#humans are an incomprehensible mass of things and anyway who says | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

astermacguffin · 3 years

Text

What if the Mark of Cain manifests differently when it's imprisoning God and not the Darkness? If the Darkness makes the Mark bearer go insane with unbridled want for destruction, then what does sealing God make you do?

An obsessive desire for creation? Creation to the point of corruption? (Think of the Shimmer from the film Annihilation. Continuous reproduction to the point of begetting alien, cancer-like entities. A refracted, distorted notion of creation.)

Okay, so canon divergence from The Trap. They successfully seal away Chuck, then Castiel bears the Mark. (Jack won't be back until later episodes, so he's not here yet.)

At first, they think he's fine. Cas says he's not feeling any bloodlust just yet. (He does feel a certain itch under his skin. Not a desire to murder, but a desire to do...something. He doesn't tell this to anyone.)

His grace is getting stronger, almost archangel-like (if not more). It's incredibly helpful for hunts, and Cas is happy to feel his wings healthy again after a long time. Sam is happy for him, but Dean is suspicious of things (especially since he's a previous Mark bearer).

After a while, Cas starts feeling...burdened, almost bloated by grace. (After all, he does have access to an infinite supply of it.) He needs to have an outlet for it.

Cas tells them so and Sam suggests healing people. Dean gives the green light on the condition that he remains invisible and he doesn't go Godstiel on them again.

It's a great outlet, and for the first few weeks they start feeling normal again. But unfortunately, healing stops being enough to relieve Cas of his excess grace anymore. The mass healings start to pile up all across the globe and it catches everyone's attention. Some think it's a blessed miracle, some think it's a sign of the end times. They make him slow down on the healings after that.

Without an outlet, however, Cas starts feeling antsy and pained. They brainstorm on possible alternatives. Cas suggests going to Heaven and saving it from collapse by healing his brethren's wings and creating more angels out of consenting souls in Heaven.

He explains Heaven's endangered and dwindling numbers. Sam agrees that it would hit two birds in one stone: relieve Cas from excess grace and prevent the extinction of angels. Dean doesn't like the idea of more winged dicks so he shoots down the idea. Eileen says that since Cas is the one in pain, he should be the one to decide.

Ultimately, Cas defers to Dean's judgment (as always). Sam protests, arguing that he can't just shoulder that pain. Cas replies: "I've suffered worse, Sam."

Cas doesn't complain about the pain for about a week, so for a while, everyone believes him when he said he can shoulder the pain. One day, Dean finds him outside the bunker, groaning in pain as he bleeds himself out, his grace pouring into the ground and sprouting plants. Dean sees this and is finally convinced to allow Cas to make more angels.

What follows then is a series of escalating events:

While Sam and Eileen are practicing their witchcraft for spell they need in a hunt, Cas suggests to enhance Sam's physical and magical abilities using his grace. "It will make the process faster and safer," he reasons. He agrees, but Dean eyes this suspiciously.

During one of their hunts, they encounter a young and freshly-turned vampire. The boy begs them not to kill him, and Cas gives him a proposal. "Promise not to feed on humans ever again and I shall cure you of your hungers and your pains. Pledge your allegiance to me and you shall never be afraid of yourself ever again." The boy agrees, and before Dean could even protest, Cas slices his palm and feeds the vampire his grace.

They argue about the grace-feeding in the Impala. Dean notices Sam's pointed lack of complaints and figures it out. "You're in on this, aren't you? How long has Cas been doing this? He's going Michael behind our backs and you're letting him?"

Sam argues that it's different because Cas isn't making super monsters; he's making them less "monstrous" (whatever that means). Sam's obsession with his own "purity" is key to understanding him here.

One time, Dean catches Cas in his "garden" ("forest" seems more apt with how lush the greens already are) creating butterflies and bees out of thin air using his grace alone.

Reports of the miraculously healed people suddenly gaining new abilities like increased strength, heightened senses, and prophecy start popping up. Some are experiencing phantom limbs, talking about their sprouting "wings."

Sam is becoming addicted to Cas' grace to the point that he willingly lets himself be hurt in hunts just so Cas can cure him. Dean confronts him about this, but Sam just argues that he's "never felt this pure before." Eileenn shares the same concern as Dean.

Hunts are becoming less frequent the more monsters are being "cleansed" by Cas. The world is becoming disconcertingly quiet.

Cas' "garden" is starting to emit this strange aura. The plants and creatures growing inside it are starting to look more...alien.

One of the original angels goes to Dean and tells him of Heaven's affairs. The Host is stable again, but the angels he created are...not exactly angels. They're graced up and they sustain Heaven, but their true forms are "horrifying and incomprehensible, even to an angel." The angel adds that more than 60% of Earth's creatures have already been touched by Cas' grace.

The final nail in the coffin is when Dean catches Cas in the garden fiddling with his angel blade. It's emitting a strange glow, vibrating a subtle hum and looking as if it's liquid, flowing and distorting here and there.

Dean asks him what he's holding. "Oh, this?" Cas responds. "This is the Last Blade. Last, not in terms of time but in concept, for no other blade shall ever compare to it. The spark of creation. Fiat lux."

Dean's heart sinks. Of course. The First and the Last, Alpha and Omega. "Cas...the Mark, I think i-it's scrambling your brain, man."

"I know," he replies, eyes wet and apologetic. It's a small moment of lucidity amidst weeks and months of...whatever that was.

"Okay, okay, so you're still you, that's... that's good. Okay." Dean doesn't know how to approach this. Give him a fight and he'll know what to do, but this? Watching his best friend, the love of his life, be distorted into something incomprehensible? Yeah, this is totally beyond him.

"You know, I used to hate Chuck," Cas says. "How could the Father of All Creation be this angry, petulant child? But," he continues, "knowing what I know now, it's either regressing into a petty child or being reduced to insanity."

"Cas...what are you talking about, man?"

"No mind should bear this burden, Dean. No matter how infinite they are," he says, voice trembling in exhaustion.

(more below the cut)

He continues. "The awareness of everything is the awareness of nothing at all. Imagine perceiving every possible piece of information about the world all at once. Seeing light in all its forms all at once: ultraviolet, infrared, etc. Sensing all the neutrinos zip by, sensing gravitational waves, sensing the slighest bit of seismic activity."

Dean doesn't know how to respond, so he lets him go on.

"Knowledge can only ever be a slice of the Totality of Truth. Truth is absolute chaos, and Knowledge is the partial ordering of this chaos. One can sanely approach Truth only through organized paritions of Totality. Why do you think Chuck is so obsessed with stories? Stories are linear and finite; they're sensible snippets of the endless sea of possible worlds."

"So, what? Are you trying to—"

"I'm not trying to justify Chuck's actions, Dean," he interrupts. "I just want to contextualize them. Chuck's simplistic and repetitive narratives are what they are: manifestations of a chaotic Totality, gone insane trying to understand itself. Looking for simple things to hold on to."

Cas takes a deep breath. He speaks with a shaky voice. "I'm barely holding myself together, Dean. I can feel the universe beneath my skin."

He doesn't know what possesses him to ask, but he does it anyway. "What are you holding on to?"

Cas smiles at that. "You."

They stare at each other for a while, frozen where they stand. Cas, with unrestrained affection in his face. Dean, struck by shock and indecision. It's Cas who first breaks the silence.

"I think we both know what needs to be done, while I'm still lucid enough." Cas slices his palm and lets his blood drip down the soil. He then thrusts the Last Blade into the ground, lifting it when the soil glows.

Dean stared in awe as the ground erupts and a familiar shape rises from the hollow. "Is that.."

"The Ma'Lak box, yes. I also enhanced it with the Blade to be able to house things as powerful as me."

"Cas, wait, maybe we can think of another way to—"

"Dean," he says, calmly. "You know there's no other way. I wouldn't ask this of you if there was."

In any other scenario, Dean would've kept arguing, but even he knows that they're running out of time. Sam's grace addiction is getting worse and all the creatures touched by Cas' grace are slowly mutating into eldritch horrors. Dean offers a shaky nod. "Okay."

Tension visibly releases from Cas' body. "Thank you, Dean." He opens the box and enters it with ease. "When you lock this, bury me with the garden's graced soil. Once I'm under, my influence over the world should dampen."

Dean gives a wordless nod. For a while, they just stared at each other, Cas lying down and Dean trying to memorize every inch of his face while he can.

Cas presses his hand into Dean's left shoulder where his mark used to dwell. "My untainted grace," he whisper gently. "Some of it is still inside you. That's probably why you're not as affected by me."

Dean wants to say, I'll always be affected by you, but he holds himself back.

He takes his hand back, a bloody handprint now on Dean's jacket. "I love you, Dean," he says, breathless.

"Cas..."

"I probably would've built up to that if we had more time but," he makes a surprised laugh, "I am, as you would say, already 'losing my marbles', so."

The air quotes would've been funny and endearing in any other scenario, but it just makes Dean's vision blur up with tears.

"Thank you for everything, Dean. I know we've done nothing but repeatedly hurt each other these past few years, but I don't want to spend a deathless eternity with that as my memory of you. I forgive you, even for the things you haven't forgiven yourself for yet. And I'm sorry for everything, especially for ending things like this."

He should probably wipe away his tears to clear his vision, but Dean can do nothing but stare at Cas in awe, in fear, in grief, in reverence. They're both fully crying now.

"Goodbye, Dean."

"Wait, Cas."

Cas looks at him, waiting.

"Can you...can you say it again?"

He doesn't need to clarify what 'it' means. They both know.

With one last mournful smile, Cas says: "I love you, Dean."

And with that, Dean finally gathers all the strength he needs to shut the lid and lock the box. He stares at it for a while, unblinking. He forgot to ask, Can you hear my prayers down there? But it's too late now to ask.

The box automatically lowers itself into the hole it arose from. Now all that's left to do is to cover it again with soil.

Dean doesn't bother with a shovel. He gently buries the box with his hands deep in the soil, some of it getting trapped under his nails. He continues the mindless task, whispering a tireless series of I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I hope you're okay I'm sorry, over and over between his quiet sobs. Cas is quiet inside the box. No screaming or crying. Dean doesn't know if that's better or worse.

When the final clump of soil is pressed into the mound, he suddenly feels it: a visceral shift that echoes throughout the world. The alien glimmer of the garden dims, and the world corrects its axis. Dean screams his agony into the air.

That's how Sam finds him: sprawled over a mound of soil, crying his heart out. Dean doesn't need to say anything: he knows what happened. He pulls his brother off the ground and brings him inside the bunker.

For the first two weeks, Dean cycles through drinking and passing out in various places in the bunker. If he's not wearing the jacket, he's holding it with close to him. Sam gives him a considerable space to grieve while he monitors the world grace problem with Eileen. The grace mutations have significantly dropped since then and everyone's going back to normal.

Unfortunately, that means monsters are getting hungry again. Sam doesn't want to leave his brother alone after going nonverbal with grief and dysfunctional due to alcohol. Eileen assures him that she can handle hunts on their own and that the hunter network that they're building will lessen the workload.

Sam's attempts to sober Dean up finally work, mostly due to the latter having very little strength to protest. Dean remains sober an entire day for the first time in weeks, and all he can think about is: I haven't prayed to Cas in a while. The longing might have reached him, but never a coherent prayer.

The first time he goes out of the bunker in a while, he heads straight to Cas' garden. Sam's glad that he's finally going out because "the sun is good for you" or something, but he's really only here for Cas. He kneels in front of the burial mound (where a patch of an unknown species of flowers is already growing).

The first prayer he says to him in a while is: I love you, Cas. I should've said it while you were still here. Not saying it out loud and just strongly thinking about the words somehow bolsters him to get the words through.

He's crying again, and he knows he's losing coherency. In his mind, he's explaining about his hangups and his regrets and his continuous denial of his own joy, but one constant remains: he's beaming all his love and affection into this prayer.

He's halfway through explaining all the traits that he finds endearing in Cas when suddenly, he feels it like a snap. If the glimmer dimmed when he buried Cas, now it's as if it was never there in the first place. With an unsettling amount of certainty, Dean just knows that Cas is gone. For real, this time.

"C-cas...?" It's the first thing he's said in a while and it sounds rough in his long unused voice.

"CAS! CAS!!! " He's now screaming, ripping away the flowerbed with his bare hands and scratching the soil away. Tears are obstructing his vision, but he has no time to wipe them away. He needs to make sure that is really gone. His hands are bleeding and he doesn't give a damn.

Eventually, Sam comes running towards him. "Dean! Dean, stop!"

He tries to hold his brother back, but Dean just keeps on clawing away soil. "Sammy, Sammy he's gone, he's not there anymore, Sammy I have to see, please, let me see Cas again, I need—" he breaks into sobs again, and like a puppet with its strings cut off, he slumps into Sam.

"Dean, it's okay, it's okay..." he says softly to his shaking brother.

Eventually, when Dean calms down, he looks at the carnage he's done and starts sobbing again. The flowers, his last evidence of Cas being here, are all destroyed. Now Cas truly is gone.

. . .

When Cas first heard Dean's confession prayer, he was overcome with joy. When he realized what that means, however, his stomach suddenly sinks.

He hears before he sees the Empty arrive, slithering like black goo.

"Wow, were you excited enough for eternal slumber that you wanted a preview?" The Shadow teases in Meg's voice.

At first, he was dreading the Empty, but now that he thinks of it, it's actually the perfect prison for him: a vast, endless nothingness for him to fill with his creations.

And if Jack wasn't in Heaven, that only means that he's in the Empty, and he can't wait to see his son again. Even when blinded by the madness of the universe, he can never forget the joy of being a father.

"Yes," he replies, "I'm actually glad you're here now."

. . .

Somewhere around the globe, Billie drops Jack back.

"Don't worry, kid. You'l reunite with your father very soon."

(to be continued)

#spn #destiel #supernatural #aster writes #destiel fic #long post #im totally obsessed with moc!cas #moc!cas

475 notes · View notes

hyenahunt · 3 years

Text

Conquest - Prologue

Writer: Akira

Season: Spring

Proofreading: royalquintet (JP & ENG)

Translation: hyenahunt

Hiyori: But the problem is, we're not enemies at all. We're allies, aren't we?

[Location: ES Breakroom]

[One day in late spring...]

Hiyori: "Eden Breaks Up?! The decisive battle fans have all been waiting for: Adam VS Eve —"

—Or so says this ridiculous performance plan I just received over HoldHands.

I'd greatly appreciate a detailed explanation of just what is going on. Depending on your answer, chances are I won't let you off.

Nagisa: ...Wow, Hiyori-kun, your expression is frightening.

Ibara: Aye-aye! Allow me to offer you an explanation. After all, it is my job to see to it that this incomprehensible world is dissected, cooked up and arranged for serving.

That being said, however, this appetising proposal came from the higher-ups themselves, and as such I myself am not too clear on how it came to be.

All the same, I do have some grasp of the overall outline.

Nagisa: ...I had no idea about this. While I did receive it on HoldHands, I leave all administrative matters to Ibara.

Hiyori: Nagisa-kun, you're pretty much the leader of both Eden and Adam, aren't you?

I do feel it would be for the best if you managed such things yourself, but well, everyone has their individual strengths and weaknesses, I suppose?

Nagisa: ...Yes. I'd rather not concern myself with the everyday world. It's troublesome.

...And having Ibara look over it results in a more accurate understanding. He's the right person for this.

Ibara: Ahahaha! Receiving such praise and trust from you is truly an honour, Your Excellency!

Nagisa: ...I simply state the truth. By the way, Jun, did you know about this proposal?

Jun: Ugh, please don't drag me into this, Nagi-senpai. Ohii-san's been in such a crazy awful mood all morning and I wanna have nothing to do with it, y'know~?

In situations like these, I'm the one who usually ends up as his stress outlet, after all —

But whatever, I guess. What'd that proposal say again...?

It sounds like something only the unit leaders receive, so there's no way an underling like myself would know anything about it, yeah~?

Nagisa: ...Ahh, it does seem like that's how it works.

...It's set up so that all messages I receive are immediately forwarded to Ibara, so it doesn't concern me, though.

Hiyori: Nagisa-kun, are you alright with that?

If you leave every little thing to Ibara like that — or grow dependent on him, I should say—then aren't you going to have trouble living on if he randomly drops dead one day?

Ibara: Worry not! I won't be dying any time soon — I cannot allow myself to die when we've gotten this far already!

Hiyori: Well, even if Ibara does kick the bucket, I can look after Nagisa-kun like how I used to so everything will be just fine.

Ibara: Indeed, should such a situation ever arise, I will leave him in Your Highness' capable hands.

...Anyway, to return to the topic at hand, I do believe the current proposal isn't completely devoid of points worth considering.

Hiyori: ... In what way, may I ask?

Jun: (Woah. Ohii-san's face is seeeriously scary as hell right now. He's usually all silly laughs and smiles, so when he's got a serious face on you know shit's gonna go down.)

(This time he seems kinda actually really upset about things, huh?)

Ibara: Right. Firstly, it is essential to note that this proposal is by the restructured top brass of CosPro, after the majority of its executives were fired due to the scandal at the end of last year.

They're all most eager to repair their damaged reputations — money is no object in their quest to prove their innocence and competence.

So in short, they intend to create something of great extravagance with this proposal. They'll pull out all the stops, no matter what it takes.

And since this comes right on the heels of the scandal, even the higher-ups will be careful not to attempt anything dubious behind the scenes — so everything should be safe.

Nagisa: ...Well, true fools tend to repeat the same mistakes over and over, though.

Ibara: All the same, it's common knowledge that after the last scandal, we as Eden collectively denounced and drove out the top brass.

Taking that into account, the fact that they've put out a proposal means that they're prepared to face such a situation once more.

This is a proposal of great importance—one that puts their lives on the line, if you will.

At the same time, if we were to reject this proposal, which is composed of the desperate desires of these higher-ups, they'll simply shrink away and believe anything they do or say will be pointless.

I'd greatly prefer to have some clumsy fools bumbling about their jobs rather than frightened figureheads cowering in a corner.

To be frozen in place is no different from being dead, after all. And corpses certainly can't be mobilised for war.

Simultaneously, always saying anything and everything is out of the question will never allow for growth in us humans.

...Well, such overprotective and motherly behavior seems to be a favorite of His Highness Hiyori.

Hiyori: ...In what sense? I certainly feel as though you're mocking me right now, you know?

Ibara: Of course not, I would never do such a thing... It is but a misunderstanding.

But in any case, for the sake of the top brass gaining experience, and to grant them that sense of self-confidence and achievement, I would dearly like for us to accept their proposal.

Nagisa: ...It's actually an interesting proposal, too.

...A confrontation between Adam and Eve... I've never considered such a thing before.

Jun: Well, it kinda feels like something guys would be pretty into. It's almost like pro-wrestling.

Seeing who'd win if Adam and Eve faced off... that might really catch our fans' interest, actually~

Hiyori: Ngh... A lion is still the king of beasts even if he doesn't go around proclaiming it, right?

Ibara: Certainly. That being said, a performance is essential in allowing the masses to actually understand this, as they are rather slow on the uptake.

And it is for that purpose that we now have this current plan: "Conquest".

For us of Eden, who were regrettably only the runner-ups for the idol world's greatest festival, Winter Live, at the end of last year...

