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ggomos-maribat · 1 month

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Soul-Stitching: The Heir and the Guardian

Masterlist

Chapter 2: the innocent and the guilty | AO3

CW: Mentions of trauma, childhood trauma, and bullying

This is in no way an accurate depiction of a real court trial!! My inspiration comes from k-dramas, Ace Attorney, Danganronpa and Legally Blonde!! Similarities to real-life cases a purely coincidental!! Thank you!!

It is often noticed by any visitor of Paris that the city has changed in the few years of war with a magical terrorist. The sullen mood is palpable, even more so as citizens begin to file into the Court of Cassation. The fight with Hawkmoth has concluded since one year ago already, yet the topic is rarely brought up, only made known through hushed whispers. At least, that is what Clark discovers after spending a casual day in the city.

He adjusts his glasses whilst looking up at the graying pillars of the building. It's an important case to cover, both as a reporter and a member of the Justice League—easily two birds with one stone. Clark is no Bruce Wayne but he can be a detective of his own. That's what a journalist is already, anyways. And judging by the flock of Parisians entering, it seems that this trial is important to them. He sees faces of unspoken trauma, some out for a sort of vengeance, some quietly remembering what it was like during the reign of akumas. When he finally takes his seat inside the grandiose courtroom, there is nothing but an air of somberness.

The layout is as per usual: the judge high up, front and center; a witness stand beside him; a jury off to the side; and two tables on opposite sides for defense and prosecution. The things most different are the bulky cameras standing at the edge of the room, manned by the local reporters to document the entire thing. The important people have not arrived, however, and in the meantime, Clark decides to scribble on a small notebook.

The facts of the case are baffling, persuading Clark that he has to see the trial himself. To make a sound judgment, he doesn't need only evidence but the people's opinion as well.

A sharp hush washes over the courtroom as the double doors at the front open up. The judge, a sharp-nosed old man, heads the parade, followed by the prosecution and the defendant escorted by police and the bailiff. The accused walks with conserved grace although her hands are bound in thick handcuffs. The prison uniform falls loosely around her thin frame as she looks around curiously.

“Monsieur Blanchard.” The judge pinches the bridge of his nose. “Where is our defendant's lawyer?”

“It seems that Kingston has backed out of this one, Your Honor,” Blanchard replies, not hiding a snicker in his tone.

“Then who—”

“Wait, wait, I'm here!” The doors from the back fly open, turning many heads. In runs not the pot-bellied Kingston, but instead a young man fixing his tie with one hand and carrying a bulky briefcase in the other.

“I'm here. Sorry I'm late.” The man smiles sheepishly, as if he had just been tardy for a class. But his grin is unfairly charming, shining brightly like the sun.

“A—Adrien Agreste?” The judge does a double take. “You are the defense attorney?”

“Yes sir.” Adrien’s grin widens. He proudly shows off the badge clipped to his suit, and a license that Clark is certain is fake. “It's my first ever case but I hope I do well.”

Murmurs go over the crowd.

Even the defendant herself looks genuinely surprised at his presence.

Clark doesn't know if the judge is an idiot, or just doesn't want to prolong the trial any further, but the old man simply accepts Adrien's position as the defense representative. Meanwhile, Adrien is still beaming—not even in the confident manner like in the belief that his win is guaranteed. His expression is quite innocent, like he doesn't quite grasp how heavy the situation is.

“We will begin now.” The judge swings his gavel. “Respectable citizens of Paris, we are gathered here today to hear the case of Mlle. Marinette Dupain-Cheng, who is on trial for terrorizing the city for six long years as the supervillain Hawkmoth. The prosecution may now give its opening statement.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Blanchard clears his throat. “On the eighteenth of June there was a series of calls coming from Rue Lepic, reporting suspicious behavior from an apartment complex. Specifically, bright beams of ‘magical’ light, multiple loud noises, and white butterflies coming out of a window. This suspicious person was found to be Mlle. Dupain-Cheng, an occupant of the unit in the fifth floor, however upon the inquiry of the police she was uncooperative. After multiple complaints, a search warrant was ordered and police found multiple pieces of evidence in Mlle. Dupain-Cheng's apartment.”

“If you direct your attention to the screen here . . .” Blanchard motioned with his hand. “We found several blueprints depicting ‘an underground butterfly lair’, a list of akumatized civilians, and detailed plans to obtain Ladybug and Chat Noir's miraculi. Ladies and gentlemen, I don't think much explanation is needed; the defendant is undoubtedly the villain Hawkmoth!”

An uproar reverberates in the courtroom which the judge silences again.

“That does seem conclusive.” The judge nods. “Does the defense have anything to say?”

“Yes.” Adrien takes the floor, holding up a piece of paper and putting one hand on his hip. “I think we're missing one big point here.” He points at the TV screen, which switches to a masked photo of Hawkmoth. “This is Hawkmoth! He's a grown man and no way a young woman, much less my client. You say that you found evidence in my client's apartment, which could just be circumstantial evidence. The butterflies? My client might be an entomologist.”

“I must object, Monsieur Agreste, but these are baseless arguments.” Blanchard raises an eyebrow. “We all know that the miraculi grant a ‘glamor’, a magical protection that makes holders unidentifiable with the mask on. This has been explained by Ladybug and Chat Noir a few times, and we have also witnessed its concealing power when their ally holders were revealed by Miracle Queen.”

The mustached prosecutor huffs. “And as far as I have gathered, the defendant does not dabble in entomology. Rather, she's had a keen interest in fashion designing.”

“As seen in the revealed holders’ profiles, the glamor does hide their identities but it does not change, in any way, their build, gender, and age,” Adrien argues.

“Even so, we cannot be certain that the defendant is not behind the terrorist's mask. The magic must work in ways we do not understand; Mlle. Dupain-Cheng must have manipulated her appearance to a greater degree. The other documents—the blueprints and plans, are the supporting pieces of evidence.”

