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alittlewhump · 3 years

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Unbidden - Act 1, chapter 4

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Content warnings: fantasy violence, death mention, fantasy religion

They had travelled for another half a day before reaching the remains of the little town. It had been thoroughly sacked, most of the buildings now just burned out husks. Blaise was staring down at the body of what had presumably been one of the inhabitants. Morgan could tell she was distressed, and she was also sending signals of anger. It was becoming apparent that anger was a standard underpinning of most of her other emotions. Her hands were balled into fists at her sides.

"He was just a kid."

Morgan didn't know how to respond. The boy had been prepubescent, the small size of his body accentuated by the large and ungainly prosthetic leg still partially attached under one knee. The forces of darkness did not discriminate, equitable in their ruthlessness. That would not be the correct thing to say right now. He ventured a soft "Yes," to which Blaise did not respond. He raised a hand, thinking to lay it on her shoulder in a gesture of sympathy he'd seen many times, but then let it fall back to his side. She would likely only take offense, not comfort, from that action. He didn't particularly like touching other people anyway, if it could be avoided.

Morgan squinted instead toward the ruined town, looking more with his mind than with his eyes. There were more like the boy, all adults but recently deceased, their bones partially scattered above the ground. It was most often undead that left their victims this way, torn asunder carelessly. They were slow enemies whose movements were easy to predict. Should be simple enough. Hopefully the scholar they sought had been fast enough to hide himself away or make an escape.

Morgan's skeletons turned in unison, raising their swords in challenge. He often relied on their perception to fill in the gaps where he wasn't paying attention. There was a yelp, and a small red demon scampered out from behind a ruined building. It didn't make it far. Before the skeletons had a chance to charge, Blaise had planted an arrow between its shoulders. Its dying cry echoed through the remnants of the town, prompting a rush of activity. It seemed a number of demons had settled in. The undead had simply been scavenging, then. That could complicate things.

Morgan urged his skeletons forward, taking a step back as he started on a clay golem. He'd managed to get the time down to about thirty seconds, but it was evident that wouldn't be fast enough for most combat situations. He would have to keep working at it.

Blaise was proving to be an extremely skilled archer. Her shots were both quick and accurate, devastating to the smaller demons. It wasn't just the imps, though; there was a group of larger demons as well, goatlike bipeds wielding wicked-looking glaives. They moved to flank the invading humans, but Morgan spotted the maneuver and commanded his minions to intercept the closest ones. Their awareness was reasonably comprehensive, but his own let him down. If the goatman behind him hadn't bleated as it raised its weapon to strike, it could easily have finished him with a single blow.

He twisted sideways, narrowly avoiding the strike. Drawing his sword was easier from the far hip after all. He plunged it blindly into the demon's middle before it had a chance to raise its weapon a second time. Accuracy wasn't paramount at the moment, just so long as he got the point far enough in and wrenched to the side with sufficient strength. He jumped back, avoiding the spray of viscera that followed his blade as the demon fell.

He should have been checking for other threats instead; if he had, he might have noticed the small one creeping up behind him, emboldened by the presence of the stronger demons. It swung its blade with a battle cry, slicing into the flesh of Morgan's thigh. He cried out in surprise and pain, lashing out with his shield to gain some distance. The demon was already backing off, its fit of courage fading. It was watching him so intently that it didn't notice the skeleton behind it. A single well-aimed thrust saw it fall with a gurgle.

Morgan pressed a hand to the cut on his leg. The blade hadn't severed anything crucial, but the pain would hamper his mobility and the wound was deep enough to warrant treatment. He ordered the skeleton closer as he felt around in the pouch on his belt, fingers seeking a familiar shape - there. He uncorked the small bottle with his teeth and downed its contents. The taste of the potion lingered on his tongue, but it was mildly sweet and herbaceous, not at all unpleasant. It would only be a few minutes before the injury was fully healed. It already felt a little better.

The few remaining demons had incapacitated the other skeleton but they were fleeing now, not that it was doing them much good in the face of Blaise's arrows. She was merciless and efficient. Morgan could see why Kashya had chosen her for the task. Something was amiss, though. He couldn't quite put his finger on it. He looked around again, and his eyes fell on one of the deceased civilians. That was it - the body showed signs of undead interference, but they had slain only demons. The two types of creatures often coexisted peacefully, so it wasn't likely that one group had driven out the other.

"That's the last of them," Blaise announced, lowering her bow. "Now let's hope we can find this guy quickly so we can leave. I don't like this place."

"It looked like there would be undead, so be - oh, look there-" Something was stirring, far enough away that Morgan couldn't make out exactly what it was, but the movement wasn't promising. He pointed with his sword, his minions already on their way to investigate. Blaise nocked another arrow and raised her bow.

An enormous zombie staggered toward them. Had it been... hiding? Or just somehow unaware of the skirmish? It was surprisingly fast for its size. It was also unexpectedly strong, Morgan realized as it shattered the skeleton's skull with a single powerful strike. Blaise was on the retreat, peppering it with arrows that didn't seem to be having much effect. The clay golem made it stumble with a blow to its side, but it struck out in retaliation with such force that the construct crumbled to pieces. Morgan weighed his options quickly. It was too fast for another golem. A new skeleton might be fast enough, but it would only be able to serve as a momentary distraction. With his injured leg he wouldn't even be able to outrun this one if he fled, never mind what that might mean for Blaise. He had to find a way to separate the head from the body, or destroy the brain. Not ideal, given his limited physical capacity, but then again neither was dying.

Blaise called out, "Some support would be nice!" Yes, it - oh, she meant from him. The zombie was focused on her as the only aggressor. He did have the weaponry better suited to dispatch it, if only he could reach its head. He struck the hilt of his sword against his buckler and shouted, hoping the noise would get its attention. It did not. If it was going to ignore him, maybe he could use that to his advantage.

Morgan darted in, intending to strike at the zombie's knees. Joints were always vulnerable, good targets for incapacitating an enemy. He was too slow - it finally turned toward him with a fierce swing of its arm. He managed to get his shield up in time, but the blow still lifted him off his feet. The uneven terrain and his injury made for a poor landing but an idea sparked as he stumbled, falling into a crouch with one hand braced on the ground.

He sent a tendril of magic shooting forth through the soil, just a small one for the sake of speed. If this didn't work, he might not have the time for a second try. The earth in front of the zombie rose up and curled back to cover its feet. It was not coordinated enough to avoid the crude trap. Morgan picked himself up as the undead fell to its knees, finally bringing its weak point within range. He quickly positioned the tip of his sword at the base of its skull and gave it a hard thrust, pushing with the force of both hands. There was a snap as the spine gave way, and the body collapsed.

