#the warden is tired and burned out as hell and is always in need of like 6 shots of espresso | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dr3amofagame · 3 years

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haha your snippit abt the dispenser got me thinking.

Dream gets let out of prison and he talks constantly, whatever is on his mind. And he's positive all the time. To a fault where people walk over him. And it doesn't make sense because he was tortured right???? But after an incident they find out it's because he hates the sound of silence and needs constant reminders that other people are there. Also he was punished for any negative emotions in the prison so his default is happy now,,,

hi anon !! this concept makes me SO goddamn sad ,, the idea that he Has to be happy bc anything else would mean punishment im so *punches the walls*

this ,, ficlet is honestly. pretty ooc, not really related to the ask at all, and mostly an excuse for me to cry abt c!dream and c!punz for an excessive amount of time (technically the vote on twitter was supposed to have this as c!sapnap pov, but i just wrote one for him so i went for c!punz instead. mostly bc i wanted to write him LMAO). hopefully someone enjoys it despite *gestures vaguely* all of that mess

tw: trauma, disordered eating, implied torture/abuse, blood, injuries, unhealthy coping mechanisms, emotional distress, thoughts of murder/mercy killing, mentioned animal death, dark content

In the end, it’s all rather anticlimactic, the complete opposite of Dream’s vault and the whole fiasco of adrenaline and theatrics that had made up that day. Quackity ended up having one too many drinks, bragged about the wrong thing to the wrong person - Punz doesn’t know the specifics, only knows that one thing has led to another and suddenly Sapnap was screaming at his ex-fiancé, sword pointed at his chest and tears streaming down his eyes in the middle of the Community House floor, everyone else stood around and watching. A look into Quackity’s office said everything he didn’t - the chests and chests of used and new tools, shiny and sharpened and completely rusted over with blood and everything in between. There’s been a balled up shirt in the wastebasket, completely unsalvageable from how saturated it was with blood, more red than white, and perhaps most chilling of all the calendar, marked with X after X in red pen, going back months and speaking to their utter failure to see what had been happening all but right in front of them.

With Quackity down, Sam caved not too long after, and with his input getting into the prison was no challenge at all. The only thing holding them back were bad memories and the tense, worried edge to Sam’s jaw as he led the small group of them - himself and Sapnap, actually entering the facility, Bad and Puffy waiting outside - carrying them through winding corridor after winding corridor and lava pit after lava pit, until they’d come to stand before a chasm filled with flowing lava, slowly draining before the main cell.

“I- I have to warn you,” Sam had muttered, uncharacteristically hesitant, “it looks…pretty bad,” and Punz would’ve questioned him further, but the lava had fallen far enough to reveal the topmost edge of the cell, so they let Sapnap hound the Warden for information as they directed their full attention on the cell itself and holy shit.

Nothing Sam said could’ve possibly have prepared them for the sight - it was a complete fucking bloodbath, crimson painting the walls and smeared over the floor and splattered over every visible surface like some abstract art experiment gone wrong. The stench of iron and burning flesh and viscera was awful, even over the gap marked by the still-draining lava. Punz strained his eyes; at the very back of the cell, huddled, unmoving, was a similarly bloodstained shape that must’ve been Dream. They remember the crack of Sapnap’s knuckles meeting Sam’s face and breaking his nose, remember themselves chucking a pearl and feeling along Dream’s neck desperately for a pulse - everything beyond that became a swirl of voices and panic and crying that makes their head hurt to think about, so they don’t.

Recovery is…messy. The physical side had been bad enough - pulling Dream out of the cell, barely breathing, limp in his arms and far too light, all Punz could think about was a sheep he’d found a year ago, frail and struggling to breathe, one he’d ended up killing - quick and painless - with a sword through the skull because it seemed kinder than letting it suffer. Watching Dream struggle on the bed, laid up in Bad’s mansion because none of them knew if he’d survive going any further, body resisting the potions they’d slowly forced down his throat after being so over-saturated on them, temperature spiking and heat baking into his skin like the lava from the prison had been imprinted onto his body, Punz feels the same strange mixture of pity and unease, wonders if it’d be a hell of a lot kinder if they just put him out of his fucking misery.

Still, because Dream is a stubborn bastard, against all odds, he ends up surviving - his fever breaks, the potions begin taking effect, and a few tireless, aching days later his eyes flutter open, lucid for the first time in a week. Punz isn’t even in the room when he wakes, only knows that it happens because the too-quiet room suddenly erupts in noise and activity, muffled thumps and sounds of a struggle undercutting Bad’s frantic calls for someone to help, anyone, and they run into the room to find Dream thrashing on the bed, wounds reopened and blood dripping onto the sheets, eyes wild and wide as his head whips from side to side so hard Punz is half-afraid that he’ll straight up break his neck. Somehow, worst of all, not a single scream falls from his lips, nothing but muffled whines squeezing past his mouth, clenched shut, and for a singular, awful second they wonder how long it took before he realized that screaming was useless.

Fortunately enough for them, or unfortunately, it’s not like he can tell the fucking difference anymore, the panic and strain end up with Dream passing out altogether, and they trade uneasy glances with Bad before going to clean off the worst of his wounds. If everything they’re doing feels hopeless, dressing up wounds that’ll be torn open hours later when Dream is awake enough to feel fear but not much else because he’s forgotten what it’s like to not be afraid - well, that’s for them to think and everyone else to pretend not to agree with.

Weeks pass along the same vein - Dream wakes up, panics; they try to calm him down, fails; he falls back into unconsciousness, and they move on and pretend that they’re cleaning up wounds from battle and not from someone that’s literally been tortured for months on end. People stop by, occasionally; Puffy spends more time than not inside the mansion, but hardly ever enters the door into Dream’s room, Sapnap and George drop by occasionally with potion brewing supplies that the rest of them can’t go out to get; once, he’d gone out to the front door to find a chest with an enchanted golden apple, sender nowhere in sight. He knows that the server is busy; Quackity’s admission had brought more than a few secrets to light, and from what they understand, the political fallout has been pretty damn messy. Still, he stays in the mansion, and watches.

He doesn’t exactly know why he stays. They’re not a stellar healer, not beyond what they know to dress their own wounds, and spend most of their time doing odd-and-ends tasks for Bad, who looks more tired than ever. Maybe it’s because he’s seen Dream at his worst more than the rest of them, had been there through his entire fall from grace, watched as his eyes became clouded with anger and madness and a single, desperate hope that he’d chased at the cost of his world and himself. Maybe it’s because they have no ties to the rest of the server - not to Las Nevadas, falling apart under the scrutiny of the eyes that now fall upon it, not Snowchester, caught up in the chaos, not the Badlands, half-dissolved after the fiasco of the Egg and with Sam’s actions having just come to light. Maybe it’s because above everything else, he feels guilty.

They’d thought the prison was the answer. It’d seemed too simple, back in that Vault - a perfect answer, because everyone else was perfectly happy to watch Dream die another time and some part of them had clenched painfully at the thought even thought they knew it was for the best. The prison meant that he’d be alive, if angry, and at some point when he had the time or the nerve or the guts he could go and visit, and they would talk, and Dream would be angry but with time maybe he could even understand.

They hadn’t wanted this. He can’t imagine anyone wanting this.

“Punz?” They don’t jump at the voice at their back, they don’t, but Bad still has a tiny, tight-lipped smile when they turn around anyway, eyes creased in the corners and still not as bright as they’d been before the Egg. Bad looks at him knowingly, setting a bowl of soup into his hands. “For Dream, if you can get him to eat.” He shifts a pointed gaze towards the door. “Maybe you two could talk.”

“About what?” The words come out harsher than they intend, and they take a moment to bite back the mostly self-directed anger that Bad doesn’t deserve to receive the brunt of. “I just-” he waves his hand in the air, trying to articulate the mess that is his relationship with Dream without the words to explain it. “I don’t know, man.”

“You don’t have to talk about everything,” Bad says, calm as always, eyes flicking down to the bowl of soup in his hands. “Just start with the soup.”

Punz sighs. “I’ll try.”

He enters the room in a single, fluid motion, mostly because he knows that if he were to stop at the door then he’d never actually make his way in. Dream flinches back when they enter, eyes going wide and stance going rigid, and the familiarity doesn’t make the sight any easier to bear as they wait, as always, for Dream’s eyes to clear enough for him to realize he’s in the mansion and not stuck in that same obsidian hellhole.

“I brought soup,” they say, finally, when Dream looks up. Dream’s lips twitch up in what he probably means as a smile; between the still-healing gashes on his face and the fear that flashes over his expression, still, it comes out as more of a grimace.

“Thanks.” Dream looks away. “I’ll eat it later.”

Liar, Punz thinks tiredly, moving closer to set the bowl down on the nightstand by the bed. They frown as Dream’s expression goes slack and distanced, again, eyes fixed to stare blankly at the wall once again.

“You should have some now,” he tries, careful to keep his words even. “You need the calories.”

“I’m good,” Dream says, automatic, just shy of sincere. “Thank you.”

“Dream,” they don’t quite succeed at keeping a displeased sigh from falling from their lungs, and bite back a curse at themselves when Dream pulls back with a silent flinch. It’s so goddamn hard, to talk to this version of Dream, both of them feeling around the edges of their relationship like walking on goddamn eggshells. A few months ago, he would’ve straight up called Dream out on his bullshit, get it through his thick skull that the whole ‘I’m fine and don’t need anyone’ act was stupid and completely failing to convince him. Here, they bite back another sigh, look forlornly at the bowl of the soup on the nightstand, sure to go uneaten once again, and force themselves to sound completely neutral when they speak again. “Alright. You’ll have to eat at some point, though.”

“Mmhm,” Dream hums noncommittally, once again staring at the wall. Punz stares at his hands. This is so fucking pointless.

“So,” they say after a few seconds, Bad’s words echoing in their head - they can try to make an effort to talk, sure. It’s just that Dream’s not going to cooperate. “How are you, man?”

The words come out stilted, awkward. He looks up to watch Dream’s expression, as the other man begins to gnaw on the inside of his cheek.

“I’m good,” he says, words deliberately light. “You?”

“Dream…”

“I’m fine.” Dream’s voice sharpens suddenly, breath hitching, before he shakes his head and turns his head away. “I’m fine.”

Punz looks at him incredulously. “Are you serious? Do we need to get into exactly how not-fine you are?” They wave a hand in his direction, jaw clenching when he rears back. “Do ‘fine’ people lose their minds from someone waving at them, now?”

“I-” For a second, Dream glares at him, eyes burning with a familiar, irritated fire that Punz knows all-too-well from having it directed at him a few too many times, before it suddenly dies and Dream is swinging his head back to the bedsheets, hands tightening on the cloth as he stammers. “I- What do you want?”

Punz breathes a soft sigh, regret blooming in the center of their chest. “Sorry,” he mumbles, careful to keep their gestures overly-telegraphed and away from the other man’s face. “I’m just- you’re not okay, man. No one’s expecting you to be okay after...all of that.”

“But why?”

Dream’s voice is small, nearly a sob, and Punz directs wide, alarmed eyes to where he’s hunched in over himself, knees pulled to his chest, hands staring at the sheets pulled over them. “Why?” he says, again, quieter, lip trembling slightly.

“Because you were tortured,” Punz begins, words slow as they watch Dream’s expression, trying to pull out the thoughts behind his averted eyes, “Because the cell was inhumane, and nobody deserves to be treated like that. Because you were hurt very, very badly because of what we did, and none of us are expecting you to be fine right after going through months of trauma.” He pauses. “You know that, right?”

“But I’m out,” Dream says, quiet, disbelieving, instead of answering their question. “I’m out of there. It’s over. It’s- everything’s good,” he whispers, more to himself than to them, hands curling into fists and then uncurling. “I’m- they said I would never get out. And I’m outside, and it’s not- not the cell, and I get real food, and Quackity doesn’t visit anymore,” he shakes his head, eyes squeezing shut as his breath catches in his throat. “I’m happy- I should be happy. Right?”

“Oh Dream,” the other man flinches back, breath quickening, and Punz’s hand stops short from where he’d almost let it fall onto the other’s shoulder. “You don’t have to be happy, man. Not- not after all of that. Not if you’re not ready yet.” Dream’s eyes, wide and wet, rise to look at their own, and they feel more than hear the soft, wounded noise that leaves their lips. “It’s ok to be hurt. It’s ok to be scared. No one’s blaming you, alright? No one’s gonna hurt you anymore.”

This, more than anything, seems to be the breaking point, because Dream collapses forward, hands flying up to pull at his tangled hair before Punz manages to ease them away and into his own hands, watching as he grips onto them until his knuckles go white. His breathing shudders, quiet, even his sobs muffled as to make as little noise as possible, and they murmur meaningless croons and hums as he cries into their chest.

“I wanna- I wanna be okay,” he hiccups, and Punz smooths his hair back behind their hand.

“I know,” he swallows around the lump that has risen in his own throat. “I’m sorry.”

#tw trauma #tw disordered eating #tw torture #tw abuse #tw blood #tw injuries #tw unhealthy coping mechanism #tw emotional distress #tw murder #tw animal death #tw dark content #tw unhealthy eating habits #-> my writing #my writing :D #my asks !!#-> my asks

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whirlybirdwhat · 3 years

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crown the king (with bloody flowers) - chapter 37

Hanahaki au drabble series, in which Luffy is in love with the sea.

(Warning for Wano Spoilers before chapter 950!)

Kidd remembers Straw Hat. He had been a brat back then, at Sabaody all those years ago, not even coming up to Kidd’s shoulder and still having baby fat lining his cheeks. The youngest Supernova, the rumors had whispered, only fourteen.

Kidd hadn’t cared about that back then. Why would he, when the rumors - when the entire world - knew that Straw Hat was a crazy bastard that had taken on the world government and won. What’s an age to a reputation like that? To a power like that? Then - then all Kidd cared about was seeing Straw Hat do some crazy shit.

When Straw Hat crashed down the ceiling of that auction, not even breaking in his stride as he smashed his fist into the face of a celestial dragon twice his height, Kidd had gotten his wish.

And yet - he had seen, then, the way flower petals stuck in the brat’s lips as grinned. He had seen the way his lips were bloody without a hit on him, and the way he had spat onto the ground after, leaving an entire flower bud in his wake. The rumors hadn’t talked about that.

Even after the war, with the image of Straw Hat holding his dead brother plastered about the world, petals in his wake, the rumors hadn’t talked about it.

Looking at him now, older but with lips still just as bloodied, Kidd wonders if they do now. It’s a surprise to see him here, in the midst of Wano’s prison camps, but then again - it’s Straw Hat. After two years of absence only to awake to challenge an emperor, Kidd shouldn’t be surprised at where the kid shows up.

He’s still short. His robes sag a bit too big on him, smothering the muscle Kidd knows still must be underneath. His hands hang in front of him, bloody and scratched and sticky with petals as the sea stone drapes around them, and his feet are unsteady as he walks. Even from his cell, Kidd can see it - the gait that sways from side to side, the shakiness of his step, the stumbling click-clack of his sandals and the clink of his chains as the guards pull him along - they’re making a spectacle of it.

Pathetic, Kidd thinks, and doesn’t quite know who he’s directing it at, bastards.

And then -

Then they throw Straw Hat into his fucking cell as they all cackle so loudly, and it’s all Kidd can do to not break their necks with his bare fists. Annoying bastards. He liked his solitary cell - and now he has Straw Hat to deal with?

Hell-fucking-no - Kidd needs out of this dump not for Straw Hat to drag him down into another admiral-level mess.

(His crew isn’t here, his crew is alone, and Killer is out there somewhere, captured just like him. His crew is strong, but they aren’t as strong as Kidd or Killer, and damn if he’ll let them get hurt because some straw hatted nuisance stirred up trouble.

(Or… at least more hurt than Kidd had let them get. What a shit captain he is, dragging them into an alliance like that.))

“DAMN YOU KAIDO!” Straw Hat screams, swears, and it’s muffled by the bandages wrapped around his face and a gurgling in his throat. “DAMN YOU!” He stumbles to his feet, shoulders hunched, glare bright - the seas stone is dragging at his body, but even Kidd has to respect how the fire in his eye doesn’t seem to burn out even trapped like this. “COME BACK AND FIGHT ME! BASTARDS!”

Straw Hat’s chains clink against the prison cell. The wardens just laugh, waving him off, and suddenly, there is darkness again as they shut the cell door.

Still, Straw Hat continues screaming, raging, an edge of desperation in his tone. He’s angry in a way Kidd has never seen him before - though, truth be told, he’s only seen him once. But if the anger he has now doesn’t top his anger when fighting a celestial dragon of all things -

Kidd doesn’t know what could set him off.

(Or, perhaps, he does. That anger rides deep in his belly now, after all, days past when his crew was destroyed. Kidd is a pirate. Straw Hat is a pirate.

Some things don’t change, between men like them.)

Straw Hat smashes his cuffs against the iron bars - against the sea stone bars, Kidd’s tried to fight against them more than he would admit - but it does nothing but make more blood drip out of his robes and down his face. He starts screaming again but -

“BASTA-ACK!” He coughs, wet and ragged in the middle of his words, and doesn’t stop. It’s a hacking cough, once that seems to drag at his throat, and he keeps coughing, over and over till it’s almost like he’s choking one it. Blood spills over his lips and onto the floor as his legs - those weak, trembling legs that Kidd already saw - give out from underneath him. He doesn’t stop coughing even then, his entire body hunched to the ground.

He’s trying to brace himself, trying to hold his chest, but he can’t do both at once.

Straw Hat wobbles.

Finally, Kidd finds the voice to speak. “Oi.”

Straw Hat keeps coughing.

“Oi!”

Straw Hat keeps coughing.

“OI!” Kidd snarls, and reaches a limb over to smack his back.

Straw Hat chokes for one, horrible moment, and then blood splatters on the ground as flowers begin pouring out his mouth as ripped bandages dangle around. Beautiful ones, like marigolds and hyacinths and other flowers of all colors that Kidd will never know the name of. They stick to his bruised cheeks, his hands, the floor, his manacles, but -

He’s finally, finally stopped coughing.

The choking and the flowers stop too, eventually, leaving Straw Hat gasping for breath on the floor, looking small and huh - beneath the bandages, baby fat still clings to his cheeks.

He’s sixteen, Kidd recalls, a whole seven years younger than himself.

Pathetic, he wants to think, but can’t quite make himself do so. Straw Hat walked here after all, with bandages choking his mouth and sea stone laid across his hands, and was still fierce enough that most of the guards backed off. Straw Hat has guts.

And - Kidd realizes, surely and absolutely as Straw Hat drags himself up to sit on his heels - he’s got hanahaki.

(He’s the first-person Kidd’s ever met that has the disease. He never quite thought it’d be like this.)

“Jaggy,” Straw hat murmurs out, the word scratching at his throat. “You’re here?”

“Tch.” Kidd snorts, not energized enough to snarl against the nickname, and settles back against the wall. “Obviously, brat.”

Straw Hat heaves out again, in and out. “… Thanks.” He murmurs again, voice still ragged.

To this, Kidd shrugs. He didn’t - he didn’t do it to be kind. “The coughing was a bit annoying.”

Straw Hat doesn’t say anything to that. He just keeps looking at the small window of light they have, back turned to Kidd and body still - stiller than Kidd had ever seen him. Even in his wanted posters the kid always seemed to be moving. It unnerves him, ever so slightly.

But - whatever. Straw Hat is being quiet, not coughing, and they’ll be enough nuisances tomorrow. He can ignore the brat’s despondent look till tomorrow, and catch some sleep now.

