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#in case you thought that Season One was any less off-the-walls chaotic as the new lore

findingjoynweirdstuff · 3 years

Text

Dream SMP Recap (August 11/2020) - Maybe this is why you shouldn’t do musicals

Tommy performs a solo of Hamilton while held at gunpoint and wins over Dream with the power of music before war breaks out over a horse corpse after a rendition of “Blitz” by Technoblade leads to murder.

Meanwhile, Fundy hatches an evil plot and steals the throne of the Dream SMP kingdom with Jack Manifold’s help before getting into trouble over a kidnapped bee. Tubbo becomes a lawyer, be careful.

L’Lawyerberg is founded...L’awyerberg?

The server also gained a new member: Quackity!

A large portion of the day’s events take place in Shakespearean English.

Enjoy.

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VOD LINKS:

Ponk

Fundy (August 11 is the correct date)

Tubbo

Tommy

Tommy (Quackity segment)

Skeppy

Thunder1408

Eret

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- Fundy starts off in his underground base.

Fundy: Me is at thyn’t base

Tubbo: L’manburg?

Fundy: Otherly speaking, that which is owned by myself

- Fundy meets Tubbo on the Prime Path. He puts back on his L’manburg outfit, and Tubbo declares him no longer a rebellious teen

- They go over to Tommy’s home, which has been turned into Hell, and Tubbo builds Dream. Fundy shrinks Dream significantly. They then proceed to the L’manburgian docks before heading back.

Tubbo: “Where is Jack Manifold?”

Fundy: “Where isn’t Jack Manifold?”

Tubbo: “That’s the question on everyone’s mind.”

Fundy: “Who is Jack Manifold?”

Tubbo: “No, everyone knows who Jack Manifold is, just where is what we really want to know.”

Fundy: “...Why is Jack Manifold?”

- Fundy carves Herobrine into Skeppy’s leaf roof before making it a creeper

- Fundy tells Tubbo about his evil plan. He’s been researching law, and has come up with a plan to use a law from the Netherlands to gain legal ownership of any property they want. They decide to steal the throne.

Enter Dream.

Fundy: How go’st thy?

- At the castle throne room, Tommy joins the call to briefly shout at Tubbo that Shroud is coming back on Twitch before leaving.

- Fundy turns around and finds himself face to face with Dream, who is standing there menacingly.

- Fundy kills Tubbo and Dream kills Fundy

Enter TommyInnit.

- After returning to the castle, Tubbo and Fundy have the idea to put on a Shakespearean play. Dream is there with his pet dog. Tubbo assigns Dream the role of Macbeth, since he kills a lot of people.

Enter Skeppy.

- Dream kills Charles. He’s getting into character. Fundy congratulates him on his successful audition.

- Tommy joins the call to ask why his base has been turned into the Nether. Fundy and Tubbo tell him that they’re doing a show.They quickly build a theater stage near the Community House.

- Skeppy joins the call and they fill him in on the plan too.

Enter Thunder1408.

- Jack Manifold has transformed into Dream. He turns back into himself and arrives at the Community House.

- They begin the performance of Macbeth. Tommy ends up lip-reading for Tubbo and Fundy by speaking behind them while they nod their heads.

- Dream and Skeppy ride away in a boat together, leaving them with no audience. Tommy frantically performs for Fundy before swapping to his own part, then back to Fundy again.

(The only person in the audience now is Tubbo)

Tommy: (at rapid speed) “As whence the sun 'gins his reflection, shipwrecking storms and direful thunders break, so from that spring whence comfort seem'd to come, discomfort swells. Mark, king of Scotland, mark: No sooner justice had with valour arm'd, compell'd these skipping kerns to trust their heels, But the Norweyan lord surveying vantage, with furbish'd arms and new supplies of men began a fresh assault.”

- Dream, Jack and Skeppy return to watch. Dream pays Tommy a diamond. Tommy continues performing Macbeth solo.

- Dream is enjoying the performance so much he starts having a heart attack

- Tommy points out they would get much more money if they did Hamilton instead.

- Tommy performs a full solo of “Alexander Hamilton” from the hit show Hamilton. Dream shoots Tubbo to death off the stage. Tommy continues the performance, unfazed.

Thunder1408 from up yonder, hath fell to their death.

Skeppy from up yonder, hath fell to their death.

(Tommy keeps rapping)

- Tommy and Tubbo sing while getting attacked by zombies. As they finish the song, Dream throws them several diamonds.

- Tommy tells Tubbo and Fundy that they’ve just started the showbiz business! Skeppy comes over and asks if he can invest. They decide to name it “Pathway.”

Tubbo: “We’re being told to do Heathers. What’s ‘Heathers?’”

- Dream comes over to meet them at Tommy’s Nether house. He offers to fix Tommy’s base for five diamonds. Tommy pays him and he gets to work.

Tommy: “Dream seems to be my friend now. Have I convinced him with the power of song?”

Tubbo: “Well I mean, not until you try to get your discs back.”

- Jack comes over and Tubbo murders him for being against the showbiz business.

- They discuss the future of the showbiz business as an asset to L’manburg. They start thinking of other musicals to do. Tommy only knows Little Shop of Horrors.

- Tommy tells them that they should do a flash mob to promote their new business. He suggests singing “Blitz - Parody of “Blank Space” (has swearing) by Technoblade to appeal to the Technoblade fan club -- namely, Dream and Skeppy.

- They chase after Skeppy and Jack and start a flashmob by aggressively singing Blitz at them. Tubbo then murders Skeppy.

- Fundy leaves. Tommy and Tubbo speak with Skeppy, who is furious.

Skeppy: “I have something you guys can never have.”

Tubbo: “Good spirit?”

- Tommy and Tubbo head to Skeppy’s house.

Skeppy: “Where are you? I’m gonna burn it.”

- They ask what it is that Skeppy has that’s so valuable.

Skeppy: “It’s labelled ‘Spirit...’”

- Skeppy is holding a piece of leather. Tubbo realizes, but Tommy is confused as Dream freaks out in chat.

- Skeppy was going to invest the leather into their business, but not anymore. Skeppy says goodbye. Tommy and Tubbo decide to join Dream’s side to keep him favorable to the showbusiness.

Tommy: “There’s another war, and me and you aren’t...”

Tubbo: “Aren’t what? On the L’manburg side?”

Tommy: “No, we’re on the Showbiz side now, Tubbo. That’s our new side.”

- They meet with Dream, who is still working on Tommy’s base.

Dream: That is the remains of my horse :(

Dream: Its like your disc to me

- An explosion goes off at Tommy’s house as Skeppy sets off a creeper and dies. Tommy tells Skeppy to give them Spirit

Skeppy: “Listen, I’m not looking for another war, okay? I just -- I came after the war, I came when it was all peaceful! I’m not here to start the war!”

Tommy: “Skeppy, okay okay -- here’s a better way of phrasing it: get it out, or we’re going to destroy everything you ever once loved.”

- They threaten to get rid of the number 14, then chase after Skeppy. Tommy shoots and kills him.

Dream: Skeppy.

Skeppy: Yes my lorde

Dream: Can I have my dead horse’s leather please

- Dream is still placing dirt.

- They bicker with Skeppy some more at Skeppy’s house. Tommy and Tubbo decide to hold him hostage. Skeppy asks why they even want the leather. Tommy replies, to gain Dream’s trust.

- Dream tells Skeppy that he would kill both of them for the leather. Tommy and Tubbo start running to L’manburg. Skeppy invites Dream to speak with him and says that he doesn’t like them. Dream asks for the leather.

Skeppy: “You remember everything that we talked about a couple days ago, where I’m like ‘that was uncalled for, why did you go to war with them? Like, that was stupid, they didn’t even do anything wrong?’ I take everything I said back, you were COMPLETELY in the right, they were idiots, you should’ve blown up MORE of their house! I take everything back, they’re fucking-- Come to my house, I’ll give you the leather...can we go to war again? Is that on your mind?”

- They negotiate over the transfer of the leather, suspicious of the other scamming them. Skeppy knows they might just log off, and he wants them dead now.

- Dream tells Skeppy that he does have something important to them:

The discs.

- Skeppy suggests they trade the leather for the two discs.

Dream: “Skeppy, it’s too valuable!”

Skeppy: “More valuable than your horse? Huh, wow, shows how much you care--”

Dream: “Equally valuable! Equally valuable!”

Skeppy: “So if it’s equal, it’s an equal trade then. I’ll trade you right now.”

- Dream says he’ll trade Skeppy one of the discs, but Skeppy insists on two.

Dream: “Well, it only matters really to Tommy, but Tubbo is like Tommy’s...son? So.”

- Skeppy says he’d settle for one with added riches. Dream says they should return to his house, but on the Prime Path Tommy and Tubbo come running to attack. Skeppy dies and respawns at Dream’s house again. Dream kills Tommy and the battle continues just outside Dream’s house between Dream, Tommy, Tubbo and Jack Manifold.

- They join a call together. Dream tells Tommy that he hasn’t given anything away yet, but he’ll trade one of the discs for it.

Tommy: “Why?”

Dream: “Because I NEED my horse’s leather back! It’s from my horse’s dead body!”

- Part of the deal is that the disc can’t be damaged. He’ll give away Cat.

Dream: “Tommy, I HAVE to do it! One disc!"

- He doesn’t care who he gets the leather from. Tommy has one day to get the leather back from Skeppy, but Tommy says that he’ll be visiting Tubbo the next day and can’t spend the day at war.

- Dream leaves and Tommy goes to negotiate with Skeppy. He pulls out the ultimate weapon -- Skeppy’s tweets.

- #skeppyisoverparty and #tommyisoverparty both start trending on Twitter.

- Tommy and Tubbo admire Dream’s handiwork on repairing Tommy’s house, then continue negotiating with Skeppy.

- Tommy and Tubbo realize that it would be a lot easier to take the disc back from Skeppy than Dream and tell Skeppy to give Dream the leather.

- Skeppy tells Dream he’ll give him the leather for two discs. Tommy tells Dream he has his approval. They go back and forth over one vs. two discs.

- Tommy invites Skeppy back to VC.

Tommy: “Skeppy, meet Big Q!”

“Skeppy?! SKEPPY?! Remember when you invited me on a video and I said no?!”

- Quackity tries his best to intimidate Skeppy. It doesn’t work. Skeppy leaves to continue working on his house.

- Skeppy rejoins the call to hear Tommy and Tubbo say that Quackity’s been in juvie for 41 years. They talk about the leather again.

Skeppy: I am here anytime you want to talk, Dream. There is a reason you went to war with these idiots. Remember that. Thank you.

Dream: “Skeppy...I want the leather! Do you have sympathy? It’s my dead horse, okay? My horse died, and then Sapnap took the leather from the ground.”

- Tommy and Tubbo watch through the window to watch Dream and Skeppy negotiate. Dream explains to Skeppy that there have been multiple wars on the server over the discs, and he wants control over them. There’s no point in burning them, because you would lose all trading power.

- Dream would never trade Skeppy both, but he’s willing to give one. Skeppy asks for Netherite, but Dream doesn’t have any to trade. He used up his resources for the war.

- Skeppy agrees to the trade for one disc. Skeppy gives Dream Spirit, and Dream gives Skeppy Cat to put in his Ender Chest. The deal has been done.

- Fundy and Jack Manifold build a little house on the roof of Eret’s castle just above the throne room to claim the throne.

- Tommy asks when Dream will whitelist Quackity. Dream says right now and does so.

Tommy: “Okay so Quackity’s not joining L’manburg, but he can be our dirty little crime boy...Our man on the inside!”

- Quackity joins the call. He’s out of juvie after 43 years. Tommy tells him that Quackity can’t join L’manburg, but they can do the cartel instead. Dream says Quackity could also join his side. Quackity weighs his options.

Enter Quackity.

- They meet Quackity at Spawn. They get to the Community House and Dream throws Quackity several diamonds. Quackity thanks Dream for helping him.

Dream: “You’re very welcome. We try and get everyone to feel welcome and at home here at Dream Team SMP.”

- Tommy tells Quackity not to bond with the green bastard and starts walking down the Prime Path. Ponk comes over as well. Dream takes off all his armor.

- Quackity doesn’t want to take sides right now. Tommy fills him in on the war.

- Tommy shows Quackity his basement and puts Quackity in prison. He tries to put Dream in prison too, but Dream’s too quick and evades.

Enter The_Eret.

- Tommy notices a mark on Quackity’s face. Dream says it’s a battle scar from prison. Quackity is upset that Tommy keeps asking about his conditions.

- They show Quackity through the sewers.

- Ponk murders Jack.

- Fundy meets Eret at the second tower to show him the scuffed redstone doors.

- Then, Fundy shows Eret what they’ve done at the castle, fencing off the throne as Fundy and Jack’s new territory. Fundy explains law in the Netherlands to Eret while they sit at a coffee table

- Eret asks if, were he to build a house above Fundy’s little cottage, he would then own that territory.

Eret: “I think the turns have been tabled, Fundy.”

Fundy: “I think the turns have been coffee...tabled, if you wouldn’t mind.”

- They go back down to the throne and Eret says he doesn’t think this is how it works, as he still has the crown on his head.

- While Fundy struggles with his king skin, Eret builds a platform above the house at build limit, therefore reclaiming it as his territory. While he’s occupied, Fundy takes the entire throne and moves it slightly to the left.

Enter Punz.

- Punz tells Fundy that he’s fucked up. Tubbo joins the call to inform Fundy that there’s a cartel now. Punz tells Fundy that he’s killed Beenis, the original bee.

- Tubbo informs Fundy that Eret is summoning Herobrine while Fundy hides Pog the dog behind a wall. Eret finds him quickly.

- Punz joins the call to tell Fundy that he has evidence of Fundy murdering Beenis. Tubbo says he can be Fundy’s lawyer.

- Fundy puts on his king outfit. Punz and Tubbo come to the castle. Tubbo leads them all to court. He is a lawyer. They argue about who should go in the jail hole and the death hole.

- Punz tells Tubbo that he clipped evidence from his security cameras. He explains that Fundy broke the hive and it must have died.

Tubbo: “Be careful, I’m a lawyer.”

- Punz shows the evidence of Fundy breaking the hive. They debate whether the bee would have died.

Tubbo: “Oh my god, be careful I’m a lawyer.”

- Fundy says that he didn’t kidnap it, he didn’t kill it and he does not have it. Tubbo declares the first strike and asks Punz why the bee was outside. Punz says the bee usually comes back.

Tubbo: “Be careful, I’m a lawyer! Did I mention it?”

- Fundy says the enchants on his pickaxe included silk touch. Tubbo shoots Eret with an arrow.

Tubbo: “I am a lawyer! Be careful!”

...

Tubbo: (shooting Eret again) “Yeah you can. You can rename a corpse. Be careful, I’m a lawyer!”

Tubbo: “Punz, how sad are you that he’s dead on a scale of 1 to 10?”

Punz: “Just typing his name reminds me of all the memories we had.”

Tubbo: “How many memories is that? I need a number, so I can know how many, how many, how many...yeah. I’m a lawyer, be careful.”

- Tubbo makes a rough estimate of 200 and flicks another lever.

Tubbo: “I’m a lawyer, be careful!...be careful, I’m a lawyer!”

- Tubbo asks if Fundy has any valuables on him. Eret offers to hold onto anything, so Tubbo shoots him again.

Tubbo: “Be careful, I’m a lawyer, Eret! Be careful, be careful, I’m a lawyer. Yeah, I know you didn’t, and that’s why you should be careful, ‘cause I’m a lawyer.”

Tubbo: “Be careful! Be careful, I’m a lover! -- I mean lawyer. Wrong one.”

- Fundy asks to make a claim.

Tubbo: “You’ve got one lever left. Be careful, I’m a lawyer.”

- Jack Manifold arrives in a king outfit. Tubbo promptly shoots him.

Tubbo: “Jack Manifold! Be careful, I’m a lawyer!”

...

Tubbo: “Hey, hey, you don’t talk to him! Be careful I’m a lawyer but I’m out of ar -- Punz, do you have any arrows? ...Thank you I’m a lawyer, thank you I’m a lawyer.”

“Guys! Be careful, I’m a lawyer!”

“Hey! Be careful, I’m a lawyer, I’m a lawyer. How much camera in -- the -- is there?...Okay, well you can’t leave that cell, so we’re gonna have to if this doesn’t work -- be careful I’m a lawyer, Jack Manifold. Be careful. Be careful I’m a lawyer! Be careful, Eret, I’m a lawyer. (he shoots Eret again) No no no, that was just a lawyer shot.”

“Everyone be quiet, I’m a lawyer! Okay...so order in the lawyer! Order in the lawyer, everyone.”

- Punz suddenly murders Fundy. Tubbo tells them all to be careful, he’s a lawyer, as Fundy looks into his Ender Chest and sees the beehive there. Tubbo asks if Fundy wants to sue Punz, he’s a lawyer.

Jack: “Tubbo, Tubbo...so what do you do for a living?”

Tubbo: “I’m...I’m...I paint...sofas.”

- Tubbo declares them all L’Lawyerberg. They’re doing independence again. They all head back to the castle, having created Dream SMP’s newest law firm.

The End.

#in case you thought that Season One was any less off-the-walls chaotic as the new lore #dream smp #dream smp recaps #long posts #this is legitimately one of my favorite days of SMP history #and I wanted to share it lol

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plainlo-inthemorning · 3 years

Text

Shine a Light, part 6

A Loki series/Lokane fic. Rating T.

Previously: Part 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5

He is already spinning around and bracing himself as his boots touch the concrete, half expecting to see the beast come tumbling towards him.

But the air is mercifully still where the door has snapped shut.

The evening sky above him is heavy with clouds, and a light mist of cool rain touches his face.

Cool.

He looks down at his hands. They are still shaking from the adrenaline, but no longer blue. Nor do his clothes feel rough against his skin.

Did he consciously change back to his Asgardian form as he went through the door? He is not sure. Whatever the shape or shade, his body feels oddly disconnected from his brain and Loki idly wonders if using the tempad so much within a short time span might be affecting him on a cellular level.

Then again, if that was the case would the Minute Men and analysts at the TVA not have been suffering from chronic time travel fatigue?

Who knows, perhaps they did. A number of them certainly looked worn out.

Tempad “jetlag” (an apt mortal word) or not, unwillingly running into variants upon variants of old enemies on this treacherous timeline coupled with the incessant longing for her has caused Loki’s grip on reality to slip ever more from one destination to the next.

What reality? a mocking voice in his head whispers, sounding maddingly similar to the little devil clock.

You have no idea where you are, who you are or where you’re going. You’re a man out of time, for all time, always.

He straightens and draws in a few deep breaths, surveying his new surroundings: A narrow brick terrasse. At the back wall, a glass sliding door reveals a room covered in darkness, but as nothing moves inside (his night vision remains far superior to that of mortals), Loki turns instead to take in the view of … London.

There is a taste of early spring in the air, and before him as far as the eye can see, the rooftops and spires of the city stretch out into the distance.

Millions of little lights flicker in the dark and the fumes of traffic and city grime mix with whiffs of different cuisines drifting out of air vents.

He has been here once or twice before, though not in decades, and there are whole clusters of towering structures of glass and steel that he does not recall from on his previous visit.

The house by the ocean in 2016, Budapest in 2015, New York in 2014 and now London in what he assumes must be 2013. As methodical as the backwards count has proven to be, as confusing are the destinations and varying seasons.

Only they cannot possibly be random.

Free will is an illusion.

The eerie feeling that even this, his ill-thought-out ‘quest’, is being guided by an invisible hand in charge of his destiny is so dispiriting it’s comical. He can’t quite decide whether to feel perversely honored that some higher being – a version of He Who Remains? – would take interest in toying with him, or furious that he has been singled out for this preposterous punishment of drifting through another Loki variant’s timeline.

It is no use dwelling on either emotion. He has no one to measure his pride against, no one’s expectations to live up to expect for his own, and, frankly, by now that bar is scraping the floor. There is no telling where the female variant of him went and Loki has no means of contacting the TVA or the analyst-interrogator even if he wanted to (he really does not anymore).

Loki unclenches his fists.

Seeing as each destination may have been an intentional set-up for whatever bizarre reason, the question is which character from his past he will encounter in this place. He vows to himself that no matter who he bumps into, he will attempt to reactivate that silver tongue of his and gather actual, useful information.

No more chaotic exits.

Provided no one tries to kill him on sight or squash him through a wall.

The terrace is furnished only with an old sun chair and a few plants, but the room beyond the glass door appears very lived in, with books stacked on the floor and several shelves, a large couch, a couple of armchairs, and what looks to be an adjacent kitchen area with a dining table.

Amazing how most mortals spend their years in such small, crowded dwellings.

Using only his magic, he slides open the door. It makes a low swooshing sound. Quiet as a cat, he steps over the threshold.

It hits him immediately, like walking into a wall: The scent of lavender.

And Thor.

The apartment is quiet, but they were here and recently.

He has been delivered right to them.

Loki is once again frozen in place.

His initial plan when knocking out that man in the canteen at the TVA and stealing his tempad was to find Thor and Jane at the scene of his own moral redemption (well…) on Svartalfheim. Where he supposedly saves their lives. Find them and use the momentum of their unfiltered gratitude to deliver the news that, most regrettably, the universe is likely coming to an end if they do not devise a plan together to prevent a multiversal war – preferably enlisting the help of Thor’s colleagues, too, and in the best of scenarios, Asgard.

Seek out Thor before saving Jane’s life, and Loki would have to first win his brother’s trust in the aftermath of the attack on New York. Find Thor after Svartalfheim, and there would be the small matter of explaining how the variant faked his own death and, after having thus broken Thor’s heart again, took the throne of the Realm Eternal.

Not an ideal conversation starter, even for them.

From the reel, he knows that there were other moments, much later, when he and Thor would become friendly again. After Ragnarok, before his end.

But Loki also knows that this need to get to Svartalfheim has as much to do with her as it has with Thor. Perhaps even more so.

Something important transpires between himself and the brown-eyed scientist on that brutal, barren planet and if it is the last thing he does, Loki will find out what it means.

It does not make any more sense now than it did when he sat in the kill me kind of room, transfixed by her face, but if he had had any initial doubts as to whether he was simply imagining the magnetic pull of her, those had been effectively shattered to atoms when she threw her arms around his neck outside the white house.

“Where did you go, handsome?”

Nothing on this timeline seems to be playing out as it should. Which of course also means that the events on Svartalfheim may never have occurred at all.

On this timeline, a variant has more or less befriended the Avengers in the years after New York when, according to the proper Loki fate, he should have been on Asgard. And, in a few years from now, the variant will somehow be with Jane.

Jane, who has stayed in this very apartment. With Thor.

Briefly, Loki is back to wondering if Thor dies and how, but then he remembers what Bruce said about their “family soap opera” and Loki’s “victory”.

Could it be that he and Thor actually fought over Jane?

As much as he wishes it otherwise, even Loki finds it hard to believe that his variant would have beat the God of Thunder in a fight. The might of Mjølner is formidable. And though his brother has not quite discovered it himself yet, Loki has always suspected that Thor has his own kind of magic.

Then there is Jane: Without having ever conversed with her, Loki would be surprised if Jane would appreciate being treated as a prize to be won.

He is getting a headache. A rare thing for a god, but there is no putting the puzzle together with so many pieces missing from the board. Since he has no hope of using the tempad to transport him off Midgard, maybe the best thing to do would be to just wait here and see if Jane and Thor come back. He has been specifically sent here, has he not?

Without really noticing, Loki has moved to the blue, puffy couch. He sits himself down and leans back into the soft cushions, letting out a sigh. When was the last time he slept or ate anything? There is a sense of fresh paranoia as he realizes that he cannot remember doing either at the TVA, expect for when he fell asleep during research.

“Time works differently at the TVA. You’ll see”.

He stretches his legs out in front of him and yawns. On the wall opposite from the couch is a paper calendar: 2013.

He takes in the rest of the apartment but does not magic any of the lights on. There is the open kitchen, a tiny hallway with a coat rack and a few pairs of shoes, and two more doors to the left of where he is sitting.

Getting up suddenly feels immensely tasking, but Loki nevertheless hauls himself to his feet and goes to inspect the other rooms. First, there is the washroom. The scent of lavender is stronger in there, even more inviting, and spotting a stack of fresh towels on a shelf, he considers taking a shower. It is not as if he cannot easily use magic to uphold appearances (wait, were there showers at the TVA?), but that is no substitute for the soothing feel of warm water running down his body, relaxing his tired muscles.

Yes, he will shower. And cast a spell on the apartment, so he will be alerted if anybody attempts to enter.

He takes a small comfort in his powers being restored.

Loki reckons the other door leads to the sleeping chambers but just to be sure, he magics it open with a flick of his wrist.

A window with closed blinds. A wooden bookcase to one side, volumes and magazines piled high. An old, white wardrobe with brass grips. A pile of clothes strewn haphazardly on the thick yellow rug on the floor near a large, unmade bed.

Unmade – and not empty.

Loki stands perfectly still, one hand still raised.

Why did he not sense that someone was here?!

Seeing as Clint (Bird-Eye?) managed to surprise him in Budapest, perhaps Loki’s “wolf’s ears” really are failing him.

Even so, his nose is working just fine. Unless …

Then he knows. Of course.

His tongue tastes bile.

Inching closer, he sees the black hair spilling over the madras. His own lean, sculpted body whose long limbs and handsome Asgardian features Loki has never felt less appreciation for than right this very moment.

The variant is deep asleep. And half-naked under the sheets.

Something twists in his stomach at the scene. Something small and pathetic and evil that wants out. A foul, winged creature batting against his ribcage with sharp claws.

He takes another step forward.

How has the variant not been alerted to his presence yet? He seemed strong – very strong – in 2016.

Loki studies his twin’s face. His own exact face. Same high cheek bones, same long, dark lashes against a pale complexion. Only this close, the man’s skin has a faint ashen sheen to it. A few tiny beads of sweat glisten on his temples and, yes, Loki hears it now, his breathing is slightly labored.

He is injured. Enough to dull his senses.

It is not the madman from the Void, as Loki had feared after their first encounter. His energy is quite different from any of the other variants, and Loki suspects he may be the closest to a perfect double that he’s encountered yet (and please, let this one be the last. No more variants or Loki will forget which life was his own).

Stepping so close he can lean over the bed, the reason for the variant’s sedated state becomes evident:

Tied around the man’s mid-section, just about visible over the sheets, is the upper edge of a large bandage. Loki sniffs. Yes, he can sense the wound and the ugly tinge of dark magic still surrounding it, like a poisonous signature: This was inflicted by a blade of the dark elves. The variant has come from Svartalfheim after all.

The cut must have been near fatal, but from the smell of it, it is healing well, aided by the variant’s own powers and what can only be human medicine, judging by the clinical odor.

Even so, why was he not taken to the healers on Asgard?

Because he is evading his punishment for the attack on New York, Loki guesses.

Thor and Jane must have brought him to London instead of delivering him back to Odin. Although thanks to Heimdall’s watchful gaze, the All-Father will be aware of what has transpired. In his condition, the chances of the variant being able to use his magic to shield himself from Heimdall are next to none.

Still, he is here. No one has come for him yet.

Loki does not know which is stranger: That the variant is legitimately, badly injured and not currently in the process of dispatching Odin off to some home for the elderly in New York, or that Odin has allowed the variant to be taken to Midgard instead of the dungeons.

Presumably neither the All-Father nor Thor are aware of the variant’s role in Frigga’s death.

Though he tries to shake them off, the images remain crystal clear: The queen mother, killed by one of Malekeith’s monster.

A shiver suddenly runs through the variant’s body on the bed and Loki holds his breath. The man shifts under the sheets but does not wake.

So, dear ‘brother’, your Nexus event was that you nearly died for the people who care for you instead of following up your heroism with deceit, as I would have done.

What sentiment.

The winged creature growls.

Loki could kill him right now.

Kill him and take his place.

It would be easy, so easy to slit his throat. It is not as if he has not committed murder before.

“I don’t enjoy hurting people. I don’t enjoy it …” But this is not ‘people’.

This man is a murderer as well.

The variant has already veered spectacularly off course from his fate, and yet there are no Minute Men next to his bed, holding him accountable for his “crimes against the sacred timeline”, nor will he be apprehended in the following years.

This man got “the Time Keepers’ stamp of approval”, just like the Avengers.

It is so monumentally unfair it is enough to make Loki’s fingers grasp for an invisible dagger. The variant’s existence makes a mockery of the life that was cruelly stolen from Loki by the TVA and for that he loathes him with every fiber of his identical body.

Why should the variant have any more right to live?

Because he will make her happy.

Loki forces himself to rein in the rage. The man will play a part in Jane’s life.

He stares at his sleeping double.

The variant is worthy.

Or just simply unbearably, ridiculously lucky.

No matter what, he must live, but if Loki stays here much longer, he fears the variant’s chances of making it past 2013 will rapidly decrease by the minute.

Loki cannot stand to look at him, nor will he contemplate the fact that the variant is comfortable enough in the apartment to discard his clothes.

If he does, he will stab him to death. And relish in it.

Loki is about to magic himself away to find somewhere nearby to wait for Thor and Jane’s return, when a noise reaches him from the hall outside the apartment.

Someone is coming towards the front door, keys in hand.

Jane.

He should leave immediately. Disappear before she can turn the key in the door.

But he does not.

Still looking at the sleeping, half-covered form in front of him, something finally snaps instead. The winged creature shrieks in delight.

A quick spell ensures that no sounds from outside the sleeping chamber can reach the variant, no matter how light his sleep becomes.

Another one renders all the light switches in the apartment useless.

Then Loki swiftly picks up the clothes from the floor, looks it over, and changes his own black outfit into what he is holding: A dark green, long-sleeved shirt and a pair of soft, well-known black leather pants that makes him feel both a bit homesick and a lot stronger.

Don’t do this, don’t do this.

A voice, not the clock this time but his own. He ignores it.

He does not know what Jane’s relationship with the variant is of this time or what state of mind she expects to find him in, but she has let him stay here – and right now, she is alone.