That had felt a little too close for comfort. Morgan summoned another skeleton and sent it to scout for any more undead. Another surprise like that would be disastrous. If he kept a steady trickle of magic flowing between himself and the skeleton, he would be able to tell immediately if it had been damaged or destroyed.

"All right, now let's look for your man Deckard. Carefully. There had better not be any more of these big fuckers lurking around." Blaise nudged the body gingerly with her foot.

They moved through the town warily at first, growing more relaxed as it became apparent that they had fully cleared out its new inhabitants. A few of the buildings had cellars dug out beneath them, but they had all been empty. It was starting to look like there had been no survivors at all when Blaise spotted something.

"Wait, is that him?"

Morgan followed her gaze to a crudely constructed cage leaning up against a building. He had assumed the prone figure inside it, half hidden by rags, had been another body. But when he reached out, first with his mind alone and then with an extended arm to better direct the magic, there was no response - no bones he could use, unlike the rest of the unfortunate townsfolk.

"That one's not dead," he said, moving in closer. The pale figure was unconscious, yes, but still living. It looked like it might be an old man.

"How do you - ugh, I don't want to know, never mind." Blaise made it to him first, reaching through the bars of the cage to check for a pulse at the old man's throat. She must have found one, since her next move was to shake his shoulder gently.

He startled awake, eyes wide. "Back! Back, foul demons!" he cried out.

"Whoa, hey there, it's okay. Don't worry, my name is Blaise and I'm here to help you. The demons are gone. Are you all right? You hurt at all?" Her voice was reassuring, soothing. Her features had softened into an expression of genuine concern.

"You... oh, thank heavens! It's so good to see a friendly face. No, my dear, I'm a little worse for the wear but I'm not injured. I don't suppose you might have some water to share, would you? I'm absolutely parched."

Morgan had reached the cage by that time, and passed his waterskin through the bars. Blaise moved to examine the lock on the cage, giving it a very brief examination before fishing out two slender metal tools from her pack. "I'll have you out of there in no time," she reassured him as she began working at the lock.

The scouting skeleton hadn't encountered anything of note, but the earlier surprise was still troubling Morgan. He decided to raise another golem to join the perimeter guard, just to be on the safer side. To his surprise, the old man brightened as the shape began to take form.

"Ah, geomancy! It's been a rather long time since I've seen that particular school of magic. And so sombre, too - would I be right in guessing you to be followers of Rathma?" The old man pulled himself upright, leaning on the cage bars for support as the lock cracked open in Blaise's hands.

"Just me."

"Just him."

Blaise seemed surprised by their response in unison, but it didn't appear to faze the other man at all. "Well," he said, "whatever your origins, I'm grateful for the rescue. My name is Deckard Cain." That was excellent news. A stroke of luck that the sole survivor was the man they had been looking for. He kept talking as he stepped out of the cage. "When the demons descended, I was sure I was not long for this world. I can't imagine what possessed them to lock me up in there, but it certainly saved me from sharing a fate with everyone else here." He looked sadly at one of the human bodies, a woman who appeared to have died in the street, reaching toward the door of a house. "I only wish there was something I could have done to prevent this tragedy. These were good people. They didn't deserve this."

"I could give them their final rites," Morgan suggested. Nothing could undo what had happened, but at least the dead could be laid to rest properly. It might give some measure of comfort to the old man as well. All things considered, it felt like an acceptable delay.

Cain laid a hand on Morgan's shoulder. He flinched only slightly at the unexpected contact. "Thank you, friend. It is kind of you to offer, and I can think of no one better than a priest of Rathma to lay these people to rest."

Blaise coughed. "Are you sure about that? You... you know what they do with skeletons, right?"

"My dear, I assure you there are none more suited to care for the dead. I visited a temple of Rathma once for several months in my younger days, far to the southeast..."

Morgan half listened as he stowed his shield. It was a simple enough line to draw, though it seemed unlikely that Blaise would be interested in the particulars: bodies that had been consecrated, no matter the particulars of the faith that informed the process, felt different than ones that had not received that treatment. They were easy to sense and avoid, and besides that, they were considerably harder to raise. Powerful practitioners were capable of such feats, but despite their reputation, priests of their Order gave the dead every courtesy they would afford the living. It wasn't uncommon to meet resistance even in the dead that had passed on unremarked; in these cases, a necromancer could either leave the spirit be or pass it through the veil as they deemed appropriate. Morgan preferred the option of assisting with the passing on, though he hadn't ever personally had the opportunity. It felt like it would be better than just leaving them to linger.

The first stages of preparation for this particular ceremony didn't require much concentration, just some physical effort to collect and lay out the deceased. Including the boy from the outskirts of the town, there were six bodies to inter. There was a good spot near the central part of the town, likely once a market of some sort. It seemed unlikely that anyone would be rushing to rebuild the town any time soon, he reasoned.

"Excuse me, young man." Morgan stopped to look at Cain, who was wearing an apologetic smile. "I hate to be a bother, but..." He gestured toward the remains of the enormous zombie. "This gentleman is... or was, rather... Griswold, the town blacksmith. Stone deaf but a heart of gold in him. He did great things, in life. Is there any way you could include him as well?"

"Yes, of course." Morgan considered the body for a moment before calling his golem back over from where it had been patrolling the area. Even with its help, it was difficult to maneuver the corpse over to the others. But they managed eventually, making him the seventh in the line. Cain chattered on to Blaise the entire time, but clearly he was also paying some attention to Morgan.

"That's everyone," he confirmed before Morgan had even opened his mouth to ask. "It saddens me to see this lively town reduced to so little. Rest well, my friends."

That was a recognizable cue. Morgan began by consecrating the zombie, drawing a small phial of oil from his chest pocket and anointing its head and hands. The oil glowed faintly as he said a brief incantation, an ancient prayer. The first step completed, he switched to a different oil and drew a simple sigil on the forehead of each of the deceased. This anointment was to help guide the spirits up to Anu. As he recited the liturgy, he was surprised to hear Cain's voice joining his own during the repeated segments. He filed that away to consider later. Right now he needed to concentrate.

Seven was a lot of bodies to inter, but if he let the constructs fall and paced himself he could probably manage. He knelt by Griswold and touched the earth. Carefully, slowly, it parted beneath the giant of a man. Once the body was several feet deep, the dirt filled in on top of him, leaving a small mound on the surface. The effort left him slightly winded. It had been a good idea to start with the largest. The next two were easier, but the cumulative strain was growing faster than he'd anticipated. Sweat was beginning to bead on his forehead and he'd lost his breath again. Better to pause now than to have to stop in the middle of an interment, he decided.