He’s not in the mood to fight, or puff up his feathers like he would do for his rivals typically. He’s just… tired. And hurt. And he misses his crew.

(Straw Hat is alone now. He’s in the same boat.)

Kidd uses his one hand to pull his coat tighter to himself, and rests back against the wall, determinedly shutting out the world and Straw Hat’s to desperate gasps from the front of the cell. It’s… it’s fine.

Fine.

Whatever it is, it’s not fine because Kidd wakes up hours later to near-entire darkness in his cell and a shuffling, hacking in his corner. He has half a mind to lash out, because he’s alone in his cell, and noises in the dark have never meant anything good but -

Then he remembers earlier today. He remembers Straw Hat being thrown in the cell. So, no lashing out but -

“Damnit.” Straw Hat is whispering, cursing in his corner, and Kidd doesn’t think it’s out of any consideration for him but rather the hoarseness of his own voice. “Fuck.”

His voice cracks a bit.

(He’s sixteen and he’s been in more wars and fought more emperors than Kidd can claim to. His own weakness burns at him.)

Kidd turns his head. There, struggling in the corner, is Straw Hat. The bandages have all been torn from his face and now lay in his hands, considerably more bloody than the last time Kidd saw them. Flowers lay scattered about Straw Hat’s entire body, and it seems he’s trying to do something with the bandages and his sea stone cuffs.

Whatever it is, it’s not working because even in the dim moonlight Straw Hat’s eyes have lost some of their fire. Some of their rage.

He looks… exhausted.

(His eyes are rimmed red. Kidd doesn’t look too closely.)

He starts hacking again, not as harsh as earlier but seemingly because he doesn’t have the energy to do so harsher. The purple flowers from before - the spindly kind - fall from his lips and the sight of them makes Straw Hat grow - grow more something. Something like desperation and rage and grief but also not quite. It’s not a sight Kidd thinks he should be privy too, but prison does that to a man. It breaks down the barriers in all the wrong ways and it hurts.

So, Kidd does something about it.

“Oi.” He says again, like he did earlier, and yet this time Straw Hat’s response is immediate. His head snaps up, eyes flying wide, his entire body shifting into the defense. It’s easy to tell how the chains wear at him, how red his chest is from that scar, how he halfheartedly used his robes to wipe away the blood, when he’s like this. “The hell you doing, Straw Hat?”

Straw Hat just stares at him, reminiscent of a child caught doing something he shouldn’t. Kidd raises an eyebrow, and Luffy shrugs, stubbornly avoiding Kidd’s eyes as he puffs up his shoulders. “Trying to get the cuffs off.”

Yeah, right. The brat’s a terrible liar even under the exhaustion.

“With the bandages?” Kidd prompts, irritated, because he did not get woken up to get lied too. Luffy shrugs again, but this time holds out his hands, cuffs and bandages and all. His shoulders lilt with some unbidden weight.

“I was trying to stuff the bandages under the cuffs so that it wouldn’t touch me.” Straw Hat says simply. “But I can’t do it like this.”

Huh. That’s… not a bad idea. If the sea stone isn’t touching him, Straw Hat can use his powers. It’s not a bad idea, yeah, except for the fact that the manacles are so skin tight it’s hard to get anything under them, and the fact that the sea-stone would be in such close proximity to the skin that even the tiniest shift would have you back where it started.

Still, Kidd takes a look at what Straw Hat has done. It’s not much - his manacles are tighter than the others Kidd has seen around here, included his one-cuff manacles. Straw Hat’s are more like stockades, binding his wrists so close that they’re almost touching and giving him very little room to even move his elbows. He’s managed to get the tail end of a bloody bandage under his manacle, but nothing more than that.

It’s futile, and Kidd tells him as much. “It won’t work, brat. Too tight, and you’ll still feel the effects. Sides - they’ll switch ‘em out tomorrow morning with the chain ones so you can do their dirty work for them.” He dangles his own, singular chain and cuff as an example.

Straw Hat stares at him with wide, wide eyes, and then goes back to his hands. “That doesn’t matter. Chopper says I shouldn’t let Sea Stone touch me, or things will get worse. So I have to try or he’ll be mad at me. .”

Chopper - isn’t that his pet reindeer? The tiny guy? Kidd shakes his head, dispersing the thought. Who cares about that, when the brat is still trying to get the bandages under the manacles. He’s letting out noisy grunt as he does so, and it’s clear the manacles are pulling at his skin, leaving it bloody and raw with the skin peeled and everything. It doesn’t even deter the brat - he just keeps on going.

That doesn’t answer Kidd’s questions though. “What will get worse?”

(Sue him for sounding like he cares. He’s bored and Straw Hat is noisy, so obviously he has to do something.)

Straw Hat just gives him a dry look, and heaves into another coughing fit. There’s no blood this time, but it does leave Straw Hat looking even more worse for wear, tired and exhausted . He starts to lean against the wall of their little prison, his hands shaky and his head tilting gently as he still - still - goes to mess with the bandages.

Oh, Kidd realizes with a soft murmur. Oh.

The hanahaki. The killing disease. The killing love. It gets worse with the sea stone?

The rumors didn’t say anything about that - but then again, they didn’t talk about it at all when Straw Hat Luffy was the topic.

Before Kidd knows it, the words are spilling out of his mouth. “Give me that, brat,”

“Wha - I’m not a brat!” Straw Hat says indignantly in that hoarse voice of his. “And no!”

“You just now noticed that I’ve been calling you a brat, brat?”

“Oi-“

“And get over yourself. The sooner you stop coughing the sooner I get to sleep, so get over here and give me that.” Kidd waits a beat. “Brat.”

Straw Hat fumes but its only for a moment before he’s scooting along the wall, too tired to get up properly, until he’s right next to Kidd. He holds out his hands and bandages petulantly, almost skeptically, his eyes piercing Kidd’s own.

Damn the brat has a glare.

Kidd ignores this, ignores how he’s helping his rival, and grabs the brat’s tiny wrist. It isn’t gentle, isn’t kind, but it lets him see what the brat has been trying to do. Straw Hat doesn’t flinch. Just sits there, wide eyed and covered in blood and muck.

(It’s harder to avoid the redness of his eyes this way, but Kidd forges on.)

He’s careful as he starts using his hand to push the bandages through. The brat’s manacles make this act easier at least, a little looser than Kidd’s own cuffs, and Straw hat manages to hold still despite his trembling and shaky breaths. It takes a bit of maneuvering, a little bit of teeth, and more than a few trade backs of Stop moving, brat, and Shut it Jaggy, but eventually - eventually Straw Hat’s manacles aren’t touching his skin any more. He’s breathing easier, skin a little warmer, and there’s something Kidd doesn’t want to name in his eyes.

“That better, brat?!” Kidd bites out, trying to regain some of his image despite the way his hand is twisting the kid’s wrists around, double checking.

“Shishishi!” Straw Hat laughs, the first real sign of whatever the fuck kind of joy is going on in his wanted poster showing its face. “Yep! Thanks Jaggy!”

“Whatever.” Kidd settles back into the wall, bringing a knee up and hugging it in lieu of crossing arms he doesn’t have. “Be quiet now - I want some fucking sleep in this hell hole.”

Straw Hat doesn’t respond. Kidd glances over.

That fucking asshole - he -

He’s already sleeping on the ends of Kidd’s ratty coat, head nestled one the fabric and too-thin limbs splayed out in front of him. Sleeping. On Kidd’s coat. The only one who was ballsy enough to do that before was -

(An emperor, taking his crew away, a blue and white mask falling-)

-is still here, somewhere.

Kidd has half a mind to shake him off, but - didn’t he say, all those years ago, that he wanted to see Straw Hat do something bat-shit insane?

This has to count. He’s quiet now, at least.

Kidd tucks his head down, and copies him, ignoring the blood staining his coat and the ground, and the ghosting flower petals stirred up by the wind.

(The next day sees Kidd watching Luffy shake as his manacles are interchanged with cuffs that touch his skin. It has Kidd seeing Straw Hat tremble in his cell as Kidd helps him like he did this night, and days later - It seems the tiny reindeer give him a small, thankful nod as he inspects the bandages still wrapped around Straw Hats wrists. There’s an understanding there, a respect that Kidd can’t help but bristle at.

He - He didn’t - whatever this was, it remains here, in Udon, because Kidd is a pirate and so is Straw Hat. The past remains there, and alliances are doomed to falter and fail. This wasn’t an alliance. Not even close. This was….

Whatever.

(And if there are still immortal flowers, purple and tall, stuck in the pockets of Kidd’s coat, then no one has to fucking know.))

#op #one piece #eustass kidd #monkey d. luffy #luffy #eustass kid #kidd #hanahaki au #hanahaki #crown the king #opau #opfic #whirlywhat #whirlywrites #wano

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tazzytypes · 4 years

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Apocalypse: Sanctuary - Chapter 1

EDIT (6/10/2020): I know this is unprofessional as hell, but I added more because the ending didn’t sit right with me. Was too excited too hurry up and post and forgot there was a reason I plotted things out in a certain way. Hope you all can forgive me.

Finally! Chapter 1! I hope you guys enjoy it. I loved reading your comments and every kudos made me more excited to keep writing. Also, I apologize for the weird spacing throughout the post. I had to copy it from scrivener to AO3 to here and it just made things messy, but it’s 1AM rn and I’m tired.

Read on AO3 or Fanfiction.net!

click here for: Prologue |

Emily shifted in her seat, head rebelling after spending a week in the dim light of candles which cast everything in an orange hue and made the shadows dance on the walls. Even her large circular glasses did nothing to ease her sight… it was a wonder she wasn’t already legally blind. Either way, she had the mother of all headaches.

The constant fires always left E uncomfortably hot and the layers upon layers they were forced to dress didn’t help. First thing the wardens did when they arrived was strip her down and burn every shred of fabric… her favorite shirt nothing but ash. Clothing standards were non-negotiable. Evening wear on the left side of the armoire. Don’t mistake it for your daily clothes or you won’t receive dinner. Cocktails before-hand at 6:30 sharp. Lucky for Emily, she was always early for everything and had yet to find out what the punishment was for that particular faux-pas. She wished nothing but to grab the t-shirt and shorts she had arrived in just to find some relief.

“Be careful what you wish for,” Her mother had always told her.

At first, she had been relieved when the others arrived. Now she had to wonder if she would have been better off on her own… the supplies she had counted in storage would certainly have lasted longer. Small little cubes with all the nutrients they needed. They probably would have been better with non-perishables, but she doubted the wardens would risk a venture outside to hunt for some… not like they would be able to eat it, anyway.

Another stabbing pain pulsed at her temples, hands going to smooth it out as she listened to the chattering around her that sounded more like white noise than coherent sentences. Waiting out the apocalypse in solidarity would have driven her insane, humans being the social creatures they were. However, she doubted any of them would survive the end of the world with their sanity intact.

Not that one could guess it was the end of the world by the conversations of her fellow residents, most of them rich and most of the snobby. Gallant and Coco were thick as thieves… their personalities almost comically matching that of Regina George from Mean Girls. Evie, Gallant’s washed-up film star of a grandmother was almost repulsively republican — so homophobic and racist that most of the residents hoped she’d have a heart attack and die. The Stevens, a mother and son pair along with the son’s boyfriend, were tolerable. Andre liked to throw shade, but he was balanced by his witty counterpart, Stu.

She couldn’t help but smile to herself as she thought of their earlier conversation.

“It’s like Satan’s Spotify playlist,” Stu had joked in response to Gallants endless complaining, making Andre nearly choke on the water he had been drinking.

“For the amount of times I’ve been told I’m in league with the devil, I’d have expected him to have better taste.” Emily had joked in return.

Stu laughed and Andre only sighed, “don’t even get me started on the clothes.”

“Well at least you don’t have to wear a corset,” Coco had snipped, hand going up to pat at her hair in an attempt to keep it in place.

Emily tugged at her own, something poking her in her stomach, “These are not historically accurate.”

“Let me guess,” Stu said, gesturing to her glasses, “history major?”

“Insomniac.”

The pounding returned to her head and she leaned on the table, pressing at her temples with the hope of some relief. Maybe she could ask a Grey to get her some ice… she doubted Venable had a stash of ibuprofen in the reserves.

It had been 14 days since they had gotten here. 3 of which she had spent on her own, wandering the halls with a candelabra like a damsel from a Victorian novel. She tugged at the high collar of her shirt. Whoever designed this hole in the ground was determined to have them living in a corset-laced wet dream.

“Are you okay?” The girl beside her asked, a gentle hand placed on Emily’s arm. She had just arrived at the outpost, 2 weeks after the bombs dropped, with a boy around the same age. They had barely been able to introduce themselves before Venable cut in, ringing a bell obnoxiously to usher them to dinner.

The few words the pair had said still haunted her.

“It’s all gone,” The brown-haired boy had told them at Gallant’s insistence, lips pressed into a thin line as he tried not the let the emotions that came with those words to overwhelm him.

“Everything,” The girl echoed, voice hollow.

Gallant fell back as if he had been shot, panic threatening to overtake his lungs after it was done squeezing the life out of his heart.

“What…” Emily had stuttered out, trying to calm herself, “What did it look like?”

Andre’s voice had cracked and spat out like venom, “who cares about what it looks like?”

Stu had placed a hand on his lover's shoulder. His brows were furrowed and there was a slight shake that came over his body. Andre curled into him, Stu wrapping his arms around him as if he could somehow shield the man from the world.

Her anxiety spread through her like a wildfire, the attempted facade of strength cracking, “It matters because it could tell us how fucked we are!”

“We’re well past fucked!” Coco had snapped.

The girl with ebony hair focused on Emily, eyes welling with emotion she all too well understood.

“No sun…” She said, forcing the words from her mouth, “just green… smog.”

“Does that mean anything to you?” Stu had asked her, eyes betraying his own fears.

“Hiroshima happened in the… 50s? Chernobyl happened in the 80s,” Emily began to say, too in her thoughts to notice the side-eyed stares of her companions, “and that was still radioactive before it was radioactive… again.”

The comment seemed to stir something in the new girl’s head, “I heard about that… people were able to take trips last year… once in a lifetime opportunity.”

Coco scoffed, “so is dying.”

“Wait, so like… this can go away?” Gallant asked.

The girl looked to Emily, “People were living on Hiroshima before all this.”

“Possibly,” Emily mused, “Then again, we’d have to multiply that incident by… well, a lot.”

“We’d have to find out where and how many bombs were dropped.” The girl added, “as well as the area affected by it.”

Coco frowned, still more focused on her hair than the literal end of the world, “could you stop talking like that? You’re seriously freaking me out.”

“We’re all freaking out,” Dinah snipped.

“Just tired,” Emily reassured the girl, leaning back in her chair. She realized she had yet to ask the girl her name, but the Grey’s entered with their meal before she could — one Grey for each purple at the table. The large black plates were almost amusingly large in comparison to the singular small cube that sat at its center.

A full table-set was spread out before them, silver soup spoons, teaspoons, knives, and a salad fork mocking them every day. They stood out against the dark wood and reminded them that they were doomed to a life of tasteless jello for the rest of their lives. Emily finally understood how her pets felt, fed the same food day in and day out… at least she had bothered to change up the flavor. Her body rebelled against her after the third day, gagging whenever she brought the cube anywhere near her mouth. A few days of starvation quickly rectified the situation and greatly amused her jailer who was all too happy to put the food back from whence it came.

Venable chose the seating arrangements, naturally. Emily was sat beside the two new arrivals, positioned as far from the woman as possible. It was an arrangement neither of them minded. Emily didn’t hold her tongue in moments such as these and she didn’t like placing her wellbeing in the hands of another. Venable expected complete and total control over her residents, enforcing strict standards of order that were almost as tight as her hair, tightly pulled together in a double french twist at the back of her head. Emily was the stray hair that wouldn’t lay flat no matter what she did.

The new arrivals stared at their plates as the Greys placed the cubes before them, sending each other confused glances and waiting to see what the rest of them did. It hardly looked appetizing, brown and having a texture reminiscent of a health-nut’s chia-seed protein bar.

Emily poked at her own food for good measure, feeling her throat clench at the mere thought of eating again. It didn’t listen no matter how many times she tried to reason with it. You’d think the body would behave and finally realize that this was as good as things would get.

Gallant turned towards the girl to his left, “Don’t be too disappointed.”

“Darling,” Evie sighed from the other side of the table, spreading a napkin across her lap, “You don’t know what disappointment is until you’ve slept with Yul Brynner.”

The mere thought of the old woman having sex was enough to make Emily’s lips curl in disgust… maybe she didn’t need to eat after all. For once Dinah was amused by the old crone, chuckling as she cut apart her cube like it was a five-course meal instead of the science project of Elon Musk.

“I want to die,” She could hear Gallant mutter a few seats over, head in his hands as he contemplated his decision to bring his nana along on whatever this adventure was.

Dinah was quick to explain the cubes to the new pair, “The cube on your plate contains every vitamin our body needs…”

Across from Emily, Coco ungracefully shoved the entire cube into her mouth with one fell swoop, cheeks puffing out. Dinah continued to speak, pretending to have not seen Coco, words coming out rushed, “…or so they tell us.”

“Whether or not it aids in our caloric intake is up in the air,” Emily added, following the woman’s lead and gently cutting into the cube.

“The fewer calories the better!” Evie proclaimed from down the table, waving her fork in the air to accentuate her statement.

“Until you become a skeleton.”

Emily had learned from Dinah’s example to take small bites, savor it. She hoped it would fool her body into thinking it was eating more. Either way, her stomach still growled and she was grateful to her handler for taking her to Chick-Fil-A on their way to the Outpost. The mere thought of that last meal made her mouth water.

Coco’s silverware clattered onto her plate as she closed her eyes and whined, “I’m still hungry… I am so tired of the hunger.”

A fist to the table made Emily jump, dropping her own silverware in turn. The girl next to her looked to the other residents as Coco stood up abruptly, letting her chair screech against the floor as it was thrown back. She looked to Emily and all she could do was offer a half-hearted shrug that said, “same shit as usual.”

… God, she missed John Mulaney.

“Fuck! This! Bullshit!” Coco continued, “With all the thought that went into this they don’t have a single bag of Pirate’s Booty in the pantry?”

Evie sat back as if watching a soap opera while the rest of the residents braced themselves for another tantrum. Coco raved on, unaware of the sudden looming figures coming up behind her, “For a hundred million dollars a ticket, I expect goddamn Gordon Ramsay in the kitchen cooking us real food!”

Then she stopped, a tap of a cane on the floor signaling the arrival of Venable, Miss Mead on her heels like an obedient dog. They braced themselves for another, self riotous lecture on appreciating what they had as if none of them mourned for what was. Slowly, head bowed and aware of her impending doom, Coco turned.

The slap rang in everyone’s ears, causing a collective gasp to fill the room. The brown-haired boy beside Coco caught her as she fell back, her hand going instantly to her cheek. As she stood once more she took it away and examined it. Emily could see the barest hint of blood on the blonde’s fingers. A growl threatened to rise in her throat and her lips curled in a disgusted snarl.

It was hard to keep calm as she addressed the woman donned in black, “we’re all adults here. We can use our words… I hope. At least some of us have mastered that much.”

Venable turned to her. The black-haired girl beside her shifted uncomfortably. One could cut the tension between the two women with a knife.

Finally, Venable pulled her eyes away and turned her focus to the spoiled girl before her, her hand resting back on the cane she always carried, “Let me be very clear so there will be no misunderstanding. We have enough nutrition to last for the next 18 months and if our situation doesn’t improve, you can count on less and less.”