“That's another point I want to make,” Adrien begins, “There is limited information about the miraculi that is publicly known. We're going off by statements Ladybug and Chat Noir have made previously, but you cannot convict anyone of being Hawkmoth without their presence right here, since only they can give the confirmation about who's the villain and who's not.”

The crowd stirs at the mention of the two heroes, which Blanchard seemingly notes. “Unfortunately, those two have gone missing in action ever since Hawkmoth ceased attacks one year ago, effectively denying the people of Paris a formal declaration of the end of the battle as well as the identity of the villain. Ergo, we truly do not know if they've defeated him, if he was rightfully punished, or if he had only retreated into the shadows without the heroes ever finding his real identity.” He scoffs. “But today, we have a suspect and clear evidence right in front of us. Why must we wait for these ‘heroes’ before we act?”

Half of the people make sounds of agreement, while others direct their annoyance at the defense attorney. For the umpteenth time, the judge brings down his gavel.

“Yes,” the judge sighs, “Monsieur Agreste, we have tried coordinating with the mayor to contact Ladybug and Chat Noir for this case, however there is no sign of them. Our concern in this case is the defendant's identity regardless of whether the heroes would deem her guilty.”

“But—”

“If you have a way to bring the heroes to the witness stand, I will be happy to postpone this trial.”

Adrien pouts and shakes his head, clearly unequipped with such a method.

“The prosecution will now present further arguments.”

“Very well, Your Honor.” Blanchard sweeps his gaze towards the other table. “I would like to call the defendant, Mlle. Dupain-Cheng, to the witness stand.”

Everyone watches the petite girl as she is guided to the stand beside the judge and swear the oath. Unlike the majority in the position of an accused, she doesn't wear a gloomy face, or worry, or fear. Marinette's expression is just . . . unfazed. Almost cheery, even. In addition to that, she's eerily calm—no nervous ticks or excessive babbling.

“Mlle. Dupain-Cheng.” An air of exasperation surrounds Blanchard when he stands in front of the defendant, as if he has gone through this a thousand times. “Will you be cooperative in answering my few questions for you?”

She gives a small smile. A smile. “Yes, of course. I'll try my best.”

“Right . . .” Blanchard reads off a piece of paper. “First, regarding Monsieur Agreste's statement. Have you been practicing entomology recently?”

Her eyebrows furrow. “No, not really. I've just been designing.”

“In that case, how would you explain the butterflies witnessed by your neighbors and found in your apartment?”

“I've been keeping them there.”

“For what purpose?”

“I can't tell you.”

Blanchard doesn't say anything, as a way of telling everyone: ‘see how difficult it is to get through her?’ He switches to another topic. “How do you explain the blueprints and akuma plans found in your apartment? They tie you directly to Hawkmoth.”

“Yes, they're incriminating, aren't they?” Marinette chirps. “But you should understand that I can't tell you the reasons. They're just there.”

“Are you Hawkmoth?”

“No, of course not.”

“Do you have anything to say to at least prove you're not? Evidence?”

She thinks for a moment. “Something tangible? No, nothing I can show you.”

“Do you have companions in your apartment who may have planted those papers?”

“No, I live alone.”

Blanchard turns to the judge. “As you can see, the defendant denies the accusation, but ambiguously. Since she doesn't provide a clear alibi, we can only rely on the current evidence which points to her guilt.”

Marinette is quickly ushered away from the witness stand and Adrien is given his turn to speak again.

“It is reasonable for my client to deny those accusations . . . because masquerading as a villain isn't her at all. Let me tell you that all of Marinette's friends and family will vouch for her kindness; in both le collège and le lycèe, she was an excellent student academically, and a dedicated volunteer in her extracurriculars. Not to mention, she regularly sells her creations for charity. If you look at her school records, her worst offenses are just tardies; she did have a case of theft which, under the proper investigation, you would find she was framed for and one instance of expulsion that was retracted. Nonetheless, this girl couldn't have been an emotional terrorist in any way.” Adrien takes a deep breath after his spiel.

“There are other concerning points in her behavior. Several of her former classmates as well as her parents, have recounted Mlle. Dupain-Cheng disappearing at random times, which always coincided with the instances of akuma attacks,” Blanchard rebuts.

“My client becomes anxious during akuma attacks. It's just a coincidence.”

“Unfortunately, the defendant has been seen interacting with suspicious individuals as well.” Blanchard clasps his hands behind his back. “Your Honor, may I call another witness to the stand?”

With the judge's permission, a civilian is called into the stand: a woman just about the defense's age, wearing a pencil skirt with her long sleek hair cascading down her back. Clark swears he hears Adrien mumble ‘ew, hell no’ using his superhuman hearing.

“This is Mlle. Lila Bianca Rossi,” Blanchard introduces, “Former classmate and acquaintance to Mlle. Dupain-Cheng. She has some . . . notable observations about the defendant.”

Now Clark knows he hadn't imagined Adrien's comment. The defense attorney has his jaw clenched tightly, with no concealed disdain for the witness. But Marinette's expression doesn't mirror his; she only has her head tilted in confusion. With a hint of amusement perhaps.

“Mlle. Rossi, please enlighten us with the defendant's apparent change in behavior during collège and lycèe,” Blanchard requests.

“I regret standing here to testify against my classmate.” Rossi throws a look of pity at Marinette, folding one hand on top of the other. “But she had this . . . this shift in attitude all of a sudden. I was a transfer student in our school, Francois Dupont. From the way our classmates looked up to Marinette, I can tell that she's the consistent role model. But then—no one knows why—but she suddenly became distant and irritable. She even verbally harassed some of us even if we didn't do anything to her.”

“Is there anything about her that leads you to believe that she is Hawkmoth?”

“I saw something, a couple of times, in the park near her family's bakery.” The witness frowns. “There's a strange car that passed by a bench she was sitting on and . . . it looked like she was talking to someone inside. It didn't look like any of our classmates’ cars, and they looked pretty secretive about it.”

“Do you remember anything about these people who talked to the defendant?”