Her fingers weaving through his hair while the sun beat down on his back.

His conscience will not allow him to kill the variant, yet Loki cannot resist the temptation to be him.

Again.

But just for a heartbeat or two.

This last part he promises to himself and to her, though it does nothing to bury the shame.

Perhaps he did not change at all during his time at the TVA. Perhaps his true, villainous self just lay dormant, biding his time, while various oppressors walked all over him.

Is a stolen moment with her worth more than his honor? Is it worth jeopardizing his one chance of enlisting Thor’s help?

Yes.

Yes, it is.

This is lowest you have ever sunk.

Shut up.

He steps out of the bedroom and closes the door behind him, but not before catching a glimpse of himself in a mirror on the wall. His hair. The variant’s hair is noticeably longer. He cocks his head to the side once and the difference is levelled out.

In the hall, Jane is fiddling with the keys. When the lock clicks, Loki is sitting on the blue couch again, trying to appear casual while his pulse is racing as fast as when Bruce turned green before him.

And there she is.

Hair windswept, cheeks flushed from the cool evening air, wearing a dark green parka, jeans and boots.

Her eyes find his in the low light and a warm smile spreads on her face. His heart leaps into his throat.

“You’re back”. She does not stop to take off her jacket or attempt to turn on the lights before coming towards him and, unsure of what to say, he stands up. She stops in front of him, apparently a little unsure of the situation herself. She bites her lip.

“So how did it go?”

Her voice sounds at once both concerned and hopeful and her eyes are wide with expectation.

She is searching for some sort of positive affirmation and so Loki smiles down at her and says the only thing that seems fitting:

“It went well”.

Jane exhales loudly and her smile returns. “It did?!”

“Yes”, Loki replies, grinning at her (her smile is too infectious) and hoping she will not ask him to elaborate on whatever the subject is.

“Of course it did! I mean, you’re still here, aren’t you? Oh Loki, I’m so insanely relieved!” Jane laughs and looks like she is about to throw herself into his arms (automatically he reaches for her) when she stops herself mid-motion. “Sorry! I nearly forgot. Again!”

She takes one of his hands in both of hers, and Loki swallows hard as her fingers softly caress his with unmistakable intimacy.

“But seriously, you two didn’t fight, like fight-fight, did you …? I hope Thor didn’t …”. She trails off and looks at him questioningly.

“No. No, we didn’t fight. Don’t worry. We both … behaved”. Loki tries to catch up while keeping his replies as vague as he hopes he can afford.

The variant and Thor have had words, and Jane has worried about the outcome. Could it have been a discussion of whether to return Loki to Asgard? But then why has Thor not come back to the apartment?

In fact, why go anywhere else to talk at all, with the variant being as beat up as he is?

Because he and Thor both expected a row not suited for the indoors.

“Okay, you sit, you’ve moved around enough for one day. I’ll fix us something to eat and you’re going to tell me everything”. Jane gently lets go of his hand, then shoots him a teasing smile. “Unless you’ve emptied the fridge. Again”.

“Um”, is Loki’s inspired contribution to the conversation.

“Uh oh, pasta it is then”, Jane laughs, and goes to shrug off her jacket and boots in the hallway, revealing an open flannel shirt with a white T-shirt underneath.

Was she wearing the same thing that day in the desert town? It looks familiar.

Jane flips a light switch next to the coat rack and makes a “huh”-sound as nothing happens. She tries a lamp next to the dining table with the same result.

“Has the electricity gone again? Was it out when you got back?”

“Ah, yes. It was”.

“The landlord seriously needs to fix this, that’s the third time this week…good old London”. Jane scoffs but does not sound all that bothered.

“Can you work a little magic for us?”

When Loki does not move, Jane walks up to him (now even shorter without her footwear) and lightly places a hand on his arm, nudging him back on the couch. “Sit. And shine a light, please”.

He lets her push him down, and her hand moves up to rest on his shoulder. Now he is the one looking up at her. She is standing between his legs and there it is, the affection in her eyes that almost makes him forget that he is not the man it is meant for.

He wonders for how long he can get away with not saying anything remotely coherent before she suspects something’s amiss.

Obeying her wish, he holds out his palm and a small, orange flame appears, casting a warm glow on both their faces. Motioning with his fingers, he makes the flame float elegantly over the low coffee table in front of the couch where it stills in the air.

“I was thinking more along the lines of just making the electricity come back on, like last time, but okay, that is very pretty too”. Jane looks at the little light with wonder and Loki thinks he sees the stars in her eyes again.

Then her attention is back on him. Her fingers brush against his hair. They linger by the curls at the nape of his neck.

“I don’t know if it’s relief, but it’s almost like you look a bit … different”. Jane’s eyes roam his face, his hair. “Do you even still have a fever?”

Before Loki can answer her hand is touching his forehead.

Jane shakes her head in surprise. “It’s much better than this morning. Maybe it was good for you to get some real air after all. It has been almost three weeks …”

How easily she touches him. How sad that he's not used to being touched anymore.

He has only to lay his hand on her forehead in return and he could use his powers to reveal glimpses of her past (yes, he kept many of his gifts from the female on Lamentis).

More specifically, what has happened between her and the variant.

But not without revealing himself in the process.

Her left hand is still on his shoulder while the other now travels down the side of his cheek. He leans into her touch and closes his eyes, just breathing in the scent of her skin when he feels her bending down and locks of her auburn hair tickle his face.

He opens his eyes and looks right into hers, inches from his.

You have not earned this.

You are deliberately, selfishly, monstrously taking advantage of her.

I am a monster.

And then her mouth is on his and he does not say no.

To hell with his soul.

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

For a second, she thinks she feels him tense up.

But as soon as her lips melt onto his and he immediately, hungrily reciprocates the kiss, everything is right again.

Crazy, sure, but also oh so right.

Jane literally never wants to stop kissing him.

She actually told him exactly that the other night. Or, accidentally blurted it out as they were coming up for air, since she is falling for him so fast her brain apparently cannot keep up with her mouth.

Immediately she had felt embarrassed, but it did not last longer than it took for him to raise a teasing eyebrow at her and pull her close again. “Why, Doctor Foster”, he had purred in that low voice that he absolutely knows makes her go weak, “by all means, please…(and he’d kissed her) don’t…(another kiss) stop … (kiss) Ever”.

Then he had leaned back a little, still gently cupping her face between his large hands, and flashed her the most gorgeous, happy, wickedly lascivious smile she had seen on him so far.

Not many people radiate smoldering sex appeal while simultaneously suffering from the agonizing pain of a wound inflicted by an alien sword, but of course Loki pulls it off with flying colors.

From there on, there had been no returning to ‘movie night’.

Now, trying not to break the kiss, Jane carefully moves to sit herself down on the couch as well, making sure not to press against him. For two weeks, they have been making out like teenagers whenever they are alone. Somewhat hindered by his injuries, obviously, which prohibits him from moving much – it is both very, very hot and insanely frustrating.

The first time she had kissed him, he had been too stunned to move a muscle anyway.

The second time, he had nearly ripped the wound open again.

Since then, they have tried to take it slow, although on more than one occasion, Loki has been all but begging to throw caution to the wind – “I’ll heal!", “It doesn't hurt!” (said as he looked like he was going to pass out), and, Jane’s favorite, “It might make me heal faster”.

His impatience would be quite funny if it was not because Jane was feeling just as dizzy with want.

She has been going for a lot of runs in Hyde Park lately.

“Do you have a death wish?!”, she had asked him teasingly at one point when he had spontaneously grabbed her hand as she passed him the kitchen and pulled her tight against him, only to groan loudly in pain when her body collided with his bandage.

Then he had looked suddenly very serious and let her go, and she had instantly regretted the comment.

She knows enough about his past not to joke about things like that.

“Oh. Oh, no”.

That was all her mind had been capable of thinking when she and Loki had locked eyes in the palace on Asgard, right after she had slapped him (surprising both herself and everyone around her).

He had looked down at her with his trademark arrogant smirk, except as soon as Thor and Sif had turned away, his gaze had turned infinitely softer, and Jane had felt something monumental start to shift inside of her.

Something that had nothing to do with the Aether coursing through her veins.

Not long after that, on that awful, doomsday-looking planet, he had saved her life. Twice in quick succession. And for a horrifying second, it had looked like he would die right in front of her.

The memory makes her involuntarily shudder a bit and, drawing her legs up on the couch so she can twist to face him more directly, she runs her fingers through his long, silken hair, and nips at his lower lip… and is startled when his head jerks. For real this time.

Jane draws back.

“Are you okay?”. Perhaps things did not go as smoothly with Thor as she had hoped.

It was a big ask after all.

Once more she feels a sharp pang of guilt. It is not just her and Loki’s worlds that have been turned resoundingly upside down in a matter of one turbulent month.

Loki seems lost for words, and the sadness flooding his face shocks her.

He is far from okay.

In fact, he looks close to tears. Were it not because she had just felt his cool forehead, she would have assumed it was the fever flaring up.

Jane feels her stomach tie itself into a knot. They are taking him away from her before they have even had a chance be together.

Or, even worse still, he has regretted everything about their unlikely union.

“Jane, I’m sorry. I’m so very sorry…”

Here it comes, Jane thinks as nausea builds. Erik is about to be proved right about him.

She lets go of him. He is clearly wrestling with himself.

And he does look different. Is this what him dropping the mask looks like?

It is more than just his facial expression, it is his entire posture. Even wounded and half delirious with fever, Loki usually carries himself with no small amount of pride.

His eyes are so lost.

What the hell is going on?

“Just tell me, Loki”. Jane tries to disguise how alarmed she suddenly feels. His touch is the same, and yet it is like a stranger is taking over the man in front of her.

He inhales deeply and runs both his hands through his hair. Entirely without wincing as he lifts his elbows above his chest, she notices.

“Okay”, he begins. “Jane…” (the way he says her name, like he is tasting the word) “…you have every right to hate me for what I’m about to tell you. I truly deserve nothing less.”

She feels the tears welling up.

“I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe you’re doing this.” Her voice breaks and Loki has the audacity to look taken aback.

“Are you being dragged back to Asgard, or are you dumping me? After trying so hard to get into my pants?!”

It comes out way too harshly, and Loki appears genuinely flummoxed.

Also, his face has gone red.

“Oh, Jane, no, he’s not going to… He won’t leave. I mean- ”

“What?” A chill runs down her spine.

“’He’? ‘He’ who? Thor?”

Before he can answer, they both jump a little as her phone suddenly goes off in her bag by the door.

That inane ringtone.

She still has not changed it.

Erik. She promised she’d let him know as soon as …

Jane wants to ignore it, but then her mentor will most likely keep calling and she cannot put it on silent from the couch. Loki probably could though, but she is not about to ask.

“Wait”. She holds up a hand and gets up.

While rummaging in the bag, a single tear runs down her cheek. No. She will keep her composure and listen to what he has to say like the commonsensical grown-up woman that she is.

Was.

She’s only just begun to get to know him properly, so why does it feel like she won’t be able to live without him?

She pulls out the damn phone and presses the button on the side.

The she straightens up again and turns. “Okay, Loki …”

Jane gasps.

The room is dark. And empty.

No, he didn’t!

“Loki!”

No answer.

She stalks over to the couch and frantically looks around. Nothing.

“Loki, don’t you dare!”

The phone vibrates in her hand. Shaking all over, Jane answers the call. “Erik?”. Her voice is very small. “Yes, hi, Jane, it’s me. Listen, has Loki gotten back yet?”

She starts crying. “Erik, he left. He was here when I came home and just now, he disappeared! He didn’t even say goodbye.”

She can hear how desperate she sounds.

“What do you mean ‘disappeared’?” Erik sounds confused.

“He is gone! I turned my back on him for one second and he vanished!” Jane’s voice breaks.

“Look, Jane, I really can’t believe I’m saying this, but maybe you misunderstood him? He came to see me not two hours ago after that thing with Thor and, well, let’s just say he went out of his way to make a case for himself. And you…”

“What? What did he- ”

“Jane?” Darcy’s voice cuts through. She must have taken the phone from Erik. “The lunatic is absolutely batshit crazy about you, okay? Stop blubbering. He’s probably just bored and fucking with you since you’re not actually f- ”

“Okay, that’s enough!” Muffled sounds, as Erik wrestles the phone back.

“Come on over, Jane, okay? We’re all still at the lab. Ian’s made tortillas if you can believe it”.

“But…” Jane wavers. Is Loki really playing a joke on her?

Erik is not taking no for answer: “Jane, don’t indulge these little games of his, okay? Come have dinner with us, and I’ll tell you what he told me before. And if he isn’t back later tonight, it’ll be my pleasure to enlist Thor to beat the crap out of him. It’s long overdue”.

Despite herself, Jane cannot help but smile.

“Okay. I’m coming over”. She exhales. The feeling of unease is subsiding a bit.

“Good girl”, Erik says. “Tell her to bring beer!” Darcy shouts from somewhere in background.

Jane hangs up and puts on her boots again. Loki and Erik had an actual conversation with no casualties?

She grabs her jacket and slams the front door behind her.

He really is infuriating, that prince of hers.

If he turns up later, she will make him pay dearly for scaring her.

No making out for a week.

(Yeah, right.)

To be continued in part 7 ....

This was supposed to have been the final chapter. Only 'someone' needed extra time star gazing. Please forgive me him!

#shine a light #lokane #loki series #lokane ff #lokane fanfic #tva loki #loki x jane #jane foster #loki #loki fanfic #loki ff #plainlo inthemorning #shine a light fic #loki show

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sootygoggles · 3 years

Text

Parent!Paranoia Sanders Sides AU!

No explanation, but I'll probably give the backstory later. For now: memes of Paranoia being an A-class parent and a chaos gremlin. (okay it started as memes but then just ended up as fleshing the AU out)

Paranoia, worried abt his kids: I'm uhhhh gonna go to my room see ya later light sides

Paranoia, sneaking back into the subconscious to check on his now teenaged children: I'm gonna leave duke a r a t that I found and thought looked cool

Duke, waking up the next morning and yelling for 'Nesty bc "HOLY CRAP NESTY LOOK AT THIS RAT ISN'T SHE ADORABLE I WANNA HANG HER ON THE WALL": !!!!!!!!!!

Paranoia gets a habit of sitting on the fridge because his children were wild as kids and sometimes duke comin at you with a knife warrants jumping onto counters

Nesty, who doesnt get paid to deal with duke: I'm raiding dads liquor cabinet it's my due for putting up with this

Paranoia, physically manifesting: put the key to the liquor cabinet D O W N, Honesty

The lights are confused as to why he disappears at random times of the day and night and he just "leave me TF alone before I leave you a goshdarn diddly P R E S E N T while youre sleeping I'm tired"

patton: my child! my dark strange son!!

paranoia, who has children: ,,,,yea ok

Patton ticks him off so he leaves a big halloween decor spider on his bed and nobody sleeps for weeks after that bc pattons too scared to touch it and paranoia maybeperhaps glued it onto his cover

He's like one of those people you know might mean well but ooooooo boy theyre pushin buttons

Paranoia, whos fav animal/insect is spiders and whose children have tarantulas and snakes on the regular: hes not even realistic!! You need to learn to get along with mr sparkles patton!! look at him. he's fluffy!

He has googly eyes and glitter on him at all times of course hes named mr sparkles

paranoia gets to be a little petty. as a treat

Paranoia just carries bags of glitter around and whenever mr sparkles gets duller he takes mr sparkles to the kitchen counter and he dumps glitter on him

Logan and patton are tired of cleaning up bc paranoias just petty enough to make their counters eternally sparkly

"why is there glitter all over the kitchen?"

paranoia, holding mr sparkles: :)

Paranoia, after AA: I hate purple but they dont know that now do they

Paranoia is actually orange the last side is purple lol

Chaos Gremlin dark sides and nobody is surprised bc paranoia raised them

paranoia, going back to see his teen children after acting like a teen all day: what is up, fellow kids

honesty: i am going to lose it

Wrath, coming to yell at them to keep it down: why are you purple I'm purple

Paranoia, cackling bc finally I can get out of this horrible color: *snaps fingers * I'M PARANOIA MOTHERTRUCKERS HAVE FUUUNNNNN I'M GONNA BE MAKING YOUR LIVES LIVING HELL FROM THIS POINT FORWARDS

duke and nesty, pumped for halloween bc u l t i m a t e s p o o k: :D

paranoia, coming out in a traffic cone costume with a shit eating grin on his face: :D

Paranoia, decorating for halloween bc "oh I'm sorry it's just the *sniffles * homesickness and we a l w a y s decorated for halloween" knowing full well all of his decorations are spider and witch themed bc they all like the salem witch trials

He leaves ONE fake snake in romans cereal and the lights just. Lose it. Hes kicked back into the subconscious to be chaotic with his kids, no new side, just the hours upon hours of film hes gotten from the bugs hed placed around the unconscious and a plan for the next several movie nights

He gets back and honesty is w h e e z i n g bc he was watching through the cracks and they make a fail compilation of the light sides

It takes like two months for the lights to just go insane with him around not due to yknow paranoia but bc hes such a gremlin

Patton asks if he was raised by wolves and he shoves mr sparkles at patton saying "take the issue of how I was raised up with my father, a-hole!!"

He doesnt actually curse he just yells "A-HOLE" so loud his kids can hear

They dont find out he's a dad until hes summoned and hes making cookies or smt with the kids and hes in a bright orange stereotypical witch outfit,,, corset and all and an apron that says "worlds most chaotic dad" on the front

And hes talking to one of the kids like "duke you can only put dish soap in your batch nesty cant digest it like you can"

Patton has an apron that says worlds least chaotic 'dad' courtesy of paranoia he made it himself(read: he stole pattons good apron and scribbled over it in sharpie)

Paranoia is always close to cackling when around the lights bc theyre newbs to any chaos

Roman and remus are twins but roman is the kind of kid to promptly forget abt anyone and logan n patton knew remus less than a day before he "disappeared" aka ran to the subconscious to explore and theyve just kinda blocked him out

Logans fine with it and actually likes the decorations tho he has asked if they had to be so brightly coloured and if there had to be so much glitter

I say decorations but hes a secret gremlin at heart and is super close to snickering at all times bc of the pranks

Also yes paranoia mildly dads roman it's great but he dads in an older sibling type way

So pat and logan are all "hes fitting in as an older brother well" and they tell him abt their approval of his older brother chaos and hes just like "no this is how I am deal with it nothing to do with brothers" bc hes not telling them abt his kids he doesnt trust them

Hes up at like midnight complaining with logan abt how patton doesnt let him be full chaos gremlin and logan says "mmmhmm did your parents in the dark side let you go wild with the chaos" and paranoia just,,,,, looks at him, dead in the eyes, and says "I dont have parents"

Cue logan being confusion

Paranoia, who genuinely didn't have parents: my parents are mr sparkles and the cat we've had for my entire life

Logan, who doesnt know they had a cat and is now worried bc "are you taking care of it???": ???

Paranoia: it's great for keeping the Others in line tho I just say "do your chores or no snuggle time with ms peregrin" and they do their chores while I'm making dinner

logan, incredibly confused: i don't know what you mean but ok

Paranoia: yeah theyre dumb but it's the level of dumb youd expect from my idiots

Or he slips up and refers to them as his children/kids and logan, not realizing they have an Actual Father/Sons relationship/age difference(paranoias abt.late 20s early 30s, remus defies all logic and has been about 9-10 for a few years now, and dees like early teens) just says "huh how.interesting would it be to have to deal with people your age that immature" and paranoias just. "Y e a h t h e y r e t o t a l l y t h e s a m e a g e a s I a m"

Duke is very much baby and upon seeing duke eating glue paranoia and honesty the idiots decided to try it too

theyre so dumb dsdhdhdhjsdh

They AREEE and paranoia, after discovering that duke has the h a r d i e s t immune system they decide to test exactly what he can and cannot safely eat bc he may be dumb but hes also def a Dad and he just wants to take care of his kids and if that includes making sure that duke can safely consume toilet bleach then so be it

Duke can eat almost anything short of actual cyanide but cyanide just makes him sick like stomach bug sick

He somehow gets a fever,,,,, he has it for like half an hour and paranoia is amazed

Hes in bed,,,,, paranoia makes him soup,,,,,, hes all better and running around again

Paranoias parenting rules:

Dont murder your brothers pls

Do your chores or no snuggle time with ms peregrin

Glitter is always a yes

Insults are fine just make sure you dont overstep and make your brothers insecure

all of them are printed and then the last one is scrawled at the bottom in

If you get sick, tell him immediately bc he will find out and he will be the most obsessive parent to make sure you feel better ASAP

If your pronouns/name/function change, tell him immediately, he'll make sure you dont feel uncomfortable as well as he can

Duke dont put dish soap in honestys baked goods you know he cant digest it

It's a nice system for making chaos but keeping it manageable

They're all printed then the last one's scrawled in glitter gel pen and duke wrote a reply that said (I'm sorry yall dont have as good an immune system as I do)

There was a whole passive aggressive arguement on the bulletin for the next week before it got taken down to make room for dukes art

They eventually started just putting them up over each other and using magnets instead of thumbtacks

The entire bottom portion of the walls are painted in chalkboard paint so theres no unerasable drawing on the walls and the rest of the paint is magnetic so they can hang pieces everywhere

Dukes improving rapidly tho and doesnt like looking at his old art all the time so paranoia holds onto the drawings in several filing cabinets in case he ever wants to do redraws or needs his original prints to make something in the Imagination

also bc,,, sentimental

jus a little

Yeah bc "yes my child draws nothing but blood gore and new animals but hes a creative genius and I love all of his art"

Roman: anxiety I can see why you left

Paranoia: ??? What?? It's spoopy season??

Roman: there was BLOOD on the WALLS

Paranoia, internally: oh!!!! Duke perfected his blood recipe!!!!

Paranoia, externally: how did it taste?

Roman: WHO TASTES THE BLOOD ON THE WALLS?!?!

Paranoia: if it tasted like lemons or citrus you need to stay off of most foods, stick to crackers and broth- don't eat anything heavy until you're sure you wont throw it up

Patton, who was making cereal: ????

Also!!!! @iliveinprocrasti-nation Thanks for helping me flesh this AU out!!!

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keyofjetwolf · 3 years

Text

Pitch Me your thing!

HELLO HELLO MY SUNBEAMS. For most every category, there was an impressive turn-out for pitches, so I thought we’d utilize the weirdness of this year’s GIFTENING to give something new a try. The popular vote winner for each category will happen on the first day, but on the second, the winner will be chosen from YOUR PITCHES. Mostly those pitches will be to me. The exception is in Miscellaneous, where you’ll be pitching to my family, because what I want to do and what is most entertaining isn’t necessarily the same thing.

So! How will we do this thing? GLAD YOU ASKED. I’ll link you to a form in a minute with space for one pitch. Once you fill it out, you’ll be asked if you want to do another. There’s no limit to the number of pitches you can send in! But remember that if you submit multiple entries for the same category, you’ll basically be competing against yourself.

NOW WE’VE GOT SOME RULES FOR DOING THIS (which I mostly stole from Holligay, because I have no creativity this year). Please read them carefully! I’ll toss pitches that break any of these, and I’d rather your hard work not go to waste.

Pitch Me is open for your submissions from RIGHT NOW (22 December) through the very last day of this hellyear (31 December) at 11:59pm MT.

The thing you pitch must have come from what was nominated for THE GIFTENING 2020. (Full list of those nominations in every category below the cut on this post.)

Entries must be unsigned! I’m looking to chose based on the pitch alone, regardless of who submitted it.

The pitch itself must be 100 words or less. HAVE PITY ON ME I CAN ONLY CONSUME SO MUCH.

If you’d like to get some help, ideas, feedback, all that good stuff, the Discord is a FANTASTIC resource I encourage you to use.

HERE IS YOUR PITCH SUBMISSION LINK

And, as promised, below the cut you’ll find the list of all the nominees in every category you guys sent in this year. IT’S A LONG LIST HAVE FUN WITH THAT

Anime

A Place Further Than The Universe/Sora Yori mo Toi Basho Ace Attorney (Gyakuten Saiban) Action Heroine Cheer Fruits Aggretsuko Aho Girl Air Master Akuma No Riddle Alien Nine Angel Beats! Angelic Layer Appare-Ranman Aria Aria the Animation Arrietty/ The Secret World of Arrietty (Ghibli film) Ascendance of a Bookworm Azumamga Daioh Baccano! Beastars Black Cat Blood + (the series) Bloom Into You Blue Drop/Tenshitachino Gikyoku Bodacious Space Pirates (starting right where you left off) BOFURI: I Don't Want to Get Hurt, so I'll Max Out My Defense Boku no hero academia Bubblegum Crisis Card Captor Sakura: Clear Card Cardcaptor Sakura Castlevania the Animated Series Cells at Work Chaos; Head Chihayafuru Code Geass cowboy Bebop Cyborg 009 Death Note Death Parade Deca-Dence Demon Girl Next Door Demon Slayer (Kimetsu no Yaiba) Diebuster: Aim For the Top 2 Dog Days dorohedoro Dot Hack//SIGN Dr. Stone Elfen Lied Erased (Boku Dake Ga Inai Machi) Escaflowne Excel Saga Fantastic Children Fate/Zero Flip Flappers Fresh Precure Fruits Basket 2019 Full Metal Alchemist Brotherhood Ga rei Zero GaoGaiGar gekkan shoujo nozaki-kun Ghost in the Shell: Standalone Complex Ghost Stories (dubbed) Girls' Last Tour Great Pretender Hoseki no Kuni/ Land of the Lustrous House of Five Leaves/ Saraiya Goyou Inari konkon koi iroha Interviews with Monster Girls Inuyasha Isekai Izakaya "Nobu" Jellyfish Princess/ Kuragehime JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Part 4: Diamond is Unbreakable Kaguya-sama Love Is War Kaleido Star Kannazuki no Miko Keep Your Hands Off Eizouken! Kemono Friends Kiki's Delivery Service Kimi ni Todoke: From Me To You Kino's Journey/Kino no Tabi (2003) Land of the Lustrous (Houseki no Kuni) Little Witch Academia Lord El-Melloi II's Case Files EP0 {"A Grave Keeper") Love is Hard for an Otaku Love Live! Sunshine!! lupin the 3rd part 4 Madoka: The Rebellion Movie Magic knight rayearth Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha March Comes in Like a Lion Mardock Scramble Master of Martial Hearts Mawaru Penguindrum Megalobox Miss Kobayashi's Dragon Maid Mob Psycho 100 Mobile Suit Gundam (1979) Monster Mushishi My Bride is a Mermaid (Seto No Hanayome) My Love Story!!! My Neighbor Totoro My Next Life As A Villainess: All Routes Lead to Doom My Roommate is a Cat NANA Naruto Natsume’s Book of Friends Neon Genesis Evangelion (hateblog) New Cutey Honey Nichijou Ōban Star-Racers One Piece Ouran High school Host club Outlaw Star Paranoia Agent Perfect Blue Please Save My Earth Pop Team Epic Pretty Cure Fresh Princess Jellyfish/ Kuragehime Princess Mononoke Princess Principal Princess Tutu Project A-Ko promised neverland (/yakusoku no neverland) Psycho-Pass Ranma 1/2 Re: Cutie Honey Re:Creators Read or Die (OAV) Red Garden relife Revolutionalry Girl Utena Rose of Versailles Ruroni Kenshin Sailor Moon Sailor Moon (viz dub) Samurai Champloo (english dub) Sarazanmai School Days School-Live! Scum's Wish Senki Zesshou Symphogear (listed as just "Symphogear" on Crunchyroll.) Serei no Moribito (Guardian of the Spirit) Shin Sekai Yori (From The New World) Shirobako Shoujo Kageki Revue Starlight Showa Genroku Rakugo Shinju Sleepy Princess in the Demon Castle Smile Pretty Cure (Japanese original)/ Glitter Force (english adaptation) Snow White with the Red Hair Sound Euphonium Strawberry Panic (yuri) Sweetness and Lightning The Devil is a Part-timer The Devil Lady The disasterous life of saiki k (saiki kusuo no Sai Nan) The End of Evangelion (movie) the Promised Neverland The Twelve Kingdoms Tiger & Bunny Tokimeki Tonight ToraDora Tsubasa Chronicle Umineko When They Cry Valkyrie Drive: Mermaid Vinland Saga Violet Evergarden Whispered Words (Sasameki Koto) With a Dog AND a Cat, Every Day is Fun Yona of the Dawn Yu Yu Hakusho Yugioh Duel Monster Yuki Yuna is a Hero Yuri Kuma Arashi Yuri On Ice!!! Zoids: Chaotic Century Zombie Land Saga

Non-Anime Animated

Adventure Time Amphibia Animainiacs (Original) Animaniacs (Reboot) Archie's Weird Mysteries As Told By Ginger Barbie Life in The Dreamhouse Batman the Animated Series Big Guy and Rusty the Boy Robot Big Mouth Bob's Burgers Bojack Horseman Bravest Warriors Captain N: the Game Master Carmen Sandiego (1994) Carmen Sandiego (2019) Castlevania (Netflix) Cats Don't Dance Coco Courage the Cowardly Dog Craig of the Creek Cyber Six Daria Darkwing Duck Dragon Booster Dragons: Riders of Berk DuckTales (2017) Exo-Squad Fern Gully Fillmore! Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends Futurama Gargoyles Glitch Techs Godzilla: The Animated Series Green Lantern the Animated Series Hedgehog in the Fog (Ёжик в тумане) Hey Arnold Hilda Infinity Train Iron Giant JEM Kim Possible Kipo and the Age of the Wonderbeasts Legend of Zelda animated series (1989) Legion of Super-Heroes Liberty Kids Magical Girl Friendship Squad Mao Mao: Heroes of Pure Heart The Legend of Korra Moominvalley Motorcity My Little Pony (Classic, NOT FiM) My Little Pony: Equestria Girls: Rainbow Rocks Onyx Equinox Over the Garden Wall Over the Moon (2020 film) Owl House Primal Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure Redwall Rise of the TMNT Roco's Modern Life Rugrats RWBY Samurai Jack Seis Manos She-Ra (1985) She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018) Sonic Boom Spartakus and the Sun Beneath the Sea Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse Star vs. the Forces of Evil Strange Magic Super Mario Brothers Super Show Superman: The Animated Series Teen Titans The 13 Ghosts of Scooby Doo The Animals of Farthing Wood The Dragon Prince The Hollow The Legend of Tarzan (TV series) The Magic School Bus (1994) The Mysterious Cities of Gold The Pirate Fairy (Disney Fairies) The Powerpuff Girls (1998) The Real Ghostbusters Thundercats (1985) Thundercats (2011) Transformers: Prime Tuca and Bertie Twelve Forever Undone Venture Bros Wakko's Wish Wakfu Wander Over Yonder We Bare Bears (TV) Winx Club Wreck-It Ralph (2012) X-Men Evolution X-Men: The Animated Series Xiaolin Showdown