Slowly, Coco sat. Shaking hands pulled away from her cheek as she reached for the chair. She was so scared that her movements were stiff. Yes, she had been yelled at before. God knows she was a stubborn woman with a temper, but no one had ever slapped her before.

Venable retreated into the only exit of the room, slithering back into the shadows. Venable’s tone bordered on the overly-theatric, playing the part of a woman burdened by knowledge she dare not speak lest it disrupts the peace.

“You could have told us that from the very beginning.” Emily blurted out.

The woman didn’t even bother to look at her as her lips curled into a mocking smile. When she finally turned to Emily, her tone was thick with condescension, “and cause unnecessary panic?”

“You know what they say about communication and relationships.”

“ Situation ?” Gallant asked, waving a hand to get their attention, “What is our situation ?”

Miss Mead looked to her boss whose face glimmered with uncertainty and surprise, but only for a moment. Venable was debating whether or not to tell the truth or keep them in the constant state of unknowing, easy to control. If she were still in college, Emily could have written an essay on the ways Venable reminded her of the worst sort of people in their history books.

“We had a perimeter alert this morning,” She finally told them, less than pleased with the fact the words were leaving her mouth at all, “Something penetrated the grounds. It was a carrier pigeon delivering a message from our benefactors.”

Coco gasped, “Wait! A pigeon! Can we eat it?”

Emily sighed and leaned on the table, resisting the urge to hand her head in her hands. This place was going to be migraine city the moment she tapered off her medication.

Miss Mead’s tone echoed her feelings, brows scrunching at the pure idiocy of the question.

“It was contaminated by the fallout .”

Her response didn’t phase Evie, who made it abundantly clear she had never made a meal for herself in her entire life, “Can we boil it?”

Venable reached into her pockets and pulled out a small sliver of paper and began to read, “There are no more governments. Only rotting mounds of corpses, too many to bury.”

Emily’s hands fell to her lap and curled into fists until she could feel her fingernails embed themselves into the flesh of her palms. All she could hear were the voice-mails, each and every last plead for life. She could still hear her brother’s voice, cracking in a way she hadn’t heard since their grandmother’s funeral. It was etched into her brain to the last breath. To his last breath, he took his role as an older sibling seriously, trying to soothe her fears instead of his own.

“I don’t want to die. God, I don’t want to—”

Venable continued reading, “Starving people kill for a piece of bread.”

“I love you… I… You were… are a good sister.”

“Three outposts have been overrun.” Venable’s voice droned on, voice cracking ever slightly as she reached the end of the letter, “We are the last vestiges of civilized life on the planet.”

“I… I know you would have made a difference… I wish I could have seen the life you would have created.”

Venable looked to them all as she read the last line, “be vigilant.”

Emily was pulled from her thoughts by a squeeze to her hand, instinctively pulling it back until she realized a hand covering her own. When Emily met the ebony-haired girl’s gaze she offered a reassuring smile, Emily nodded in a small message of thanks before brushing away the single tear which had begun to roll down her cheeks.

“Everything we know is gone,” Mead summarized, eyes blank. It was nice to see that even the Warden and Venable felt fear. Made them feel… human.

“In two weeks ?”, Andre shook his head, staring blankly at his hands, “That’s all it took?”

In a rare show of empathy, Gallant reached out and squeezed the man’s hands. Emily noted the way Stu watched the interaction, eyes watching the hands as if it were a snake slithering in his direction.

“They made you think the system was a rock,” Mead explained, standing at attention with her hands locked together in front of her, “It was a water balloon. One prick of the needle and —”

She made a popping noise, “that’s all it took.”

It wasn’t as if Emily was surprised. One of the first things she learned in a college psychology class was that the only reason the world didn’t fall into chaos was due to people putting faith in a system that would protect them… conventional. The bombs had scattered them, left them weak to the chaos that ensued. It reminded her of the way roaches scattered when sprayed with Raid. Lawlessness was the antithesis of reason, mob mentality was evidence enough of that. It was textbook horror.

“We will only survive if we follow the rules,” Venable emphasized.

Emily scoffed. Some of Venable’s rules she understood while others were a blatant overreaching of power. She could understand the “no sex” rule to a degree. Copulation could result in the creation of new life which they had no means to sustain, but even the Victorians had condoms and you couldn’t walk into a 7-Eleven without finding a rack of Plan B. Not to mention half the residents were gay which made her rules pointless.

“Rules are the basis of order,” Venable said, clearly addressing her despite staring at the wall above them, “unless you find yourself to be above the rules? Too special for them to apply?”

She hadn’t a moment to voice her thoughts, quickly distracted by the army of wardens that quickly began to fill the room. They all watched with bated breath as The Fist bent down to whisper in Mead’s ear, her lip twitching and eyes flitting to the ground as she gave the other woman her full attention.

“There’s a problem.”

Those 3 words were enough to break Venable’s gloating, head snapping to the side like Coco’s had a moment ago. They all watched the pair, unsure of who to keep a better watch on — Venable or Mead.

“We’ve detected a spike in the background radiation, centered in this room,” Mead informed her boss.

Gallant was quick to point fingers to the new pair, whatever empathy he had shown with Andre gone like the wind as he moved from them as if they had the plague, “It’s them! They just came from the outside!”

“No!” The girl exclaimed, shaking her head vigorously and sitting forward in her chair, knuckles white around the wooden arms, “No! We were checked when we got here! We’re clean!”

She looked to Emily for aid, brown eyes wide and pupils dilated. Her eyes glimmered with confusion and panic, searching for an unspoken question. Emily’s brows knitted and she bit her lip, eyes flickering between the girl before her and the wardens preparing a device that looked like a microphone attached to a larger box.

“No,” the boy echoed, “we went through decontamination.”

His eyes also went to Emily as he continued to speak, begging for her to understand, “we were cleared.”

Emily opened her mouth but could find nothing to reassure them. Mead addressed the room before Emily could utter a word. “Place your hands on the table… and don’t. Move .”

Shaking her head at the girl, Emily did as she was told. This hadn’t happened before. She didn’t know what to expect. As the device clicked from her left, she edged her pinky towards her knife. It wasn’t sharp. It didn’t have to be sharp to cut through jello. With enough pressure, it could cut through skin. The rest of the room faded away as she kept her eyes on The Fists' hands, a second device in her hands as well. Emily’s heart hammered with each step closer.

“Radioactive contamination,” Mead spoke, devices crinkling like static as they hovered over each person, “is a grave risk to our entire community.”

The Fist, a giant of a woman with blonde hair pulled back from her face, towered above Emily when she was standing. Sitting down made her feel like a child in the presence of a giant. She held her breath as she felt the device get closer, clicking sounds falling silent as soon as it came above her hand. The Fist repeated the motion a few times more, making Emily’s heart go haywire in her chest, before moving on to the new arrival next to her, the clicking resuming once more.

“The clean rule is there to protect all of us,” Mead continued, now going over the boy who sat stiff as a board, eyes following the woman’s every move, “A single stray gamma particle can cause skin lesions. Your DNA breaks apart, your body disintegrates. You’ll wish you died in the blast.”

The residents weren’t sure what to make of her speech. It wasn’t as if any of them graduated with a degree in radiology. They had learned it in high-school, sure, but that was ages ago… before there was colored TV for some of them.

“But someone here decided,” Mead went on, circling the table for a second round of testing, “that their individual needs were more important.”

Emily tensed once more as the stick was waved around her, Mead pausing momentarily to look down at the box she held in her hand to see if it had somehow turned off. Finding nothing, she continued. “Someone went outside. Touched something dirty .”

The room was holding their breaths. They all knew they were innocent, but didn’t trust their companions as far as they could throw them. Their gaze followed the device, then to the person next to them, then to the person in front of them. They searched for a sign of guilt. It was easier to point fingers when someone looked shifty.

“Makes me sick to think that this person,” Mead spit as she made it to gallant, “to risk contaminating all—”

A wild crackling filled the room. They all jumped in their seats, eyes focusing on the hairdresser. Emily’s heart leapt into her throat, paralyzed as the vultures began circling, donned in leather and stronger than any of them could hope to be.

“No,” The man said after a moment, shaking his finger as he looked to the Wardens, “nononono. That’s a mistake because the only thing I’ve touched is Coco’s hair.”

The Fist stood over Coco and shook her head. Mead gave the final order, voice lacking any pity, “she’s clean. You’re dirty.

The wardens grabbed at Gallant, claws latching onto him as he began to struggle.

“No!” He cried, “this is impossible! That machine is wrong!”

Fingers dug into his shoulder and Gallant cried out in pain, dragged to his feet and across the floor. The warden closest to him placed him in a choke-hold, Gallant letting out a fearful sob as he clawed at the man’s arm. Evie stood, chair screeching across the floor as she reached out towards her grandson with trembling hands.

“This is outrageous! Stop! Please, stop! Bring him back!”

Coco gasped and let out a cry, hands moving to cover her face as her eyes welled with tears. The girl beside Emily looked between herself and the boy in front of her, chest rising and falling rapidly as she began to hyperventilate.

Gallant scream pierced the air, “Evie!”

The crackling filled the room once more. In their panic, they had failed to realize Mead making her way towards Andre and Stu. The couple could only stare at each other, the seconds dragging on like hours.

“No way!” Stu chanted, refusing to look away from Andre, “No! No way!”

“No,” Andre sobbed, reaching out towards the man and trying to pry him from the grasp of the warden pulling him away. He was thrown away with a shove.

“Get your hands off me!” Stu screamed, another warden now going to carry him by his feet.

Mead’s voice rang out from the chaos, followed swiftly by the marching of footsteps.

“Take them to the decontamination room!”

They could hear the groans of their fellow residents echoing down the hall. The sounds resonated long after the steel doors had closed.

Emily reached out for the hand of the girl next to her. Her face was frozen in a gasp, eyes wide with terror. Her hand rested on hers which still sat on the table. She squeezed back and held on for dear life.

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

For once the saloon was quiet. Evie had gone to bed. Emily currently sat next to a crying Andre, Dinah opposite her. He hadn’t been able to stop crying since dinner, now unable to do more than hiccup.

“How could he have been contaminated,” He sobbed, a horrible epiphany crossing his mind as he turned to Emily, “do you think they—?

Emily gave him a look, “Did you forget Gallant’s little hand-squeeze during dinner? He was coming on to you, not Stu.”

Andre had a fleeting smile before anxiety overtook him once more.

“What we need to do now,” Dinah said, running a hand up and down her son’s back, “is make sure Stu comes back safe.”

Her words were less than comforting, Andre shoving away her arm and staring at her with an emotion Emily couldn’t quite place… somewhere between distress and anger.

“Why wouldn’t he be safe?” he demanded, looking to the brunette when his mother offered no response. Emily opened her mouth, hoping something would pop into her head, but she was at a loss for words. She couldn’t reassure him of anything. It would be a lie.

The man scoffed, stepping back and shaking his head, “I can’t believe you.”

He turned on his heels, breath hitching once more as another fit of sobs threatened to take over him. Why Stu? Why not them? Of all the residents Stu was the least deserving of—

Emily rose, hand held out to stop him, “Andre—”

A gentle hand was placed on her shoulder. Dinah took a step around her, hand trailing down her purple-clothed arm until she held her hand, the other coming to rest on top of it.

“Let me talk to him,” the woman tried to reassure, the events clearly have shaken her as much as Stu.

Emily pressed her lips together and nodded, pulling back and watching the woman hurry towards her son, heels clicking down the hall. The door clanged shut behind her and silence filled the room.

… but only for a moment.

“What’s going to happen to me if they find out Gallant is —” Coco started to ramble, “I mean I was the only reason he was here in the first place.”

“You were clean,” The brown-haired boy pointed out, face twisting in confusion.

“Well, I know that!” Coco exclaimed, turning on the couch to face him, “but who’s to say there won’t be a second investigation. I mean there had to be a reason they were tainted.”

She went quiet for a moment, hands held out in front of her as if she was having a revelation, “oh my gosh! If they kill Gallant who’s going to do my hair?”

Emily sighed and sat next to the new girl who was wringing her hands and staring into the fire.

“I never did ask your names,” Emily noted, looking to the girl and the boy.

“Timothy,” He said with a nod of his head.

The girl was pulled from her thoughts, turning from the fire and to the people behind her, “Emily.”

Emily chuckled, “You’re joking.”

“What?”

“It’s the end of the world and I can’ escape the fate of having a basic girl name.”

A smile curled at the other Emily’s lips, then a laugh, “really?”

Emily extended a hand, “Hi, Emily. I’m Emily.”

“There’s two of you now?” Coco groaned.

“I was named after my grandmother,” The other Emily said, taking her hand and giving it a shake, “you?”

“My parents looked in a baby book and picked a ‘less common’ girl name. 21 years later and there’s at least three Emily’s in each one of my classes.”

“God, this is going to be confusing,” Coco sighed, pressing her fingers to her nose in a praying motion, “Oh! I know! Emily 1 and Emily 2… no... That’s too wordy.”

“Middle names?” Timothy asked.

“No way in hell,” The two replied.

“I can always go by ‘Em’,” she said, “god knows I’m used to it by now.”

“M?” Coco asked, “that’s original.”

“Well, we can’t all be named after a brand of cereal.”

“I was named after Coco Chanel!” she snapped, turning to Timothy with crocodile tears, “You get it, right?”

“…yeah?” he answered, an eyebrow quirking up in confusion, “The clothing brand.”

He looked to the two Emily’s as he spoke like he was part of some hidden camera show. The two could only laugh and shake their heads as he was quickly rounded into another one of Coco’s monologues.

“My parents named me Coco because they knew I was destined to make it big. So it was only natural that I…”

Timothy looked ready to face nuclear winter. His guilt over the previous dinner altercations made him feel guilty for wanting to run away, but the boy always had a hard time saying, “no.” The Emily’s watched on, sparing him pity-filled glances when he looked to them for help.

“So did you pay your way in here or are you here for your superior genetics?” Emily asked.

“Genetics,” Emily… Em replied, “I was supposed to be on the east coast but someone paid for me to be transported all the way out here.”

“Who?”

She shrugged, “no idea. Some rich snob wanted their dog to go with them… at least that’s what Venable tells me.”

“I’d hardly call her a trustful resource.”

Em laughed, “That we can agree on.”

“How long do you think we’ll be here?”

“More than we have rations for,” Em sighed, reaching for a glass of water, “Fallout could last up to five years and we’ve talked about Chernobyl… but nothing on this scale has ever been recorded.”

Emily stared blankly ahead and nodded, trying to recall all she had learned about the matter in school, “we could be here for 30 years… maybe more.”

“Sorry,” Em offered, “anyone here can tell you — I’m not one to speak to for optimism or reassurance.”

“No,” The other girl shook her head, “I’d rather blatant honestly than pretty lies.”

“If we had anything more than water I’d toast to that.”

Emily laughed and shook her head. She reached for a glass of her own and held it up.

“Let’s toast anyway.”

Em smiled and leaned her glass forward, a dull clinking sound filling the air.

“What were you doing?” Em asked, leaning back and taking a sip of water, “before the bombs hit?”

“Protesting. It sounds minuscule now… climate change, minimum wage.”

“Everything is minuscule in the presence of death.”

“Poetic.”

“I sure hope so,” Em jested, “or all the money I wasted on an English Major was worthless.”

Emily laughed, “Is that what you were doing before the bomb’s dropped?”

“Nah… I was at home… enjoying summer. I was working on our campus’ literary magazine and selling art prints online as a side-hustle.”

Em shook her head, silence sitting for a moment before Emily spoke.

“I don’t know what to do with myself now.”

“I don’t think any of us do, but at least we’re not alone.”

“I wouldn’t call this particularly good company,” Emily admitted.

“It’s not,” Em blatantly admitted, earning a short laugh from her companion, “but you and timothy seem alright.”

“And you?”

“Well…” Em said, side eying Coco who was still avidly speaking without a sign of ever stopping, “I’m no influencer.”

Emily snorted and shook her head, “that may be for the best.”

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

“All I’m saying is Stu was boring and using up our food, and that lesions won’t work with my complexion.”

Em rolled her eyes and looked to Emily who once again sat beside her as Coco’s tirade went on. The blond-haired woman once again was patting at her hair like she was on the red carpet. They looked to Timothy across from them who just sat looking blankly ahead of him. Em smiled at shook her head, not able to blame the man for pretending he was anywhere else but here. If not for the mandatory cocktail hour and communal meals, Em would have stayed as far away from the others as possible.

Days had passed since Gallant and Stu had been forced into decontamination. Gallant refused to speak of the incident and… well… they knew where it got Stu. One would have liked to have said that Coco had shown some respect for the deceased, but the farthest she got was initial shock followed by contempt towards their fallen comrade.

“Fuck you,” Andre spat, murder in his eyes, “I hope they come for you next.”

“If they don’t,” Em noted, Coco’s eyes glaring into her own, “I will.”

She gaped at her, nose curling as her expression turned into one of disgust, “Is that a threat?”

“A promise.”

Emily gave her a look like a mother trying to get their child to behave among strangers.

It’s not worth it!” She hissed under her breath. Em was far too annoyed to pay her any mind. She could forgive selfishness and vanity, but her complete lack of sympathy for those in pain? It didn’t matter if it was genuine. All she had to do was shut up, give Andre space to grieve.

Lucky for Coco, their jail-keepers arrived at the table before Em could follow out her threat. Venable’s cane sounded like the tik of a clock with each step she took, reminding the brunette of a horror story her friends and herself would tell around Halloween.

“Nobody is coming for anyone,” Mead told them as they both rounded the table to their respective seats at the head of the table, “unless you break the rules.”

She looked to Em, “which includes murder.”

Em paused as she took a sip of water, raising a brow at Coco, “I never said anything about murder.”

The older woman looked into her lap and shook her head, trying to hide the amused smile threatening to show on her face. Coco scoffed.

“This is harassment!”

“This is a difficult time for everyone,” Venable spoke, failing to address Coco’s claims, “as a small consolation, we have a special treat.”

Em could smell the food before she could see it, the salt and the meat, she could taste it in her mouth without even touching it. She felt like a dog, smelling things with such detail she had never been able to notice before. It was incredible what desperation could do to the body. The whole table buzzed with excitement, grins brightening faces and hands going to silverware before the food could be set on the table.

Emily was unable to hide her shock, “no cubes tonight?”

Venable’s lips curled into a smile, the expression doing nothing to ease the woman’s continuously angry expression, “enjoy the bonne bouche.”

Bowls clinked together, the Greys hurrying to place food on the table.

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Yes,” Emily sighed beside her, looking over to Em with an expression of relieved joy.

The brunette didn’t care. If she was being honest, she hadn’t exactly paid much attention to the woman’s words after she saw the soup on the food trolley. It was much like a cat seeing a bird at the window, green eyes widening and pupils dilating as if Em had found her true love. While her companions were much more graceful, at least attempting some decorum, Em quickly dug into the meal.

Her mother used to chide her for this as a child, sitting next to her brother at the dinner table and seeing who could finish first. She couldn't explain to the woman that she had to eat fast or else her brother would steal her dessert. Such things didn’t make sense to an adult, but a child’s reasoning was elaborate and honest. For a life so short, every little detail mattered.

Usually, she wasn’t a fan of stew. Something about the floating meat and murky broth didn’t sit right with her. Now she wondered why she didn’t enjoy the delicacy more often. The meat fell apart like well-buttered bread in her mouth, the broth warmed her from the inside out. She could feel it burning down her throat like a shot of Bourbon, somewhat painful but none the less satisfying.