Rossi taps her lips. “I'm sorry, monsieur, I don't remember very clearly. The first instance was a man . . . I think, and after that it was a middle-aged woman. I do remember the woman wearing glasses and this bird-shaped pin on her chest. It stood out against her blue jacket.” She fiddles with her thumbs. “At—at first, I didn't think much of it and I didn't want to pry into Marinette's business, but now that I think about it, it was very suspicious.”

“Does this mean, Mlle. Rossi, that you speculate that woman to be Mayura?”

“I—I can't say for sure, but if you ask me, that seems to be the most likely explanation.”

Blanchard nods understandingly as more murmurs litter around from the audience. “For the information of everyone here, by the way, I have questioned the defendant about this matter prior to the trial. Like earlier, she denies everything the witness recounted.”

He faces Adrien. “Even if it is ‘unlikely’ for someone like the defendant to become a villain, we should acknowledge that people can have ill intentions despite a saintly image. Moreover, even if Mlle. Dupain-Cheng is not Hawkmoth as you claim, it is an undeniable fact that she is associated with him.”

Adrien heaves out a long sigh, stepping beside Blanchard in front of Rossi. “Monsieur Prosecutor, may I interrogate your witness?”

Blanchard nods. “Be my guest. As long as she consents.”

“Mlle. Rossi.” Adrien's tone drips with his strange dislike for the woman. “I don't even know how you ended up as a witness here and to be honest your crimes need a separate trial of their own—”

This earns indignant gasps from the audience.

“—but for now, let's dissect your testimony. You said you witnessed my client here speaking with suspicious people. When exactly was this?”

“Lycèe. Seconde,” Rossi coolly replies.

“Do you remember the appearance of the car that approached my client?”

“It was black . . . fancy with tinted windows.”

“A Bugatti, would you say?”

“Yes, yes a Bugatti. I remember it was that kind of car.”

A tight smile graces the lawyer's face. “What made the encounter you witnessed suspicious?”

“Before the car came, Marinette kept looking around as if she didn't want anyone to see. I never heard what they were talking about, but it seemed pretty serious. They were always whispering and when the car left, Marinette pretended as if nothing happened and went straight to her house.” Rossi shifts around a little.

“Is this your only basis for treating it as something suspicious?”

“Well—”

“Does that mean, Mlle. Rossi, that any two people conversing secretly are already planning magical terrorist attacks?”

“I—I just thought it fits Marinette's identity as Hawkmoth!” Rossi defends.

“It fits conveniently with that explanation, but it also fits with my explanation.” Adrien shrugs. “During this time, seconde—we were fifteen—my father, the designer Gabriel Agreste, started secretly commissioning the defendant here as a design collaborator for his brand. My father wanted to keep it under wraps because it's the only way to make her agree. Unfortunately, they can only discuss the details in person and through Father's assistant, Nathalie, because Mlle. Dupain-Cheng's email has been repeatedly hacked by her harassers and competition. They were particularly fond of taking the Bugatti around the city even if it was so conspicuous. If you request it, Your Honor, I can definitely retrieve the documents of that same agreement right now.”

Clark notices that Adrien throws a pointed look at Rossi when he utters ‘harassers’.

The judge hums. “We will cross check this as evidence later.”

“Of course.” Adrien nods. “Now that we've established that Mlle. Rossi had just misunderstood the situation, I think she's now pretty useless as a witness. What do you have to say, Monsieur Prosecutor?”

The judge quietly relays his disapproval at Adrien for being rude to the witness, but motions at Blanchard to speak.

“I believe I've yet to present the most incriminating evidence.” The look in Blanchard's eyes is menacing. “This morning, we did one final search inside the defendant's apartment. And we found this.”

The screen flashes to show a familiar purple brooch: two pairs of wings emerging from a shiny jewel. It draws out the loudest reaction from the audience yet.

Adrien gawks and turns to his client, who shrugs and shakes her head.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Butterfly miraculous. The very magical artifact Hawkmoth used to control Paris with fear. We have found this in Mlle. Dupain-Cheng's bedroom and it has her fingerprints on it as well.”

“How certain are you that it's the real thing?” Adrien questions, rubbing his head.

“It is unusable at the moment. If you look closely, there is a crack at the bottom, which must be why it is deactivated,” Blanchard says, “We are in the process of reaching out to a magic user who can verify its properties.”

“You have used the evidence and my client's past behavior as bases for her guilt, but I have a question for the prosecution.” The defense lawyer looks agitated now, as if the brooch is one thing he hasn't accounted for. “What could be my client's motive for terrorizing Paris? Why did she stop?”

“As you saw earlier, the defendant can be quite uncooperative, so it's difficult to deduce a motive or an explanation for the disappearance for now. If you are so convinced that Mlle. Dupain-Cheng is not Hawkmoth, do you have another candidate for someone who might be?”

Adrien shares a look with Marinette. “Um . . . er—no . . .”

“Though I cannot present what her motive might be, I have a clue in the reasons behind Mlle. Dupain-Cheng's actions. Her resortion to villainy may be a product of repressed childhood trauma.”

Adrien visibly stiffens and pales.

“I have done my own investigation and found that Sabine Cheng and Tom Dupain are not the defendant's biological parents,” Blanchard declares. “She was brought into the foster system at the age of eight, and then adopted at nine. According to her former psychologist, she does not have any memories prior to her relocation to Paris, which may be from a traumatic experience. It is not impossible, then, that she may have psychological . . . tendencies, prompting her manipulation of others’ emotions through the Butterfly miraculous.”

“That's not—”

“Definitive? I agree, but the chance is not zero.”

Clark is stunned down to his core. The judge and the jury were unswayed by the defense's counter arguments—they had just declared Marinette guilty, and the length of her sentence is currently in the talks. He has watched the entire trial to gain clarity on the case, but he’s becoming more perplexed by the situation. Marinette Dupain-Cheng's behavior is already strange in itself, but so is Adrien's. It seems that he has purposely withheld information—he doesn't even try to argue with Blanchard's closing statements or fight for a lighter punishment.