Live Action

20,000 Leagues Under the Sea 28 Days Later 3rd Rock from the Sun A Series of Unfortunate Events American Horror Story: Asylum Babysitter's Club (2020) Batman (the old Adam West version) Better Call Saul Black Mirror Blackbeard's Ghost (Peter Ustinov) Boston Legal Boy Meets World Boys Over Flowers Bromance (Taiwanese tv series) Brooklyn 99 Buffy the Vampire Slayer Cadfael Cagney and Lacey Charmed (2018) Chopped Cleopatra 2525 Cloak and Dagger Clue (1985) Community Crazy Ex-Girlfriend Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance Dead Like Me Dead To Me Deadwood Death Note (Netflix) Derry Girls Dimension 20 - The Unsleeping City Doctor Who (New) Doom Patrol Dracula's Daughter (1936) Escape to the Chateau Farscape Fingersmith Galavant Godzilla (2014) Gokushufudo (2020 Japanese TV drama) Golden Girls Good Omens H20: Just Add Water (somewhere in seasons 1-2) Happy New Year Harley Quinn movie Hateblog a REALLY STRAIGHT soap opera. Haunting of Bly Manor His Dark Materials (HBO series) Holes Hot Fuzz House Inception Inside No. 9 Iron Chef America Joan of Arcadia Julie and the Phantoms Jumanji: Welcome to the Jungle Kamen Rider Build Kamen Rider Ex-Aid Kamen Rider Fourze Killing Eve Knives Out Letterkenny Leverage Little Women (2019) Lucifer Matlock Majisuka Gakuen MASH Merlin Mission Impossible Ghost Protocol Money Talks (1997 film) Motherland: Fort Salem Murder She Wrote Mythbusters Nailed It! Never Have I Ever Once Upon a Time Orphan Black Pen 15 PGSM Pi (1998) Picnic at Hanging Rock (2018) Pride and Prejudice: A New Musical Puppy Bowl Pushing Daisies Rome (hateblog) Russian Doll Sabrina Sense8 Sera Myu: Un Nouveau Voyage Shameless Sierra Burgess Smallville So Weird Star Trek: TOS (or their films) Star Trek: The Next Generation Star Trek: Deep Space Nine Star Trek: Voyager Stargate Atlantis Suckerpunch Supernatural (out of context speedrun the last three episodes) Sweetheart Switched at Birth Tall Girl Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles The Addams Family (1964) The Big Flower Fight The Booth at the End The Bride With White Hair The Crown The Fresh Prince of Bel Air The Good Place The Kissing Booth The L Word The Librarians The Magicians The Muppet Show The Pregnancy Pact The Room The Steve Harvey Show The Stranded The Untamed The Witcher The Wolfman (1941) Torchwood Twilight Zone (original) Twin Peaks Ultraman Nexus Umbrella Academy Van Helsing Warehouse 13 Warrior Nun What We Do In The Shadows (tv show) Will & Grace Wynonna Earp X-Men 2: X-Men United Xena: Warrior Princess

Miscellaneous

Alpha Flight #41-62 Anime music dance party, the logistics of which are to be determined! Ask Hot Pocket and/or Mina-pup AskSharknado: Giftening Edition Attempt to make French macaroons Commentary on old Goggles Critical Role Crowdsourced: A Black Mirror-style day where Jetty has to ask what her choices are of the audience for everything! I give you a menu, you decide what she has for dinner? What does she wear? Does she walk on the track or do the eliptical? Does she go to a movie with Doc or play a video game with Mike? Can be done alongside other stuff. Doodle Day Dramatic readings of fan fiction! Drunk History (or whatever your favorite subject would be) with Jet Wolf! Drunk Sailor Moon Exorcising Closet Ghost Fic Prompts Day Figuarts Day! (Not specifically freeing anyone, just various fun poses and such) Guess the plot of a show based on its opening Her Shim-Cheong (manhwa) House of X/Powers of X Hubby's Choice IDW Jem comics liveblog Intros Only (watch show openings, give commentary, guess what show is about, etc.) Jackbox Games Jet Wolf paints along with Bob Ross Jet and Doc go to Heaven/Hell, respectively: Jet gets to write reams of words about the awesomeness of Rei Hino and Doc has to read all of them and say ONLY NICE THINGS. Jet does Tiktok dances Jet Liveblogs Holligay: A Nature Documentary Jet Ranks Sailor Moon Image Songs Jet Reads Goosebumps Jet Reads Legion of Super-Heroes Jet redesigns the Wolf and Gay offices! Jet shows off her knitting Jet Wolf attempts to recreate scenes from Sailor Moon with Mina and Hot Pocket and/or whatever is in the house Jet Wolf reacts to Sailor Moon tiktoks (in blog form) Jet Wolf reads Love and Rockets. Jet Wolf reads the Jem comics by IDW Jet Wolf reviews her old top 100 Sailor Moon moments list Jet Wolf talks about Archie Comics Jet Wolf talks about each cel she owns and why they are so awesome. Jet Wolf writes Poetry Jet Wolf's Top 5's Jet, Hubby and/or family play board games Jetty Rants and Raves Jet Wolf tries to crack the Gravity Falls Codes Kiwi Blitz on Hiveworks Let's Play on Webtoon Liveblog: Favorite X-Men comic book arcs Livestream Pathfinder one-shot LOONA (Collection of music videos with an ongoing story/universe about GIRLS who are FRIENDS and SAVE THE UNIVERSE) Lore Olympus on Webtoon Mike regales us with "the story of your love" while you get increasingly embarrassed Mina and Hot Pocket day - liveblog like a nature documentary Mister Tsukino Does His Taxes and the Household Budget (Sailor Moon fan comic by Shadowjack) Nancy Drew: Ghost Dogs of Moon Lake Not So Shoujo Love Story on Webtoon Pitch Mishaps for Untitled Senshi Game (it is a lovely day in Juuban, and you are a Horrible Minako.) Pitching hubby's favorite media at (readers/holligay/jill/momigay) Playing with dolls (because how could 3 women not have any dolls between them) Re-Take By Studio Kimigabuchi (All Ages Version) Real or Fake Anime (people submit descriptions of anime you guess if it is an anime that actually exists or not) Reviewing succulents Scavenger hunt! Not entirely sure how it would work, maybe folks could send in asks for you to show things like your favorite Rei Hino object, or the thing that's been with you the longest, etc. sewing/knitting/baking tutorial Share or rant about a Roman history topic Sleepless Domain on Hiveworks Talking to Docholligay 2: Doc Harder (basically you talking to Doc's future womb evictee while still in there and telling them stuff like say the greatness of Rei Hino) The Monster Duchess and Contract Princess (manhwa) The Polar Bear Plunge--I take Jetty to our finest Lake Elmo in January, and she jumps in! Note: THIS IS NOT DANGEROUS, WORRYWARTS. I'll bring a life preserver, I've done it before, and I would do it with her if I weren't pregnant. The Senshi Helpline--The Senshi, taking your advice questions, here and now! The World of Moral Reversal Virtual knitting/crafting circle! Let us craft and chat with you! What-If #24 Gwen Stacy Lived Worm the web serial Write an explanation for a drawing we send you! Yuri Hell's Kitchen

#THE GIFTENING 2020 #THE GIFTENING 2020 admin stuff

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yikes-strikes-again · 4 years

Link

rating: gen word count: 2271 tags: angst, hurt/comfort, light on the comfort part, canon compliant, the slaughter, the corruption, season 5 spoilers, episode: e163, spoilers for episode: e163, spooky eye powers summary: Martin learns exactly what happens if Jon doesn't give his statements. Inspired by a line from episode 177. Takes place between episodes 163 and 164.

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Buried in the wreckage of the blasted wasteland, a typewriter began clicking rapidly.

With soles caked in mud, they crunched through what must have been leagues of the trenches - though, obviously, there was no way to tell. No way to tell how far they had traveled or how far they had yet to go. The Panopticon-Institute remained on the horizon, ever-distant and always looming.

The sounds of war were not far away. Once in a while, artillery fire would tear the silence apart, ripping through the walls of bunkers and causing a throbbing, painful ringing in the ears. Jon and Martin would hold onto each other for support, though often they would still fall into the wet and sloshing ground, caking their clothing in another layer of grime. But here, the danger was less immediate than it was miles ago. Slower, in wounds rather than weapons.

Countless soldiers nursed the bandaged stumps of lost limbs, ones either amputated or blown off. In the case of the former, the procedure rarely prevented infection from spreading through the victim’s veins with each beat of their heart, or cleanly excised the deepest strains of necrotized tissue. They knew this, of course. They knew that they would only get sicker, and the knowledge terrorized them even more than the certain death that lay not a meter above.

Clouds of flies thicker than pudding swarmed around the dead. Well, one hoped they were dead. It was hard to tell when everyone seemed to be on the verge of permanent collapse, either from mortal injury, illness, or an overdose of grief. It didn’t matter why - when someone laid down in this place, they never got up again.

It was calmer on this side of the trenches. Quieter. But in the quelling of the chaos, it gave Martin a chance to process how awful it all was, and that was worse.

He looked at Jon. If he had to guess, he’d say that Jon was faring worse than Martin was. There was a hard set to his shoulders, and he spoke little save to warn Martin of danger or obstacles. When he did speak, his voice was terse and irritable. Martin rarely got a glimpse of his eyes, but when he did, he saw that Jon’s pupils were erratic and searching.

Both of them had been quiet for days, weeks perhaps, ever since Jon had ranted like a madman in that bunker, surrounded by all those catatonic people. Martin didn’t understand why he had to do that, why he was compelled to speak of all the awful things that were already upon them, only that something bad would happen if he didn’t. He had made it clear that Jon would find no audience for his ramblings in Martin, and Jon had accommodated that thus far.

Martin stopped at the turn of the trench, finding a more gentle slope of the wall to rest his shoulder upon, though the soil was damp and rancid-smelling. He didn't feel fatigue, but his shoes were not meant for hiking, and they were uncomfortable. He was soaked to the bone, filthy, and freezing cold, and he really wanted to know when he could stop being that way.

Jon stopped so suddenly that his boots skidded on the mud and he had to sway to keep his balance.

“What is it now, Martin?”

There was no resignation to his voice, no apathy or even frustration, unlike before. Just pure, stifled anger, and the cryptic storm brewing from behind his eyes.

Martin looked at him pleadingly. “Can’t you tell me anything about how long we’ve still got to walk? At least until we get out of… this place.”

Jon sighed the sigh of a parent who had been asked “Are we there yet?” by their impatient child one too many times. “Like I said the first two thousand times, time and space do not exist in the way they once did. When the world was whole and there existed minds who knew not of terror.” He cringed almost imperceptibly, and scrubbed at his temples with his palms. “As much as I hate to hear the phrase myself, we will get there when we get there.”

It felt silly to complain about someone’s bad attitude when they were in a literal hellscape, but Martin didn’t like the way he’d started speaking through gritted teeth. He wanted respite from this particular nightmare, yes, but he also wanted to know why Jon was so angry.

Martin didn’t get the sense that it would do any good to ask him, though.

He sighed. “It’s been so long. What if we never get there? Just wandering in circles in a never-ending trench.”

“Well, Martin, we will never get there if we keep stopping to burrow a nightmare and ceaseless frenzy.”

He paused to consider that. He figured he’d heard wrong - his hearing was still a bit muted from the gunfire. “What?”

“I said, we’ll never get there if gangrene blisters or sanguine bagpipes.”

“What? What the hell does that mean?”

Jon made an irritated noise, then spoke slowly as if talking to someone who was very stupid. “Agony bore a bloody sickle for crushing the sleepless.”

Martin stared at him, and narrowed his eyes, gripped by a dawning horror that had nothing to do with the disease and death that surrounded him. “Jon, you’re not making any sense.”

Some of the anger faded from Jon’s expression. Then, suddenly, he clutched at his head with both hands as if in pain. His eyes widened, focusing briefly on Martin before returning to the million things that only he could see.

“Sever,” he said pointedly. And, as if spurred on by something, he continued, both voice and body shaking with intensity. “Limbs metallic see bloated warhead and vicious gas spitting cauterize through. Spleen pale cannon warhead bile where tetanus sinews. And gore and ring and soldier visceral from bodies brother teeth for rancid crimson darkness.” He spoke with such terrible certainty, as if he fully expected Martin to comprehend the meaning of every word.

The corners of Martin’s mouth became taut, but since smiling requires the pretense of happiness, he did not smile. “Listen, Jon, I know we’re both under a lot of stress, but this is a really bad way to try and lighten the mood, okay? It’s not funny. You’re scaring me.” He drew a sharp and shaking breath and released it in a hollow imitation of laughter. “What’s the matter with you, anyway? Are you just taking something out on m—”

“Chaotic laughter and screeching god.” Jon’s eyes were on him, but they weren’t looking at him. They were wild, desperate. Something awful was happening to him, something that caused him to forget how to stand, that ceaselessly filled his mind with secondhand terrors, that stole his voice and gave it to the neverending flood of words that rose like bile from his throat. “Iron hands, jettison liver, with heroic terror bullets and mottled rage buzzing, burning and lungs gone. Necrotized gurney which hell hath nuclear rot aching, whose shivering eye orders and despairs, immobile river filth screaming for prison and tear—”

“Jon, stop!” Martin pushed off the wall and stumbled over to where Jon had slipped onto the filthy earth. He shook him. “Snap out of it!”

“— off running, smoke and cloth the bacteria acrid, with hungry singing comrade forever hidden. Writhing from crater, sobbing but the fever moans flaking to clinging, melting daggers. Helpless pathway churning through exploding infinity—”

Martin was nearing his wits’ end. He dragged Jon, who went limp, into a nearby dugout, so tiny that sunlight still shone across most of its floor. He tried to block out the onslaught of babbled nonsense that somehow evoked a thousand nightmarish images as clear as day, but Jon’s voice had taken on that quality that made it impossible not to listen. He continued to shake him with repetitive, mechanical regularity, but as the words bore into his brain Martin’s movements grew weak and yielding.

Jon lay on Martin’s lap, staring far beyond the dirt ceiling. “Gorging jaws of metal death surround your blood-borne reach towards distant jargon, but surreal enemy adrenaline has harrowed pathological exaltations. Barbed manslaughter. Feeding warfare. Stinging trigger…”

His eyes fell to him for a split second. “Martin,” he said, and Martin remembered to breathe. But the moment was gone as quick as it had come, and Jon was launched into another disjointed tirade.

If the hands of his watch spun as reliably as they once had, Martin might have found that he sat crouched in that dugout for exactly six hours and thirty-four minutes, keeping Jon’s back out of the mud. But, for what it was worth, it felt like years. Jon continued his nonsensical ranting, scarcely stopping to breathe, and from the way he desperately spat the words one got the feeling that he wished he didn’t have to. His voice rose and fell at random, reaching sudden and unpredictable climaxes of raving and shouting before settling back into a listless murmur. Trying to ignore him was an exercise in futility. Every few words a new, terrible image would implant itself into Martin’s mind, and then another, and another, together weaving a tapestry of terror from the thread of Jon’s omnipotent train of thought. He couldn’t stop listening, and Jon couldn’t stop talking, so whenever Martin’s thoughts weren’t drowned out by the bile of the Beholding they were filled with despair.

Would this never end? Were they doomed to rot in this place, their minds slowly unraveled by the power of the Eye filtered only by Jon’s droning voice? Would they never move again, like all the rest in this awful place, locked in a stony embrace like some warped parody of The Pietà?

Martin couldn’t know. But in between terrors, it was all he could imagine as tears ran down his face.

It was a small mercy that this particular fear of Martin’s wasn't due to come about just yet. The first clue was that the flood of words had slowed to a trickle. The second was that when Jon paused for breath, it was deeper and less hurried than before. His voice had lost its former vigor, and it was all Martin could hope that he had finally started to exhaust himself.

“... never respite from wretched hope… singe a coagulated daylight swarm… justice not for careening wails… farewell… slaughter,” he paused, panting. “Finished” was too hopeful a word, and his voice carried no note of finality.

But there was a blessed silence. Martin expected it to end at any moment, but it stretched on as the seconds passed. There were distant cries of war, and the sound of Jon trying to make up for the breath he’d lost, but it all faded into nothing in the presence of the euphoric silence.

Several minutes passed this way, and it was only then that Martin dared to speak with the expectation that he’d get a response.

“Jon,” he began, finally daring to make eye contact - his otherworldly gaze had been far too intense to meet, before - and found that Jon was seeing him again. “What… happened?”

He blinked at Martin. There was another silence, shorter and more deliberate than the last, but less comfortable. “I—” He cleared his throat. “I think… I just…” He grabbed his temples with both hands and winced, and Martin pulled them both out of the light.

A moment’s migraine, and Jon collected himself. “There’s just… so much. Fear. Everywhere we go, from everyone in the world. I see it all. I feel it all.” Martin listened passively, despair replaced by a deep frustration. He knew this, and Jon knew how he felt about being his… receptacle for it all. But he didn’t interrupt.

“We have been through a domain of The Slaughter, and are now passing into one of The Corruption. I’ve been… accumulating more and more of The Slaughter’s fear all this time, and now that we’re leaving it… I suppose it wanted me to let it out. Now or never.” He paused. “And... I have to let it out, willingly, or else…”

“This happens.”

Jon sighed. “Apparently.”

Martin considered this, wondering if Jon could see the tear tracks that had left clean paths down his otherwise dirty face.

“Why didn’t you just give a statement? You know… before it was forced out of you?”

Jon looked at his hands for a long time. Then, in a small, guilty voice, he said, “I was trying to keep it inside.”

“Keep it inside? Why? ”

“I thought…” He covered his mouth in the gesture of one whose face burned with shame. “I thought I could control it, if I just willed it hard enough. These trenches… too long. Too narrow. There was nowhere for you to go. I didn’t want to stop, and I didn’t want to leave you.”

Martin stopped, and he softened. “Jon.” He sighed through his nose, and placed his hand on the back of Jon’s head. Then he brought him up into an embrace. “This was worse.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he murmured into Martin’s neck.

“... I’m just glad you’re okay.”

They stayed like that for an undefinable amount of time, relishing the only avenue of comfort available to them anymore. Then, with Jon clinging to Martin for support, they climbed to their feet, and set out under the sky again, which had at some point shifted from violent red to a sickly yellow. A new understanding dawned on them both, mostly Martin, who resolved to allow Jon his space when he needed to… vent.

He only wished the knowledge hadn’t had to come from personal experience.

Something lurking in the ruins ripped the page off the typewriter, and its keys never made a noise again.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #fanfiction #horror #angst #h/c #tma season 5 spoilers #yikes original tag #yikes tma tag

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teenwolfseason7 · 4 years

Text

Red Eyes

Stiles Slightly trembling fingers ghosted over numerous pictures and newspaper excerpts pinned to an old and stained wall, tracing imaginary connections and patterns. Stiles sighed in desperate frustration. With one brisk step, he turned around and angrily started tugging at his already chaotic-looking hair. Agitated and tired eyes locked with the bottle holding the auburn potion that would help him in a way no one else could, or would. He harshly swallowed, before getting a glass to pour himself a double one. Partially submitting to the ever-growing feeling of pure exhaustion, he sat down onto his messy bed and took a sip, whilst still exploring certain possibilities. The liquid happily leaving the usual burning sensation in his throat on its way down. Three refills later and frustration had leisurely progressed to boiling aggression whilst he paced relentlessly through his single dorm room. Abhorring the incessant discussion in his head, but unable to distract himself. Alcohol fueling wicked ideas, edging them to go beyond reality. Whispers of insanity latched themselves onto his brain. Posterior to contradicting yet another one of his intricate theories, he lost it, smashing the glass, holding his last drops of comfort, against the wall. Sending both his visualized and obscure thoughts and patterns to the ground. Incompetence chuckling in a vacant corner somewhere. Once again, he found himself onto his bed, gazing at the shatters of lunacy on the amber hardwood floor. Out of the blue, a faint rustling sound pierced the silence. Instantly, he cocked his head to the direction of the sudden noise, omitting the pounding of his own heart. Whilst questioning his debilitating mental state for imagining it, he kept listening. A negligible source was dismissed within seconds as the particular vibration re-emerged. Every sign of intoxication miraculously dissolved when a calm hand reached for the gun underneath his mattress, the cold metal stealing the warmth of his skin as it tightened around the material. Another re-occurrence had his adrenaline levels high enough for him to actually take a leap to the wall next to the window, whilst his heart thudded stridently into his ears. The anticipation built up, as he counted to three in an attempt to gather the necessary intrepidity. On his “three”, he darted upward in search for his target. Relief washed over him like a cold shower as Musafa, his favorite stray cat on campus meowed loudly, demanding treats. A harsh breath escaped him, anxiety releasing slightly as carbon dioxide left his body. “Seriously?!” Another shuddered exhale made him pause. “You have to stop doing this.” A cat parting ways whilst purring in contempt, and bunch of deep and calming gulps of air and frustrated groans later, he started cleaning up his mess from before the stupid scare, clearly in deep thought. Just as he was washing the sticky alcohol infused substance from his palms, a short ping rang like a fire alarm through his eardrums, coming from his laptop. Whilst quickly and mindlessly drying them off, he rushed towards his laptop, to click on the new notification. It was displayed rather strangely. Not the usual pristine and advanced Apple display, but blank white typewriter text, seemingly with more numbers than necessary, against a plain dark grey background popped up onto his screen. Some hacking technology he found on deep web pages he should have never been browsing on in the first place, the usual. He and one of his more “nerdier” friends perfected it, to hack in to places that should’ve never been hackable in the first place. However, not all FBI cases were kept behind the typical unbreachable doors imbedded with their ever so striking emblem. Yet another lie portrayed by the movie industry. No, the less important ones, were kept on poorly secured computers in blandly furnished offices, with incapable and uninterested agents working on them. One of those happened to be the one that was a threat to his existence. And because of that exact reason he did not feel any guilt whatsoever, for tapping into a secured briefing about that very case. Of course, his incompetence of keeping his nose out of other people their cases and business was what had landed him in this situation in the first place. But then again, if they knew what he knew, they would’ve probably meddled too, at least that’s what he was telling himself. That and the fact that the guys working on it are complete and utter douchebags, so guilt wasn’t necessarily in the top three of emotions he was dealing with right now. “Witness places M. Escobar in Campeche, Mexico.” The gears in his mind started spinning aggressively once more, as he read up on the details, instantly ordering his printer to make him a handheld cop of it, whilst absentmindedly rubbing a particular spot on his left knee. “Why Mexico?”, he debated out loud. Escobar had no relatives or friends there, which were mostly based somewhere in and around Seattle, nowhere near Mexico. So maybe the witnesses were wrong, het thought. That theory in itself was quite difficult to believe, since Escobar had a very distinct tattoo design on his face, confusing him with someone else was quite unlikely. He did not like to admit it, but given the current development of Escobar’s location, there was not much left for him to do here. It was completely implausible for the high-profile criminal to come back here after what he had done. Stiles believed that Escobar’s IQ was high enough for the him to realize that trying to come after a rookie like him again, would be impractical, to say the least, this was now confirmed with him going to Mexico. A fresh amount of wry tension crept along his neck. If only he could prove that Escobar was not some naïve kingpin, but a distinguished human trafficker with a booming business, evidently though, his clean-up crew had a bigger pay-check than everyone working on his case. But, other than the occasional location pin, no new information had surfaced. That and he had submitted his last paper of the term two weeks ago. For months, he had been stalling it, with the obvious excuses that went something along the lines of “It’s not safe”, but going back to Beacon Hills wasn’t something he could keep postponing forever. Teen Wolf Season 7 Teaser: https://teenwolfseason7.tumblr.com/post/189867393637/teen-wolf-sequel-teaser-the-fire-erupted-in Part 1: https://teenwolfseason7.tumblr.com/post/613061122944319489/old-habits-die-hard Part 2: https://teenwolfseason7.tumblr.com/post/613061389444071424/deja-vu Part 3: https://teenwolfseason7.tumblr.com/post/613792223778291712/headlights

#scottstiles #sciles #Scott McCall #stiles stilinski #Stilinski #teenwolfseason7 #teenwolfsequel #teenwolf #lydia martin #liam dunbar #derekhale

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chinatea · 5 years

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sg/di, personas au, abo au, royal au, arranged marriage. (feat. ian/bg).

>>> Diminie (Jisoo) and BG (Jiyeon) are omega princelings from the South Kingdom (I know, a very creative name, but it’s a short story, so why bother). BG got married to Ian, the crown alpha prince of the North Kingdom, a few years back, and Diminie has been just married to Ian’s younger brother, SG (Jungkook). They were married through proxies before meeting each other, which they’re going to do in the fic. Hope you enjoy. <3

His carriage comes to a halt with a low tremor.

The long journey is finally over and what a journey that was. Months of travel. Traversing places, sceneries, seasons. And Jisoo spent most of it inside his little carriage, staring out of the window, but mostly sleeping after taking sleep draughts provided in advance. The people of the North are known for their practicalities, they’d thought of everything - even Jisoo’s boredom throughout the travel.

Jisoo yawns so wide a tear springs at the corner of his eye. Last time he looked outside it was snowing - a mind bending sight for someone hailing from the lush evergreen meadows of the South. He’s so far from home, it’s almost a different world out here. And just like they say, the North is one harsh beauty. Makes him wonder if he’ll ever be able to call this place home and mean it from the bottom of his heart. He wonders if his brother does.

Peering once again through the screen of the door, he sees the hustle and bustle of people outside, some of them he recognizes as part of his procession. All of them are from the North. None of his close friends or attendants were allowed to accompany him, for the journey would be too severe for a southerner to withstand. For the same reason, no effort was spared to keep Jisoo as safe and comfortable as possible.

His carriage was fortified with magic. The northern kind of magic, the likes of which Jisoo has never witnessed before. And it's not that the Southerners are less proficient in magical arts, but they do rely on it less than in the North, where the magic is all about survival and harnessing power over the elements, not kitchen remedies and pretty lightworks.

His bespoke fur coat is also layered with a web of magic, enveloping his form like an armour. It looks heavy but in reality, it's almost weightless, swaddling him in comfort and tingling warmth. A wedding gift from his husband. He still remembers unwrapping the furs for the first time, the softness of it as he ran his palms over it, musing to himself - this is it, soon to be married to an alpha prince from a country on the other side of the world where days barely last and nights never really end.

And today, at last, he will meet his husband for the first time. Having spent months fretting over this very day, he feels resigned to his fate, tired of the tyranny of his nervous thoughts. With that, he burrows deeper into his furs and steps out of the carriage down the propped up ladder, his attendants supporting him under his elbows like he’s a fragile doll ready to keel over and shutter into tiny pieces. He thanks them nevertheless with a shy smile.

Outside, it’s so cold he feels pinned down to the spot. And from that spot, all he can see is the Snow Castle that presents like a vision. Otherworldly and breathtaking. A true child of the snowy mountain peaks surrounding it. Diminie has to uncomfortably crank his neck up to take it all in, to no great success, as the castle’s spires drown in the sea of thick clouds up above.

The Snow Castle has been the residence of the crown prince since days of old, as he learned from Jiyeon's letters. His older brother married the crown prince a few years ago, undertaking the same journey as Jisoo all on his own, with no familiar face to greet him on the other end. His brother is as brave as he's enchanting. And Jisoo has missed him dearly, having kept in touch only through letters.

Jisoo had worried about him, but luckily, his worries were in vain. Even if Jiyeon has never been the one to openly speak about his private feelings, whenever he talked about Ian in his letters, every word spoke of love and great admiration for his alpha. Jisoo only hopes he’d be as lucky.

What he knows about Jeon Jungkook could barely fill a thimble. And uncertainty often breeds fear. Even dread, in his case. Would he be gentle with him? Understanding? Even Jiyeon hadn’t been much help - apparently the second prince spent most of his time away, travelling and learning from the world.

That is another thing that has been troubling Jisoo something terrible. Clearly, his husband is a man of knowledge and intellectual pursuits. What if he finds Jisoo dull and ignorant? Being a prince, Jisoo, of course, received the best education their country had to offer, yet he wasn’t as diligent or naturally gifted as his brother, and would often be found playing truant in their labyrinthian gardens, with little remorse for his naughtiness.

And now, he wishes he had paid more attention. If only not to lose face in front of his husband.

“My darling,” a voice calls after him and Jisoo’s limbs grow weak as tears well in his eyes, a wave of emotions rising in his chest. He leaps into his brother’s embrace, taking in his peach golden scent - something that always whispers of summers and vibrant skies. In other words, home.

Jiyeon presses kisses all over his face, his chubby rosy cheeks and button nose - they must make quite a chaotic sight, but Jisoo can only giggle, giddy with happiness, clinging to his brother like lifeline.

A few moments pass like that, exchanging kisses, greetings and giggles, before both of them finally get a hold on their bearings. Besides, the cold starts really getting to him, which he voices to Jiyeon quietly, teeth chattering to add to his point.

The other omega grips Jisoo’s hands in his, warmth running through his fingers.

