He was trying to reassure himself, but… it felt wrong.

Will everything be okay?

“Uh-oh, the notepad’s out,” Phil said jokingly from the doorway as he carried in what looked to be a large basket filled with the garden’s harvest - wheat, carrots, and potatoes. He quickly noticed Wilbur’s distress, his smirk quickly disappearing. “Wil? Wil what’s wrong?”

Wilbur sighed as he read the words staring up at him over and over. “Nothing really. Just a lot on my mind, I guess.”

“I see,” Phil said, not believing that for a second as he set the large basket down on the counter, methodically moving to store up the food. “You look tired.”

“I feel tired,” Wilbur said, finally closing the notepad as he let out a soft chuckle in the suffocatingly silent house. “Got a gig in an hour, though.”

“You need to sleep, Wil.” Phil scolded, his gaze stern.

Wilbur waved him off. “I’ve got a lot I need to do. It’s no problem, anyway - the club’s gonna close up in a few days, and then Jay said I might not get another job in at least a month while they restock for summer.” Phil gave him a look, hand on his hip as Wilbur held up both his hands in surrender. “I’ll get some better sleep then, I swear.”

“Good,” Phil said, his gaze softening as he turned back to the basket. “Are you heading to Melrose’s place tonight, or TBO?”

“Melrose. She needed me last minute to fill a half-hour slot, promised to pay double.” Wilbur said as he got up from the stool and stretched, heading over to grab a cup of lukewarm coffee that was left in the pot from the morning. Hey, coffee was coffee, and he needed to keep the sandman at bay - double pay was no joke, and with his earnings tonight he’d finally be able to get everything they needed for the new house and for the baby. He needed to go, and he had to do well.

“I hope she doesn’t expect to keep dragging you out last minute.”

“Hey, as long as it pays well-” Wilbur shot thoughtfully as he sipped his coffee. The two turned their attention as Technoblade entered the house, his weapons, and clothes covered in blood, a few of his kills on his shoulder. Phil grimaced.

“Techno, I told you not to track blood in the house, go around to the back-!” The smell of rotting and decay, potent, filled the boy’s noses as they pinched them, trying to get rid of the scent. Technoblade silently turned around, going out the front door again. “You better shower and change before dinner, don’t forget!” Phil called as Techno simply waved his hand.

“Yeah, yeah…”

Wilbur quickly chugged the last of his coffee as he put the mug in the sink and quickly followed his older sibling. The night was cold as he pulled his jacket closer around him, walking around toward the back of the house. The sky was quickly turning dark as the day began to end, stars not quite appearing just yet. Techno sat over the two dead sheep he’d brought into the house earlier, the nasty musk somewhat masked by the cold wind. The pig hybrid was focused as he ran his blade along the belly of the kill, carving and cutting out sizable chunks of meat which he began to wrap in some jungle leaves for storage. Technoblade liked hunting, and no one could deny his skill, knowledge, and precision of it. He was patient and always waited for the right moment to strike, always hunted smaller game because he knew others were too big to carry back home. The prey always usually went down in one hit, and if that didn’t do the job Techno would usually hold the creature down while he made a quick jab toward the skull. He pig prided himself on his hunts, which provided the majority of their meat for meals ever since the town decided to enforce a livestock tax on the people to raise a little extra coin.

Setting the packages aside, Techno looked up to notice Wilbur staring at him silently. “Uh, hey Wil. Whaddya need?”

“Can’t I just check on my sweet older brother?” Wilbur smirked, and Techno huffed, amused.

“You can, but you and I both know you don’t.” Technoblade joked as he walked past him, heading toward the river with Wilbur close behind, grabbing a cloth and his bloodied weapons along the way. The pig hybrid took a breath as he turned to look at his brother. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing important, really,” Wilbur said. “I’ve just been worried, I guess.”

“About Sally?” Technoblade asked, kneeling down beside the river beginning to scrub his weapons clean. “Don’t tell me you’ve been reading those parenting books again, I’m telling you they’re shit-”

“I’m worried about myself.” Technoblade’s eyebrows shot up as he looked at his brother, slightly shocked at the intensity in his voice as he sat next to him by the riverbank. Wilbur took a deep breath as he tried to release the stress from his mind, looking into the clear running waters. “What if I mess up, or… or I can’t be a good father? What if I’m the one who’s not ready, you know?”

“This has all been your decision, Wilbur. Your life. I can’t tell you that everything will be sunshine and rainbows because to be completely honest Wil, I don’t know.” Technoblade said honestly, moving to place his clean sword on the grass and moving to grab his axe. “But I don’t think you should be worrying so much about the future. Live in the moment, in the now. If things go bad, you’ll know what to do Wilbur. Trust yourself.”

“But what if I-?”

“Nope. No more worrying.” Technoblade said, cutting off his brother. “Just focus on right now, and as cheesy as it is, have a bit of hope.”

“When did you get so philosophical?”

“I’m wise beyond my minutes, young one,” Technoblade smirked as Wilbur laughed. Techno began to wipe off his face and neck of blood, rinsing the cloth in the river as he went.

“Do you have any parenting wisdom to place upon me?” Wilbur asked, half-joking.

“I mean, It’s not really my department. Kids aren’t really… they’re not my thing.” Technoblade said with a little shrug of his shoulders. “But if I had any advice to give you, it would be that if you have the same patience and love Phil had for us, I think you’ll do just fine.”

Patience and Love. Live in the moment. Trust yourself. His worries seemed to melt and dull in his mind, and he felt a lot better than he did earlier. “Thanks, Technoblade.”

Technoblade just saluted his two index fingers with a smile before moving to get up, ruffling Wilbur’s hair. “Be good to the little scamp, this family’s already crazy enough.”

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

Wilbur zipped up his guitar case as he grabbed his keys and the small bag of coins. Looking out the window, he could see the nightclubs and bars, restaurants and torched streetlamps slowly flicker to life, glowing against the dark sky. Like a whole new town lying just beneath the surface, revealed in the darkness. Sally walked over with his gloves and scarf, a gentle sad smile on her face as Wilbur took the wool gloves and pulled them on.

“Every time you leave, I miss you just a little more.” Sally said, wrapping the scarf around Wilbur’s neck and folding it neatly in front. “Do you have to go?” Wilbur warmly smiled as he gently cupped her cheek.

“You know I’ll never be far, my salmon.” He kissed her forehead tenderly as he brushed a bit of stray hair behind her ear. “You’ll close your eyes and when you wake up I’ll be right by your side, you’ll barely even notice I left.” Sally leaned in closer as Wilbur wrapped his arms around her comfortingly, his chin resting gently on her head. As they pulled away Sally’s eyes looked up to his, a worry and fear behind her gaze that seized Wilbur’s heart.

“Promise you’ll be safe?”

“When am I ever not safe?” Wilbur asked, leading Sally to cross her arms and look at him with a slight pout that made Wilbur laugh. “Okay, okay. I promise.”

With one final goodbye kiss, Wilbur shut the bedroom door behind him again, walking downstairs. He noticed Tommy sat on the couch, head in his hands and his blonde hair messed. He looked over to his younger brother, gently propping up his guitar against the stair railings. “It’s late, what are you doing up?”

“Nightmare.” Tommy mumbled, slightly sleepily.

“Do you... wanna talk about it-?”

“I’m not seven anymore, Wil. It was just a stupid nightmare, I can handle it on my own.”

Wilbur was quiet for a moment, processing what Tommy said, how he snapped at him. He sighed before looking over to meet the teen’s eyes. “If you’re sure you’re alright…?” Tommy nodded before Wilbur pulled him into a small hug, Tommy’s hand held onto his arms around him in comfort as he smiled slightly despite his current state.

“Heh. Thanks, Wil.”

“That’s what big brothers are for, right?” Wilbur smiled as he pulled away. “Don’t stay up too late, okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I guess I’ll be off.” Wilbur said, getting up from the couch to grab his guitar once more, throwing the straps over his shoulders. “That gig won’t play itself.”

“Good luck, Wil.” Tommy called before Wilbur turned, his heart warm and happy, giving him a smile and thanking him before taking his leave into the cold night air.

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

“Thank you, you’ve been an amazing audience!” Wilbur said as cheers erupted from around the pub. Moving off the stool, he grabbed his guitar by the neck and sauntered offstage, feeling happy with his performance. Within 30 minutes he managed to squeeze in four songs, which to his delight the crowd seemed to enjoy - at Melrose the tap was never empty, and as such the crowd was easily angered by the slightest things, or even nothing at all. The only somewhat mishap during his slot was when a bit of beer had splashed against his clothes thanks to a patron who had a little too much. They were quickly shown the door and the night resumed its somewhat peaceful pleasure.

He walked up to the bar and sat in the corner with his guitar, watching the next musician take the stage - it looked like a band from the amount of people. Wilbur knew he wouldn’t get paid in full until the end of the night after each performance was done, Melrose wanted to make sure they held up their end of the bargain instead of running off what the money. He had at least another hour in here before closing.

“Are you drinking or not?” Wilbur looked up to the bartender as he stared down at him, expecting some kind of response. He wasn’t exactly a big drinker, quite the opposite - the only times he’s ever drank were with Phil and Sally. Sally, once when they were both eighteen just to try it out - he winced remembering the monster hangover the morning after. Phil around a year ago when he turned twenty-one and they both shared a few beers together in celebration. Both times he’d gotten tipsy pretty easily, either because he wasn’t exactly used to drinking yet or because he was a natural lightweight, who knows. Either way, he wasn’t exactly going to risk getting drunk right now.

“Uhm, I’ll have a club soda, thanks.”

The bartender gave him a once-over, put off by his request before slightly shrugging his shoulders. “Suit yourself, buddy.”

“Alright, we’re Black Rose and we hope you enjoy the set! This first song is called ‘Sleepless’.” A guy spoke into the microphone, turning to his friends with a smile before counting them in as the music began to blast through the pub. It was a nice tune, and Wilbur found his foot unconsciously tapping along with the music. He closed his eyes and let the sound fill his ears as they began to sing the chorus. It felt right. There was a kind of emotional distress behind the singer's voice, in the twinge of his tone or in a voice crack or two that almost felt like magic.

“And I’m not going blind, I just keep falling, falling behind;

Time goes slow and fast, my heart’s pumping and my head has crashed;

Sit in silence and pretend like your demons are your friends;

Your thoughts are racing while you’re pacing, it’s all in your mind, sleepless~!”

“Hey Wil, you got a minute?” Wilbur jolted back at how close the voice was, as he looked over to see none other than Melrose - her blonde hair flowed down her back messily with a ruby red dress that complimented her blue eyes. She pursed her lips into a line, a signal she was thinking as her pen tapped against the clipboard in her hand. “Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s, uh, it’s fine. What’s up, Mel? Hope my performance was up to par.”

Her lips formed back to a comfortable smirk. “Performance was great as always, Wilbur. You never cease to please.” Her eyes turned down toward her clipboard. “Though I’m afraid I can’t say the same for everybody. Tips came up a little short thanks to a few blanks, I’ve got to decrease your pay for tonight.”

Wilbur’s eyebrows furrowed. “Mel, you promised.”

“Look, Wil I’m sorry but there’s nothing I can do.” Melrose let out a sigh, rubbing her temple in frustration. “I’m barely making enough to pay as is.”

As she turned to leave, Wilbur quickly grabbed her wrist to stop her. “Mel, you don’t understand, I need the cash.”

Melrose sighed, rolling her eyes. “Don’t we all.” She snapped slightly, yanking back her arm. “I told you I can’t do anything-”

“Rosie, come quick!” One of the bodyguards interrupted as he approached with a sword slung over his back. “Charlie’s getting wasted in the back, someone gave him vodka…”

“Goddammit, not again. Can’t that bastard ever get sober?” She huffed, giving Wilbur one last look before slipping back into the crowd. Fuck. Well, there goes a whole extra gig’s pay - with the pub’s restock he won’t be able to pay off everything now even if he had work twice each week...dammit. The due date was in April, he still had time. He could probably get another job while the pub’s down, he’ll have to check the town bulletin on his way home later. He turned back to his club soda, letting out a defeated sigh.

Guess I’ll be away from home more than I thought.

A scream from outside quickly tore Wilbur from his thoughts as he turned toward the sound.

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

Philza was a light sleeper. Being on the road and sleeping the wilderness had always made him jump at the slightest hint of danger, a sort of survival instinct that developed. It only increased when Techno and Wilbur came around, for the first time in his life he had someone else to protect and look out for than just himself, more he could lose. He guessed that’s why he jumped the gun a bit at teaching them how to fight so early - If he couldn’t be there in time, he wanted for them to be able to protect themselves. Even so, his instincts from way back then never stopped, which was most likely why the head of the family was awake now.

Muffled sounds came from below him, shuffling. Something was here, and whatever it was it wasn’t good. His heart beat quicker as adrenaline rushed into his veins. He grabbed his sword, leaned against the wall, and crept down the hallway silently. It was dark in the house, he could barely see a few feet in front of him as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He couldn’t hear the noise anymore, which only heightened his senses as his heart beat faster.

Then, a groan which sent him backing up - that was much, much closer than before. Suddenly, he bumped into something that grabbed his arm and without thinking he swept his feet under whatever it was, sending them to the floor. “Ugh… hey to you too, Phil.”

He looked down and noticed his oldest moving to stand back up from where he fell against the floorboards, rubbing the back of his head. “Techno…?” He asked before quickly helping him up. “What are you doing, you scared me!”

“I was checking out the noise, same as you.” Technoblade said before readjusting his grip on his own sword. “Remind me to never spar with you when you’re in attack mode.”

“Will do.” Phil smirked. Both quickly tensed as they heard shuffling and groaning from down below, clear enough for the two to recognize the noise instantly. They looked to each other, eyes wide. Zombies. Where there’s one there’s bound to be more around in minutes. “Get Tubbo and Tommy, I’ll get Sally.” Technoblade nodded before turning and rushing off behind Phil as he rushed toward the end of the hallway, toward Sally and Wilbur’s room. Phil didn’t know how they managed to have a breach in the walls, but however it occurred it meant one thing - the next ten minutes were the difference between life and death.

He entered the room to see one of the rotting creatures standing over the shifter, who decked it clean across the face, her ears scanning her surroundings, green goop covering her hand. She turned to face Phil, who rushed forward and pushed his blade through the zombies’ skull, killing it for good. Both panted heavily as Phil checked her over, worried. “Are you okay, did it bite you?”

“No, no. I’m good.” Sally reassured him as she looked around the room. “Where’s Wil?”

“I...I don’t know, but... I’m sure he’s safe, wherever he is.” Phil said, trying his best to push his own worries out of his mind.