He adjusts his tie. He still can't wrap his head around a single girl terrorizing Paris for six years, but the evidence is pretty solid. And said girl doesn't even mind being thrown into prison at all.

He even catches the conversation after the verdict was announced: Adrien apologizes to her, but she merely pats his back, smiles, and tells him that she's off to a long vacation. She says it so casually, that Clark doesn't believe it's a crazy woman speaking.

Clark stands up to approach Blanchard and get a more detailed statement, but he suddenly stops in his tracks.

He hears them before the doors burst open. Oh no.

“We'll take her from here.” Batman strides into the courtroom, flanked by Wonder Woman, the Flash, Zatanna, and Green Arrow at his sides.

←Previous Chapter | Next Chapter →

Fun Fact! Instead of Marinette, it was actually Adrien who started to dabble in entomology after Hawkmoth's defeat Taglist: @noisydreamlandkoala

#tw child abuse #tw suicide #maribat fanfic #dc x mlb #mlb x dc #maribat #maribat fic #daminette #marinette dupain cheng x damian wayne #tw blood #ggomoz #maribat damian wayne #maribat marinette dupain cheng #SS:H&G

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mikhailwrites · 3 months

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Waiting for Connection 14 / Ghost x Soap

Ghost is retired and plays milsim videogame. Soap is still in the force and sometimes plays that same videogame...

Previous chapter | AO3

Ghost thanks Gaz and bids him good night before he rejoins the main voice channel. As expected, a rather wild discussion is underway. Clearly, the jury is out about whether or not they should’ve split.

“It was a sound idea, threw me off,” Ghost voices his opinion and announces himself at the same time. There’s a brief moment of silence.

“But it didn’t work in the end,” Roach quips, sounding a little bitter. Not overly so, thankfully, it’s just a game, after all. They all know the difference, intimately so.

“You got way closer to the extraction than I thought you would. I assume you wanted to either flush us out or create a diversion?”

“Yes to both, actually,” Alejandro says, “Soap thought that you will expect us sticking together or at the very least split into two pairs, covering each other. We were hoping to gain some upper hand. But I guess we underestimated your friend. Is he joining?”

“No, he’s… a very private person. But he enjoyed the game so I can extend his thanks. Told me that whoever he managed to jump in the lower part of the base was pretty solid. He was lucky to win that one.”

“That was me,” Roach replies, “I had a clumsy aim, it was a deserved death.”

“I’m sure you’re gonna walk all over me next time. You know the layout of the base and the terrain now, and the help I’ve got was a one-time thing.”

“But that wouldn’t really be a fair fight,” Rudy remarks.

At that moment, Ghost realises something. “Where’s Johnny?”

“Had to go, said he wasn’t feeling too good,” Roach explains.

“Ah, I see. Alright, I think I’ll call it a night as well. It was a good game, I’m looking forward to a rematch.”

“Yeah, sure, we’re gonna kick your ass, cabron,” Alejandro laughs.

Simon turns off the PC, puts the headset on a stand and reaches for his phone. He debates with himself for a little before he opens a new text message and types, “Thanks for the game; you were good. Hope you will feel better in the morning. S.” He hits the Send button without thinking too long about it. Otherwise, he would probably change his mind.

Soap’s phone buzzes on the nightstand just as its owner returns from the shower. Soap’s eyebrow quirks up momentarily as he sits on the bed and looks who’s messaging him so late; not many people have his number, and a substantial portion of them wouldn’t bother him at this hour unless it were urgent.

Flicking the lock screen away, he’s surprised to see the message is from Ghost. It’s short but considerate. A little sweet, really. Truth be told, Soap’s only has a minor headache, nothing that would warrant his quick retreat from the game. The real reason why he disconnected was this bitterness that swallowed him whole. Ghost has been ignoring him ever since John left Manchester, and then he shows up with this entirely impossible scenario and some unknown friend to boot? John is not jealous; that was probably the first thing he ruled out. He’s not a jealous man and never has been. But he is confused, and that confusion leads to frustration.

“Just a headache. Thanks for the game, it was interesting,” John types and sends the reply. He knows he could’ve ignored it and could pretend he was already asleep.

And since his phone starts to ring in the next second, he’s sorry he actually did reply. Well, no way around it now. With a sigh, he takes the call.

“Ghost,” John says in a way of greeting while he sheds the towel around his waist and gets in the bed.

“Johnny… how are you?” the deep timbre of Simon’s voice is pleasant. Soothing, almost.

John frowns, remembering he forgot to open the window a bit to let some fresh air in. “Fine. Tired, have a headache, nothing a good night’s sleep won’t solve.”

Simon hums in contemplation, Soap uses the break to get from the bed and open the window. The moment he does, cold air hits him hard. He’s still a bit damp on the back. A low hiss catches Simon’s attention. “You sure you’re alright?”

“Aye, ‘s just bloody cold outside. My balls almost froze the moment I opened the window,” John admits.

Simon chuckles into the phone, and John pauses. He sounds different than in the game. It makes sense, of course; a phone call has a different quality to it. “Do you build a blanket nest on the base as you did at my place?” There’s a hint of teasing lightness to his voice.

“I might, got a problem with it?” John challenges, but there’s no bite.

“Why should I? It’s just…,” Simon trails off, as if unsure how he wanted to finish the sentence.

“Aye?” John presses on, seeking the warmth of his blanket once more. It’s nice to be snuggled in bed with Simon in his ear. Suddenly, all the bitterness and frustration from earlier simply fizzles off. He never had any real reason to be angry, anyway. It’s not like Simon owed him anything, and he didn’t ghost (or Ghost?) him, either. Every time John asked, Simon simply politely declined, never left him hanging.

“It’s a little unusual,” Simon finally finishes the sentence from earlier.

Now it’s Soap’s turn to chuckle. “I bet you’ve seen a ton of weirder shit when you served.”