“I was like you, at first, little one,” he lilts. “The weather is beastly here, but with time, you’ll adapt. We’ll teach you everything you need to know, but meanwhile...”

Jiyeon smiles impishly.

“Ask your alpha to keep you warm,” he adds, unabashed, as Jisoo’s cheeks light up in chagrin. “That’s what I did.”

That's the Jiyeon he knows all right - always the little devil.

With that, he tugs Jisoo along as they traverse the inner yard, leaving his carriage and people behind, with only a couple of attendants following suit. What boggles Jisoo is how quiet castle is, like someone casted a muffling spell on everything. Perhaps, that was the design. From what he knows about the crown prince, the alpha enjoys quietude and privacy, spending most of the year here rather than at the capital.

Jisoo will only visit in a few months, officially presenting himself to the court and the Omega Monarch, his terrifying father-in-law. But first, he’ll have some time to settle into his new married life and get to know his husband better, away from the curious eyes of the public.

“We have some time before dinner,” Jiyeon says as they enter the maze of private quarters, full of long empty hallways and stone. “And as much as I’d love to show you around, I’m sure you’re starving, darling, so I had us a light meal prepared.”

Jisoo follows him dutifully into a room with a fireplace that gobbles most of the wall. It’s blasting hot and Jisoo sighs, happy, taking his coat off and folding it neatly over the back of a couch.

The help minces in and out of the room, going about their business, and every time someone new steps in, Jisoo’s heart flutters, expecting Jungkook to strut in any moment now, which would be disastrous as Jisoo is so strung up, so prickly with nerves, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to string together a simple sentence. Maybe Jiyeon picks up on that as he coos,

“Relax, love, he and Ian went hunting at dawn. Ian was adamant they hunt their own game for dinner because tradition and, oh, you know, typical alpha silliness,” the omega clucks his tongue, but his eyes brim with fondness. “Jungkook is lovely though, such a sweet awkward thing. As much as you must be fretting over meeting him, trust me, my darling, he’s thousand times more worried. Be gentle with him, will you?”

Jisoo nods, a shy smile flowering on his lips. He’s cradling a dainty teacup between his palms, mulling over Jiyeon’s words. They put him at ease, somewhat. All Jisoo had to go off all these months to decipher Jungkook’s personality was his portrait, a very fine and dashing one, but still hardly trustworthy since most portraits are notoriously deceiving. He barely recognized himself when he saw his own and immediately requested it be redone as he couldn’t have Jungkook expect some ethereal beauty that doesn’t exist.

Not that Jisoo isn’t confident. He knows he’s pretty - all omegas in his family are. Many alphas have expressed their admiration for him and his cuteness, which, in their kingdom at least, is legendary. Hence, he has no need for a lie, simple as that.

After the tea break, Jiyeon showed him around their private wing, their last stop being the nursery. Jisoo squealed at the sight of his brother’s pup, six months old now, all chubby cheeks and smart inquisitive eyes. He’s been dying to hold his tiny nephew ever since Jiyeon wrote about his pregnancy.

"Goodness, he’s so tiny," Jisoo coos, cradling the precious bundle to his chest. "A tiny omega pup."

"And a whiny one at that," Jiyeon remarks wryly. He boops his son’s nose and the pup babbles at them happily, tiny digits wrapping around Jiyeon’s thumb. "You just caught him on a good day."

Jisoo kisses the pup’s temple, nuzzling tufts of dark baby hair. Pups have the best scents about them, milky and soft and just new. Which makes him a touch wistful - he wants all the pups, as soon as possible, and hopefully his husband would be on-board with that.

"Do you think Jungkook would love to have many pups?"

"I think you should ask him yourself," Jiyeon says with an amused curve of his mouth. "Speak of the devil…"

The Devil, indeed, steps in and the whole room hushes. A tender smile blossoms on Jiyeon’s lips and in an instant, he is enveloped in his alpha’s arms, rising on his tiptoes for a kiss.

Ian might have an intimidating presence about him, but the way he is holding his brother is precious and sweet. It’s endearing and it makes Jisoo let out the quietest sigh. To be embraced and kissed and held by the person he loves is something he's wanted for himself for the longest time.

"Well? What are you waiting for?"

Jiyeon gives him the briefest of glances while Ian is pressing a kiss to his hand, eyes only on him.

"It’s down the hallway and up the stairs. He has his little study up in the tower. We’ll see you both at dinner, now shoo."

And this is how Jisoo meets his husband for the first time - by tracking him down down the hallway and up the stairs. Two hundred steps up the spiral staircase. Not that he'd been counting, only he did, to keep his racing heart still. He’s out of breath and livid with nerves by the end of it.

Left with no other option, he braces for the worst and knocks on the door, delicate knuckles barely grazing the sturdy wood. No reply comes, but that's to be expected from how faint the sound was.

Jisoo pushes the door open and meekly peeks inside a modestly spaced study. A wild unkempt look to it, a bunch of empty flowerpots, surprisingly, cluttering up the place - the shelves and bookcases, the working desk, the floor. And in the center of this chaos, exists he, Jeon Jungkook, none the wiser about Jisoo's presence, examining some papers scattered all over the tabletop.

A fireplace is roaring in the corner.

Jisoo coughs politely to gain his attention and

Jungkook swooshes around, his papers flying into the air.

"Oh dear, I’m so sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you," Jisoo bubbles, stumbling forward to help subdue the mess he caused. Naturally Jungkook does the same. Their hands touch and Jungkook recoils, eyes wide and frightened. A sheet of paper clutched to his chest. It’s too quiet all of a sudden, and Jisoo feels like crawling out of his skin.

It’s so, so awkward.

"I’m sorry for intruding," Jisoo mutters, bottom lip trembling. "I should have waited for dinner, I’ll leave…"

"No," Jungkook says, even quieter. “Don’t go. Please?”

He’s nothing what Jisoo imagined him to be. Jiyeon was right on the nose with his description - a lovely awkward thing. Dark swept hair and big hands, pretty lips, eyes that are out of this world, imploring him to stay. His husband. And Jisoo stays.

Just nods and helps him pick up the scattered papers and as they do so, mindful of every movement and hyper aware of each other's presence, Jisoo finds his calm again, even allowing a tentative smile to slip through - Jungkook ducks his head down, a blush spreading across his cheeks.

“I was told that nothing really blooms in the North,” Jisoo speaks up then, his earlier observation coming to mind as he points at the flowerpots. While most of them are indeed empty, a rare few host sickly looking sprouts. A far cry from the verdancy he enjoyed in his private garden back home.

“That’s, ah, correct,” Jungkook confirms with a sigh, reaching out to caress one of the sprouts despondently. “These ones won’t survive either.”

“Oh,” Jisoo hums, gaze drown to Jungkook's fingers, the well-moulded shape of them. “There was more?”

Jungkook cracks a smile, just the corners of his lips tipping up.

“More than I could count, probably,” he confesses. “These are the first batch that sprouted, well, some of them anyhow. I thought I'd be able to make something bloom by the time you...eh...arrive.”

Jisoo cocks his head in a curious tilt, pondering over Jungkook's words.

“Well, ah...” Jungkook stutters, fingers locked in front of him. “You know...”

Suddenly, it dawns on him.

“You’re doing this for me,” Jisoo says, in quiet wonder.

“They said you love flowers, spending time in your garden, we...ah, don't have that here, still I thought...I should at least try...”

Jungkook rambles, eyes glued to some spot at the floor. He's blushing. And Jisoo's heart races, a hand flies to cover his mouth, bubbling excitement zipping through his body.

“You’re doing this for me,” he repeats, voice rising in pitch. He feels so elated he could just kiss him. Instead he settles for a smile and adored, “You’re too kind.”

“It’s...it’s nothing,” Jungkook mutters, but he glows under the praise, chest pushing forward. A shy he may be, but still an alpha. His handsome and kind alpha husband.

“It’s the thought that counts.” Jisoo steps forward, reaching out for Jungkook's hands. Their palms touch, fingers lancing together. A pleasant hum of their energies erupting upon the caress. “Before we even met, you've thought of me. That means a lot. Thank you.”

“There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you,” Jungkook says, with quiet vigor and honesty that leaves Jisoo speechless. A touch breathless. A bit teary-eyed.

And maybe already in love.

---

AN: Yeah, it’s kinda short, but if you have any questions about this world, SG/Di or Ian/BG, etc., I might write some bonuses or extras later.

#personas au #sg/di #its sg season where im from

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thefairefolk-rp · 4 years

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Congratulations, Raz! Your application for Naveen Byrd has been accepted!

OOC INFORMATION:

Name/Nickname: Razmadi

Age: 22

Pronouns: she/her

Timezone: CST

IC INFORMATION:

Desired Character: Naveen Byrd

Second Choice Character: N/A

What made you choose this character?: I enjoy writing complex, sometimes dark characters (like Alecto Carrow). Naveen has always really interested me and when I read his bio it cemented it. I think it would be really interesting to write and develop him as well as interact with other characters.

Writing Sample (Must be 300 words or more, third person limited, in the character you’re auditioning for’s point of view):

TW: Blood, Gore, traumatic mental manipulation, naveen being an all-around psychopath?

“Get up.” Naveen’s bored voice echoed through the training room. The only other sound was the panting of the two apprentices before him. They were supposed to be the best of their age group, other’s of the magi sung their praises, their masters’ let a thousand adulations fall from their lips. Naveen found them rather disappointing. Pathetic even. He was less than impressed. Magi Veras claimed her apprentice this season was unparalleled both in magick strength and strategy, cunning like no other and sly. Magi Hemlock claimed his apprentice was matchless in intelligence and swiftness, raw magickal talent easily on Magi Hemlock’s own level and while not near Naveen’s own, it was still nothing to sneeze at.

He saw none of those acclaims now. After hearing both Magi Master and apprentice alike sing their praises, Naveen had become curious. He had taken no apprentice this season, nor the one before. None of them seemed to be up to his standards, all of them had been subpar at best, their raw magickal talent had been nothing worthy of note, so Naveen hadn’t bothered. Let the other Magi Masters sort the brats out, he had no time or patience for it, nor interest. Or rather he hadn’t at the time, until everyone had begun singling these two out, as the best of their generation, unparalleled in almost every field. He had considered taking the stronger one on as his apprentice, a little late yes, but late-bloomers existed even among the most powerful.

Watching them now, however, after pitting them against each other, was less than amusing. In fact, it was downright infuriating, but he kept that emotion locked behind his teeth. Instead, presenting a neutral, bored face to the two apprentices before him. He had told them to fight each other, as he often had his apprentices do, if he had taken on more than one. Yield or die. Those were the rules and he enforced them ruthlessly. He saw no point in babying them, the rest of the world would do that for him. They needed to be ruthless and powerful when they came out of his care, cunning and strategic, powerful and quick. They needed to be unparalleled in every field. They needed to be the best. These two brats before him, were none of these things. They didn’t even deserve the rank of apprentice, in his eyes, they shouldn’t be here at all. Pathetic. Useless. Arrogant. Weak.

He had to wonder what sort of fae they were accepting into the Magi these days, he’d passed off the duty of searching for talent years ago. His last had been Clove Thorn, now a prized possession of the queen. Her personal bodyguard, trained, tried and tested by Naveen himself. And he’d spared no avenue or expense in doing so. Clove was one of the best in his field, nearly unmatched, except, perhaps, by the other pupils that Naveen had taken a personal interest in. The ones that survived that is. He had no mercy for useless and weak things. His training was brutal and terrorizing, chaotic and deadly. You either became the best and survived or you died and were thrown aside. Naveen had no use for weak things, they could only be interesting for so long before they became pathetically mundane and utterly useless.

Like these two inferior apprentices were fast becoming. They had had the gall to gape at him when he had called them aside and led them to this training room. It was completely closed off, windows nonexistent and the only door directly behind him and bolted shut, his magick making it impossible to open, from either side. There was no padding on the floor, he didn’t see the point, and the walls were covered in scorch marks, scratches and blood from matches past. It was intimidating to look into and impossible to get out.

He had cut off their complaints with a wave, sending them sprawling with a burst of magick. They had not wanted to fight each other, they had thought he would care what they wanted. They were very wrong. Yield or die. He had told them and without another word, lounging back in his chair with an interested spark in his eyes. That spark had long since dimmed in the face of these insufferable weaklings. They could not even match up to the apprentices he had taken that had died in training. (All officially reported as unfortunate accidents of course.)

It had taken another hit of his magick to get them started, this time he had sent them into the wall. They would have bruises. They would find he didn’t care. Any complaints, if they survived, would be unheeded. Naveen had a silver-tongue and rank to follow through, no one would believe a half-trained apprentice over the Archmage. It was best if they realized that. Naveen, however, didn’t hold out too much hope.

They had been fighting for just over two hours, sweating and panting, exhaustion clung to their frames and desperation in their eyes. They had misunderstood him at the beginning. One had blasted the other into a wall, causing him to yell out a terrified “yield” as it were. That was unacceptable. One could only yield when they were unconscious. When yielding, was the only option left. Perhaps he had enjoyed it a tad too much when he watched the hope leave their eyes and desperation flow in like an overflowing river.

This was the seventh time one of them had been knocked to the ground. They were still being too soft, too gentle. Too weak. It was time, it seemed, for a little bit more motivation to be put into play. Naveen gave an unnerving smirk as he rose to his feet. Alekto would have burned them to ground hours ago. Amity would have never let it get to this point.

“It seems your Magi Masters have been neglectful in their duties. When a superior, such as myself, tells you to fight, you do so. You do not whine, gape, complain or hesitate. You fight, until either your superior tells you to stop or the other is incapacitated or dead.” Naveen paused as he prowled forward, danger in every moment. “Since it appears you do not understand this one basic fact, let us correct it. If you will not fight each other,” Naveen paused again, his smirk only gaining more teeth. “Then you shall fight your nightmares given light, you will fight me.” Without a thought, Naveen split himself again and again and again, until seven duplicates and one real body stood in a circle around them. “I suggest you become serious very soon in your fighting prowess and magickal power.” Naveen’s voice rang out coming from eight mouths, echoing threateningly in the space, he licked his lips and continued “As you are not leaving this room until one or both, depending on the circumstances, of you are dead.”

He didn’t wait for him to react to the news, eight hands raised into the air as shadows were painted to life. Nightmares blurred into existence and were seared into their own heads. Horrific images, brutality from the war, (many of which, if he didn’t cause his dear traitorous Alekto did) swam before their eyes. The dead rose up before them, rotting and grotesque, bones poking through burning skin, skulls caved in and ribs collapsed. Legs shattered and bent at the wrong angles and still they shuffled forward.

The apprentices could no longer tell friend from foe, it was pathetically easy to glamour them both. Making them each look like one of the grotesque bodies that were shuffling forward and littering the floor, dragging themselves and crying out in agony and pleas in some cases, if their throats and tongues were still intact, which they rather often weren’t. He did not stop with the brutalized dead during the war; animal caricatures soon joined them, looking both similar to things of the natural world and yet horrendously grotesque and malignant upon second glance. The room was now a place of nightmares given life. Naveen vanished his doubles one by one as the apprentices screamed in terror, tried to run, tried to escape. It was no use, there was no leaving here, not without Naveen’s direct involvement. And in cases like this, he gave none. They should have just done what they were told.

His body flickered as the nightmare creatures closed in on the panicked apprentices. Finally vanishing just as he wiped the lights out, leaving them in complete and utter darkness. The screams were… memorable. And they did not stop. And they did not stop.

They should’ve just done what they were told. It would’ve been much less messy.

#accepted

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hopevalley · 5 years

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I just want to thank you for keeping this public. I have promoted you on Twitter and will continue to do so. I want to help in any way I can.

I debated all morning on how to reply to this. I know this is reference to Melinda making her blog private for Tumblr users only, and I think it’s important for me to express my opinion on that situation.

But first: thank you for the Twitter promotion! I have a Twitter account, but I admit I rarely use it (because I find it confusing to use lol). It’s @july_skies !

Regarding Melinda’s decision to privatize her blog: I support it. She works hard on her content and deserves to feel that people who like it will be capable of supporting it in a direct way (reblogs specifically). Nothing sucks more than making stuff and seeing that nobody’s looking at it or enjoying it, and whether or not that’s what it seems like to (general) you, that’s how it comes across when people don’t reblog her stuff. It’s depressing. It’s like she’s throwing her hard work right into the void.

While I’m on the subject, I’d like to talk about content creation a little more, to help give you guys a better idea of fandom and your place as a consumer of fanworks; I know a lot of you might be new to the concept, and you can’t know if nobody thinks to tell you.

For my “credentials,” let’s just say I’ve been a content creator for more than half my life and there’s something we lifers call fandom participation or fandom engagement. They are more or less the same thing, and the terminology boils down to us answering this question: “How is the fandom at large engaging with our content?”

In the last handful of years, participation is down across the board. When I first got into writing fanfiction I’d get at least 40 comments on anything I wrote. Many of my works ended up with 60+ comments on them!

Now I’m lucky if anyone comments at all, especially in this fandom. Again, it’s a problem everywhere, but I still get comments on fanfic I posted five years ago in other fandoms; meanwhile, this one remains relatively silent.

I post on AO3 for two big reasons. 1) ACCESSIBILITY. AO3′s site layout is easy to read! It’s easy to format! It’s friendly to people with issues seeing small print! And then we have 2) I do it to give people the option of commenting anonymously (in case they’re shy or nervous).

Having an account there isn’t required at all. People just choose not to engage with me when I post fanfiction.

It feels bad to spend hours of your time on something only to see 0 notes/comments/likes/reblogs/whatever on it later. Four ‘likes’ doesn’t feel that good either. Did people actually like it? Are they pity-likes? Do they even care? People mindlessly ‘like’ a lot of things; maybe they did that with your content, too. I’m not saying I don’t enjoy seeing ‘likes’ but a ‘like’ is more or less an acknowledgement that they’ve seen the content, not that they enjoyed it or want more of it.

Also, likes/kudos don’t draw in more readers: comments do. When a reader’s scrolling down the front page of their favorite AO3 fandom, they click on the ‘fics that look like they might be ‘good’ and even though it’s not always TRUE that the ‘best’ stories have the most comments, a lot of readers filter by the number of comments!

Comments tell other readers: this is worth checking out!

Let’s look at a quick example of one of my ‘fics:

This is from my AO3 account, a random WCtH fanfic. It’s not a long one, but it’s not short either. It’s a reasonable read in terms of time spent to read it, and as you can see 185 people clicked on it, 14 people ‘liked’ it (kudos are “likes”), and I have two comments: one of those comments is @trash-god and the other is me replying to her comment.

Her comment isn’t ‘less than’ because she’s a close friend, but she and I spoke at length about this story on Discord and her comment was just a nice little ‘addition’ to that conversation. Sure, the story’s about characters not many people care about, but look at that: 185 hits on the story. 14 likes. And only one person who read it took five seconds to leave a comment? Really? What about the 13 other people who ‘liked’ it?

What this says to me as a creator is that the ONLY person who is going to comment is the one person who might feel obligated to, and if that’s the case, why don’t I just save my stories to show her privately? Why bother posting them out into the void to hear nothing but silence from everyone else?

This is the direction that @whencallstheheart is coming from. What’s the point of spending hours creating these things when nobody interacts with you? Posting to silence feels bad. And look, to put it into perspective, editing gifs to post, writing fanfic, doing write-ups, maintenance of a blog, site, or social media presence: it’s super time-consuming.

Melinda and I both work full-time jobs as it is. My job hit full busy season and I’m even getting overtime now. I’m in training to take over the department next year and I’m tired at the end of the day. When I get home I have eight cats, a house to take care of, and a spouse, not to mention my in-laws live right next door and need help sometimes. We also have a property we just planted 1500 trees on by hand that we have to monitor, and my husband owns a house we rent to someone that needs work done on it, too. Sometimes, life is busy.

And don’t get me wrong! I enjoy creating, just like I’m sure Melinda does. I feel awful if I can’t “create.”

But if my choices are:

work for five hours on a fanfic or episode write-up only to get 4 likes on it, OR

play a video game or watch a movie or read a book or sit on the deck watchin’ the sun go down while I work on a crocheting project…

The latter definitely appeals to me more knowing I have to get up in the morning to go back to work again. My time is worth something. Neither Melinda nor I are getting paid to create this content. We put it together for free, in what spare time we have, in the midst of our own chaotic lives. My website costs me a chunk of money every year to keep up and running ad-free, and I could get all 1500 trees weeded in the amount of time it takes me to put together an episode write-up or decent fanfic.

All content creators ask for in exchange for their free labor is a sense of community, and that can be anything from:

comments on fanfics you enjoyed, even if they are just to say, “I read this and enjoyed it.”

messages that say, “I really like how [this edit you did] turned out.”

reblogs on Tumblr, retweets on Twitter, emails to website owners

you can even create your own blog and use it to begin conversations with those creators!

You guys have been pretty good about engaging with the show itself through us, but don’t forget to engage with the content you enjoy seeing that comes about because of the show.

Fandom content keeps the show alive even when it’s not currently airing, and supporting content creators keeps them creating. Everyone wins, then!

To talk specifically about written content...

Readers are the ones who ensure more material is created. Hands down.

And again: I love writing!! I DO. I’ve been writing seriously for more years of my life than I haven’t been writing seriously! But it’s disheartening to post a fanfic and get my one obligation comment.

Now, it’s fine if you don’t read fanfiction or even enjoy it. It’s also fine if the things I’ve posted aren’t to your specific tastes. Trust me, I get it; nobody is obligated to comment on my fanfiction, and I don’t want anyone to feel that they should be.

But please know this: if you do enjoy something, whether it’s fanfic or edits or something else, you NEED to engage with it, or it WILL disappear. People don’t like talking to walls. It’s frustrating and it isn’t a good use of their time.

(This is one of the reasons I haven’t bothered doing a novelization of the series. It could be fun, but for 0 comments it’s not worth spending the time on.)

Again, you guys have been great when it comes to engaging with the show material, particularly while the show is airing. It’s been fun speculating with you and hearing all of your different thoughts. I know sometimes Tumblr doesn’t make it easy to communicate, either, and you’ve all done a great job of getting around that.

But in between seasons things get slow on this blog and it’s hard for me (or anyone running a blog) to feel motivated to provide content of any sort if you’re not going to take the time to engage in it.

I’ll never mark this blog as private, but if I get to the point where I can’t get any engagement from the fans, I’ll shut it down. The point of having a “fandom blog” is to interact with other fans.

I enjoy providing content to you guys, but if participation drops off to nothing, I’ll be taking that as my signal that the audience is gone and my time would be better spent elsewhere.

So if you’re here and you’re enjoying things, don’t forget to take a little time out of your day to let your content creators know! Not just me and Melinda, of course, but your favorite people on Instagram, Twitter, and other sites as well. ♥ You might be surprised how happy they’ll be to receive interaction from other fans.

And another plug for fanfiction, because 1) they always get the short end of things considering how hard it is to amass the creative energy necessary to tell a good story, and 2) I noticed it’s the #2 page on my website getting visited: if you’ve enjoyed anything you’ve read for When Calls the Heart, tell the author! Here’s the section for WCtH on AO3! Is English not your native language/you’re not confident in your ability to write English? No worries! I’ve gotten many thoughtful comments in other languages and from people who spoke limited English, and trust me: I treasured every one. If you’re just not sure how to comment on fanfic, send me a message and I’ll give you some tips!

I don’t intend this as a slight against my anonymous friend up there AT ALL; I think it can be hard to be in fandom, especially if you’re newer to the scene. There’s a lot of history that’s long gone by now and missing out on it means it’s harder to step into fandom without also accidentally stepping on toes.

Sometimes we take for granted that we have an almost unlimited supply of fanfiction, gifs, memes, blogs, and so on at our disposal. But none of that comes from thin air and it never did. It’s the cumulative hard work of millions of people throwing their hearts and souls into something they’re passionate about in an effort to engage with other fans.

I hope this helped put things into perspective a bit!! Sending love at all of you that stuck around this far; I know it was quite a bit of a ramble LOL!

#when calls the heart #anonymously asked #answered mail #thank you for the kind comment but here's my perspective #in the hopes that you'll understand melinda's a little more #the lack of engagement gets me down too tbh #if i felt people would comment on and want to talk to me about #a novelization i'd start writing it tomorrow

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one-deranged-son · 4 years

Text

For Wickedness Burn

Written by Gossamere as John and Froggy as Ian Nashton.

Warning:

This plot is rated explicit for language and description of violence. Read at your own risk.

Original story was posted in Twitter but due to it’s obtuse cleaning policy, some parts are unable to be saved.

John

Eyes widened, breaths ragged and harsh.

It's not the predictable pain that strikes the worst, it's the random shits you know is coming, but never when. The anticipation always managed to bring the worst of people. The work on random torture elevates everyone’s primal fear, decreasing logic, and degenerating self-control, and at last, they start to beg.

"End this! End this!"

Because death is kind. Death is better.

"So, Dick," even the Revelator couldn't contain his laugh at the stupid name, "is it Dick as in Dickon, or Dick as in, y'know—you. Get it? 'Cause you're a dick."

His humor didn't reach his eyes, 'cause the muffled scream and the dreadful atmosphere was never a good place to start a stand up comedy. Not that it was funny to begin with, it was straight off stupid.

"Aight, I love to stay a bit longer, but I'm running out of time," he said, "and honestly, talking with foolish fuckers ain't really my thing. Yea, you were children of fools, yea, children of base men, y'know? Y'all viler than the earth.”

"But don't worry, I'll make sure your brothers get the message, and you, mon ami, just happen to be the lucky one 'cause you get the chance to help me out!"

The muffled scream was the last thing he heard when the Semtex ignited in a fiery ball of flame. Roaring fire bleeds upward, leaving a series of smoke-rings which float as gentle in the dull, black sky.

The noise reverberated through the busy streets like a yawning lion, and by now, the police department would be on their way, siren's blazing.

The other police department, of course, because this one is fucked to the ground.

The Revelator marched towards his home.

He got some laundry to do.

Ian Nashton

"What's with the balloons, Cole?" Ian's nose scrunched up. It wasn't that he was a party pooper, but he didn't expect to be greeted with a dozen of balloons when he entered the station. Officer Cole grabbed one of the balloons and bonked Ian on the head with it, the action earning a stern glare from the detective.

"It's Jeffrey's birthday today, he insisted on having some balloons, even when I told him you would protest. Anyway, I'm going to collect my wager from him now. Thank you for proving me right, man."

The detective could only stand in confusion, he wasn't sure what just happened. Officers Jeffrey Hwang and Thomas Cole were the two officers that often helped the homicide department. Those two are great at their job and were fantastic people, but a lot of the times, Ian felt like he was babysitting two overgrown children whenever they were around him.

"Why not bring in a set of—"

Fireworks. He was going to say fireworks. But his sentence was cut short when he heard what sounded like an explosion from a distance. He wasn't the only one who heard it, either. His partner, Sam, immediately stood up and headed outside. Chief Margaret Kennedy also got out of her office with an alarmed look.

Before anyone could ask what had happened, Sam barged in with the answer, "Heads up! I think there was an explosion near that new station in the west. I saw smoke from there."

It could have been just a result of construction errors, but the fact that it was a newer building made everyone present at the time scramble out to the patrol cars to head to the location.

What they saw at the scene was devastating.

The building was engulfed in flames and reduced to almost nothing but rubble. There was a cacophony of screams and cries from the panicked onlookers; while the combined sirens of the fire department, ambulance and police wailed in the distance.

Despite his own shock and the chaotic atmosphere surrounding him, the detective began to analyze the situation at hand.

Fact number one: the destruction was far too large to have been an accident, therefore, someone must have been responsible.

Fact number two: the scale of the destruction and the effectiveness hinted at the experience of the culprit. Whoever they were, they must have been a seasoned terrorist.

Fact number three: the culprit is certainly intelligent. They chose to attack one of the newly built stations, knowing that there would be less people in it.

"Is... is it just me... or...?" Thomas started, he pointed at a mass of... something in the middle of the rubble.

Sam squinted his eyes so he could see it better, and when his eyes finally adjusted, the blonde man's blood ran cold, "That's… an officer."

"Was an officer." Ian chimed in grimly, "I doubt anyone could have survived that."

With that said, Ian reached fact number four: the culprit specifically targeted the police rather than the government directly. Which meant that they didn't want a negotiation; they only wanted to see the world burn. Perhaps it was someone with a vendetta.

Jeffrey and Thomas went their way to help other officers secure the area while Ian scribbled down his thoughts and mental notes in a physical notebook, just to better retain the facts. Sam and Margaret were doing their best to talk to terrified bystanders to calm them down and urge them to go home.

Ian only hoped that at least one useful camera footage would survive the blast. Otherwise, they may not be able to solve this case and more people may get hurt.

John

It's straight-up depressin'.

When some people come home with neatly laid dinner and a clean house after working their ass off, John has to put up with the bullshit that they run out of food, there are two baskets of laundries needed to be clean, and the ceiling in the kitchen was leaking.

Fuck.

He had been careful and responsible, fortunately. After he finished his last step of burning the evidence, he safely stored his gear on a scattered place so that nobody won't find out about where he was heading next. He even picks up Chinese leftovers given by the owner who shoots up with him because he knew they don't have any meals at home! So much for the Revelator.

He made sure his presence goes unnoticed. It's late already and he had made sure that all of the other tenants are sleeping. John made his way upstairs to his floor, leaning close to the wall to avoid the unnecessary creaking from the old planks. He checked his surroundings, and after making sure nobody is following him, he slipped into his room and proceed to bolt his door using four different kinds of locks.

The TV is turned on, and coupla damned kids were tangled across the sofa with drolls rolling over their opened mouth. He found himself smiling at the sight, that, of course, until the voice of a reporter rolling through his ears.

"Three nearby public service catches on fire after an explosion blast off at the Chicago Police Station. Officials told the press that at least 3 people were injured and an officer named Dick Foster died by the heat exposure."