“Wait, he’s not back yet?” Sally’s eyes grew wide at the realization as her body tensed in worry. “He’s out there, with… with…”

“Wilbur knows how to handle himself.” Phil reassured her, worry growing in the back of his head and forming an uncomfortable spot in his stsomach. “For now we need to be more worried about ourselves - If we’re going to survive until morning we need to barricade the house, and fast.” Phil said, grabbing her by the wrist as they rushed back out into the hallway, Phil chopping another zombie’s head clean off its skull as they rushed past it toward the stairs. He could see Tommy and Tubbo wielding their swords as they tore through zombie after zombie in the living room, somehow making it into a sort of game as they smiled and laughed. Technoblade, on the other hand, moved chairs and tables against the two doors to block them watching his back as a zombie stauntered toward him, and he swept his legs under the creature and quickly curb stomped its skull, slimy green goo flowing into the wooden floor. Phil tossed Sally an axe that she caught quickly, feeling the weight in her hands and happy to have a weapon. “Clear out the ones inside.”

“Got it.”

Tommy jumped from the couch onto a tall zombie, piercing it through the chest and pinning it with his sword to a nearby wall. “Ha! Top that, idiot!” He shouted trumphantly toward Tubbo, who’s eyes lit up competitively as he attempted to hack a nearby zombie in half and managed to get his sword stuck.

“Uhm…”

Sally rushed in, ignoring the tender soreness in her tired body as she hacked the zombie’s head clean off with her axe as its body slumped to the floor. Quickly and effortlessly, she pulled out the lodged weapon and handed it to Tubbo. “Be more careful, yeah?”

“Uh… yeah, yeah…” Tubbo said sheepishly as he took his weapon back and Sally rushed to finish off Tommy’s pinned zombie. With a few strikes, it was down. Tommy grabbed his sword to get it free, tugging harshly to no avail. He got more anxious with each tug as Sally faceplamed.

“You stupid-” She muttered, handing him her axe. “Finish off the last two with Tubbo, and try not to lose another weapon, okay?” Tommy huffed in slight protest before Sally gave him a look and he rolled his eyes, taking the weapon and running off.

“I don’t think it’s gonna hold!” Technoblade yelled as he threw his back against the door, pushing it closed against what must have been around twenty zombies pushing and trying to get in with any means necessary. Sally looked over to Phil, who looked around frantically, trying to think of a plan, any plan at all. “Phil?”

“Phil, what do we-?”

A loud crash erupted - a broken window. Danger. Phil’s grip tightened on his sword as he began to shout orders. “Tommy, Tubbo, hold the back door NOW! Sally, stay behind me.” Phil’s tone was tense and sharp, and the two teen boys rushed like mice to do as he asked. “We just need a little more time, it’s gotta hold a little longer…” At this point, he was hoping for some kind of miracle. This wasn’t just a regular breach - this was a massacre. Rushing forward, he pushed the shadow in the dim light down to the floor, and quickly raised his axe to bring it down when-

“Wait wait wait-! I’m not one of them!”

Phil’s eyes squinted in the light to find… Wilbur. He looked like a mess, his clothes torn and ripped with green slimy goo staining the fabric. Phil’s eyes watered in relief as he quickly pulled his son in for a tight embrace, helping him up off the floor. “Thank god, don’t ever scare me like that again.”

“Good to see you too, Dad.” Wilbur smiled before the two let go, his eyebrows furrowed and his tone more serious. “These aren’t regular zombies, they’re stronger and more resilient. Last I checked they were taking down the square one house at a time, and from the looks of it most of them were not prepared for a visit.”

“...Fuck.” Phil cursed under his breath, his mind beginning to race once again. Did they have a chance?

“I ran as fast as I could to get here, I was so worried…” Wilbur said as Sally rushed forward to embrace him with a smile, running her hands down his face and through his hair, afraid she’d lose it again. Wilbur, in turn ran his hands down her arms, his smile brightening that it was real and alive and here-

“Good to see you’re not dead, Wil.” Tommy huffed against the door as the monsters on the other side growled and moaned, pushing their weight and strength against it. “But we have a bit of a situation here!”

“We need to get out of here.” Wilbur looked over to Phil. “If we stay any longer, we’ll be trapped. Once we’re out of here we can run into the forest to hide and wait out the horde.”

“But both exits-”

The two elder brothers looked at their father and answered at the same time in surprise. “The second floor window.” They turned to each other, sharing a brief smile. Technoblade looked over to Phil once more, his mind and heart racing as the voices in his head boomed louder, and he tried his best to ignore their shouts.

“Look, it’s risky, I know, but we’ve gotta try. We don’t have time.” He winced and grunted as the zombies on the other side of the wall grew more violent in their animalistic attempts to break in. Phil looked at his family’s faces, hints of fear and uncertainty in their expressions. Tommy’s arm went to stop Tubbo from falling over at a particularly forceful blow, and as Tommy’s nerves increased he could see Tubbo holding his hand and giving it a squeeze. Technoblade’s heels dug into the wooden floor as chairs, tables and wooden boards began to splitter under the force of the creatures outside. Wilbur pressed a soft kiss to Sally’s forehead as Sally’s hand drifted to her stomach instinctively at this point, her eyes filled with nothing but worry. He knew this was crazy, but if it meant that there was a chance they’d be safe, he’d risk it.

“Alright. Wilbur, make sure the window’s open and we have a clear way down. Everyone else, get ready to run.”

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

Wilbur’s heart stopped as he saw the creature’s teeth sink into Phil’s neck as he let out a scream in agony. Shit, shit, shit… he didn’t know where they came from, they blocked the stairs as they ran up, why didn’t he see it?! The zombie that bit Phil fell to the ground with a thud as Phil’s own blood seeped down his shoulder and stained his shirt. Techno stilled as he made eye contact with his father, who looked sad, knowing his fate. “Phil, I’m so sorry, I-” Wilbur trembled, his hand reaching out toward Phil, not knowing what to do, what to say. Phil’s head shook back and forth slightly before pushing his sword into Wilbur’s hands.

“You two need to go. Now. Before you lose the chance.”

Technoblade was stone faced. “Phil, we’re not leaving you-”

“There’s no time to discuss this, I said GO-!” Phil shouted sternly before going into a coughing fit, holding himself steady against the wall. Wilbur stepped forward, wanting to grab his hand, help him before Phil recoiled. “Wil… Techno… you need to go, that’s an order.” Silence fell over the two brothers, not wanting to leave their father. “Look, they’re not going to attack me now but they will attack you, now MOVE IT!”

Shuffling and groans grew behind them as Phil winced, feeling the infection flow through his body. They needed to get out before he turned, they needed to live, he wanted them to live-

“But what about you?”

Phil looked over to his sons with a sad smile. “I think I’ve taught you both enough to know what happens now.” Suddenly it felt like all the air in the room vanished. “Now do me proud and show me what we do if someone gets bit. Show me what I’ve taught you.” Phil could feel himself getting lightheaded, he was going to pass out, but he couldn’t… not until they both were safe.

Wilbur didn’t know what to do as he looked to Techno then to Phil, who slowly lowered himself to the floor, his back leaning against the walls of the home he built for them. Techno’s fists tightened as he turned to face his brother. “Techno…?”

“Get somewhere safe, okay?” His voice was heavy, serious. “Promise me you’ll get somewhere safe.”

“I… I will, I promise.” Wilbur said, trying to look at his brother to see if he had any plan. “But what are we going to-?” Before he knew what was happening, Techno shoved him through the window, closing and locking it firmly behind him. Wilbur began to panic, realizing what Technoblade was doing and trying to find some kind of grip before he slipped off the roof and landed in the bushes, pain and bruises blossoming on his body. Tubbo helped him up off the ground as Tommy’s eyes looked up to the window, confused.

“Where’s Phil and Tech?”

Tears pricked at the edges of Wilbur’s eyes as he felt his heart begin to throb without them here. Why, why why… Why did he stay? Why didn’t he let him stay? Why wasn’t he careful enough? It’s all his fault-

“Wil…?” Tommy’s voice wavered. “Where’s Technoblade and Phil?”

At that moment, Wilbur knew things changed forever. Phil and Techno were gone, they were gone and they were never coming back. He told Technoblade, he promised him that he’d get all of them somewhere safe, and with a heavy heart Wilbur knew it wasn’t here, not anymore. He wasn’t going to lose anyone else, he was going to protect them. He was going to protect all of them, if it was the last thing he’d ever do. That very moment what Techno said to him finally made sense.

‘If things go bad, you’ll know what to do, Wilbur.’

Right now, he wanted, more than anything in the world, to get them out of here. Tubbo and Tommy shared awkward glances as Wilbur took a deep breath for a moment, sniffling and wiping the tears from his eyes. Sally looked towards him concerned as Wilbur slid his hand into hers, looking towards his brothers with the same look and tone Phil had.

“We need to go. Now.”

28 notes · View notes

stayndays · 4 years

Text

𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟏𝟎: Saw Something You Shouldn’t Have Seen

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆! This chapter includes:

Foul Language

Possible Errors

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 : “You came here to assist your boss at a party he’s invited to, not to solve a murder with a group of strangers you’ve just met. Yet here you are, staring at the dead mansion owner who hosted the party in the first place, surrounded by nine men with high statuses in society: and one of them is a murderer. The question is who? And can you solve the mystery without being killed yourself?”

Visit the masterlist first before proceeding. It has all the info you need to read this series.

“Can I talk to Felix, please?” You slide your head through the crack of the door opening, Felix and Seungmin turning their heads simultaneously in surprise. They look at each other, and Seungmin gives Felix a nod.

“Sure thing,” Seungmin gives you permission to, yet the stare he’s holding in his eyes says otherwise. Felix swiftly stands up from his seat against the office’s desk, and walks out of the room, making sure to gently close the door behind you. You lead him outside of the library and into the kitchen, where Hyunjin and Jeongin are patiently waiting for the two of you.

Felix exchanges looks with the two men, hands in his pockets, before asking you, “Why did you call me over?”

Hyunjin clears his throat at the question, pulling out the key he found prior from the inside of his coat. “So, uh, we found something on the mansion owner-”

“On the mansion owner?” Felix cuts him off, taking the key from Hyunjin’s palm to inspect it. “But that doesn’t explain how Minho didn’t find it on him hours ago.”

“Exactly! But the point here is that we have a key, and this key works on something in this house,” Jeongin points at the key while stating the idea all three of you share.

Wanting to explain further, and to possibly even answer Felix’s questions, you elaborate, “We already tried the front door, but it’s too loud, so we didn’t want to risk it. Have you seen any other locks in this house that we could use this key for?”

Felix sighs, glancing at all of your faces before shrugging. “Look, you three. I’ve only been in this mansion for five hours, it’s not like I’ve memorized where every single lock is. You could try the backyard but- Wait, why are you guys interested in this key anyways? Are you seriously trying to escape?” He catches on quickly to your plan, forcing you to hold in the gasp that was about to escape your throat.

This was a mistake.

“Does- Does it matter to you what we plan to do with this key? We’re just wondering what it’s for, that’s all,” Hyunjin stutters out, causing Felix to think about your true intentions about this key. He closes his hand on the key before opening it once again, contemplating whether he should trust the three of you or not.

“I’m not sure if I believe you, but I’ll let you off the hook on this one,” Felix reassures you three after giving it much thought. “Let me know if the key does have any important significance to finding the killer, though.” He places the key back into Hyunjin’s hands without a second thought. “I have to go back to Seungmin now, see you.” Felix waves you three off before any of you get the chance to argue against him, entering the library to go back to the mansion owner’s office, where Seungmin awaits his return.

As soon as Felix’s footsteps can’t be heard anymore, Jeongin is quick to scurry over to the door leading to the backyard and points to the lock on it. “Try the key here!” Hyunjin’s eyes widen at Jeongin’s lightning fast pace and pull the key out of his hand, inserting it into the hole. You also walk over to the door to get a closer look.

Hyunjin jingles the key inside of the lock, but he has no luck with it. “It’s not working.” He groans, setting the key on the nearest counter in frustration.

“Are you kidding me? Does this key even do anything at all?” Jeongin throws his hands up into the air, a heated look on his face, and you don’t feel any different from the two boys.

“We might have to give up on this key for now, we wasted time because Felix didn’t give us any info!” you let out a cry.

“You’re the one who suggested it!” Hyunjin snaps unexpectedly, approaching you.

“Well I didn’t know that that would happen!” You retort, shrugging with your hands in annoyance.

“Guys, please stop fighting,” Jeongin calmly steps in between the two of you, but you notice the shaking in his hands. “Maybe we could, uh, search the library?”

“The problem with searching the library is the fact that Felix and Seungmin are next door, they might hear us and become suspicious,” you debate against Jeongin’s idea.

“Then should we go upstairs?” Jeongin continues to suggest ideas like rapidfire.

Hyunjin stares at Jeongin like he’s insane. “But that area is filled with people!”

“It’s our only option at this point, though,” you start to see Jeongin’s intentions on going upstairs. “Felix is already kind of suspicious of our behavior, if we ever have a house meeting soon, he might call us out on it despite our-”

“Let’s go upstairs then,” Jeongin catches the two of you off guard, pulling you both by the wrist to the staircase in the living room. He releases his grip to put a finger over his mouth, shushing the both of you. “Stay quiet in case one of them is near the stairs.” With that in mind, your group tiptoes up the stairs, making sure that none of you step on any creeks on the wooden steps.

By the time you make it to the top, you hear distant humming coming from one of the rooms. Jeongin, who’s in front of you, takes the plunge and starts searching the room next to the staircase. Letting out a silent gasp, he urges you and Hyunjin to come closer.

The back of Jisung’s head can be seen through the bedroom door’s crack as he opens and closes drawers and cabinets, tossing out junk from them. He crouches down, still humming the tune that he most likely made up on the spot, and turns around to check under the bed. Jeongin and Hyunjin fly away from the door to not be seen by the unsuspicious man, but you stay in place.

From the corner of his exposed pocket, you can barely manage to see an object sticking out of it. A rusty, golden color, with a long stick and some metal sticking out to the side-

“Holy shit…” you let out a curse before you’re able to cover your mouth, pulling the two men back down the staircase so Jisung can’t hear what you’re about to say.

“A key. There’s a key in his pocket.” Jeongin gasps at your recallment, and Hyunjin’s jaw is wide open in astonishment.

“What if Minho did find the key, but gave it to Jisung instead of holding onto it?” Jeongin realizes the possibility of Minho and Jisung working together to prevent anybody from escaping the mansion.

“Then that might actually be a useful key!” Hyunjin beams in a whispered voice.

“Let’s try and snatch it, it’s our best shot at this point, unlike this useless key…” you suggest, and to your utter surprise, they both agree immediately.

“Well,” you start speaking of the plan that’s slowly forming in your head by the second. “We’re more likely to fail if somebody’s not distracting Jisung. I’d say somebody go talk to Jisung, and then another person will take the key. The person not involved in the plan should just wait by the stairs, out of Jisung’s view if Jisung ever looks behind himself.”

“Then who’s going to do that?” Hyunjin asks you with curiosity, and his question makes you suck in a sharp breath. That’s the one part you haven’t thought about yet… what now?