“I did, but I always appreciated a nice quirk. So long as it wasn’t dangerous.”

“The opposite, actually. It’s a camouflage technique, really handy behind enemy lines,” Soap says, pretending to be dead serious. In moments like this, he feels like he’s known Simon for years: the banter, easy conversations, jokes.

“Right. I guess the field manual changed since I got out,” Simon plays along immaculately.

“Nah, it didn’t; this is our very own Scottish thing; you wouldnae ken about it.”

“That explains it. Speaking of, I was meaning to ask… why SAS?” That’s a good question. Usually, people assume it’s just a prestige thing. However, someone who’s ex-SAS would know better.

“Didnae wanna be a cog in the regular army, knew I had what it takes to make the selection, and I wanted to do shit that actually matters,” John answers truthfully. Only a handful of people know his reasons; the rest got the usual bullshit of serving the country and being the best. “Why did you do it?”

There’s a moment of silence. John actually expects an outright refusal, but he’s at an advantage: Ghost asked him first and got the truth. It would be a dick move to bail now. “I was never a great team player,” Ghost starts and pauses, thinking about what he’s just said before continuing. “Well, that’s not exactly true… I was never a great babysitter. I worked best alone and I was so good at it, that my CO had no choice but to ship me out to the selection. Told me it’s the best he can do for me and that I would thank him later.”

“Did you?”

“I did. Eventually. I didn’t enlist because of some ideals, I joined because I had nowhere else to go, never aimed to prove something to some wankers I’ve never seen.”

“Did you ever regret it? Enlisting, I mean.”

“No. Never. I’m not really religious, but I guess it was my calling. Something I was meant to do. Otherwise, I couldn’t have been so damn efficient at it. It all came easy to me. Not all, but things that mattered. Stuff that helped me survive and complete my missions.”

Soap stays silent, feeling Simon’s words sink under his skin, heavy and tinged with darkness. Before he can think of anything to say to that, Simon continues. “Sorry, that turned a bit dark I guess. We should probably hit the bed, especially you, Sergeant.”

“I can handle an early start and shitty sleep, Ghost, don’t you worry,”

“Yeah, but I can’t. Remember, I’m an old man now,” Simon’s voice carries a lightness of smile.

“I see. Well then, out of respect to my elders, I’ll let you go then. Good night, Si,” John uses the nickname. He’s been very careful with it so far, unsure if Simon likes it or not.

“Good night, Johnny,” Simon repays him in kind.

I tried Ghost Recon Breakpoint since I dropped it soon after it released. Ubisoft actually kinda fixed it! I still like Wildlands more, but it ain't bad. Created a totally-not-OG-Soap, too.

#Soap is in deep denial #And even deeper shit #Late night phone calls like high school sweethearts #call of duty #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #ghostsoap #soapghost #ghost x soap #ghoap #ghost mw2 #soap mw2

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neos-schlond-poofa · 2 months

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MY MCD HEADCANONS FOR THE 9TH ANNIVERSARY

i need to post SOMETHING to celebrate the best minecraft series ever but i dont want to do something too big because next year is TEN YEARS I AM OLD so heres my hcs and most are. just canon in my rewrite WHICH I REALLY NEED TO ORGANIZE ONE DAY. someone should make like a google doc layout template thing for us its a hard world theres so much stuff that needs to be rewritten. anywho.

LORD APHMAU

NOT the reincarnation of Irene. Or literally just Irene.

Instead I based her off of my friend's old theory from 5th grade (as a tribute, also my friend isn't dead it's not like an in memoriam tribute but its a tribute to an amazing idea) that she was a fallen angel. But. She isn't at the same time?

Instead, she's one of Irene's daughters. Kind of. ITS HARD TO EXPLAIN AND I DONT WANNA GO ALL INTO THE LORE HERE BUT THERES "SISTERS" OF HERS TOO AND VYLAD STILL SUMMONED HER.

She doesn't have those markings from rebirth; I like them in fanart, but realistically? Why would some random girl have that? Instead, she has weird scars on her body.

Knows the basics of writing and reading... but REALLY struggles with them still. She literally just spawned on this world. She doesn't know everything.

But her natural tendency to help people is in her blood. Like. Irene's whole purpose of these "daughters" of her were to try to fix her legacy in a way. She still struggles with a lot of things though, and all those changes to the village LIKE WHERE SHE JUST BUILT HUGE THINGS obviously don't happen.

She also didn't have good combat skills until she trained with Garroth. Then Zenix. Then EVERYONE. Her combat skills are a huge melting pot of every single person she's fought against or fought with. Of course, she prefers to just use her sword.

SUPER socially awkward but doesn't even realize it. After all, she doesn't have many things to base her social interactions off of; she just got here. But, she does have manners at least.

Can't cook. AT ALL. This is actually a headcanon based off the WORST FANFIC I EVER READ (I lied it was amazing but I was so shocked by the ending like it's the best fic ever but... it SCARRED me PLEASE read it).

About like. 24 years old.

Bisexual and genderfluid and polyamorous.

Endgame is ultimately Garrancemau, but she DOES have a relationship with Katelyn and Zoey during the series. Those will be expanded upon later.

Never has a romantic relationship with Aaron. Also will be expanded upon later.

Can't tell her lefts from rights (just like me) without using her hands.

Once she found out about her relation to Irene, she just felt TERRIBLE. Like. This super cool Goddess EVERYONE loves was basically her mother and she has to live up to that.

BUT OH IT GETS WORSE WHEN SHE FINDS OUT IRENE IS A TERRIBLE PERSON. Now, she has to struggle with telling the world or not, she has to exist knowing she was just created to be a solution to the problems someone who doesn't even care much about her caused.

Has mild generalized anxiety and ADHD. And. Naturally gets a lot of trauma over the series.

Knows how Joan of Arc felt.

GARROTH RO'MEAVE

Kind of an idiot in a way. Like. SUPER INTELLIGENT. But never thought about changing his first name when hiding in Phoenix Drop... he just always ignored people's questions about his last name.