“You think bribing us with a hot meal’s just gonna’ to make everything okay?” Andre asked, voice sore with grief. A white handkerchief flourished with the wave of his hand. It had been somewhere on his person since Stu was pronounced dead. Em was too caught up in her hunger to realize the weight of his words or the sudden stillness of the girl beside her, an unspoken conversation between herself and Timothy. She would take the bribe happily if it meant being spared from the tasteless cube she had become accustomed to. It wouldn’t win her over, but only a fool refused something readily given with no strings attached.

By the time Emily swatted at Em’s arm the brunette had already finished most of the stew, the bottom of her bowl visible through the broth. She sent Emily an irritated glare, gesturing with her hands as she swallowed her last bite.

“What?” she hissed.

Emily only rose her brows and sent a pointed glance towards Timothy. Turning towards him she was meant with an equally suspicious gaze and a shake of the head. With a sigh, she sat back in her chair, looking between the two and waiting for an explanation.

“I think my mouth just had an orgasm,” Coco moaned with a full mouth, quickly shoving more food into her mouth in fear it would turn out to be a cruel mirage. Em looked at her and embarrassment made her flush a pale pink. Is that what she had looked like?

“Andre,” Venable sighed, settling in her seat and arranging her silverware before she took a single bite, “We’re not trying to bribe anyone, but there is something we all need to understand.”

With a thud of her cane on the floor, the residents turned to her like raccoons being caught in a garbage can. Em prepared herself for a show of saintly-hood the uptight woman so adored.

“There is no ‘us’ and ‘them,’ We are in this together,” Venable proclaimed, “No individual is greater than the group. We did what we had to do. This is, quite simply, a tragedy.”

Em held her tongue for once. While Stu and herself hadn’t been close, she respected him more than she respected most of her fellow purples. The old world may have died, but the power games still presided — a strongman was still a strongman even when draped in fine clothes and laced in a corset.

It wasn’t as if any of them were paying her any mind, too enthralled in the smell of salt and meat like Hansel and Gretal in the witch’s house. Dinah sighed as she took another bite.

“Where have you been hiding the meat?”

Venable’s pause waved over Em like a bucket of cold water, the slight twitch of her lip as she looked down at her plate louder and more illuminating than any sermon she had given them. “We have resources… for special occasions.”

Em could only stare at her as she ate, trying to work at the puzzle which was Miss Venable. There were moments where she swore the woman showed regret or perhaps anxiety, but they were small and fleeting. Everyone had a tell, even the most stoic of society. Em just couldn’t figure it out and it drove her up a wall. It felt like she was staring at a brick wall, waiting for it to crumble.

Gallant pulled something out from his mouth, cringing as his teeth dig into something hard. It was white and square, but he couldn’t tell what it was? Gristle? Bone?

“I’ve never tasted anything like it.” He murmured, examining the object further as he twisted it in the light.

“It’s chicken,” Mead told him a bit too insistently.

“That’s not a chicken bone,” Timothy spoke, looking from his untouched bowl to the object the hairdresser was holding. His lips pressed into a thin line. Venable took a spoonful to her lips, then another, and then another.

Andre spoke from the other end of the table, voice wavering as he stared at yet another hard piece which had made his teeth hurt, “tell me this doesn’t look like a finger.”

Em looked to her plate, stomach twisting as she poked at the remains of her meal. A piece of white glimmered to the surface. Damning polite behavior, she reached in with her hand and pulled it out. Her mind went blank as she stared at it, rectangular with two prongs reaching outward from the body. It was a tooth. There was no doubt. Chicken didn’t have teeth. A frog gathered at the back of her throat, threatening to leap from her mouth.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Andre sputtered out, breath coming out in wheezing gasps as he flew back from the table shrieking, “The stew is Stu!”

The table erupted in panic. Gallant spit out whatever was in his mouth, leaving a dripping dark stain on the tablecloth. Andre wailed and Coco shrieked to a Grey named Mallory to make her throw up. Em could only stare at the near-empty bowl in front of her, the reality not quite sitting with her. Morbid questions filled her mind. It had tasted like… she didn’t know what it tasted like other than meat. Salty, maybe? Sweet?

A firm hand squeezed her own, Emily once again there to pull her from a spiral.

“You didn’t know.”

Amongst the screaming, the gagging, and the retching Venable sat, unmoved by the fires of fear rising around her. She didn’t smile, didn’t frown, didn’t show any reaction at all.

“For heaven’s sake,” she spoke with the same amount of annoyance she always addressed them with, a touch of boredom in her tone “Don’t be ridiculous. There are lines which can never be crossed.”

Something was glinting in Venable’s eyes, something that Em had seen many times before but could never properly place. The woman looked to Mead, “not eating people is off the first rank.”

Em’s voice sounded hollow as it left her, “Yet it is always the first taboo to be broken among the desperate.”

The thought of cannibalism wasn’t what alarmed Em. Cannibalism was deeply ingrained in human history — from burial rituals to a final stand against starvation. No. What frightened her was realizing she would do it again in an instant if it meant her survival. A fire burned in her as she looked to Venable, sitting there with a smug glow of victory. She had hated Venable before, but this made her blood boil at the sight of her. A revelation she did not want had been forced upon her and Venable’s eyes glinted as they met her own.

Her message was clear: Don’t rebel or you’ll be next.

#ahs fanfic #michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x oc

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m-austinbooks · 4 years

Photo

Dear @midqueenally, Merry Christmas from your Secret Santa! When I was reading through the list of AUs you liked, I saw “superhero” and went “ahhhh”. So here you go, a Modern Westeros!AU where Jonerys are a badass superhero duo and Christmas inexplicably exists. I also wrote a little <2000 word drabble, which is kind of fluffy but with dark undertones(???). I hope you enjoy!

The Dragon Queen and The White Wolf

Daenerys had become a nocturnal creature. The night was where her enemies lived, darting into the shadows at the sound of her wingbeats. It was where Jon was strongest, stalking those enemies through Flea Bottom alleyways and catching them in his claws. It was when their baby son found his voice, wailing loud enough to raise those who still existed in the day.

The night before Christmas offered no break to that pattern. She and Jon curled up together on their favourite window-seat, watching the skies instead of the festive lights, leather and lycra peeping darkly from beneath their warm wools. It was hard not to watch her husband too, admire how the moonlight played over his handsome face. It scattered like a thousand stars in his night-black curls and turned his skin to scarred marble. His dark eyes flickered away from the glass when their son began to cry, and they rose together, smiling, sighing, fingers entwining as they crossed the room and looked into Aemon’s cot.

‘Aye, aye, we hear you, pup,’ Jon murmured, the low rasp of his voice settling deep in Daenerys’s stomach. He scooped their boy up, arms that could rend limbs from torsos cradling Aemon so gently. ‘Hush, little one.’

‘Like father, like son it seems,’ she teased, ‘howling at the moon.’

Only when Aemon’s crying had faded to sparse whimpers did her husband reply. ‘What’s this, Dany?’

‘That’s what you wolves do, isn’t it? Howl at the moon, hunt in the snow, sniff each other’s … hindquarters.’

Jon snorted where once he would have bristled, ‘Only at family reunions.’

Dany chuckled, rooting around in the cot for something for Aemon to chew. He was teething, and the canines that were coming through were already sharp as a Stark’s. The grip on the lion teething toy she gave him was supernaturally strong. Despite inheriting the star-bright hair of the Targaryens, Dany’s blue-green eyes, the wolfblood was strongest in him.

Jon seemed to map the path of her thoughts. ‘He’s a dragon too.’

‘In name only.’

For the other great superhero families, Stark and Tully, Lannister and Tyrell, power was a shared bond, but the blood of the dragon was something to bear alone, only kindling in the womb of a Targaryen mother after the previous Dragon died. It had been a lonely path to master her flames, her flight, poring over her long-dead brother Rhaegar’s notes for clues on how to control her gifts. But Rhaegar had died young with his observations incomplete, awaiting a revision that never came.

‘It’s not just about the powers,’ Jon insisted. ‘Otherwise, what would I be?’

Dany was feeling stubborn tonight. ‘Still a Stark. You have the wolfblood.’

Raising his eyebrows, Jon summoned a perfect sphere of ice and balanced it on the tip of his finger. He rarely acknowledged it, this strange twist to his Stark heritage: an unknown mother and ice powers.

Aemon gurgled in delight, grabbing at sphere with his tiny fingers. It was too cold for him, and he cried out when the shock of it went through his arm.

‘Yes, shiny, but cold bad.’ Jon passed the baby to Dany, whose skin was always warm.

‘I suppose he prefers the heat,’ she allowed, watching Aemon curl into her with a cheek-aching smile.

‘So do I,’ Jon’s low rumble was behind her, then tucked into her neck. Wrapping his arms around his family, he kissed up her face, paying special attention to the black scales that emerged at her temples whenever she stoked her inner fire. ‘How couldn’t I?’

Dany sagged back into him, admitting to herself that she preferred how fresh and cool he always felt. ‘You know, it seems pretty quiet out tonight. After we put Aemon back to sleep, we could…’ She reached back and slid a meaningful hand down her husband’s thigh.

‘Aye, we definitely could…’

The warning blare of their phone cut him off immediately, not the normal handset she kept for social calls and dentist appointments, but the one with their police liaison waiting on the other end, ready to disclose which of Dany’s enemies had scuttled out of the shadows this time.

‘Of course,’ she said, kissing Aemon on the top of his curly head before lowering him back into his cot.

‘Bet it’s the Hero Flayer.’ Jon shrugged out of his jumper, slipped out of his jeans. ‘Only he would be enough of an arse to start something on Christmas Eve.’

‘Don’t validate that stupid name.’

‘What should I call him then? Pinkie? Creeper? Git we should have pegged as a murderous psychopath from the first day of Hero School?’

‘The last one,’ Dany murmured as she picked up their work phone. Jon searched the room for his personal mobile, and an eyeful of the back of him in his skintight super-suit made her miss Missandei’s first words.

‘Sorry, Missie. Dragon Queen is ready to go. White Wolf is also on standby. How can we help?’

Missandei’s voice was oddly terse. ‘We have a hostage situation at the Wall.’

‘The Wall? That’s Stark territory, and very far for us here.’

‘The Starks are there, but the situation requires Team Winged Wolf’s specific talents.’

‘Who is it? The Mountain. Crow’s Eye? … Hero Flayer?’

‘Someone new, unlike anyone we’ve ever seen before. He can summon blizzards wherever he goes. And there's something else, though this has been harder to verify. Something about … corpses … reanimating.’

‘Corpses?’ She tried to match Missie’s sober tone and imagine an opponent formidable enough to summon her so many leagues north. But all vague thoughts of danger dissipated in this warm room, where her family was safe and Jon played with his son’s feet as he made his own phone call.

‘It sounds … fantastical, but there are hundreds of eyewitnesses and almost as many casualties. The number is growing. Dragon Queen, the Starks – in their full capacity as wardens in the North – have declared a state of emergency. They need your flames. Please, hurry.’

‘Understood, we’re on our way.’ She set the phone down with a heavy click.

Jon approached, reclaiming her attention. ‘Gilly answered. She promised to drag Sam up to our floor in a couple of minutes.’ The look on her face was enough to make him pause. ‘How bad is it?’ he asked.

‘Trouble at the Wall, we need to be quick.’

‘The Wall?’

‘I’ll tell you on the way.’

They donned the rest of their armour with practised efficiency: gloves, boots, masks and, in Dany’s case, a rich, red cape. Sam and Gilly arrived quickly, still in their pyjamas, their own little boy sleeping in his mother’s arms. And knowing that their son was watched, they took the stairs up to the roof.

On the rooftop, despite the tapestry of Christmas lights unfurling far into the distance, she noticed the dark most, the dark and the bitter cold. The idea of undead creatures held a little more power out here.

‘And so do I,’ she reminded herself, letting her flames spread within her, then without. Jon sighed beside her, drawing closer to her heat despite his indifference to the cold. ‘My love, we’re about to face something a little different today. Something in the North is waking the dead. Your family are fighting, but they need us.’

There was no doubt from him, no smirking scepticism. He just stared at her with those dark, wolf-wild eyes and nodded, ice collecting in his palms. ‘All right, let’s go,’ he said.

Dany was and would always be the only dragon in her lifetime. She had grappled with her gifts on her own, spent long, lonely years fighting to suppress them before she could even bring herself to accept, explore and master them. But she had found her match in Jon, the man who never flinched from her flames. The man who could follow her off the edge of rooftops, skating through the sky beside her on rivers of ice. The man who stood with her when Goldcloak searchlights stamped dragons and direwolves across the blackening sky, mask on, claws out, as hungry for the blood of his enemies as she was. And when the fight was over, he was the man who could melt into her arms without hesitation, who would hold the little dragon-wolf they had made together with the gentlest hands. With Jon at her side, she could do anything.

The last of her fear slipped away.

The Wall glimmered on the horizon long before they reached it, and the dark, formless mass that churned beneath it, she saw that too. Her rage burned hot. How many lives had already been stolen tonight? How quickly could she end these enslavers of the dead? Could she defeat them all in one night?

As they sped closer, she took a deep breath, running through the plans she and Jon had tossed between them on the flight over, picking the ones that best fit the situation sprawling beneath them. Jon called out to her, catching his siblings roving along the top of the Wall. It was nowhere as tall as it was once claimed to be in hyperbolic, semi-historical textbooks, but it was a great vantage point to slash at the undead citizens that climbed up to kill them. Unfortunately, they were not alone up there. Strange, tall creatures encrusted in ice stalked them along the Wall, taking their time, waiting for the Starks to tire themselves out. 'They’re like the White Walkers of old,’ Jon whispered. ‘I heard stories about them as a child. I thought they were just stories.’

‘Let’s see what fire does to them,’ she said.

‘Give them all the seven hells,’ Jon growled.

She dove towards her goodbrothers and sisters like a silent spear. Jon’s family were giving the Others a wide berth, but an uncontrolled strike could still hit them, burn them, kill them. Still Jon had sent her off with nothing more than a vicious smile, his trust absolute. The knowledge gave her power, precision and just a little spark of joy, despite the bleakness off the night.

‘Dracarys!’ she hissed, and the frozen world before her bloomed with fire.

#jonerys secret santa 2019 #midqueenally #game of thrones #game of thrones fanart #daenerys targaryen #jon snow #jonerys #show jonerys #daenerys being the hero she is #jon is too short oops #boatie #myart #mywriting #Daenerys POV #jon is just a stark here #mild jon thirst #... merry christmas #.😂#not beta read

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bleached-d-soul · 4 years

Text

Team ALAB: Home Sweet Home

Part 2 of Team ALAB commissions for @the-hapless-ace

When Jaune ran away from home to enroll in Beacon, his greatest fear was failing.

Now that he managed to get in the academy, fjoin a team of badass guys and even learn how to fight from them, he thought that there were few things he would be terrified of. Bullies couldn't hurt him. His grades were more or less decent. And he even managed to kill a Grimm or two by himself now! He was living the life without fear!

Until the holidays came, that is.

Winter Solaris used to be his favorite time of the year when he was a kid. You gather up with your friends and family, eat a feast of delicious food and basically relax for the entire period of the festivities. Even the Huntsmen Academies allowed their students to take a short break and go home to their families.

It was his time to go home.

Oh Gods, home...

"My parents are going to kill me."

"Kill them first then."

"You are not helping, Mercury!"

The former assassin showed no sympathy for him as he simply flipped through the comic. Then again, considering how complicated and homicidal his relationships were, Jaune couldn't blame him. But right now it wasn't Mercury Jaune was losing head about. It was his own life. His sisters would be mad. His dad would be furious. And mom... Oh Gods, mom wouldn't be mad.

She would be just disappointed.

"You know you could always stay here in Vale, right?" Ren said as he got tired of watching Jaune pace around the room. "Many students do that."

"Really?!" He was saved, wohoo! Now that he found some peace, he had a few questions. "Why are they staying though?"

"Some don't want to. Most cannot," Ren replied simply. "The latter don't have a home to go back to, that's all."

Jaune looked at his teammates. The son of the assassin who was running away from life of abuse and pain. The former terrorist exiled from his only home. And the boy who lost everyone to a Grimm. Fuck, he was feeling like such an asshole.

"You are coming with me."

All three looked up at him, confused and lost.

"Uh, Jaune? I don't think you-"

"Nope, you are coming with me, Ren. All of you are."

"Hey leader, weren't you trying to stay away from your family?" Mercury rolled his eyes. Seriously, Jaune was an okay guy but he seemed to not have much for attention span. "If this is about us killing each other without you, don't worry. Hornhead over here will be too busy stalking his ex."

"I swear to God, Black, another joke like that and I will-"

"Nope, all of you are coming with me for holidays!" Damn his cowardice! He was going to make sure the guys didn't spend the Winter Solaris alone eating some cafeteria food! "I am not taking no for an answer."

Now, all he needed to do was convince his parents to let them stay over and-

BOOM!

Something blew up in the halls.

"Where is he?!" the loud and terrifyingly familiar voice boomed through the corridors, mitigated only by even louder cries for help by the fleeing students. "Where is Jaune Arc?!"

Oh Gods, they came for him.

"He is over there! Please, don't stomp on my ballsa-AAAAAAAH!"

With a sickening crunch and then deadly silence, the four sat watching the door in suspense.

They could hear every step made towards their room but none dared to move.

They were too terrfified to move.

The blade of an axe ripped through their door, tearing the thing into bits and pieces. And now before the young men of the team ALAB stood none other than Jasmine Arc. The former Huntress. Now the mother of eight.

"Hi sweetie!" her voice dripped with warmth and love. And anger. Gods, so much anger and bloodlust even Adam found himself uncomfortable. "I decided to drop by. See how you are doing..."

Jaune gulped as he found mom's eyes staring hollowly into his.

"... and make sure you come back home for holidays!"

Before any of them could do or say anything, the young men were on the Bullhead flying back to Everwoods, the home to the Arc family.

ALAB

Adam didn't remember much of his parents.

His earliest memory was that of a dirty cell full of the other faunus children like him. Little more than cattle in the eyes of their oppressors, the kids were sent down to mine more Dust for the Schnees, as if they were not rich and fat enough. If you slacked off, you didn't get dinner. If you didn't meet your quota, you didn't get to leave the mines until you did. And if you fought back, talked back or even looked like you were thinking something other than 'Yes, sir', you got a beating. Do any of those enough times and you disappeared.

In those conditions, it was the oldest like him that had to be the parent. The mother who could comfort the smallest and weakest. The father who would give up his own stale bread and water so that others didn't starve.

Then he joined the White Fang and his fight was no longer about keeping the kids in cells fed and protected. Now he was taking them out of those cages. No matter where they went, the kids they saved from the labor camps were always the same: starving, scared and silent.

He never had a place to call home. His hoke was whichever base White Fang was situated in. The sands of Vacuo or harsh snow valleys of Atlas, none of it mattered as long as he could set another Faunus free. He never understood people who held any warmth for something as small and frail as a house.

"Waaaaaaah!"

"Shhh, Adrian, mommy is here!"

"Hey, Rouge, where did you put my book?"

"I didn't touch anything!"

"Mooom, I think the pie is burning!"

Which is why he was still unsure what he was feeling in this place. The Arc house was quite big and nice, though hardly large enough for the family of nine. It was somewhat old too. Yet none of the family seemed to mind.

There was laughter. There were jokes. Nothing so out of the ordinary and yet... Yet there was something that Adam still couldn't put his finger on. Was it the smell of all homemade food? Perhaps it was due to his increased senses that he-

"Ren, I have a problem."

"What is it?"

"There is a small child clinging to my leg." Adam pointed at the toddler who looked at him, eyes bright with some weird awe. "I think he might see me as as a threat."

"CA!"

"What is he saying?" Adam whispered as he picked the little one up. He seemed not to mind his mask, which was good enough. He would hate to remove it and get unnecessary questions asked.