WHO WILL DO WHAT?

It’s time for our first limited voting box. What does that mean? Well…

Limited voting boxes occur when you have to make a decision in the story in a split second. They’re open for a shorter amount of time, open up at a random time, and only allow up to a certain amount of votes. There will be an announcement when the voting box officially opens, as it won’t open right when the chapter is posted.

However, this first voting box will be slightly different. This chapter, there are two decisions to make. The first one is who will distract Jisung, and the second is who will try and take the key from his pocket. Instead of the usual 3 votes maximum for a normal limited voting box, there will be 4 votes for each decision. That means, for this limited voting box, votes 1, 2, 3, and 4 will choose the first decision, and votes 5, 6, 7, and 8 will choose the second decision.

Confused? Just vote when the voting box is open, and we’ll see if your vote is counted.

It’s a race against the clock. A race against your fellow players. Who will come out on top, and who will be the deciding vote? That depends on how and if you choose to work together.

Good luck, players. May the Killer King spare you today.

[ VOTE HERE. ]

CHOICE CHOSEN: Ask Felix

VOTING RATIO: 8-5-2-1-1-0

ROUTE CHOSEN: Escape the Mansion

OFFICIAL ALLIES: Jeongin and Hyunjin

BEST NAME IN THE VOTING BOX: “the coins that fell on felixs head”

QUESTIONS (Comments are not answered)

Response 3: If the decision is crucial, yes.

Response 10: Yes for your first question, and no for you second.

Response 12: By the time you, Hyunjin, and Jeongin left to talk in the guest bedroom. It was most likely Chan who moved the body.

THEORIES (Will be answered with either Yes, No, or Cannot Say)

Response 3: Yes. No. No. No.

Response 9: No.

Response 10: Yes. Yes.

Response 12: No. Yes and no.

taglist: @desertofdessert @crscendoforsung @cotccotc @poeticallyspaghetti @skzctnightnight @freckledberries @nizhonimoon @hanniiesuckle17 @binniesbabybear @tsuki-moons @lbxgsunshine @csbverse @mangoisawesome @peachyhan @worldtriiiip @golden--rain @bubblyjisunq @kimpchi @loey-letters @pokyloky @wherevermyway @avrea-tt @bossuns @sunoo-luvs @katherineee19 @ph0ebevix @qt-k1mb @444scb @grandmasterslickfox

47 notes · View notes

ghastily · 4 years

Text

[13] 100 Word Drabbles: Megatron

warnings: a mix of angst, fluff, and romance

relationship: Megatron x Human!Reader, some Pre-War/Gladiator!Megatron x Bot!Reader

notes: Dragging everyone into Megatron hell with me using exactly 100 words.

➥ Read on Ao3!

1. catch: caught doing something they shouldn’t

It's Energon.

Pink, and glowing so brightly it lures you in, appealing to the most basic of your human instincts — curiosity. There's no one else around and so you reach out for it, just to dip a finger in. Maybe a little taste, what could it hurt?

Until a giant servo slams itself down to block you, the force reverberating through the floor and rattling your bones. You fall back with a gasp, heart hammering in your throat.

“Megatron! Where—”

“You know,” He frowns and you shrink back at his tone, embarrassed at being caught, “It's poisonous to humans.”

2. note: leaving a message

You didn’t have the courage to tell Megatron your feelings, not to his face, so you wrote it down. Spilling out everything you felt onto paper. It wouldn't be easy to forgive him, you didn’t know if you ever would but you saw him trying. And so you wanted to try too, to move past the bad blood and into the future. One day, you wrote with shaking hands at the end, I hope that we can become friends.

He approached you, optics tired and smiling tightly, with the note pages pinched between two digits, “I would like that too.”

3. bed: tucked into bed

Some nights you don’t bother with your human-sized bed. Some nights you sleep on Megatron’s chest, smiling as he frets over you and the way his gentle digits adjust the blanket covering you. You playfully swat at his hand and he smiles, finally done fussing, and curling his servo over you protectively. “Are you sure it’s comfortable? Do you need anything else?” “Yes, Megs. I’m never been more comfortable.” You settle in with a yawn, adjusting a pillow under your head. He offlines his optics and slips into recharge, as you're lulled to sleep by the hum of his spark.

4. embrace: a hug

Megatron was not overly fond of his holoform, gray hair and tired eyes only served as a reminder of just how far along in his life cycle he really was. He didn’t want you to see him, not like this, but he wouldn’t deny you this indulgence. “Megs?” You smile at him so radiantly that he forgets everything, “Is that — it is you!” He can’t answer, not when you so suddenly throw yourself at him, arms tight around his neck and squeezing. Megatron smiles and squeezes you close, content to have you in his arms so solid and warm.

5. jacket: bundling up before going outside

This planet was not hospitable toward the delicate nature of humans. Blindingly white, covered in snow and ice it reminded you a lot of the pictures you saw of the North Pole. The child inside of you wanted to go make a snowman — desperately. And Megatron was ruining everything! “Hm, you may need more clothing items. Your core temperature is still not at acceptable ranges.” “This isn’t helping, Megatron! Free me!” You hiss at him, trying to flail your arms in anger only to fall and land spectacularly on your face. It makes you even angrier hearing him laugh.

6. pain: looking after the other when they have a headache

They happened sometimes, these migraines of yours. Pain so unbearable you had to lock yourself away in a dark room and hope it went away soon, eyes screwed shut. Since being on board the Lost Light, you had taken to holing up in Megatron’s berthroom when they struck. He never spoke to you. Megatron brought you painkillers that you choke down with a grimace, and a cold compress that he would replace each time when they warmed. The room blissfully quiet and dark except for the glow of his optics and a dull light so he could continue his work.

7. laugh: at a joke, funny story, etc.

Megatron heard you before he saw you at Maccadam’s, watching entranced as you laughed at something a group of bots said before taking their order. So enamored, he stopped in the middle of a sentence while talking to Impactor.

“Now that is an aft,” Impactor smirks, knowing it’s gotten to him when Megatron snaps back with a frown, “Don’t be so crude.”

Impactor hums and waves a servo in the air, “Hey! Another round here!”

“No, ignore him!” Megatron looks aghast, reaching over the table to put his servos over Impactor’s mouth. You laugh again, and it’s music to Megatron.

8. roam: getting lost

“I don’t know where we are.”

“Nor do I,” Megatron’s voice comes over the radio, neither of you were willing to risk being found by connecting to the internet. He had adopted a human vehicle mode since you escaped together — a truck that looked as rough as he felt. You sigh and lean back in the seat, watching an endless expanse of desert pass by.

“Maybe we can stop somewhere and get a map.”

Your stomach growls and you blush.

“And some fuel for you,” Megatron remarks, amusement lacing his voice even through the static of an old radio.

9. diner: eating at a 24 hour diner

“Be careful.”

It’s the dead of night when he pulls up to the diner, and you clammer out with a nod, pulling the hood of your jacket over your head. Inside is blessedly quiet and empty except for a bearded man in the corner booth, and a lady brewing coffee. You mumble you order at the counter.

“Everything okay, hun?” The elderly woman passes you a plastic bag filled with foam containers — you take them with your head down, “Yeah. Thanks.”

You pass her a crumbled bundle of bills and coins, heading back outside and climbing into Megatron’s cab.

10. rocky: finding the other bruised and bloody

He looks like garbage, tossed out and left to be collected in the morning but the flicker of light in his optics tell you he hasn't given up yet. He’s busted up, marked up, and covered in dried energon.

“H-Hey! Do you need help?!” The moment you reach his side is when he suddenly comes to life — body jerking unnaturally and he growls a warning. You ignore it.

“.. You’re Megatron, right? You use to come to Maccadam’s.” He refuses to answer so you sink down beside him, leaning against the wall. “Guess I’ll wait here with you then..”

11. shield: shielding you with their body

You don’t see the blaster bolt coming toward you, like a deer caught in headlights you remain fully rooted in place as a dark shadow passes over you. The impact of the bolt hitting metal knocks you flat with the winded knocked out of you.

Megatron looms overhead, giant metal body blocking you from harm.

“Run!” You don’t, “I can’t fight with you here!”

“GO!” He roars and you gasp, brain sputtering back into action as you scramble to your feet. Something else hits Megatron and his body shakes around you — you nearly lose your balance before taking off.

12. twinkle: stargazing

On the roof of a gas station, you’re happy and warm with a blanket around your shoulders and legs dangling over the side. You meant to watch the stars but Megatron makes it difficult, he’s staring so intensely at you as he leans against the side of the run down building. “The stars are up there, Megs.” You gesture toward the sky. He leans down to your level, voice low and warm — purring, “All I see are the ones in your eyes, they're more beautiful than any galaxy I have ever seen.” “You’re terrible,” Your cheeks burn, looking away.

13. onion: a sad moment

“I see,” He growls and turns away with fury in his optics, “They've gotten to you too. Turning you against me with their lies!” “Megatron, that isn't true!” You plead with him, spark aching and broken. “I love you and I agree things need to change but this.. There has to be some other way!” He slams a fist into the wall, shoulders slumped with the weight of the cause, expectations, deaths, and energon, weighing him down. “There is no other way! They won’t listen to words so I have no other choice! We are not disposable, we deserve better!”

#transformers #maccadam #megatron x reader #reader insert

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shrinkynatural · 4 years

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(The Witcher) Ficlet: Minigiant!Geralt and the bard who is not sick, no, seriously, Geralt, he’s fine!

Previous parts in the series: (1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) I will make a proper tag for this soon, I swear.

And a note I made in an ask yesterday and figured I should clarify here, these are all set so far around the first few years that Jaskier and Geralt know each other. That makes Jaskier between 18 and 22 as he is in this piece. They kind of jump around and they aren’t in order.

Anyway, on with the fic!

It starts with an annoying case of the sniffles when Jaskier wakes up one morning, the air being particularly damp this time of year and camping out three nights in a row didn’t help. He shakes his hand through his hair to get rid of the dew that collected there, sniffling and coughing a bit to clear the heavy feeling in his nose and throat.

Geralt is across the camp, sitting cross-legged and eating the last of the fruit they’d foraged the day before. He’s paused with a bruised apple halfway to his mouth and he’s watching Jaskier with a surprised and suspicious look, which the bard just waves away.

“Bit of a morning frog, don’t give me that look,” he chides, voice a little hoarse yet. “I’ll be right as rain in an hour or two.”

And he is, being upright and moving will have cleared his head and by midday Jaskier is strumming his lute and singing away as they walk. Geralt puts it out of his mind and is soon distracted by the village they’ve finally arrived at.

He hates the settlements of men, tiny buildings cramped together containing tinier people. People give him a wide berth when he leads Roach between those buildings but children tend to get too close if they aren’t held tight by their parents. Geralt walks slowly, watching his feet and Roach’s hooves. It helps that Jaskier has taken to walking a few paces ahead of him, arms waving and taking up more space than he should.

For all that Jaskier’s talking about a nice hot meal and a nice and comfortable bed he leads the way straight to the noticeboard. He scans it and makes idle commentary even as Geralt walks up behind him and looks for something useful as well. Nothing here.

“Ah well,” Jaskier sighs, leaning back against Geralt without caution or care. “Looks like it’s my turn, doesn’t it? We have enough coin to stay the night and if they’ll let me play I should be able to earn it back and more. I can debut my new song about you and the ghouls! I worked on it all winter, you’re going to love it.”

He does not love it, it’s exaggerated and twisted to just barely teeter on the edge of truth. The crowd does love it, all their attention on the bard as he weaves the story around them. There are gasps and clapping to the chorus and not as much coin as they hoped but it was still a success. There are still wary looks Geralt’s way but at least no one decides to be ‘brave’ and confront him with their opinions.

They meet back in the tavern for breakfast that morning and Geralt can hear that frog in Jaskier’s throat again. He’s drinking a steaming, herbal beverage from a small cup and he obviously isn’t enjoying it from the face he makes every time, but he waves off Geralt’s concerned look.

“Just overworked myself a bit last night, it happens.” He smiles a bit and hides it quickly with another sip. “Looks like I’ll just have to practice more often.”

Geralt gives him a look but the arrival of his breakfast distracts him from anything he might want to say to that. Breakfast is rather quiet with Jaskier focused on his tea and for once Geralt decides to fill the silence.

“How much coin did you get last night?” he asks, because a practical question is the easiest to ask. “We should restock on supplies before we leave, the settlements are rather far apart in this area.”

Jaskier smiles and his voice cracks when he goes to speak. The bard makes an annoyed face and holds up one finger as he takes another drink, then clears his throat. It sounds wet and thick but Geralt supposes that’s just the tea. “I made back what we spent and then some, like I said I would. We can easily pick up supplies before we leave. And maybe some treats as well, we passed the baker’s on the way here and, Geralt, I’m telling you there are things sweeter than bread baking in there.”

“Maybe. It’s still early in the year, we should be saving for emergencies.” Geralt holds his free hand out for the coin purse, not even twitching at the disappointed whine Jaskier lets out. “Stop that, I promised your mother--”

“It’s spring! I’m not going to starve in spring! And I already gave you my allowance, you brute,” Jaskier protests. He still reaches to his side and grabs the decently heavy pouch, handing it over.

He knows how much they still have on them, all the way up to and including the breakfast they’re eating now. Coin is important to Witchers, something he doesn’t think Jaskier’s quite felt the reality of in their months of travel together the last three years. Or maybe he forgets, because to him security is only a letter home away.

They have enough for supplies and Jaskier buys a tin of that tea and Geralt allows him to buy one sweet from the baker’s. He splits it between them despite Geralt’s protests.

Over the next few days Geralt becomes very closely acquainted with the smell of that tea. Jaskier drinks it first thing in the morning, when they stop for lunch, and when they make camp for the night. It seems to help the thickness in his throat in the short-term, but after a couple of hours he’s having to clear his throat often and occasionally even cough.

Before Jaskier had insisted on singing as they walked, but soon he was only strumming his lute and eventually not even that. He would sing when they made camp, but now he was out of breath before he’d get through a couple of verses. Any time Geralt would comment on it the bard would dismiss his worries, saying it was only a little cold. An annoying thing, but not a threatening one.

But then Jaskier started sleeping restlessly. And took longer to wake up even though they had barely finished dinner before he was climbing into his bedroll.

He walked slower.

He didn’t sing or strum his lute.

He didn’t tease Geralt or try to sneak Roach treats.

He didn’t talk at all.

And still Geralt’s concerns were waved away with the less and less reassuring reassurance that it was only a cold and would pass.

He wasn’t stupid; he’d been human once, he’d had a cold…probably? It was difficult to remember. But Geralt has been around a long time and he’s seen people recover from these things and more often drop dead of them as their body drowns them in their sleep.

He doesn’t sleep when they camp for the night, choosing to meditate with the sound of Jaskier’s rattling breathing and weak snores taunting him. By morning he’s made the decision and before Jaskier wakes Geralt packs up most of their camp and makes him his tea. The bard doesn’t stir even when he deliberately makes noise, leaving him to go over and nudge him awake himself.