He took a small bottle from his belt, uncorked it and tossed back the bitter bluish liquid in one motion, kneeling again before the dizziness set in. The familiar buzz of magical energy crackled through him. It itched under his skin. He would have preferred to rest instead of taking the potion, but interrupting the ceremony was not an option. The whole point was to respectfully lay them to rest; stopping for a break would have felt disrespectful. He had to press on.

Despite his measured approach, Morgan was trembling with exhaustion by the time the last body was safely entombed. Seven had turned out to be too many. The potion had helped, but its borrowed energy left as suddenly as it came, and the body shakes it left in its wake were uncomfortable. He fell into a cross-legged position, elbows braced on his knees, head hanging as his chest heaved. Meditation wasn't going to cut it after this. He was going to need real sleep. Still, it was satisfying to feel he'd done a good job of the burial ceremony. He was also grateful that Blaise had elected to keep watch during the proceedings. He'd been forced to abandon his minions to save energy. Had he been alone, safety would have been a serious concern.

Blaise cleared her throat. "Not to kill the moment or anything, but we need to start going before it gets dark. It's a long way back to the Sisterhood."

"Perhaps I can help with that," Cain said. Morgan raised his head to see him produce a small scroll from the pockets of his robe. "This is a scroll of town portal. Have you ever used one before?" Blaise shook her head. "Oh, it's very simple. You just need to picture a place in your head as you read it, and it will open a portal to that place. It only works for human settlements, and the place has to be within a certain distance. But if your description is accurate, as I'm sure it is, the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye should meet those requirements." He held the scroll out for Blaise to take. "I must admit I've never visited, so I can't use this to get to our destination."

Blaise took the scroll and opened it, peering at its contents. Nothing happened. She turned it sideways, then upside down. No portal materialized. She looked up at Cain. "Am I missing something here? I thought this was supposed to be easy."

He frowned. "It should be. Let me look - no, no, the scroll is in order. It should work for you if you're following the instructions. Unless - well, there are a few reasons it might not be working. It could be a matter of lineage, for instance. Were your parents both human?"

Blaise stared at him as though he'd just grown another head. "What else would they be?"

"I've used those scrolls before," Morgan said, rising unsteadily to his feet. He had used the portals fairly regularly, running errands during his training. A throbbing ache was building behind his eyes, and he wanted very much to rest. He was seriously considering curling up in one of the ruined buildings at this point. But that wouldn't take the other people into consideration. Assuming the portal scroll worked, it would be the best course of action to take.

Blaise held it at arm's length. "If you can make it work, go ahead. But if not, we start walking."

Morgan took the scroll, scanning the familiar runes. It wasn't reading, exactly, but they started to glow all the same. He thought about the rogue encampment, focusing on the spot just outside the gates where he'd first waited for Blaise. A shimmering blue circle materialized in front of him, the image of the camp faintly distinguishable in its centre. It stretched until it was big enough to walk through. No problem with the scroll, then.

"Magnificent!" Cain clasped his hands together. "It will be wonderful to be amongst people again. Please, after you."

Morgan would have preferred not to be the first one out of the portal, but Blaise wasn't moving to enter and he didn't have the energy to try to sway her. He stepped into the portal. It was like walking down a short hallway, the distance to the destination collapsed into a few steps. As he stepped out of the portal, he found a sword pointed at his face. His hands came up automatically in a gesture of surrender. Of course the rogues would be suspicious if they weren't accustomed to using this type of magic. That was precisely why he hadn't wanted to lead.

"Oh, it's you." Kashya lowered her sword. "Where's Blaise? Did you find Deckard Cain?"

"They are following," he said, letting his hands fall as he stepped to the side of the portal. He hoped they were following. He was too tired to explain if they weren't.

Sure enough, Cain emerged a few seconds later, peering around. "So this is the Sisterhood of the Sightless Eye! I've heard much about you. I wonder if you would indulge an old man's curiosity. I have some questions for you..." He had honed in on Akara without hesitation, taking her by the arm. She appeared surprisingly amenable; something about him seemed to put people at ease.

Blaise came through shortly after, straightening when she spotted Kashya. "Ma'am."

"Give me a full report."

The commander turned on her heel, going back into the encampment, and Blaise followed her. Good. That meant nobody wanted to talk to Morgan, and he could get some rest. He tore the scroll in half, disrupting the magic holding the portal open. Only living humans could use these portals, but it still felt safer to close it behind him. Unlike the others, he did not enter the encampment. Now was not the time to solicit an invitation. He'd noted a large, sturdy willow tree outside the northern corner of the rogues' camp. He dragged his weary body over to it, nestled in against its trunk, and promptly lost consciousness.

#my writing #story: unbidden #fantasy violence tw #death mention tw #fantasy religion tw

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red-jaebyrd · 4 years

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Perfection at a Cost

Whumptober #25 Blurred Vision

Whatever had been sprayed into Damian’s eyes, somehow got through the lenses of his domino. Damian couldn’t see a thing, but blurred shadows. Anyone else would have been panicked that their vision had been compromised; overwhelmed that they had to compensate for a lost sense. Instead, Damian was angry. Fury surged through him at letting his guard down for a split second. He was better than this; he had been trained by the League of Assassins.

It was hard to keep his eyes opened. They stung and burned from whatever solution was sprayed in his face; and while pepper spray made the eyes swell, this substance made his eyes burn and his vision blurry. Still, Damian didn’t move, instead he closed his eyes concentrating on all his other senses. He used the acoustics of the warehouse to help him. He could feel the vibrations of clunky footfalls and hear heavy breathing. As well as smell cheap cologne and alcohol.

It was just like training.

‘You cannot rely on all your senses to be available to you in times of battle, Damian. There will come a time when you must compensate for the loss such as your sight. Concentrate.’

He couldn’t believe his Mother’s advice would actually help him in the field. But she was right…at least at this moment.

Damian had been trained to fight blindfolded. His mother had insisted upon it as part of his training. At least in this situation, instead of complete darkness, he could still see blurred cloudy shapes. However, the straining on his eyes was giving him a migraine. He took deep breaths through his nose to block out the pain.

Fighting blind had been a hard skill to maintain now that he was living with his father. No one in the family would spar with him while he wore a blindfold. Father had refused, even though he was the optimal opponent and teacher. Grayson and Todd refused on principle. On rare occasions Damian had bullied Drake into sparring with him, but that had been only when Cain was unavailable.

Cain had been the only one amongst the family that had agreed with Damian that it was a worthy skill to maintain and therefore had agreed to help him preserve his muscle memory. However, she set the terms of the blindfold sparring sessions with him. She would not push him beyond his capabilities; the session would not go passed half an hour, and the first sign of injury or exhaustion they would stop.

But this wasn’t training, or sparring with Cain. Damian wasn’t fighting to hone a skill, he was fighting to stay alive and avoid capture.

He could hear Nightwing fighting three guys of his own in his periphery.