"The explosion is being blamed on a vigilante who called themselves as the Revelator. The police had found some evidence to support the proof, including a message written in red reciting the book of Job, Chapter 15, Verse 34, which said: ‘For the congregation of hypocrites shall be desolate, and fire shall consume the tabernacles of bribery.’"

John almost burst out loud laughter at the way she spoke, but soon covered his mouth 'cause they found his message. Aye, that's a good start! God knows if they actually get it or no, not that it matters.

"Officials said they also managed to retrieve the security camera footage revealing a man wearing a mask and heavily armed."

They started to replay the file, and John’s heart sunk.

Whatever the reporter said afterward, he doesn't recall. Because now he was staring wide-eyed, mouth partly gaping.

"Fuck."

What the fuck.

Alright, that was shitty.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

It's been a couple of days since the attack, and just as Ian thought, the motive behind it was not to negotiate a deal. It was to send a message.

When he first saw the message painted in crimson, he thought it was the work of some bible-thumping cult. Despite not being a man of religion himself, Ian got the gist of what the message was trying to say. It didn't help that the footage they recovered from the ruins showed a masked man whose hair resembled Jesus. With the help of the message and the security footage they recovered, they now at least knew who they were dealing with and what they looked like (kind of, as far as the mask goes).

The Revelator. By definition, it was a person who makes a divine revelation.

Whoever THIS Revelator really was, he must think he's doing the world a favor by cleansing it of people he deemed sinful, therefore acting as judge, jury and executioner. Ian deduced that that was what happened to Dick Foster. Because Foster wasn't just some unfortunate officer caught in the explosion and blazing fires. No, he was tied to a chair to be tortured and murdered by the Revelator without a shred of mercy.

In this instance, the 'revelations' were anything but 'divine'.

It wasn't the first time the detective had heard of this character. Across the country, the name has been mentioned in the news a couple of times, but never did Ian think the infamous Revelator would come to his city; and as the self-titled representative of Chicago (this being a reference to a Green Day song and his Twitter biography), he wasn't having it.

They know who was behind the attack, but the question now was: where and how could they find him? The detective worked tirelessly to find any clues that could lead him and his colleagues to where the Revelator was hiding. He was actually surprised the FBI hadn't gotten themselves involved by this point.

A number of shop owners have come forward with tips that they had caught glimpses of the masked and deranged Jesus look-alike on their security cameras. Ian marked these locations on a map, intending to use them as breadcrumbs to follow. Unfortunately, as he got more and more tips, the points became more and more scattered.

The detective was willing to admit it, the Revelator WAS as intelligent as he thought; he chose to walk home the long way around to confuse the police. But Ian was certain that—like in a game of chess—the Revelator will make a blunder.

Well, being careless about security cameras could be considered the first blunder, perhaps Jesus' deranged look-alike had gotten careless. It would make sense if he did. In the past, no one has ever gotten good video footage of the man, and even if there was, there definitely has never this many. Ian figured the Revelator must have felt a false sense of security because of that and thought all law enforcement were mindless meatheads who couldn't solve even the simplest of crimes.

It would be fair for the Revelator to think that; but he hadn't met some of the finest members of Chicago's Police Department yet.

The big break came when Jeffrey Hwang came in to work with a few boxes of Chinese takeout. Jeffrey—bless his heart—decided to treat the team for lunch. He would have done that on his birthday if the attack hadn't happened. But the (delicious) Chinese food wasn't the big break. The big break came in the form of a number.

The owner of the shop saw Jeffrey in his uniform and pulled the Korean aside, at first he spoke in broken English, but fortunately, Jeffrey was able to communicate with the owner in Mandarin. Officer Hwang wasn't perfectly fluent yet, but his skill was enough to learn that the Revelator frequented the shop to get food. Foolishly, he also had used a delivery service for his food which explained the phone number.

"Okay, so... if we track this number, we could find our man?" Thomas asked. After finishing his question, the man immediately groaned in frustration as his chopsticks lost grip on a piece of meat for the umpteenth time.

"Hopefully. I mean, the man was quite frightful when he told me about this number. Either he was telling the truth, or he was a really good actor who worked with the Revelator. If that was the case, he probably gave me this to lead us all astray." Jeffrey shook his head in disappointment when he aw Thomas' failure. He proceeded to hold a fork in front of his colleague's face. "Man, you suck. Use a fork, loser."

The way Thomas bitterly snatched the fork out of Jeffrey's hand was so comical it made Ian smile a little. "I think it's worth a shot. I sent the number to the forensic team. Hopefully we can check out the general area after lunch and get a warrant by tomorrow. Well... that is if your man was telling the truth."

"I suggest using an unmarked car when going there. If he really is there, we don't want him to know how close we've gotten." Margaret said. "Good work, Hwang, and thank you for the food. Keep it up and you may earn yourself a promotion. Now if you all will excuse me, gentlemen, I need to speak with the superintendent. Again."

Officer Hwang beamed with delight at the mention of promotion. He bid the chief goodbye with a two finger salute and a wide grin.

Later, the forensic team delivered. A little later than Ian had predicted, but they delivered nonetheless. The number pointed to a location in the Motor Row District. This guy must have walked two hours on foot, or even more if he was trying to avoid police.

Sam volunteered to go check out the location accompanied by Thomas. The two drove around the area in an unmarked car as the chief had suggested. Part of them hoped to catch a glimpse of the Revelator, but another part hoped that they don't, they just hoped to find his place of residence.

Ian and Jeffrey on the other hand, worked to obtain a warrant. None of the four men wanted to imagine what would happen if and when they confront the Revelator.

All they know is that they'd do so with extreme caution.

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

Alright, that was shitty.

It's been exactly 25 hours, 13 minutes, and 8 seconds after the news about the Revelator getting foolishly caught on cam aired throughout the fucking States. And if that didn't make John all giddy and frustrated, then God fucking knows what will.

He had been hoping that nobody will find out about his place, God, he had other people around he obviously doesn't wish to harm, but it seems like the odds are against him right now.

Just after he finished on shoving the damned kids towards his good ol' neighbor's place, somehow, a car managed to park near his cheap apartment complex.

Now, John would probably just slip the damn thing away if it's a normal day, but it was never a normal day with his brain going full alert mode and the fucking fact that he's an open fugitive now. Best luck is he could distract whoever wishes to get near his family away so Pete and El won't have to suffer through the same bullshit.

Fuck, fucking hell.

They can't get to any more trouble.

He won't let 'em.

Just when John was about to get his hands on anything that could help him get a better view of the seemingly unmarked car, his phone rang, and 'twas really embarrassing, but he actually jolted at the sudden notification.

Three new messages from Wang Wei, the Chinese restaurant owner who speaks little to no English, but was always kind to him—well, partly because they're shootin' meth together, but not that it matters now.

Text Message from Wang Wei

Police ask question. Sorry.

"Fuck."

John hissed under his breath, his eyes darting across the space of his living room as he made his way towards where the plank is loose. He tore it in haste and doesn't even bother on closing the goddamn board back as he pulled his emergency backpack and just enough combination of light guns, more fucking guns, and shit tons of dagger that he could manage to strap into himself.

And really, though he's a goddamn arsonist who doesn't give a damn fuck about anythin', John still cringes inwardly.

'Cause he doesn't want to do any more damage than necessary, but he can't get caught now.

Not now, not ever. Not when he had come so far. Not when he had people to protect.

"Domine Iesu, dimitte nobis debita nostra, salva nos ab igne inferiori, perduc in caelum omnes animas, praesertim eas, quae misericordiae tuae maxime indigent."

With a Škorpion held tightly in his grip, he pulled his mask all the way up; covering half of his face.

"Amen."

Then he jumped out of the window, and run.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"I really was expecting a run down shack with biblical messages written in blood." Thomas commented, "That would be terrifying."

"Tom, this is also terrifying if you think about it. If the guy really lives here, it'd mean he'd just be like an ordinary guy on the outside. Makes you think about your neighbours differently, doesn't it?"

Their mellow conversation was cut short when they heard the sound of glass breaking. And just like in movies, out pops the Revelator, who jumped out of the window with a weapon in hand. Fortunately, he seemed to pay no attention to the two men (it was a good thing they came in an unmarked car).

"Jesus!" Thomas exclaimed, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't scared at that very moment.

"You're not exactly wrong. Holy shit. We'll surely get a search warrant for his apartment now." Luckily, Sam had snapped some photos of the apartment complex and sent it to his partner's number with a message that reads 'Found his place of residence. He's now running. We'll try following him'.

The two men watched as the Revelator mounted a bike and rode off to who knows where. Neither Sam nor Thomas were as observant as Ian, but even they knew deranged Jesus seemed paranoid.

Sam's quick finger managed to snap one decent photo of the fugitive and sent that to Ian as well. Detective Hooper puts his phone away and waited for a while before he started the car. He hadn't let the Revelator out of his sight, don't you worry; he was giving himself enough distance to be able to follow the arsonist without drawing too much suspicions.

Sam knew all shortcuts in existence when it comes to Chicago; his knowledge of the streets rivalled that of a cab driver.

Back at the court, Ian and Jeffrey were about to leave, after all, they had already obtained what they wanted from the magistrate: an arrest warrant. But just as Ian reached the doorway, a message from Sam came in.

Attached to the message was a photo of an apartment complex, one of the windows have been broken, the glass shards outside indicated that it was broken from the inside. Another photo showed the Revelator on a bicycle, probably stolen.

The crazy bastard must have known the police were on to him and made a run for it. Ian wasn't sure how he knew, but one thing was for sure: the Revelator made yet another blunder.

"Jeffrey, we got him. Shit, we got him. Quickly, start the car." Officer Hwang did as he was told, he ran outside and started the squad car. Before he left himself, Ian quickly turned his phone around and showed the images to the magistrate. "Sir, we'd need a search warrant for his house, we found him."

Ian apologized to the magistrate because he couldn't stay any longer, but he knew he'd get that search warrant later. He met with Jeffrey in the squad car and immediately contacted Thomas through the radio.

"Tom, talk to me. Where is he headed?"

"Sam said he just left the Chinatown area, we don't know specifically where he's headed yet. But he hasn't noticed us following him."

"Damn. You two be careful. Jeffrey and I are coming. Keep us updated."

It's been more than half an hour of tailing, but finally, it seems that the Revelator chose a church to serve as the location of his last stand. It didn't take long for Ian, Sam, Jeffrey and Thomas to regroup. Other officers have also arrived, effectively surrounding the area. Any civilians present in the area has also been told to evacuate for their own safety.

Ian spoke through a loudspeaker to address the Revelator.

"You're surrounded. Give yourself up, this doesn't have to be harder than it already is."

Of course, he and the other officers knew that a man like that wouldn't give up easily, so they all positioned themselves in such a way that it would be easy to get behind cover should a shoot out begin.

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

John sat on the ground of the abandoned church, his eyes shut tightly as his lips begin to chant incoherent mumbles of old rosary. By the sound he managed to hear, it was already obvious that he was surrounded from all sides.

He didn’t know if he should feel shitty or grateful, 'cause he was trying to run away and failed miserably, but at the same time, he had managed to buy time and distracted 'em all from his home.

He just needed to look at the bright side, eh?

When he managed to open his lids, he eyed the sprawled weapon in front of him with bleak, gray eyes. All perfect combination from the Heckler & Koch MG4 to an M203 grenade launcher placed neatly on top of a cheap tarp.

In other situations, he might feel proud of himself by how neatly arranged and well kept his gears are, but it wasn't the ‘other situation’.

It was the situation.

"You're surrounded. Give yourself up, this doesn't have to be harder than it already is."

John wished he could laugh at the warning. It was already hard from the beginning and he bet his path will never, never, never, ever get easier after this. The only choice left was to either fight or give in, and the latter was never a goddamn option.

Better to die on the field than rot in a fucking cell.

The Revelator stood up, his body blocked by the high walls of the church as he secured his firearm in his hand. A soft sigh exhaled from his lips as he positioned himself near the tinted glass.

His ears weren't lying about it. Dozens of officers were surrounding the area with their muzzle aimed towards his position. Their faces stiff with fear and anticipation, but he can't blame them, though. He just killed their buddy and blown a whole station up, it's only natural that the Revelator had a special throne in their mind as the first person they wish to kill.

He laughed.

Mostly, he preferred not to think of his target, but when he did, it was as if they were already dead; sprawled on the road after an explosion with bleeding guts or simply because a bullet through their head.

So it's only natural for him to pay attention to their faces one by one, inhaling every expression and noticeable distress he could manage to pick up because that's his only opening. A distracted mind is always the weakest mind, so he can't help but cringe whenever someone looks as if they could beat him.

Like that goddamn officer whom he recognized as the voice behind the prior warning. That fucking face. The Revelator ain't giving him the satisfaction.

It all came naturally to him. His senses sharpened with adrenaline. The cool air whispered through the church ventilation as he positioned his gun.

He drew his first shot with a loud bang.

The first bullet was perfectly nested into an officer's head; effortlessly piercing through the soft tissue, allowing the arteries to split.

And so his body went limp before tumbling to the ground like a broken cartwheel. Then it was all it takes for all of the remaining forces to switch into a full berserk mode, and though, John was clearly outnumbered, he ain't having that shit today.

He ain't gonna die tonight.

Each gunshot rent the still, damp air. Each one of it wasn’t simply loud, it cracked into the air and echoes around the empty street. In every bullet shot, there were times when one person behind the trigger might have felt something; remorse, guilt, or compassion, perhaps, but the Revelator ain't feeling it today.

He wishes to see 'em fall.

Every tin projectile comes thick like a winter hail. Each one of it ripped into something, be it inanimate or living, spilling tree sap or blood, crashing through the glasses or bones with equal emptiness.

It felt like it lasted for days when in reality, it was barely one hour until his side ain't shooting no more. The Revelator dropped his last piece of weapons down to the hard concrete. He's almost out of bullet and his skin was scratched by the impact of shattered glasses. His body was all sore from the rapid shooting.

The other ain't stopping, and he knows for sure that it only needs a split second for the goddamn cops to realize he was utterly defenseless at this point in time.

"Fucking hell."

Desperate times call for desperate measurements, so he let his instinct kicks in. He lets his lingering desire he wished he could actually forget to take over his sanity.

The Revelator stares at his hand, a heavy sigh escaped through his lips. He knew that the grenade had one purpose. Killing. Every aspect of it was designed for this goal, from it's exterior to gunpowder inside.

Yet he can't help but frown.

He doesn't want to kill anyone, but he wants to watch them burn. And that is wrong, 'cause it was the same as killing.

So when he threw the first projectile with the last stretch of his power towards the commotion, he quickly slammed his back against the cold walls and listened closely.

"Take cover! Take cover!"

Screams and shout of pain fade away in the background as he stared down towards the other pieces of hand grenade he had. He throws it out, aiming towards whatever he could get.

And it came to the last one. However, this time he didn't throw it outside.

He throws it to the far corner of the church, just enough to 'cause himself harm, but not enough to kill himself.

Then it blew.

It was as though a fist of orange flame had decided to punch it's way out. Windows shattered. Smoke and fire rushed out. Thousands of pieces of glass and steel showered down on him. The building was crumbling on the side and the remained stature was set on fire. Every pillar fiery with smoke and dust, boiling and roaring out loud.

"Is he out of his goddamn mind?!" A voice rose from outside the church.

The Revelator made his way outside the burning church. He stood in semi-blindness and ringing ears, eyeing what's left amidst the chaos he had caused.

Some officers are laying on the ground, some in a fetal position trying to protect their ears and organs, others splayed like dead dogs on their pools of blood. The remaining standing officer was gifted with a sucker punch and some he found disturbing gets a bullet to their chest. Everyone was screaming, shouting, bellowing, and he loves it.

John stormed through the crowds and get himself in whatever vehicle he could get. He stopped dead track before starting the engine. Cold gray eyes locked towards a pair of dark orbs. That fucking face.

Nashton.

John batted his eyes. Starting the engine without hesitation this time.

Then runs away, once again, from the chaos he had caused.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Ian watched as that first officer fell. That officer stood not too far from he was. Really, it could have been him. The detective gritted his teeth and tightened the grip on his Glock 9mm issued by the department. Compared to what the Revelator had, it may seem laughable, but Ian knew that sooner or later, the bastard would run out of bullets.

The last time he recalled a situation with this much chaos and bloodshed was when he had to deal with a shooter at a hospital; and even then, the body count wasn't as high.

With every seconds that passed, the body count seemed to increase exponentially. These fallen officers would have their stars displayed in a case back at headquarters. Nashton wouldn't lie. The thought of his friends' or his own name being displayed there did scare him. But he always put that thought aside to focus on the situation at hand.

So far, it has kept him alive.

Pane after pane, each stained glass window burst into thousands of little fragments, thus making it easier for the officers to see their target. As much as they'd like to kill him (just as he'd like to kill them), the officers also wanted to see who it was behind the mask. They wanted to know specifically WHY the bastard chose to blow up one of their stations. Hence, they aimed for non-vital areas. The intention was to incapacitate. But if he succumbed to his wounds afterwards... well, they can't do anything about that. If he survived, he will most likely face life imprisonment.

The state of Illinois abolished the death penalty in 2011.

From the west side of the church, someone shouted that a grenade had just been thrown. The officers frantically tried their best to avoid each one. The body count rose yet again, but more were seriously injured than dead.

And as if they could not catch a break, another explosion occurred, it caused the small abandoned church to burst into a deadly debris combination of glass, steel and stone particles. Ian took cover behind a car, but the shock wave knocked him down until he was flat on his back. He instinctively covered his head to avoid any debris that may still shower down on them.

It didn't take long for the detective to get back up on his feet. His once neatly combed hair was no more; it was disheveled and slightly dampened from his sweat. He pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, just in time for the detective to lock eyes with him.

The Revelator. His gaze was as cold as Ian expected them to be. Now the bastard was in a car, obviously trying to make a run for it.

Detective Nashton stood his ground. He was a distance away from the vehicle, but right in front of it. He shot at the windshield, then the front wheels. He was trying to do whatever he could to stop the car.

Once the car came close, Ian dived out of the way and quickly scrambled to his feet and entered another vehicle. Officer Cole joined him in the passenger's seat.

"Shoot his tires." Ian's order was given through gritted teeth, he stepped on the gas and chased after the arsonist. As the best sharpshooter Ian has ever known in the department, it didn't take long for Officer Cole to shoot the back tires of the runaway police car.

It skidded to a stop accompanied by an unpleasant screech. Without hesitation, Ian left the vehicle, either it was the adrenaline surging through him or brave stupidity, he decided that he'd go after the Revelator himself, despite Thomas' protest.

"Are you out of your mind, Nashton?! What if he—"

"It's either me, or you. Your children need you alive, Cole." Ian didn't look back. He slowly approached the eerily still police car with his pistol drawn. It was silent. Aside from the soft police radio chatter and the murmurs of his colleagues and his own heartbeat, thumping loudly in his rib cage, there really was nothing else.

Now, Sam wasn't about to let his friend—no, his best friend walk into the jaws of danger alone. So he trailed not too far behind, also with his weapon drawn.

He hoped that Ian wouldn't be another casualty.

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

The crash seemed to take for ever before it finally settled with the bumpers intensely making out with a tree. John’s body jerked to the dashboard, his forehead almost colliding with the window. Steam rose from the back, the smell too intense for words, stinging into his nose and ruining all of his senses.

He groaned loud at the sudden intrusion. John made his way outside, legs going limp and trembling out of pain. Then he saw him again.

Nashton.

Nashton was wearing different clothes than the rest of the officers. The muzzle of his Glock 9mm aimed towards the Revelator's head.

"Detective," he says; less than talking, more of a whisper. The fabric of his mask covered half of his face, making it harder for anyone to actually know what he said.

John threw his gun away from him, the metal surface clanked against the concrete road. He raised his hands above his head in full submission, walking in limp yet steady steps towards the Detective.

His gray eyes remained fixed towards the other man with the intensity of ten thousand burning suns. The Revelator didn't even flinch when they're only foot apart with a gun still aimed towards his head and his life inches away to be taken away from him.

But the Revelator ain't backing away just now. He ain't going down without a fight.

So he leaped towards the man, avoiding the bullet at all cost and disarming the man as quickly as he could. Never for a second, he tore his gaze away from the eyes behind the spectacle, even after he landed a harsh punch across his cheeks, John eyes still followed the movement of Nashton's head.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Take the shot. The tiny voice in the back of his head said to him. Take the shot and end it now.

But he didn't.

The Revelator, how he still managed to stand and walk after the shoot out and the crash, no one knows. Maybe it was some sort of twisted miracle, if Ian believed in miracles, that is.

He has met face to face with serial killers and mass shooters in the past. But none of them had a gaze as intense as the Revelator. Perhaps the mask made it even more so, as it only left the man's eyes visible.

Despite the arsonist throwing his weapon away in an act of surrender, Ian refused to let his guard down. Because he knew that even if the Revelator wasn't holding any weapons now, he might have some more on his person.

"Get on the ground! Hands behind your head!"

Yet the Revelator doesn't comply. No, the man kept walking. Closer, and closer.

Ian should have taken the shot earlier.

Nothing could prepare the detective for what happened next. The crazy bastard lunged forward towards him, and expertly disarmed him; his own weapon dropped to the ground. The split second where he froze caused the detective to miss his shot, and now his face paid for it. The force of the punch was so great that it sent his glasses flying a few meters away.

Ian never liked wearing contacts.

Instinctively, Ian withdrew his police baton and used that as both a blunt weapon and a shield to protect himself. He aimed his strikes on the other's extremities.

If they weren't moving around so much, Sam would have taken a shot, but he knew that if he did so, he might accidentally shoot Ian instead, and he doesn't want to take hat risk. Not yet.

Ian himself wasn't a fan of using deadly force. Even in this instance, he felt like he still had it under control. He didn't want to get used to the ease and convenience of using deadly force. He didn't want to be like those cops they often talk about in the news.

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

The Revelator wouldn't lie, it hurts like a bitch. God knows what happened, but he felt like he's going to collapse at any moment. His movement was all nothing but rigid and random punches, unlike his usual quick and lethal blows.

The police baton wasn't even his main concern, it's his stamina. Fuck. All those chasing and waiting made his muscles all tense, even the goddamn cop could get the upper hand if this keeps happening.

"You should've fucking shot me dead."

The Revelator held Nashton's wrist in a tight grip and landed another blow to the man's guts, his jaw, kicked him solidly in the midsection, struggled to knock the man down because he ain't killing the man. He ain't doing it when all Nashton did was pissing himself with that glare full of determination.

Fucking, fucking Nashton.

"Shit!" he barked, landing another punch to the man's face. Then he stopped his fingers at the detective's neck, hand tightening around the flesh with the last energy he had.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Now, Ian wasn't useless in hand-to-hand combat, but he was no expert. If this is what the Revelator was like when he was worn out, he wouldn't even want to imagine what the bastard was like at full capacity.

There was no time for him to shoot back a witty remark. It happened so fast. One moment he was standing and striking the Revelator with his baton; he next moment, his baton-wielding hand was gripped so tightly that it caused him to drop the baton. Ian was certain he'd find bruises later.

In a rapid succession, he was punched and kicked down. He wasn't even given any time to react or reach for the baton again, because the Revelator had climbed on top of him with fingers wrapped around the detective's throat.

With all his might, Ian tried to pry those fingers off of himself, but to no avail. His legs kicked frantically as he struggled. But the Revelator was intent on crushing his windpipe; Ian could see it in those cold eyes.

Maybe going after the Revelator alone wasn't a great idea after all. Fortunately, he wasn't really alone.

"Sam—" he rasped, the words struggled to come out of the detective's mouth, "—take the shot!"

Detective Hooper didn't hesitate anymore. For one, while this position was dire for Ian, there was less chance of his partner getting hit. So, Sam fired the shot.

The shot landed on the Revelator's shoulder. Horrifyingly, it didn't stop the arsonist from trying to choke the life out of his partner, but it did direct his attention away for a short moment.

But it was more than enough for Ian.

Ian frantically reached for his taser and held it against the arsonist's side, he didn't waste any time and shocked the other man. Not enough to kill, obviously, but enough to incapacitate him.

Detective Nashton breathed a sigh of relief once he felt his airways have opened again. He pushed the Revelator off of his body and allowed himself to lie on the ground for a couple of moments, just to catch his breath and recover from what had just happened.

Sam, on the other hand quickly handcuffed the Revelator and checked to make sure that he had no other weapons on his person. Once that was taken care of, he helped his partner up with a concerned look on his face.

"Looks like he hurt you bad..." Sam muttered softly as his eyes darted across Ian's face.

"Yeah, I... he did. I'm lucky my windpipes hadn't been crushed yet. Thank you, Sam. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Their (tender) conversation was cut short when Jeffrey approached with Ian's glasses. Luckily, they weren't broken. He put them back on and glanced at the Revelator. His own breaths were still ragged from the struggle, but he knew he could manage.

"Search him again, get him patched up. And then we can question him. Fuck. Can you imagine the news headline when this guy goes on trial?"

"Easy, big man. Let's get YOU patched up first." Sam said, still worried, but Ian being Ian, he waved a hand dismissively and said that he was fine and that he only needed some ice and painkillers.

The others present knew well that Ian was a stubborn man, so they didn't argue with him any further.

Other officers had come to the area and they loaded the Revelator into a car, first to treat the gaping gunshot wound on the latter's shoulder. But many felt he was undeserving of such a treatment, especially after what he has done that day, but they kept those opinions to themselves.

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

He remembered everything about the fight. His hands were on his throat, then there was a gunshot from across the field. He remembered the bullet which hit him right on his shoulder blades, then he remembered the stinging pain, then he remembered nothing but blackness.

His consciousness was floating through an empty space filled with a static. Throughout the emptiness, his heartbeats pounded loudly, echoing in his ears.

John jerked upright, vision hazy as the bright light snapped him back into full consciousness, but his wrists refused to budge. Something cold digs into his skin, rattling and sharp, resulting in a faint whine from his lips.

As he peered his eyesight downwards towards the table, he wasn't even surprised that there were handcuffs holding down his hand.

John tore his gaze away. His eyes were still blurry and his body was screaming for rest, but all of his five senses were still working. Yeah, his head hurts, the fucking throbbing headache will be the death of him, but at least he was alive.

For now.

He noticed the stature in front of him calling out his name, perhaps. He didn't know. Everything was still too blurry.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Whilst the Revelator was being treated at the hospital, the magistrate issued that search warrant. It seems the entire city of Chicago (and possibly the state of Illinois itself) was keen to see this arsonist put to trial. Bruises had formed on the detective's face and neck, but he was no stranger to them. He had accepted that it just comes with the job.

Ian actually waited a day before he searched the apartment; as much as he'd like to start right away, he knew his body needed rest, especially after nearly losing his life like that. It took him a while to fall asleep, but having Monty (his cat) by his side sure helped.

The next day, he drove to the apartment complex along with Officer Cole. Just as they all expected, the apartment complex were littered with weapons of all sorts. He left Cole to take photographs of the place to be used as evidence.

Ian, however, had noticed a couple of things.

One: there were a couple of cups of instant ramen in the kitchen. But a man of the Revelator's strength and stamina couldn't possibly live on a diet consisting mostly of instant ramen, so he must be sharing these with someone.

Two: there were a few pairs of socks scattered on the ground. The designs and size of the socks indicated that they could not have belonged to the Revelator.

Three: there was a box of monopoly in the living room. Someone like the Revelator was likely to be a lone wolf, but you cannot play monopoly by yourself. So whoever else lives here must be someone that the Revelator trusted.

Based on these observations, Ian had come to the conclusion that the Revelator must have a child or even children living with him. How old they were, he wasn't sure. One thing is certain, though: the detective wasn't sure how he felt about that. The idea a terrorist like the Revelator having some semblance of family life with a child or even more somehow bothered him.

Do they know about what he does as the Revelator? Have they been told that it was for the greater good, thus they saw nothing wrong with it? Did they help him in his activities somehow? Where are they now?

So many questions. Boy, the interrogation would be something.

When Thomas and Ian had finished their search of the apartment, they returned to the police station. Thomas handed the camera he used to a technician for the photos to be developed.

Ian specifically said that he wanted to do the interrogation, but before he could enter, he heard Jeffrey’s distinct voice which stopped him in his tracks.

“Wait, wait. Let me go in first.”

It wasn’t the fact that Jeffrey wanted to get in the interrogation room that baffled Ian; it was the fact that the officer had with him a goddamned guitar.

"I'll give you twenty seconds to explain to me, just exactly what the hell you're going to do with that guitar." Ian tried his absolute best to sound unamused, but he was actually intrigued by his colleague and whatever it was he had planned.

"I'm not going to beat him up with the guitar, don't you worry. But I will make sure that, after I'm done, he will want to speak truthfully to you."

Ian gestured towards the door, thus allowing Jeffrey to enter the interrogation room. The overjoyed officer carefully patted Ian on the cheeks as his way of giving thanks. Their small social circle had gotten used to Jeffrey's antics now, even Ian, but the bespectacled man still frowned.

Mostly because his face still hurt.

Jeffrey sat himself in front of the Revelator. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't scared, even with the mask off, this guy still somehow managed to strike fear into his heart. Nonetheless, he smiled politely, though it looked more like a grimace.

"Hello, I'm Jeffrey Hwang. I'm not the one conducting your interview, but I will be helping him."

Ian, joined by his faithful partner, Sam, watched from the other side of the one way mirror. Both were still confused as to what it is Jeffrey was intending to do, but their question was answered when through the intercom, they heard the guitar being strummed randomly and Officer Hwang began to make screeches resembling a pterodactyl.

Ian and Sam exchanged glances for a few seconds, before the two men burst into a fit of laughter. Apparently, Jeffrey's plan was to be as annoying as possible towards the Revelator, possibly so that Ian could use the act as a threat.

Ian won't lie, he thought it was a brilliant idea.

After about five minutes of... whatever that was, Jeffrey left the interrogation room with a proud smile on his face and took a dramatic bow in front of the room.

"He's all yours, Nashton."

"Let's hope you hadn't ruptured the bastard's eardrums, Jeff."