The cough Jaskier lets out when he goes to speak is awful and he scrambles for his handkerchief, one of many they’ve washed multiple times over the last week. Geralt doesn’t say anything, just passes him the cup and makes him drink. Even swallowing looks painful for Jaskier now and that only supports his decision. While the bard drinks his tea Geralt starts picking up their packs and supplies, only instead of placing them on Roach they go around his shoulders, over his back.

“You’ll ride Roach today,” he says it casually despite the wide-eyed look it gets him. Not once in the three years they’ve known each other has Geralt let Jaskier ride Roach when he wasn’t bleeding or otherwise injured. “There should be a village within a day’s walk and we’ll make it there faster if you ride. We’ll stay there until you’re better.”

He turns away before Jaskier can protest and puts his bedroll across Roach’s back, hoping it’ll help to cushion and steady Jaskier for the day’s ride ahead. He might have to walk alongside him to keep him steady. When Geralt’s done he goes back to put out the fire and collect the cup from Jaskier, tucking it away in one of his bags and rolling up his bedroll next. Jaskier tries to do the job himself but Geralt’s quicker and he’s tying it closed before the bard can make the croaked protest.

“Ger’lt, ‘m ‘ine,” he declares, voice barely more than breath on the wind. “I ‘nt ‘low ‘s dow…n.”

“You have been,” Geralt counters bluntly and doesn’t flinch at the hurt look Jaskier gives him. He does sigh. “Jaskier, you’re sick. You need rest. Warmth. Safety. You’ll get that in the village, not out here. We tried it your way and now it’s my turn.”

He holds out his hand and after a stubborn moment Jaskier takes it so he can help the bard to his feet. They go over to Roach and Geralt can see Jaskier hesitating over just how he’s going to get up onto the massive pack horse. There’s no way he has the strength or the breath for that so Geralt just gets behind Jaskier and settles his hands on the bard’s slender waist, then lifts him up easily so that he can get his leg over Roach and then carefully sets him down.

“Is that comfortable? I have no saddle, but the bedroll should be enough padding.” He steps forward, tugging at the front of the bedroll to straighten it and then looking up at Jaskier. The man’s cheeks are red and Geralt hopes that isn’t an indication of a fever.

“’S ‘ine,” Jaskier breathes, his hands fluttering around before grabbing onto the bedroll with one and Geralt’s shoulder with the other. It startles them both for a moment since they’re rarely so close in height like this. “Bit…un’teady.”

“I’ll walk alongside, just keep your hand on my shoulder,” he instructs him softly, and then he’s gathering up Roach’s lead and they’re off.

Travel does go faster once they figure out the right pace and Geralt rests his free hand on Jaskier’s back to keep the bard from listing away. It’s not comfortable and after a couple of hours when they take a break to get Jaskier some water he gives Geralt the most pathetic look.

“C’n’t…car’y me?” he asks, tiredly stretching his legs out and bending his knees.

It would be easier, but more dangerous along these roads. Geralt would be lying if he said he hadn’t considered it, as much as he’s always made a fuss about the bard climbing him like a child scaling a tree. “I need my hands free in case we run across trouble. I can drop the gear, I won’t drop you.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows go up and his lower lip wobbles just a bit. “’hat’s so ‘weet.”

“It’s practical,” Geralt corrects with a roll of his eyes. To keep the bard from waxing even more poetic and straining his throat worse he reaches down and lifts him up into his arms so he can take him back to Roach.

Even with the regular stops to give Jaskier rest and drink water or tea they make good time to the village. The bard is a half-asleep, miserable, moaning mess but he does try to temper his dramatics once they start walking past people. Geralt always draws looks wherever he goes so it isn’t difficult to get someone to point him in the direction of the inn. It has a stable attached, thankfully, and he goes there first.

The stable boy stares up at him with wide eyes but he takes Roach’s lead and the coin Geralt passes to him without a fuss. Children are always more fascinated than scared of him. The sight of a massive, terrifying Witcher gathering a grown man into his arms probably helps lessen the intimidating image.

“Is he going to die?” the boy asks, looking from Geralt to Jaskier and back with that typical fascination with the macabre that children have.

He scowls at him, only trying to lessen the severity of it when the boy steps back. “It’s only a cold, he just needs to sleep.”

The stable boy nods, then as Geralt turns away says, “The baker’s mum had a cold last year, only it made her lungs rattle and she drowned for three days.”

This time Geralt doesn’t even attempt to rein in the glare he sends the boys way, darkly satisfied with how he pales and hurries Roach into the stable. He holds a barely mumbling Jaskier closer and strides to the inn. He has to duck through the doorway and as always his presence brings the early dinner crowd to a screeching halt. The innkeep behind the bar looks like he wants to say something, likely turn him out, but his eyes land on the bard in his arms and the confusion causes him to hesitate long enough for Geralt to speak.

“He needs a room. On the ground floor.” He makes sure to leave no room for argument in his tone, and the man just nods and stammers out the price--one that’s pretty fair as well. Geralt shifts Jaskier to one arm and grabs his coin purse, fishing out the correct amount and pushing it across the bar.

He picks up the pouch again and follows the innkeeper through the still staring crowd and down the narrow hallway to the room. Geralt has to hunch over and curl his shoulders in and they still brush either wall. He keeps Jaskier close so he doesn’t knock his head or feet against the walls either and it’s a relief to be shown into the room. It’s narrow as well but a damn blessing compared to the hallway. There’s a pallet against one wall he can set Jaskier on and enough room for Geralt to sit and stretch out his legs on the floor next to him, so that’s what he does.

Jaskier lets out a whiny, pathetic noise as Geralt sets him down and he has to take the bard’s hands and pry them off of him. His eyes are closed and his cheeks are flushed and he really hopes Jaskier hasn’t gotten a fever. He removes his boots and covers him in the bedroll not soaked in horse sweat, and once he’s settled Geralt starts to remove all of their travel gear to find the tea. He’ll have to go ask the innkeeper to let him brew some, and maybe he’ll ask if there’s a healer or someone willing to sell him more in the village.

It’s a slightly unsettling feeling to get up and leave Jaskier in the room, but Geralt tells him where he’s going and promises to be right back. He sighs and pushes again through the too-small hallway into the dining area. Everyone hurriedly turns back to their meals like he wouldn’t notice they were watching his door. He hates villages, he hates being stuck here. He carries the tin of tea up to the bar where the innkeep is waiting, a startled look on his face like he hadn’t expected the witcher to reappear so soon, and sets the tin on the stained plank of wood.

“I need to make this. Do you have soup?” Geralt watches as the man looks at the little tin as though it might up and attack him, then turns that same look on him.

“Ah, yes, yes--well, it’s a stew,” the man corrects himself, then holds up his hands. “But we can thin it if you like! Two bowls?”

Geralt thinks on it and looks into his coin purse, mentally calculating the cost of being here until Jaskier is well enough to travel. It doesn’t help that he isn’t sure how long that will be so it’s best to err on the side of caution. He still has plenty of rations in his pack, better to leave the coin for Jaskier and Roach.

“One bowl. And the tea.” He places the coin down and puts the pouch away. “His throat is sore, taking his voice, and he has a cough that started in the mornings but lasts all day and night now. We’re just here until he’s better.”

It’s meant as a reassurance and it works, the innkeeper and the general feeling of the room relaxing now that they know what’s going on. The man takes the coin and the tin and disappears into the kitchen, leaving Geralt looming at the bar and waiting.

“Are you that White Wolf then?” one of the patrons asks, breaking the silence and making a few people around the room jump. “Geralt of Rivia?”

“Not the name I know him by,” another one murmurs, hurriedly looking down at his bowl when Geralt turns to look at them.

“That lad must be the bard then,” the first continues, clucking his tongue. He’s quite advanced in his years, a sun-wrinkled face and a barely there fluff of white hair around his ears. Too old to put effort into fearing anyone or anything. “Pity he’s sick, I’ve heard a couple of his songs when I go to the nearby town for market. I thought you’d be taller. Maybe when he’s better he’ll give us a performance, eh?”

The absurdity of…all of that makes Geralt huff in what would almost be laughter. “He likes to exaggerate. And he might give a show, if we can stay that long.”

He adds the last like an afterthought, thinking Jaskier would be proud of him for even attempting the lament like the bard so often does. It even works, with the man waving a hand like witchers--especially one specific witcher--don’t get run out of towns and villages on the regular.

“Plenty of work to be done this time of year,” he tells Geralt. “Might not be the big monster slaying you’re used to, but it was a harsh winter. And there are a lot of fences need fixing in the fields and the roof of Henry’s barn sunk in after a heavy snow. Can start as early as tomorrow morning, no sense wasting time.”

Geralt nods, easily not looking as smugly pleased as he feels. “I’m willing to help.”

There are a few murmurs and nods from others in the room and he’s saved from more conversation by the innkeeper coming back out from the kitchen. He’s carrying the tin and a bowl of thinned stew that he sets on the bar.

“Tea’s steeping, I’ll have my wife bring it back to your room when it’s done.” He nods, and it’s as kind a dismissal as Geralt ever gets so he nods back and picks it up before heading back to Jaskier without a word.

He finds the bard much as he left him, eyes closed and lightly snoring. Geralt would like to let him sleep but Jaskier hasn’t eaten much the last couple of days because of his throat, and Geralt’s poor excuse for a rabbit stew will hardly compare to the richness he can smell coming from this bowl. He sets both down on a small table and kneels beside the pallet, rest one hand over Jaskier’s shoulder and giving him a gentle shake.

“Jaskier, wake up.” He tries to keep his voice low and soothing but even he knows it’s quite loud even so. As the bard said once when he was trying to make the witcher sing with him one night, he has a big voice befitting a big body and it’s such a damn waste that he rarely speaks.

The shaking only produces a wheeze from the bard and he tries to roll over on his side away from Geralt, but he’ll be having none of that and easily pulls him back.

“’o ‘way, sleep’ now,” Jaskier mumbles, half-heartedly swatting at Geralt’s hand. He cracks his eyes open to give him a glare that wouldn’t scare a kitten. “Ger’lt.”

“I brought you something to eat, and the tea will be ready soon. You need to sit up,” Geralt explains, hoping the promise of food and tea will tempt the bard into rising. It does, with some help and grabbing the other bedroll to stuff behind his back so he can lean back against it.

He turns to grab the bowl and when he turns back Jaskier’s eyes are slightly more clear. He’s looking around the room in confusion and embarrassment starts to creep into the expression.

“We made it to the village. Yes, I carried you in. Eat the stew before it gets cold and unpleasant and we’ve wasted coin.” There’s a touch of embarrassment in Geralt’s tone as well, rising up when Jaskier turns surprised eyes on him as he speaks. He gets that damned dewy look on his face and Geralt pushes the bowl at him before he can try to speak and hurts his throat more. “Eat, bard.”

Jaskier reaches for the bowl with a wide smile and takes a sip, eyes closing and letting out a rough little sigh. After that he takes the spoon and takes more, sticking mainly to the broth and only occasionally tackling a piece of meat or a vegetable. Satisfied that he won’t drop the bowl Geralt sits back against the wall and pulls over one of their bags, taking out some dried meats and a few edible leaves from their rations.

Geralt eats contentedly, mindful not to get too relaxed in this place in case attitudes turn, and it takes him a moment to realize that Jaskier has stopped eating. He looks over and the bard is giving him that weepy look again, eyes flicking from his stew to Geralt’s rations.

“No,” he states firmly before Jaskier can travel any further down whatever mental rabbit hole he’s thinking himself into. “You will eat all of that and you will rest and get better. We are not so low on coin but I want to be careful so we can stay here as long as we need.”

Jaskier still opens his mouth to protest but Geralt just sits forward, plucks a soft bit of parsnip from the stew and shoves it into the bard’s mouth.

“No talking,” he scolds, ignoring the absolutely indignant look Jaskier is giving him right now. “The people here have heard your songs, they want a performance when you’re better. Would you disappoint them after they’ve helped us? I didn’t even have to struggle for a room or food for you here.”

That gets Jaskier’s attention, first excitement at being recognized and second surprise and delight at their reception of the witcher. He nods and performs the best motions of a bow to Geralt that he can while sitting before going back to his stew.

The bowl is nearly empty when Geralt hears footsteps coming down the hall. They stop in front of their room and there’s a moment’s hesitation before the innkeeper’s wife knocks.

“Come in,” Geralt calls as softly as he can manage, and the door opens to admit an older woman carrying a steaming mug.

“Oh, good! He’s up and eating!” she coos, momentarily distracted from her anxiousness. Jaskier has that effect on people, especially when he makes his eyes big and gives that crooked smile like he’s doing right now. He holds up the nearly empty bowl and nods, making her smile back. “Thank you, I’m glad you like it. Now I’ve got that tea the good witcher asked us to make for you; it’s a good mix, our herbalist has one much the same and others, too. She’s asleep already by this time of day but tomorrow I suggest you get something proper that’ll help clear up that cough of yours.”

She moves to walk into the room but hesitates at Geralt’s outstretched legs that take up nearly all the free space of the room. He hurries to pull them in, clearing a path to the pallet where she hands the tea to Jaskier and takes the bowl in its place. The endearing smile is still on the bard’s face but he can see his lips twitching even as he nods again and mouths a ‘thank you.’

“All right, don’t either of you hesitate to ask for anything while you’re here,” she says, nodding to both of them as she quickly steps back to the door. “We’re looking forward to hearing some good music around here when you’re better. And Master Witcher, Leo said he’ll see you outside the inn at dawn if you were serious about helping with the barn and the fences. Have a good evening!”

She closes the door behind her when she leaves and Jaskier cracks, letting out a laugh that’s nothing more than a harsh rush of air. Geralt stretches his legs back out and just taps the side of the pallet with his foot, not wanting to make him spill any tea. It’s good to see him having the energy to laugh, even if it isn’t the same.

“Drink your tea, Jaskier,” is all he says in response to that bard’s humor. “And get some more rest, I’m going to check on Roach and make sure she’s settled in.”

Instead of listening, Jaskier is quick to put down his tea and make fluttering hands toward his bag on the other side of Geralt. He obliges and passes it over, watching curiously as the bard digs through it and lets out a wheeze that is supposed to be one of triumph? As he pulls out a small pouch and holds it out to Geralt. He takes it and opens in, the sharp, sweet scent of sugar hitting his nose.

“How are Lettenhove’s horses not all fat and toothless with how you spoil them?” he huffs, but he pulls it shut and keeps it in his hand. Jaskier just grins at him and presses a hand to his heart. “Drink. Your. Tea.”

He gets to his feet while Jaskier takes a very deliberate, overacted drink of the tea. Geralt huffs back at him and resists the urge to reach out and give him a little shove like he normally would. He leaves the room, careful to make sure the door is firmly closed behind him, and walks past the now more crowded room to the exit.