Damian stood his ground. If he concentrated enough he could see the blurred shape of a big guy in front of him. He continued to stay silent, yet maintained a fighting stance.

“Got nothin’ to say now that you can’t see, huh?” Big Guy taunted.

He heard someone snicker behind him to his left.

“Quit teasin’ him and be done with it, will ya! I wanna get this over with!” someone yelled behind him to his right.

Damian waited for Big Guy to come at him and sure enough the guy charged him with a punch. Damian was able to duck in time and connect a hit to his gut. He could hear him gasping for air. The second guy grabbed him from behind pinning his arms to the side, but his hold was sloppy. Damian knocked his head back hitting the guy square in the nose. The guy let go of him screaming in agony. Luckily the third guy coming at him was loud enough that Damian was able to land a punch and a kick to his face to finish him.

Amongst the din of the fighting, Damian wasn’t fast enough to move away from a sharp blow to the back of his head. Big Guy had come back for more. Damian fell to the ground seeing stars. His eyes and now his head were killing him. For the second time tonight, Damian had let his guard down. His Mother would be furious.

Failure is not an option, Damian.

You’ll never be good enough to serve in the League if you keep allowing your guard to fall.

Your incompetence is shameful of an al Ghul.

Get up. Stop crying. Pick up your sword.

Before the idiot could land another punch, he heard the familiar sound of escrima sticks hitting flesh; followed closely by the whistling sound of zip-ties.

Damian sat up, but did not stand. There was ringing in his ears and the light from the warehouse was hurting his eyes. Not to mention, the room was still spinning. He knew the familiar feeling of a concussion. He was going to be benched for at least two weeks. He was not looking forward to it.

“Robin, are you alright?” Nightwing asked, bracing to help Damian stand. “That was a nasty hit you took to the head.”

He got up too quickly and swayed as his blurry vision filled with spots. “I’m fine.”

Damian kept his head down and his eyes closed. His eyes were properly burning now and the blow to his head ached making his muscles feel sluggish. The shame of allowing himself to be compromised was starting to take over as the adrenaline of the fight was fading.

“You sure?”

“I’m fine,” he answered again.

He followed Grayson’s black blur until they were outside the warehouse. Once outside everything changed. There was no light to help differentiate moving shapes from stationary objects.

Damian’s shame seeped away into panic. There were too many sounds of the city to help him navigate where to go. Too many smells to help ground him. Damian stopped moving at the doorway. He was not fine. He was exhausted and in pain.

“Robin?” Nightwing asked, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a demand. The tone in Grayson’s voice commanded the truth, no excuses. It was his ‘Batman’ voice. Damian was too tired to lie.

“I can’t see. They sprayed something in my face and it got through my domino,” Damian answered. “It was different in the warehouse. I could distinguish between the blurry shapes with the light and use the acoustics to my advantage. Out here there is no light and there are too many sounds and smells…and my head hurts.”

It was humiliating admitting the pain he was in, but he knew Grayson wouldn’t ridicule him for his honesty. In fact, Grayson would be concerned that he had kept his condition from him.

“We can fix that,” Nightwing said, bending down in front of him and tapping his shoulder. “Hop on, I’ll give you a piggyback ride.”

“T-T,” Damian replied, yet he wrapped his arms around Grayson’s neck as Grayson hooked his arms under Damian’s knees and stood up.

Damian rested his head on Grayson’s shoulder and his body finally started to relax.

“Don’t fall asleep. We still have to double check you for a concussion and flush your eyes out.” Nightwing reminded.

“I know concussion protocol, Nightwing,” Damian yawned, not moving his head from Dick’s shoulder.

He closed his eyes against the night air as they walked to where Grayson had parked his motorcycle.

“So the entire time we were fighting, you couldn’t see anything but blurred shapes and shadows?” Dick asked. “Dames we’ve talked about this, you have to tell me when you get hurt.”

“I was trained by the best to fight under any and all circumstances…including blindness. Saying something to you would not have changed the fact that I could not see properly or that we needed to contain the situation.”

“All valid points, but I still needed to know that your vision had been impaired.”

Damian said nothing in response. There was nothing for him to say to make this situation better. Voicing injuries was something Damian was still not used to actively doing in or outside the field. The more Damian thought about it, Grayson was one to talk. He had hid a stab wound for a solid week before Alfred noticed that he kept favoring his right side. Hypocrite.

“Do I even want to know the types of methods your mother used to train you to fight blind?” Dick asked, breaking the silence.

“No.”

“Tell me anyway…please.”

The exhaustion Damian felt in his bones wasn’t enough to filter all the words that came spilling out. The disorientation from the concussion was like a truth serum. He told Grayson everything.

“Most of the time it was a blindfold, sometimes Mother used…other means; that was how I knew to use the blurred shapes to my advantage. It took me two years to master the skill. I was finally able to do it the summer before I moved in with Father.”

Dick sighed. “I’m sorry you had to go through that, Lil’ D. What she did to you was wrong.”

Damian and Grayson had faced enough situations with his mother in the past to get the gist of her mentality for perfection where Damian was concerned. This however, was the first time he had spoken of her methodology in regards to his combat training.

“Her methods, though unsatisfactory in a conventional sense, did achieve the desired result. Mother demanded perfection in every capacity and used every scenario to her advantage to make me a better fighter. However, my actions tonight did not reflect her training.”

“No, don’t do that to yourself. You are one of the best fighters I know and you did awesome tonight,” Dick praised.

“Do not patronize me, Grayson. I did poorly. I allowed myself to be compromised putting you and myself in further danger. I was trained to be perfect.”

“Nobody’s perfect and I’m not patronizing you. You fought three guys twice your size relying on shadows and blurred shapes; that takes skill. A skill you mastered at the age of nine. You did great. I don’t think I could have done what you did.”

“Probably not. Mother would still have been disappointed in me.”

“Well, she isn’t here. I think Bruce will be impressed.”

Damian wasn’t so sure.

888

They got back to the Cave and Damian allowed Alfred and his father to make a fuss over him. They flushed out his eyes, but since he also had a concussion it left no change with the blurred vision, but the burning subsided.

Damian gave a full report of the nights events. When it came to retelling his fight with the three criminals in the warehouse he hesitated. Dick sat next to him on the bed in the med bay encouraging him to continue his story. Damian was thankful that he couldn’t see his father’s face as he didn’t wish to see his disappointment. Once he was finished he turned his head away expecting to be admonished for his shortcomings on patrol.

“Wait, am I hearing this correctly that you fought three guys twice your size with your vision impaired and essentially used a form of echolocation to defeat them?” Bruce asked.

“Yes, it was part of my training with the League.”

“Son, I’m very impressed with what you did tonight.”

“But I failed.”