In his defense, Garroth became a fairly popular first name after his birth. It's like when the royals have children and the names they give them become more popular.

Azura helped him escape to Phoenix Drop; they met when he was allowed to go to knight college or whatever its called I FORGOT GUYS!! And he was not in the same class as Laurance... but there any good knight is literally put on the list of Jury of Nine canidates. Like. It's not that hard to be considered. But to be picked? They do like the biggest background checks EVER and secretly watch you to see your strengths.

Naturally a very father-like figure to those significantly younger than him as a result of caring for his brothers and protecting them from his father. I made a whole post about it before. I'd tag it but I. Don't feel like it.

LEVIN'S FATHER!! DILFROTH IS CANON GUYS. But he doesn't know he's the father until after the timeskip.

He doesn't just wear his helmet to hide his appearance from others; he can't stand his appearance. He's a splitting image of his father, the man he truly hates. He hides all the mirrors in his living quarters, he can't stand it. Aphmau is the one that truly starts helping him love himself.

Although. After the whole incident featuring a betrayal, portal, and missing 15 years, he feels scared that he is turning out evil just like his father. He hates it. It haunts him everyday.

Also. HE WASN'T AWARE OF WHAT HE WAS DOING.

Firstly, I just need to say, I head canon Garroth to have depression. And I spoke about this a bit before, but seeing the two people he loved the most seemingly hide a relationship behind his back, instead of being open and honest with him just hurt. He fell into a depressive episode, like it was terrible. AND ZANE BEING ZANE used that to manipulate Garroth, having Lillian use magicks and potions or whatever to mind control him. He only broke out of it once Lillian died AND LAURANCE USED THE POWER OF LOVE!

He never truly figures out everything that happens until after he escapes from the Irene Dimension.

Speaking of which, he is SUPER injured after he escaped from there. I. Um. Actually don't know the specific injuries I'm giving him but all I know is he becomes a cane user. So like. Obviously something with his back but I need to like really get the logistics down that's just how my mind works with these things.

In love with Aphmau AND Laurance. He's so silly.

Bisexual masculine non-binary he/they autistic king that also suffers from depression, PTSD, and survivor's guilt.

Like most people believe, he has a dad bod. Like obviously he's muscular, but he's also chubby.

Can't cut his own hair since he doesn't look in the mirror. When he first revealed his face to Aphmau, she helped him out with his beard and hair (and almost braided his hair).

Around 26 years old.

A good singer, but only sang for Laurance while he was recovering. It's their small little thing.

LAURANCE ZVHAL

Okay so firstly, I'm not putting any Shadow Knight headcanons. That's too much.

However, as a result of being a Shadow Knight, he has poor temperature regulation. Like. He's very naturally warm, so he overheats a lot, but in the cold, it's the opposite. He's FREEZING and has to layer up a lot.

Has two gay dads. Which... is canon?? WHY DOES NO ONE TALK ABOUT THIS. He has Hayden and Joh. They are his gay dads and they raised him. And Cadenza.

Rarely can have a nice, peaceful sleep due to night terrors. He's haunted by the memories of the Nether, and the only times when those thoughts are subdued are when he's sleeping close to Aphmau or Garroth.

Actually the father of Alina. Because it's not Aaron (ew). And he never knows about this. Because he SACRIFICES himself to save Garroth and Aphmau because he loves them, and he doesn't want either of them to hurt or for himself to hurt them due to the calling.

Just to clarify, he and Aphmau did not intend for this by the way. They just had a silly night where they drank a little bit! And then woke up like a rom-com or something and where like "Oh. My. God." LIKE IT SEEMS TO BE SILLY but then it isn't.

Only knows how to crochet a single type of bear plush. Like. NOTHING ELSE.

He had to wash his orange hair like every single day. If he didn't it literally became so greasy and so crusty. And Zoey ended up having to do that while she watched over him. She was so close to just chopping it all off for him.

Garroth was his closest company while he was blind. He often asked Garroth to describe him what he saw in the village.

Once he got cured, he only partially regained his eyesight. He struggles to see a lot, and gets headaches easily. When he goes into Shadow Knight form though, his eyesight gets a lot better; but once he gets out of that form, he experiences so much pain, and his sight goes downhill for a while.

Can braid hair.

Likes to prank his friends a lot through really elaborate scares. SUPER happy once Malachi and Levin started getting involved.

Pansexual and polyamorous and 25 years old.

Sneezes like. Really cutely. Like he has one of those sneezes.

KATELYN

LITERALLY THE MOST MUSCULAR CHARACTER IN THE ENTIRE SHOW. AND TALL.

Her true love was Jeffory. Nothing will ever change that.

When she dated Aphmau, her own grief over Jeffory held back the relationship from blossoming into something more. This applies to all her other relationships as well.

Her anger issues are just simply treated better here. Like. That's all I have to say about that.

Helped care for Aphmau the most (along with Zoey) after Garroth was freed from the Irene Dimension because of how depressed she was over everything. She became really close with Lilith Garnet during this.

Never gets drunk. It's kind of insane. She is wild at taverns and just. Never gets drunk. Her power at that is balanced out with her terrible seasickness.

Doesn't get the appeal of coffee. She hates it, like it tastes so bad to her. She's a tea girlie.

28 years old. But people never guess her age right, like ever. She's eternally youthful despite not having a single skin routine.

Okay this is actually a headcanon and it's based off of a friend I do have in real life. So like yeah I guess in modern times Katelyn is a One Directioner but I guarantee she would be a Deftones fan or something.

okay i planned to do more characters but i literally forgot all mcd characters and my hcs :( SO MAYBE JUST SUGGEST CHARACTERS AND ILL SAY THEM CAUSE THEYRE JUST NOT COMING TO MIND RN also im tired

ANYWAYS HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE SHOW THAT FOREVER CHANGED MY LIFE. without you minecraft diaries, i wouldve never become the insufferable person i am today <3

#minecraft diaries aphmau #minecraft diaries #mcd #mcd aphmau #mcd headcanons #rambling #GUYS PLEASE SUGGEST CHARACTERS I KNOW I CAN DO MORE!!