As glad as he is to get Jaskier that room Geralt feels a rush of relief once he’s outside. He can stand to his full height and he rolls his shoulders as he walks to the stable. The mouthy stable boy is a good kid, Roach is brushed down and has fresh water and hay in her stall and she has that heavy-lidded look that only comes from a good meal after a long day.

“You did a good job today, girl,” he tells her, reaching out to brush his fingers over her nose. She pushes into the touch and he allows himself a small smile. “I’m proud of you, I know you don’t like carrying a rider but you did what you had to. I promise we won’t let it get into his head that he’ll get to do that all the time.”

He brings up the small pouch of sugar and rolls his eyes as her ears prick forward and she stretches her neck out to get at it. He nudges her head to the side with his free hand and steps back so he can pull it open, tipping a couple of the crumbled cubes into his palm.

“Easy,” he soothes, holding out his hand flat for her to eagerly lip up the treat. “There you go. We’ll be here a few days at least so you’ll get some rest, but we’ll go for a walk around the village tomorrow. You can stretch your legs and I can make sure broken fence posts are the worst thing this place has to offer.”

Geralt spends more time than he means to out there, but he’s only had a year with this Roach so not long at all. She’s proven to be a smart and faithful companion so far and for hopefully many years to come. He pats her again and tells her good night, pausing when she reaches for him and indulging her with more pets. She’s certainly one of the most affectionate Roaches he’s had over the years.

“I’m sleeping with Jaskier tonight, much as I’d rather be out here,” he tells her with a little sigh. The stall right next to her is empty and wide and so damn inviting. “But someone has to keep an eye on him, and I can take a cramped room for a few nights if it means he doesn’t drown in his sleep. He doesn’t deserve that, the little bard’s survived the Path with me for three years now. I can watch over him for a few nights.”

He brushes his fingers through her forelock and bids her good night, then goes back to the inn. The sun has finished setting and the tables are packed with people getting a drink after a hard day of work. They stare when he walks in, of course, but the innkeeper and a couple of men who were here when he arrived just nod to him and no one says anything. Geralt makes it back to their room in peace and feels relieved when he closes the door behind him without incident.

It’s dark in the room, not a problem for the witcher, and Jaskier is safe where he left him on the pallet. The bard is dozing again but he rouses as Geralt walks to his previous spot, this time settling into his familiar meditation pose.

“Ger--” Jaskier starts and has to clear his throat, the hoarse drag of phlegm unsettling in the silence.

“It’s me,” Geralt confirms, not wanting the bard to keep speaking. “Go to sleep.”

But of course he’s stubborn, pushing himself up onto his elbow and staring in his direction. “’eeping ‘here? Ro..ach?”

“Sharing a room costs less coin--don’t argue,” he says firmly the moment he sees Jaskier looking fussy. “It’s not a problem.”

He can see the bard’s face twist into a scowl, likely remembering all the times that it has been a problem. In their time together Geralt has been vocal about how he hates inns; they’re never quiet enough for him to sleep and the rooms are always too small and the people smell irritates his nose.

“Jaskier.” Geralt lets his voice turn soft and Jaskier recognizes what that means. He can see the fight go out of him as he lies back down--with a scratchy huff, because he must be contrary. “Thank you.”

Jaskier flutters a hand at him and settles on his back, shifting to get comfortable. Geralt can tell he’s still fatigued from how quickly he drops off. He knows that sleep is important for the body to heal and he’ll make sure Jaskier gets that while they’re here.

#jaskier #geralt of rivia #geraskier #minigiant!geralt #rating: green #there might be a part two to this #i wanted to write more #but it started to feel draggy #so separating it into two parts might help?

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mordoriscalling · 3 years

Text

The Shrike and the Lark (pt. 6)

Jaskier and Renfri are disaster twins ruling Creyden. When the Warlord of the North knocks at their door, Queen Renfri and King Julian are at an advantage - they know him. As in, they know him. (Inspired by the Warlord AU and “the heart is a winged beast”).

(Pt. 1) (Pt. 2) (Pt. 3) (Pt. 4) (Pt. 5)

Creyden, 1237

The hour is late and most of the people inside the walls of the royal castle are asleep. Silence reigns over its numerous corridors and rooms. Yet, the Queen’s chambers bear witness to some noise – the sounds of a heated conversation, coming from the bedroom.

“It’s not our fault,” Queen Renfri cries, frustration colouring her voice, “It’s the fucking Council!”

“I know,” Lady Yennefer growls back. “But it’s been three weeks and we’re about to turn rabid. We want this matter to be settled finally.”

The two ladies are seated by a small table in the middle of the room, holding goblets of wine. The fireplace is burning low, but not much heat is needed to ward off the chill of the summer night. The Queen and the sorceress sit opposite each other, their faces cast in the flickering light of the candles lit around the room.

“We all do,” Renfri agrees.

The treaty between Creyden and the Warlord’s empire is ready. Over the course of the past weeks, the twin monarchs and their Council, together with the White Wolf and his advisors, have been poring over the terms and conditions of the alliance. It has been agreed that Credyen will share three ports with the Warlord – Tridam, Pont Vanis and Yspaden – for whatever use he might have of them, most generally the transportation of people and goods. In exchange, the White Wolf has pledged to offer military support to Credyen whenever necessary.

At this point, every article and section of the deal have been refined to the point that it cannot be improved any more. Yet, the royal Council of Creyden does not allow for the contract to be signed, each day finding new details that they believe should be discussed with greater care. This continuous postponing tires both sides, but the Council distrusts the Wolf. They still have not devised to hold him to his promise in a way that would prevent him from threatening Creyden.

“Why not tell simply them to fuck off?” Lady Yennefer suggests.

“They are too competent to be disregarded, unfortunately,” Queen Renfri replies, “I’d rather not have them turned against me.”

The sorceress sighs heavily, messaging her temples with her long, beautiful fingers. “There must be a way to shut them up,” she mutters.

The two ladies then endeavour to coin some kind of solution to the problem. Their conversation overflows with ideas – but they do not deem any of them appropriate enough – as well as some witty remarks and instances of biting humour. Time passes, the darkness outside steadily giving way to the greyness of early dawn, but Queen Renfri and Lady Yennefer scarcely seem to notice anything but each other. That is until a noise disturbs their discussion.

“Hiacynt?” King Julian calls from the neighbouring chamber.

The Queen and the sorceress still in surprise.

“Hiacynt?” the King calls again, the sound of his voice drawing closer, “Aren’t you –”

When King Julian enters his sister’s bedroom and beholds the Queen’s guest, he stops dead in his tracks. For a moment, no one says a word. The King stares between his sister and the mage, his mouth hanging open in shock. Finally, Queen Renfri speaks as she rises from her seat, worry twisting her features.

“Jaskier!” she exclaims. “Has something happened?”

Jaskier regains his composure, clearing his throat. “Nothing serious, don’t worry,” he reassures. “My apologies for the interruption.”

“It’s all right,” Queen Renfri dismisses.

Lady Yennefer stands up as well, straightening her skirts. “I should take my leave anyway,” she says in a brisk manner, “I need my beauty sleep.” As she directs her gaze at the Queen, her countenance is suddenly serious. “Thank you, Renfri,” she adds.

“Thank you too, Yennefer,” Renfri answers quietly.

With a court nod towards the monarchs, the sorceress then conjures up a portal, walks into it, and disappears.

“Renfri?” the King echoes incredulously after the magical circle closes. “Hiacynt, what the fuck?”

Nonchalantly, his sister goes to refill her goblet and drinks from it. “Yennefer and I decided to get better acquainted,” she replies at last.

“Why?” he scoffs, “She’s a mage.”

“Exactly,” Renfri retorts. “We should stop fearing them. Just look at Geralt – the moment he had mages in his service, his empire fucking grew tenfold. Portals are too damn useful.”

“I know,” Jaskier concedes in a long, petulant whine. In an overdramatic fashion, he plops down on the chair that the Wolf’s sorceress has just vacated. Renfri rolls her eyes fondly.

“But Lady Yennefer? Really?”

Renfri shrugs. “She’s a decent company.”

At this, Jaskier seems bemused, but then a playful glint appears in his eye. Before he can reply, however, his sister beats him to the teasing.

“What are you doing here,” she asks, “Away from Eskel’s embrace?”

Jaskier smirks, not showing an ounce of shame. For the past fortnight, the Wolf’s second-in-command spent each night in the King’s chambers. King Julian has done precisely nothing to hide that fact.

“Tell you what,” he replies and then pokes his tongue at her.

Renfri responds in kind. Jaskier laughs; seeing the formidable Queen indulge in his childishness is amusing indeed. His sister chuckles at their foolishness too. When they calm down, she looks at her brother expectantly and demands, “Well?”

“One of those dreams again.”

She stills, frowning in concern. “Something bad?” she murmurs.

“Not bad at all, actually.” Jaskier smiles, his gaze distant and dreamy. “I heard... giggles, and boyish voices. I also saw... many little feet running around the courtyard.”

Renfri gasps and promptly sits down.

“Impossible,” she breathes out. “How could it be possible?”

“I have no idea,” he replies, shaking his head. “Maybe the dreams have turned to another form of cruelty. To give hope only for it to be shattered.” He huffs a laugh. “But gods, I so want to hope.”

“Let us hope, then,” his sister replies and moves to her brother’s side to take his hand.

Jaskier grins, squeezing her palm in his, and Renfri smiles back. They share a quiet, warm moment of allowing themselves to envision a future that could last. Then, the spell is broken – Jaskier yawns suddenly, making his sister laugh.

“You should go back to sleep,” she tells him, “I need a bit of rest too.”

“Ah yes, the hunt.” Jaskier rises from his seat and pats his sister on the shoulder in an affectionate gesture. “Enjoy a little killing, my sweet Hiacynt.”

Renfri’s smile is sharp as she replies, “That I will.”

When the hunting party sets out from the castle two hours later, it is not the loud and showy affair that courtly sports tend to be. No horses, hounds or even horns are involved. This time, Queen Renfri has decided to hunt in the manner of witchers – silently, as true predators do.

The royal gamekeeper and his three grown sons, each armed with a crossbow, lead the group to the nearest location where deer is most likely to be found. Apart from the Queen and four of her guards, the party also consists of the three witchers who remain in Creyden at this point: the Warlord himself, his right hand Eskel, and their School-brother Lambert. King Julian is absent, but that is to be expected. Unlike his sister, who indulges in hunting often, the King does not care for this sort of entertainment.

On this particular early morning, however, Queen Renfri does not seem to be enjoying herself. Her posture is stiff, showing signs of weariness, and she does not talk to anyone. Her attention is turned solely to her surroundings and thus, she quickly takes note of the lingering gazes which Eskel directs at her. Whenever she catches him staring, he looks away, but then the situation repeats itself again and again. Finally, with an irritated sigh, Queen Renfri approaches the witcher, falling into step next to him.

“What have I done to deserve your scrutiny?” she asks outright.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Eskel replies, bowing his head, “I forgot myself.”

“This doesn’t answer my question,” the Queen says sternly.

“You remind me of someone,” the witcher admits, quietly enough for the other humans in the party not to hear.

Queen Renfri smirks. “I have a good idea of whom you speak,” she teases.

Eskel chuckles but shakes his head. “I don’t mean Jaskier,” he answers. At the Queen’s inquisitive look, he explains, “I used to know another Black Sun Princess. Deidre Ademeyn.”

The Queen seems taken aback. She watches him closely for a moment, then asks, “How did you know her?”

The witcher does not answer at once, only walks alongside the Queen. The hunting party now treads a forest path running uphill. They split into pairs, one following after another, with the gamekeeper and his sons at the head, the guards in the middle, and the Queen and the witchers at the tail of the group. Around them, the forest is quiet.

When Eskel finally speaks, the words are murmured, not breaking the hush of the surroundings.

“She was my Child Surprise,” he confesses.

The revelation stuns Queen Renfri and she does not say anything, her expression betraying a contemplative mood. After a while, she remarks, “Deidre wasn’t a welcome surprise for you, I’d reckon.”

“Not because she was born under the Black Sun,” Eskel replies, “but because being bound to a witcher is not a good fate.”

“Her fate was not good anyhow,” the Queen counters. “She was killed by mages like the rest of my kind, wasn’t she?”

Eskel mouth sets into a grim line. “Yes,” he confirms, great pain echoing in his voice.

If Queen Renfri wants to ask about the hurt the witcher carries in his heart, she does not get the chance to do so. A moment after Eskel answers her, Lambert calls out from behind them.

“Halt!” he barks.

Everyone stops and turns to look at the fiery witcher, who points to something down the hill.

There, at most fifty yards away, stands a massive bear. It is a mother – two small cubs accompany her.

The people and the animals go completely still as they stare at each other, calculating the threat.

Then, very slowly, the witchers, the Queen and her guards draw their weapons. The mother bear growls.

She is not far below them. The hill is steep but the forest is not dense, with scarce undergrowth. Lambert and the White Wolf are the ones closest to her, while the hunters with the crossbows are the farthest away. They could shoot to kill her. Yet, in order to do that, they would have to go to the side – the rest of the party stands in the way – and even the slightest move could prompt the animal to attack.

The mother bear gives another warning, stomping in place.

“Protect Her Majesty,” Eskel says to no one in particular, “I’ll use Axii.”

Then, he moves, pushing Queen Renfri back. The bear charges with a roar.

The Warlord yells, “Stay back!” to the people behind him. He and Lambert stand their ground, while Eskel rushes towards the bear. At the same time, the guards run down to defend the Queen and the gamekeeper jogs to the side. He aims his crossbow at the animal.

When only three yards or so separate Eskel and the furious mother bear, the gamekeeper releases the bolt. It would have been a good, clean shot, but then, the Warlord moves.

He now stands directly in the way. With his back to the rest, he is unaware of it. The bolt cuts through the air, going straight towards the White Wolf’s neck. Queen Renfri, a short distance above, notices it. Her guards have not yet managed to surround her. She is free to act.

“Geralt!” she cries, throwing herself to shield the witcher from harm.

The bolt pierces through her light armour and buries itself deep into her flesh, under the right collar bone. With a scream of pain, Queen Renfri falls to the ground, blood flowing heavily from her wound.

Then, she bleeds, and bleeds, and bleeds.

Read the test on AO3

#myfic #geraskier #jaskier/eskel #the accidental warlord and his pack #jaskier & renfri are disaster twins #this fic... might turn out to have yenfri in it #and I ain't mad at that AT ALL

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plus-size-reader · 4 years

Text

Unlike Any Other

Geralt of Rivia x Plus size!reader

Word Count: 1706 words

Warnings:none

Summary: Reader is a Cintran sell sword, hired by the queen. (Loosely based on Episode.4)

———————————————————————————————————

You did your best not to ask questions because asking questions wasn’t part of your job.

Your job was to stay quiet, hold your sword, and kill whatever the queen wanted dead. That was the whole description and you lived by that, nothing more than a sword to the crown.