Perhaps it's a rather ambitious event, to try and realise that domination that once slipped through our grasp —

That world domination, thwarted by Trickstar, or rather obstructed by traitors within our own camp.

Now is the time to see it through — that, I feel, is the current sentiment borne by the higher-ups of CosPro.

Conquer all, and we shall seize the world within our hands.

Hiyori: Well, in all honesty, I do have faint regrets that we weren't able to conquer the nation at the end of last year.

But we'd still be able to make the world ours just by doing things as we always have. Why make a show out of something so unsightly as an internal quarrel—

Ibara: That's not the case. ES has now been established, and in this new era of oligarchy between the four agencies, it'll prove difficult to stand out if we simply go about our days without aim.

If we are to use a single showpiece to launch ourselves to the top, then it is essential for it to be explosive in nature.

In that sense, I believe Conquest is the ideal plan for it. Since the earliest times, people have always been drawn to showdowns of destiny, after all.

Such as Holmes and Moriarty, Godzilla and King Ghidora, Goku and Vegeta... Would you understand those examples, Your Highness?

Jun: Oh, I totally get you.

Ibara: Good. Let's see... it would be something akin to the War of the Roses — does that make sense?

Hiyori: Mm... I can't deny that a showdown between age-old enemies would be exciting, of course.

But the problem is, we're not enemies at all. We're allies, aren't we?

No... I consider Eden a family, but am I the only one who feels that way?

Nagisa: ......

✦✦✦✦✦

✦ all ✦ next →

#hiyori tomoe #jun sazanami #nagisa ran #ibara saegusa #enstars #ensemble stars #enstars translation #type: event #s: conquest #era: !!#status: complete #hyenahunttl

52 notes · View notes

sylvie--laufeydottir · 3 years

Text

an obligatory analysis of sylvie’s character (aka: who betrayed who?)

in case you can’t tell, i like sylvie. but here’s a big fuckin post where i share my thoughts on her role in the finale in a sort of disjointed kind of way.

NOTE: this isn’t about sylki. i don’t ship it personally, but that isn’t really relevant to this at all. this also doesn’t go into the criticisms i have of the show because this isn’t really the place for that. maybe i can do that later, whatever.

also, this is gonna be a long post. i have a lot of thoughts.

sylvie’s introduction and motivations

one of the first things we learn about sylvie is her opposition to the tva. (okay, it’s literally the first thing, whatever.) in episode 3, we get to see her entire plan - overthrow whoever’s running the tva, and... that’s it. loki questions her about the power vacuum that would leave, to which she shows that she’s not interested in running the tva. (this is also stated in ep 2.) her goals are clear. she wants rid of the entire organisation, and doesn’t care about or want the sort of power that would come with pulling the strings.

her reasoning for this seems pretty simple. she doesn’t want the power ruling the tva would entail because she knows what it’s like to be on the other end of that deal. she had everything taken from her as a child, and doesn’t want that to happen to anybody else. she believes that that kind of power belongs to nobody, not even herself.

this easily establishes her as a character who, despite having an ego, has principles that trump everything else. she’s very dedicated to her cause; the ‘never at the expense of the mission’ line in ep 3 just states it out loud. her entire life has been dedicated to this cause. this is a good time to segue into the next section...

sylvie’s personality, character and flaws

she’s fuckin stabby.

despite only really being present for 4 out of the 6 episodes of the show, we manage to get a pretty good idea of sylvie’s personality right from the start thanks to episode 3 being largely a character study with both her and loki. she’s shown as a very competent and strong character - however, contrary to marvel’s guidebook on writing female characters, those aren’t personality traits. what we actually see of her is that she’s very confident, and has a tendency to be rude or dismissive of other people. episode 3 has a bunch of examples of this, but the easiest one to point to is the fireworks scene. after loki does something nice to cheer her up, something which visibly works, her response is to waive it away as ‘not bad’.

her coldness in this scene even after bonding with loki is likely due to her upbringing. sylvie spent the majority of her life, including her childhood, on the run, unable to form relationships with people who weren’t moments away from dying. it feels a bit redundant for me to point this out, but this is, as they say in the medical field, mega fucking traumatic. not only did sylvie not have the opportunity to form these kinds of connections, she couldn’t even develop the ability to form them. loki is a bandaid to cover a bullet hole in this regard, one she needs years to heal from. while she does bond with him to an extent, she is physically unable to trust him to the point where they can be considered close.

another thing we learn about sylvie is that she’s very violent - and that she enjoys it. being a character that grew up running from an organisation that wanted her dead, it makes sense for her first instinct to be confrontational. however, despite having to fight to survive, she visibly takes pleasure from fighting. this was brought up in an interview with sophia (that i am not going to link here, because tumblr is kind of a hellsite and i’m not in the mood for that today). here’s a nice extract instead.

“She's not trained like Loki is,” Di Martino continues. “She can't do some of the flourishes that he would, but she's figured out how to brawl. She's a street fighter and she loves it. That was a really great key to unlocking part of Sylvie for me, was how much she just loves a fight. She knows that she's either going to win, or if she isn't going to win, she'll survive. She's that damaged character who's dangerous because she knows she can survive.”

her tendency towards violence is actually a key part of sylvie’s character. this works as both a strength and a flaw. on the one hand, she’s able to survive scrapes most other characters wouldn’t, and she knows that. she’s not one to freeze in most (note: most) scenarios, because she knows what to expect. on the other hand, violence isn’t always the answer, and she’s very unlikely to consider any other option than a fight.

her enchantment abilities tie into this - they’re another weapon for her to use, and one she’s not afraid to call on. however, her eagerness to enchant people without hesitation puts her in a pretty bad place morally. her enchantment clearly leaves hunter c-20 traumatised, and yet she’s more than willing to enchant people for the sake of the mission. she’s also relatively dismissive of human sentient lives. an early example of this is in episode 2, where loki asks her if the person she had enchanted was dead, to which she responds with a casual ‘they usually survive’. additionally, she’s more than willing to fight the guards on the train in episode 3, despite them seeing her as a threat for completely understandable reasons.

in the case of the guards, her reasoning for placing such little value on their lives is likely that they’re about to die anyways. everyone on lamentis is doomed, so from her point of view, whether they die at her hands or at the hands of the moon from majora’s mask isn’t really important. however, c-20 is a different story. sylvie places next to no value on the lives of the tva’s workers, content to slaughter them en masse for the sake of her goal. this is despite her knowing that every one of the tva workers is a variant plucked from the sacred timeline. this sets up a weird sort of transactional nature in how sylvie views other people - to her, they’re less important than the mission, and she doesn’t hesitate to eliminate threats.

was this a long section? this was a long section. i would like to call back to the fact that this is not a sylki post for this next part. and also to praise anyone that got this far, because fucking hell, is this excessively long or what? who would have the time to write this out?

sylvie’s bond with loki

i want to go back to that whole thing about her relationship with loki. he’s the first person she’s really spoken to since she was a child who isn’t about to face imminent death. furthermore, despite their differences, they have quite a lot in common - enough to hit it off surprising well for two people who kind of want to kill each other. they’re able to relate on common ground like frigga, and even though they clash due to loki’s initial carelessness, they’re overall able to get along well enough aside from occasional bickering. the blanket scene from episode 5 is probably the best example of this. sylvie allows herself, albeit briefly, to be vulnerable around loki.

except, not really. one of the first things she does is tries to ensure he won’t betray her. i’ve seen somebody cite this before as proof that her fondness towards him isn’t real, and that she was planning on betraying him from the start, hence why it was on her mind. that’s definitely possible, but i think it’s far more likely that it’s just her difficulties connecting to people stopping her from feeling safe around him even as they share a nice moment. she really does seem to care about loki - an easy example of this is her asking how he is during episode 4 without being prompted. she’s just unable to properly process these kinds of feelings due to an incomprehensible amount of trauma. as loki puts it, she can’t trust.

and loki can’t be trusted. she knows - or at least, thinks she knows - his nature as a trickster and a villain. loki embodies a part of sylvie that she considers herself completely separate from; the tva-approved liar whose purpose is to bring out the best in others. while she does show him more decency than to treat him like that, at the end of the day, he represents something that makes her deeply uncomfortable, hence her rejection of the loki name. despite what they have in common, loki is an incredibly difficult person to trust, especially for somebody who has deep-rooted trust issues. so, this brings us onto...

who betrayed who?

so, sylvie and loki make it to kang’s castle. after all this time, she’s finally about to reach her life’s goal. she’s clearly nervous - this is out of her comfort zone, unlike most fights. loki reassures her, and they head in. they meet kang, learn the true nature of the tva, have the opportunity to kill him...

and loki stops her.

loki’s motivations are left ambiguous. the uncharitable interpretation is that he wants to rule the tva for himself, as per kang’s offer. he’s expressed such an interest to sylvie before. for the loki we know in avengers 1, this seems perfectly in character.

however, for the loki we’ve seen in the show, there’s a different option. he believes kang’s threat that there are multiple of him, and that killing him won’t solve anything. to him, he isn’t willing to risk unknown horrors for the sake of taking his revenge out on kang. this is the loki who offered diplomacy and guile to counteract sylvie’s brute force.

but sylvie, who can’t trust, assumes the worst.

to her, loki was the one who betrayed her. they had a plan - find whoever pulls the strings, and destroy them. to her, loki’s hesitation isn’t caution, but treachery. taking kang’s offer to rule the tva is exactly what she thinks she should’ve expected from the guy who hurts everybody who loves him. her fight or flight responses kick in, and she chooses the one she always chooses. loki’s attempts to reassure her fall on deaf ears, not just because she doesn’t want to trust him, but because she’s physically incapable of it. she makes the short-sighted decision of brute force, just like she did back on lamentis, because it’s all she’s ever known, and the cause she’s dedicated her life to.

from the outside, it looks like sylvie was the one who betrayed loki, but things look pretty different from where she’s standing.

this is why i take issue with people calling sylvie a ‘villain’ or questioning whether this was her plan for the start. in my opinion, her motivations line up pretty clearly as a creature of habit, one who panics at the first hint of smoke and pushes away the first person she’s been able to bond with for the sake of self-preservation. did she make the wrong decision? unquestionably - the effects of her actions will no doubt plague the multiverse (and the mcu, for us) for as long as they go unchecked. but she made the only decision she was capable of making, and that’s not villainous, just tragic.

conclusion

well, this is a kind of depressing way to finish this post. for what it’s worth, though, i don’t think sylvie is a doomed character. regardless of how brief it was, she did show a real connection with loki. just because something requires a lot of healing doesn’t make it impossible. this is why i like sylvie as a character so much; she’s deeply flawed and complex, but that complexity makes her interesting, and relatable. marvel has a long history of sexy lamps and supposed ‘tortured backstories’, but sylvie is the first time they paid attention to this with their character writing without having to give somebody a wholeass prequel movie. with loki confirmed to appear in multiverse of madness, i’m hoping we see more of sylvie - not as a villain, but as a hero who can overcome her past experiences and rise to better things.

or maybe another kang shows up and kills her immediately. who knows.

#sylvie #sylvie laufeydottir #loki #loki theory #loki analysis #loki series #long post #like really fucking long #i’m so sorry for this #not a gif

46 notes · View notes

jaz-xedarix · 3 years

Text

The Return of the Star

So here we are. Finally after sooo many years of hiatus, I am able to go back to the action by translating this amazing work from our beloved Mr. Yoshida.

I want to thank to the proof readers that helped me checking this English version. As you know, English is not my mother tongue and plus it is not perfect at all, less in this late times that I haven’t talk at all with English speakers as before, as you see I manage to comunicate with you quite well but it is different when one need to comunicate someone else’s ideas XD So there might be some little mistakes in this text, feel free to tell me if there’s something wrong with it.

As for some words, one of them that is still making some noise in my head is “Hansom”. Usually I use google translate to help me with the job and usually it gives me some words that I have never seen before and that’s why I depend on you guys to help me correct XD So mr.G.Translate said “hansom” is “a two-wheeled horse-drawn carriage accommodating two inside, with the driver seated behind.”. And you can find this word a couple of times in this text, and reading the novel I think this is the best word for it, if there’s another word for it, please tell me.

Maybe this is the only word I had trouble with. Anyways I hope you enjoy this as I did translating this for you guys.

Thanks so much to Buffalo Borgine and Lamy for helping me correcting the text. ❤ Part II is in process, so wait for it soon ❤ So, with no more to say, here it is:

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

And I have given to them

knowledge of your name, and will give it,

so that the love which you have for me

may be in them and I in them.

JOHN 17.26

“Aaahh, I can't take it anymore!”

“Why are you whining again, father?” Esther Blanchett asked, in an annoyed tone to her companion, who was putting on a face like a man condemned to death.

Surrounded by the steam from the train, halfway down the ladder, she turned her slightly tanned face towards her interlocutor.

“Don't waste your time and come down immediately. If you stay there, you will disturb the other passengers.”

“Esther... couldn't it be possible for me to go straight back on this train?”

The evening light that was filtering through the stained-glass ceiling of the international arrivals platform had a reddish hue. In the wintry air, hard as a witch's kiss, the station passengers and employees moved busily.

The one who continued to complain stubbornly was the tall priest with the rebellious silver hair who accompanied Esther. If he had been quiet, it could be said that he was attractive, but he did not leave his miserable expression as he descended from the train with a suitcase in each hand.

“What is this so urgent that the Cardinal wants? If it's a report, we could have done it in Rome. Coming just here... I have very bad omens. I know something horrible will happen to me again.”

“Father, isn't it a common thing for Her Eminence to scold you? I thought you were used to it.”

Father Abel Nightroad nodded, still murmuring as Esther shook her long red hair theatrically. After a year of working together, she had already learned that there was no point in reasoning with this complainer. Lifting her suitcase with both hands, the nun started down the platform, expressionless.

The international arrivals area was packed with people. The participants of the ceremony that was to be held three days later must have been arriving. All the travelers carried large suitcases, and the air was filled with incomprehensible conversation. In the midst of the confusion, the nun began with a steady pace...

“Ahhh...!”

Feeling the night air in her lungs, Esther heaved a little sigh. As if finally realizing where she was, she stopped dead and looked out of one of the station windows.

“Sure... I'm back...”

The landscape that unfolded before her eyes was not that of Rome, where she has spent the year before. It was neither the one in Byzantium, where they had been until a few days ago, nor the one in Skopje, where they had stopped that day. The city surrounded by gentle hills and crossed by a meandering river was certainly like Byzantium or Rome. However, the twisted capitals and ceramic tiles gave the panorama a personality of its own, it was the landscape that had surrounded Esther for as long as she could remember.

The city of Istvan, protectorate of the Vatican.

It was the easternmost of the cities controlled by mankind… and the place where Esther had grown up.

“Nothing has changed... nothing...”

Facing the city that she saw again a year later, Esther heaved another sigh.

She had changed a lot, but her city remained the same. The running of the Danube, the cracks in the cobblestones... The sweet evening light embraced the same landscape that Esther had left back a year before.

However, even if you thought your city was still the same, could you feel at ease? There she had sad and painful experiences, the memory of which made her suffer. Maybe that was inevitable when one returned to one’s homeland...

“Aaaaah, what did they get me this time?”

The young woman was now absorbed in her warm memories but she came to herself as a rumbling voice rose like coming from the depths of Hell. Annoyed, she turned, and was met by a long figure who was sighing wistfully. The spectacled priest stroked his hair like a bad actor of tragedy who wanted to convey the idea of bearing all the pain in the world.

“Have they heard that I've set up a garden at the seminary? Or have they discovered those peaks that I added to the invoices...? Aaaah, Lord, protect your servant! Can't get them to turn a blind eye?”

“I have the feeling that before you became religious you were already a failure as a human being...”

Lord! That she could not even have a moment of peace being with that companion! Esther sighed deeply, feeling sorry for herself. Come to think of it, it was precisely in that place where she had seen the father for the first time, a year ago. That meeting had been the beginning of the person she had become. Under normal circumstances, it would be a very important memory. Why was she unable to get excited?

“But the truth is that you have some reason, father…” Esther continued speaking, being careful not to meet her eyes with her companion’s. “Why did Her Eminence make us come to Istvan? Even if they do the ceremony for the fallen, we don't have to attend ourselves… Do she want to hear the report about the Empire as soon as possible?”

“If that's just it, we'll be in luck... To get back to Rome from Skopje, going through here doesn't mean much of a change in route in terms of distance either. But the Cardinal does not like to change plans. That she had given a counter order is extremely rare... Aaaah, they must have caught me on something!”

At the surprised look of the nun, the priest squatted and clutched his head.

Two days before, once their mission was completed in Byzantium, they had reached Skopje, capital of the Marquisate of Macedonia. According to the original instructions, from there they were to take the road that go straight to west, to Rome. However, he had received an encrypted message ordering them to change their plans: «Instead of going back to Rome, go to Istvan to participate in the ceremony for the fallen. Report your mission when we meet».

The ceremony to which the message referred was in honor of the fallen in the battle of Istvan the previous year. It was promoted by the Archbishop of the city, the Vatican's Public Relations Minister, Antonio Borgia, and Pope Alessandro himself were going to be present. As Secretary of State, Cardinal Caterina Sforza was also going to participate, and that is why she was in the city at the time. In that regard, meeting in Istvan to present the mission report made sense.

What Esther did not understand was something else...

«Participate in the ceremony for the fallen.» Why had she explicitly summoned them to participate in the ceremony? Those who organized it were the Archbishopric and the Ministry of Vatican Public Relations. Esther, who worked for the Secretary of State, had nothing to do with them. Could it be that there was a new mission? Telling the truth, it looks a little strange

“Well, the easiest thing will be to ask the Duchess of Milan directly… Hurry, father.”

The agglomeration was considerable. If they didn't hurry out of the station and take a hansom, they would have to walk to the hotel the Secretary of State had reserved for them. To try to avoid it, Esther forcibly lifted her partner. Taking the tickets from the two of them, she headed purposefully toward the checkpoint.

“Staying here raving doesn't help much either. We have to meet with the Cardinal at once and make your report.”

For security reasons, the international arrivals platform was separated from the outside by revolving doors. Esther showed the officer her passport, which identified her as an employee of the Holy See, and quickly went through the doors to go outside. While the priest went through the same process, she turned to look for a hansom.

“Sister Esther!!!”

A brutal, deafening scream rose around her.

At the same time, her eyes were filled with white lights. She didn't even have time to realize that it was the flashes of a multitude of daguerreotypes. The nun turned her face away as a wave of voices washed over her.

“Sister Esther! Finally, you are here! A few statements, please!”

The chorus of voices followed by a crowd of men and women armed with notepads and fountain pens. Dazed by the flashes, Esther couldn't make out their facial expressions, but it didn't seem like those violent voices were directed at her by mistake or that it was all an elaborated joke. Among the mass crowded around the nun and the priest, the flashes continued to shine.

“Eh, eh?”

But what was happening?

Esther was stunned, surrounded by the sparkles.

All those people seemed to be reporters and journalists. Those who carried that heavy tape recorder, were they from the radio? They were of all ages and aspects, but they all wore press passes issued by the Ministry of Vatican Public Relations on their chests. But why would the media be so interested in her?