Ian took a moment to calm himself down and return to his normal resting expression. Then he entered.

"Good afternoon. I'm here to conduct your interrogation." Despite what the Revelator had done to him, Ian somehow still managed to hold an air of politeness in his tone. He sat across the other man and began observing him.

Slightly blackened fingertips and dirty fingernails. Probably from soot or gunpowder. Slight yellow stain on the nails themselves indicated that the Revelator often smoked; Ian wouldn't say he was a chronic smoker, but he probably did so more often than the average person. It wouldn't surprise the detective if the man in front of him used drugs as well, judging by how pale he looked. However, Ian wasn't entirely sure about that, the paleness could possibly be due to exhaustion.

"I have so many questions, I'm sure you know this. But first, your name. You know mine, yet I don't know yours. In fact, we've only put you in our system as 'John Smith'. It's as if you were a ghost; no name, no data... nothing. That could, of course, be changed. So, what do you say, hm?"

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

Everything was blurry, yes, and for once, John wished it would get better soon, but now he wished he was in a coma—or anything. Fuck, anything except for listening to the awful screeches which pierce through his goddamn auditory organs.

Oh my fucking God, perhaps he was in hell? Yeah, that would be the correct explanation why everything was happening so quickly and torturing the life outta him.

John exhaled a content sigh when the man he recognizes as Jeffrey Hwang exited the interrogation room, but his peaceful solitude doesn't last long. Someone else came.

Someone will familiar face with familiar bruises.

That fucking face.

Detective Nashton sat in front of him, still with a pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose. His voice was calm and polite, contrasting the sharp gaze of his eyes as he scanned through the Revelator, itching to know everything or anything about him.

John wished he could enjoy the attention, but obviously, he didn't.

"What can I say, detective?" John said, emphasizing the last word with a smirk. His lips curled upwards, but it didn't reach his eyes. Heck, it wasn't even a sincere smile to begin with.

He was just making it hard for both parties.

He shrugged, head titling sideways but his gaze remained locked towards the other's. God, how he wished he could tie his hair or brush it away from his sight.

"Smith is such a boring last name. It's only John."

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"Fine. John, it is." Ian uttered flatly. That wasn't really what he was interested in; it's just that he didn't want to address the other as 'Revelator' all the time.

"Where do I even begin?" His eyes were narrowed and fixated upon the other. "In just the course of this week, you've caused dozens of casualties, destroyed two buildings and attempted to murder me with your bare hands. And that's just this week! what about your other doings in the past? You know, you have made quite the name for yourself."

The detective leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. There was a puzzled look on his face. "Really, I wonder what goes on in that head of yours whilst you were doing all of that." Ian paused and heaved a sigh, "I—these people had families, John. Really, I thought you'd have some sort of understanding with regards to 'family'. Then again, you could just be selective with it, isn't that right?"

All of Ian's questions and thoughts were swimming through his mind, but he had to hold himself back from blurting them all out. He wanted to be as thorough as possible.

"Why? Why murder Dick Foster?”

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

John wasn't even paying attention to the man's word until he mentioned anything about family. All of those daydreaming session crumbles away when Detective Nashton begins to blurt out the trigger words.

Does Nashton find out about Pete and El?

Is his neighbor alright?

John squinted his eyes. He, again, wished he wouldn't give a damn fuck about it, hell, he was supposed to not give a fuck about anything. To work effectively is by not have anything to lose, now look at him now, worrying about people—worrying in general.

As the Revelator, this surely is a goddamn personality flaw.

Nashton probably noticed the sudden distress across his face, but John didn't mention anything about it. He will let the detective guess with that super deductive skill he only ever saw on TV thinks about it. Who the fuck cares. Instead, he flashed another smile. Leaning away from the detective in a rather mischievous demeanor.

"Huh. Let's see," he begins. The corner of his lips rose even higher as his gray eyes intently stare at the other's figure.

"Perhaps we could get some coffee before I start?"

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

He may be avoiding the topic, but John's sudden discomfort only confirmed Ian's earlier conclusions. Truth be told, the detective was satisfied to know that he was right.

"I can tell you're trying to avoid my questions, John. Are you worried?" Ian didn't need an answer to that, he could observe it on the other man's face.

"Not about yourself, I figured that out when you chose to blow up that church; when you walked towards me without a care in the world despite having a gun aimed at your head." There was a pause, Ian glanced at the one-way mirror and gestured towards John, he knew his colleagues on the other side are hearing this conversation, Ian didn't need to leave the room for John's coffee. He then turned to face the other man and locked gazes with him once again. "You're worried for them. You're worried about what would happen to them. You live a double life, don't you, John?"

Ian was no psychologist, but the more questions he asked, the more he realized how intrigued and fascinated he was with John's psyche. When the detective saw him on the news for the first time, and when that station blew up, he thought that the man in front of him was an emotionless killing machine. But that gesture, that one little gesture that someone else would have looked over told the detective that there was so much more.

"Who would have thought, right? This... family of yours isn't involved with your... activities, is it? Answer this truthfully, John."

The door to the room suddenly opened and in came Jeffrey. Just in time. The man had with him a styrofoam cup of coffee and he placed that on the table in front of John.

"Don't make me screech at you again, man. Because I'd love to do it again."

Hwang didn't need to be told to leave, because he was already out the door by the time he finished that sentence.

"Now you have your coffee. You might keep avoiding my questions and make other requests, but you know something, John? I can do this all day."

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

He never thought he would feel this way, but John felt his heart sunk. Hell yeah, he's worried, he's worried sick. God knows what will happen to the damned kids if they get involved in this. Shit, his boy already get suspended for setting the school pool on fire, what will happen next?

John drank the coffee in a very non-fashionable way. He was struggling to keep his hair out of the way and his cuffs were making it harder for him to actually do anything. There goes his reputation as the goddamn Revelator, but it's not like he minds.

Hell, he doesn't even care about anything. Except for his family, of course. Yeah, right. The goddamn detective really hits the spot.

He groans internally.

"Y'know what, detective?" John was smiling, 'cause damn right he's going to avoid all of the goddamn questions.

Sure, his kids never actually get involved in any of his Revelator jobs, but if Nashton wants to know shit about him, then he better hustles harder than this. 'Cause nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, even death, could make the Revelator speak.

"You sounded like Captain America."

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

He chuckled at the comment, it wasn't his intention, but he supposed it works.

"I am right, though. Aren't I? About your family?"

There was a ghost of a smile on the detective's face, the smile he often had when he knew he was right. He stood up from his seat and began to walk slowly, circling the other man.

"You won't tell me, but that's fine. I'm sure my colleagues can find them and question them ourselves. But tell me this, John. How long until you will consider them a liability? What will you do then?"

The detective stopped behind John's chair, and he stood there for a few moments, observing the other man yet again. Even if the detective had no morals and was easily corruptible by power, he knew that using physical means of interrogation would NOT work. John simply had little to nothing to lose.

If only he could peer into the mind of the infamous Revelator.

Who knows what horrors he would see.

"Did you know that Illinois abolished the death penalty in 2011?"

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

He chuckled back, and he didn't even bother with eyeing the man's figure as he disappeared from his line of sight. John took a sip of his coffee that's no longer warm. He's grown far accustomed to the detective accusation to the point he didn't even flinch anymore. All he did was stare blankly at the wall before tearing his gaze it away, his eyes traveling from the boring white to the one-way mirror.

John couldn't see anything from it, and he didn't know if he was actually staring at something, someone, or anything at all.

Still, he stared. Not paying attention to the detective behind him. Then he smiled.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"What is it that motivates you? Can't be money, I doubt that. Power? Self-righteousness?" It felt as if he was talking to a brick wall.

Other criminals may have been dishonest or outright ridiculous in the interrogation room. But at the very least, they all said something. John? John just smiled and avoided questions.

And it was starting to get on his nerves. With every question asked and the hours that passed, Ian began to slowly lose his patience.

Nashton rant in 3, 2, 1.

"It's funny, actually. We don't need this interrogation. Really, we didn't. We have more than enough evidence and eye witness accounts to charge you. I am a patient man, John, I really am; but even I have my limits, and you know what? I HAVE HAD IT. You obviously showed no interest to even acknowledge that I am here. You—you really are just a misanthrope. A misanthrope and terrorist beyond redemption. Really, I shouldn't have bothered!"

The detective wasn't flat out yelling, but his voice was raised, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out his patience was running thin. Ian figured that he might as well unload whatever thoughts he had, it wasn't like John would respond in any meaningful way, anyway.

"I don't know what happened to you growing up, and somehow I doubt you even know or care yourself. You may think family is some sort of a second chance, a salvation, perhaps, that's a word in your vocabulary, isn't it? But, no. No, they're not. And they won't ever be. Now the world knows what you are, they've seen what happened over the past few days. History has its eyes on all of us, John."

Now the detective was in front of the man again, but he doesn't sit down. Instead, he gripped the edge of the table so tightly to the point where his knuckles became white. His brows were furrowed and his eyes narrowed, a clear sign of the detective's irritation.

"You might think you're justified in killing some of those people that you've killed. Your... 'revelations' or whatever it is. What about the collateral damage that you caused? Innocents have been killed. Do you really think that you, a single, lone man, can prove guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt? To be judge, jury and executioner? If even courts can make mistakes, then what about you?"

In the back of his mind, Ian knew he shouldn't waste his breath, but he wasn't quite finished with his tirade yet. All those pent up frustration were just eager to bubble up. But he caught himself and took in a deep breath which he released slowly. Now somewhat calmer, he started again, with the same calm tone he spoke with at the very beginning of the interrogation.

"You're just using this all as an excuse to satisfy your pyromania. Almost, if not all your victims have had their homes blown up or set on fire. It doesn't take a genius to figure that out. Not only would doing so get rid of evidence, but it does something to you."

Throughout his rant, his glasses had slipped down his nose, so he fixed its position and headed towards the door.

"Have fun rotting in a cell, John. I doubt even your 'God' would have mercy on you. Let us hope your family would do well in your absence." Ian doesn't actually believe in God, but really, the detective was running out of things to say.

"Oh, and your little cult of supporters? They're just as messed up as you are."

He stormed out of the interrogation room and slammed the door behind him. He wasn't sure how long he had been in there, but it was long enough that Sam had gone home and Jeffrey had fallen asleep on his desk.

Ian Nashton decided that he'd go home as well.

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

John wished he could ask for another cup of coffee before the detective stormed out of the room, 'cause he was tired, fuck, very. His tiredness was similar to wet jeans, clinging into the skin after a pouring thunderstorm. His body felt like it was torn apart, his muscles all sore and tense, and he wished, oh God, he goddamn wished, that he's home.

He needed some sleep, but did he?

He didn't.

John was, frankly, afraid.

He's afraid of his dreams. He's afraid if anyone knowing about the nightmares he had and he's even, for sure, more afraid that the goddamn detective received any report about his fucking episode. What if he scream in his sleep?

John knew he shouldn't show any weakness. Moreover, he can't.

He can't leak a single information.

Thus John sat still. Bleary-eyes locked towards the wall as if it was the most interesting thing across the whole universe.

"How long has he been staring?"

He heard the guard asked, he knew they were secretly scared shit about tonight's shift.

"Dunno, this dude is fucked up in the head."

Every minute felt as if it lasted for an hour when you're doing nothing, even John didn't know how the fuck was he able to go through the night without shifting a single inch.

Only then, when he heard the cell getting opened and an officer—never mind, there was a lot of 'em—shuffling into the already cramped space with guns pointing at his head, John stood up. His bones popping and his muscles screamed in relief.

He wonders what the kids are doing now as they cuff him up. The muzzle of their AK-74 still pointed at him as if he was a fucking dog ready to be shot dead whenever he made any simple mistake. He wondered if they did their homework, if his neighbor feed 'em well, if they're happy or at least worried about him.

He wondered if they're safe.

John bit his bottom lips until he was able to taste a hint of copper in his tongue. Without the detective and his super observation skill, he figured out he could at least express his frustration without anyone pointing about it.

They said they were taking him for a trial and really, John almost laughed forreal this time.

Even Nashton already said that it was useless to interrogate him. John was being a good boy by not talking back, not barking back, and obviously not flexing his amazing memory about the content of the Bible in front of the man. Nashton should be grateful and everyone should learn from him.

A trial will be useless.

The ride was quiet and the tension between 'em was so heavy, he thought it will crush ‘em dead. John was about to say 'boo' just for shit and giggles. Even the thought of the officer's startled face was amusing enough to bring a smile into his face.

"Don't smile, goddamit. We already have a lot of situations because you blow the station and now your followers are raging because you're going to rot in jail. Seriously, are you Jesus?" said the cop, his voice was slightly trembling and his chin was sweating.

John couldn't blame him. Everyone would be scared if they're in a car with the Revelator.

He stared outside the window and witnessed a lot of people across the street. Some holding up signs with profanities directed towards the officials, some screaming his name as if he was some kind of hero, and some even trashing the public facilities around, spraying empty threats or just straight-up ruining everything.

Everything was chaotic, and he caused that.

He did that.

"I don't know, officer," he said, a smile creeping out across his visage, "who am I to play God?"

It shouldn't feel so good.

Then it all happened without him noticing it.

A moment ago it was just a simple crowd. Sure, there was probably someone passed out due to suffocation or whatever, but there wasn't anywhere coming near them. Nobody is harming them.

Then everything was burning.

The sound of molotov cocktail startled him at first, yet it didn't stop. The Dodge Charger swerved out of control. The two on-coming cars tried to avoid it, but failed. Both of them hit in a three-way head-on collision.

The explosion didn't stop. Tires burning throughout the street. The mass coming towards the other police car with bat and eyes filled with rage. Their faces covered in mask, similar to what he used to wear whenever he went out doing his job. There was another explosion, a ball of flame and a fist of gray smoke. A moment later there was another explosion. And there were more. More, even more. The sound traveling too fast, the glasses and steel rained afterward.

There was a third car which had been traveling too fast. It plowed into the burning wrecks, flipped over and continued, screeching along the runway on its back before it too burst into flames.

John watched in slight horror as his car was burning. His eyes hazy due to the crash and he feels blood in his lips. His consciousness fading away.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

Even in the comfort of his own bed with his cat by his side, Ian struggled to fall asleep. He couldn't seem to shake off the thought of the Revelator from his mind. Ian tossed and turned restlessly, to the point where Monty let out a meow, as if the feline was annoyed with his owner.

At the very least, he did manage to catch a few blinks of sleep, though he didn't feel well rested. He hasn't felt that at all ever since this case began.

He couldn't get a break yet, no. As one of the primary investigators in the case AND the victim of an attempted murder, Ian had to be present in court.

Already, the media had spread news of the Revelator's arrest and subsequent trial at the speed of wildfire. Ian had mixed feelings about this (as he does towards mainstream journalists) as he felt that the case was getting an uncomfortable amount of coverage. Knowing that the Revelator had garnered a large amount of supporters, he felt that this wasn't the best idea.

Surely, the news would have been spread all over the country. He wondered if his brother was aware of what's been happening.

Ian Nashton dressed himself one of his best suits for the court appearance. He even decided to wear contacts, just for today.

Despite nearly all of the residents of Chicago witnessing the Revelator's disturbing and destructive acts, despite it being obvious what it is he had done; due process still had to be followed. This particular trial felt more symbolic than functional.

Getting to the courthouse itself was a challenge, as a crowd of rioters blocked the streets or made it difficult to get there, but in the end, he made it. It was a good thing he decided to go by car rather than public transport. It still baffled him how a terrorist can have such a large following. It concerned him, actually; to know that some citizens of the city he loved so much actually agreed with the Revelator's ideologies. Were they that desperate to find a place of belonging?

Ian rushed past the hungry reporters and journalists and went straight in the building. It's not that Ian hated them, it's just... he'd rather not deal with them right now, he already had so much on his mind.

It's odd to not see his closest colleagues nearby. It felt as if this case brought them closer than ever. He figured they might be helping with riot control or back at the police station, or better yet, at home. Maybe they were watching the live news coverage.

Ian wasn't sure why, but he felt restless still. Something wasn't right. Despite the courtroom being a place he was familiar with, this particular moment felt suffocating for the detective. He excused himself out of the courtroom with the reason being that he wanted some fresh air.

And that's when he saw it. The officers who were controlling the riot crowd outside broke into a frenzy. No, not just the officers, but the crowd as well.

Oh no.

No.

Ian doesn't have his equipment on him. Suddenly the situation turned from unnerving to straight up dangerous. Ian overheard from a nearby officer's radio that a crash had occurred on the street not too far from the courthouse. And of all the cars involved...

It just had to be the one carrying the goddamned Revelator. He couldn't find out EXACTLY what had happened, at least not now.

Ian knew he needed to get out of here. He'd be surprised if one of these rioters didn't make an attempt at his life. After all, John wasn't the only one who had his face in the news lately. Speaking of news, the reporters turned their camera towards the fight that had broke out between the police and the rioters. At the same time, they tried to stay out of the way.

The atmosphere was almost as chaotic as when the station blew up. The only difference? THIS was more chaotic. Seeing some kind of path to the car he came with, Ian made a run for it. You know, before the rioters realized who he was. Once inside, Ian locked the doors and hastily drove out of there.

Not an easy feat considering the crowd seemed to get larger and larger like a swarm of bees.

He probably ran over some toes. Who knows?

Before he even got far, he heard an explosion behind him. It only took a glance on his rear view mirror to know that a molotov cocktail had been thrown by one of the rioters. The Revelator did this. Ian's grip on the steering wheel was so tight, it felt as if he would break it. He needed to get back to the station. Now that the arsonist was (presumably) free, he'd likely try to target HIS station.

When he arrived, Ian nearly leapt out of the car and stumbled his way into the station, in his haste, he bumped right into an older officer, who (somehow) managed to catch him.

"Hey, hey, son. Easy. Why dont you—"

"Detective—detective Hooper? Is he—?" Ian struggled to catch his breath, but he thanked the stars when he saw the familiar face emerge from the chief's office. Ian left the confused officer's arms and grabbed his partner's shoulders.

"He got away! He's—out there! People are hurt. Shit. How could this happen?"

"Ian, Ian, buddy. Breathe. You'd think clearer, come on." Sam knew Ian best for his calm and cool composure in a lot of situations, but today, the dark haired man seemed to be uncharacteristically on edge, and to be honest? It concerned him.

Ian closed his eyes and took in a slow, deep breath, and already he regained most of his composure.

"Were you here, the whole time?"

Sam shook his head, "I just arrived recently."

"Shit, Sam. He'd be coming for us, probably." Ian muttered, seeming like he would go into a pessimistic monologue, but he followed with, "I hope not."

It had been a couple of hours later, but the riot was finally taken control of. There were at least four casualties and a dozen more critically injured. Many people were arrested that day, but thankfully, it won't be his department that dealt with them.

Jeffrey came back to the station with a bloody nose and bruise on his jaw. Thomas was mostly unscathed, but he did complain of a sore spot on his arm, It was great to regroup.

They were alright, that's all Ian needed to know.

ㅤㅤㅤ John

The Revelator woke up not long after the crash. His body, once again, feels like it was getting torn apart. Pain surged through his body. His head, his limbs; everything hurts.

He thought he was done for, no, he was sure he was done for. The explosion was so big and everything was fucking burning, how the hell does someone actually managed to live through that?

But he wasn't. He was alive. Breathing.

His legs are trembling, but he managed to stand up. His eyes were bleary, but he was able to see everything.

Then came flashes of anger, jeers, shouts. The mob was mindless and dangerous. Throwing explosives, burning tires, burning cars. Everyone is looting, smashing, destroying property with no thought to whom it belonged to. Anyone who tried to stop them was beaten severely.

And the next thing John was conscious of was the sound of his name. People, like a swarm of bees chanting the word 'Revelator' as if he was the goddamn President of United States. Police in black uniform with their transparent shields and full face visors marched towards them in rigid formation, but if anyone think they would just back off, like a typical rioters, they didn't.

John thought he was in hell, but he wasn't. He was alive. Breathing.

And he caused this.

Instructions were given through loud speakers and then the tear gas was unleashed. Everyone was running, screaming, throwing counter attacks with explosive and marching like dogs. They marched with the anger, joy, emotion of themselves and a thousand others.

John the Revelator stands still with his heart thumping furiously against its cage. He could feel a tightening of his throat and a short intake of breath, and there was a moment where he couldn't get his feet to move, but in an instant he was running. Running away from the crowds.

He choked back his whine, forcing himself not to groan or moan as he drags his limbs outside the raging mass. Whereas some people were kind enough to shove away from his line, the rest was far too overwhelmed by the police until he feels like they're going to step on him.

At last, when he felt like he's about to collapse, a hand scooped his shoulder, some even push through his back. John was far too tired to protest. He didn't know if they're on his side or if they're going to lock him in jail. But then everything makes sense when he was outside the crowds, 'cause that's where he sees it.

Kerosine, old school matches, hand grenades, firecrackers for the Fourth of July, and oh.

Semtex.

John stared in the direction he's about to head.

His mind wandered to that fucking face.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

"Remind me to never be a part of riot control again... it hurts, man." Jeffrey whined as he held an ice pack to his bruised jaw. Despite being the same age as Ian, sometimes officer Hwang's actions made him seem younger than he really is—this was one of them.

"Damn it. All our hard work. It's all gone down the drain." Ian held his head in his hands and let out a groan of frustration. "If it hadn't been so heavily televised, maybe this wouldn't have happened. And I thought serial killers having fans were bad. This is a whole new level. That being said, we still have his fingerprints and photos, getting around the country would probably be a hell lot harder for him."

Some of the breaking news footage showed the rioters chanting the Revelator's name as if he was a celebrity figure. It made Ian's stomach turn to see his fellow Chicagoans support a literal terrorist. As if he doesn't trust people enough already.

The Revelator appeared again on the footage, but only for a moment. He seemed to just... dissolve into the crowds. Who knows where he'd go.

No, Ian knows. He knew that, sooner or later, the bastard would come for him. The whole station was on high alert, Ian even more so. He hoped that there would be no more casualties today.

The detective traded his contacts for his glasses (good thing he carried the lens case). The contacts tended to make his eyes all watery and dry, and he liked the look of his glasses better, anyway.

Thinking the police station would be guarded enough to be safe was a mistake.

BIG mistake.

The relative silence of the station was broken when a loud crash was heard at the front end. Someone had thrown something through the windows.

But...

It wasn't a rock or brick they threw.

It was a grenade. A live grenade. That older officer from earlier was the first to notice it, he warned the others to take cover and attempted to take cover himself, but he wasn't fast enough. He took most of the blast's shockwave.

The unmistakable, deafening sound of an explosion, the shattering of windows and the ripping of doors from its hinges—those were just some of the sounds Ian registered. Add on to that the same cacophony of panicked screams and shouts from his colleagues combined with the angry shouts from an incoming mob. How big the mob was or if it could even be called a mob at all, he wasn't sure, but he knew that there were more than one person attacking. It wasn't long before shots were fired from his side. Aiming for the legs or shoulders was more than enough to bring down these stray rioters. Behind their anger and masks, they were still just your average Joe.

Another crash from the far left side of the building. The closest officers dived behind whatever cover they could find and hoped for the best. Hoped that they would at least survive this. As he had his head down and covered, Ian only saw the flash from the corner of his eyes, even then, he knew what had happened.

Not even a full minute later, a terrible, thunder-like clap ripped through the air. A fiery ball of orange and yellow flames invaded the building and smoke began to rise. Pieces of metal became like darts, the glass cut through the air as if they were like throwing knives, wood and shattered brick dangerously rained down on the officers. Many of them lay on the ground in a fetal position, whilst others were splayed out lifelessly like forgotten rag dolls.

Through the smoke and his irritated eyes; through the gaping hole that had formed in the back of the building, Ian swore on his life that he saw HIM. Just for a brief moment.

The next moment, however, he was gone. As if he disappeared with the smoke.

All sorts of emergency vehicles wailed in the distance, but none of the officers were able to hear it clearly. Their auditory senses were assaulted by the horrible screams of their comrade and the roar of the flame from the back of the building.

The group of rioters that ambushed them were all on the ground, writhing in pain from the gunshot wounds that have been inflicted on their arms or legs, but some lay motionless on the ground. It seems, in a twisted version of poetic justice, they had became victim of their own chaos.

The whole building had been engulfed in a ferocious flame. Suffocating smoke slowly began to replace the oxygen in the room.

They needed to get out.

Ian struggled on to his feet, but his eyes landed on a sight he WISHED he hadn't seen. His partner, Sam, was on the ground. He was alive, but with his leg trapped under a wooden support beam, he might not be for long. Without thinking, Ian leapt through the raging fire; he didn't give a damn if he got burnt.

"Ian! Ian, please—" Sam hissed in pain, he kept averting his gaze away from the block of wood trapping his leg.

To avoid burning his palms, Ian took off his suit jacket and used it as a makeshift glove. He grunted as he lifted the wood. It wasn't much, but Sam managed to drag himself from under there. When he was sure his partner's legs were out of harm's way, Ian dropped the support beam and his jacket, which became trapped under the beam.

That's fine, he can always get new jackets.

Ian rushed to his partner's side and grimaced when he saw the pained look on the other man's features.

"Can you stand? Shit, I'm—I'll help you up."

Sam knew that the answer was probably no, but either he forced himself or burn alive. Ian pulled him up by the arm and bit his lower lip when his partner groaned in pain. It must have hurt him terribly. But they both knew they would rather go through the pain than burning alive. So the pair slowly made their way towards the nearest exit.

The main entrance wasn't an option, the front of the building had collapsed and thus blocked their path, the same goes for the back. Their only option was a shattered window.

Detective Hooper knew that that option meant even more pain for his injured leg, but it was his and Ian's only option.

Sam was the first to climb out, fortunately, the fire department had arrived and they helped to pull him out.

Unfortunately, however, the ceiling above them crumbled, thus blocking Ian's path to escape and fresh air.

"Ian! No!" Sam could only watch helplessly in horror as his mind began to think of the worst.

Inside, Ian was just as horrified, but he refused to give up just like that. The whole building could collapse any moment, and if that happened before he got out, it'd mean his star would be displayed alongside all the other deceased officers'.

He wasn't going to let that happen today.

The bespectacled man once again ran through the inferno to reach the opposite side of the building. His once crisp white shirt was now a crinkly mess of ashy gray.

He reached a door, and in his state of urgency went straight for the hot handle. His hand recoiled from the heat and he shouted in pain. He frantically kicked the door down and was grateful when he saw the sky once again. The detective stumbled out and found himself face down on the concrete. He was coughing profusely, trying to get the smoke out of his lungs.

At least he was out, now.

But what about his friends? Where are they? Are they alive?

Detective Nashton struggled to stay conscious. He was put on a stretcher by the paramedics and was given an oxygen tank to aid with his breathing. Though his vision was blurry and out of focus, he could see Sam's figure, also on a stretcher.

Officer Hwang had escaped the building with a few mild burns and a broken arm, which was now wrapped in a makeshift sling. He (foolishly) leapt away from the paramedics that were attending to him and approached the ones that were carrying Ian on the stretcher.

"Hey, is he going to be okay? Are you going to be okay?"

This idiot, Ian thought. Running away from the paramedic while they were treating his broken arm. But Hwang's concern for his teammates was always admirable, so Ian nodded and weakly formed a 'thumbs up' to answer Jeffrey's question.

"Thank goodness. Hey, uh... Cole's already being taken to hospital right now. I hope he's—"

Before Jeffrey could finish, a strong hand slapped him (gently) on his good shoulder. It was one of the paramedics that were treating him.

"Kid, you're a crazy bastard. Just because your legs are fine, doesn't mean you can just run off from me like that. I'm not done treating your arm."

"Sorry, I was just—"

"Concerned about your friend? I know. But... from the looks of it, he'll be fine. Now, come on, you're also injured." The paramedic's tone softened as he led Jeffrey away.

So it seems that his friends had survived. He hoped they could recover nicely without any problems or disfigurement.

The oxygen tank had been removed, but still, he felt lightheaded and faint. It must have been the heat exposure.

Despite his best efforts to stay awake, the detective passed out.

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

Three days after the riot started, everything went well again. There were no sightings of the Revelator and everyone who supported him doesn't even know where he went.

Duh, of course, since John has been hiding outside the area for a while. Blending with the civilians after he finished shaving away his beards, wearing dark contacts every now and then that contrasted his bright colored wigs and makes him look like a clown. And considering everything he had done, it can be concluded that he's, indeed, a goddamn clown.

Three days after the riot started, John knew that the Revelator will always be on the government radar. Best luck is, he could still get a job with his covers, but then again, the main problem was never the government or job to begin with.

It was his kids.

Will they be cool with him after all he had done? Holy fuck, he's having a headache just because of this.

John took a deep breath and decided to shrugs it off. He had another important schedule to attend to.

So imagine a blond man walking into the hospital with a complete suit. Everything from head to toe screaming prince-like aura. His smile never for a second left his face as he greeted the eldery woman with sparkling blue eyes.

John is being that figure right now.

"Visiting a friend, sir?" the nurse asked, perhaps shaving his beard off was doing the job.

"A colleague of mine, actually," he replies, still with his ever-loving smile. A bouquet of tulip in his hands. He's going all out to meet the man he wishes to kill the most.

John peered over the room 714 quietly, his eyes grazing over to see if there's any other visitor at this hour. When he finally decided that the coast is clear, he didn't even bother on knocking., deciding that they will eventually let him in, and that they don't have any power to actually resists his visit. He placed the flower at an empty vase, not bothering on greeting the patients and sat down across the room with his legs crossed.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

What are the odds that he and his partners would be put in the same hospital ward? Maybe someone told the doctors that they were a team, maybe it was by chance. Either way, Ian was grateful for it. He'd rather see their faces than any other officers.

Sam had his leg in a cast, the doctors told him that he had nothing to worry about and that the leg will heal eventually. He'd be able to walk again.

Jeffrey, aside from a broken arm, had suffered some mild burns on his leg, but it wasn't anything major.