“No, you didn’t. Something like this could have happened to any one of us. I’m very proud of you.” Bruce praised, stroking Damian’s hair. “We will need to reinforce your domino and make sure that the lenses protect your eyes so this doesn’t happen again.”

A warm feeling washed over Damian as his father held him. There was no criticism laced in his words. No passive aggressive instructions on what he could improve upon next time. No tearing down of his capabilities and skills. There was only praise and most important of all, his father was proud of him.

“You are not angry with me?”

“Oh course not. I’m impressed with how you handled yourself and the situation. You did good, tonight, son. Now let’s get you to bed.”

He stood and swayed shutting his eyes tightly as his head started to pound at the sudden motion. The pain brought tears to his eyes.

Bruce moved swiftly to steady him and then picked him up gently pressing Damian’s head to his shoulder.

“I’m not a child. I can walk,” Damian sniffed, wrapping his arms tightly around his father’s neck and keeping his head on his Father’s shoulder.

“I know,” Bruce answered, rubbing light circles on his back.

Damian tried to keep his eyes open, but somewhere between getting into the elevator and into his room, Damian fell asleep.

#whumptober2020 #no.25 #blurred vision #Batman #fic #mention of abusive actions toward a child tw #mention of abusive parent tw #Damian Wayne #Dick Grayson #robin #Nightwing #Bruce Wayne #batfic #batbros #fanfiction #dc #batman fanfiction

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ptrparkcrs · 3 years

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no more || petermj & wade

who: peter parker ( @ptrparkcrs ), mary jane watson ( @mcryjanewatson ), wade wilson ( @deadjacuzzi ) when: a november night what: mj is set to leave for her journalism fellowship, but an accident sends things awry quickly word count: 4313 trigger warnings: violence, injury, blood, death (mention), suicidal ideation, the kids really Going Through It

MJ: It was her last full, regular day of work, and it was finally coming to an end. MJ felt so fortunate that she’d landed a spot in the fellowship program she’d been eyeing for the last two years. She fully believed in herself and her abilities, but sometimes she couldn’t help but worry that there would be someone else out there better suited than she. Tony’s letter probably helped, and for that she was incredibly grateful. She was so excited, it was taking everything in her to keep from bouncing off the walls. Everything had fallen into place just perfectly. Her job was holding her position for her, as she wouldn’t be able to fulfill all her regular duties, and she still had plans in place to talk to and see Peter between her travels. All she had to do was wrap up the stories she’d been editing and put them on the editor’s desk, and she could head home and start packing for her journey next week. There were a few days between her last day here, and her flight on Monday, and she fully intended on spending every minute of that time with Peter.

As she walked, heels clicking on the sidewalk, bag secure across her chest, she shot Peter a text that she should be home in about twenty minutes. While she knew she should go to her own place first, she really didn’t want to. Once she got to her place, she’d have to pack and do work and if she went to Peter’s she could just bring food and sit on the couch with him. Plus, MJ was always eager to see Peter, no matter what the situation or how long it’d been since she last saw him. As it was, they’d both been so busy, she felt like she hadn’t seen him in ages. Chances were good he was out patrolling right now. If she looked around enough, she felt like she could find him on a building ledge, but she didn’t feel like she needed to. Before long, she’d be in his apartment, and he’d come in all sweaty from his night keeping watch.

Some would call it unsafe, Peter likely being one of them, but MJ had certain shortcuts and routes she always took through the city. It was much faster, and having lived here most of her life, she really felt she knew the best and safest ways to get around. She’d turned towards one of those very shortcuts, immediately taking notice of a man who was leaning against the wall. She’d come to be very observant, especially since finding out about Peter being Spider-Man. As soon as she passed him, he started following her. She felt a wave of unease and anxiety hit her and she tried to get her phone out as calmly as possible. ‘Someone’s following me,’ she texted Peter, hitting send and putting her phone back in her pocket. It was that moment that she felt a gun press against her back. “I’m not looking for trouble,” she said, putting her hands up a little. “I promise. You can have my bag. I can even make it easy for you and take out the good stuff for you. I won’t say anything to anyone, I promise.”

The brief moment of silence made her all the more anxious. She was going to die in this alley. Oh, this was not how she was supposed to go. Adrenaline coursed through her veins as she tried to figure out what to do. There was pepper spray in her bag if she could only get to it without drawing too much attention. “I have quite a bit of cash. And the bag is a knock-off, but the wallet isn’t,” she said, reaching into her purse as if to prove it to him. She grabbed her pepper spray and turned around to spray him.

WADE: Sometimes the voices were just so loud, Wade thought, the barrel of his gun pressed innocently enough to the temple of his mask. For once, it hadn’t been pointed at his own head. Instead, Wade cradled the cool metal handle like an old friend, slipping from his forehead to his cheek in a slow seduction.

How long had he been standing in the shadows, eyes catching figures as they passed by? The echoes of voices ricocheted off of the brick city walls, Wade’s grip tightening on the weapon in his hand. He’d always preferred a sword - preferred the heaviness of it in his hand, the slow descent and precision it took to wield the blade properly.

But the madness that crept in that evening seemed to lay thick in the air around him, coating his tongue with subconscious thoughts and actions, making his gloved fingers ache to rip and destroy. That was all Wade was really good for, wasn’t it? Some people like Peter were made to create, and Wade was made to demolish. And really, even the distinct loss of hope needed a face to attach to the name, didn’t it?

There had been a certain mania in his actions, Wade following a familiar figure through a crowd, down an alleyway. He couldn’t name them precisely, but Wade hadn’t expected much, considering the tunnel vision in his head lay around him like a thick fog. The only thought that seemed to register was the echoing hiss of, do it, Wade — make them pay, make them hurt the way you hurt, like snake venom between poisonous fangs. How long had he been standing in the shadows, eyes catching figures as they passed by—

It was a rush, the moment he began to move, the gun no longer pressed to his skull, and instead pressed into an easy target. A lithe back, a living being existing in the darkness, the same as Wade had been. Had he been? Don’t hesitate. Make them pay, Wilson. They all think you’re crazy, show them crazy. Let that hatred in. And he did.

The stranger’s actions had been easy to recognize, the skilled mercenary having done the same motions so many times throughout his career. After ‘they’ had made him a monster. After he had come out of the other side, scarred, and broken, and useless, and crazy and —

The pepper spray did nothing through his mask, Wade’s own leather clad arm coming up to brace and parry the motion away from him. There was a crack to the bone that met his palm, and Wade wasn’t sure if it sounded more of a break or a sprain over the continued whispers of doubt around him. How long had he been standing in the shado—

Wade growled, shaking the thoughts away from his mind, heart thudding wildly in his chest as his elbow flew toward an untrained stomach, something in him exploding in a release of pressure. The violence was the only thing that quieted the voices. That made him feel normal again.