Stunned by events, Esther could do nothing but stand there. It was then that a laughter rang out behind them.

“Heh, heh, heh! Finally, my time has come! At last, the world recognizes my charisma!”

Abel, who had been just as surprised as she, began to show off with a boastful air, turning so quickly it looked like he was about to break a bone, he offered the cameras the profile he thought suited him best.

“Hello everyooone! As I see that you are so interested, I am going to tell you some secrets about myself. My full name is Abel Nightroad. I am an itinerant priest of the Vatican. I am Virgo and my lucky number is 13. Regarding my career, I am precisely considering writing some memoirs that… Eh !?”

With a cry like a toad, the priest was swallowed up by the mass of journalists who huddled mercilessly. Ignoring his painful moans, the reporters began bombarding Esther with questions, who remained motionless in the center of the crowd.

“Sister Esther, what impressions do you have when you return to your homeland?”

“It's been a year since you finished with Gyula, how do you feel now?”

Screaming echoed through the clicking sound of the flashes. Unconsciously, Esther recoiled from the throng of journalists and cameras.

“What... what do you want?”

When her brain began to function normally again, she realized that the goal of all this was her. But why? What did all those journalists expect of her!? She was just a simple nun!

Esther's questions were immediately answered when a middle-aged journalist, dressed in a dirty coat, showed her a piece of paper.

“Sister Esther, have you had a chance to see the script for this new opera? Do you have any comments about it?”

“Eh... huh...!? I do not have any idea of what is happening... An opera...? What opera!?”

Looking at the paper, Esther stood with her mouth open with the surprise.

It was a flier printed in high quality paper. One couldn't say that the colorful design or the propaganda phrases were the best taste, but whatever. More than that, what stunned Esther was the central illustration.

Against the background of a striking cross, a beautiful nun struck down a man with a sword blow, dressed in aristocratic clothes, the fallen one twisted his monstrous face and showed two long fangs between his lips. And the legend of the drawing said:

«The Star of Sorrow. Next release. Saint Esther and the devil Gyula: An apocalyptic fight!!! ». But what does this mean?!

“It is a commemorative work for the liberation of Istvan, Sister Esther. It represents your fight against the vampire... Didn't you know anything about it?”

The journalists looked at her, puzzled, but Esther didn't realize it. She was not for those things. Squeezing the paper in her hands, she tried to put the chaos of her thoughts in order.

“Saint Esther?”

But where did that come from?!

“Well, it's a very important work...” continued the journalist, with a certain pride in his voice, as if he were the scriptwriter himself. “Not only the casting, but also the production has had the support of the Ministry of Vatican Public Relations. The script was written by the Archbishop of Istvan himself and a budget of one million dinars has been invested. Tonight is the premiere... Ah! Is it for that why you've come today?”

“Eh? Well, no…”

At the question, Esther only had the strength to shake her head.

What was happening before her eyes seemed so unreal that it would be said that she was dreaming it. She wanted to return to her hometown to walk quietly through the streets again, visit the bishop's tomb, go to greet the families of her fellow partisans one by one... As she remembered her plans, a distant noise made her come to her senses.

“Sister Esther Blanchett,” a monotonous voice sounded over the sound of a horn.

Looking for that familiar voice, she saw that, beyond the mass of journalists, there was a car parked. The face staring at her from the driver's seat was one she knew all too well.

“Father Iqus!?”

“The Duchess of Milan has ordered me to come and find you. Get in the vehicle, please” explained Tres Iqus, Ax Gunslinger's agent, with his hands on the wheel. “Ignore the media and present yourself immediately. Those have been the words of her eminence. Get up at once. The Duchess awaits you at the Opera House.”

“Agree!”

What was all the fuss about? And what was the Duchess doing at the Opera House?

She had many questions in mind, but she nodded and followed the instructions she had been given. Her superior's orders were clear and Caterina herself would surely know how to explain something more about that bad taste joke.

“Father Nightroad, get up, we're going!”

“I ... it's my moment... I'm so charismatic...”

Dragging Abel, as if he were another suitcase since he was still semi-conscious, Esther ran with all her might amidst the rain of flashes and questions from journalists. Without turning to the chasing mass, Esther yelled as she approached the car:

“Father Iqus, open the opposite door!”

They had not seen each other for three months, but now was not the time for long greetings.

“Who they're chasing is me… I'll meet you later, but decoy me now, please.”

“Understood. Request fulfilled.”

The short priest did not hesitate for a moment. Probably, thinking about the possible courses of action, his circuits had reached the same conclusion as Esther. Quickly opening the other door, he added:

“Current time: eighteen-zero-zero. The Duchess of Milan is in the Opera House. Head there as soon as you can. I will mislead the media.”

Nodding firmly at the cold but confident voice, Esther let her luggage into the back seat and ran out the other side of the vehicle. Just when she had finished hiding behind some construction materials there, she adjusted the bonnet around her head, the car started.

“Wait, Sister Esther! Some statements!”

The plan worked and the journalists came out in droves after the vehicle that had left behind only the smell of the tires burned. Those who had been so sufficiently farsighted were set up in their own cars, and the other took hansoms. Between the whirlwind of yells and engines, no one noticed the place where the nun had hidden.

“They've already left...”

After checking that everyone had moved away, Esther got up and dusted herself off.

“What did it all mean?” Looking at the flier again, the young woman bit her lip.

«Commemoration of the first anniversary of the liberation of Istvan».

«Saint Esther».

«Devil Gyula.»

Esther crumpled the paper into a ball and put it in her pocket. Those sensational expressions had left a very unpleasant impression on her chest.

She had to speak to the Cardinal as soon as possible. She had to talk to her and hear from her own lips the truth about all this charade...

“Wait, Sister Esther, I still have a question for you”, a hoarse voice stopped her just as she was about to walk.

Turning around, she found a man in a soot-stained coat. It was the same journalist who had given her the flier earlier, so he was the only one who had noticed her ploy.

“I expected no less from the young woman who defeated the Marquis of Hungary. You are very clever. And thanks to that I have my exclusive… Ah, but I haven't even introduced myself. My name is Clement from the Picadilly Gazette in Albion.”

The man handed her a yellowish business card. Although he was smiling politely, he did not miss the opportunity to scan the young nun with his eyes.

“I've told you before that I don't know what you're talking about,” Esther replied, somewhat frightened, instinctively turning her face away from that penetrating gaze. “If you want to know more about the ceremony, I recommend that you go directly to the cathedral, Mr. Clement. I don't know anything...”

“No, no, what interests me is your personal circumstances, sister.”

So the one who smiled slightly mockingly at her on the deserted street was one of those famous paparazzi from the gossip press.

“I've been investigating your family... I know you were abandoned as a child and that the bishop raised you... Vitez, was her name? Therefore, do you not know who your real parents are?”

“I... I know something about my father...”

What right this man have to intrude like this in her private life? Lifting her face decisively, she snapped:

“But I only know he was from Albion. Are we finished with the questions, Mr. Clement? I'm in a hurry. We will talk another time.”

“Well, well, you don't have to be like that either.”

However, the journalist did not seem to be affected by her serious tone. Still smiling, he took a few yellowed sheets from his pocket. They were official documents of the city council, as indicated by the seals with the emblem of the city.

“What do you think this is? It's a copy of your birth certificate, which was filed at the town hall. According to these documents your father was Edward Blanchett, knight bachelor of Albion. The lowest rank of the nobility...”

“But how did you…?!”

Seeing the documents the journalist had, Esther flushed with anger and her breathing began quickening. She stood up to face him and said:

"Give me that! You have no right to snoop there!”

“If you tell me what I want, I will give it to you soon. It costs me a lot of money to get this copy. I cannot give it to you just like that. So... back to what we were talking about...”

Clement laughed, satisfied, as if enjoying the fact that he was once again in charge of the conversation. Waving the paper in the air, like a lure, the journalist continued:

“Well, your father was Edward Blanchett, but do you know what kind of person he was?”

“Didn't I tell you that I don't know anything else about him!?”

“Oh yeah? Well, me neither. And I am not the only one. In fact, absolutely no one knows anything about him. Because the truth is that he never existed…”

“Eh?”

Esther had reached out to grasp the document, but stopped short. She furrowed her eyebrows and stared at the reporter. What did he mean by “never existed”?

As if enjoying his interlocutor's confusion, Clement continued to speak slowly.

“According to our investigations, there is no trace in Albion of an aristocrat named Edward Blanchett. We have examined the noble records, the files of appointments, even the secret documents of the Institute of Heraldry, but there is no trace of anyone named that.”

“Uh... huh... But that...”

Hesitantly, Esther tried to find a way to answer him.

The truth was, she had consciously avoided investigating her father. Because of her work, she wouldn't have had a difficult time if she wanted to know more about him, but she was afraid of what she might find.

However, Clement's words were too impressive to ignore. Had there never been a nobleman named Edward Blanchett?

“Of course, identity theft or falsification of one's own past are not so rare things either. He would not be the first to arrive in the provinces and say that he is an aristocrat from a distant country... But there is one thing that intrigues me: that he used the name Edward Blanchett eighteen years ago...

“??”

It was clear that it was a trap. Even she is aware that the verbiage of her interlocutor was captivating her, Esther tried not to escape. In fact, she even encouraged him to keep talking with a fearful question:

“What puzzles you, Mr. Clement?”

“Well, now is when you and I can do business, sister.”

Seeing that his prey had swallowed the hook, the journalist shook the documents again and continued to speak slowly, showing nicotine-stained teeth.

“Why don't you join me for a moment? It would be better to go to a quiet place, where we can talk without being disturbed by anyone.”

“B... but now I don't have time...”

“Are you not interested in the deal?”

Clement's gaze narrowed like a reptile locating its prey. With a theatrical sigh, he put the document back in his pocket.

“Then there is nothing to do. I will publish the results of my research in my next article. «The secret of the origin of the Saint»... Ah, I'll send you a copy when it comes out. Do I send it here, or better to your office in Rome?”

Esther tensed her face and, instinctively taking her arms to her chest, moaned:

“Are you trying to threaten me!?”

“Ah, I see you have understood perfectly, sister,” replied the journalist, as if enjoying the young woman's reaction. And he added in a threatening tone: “You come with me now and you grant me the exclusive, or your father's secret...?”

“Threatening others using family secrets is not a very respectable hobby, sir.”

The voice that echoed in the twilight was contrasted with Clement's in its serenity. Turning quickly, the veteran journalist encountered a man who was slowly shaking his head.

“And more in the case of an innocent sister like this… Is it that those of your profession don't know the meaning of the word moderation?

“And who are you?”

Looking up, Esther saw the dark shape of a man.

He looked to be in his early thirties. His shapely face and the black Inverness coat that wrapped him were impeccable. Under his dark hair, intelligent black eyes shone through silver glasses.

“I'm sorry I didn't introduce myself. My name is Isaac Butler. I am a steward of one of the aristocratic houses of Londinium.”

The young gentleman lifted his top hat with his cane as he bowed gracefully.

“I did not mean to meddle in your affairs, but I was waiting for someone and by chance I overheard your conversation. Sir… Clement, right? The truth is that I cannot praise your professional ethics too much. Thus violating people's privacy and using it as a tool to threaten others… You should be ashamed.”

“What does it matter to you!?” The journalist snapped, looking at him with hyena eyes, in a tone that sounded more like a bully than anything else. “If you go where they don't call you, you can get scalded… Besides, I'm not threatening anyone. Here we are just talking without any coercion. I have not done anything bad.”

“Taking unauthorized copies of someone else's birth certificates is a crime,” Butler muttered, raising his hand. Seeing what was in it, Clement was dumbfounded.

“B... but when did you...?”

The butler showed him a paper stamped with the city hall letterhead.

Clement reached into his pocket, but… Esther's birth certificate was missing!

“Y… you're a thief! Give me those documents back immediately!”

The paparazzi paled for a moment and then turned red. Showing the teeth in a horrible grin, he reached for the man to try to forcibly get back the paper... but did not even touch it. There was a thud, and the journalist rolled on the ground.

“Good work, Guderian” whispered Butler to the man who had appeared like a wall between him and the reporter.

He was a somber man with gray hair. He was not too tall, but his body was athletic, and his pupils had a flash of predator gleaming. He made a move to approach the paparazzi, but Butler stopped him with a gesture and politely addressed the fallen man:

“Good, Mr. Clement. My companion, Mr. Guderian, is, unlike you, a gentleman, but he is also very ruthless. I do not recommend that you face him hand to hand...”

The butler lit a pipe and began to smoke while he continued speaking indolently.

“Besides, don't you have anything more important to investigate than disturbing the young lady? For example ... Oh yes! They say that this year the damage caused by the wolves has been extraordinary, after feeding on the corpses of the war last year, it seems that the wolves have begun to attack the cattle and the inhabitants of the place. Isn't that interesting news?”

“...”

Clement sat up, eyes full of hatred, but careful to take enough distance.

“Okay, I'll go... But sir... Butler was it? I never forget a face. We will meet again. You'll see what it means to antagonize with the media...”

“I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again. Until next time, Mr. Clement.”

As if he had instantly forgotten the reporter who had cursed him, the man quickly turned to Esther. Slightly bending his waist with a smile, he respectfully offered the document which the journalist had used as a bait.

“What a bad night you’ve had, sister!”

“T... thank you very much, sir...”

Did they know each other before?

With a strange feeling of having seen the man somewhere, Esther lowered her head as she thanked him and took the document he offered her.

“Lucky you have appeared. I will never forget what you have done for me”.

“It was nothing. Helping a lady in distress is the duty of any gentleman. Oh, and please don't think now that in Albion we are all like that journalist. Most of us are true gentlemen.”

“Are you from Albion?”

At the hearing the name of the country of his father, the expression of Esther softened for a moment, but at once recovered the tension before. The man had claimed to be an aristocrat's butler, but what was someone like him doing there? Wouldn't that be another trick to gain her trust?

Suspicion was probably written on her face, because Butler gave a sheepish smile and proceeded to introduce himself in detail.

“You are probably wondering what a poor butler like me is doing here. The truth is that I am looking for someone. He is a friend of my lord, who disappeared a long time ago… Someone who had some problems… He caused a scandal in his youth and had to flee the country. My lord has found out that he arrived in this region and has sent me to search for clues as to his whereabouts.”

“It seems like very hard work...”

Butler's words made sense and he had explained without hesitation. He was probably telling the truth. Esther decided to believe that the man was who he claimed to be.

Butler's partner jerked his pocket watch to him, and the butler snapped his fingers. After putting out the pipe, he respectfully took Esther by the hand.

“What a disappointment! Seems that it is late! Sister, if you do not need us at all, we will withdraw, with your permission.”

“Oh, sure! I'm in a bit of a hurry too... Thank you very much for your help; really, Mr. Butler.”

“Oh, please, I don't deserve that much respect.”

Bringing the nun's hand slightly to his lips, the man smiled and whispered in Albion's language:

“It was nice meeting you. I hope to see you again soon…”

As the young woman flushed, the butler bowed politely and turned. The man named Guderian followed half a second later.

Esther was lost in her thoughts, watching the two figures move away down the dark street.

When she came back to reality, she realized that the streetlights had come on.

“Ah, I have to hurry!”

She had no time to waste. Clicking her tongue, the young woman ran to the opposite side of the street.

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

So this is it, Stay tunned for next part, we’re having a nice coloring next time. Love you guys! ❤

#TrinityBlood #TrinityBloodNovels #fan translation #abel nightroad #esther blanchett #ROM IV #Chapter1 #part1

69 notes · View notes

silence-burns · 4 years

Text

Please Hate Me //part 38

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on: “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine Who would have thought that babysitting a god could be so much fun?

Genre: slow-burn, enemies to lovers

The pale cheek was rubbery and cold under your finger. You poked it again. "Are you sure he's dead?"

Loki looked at the severed, and a little chewed, bottom half of the ambassador. "Pretty much."

The body had been laid out on top of a desk, with all the books and documents previously occupying it put on the ground. It didn't really matter in the ways of making things messy, because the suite belonging to the recently deceased ambassador was already a dusty, chaotic mess. The room was dark and narrow and made even smaller by the bookshelves lined along one wall, stealing even more space. The carpet used to be gold and thick, but now it looked just worn and tired.

"Do we even have a plan? Like, anything in particular to look out for?"

Loki scratched his chin, looking around next to you. "Plans are for the weak of heart. We've got something better, love—a suspicion. Now we only have to find the evidence for or against it."

You looked at the shelves filled with old tomes to the point of almost breaking the wood. And then at the loose papers piled carelessly along two of the walls and also in the bedroom. The notes were haphazardly scribbled and left in places where a thought must've struck the man, and then left forgotten or lost. Ink was spilled on the less fortunate ones.

"...right."

You couldn't say you were happy about it, but there was little to do about it. Whatever the ambassador was working on before he died could shed some light on his death. Now you only had to find it.

With a deep sigh, you braced yourself and got to work.

It soon turned out you didn’t understand a single word of it.

"You said your spell would work and I would understand everything." You focused really hard on the wall of text in a language you'd never seen before. "And it works fine when I'm talking to the lords here, but not on this."

Loki leaned over your shoulder to peek a glance at the text. "I have no idea. Maybe it works differently on humans? Or maybe you're just a particularly weird individual of your species."

"Thanks."

"Welcome, love."

With nothing you could read, your job there was crippled. Even when Loki assured you he didn't mind doing everything himself and that it wasn't your fault, there was still a sour feeling you couldn't quite shake off.

"I'm going to see if I can find the kitchens and get us something edible." You decided to pass the time on something at least vaguely helpful.

Loki looked up from the notes he'd gathered from the windowsill. He’d made himself comfortable in one of the cleaner parts of the room, although unfortunately it just happened to be near the corpse. "Be careful. And please, don't kill anyone without me."

"I'd never," you promised with a wink and left.

The castle was huge, but empty. At first, you put in on the murder that must've shaken the people living there, but the longer you looked around, it struck you as odd. Everything was clean, even if touched by time. There must be people taking care of it, but you couldn't find any.

Or maybe they were avoiding the outsiders. Technically, you were an alien here.

You walked the empty corridors, enjoying the silent breeze passing through the open panels. It was strange not to see any glass in the windows, but with the weather so mild, there probably wasn't any temperature drop to worry about anyway.

There were shadows sneaking in the corners of your vision. They could be figments of your imagination and sense of wrongness of this place. They could be the things howling in the dark.

No. Thinking about that probably wasn't the wisest idea. In a place where thoughts apparently could shape reality, thinking merry, happy thoughts seemed like a much more rational option if one planned to survive and not be eaten by their own fears embodied. You had such plans, and even if Loki was convinced that you had absolutely no connection to magic unless it hit you in the face, it was better to stay cautious. And happy. What a lovely day it was, after all, with the creeping light avoiding particular parts of your vision, and something definitely following you. How nice would it be to meet someone. Anyone.

Your eyes wandered off into the gardens below, where the everlasting night was laying thick. A fountain shimmered in bluish speckles of water. And behind it, the night opened its eyes.

You might've jumped a little. Just the tiniest bit.

But there was no denying that, just for the briefest moment, your eyes met the Queen's, posed unnaturally still among the statues.