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m1ssingirl · 2 months

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𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐦 𝐢𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐢 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 ᥫ᭡.

“My past is not a memory. It's a force at my back. It pushes and steers. I may not always like where it leads me, but like any story, the past needs resolution. What's past is prologue.”

- Samus Aran

#my melody #jessica riley #ashley graham #kuromi #draculaura #lara croft #samus aran #amy rose #juri street fighter #aesthetic #icons #messy layouts #moodboard

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ddesguv · 1 month

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Chapter 3

As the first rays of dawn creep through the window, casting an ethereal glow upon the countertops and stools of the quaint coffee shop, you can't help but marvel at the delicate balance of life and death that you navigate on a daily basis. The aroma of freshly ground beans and steamed milk fills the air, a heady mix that, to some, might represent the promise of a new day, of hope and possibility.

But you know better. You know that for every customer who strolls in, searching for a pick-me-up before facing the day's challenges, there's another soul out there who deserves to be erased from existence. And for now, Samuel is that soul. Sure, you need to plan it all out, that needs time, and considering that he lives in an apartment, that would be quite tricky, honestly if he lived in a secluded house like the last guy you killed, old Jim, it would have been much better.

You carefully consider your options as you pour steaming milk into a cup, watching the froth rise and dance on the surface. The rhythmic hiss of the steam wand fills the air, a soft counterpoint to the steady stream of patrons ordering their morning fix. You could play the victim this time, that would be fun, to give him the sense of power that he craves, only to lure him on some secluded alleyway and rip all his confidence and power from him as you shove your knife deep inside his guts, oh how marvelous he would look, eyes bulging in fear and surprise, trembling and pathetic, they all look the same, you can feel yourself smiling at the thought.

Sally, your newest coworker, always a curious one, asks what made you so happy today.

"Oh, it's nothing," you reply with a dismissive wave of your hand. "Just thinking about how I'll spend my next days off."

Sally's eyes light up at this. "Really? You're finally taking a break? You should! You've been working so hard lately."

"Yeah I spoke to the manager and asked for a few days off, but you know me," you reply with a dismissive laugh. "I can't even relax when I'm supposed to." Gotta murderer assholes and keep up with life, that part, you keep to yourself.

Sally tilts her head, clearly not quite buying your dismissal but deciding not to push the issue. "Well, if you ever need anything, you know where to find me."

"Thanks, Sally," you reply with a warm smile. "You're a real sweetheart."

As the morning passes, the coffee shop begins to fill up with a steady stream of customers, each one with their own story to tell, their own lives to lead. And in the midst of it all, you continue to plot and scheme, your mind a whirlwind of dark thoughts and cunning plans. It's all a dance, a delicate balance between precision and chaos, and you revel in the control it affords you.

Soon enough, it's time for your shift to end. You bid farewell to Sally and the other baristas, exchanging pleasantries and well-wishes as you prepare to leave. But before you go, you take one last look around the shop, mentally cataloging the faces of the patrons, committing them to memory. There's always another soul out there who deserves to pay for their sins, and you're more than willing to be their judge, jury, and executioner.

As you walk out the door, the cool evening air washes over you, revitalizing your senses. Your car sits idling at the curb, waiting to whisk you away to your next destination. Tonight, you'll need to scope out Samuel's apartment complex, find the perfect spot for the deed. You pull your dark, hooded sweatshirt up over your head, obscuring your features from any prying eyes that might happen to pass by.

Steering your car down the quiet residential street, you can't help but feel a thrill of anticipation course through you. The lights of Samuel's apartment complex come into view, and you slow down, taking in the layout of the buildings, the paths between them. It's going to be tricky, but you're up for the challenge.

You park your car a few blocks away, out of sight but still close enough for a quick getaway. Retrieving a small knife from your glove compartment, you check it over, feeling the cool steel against your skin. Satisfied with its weight and sharpness, you slide it into the pocket of your pants.

Treading lightly through the shadows, you make your way towards Samuel's apartment complex. The buildings loom above you, a testament to the power and wealth of those who live within them. But to you, they are merely structures, nothing more than obstacles to be overcome.

As you near Samuel's building, you duck into a dark alleyway, out of sight of any potential witnesses. You pull your hood further forward, ensuring that your face remains hidden from view.

The alleyway is eerily quiet, the only sound the distant hum of traffic from the main road. The moon casts a pale glow over the concrete, illuminating a syringe and a discarded cigarette butt. You shudder at the thought of what kind of lives these people lead, and how easily they throw away their own humanity.

It seems like luck is in your favor, only 36 minutes later, you see him, still drunk like last night, making his way to the building, even better he opens what looks to be a mailbox, first one on the third row, can't really see the number on it from where you are but at least now you know his apartment number, fuck yeah. Another 7 minutes pass as he tries to open the front door of the building, pushing instead of pulling, God he's such a fucking idiot. With him gone, u wait a little bit more and make your way to the mai boxes, number 10, that's his apartment.

As inconspicuous as possible, you make your way to the back of the building, surveying the fire escape stairs, you decide to do that for a while, paying close attention to the second floor of the building, after a few minutes, light flows from one of the many windows, you focus on it, bingo, it's him, you watch as he opens the window only to start vomiting all over the fire escape, disgusting, maybe that's enough for tonight, tomorrow morning you'll be here to see at what time he leaves, maybe you'll break in his apartment and find more about him.

You slink away from the apartment complex, back to your car, and make your way home. As you drive, you can't help but feel a sense of excitement coursing through you. Another soul marked for death, another life ended. It's not like you enjoy it, but it's a necessary evil. Before you even step inside your apartment, you know that sleep won't come easily tonight. Your mind is still racing with thoughts of your next target, and the one after that. The cycle continues, and you are but a small cog in a much larger machine.