Both Ian and Thomas had inhaled some of the smoke, but out of the four, those two were relatively unscathed. The doctors said that, if their lungs don't become infected, they would be permitted to leave the hospital within a week.

Even if Ian had a burn on his palm and Thomas some minor cuts caused by glass shrapnels on his face.

Ian's parents had called just an hour earlier, turns out they've been watching the news religiously ever since the first attack happened. His mother was in tears when she first spoke to him, despite Ian telling her that he would be fine.

Can't blame a mother for worrying.

The days at the hospital was a stark contrast to the fast paced life he was used to. But aside from the bland food, it wasn't that bad. It felt nice to have a break, somewhat.

But Ian couldn't keep his mind off of the goddamned Revelator. Where is he now? What's his next move? Will they meet again?

Ian had his back turned towards the door, the poor man was trying to catch up on some sleep. When he heard the door open, he thought it'd be one of the nurses. And yet... the footsteps sounded different.

It's not hard to tell people apart just by hearing their footsteps. So he turned in his bed. Ian wasn't wearing his glasses at the time, but he could make out the man's figure. How odd, none of his teammates were expecting any guests, nor do they knew anyone with that shade of blonde hair.

When Ian put his glasses on, he nearly jumped off his hospital bed. The wig and the contacts and the clean shaven face may have fooled other people, but they didn't fool him.

"You! What the hell are you doing here?!"

Sam, who had been asleep, jolted awake due to his partner's sudden raise in tone.

"Ian, what is it? What's the matter?" Sam asked, his voice was still a little groggy. It seems that he hadn't noticed who this visitor was.

"It's him, Sam. The fucking Revelator!" Ian frantically searched through his belongings for something, anything that he could use as a weapon. But the sad reality is, he had nothing.

(No, don't panic, Nashton. Think.)

Hearing the name 'Revelator' made Jeffrey spring up in an upright position, he must've thought: to hell with the arm, the Revelator is here!

"I-I'm gonna call a nurse!" It WAS meant to be a threat, but being defenseless like this, Jeffrey's voice came out small.

"No! Jeff, don't."

Both Sam and Jeffrey looked at their bespectacled comrade as if he had just gone insane, but Ian held a finger up, trying to get himself time to allow him to explain his reasoning.

"If he wanted to murder us, he'd have done it by now. And I don't think he would have bothered with the shitty disguise either. Look at him, he's almost perfectly blending in like a normal civillian. There is no way that he would have gotten past hospital security if he had any weapons on him. And even if he were to try murdering one of us with his bare hands, three of us are able to use our legs to go and get help; this is the seventh floor, he couldn'tjust simply jump out the window to escape, unless he wants to splatter on the concrete below." Detective Nashton sucked air through his teeth before he continued, "John is here for a reason, and that reason ISN'T to finish us off. At least not here, a hospital is too risky for you, isn't it, John?"

Ian peered over his glasses, there was a look of hatred and disgust in his dark eyes as he locked gazes with their 'visitor'.

"Talk, damn you."

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

John smiled, this time it reached his eyes. He was truly amused by the fact the man had spare energy to actually say that. If it were John, he would just say fuck off and went back asleep.

"You're truly bright, detective," he said, "although, you might be wrong on that part. I am willing to jump off the seventh floor. I have nothing to lose, remember?"

John smiled brighter, wider. Interlacing his fingers as his eyes remain fixed to the detective's face. It didn't take long until he was leaning to the chair, comfortably observing the whole room with his sight.

He said, "I was just going to drop by and say sorry for, well, blowing up the building and almost killing y'all," and though, John did say he was sorry, the words were truly unbelievable as his expression didn't hint any single regret.

"And I figured out you might appreciate flowers," he continues, his fingers flicked towards the vase of tulip.

John didn't wait for a single reply before he eventually stands up. Flashing another brief smile to the quartet and head towards the door.

"Good day, officers."

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

How the fuck is Thomas still asleep through all this? The man straight up sleeps like a log.

Ian accepted that he was wrong with one of his deductions, he's aware that it could happen. Ian scoffed at the apology. Even a naïve person wouldn't buy it.

Although... the tulips WERE nice. There's no way that John would have known this was his favourite, right? It must be by chance.

"You? Being sorry? Having guilt? Since when do you feel guilt?! That's gold, John. I didn't know you were such a comedian." Yet Ian Nashton didn't laugh. After all, how could he? The one time John actually answered his question, the man intended to leave again.

"Should have called security..." Jeffrey muttered. The man was terrified, Ian could tell.

"Cut the crap, John. Why are you here? What has that sick little mind of yours planned now, hm? Are you going to blow up this hospital, too? Kill more people? Women, children, the elderly?"

Ian stood up from his bed, but he didn't walk any closer. He supposed if things go bad, an IV stand could be used as a weapon.

"What goes on in that twisted head of yours?"

ㅤㅤㅤ

John

John stopped midtrack before he managed to get out of the room, his eyes darting from the knob towards the raging detective. He could see how mad he is now, he got himself on his feet and IV stand near him. John was super impressed with the man's staying power.

"If you're so curious about it, detective..." John paused.

Then he walked closer, not minding the glare which has probably been shot at his stature. Only when he was inches away from the man he stopped, smiling at Nashton with what it seems to be a mischievous look across his mien.

He stared at the man for a moment before bringing his hands to the other's cheeks, again, not minding the completely fumed look thrown at him from all sides as he leans his head closer, until their foreheads rest against each others. His thumb running along the curve of Nashton's cheekbone down to his jaw, before he pressed his lips against the other's.

And there wasn't anything passionate about it. It was soft and slow, and it wasn't a kiss filled with hunger or primal instinct. It was just a platonic, almost like how a mother kisses her child.

John pulled back, his fingers haven't left the man's cheeks as he said, "I've been thinking how cute you look whenever you're mad."

He turned his heels away, smirking at himself over the things he had done, and the thing he just did.

Then he left.

ㅤㅤㅤ

Ian Nashton

When John started to walk closer, Ian took an instinctive step back. Was he going to be strangled again?

They were right in front of each other. And even though John was wearing coloured contacts, there still was that fierceness in his his eyes.

No observation or deductive skill could have prepared Ian for the contact. Ian couldn't stop the small gasp when he felt the other's hand on his face.

Hey, they felt cold.

But it was different from the first time. It was uncharacteristically gentle, yet firm; as opposed to rough and brutal. It sent a shiver down the detective's spine.

"Let go, you crazy—"

Before the detective could finish his sentence, the crazy bastard had pressed their lips together. Right then and there, his mind went into a panic, yet his body froze, and his eyes were wide open.

What. The. Fuck.

When John finally pulled away, the detective was still so confused that he couldn't push the other man away or retaliate in any way. All he did was sit back down on the edge of his bed with the same dumbfounded expression as he watched John walk away.

When the door closed, Ian exchanged glances with Jeffrey and Sam, who looked surprised and horrified, respectively.

After what felt like an eternity of silent glances, Jeffrey finally cleared his throat and broke the silence. He was probably trying to lighten up the situation as well, as he usually did. "Well... uh... god's joke went a bit too far."

"Shut up, Jeffrey. Oh, fuck. Let's... let's pretend that never happened. Let's pretend, that we all had the same nightmare."

Ian slowly laid back down on his bed and stared up at the white ceiling.

But he knew, no matter how many times he'll tell himself, what just happened, actually happened.

He can't forget it.

Detectives rarely forget.

#deus det nobis suam pacem #4 #tw: blood #tw: gun #tw: graphic content #tw: violence

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quinzelade · 7 years

Text

By No Constraint (chpt 57)

SS x Danse

Chapter List

Thanks to my amazing beta, waiting4morning, for her wonderful work! Thanks to Musashi1596 for the title.

Major Brotherhood/Danse spoilers.

Want update alerts? Follow this story on FFnet or Ao3.

Goodbye

“What a goddamn mess.” Rachel turned her gaze from the bodies littering the floor to the great, sweeping vistas of the Institute. The trees and grass were burning, and scorch marks left a chaotic pattern on the walls of the towers. The glass floor was cracked and covered in blood. Some human. Most of it synth.

Quinn didn’t answer the knight-sergeant. She only had eyes for Casey.

Bantios hadn’t moved from Casey’s side throughout the entire fight. He was covered in cuts, bruises, and burns from where the synths had tried to pick him off, only for them to be brought down by the circling Carson.

Quinn knew it was fruitless. Although laser burns generally weren’t that severe, Casey had been caught in the face at close range by a courser. She suspected their weapons were better than standard synth rifles, and judging from Casey’s lack of movement, this suspicion was probably truth.

The second the last synth had fallen, Carson had abandoned his armour and returned to Casey’s side. No one had tried to stop him—not even Maxson. Instead, an uneasy look flickered amongst the seasoned soldiers, conveying the silent message.

Casey was dying.

How long she had left, no one knew. But it was impossible to pass from initiate to knight without losing someone along the way. Quinn wondered which loved one had been snatched from each and every soldier—a friend? A partner? A child?

Rachel hovered at Quinn’s side, watching with a blank expression as Bantios passed empty syringes and stimpaks to Carson. Bantios took the lilac-tinged gel he had just made and carefully applied it to Casey’s face.

Rachel turned away, helping the other scribes move the rest of the injured. The dead were left untouched.

Quinn stood rooted to the spot. Afraid to hesitate. Afraid to proceed. She was about to lose someone she cared about—did she really want another horrific death etched into her brain? Deacon’s eyes were already pushing her to the limit.

Finally, she took a deep breath and slowly walked over, her feet loud in the quiet ruins of the facility. As soon as she saw Casey’s wounds, Quinn wished she’d kept her distance.

Her left eye was completely gone. The remains dripping down her blistered, weeping skin, stripped raw on one side, while a good section of her hair was burned away.

Bantios didn’t look much better up close. He was pale and glistening, his own eyes intact and determined. The front of his uniform was badly charred around the midriff, but he seemed unconcerned, his hands shaking. Other scribes flitted around him, preoccupied with their own patients.

There was a surprisingly low body count, all things considered. If Quinn didn’t know better, she would have thought the Institute were caught unawares. Clearly Shaun hadn’t expected this deception from her.

Ingram’s voice crackled over the intercom.

“Paladin, we’ve located the reactor. It’s accessible through the Advanced Systems division. Only...you can’t reach it. The security override can only come from the Director’s terminal. You’ll need to access his quarters.”

His quarters? Oh God. Shaun.

“Ready when you are, ma’am.”

Quinn turned to see Rachel Marguerie at her elbow, a sombre Carson getting to his feet as Bantios continued with Casey. He dragged himself over, looking crushed, but still prepared to move.

“Both of you stay here,” Quinn said. She wouldn’t allow them to come with her. Not for this moment.

“But—”

“I said no.” Quinn reloaded her rifle and lowered her voice. “My son...he’ll be up there. I need to...I want to see him alone.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Rachel hissed.

“You of all people should understand the lengths a parent will go for their child.”

The knight-sergeant looked as if Quinn had slapped her, her face going chalk white. Quinn was too far gone to care.

“Carson,” she said, filling the stunned silence, “go back to Casey and help Bantios look after her. Rachel, help deal with the dead and injured. We need to keep things moving. They’ve thrown a good chunk of their forces at us just now, so I highly doubt there will be much resistance.”

“You’re going to the director’s office. Of course there’ll be resistance!” Rachel had found her voice again, her cheeks blotting with indignant colour. “Let us help you!”

“I’ve given you your orders, now do it!”

Every head in the vicinity turned to look at them, including Elder Maxson’s. Rachel stood on the spot, her face burning—from anger or embarrassment, Quinn didn’t know. Would Rachel tell Maxson what Quinn was planning, or would she bow to her rank?

Rachel’s scowl deepened, but she nodded. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

“Noted. Dismissed, knight-sergeant.”

Rachel gave her a jerky salute and marched away. Quinn waited until she was some distance from her, and then walked over to the elevator. She had just reached the controls when Maxson himself stopped her.

“You’re going alone, Paladin?”

Was that concern in his voice?

“Yes, sir,” Quinn replied, standing to attention. “I believe it will be easier to get through alone. They’ll focus their attention on the biggest threat, leaving me free to reach the terminal.”

Maxson frowned, obviously mulling her plan over in his head. But then he let go of her arm and stepped back, picking up his weapon again. “Ad victoriam, sister.”

“Ad victoriam, sir.” Quinn summoned the elevator, quickly forcing herself inside. her power armour just about fitting. There was a beep as the glass doors slid shut, and then she was lowered into the ground. Her friends watched from afar as Quinn disappeared out of sight.

Within seconds, she reached her destination. Stepping out of the elevator, Quinn deactivated it, just in case Rachel got any ideas about using a stealth boy and following. Then she walked through the maintenance corridors, vaguely remembering the way as she strode through the area she had first met Shaun, his synth clone trapped and terrified behind glass. Terrified of her.

Quinn’s stomach turned at the memory, but she continued on, steeling herself for their final encounter. She made her way into the next room, the decor changing from harsh yellows and off-whites to a series of subtle, soothing greys. Her heart raced harder with every step she took up the polished stairs, her armour making her progress bang.

And then there was Shaun.

He was lying in some sort of pod—a bed, she thought. His face was gaunt and ashen, his features in their usual blank arrangement. Even when Quinn left her armour, there was no trace of upset or surprise. He just stared at her, almost resigned in his mannerisms. Had he known of her betrayal after all?

“I didn’t expect to see you again.” Same monotone voice. Same calm expression.

Quinn licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. “The Institute had to be stopped, Shaun.”

He looked less than impressed with this answer. “And you’ve decided this for yourself? Or has it been fed to you by the corrupt societies above ground?” The blankness turned to anger. “It’s not enough that I lay here dying. Now you plan on...what? Destroying everything?”

Dying?

Quinn felt her mouth drop open, but she barely noticed. Her world was constricting, her breath caught in her throat as her heartbeat roared in her ears. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Despite it all, despite what she had left for Danse on that tape, Quinn had hoped there would be a way to get Shaun out. None of the Brotherhood knew who he was, after all.

Shaun took advantage of her silence. “Tell me, then. Under what righteous pretence have you justified this atrocity?”

“You’re dying?” she whispered. Even now, knowing this could be the outcome, the truth of it was too unbearable to accept. Her son. Her son.

“Answer my question,” Shaun replied, his voice tight and harsh. “Then I will answer yours.”

“I…” Quinn shut her eyes, trying to unfog her thoughts. He was dying. Why? How? The Institute was supposed to be the pinnacle of technology. Could they have saved him if she hadn’t led the attack? “I…”

“Why have you done this?”

The crack of his tone was enough to bring her back. Quinn shook her head and glared at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

For a moment, Shaun looked taken aback. But she didn’t give him a chance to speak.

“Corrupt societies? They’re just human beings trying to get by in this shithole of a world that you keep them in. You’ve barely walked amongst those people, Shaun. You just sit down here, deciding their fates for them while keeping the science that could improve their lives for yourself. Kidnapping them. Killing them. Mutating them into monstrosities and then releasing them back into the Commonwealth.”

“Ah, you found that old division, did you?” He didn’t seem bothered that she had learned such a dirty secret. On the contrary, he sounded curious. It filled her with a rage enough to drown out the mounting grief.

“Yes, I did. And I know you did nothing to stop it,” Quinn spat. “But even then, that doesn’t touch onto what you’ve done with the synths. You’ve creating living, breathing people, and you treat them no better than objects. I’ve found out firsthand the pain you cause them!”

A knowing look flickered across Shaun’s face. “M7-97?”

“Don’t call him that.” Her voice was sharp, and he looked surprised. She didn’t care. “His name is Danse. He’s a person, not a machine or an experiment. The same with your...replica.”

“I remember you telling me you would treat the child as though he were a human.” A faint smile played on his lips. “I’m glad to see there is now evidence for that.” He shifted in his bed and winced, his face taking on a dark look. “Your new companions will kill you both if they ever find out M7...Danse survived.”

“Maybe they will. But I’ll take as many of them as I can with me. He’s human, just like the rest of the synths. The Brotherhood’s desire to kill them is wrong.”

“You annihilated their biggest protector.” Suddenly he wore a nasty smirk. “The Railroad. You allowed us to reclaim many of our lost units once they were out of the picture. I’d intended to thank you, before all of this took place.”

“You disgust me.”

The words were out before she could stop them. Once again, Shaun looked stunned, but Quinn felt no regrets.

“It’s hard to believe I’m related to you,” Shaun said, his voice rough with anger. For the first time since she had met him, he looked truly furious, wearing a scowl worthy of Quinn herself. Then it was gone, and the unsettling blank returned.

“Well, none of it matters now. You’ll accomplish your task and ruin humanity’s best hope for the future. The only question then is why you’re still standing here. Is it regret, or did you just come to gloat?”

Quinn hugged herself as she stared at him, feeling the tears well up in her eyes. “I want to save you.”

“Save me? Why on earth would you do that?”

“You’re my son. I love you.”

Shaun stared at her for what felt like an age. Finally, he said, “How can you claim to love me after what has transpired? You have said yourself you are against all that I stand for, all that I believe in. And now you are here, making sure everything I hold dear burns.”

“Because that’s what love is,” Quinn replied, trying desperately to hold eye contact with him. “This has been hardest decision I have ever had to make, because I love you. But this can’t go on. You’ve hurt too many people. You had to be stopped, for the good of everyone in the Commonwealth.”

She paused.

“I’m just sorry I couldn’t help you before it got to this point. You became the man that you are, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I failed you. But no matter what, you’re still my son. I will always love you. Even if you don’t love me. Even if you hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Shaun murmured. He closed his eyes and sighed. “I don’t hate you.”

“Then come with me,” Quinn said. “I’ll find a way to get you past the Brotherhood. Claim you were a prisoner, or—”

“As I said, I am dying.” He still hadn’t opened his eyes. “Cancer. I have already been told by my finest staff that there is nothing that can be done. Leaving with you would only prolong my suffering. And...I cannot go to...I don’t want…”

“You’re afraid of the outside world.”

Shaun nodded, and Quinn felt her heart break. There was nothing to be done. She couldn’t stay, as much as she wanted to. But the idea of leaving him to die alone in this godforsaken place was too much. She bowed her head, suffocating in her misery as she dug her nails into her hands, trying to stop herself falling over the edge.

“I can’t just leave you here!” she gasped, the tears now flowing freely. Shaun finally opened his eyes as he looked at her, alarmed, but quickly recovered himself.

“This is of your own making,” he replied coolly. “Go.”

Quinn didn’t move. It was wrong. It all felt so wrong. She glanced down at her Pip-Boy and knew what she had to do.

Quinn opened the holotape compartment, removed Nate’s precious recording, and handed it to Shaun.

He stared at it, frowning. “This is…?”

“Yes.”

“But...?”

“I can’t be with you until the end.” Quinn sniffed. “But your father can. It’s what he would have wanted. It’s what I want, too. So please, take it.”

“This is precious to you.”

She gave a small nod, but didn’t answer. She couldn’t answer. She was afraid she might crumble if she did.

Shaun held it out to her. “Put it in my terminal. I can control it from here.”

Quinn obeyed, his skin warm and worn as they briefly brushed hands. She walked over to his computer and inserted the tape, before going over the options. There was an evacuation order on it.

“Shaun…”

“Yes?”

“The Brotherhood...they have control of the teleporter. And they have some of your staff as well. They tried to kill them, but I intervened. I think Maxson is going to interrogate them, though...and after that, I don’t know. Is there a way to evacuate the rest of your people entirely without them falling into the Brotherhood’s hands?”

“Why would you tell me this?”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone I don’t have to. They’re scientists, not soldiers. They don’t pose a threat. They don’t need to die.”

There was a long pause. Eventually, he said, “You continue to surprise me, Mother.”

Mother. He had called her mother.

Without thinking, Quinn reached out to him, wanting to touch him. To hold her son. Shaun recoiled from her, wearing a look of uncertainty, and Quinn let her arms drop. Of course there were still boundaries. His rejection stung.

“There is more than one teleporter in this facility,” he continued, glossing over the awkward moment. “We need to let them know that particular exit point is off-limits. That way they can escape.”

Quinn listened as Shaun carefully explained how to change the evacuation instructions, trusting that he wasn’t leading her into some sort of deadly trap. After all, he had nothing to lose. When she had finished his orders, the usual female voice began to speak.

“Attention all personnel. Evacuate the facility immediately. Platform YB-06 has been compromised. Please use alternative evacuation points if this affects your evacuation route. Attention all personnel. Evacuate...”

Quinn felt a stab of relief. With any luck, most of them would get away. She could argue for the ones Maxson had captured later. Quinn returned to the terminal and deactivated the lockdown that had been put in place.

Ingram’s voice rang out over the intercom. “Well done, Paladin. Looks like a path should be clear to the reactor. And I am happy to report that reinforcements have arrived.”

Quinn leaned over the terminal and sighed.

“You really don’t want to be here, do you?” Shaun asked from behind her.

She looked over her shoulder and saw he had turned around to face her. Quinn shook her head. “No.”

Shaun studied her for a moment. Then he said, “Use the access code 9003. It will disable some of the synths.”

Quinn blinked at him, but followed his directions again. The option to disable the synth units suddenly came up, no longer hidden in the system. She clicked it, and a message flashed to confirm completion.

Stepping away from the terminal, Quinn walked back to him, twisting her hands together. She was confused. Why was he helping her?

“Thank you,” she said, meeting his eye again. He was wearing a strange expression.

“You need to go,” he replied. “Just...leave me.”

“I love you, Shaun.”

“I...I believe you.”

That was as good as she was going to get. But it was enough. He understood. He knew.

Quinn got back into her power armour and left the room. As she walked past a deactivated synth standing still in the corridor, she heard the terminal whir to life. The recording she could recite from memory began to play.

“Oops, haha. Keep those little fingers away…. Ah, there we go. Just say it, right there. Right there, go ahead. Ah, yay! Hi honey…”

The chaos returned with Quinn. As she made her way back into the main plaza, laserfire filled the air, synths pouring out of the now opened door into the Advanced Systems sector. But not as many as the first attack. It seemed Shaun had been as good as his word.

Bantios was still with Casey. It was a bad sign she hadn’t been moved with the rest of the injured. That meant she wasn’t stable enough. Quinn kept an eye on them both throughout the duration of the fight, killing anything that got too close. Carson also remained near, almost fanatical in his efforts to stop Bantios being disturbed. When the last of the enemies had been dealt with, Carson exited his armour again and returned to Casey’s side.

Quinn bit her lip, glancing to the Advanced Systems entrance. The emptiness inside of her was being prickled by fear. They were moving out soon, and she would need Carson with her.

Carson sat in silence, following Bantios’ instructions to the letter. On and on the scribe toiled, burning through stimpaks and med-x and God knows what else. Even from this distance, Quinn could see the frantic desperation in his eyes, and knew he was thinking of Núñez.

Finally, Carson put his hand on Bantios’ arm. “Stop.”

Bantios shook his head. “No. She saved me. I have to help her. She has to live.”

“You aren’t doing her a kindness by dragging this out.” Carson stared down at Casey’s ruined face. His skin was ashy, his eyes watery as he blinked repeatedly, a muscle jumping in his tense jaw. “I’d give anything for…just stop. Please.”

Bantios said nothing. Carson took hold of Casey’s hand, pressed his lips to her fingers, and then laid her hand across her body. He observed the unsteady rise and fall of her chest, before getting to his feet and walking over to Quinn.

“I can’t watch her die,” he mumbled, answering her unspoken question. “Let’s get this over with.” He clambered into his armour without another word.

Bantios didn’t leave Casey immediately, pumping her full of stimpaks and other chems with a frown on his face. Finally, though, he stood up. But instead of joining them, he stopped Haylen, saying something to her that Quinn couldn’t hear. Haylen’s brow furrowed, but she nodded and clapped a hand on his shoulder, passing him her pistol. Bantios stowed it away in his uniform and jogged over to Quinn.

“Requesting permission to join you in the reactor, ma’am.”

“Granted.” Quinn still didn’t like the idea of him tagging along, but with Casey on her way out, they were down a scribe. He didn’t smile this time, silently falling in rank with her team.

Unlike the duration of the first few fights, the Institute suddenly felt empty. Weapons were scattered everywhere, science equipment abandoned mid-experiment. Deactivated synths stood vigil around the desolate halls, their heads bowed, their arms limp. The evacuation notice had worked.

They moved through a room filled with giant yellow tanks full of liquid, and Quinn recognised it as the area she had found Doctor Li. The area she had first spoken to the synth of Shaun. Her skin prickled with...what? Apprehension? Hope? She didn’t know. But the child was not there. Would he die down here? Had he been left behind too, deactivated and forgotten? Or had the scientists deemed him human enough to take with them? Somehow, Quinn doubted it.

Her head was swimming again. She stopped in the middle of the hallway, swaying on the spot. How could she do this? Kill her son. How could she…?

“Quinn?”

Someone shook her and the haze cleared slightly. She turned her head to see Carson, and though he was wearing his helmet, the concern in his voice was loud and clear. His hand was clamped on her shoulder, and after a second she realised she was leaning into him.

Rachel and Bantios were at the end of the corridor, watching her with grave expressions. Thankfully, Maxson and his entourage had already gone on ahead.

“One last push, Quinn,” Carson said. “One last push and it’s over. You can do this. Come on.”

Quinn stepped forward unsteadily, grasping out to her friend to stay upright. Carson took hold of her elbow and helped her walk, continuing his mutterings until the tremors ceased and the moment passed. Whatever happened, Shaun was going to die. She had known this from the moment she’d given Maxson the Institute data. And if it had to be done, then she should be the one. Her child. Her responsibility.

Quinn straightened up, gently shaking Carson off. “Let’s go.”

They caught up with Maxson in the entrance to the reactor. It was a far cry from Advanced Systems. Dirty and rough, it reminded her of the Old Robotics section. Exposed pipes lined the walls, steam hissing out from gaps in the metal, and all the machinery was covered in a thick layer of grime, oil, and grease.

The reactor was supposed to be the most important thing in the Institute—it had been referenced numerous times in the terminals she had wormed her way into. Why then was it in such a state of disrepair?

Sirens raged on as oranges lights flashed across Quinn’s vision, dazzling her. Turrets in the ceiling opened fire, their lasers simply bouncing of Quinn and Carson’s armour while Bantios and Rachel took cover behind them. A few rounds from Quinn’s combat rifle later, and they were in pieces.

As Quinn progressed deeper into the reactor, things became familiar. Old consoles that wouldn’t look out of place in a wasteland factory. Pre-war safety posters plastered everywhere. Coffee cups and tool boxes. Even a battered clock on the wall, its hand forever frozen at quarter to ten.

“This must be the oldest part of the Institute,” Quinn murmured, peering through the grimy window to the reactor below. It certainly looked like a product of her time, so different from the clean, sleek decor of the main facility. The reactor was bulky and tarnished, though clearly maintained regularly, blue light flickering from the glass panels at its door. The core of the Institute, and the foundation on which the strife of the Commonwealth had been built.

Quinn moved on. Elder Maxson walked next to her, the others marching behind. She wished he wasn’t here. She would have much preferred Carson or Rachel at her side. But when they entered the main reactor room, Quinn quickly retracted her wish as a jet of flame engulfed them. Maxson only just got out of the way, the tips of his beard on fire. Better him than one of her friends.

Again, there was a distinct lack of humans in the area. But even though most of the synths had been deactivated, some still remained. Quinn gave out a yell as fire surrounded her, and she barrelled forward, barging into a synth holding a flamethrower and sending it flying.

These synths looked odd. They wore a mixture of white and black, their faces covered by dark masks. Not coursers. Not standard units. Something...different.

The battle that followed was the fiercest yet. Only three of these strange synths alongside a pack of the usual, and yet they seemed to shrug off the damage. The normal synths went down quickly, but the three… Even Maxson looked worried.

Pain.

Quinn screamed as something white hot pierced her back, sending waves of agony shooting through her body. The HUD in her armour was going haywire, flashing overload warnings from her fusion core port. She stumbled forward and turned to see one of the strange synths with a shock baton, advancing on her.

She knew all too well that an overload would cause the fusion core to explode. That in itself would kill her, but she was carrying the damn pulse charges. They were supposed to be put directly on the Institute’s power source, but if they detonated because of her armour, they could possibly set off the reactor anyway.

“Sto—” she began, trying to warn them, but one of the others must have been lurking behind her. Quinn felt the pain again as another shock baton was jammed into the port. The warnings flashed up again as her circuitry fried, informing at her that detonation was imminent.

Then it suddenly stopped. Quinn hit the release from inside her suit, and was relieved to find it still worked. She tumbled out onto the ground, her body stinging in the aftermath, and rolled over to see that Bantios had jumped onto the synth’s back. He was hitting it with everything he had and even managed to remove its helmet, exposing its head. Oddly enough, the synth seemed to be having difficulty pulling him off.

Quinn glanced behind her to see the other two synths hadn’t noticed she was now vulnerable. One was receiving a beating from Rachel Marguerie, who appeared to be letting out her anger over Casey with her fists rather than using her weapons, and Carson and Maxson had the last cornered.

A strangled yell dragged her attention back to Bantios. Quinn turned to see the synth drive a concealed blade into his stomach, penetrating his scribe’s armour as if it were nothing but cloth.

Bantios’ eyes bulged, each following stab causing him to convulse and groan. But instead of trying to pull away, his hand reached into his robes, producing the gun Haylen had given him. Gasping horribly, Bantios pushed the barrel again the synth’s temple and pulled the trigger. Both of them crashed to the ground—one still, the other twitching.

“David!” Quinn dragged herself across the floor, her limbs still tingling with pain, and reached him. Grabbing his robes, she rolled him onto his back and shook him. Bantios continued to stare blankly at the ceiling above, red slowly oozing from his mouth.

“No. No, no, no! Fuck!” Quinn reeled away from him. His blood was everywhere. It covered his uniform, his skin, her hands…

Quinn wiped it away on the dusty floor, ignoring the sounds of battle just feet away from her. First Casey, then Bantios. Another one. She had known this was a bad idea, and yet she’d let him come along anyway.