…and people said wishful thinking wouldn't get you anywhere.

You hopped over the railing, and onto the moss-covered ground. The guard you'd seen before was nowhere to be found. You stared around as hard as you could, trying to pierce the shadows and strange light. It took a moment to find what you were looking for.

From up close, the stars overhead and the stars shimmering on her skin looked like mirror images. For a moment, the night sky felt within a hand's reach.

Not one muscle betrayed the Queen had she noticed your arrival. Her eyes were dull and completely blank—to the point where you wondered if you hadn't imagined everything.

You stood right next to her and still weren't decapitated, which was a comfort and a good sign. You bowed stiffly, even if she didn't see it.

"Hi," you said quietly, looking for any sign of comprehension. "I'm one of the people who came here to explain the recent murder."

Nothing. Just the vast expanse of the night enclosed in a fading body and crumbled into a vaguely humanoid shape. The Queen only had one horn intact, white as a bone, and sharp like the crescent moon—the only one to ever be seen on the edge of the universe.

"I wondered if you knew anything about it," you tried again. "We're doing well so far, and I'm sure we'll find the murderer eventually, so don't worry about that, but… We'd still appreciate any and all help."

Birds chirped somewhere in the trees. Shimmering pollen flew on the light breeze squeezing through the thicket. The night turned her eyes toward you.

It'd been a while since you cowered under the sheets, afraid of the darkness. It was a common fear among children, and one that only a few grew out of. Those eyes reminded you of those sleepless nights.

Not a word left the bloodless lips. Not a muscle twitched. The edges of the woman blurred into the night.

"...right. Sorry to interrupt you, Your Majesty."

You backed away a few steps before turning your back to her. A shiver ran down your spine. If that was what fading was, you preferred death.

Loki enjoyed reading, he really did. Even as a child, he'd often been found buried among the old tomes in the palace's library, or smuggling particularly interesting ones to his rooms. There was something in the way of the written word that captured his attention way better than whatever training he was forced to participate in for the sake of Odin's misplaced ambition. There was a certain rush in learning facts previously unknown and in understanding the world or the forces in it better.

Loki felt absolutely none of that while going through the ambassador's notes.

Most of them were full of incomprehensible babble of half-finished ideas or references that led nowhere without the books they'd been taken from. Some seemed to be copied pages, which led Loki to the conclusion that the books were not to be taken off the library grounds.

There were a lot of dates and numbers that made little sense to him, so he put them down on the pile of things he deemed irrelevant to the investigation. The pile was growing and now consisted of several piles, forming the majority of the room's contents.

The doors opened. Loki was relieved to see you; the dagger disappeared back up his sleeve.

"That took you awhile," he noticed, throwing the crumbled papers to the right, onto the pile of nonsense. "I was getting worried."

"I'm good. I got you some apples."

The apples were a dusted orange, but tasted sweet enough to justify the unusual color. Loki leaned back in his chair and let you settle on his lap. The feeling of your body pressed into his made you share the warmth and comfort, and made some of the stress building up since morning fade away.

"I met the Queen," you said around a mouth full of apple, and the other hand buried in Loki's hair. "She seemed nice enough. The creepiness definitely runs in the family, though."

Some of the stress came back. "Did she… say anything?"

"Nope. I don't think she’s… aware of things. Which is a shame, because I seriously hoped she could help us."

Loki brushed your back in wide, soothing strokes. "There is a chance she'll regain her senses one day, just for long enough to answer some questions. Fading is a complicated process."

"You know a lot about it."

Loki's eyes dropped to the few remaining apples. "Gods fade too sometimes."

"Will you? One day?"

"I am a Frost Giant, love, even if I was raised on Asgard. I'm not sure how much that complicates my case, and there is no one to ask about it anymore."

"I'm sorry."

Loki closed his eyes and breathed in your scent as he felt you kiss his temple, gently and with enough unfiltered love to make his heart throb almost painfully. He was lucky, even despite the mess politics brought onto him. He was luckier than he ever thought he'd be. And luckier than he thought he deserved.

"Did you find anything interesting?" you asked with a face burrowed into the crook of his neck.

"There was quite a lot of nonsense, but the rest highlights the ambassador's interest in the wars and mass deaths that always follow them."

You froze. The corpse laid on the desk next to you no longer felt like something you could forget about. "...what an interesting guy. "

"Most definitely, but it's too early to judge just yet. I made a list of the books he mentioned most often. I think it'd be worth our time to pay a visit to the library to check them out and maybe ask a few questions to the people working there. They should know something about him and the dead assistant."

"We could get some more apples on our way," you offered, standing up. Loki already missed you.

"Sure, why not. It's not like you'd take the fruit of the sacred trees from the very clearly separated part of the gardens, right?"

"...of course. I'd never overlook that."

You did overlook that in the end, and Loki just happened to overlook it too. Overlooking things was always more fun in good company.

The gardens were a beautiful, lush place, bursting with colors and leaves that danced on the wind instead of falling. Some of the branches were covered in flowers so tiny they looked like ants, traveling up and down the bark. Birds too shy to leave the shadows chirped and sung.

It was a strange change to witness, especially having in mind what the gardens were like in the morning. Whatever put them in a good mood had clearly done a good job. It made the winding paths easier to follow, and the water passing through the fountain shimmer like starlight.

Loki shrugged when you voiced your thoughts.

"In your world, the weather changes just as rapidly," he said, looking at his mirrored image. "Here, it's the very essence of the Edge that's capable of changing."

It was poetic, like most things on the Edge. And just like them, the forest suddenly decided to hate you.

First, the birds vanished, their voices cut short.

Then, something else moved between the curled, twisted trees. Loki noticed too, and handed you one of his knives. The knives had a habit of appearing around him in just the right moments, and you loved them for it.

And finally, the Edge decided how to make your lives difficult this time.

The monstrosity that circled the fountain was a terror of thin legs and bulky torso, armed with too many teeth.

"Is it a spider?" you asked in a voice too high because of your heart leaping into your throat.

"It could be, if someone really hated spiders," Loki said, but there was a smile on his face. "And it might present a problem, if we were still on Earth—but now I'm free and ready to deal with this the old-fashioned way."

You blinked when golden light enveloped him in a flash. The green armor poured onto his body while magic danced around his fingers. The golden helmet you'd seen only once in the battle of New York, now returned in its full glory.

You cheered as Loki stepped out, swinging a spear with a nonchalant ease only available to children forced to learn something for years against their will.

"Kick its ass, babe!"

Loki winked.

The creature didn't want to have its ass kicked. It charged on its eight legs reaching far and fast. Loki striked, gutting its belly and cutting two legs off. It should've died, but it didn't. The cuts should've killed it, but they healed.

Loki's magic should've blocked the furious mass hurtling itself at him. It didn't.

The spell flashed a blinding yellow before it cracked like glass and shattered. The legs that were no longer cut, they hit and didn't miss.

A gold-and-green body flew through the air with a very surprised face. The fountain crashed in a rain of water and marble, covering everything in a thin layer of dust and a thick one of mud quickly forming under your feet.

"...Loki?"

Loki didn't answer, half buried under the stone.

The spider turned its too big head to you. Its legs were black and covered in thick stubble.

"Shit," you whispered.

The spider agreed.

You ran.

#please hate me #loki x reader #loki x you #loki imagine #loki laufeyson x reader #loki laufeyson x you #loki laufeyson #loki laufeyson imagine #loki marvel #loki mcu #loki laufeyson marvel #loki series #i love loki #loki fanfic

160 notes · View notes

ssson-of-sparda · 3 years

Text

WHAT FORTUNE GAVE - CHAPTER 1 (VERGIL X NERO’S MOTHER)

Summary: Vergil arrives in Fortuna and crosses path with a rebellious lady dressed in red. But even if he doesn't want pay attention, Fortuna seemed determined to intertwine their lives.

(PROLOGUE)

Tags: Romance / Angst / Fluff / Explicit Sexual Content / Explicit Language / Canon-Typical Violence / Blood and Gore / Religion / The Order of The Sword / Civil War / Rebellion / Demons / Action and Adventure / Sparda’s past

Author’s note: So, let me introduce you to Elissa aka Nero's mother. I've decided to make her rebellious and quite feisty to mirror Nero's impetuosity. After all, that kid had to take after someone, right? So why not mummy dearest? I know the story might seem slow to start but I need to set up the scenery for the events to come. Hope you like it anyway.

It all started on a Holy Thursday, on the first day of a most-welcomed vigorous spring that tinted the cityscape of the Castle Town of Fortuna in luminous shades of gold and blue. The cobbled streets were empty, the shops and cafes all closed, for all the inhabitants were gathered inside the Cathedral whose majestic dome overlooked the nearby Renaissance-style buildings, a sacred beacon calling the devotees to pray. But the religious establishment was nothing in comparison to the partially-veiled giant-like idol standing tall and massive within the ramparts of the city, a figure made of stone and marble with the face of Vergil’s father. It didn’t look very resembling to him. Sparda never had such delicate features, not in his son’s memories at least. But it did not matter. The young man wasn’t here to judge some clearly distasteful architecture. He was here for the answers and the promises of power that island kept in between its walls. “The Order of the Sword, huh? They worship a demon as a god?” This reality sounded foolish, incomprehensible even. His father was no god. He knew that better than anyone. But what was religion if not idealisation, divinisation of a flawed man? Humans …

***

“Elissa!” A fearful whisper pronounced the girl’s name but it would take more than a whisper for her to stop her mischief. “Elissa! Come dddd-down!” The girl named Elissa smiled, enjoying the risk she was definitely taking. Degrading the Savior? Not her first time. But she had never climbed that high before. “What if sss-omeone sees you … sss-ees us?” She rolled her green eyes, weary of the perpetual anxiety shaking the already very trembling voice of her friend. “Agnus! Stop being such a pussy!” She shouted-murmured, not really knowing why she was murmuring at all. “Everyone’s at church!” Agnus fidgeted even more as he saw the young woman taking her time spraying blue paint on the statue, the tip of her rosy tongue out, an adorable display of her concentration and perfectionism. “Does it look like the Guard’s symbol to you?” She demanded, observing her rebellious art from all possible angles. Agnus sighed and looked up, regretting to have left his lab for this childish yet dangerous adventure. He wasn’t a teenager anymore. He even had a woman and a baby daughter waiting for him at home. So why wasting time playing vandals with Elissa? He knew why. “You’re not looking under my skirt, are you?” The man blushed, terribly uncomfortable. “What? Of cccc-ourse not!” But he was a scientist and scientists were curious beings. That’s what he was telling himself each time he was thinking about what was hidden underneath Elissa’s crimson clothes.The Cathedral bells rang loud, signalling the end of today’s mass. Soon, the people of Fortuna would invade the streets again to come back to their boring daily occupations. “We’re definitely gonna get ccc-caught.” Agnus told himself. “What am I gonna tell Marcus?” A suspect noise stopped Agnus in his alarming thoughts. It was coming from a few streets away. Squeals and growls of fury and pain. Demons? “Ddd-did you hear that?” Elissa listened carefully and recognized the screams. She had heard similar ones in Mitis Forest recently. She had shut a lot of them up too. They were demons alright but not the worst kind. “Just a few …scarecrows.” She tried to reassure Agnus but realised he was already gone. “Such a pussy.” She shook her head, slightly exasperated but not surprised. Agnus was not famous for his bravery, quite the opposite. He was a coward but Elissa was okay with it. After all, he had been providing the Guardians with very useful information concerning demons for a few years now, all that thanks to his natural talents as an alchemist. The girl jumped off the statue and, in order to remove the beige dust from the fabric, shook her old red dress typical of Fortuna fashion, one of the few clothes she had kept from her past life in the Order and that she now used to blend in among the Fortunans each time she would venture in town. She then cautiously pulled up her skirt to reveal a thigh belt hidden under the white petticoat and strapped the spray can, right next to a sharp curved dagger she kept in a thin leather sheath just in case. “Hey! You!” Did we say cautiously? “Shit!” Time to run.

***

Yamato shone in the sun, casting a shadow on Vergil’s young face that even this small fight hadn’t manage to fluster, and once again the blade made one with the saya with a perfect clink that echoed like a lethal musical note in the demon-cleared street. “Just what are your true intentions?” He wondered out loud as he wrapped his blue frame under a linen cloak that looked foreign to anyone who would take a look.Elissa took a look, green eyes staring with curiosity from under her white hood she had carelessly thrown above her head in precipitation to cover her soft locks of fiery ginger when she had left the place of her previous mischief as fast as she could, successfully escaping the angry guards shouting at her. She took a look, knowing exactly what this stranger had just done as she watched him crossing the crowd with purpose, alone, going up the street towards the Cathedral while everyone was walking down, their minds still lost in religious psalms. She stopped in her track for a second to admire him, wondering who he was and where he came from. She imagined a distant city at first, somewhere far away from here, crowded with people who hadn’t been indoctrinated by the Order’s promises. But then, as she noticed his bearing, so stately and yet so lonely, she thought he wasn’t from a particular place but from many places. A wanderer, traveling the world, someone who held knowledge, who had seen what was beyond the horizon of Fortuna. He probably noticed her stare as he concealed his face even more under his hood and slightly hunched his shoulders. So, out of respect and despite her devouring curiosity, Elissa walked away, certain that if Sparda wanted her to meet this mysterious strange again, then their paths would cross one more time.Vergil quietly made his way in the main avenue where the marble giant was standing and slowed down when he noticed a small crowd gathered by the statue’s feet. Everyone was gasping in shock, hands over mouths as if they were the witnesses of the worst sacrilege, the most terrible infamy. Wondering what the fuss was all about, the Son of Sparda peered over everyone’s shoulders from a distance but close enough to spot a graffiti plastered on the leg of the thing the Fortunans seemed to call The Savior. It was a symbol of some sort, a pair of winged arms with sharp claws protecting Sparda’s horned head. It had been drawn with turquoise paint that was still running down the immaculate white stone and that was leaving a heavy odour of solvents in the ambient air, identical to the one Vergil had smelt when that girl who had stared at him with insistence had walked past him, an odour indicating Vergil when the degradation had been made and who had done it.He scoffed briefly, amused by the political provocation and the over-dramatic reaction of the bigoted crowd, and after glancing one last time at the spray-painted symbol, resumed his exploration of the city. “Looks like appearances can be deceiving in this city after all.” Vergil said as he thought about the rebellious girl in saint clothes who didn’t seem to be new in the graffiti drawing business according to the devotees’ wrath. “Those rebels again! Soiling the image of Sparda with their belligerent propaganda. Hope the Order will find them soon.” They agreed with each other with angry nods. “They are worse than demons! They probably hide in shadows like the rats they are.” Had Vergil just stepped in the middle of a civil war?

***

When her holy hood fell back on her shoulders, Elissa sighed in relief, glad to finally feel her soft ginger hair finally liberated from that awful religious cage of white cotton she couldn’t stand wearing anymore. Few more minutes and she would also get rid of that ridiculous dress that constricted her like a straitjacket. But right now, she had a meeting to attend. Summoned by her leader, probably to claim responsibility for her new roguishness that had caused such a big turmoil in the city this morning, she pushed the door of Guardian Marcus’s office without an ounce of fear or apprehension. She knew full well she would not be reprimanded. She never was. “Elissa! My child, come.” The white-haired old man welcomed her with wide opened arms and showed her a seat before him where she sat in silence and waited for him to say what he had to say.At first, he just stared at her, without a word but with half a smile and a look of amusement he couldn’t keep to himself. And finally he spoke with a cheerful tone. “You should have painted it red.” His loud laugh echoed in the room and he took a huge sip of the red wine waiting to be drunk in a fancy chalice next to his velvet armchair. Elissa had a timid respectful smile; unable to act casual with this man who, even though was distant family, had been leading the cause she was fighting for for so many years, since even before she was born. “How did you find out?” “Agnus told me.” He admitted and gauged the girl’s reaction who seemed more disappointed in herself than surprised. “Should have thought so.” “Be careful who you surround yourself with, Elissa. Offering someone your trust can be as dangerous as any blade. Believe me, I know.” He traced the large scar along his wrinkled face, a reminder of an old betrayal that had made him lose, in addition to his left eye, a man he used to call brother and who was now leading Fortuna thanks to his lies and his dark secrets. Sanctus. “I shall remember your advice, sir.” “But you know what surprises me the most? It’s that Adel didn’t try to talk you out of this. After all, he follows you like a shadow … an enamoured shadow even.” Marcus smiled, trying to build complicity with this young lady, the granddaughter of the brother he had lost long ago, a child he loved like his own. Elissa smiled in return and shook her head, having trouble to believe she was having this conversation with her leader. “And yet you seemed keen on refusing his advances. May I know why?” “I didn’t know this was a matchmaking appointment.” Elissa humoured, definitely amused by the situation. “I’m old and I’ve been at war for most of my life. So let’s say, the frivolity of youth and the burgeoning loves are like peaceful songs to my heart.” Elissa sighed and her heart, in spite of this new attempt at making it yield to a man she didn’t love, once again refused to see Adel as nothing else than a friend. “I’m just not interested. Enamoured shadows are not my type.” “ And what, pray tell, is your type?”