You change out of your dirty clothes, shower quickly, and climb into bed. But even as your head hits the pillow, your eyes remain wide open. Your mind wanders back to the image of Samuel, retching on the fire escape. You can't help but wonder what kind of life he led, what demons he was trying to escape. In a way, you almost feel sorry for him. Almost. Because in the end, he was still a part of this world, and as such, he deserved what was coming to him.

You roll onto your side, staring at the wall. The moon casts a pale glow through your window, bathing the room in a cold, silvery light. You can't help but feel a sense of detachment from the world around you. It's as if you're just a spectator, watching events unfold from a safe distance, never truly involved. But you know that's not true. You are intimately connected to the lives you take, no matter how much you try to deny it.

The bed creaks as you shift once more, this time onto your back. Your gaze drifts up to the ceiling, lost in thought. You wonder if there is anyone in this world who could ever understand what it's like to be you. To live with the weight of all those deaths on your conscience. You doubt it. Most people would probably see you as a monster, a cold-blooded killer. And maybe they'd be right. But you tell yourself that it's necessary, that you're just a cog in a machine, doing what needs to be done. It's not like you do a job or something like that, you do this for yourself, and all the other good people who need to be safe from monsters like Sam and Jim and all the others.

You close your eyes, trying to push away the thoughts that are crowding your mind. Maybe if you just close your eyes and try to relax, sleep will come easier. But even as your eyelids grow heavy, your mind remains restless. It's as if your subconscious knows that there is no escape, no respite from the cycle. You are bound to this life, and there is no denying it.

The sheets twist around you, and you shift uncomfortably in bed. You can't help but wonder how many more nights like this you'll have to endure. It feels like the weight of the world is on your shoulders, and with each passing day, it grows heavier.

You close your eyes, trying to focus on something, anything else. Your mind drifts back to your childhood, to the days when you were still innocent. When the world was a brighter place, and the only monsters that existed were in fairy tales. You wish you could go back to those times, to the time before you took on this burden.

But you can't. And even if you could, you wouldn't want to. Because you know that the world is not a safe place. There are monsters out there, and someone has to protect the innocent. You've seen the evidence with your own eyes, heard the testimonies, seen the crime scenes. You can't unsee any of it.

As you toss and turn in bed, you find yourself thinking about the first time you took a life. It was a man named Jack, your old neighbor from when you lived with your parents, he was a disgusting creep, and worst of all, his 2 daughters were the ones to suffer from it.

The police had been called a dozen times, but there was never enough evidence. Your parents had tried to help, but they were powerless against the man's influence. And then, one night, you found them. The two girls, huddled together on the front porch, tears streaming down their faces, their tiny bodies bruised and broken. You could see the fear in their eyes, the desperation. And in that moment, you knew you had to do something.

Your father and Jack had one thing in common, they both enjoyed hunting for deer in the woods near your small hometown, you waited until the next hunting season to make your move. It was a beautiful Saturday morning, Jack was already loading his gear in his truck, ready to leave, and you did the same, sneaking into the garage and snatching your father's rifle and throwing it in your old car, you gave your parents some bullshit excuse about meeting with some friends, and after him you went, keeping your distance of course.

You shot him dead in the same woods he liked to hunt, now with him being the prey, honestly you have no idea how you got away with it.

The police never suspected a thing, and the two girls were finally safe. But you knew that the weight you carried on your shoulders would never truly go away. You couldn't help but wonder if they ever knew what you had done. Maybe they suspected, but they never said anything. And so, you continued. Because you had to. Because the world was a dangerous place, and someone had to protect the innocent.

Years passed, and you honed your skills. You became efficient, calculating. You learned how to blend in, how to avoid detection. You took down more monsters than you could count. But with each passing kill, the guilt grew heavier. It became a constant companion, a shadow that followed you everywhere.

As the weeks went by, you finally had enough info on Sam, this night, he has plans to exchange some money for drugs, and fortunately the exchange is gonna be made in near the outskirts of the city, in a forest that's rarely visited by people on daytime, let alone at night.

You arrive at the meeting spot, your heart pounding in your chest as you keep a low profile, hiding in the shadows, watching and waiting. The time passes slowly, and you begin to think that you are in the wrong place. But then, you see him. He emerges from the darkness, a satchel slung over his shoulder. His accomplices, two men just as vile as he is, trail behind him. You steel yourself, taking a deep breath as they approach the rendezvous point. This isn't good, he was supposed to be alone, how the fuck are you gonna take on 3 grown ass men by yourself, you have the advantage of the first shot, but that still lives 2, possibly armed, men to take care of, and if you pull the trigger first it would be a dead giveaway of your location. Fuck this bullshit, you'll wait for them to leave, then get the hell home, you'll have another chance.

You wait between the bushes, minutes later you see other 3 people arrived at the meeting spot, one of them, the tallest one, has a bald head full of tattoos,most definitely the boss of the ones with the drugs. They nod their heads at each other, you listen close on their conversation.

"You got the money?" One of them whispers.

"Yeah, here it is." Sam replies as he hand them over.

The bald one turns to the man on his right, and with a nod of his head tells him to count the money.

" It's all there man, we ain't got time for that shit" Sam says a little bit rushed.

"Shut up and step back" the bald one says coldly. The man next to him carefully counts the money and then shakes his head.

" You short on 500 cash "

Sam's face turns pale. "I-I must've made a mistake."

" You think you can cheap out on my shit fool?" The boss says, clearly angry as he pulls out a gun aimed at Sam's head.

Before you know it, him and his friends do the same, point guns at the other ones.

Things happened so fast, you hear yelling, shots being fired, and an aching pain in your chest. You've been hit by a stray bullet.

You fall to the ground, clutching your wound, blood pouring from it. The world around you spins, and you feel like you're floating. You can hear shouting and more gunfire, but it's all becoming distant. Your vision begins to fade, and you feel yourself slipping away.

#alastor x reader #hazbin alastor x reader #x reader #slow burn #mature theme #hazbin hotel

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