"CA!"

What did that mean?

"Uh, I think he likes your horns?" Ren guessed as Adrian touched said protrusions. Did he really? Well, it was certainly a surprise. Back when he was a kid, the wardens used to push him around using his horns as one of the main targets for their verbal abuse. Why, they even called him a cow-

"MOOOOO!"

...

"Adam, are you okay? You are, uh, shaking..."

...

"Maybe I should take Adrien back to Saphron."

...

Mooo? Fucking Mooo?

"I AM NOT A DAMN COW FAUNUS!"

The room erupted in laughter. But not the kind Adam used to hear. There was no mockery or spite. Or fear and disgust. They weren't even laughing at him as much as his reaction. And somehow... Somehow he couldn't help but laugh too. Not like the brat and the sisters. Like he always did, quiet and reserved.

But a laugh nonetheless.

Adam never celebrated any holidays. Had no time. Had no desire. Why celebrate the moments of peace when his kind was still at war?

But maybe... Maybe these things weren't so bad, after all.

ALAB

Well, Adam was pissed. Which counted as good in Mercury's book.

Also, he was training with Jaune's dad, Alder. Which was pretty badass.

"You are good for your age, old man," Mercury smirked. "Too bad I am better."

"Are you sure?" and just like that, Mercury fell onto the ground, suddenly winded. What the hell? "My Semblance is called Drain. Within a certain range, it makes all the people I see slowly use up more of their stamina and Aura. Honestly, I am surprised you lasted this long. You have really good control over your body. Not something you see in a lot of young huntsmen."

Well, he wasn't the most huntsmen, was he now?

"Let's just say I didn't have a choice on that."

He didn't have the Semblance. He used to but now it was stolen, gone along with the asshole that took it from him. A part of him told him that he was crying over nothing. Without his Semblance, he was pushed to become the most vicious and efficient fighter he could be. His speed and strength were the fruits of his own work.

And hey, it was a small price to pay for his bastard dad's death.

"I am really glad my son met you guys."

Huh? "It was mostly an accident," Literally, in fact. "That crazy headmaster launched us all into the forest with a freaking catapult."

Seriously, he could have them jump off the Bullhead or something. But nooo, somehow that old psycho decided that launching them off like some paper planes was a better use of Beacon money.

"Still, I doubt Jaune would make it without you and the rest of the team," Alder said as he took a sip of his beer. Mercury wasn't quite sure why but he took a step back. No, forget that. He knew exactly why he put some distance between the two. And he hated himself for it. Hated how much power his old man had over him even now that he was dead. "You know, you are strong, Mercury."

He knew that. He had to be.

"Thanks, I guess."

"And you don't have to be a huntsman to prove it."

At that, Mercury looked at the man confused. What was that supposed to mean?

"I don't know what it is that happened to you in the past, not my place or right to pry. But I can tell from our little spar that you hate this strength you have. I can tell that you are not fighting because you decided to."

The man looked him dead in the eyes.

"You fight because you think this is the only thing you are good for."

Mercury sat silent, refusing to meet the man's eyes. What else was he good for? Dad never taught him anything beyond the simplest basics. How to write, read and count and that's it. The rest of the time was spent beating the fighting techniques into his skull. It's not like he could become an accountant or something now. At least being a huntsman would let him get his own money for whatever he wanted.

"I became a huntsman for much the same reason."

Huh?

"I thought you were some kind of town hero," Mercury could still remember all the annoying rumblings of how his dad joined Beacon to protect his home after graduating. "The whole White Knight routine and all that."

"That's only half the truth, unfortunately. Didn't want my kids to know I used to be a violent and unpleasant thug," the man chuckled. "I joined Beacon because I wanted a simple life. Be strong enough to slay a Grimm or two in some major cities. Collect enough money and live the life you want. I wanted to get out of this place so much back then. Leave and never look back."

"Let me guess," Mercury rolled his eyes. "Then you found love and decided to clean up your act?"

"No, my entire team almost died on a mission because of me."

Okay... Shit.

"I was young and reckless. But more importantly, I had nothing to lose back then. An orphan without any actual friends, all I cared about was me and what I wanted," Ardel recounted with the small sad smile. "My teammates were different. Each and one of them had something to return to. A home. A family. A lover. Something that made them so desperate to survive that they beat the impossible odds and even saved my sorry ass."

Did he have something like that though? He had no idea where his mom went. Or if he wanted to meet the woman who left him with that monster. He had no special love for his home village either. In the end, Mercury realized that he had nothing to come back to. Nobody waiting on him.

"You are young though. And I can tell you four are good for each other. Whatever comes your way, you don't have to face it alone," Alder said as he stood up and picked up his sword. "Now then, ready for another spar?"

Mercury smirked.

"I could use some more exercise."

ALAB

"Guys, dinner is ready!"

With a loud miriad of steps, the relatively big kitchen in the house of Arcs soon had no space left. The table was breaking apart under the weight of all the food, the orchestra of mouth-watering smells teasing the hungry stomachs with the promise of delectable end of the day.

But not before the man of the house finished his speech.

Which had lasted for good twenty minutes by now.

"Is he always like that?" Adam asked, not quite irritated but still hungry and exhausted from all playing with kids.

"Only when he is drunk," Jaune admitted.

"-and finally! I am happy to welcome Adam, Mercury and Ren into our family!" Alder finished, cheeks red and stance wobbling. "You three take good care of my son! And Jaune, make sure they don't have to take care of you all the time! Now, let's eat!"

The dinner began.

The table laughed, all of them exchanging their own stories and experiences.

And come the end of the night, team ALAB found themselves growing closer.

Not just teammates.

But now members of the same family.

#rwby #jaune arc #lie ren #adam taurus #mercury black #alab au #team alab

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sick-raven · 4 years

Text

Ghosts of the Present - Chapter 9

Chapter 1 + warnings

AO3

Previous chapter

Chapter 9

The fire got his attention right away. Batman was on his usual patrol when he learnt the house is burning – normally he would leave this to firefighters, but the address was well known to him. That’s where Miranda Bradbury lived. She gave him few wrinkles these last two months. Since he helped her, she was like and uncontrollable force, killing people left and right either working with Crane or just being paid for it. It looked like someone got her back for it.

He arrived just in time to see a woman run away from flames. She stumbled, looked very wobbly and unstable. Batman jumped to the street – trail of mud was left behind her.

Clayface. Basil Karlo, sometimes Betty Karlo. What was she doing here?

“Betty, wait,” he called.

“Shit,” Betty replied and tried to fasten up. Her leg tore off and she fell face down with wet splat. “Shit,” she commented weakly.

“What happened here?”

***

“Witch, destroying everything! She will pay for it I tell you!” Edward Nygma angrily restarted his puzzles Banshee messed up with her entrance. He smashed codes into numeric pads and moved around giant chess pieces he prepared as a great war puzzle for Batman.

Sweating like a bull he pushed queen to her place. “Thinking she is better than me,” he huffed. The queen got stuck on something. He moaned in frustration and kicked the stupid thing.

Queen staggered and leaned on one side. “No!” If it falls, he will never pick it up again! Edward ran to the other side to catch the bloody thing.

“Nooo!”

It was heavier than it looked.

Batman found him pinned to the floor by giant chess piece repeating swear words alphabetically in several languages he didn’t even speak properly.

“I’m looking for Banshee.”

“Witch! That damn wench, I’ll get her!”

“I guess that means she was here.”

***

Staff of Arkham gave him empty looks. As if they were drugged and didn’t even see him. The League of assassins hired several Gotham rogues to do their bidding. That sounded too complicated for Ra’s al Ghul. He always hired people he knew won’t mess up their job. That can’t be said about Clayface or Riddler. Not even mentioning Killer Croc. Ra’s was playing dangerous game and as it looked it already went out of hand when Miranda got involved.

What was the point?

Batman took the elevator down and entered chaos.

Assassins were running around in panic shouting at each other, pointing to different locations, arguing. None of them paid attention to the new visitor. Batman has never seen these top-level killers so unfocused.

Among the people he noticed top hat running to the elevator. Mad Hatter screamed in high-pitched voice when he collided with Batman. Jervis fell on his butt, looked shocked, his chest rose and fell under frantic breathing.

“Bat!” he shouted. Then he caught his head, looked behind himself, then forced his stare to the ground and rattled his teeth. “What to do, what to do?”

“What’s going on here, Tetch?” Batman awoke him to reality.

Jervis clumsily stood up and dusted his butt. “Bandersnatch…” he started and gulped loudly. “Bandersnatch…” he started again taking desperate look to the tunnel he just ran out of. “What to do?” he whispered again.

“Focus.”

“Bandersnatch said you need to meet the head of demons,” Jervis said so fast, Batman almost didn’t recognize the words.

“Ra’s al Ghul is here? Where?”

One last look to the tunnel and Jervis danced to different path. “This way, Bat. Scary swordsman is waiting for you, we mustn’t be late.”

The crowds of soldiers were still running amok, but Batman has decided to follow the Hatter. The further they got the more focused assassins were. Finally, a sound of hammers and wall crumbling invited them into hall where Ra’s al Ghul stood, angry look on his face. He turned to Batman and any sign of annoyance disappeared.

“Ah, detective, welcome. I planned to greet you more properly, but as you can see, we have little… disruption. Nothing we cannot deal with.”

Batman didn’t let any confusion show on his face but didn’t know what to think. Clayface told him she was working for the League and they were supposed to catch Banshee. At first, he thought Miranda will need help, but it seemed more like she stumbled into something bigger by accident. And now she gave the same wrinkles to Ra’s.

“What are you planning?” asked Batman. Sound of crumbling wall almost buried his words.

Ra’s smiled. Batman didn’t mean the wrinkle metaphor literally, but it seemed like the Demon’s head will become the Demon’s grandpa soon. “I’ve come to prepare a place for you. To be the judge, to be the leader you were meant to be. I came to offer you the League!”

If Batman didn’t want to keep his face, he would cuss Ra’s out of the Gotham. “We’ve been over this. I will not join your cult full of killers.”

“No, not join. Lead!”

“That neither.”

With last hit whole wall crumbled and showed dark tunnel hidden behind it. “Finally,” Ra’s commented. “That will be the first gift to you as the new Demon’s head. Lazarus pit! Hidden all that time under your own city!”

“I had enough of your games, Ra’s. Leave my city!”

Ra’s sighed dramatically and shook his head. “I expected this result.” With a snap of his fingers two dozen soldier entered the room with the same blank expressions Arkham employees had. Two of them carried TV showing a mall in Narrows, full of people going about their day.

“You have two choices,” Ra’s said. “You kill me and take my place, or I will release the toxin to all those innocent people and order them to kill themselves like this.” He snapped his fingers again and one of the soldiers stabbed himself in heart. Batman couldn’t even react, it happened in light speed.

“You are sick, Ra’s!”

“They were supposed to be ordered by Mr. Clayface with my looks, but I am sure most of them are desperate enough to want to die without his voice or Mr. Tetch’s hypnosis. Narrows are such depressing place, most suicides in Gotham are from there, did you know? They will follow my orders.”

Jervis nervously laughed and rubbed his hands. “Gas,” he whispered. “Gas.”

Batman clenched his teeth.

“What’s it going to be then, detective? Strike me down. Kill me, take my place!”

“Gas,” mumbled Jervis eyes set on Batman. “Gas.”

Batman had experience that taught him to never trust his enemies. They were ruthless and crazy. They went to terrible lengths to get what hey wanted. But many of them had honour and tried to get better. He adored them for that and hated he couldn’t help, and they always slipped him and went back to causing harm. But he has seen how it looked when they tried to help and, in those instances, he knew trust in them will not be misplaced.

“Gas,” whispered Hatter again.

“Do your worst,” Batman decided.

That answer shocked Ra’s. His eyes widen. “I am not joking around. Those people will die, and their blood will be on your hands! One way or the other you will become killer, you will be one of us.”

“I am not bluffing.”

Ra’s face turned in anger. “Do it!” he ordered.

The screen showed the mall filling with white gas. Batman felt a stab of uncertainty. Maybe he shouldn’t have trusted the Hatter. Did he make mistake? Did he just kill…

The people waved their hands around to get rid of the smoke and laughed. Then laughed some more. No hysterics not like when you let Joker in chemical lab, but they obviously got very high and very happy.

“What is this?” Ra’s grinded his teeth.

“Bandersnatch fixed the formula,” Hatter grinned. “You do not harm friends.”

“You little!”

Batman attacked. Ra’s never got to Hatter. He had to protect himself. Strong fighter like him never had problem with it. But as he grew old, he grew weaker. And Batman was at his peak.

Ra’s al Ghul lost very soon.

And Batman will have to clean all this mess.

***

“I had to clean all your mess.”

Batman stood on roof of a small apartment complex in cheap part of town.

“They started it,” Miranda answered. Even after two days she looked tired. Her hand was patched, she had trouble moving and what was the worst, she was heartbroken as hell. When she didn’t wiggle in pain, she cried over lost property, lost books and Jonathan. This is not what she wanted when she got her feelings back.

“You killed many people.”

“Are you going to jail me?”

“Unfortunately, there is no evidence against you.”

“Yeah, I won’t tell everyone I can cut people with my mind. Oops.”

“I already know.”

“I figured. Why are you here? Just to teach me a lesson?”

“If the League is ever back in the city, you need to tell me, Miranda. I have my disputes with them. I must know.”

“You never gave me your number.”

“Just start the bat-signal.”

“What’s up with that thing anyways? Are you seriously looking up in the sky all the time? That’s tiring.”

Batman smirked. “Get better soon. Stay out of trouble.”

“Don’t count on it.”

He grappled away. Miranda stayed alone on the roof looking at stupid blimps flying overhead. Using ghosts exhausted her. Constantine warned her – every time she uses them, more of her life energy will drain. Count on them too much, bam, you are dead before you turn forty. That wasn’t her goal. She just wanted to be the one in control and she showed those bastards she can. A prison, a prisoner and now a warden.

Yet she felt empty.

And she hated that feeling.

***

Jonathan needed long sleep. He didn’t leave his bed for days. Even if police would threaten to take his door down, he wouldn’t bother getting up. The work for the League has left him mentally drained and what happened with Miranda has left him angered at world and mostly himself, for he is an idiot.

So, he slept, ate and slept some more. Only Jervis tried to call him to figure whether he was cut to pieces under Arkham.

“No, I am alive,” he said tired to the phone and turned it off when Jervis started crying loudly.

All that sleeping and eating allowed him to settle his thoughts. He put on long gloves and dug through them one at the time, awake, in dreams, asking himself hundred questions and properly answering even the most stupid ones.

“What did I do wrong?”

“You are insecure prick.”

“Elaborate.”

“You think everyone hates you, you cannot be loved and therefore you expected to be betrayed and you just waited for that gotcha moment.”

“Ah. Fuck off.”

“Next question.”

“How do I fix myself?”

How does he indeed? He tried in the past and the path of good locked forever and he threw the key to acid and then cemented over it. That didn’t stop him from improving himself for himself though, right?

Right.

He slept and ate and slept some more and days turned into week and then two. So, after two weeks he finally managed to get himself together. He shaved, brushed his hair and he looked like a human again and not a wreck. He also had all the answers and he was ready to put them to good use.

And if it doesn’t work, he won’t act like a little child. He promised that to himself every night.

Bound in nervousness, yet confident, he knocked on the door. A person opened and looked at him like a murderer just entered the hall.

“The fuck you want?” asked Terry needlessly. They folded their arms blocking his view inside.

“I want to talk to Miranda.”

“Let me thin- no. You are not talking to Miranda, you jerk. She had enough of you,” Terry stood their ground. “You can be on your merry way, bye.”

“Let me talk to her.” Jonathan didn’t plan to give up either.

“Or what? You will scaaare me?” chuckled Terry in mocking way. That will definitely go on the list of complaints.

“No,” Jonathan scoffed. “I will come again and again. Every day until she is the one who opens the door. So, save me and you the time and get her.”

Terry rolled their eyes and closed the door. Jonathan waited. It almost felt useless, but the door finally opened again and there she stood. Miranda looked at him with the same mixed feelings he felt inside. He wouldn’t back off now.

“Miss Bradbury, good afternoon,” he said thankful he is a jerk and can control his voice as if nothing ever happened. “You left this at our last appointment.”

He handed her The Martian Chronicles. It must have burnt with her flat and he didn’t manage to get the same print, but he figured it’s a good excuse.

“Ah. Thank you,” she said little awkwardly. “Did you like it?”

“Yes, it was thought inducing book.”

“I appreciate you brought it back, professor. I missed… it… dearly.” She didn’t smile, but she tried her damnest to look him in the eyes. He had similar problem.

“To be honest, it’s not the only reason I’ve come.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. Now, I know it’s not really appropriate for a doctor to do this, so feel free to say no. I wanted to ask whether you would consider going out on a date with me?”

Miranda smiled a bit. “You are right, that’s not really good patient-doctor relationship.”

“I know. But I would love to talk outside office hours. And to get to know you better.”

“See, professor, I was in a bit of pickle not that long ago. Cost me four fingers. My temporary landlord won’t let me come home after ten.”

“I will ensure you are home on time,” he smiled. “Lunch tomorrow?”

“Okay. I will wait for you.”

She shifted a bit as if she wanted something, but only said silent goodbye and closed the door behind herself. Jonathan breathed out all the nervousness. Yes! It worked.

“SERIOUSLY?” he heard Terry shout and smiled.

Yes. Seriously.

#batman #fanfiction #jonathan crane #clayface #writeblr #ghosts of the present #sick raven writing #and that's all folks #this story is done

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commander-thorny · 5 years

Text

Claw Island

The scent of salt filled the air as the ocean waves softly washed onto the shore of Claw Island. It was a calm day, the warm rays of the sun hitting Cynoria’a face as she did her routine patrol. The sand caved underneath her heavily-armored steps as she carefully walked across the shoreline, her eyes fixated on the horizon line.

Cynoria paused for a moment, soaking up the sunlight and the salty air. She had always enjoyed her beach patrols that had become her daily routine through the many months she had been a part of the Lionguard. It somehow reminded her of home and the many years she spent as a Warden in Caledon. The beautiful coastal areas with the many eccentric florae dotting them.

She let out a sad huff and began to stretch, her armor becoming heavy with her forlornness. She missed the comforting aura of the Pale Tree and the surrounding areas, but she knew she couldn’t stay there forever. Not with her Wyld Hunt stringing her elsewhere. Still, she silently hoped a time would come where she could go back to her home.

Cynoria started her trudge back to the fort, wet sand collecting on the greaves of her armor. She never bothered to clean them since sand always found a way to creep back into the deep crevices in her Lionguard-issued armor. She was about to go sharpen her blades when an all-too-familiar voice called her nearby.

“Cynoria!” The bright but level voice rang toward her, and her head quickly whipped over to where it came from.

“Firstborn Trahearne!” She replied before jogging over to where he stood. Commander Talon stood nearby, a clearly annoyed look on his face. “What brings you all the way to Claw Island, brother?”

“I’m afraid my visit is in consequence of urgent news, I was just informing Commander Talon of an imminent attack soon to occur here on Claw Island.”

Cynoria tilted her head and furrowed her brows. “Attack? Of what scale?”

“Stand down soldier,” Commander Talon huffed, words dripping with annoyance. “This matter doesn’t concern you. Go back to your patrols.”

“I apologize sir, but I believe I can be of assistance,” Cynoria stated, giving a worried glance toward Trahearn.

“It’s ok Cynoria. I apologize for pulling you from your clearly important duties. Perhaps another time.” Trahearne interjected, returning a knowing glance her way.