***

Vergil had visited many places in his short lifetime. Perpetually on the move – he refused to say ‘on the run anymore’ for running was for the weak – he had seen so many cities, so many different landscapes, some in shades of blue, some in shades of green and other in shades of gold, so many colours most men would have forgotten but that he had somehow always cared to remember. But there was something about Fortuna that made her unique, different from all the things he had had the chance to see. Perhaps was it the anachronistic almost medieval atmosphere that had shaped the city architecture and the inhabitants’ lifestyle or perhaps was it because every edifice seemed to hold secret knowledge about his family. Whatever it was, Vergil was sure of one thing; what made Fortuna special were clearly not the city’s filthy underground bars from Port Caerula, well hidden under the docks, away from prying eyes that would be easily outraged by the debauchery they held between their walls. That kind of place he was familiar with, despite his revulsion for them and the people frequenting them. “Hello, sugar. You’re a new face.” An eccentric woman declared as she tried to take a peek under Vergil’s cowl, her voluptuous body leant against the bar. “And a handsome one. I would lower my price for a face like yours.” The young man glanced at the woman, shortly but long enough to see how she looked, the embodiment of repulsive tragedy that once looked beautiful. Her makeup was smeared and barely hiding the bruises and the cuts on her young face and she was wearing a church outfit ripped at the thighs and purposely unbuttoned to reveal her generous cleavage. And in her velvet purse, she kept a wig made of dry artificial ginger hair some despicable men had certainly asked her to wear more than once. “Not interested. Now leave.” Vergil’s tone was curt and cold but she insisted anyway. “You’re sure? I make the best blowjobs in all Fortuna. Isn’t that right, Captain?” She nodded towards a young charismatic brown-skinned man carrying a crossbow on his back and drinking sitting the stool right next to Vergil. When he heard his name, he spared a glare at the prostitute and at the Son of Sparda as well for no particular reason but because he hated his occasional obscene deviations to be exposed. “He just looooves some naughty church girls. Do you like them too?” Vergil ignored her and focused again on his drink, lying untouched on the bar. He didn’t like drinking. “Or do you prefer them innocent and prudish? I can be either.” “Quit with your lies and just leave, Pomona².” The dark-haired man ordered with a strong voice that made her smile. “ Ha! Looks like I finally have my name back. See you around, sugar… Adel.” She winked and left to sell her body to someone else that would accept it in exchange of a bit of money.“You should not visit that sort of bar if women like Pomona bother you, stranger.” The so-called Adel warned before drinking from his tankard. He, just like everybody else here, could tell Vergil was not from around. All they had to do was looking at him. After all, everyone knew everyone else in a small reclusive island like Fortuna. “It’s sometimes the loudest, worst people that give all the information a man looks for.” “So you’re looking for information then. About what?” Vergil was a curious man but he despised curiosity in other people, especially when he was the subject of their curiosity. “Nothing a man like you knows about.” The answer surprised the Moor who hadn’t expected such arrogance coming from a stranger. “Well, piece of advice. If you want information in Fortuna, there are two ways to get them. Either you don’t behave like an arrogant asshole or you pay for them.” Vergil smirked slightly under his hood as he already knew how to react to such pathetic insult. Adel was not a difficult man to read. “Just like when you want a woman’s love, am I right?” The provocation burnt and stang like the most vicious hot poker piercing through

Adel’s dignity and ego. It pushed him to stand up and grab his crossbow in retaliation. But his weapon, as precise and strong as it was, was useless in close combat and it instantly met the sharp blade of a magnificent katana that would make any swordsman worth the name grow pale. And with a dexterous swift move, the crossbow flew across the room as if it was a paper plane.But the clients in the bar didn’t gasp at the legendary Yamato. They gasped at the silvery-white hair adorning Vergil’s head that had been revealed when he inadvertently had lost his hood in this express fight. “It’s the hair of Sparda.” People whispered, amazed. With an expert graceful move, Yamato found his saya again and Vergil walked through the crowd, high-handed and resolved to escape this place and all those bothering eyes he felt upon him.But as he pushed the door of the establishment, he came face to face with the feminine figure he had noticed in the streets this morning. It stopped him in his track and for the first time in his lifetime, but certainly not the last, he looked into her deep green eyes. They reminded him of an old poem he loved greatly, one he had read so many times and would never grow tired of, about a dark forest and a tyger burning bright³. And as he gazed in that girl’s look and witnessed that emerald wood, wild and dense, trying to conceal in vain the fiery fur of a predator, Vergil knew he would never read that poem the same way or imagine Blake’s colours in the shades he would normally imagine them. And so he stared, longer than he wanted, almost the same way she gazed at the pale blue topazes and at the god-like silver hair crowning his head. But while fire is wild, the ice is timid. And thus, admiration only shows through the eyes of the red lady. And when she finally opened her mouth to speak her mind, Vergil escaped into the night leaving lost shadows behind him. But that was fine. Shadows were not the lady’s type after all.It all started on a Holy Thursday, on the first day of a most-welcomed vigorous spring that tinted the cityscape of the Castle Town of Fortuna in luminous shades of gold and blue. But among them there was this vibrant red and two sparkling amber-tinted emeralds reflecting brighter than anything else in a pair of icy eyes, a mirror who strangely wouldn’t mind seeing that reflection again.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: ¹ Marcus: derived from the name of the Roman god of war, Mars to highlight Marcus' status and personality. ² Pomona: From Latin pomus "fruit tree". The word "Pomme" is also the French for "apple", the fruit of temptation. Pomona will come back in other chapters. ³ a tyger burning bright : From William Blake's poem The Tyger

#devil may cry #devil may cry fanfiction #vergil #nero's mother #vergil x nero's mother #vergil fanfiction

9 notes · View notes

experimentkc · 3 years

Photo

Well here he is! Er… I mean, here I am! Again… 😅

So this was my commission from @angoraram that I hinted at in my previous post. After I got her drawing of me nearly six months ago from winning her DeviantArt watcher raffle, I figured that I should properly reveal myself at some point. (i.e. I was thinking, “Oh jeezum, now I need to get a full model sheet of my new experimentsona!”)

Anyway, keep reading for some basic info on… uh, me.

January 28, 2024 update: Some of the details I wrote back when I posted this became outdated a while ago. I’ve finally updated and changed some of these details. I might have to make a proper character page on another website someday, though.

This blue-and-yellow humanoid genetic experiment stands at six feet (182.8 cm) tall, not including his ears. He doesn’t seem to know his own experiment abilities yet. As a result, it cannot be determined what his primary function actually is.

His unusual tall humanoid shape is actually due to him being an ex-human being who was accidentally transformed into a genetic experiment the night before he was to fly back home to the mainland to finish off his vacation.

He maintains a social media presence on Earth’s Internet, sharing “content” about Jumba’s genetic experiments as well as the Pelekai ‘ohana themselves. However, unlike the often secret-revealing gossip Experiment 199 shares about virtually anyone and everyone, this experiment’s “blog posts” are usually about sharing his and other individuals’ appreciation of the experiments, which he came around sometime after his transformation. These have included artwork of them made by fans of the Pelekais, screenshots of games where various experiments and ‘ohana members allegedly appear in, videos of them found online, and even merchandise modeled after them, along with news of their appearances in media. (Interestingly, these all come from an alternate universe where the ‘ohana, even their human members, are said to be fictional characters of a multimedia franchise owned by an incomprehensibly large mass media conglomerate with a mouse for a company mascot.)

He did not show himself until July 2020, when a caprine experiment with artistic talents illustrated him as a raffle reward over on a popular art site.

Due to his taller, more humanoid form compared to the other experiments, and his having been born as a human, he wears casual clothes in public. For the top, he prefers to wear a striped polo shirt with alternating moderately thick stripes with colors similar to his golden yellow countershading and dark blue markings, usually separated by thin white stripes; his current such shirt has mustard yellow (though he would’ve preferred a less dull yellow) and navy blue stripes with separating thin white stripes, a navy blue collar, and two buttons on the neckline. For bottomwear, he likes to wear a pair of black cargo shorts, which might not bode so well in tropical Hawaii given that black clothing absorbs more light, but much of his fur is already a dark enough blue to begin with, so it does not matter that much to him.

Not depicted in the above image is that he has the standard pair of retractable lower arms that experiments have, although he doesn’t have much of a real need for them, nor does he have any clothes that are compatible with four-armed ex-human beings of his height. In cold weather conditions, he wears either blue jeans or black slacks for pants and a dark blue and gold zip-up bomber sweatshirt in keeping with his fur's color scheme, which he prefers.

He is self-proclaimed to be a bit socially awkward with some personal communication issues, even online. He points out his at times lengthy blog posts as one of his apparent signs of this, saying that he tends to overthink things. There’s also his more obvious heavy focus on the ‘ohana with his blog itself. He also has self-proclaimed anxiety problems, which he has causes him to be nervous and uncomfortable in some social and other particular situations.

However, he is not afraid to make some efforts in socializing; he has been seen enjoying a New Year’s party thrown by the same caprine experiment. He enjoyed some hot chocolate during the celebration, ringing in the New Year with some other experiments and even a few unusual, non-experiment creatures. He appeared somewhat more reserved compared to the others at the party, but was clearly happy to be in the company of others nonetheless. It’s likely that given the right motivation or “push”, he can get out of his comfort zone to some degree and be able to enjoy these kinds of things.

Further details can be found on page 105 of the Lilo & Stitch 20th Anniversary fanzine.

15 notes · View notes

robbyrobinson · 3 years

Text

CTHULHU MYTHOS X OWL HOUSE: GODS AWAKEN (XVIII)

Helicopters hovered over the city at a slight distance from the onslaught of the raging fires. Buildings were reduced to rubble from the relentless attacks of the metallic armor. At roughly four o’clock, the National Guard was ordered to fend off the assaults.

Tanks and heavy-armed trucks arrived amongst the crowds of panicking people and parked in front of them. The general emerged from one of the trucks to observe the scene. His thick fingers curled as he gestured to his men to take their shields. They formed a long line and drew their shields sharply. They glued their feet to the ground to tighten their grips.

The suits of armor wheezed and stumbled along in their sluggish pace. Black ooze leaked through the cracks of the metallic plates. Deathly drones of pain bellowed from deep within them, an unearthly sing song tune. With the general’s approval, one of the tanks directed its gun at the metal suits and fired.

“Alright, men, look alive,” the general announced.

A thick smoke obscured the suits of armor from the National Guard’s eye. Without warning, a red tow truck was tossed in their direction.

“Take cover!” he yelled.

The tow truck rammed into the soldiers, destroying the blockade on impact. The suits attacked the soldiers with violent kicks and thrashing. Soldiers were picked up and tossed into buildings like sacks of potatoes. Many soldiers brandished their knives and were able to strike a few blows on them, but they were largely overpowered and mauled. The crowds of civilians dispersed to escape the madness but were also caught in the onslaught.

“Yes, I have just received word that the blockade the National Guard attempted has failed.” The anchorwoman from before looked down, befuddled. “There had been an announcement by the mayor that he is issuing an evacuation of the city.”

Luz and Amity ran out of the workshop with Hypnos following slowly behind. “Never get old like me, kids; your fragile bones will bend and tear out of their sockets.”

“Where did these armor suits come from?” Luz asked aloud “and who sent them?”

“Must have been Lord Belos,” Amity noted, “just a hunch given the...futuristic aesthetic.”

“You do have that book hidden away, right human?” Hypnos asked.

In Luz’s hand, she held a bag. The bag appeared small on the outside, but it was vastly larger on the inside capable of holding an infinite number of items. The Necronomicon was snuggly tucked away in that pocket dimension. The back of the book was laced with papers that had the fire glyphs on them so that when the opportunity presents itself, Luz would activate the glyphs and it would set the book ablaze.

“I sense that they must be here for that book in your possession,” Hypnos said.

“We have to get back to the Isles, then,” Amity said. She looked at the frail old man. “Do you have a portal to the Isles in your workshop?”

Hypnos crossed his arms. “An infinite number of portals. Don’t even begin to assume that your world is impenetrable from me.”

Luz firmly gripped the bag. “We can’t go back now.”

Amity’s head swerved back almost falling off. “Why not?”

“We can’t let Emperor Belos’ army level this city. And besides, what if Belos had laid a trap for us when we got back?”

“Well, that could may as well be true, but-”

“And what could you possibly do anyway?” Hypnos interrupted, “Amity doesn’t have her witch body so she cannot do magic without her bile sac, and Luz, magic is scarce in the Earth realm; you cannot even use those glyphs here, can you?”

Luz kicked her foot in dejection. “That is true, I admit.”

“The only suggestion I have is to allow yourself to be captured.”

“Wha?” Amity shouted.

“Sh...sh...” Hypnos held his bony finger in front of his mouth. “If you truly care about these civilians, then perhaps offering yourselves up will be a temporary fix to avoid further harm.”

Luz and Amity looked at each other for a considerably long time, dread being the most prevalent emotion they were feeling. They heard the sound of screaming coming from the civilians being cornered by the armored fiends. Amity saw the determination in Luz’s eyes, the same determination she saw back when she properly met her at the witch convention. Luz was a lot of things: reckless, stupid...very, very stupid...well, she could take it a step further and call her an idiot who also was rather intolerable once her mind became fixed on the subject at the time. But she was also very compassionate and considerate. It was this reason, or a combination of all the aforementioned reasons, that Amity couldn’t help but love her.

“If that is what it takes to stop Belos, then I guess we can do it,” Luz said at last.

She took the horn and handed it to Hypnos. “Will you take this back to the Boiling Isles for us?”

Hypnos nodded. “I will, darling; besides, from what I am sensing, King and the others are at Belos’ kingdom as we speak.”

As he turned to head back into the store, Luz stopped him again. “Could I ask something else of you?”

“What is it, child?”

“Could we have the jar with the shoggoth inside it?”

“My, whatever for?”

“It’s just that I feel we might need it once we get back to the Isles,” Luz explained.

Hypnos sighs. “Kids these days.”

Odalia was levitating in the air with the staff in her hand. She watched the armors dismantle cars and tossing scraps of metal onto the mass of panicking people. A wicked smirk was on her face. For so long she had reviled humans, something every witch in the Boiling Isles was drilled into believing by the Emperor. It brought a little bit of warmness in her petrified heart that pumped the blood of her bloodline. After waiting a few minutes for her targets to come out of hiding, she was slowly becoming bored.

She scanned the surroundings and saw a row of six people running in the same direction. She pointed the staff towards the group and began to charge the staff. A red, all-consuming glow illuminated from the gem before a huge, red wave of energy bolted from it. It sliced into the concrete, creating a large, continuous array of cracks. Underneath the concrete, an earthquake shuffled the chunk of the road the six people were stranded on. Powerless, Odalia floated over to the civilians, intimidating them with her staff.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

A portly man took a knee, holding his hands to shield his face. “Please, ma’am, spare us!”

Odalia scoffed at the man. “A spineless rat; unsurprising of you lowly human scum.”

She shot a red ball towards him to force him to step back. Once he did, he was cowering with the others stranded. Odalia eyed each of them, uncertain of what to do at the moment to them. “You may not move until I figure out what to do with you miserable creatures.”

“Please don’t kill us!” a red-haired woman yelled incessantly.

“I won’t,” Odalia said in false assurance, “as long as you do what I say.”

“Mrs. Blight, you better stop what you’re doing at once!”

Odalia turned around and saw two young women standing under the disheveled road. “Ah, you’re the famous Luz Noceda I have been hearing an awful lot about?”

“How do you know it’s us?” Luz asked. “I look nothing like the wanted picture I have back in the Isles.”

Odalia laughed. “Essential salts, human. There exists a deeper magic one that is incomprehensible to lowly people as you.”

Amity stepped in front of Luz giving her mother a hateful stare. “Mom, why are you laying this attack on Luz’s home?”

“Our emperor Belos had granted me entry into the Emperor’s Coven.”

Amity’s eyes widened behind her glasses. “Impossible; that goes against the entire method of enlisting witches to join the coven. And I thought you...”

Odalia tilted her staff. “Regardless of how I got myself into this lavish position, Emperor Belos entrusted me with carrying out his will; the Day of Unity has begun!”

Luz stepped closer. “Mrs. Blight, I mean no disrespect because you are my good friend’s mother, but can’t you see that Belos wishes to destroy this world?”

Odalia scoffed. “Who cares about this meaningless world when through my master we can make new ones?”

Amity clenches her fists. “You are willing to sell what dignity you have left to some maniac?”

“How dare you speak of Emperor Belos in such disdain!?” She looked at Luz with enough intensity, fire could have danced in them. “What other blasphemous things have you been telling her?”

Odalia levitated down the chunk of road and tapped Luz with the staff. Amity pried it off Luz’s shoulder. “Enough of that!”

“Why do you care so much for this rat?” Odalia growled “why would you throw away your future by betraying the will of our master all for this miserable planet?”

“All my life, I allowed you to control my life; you made me end my friendship with Willow for your own convenience. You forced me to be friends with Boscha when I hated her. I became some cruel, despicable jerk who only cared about trampling the competition. But...Luz is different. She...liked me for me. Not because I was some upper-class witch; not because I was a Blight. She started off being a nuisance.”

Luz turned her eyes down. Amity saw this and pat her shoulder. They looked at each other for a long time as if they were having a mental conversation. Luz nodded and backed away.

“But...she helped me that one time when Otabin became a huge monster and nearly destroyed the library; she helped me to face my personal fear; she made me realize how wrong I was to kick Willow out of my life because of some threat you and my Dad made. I realize now that my desires of getting enlisted into the Emperor’s Coven was truly not what I wanted.”

Odalia raised her eyebrow. “Oh? And why is that?”

“You were the one that really wanted to be a part of the Emperor’s Coven, weren’t you?”

Odalia leaned back, stammering. “What? No, it was always-”

“You failed several times with snagging a spot on the coven, so when you had me, you decided to mold me into wanting that when it was really for you, didn’t you?”

Odalia scratched her chin for a moment. Another psychotic smirk formed on her lips. “I guess there is no real reason to deny it now; that may as well be the case, but look at you, really.”

Luz was back to being incensed by what Odalia was implying. “No daughter of mine would ever go out of their way to try to overthrow an empire; why can’t you be more like your siblings?”

Odalia snapped her fingers to direct the black knight suit to her side. He still had Edric in its colossal hands. It took some time for the two girls to digest what they were seeing, but when it hit them, it did so like a ton of bricks. Amity held the palms of her hands against her mouth to stifle a scream. Edric looked worse than he was initially; now it appeared that his skin was barely holding onto his bones. He was cut down from his initial bodyweight now reminding Amity of the fragility of a butterfly. Edric wheezed but it hurt him immensely like pins were being jabbed into him.

“Mom...what...what have you done to him?” Amity asked demandingly.

“Just necessary sacrifices for the future of the Isles,” Odalia stated plainly.

The cold, disconnected way Odalia exposed her sins unsettled the two. They had thought they could reason with her without being provoked into fighting her (especially because of their magic being gone due to their new bodies), but all bets were off in that moment.

Amity made a grab for the staff and grappled with it. “What are you little miscreant doing now!?”

“I am going to break that staff in two to deprive you of whatever pleasure you derive from it!”

The two family members continued to grabble for the staff when Luz saw the six people still stuck. She looked around for some way to get up there. Sweat beat down the two females’ foreheads the more they struck at each other. Her mother was a lot of things, but she could not deny that she was skilled in her craft. Amity clamped her teeth on her mother’s right arm spurring her into screaming. When she shrieked, she unwittingly cast a red ball of destructive power towards a building and it shattered all the glass in the building and destroyed the foundation.

A nerve pulsated against Odalia’s forehead. “Enough of this!”

She smacked Amity across the street causing her to hit a light post. She darted her eyes and saw Luz trying to find a way to get to the captives. Odalia sat down on the staff and made an upward flying motion. The dark magic inside the staff activated and shot Odalia skyward. The six were roughly forty feet from the ground and in danger of falling from the height.

The captives were once again washed in fear. She scanned them over. Besides the fat man and the red-haired girl, there was a short, bearded man without any hint of hair on his head and an orange shirt and blue jeans. Another one was an elderly woman with two kids to her side. Since they looked like her, Odalia could infer that they must have been the woman’s grandchildren. A boy and a girl. Odalia smiled again and flew closer towards the woman. She clung onto the sides of the kids’ arms. She was five feet tall as opposing Odalia’s height at 6 ft 1 in, but she was stout for her age.

“Don’t you even think of harming my grandkids, ya witch!”

“Why thank you,” Odalia said, “they always said that the older you are, the wiser you get.”

She grabbed the old woman’s shoulders and pitched her aside. The two siblings tried to run, but the older woman was quicker. She seized both of them by the arm and flew back down with the staff. Both of the children were sobbing loudly, mucus dripping from their noses. Odalia presented the two children before a concerned Luz.

“What are you thinking of doing with those kids!?”

“A little game; I am sure that you know why I am here?”

Luz nodded.

Odalia firmly propped the tip of the staff under the chin of the young boy who was no more than eight. Luz’s eyes widened. There was no way that Odalia would do what she thought.

“I will give you till the count of three to hand over the Necronomicon to me in orderly fashion, or I will use the unholy power of the Outer God to tear this cockroach’s head clean off.”