...No exceptions.

At least not until today.

They told stories of the witcher all of Cintra but in a lot of ways, you weren’t sure that you believed them. You had met many men who thought themselves good fighters but once you went up against them, they always fell first.

You wouldn’t believe the claims of the witcher until you saw them for yourself, with your own two eyes.

“Cheer up sell-sword, it’s a party” one of the passing lords grumbled, bumping your shoulder with his own as he moved by you. You were wearing full plate armor, with a helmet and everything...luckily.

Or else they would have seen the absolute disdain on your face.

You despised all of them but you couldn’t exactly make a scene during the ball. It was bad enough as it was, without you having to spill blood all over the marble flooring. So, you swallowed your annoyance and kept your eyes on the scene in front of you which was quickly interrupted by quite the commotion.

As best you could tell, the Witcher had arrived.

You had no idea why they would get so excited over a simple man but as best you could tell, he may not have been a man at all. You didn’t know what he was, but it didn’t really matter.

you had no doubt that you would eventually have the opportunity to see it for yourself...all you had to do was wait.

Clearly, the ball didn’t stay dull and boring for that long. The Urcheon of Erlenwald, or so he called himself had caused quite a storm when he arrived in the court. It was an unwelcome intrusion for so many, but not for you.

You had no problem with a bit of excitement.

Perhaps the queen would order you to kill this stranger, or maybe she would welcome him. Either way, your sword was going to get some kind of use-you could just tell. After doing this for so long, you were pretty good at it.

You could practically feel a fight swelling in the air. It was almost as if the whole room was holding its breath, and you, for one, couldn’t wait for the exhale.

It all happened rather quickly, like a bubble just waiting to burst.

The queen stood behind you, clearly just itching to stab whoever he was in the face but she would be given no such service. Tonight, she was only the queen so if anyone was going to kill anyone else, it would be you.

“Stand back lioness, I’ll take care of this” you assured, reaching behind you to grasp the sword attached to your back. She had ordered the man be killed, and so he would be. It was as simple as that.

Or so you thought.

You swung your sword gracefully, sure that it would hit its target with complete certainty but were met with only the clean clashing of metal against your own.

You were rightfully shocked for a few seconds before realizing what had happened. The witcher, Geralt of Rivia, had interrupted your sword stroke in the middle-keeping you for carrying out the execution you had been ordered.

He had some kind of problem with this creature being killed, which didn’t make any sense to you. As far as the stories had you believe, the witcher killed monsters like this one, so why was this any different?

Without missing a beat, you moved quickly, doing your best to counter his defense. It worked at first but the witcher moved just as fast.

You had never seen a man as swift with a sword as you were.

“He’s been cursed” he repeated, through gritted teeth as if that mattered. He didn’t seem to understand what you were, though there wasn’t much of a difference between the two of you.

However, none of that meant anything at the moment.

Your armor was far too bulky for the kind of combat the witcher required so you yanked off your helmet, tossing it away without a thought.

It was, by far, the first time that anyone in this kingdom had seen your face but you didn’t care about that at the moment. All you could think about was beating the witcher and killing that thing to boot.

However, the rest of the kingdom wasn’t as dismissive as you were about the reveal.

They just assumed that you were a man, as they were, and that was the whole point. In fact, only the queen knew that you were a woman. She was the only one who believed in you, your gender aside.

She had seen your abilities in action, and trusted no one more when it came to protecting her and her family.

You knew that most of the common people wouldn’t feel the same if they knew that you were a woman. They wouldn’t trust your skill and power as much if they knew the truth.

“You fight well, but I still won’t let you kill him” Geralt grumbled, acting as if that was all he had to worry about. You thought it was ridiculous but something about the way he said it stopped you in your tracks.

There was a reason he didn’t want this creature dead.

You almost asked him why he cared so much but in a split second, without a single thought, you nodded. The queen would have your head for this, but it didn’t matter anymore.

You knew, deep down, that you couldn’t beat the man in front of you and you weren’t even sure that you wanted to.

So, rather than waste your energy fighting the witcher, you turned away from him, leaning against his back to fight off the queens guards, who would now want to kill the both of you.

…

This had been, quite possibly, the longest day of your entire life.

From fighting a witcher, to nearly killing a cursed man, to watching him become cured right before your eyes. You wouldn't believe all the things that you’d been forced to deal with in a matter of hours.

However, you knew one thing for sure.

Wherever the witcher was going, whatever he was planning to do, you would be going with him.

“No”

You huffed, he was being so terribly difficult about all of this.

“You cost me my paying position witcher, so I’ll be going with you so that I can make more coin” you shrugged, upset that he was being this way. He could have gotten you killed with the stunt that he pulled.

Now it was Geralt’s turn to huff. You talked so much, much more than he would have assumed based on how reserved you had been when you first met.

“Fine, get your things...we need to get moving” he grumbled, waving you off like a pest that he could just usher away at his earliest convenience. However, you didn’t have a care in the world for how he treated you.

All you cared about was the fact that he had given you what you wanted. You were going to finally get out of Cintra, after all this time.

You hurriedly made your way to your chamber, changing out of your armor into something more unsuspecting and feminine. Under the protection of the queen, you were free to masquerade as a man but on the road, you would be much more dangerous hidden under a meek, disceving gown.

If you ran into trouble, people were more likely to see you as a damsel in distress, giving you the chance to slit their throat or stab them clean through.

You thought that it was a clever strategy, though Geralt clearly didn’t get that air as soon as he saw you.

“What are you wearing?” he grumbled, in that gravely, unwavering tone that you already knew so well. You shrugged, glancing down at the wine red fabric that dressed your plump frame.

It wasn’t the nicest gown in the world but it was the only one that you owned. Besides, you had always thought that it showed off your curves quite nicely, if you had cared about that kind of thing.

“A dress? Aren’t you familiar Witcher?” you teased, doing a slight little spin. You were laughing at him, he knew it but he didn’t say anything. INstead, he just watched you...almost as if he was trying to figure you out.

He had never, in all his lifetimes, seen a woman like you.

After you had finished with your little charade, you waltzed right over to where Roach was tied up to a nearby tree. The beautiful horse whinnied, nuzzling into your touch when you reached out for him.

“He yours?” you wondered, turning back to Geralt, only to find an almost strangled look on his face. Not only had you just touched Roach and you still had your hand but the horse had also accepted your presence pretty well.

It didn’t make any sense.

One thing was for sure, you were a woman unlike any other.

*Bonus: *

Geralt had agreed to let you ride alongside him on Roach, but had drawn the line at letting you hold the lead. Roach may not have hated you, but that didn’t mean that you got to hold the reigns.

That would be going too far.

You thought that you would be riding in silence but after a bit of time, Geralt decided to break the silence.

“It’s a nice dress” he grumbled finally, so quiet that you almost didn’t catch it. It might not have been the best compliment you had ever received but coming from Geralt, it was quite a step.

You just smiled, leaning forward ever so slightly to press a kiss to his cheek, before turning your attention to the words. If you didn’t know better, you would have thought that the witcher had a soft spot for you.

#geralt of rivia #geralt of rivia x plus size reader #geralt of rivia x ps reader #geralt of rivia x reader #geralt of rivia imagine #the witcher #the witcher imagine #the witcher x ps reader #the witcher x reader #the witcher x plus size reader #the witcher netflix

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antihero-writings · 3 years

Text

The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch6)

Fandom: Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom's memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom's past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Chapter Summary: The interrogation scene

(I'll put the links to chapters 1, 2, 3, 4 & 5 in a reblog!! I also have a version of this fic with all the chapters in one place!!)

Notes: My apologies for the delay!! I was working super hard on a couple projects with deadlines, and I didn't really have the chance for a break. I tried to get back to it as fast as I could once those projects were done!! I hope you're still interested in reading, even so <3

In addition to other things occupying my time, this chapter itself wasn't easy; for some reason, for a good while I had no clue what I'd do for the interrogation scene, add to that to the fact that I picked a very difficult perspective to write for here and it wasn't the easiest XD I hope I ultimately did a good job, and that you guys enjoy it!!

Comments are always extremely appreciated!! And do let me know if you'd like me to add you to a tag list for this fic!!

Chapter 6:

Snape didn’t think his day would go like this.

One must keep a sense of preparedness about them, still, he didn’t think it remiss for not expecting a day that started with Neville handing him a bottle of goop that would be poison in a better context, would middle with the message that the Chamber of Secrets had opened and a student would be killed, and end with Potter standing in his office with Veritaserum conducting his tongue, telling him said student was dead, and the Dark Lord was back, but without memory, and in the body of his sixteen-year-old self.

And said day wasn’t even over yet.

They still had an interrogation to enact—(which would be a lot harder with the aformentioned truth-serumed Potter…and a lot easier with a mute Potter)—to make sure the missing-memory-claim was unequivocal fact.

He was about to walk into McGonagall’s office to see a sixteen-year-old Dark Lord. And he was expected and required to act like the boy was an ordinary student—(though the boy himself probably already knew he wasn’t).

The person most feared in the wizarding world, who’d killed so many he lost count.

Not the least of which was—

It wouldn’t be a problem.

There was a spiteful look in Potter’s green eyes as they ventured through the halls.

The silencing charm was proving enjoyable in addition to practical...But the small pleasure he gained from Potter’s plight had a fly’s life span.

As they approached the door to the office, his grip tightened around the truth serum in his hand. From a glance out of the corner of his eye he saw Potter had a similar tenseness about him.

He hated this boy, no question…but he’d be a monster if that story didn’t incite some form of empathy in him.

—(In another time there was another redhead lying dead on the floor Halloween, killed by the same person. Empathy wasn’t a choice.)—

They opened the door, and the sound was like a conversation being snapped in half.

“We’re not interrupting, I presume?” Snape’s voice carried across the room—(sure they very much were)—calm as if Dumbledore really was speaking to an ordinary student.

He let his eyes flick from Dumbledore to the boy in the chair in front of him, who had turned to them.

Annoyance may have flared in Potter’s eyes, but this boy bought his annoyance from an entirely different factory, one where they manufactured all sorts of other, far more gruesome emotions.

The eyes were brown, and human, but they were an echo—(What’s an echo before the real thing sings off the cliff edge?)—of the red ones he’d later possess. Red sitting behind the brown, like adult teeth in the skull behind the baby’s, ready to force the childhood out bloody, for something worthless as a couple coins.

“Thank you for coming, Severus.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he sneered as he stepped to Dumbledore’s side to face the boy once more.

He knew he’d be young, but a hex wasn’t entirely out of the question. Seeing this, this thing that once murdered thousands without blinking, this thing that shrieked the words of death with a high, cold voice over countless muggles and muggle sympathizers, and whose eyes held no form of remorse, or sympathy …sitting before him, young and handsome and perhaps even human—

His left arm itched.

“Well, unless anyone can offer a viable reason to continue dilly dallying, I suggest we begin.” Dumbledore spoke pleasantly.

Snape glided over to the boy—whose voice was level as he asked;

“What are you doing?”

Snape held up the truth serum.

“Do you have any idea what this is?”

The boy’s eyes flicked from the bottle to Snape wordlessly. Odds are it physically pained him to admit he didn’t know something.

A smirk tugged at Snape’s lip.

“Wonderful.

“And I don’t suppose you’ll drink it willingly, if we were to ask you to?”

The boy’s eyes lidded; You must be joking.

“Even better.”

He flicked his wand and ropes bound the boy to the chair.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

“Well if you won’t drink it willingly, then we’ll just have to make sure you do so unwillingly.

“Open wide.” A said like a dentist, that smirk marking his features as he grabbed his chin and forced his mouth open, like offering King Claudius the poison.

“Try not to enjoy this too much, Severus.” Dumbledore cautioned.

The boy started to protest, but the sound was drowned out by the potion pouring into his mouth—which Snape quickly cast a spell to keep him from spitting it out.

When he swallowed Snape cast the counters to each of the curses binding him and glided back around the desk.

The boy wiped his mouth, gaze throwing daggers at him. “Is this how you treat all your guests?”

“Only our favorites.”

“What happened in the Chamber of Secrets?” Dumbledore asked, his voice commanding, but never losing its calm.

“What happened in the where?” Tom demanded, not altogether politely.

“The Chamber that you woke up in earlier.” Dumbledore continued, still pleasant. “Would you mind filling us in the details of what happened there?”

“I don’t have to—” He was probably about to say ‘tell you anything’ but quickly found himself rather inexplicably compelled to do just that.

He detailed his waking up in the Chamber without memory to see Potter crying over the dead Ginny, about how they exchanged words, how they got out…nothing that would betray the idea that he had lost his memory.

“Thank you for telling us that.” Dumbledore replied simply—though something flickered behind his eyes when he spoke of the girl. Potter fidgeted in the back of the room, and likely would have asked why he had to stay if he could. “Are you certain you remember nothing prior to that?”

“I told you I don’t remember anything! What did you do to me?!”

“You mean you don’t usually feel overly compelled to tell the truth?” Snape examined his nails.

“No.” His eyes were lidded.

“Oh? If you don’t remember who you are, how would you know?”

“Does anyone feel overly compelled to tell the truth? Seriously, who are you people?!”

“We already told you,” Dumbledore intonated. “I am the headmaster of this school, a school for witchcraft and wizardry. The oddly silent Harry,”—He gestured to the boy standing mutely at the back of the room—“is a student at this school, and Severus Snape here is a professor.”

“I have a hard time believing teachers would strap a student to a chair and force a truth potion down their throat!”

“We are wizard teachers. That means, at times, our methods can be a little…unorthodox. Tom”—The name made him flinch—“we merely want to discern if you truly are without memory. You may remember more than even you yourself are aware of—and more than simple questioning would illuminate. There are few other ways to discern this efficiently. Personally I would have attempted a bit more explanation and persuasion before resorting to tying you down.”—He shot a glance at Snape—“But…though it may not seem that way, we are trying to help you.”

“I don’t think Severus”—Snape flinched at his name even more visibly than Tom had—“is particularly inclined to help me.”

Snape was seconds from doing something either very stupid, or very smart, but Dumbledore stood, his voice with a bite to it.

“Professor Snape is not particularly fond of you, that’s true.”

"Oh yeah?” He raised an eyebrow at Snape.

“Hmm…I would like to phrase this delicately…” Dumbledore continued. “In your time here, you could be a bit of a…a bully. This is of course why Harry here isn’t particularly fond of you either. He has been subject to your bullying on more occasions than one. Isn’t that right, Harry?”

Potter froze, as if surprised they asked him a question, then nodded.

“So what you really mean is that you are trying to help me, and these two are here to watch me suffer your ‘help’?”

“I did not intend my ‘help’ to cause you suffering. I apologize that it has. And just because you were not a particularly kind individual in the past doesn’t mean others are unwilling or undesirous to help you. That is what it means to be kind.”

Snape’s eyes met Harry’s, and he was particularly glad the boy’s overly truthful lips were sealed shut at that moment.