Cynoria bit her tongue, keeping her disappointment from making an appearance. “As you wish, Trahearne. Another time”. She saluted them both before walking to a place where she could sharpen her blades.

“An imminent attack…” Cynoria thought, running the smooth whetstone against her dull blade. She never doubted the Firstborn when it came to his knowledge of Orr, but an attack on Claw Island? It just seemed so unlikely. She huffed in annoyance at her blade, which didn't seem to get any sharper despite her experienced stroked of the whetstone. She tossed the whetstone aside and gave up on sharpening her blades. She quickly made her way back to the beach to watch the horizon for any signs of the mentioned “attack”.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cynoria saw the Firstborn with a tall, grey charr. They seemed deep in conversation, and she couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy. If only her duties hadn’t kept her from being able to finally talk to Trahearne. She hadn’t seen him ever since she was with the Wardens. She shook her head and went back to her patrol.

Before she could get to her usual spot, Cynoria heard a scuffle nearby. She quickly bolted to where the ringing of blades was and quickly leaped into battle. She quickly cut deeply into the risen ambush, bringing down any risen in her path. She saw the charr that was with Trahearne give her an impressed look, and she quickly flashed a smile before going back to work. Soon enough the scuffle was over, and Cynoria began to clean the blood off of her blades.

“That wasn't much of a fight. Trahearne, I thought you said the attack would be significant?” Deputy Mira questioned, and Cynoria turned her attention to the Firstborn.

“It was a feint. They're testing your defenses. More will come, and soon.” Trahearne replied, and Deputy Mira nodded.

“Makes sense. Report to Watch Commander Talon, and tell the men to be ready.”

Cynoria followed Trahearne and the charr like a shadow. In the back of her mind, she knew Trahearne was right. She could feel the environment starting to change. Cynoria yelped as Trahearne grabbed her arm from behind him and pulled her to his side.

“You cannot hide from me, Cynoria. You should know that by now.” Trahearne jested, giving her a smirk before turning to the charr.

“Klarnite, this is Cynoria. She is a renowned warrior from the Grove. I knew she had potential ever since she awakened from her pod.” Trahearne introduced her, and she couldn’t help but become flustered from his praise.

The charr looked at her from the corner of his eye as they walked to the fortress. “It’s nice to meet you Cynoria. Hopefully your praise holds up in this attack”.

She quickly nodded, fidgeting with the pendant around her neck. Trahearne had given her the pendant as a gift when she left the Grove. It was enchanted with a mesmer illusion spell to hide the bat wings that sprouted from her back. Trahearne knew it would help her in her adventures outside Caledon, and so far it has proven useful.

Once they reported back to Commander Talon, Cynoria could feel her back itching. As Trahearne and Klarnite spoke to Talon, her eyes wandered to the horizon once more. Before she could say a word of concern, bone ships sprouted from the sea like waves. She heard Deputy Mira shout a warning to Talon, and Cynoria watched as large, towering abominations landed on the walls of the fort. She quickly zipped to the walls and helped cut the abominations down with Trahearne and Klarnite not far behind.

Once the abominations were down, the trio quickly made their way to the beaches to take down the risen plaguing the shore. The stench of rotted flesh hung in the murky air as they cut their way to Deputy Mira. As soon as she was revived, they fled back into the walls of the fortress.

“What are we going to do? There’s too many risen!” Cynoria shouted over the sounds of battle, and Klarnite pointed to the trebuchet.

“We need to take down the ships! Hurry!” He yelled, and they began their trip to the trebuchet. Klarnite manned the trebuchet while Cynoria and Trahearne kept the risen at bay. Soon, Klarnite shouted in victory as one of the ships sank to the ocean floor.

“Well done!” Trahearne called over his shoulder, but the victory was short lived.

As soon as the one ship went down, 5 sprang up in its place. Cynoria’s jaw dropped in shock before being dragged away by Trahearne. They ran back to Commander Talon, cutting down the risen in their path.

“Talon, this is no normal attack! The Lionguard cannot hold! We're overwhelmed!” Deputy Mira pleaded, her wounds severe.

“Claw Island has stood for nearly a hundred years. It cannot fall!” Talon roared, clearly oblivious to the hell that surrounded them. “We'll fight them to the last soldier! To the last sword! We'll never surr—“

A risen brute came up from behind and struck Talon with a heavy hit. A sickening crack erupted from Talon’s skull before Cynoria could kill the creature.

“Medic! We need a medic over here! Commander Talon, hold on. You'll be all right.” Mira shouted, and Cynoria quickly knelt down to deal with the serious wound.

“Quiet, Mira. Soldiers don't need lies. Retreat to the city. Tell the commodore...we did all we could…” Commander Talon whispered as he shooed Cynoria’s hands away. She whimpered as Trahearne laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“By your will, Commander. I swear to you...this isn't over.” Mira solemnly said as Talon’s consciousness slipped from him. Cynoria had a silent moment of mourning before standing back up, looking at Trahearne tearfully.

“Mira, the island is overwhelmed. We have to evacuate the Lionguard and ignite the watchtowers to warn the city.” Klarnite instructed, looking around at the chaos surrounding the small group.

“No. You'll never make it to the beacon with these Risen monstrosities chasing you. We'll have to fight our way back.” Mira began, looking down in frustration. “The Lionguard will make a stand in the courtyard while you go for the tower. Gods willing, the Risen will be too busy fighting us to stop you.”

“Your bravery is commendable, Deputy Mira, but your soldiers cannot survive a protracted battle against this many undead.” Trahearne said with urgency, and Cynoria shook her head.

“It's the duty of every Lionguard to lay down our lives to protect our city. If that's what it takes, that's exactly what we'll do.” Cynoria interjected, looking at Trahearne with sad but determined eyes.

“We'll rally in the courtyard. You light the warning beacons. Now, go!”

Cynoria quickly lept back into battle, cutting down risen as Klarnite and Trahearne made their climb to the beacons. Thick blood coated her armor and face as she fought beside her fellow Lionguard. In her many years of fighting, she had never faced such a battle like this. The risen were relentless and never tired. They clearly had an advantage over the mortal soldiers trying in vain to lessen their numbers. Soon enough, the beacons flared up and Klarnite and Trahearne returned to the courtyard. Everyone began to rally to the courtyard, facing what seemed to be a final stand.

A mighty roar shook the ground beneath them as a winged creature circled the sky. Cynoria watched in awe as the creature made its descent. It crashed into the wall, sending rubble flying around them as it landed.

“One of Zhaitan’s champions…” Trahearne whispered and Cynoria shuddered. She had never seen the Firstborn so afraid, and he was rightfully so. “Everyone get under cover! It breathes corruption!”

Deputy Mira, and many others, cried out in pain as the dragon let out a poisonous breath. Trahearne quickly ran to her side as she writhed in pain. “I can’t see! By Kormir it burns!”

Cynoria made her way to Klarnite’s side, and Trahearne soon joined them. “The dragon’s servants will never let us leave this island. We have to evacuate.” Cynoria stated, growing weary from the fighting.

“The soldiers are too injured, we can’t make a formidable defense and still get everyone aboard.” Klarnite stated and Cynoria shook her head. She fiddled with the pendant once more, and Trahearne stared pointedly at her.

“No.” Trahearne simply said and Cynoria huffed. “I am not letting you.”

“It’s the only way and you know it!” Cynoria shouted at Trahearne. She knew how powerful she could be with the help of her wings. She could form a good distraction and possibly live.

“Get everyone to the docks and close that gate.” Cynoria ordered to Klarnite and Trahearne. Trahearne tried to interject but she silenced him. “Go! This is your only chance. I’ve made up my mind.”

Trahearne swallowed a lump in his throat and nodded to Klarnite defeatedly. He quickly gave Cynoria’s hand a squeeze and whispered, “May the Pale Mother watch over you”.

“Don't worry brother, I’ll join you soon”.

Klarnite shouted the order and everyone made their way to the gates, except for her. Cynoria closed her eyes and clung to the pendant tightly, before ripping the chains from her neck.

Cynoria could feel her wings emerge from her back, breaking out from the back of her armor. She stretched them out to their full capacity, feeling adrenaline starting to pump through her veins.

“Close the gates!” Cynoria shouted, and she could feel the rumble of the gates closing behind her. “It’s showtime”.

Cynoria took off into the air and let a large burst of air fling the risen forces back. She dove into the center of the courtyard, landing with her blades brandished beside her. The hoard of risen stumbled toward her and she swung her blades relentlessly. Her wings let her speed through the risen easily, and she left a trail of death at her wake. Soon, the hoard was just a small gathering. More forces flooded in but she was full of new energy.

Zhaitan’s champion continued it’s relentless attack. Cynoria was able to dodge it as she fought, but the poison became almost too much to bear. Her armor was close to being mere scraps, and she could feel sap pouring down her face. She began her escape to the wall, but an abomination swung her back into the courtyard. Before she knew it, the dragon breathed it’s poison down on her and she used her exposed left arm and wing to shield herself.

Cynoria screamed in pain as the bark and leather began to melt from the poison. Her heart thrummed in her ears as she became weaker. Her eyes bolted to the horizon and she could see the flag of the ship drifting past the island. She knew it was now or never. She discarded her left blade and began to sprint with all her might to the walls of the fortress once more. This time, she dropped into a slide past the abomination. Once she got back up, she went into a full sprint and launched herself off the wall. Despite her muscles screaming at her, she flew towards the ship. Soldiers shouted as they saw her approach, and she could see Trahearne let out a sigh of relief.

Until she crashed aboard the ship.

Multiple soldiers exclaimed in shock and fear at her crumpled form. Cynoria’s left arm was sizzling and unrecognizable. The poison mixed with the sap and created bubbles against the burnt dead bark. Her left wing was in similar shape. Holes dotted the wing, and bones were exposed. Strings of melted leather clung against the rest of the wing and floated against the breeze. Her breathing was labored, and she didn’t dare to look into Trahearne’s eyes as he knelt against her shaking form. She could feel his hands carefully examine her wounds and he screamed for a medic.

She carefully grasped one of his hands with her right hand, squeezing it in reassurance that she was still with him. He crept closer to her, grasping her hand with both of his. She slowly turned her head to look at his pain-stricken eyes.

“You are a madwoman.” Trahearne whispered, his voice cracking as he comforted her.

“But I’m alive...and so is everyone else.” She croaked with a small smile.

“You are going back to the Grove.” Trahearne squeezed her hand once more as a medic finally arrived and began to dress her oozing wounds. They almost seemed to hesitate when addressing her mutilated hand, but soon began cleaning it and dressing as much of it as possible.

Cynoria sighed in relief as the pain started to dull, her breath becoming steady. Soldiers murmured around her as she closed her eyes, her consciousness dipping from exhaustion. Trahearne stroked the vines on her head as she finally fell into a deep slumber.

At least she got her wish. She was going home.

#tw: gore #tw: body horror #tyriaslibrary #tyriaslibraryevent #gw2 #gw2 sylvari #sylvari #Cynoria Thorn

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lexilikesthings · 5 years

Text

Heritage: Part 10

Beginning | Previous | Next

Iron Bull had every intention of going to see the Inquisitor the moment his wound healed up. Unfortunately, before that happened, she was called away for some important business. Adamant. He hadn’t gotten a chance to talk to her before she left, what with the war room meetings and the gathering of an army. At first he was a little hurt she didn’t take him with her, but when he learned a bit more about the situation, however, he had to admit she made the right call.

Blood magic, demons, and grey wardens- which usually meant darkspawn. All of Bull’s favorite things wrapped into one shitty siege. Blackwell went with, an obvious choice to garner sympathy with the Wardens, as well as Solas and Sera. She’d need barriers, and that was Solas’s specialty, and Sera’s bizarre flasks had gotten them out of more than one scrape in the past. Still. He wished he could be there to watch her back.

His worry only grew when the received word after the battle. Skyhold was nearly empty, but the gossip mill was still furiously turning. The Inquisitor and her companions went into the fade-- physically-- and survived! That was the basis to all the tales, though details varied wildly from there. The fade was a nasty business no matter what, and Bull could only hope that some of the scarier tellings were just imaginations getting ahead of themselves.

Some said half the group didn’t make it, others said everyone made it but were horribly disfigured, more yet insisted the Inquisitor got a nasty gash across her face. He heard someone say she’d gotten possessed, and nearly decked the guy who said it. That’d never happen, he told himself. Not possible.

It took a week after the rumors began for the first of the armies to return, Adaar at their head. Iron Bull watched from the battlements. Even at that distance, he could tell how exhausted she looked. No way that was a demon. He sighed with relief he would never admit. He watched her greet well wishers and advisers with a tired smile. He considered giving her a day of rest before talking to her, but he wasn’t that patient.

Bull didn’t rush to her immediately, though, he had a bit more tact than that. He knew she would tied up with a few meetings, though it was likely they would be short. He went to his room and gathered a few things in a bag he thought he might need and made his way to her chambers.

He’d been there a few times now, but this time it felt different. The room had a chill in it, even smelled cold, likely because no one had been in it for several weeks. He realized he’d never seen it without a candle burning, even when she wasn’t there. Maybe there was a reason for that. Bull found some matches on the desk and lit the more clearly used candles. Adaar could probably use something comfortable and familiar when she got back.

Bull glanced down at the papers strewn across her desk. A letter was lying open in the center, carefully positioned in comparison to the others swept aside. His eyes skimmed the first line.

Dearest Adaar,

Not Ben-Hassrath, he told himself. Not my business.

It’s been too long since we last spoke, I’ve been worried to death!

Not Hissrad anymore. No reason to read this. He clenched his jaw and tore his eyes away quickly. Why did those words bother him? He walked away from the desk, lest he be tempted to snoop further. He knew Adaar wouldn’t be happy if he read her mail. Bull sat on her bed and stared at the desk from afar. It was the training, he decided. I’ve been a spy too long, it comes second nature now.

Though that didn’t explain why the implications of those words set his brow in such an unhappy position. He shook the thoughts from his head and went to the balcony. He needed a few minutes to clear his head before she arrived. He slung the bag from his shoulder, letting it sit right in the doorway.

It was only early afternoon, but the wind still felt cold on his chest. It always felt cold this high up in the mountains. It almost made him miss the warm sands of Seheron. But not really. A warm breeze didn’t exactly make up for having to be surrounded by death every day. Things were better here. He’d been honest when he told Adaar he was where he wanted to be.

Bull was worried about her. He knew she was comfortable with magic, but going into the fade was another beast altogether. He had no idea how a place like that could affect a person. Most likely, no one would know. It had literally been ages since it supposedly last happened, and that didn’t end well for anyone.

He heard the downstairs door open and close. Heavy exhausted footsteps coming up the stairs. Showtime. Bull grabbed his bag and moved it in next to the desk, seating himself on her bed with his elbows resting on his knees. The second door closed. Bull coaxed an easy-going grin onto his face as Adaar’s head came into view, followed shortly by the rest of her.

He let her see him first, didn’t want to startle her. “Hey, Boss,” he called lightly when they made eye contact.

She looked even worse off up close. But when she saw Bull, some of that stress seemed to melt away, just a little. “How you doing, Bull?” She had a bag of her own that she tossed haphazardly past him to the other side of the room as she stepped towards him.

“You look like shit,” he admitted.

“Thanks, I feel even worse,” she joked, punching him lightly on the shoulder as she collapsed face first onto her bed.

“You’re tired?” she grunted in response. “Want me to go?”

Adaar hooked her fingers onto his belt. Her fingers felt cold against his skin. “Don’t.”

Bull nodded. “Okay.” He laid back next to her. They laid like that for a few minutes before Bull spoke up again. “Did you eat?”

She turned her head to face him. “I’m not hungry.”

“Not what I asked,” he chided. He moved to stand up, only to realize he was still tethered by her hand on his belt. He looked over to see her squinting at him suspiciously. “I’m not leaving, just need to grab my bag.”

This seemed to appease her for the moment and she released him, freeing him to stand and cross the room. He rummaged through it and pulled out a small paper wrapped package, returning to the bed and setting the bag back down a bit closer.

He set the small package in front of Adaar’s nose. “It’s a cake,” he explained. “Not too sweet. A good travel food.”

“Mm, more travel food,” she drawled sarcastically. But she propped herself up on her elbows and pulled the wrappings loose. A small square of yellow cake was within.

“Made it myself,” Bull said, sitting back down on the bed.

She picked it up. “Didn’t have you pegged as a baker,” she admitted. Adaar examined it for a moment before taking a bite. She nodded. “S’good. Kinda savory.”

“I picked up a few tricks over the years. Met a guy who made these in Nevarra. Still can’t quite get it quite the way he made them.”

Adaar took another bite. “Wish I had these on the road. S’a hell of a lot better than salted nug jerky.”

Bull let her finish the cake. “How ya doin’?”

She didn’t look at him. “Been better.”

“Want me to hit you with a stick?”

She snorted. “God no, I know exactly what you’re talking about. A couple of the Valo-kas used to do that shit.” She rolled her eyes. “I never really saw the point.”

He nodded. It wasn’t for everybody. “Wanna talk about what happened?”

She was quiet for a moment, resting her chin on her forearms. “The Warden died.” Bull didn’t respond. “We had to fight... a Nightmare demon. Didn’t even know those were thing.”

“And here I thought they were all nightmares,” Bull offered.

“Not. Not like this one.” Her eyes were far away then. “It was massive. It... I wasn’t sure we were gonna make it out. Warden Stroud distracted it so we could escape, but...” She clenched her jaw. “I should have...”

“You better not be about to say you should have stayed behind instead,” Bull grumbled.

“Well!” she began to protest. “I know! I can’t just... stay in the Fade and die when this stupid fucking anchor on my hand is the only thing that can save the entirety of fucking Thedas!” She grabbed a pillow from the top of the bed and put it over her head. It didn’t quite have the desired effect thanks to her horns.

Bull could see her fingers curled into the pillow shaking. They were scratched and worn, almost calloused to bleeding. Her left was flickering slightly with the glow of the mark. He gently placed his hand over hers. “You’re okay now. You’re safe.”

Her hands slowly stopped shaking. Bull withdrew his hand and reached back into his bag. Adaar made a small sound and peeked at him from under the pillow. He pulled out a blanket, fairly thin but surprisingly large, and threw it over Adaar. She sat up and looked at him in confusion.

“I saw you when you got back,” he admitted. “I could tell some things weren’t sitting right. So I came prepared.” Bull pulled the corners over her shoulders.

“I... Have blankets, Bull,” she said, still confused.

“You do. But this one is soaked in embrium oil. Calms the nerves.”

Adaar pulled the corners up to her face and inhaled. “Oo, nice.” She adjusted herself to sit with her back against the headboard, moving the blanket to be over her front. “Thanks Bull.”

“Anytime, Boss.”

They sat there for a few minutes in comfortable silence. He could see the stress slowly easing from her face and posture. She alternated between sitting with her eyes closed and watching him curiously. Not for the first time in his life, Bull wished he could read minds.

“Quite the bag of tricks you have there,” she finally said, seeming much more at ease. “Sure it’s not magic?”

He chuckled. “I just like being prepared is all.”

“How did you know what I’d need?”

“I can read people,” he said simply.

“Hm,” she said, seeming to doubt him. “What else is in there?”

Bull grinned. “That’s on a need to know basis, I’m afraid.”

She put on an expression of mock shock. “Don’t I need to know?”

“Not yet. Maybe not even today.”

Adaar laughed. “Well now I want to know even more.”

He smirked and scooted closer, putting a hand on her knee. “One thing at a time. Let me see your hands.”