I want to be good, Wade’s thoughts screamed, even as a hand gripped hair, I’ve worked so hard to be good, he pleaded with himself as he pushed a tender skull into the brick of the wall beside him.

MJ: How was this night going to end? Was she going to die, her body bloody and bruised on the cold cement? Was this really going to be her end? All of her life, all of her future, gone because she happened to take this route on this night? MJ had too much to live for. Her life was falling into place. She’d given up on her reckless life and taken up a much more responsible one because she wanted to improve herself, her life, have a better future. All of that to die in an alley? That couldn’t be her end. As her hand was swatted away, an audible crack ringing in her ears, she let those words echo in her head to bring her strength. This will not be your end, Mary Jane.

The pain in her arm throbbed, shooting through her body. It made it hard to focus, but she could not let this be the last thing that happened to her. She steadied herself on her feet, preparing to take off, when an elbow struck her. “Please,” she begged, her voice weak, her hands gripping her stomach. MJ knew she was no hero. She wasn’t skilled in combat, didn’t have enhanced anything, and didn’t have tech that could help her. But she’d always considered herself street smart. She always thought she could fend for herself, that she didn’t need to be rescued. And yet here she was, a man in a suit beating the life out of her, and all she could think was how desperately she wanted someone, anyone, to come and save her.

Why her? Had she done something to deserve this? Was she just a random target? Her soft voice cried out in a whimper, her face hitting the wall, skin scraping against the rough brick. Pain enveloped her. It was all she could feel. Her thoughts blurred, her mind having a hard time finding clarity in anything. All that existed right now was pain and fear. And yet, when the hand let go of her, she mustered up all of her strength to run back towards the street. Her heel broke under her, causing her ankle to twist, more pain reverberating through her body, though she hardly noticed it at this point. She wailed in anguish, frustrated that she couldn’t seem to escape this.

“Please don’t kill me,” she pleaded. Everything that happened she could recover from. This didn’t have to be the end. If he would just spare her, she could be okay. MJ was strong. She was a fighter. A few setbacks wouldn’t keep her from leading a fulfilling life. She didn’t think she asking for much, begging for him to have mercy. She didn’t know how much more she could take. Her eyelids felt heavy, and she feared if she passed out here she wouldn’t wake up again.

WADE: It took only moments, for Wade to watch the girl fall blindly onto the disgusting pavement below. It took only a few more moments for her voice to register as familiar, for her figure to be someone he had seen multiple times by Peter’s side. For her name to flicker into his mind’s eye. Mary Jane.

Behind the mask, Wade could feel the blood drain from his face. Could feel his heart begin to beat wildly, the voices in his head retreating back into the darkness they stemmed from, curling violently around memories in his brain, satisfied by the hurt he’d caused.

Peter.

Everything after seemed to disappear in a flash, his gun back in its holster, his burner twisting into his palm. Wade had every street in New York memorized by now, even twist and turn through the alleyways and where they led. 9-1-1 was easy enough to dial, Wade’s voice lifeless as he called for the paramedics to their location.

Peter.

She didn’t know who Wade was. She hadn’t recognized him. Wade hadn’t spoken. It was dark, and foggy, and —

The sirens kicked up in the distance, and even in late night traffic, it would take them twenty minutes to arrive on scene. Plenty of time for Wade to leave and pretend that nothing had ever happened and that the girl 10 feet before him wasn’t someone he knew and —

Wade pulled himself up onto the building, head still swimming with dark thoughts. He didn’t wait and see what would happen, the very little part of him who wanted to be good begged him to stay. Begged him to own up to it and spend time in prison, and maybe he would eventually figure out how to die there and —

Wade blinked, and suddenly he was at home, that same old friend in his hand, on the couch. This time, the barrel was not pressed lovingly to his cheek, instead, nestled against his temple. What he would give for some silence, to forget the horror he’d just caused. The trauma. The ache. The hurt it would bring to Peter and —

Silence.

MJ: There was a shift, one that would have been more noticeable if MJ wasn’t consumed with pain and discomfort. She could hear her own heartbeat loud in her ears, drowning out so many of the sounds of the city. The cool of the ground providing some kind of comfort, her body on fire, the warm blood seeping through her clothes only making that feeling worse. Her breathing felt labored, and in the moment, it was all she could focus on, every sharp inhale piercing her chest.

When she opened her eyes again, the man was gone. Despite the way her arm and head throbbed, she felt herself relax, the fear of what else may happen dissipating like the steam of her breath in the cold air. Some of the shock and adrenaline that clouded her emotions fell, and she laid there and sobbed. There was a distant - no, much closer - sound of sirens, and she could only assume they were for her.

Her eyes felt heavier by the second. The fear returned, forcing her to keep her eyes open even as she wanted nothing more than to close them on this horrible night. Somehow, the pain was all-consuming, and she felt numb at the same time. Perhaps the brain couldn’t process that kind of pain. MJ thought of all the people she knew who had endured much worse, how they still got back up, kept fighting even. She was weak. She hated that there was nothing she could do but wait, writhing in agony, for some sort of help.

The sirens were louder. They couldn’t be more than a few blocks. She wanted to do something, alert them where she was, move closer. The mere thought of standing up was too much to bear. The feeling weighed her down, making her feel more helpless. And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw someone swing down.

Peter.

Even through her own pain, she could feel his. He would be devastated. She didn’t know if he could handle something like this. “Peter,” she called for him, her voice quiet and weak. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, the mix of emotions and torment taking over any ability she had to restrain herself. She reached for him, convulsing as she sobbed, each one worse than the last. She swallowed thick, taking deep breaths as a different sort of panic set in. “I’m so sorry.”

PETER: She was supposed to come for dinner. They were celebrating: the fellowship, her last day of work, a bright and shining future where Mary Jane Watson got the star billing she deserved. Front pages dominated by her bylines, changing the world (maybe, if he let himself hope long enough, finally dethroning Jameson from the Bugle once and for all). He’d gotten champagne (the cheap stuff) and flowers (still cheap, but a step above carnations). He’d thought about cooking, gotten as far as taking a dusty box of pasta from the cabinet, before thinking better of it. MJ deserved better than his cooking. They could order something when she got here, which would be– what had she said? Twenty minutes?

He checked his phone. Yeah, twenty minutes. And then it buzzed in his hand, and Sandwich barked. A second message. There’s someone following me.

Shit.

where are you? he texted her.

No response.

do you need backup

Nothing.