“Let’s get back to the questions shall we? Do you have any memory at all attached to your own name?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your name. Names are very powerful. You mentioned you did not know it until Harry mentioned it to you. Does hearing it arouse any particular memories or feelings in you?”

“Memories, no. Feelings…”

“Yes?”

“Hatred.” Tom froze, eyes wide, and his hand flew to his mouth—the first real reaction they’d seen from him.

Despite his particular distaste for divulging the truth, he hadn’t said anything too incriminating yet. This was clearly one of those things he thought would grant him power if it stayed inside.

“You feel hatred at the sound of your name? I see. Do you feel this hatred hearing anyone else’s names?”

“Yours.” He said into his hand. “His.” He threw his thumb over his shoulder, gripping his mouth.

“Wonderful.”

His hand came back down into his lap. “Wonderful?”

“Well, not wonderful that you hate the sound of all our names, I don’t imagine that’s very pleasant. But this is helpful information. And this hatred does not come with any concrete memories?”

“No. Why do I hate—?”

“I imagine it’s because you were not overly fond of us either.”

“Why didn’t I like you?”

“Because we were two particularly large roadblocks in your path of bullying.”

He paused. “…Why did I bully you?”

“Troubled home life, perhaps? You may find it difficult to believe, but you did not divulge the contents of your personal life to us. But I imagine you were dealing with quite a bit of internal strife to take it out on your fellow students. I do hope you will choose a different path in this new life you have been given, so to speak.”

The boy tapped his fingers on the armrest. “…What are you going to tell my family?”

“Your family?” His eyebrows raised. “About what?”

“About the fact that I don’t remember them.” He said like Dumbledore was stupid for not knowing.

“Oh, well, in that sense you are both particularly lucky, and particularly unlucky, in that your family is dead.”

“Dead?”

“Dead.”

The boy paused, his gaze falling to the ground as he thought. “So where is my home?"

"Of that I am not aware. I think, perhaps, Hogwarts was more home to you than anywhere else."

"...Where will I go, then?”

“Go?”

“When I’m not at this school. You yourself said you might not let me back. Where else can I go?”

“That’s what we will have to discuss over the next few days.”

A look of surprise crossed Potter’s face, as if he hadn’t realized the sixteen-year-old dark lord would be any sort of permanent fixture.

To tell the truth the thought was rather jarring, but Snape hadn’t ruled out disposing of him just yet.

"What about my friends?" the boy asked.

There was a small indication of surprise in Dumbledore's eyes at the question, but it faded quickly as he answered. "It pains me to inform you that—to my knowledge at least—you did not have any."

His eyebrow raised. "None?"

"None of whom I'm aware."

The boy looked down at his hands in his lap, as if pondering.

"Does that sadden you?" Dumbledore asked softly.

"No." The answer was cold and immediate...but apparently not truthful, as a moment later he barked the word "Yes," followed by an annoyed groan. Another pause. "...I don't know that 'sad' is the right word."

Dumbledore nodded. "Such a potion cannot always help one discern the truth of their emotions, that is, if they do not know them themselves.

“Severus, do you have any more questions?” Dumbledore’s gaze ticked to Snape, a meaningful glint in his eyes. Snape gave a small nod in return.

“You are completely certain you don’t remember anything prior to a few hours ago?”

Imperceptibly, Snape flicked his wand at his side.

“Why do I keep having to repeating myself?! I—”

Scenes flashed before Snape’s eyes. A darkened chamber, a tattered diary, a sword, a phoenix, a boy crying, a dead girl, red hair like flames on the stones—

“What the hell was that?!” Tom demanded immediately, shooting up. “What did you do to me?!”

“To what are you referring?” Dumbledore asked.

“That—That—Those visions! What was that?!” His eyes darted venomously between Dumbledore and Snape. “You’re looking through my memories, aren’t you?!”

“Merely a side effect of the potion.” Dumbledore answered as if they were having a conversation over afternoon tea. “Nothing to worry about. Please, proceed.”

“I said I don’t remember anything!” He spat.

Snape tried again, and again the same scenes that they had already described flashed by.

After exiting the memory, the boy’s eyes were wild and fiery, continually darting between the two of them, and Snape swore he saw something red there.

“Is that all the information you need?! Can I go now?!” He spun to storm out of the room before they gave an answer.

Another flick of Snape’s wrist, and the boy was lifted into the air by his ankle.

“Class has not been dismissed, Tom.”

Emotion rushed across the boy’s face; horror, rage, humiliation, and Snape reveled in it.

“You said yourself;” Snape stepped closer, and his voice softened into a taunting whisper, “where would you go? Would you wander the halls like a lost, little boy without his mommy?”

Tom’s eyes flashed once more, and he squirmed against the spell, and it almost seemed, for a second, like he’d hit Snape.

Another flick, behind his back this time, and this time he concentrated very hard at breaking past the scene only an hour earlier.

It was as if he hit a wall in the boy’s mind. Snape never thought of people’s minds as books to be perused by any passerby, but the harder he tried to break through, the more the boy’s mind looked like the ripped pages of a book too old to hold itself together. Like walking into a dream where the dreamer stopped imagining the world, so reality just…tapered off. The world in his mind, ripped, hazy, rotted and congealed.

“Would you stop that?!”

“That concludes my questions.” Snape pocketed his wand and turned to Dumbledore.

“What about you, Harry?” Dumbledore asked gently. “Anything to ask?”

Potter glanced between the two of them, surprised his opinion was of any worth in this situation—(and, if he was frank, Snape wasn’t altogether sure it was).

“I think you’ll find Potter is disinclined to speak for the next few moments.” He tried not to smirk.

Dumbledore looked over his half-moon spectacles at him.

“Will you Let. Me. Down?!”

Another flick, and the boy fell to the ground on his head and in a mess of limbs.

“You could’ve been gentler!” He sat up, rubbing the back of his neck.

So could you.

Notes Cont.:

As I said, Snape is a rather difficult perspective to write for, and I’m still not entirely sure I did a great job with him... I would have used Tom’s perspective and reveled in his horror, but I felt I should probably use Snape because of the legilimacy thing. I wanted you guys to know what he saw there. It's possible I might try rewriting this chapter from Tom's perspective to check if I missed any reactions or questions he would have/ask too, or even if it's overall better from his perspective...so keep in mind stuff might get edited in the future!! And do let me know if you liked in in Snape's perspective!!

FYI, these should be the three perspectives I use/alternate between (Tom, Harry, Snape). At the moment I don’t intend to add more. Maybe if I really need to for an off chapter down the road I will, but I can't imagine what that would be at the moment.

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canid-slashclaw · 4 years

Text

The Outliers - A Guild Wars Love Story

Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapters 10 and 11, Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16 , Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20, Chapter 21, Chapter 22, Chapter 23, Chapter 24, Chapter 25, Chapter 26, Chapter 27, Chapter 28, Chapter 29, Chapter 30, Chapter 31, Chapter 32, Chapter 33 Chapter 34

The airship was abuzz with panicked passengers who ran about desperately across the decks. Several of the brigands brandished muskets and rapiers threatening to disembowel anyone who did not comply with their demands.

Kaleb ran up several flights of stairs while frisking his pockets, trying to find the keys to their honeymoon suite. Amalthia shook her head and groaned.

"You would lose your head if it weren't attached to your shoulders, you know that don't you?" She said to him in a patronizing tone.

"Hey. Cut me some slack, will ya? I thought I kept them in my pants pocket," Kaleb retorted.

"You thought wrong," she chuffed as several scared passengers ran down the stairs, some tripping over their own feet.

"I think this is the right hallway. Let's go!"

The husband and wife bounty hunters made a mad dash though the narrow passageway as Kaleb recognized the number to their luxury suite.

"This is it!"

"Still no keys, huh?"

"Well, don't you have a blowtorch stuffed somewhere under your garter?"

Amalthia looked at him and smiled as she gave him a lick on his cheek. "As a matter of fact I do."

She lifted up her skirt, revealing a small butane torch that she always kept with her in case of unseen emergencies.

"I'll just kick the door down. It's much faster," Kaleb said as he gave the sturdy wooden door a full-forced kick. To his chagrin, it didn't budge.

"Nice try, but you don't have the leverage. I'll just cut the hasps. The dummies who installed these doors forgot to put them on the inside."

Once the torch was lit, Amalthia began slicing through the door hinges. It took less than two minutes for them to be cut. After the doorway was weakened, they pulled it aside and rushed into their suite hoping to find their luggage. Moments later, the couple they had run into earlier at the dining hall appeared through the now gaping door frame.

"My gods! It's you two... did you not hear that there are..."

Amalthia cut the husband off in mid sentence. "Pirates. We know. Love, any luck with our suitcase?"

Kaleb rummaged through some smaller bags until he found the right one. "Got it!"

The woman interjected. "Harold. These are the same annoying people who were making all that racket last night."

"I think that's the least of our problems, dear. Hey guy. Leave the luggage. It's not worth your life," the woman's husband said.

"Tell me you have the key to our luggage. I hear more than one pair of unfriendly footsteps coming up fast," Amalthia said as she snarled in frustration.

Kaleb fished his pockets for a moment before locating what he needed to find.

"Key! Got it!"

With a quick twist of the locks, the suitcase opened revealing an arsenal of weapons. Kaleb reached for his two pistols while Amalthia quickly assembled her folded sniper rifle. Each of them also took a short sword then promptly strapped them to their hips.

"Oh my gods... just what kind of people are you??" The woman said just as Kaleb pointed his guns in her direction.

"The good kind. Duck!"

He unleashed two rounds that blew the heads off of two pirates who were just about to accost the newlyweds. Drenched in a spatter of blood and brain matter, the couple screamed in sheer terror as Amalthia calmly tried to wipe them down using a towel she had grabbed from the linen closet.

"Sorry for my husband ruining your dress. But don't worry, bleach should remove most of the stain."

The shocked couple did not budge.

Kaleb reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a couple of business cards then handed the cathartic husband and wife one each.

"We are the Outliers - Kaleb and Amalthia Grimwald-Steelblade - professional bounty hunters at your service. We specialize in undead, uncouth and unruly. Our prices are reasonable..."

"Kaleb. I really don't think they are interested in hearing our entire spiel at this time," Amalthia said as she glanced at one of the business cards. When she noticed something was printed in error, she snatched one of the cards from the hand of the still-as-a-statue man then showed it to her husband.

"Shit! They forgot to put a hyphen between our last names. After we just spent all that coin on these extra glossy..."

"Incoming!" Kaleb shouted as he unloaded more rounds into some oncoming brigands.

Amalthia's keen hearing allowed her to track the pirates' clanky weaponry from behind walls. As soon as several of them converged in an optimum spot, she loosed a high-powered round from her long rifle.

The sound of brief grunts followed by the thud of falling bodies echoed through the corridors.

"Load me up, love!" She said as Kaleb tossed her some extra magazines while she loped on all fours across the hall checking to see if the coast was clear.

"I promise I'll contact the print shop and have 'em print us up some new cards," Kaleb said while providing cover for his wife.

"You'd better!" Amalthia playfully snarled.

Kaleb stowed his revolvers then offered his hand to the cathartic couple. "Come with us if you want to not die."

"What kind of people carry stockpiles of weapons on their honeymoon?" The man asked in a panicked voice.

Amalthia backtracked upon hearing the comment then replied; "the kind that want to stay alive."

"You heard her. Hey honey... you should have let me bring Bob."

Kaleb's wife growled and shook her head. "Bob was over the size limit. So stop grousing over it and use what ya got."

He, then, pulled out his shortsword and grimaced. "This thing isn't big enough to skewer a skritt. Besides, I haven't even given it a name."

"Fine, call it Chuck."

"Chuck? Why that's a horrible name!" Kaleb shook his head in disagreement.

"It can't be much worse than Bob." Amalthia countered then stuck her tongue out at her husband.

"Oh Harold. This has turned out to be such an awful trip. This couple that happens to be just as weird as they are rude, just ruined our romantic getaway. And now that same weird, rude couple is in the middle of fighting a bunch of pirates who are hijacking our ship. ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME HAROLD??!"

Shaking in fear, her husband just hunkered down and said nothing.

"Warning, newly minted spouse about to lose it," Kaleb said as he deftly wielded his shortsword against some oncoming brigands by quickly felling them with swift strokes to their kneecaps.

"Make yourself useful, woman, and carry our luggage," Amalthia stated as she tossed the heavy suitcase to Harold's wife.

Deck by deck, the human-charr husband and wife team began clearing each hallway of scoundrels. Once they were finished, no less than twenty of the pirates lay dead. The remainder retreated from the ship using makeshift gliders.

In spite of the Zephyrites' philosophy of non-violence, the commander of the vessel thanked both Kaleb and Amalthia for their heroic deeds. For the remainder of their honeymoon, the pair was treated to free dinners and full use of the travel amenities.

On the final day of their trip, Kaleb and Amalthia were enjoying complimentary free massages as they sipped on a tall daiquiri that was shared between them.

"So you promise to get the hyphen added to between our names?" Amalthia asked as she took a big slurp from the frozen glass.

Kaleb took a long suck from the straw as well. "Promise. In fact, I'll shred every non-hyphenated name business card in our inventory."

"Good! I love you, you know," his wife said as she relaxed her muscles and purred in contentment.

"And I love you too. Hey. Look at the normal couple over there. I'll bet this is a trip they'll never forget," Kaleb said with a wide grin.

Amalthia reached over then took his hand and held it tightly. "That's the kind of effect we have on people. We are odd."

"We are bold," Kaleb said as he leaned over to kiss her.

The human and charr - who were now husband and wife - looked into each other's eyes and said in one chorus.

"We are Outliers!"

...the beginning.

(All chapters have been posted to AO3. Chapter 34 is posted here.)

#gw2 fanfic #guild wars fan fiction #tyrias-library #the outliers #kaleb and amalthia #charr and human

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roisinspencer · 3 years

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Research Essay on Hauntology & other concepts of memory

Question 10: The concept of hauntology (see online required reading for Week 11) was first coined by Jacques Derrida as a philosophical concept. However, it has been subsequently used to describe a style and genre of music and sound art (including vaporwave) by theorists such as Simon Reynolds and Mark Fisher. First describe the relevance of memory to the notion of hauntology both as a genre of music and as a philosophical concept, and then pick one or more sound works or music pieces that belong within the genre. How does the sound work(s) engage with the notion of memory and what could the work(s) be commenting on?