She thought of Danse. That first night in Piper’s when he had told her about the fate of his squad.

“Each one of them died because of decisions that I made.”

Wasn’t that the damn truth? But at the same time, if Bantios hadn’t been there, she might have been killed herself, along with every Brotherhood member still in the facility. That fact hurt her more than anything else. Bantios thought he’d failed everyone he’d tried to help, when in fact he’d just saved them all. And he’d never know it.

“Ah, fuck.”

Quinn looked up to see Carson standing over her, Maxson not far behind him. The knight’s reaction echoed her own.

“Fucking shitting fuck!” Carson strode off and kicked a dead synth on the floor hard in the head. There was a crack as its mask split.

“How did it happen?” Rachel asked, appearing at Maxson’s side. “I was...preoccupied.”

That was one way of putting it. Rachel’s knuckles were swollen and bleeding. Quinn wouldn’t be surprised if at least one of them was broken.

She explained in a monotone voice and then held her hand out to Rachel. “My legs are having a bit of difficulty at the moment.”

Rachel took the hint and pulled Quinn to her feet. She dusted herself down and glanced at Bantios again, before turning to see Carson stomping back towards them, taking deep breaths through his nose. When he calmed down, Quinn spoke again.

“You got it out of your system?”

Carson gave a slow nod. “Sorry, ma’am.” He glanced at Maxson. “Sir. Just...he’s only a kid. And I was hoping we wouldn’t lose anymore scribes today.”

Quinn knew he was downplaying what he really felt. He let his emotions run away with him at the best of times, but with Casey’s condition obviously on his mind, it was amplifying everything. Not that she thought Carson didn’t care about Bantios’ death—he would care regardless. But right now, it was rubbing salt in the wound.

Maxson seemed to think so, too. He kept uncharacteristically quiet.

“Carry him out,” Quinn said to Carson, feeling cold as she pointed to the scribe. “We’d be dead without him.”

Carson nodded and picked Bantios’ body up. He looked small and frail in the knight’s arms. Maxson stared at him for a moment as if he was going to say something, but then apparently thought better of it.

He turned to Quinn, taking refuge in the mission. “Codes to open the reactor. The honour is yours, Paladin.”

There was that ‘honour’ again. Honour of reactivating a war machine. Honour of destruction. Quinn wanted nothing to do with the Brotherhood’s idea of honour. She took the codes without a word and walked over to the reactor, making her way through the terminal. The door slid open without ceremony, and Quinn returned to her armour, removing the pulse charges from it.

“I’ll have to leave my suit behind,” Quinn said over her shoulder as she strode back to the reactor. She felt a stab of regret at this. The armour had been with her since she’d first joined the Brotherhood. Danse himself had tinkered with it for her. “The shock batons have ruined it from the inside out.”

“A pity,” replied Maxson. “We’ll issue you with a new set when we return to the Prydwen, Paladin.”

Don’t bother, she thought to herself, but didn’t respond.

The reactor was spherical inside, the walls curving around a central pillar. Quinn followed the handwritten instructions on the charges and managed to attach them to the metal surface, before setting it up for detonation. Once it was primed, she stepped out of the reactor and returned to the terminal, using the codes to seal the door. She looked at Maxson and nodded.

He smiled. “Good work, Paladin. I think it’s time to leave this place to its fate.” Maxson glanced up at the ceiling. “Proctor Ingram, do you copy? Our mission is complete. I need you to transport us out of here immediately.”

Quinn frowned. How the hell was Ingram supposed to—?

Her thoughts were cut short as the strange feeling needled through her, before the light swept her away.

Quinn staggered as the teleporter deposited her back in the entrance of the Institute. She clutched a hand to her head, nausea rippling in her stomach, when she saw a figure that rooted her to the spot.

It was something. It was selfish.

It was Shaun.

No...not Shaun. His synth. Down the corridor, standing next to a perplexed Ingram, was the boy. Quinn heard Maxson say something, but his words were muted, the buzzing in her ears drowning everything out. Ingram’s response was a little clearer.

“...he claims to be the paladin’s son, sir.”

Quinn’s breath was quickening, so sharp and shallow she could feel the dizziness creeping in. The boy was staring at her, his eyes wide with fear and...and something else. And Quinn could feel a peculiarity growing within her tight chest. Confusion, mingled with hurt.

This child was not the real Shaun, could never replace him. But he didn’t have to be a replacement. All he needed was a parent. Whatever Shaun’s intentions had been in creating this synth, Quinn knew she could do that—not just for the boy, but for Shaun too.

The child bit his lip. “Mom?”

That did it. Quinn dropped her weapon and sprinted down the corridor, shoving Maxson aside as he tried to get in her way. She threw herself onto the boy—onto Shaun—and dragged him into a hug. She couldn’t understand her feelings, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t deserve to die here, and the desire to protect him burned within her, to make him her own. Shaun had been her responsibility. This boy would be her responsibility as well. Completely. Gladly.

It took a good few minutes before anyone could convince Quinn to let go of the new Shaun. She was downright hysterical, rocking him in her arms as she cried out all of her grief. For what had happened. For what would happen. The end was in sight, but the last battle had sapped her of all her strength. She had nothing left to give.

Only Carson’s gentle touch and soft words eventually made Quinn relax her grip and let go. He promised he would look after Shaun if she chose to carry on. If there was one person she could trust, it was Carson. Even if he somehow found out the truth, he’d never hurt the child.

Rachel, meanwhile, was stood behind Carson, frowning. She cast her gaze from Quinn to the synth Shaun, and then back again. Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing, and then a few minutes later her expression cleared and she stepped out of sight.

Almost gingerly, Maxson approached. Quinn had never seen the man in a state so tentative in his life, and for a second she wondered if he was channelling Bantios’ ghost. This thought immediately brought a stab of shame, and she looked around to see his body had been laid carefully on the floor. However, a few seconds later, Rachel came into view, picking him up and cradling him in her arms. Quinn smiled gratefully at her, and Rachel smiled back with a small nod.

“Paladin…Quinn.” Maxson crouched down to Quinn’s level, and she could help but notice that he appeared worried, as well as a little confused. A groggy thought crossed her mind—was the confusion because his own parents had never shown much love?

The Elder paused, and then sighed. “Bringing you here has been incredibly selfish of me. I assumed for the final push you would relish at the chance of vengeance, but I never considered that…” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “This must have been an ordeal for you. Though I am glad to see the Institute lied about the fate of your son. If you want to leave, then…”

“No,” Quinn said at once.

Maxson blinked in surprise. “You are not obligated to stay, Paladin. You have more than done your duty today.”

“I am obligated to stay, sir. They hurt my family.” She thought of Shaun—the original Shaun—alone with his father’s holotape, and felt a lump in her throat. “They are still hurting my family. I am seeing this through to the end.”

Maxson studied her for an age and then gave a slow, slight incline of his head. He straightened up and offered her a hand. Quinn took it and he helped her stand.

“Ad victoriam, Paladin.”

Quinn didn’t respond, her mind drifting. Everything became distant as he reeled off his instructions, and she shuffled forward, bending down to kiss the synth—her son—on his head.

“Stay with Carson,” Quinn mumbled. “He’ll look after you.”

Shaun gave a faint smile. “Okay, mom. I love you.”

Quinn’s breath caught in her throat. Did she love him? “I…”

Thankfully, she was spared the upset as Ingram’s voice cut across the gathering.

“Step back, ma’am. Teleporting you now.”

Quinn quickly obeyed, and within seconds the light engulfed her, taking her soaring through the atmosphere.

From the top of the Mass Fusion building, Boston greeted Quinn once again, splayed out in front of her like an old, dying friend. It teemed with invisible life, above and below, and she couldn’t help but wonder if it would ever be rebuilt. Probably not.

In front of her was the dreaded mechanism, its button primed and waiting. Behind her, Maxson wittered on, all business again, like he was hastily trying to cover up the glimmer of compassion he had shown her.

“Proctor Ingram has assured me we’ll be outside the blast radius.” He paused, and Quinn knew he was about to give some sort of practiced speech. She was right.

“Press that button and you not only defeat our enemy, you restore order and decency to the Commonwealth. It’s time, Paladin. The Institute and their synth abominations must be eradicated.”

Quinn ignored him. She continued to stare at the dead city with its parasitic inhabitants. The wind that was whipping through the air was suddenly very cold on her face. She knew what she was doing. Every second she delayed was a second longer in Shaun’s life.

“Paladin?”

“I need a moment. My son...my husband. Everything. This is just…” Quinn squeezed her eyes shut and then opened them. It was time.

Her hand hovered over the button as she stared at it. Drops of water pattered onto its rusted surface, and she realised tears were streaming down her cheeks. Quinn placed her thumb over the device and looked up towards the Institute.

She pressed it.

A huge white glow bloomed from nowhere, and then the ground shook as an explosion rocketed up in the sky, flame and dust and debris swirling like hellfire unleashed. Quinn closed her eyes, feeling the rush of heat whip through the atmosphere. Her knees buckled as the blast reached them, and she clung to the platform, barely feeling the hands grasping at her.

She was back. Shaun crying in Nate’s arms, Boston burning in the distance, the floor lowering them into their final resting place: Vault 111. She was choking on her fear, waiting for her death. Her son. Oh, her son.

The darkness of the vault swallowed her.

Nate smiled as he waved to Quinn from the living room window. She gave him a death glare and stomped off down the street. He waited until she’d disappeared from sight, and then hurried towards Shaun’s room, chuckling to himself. She was still angry that even after Codsworth had been fixed, he hadn’t returned her Islay to her. But as he’d said, why? She hadn’t fixed the robot for him. He’d had to call in a repair technician himself.

Fair punishment.

Nate picked Shaun up out of his cot and kissed the top of his head. “Hey, champ. Wanna help me do something nice for your mom?”

Shaun gurgled and grabbed hold of Nate’s finger, putting it in his mouth.

Nate laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

He carried Shaun out to the shed—his man shed, a very important distinction from regular sheds, as he kept telling Quinn. The insistence usually earned him an eye roll. But it was the only place she wouldn’t hide his socks and screwdriver from him, and so the only place he could hide things from her. Well, except from the secret safe where he’d put her whisky. But that was an exceptional circumstance.

Sitting down on his stool, Nate shifted his hold on Shaun and picked up a holotape recorder he’d recently purchased. He showed it to Shaun, who immediately surrendered Nate’s fingers and put the recorder in his mouth instead.

“We’re gonna record a nice message for your mom,” he said, watching Shaun dribble away on the plastic casing. “So that when I give her the whisky back, she won’t divorce me. Good plan?”

Shaun made a babbling noise.

“Glad you agree, little man.”

Carefully, he edged the recorder out from Shaun’s grasp, distracting him so he wouldn’t cry, and then turned it on. Straight away, Shaun made a grab for it, and Nate nearly dropped it. “Oops!” He laughed and Shaun took hold of his sleeve cuff and started trying to chew that. Nate smiled as he said, “Keep those little fingers away…”

He hadn’t exactly planned what he was going to say in his holotape, and yet it all seemed to flow together naturally. How much he loved Quinn, what a wonderful mother she was, and his excitement for the future.

It was all true. Things would be hard, but so long as he had his family, he would be fine. Quinn had taught him that. He bounced Shaun on his knee, feeling a rush of love for his son. "Now say goodbye, Shaun. Bye bye. Say bye bye!”

Shaun gurgled again, and Nate grinned.

“Bye, honey. We love you."

A/N: So today is a monumental day for this fic! Aside from a few canon dialogue pieces from the aftermath of the game, this is it. We’ve reached the end of established Fallout 4 canon.

I finally have free reign over the story.

I am so damn excited. What about you?

#Fallout 4 #Paladin Danse #ss x danse #sole survivor x danse #fallout 4 fanfic #by no constraint #story #writing

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artificialqueens · 7 years

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Castle On The Hill (2/3) - Trixya - Silver

A/N: hey! I just wanted to say thank you guys so much for all of the lovely feed back on the first part of this, it’s really appreciated. Here’s part 2, I hope you enjoy!:)

Seventeen came as a welcome change and eighteen felt like an accomplishment.

Nineteen was too far away.

A long night working until the early hours of the morning in some sketchy corner shop that he had no interest in at all had Katya collapsing on his couch as soon as he arrived home.

Outside, it was raining. The fact that it was the middle of summer being completely disregarded by the clouds that had been releasing heavy droplets of water relentlessly for the past couple of days.

Pelting against the roof of his house, Katya acknowledged that the sound of rain was meant to make him feel relaxed. Only it did the exact opposite. To him, the outdoors was where he felt most at ease - his safe haven of sorts.

With his parents sleeping soundly upstairs and his brothers probably either sleeping or playing video games in their own worlds, he dragged himself to his kitchen and began making a cup of hot coffee.

His contemplation continued as he picked up his phone that had long been out of battery. Sparking to life as it connected with the charger, Katya made sure to check for any texts or messages he had missed.

Nothing.

He sighed, putting his phone down once again, and instead turned to look out of the window of his kitchen.

It was different these days.

The sun no longer seemed to rise and set over the small town like it once had, and the seasons all looked like they had blended in to one continuous period of discontent. The sky appeared darker and the stars never glimmered as bright, while the trees and flowers had lost some, if not most, of their vibrancy.

His garden looked empty too. Even though it was filled with childhood memories and miscellaneous garden ornaments, and features that characterised the once adored outdoor family space - it had undeniably changed.

Katya had come to the conclusion that people lie.

They lie when they tell you that change is for the better and they lie even more when they tell you that they haven’t changed; they’ve instead progressed or developed.

If things changed for the better then why did he feel outcasted in his home town. Eighteen years of familiarity and then a sense of distain towards everything that reminded him of anything.

Driving past his old school made him nostalgic for the days he’d spend with his friends acting like the children they were; like the free spirits they were.

Walking through the woods down the road from his house didn’t quell his thoughts, either. Instead it threw gallons of gasoline on the burning flame that was his subconscious.

It was summer - he had to keep reminding himself. With no plans yet as to what he was going to do if he didn’t decide to go to college in the fall, he had to have a back up plan of sorts.

Yet - nothing.

Most other people he knew had plans. They’d had plans for months - years, even.

He knew Trixie was planning on travelling and -

He hadn’t spoken to Trixie in weeks.

When he wasn’t sleeping, he was working, and when he wasn’t working, he was busy thinking of excuses as to why he was busy and sorry Trix I can’t today, I have to help my mom out.

It was a case of I don’t want to have to acknowledge the fact that Trixie won’t be around the corner from me forever. Trixie won’t be able to come over just to kiss me when I’m feeling anxious at four in the morning forever.

They wouldn’t be able to continue like they always had known forever.

His phone vibrated.

What he expected to be a text from either one of his brothers upstairs telling him to be quiet, I’m trying to sleep, or Kurtis or Matt asking him to meet up the next day - turned out to be from Trixie. The saying speak of the devil springs to mind for a moment, though Trixie is no devil.

Angel.

Trixie: It’s been two weeks and I miss my hooker. Can we please meet up some time soon? I feel like you’re avoiding me :( xo

Katya read the message but didn’t respond.

With the rain falling harder against the roof and the window in front of him, he picked out a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket.

Two steps across the kitchen floor took him to the back door, which he opened - feeling the gales of wind and drops of rain hit him as forceful as the realisation that he couldn’t ignore Trixie for much longer.

He put out the cigarette after only a small number of inhalations by throwing it in to a nearby plant pot, watching the rain instantly diminish the burning end.

He picked his phone up once again.

Trixie: Can I call you?

Trixie: I’m calling you The ringtone he’d set specifically for Trixie began to echo throughout the room, a strange symphony of chimes and synthesisers.

A phone line away, Trixie’s only wish was that Katya would answer his call.

He missed Katya. He missed Brian.

Just pick up, you whore.

“Hello?”.

Trixie’s heart beat more intensely than the rain that hit her roof, too.

“Hi”. Voice quiet and nerves shaky.

It’s Katya god damn it, get your shit together, girl. “So-”.

“Have I done something wrong?”. Trixie questioned, sinking back in to the comfort of his blanketed bed.

Katya paused. A few streets down, he slumped against one of his kitchen surfaces.

“Katya?”. Persisted Trixie when he heard no response.

“You haven’t done anything”.

Then why have you spent more effort on ignoring me than anything you’ve ever done in your life, Trixie mused bitterly to himself.

“Then what’s the problem Bri?”.

Real name.

A small edge of vulnerability.

“Just life, I guess”. Katya knew it was a weak answer, an excuse of answer, yet he said it regardlessly. Trixie’s tone hadn’t softened when he answered.

“That’s a bullshit answer if I’ve ever heard one”.

The phone line was quiet. White noise filling the chaotically empty space between them.

“Just - please can we meet up? Kurtis, Matt, Danny, Roy and I are meeting up by the castle tomorrow at four-ish. It’s suppose to stop raining tonight”. Trixie’s words trailed off in to nothingness, blowing through the gales outside and getting destroyed in the process.

“I don’t know, Trixie. Summer’s almost over and-”.

“Please”.

Lightening struck somewhere in the distance, and Katya nodded, albeit to himself.

“Alright, ok, I’ll come, but please just - let’s get on with things. I’m sorry I’ve been such an awful friend lately”.

Sighing, Trixie rolled over on to his side, burying his face in to the nearest pillow whilst he listened to Katya’s laboured breathing through the phone.

Trixie decided that people lie after Katya had finished speaking. They lie when they say words will never hurt you and that sticks and stones do more damage. They lied when they told Trixie at six years old that nothing would ever hurt more than when he broke his leg in three places.

It used to be best friends, at one point it was you’re my everything, and then it was degraded to friends.

Trixie felt juvenile. He felt stupid.

“I’ll see you tomorrow”. He mumbled, words muffled by the pillow he still laid upon before he pressed end call on his phone screen.

Friends.

*****

Trixie had been right when he’d said it would stop raining the next morning.

When Katya awoke to the sun dancing leisurely around his living room, back aching from having fallen asleep on his couch, his eyes followed the illuminated specs of dust flying around the room for a long while.

A note left on the coffee table in the middle of the room told him that his brothers would be out until the night and his mother and farther would be working late shifts at work too. Nothing new.

Nothing new at all, initially.

Nothing new until it was four in the afternoon and he was walking up the familiar hill that I swear I could walk up blindfolded, in my sleep, while black out drunk. The river still ran rivetingly over the rocks and around the bends of the hill, and the grass still held it’s comforting scent that couldn’t be described as anything apart from home.

The oak tree.

The tree that had been centre point for so many things in his life.

From childhood play dates to family picnics. From social gatherings with friends in middle school to where he got high for the first time with Trixie. Where he had his first kiss with Trixie.

The natural grand sculpture that once stood proudly now lay broken on its side. Trunk snapped and branches scattered around the area, with the green leaves dying to look autumnal, Katya doubted he had ever been so - upset - by something that seemed so inferior to every other issue.

The group of friends that he was meeting were sat on the collapsed trunk, chatting aimlessly about something that Katya had no real interest in.

“What happened?”. He forwent greetings in lieu of questioning.

They offered shrugs in return. Trixie included.

Silence.

“My mom said it fell down during the storm last night”. The other Brian spoke.

The shorter boy nodded, walking to closer to Trixie, and making sure everybody else was busy before he placed his hand tentatively on Trixie’s that held a yellowing leaf.

“Can we go somewhere?”. Subtlety was never Katya’s forte.

Only a nod in response.

It took less than ten minutes. Ten minutes until they were sat on a short wall of the once fairytale-like castle on top of the hill - that now stood in ruins.

Around them was bleak. Though the sun still shon brightly, it didn’t reflect off of the water cascading through the river. The grass was green yet it looked dim in comparison to summers in years previously.

“I’ve missed you too”. Referring back to Trixie’s initial message the day before, Katya turned to make eye contact with the younger boy.

Wearily smiling, Trixie shuffled around so that he sat cross legged on the wall, facing Katya.

“Doesn’t feel like it”.

Katya reminded himself that Trixie had every right to be blunt and bitter with him - even if Trixie hadn’t shared the fact that he was leaving within the next couple of weeks to travel the world.

“Kurtis told me you were leaving in a few weeks to-”.

Katya didn’t continue. Instead he looked out to the town which could be seen clearly from their position high above everybody. Familiarity, normality, home.

Katya didn’t want to find out how much of that would change without Trixie’s presence.

“Bri - I swear I was going to tell you and I-”.

Katya shook his head, taking ahold of Trixie’s hand that had been mid air performing some kind of gesture.

He’d never not be supportive of Trixie. He couldn’t not be supportive of him.

“I’m happy for you, you idiot. Of course I’m happy - you deserve fucking everything that this shitty world had to offer-”.

Trixie cut Katya off unintentionally, yet he wholeheartedly had to.

“Then why have you been-”.

“I don’t want you to leave”.

A pause. A glance back at winter when any lake or pond or river would freeze over in an instance if the temperature dropped too low.

“I know it’s stupid, and it’s so selfish, but god damn it I-”.

Trixie was the optimist these days. The dreamer and the illusionist. His fantasy ran mind and idealistic view of the world sometimes had Katya confused and bewildered.

“Come with me, then”.

Katya didn’t contemplate the idea for a second. Shaking his head and letting go of Trixie’s warm hand, he let his shoulders drop.

“I can’t”. He paused.

“This is my home, Trixie, I can’t just-”. Trixie nodded, accepting Katya’s reasoning far easier and quicker than Katya thought he would.

“I get it”. Trixie smiled, nudging Katya’s side with his elbow and making the slightly taller boy chuckle.

“There’s so many memories here”. Trixie began, mind drifting away to his whole life that he’d spent in the town, allowing himself to recall all of the forever memorable events that had taken place there.

Katya smilled. Agreement.

“But I need to get out there-”. Trixie reinforced, Katya’s eyes beginning to fill with unwelcome tears. They fell when Trixie calmed Katya’s worries from the day previously.

“- and don’t think for a second that I’ll forget about you, god damn it. Even if all I am to you is a friend, you’ll always by my Katya, my Brian. My crazy Russian, bisexual transvestite hooker”.

Katya began laughing. Actually laughing.

“I didn’t mean it when I said friend last night, you know that, right?”. Katya felt as if he was treading gentle upon a thing layer of ice on top of a frozen lake that could crack at any moment.

“You and I, we’d never be able to just be friends”.

Trixie nodded, fully aware of his own feelings and emotions, and aware of Katya’s enough to be able to draw a line under their conversation. The bag that still sat at his feet reminded him of one specific memory when Katya rest his head upon his shoulder.

A bottle of vodka was pulled from Trixie’s bag minutes later.

“What are you-”.

“Remember that time we got stoned for the first time? I thought it’d be fun to throw a little homage, if you will, to that night. I know it’s only cheap alcohol ‘cause let’s be honest working in a sandwich shop doesn’t pay that well but-”.

Katya grinned, almost yanking the heavy bottle out of Trixie’s hands, and cracking it open before Trixie barely had time to blink.

“You’re my favourite person”. A delicate kiss to Trixie’s cheek made the younger of the two blush.

A smile that was shared between the two defrosted the apparent ice and melted it away to reveal the summer that was present beneath.

Lost in a hazy field of daisies and mythical creatures, surrounded by high castle walls that they’d painted themselves with colourful water from the sparkling river, they let themselves go.

Trixie would have been lying if he had said he thought he’d ever find anywhere that felt more like home than this.

*****

Two weeks later saw them at the train station.

Katya had pulled Trixie in to a tight embrace, not willing to face the reality of Trixie leaving for who knows how long. Maybe it would be a year or maybe it would be ten.

The unknown was a scary thing, they’d both decided individually.

“Please don’t go yet”. It was all but whimpered as it left Katya’s lips.

Trixie pulled away regardless, but pressed a soft, loving kiss to Katya’s supple lips in the process.

“Don’t worry, Bri. I’ll be back in a little while”.

#castle on the hill #silver #trixya #katya zamolodchikova #trixie mattel #rpdr fanfiction #submission

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gordonwilliamsweb · 4 years

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Must-Reads Of The Week From Brianna Labuskes

The Friday Breeze

Newsletter editor Brianna Labuskes, who reads everything on health care to compile our daily Morning Briefing, offers the best and most provocative stories for the weekend.

Hello! It is once again Friday, which means I’m going to attempt to do my very best to give you a snapshot of some (read: a fraction) of the best stories from the week amid a flood of them.

But first! Take yourself on this journey about how the most well-known coronavirus image (that gray blob with stone-like texture and red crowns and colored flecks) was made. Sometimes when the government is creating informational illustrations it focuses on the vector or the symptoms, but for this coronavirus the CDC’s Alissa Eckert and Dan Higgins went with what’s called a “beauty shot.” It’s a very cool read!

All right, here we go:

The confirmed number of confirmed cases globally ticked past a million this week in a grim milestone that experts still say represents only a percentage of the actual cases out there. The U.S. had recorded over 250,000 cases as of press time, with more than 6,500 deaths.

President Donald Trump invoked his wartime powers to help manufacturers secure supplies needed to make ventilators and protective face masks, but is it too little, too late? New York Gov. Andrew Cuomo, whose state has become the epicenter of the nation’s outbreak, said on Thursday it will use up all available ventilators in less than a week. Meanwhile, FEMA said that most of the ventilators Trump promised to obtain won’t be ready until June.

Governors are distraught over their inability to obtain the needed supplies, likening the process of requesting the equipment to eBay auctions. “You now literally will have a company call you up and say, ‘Well, California just outbid you,’” Cuomo said.

Another roadblock is that 2,000 of the ventilators in the national stockpile are unusable because of a lapse in a contract that left a monthslong gap, during which the machines weren’t being properly maintained.

In the meantime, General Motors has shrugged off Trump’s attacks on the company (he said GM and its chief executive were dragging their feet on the project) and are moving full-throttle ahead at producing the needed equipment. “Every ventilator is a life,” said one GM exec.

With so much focus on ventilators, doctors are being advised on how to ration care and being told that they’ll be supported in their decisions not to perform futile intubations.

One quick note on that front: New York lawmakers are moving on legislation that would grant sweeping civil- and criminal-liability protections to hospitals and health care workers dealing with coronavirus patients.

And even though there’s a ton of attention on ventilators, the survival rate of any patient who requires one is only 20% — meaning that even without a shortage, they can only help a fraction of patients.

In other important news on the preparedness front:

The Washington Post: Inside America’s Mask Crunch: A Slow Government Reaction and an Industry Wary of Liability

The New York Times: Essential Drug Supplies for Virus Patients Are Running Low

The New York Times: The U.S. Tried to Build a New Fleet of Ventilators. The Mission Failed

The Friday Breeze

Want a roundup of the must-read stories this week chosen by KHN Newsletter Editor Brianna Labuskes? Sign up for The Friday Breeze today.

Please confirm your email address below:

Trump warned Americans this week that “hard days” lie ahead and that people should be braced for a “bad two weeks,” with the White House projecting that the death toll could be somewhere between 100,000 to 240,000. For what it’s worth, disease forecasters were mystified over where the task force got those numbers, mostly because we don’t yet know enough about the virus.

(What helped change Trump’s mind, considering he’d previously mused that the country could return to normal in time to fill the pews on Easter? Polling numbers.)

To help states deal with the crisis, CMS relaxed safety rules for hospitals, giving them unprecedented flexibility. The changes include what counts as a hospital bed, how closely certain medical professionals need to be supervised and what kinds of health care can be delivered at home.

The administration decided not to follow suit after a handful of states reopened their exchanges, though Trump seemed to hint that the possibility was still on the table “as a matter of fairness.” Also, to note, if people have lost their insurance because of their jobs, that counts as a qualifying event and they have 60 days to enroll in the federal exchanges, regardless of what Trump does with a special session.

And although Drs. Anthony Fauci and Deborah Birx, along with Vice President Mike Pence, have emerged as the leading voices of the administration’s pandemic response, Trump’s son-in-law Jared Kushner has taken charge behind the scenes. Critics say its adding confusion to an already chaotic situation.

And reports continue to emerge that the Trump administration was cutting pandemic detection positions in China just months before the outbreak.

In other news on the administration:

Politico: FEMA Braces for a Multi-Front War As Hurricane Season Looms

Politico: Inside The National Security Council, a Rising Sense of Dread

The New York Times: C.I.A. Hunts for Authentic Virus Totals in China, Dismissing Government Tallies

The New York Times: Trump Administration Officials Weigh How Far to Go on Recommending Masks

House Speaker Nancy Pelosi will be creating a special committee to oversee the implementation of the $2.2 trillion stimulus package and any other coronavirus legislation coming down the pike. “Where there’s money there’s also frequently mischief,” Pelosi said, in perhaps one of my favorite quotes of the week. Meanwhile, House Democrats may be raring to get started on a fourth stimulus package, but Republicans are pumping the brakes. At the very least, they say, they want to see how the current stimulus package plays out.

The news came the same day as it was reported that 6.6 million Americans filed for unemployment benefits. That eye-popping number blows past all previous records. And experts say it represents only a sliver of the economic devastation the virus is wreaking on the country. There are many affected Americans who remain uncounted — some have lost jobs or income and did not initially qualify for benefits, and others, encountering state unemployment offices that were overwhelmed by the deluge of claimants, were unsuccessful in filing.

In other news about Congress and the economic damage from the outbreak:

NBC News: U.S. Economy Lost a Total of 701,000 Jobs in March

NBC News: Record Number of Unemployed Americans Will Stress State Medicaid Programs

The New York Times: Loeffler’s Wealth Becomes a Risk As Rivals Charge She Profited on the Coronavirus

The New York Times: ‘Never Thought I Would Need It’: Americans Put Pride Aside to Seek Aid

The New York Times: Why the Global Recession Could Last a Long Time

The Democratic National Convention, expected to draw as many as 50,000 visitors, was postponed from July to August in one of the largest disruptions to the 2020 elections so far. On the other hand, Wisconsin is going ahead with its primary on Tuesday, which is causing mixed reactions … including apoplectic rage.