Sandwich growled at his feet, as if he, too, knew that something was wrong. Something was very wrong. It could have been nothing–dead battery, phone on silent, loud buskers near the subway. It could have just been MJ being MJ, living her life, not entirely beholden to one highly strung, overly protective boyfriend. But, in Peter’s experience, it was never nothing.

i’m coming

In seconds, he was in the suit, one foot out the window, telling his dog to be good and let me know if MJ comes back, okay?, as if that would do any good. (Unlike that one haunting existentialist TikTok dog, Sandwich didn’t know how to talk. His only character flaw, really.)

Once he was out, dozens of stories high above the city, he realized he didn’t know where he was going. Uptown, probably. Somewhere between her office and the apartment. She could have been anywhere in those city blocks below him, lost or hurt or confused or– no. Not yet. She was down there. She was fine. She had to be. She was MJ, the strongest person he knew. The kindest, the bravest, the most likely to scare off a mugger with sheer force of will. And Peter’s most publicly known vulnerability.

Maybe Tony had had the right idea with those suit trackers, after all.

Before he could try going full hacker (or just booting up Find my iPhone and hoping for the best), he heard sirens. Close, getting closer. Maybe it was a coincidence. It was a big city; he’d spent enough days keeping busy off of police scanners to know. But he knew with this one, too. It wasn’t his spider sense, not a radar or a danger detection. He just knew. Deep in his gut, he knew.

He was sixteen, it was a sticky August night, and there were sirens in Forest Hills.

He was eighteen, it was July, and there were sirens at the George Washington Bridge.

He was twenty-four, it was November, bone-chillingly cold, and there were sirens near Midtown.

Finally, down below, he saw her. He’d know the shape of her anywhere. Hidden in shadow, alone, and small, so small. And still. Too still. Who had done this? Who could do this?

He landed next to her, every muscle in his body strung taught. The sirens were getting closer, and he couldn’t be there when they came, because they’d see Spider-Man crouched over a woman’s body, and he knew what they’d think. They’d thought it with Gwen. This time wouldn’t be any different.

But MJ was moving, breathing, apologizing, even though she had nothing to apologize for. It was him, all him, always him. With a shaky breath, he knelt down to meet her, mask to bloodied face. This stupid, fucking mask. It hadn’t done him any good; he’d been too late, too busy being human to stop this. He ripped it off, let it fall somewhere behind him, cradled her in his arms.

“Don’t be sorry,” he whispered, brushing the hair off her face. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

MJ: Tears fell more freely with the comfort of Peter holding her head. A part of her wished he wasn’t here, he wasn’t looking at her all bloody and bruised, crying and falling apart at the seams. She was strong. They always joked about how she was stronger than so many of the heroes in this city, how she could convince anyone to do anything.

Not when it counted, though. Not when it mattered. Then, she was just another victim in the streets, another civilian who needed saving. She was the person who couldn’t save herself.

She was supposed to be strong. She was supposed to be bubbly and bright and full of energy. Even in the darkest of times, MJ found it in herself to crack a smile, to bring joy to others’ faces. Even when nothing was going right, she could bring small comforts to near strangers. She was capable of a kind of strength others didn’t have, but now she didn’t even have that.

Tears rolled down her chin, wetting her already damp shirt as they were caught in her collar. The part of her that wanted him gone, that didn’t want him to see her like this, was largely overshadowed by the part of her that needed his solace more than ever. This hurt him as much as it hurt her, she could see it in his eyes, in the concern that laced every one of his features. She knew how he felt; normally she was the one at home, waiting, worried, hoping he was okay. Peter could defend himself in a way she couldn’t. Peter could heal in a way she couldn’t. But she knew the anxiety all too well. Beneath her smiles and her sparkling personality was a young woman who was so anxious about the man she loved every day of her life. And so she knew how the feeling was filling his chest, weighing him down, making him overthink everything.

The hand that wasn’t hurt reached for him, gripping his arm as tight as she could. “No, no,” she said, shaking her head just a little, the movement causing the throbbing to increase. “I love you, Peter,” she sobbed, taking a deep breath. “I love you so much. I’m so sorry,” she managed, more tears, faster, wetting her cheeks. She knew the losses he’d experienced. She was there when Uncle Ben died, and when Gwen died. She knew how they haunted him. She knew how guilt consumed him. She didn’t want to add to that, to his trauma, to his distrust, to his guilt. This wasn’t his fault. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, like so many other women. She’d written articles about this kind of violence against women. She was supposed to be invincible. She was supposed to be too smart to put herself in danger. She was supposed to be vibrant and charismatic and careful.

“Don’t go,” she begged, knowing as the sirens got closer he’d want to leave. She knew how this looked. And she knew how he thought, knew him better than he knew himself. But the world knew Peter Parker was Spider-Man and the world knew Mary Jane Watson was his girlfriend and she was awake and she didn’t want him to leave her side. He was her rock. She needed him. There were a handful of other people she cared about, but no one brought her comfort the way Peter did, the way he had for years. She needed him by her side. She didn’t know what was going to happen to her, and if he left, she didn’t know when she’d see him again. “Stay with me.”

PETER: The sirens were getting closer. Who had called them? Had she mustered up the strength to dial 911, collapsed and broken and alone? Had someone seen her, called for help, and fled, hoping that doing the absolute bare minimum would be enough? (Peter had, admittedly, been known to dial and dash himself, but not before making sure that he’d put all the pieces in place for justice and left a note. Nothing good ever came of Spider-Man being there when the cops showed up.)

Any thought he’d had of leaving vanished as soon as he saw her. He would to ride this one out by her side, all the way to the hospital. At least now, they knew everything. At least now, he had nothing to hide. He could sit in the ambulance in his suit with his face–his real face–exposed, and he could clutch her hand tightly the entire time while he tried not to worry about the medical bills. If he’d thought she could handle the ride, he would have swung her to the hospital–it was faster, anyway. But this was about her, not his pride, or the dire state of his bank account.

He’d get May to meet them there. He’d get someone to check in on Sandwich. Maybe Tony could help him ride out whatever inevitable media circus this would bring. He’d fix this. He had to.

“Never,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere."

From the very first moment he’d slipped into the Spider-Man suit at fifteen, back when it was crudely homemade and poorly designed, this was what he had feared. This was why he had fought so hard to keep himself secret for so long, why he’d told no one, even when it would have felt so good to shut Flash Thompson up once and for all. This was why he’d gotten Tony to bend the rules of the Accords, just for him. This was why, when Octavius had ripped off his mask and the world had plastered his face (bruised, tired, unremarkable) all over the internet, he had shut down.

When they knew his face, they knew what mattered to him. They knew who mattered to him. They knew how to cut through all the bravado and bluster and right to the core of it all.

Spider-Man was Peter’s fight, and Peter’s alone. None of them asked to be dragged into the tangled web of bullshit he’d woven himself, not May or Ben or Gwen or even MJ, who’d known and stood by him anyway. This was his burden to carry, these were his decisions. These were people, not pawns, and he’d laid them directly in his path.