She complied, leaning forward to offer them, palms up. Bull took them in his and examined them, turning them over and running his fingers over hers. They felt warmer already. Her breathing and heart rate had returned to normal. They were little things she probably hadn’t even noticed were off in the first place, but helped Bull guess a little accurately at what was going on inside her head.

Satisfied, he looped his fingers around her wrists and held them like cuffs. “I know we’ve sort of beat around the bush about it, but we should probably talk about what it means to ride the Bull,” he said, looking up at her.

Adaar couldn’t help but stifle a chuckle. “I still can’t believe you call it that,” she teased. “But yeah. Let’s talk.”

#heritage #dragon age #dragon age fanfiction #iron bull #iron bull x adaar #iron bull x inquisitor #fanfiction #slow burn #comfort

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dreamofcentipedes · 5 years

Text

Red Lotus Blooms: 8 - Burning Bright

Summary: A monster is forged in flame. As light burns out, red leaves unfurl. Crossing paths once more, Tatara and Houji hurtle towards the end of the beginning, and the ashes of the past again burn bright.

Characters: Tatara, Houji, Eto, Noro, Arima, Donato

Rating: Teen Words: 8, 766 Link to AO3

Link to Table of Contents

A/N: FINAL CHAPTER! Thank you so much to all you readers, whether you've been here from the start, you hopped on partway through, or you're reading this in the future from start to finish - every comment and kudos I've received from you gave me the willpower to see this through to the end.

A note on ages: here, Tatara is 17, Eto is 16, and Houji is 27. It's a little under 9 years before Kaneki goes on that fateful date.

Cochlea was a uniform place for diverse peoples. Prisoners sane but for their cannibalism, guards mad but for their wives and two children, it was a melting pot of the most absurd congregation of ghouls and humans alike. Its architecture, with its circling rows of identical doorways, looked bizarre in contrast by its very unremarkability. Perhaps the effect was intentional: to differentiate the prisoner from the prison, chaos from order. The guards would not play into that fantasy, however. Houji often found himself wondering who really needed protecting here: who should be outside the cells, and who should be within.

So it came as a strange relief to meet so disgusting a ghoul as the child-murdering Donato Porpora. For a brief moment, Houji could regain some sense of moral certainty.

“And you are Special Class Kousuke Houji, is that right?”

Houji inwardly flinched at the title that still felt so ill-fitting to him. This ghoul, with his elderly but dignified aspect and his calm smile that seemed to hold secret knowledge, made the honour feel especially rancid. Like he was comparing him with Special Class Wu, a comparison he knew in his heart of hearts to be true.

“Oh, did that have some kind of impact on you? I really can’t tell, your face is solid as a rock.” The ghoul seemed disappointed behind his mockery. Or perhaps it was the other way around.

“Priest.” Houji addressed him, smoothly cutting through his nonsense, firm, clear, impassive. “You know why I am here, and why you are being kept alive.”

“Nosiness as usual then, is it?” He threw back his head with a rasping cackle that echoed behind the glass screen that separated them in the interrogation room.

The balding Warden Koumura sat beside Houji, bored. Houji was sure he had better uses of his time, but it was advised that interrogations took place in groups of two, especially with this ghoul. Arima was unavailable as he was on patrol and, though he was not fond of Koumura, he was preferable to a guard like that savage Tokage. Ultimately, Koumura could not turn down a rule he was meant to impose.

“Have you heard about any ghoul plans to breach Cochlea? Or if anyone who would be stupid enough to try it?” Koumura spat. He was obviously sceptical about these rumours, but they were the reason Houji had been assigned there as extra security.

“Breach Cochlea?” The ghoul seemed interested, for very obvious reasons. “Where did you hear that?”

“First Class Arima overheard a group of ghouls discussing the plans before intercepting them. However, they were not wearing anything indicative of allegiance to any group we know of.” Houji clarified.

“How would I know, when you’ve been keeping me in here so long…” He grumbled.

“Rest assured, an attack will not succeed. This is a maximum security prison now being guarded by myself and one of our finest upcoming investigators. So, if a breach does occur and we discover that you hid something from us, you will have outlived your usefulness. Do you understand?”

That was the view of the brass, anyway. Sceptical about the likelihood of such a bold venture, they had only assigned Arima, since he had raised the concern, and one investigator of his choosing. He had chosen Houji, for reasons he could not decipher. But that was always the way with Arima.

“Come now, you can’t blame me for hating being trapped up in here. I know you do too.”

Houji could not deny it. Caging ghouls up like animals, the pointless torture that went on behind closed doors that everyone could hear regardless – why prolong their suffering so cruelly, so meaninglessly? He may have resigned himself to the reality of the CCG’s role as humanity’s brutish cudgel, but the ghouls could at least be given the decency of a quick death.

Koumura gave him a sceptical side-eye. Houji’s demeanour did not falter.

“Indeed. If I had it my way, you would no longer be with us, Priest. But that is not my decision to make. So we most both perform our given roles.”

He had only the right to observe, to observe and do his duty. He was part of this greater, twisted whole, and so he must accept responsibility for their sins if he wanted to continue serving the CCG regardless.

Donato hinted at a sickly smile. “If I’m not mistaken, you performed that duty spectacularly in China. Is that where you developed this selfless, or should I call it spineless, ideology?”

Houji narrowed his eyes. How did he know about China?

“I’ve never been, myself. Are things much different there?” The old man went on.

Exactly the same. The same as the Japan he had come back to, if not the one he had left.

As soon as he had stepped out of the aeroplane after landing at Narita, he was hit by the same hostile air. He had thought – wished, rather – that when he returned to Japan he would return to how he was before he left. It was now woefully apparent that the Japan he had known was lost forever. Or rather, the self he had known. He was forced to look at the world through this new set of tainted eyes.

“Priest, if you have nothing of worth to say then I will terminate this interrogation.” Houji was getting tired of talking to Donato. The more the Priest talked, the more unpleasant thoughts haunted Houji’s mind. But he would cede no such reaction for that man’s enjoyment. Those days of vulnerability were far behind him.

“You’re getting more and more useless to us every day. Keep that in mind.” Koumura growled in his bullying fashion.

Donato drooped his brows like a child being deprived of his toy. “How rude. I was just making conversation, Special Class. It was no small thing, taking out Chi She Lian. An organisation of that size…that’s a lot of death.”

Blood dripping through the floorboards. A severed head. A ring on a lifeless finger.

“Although – and this is just pure hearsay, mind – I hear that you couldn’t quite finish the job. The one that got away, hmm?”

Houji’s teeth clenched like a vice. How could he know? Before he had left Beijing, he had spent two weeks fruitlessly searching for Tatara Huo. Not a trace. That was the true ghost of China – the one that had not died. It could not end while he was still out there, somewhere, in the shadows, grieving, hating, mourning…

Donato’s lips turned fully upwards now. “Maybe there’s your culprit. That ghoul must want your head more than his own life. Maybe he’s risking everything breaching Cochlea just to kill you. Tie up those loose ends.” The ghoul looked Houji dead in the eye with an expression now serious. “Would you like that, Special Class?”

Houji sat wide-eyed, staring and speechless. These had to be mind games, surely: there was no way the ghoul could know this. But Houji could not help but wonder if it was possible. Whether Tatara could truly be in Tokyo. If it was to kill him, then, perhaps…

Before he could respond, a siren started blaring.

Koumura’s jaw dropped in horror and fearfully turned towards him for an answer. Houji’s body tensed as he understood what it meant. The Priest, at first surprised, burst out into raucous laughter.

“Well, I suppose you’re about to find out! Don’t hold it against me, gentlemen, there really is nothing more I could’ve done for you.”

Houji shot him an icy look with a face of otherworldly calm. “Please relinquish that smug expression, Priest. You’ve no need of it. You will not be escaping this facility today.”

Houji rose briskly out of his chair, grabbed his attaché case, and marched out of the room with Koumura scrambling after him. The door closed behind them with a slam as they exited onto the ground floor, and Houji looked up to the great gates at the top of the prison. Slowly but steadily, they were opening.

Like clockwork, the heavy gates on Cochlea’s roof opened exactly on time. Tatara could hardly believe it. Eto had promised she could do it with her ‘connections’, but she had refused to specify what they were no matter how hard Tatara grilled her. In the end he decided to allow her this modicum of trust and return on a different day if it failed - after he beheaded the girl for her deception. Yet it seemed that trust was well founded. He wondered if she might have orchestrated a riot among the prisoners or something of that nature, but it looked peaceful enough down the great fall encircled by rows and rows of jail cells. That is, until the guards noticed the doorway receding.

There was no time for standing around. Tatara beckoned for his cohort, the remaining rabble of Aogiri, to follow him down the sinkhole. He jumped, and two hundred red cloaks followed him.

The ghouls unleashed hell on the guards below. Storms of ukaku shards thundered down upon them, and quinque bullets shot upwards in return. There were casualties on both sides already, but Tatara had the element of surprise. He landed on the first elevated platform in the centre of Cochlea, and immediately began sprinting, his eyes darting around on all sides for Houji. Seeing the afterimage of a white coat disappear behind an opaque screen on a floor above, he quickly rammed his kagune through the five guards charging at him simultaneously, smoothly slid it out, and launched himself into the air to an astonishing height to follow him.

He landed with a crash onto the railing, and, raising his head, stared at the now visible face of the white-coated figure with surprise and anger.

“You’re-”

“Not Houji.” The bespectacled man finished, and cut Tatara open.

Houji pelted through the rain of shards as ghouls descended from above. He could not understand how it happened. Were there ghouls strong enough to open the gates from the outside? After Loong, he could not doubt it. Guards rushed out into the fray, only for several to be impaled immediately. Arima was nowhere to be seen – his patrol had probably led him to the other end of the facility. More and more of the ghouls were landing on the ground floor, white-masked and red-cloaked.

If these ghouls spring some of the inmates…

There were immensely powerful ghouls being kept here. The S-Rate Tail Brothers. Tokage’s plaything, that S-Rate Jason. Not to mention the SS-Rate Priest. Iff even some of them were to escape, it could spell dire news for Tokyo. Houji could not let that happen.

He clicked open his attaché case, and drew out Douhi.

Special Class Zhao, who had miraculously survived Loong’s onslaught thanks to the quick feet of the other survivors in getting him medical attention, had presented Houji with three quinques before he left China. Seeing Zhao’s armless stump and remembering how he had failed to fulfil Zhao’s wish of putting a final end to Chi She Lian, Houji hardly felt like he deserved them, but Zhao had insisted on rewarding Loong’s slayer. Two of the quinques were unique as the results of new studies in quinque research which combined the kakuhou of one ghoul with the cell matter of another, allowing, for instance, an ukaku quinque to be augmented with the strength of a powerful bikaku ghoul.

Such was the case with Douhi, named for the lead researcher of the project. It was a long cannon in pale yellow with curved horns protruding from either side, and it was made from the ukaku kakuhou of a Chi She Lian ghoul and the cell matter of Fei Huo.

For this reason, too, China never left him.

He pummelled out shards from Douhi that rained and slashed through the ghouls charging towards him. Even so, they were quickly swarming the place. Guards unleashed quinques and fought all around him, some pushing forward, some giving ground. Koumura was barking orders but noticeably not fighting himself, his electric baton-style quinque hanging uselessly at his side. Kagune came darting towards Houji but he blew them apart with the force of his cannon, followed by the heads of their owners.

He swung around to obliterate another kagune spiralling towards him, but lost his momentum when he saw the monstrosity. It was huge, grotesque, with jagged teeth like razor blades. The moment of hesitation allowed it to smash Douhi out of his hands and send it clattering to the floor.

The kagune’s owner appeared briefly behind it, but there was nothing brief about the tall, pony-tailed figure with his eyeless, grinning mask. He looked like trouble. Houji glanced concernedly to the far edge of their arena where Douhi had fallen metres ahead of him, but the distance was too long and the fighting too thick to retrieve it, not to mention that his opponent blocked the way. There was no chance of fighting that thing without a weapon.

He saw Koumura shrinking against the wall on the periphery of the battle. If he’s not doing anything anyway…Houji caught his eye and shouted over the fray: “Quinques!” Koumura blinked and nodded frantically, and, hesitantly raising his baton, began fighting his way to the armoury on the same floor.

As Houji watched the eyeless figure stand stock still and swing his kagune around for another attack, Houji knew that until Koumura could retrieve the weapons he needed, he would have to be exceedingly careful. He turned and dashed behind him as the kagune hurtled in his direction. Pushing his way through the calamity of ghouls and guards, the kagune found itself lost, as if confused, unable to locate Houji in the fray. Houji punched away the ghouls surrounding him with his fists, constantly keeping up his pace, knowing that if he slowed down he was dead. Yet despite his efforts, the grinning ghoul’s kagune found him again and charged at him through the crowd – eating up guard, ghoul, and anything that stood in its way.

Thankfully, Houji had calculated everything just right. Or, almost just right. He still needed to leap to the floor before the kagune bit the air in front of him and could go no further. His python of a kagune had finally ran out length. This would have not been a handicap for any other ghoul, but this was one insisted on standing still, eery and overconfident. It cocked its head to the side, confused. But the victory did not last long. Houji scrambled up and began dashing into the crowd again as slowly, it began to walk forward.

Winding and weaving through the hordes of people, ducking kagune and quinque alike in the mad fury of combat, running at the greatest pace he could muster, Houji was quickly becoming exhausted and wondered how much longer he could keep up. Finally, he heard the shout of a familiar voice over the cacophony, calling his name.

Houji leapt up and made himself as visible as he could. Before the fat kagune could devour him, Koumura hurled him two attaché cases, one of which he caught in the air. When he hit the ground, he clicked the release and sliced the toothy maw leering over his head in half. No matter how strong his opponent was, it was no match for Chi She.

The second of the hybrid quinques Zhao had given him was a koukaku-type quinque with a broad blade outlined in red and a segmented silver guard attached to a lengthy pole. Houji had recognised the quinque at first sight, save for the red. It was the poleaxe he had used to kill Loong. The already extant quinque was, in an act of grotesque irony, infused with the cell matter of its victim to create Chi She, named for the organisation that it both led and destroyed.

There was little that Loong’s claws could not cut through. Houji blitzed his way through the obstructing ghouls and darted towards the grinning ghoul, whose attention was still fixed on his mutilated kagune. With a single heavy slash, he separated the ghoul’s torso from his pelvis.

When it fell to the floor with a thud, Houji allowed himself a moment to breathe. But almost immediately, he could tell something was not right. The ghoul’s legs were still standing.

The thin strand of flesh that still stood between the two halves began retracting at an incredible speed, swinging up the ghoul’s top half with it. Squelching, the torso reattached itself, and the bloody gash regenerated as if nothing had happened. The ghoul cracked its neck.

Houji looked on in horror. What on earth was this ghoul? Such regenerative abilities were far beyond the purview of typical ghoul biology. He readied Chi She in a defensive stance as he saw his kagune regenerate instantaneously as well. He was preparing for the worst, when he heard a girl’s voice call out:

“It’s okay, Noro, I’ll deal with this one.”

The ghoul jumped backwards, and a colossal mass crashed down in front of Houji. Instinctively, he shielded himself from the blast force, but when he turned his eyes upward again he saw a thin, grinning face whose slobbering tongue alone was almost the size of his head. Houji fell back to create some distance and examined the monster in full view.

The great white behemoth was draped in a burgundy cloak, with four enormous kagune like spider legs ripping out from its sides and a set of shorter ones bursting from the top like flower petals. Its face was made up of an elongated chin, a set of four horns, and a single mad red eye. Thin arms like bird legs served as the creature’s arms while its legs were obscured by the cloak. Suffice it to say, he was dealing with a kakuja – and no ordinary one at that.

“Hooouuujiii-kun!” The creature sung in a distorted sing-song voice. Houji flinched at the recognition. How can it know me?

But then, he was thinking he was starting to recognise it as well. He had never seen it before, but he had heard the reports of the creature that had killed the wife of his mentor Mado in Houji’s absence. Could this thing be that One-Eyed Owl?

“I can’t kill you or Tatara will be pissed, so don’t worry! I’m just going to rough you up for a bit, okay?”

Tatara?

Had this thing – just said…

“Is Tatara Huo in this building?” Houji questioned desperately.

“Oh, oopsy, I said too much. Well, can’t have you interfering. Lights out for now, Houji-kun!”

The monster swung one of its chicken legs towards him and Houji lifted Chi She’s great weight just in time to block it. The force still sent him skidding across the floor, and before he knew it, one of its arachnid kagune descended on him from above. There was no time to block this one, and Houji felt his ribcage reverberate as he was knocked across the floor.

He barely had time to recover before the creature was on him again, laughing in crazed delight. Its size did not seem to impact its speed at all, and it was all Houji could do to dodge while its sledgehammer kagune came crashing down like lightning. Still, if he could avenge Associate Special Class Kasuka…

And yet, while Houji knew that was where his mind should be, it was not. He could only think of the name she had mentioned. The unfinished business which kept the memories of China swinging over his head like the sword of Damocles. Tatara. He was here. That damnable priest had been right. He was here, just for the sake of killing him; and here Houji was, fighting some other ghoul entirely.

He could make out openings in his foe’s defence, but he could not take advantage of them: because for every brief moment of rest his eyes were on the railings of Cochlea above him, searching for a white-cloaked figure amongst those endless rows of grey.

When at last, he saw him.

White cloak. White hair. Red mask. And the awed hatred burning in his eyes when they briefly met with his. Without a doubt, it was Tatara Huo. The heir of Chi She Lian was in Tokyo.

And he was fighting Arima.

This was bad. Arima was too strong, even for a Huo. Houji had seen his skill firsthand in the Clown Operation, and he had been promoted two ranks since then after forcing this very same Owl to retreat in their last encounter. Sure enough, he could already see Arima’s strikes ripping Tatara apart; at this rate, if Houji did not get up there in time, Tatara would die at the hands of a complete stranger. He could not allow that. It had to be him. For Tatara’s sake, and his own.

The Owl was quick to exploit his distraction. A clawed hand smashed him down into the Cochlea floor, and he coughed up blood as pain quivered through him. Then it hoisted him into the air, lifting him by his collar above its ecstatic face, its overgrown tongue licking the bone where its lips should be.

“Ah, but you know…I am hungry…”

There was no time for this. Houji had to leave. So with one sudden swing, he cleaved its tongue in two.

“AaaaaaAaAAAAAAAAAAAAAeEEEEEEEEEEiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiIIIIIIIIIIII”

The ghoul gave a cartoonish scream as it shook the blood off its broken tongue to splatter onto the floor, and in that gory mass followed Houji. His coat and suit thoroughly bloodsoaked, as the ghoul raged he pulled himself out of the red water and called for Koumura. The Warden, holding his own against the ghouls surrounding him and the remaining guards, perked his head up.

“I’ve spotted a highly dangerous ghoul. Please hold off the ghouls here before I get back!”

For all his personal failings, the Warden was an Associate Special Class Investigator. Backed up by his guards, he should be able to handle the heat for a time, at least. That was what Houji told himself. The Warden’s face went completely pale.

“But this is a highly dangerous ghoul!”

Houji paused in his dash for the stairs, and tossed Koumura his Chi She, which he caught between fumbling hands.

“You won’t lose with this.” Houji assured him, and ran for the other attaché case which Koumura had thrown to him before. It felt right, that this should be the one to end it.

He clicked the release, and Hollow swirled up his arm.

This was the third of the quinques Zhao had bestowed upon him. Wu had written a proper testament after all, albeit just a list of curt demands utterly devoid of sentiment. One of those sundry requests was that Houji inherit her quinque. No reason given. Whether it was out of any fondness for him, or if it was meant to teach him some kind of lesson, or if it was just some incomprehensible prank, Houji could not tell. To the end, he could not understand that woman. But if Hollow would put her killer to rest, that would ease the memory of yet another lost soul.