“Odalia, ma’am, please,” Luz begged, “this is madness!”

“I am already on 2 right now, human,” Odalia announced, “use your time wisely.”

Odalia activated the magic within the gem and it glowed again. The boy’s tears rolled down his cheeks and underneath his tilted neck. Odalia kept her eyes locked onto the human girl while still holding a praying mantis-like grip on her victim.

Luz scrambled with her bag and opened it. Amity awoke from her unconsciousness to see Luz retrieving the Necronomicon. They both shared a look of equal concern and the mutual understanding. Luz breathed heavily and slipped the evil book from the deepest compartments of the bag. She then placed the Necronomicon on the ground and slid it towards the mad woman.

“There; now let them both go.”

Odalia lifted her hands allowing the sobbing boy to wrestle his way out of her grip. He met up with his sister and, without much prompt, they darted away to find their grandmother. Odalia grabbed the book and held it with both of her hands.

“Wise choice, human.”

Odalia placed two fingers into her mouth to whistle. And it is with that, the armor suits stopped their senseless rampages and turned to look at their leader. They wheezed and continually broke apart piece by piece only to try to reassemble themselves. Luz covered her ears when she heard the screaming that the armor suits were making. But their screaming was done completely inside of their minds. Hundreds, maybe thousands of shrieks of burning, electric misery was ringing in their spiritual eardrums. All the screams came together to form one unison of endless suffering in a cataclysmic symphony.

Each scream was like rusted nails scratching against an endless array of chalkboards. A piercing, sharp pain to obliterate one’s eardrums. Whatever these suits of armor were, they were conceived through an insidious ritual and are desperate for the sweet release of death.

“Luz? What is it?”

Luz found herself sprawling on the ground with Amity to her side. Unlike her human friend, Amity heard screaming, but it was not of the visceral variety. But Luz felt her mind becoming undone, or, worse yet, melting and pooling out her ears. Odalia walked towards her amused.

“It’s an odd thing, really. With that kind of response, I assume that you personally knew those witches whose souls were welded to make the armor?”

Luz looked up; her eyes bloodshot. “What?”

Before she could inquire of the Blight family matriarch further, she and Amity were spirited away by the suits of armor and ushered into a portal.

#the owl house #owl house #fanfiction #cthulhu mythos #cthulhu #mythos #amity blight #blight family #luz noceda #owlhouse

2 notes · View notes

heroinkspots · 4 years

Text

Catharsis; Aizawa / Reader

SUMMARY ( You knew the man you loved could die. You were certain you had accepted it, had moved on from the constant anxiety that makes heroes insomniacs. But when you visit Aizawa in the hospital post-USJ Incident, you’re smacked with the reality there are some losses you can’t help but dread, yet zero you can prevent. )

One finger down.

Breathe.

Two fingers.

Breaking News: Erasure Hero Gets Critically Injured in USJ Aftermath, Current Condition Unknown!

Up next on Channel 86: at five o'clock, Dr. Oishi Hotaka and Dr. Yasuda Kurou broadcast live to discuss the recent developments about the USJ Incident and the repercussions for hero society going forward.

Three.

"I respect your opinion on this matter, Kurou-san, but I personally don't believe Japan can continue with the current status quo! UA's safety standards have declined dramatically in the past few decades, and their negligence will go on for as long as the public and the parents of these students allow it- which, I dare say, won't be long at all. Not long at all, my friend. We'll soon see that what we're giving these children, in UA and across the country in similar hero academies, is a subpar education, with more risks than benefits..and the most horrifying of these risks now includes the potential of their life being stolen from them at fifteen, sixteen years old."

”Well, that signals the end of our slot for tonight, viewers! Join us here next week for a live conference meeting of—"

F..four.

That announcer was right. He was scarily right. Civilians could turn off their television should they be the smallest bit uncomfortable while they were watching their heroes sacrifice their sanity, their every selfish human desire and sometimes even their lives to protect the masses that watcher belonged to.

To them, Shota was a headline. He was a vague concept, a will 'o wisp leading them home to a sense of safety, but he couldn't be felt with the hands nor seen with the eyes nor experienced with the heart. He was so underground you doubted they could recall his name without having it spoonfed to them by another copycat, know-it-all Dr. Oishi Hotaka reading off a script designed to spark outrage instead of reasonable thought. Introspection didn't sell well. Introspection didn't toss TV show hosts intriguing material to cover and it didn't grant jobs to reporters.

The truth was a bitter pill nobody liked to swallow. And if citizens didn't like the truth, they'd switch to a different channel to hear white noise that tasted good; and the Hotakas couldn't afford that, could they?

Five fingers you'd used up.

He had broken thirteen separate bones–nearly a third of the fingers you'd used so far for this stupid counting exercise. You had heard a summary of the damage from his doctors prior to standing where you stood now, and you had memorized it like a prayer of thanksgiving.

Shota couldn't be hurt if he was dead. Only a living man had the privilege of suffering pain. And dead..dead was your worst nightmare. The imaginary picture of his cold corpse made crippling injury seem like a reverie of inconceivable fortune in comparison.

Six.

Crushed orbital floor, fractured clavicle, nasal fracture, parietal bone oblique fractures, severe left elbow fractures (segmental break in his humerus bone, fractures half as destructive in his radius and ulna), one direct skull fracture—

Thirteen bones, thirteen of your fucking failures.

Seven.

You knew not to overreact. That was why you and Shota had gotten along brilliantly to begin with. You weren't a clingy partner who longed to ensure he was safe to your exacting requirements, but a fellow hero in his stead, laser-focused on furthering your ambitious climb to the top and holding down your position within the twenties once you had garnered your status. You respected him and how obviously reserved he could be, embracing his trepidation about placing himself in the spotlight as a virtue instead of a flaw..and for that, mutual respect bloomed into love in your second year of UA.

You and him had persevered because you were identically persevering personalities. You solved your arguments fairly and calmly, you conceded to his wishes and him to yours, crafting compromises and tempering spots of flickering flame before they could graze gasoline. You took pride in the fact that you knew the consequence of your professions, and you were willing to take his loss with his love.

Your logic couldn't have prepared you for USJ.

Shota Aizawa, that quiet, seemingly stern and uncaring, infuriating, loyal and self-sacrificing son of a bitch hadn't just gone out and danced with Death; he'd preformed a suspiciously intimate tango with her, gotten her number, invited her out for drinks and kissed her on the mouth when their date concluded.

And there was little logic to be found in the strong Pro Hero reduced to incomprehensible sobbing and bawling in the hospital breakroom mere minutes earlier.

Eight.

You'd cried so heavily you had to muffle your mouth with your sweater so passing staff wouldn't be alerted to the sounds of your emotional breakdown. Feeling that fabric grow damp and sticky with the flood of your agonized tears, the humilation stung at you, but it was faint and trivial when measured against the surge of your dominant emotions: anger–anger at yourself, anger at the villains who would target and hunt children purely to force a pathway to All Might, anger at this world which normalized casualty and tragedy; fear that this was the beginning of the so-called Villain League's attacks and that Shota, and by extension, you, would be at the forefront of countless battles; and the knowledge that your Pro license didn't do a damn thing for you.

Could you genuinely label yourself a Hero if you couldn't save your lover of a decade?

It wasn't a lack of faith on your behalf, or you discounting his abilities–you were aware of his skill. You saw how he built himself up to be the highly specialized, skilled Eraserhead; but regardless of how formidable the person, you would pity the unfortunate soul who had the might of Hell and high water bearing down on their head.

You would pity yourself in that situation too.

Nine. Last finger to put down.

You had counted so you could collect yourself, present a solid face to Shota when you finally entered his room, but your efforts were in vain. Your eyes were damp again, and you rubbed them furiously on your sleeve, the irritated rims puffing out from the blood rushing to your temple. Shota's voice rang out- you were effectively busted.

"Come in."

The abruptness made you release a watery chuckle. The recovery room's observation window was advertised as being "one-way," as if that would hinder your lover's keen perception of his surroundings. His demonstration of sharpness eased your concerns to a degree. After all, dead bodies were usually less talkative and dumber than he was being..but you wanted to, no, needed to see him desperately.

"I came as soon as I heard what happened." Your voice shook when your gaze locked with his, peering through the stiff bandaged cast at you, one eyelid firmly shut and quivering with the other parted lazily and projecting an unshakable confidence in your direction. Shota's resolve wasn't frigid indifference but rather reliability, a slowly seeping warmth you could fall back on whenever standing by yourself felt impossible. He looked at you as if you were the wounded party between the pair of you, as if he could tell you wanted to run and he was convincing you you didn't have to–because his relentless determination would stay permanently untouched, and so would he. Unchanging, reassuring.

"But I was already on the plane when I received the news, so I..dammit, I was helpless. I..I just sat there, Shota. Sat there and watched as the headlines rolled in, as the media scrambled for some coherent information to pump out. I sat there for an awful twelve hours– that's how much time it took me to get a one-stop plane ride back to Japan and land. And by then, USJ was completely cleared of people. I heard you were in the hospital and had to track you down out of all the fucking confidential hero hospitals you could potentially be in." You balled your fists in your hair, working a dent into the floor beneath you from your agitated pacing.

You nervously glanced at him before averting your eyeline to the walls. Shame curled within you. "I had no idea where you were located, whether you were dead or injured or comatose," you whispered weakly.

Shota cleared his throat, and although it was dry, scratchy and emerged mainly as a pained gurgling bursting from his chest, your attention was on him anyway. Your head snapped towards him and you flinched as you saw him struggling to prop himself up in the bed. You rushed forward to help, but he fared on his own, evenutally pushing himself into a sitting position with the pillows for extra padding to keep him stable. He stared at you wordlessly, his mouth drawn taut in a frustrated, sad grimace until he patted the bed beside him for you to sit.

You agreed.

"We've had this conversation before, you know," he mumbled into your shoulder. You startled, your muscles jerking at the tickling sensation of his bandage wrap. That minute detail almost caused you to tumble into hysterics once more. Shit, it was annoying and the reflex was inconvenient, but it was a beacon of hope that you could be annoyed–the rubbing and tickling told you Shota's going to be okay since, look, you had the evidence of repair brushing against you to remind you. Persistently.

"We have?" You promoted him, nudging him with the gentleness you would save for a young child.

Shota sighed, puffing air through his nose, and sobered up fast; his demeanor returned to serious thoughtfulness as he straightened, his stature strangely close to traditional etiquette despite being bedridden. You waited in anticipation for him to gather himself and speak.

"We have. When we were twenty year olds rookies with brains thicker than concrete. I was dwelling on a mother and son I had failed to save in a rescue from months before. But it was you who told me– 'the past is worthless until you use it to improve your future, Aizawa, and it becomes worse than worthless when you allow it to impede your future. That mother and her little boy wouldn't want their memory to hold you back from becoming the hero I'm certain you can be. It's doing a disservice to them if you don't take advantage of those mistakes to avoid repeating them.'"

You froze. "Shota, that's not the same situation and you know it's not. I..goddammit, I was lost and confused in a foreign country fighting for a way to get back and I couldn't contact you, I couldn't figure out who made it through, you or the kids or All Might. Or Thirteen. There's a considerable disparity between that and immediate, subconscious mistakes you make in the field. That was no mistake-that was a gaping lack of oversight on my part. That was failure."

Shota raised his brow, unimpressed. "Fine, then. You failed.”

"So what?"

"So you become better for the sake of the people you believe you failed."

You felt like smacking your head against the bed frame. Him and his logical ruses, God. Never giving ground to you, but countering you with few words delivered concisely and setting you up to arrive at a preplanned destination but changing your course before you could catch up to where he'd cleverly spun the talk this round. You couldn't muster exasperation when you glared at him, however–your glare melted into fondness at the minuscule grin he wore and the overwhelming exhaustion and tenderness beneath his layer of amusement.

You were tired and hungry, Shota was tired and hungry, and you ached to hug him and refuse to let go forever.

You could start on attaining your ideal existence by filling your stomach.

"Hey, do you want food?" Affirmative grunt. "Would you like me to go get some?" Equally affirmative grunt. With his enthusiastic approval, you left his designated room and wandered throughout the hospital. It took longer than you would have supposed, but you came back to greet him with armfuls of instant ramen, oden, and sugary treats you bought solely to indulge yourself but tried to frame as 'purchases for two'.

"I brought you the fanciest cuisine they have avaliable in their vending machines," you said. Shota snorted as you dumped the packages across the visitor's chair and gently dropped into your place beside him on the bed, careful not to hit him or disturb his wounds.

Your hand wound up to the crown of his head, where your hand tangled into the strands of his hair, fingers squeezing the tangled mess it was. "Can I tempt you?" You muttered into his ear.

He hummed noncommitally, his lips quirking. "I trust you." You had to restrain yourself from smiling so wide that you scared off your quarry, a pleased smugness rising from how naturally and freely he delivered that.

His humming turned from casual to an evident sign of contentment as your faithful ministrations endured for a while. It wasn't quite normalcy with how you tucked the pads of your fingers in so they wouldn't grace his forehead and circled a cautious breadth around all regions of his face, but it was adequate to drive your fears into some rarely ventured corner of your mind to torture you at a later date.

Definitely became more adequate when Shota passed out draped on your form. He was slouching, his nose buried in the crook of your neck and his unharmed right hand motionless on your leg. When you shuffled subtly to get a nicer angle and actually see the wonderful sight you had achieved, he groaned in protest, and you couldn't find it in yourself to attempt to leave when he was smiling. Deviously soft, and oblivious to your judgment–he was smiling in his sleep.

Most who had to deal with him would deal with Aizawa, the hardass teacher or Aizawa, the workaholic who could be seen bent over his laptop at ungodly hours of morning and night grading papers and drafting reports for his principal. Some unlucky fools would be pursued by him and would be petrified when Eraserhead's eerie crimson irises fell upon them, stripping them of the controlled sense of superiority they clung to as their refuge.

But you knew a secret an extremely select few were privy to. You knew that his shell was dense and tough yet brittle, a personification of intimidating traits he adopted when they served him, and he was a bleeding heart for the victims of the world who couldn't fight for themselves, for those children he taught who had glinting stars inside them he would never permit to be stamped out.

And that was why you were terrified. Because you knew he was breakable.

#bnha #mha #aizawa shouta #aizawa shota #aizawa x reader #aizawa #aizawa/reader #angst #is this my cursed trash brainchild #yes #do I hate it #it made me wanna cry #do I regret it..no #request from me #if you’d like #I promise I don’t bite #personal works #alternative tag could be self-indulgence

6 notes · View notes

codylabs · 4 years

Text

The Nomads: Part 1

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4

Long ago, a story was recorded. It told how after many months of careful listening, a lone astronaut learned to understand the language of her rescuers. Weeks more of practicing to herself within the privacy of her escape pod, and she had grown accustomed to shaping her tongue and lips around their strange syllables. Then one evening over dinner, when one of the boys made fun of her, the astronaut finally spoke. “Well I do not think my eyes are tiny.” She replied with a smile. “Maybe yours are just enormous.”

It had been a poor comeback to a poor insult, and had been half incomprehensible to them, but it caused quite an uproar nonetheless.

“Missus Fikes!” They all cheered. This was the only phrase she’d managed to teach them of her own language, and just as well, for it was her name. “You understood our language this entire time? Did you learn? When did you learn? Who taught you?” They prodded her with questions, speaking too quickly for her to distinguish. “We’re so proud of you!”

“I have been listening many nights!” Her concentration on her own words made them come out slowly, (and even she could hear the clumsy distortion of her own accent,) but they were coming. “Practicing many nights. Was become weary of sign language. Big thanks to friend Keeleeticktick for speaking so slowly at me.”

They laughed at that, and slapped Keeleeticktick on the back and congratulated him for being a good friend. “Oh.” One of them turned to her after the uproar quieted a bit. “That was good, but the word for ‘night’, you said it wrong. It’s more like…” His beak didn’t move when he made the correct pronunciation, (since they didn’t speak with their beaks,) but the clusters of high-voltage nerves in his tentacles pulsed and chimed with electrical interference, and her helmet radio picked it up and played it into her speaker in the form of sound.

“Nights.” She repeated back to him.

“Still not quite right.” Somebody else chimed in. “It’s like you’re only saying half of it.”

“You sound like a queeteekit with weevakik syndrome!” One of them teased her. She didn’t know a few of those words, but got the gist.

“Don’t be rough on him!” One of them smacked him. “He’s doing his best!”

“Is problem with my voice-maker.” She tapped the radio on her helmet with a helpless laugh. “It cannot do the frequencies so low. Cannot hear some of word.”

“Oh! Oh! I’ve got an idea!” One of them waved a tentacle toward the dish up in the crow’s nest. “Let’s go get the ship’s radio! It can do the whole range!”

“Hey yeah!” Somebody agreed. “We can just wire it right in! And then we’ll just turn the dish back toward us, turn down the volume, and we can all hear each other! Should work well enough until we can modify his radio.”

“Very good!” She followed after with an eager laugh.

They were awake for many long hours that night, laughing and talking and doing their best to help her learn. It seemed they all adored the excitement, and they nursed her for every bit of attention and strange newness she could provide. And they seemed to be growing to like her.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So, Missus Fikes, what are these things for anyway?” Keeleeticktick asked, reaching a tentacle forward to poke at her.

They’d been respecting her boundaries for the entirety of her stay so far, but now that she was starting to fit in, it seemed that the taboos were finally breaking down; this was the first question one of them had ever directly asked her about her human biology.

“Those are legs.” She smiled. The word had no direct translation that she knew of. “I guess you could call them hook-limbs? Crawlers? I don’t know… They let me move around.” She wiggled her boots to show that they were living parts of her, not just some kind of stiff horns.

“They don’t look like they help you move.” He seemed skeptical.

“Not way out here, no.” Her eyes wandered over the nomad’s small convoy of ships, and none of them had any habitation rings or rotating sections, or anything at all which could be used to generate artificial gravity. Their engines weren’t even powerful enough to provide thrust gravity. “I… I suppose I don’t have a way to show how they work.”

“Maybe if you took off your armor?” He poked curiously at her space suit. “Maybe you wouldn’t burn yourself?”

“No, they’re not thrusters.” She laughed. “They… If I was stuck to something… If I were being pulled…” She remembered that they didn’t have a word for ‘down’. “If I were being pulled on to something, then they would let me move.”

“…Huh?” He didn’t quite grasp the gist.

She pondered it a moment longer. And she remembered a history lesson from long ago, from before human spacecraft were large enough to mount entire rings. In the very early colonial age, when humans were still exploring their own solar system, their ships were often designed to stay attached to their last discarded booster stage, and reel it out on the end of a long cable. Then, by spinning end-over end, they could approximate enough of a radius and rotation to provide artificial gravity. “Okay, I have a idea.” She snapped her fingers. “Do you have a strong cable, and some mass equal to my pod you would allow me to risk?”

“Ohhhh…” He had access to the first one, but was hesitant on loaning the second; there wasn’t much mass out here they could spare. “We have silk cable that’s near indestructible… But how ‘risky’ are we talking?”

“I want to swing it around quickly. If the silk breaks, it would fly away from the convoy and be hard to get back.”