Hauntology’s inception as a philosophical concept was first conceived in the writings of Jacques Derridawhere he elucidates elements of the past as haunting the present through reconfigurations of dead ideas and figures. Derrida’s Hauntology concurs a logic that surpasses sanctioned logic, where there is a perturbed collusion between “actuality” and “ideality,” or most recently “virtuality.”[1]In Derrida’s denotation of Hauntology, virtuality largely consists of unconscious convulsions of embodied past traumas surfacing to actuality and confuting our understanding of the present. These ruptures of past subconscious repressions can be related to notionsof Freud’sInvoluntary memories which are crypted deep within us and materialise in an unmediated manner. Hauntology in the form of Involuntary memories is prevalent inGrimes’Oblivion, Blank Banshee’sTeenage Pregnancyand the Caretaker’sYou and the Nightas they each employ musicology to reconnoitre differing mnemonic theories. Constructing off Derrida’s definition of Hauntology, Mark Fisher, Simon Reynolds and other theorists have extended its meaning into modernity’s memory market. Fisher in particular ascribes the term to embody the concepts of Lost Futures and Capitalist Realism, interrogating the cyclic nature of our capitalist nostalgia and yearning for what could have been. The musical genre of Vaporwave proselytises this lust for the promises of capitalism in its most illustrious stages during the 80’s and 90’s. Grimes’Oblivion, Blank Banshee’sTeenage Pregnancyand the Caretaker’sYou and the Nighteach employ the characteristics of Vaporwave reconstruct the neo-liberalist vitality that once clad capitalist consumerism, appropriating audio techniques from the 80s/90s to invoke a thirst for past possibilities that never came to fruition.

Canadian born musician Clare Boucher (born March 17, 1988), professionally known by her stage alias Grimes[2], released pop phenomenonOblivionin 2012, alluding to Derrida’s Hauntology through distinctly layered developments and Vaporwave quintessence. Derrida portends Hauntology as a resurfacing of elements of the past which permeate into the present in an alternate, abstruse manner. The title of the song,Oblivion, denotes a state of incognizance where memory of a particular event or person has been effaced. This is conveyed in the introduction of the main riff as interjections of disjointedness via lagging and glitching project and air of inconsistency and disquietude. The song embodies a confused catharsis as the artist reinvokes the acutely traumatic experience of a past sexual assault and reconfigures it “as something really welcoming and nice.”[3]The melody bestows an anxious effervescence through major tonality and upbeat melodic mechanisms, exacerbated by the breathy, high pitched, ethereal vocals. Grimes speaks of this memory sporadically infiltrating her actuality, leaving her “terrified of men for a while.”[4]These reflexive outplays of mnemonic trauma are emblematic of Derrida’s “logic of the ghost”[5]as although the memory is an encapsulation of a past foreboding, it oscillates from virtuality to actuality and invokes physical repercussions out of fear. The bass line incessantly drives the song and is played by a heavily distorted and incredibly low synthesizer, allaying a murky yet omnipresent undercurrent of trauma. The bass line is so astonishingly low it is on the precipice of being inaudible to the human ear, suggesting just how far the depth of memory are and how deeply trauma can be imbedded within. This impetuous occurrence of memory intimates Freud’s theories on Involuntary memory and its convulsive manifestations of trauma which are often “crypted comments” which arise “with no identifiable cues.”[6]By rendering her involuntary memory “as positive”[7]Grimes has employed tenets of Freud’s Screen memory in aims of a “possibility for counter-memories to emerge”[8]in a bid to conceal tormenting truths. This convulsive delirium is evident through perpetual lyrical repetitions, most notably the phrase ‘see you on a dark night”[9](2:26) where the artist directly addresses the present physical space that remits her past trauma. The cyclic nature of this phrase portends the interminable haunting of this memory. In the bridge she accosts the resurrection of her memory by starting to ask it “To look into my eyes and tell me” (1:34) which is then abruptly interrupted by nonsensical interjections of “la la la la la”[10]as though to override and screen out the existing traumatic memory with an innocuous, unburdened one sung in a child-like, high-pitched naivety. Through evocations of the philosophical concept of Hauntology,Oblivionevinces how past trauma intermittently ruptures through to the present and the cyclic nightmare of attempted repressions along with unwanted regressions.

Patrick Driscoll, known professionally as Blank Banshee[11], (born June 28, 1987) is another Canadian artist who efficaciously employs Vaporwave tendencies in his songTeenage Pregnancy(2012)to conjure Hauntological notions of resurfaced trauma. Similarly to Grimes’Oblivion,Teenage Pregnancyalso imbues its digitised cadences with Involuntary memory by employing similar methods of repetition and recrudesce interjections. Although the two pieces share Hauntological notions of Involuntary memory, the artists execute the resolution of these ruptures in processes considered completely disparate from one another. As Grimes aspires to skew the traumatic crux of her past memory and purport it as “positive” via Screen Memory tactics, Blank Banshee aims to exploit the shared trauma of our conscripted nostalgia for origins and its circuitous fissuring into adulthood. Derrida’s writings on Hauntology partially elicit its inspiration from Freud’s theory on mourning where “one internalises or introjects the dead” assimilating them within an eternal idealisation of the “deceased.”[12]However when this mourning is not resolved, according to conventional “psychoanalytic theory, there is no true introjection,” only “an incorporation of the phantom.”[13]This concept of the phantom presents itself inTeenage Pregnancynot only in the title but also as a vocal schism which endeavours to interrogate our nostalgia for origins. The songbegins with a motif consisting of sustained, sporadically placed notes which make no sense out of the context of the future layers of sound. This relates to Derrida’s idea of the past and future being omnipresent in our understanding of present. Along with persistent crescendos and diminuendos, the drumbeat oscillates from one ear to the other destabilising the foundations of the song, allaying an insecurity in the linguistic information soon to occur. Layers of varying digitised motifs build up and establish the repetitious undulations“of traumatic and/or stressful events” that “are often poorly integrated into the life-story and identity of the person and for the same reason tend to intrude repeatedly upon consciousness.”[14]The cacophony of litanydrops out to expose the crux of the trauma, that being the disruption of childhood innocence and accosting of our romanticised mourning of childhood. In his writings about the Uncanny,Nicholas Royle, entails “another thinking of the beginning: the beginning as already haunted.”[15]This is illuminated in the recapitulation of the phrases “I’m just a kid”(1:52) and “It was only a mistake”(2:22) as the tonality of the verbiage starts at a high pitch but glissandos in glitches to a low, disturbingly distorted articulation affronting our mourning for the fictitious public memory of childhood. The timbre of the voice purports the dismay of this disarrayed experience of childhood through a cybernated vibrato, crackling in a manner that mimics the tremolo of vocals on the cusp of crying. As heard inOblivion, Blank Banshee effectively elucidates the spectral persistence of trauma associated with Derrida’s definition of Hauntology, yet strays from projecting a positive manufacturing of memory to mask the said trauma and instead aspires to exploit the negations of childhood nostalgia.

WhilstOblivionandTeenage Pregnancyanalyse humanist, embodied experiences ofHauntology, English artist/producer Leyland James Kirby (Born May 9, 1974), professionally known as The Caretaker, released the trackYou and the Night(1991) which is emblematic of notions of the Uncanny and its reconstruction of space and time from remnants the past. Convictions of the phantom in Derrida’s ideas of hauntology amalgamate with the Uncanny to permeate unease and construe a contorted understanding of time, space and our standing within this misshapen memory. The sentiment of the phantom is evoked as elements of the past present themselves in fragments rather than in their historical totality, evident in the preternatural patina that filters the obfuscated layers of music. The crackle and grainy effect that filter the vexing remnants of music tacit an antiquity, yet this nostalgia prompted for the past is later accosted by its own decay and overlay with elements of the future. “The Uncanny involves feelings of uncertainty,” in particular “what is being experienced”[16]which is explicit in underscoring this Hauntological eclipsing of time. The pieceopens with low, prodigiously distorted instruments playing a minor, perturbed melody of acute, atonal nonsense, manifesting this uncertainty of the Uncanny. The eerie instruments have been slowed down to an acute largo, lending this uncertainty to our understanding of time and its disequilibrium in the extraction of memories. The layers of ominous instruments further destabilises time as each section of the orchestra are playing at augmented 4thintervals. These augmented 4thintervals were historically classed as the devil in music and its use was periodically forbade in sacred songs.[17]As well as underscoring the inconsonance of time in memory, similarly to the Involuntary memories present inOblivionandTeenage Pregnancy, the devil in music is also remnant of the dissonant re-evocations of trauma which Freud concurs “were a manifestation of death instincts.”[18]The high pitch strings confute notions of nostalgia as all though they are recognisable to the listener’s ear yet, their esoteric distortion detaches them from recognition in our memory. The dislocation of time in memory and Uncanny trauma in Hauntology is made audible inYou and the Nightthrough The Caretaker’s utilisation of cryptic chromaticism and deep decay.

Similarly toYou and the Night, Hauntological time is deeply confounded in Grimes’Oblivionthrough predilections of the Vaporwave genre to expound the circuitous capitalist purgatory of the present. Simon Reynolds discusses Vaporwave as “a kind of aural or musical detritus” which adopts “dead media sound production from the 80s and earlier”[19]to concoct a nostalgia for the inception of capitalist fruition and also futures that never came to fruition. Vaporwave can also present itself as “a kind of memory play that is produced through representations of repressed trauma or loss” which can be “expressed through musical form as a process of catharsis.” Grimes herself proclaimed that she “took one of the most shattering experiences of my life and turned it into something I can build a career on”[20]and capitalise off. Gerhardt Richter first coined the term “Capitalist Realism” in 1963, which Mark Fisher later adopted in his writings to presage why “We remain trapped in the 20th century.”[21] Fisher denotes that due to the “reliance of current artists on styles that were established long ago” our “current moment is in the grip of a formal nostalgia.”[22]This formal nostalgia is immediately connoted inOblivionthrough the opening motif allayed by a synth sentimental of “dead media”[23]of the 80s/90s. The motif imbues a sense of nostalgia via its upbeat major melody, playing into the romanticism of the 80s when capitalism harnessed new offerings. The ethereal yet heavily digitised female vocals reverberate with efficaciousness, yet the echo also illuminates an ebb in these capitalist expiations as the words lag past their initial debut. This reminiscence for a time with fresh bearings can be heard in thesporadic piano (1:50) bridge which doesn’t abide by typical methodologies of music, alluding to a time in Capitalism where everything being produced was new and experimental. Although it contrives an air of excitement, the notes echo and envelope itself by its own ghostly refractions and further confound our capitalist nostalgia and sense of time concurrent with it.Old riff comes back into play followed by the other infinite loops, speaking not only to incessant haunting of past coming to present but also the incapacity to cultivate anything new under capitalism. The song ends on an interrupted cadence, sounding unfinished by nature and insinuating that these loops and our wistfulness for the past could continue on for an eternity.

Simon Reynolds discusses Vaporwave as a musical genre of “Retromania,” defining it as “Pop culture’s addiction to its own past,”[24]which is epitomised in Blank Banshee’sTeenage Pregnancy. As alluded to prior,Vaporwave music “plays with the idea of nostalgia for something that never happened”[25]which Mark Fisher concurs is the haunting of Lost Futures. This reworking of the past is conceived out of utopian visions of the 80s which were “co-opted by capitalism and repackaged for consumption”[26]and now haunt the present tense with past visions of the future. In consonance with Grimes’Oblivion,Teenage Pregnancymanifests the sound production of the 80s/90s, but instead of manufacturing its nostalgic utopianism, Blank Banshee appropriates a riff directly from a musical relic of 1982, beingGrand Master Flash and the Furious Five’s hit The Message.[27](0:27)The Message accosted the structured cultural divides under capitalism in the 80s and exhibits capitalism’s sedentary nature as the song aids a message about class and race that is just as culturally significant today. The sampled riff is profoundly manipulated through an increase in duration, pitch altering, lingering reverberations and interrupted cuts followed by repeated interjections of the same phrase which disallows the riff to resolve. This disseverance of the riff communicates a Lost Future desired by the original song which has been pervasively and ironically stifled and stultified by capitalism, betokeningElizabeth Guffy’sunderstanding ofRetro-Futurismas the message “remains a sensibility, rather than a plan of action.”[28]This asphyxiation of rebuttal to capitalism is furthered by the unchanging layers of hypnotic digitised motifs which add to a sense of being directionless. These invariable layers underscore how under capitalism “cultural time has folded back on itself, and the impression of linear development has given way to a strange simultaneity.”[29]This stunting of linear development is also exteriorized through the repeated phrase “I’m just a kid” which evinces capitalism’s stilted eternality in its past days of prophecy.

Both Blank Banshee’sTeenage Pregnancyand The Caretaker’sYou and the Nightutilise Vaporwave’s appropriation to incarnate the past, forming memory through the depletion and decay of their audio relics. Even though there is a subordinate amount of time between the Romanticism movement and the conception of Hauntology, there is a distinct convergence of concepts as through absence we derive definitions of past. Sophie Thomas writes of the affiliations of ruins in Romanticism and how in their “state of decay, ruins signify loss and absence”, furthermore “a visible evocation of the invisible, the appearance of disappearance.”[30]Fisher denotes the extent to which “cultural artifacts” in the form of music “can historicize the human condition”[31]as audio ruins an “absent whole.”[32]The caretaker has appropriated Eddie Higgins’ 1934 hitYou and the Nightand the Music and represented it with a patina of an embellished state of deterioration and distortion. Linking back to a Vaporwave idiosyncrasy, due to the levels of decay and dissonance each segment of the orchestra is isolated to a layer of its own presenting as a relic rather than a unified body of noise.You and the Nightdiffers from Blank Banshee as its appropriation predates the vitality of capitalism in the 80s and instead samples from the 1930’s, where the Industrial revolution and turbulent international relations were yet to meet the capitalism Francis Fukuyama called “the endpoint of history that would replace human conflict with universal peace.”[33]This notion is evident in melodramatic undulations in dynamics as the persistent adjusting between disturbed diminuendos and climactic crescendos prevails a volatility to the past before “accepting of contemporary capitalism as the only viable social structure.”[34]Apex of discomfort when the orchestra plays in a unison vivace, yet instead of playing in a congenial harmony the decaying layers play in disillusioning quartertones. The vocals are then discerningly doubled, a low voice more representational of the original track yet is still acutely diluted, the doubled voice at a higher pitch, filtered through an alienesque, digitised tremolo multiple octaves higher. This digitised doubling in an almost extraterrestrial tone depicts a duplicity to the past, acting as a fissure to an alternative future to contemporary capitalism. The Caretaker’sYou and the Nighthas employed the “technological advances and special effects”[35]of Vaporwave and the conceptual preface of Romantic ruins to recreate visions of the past and offer insight into Lost Futures.

Through imbuing connotations of Involuntary memory with Derrida’s definition of Hauntology,Grimes’Oblivion, Blank Banshee’sTeenage Pregnancyand the Caretaker’sYou and the Nightinvestigate the resurfacing and rupturing of past trauma into the present tense. Each artist conveys the spectrality of trauma and its recurrent Hauntological embodiment which pervades into the present. The three songs concurrently apply the musical genre of Vaporwave to elucidate contemporary nostalgia for the vitality of the consumerist contingencies of capitalism in the 80s/90s. The three pieces interrogate the cyclic idealisation of Capitalist Realism and the Lost Futures as a result of this societal sedentary.

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