No.

No more.

He’d see this one through, he’d make sure MJ was okay, and then no more. Peter would find who’d done this, and they would pay. Oh, god, would they fucking pay.

"I love you, MJ. So much.” At some point, he’d started crying, too, and he wiped away the tears, the fabric of his gloves course and rough against his cheek. “I’m going to make this right, you hear me?”

And then there was the rumble of an engine and cries of It’s Spider-Man! and She’s hurt!, and the paramedics descended. Peter squeezed her hand one more time and stood up, giving them room to help her.

“She needs a hospital,” he said. “She was attacked, I think. I don’t– I don’t know what happened.”

But I’m going to find out.

#( discords )#( no more )#( c: mj )#( c: wade )#violence tw #injury tw #blood tw #suicidal ideation tw #death mention tw

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retphienix · 6 years

Photo

Wow is this incredibly frustrating.

So I restarted Wasteland 2 because why not, I never really got too far in and I'd like to give it another go.

In order to make things a little more fun I invented 4 characters and gave them all biographies that read more like mini-interviews with the Ranger HQ. It was really fun and let me make a few new OCs of sorts for this.

ONLY TO FIND OUT THERE IS A BUG THAT DOESN'T LET YOU SCROLL THE BIO.

So I spent all that time inventing them and I planned on showing them off for fun and I can't scroll their bios to demonstrate any of that.

SO I GUESS I HAVE TO GIVE THE SHORTHAND OF THE FUN LITTLE CONVERSATIONS I WROTE.

Oh, and I have no clue what kind of content this will be for the blog. Leaning towards NOT a full playthrough just because my first attempt was extremely messy and this game, while being incredibly interesting to me, has some of the smallest most headache inducing font out there for my terrible terrible eyes. So playing through the whole game doesn't feel likely.

Playing long enough to get some fun little stories, that sounds more likely.

Gregohreey

"I just think it looks cool." Greg, talking about his dumb helmet while failing to properly face interviewer.

(It appears to hinder his eyesight and general perception. How he has managed to talk his way into the Rangers is a mystery.)

Greg commissioned his portrait and demanded that a few 'artistic liberties' were taken when presenting his 'strength' and 'kickass helmet'.

Greg now, astonishingly, leads his own group of Rangers despite his poor eyesight and general delusions in regards to his own capabilities in, and out, of combat.

My heartfelt regards to the families of all those who's lives lie in Greg's hands.

I envision Greg as a total buffoon with a golden tongue. I attempted to reflect this by making downright terrible at fighting but booksmart and persuasive. Also he has a very, very dumb helmet and dresses as if he doesn't know the apocalypse happened.

Sabaa

"I really don't understand who I pissed off to end up on this mess of a 'team'. Our lead regularly walks into walls, our heavy is insane, the Rookie is practically still in diapers, and then you have me.

I'm the best damn shot the Rangers have, and you throw me to the failures, the 'DQ' crew, what is this shit." - Sabaa

"Sabaa, I must reiterate that there are no 'Die Quietly' squads. Every Ranger has earned the title and their lives are all equally important to us.

We don't appreciate the insinuation that HQ 'removes' unwanted Rangers by mishandling their deployment.

I also feel the need to point out that while you did break the previous record in our Marksmanship course, you did so very unconventionally.

Refusing to use the provided rifle and instead brandishing an unregistered chain gun to, and I quote, 'PRECISELY tear these dummies a new asshole', doesn't line up with what we consider Marksmanship.

While it is true you struck each target in record time, you were not demonstrating Marksmanship, but instead a sort of 'spray and pray' method." - HQ

"Whatever gets the job done, so like I said, I'm the BEST Marksman you all have and you throw me to the wolves?" - Sabaa

"I think you'll find this new team offer a similar...gusto for getting the job done as you do, and that while they might not showcase the same...excitement or gratuitousness as you do, they surely offer certain strengths. You are assigned to this squad because we are certain you will work well together. Definitely not to get rid of you all in a firey explosion created from your own failures. I mean, how would a, uh, Marksman, such as yourself, even accomplish that? You'd have to be a terrible shot to fail with this squad." -HQ

I wish I had the original text for each of these. Sure the dialogue was squeezed because I typed it all with the darn PS4 controller, but I liked what I had going. Greg was the experimental bio, so his is less interesting than the rest but it offered me a framework to make flawed characters that I continued with here. Sabaa is a crack shot, she just likes peppering the entire battlefield with each and every 'crack shot' she takes. This is also when I decided that it wasn't entirely Greg's persuasion that got him a leadership position. HQ has given up on all of these dysfunctional idiots so it smashed them together for failure.

Dove

"Lemme smash?" -Dove

"Ahem... Y-yes. You have been assigned to a new squad. You can... smash all you like alongside them." -HQ

"Smash squad, too?" -Dove

"NO. Protect squad, smash those who threaten squad. Do you understand, Dove?" -HQ

"Dove.. SMASH ALL... But not squad." -Dove

"Good, good." -HQ

Dove is the smallest member of our team and she's all muscle and no brains. She's almost definitely an institutionalized psycho raider of some sort whom they've given up on fixing beyond what they already accomplished.

Ricky

"I really get to go out on patrol!?" - Ricky

"More than just that, Rick. Your incessant begging, er I mean, consistent reminders encouraged us to find the perfect place to put you. You're not just going on patrol! We found a full on squad of Rangers for you to join.

Oh, and we pushed your Ranger application through. we've seen all we need to see to know that you are definitely Ranger material. Uhh.. Congrats." -HQ

"Oh, wowwee!! I promise to make you all proud!" - Ricky

"Yeah, I'm sure you couldn't possibly fail to meet our expectations of you in the slightest. Have fun." -HQ

Oh well. The original writing was better despite it's clustered feel thanks to typing with a controller, but I got the gist out there.

I made 4 characters. As far as gameplay is concerned I tried to base it off a short tips list I read with the flaws I had intended for the characters, mostly.

Greg is the leader and healer. I twisted this a bit by, again, making him pretty garbage in a fight to start with (though I'll likely move him to energy weapons or something later) while also making him extremely persuasive, a smartass, and our computer guy.

Sabaa is our "SNIPER" (cough, Heavy gunner) who fills in as our lockpicker,safe cracker, and outdoorsman.

Dove is our tank. She's buff as heck, has toaster repair which I hear is actually a good skill (strange), and she fulfills weaponsmithing and brute forcing for us.

Ricky is our basic as can be dude. Demolition, alarm disarming, perception, and handguns are what he's here for.

And they all fail or bother the management of the Rangers enough to be sent off to die “heroically”.

What a stupid glitch.

#RetPlays #Wasteland 2

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