“I’ve got my dingy!” Keeleeticktick’s son, Thilykto, had been listening, and now spoke up. “I could just tie that to it, and that way if I fly away, I could just fly it back!”

“Oh yeah, that would be safe.” She nodded.

“…Alright.” Keeleeticktick nodded reluctantly. “But if this gets too crazy, Missus Fikes, I’m going to put a stop to it.”

“Of course.” She spread her arms and curled her fingers, a motion which, (as far as she had been able to tell) meant about the same as a courteous bow.

An hour later, they had her escape pod tied securely to the end of a narrow silken thread, and Thilykto was up on his dingy, tied to the other. His father looked on in growing disapproval (though not growing as fast as his curiosity, apparently.) Most or all of the other nomads, both on this ship and surrounding ships, had clustered to watch as well. Beneath the gaze of many eyes, she radioed over to Thilykto. “You ready, man?”

“I was born ready!” He curled one tentacle into the shape of a thumbs-up, a gesture he’d learned from her.

“Great!” She stepped into the airlock of her pod. “I don’t know how much fuel this will use, so if you waste more than quarter, call it off!”

“Okay!” He grabbed the controls of his dingy, and waited for her signal.

As for herself, she sealed the door behind her and cycled the airlock. The pressurized stiffness of her suit lightened as the chamber flooded, and then she drifted through the inner door into what counted as her home. There wasn’t much to it, just a few seats, a control panel, and some frayed wall insulation which she’d folded into a bed; it was little wonder she spent so much time outside.

Now she grasped the control panel, twisted herself around to right-side-up, and began tapping buttons for pre-ignition checks. She wondered for a moment if the escape pod’s thrusters still worked. She had run them completely dry of fuel during the leviathan attack, and nearly overheated them in the process. The Nomads had been kind enough to offer a refuel when they found her, but the quiet drifting ever since had never given her an opportunity to give them a test fire, and she worried whether or not they’d suffered permanent damage from her initial clumsiness. She held her breath as she threw the last switch.

To her relief, the pod’s propulsion roared to life with hardly a second’s hesitation, and the readouts all leveled out to green. She grasped the RCS joysticks to begin the maneuver. “Remember.” She radioed over. “Thrust opposite direction of me.”

“Yeah, I got it!”

The escape pod’s thrusters pushed it one way, the dingy pushed the other way, the silk went taught, and they began to rotate each other. As he watched it begin, Keeleeticktick turned in a nervous circle and curled his tentacles up around his head, while his eyestalks retracted back into a fold beneath his beak. “Oh, be careful!” He cried up at them.

“I’m good, I’m good!” His son called back. “Missus Fikes, how fast do we need to get going?”

“Very fast.” As the dingy and pod spun, the centrifugal force began to weigh on her body. It was light at first, a ghostly hint of drag in an unexpected direction, but it rapidly grew stronger and stronger. Now she was no longer floating, and her boots touched the floor. A wrench hit the wall behind her and bounced to a stop. The picture of her family by her bed began to slide. And now the suit was resting on her shoulders, now she felt the blood begin to drain from her head, and now her knees and back remembered the meaning of ‘down’. And then, they exploded in pain.

She’d been weightless 4 months now. The entire time she’d been drifting with the nomads, she’d never once dedicated herself to the least exercise, and it seems her back and legs had become next to useless by her neglect. “That’s enough!” She gasped, releasing her own controls and falling to her knees. “That’s enough!”

For the next minute or so, silent anticipation hung over the tribe, as they waited for her to make good on her claim of some unique and alien spectacle. Their eyes followed her pod around and around its circular path, and some of them began to rotate themselves to match, so as to make the watching easier. As for her, she clawed with her gloves at her suit’s latches, and managed to detach them. Then she wiggled out of it, like the weak and flaccid motions of a molting insect whose new shell was yet too soft to support it.

Now she was free of her suit, was on her hands and knees, staring at the metal floor with her own two eyes, feeling it with her own bony fingers. And then, with a force of will and a mighty complaint from every one of her joints, she grasped a railing on the wall and drew herself upright.

At this rate of spin and this length of silk, the ‘gravity’ in the pod was almost nothing. A bare 20% of Earth gravity, 20% of what she’d spent her entire life surviving, and which by rights she should be indestructible to. It was surely disheartening to see herself so weak… But perhaps fully developed strength didn’t matter tonight. To merely stand and walk, to give an introduction to human behavior however brief, that was all they needed.

As she opened the shutters of the pod window, and stood before her friends for the first time, she wondered what they would think.

At first they didn’t know what to think. They either didn’t understand what they were looking at, or didn’t understand the enormity of it, or maybe they didn’t even recognize her as herself without her suit, and thought her body was a piece of abstract furniture. It wasn’t until she began to walk, and paced the width of the pod a few times, that they started to understand the design of her, and the immense force she was under, and the strength of her legs, and the coordinated balance that kept her upright. One by one she heard the shocked realizations coming over the radio.

“That’s amazing!”

“How are you doing that?”

“He must have a crane or something built into the wall.”

“You must have a powerful heart!”

“Where else would those ever be useful??”

She hesitated at that last comment, and her smile faded. For she knew that these peoples’ culture relied entirely on thrusters, and fuel, and the delicate equations of propulsion and reaction. Wasted mass, be it clutter, garbage, or any kind of inefficiency or miscalculated baggage, was counted somewhere between a dreadful sin and an embarrassing faux pas; the nomads did not suffer things without use.

It occurred to her now that by their measure, a good portion of her physical body could be counted as waste. She looked down at herself, at her arms which weren’t as strong as they could be, at the layers of fat on her belly which she’d been meaning to shed for years, and at her thick, hard-boned, vestigial legs, for which she had no use at all in the foreseeable future, and which perhaps had become too weak to ever be used again. She also thought of her kidneys, and her liver, and the lengths of intestines, which were largely obsolete thanks to her diet on the pod’s genetically-perfected algae paste. Legs, fat, a complete digestive tract… Nose and hair and breasts and bones, space-bound castaways such as herself had no use for such things. Perhaps the reason she was so foreign to the nomads was that they had never imagined a creature like her. And they had never imagined it because, out here… It really made no sense at all.

“Legs were needed on our world.” She reminisced. “We needed them to move. To walk. Anywhere we went, our legs took us… They were my thrusters.”

“…What kind of world was this?” Keeleeticktick’s voice was quiet.

“A rock planet.” She told them, and let that sink in. “A planet named Earth. It had a great pull, and we lived our lives on its surface… It was full of… Of…” She searched her vocabulary for words of theirs which could properly carry the meaning of hers. “Steam… Ice? Gas. Covered in gas. Masses of gas. We walked on rock. Creatures walked on rock. Food grew on rock. We ate ice, ate food, and ate the gas, ate oxygen, for life…” She took a deep breath in and out to show them. “Mass was all around, all pulled down, all on the same…” She spread her palms like the line of a horizon. “Same surface…”

They were silent for a few seconds.

“Missus Fikes.” Keeleeticktick broke the silence. “I think you are a very, very long way from home.”

She nodded, in solemn and wholehearted agreement.

“Hey, uh, I don’t mean to interrupt, but how long are we gonna be spinning?” His son spoke up. “Feeling a bit sick over here, ha ha.”

With a start, she looked up through the window at the kid, who was swinging around on the other end of the line. Even such a small measure of artificial gravity had mashed him to the floor of his dingy, where his body bore more resemblance to washed-up seaweed than any kind of creature. “Oh, sorry!” She cried. “I’m so sorry! Yeah, we will spin down then. The demonstration is over.”

“Don’t worry about it, I know it looks bad, but it doesn’t really hurt at all.” He laughed. “I feel all limp and squished but uhhh yeah, I think you’re gonna have to spin it down with your thrusters. I can’t reach my controls.”

“Hang on kid, I got it.”

And for the second time in her life, but more sadly this time, she bid farewell to gravity.

#the nomads #missus fikes #spaceborne lifeform #alien #scifi #short story

6 notes · View notes

ripuels · 4 years

Text

Rival Gangs AU: warnings of blood, violence, swearing, bruising, etc.

For @annabellioncourt thank you!

(This got too long so I’m publishing as a text post to use a Read More that’ll actually work. This website is amazing. Really. Also I’m Very Tired, sorry if the editing looks like a four year old did it)

“Are you the one who's been following me? Stalking me?”

Amanda had recognised the eyes straight away, the depth of brown peering over a khaki bandana, pinched tight over his nose and tied at the base of his neck. The switchblade pressing against his throat shaves a tuft of green from it.

“Fucking answer me, pretty boy.”

His hand moves gingerly as if he were defusing a bomb, a knife rolls from his fingers and clatters into the blue metal like a gunshot in the dark.

“I’m sorry, Ripley.” The synthetic with every reason to flinch doesn't. This woman, more leather and machine grease than human, holding him fast against the tunnel wall, shivers with unpredictability. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You couldn't scare me if you tried. Fuck,” she grimaces against the fading adrenaline, leaving her a dizzy creature, a lamb, holding up a lion.

They both know a severed throat wouldn't do much to stop a berserk synthetic, especially not with her struggling grip. He stands still regardless, unfazed by the threat.

“How the hell did you even find me, Samuels?”

He glances to the blood leading down the train line. A dot-to-dot probably leading all the way from the outskirts of snob-hill to here, X marks the spot right over his chest, staining his cashmere sweater.

Amanda grunts in comprehension and shoves herself off the wall, leaving him to brush his clothes smooth. “Okay, good point.”

Samuels wishes it wasn't. “You've lost a lot of blood. Are you alright?”

“Fucking peachy.” She says, retreating onto her gang's side of the tracks, replacing the switchblade into her leather jacket with incomprehensible speed. “Wish I could say the same about my bike, I swear to God, if there's so much as a scratch on it, I’ll kill the lot of ‘em.”

She brushes her fingers back through her hair, her hood falling down and he pans over her injuries.

“What happened to you?”

Ripley scoffs in disbelief, leaning a heavy shoulder into the dark emergency alcove. “Like you don't know.”

“I was told nothing more than they intended to attack. They know I'm conflicted by protocols. That I struggle in a fight. I think they try to be kind by not inviting me.”

“Or they know you'll get in their way.” Which he does, far too often to go unnoticed by David. “You're too good for this life, Samuels. It's going to catch up to you one day, believe me.”

This synthetic's deep frown flinches, easing to something far, far worse. Sadness. After all this time, after so many close encounters with others like him, she'd never seen one be that before.

“Was no big deal.” Amanda can't bare his gaze. “Got jumped behind the garage when everyone fucked off home, too pissed to ride. Fucking cowards, I got shoved in a boot, driven out, and I got away, but... Well,” she gestures vaguely at her face. “It's obvious they didn't want to kill me.”

Christopher knows it's because she would absolutely be dead, and they'd have war on their hands. No, this freckle of red and staining of blue was a scare tactic, an obviously ineffective one as she winces her next breath. Heavy, resolute. Plotting.

“They shouldn't have been on your side of town.” His voice sounds accusing, but for what it's unclear.

“I didn't fucking provoke them, if that's what you're asking. Your lil' biker gang of Decepticon wannabees probably just don’t like the fact we kicked your ass in the park district. It's ours now. You want it back? Fine, time and place. Name it.”

“I personally couldn't care less.” Samuels says rather than stating her very existence seems to egg his crew, his family, on. “I'm worried why you were left alone in the first place, is there still no honour amongst thieves?”

“It's Sunday.” Amanda shrugs as though it explains everything. “Believe it or not, we don't live to terrorize you, we all have jobs to go to tomorrow. Real lives outside this territorial bullshit. To be honest though,” she trembles to dab her brow and winces, a bruise beginning to darken the outer corner of her eye. “I could really use a day off.”

“I'm sorry.” He mumbles and it surprises her.

“Why? You had nothing to do with it. Funnily enough, you never do.”

“Yes, I did.” A hardness sets in Samuels' gaze, the purity and innocence vanishing in a heartbreaking fall. She can't help but feel as though it's like an angel from grace. “I could have warned you, but by the time I heard-”

“Shit, Samuels. Don't start blaming yourself, you would'a been killed for stepping foot over the tracks anyway, let alone coming to the workshop. You didn't do anything wrong, I know that. We're good.” It kills to give her direct rival such power. “And yeah, we might be from different worlds completely, but I don't let the actions of some reflect on the whole thing.”

“Who was it?” He doesn't need to ask, just go back to the clubhouse and see who's missing teeth or some digits. Find someone sourcing parts for repair. “Ash? David?”

“Doesn't matter who it was, they'll be on their guard for a bit now. No need to protect them.” The quiet rage surprises them both, just as genuine as it is violent. “Yet.”

“Please, don’t do this.” Despite all the warnings in his programming, Samuels steps over, ducking into the small archway she's hunkering in. “I’m sick of the bloodshed, on both sides. I'm thinking about- No, I am certain. I'm out, Ripley.”

“You think so, do you?”

“Yes.” He says in a way that makes her believe him. “I can't see people like this anymore, I can't keep repairing my friends and pretending that it's not all for nothing. That they aren't terrible enough they can do this to you, a human. That you, or one of your friends won't kill us in a few months when tensions run high again anyway.”

Tensions are always high, Amanda thinks as he moves towards her, licking his thumb and scrubbing at a spot of blood on her cheek. It makes no difference in the grand scheme, one mark amongst hundreds. He licks it again and she recoils, almost in disgust, but he stares like steel, nonchalantly taking to the mass of red on her cheekbone. She winces, but doesn't pull away.

“You look a mess.” Samuels hums thoughtfully, tugging his bandana off his neck and sucking on a corner, using it to clean her lip. “They shouldn't have gone this far.”

“Had worse. Done worse.”

“Seen worse.” He states flatly. “Doesn't mean it's not upsetting to me.”

“To your protocols.” Amanda doesn't mean to make it sound so much like a weakness, rather than she actually admired it about this one.

“That too.”

“Speaking of which, since when have you been carrying a knife?” Amanda cocks her head away into his other palm under her ear, a little skeptic, a little in pain. “You expecting a fight or something?”

“With Amanda Ripley involved, always.” He says deadpan, but there's an attempted note of humour in his voice. Her reputation is littered in grey, some awful things proven to be small town gossip; and other more harrowing tales that perhaps only he knows, absolute truth. “But it wasn't for you, I was worried about being followed.”

“Like you were following me?” Her voice finally cracks in good humour, it's short lived but Samuels falters.

“Just- keep still, will you?”

“Yes, okay, Christopher.” How anyone with a self appointed ID like that ended up in any gang at all is beyond her. She nudges him. “What the hell kind of name is Christopher anyway? Doesn’t exactly scream synthetic delinquent.”

“Like you're one to talk,” he finally smiles, “Amy.”

They fall into a relaxed silence in the dim, a damp trickle of moisture running from the overpass nearby, fog rolling in down the way. They are relatively secluded, the green exit sign casting them both in a nebulous glow as her wounds are silently tended to in less than sanitary conditions. His eyes leave the mess of injury for hers every few seconds, searching for a tell of her discomfort. Of course it is always relative. Now, it's not so much his proximity to her that's cranking at her anxiety, but the thought that if he was seen on their turf, even by a metre or two, he'd be killed. If they were seen so close, they both might be, the speed of which would depend on who came across them first.

She remembers Zula, the best damn right hand Amanda ever had, and that Davis, he was alright for a military device. They'd been chased to the edge of the world when David found out about them. They were nothing more than friendly, familiar, but they've yet to stop running for it. An anonymous letter is delivered every now and again, no return address, but one day, she knows they're going to stop.

This, she thinks, is far too close to that.

“What is it?” Christopher asks the darkening of her face, the silence waning of it's humour.

“Why the hell are you here? You know if I'm seen with you they'll fucking kill me.” She pushes off the wall, nearly right into his chest. Though her stature is found sorely wanting, her entire demeanour screams louder than Samuels ever could in raw, fearsome, violence. Barely contained in a 5’ 5 cage. “Get the fuck out of here Samuels, before you get us both-”

She swallows her words as his lips crash onto her own, hesitating briefly until her hands take his jaw with a demanding hardness. Shoving herself into him, they hit the far wall hard enough to encourage a deep grumble amongst a slew of colourful names for idiocy, and more specifically, him.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Her body presents no complaint. “Chris- think about this.”

“I am- I have.” He brushes down to her neck, detects her tensing, pushing back harder as he finds a firm lump of bruise. A footprint. Fucking David.

It's a wonder what it would be like to feel, anything, let alone pain, learn what about it grounds this woman. It would be a fair deal, he supposes, to have a sense of the worst rather than nothing at all

“Then you're an idiot and a deadman.”

“You don't scare me, Amy.” He says as her angry kisses take control of him. Holding her, bloody and bruised, just tight enough to hurt in all the places it doesn't yet, until his systems blare that it's too much. That it encourages the alarming grip she has of his hair or neck or shoulders.

“I should.” She hisses in response.

Christopher knows it too. The ghastly stories she had whispered, melting from her lips as her icy exterior thaws over his chest. Her leather and flannels, his denim and cashmere, both of their embroidered patches, all scattered over the floor of dingy motels. Completely bare together, stripped of identity in the next town over, then the next. Riding further and further until one day they might never stop.

Never need to retreat with their fallen. To lick wounds. To prepare for next time.

Next time.

Because there were plenty. So often they met on the field, in the canyon, at the lookout, her hands stained white taking life, his red from saving it. For years Christopher would always find her after the fights by an upturned motorcycle, pacing at an old inn or bar, fingers through her hair, and he'd lead them to a room. They'd find relief from the wounds and the damage, the over-stimulation and adrenaline. Take whatever was left out on each other. It became their ritual.

Now, just like every other time, he takes the side of her face, but offers something new. “Leave with me. Right now. For good. Don't make me beg.”

“What?” Her lips are yet to leave his, but Samuels' eyes open to slits, slowly pulling away to gauge her.

“Why do we ever come back, Amy? We know how to get out, in the chaos of the aftermath, we abandon our people to fuck in cheap rooms and play it off as hunting down each other's stragglers. How long do you think we can keep this lie up? How long until they learn where we really go?” Samuels allows himself to lean in, accept a kiss that feels awfully final as her hands grow unbearably tight at his shoulders, taking him by the collar with a rough shake.

“Jesus, Chris, you can’t be serious. Open your Goddamn eyes.” A demand weaponized by a glance down, their different attire barely touching at the chest but worlds apart, threatening to collide like two orbits never meant to meet. On course to implode, or burn out. It's impossible to tell. “Look at us. I’m a greaser. A criminal. I darken the city with a pitch black bike, and run red into the streets. I am a fucking menace to society just like the rest of us. And you, fuck, you’re a synthetic with a heart of gold. And if you- if you let me, I’m going to ruin that. Ruin you. Shit, I mean you already look forward to the turf wars, because you know what comes after.”

“I do not look forward to them, but being there means I can keep an eye out for you if you need.” His gaze moves away lazily, unapologetic. “They do herald the time we spend together, but it's not that which I like. It's the fact we can escape for a while, just us. A breath of fresh air amongst all of this.”

“And we come back because we know they’ll-” her voice cracks, “they'll find us. Out there is a big fucking world that we already know we can't hide in, we'd never find peace. There's no future, not for me and you.”

“What are you saying?”

“I mean.” She stands back again. Breaking away. “I mean I'm out too. Of this. Of us.”

His face, already torn between sadness and fear, falls further. “Do you think there is peace here? At least we have a chance out there. Movement, that's what will keep us safe. On the road, under the sun and stars, rain and shine, I don't fucking care. As long as you say you'll come.”

“Samuels, we’ve tried before, to run,” she mumbles softly, “and we were caught. Hurting the others, I don't give a shit, you know I fucking don't, but having to hurt you-”

“Do not dare blame yourself.” He says sternly, holding his shoulder where a long jagged ridge of repaired silicone pushes back. “I didn't feel a thing. They had to believe me, it was the only way.”

“No,” the tremble cheats the strength in her voice, in her eyes. A hundred times he’d looked into them and not seen this. “There was another way, there was always another way, we just don't want to admit it.”

“And I never will. You cannot convince me to move on, to leave you.”

“You have to. My people will try to kill me, and they'll definitely kill you, and-”

“Then I'll die.”

“Christopher...” She closes the gap between them, hesitant and desperate arms crashing around each other. No longer willing to exchange needy kisses, but fill a void. Squeeze so hard his respiratory system freezes. “Where are we meeting this time?”

“Pardon?”

“I need to get my bike, and you need to get off this side of town. But then what?”

He frowns deeply, for the first time he doesn't want to go through with it. “For our usual rendezvous?”

She convinces herself to back away, catching the last fragments of him like this, his fingers loosening their suddenly paper gentle grip on her waist. “I've been called many things, Christopher Samuels, but never shy of a challenge. Let's get the fuck out of here.”

Chris takes a step forward but stops, “Amanda,” he whispers, not wanting to ask if she's serious, strain this already brittle, whimsical promise. “Sunrise. The lookout.”

“Be there. Oh, and one more thing?” She calls back down the tracks, “I love you.” Her voice echoes in the dark long after she's gone.

#my brain feels like it's in the back of a moving van and the stig is driving #so i hope this is okie #enjoyyyy

9 notes · View notes

blue-honeycomb · 4 years

Text

Escape Artist: Chapter 1 [Aizawa x Reader]

Decided to play around with this for a bit before going back to my other stuff.

Masterlist

Prologue | Part 1

---

The Escape Artist stared at the television screen with incomprehension, blinking once, twice, until a small hand smacked her dead center in the face. The force was enough to shake her from her thoughts and she cast a sidewards glare at the little brat sitting casually beside her.

Big, off-white eyes stared unflinchingly into her own, equally white, featureless face twisting into some form of expression that was lost on her. Luckily, the little hellion's hair was prone to flashing colors with their emotions, so she at least has some idea as to what they wanted. Even if that idea was vague at best.

"How was I supposed to know there was a whole pack of heros right there?" She huffed, casting her eyes back to the news special broadcasting her latest anti-kidnapping kidnapping with concerningly clear footage. Like, crystal clear HD, not some fuzzy security camera but media quality definition; the kind that got you recognized.

On the screen was a video of her popping into existence in a police station not even 3 yards from where a group of heros and police officers were finishing up an interview, setting the child she'd brought in a chair as he chewed on the mochi she'd thought to bring with her for just such a purpose. As though in slow motion, she could see her screen self whip around and suddenly freeze, staring directly at the heros, and consequencely the cameras, before disappearing once more. Honestly, it was pretty comical, and apparently, a good portion of the in studio reporters seemed to think so too.

"That," She pointed at the screen for emphasis while leveling the yellow flashing, blank-faced little shit a glare. "Was not intentional, no matter what you little misfits seem to think." From the shadow of the color flashing cretin popped another one, this one gray haired and black eyed, grinning widely at her with his wickedly sharp teeth.

"Don't make up shit just cuz you can't understand me. Don't think I'm not on to you, shark boy." Not that any of her brats ever listened to a thing she said anyway. The only one who ever seemed to try was Spitter, but that was because the boy couldn't say no to anyone ever, so it was never satisfying. Hard to feel victorious about getting your way when it took years of abuse to make the person (a little fucking boy) willing to heel on command. Thinking about how'd she'd found the little guy made her stomach turn.

Moving on before she breaks something.

Shark brat said something about hero costumes to Whiteout Brat and a lot of gesturing took place, as well as a good bit of yelling. Thankfully they lived far enough underground to avoid being hear by any passerbys. Escape Artist turned away while they were distracted and let them entertain themselves while she thought about what she'd just seen.

It was the first time the public had seen conclusive evidence of her existence outside of a few shitty grocery store video feeds, and the entirety of Japan seemed to be eating it up. Words like vigilante and uncatchable were being tossed around, as well as theories about teleportation quirks and being a greiving mother seeking vengeance. All these things would have made her snort in amusement had it been even a few months ago. But now? Now she couldn't afford to get caught or have a hoard of glory-hounds on her trail. Too many mouths to feed, for one, and secondly, too many little bodies following her when she wasn't looking. Anything could happen with the added variable of nosy superpower enhanced dogooders.

The problem with working with homeless, traumatized children is that after you've taken care of them for a while they come to expect you to actually take care of them. As in, not just feeding them occasionally and giving them a place to crash, but actually filling that parent shaped whole in their lives and taking over all the responsibilities that comes with it. Like protection, love and trust. And time. Especially time. So much more than she has to spare.

So they've taken to following her when she's not watching closely enough, and that terrifies her because she can give them love and trust in abundance, but protection is something she just can't provide. She simply isn't strong enough to take them with her everywhere she goes, let alone into a situation that may one day be her last.

Speaking of situations.

It was time to go out and get more food. While nothing went bad in her inventory, thank God, it never actually stayed full with how many mouths needed feeding everyday. Shark boy alone could put away half his body weight in a single sitting if given the chance, and even that's got nothing on Bull or Hot Shot. Honestly, and though Escape Artist would never say it aloud, Bull's vigorous appetite may have been the reason she was abandoned in the first place. She just had to eat so much to function that even with the triweekly raids Escape Artist could barely keep up with the ever growing demand.

And then there's Hot Shot. Nicely put, he was a rather enthusiastic young boy in possession of a very destructive, fuel-exhaustive quirk neither she nor he had any idea how to train. It wasn't until he'd joined her merry little band that she'd learned the location of every clothing store in the city. Every single one of them.

Her life sometimes, she swears.

There was a shattering sound in the designated kitchen area, followed by a high pitched screech that fell somewhere between a frog croak and a chirp. Not even a second later the sound of footsteps darting through the tunnels at frankly ridiculous speeds creeked overhead, followed closely by the wall rattling thud of Bull chasing right after.

Escape Artist sighed, running a hand through her hair and pulling slightly. Beside her, Shark boy leapt to his feet in a dead run to go watch the drama unfold with unholy glee, Whiteout following at a slightly more moderate pace. Not even 8 in the morning and already the chaos had begun.

Her head thud quietly against the back of the couch. "I don't get paid enough for this shit."

---

Escape Artist was more than a bit concerned by what had happened on her way back home, but she supposed it could have been worse. For one thing, she wasn't dead, and for another, neither was the man she'd smacked headfirst into (or more accurately, he'd smacked face first into her). Unfortunately for the man though, the impact had left him notably unconscious and maybe a little bruised around the nose and forehead. In short, she done fucked up and this time it didn't involve another mouth to feed… she hoped. She didn't know if she had the patience needed to take care of a full grown man on top of the 8 kids at home and the 2 feral cretins that visited occasionally.

It'd been a simple case of bad luck all around, honestly. She'd just finished robbing the local Walmart (yes, it still exists and she still doesn't know how to feel about that months on) and was coming out of ID when she's suddenly been thrown to the ground by a speeding black mass all but flying through the darkened alley. Her first thought upon getting over her shock was to thank whatever was watching over her that night it wasn't a car. Her second was to fret over whoever she'd just gotten killed.

Luckily, it hadn't been a car and the stranger had survived the encounter. So, all was good in her books, besides the obvious part where the guy was laying unconscious in an alley and sporting an obvious hero getup in the shadier part of this district. If that wasn't asking for a knife in the back than she didn't know what was.

So now here she was, sitting across from the unmoving lump of man, chin in hand and elbows firmly planted on her thighs. She'd covered him up with a blanket from her inventory some time ago to keep him at least somewhat warm as the night gradually grew colder around them. She didn't think she'd manage to get the thing back before the guy was up and trying to kick her ass, but Hot Shot needed to learn to control his flames anyway and maybe going coverless for a while was just the motivation he needed to do so. She pointedly didn't think about the extra comforters she'd grabbed because she knew the first wouldn't last three nights in the little shit's care.

She blinked slowly, eyes roaming over what little bit of the man she could make out from under the blanket. Long, dark hair curling over the blanket and his heavily stubbled face (she'd picked the wild mass up off the filthy ground because ew), long lashes and a narrow, masculine face. He was attractive for sure, though the dark lines around his eyes, nose and forehead made him seem almost sickly pale in the unflattering street light. What she noticed most though was the peeks of sleek, firm muscle that the fluffy covers, ridiculously huge scarf and baggy clothing couldn't hide.

She was a woman with damn human needs. It'd been at least 3 years since she's gotten any and she was long overdue. She felt strongly that she should be able to appreciate this man's undeniable beauty so long as she kept her hands to herself and didn't do anything creepy like take pictures or some shit. She blatantly ignored the little voice whispering about how equally creepy it was to watch someone sleep without their consent.

It was also creepy how the observe function of her quirk let her learn a few tidbits about the man without any conscious effort, but for the most part she ignored the notifications hovering around the man all together. It wasn't like she'd ever meet the guy again after this, unless he was trying to arrest her of course. Either way, she doubted learning this guy's name or whatever was really worth invading his privacy anymore than her mere existence did. She'd like to think she has some standards.

In her uncharacteristic moment of distraction she failed to notice the subtle shift of the man's head before he went eeriely still. It wasn't until she was shifting to get more comfortable and noticed that a section of his hair was misplaced that she realized her mistake.

It happened too fast for her to properly react. With a quiet that belied the strength behind the attack, the man launched himself into her personal space and had her wrapped head to toe in the weird scarf he had with him. On instinct she tried to open her ID, but with a cold chill of realization discovered she couldn't get it to activate. In fact, her whole world seemed to suddenly swirl on its axis and for the first time since she'd come to this place her mind blanked with true, mortal terror.

His eyes glowed deep, sinister red against the shadows spread over his handsome face, dark hair whipping above his head like a dark, inhuman halo. Those muscles she'd been admiring just moments ago were suddenly the weapons of intimidation they were meant to be, something that made her heart race and quake with fear.

And her body. Maybe even worse than the sudden influx of terror was the sudden aknowledgement of her body's long forgotten functions. Where once she was satisfied she was now hollow, the movement of long unused organs felt like insects crawling though her body, scratching and nipping as they went.

Suddenly, the world was not just a thing that could be walked away from with a single though and a armful of goods. For the first time since she'd opened her eyes in that alleyway nearly a year ago, it was just her, the world and all the dangers that came with it staring her down with burning red eyes.

For the first time since she received her quirk she was well and truly alive.

"Escape Artist, was it."

#BNHA #Escape Artist AU #Gamer AU #Aizawa Shouta #Aizawa x Reader

10 notes · View notes

spookyspaghettisundae · 4 years

Text

Saving Face

He awoke in the middle of the night. But not in a gentle way. Not feeling rested. No. His eyes fluttered open. Panic made his heart race. He struggled to understand how much time had passed, how he had gotten here, where he even was. He had not slept for long and something was deeply wrong.

Clarity crashed into his mind: Father Simpson had slept in a guest room of the town’s overseer, Gregory Galway. The memories of visiting Hallowglen to investigate a series of disturbed graves now flooded his mind.

The air—a wintry, deathly cold—clawed into his exposed skin as he jolted up into a sitting position upon the soft bed. He stared into the darkness of this room and it stared back at him. A presence stood in here with him, causing the hairs to stand up on the back of his neck. Two tiny eyes glowed like the eyes of a cat. Judging by the height, they belonged to a child.

But his host had no children.

He scrambled, pushing up against the wall behind him, slipping and sliding on the sheets and blankets and failing to stand up straight on his bed. The priest’s hand pawed at the bedside table to find his host’s gaslight lantern and he knocked it over, catching it at the last second before it could fall to the floor.

When he switched it on and illuminated the room with it, the sphere of light it cast shook so violently that the shadows danced. The glow from the eyes of the creature in there with him vanished, but a raggedy, hairy figure shied away from the light, hiding behind a dresser and peering back at him through a single one of those cat-like eyes.

A grotesque hand of size disproportionate to the child-like figure clutched the side of the dresser. Its fingers ended in filthy black talons. They scratched over the wood, leaving deep marks. A single eye, catching a dull reflection from the light, stared at the priest.

The lantern in Simpson’s hand trembled and the light followed suit.

He breathed at it, “Who are you?”

No answer came from the creature, and he added, “What are you?”

The eye of the creature blinked—sideways—telling Simpson beyond doubt that this was no human being. The child-sized figure shook like a dog shaking off water, and the matted black fur upon its body rippled.

It whispered but the words eluded the priest’s understanding. They sounded like no language he had ever even heard before. Guttural and crude. Ancient.

The creature then hunched over and emitted retching sounds. It hacked, choked, and coughed until something wet and sloppy hit the wooden floorboards in front of it. A wad of slime with chunks lay there, and worms or maggots writhed within the goo. The creature whispered more and rounded the corner of the dresser with a strange grace, standing in the light so the priest could see it in its full unholy glory.

Its arms were far too long for its tiny height, and its short stout legs bent back like those of a horse, though they ended in talons like those of a huge crow. Shaggy fur concealed all skin and whatever face the thing had, a mat of fur hid all features, revealing only a pair of cat-like eyes that stared at him without blinking any more.

Simpson grabbed his silver cross and held it out in front of him, alongside the lantern. The priest hissed at the thing, “In the name of the good God! Stay back!”

Instead of a reply, it just coughed more. Instead of the demonic speech he expected to hear in defiance of his own words, it raised an arm and pointed a filthy talon at him.

Whispers came from its mouth—a small maw lined with tiny sharp teeth—and the incomprehensible words curdled Simpson’s blood. He could not understand a word, but the speech cut all the way down to his bone. His skin writhed and the quivering gob of slime with the maggots on the floor made his stomach churn. The vermin stopped squirming erratically and exploded in size, growing to the size of human fingers before crawling over the floor towards his bed with unnatural speed.

The priest wanted to scream as they slithered up onto the sheets and closed in on him, but his terror squeezed it out, allowing only a hoarse croaking noise to escape his throat. Before he knew it, he frantically swiped and scratched at his own sleeves and skin, desperately trying to get these slimy writhing wriggling things off of him as they slithered all over him, but they eluded his grasp and clung to him like tar.

One entered his mouth and he instinctively bit down on it, causing it to explode into a mass of warm fluid, but the end that he bit off slid down his tongue and continued to writhe, making him choke as it lodged itself inside his throat.

Another slid around his ear and would not come off, no matter how hard he pulled at it or squeezed, nor could he truly catch hold of it because it slipped away between his fingers and wriggled its way right into his ear, sliding so far in that his fingers were too big to grasp at it anymore.

The priest rolled around on the bed in a panic. The light danced, sheets tumbled off the bed as he kicked wildly without target. The world spun around him and he needed to vomit, but his body refused him even that. With the lantern still in one hand, his other waited by his mouth, trembling with dread.

He pictured having to claw these things out of him, imagining how he would bleed all over the place in doing so. And then the writhing and wriggling stopped.

As if the worms were gone. The foul taste of the worm’s fluids on his tongue remained, reminding him that this was real. All too real.

Simpson stared at the creature in his room through eyes wide with terror, and it stared back at him with an eerie, otherworldly calm. The priest broke out into a cold sweat and every limb felt both hot and cold at the same time.

“I am Prince Fainlahset,” said the nightly visitor in a tiny whisper. It sounded like a child yet devoid of any innocence. A melody that carried eons of knowledge but without a trace of surviving compassion. Its accent was strange, like it did not belong in this world nor had it spoken any tongue belonging to man. “This is my land. Your kind violated the covenant, so I will take back what I saved with my princely grace, long ago.”

The priest’s mind reeled. He held out the cross and his hand trembled with the panic that rode him. The sheer terror drowned out the power of his faith and he sensed it held no sway over this creature. This thing was no demon, nothing undead.

It sighed a raspy sound.

Simpson’s lips moved to respond, and he could tell the disconnect between what his lips and tongue tried to form, and what he heard. He spoke in a foreign tongue, the abhorrent sounds he had heard from the creature before without comprehending him, but now he understood every word.

“What covenant? I don’t understand what you’re saying,” the priest said. His chest heaved, his stomach wanted to expel its contents and his head swam. Tears welled up in his eyes.

“This is not your land, but we tolerated you. And when your Gwallag Galway needed our help, we entered the covenant. No foes to defeat or dishonor you, ever. One child, every thirteen years. A simple trade,” said the creature. Its talons clicked and scratched over the floorboards as it took a step towards the priest.

“By the power of the good God, I compel you to—stay back,” Simpson said. But his voice trembled, his spirit faltered. His faith waned in the face of this unnatural presence.

“Your trinket means nothing to me. It will not make up for what I am owed and I do not want it,” said the creature. It stared into his eyes—into his very soul—without mercy.

The temperature in the room dropped below freezing and the silvered cross in Simpson’s hand turned icy cold, colder than winter’s heart itself. The light of his lamp flickered. The cross cracked and exploded into a cloud of dust that made the priest cough, hacking as his throat tried to expel the thing lodged in it—he felt the worm wriggle, as if resisting his body’s urge to eject it.

“All the face I saved your kind,” the creature said, taking another step closer. “All these years, I returned and took what I was owed. But now you refuse me? Thrice?”

“I don’t understand!”

As it stepped closer yet, a faint scent hit Simpson’s nose. Like the dirt and grass of meadow after rain, upturned by the claws of a beast with wet fur; all earthy and wet. Not foul-smelling, but strangely familiar and alien at the same time. A part of it reminded him of the cemetery from the day before, when he covered up the grave of Mariah Kabble.

It whispered to the priest in a fevered pitch, “I helped you save face. And now I take them back. I take all of them back. I take the faces of those who died, and now I take those of the living.”

Simpson shrieked until his scream choked out into a gurgle and ceased altogether.

Gregory Galway, torn from his slumber, hammered at the door to his guest chamber in which the priest had rested that night. When nobody opened the door, he burst into the room.

The lantern’s light still burned, but the lamp stood crooked upon a jumble of sheets. A wad of something slimy and disgusting stood out from a puddle on the floor. Simpson lay sprawled out, an arm and a leg drooped over the disheveled mattress and the others on the cold ground. Face down.

Knowing full well what expected him, he had to see it anyway. The town’s overseer pulled at the priest’s shoulder and turned him over.

Father Simpson’s face was missing. Not disfigured, nor eaten, nor was it torn off. Just gone—smooth skin with no orifices. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Nothing.

Galway screamed. A murder of crows took flight from the rooftop of his house, cawing and flapping their wings as they flew into the fringe of the forest nearby.

Prince Fainlahset would return.

—Submitted by Wratts

4 notes · View notes