Leaving Koumura hacking away at his enemies with Chi She, Houji ran through the door to the stairway. He only prayed that he would make it in time.

Houji. He had seen Houji. Through the rage of blood and searing pain, Tatara was sure he had caught his eye. He was fighting some enormous ghoul, probably one of the escapees. Tatara had followed the smell to where he was: the smell that had filled his soul with such a confused anguish. He was sure that, somehow, after this long, long, year, he had smelled his brother and sister again.

For a brief, fantastical moment, Tatara imagined that they had somehow been returned to life. That they had come here to save him. When that beautiful dream was deflated and Tatara realised the gruesome truth, he went through the pain of losing his family all over again. There was only one thing it could really mean.

Kousuke Houji had perverted the bodies of his family into his personal ghoul-killing weapons.

Knowing this, he could not abide Houji’s breath a second longer. He could no longer waste time on this immovable enemy. But every time he tried he tried to turn his back on the dove, the dove would burn his back to smithereens.

His quinque was a peculiar model made from four metal planks that came together to form a lance and split apart to fire balls of electricity. The combination of short-distance and long distance fighting techniques, as utilised by the tremendous skill of its wielder, rendered any of Tatara’s attempts to either attack or escape completely useless.

Some of his hits Tatara managed to dodge within a hair’s breadth; but most connected. He could barely stand from all the wounds littered across his body. Great stretches of flesh were torn off and blackened from the force of the thunderstorm bursting from his quinque. There were huge gashes across crucial tendons in his arms and legs, and more than he could count across his chest. His face, too, had a disfiguring scar slashed straight across it that set his eyeballs stinging like they had in front of the burning house at Yangshuo. That was the last time he had ever felt so helpless. It was as if all the strength he had tireless worked to gain had evaporated in an instant.

I still can’t accomplish a single thing.

The dove, on the other hand, was completely unharmed.

Tatara collapsed to the floor with another shock from the lightning quinque. His loathing for the dove for holding him back from Houji yet again had been overwhelmed by an almost religious sense of fear. No single person could be this powerful. As he struggled to raise his head from the ground, the man stepped over him, all in white, with the light shining off his glasses and his lance still buzzing with power. The image was godlike.

He felt, then, that more than Houji, more than himself, this was the true face of Death. This man not much older than himself, with his long blue hair and cold mien, was assuredly the reaper. And to think they had crossed paths out of such random chance…

“You’re sturdy, aren’t you…” The reaper murmured as he raised his quinque over Tatara’s head.

He could not die this way. He could not die at the hands of some stranger dove, not after coming all this way. Not with Houji still breathing. He would not let even the reaper deny him that right.

Tatara’s kagune blasted from his back and slammed into the quinque, scattering it to the floor. The dove looked to where the weapon clattered away in mild surprise and dashed to retrieve it. This was Tatara’s window of opportunity. He pulled himself up, and, with a draconic roar, activated his kakuja.

The flesh was not half-formed around him before the dove sliced off all of his limbs. Tatara’s roar vanished into the air. The reaper had already retrieved his quinque and closed the distance.

It was over.

As something shattered within Tatara’s soul, his waking mind plunged into oblivion.

By the time Houji finally reached the railing where he had seen Tatara fighting, it was empty. Blood coated the cold metal, but there was neither ghoul nor investigator to be seen, dead or alive. He looked into the distance left and right, clutched the edge of the barrier and searched up and down for any sign of the two. There was nothing.

Houji yelled a cry of frustration that was lost beyond his throat, soundless and impotent. He hung his head in remorse that he had come too late again. And when he did, he bore witness to the bloodbath below.

Koumura, and all the guards who had fought with him, lay dead, their bodies bloody and savaged. The carcass of that mutant kakuja lay splayed out amidst the carnage. A little girl wrapped in bandages skipped over the abundance of death with the ghoul in the grinning mask in tow. Some of the ghouls had joined their victims, but not nearly so many.

As soon as he saw it, he was snapped back to his senses, and he knew he should have never gone after Tatara. That Priest had scrambled his brains. If he had simply stayed where the battle needed him most, this tragedy could have been avoided.

Raising his head, he saw ghouls spread out all across the facility, running towards cells and smashing open their windows. Houji realised with horror that it had only been a portion of their forces he had fought on the ground floor, and that first and foremost, it had served as a distraction. He had been so concerned with keeping the Priest and his fellow SS Rates behind bars, the ghouls had exercised free rein over the rest of the prison, releasing C Rates and B Rates and A Rates and S Rates alike.

There were more guards than those who had fought with Koumura, but they were evidently ill-equipped to deal with the threat, and there was no sign of Arima. That left it to him. He readied Hollow.

This was the last time, he swore. The last time he ever let his conscience get the better of him.

Pulling the trigger, he unleashed hell from above.

When Tatara awoke, it was dark, and it was raining.

He lifted himself off the ground with the stubs of his half-regenerated arms as the water assaulted his face like tears. He could not see anything in the blackness. Wherever he was, it was not Cochlea.

He had failed to kill Houji.

He tried to stand, but his legs were only stumps, too. Pathetically, he fell head first into the watery concrete with a clang of his mask, grazing his already swollen face. How did he end up like this? He tried to lift himself again.

“Kishou really did a number on you, huh, Tatara?”

Tatara started at the voice, and almost fell over again. He recognised it. That crooning, mocking tone was the last thing he needed right now. He ignored her and drew out his kagune. He smashed it into the paving stones, dragging his incomplete body behind it.

“Woah woah woah, where are you going?” She asked. Tatara could just see her through the darkness by the single glow of her red eye.

“Cochlea. To kill Houji. Where else.” He growled. His throat was coarse, his voice pained and too quiet to sound as firm as he intended.

“Ugh, seriously? And here I thought we taught you a lesson. You’re a stubborn bastard, I’ll give you that. Stubborn and foolish.”

Tatara twisted his form around in bewildered anger. His eyes adjusting to the dark, he could see the outline of her mummified form. In the shadowlight, those rabbit ears on her hood made her look like some kind of devil.

“What – are you saying…?”

“I’m saying my buddy just fucked you up, on my orders.”

Tatara’s eyes dilated. That couldn’t be. There was no way that could be.

“How do you think we got into Cochlea in the first place, numbskull? He let us in. Kishou Arima is my partner in crime. Oh, but don’t tell anyone. It’s a secret.”

A dove? Working with a ghoul? It was impossible. Unheard of. She was lying. She had to be lying, messing with his head.

“I started the fight.” He argued back, between coughs of blood he caught in his mask. “I came to him.”

“And you saw him because he was on his way to fight you. Oh, and for the record, that’s why I positioned him there in the first place. Told him to spread some rumours about an impending ghoul attack on Cochlea, and to bring Houji along, of course.”

Tatara was becoming furious. What was she saying? She had been orchestrating the situation, the whole time?

“Ah,” she continued rambling, “he was a bit of a wildcard, though. We weren’t able to rescue as many ghouls as we wanted because of him. He killed one of our guys for every prisoner we sprung, which was kind of a pain. But this,” her eye shone down at him through the darkness, “this makes it all worth it.”

Tatara lost it. He ripped his kagune from the concrete and sent it swirling around Eto, trapping her in the same constrictor hold as before. She stood motionless in its folds as the dirge of heavy rain resounded around them.

“What are you talking about?” He screamed. “You only went to Cochlea because I made you!”

“No,” Eto responded unperturbed, and in a flash she suddenly expanded. A gigantic kagune emerged from her back and swung up her arm, knotted and swollen, the size of a car, with hundreds of branches like withered trees and human hands. Tatara’s kagune hold was broken in an instant, and the hand at the head of Eto’s abomination now caught Tatara’s throat and hoisted him into the air.

“You went to Cochlea because I tricked you.”

Tatara thrashed uselessly, wheezing for air. He could not breathe. Everything burned. The monster beneath him grinned with a daemoniacal aspect. It was dark. It was cold. He could not move his arms. He could not move his legs. Why was this happening?

“We’d planned to infiltrate Cochlea for ages. How else would we have been able to do it in two days’ time? When you wouldn’t join us the first time, I asked Kishou to plant himself and Houji in Cochlea so you would come along on this little mission of ours. He heard all about your past from Houji, and I heard all about it from him. I wanted nothing better than to snatch the object of your desire right from under you, exactly when you were so close to dying just the way you want. Then, I wanted to really teach you about death. That was Kishou’s specialty. So he sliced you up good and proper and gave you back to me before I made my getaway, which brings us up to now.”

Tatara hated the woman below him more than even Houji at that moment. He hated her for going to such lengths just to make him suffer, and when he thought about how he had fallen for every trap she had set, he began to fear her too.

“Then you – you let me win?!”

“Duh, and the drones you killed were far from my best people, either. After you tried so hard turning them into charcoal and taking down Noro, I decided I didn’t want to deny you your victory. Nothing better than a shot of overconfidence to show you how unprepared you really are. You were always joining me in Cochlea, whether you agreed to come along, I made you come along, or I tricked you into coming along and let you think it was your own idea. I figured the last option would be the best one. I wanted to break you in the right way.” Under her bandages, she seemed to lick her lips. “I am an author, after all.”

The world distorted below Tatara. Amidst the shadows he thought he could see an army of demons, and the sky began undulating like a sea of fire. Between the hell in the sky and its spawn on the ground, Eto’s small form seemed to flare up like a rising flame, synchronising with the twisted form of her gargantuan arm.

“Ah, but Tatara,” her voice seemed to carry on the red ocean, rising, “I didn’t do this because I hate you or anything. Actually, I really like you. I really want you to join Aogiri Tree. That’s why I did it.”

It was all sound to Tatara. Senseless sound. The primal religious terror that Tatara had felt with Arima, he now felt with Eto. They had the power to mean nothing at all.

Eto released her grip, and with panic Tatara came crashing to the ground, smacking his head against the concrete. It made him dizzy, but he retained enough consciousness to see the form of the blurred demon in front of him approach with the scores of laughing night behind her. She lifted his chin, and brought her faceless face close to his, boring her red eye into his own.

“Your brother and sister sacrificed themselves for you, but how are you using that life? You’re running around like a mad dog, living in pits and on roadsides, biting strangers just for the sake of biting them. You justify it to yourself, if it’s all for the sake of killing Houji, Houji, Houji, Houji. But this has nothing to do with Houji. It’s not for the sake of your family either. I think, Tatara, deep down, you really just want to kill yourself. Am I wrong?”

“Y-You are-”

“Not.” Eto cut him off. “I can see it. In these.” She brought out two fingers, and pressed them hard into Tatara’s eyes. He screamed.

“Don’t you think your brother would have wanted you to continue the legacy of Chi She Lian? Don’t you think that’s why he protected you? You can’t do that alone, but that’s exactly what you’re doing. Chi She Lian wanted to build a better world for ghouls, but you couldn’t care less about that. You don’t even care about avenging their deaths. If you kill Houji along the way, well, that’s a plus, but when push comes to shove, you want to fight Houji so you can die against Houji and join your family in the pit.”

“N-no, that’s not-“ He shouted out desperately in his blindness.

“True.” Eto cut him off. “It’s true. I can taste it. In these.”

Tatara felt fingers tugging at his mask, and he heard its metallic clatter on the pavement. Then he felt something warm descend on his lips. It sucked on them like seawater, and something wormish slipped in, sliding against Tatara’s tongue, tugging it forwards. He felt compelled to reciprocate. He just wanted something warm to cling onto. Everything hurt. His body. Her words. Everything.

It was lasting too long, and he was struggling to breathe again. But when the warmth left him and he heaved for air, he missed it with a paranoid intensity. He moved his lips motionlessly.

“Want more?” He heard Eto’s voice coo down to him.

He nodded frantically, dignity long gone, desperate only for the warm bosom of something like love.

“I’ll give you more.” Came her voice, maternal and soothing.

He felt something touch his bottom lip, but it was not warm. It was cold, and sharp, and it stabbed right through it. Tatara screamed.

“Sh, sh, sh, sh.” Eto whispered softly in his ear. “No more noise. I’ll do your speaking for you.”

Then she began to sing.

“Tyger, tyger, burning bright,”

He could feel string being pulled through the hole behind the needle, and then the same pain on his top lip.

“In the forest of the night,”

He felt too terrified to scream any more, and after each stab came the string, closing up his mouth, one by one.

“What immortal hand or eye,”

He did not know if he would ever be able to scream again.

“Could frame thy fearful symmetry?”

Her movements stopped, and Tatara knew that the stitching must be complete. He was too horrified to risk speaking, so she spoke for him, whispering the words he needed to hear.

“You can still atone, Tatara, you can still honour your family’s legacy. I mean to change the world through Aogiri. There are forces at work that only Kishou and I know about, who want to keep everything exactly the way it is. Aogiri is the only organisation that can stop them. The only force that can truly save our species. We will create the world Yan wanted to see.”

Her voice calmed Tatara even through the residual agony burning on his lips. Here, it sounded soft, honest, itself pained, unlike the ruthless mockery and interrogation of before.

“You’re lost, confused, lashing out after everything was taken from you. I understand, I used to be the same. But it’s okay now. I’ll make everything better. After all, I promised you, didn’t I?”

The pressure lifted from Tatara’s eyeballs, and he opened them with a flutter of fear. He could see Eto lit up beneath the fire-sky, her bandages unravelling to reveal her bare skin and her beautiful face, looking at him gently through one green eye and one red. Tatara breathed faintly through his stitched mouth in awe.

“I will become your God.”

At that moment, he thought he fell in love with her.

Three days after the assault on Cochlea, Special Class Houji stared out from his office window at an afternoon sky awash with the first splashes of sunset. The redness of its waves sank his mind even deeper in its ruminations. He had only one thought that came with fire.

His office was otherwise empty, save for the entry, to his surprise, of First Class Arima. They hailed each other in greeting as Arima walked over to Houji’s desk.

“I’ve just come from a meeting with Special Class Washuu.”

“Oh?”

Arima pre-empted his question. “The guarding of Cochlea was my operation, so it was only me that they questioned. They didn’t blame you for its failure at all.”

They should, Houji thought to himself guiltily. It felt as though he was constantly being lifted up by others and protected for his misdeeds. A demotion or two would have been more than warranted.

Arima seemed to notice his fallen face. “Our conduct was not subjected to scrutiny. The other Special Classes are unanimous that we mediated the damage as best we could. It was Koumura and his lax administration that was lacking. He should have taken the threat more seriously, and, so Special Class Washuu said, so should have his father the Chairman. But with the number of ghouls you killed in particular, they are certain many more would have been released were it not for your presence.”

Arima spoke with nothing like consolation or pity, but in the same controlled, professional voice he always had. It made Houji feel more confident in his judgement. Although ghouls as dangerous as Jason and the Tail Brothers had made it out, he had at least kept his promise to the Priest, who was still rotting away in his cell curmudgeonly.

Despite that, he knew his inner sin. And despite that, he still could not stop himself from asking, one last time:

“First Class Arima, thank you for your words. But I still have one question, if I may.”

Arima looked down at him expressionlessly. “Go on.”

“What happened to the ghoul I saw you fighting with? It had a white cloak with a flame pattern, and a red iron mask.”

There was a hint – just a hint - of surprise in his reaction. “Ah, that one. It got away. It was surprisingly strong.”

“Even for you?”

Arima gave a polite, artificial smile. “Even for me.”

Houji gave such a smile of his own as he turned his attention back to the reddening sky.

“Thank you, First Class Arima.”

“Special Class.” Came Arima’s voice in acknowledgement, followed by his receding footsteps.

Too strong for Arima…

If that was true, Tatara would already be his brother’s equal. Houji turned his gaze to the cases containing the quinques he had retrieved from Cochlea, and remembered all the blood that had been spilt to make them. When the day came to finally end this struggle, he knew much more would follow.

When the day comes.

For now though, Houji knew better than to try and rush things to a conclusion. For now, he would pursue his duties in the CCG to the utmost of his ability, just as he always had, and put his personal desires aside. One day, he knew, he would finally meet Tatara in battle; but he would come to that day the long way round.

Forgive me, Tatara. I cannot give you peace yet.

The lotuses were in bloom.

Full red colour burst brilliantly on the flowers floating in the pond. Their leaves were stained as if from blood, but they had become something beautiful. Tatara pondered how far they had come since the shrivelled shrubs of the Yangshuo retreat. The flowers may be different, but his eyes were the same.

“Ah, he’s here.”

Eto’s voice called to him from the side. She was not wearing her bandages today, but appeared to him as he first saw her – or not quite. She too had bloomed. In what he had once seen as a childish nuisance he now saw the very spirit of power.

There was only one who could rival her. At the top of the slope from the forested alcove, where the pond lay hidden in the empty cemetery, stood the white-coated form of the reaper. Standing there, Kishou Arima appeared as a concentrated sunbeam, radiant in burning majesty. Tatara could truly believe he was the One-Eyed King.

There was much to this world Tatara had not known which Eto had shown him. V. The Washuu clan. Half-ghouls and half-humans. She told him about her past and Arima’s both, and about their plan, to raise a successor to achieve their dream of uprooting that warped root and creating a peaceful world for ghouls. He was reminded of how Yan had groomed him for that very similar role, and had saved him, in the end, for that purpose.

He and Eto ascended the slope to meet Arima. The King could not come down to his subjects. When they reached the top of the hill, Tatara fell on one knee before him.

“Welcome, Tatara.”

“King.” He responded with deference, his voice muffled behind his mask and stitched mouth. Now that he had fully regenerated, he was presentable for the ceremony. Eto had even ordered a new robe to be spun for him for the occasion; but not an Aogiri one. It was a Chi She Lian robe, decorated with the same licking flames at the bottom, but free from all the dirt, filth and blood of his old one.

“You seek to join Aogiri Tree?”

“If I may have that honour.”

“The honour would be ours.” Arima’s face was pensive. “I have heard you are a ghoul of ambition. Certainly, besides Eto you are the strongest ghoul I have fought in my career. Few have lasted so long against me. But, you are not the heir we are looking for. Do you still wish to join us?”

Tatara knew as much from Eto. That was another reason she had him fight Arima: they had decided that the messiah they needed was a ghoul strong enough to kill him. Again like Yan, their commitment to their mission extended beyond the parameters of their own lives. But Tatara had not managed to lay a dent in Arima. Despite Yan’s hopes, he was not the saviour the ghoul world needed.

“I do, King.”

His insufficiency for that role had been hammered into him excruciatingly in his one-sided ‘fights’ with Arima and Eto both, but he had found peace with it now. There was another way to honour Yan’s legacy.

He would take on the role Yan did. He would advance the cause of Aogiri Tree to raise up the true messiah, who would finally save the ghouls from their damnation to torment and tragedy that Tatara knew so well. Yan had thrown him into the fire to make him strong enough to survive, and that was what Tatara meant to do this world. How had Eto put it? To take this fucked up, piece of shit world, fuck it up even more and then give it a factory reset.

“Your humility does you credit. It is a small organisation yet, but I have full confidence that you can take it to greater heights.”

Arima released his attaché case, and brought out his lance-like quinque. Tatara did not flinch.

“In honour of your strength, your heritage, and the role you played in the honourable cause of our martyred comrades in Chi She Lian, I hereby dub you a leader of Aogiri Tree.”

Arima tapped his quinque lightly on each of Tatara’s shoulders. The honour surprised him. He felt greatly humbled. Eto was smiling widely at him, and he was glad his mask obscured the blood he felt rushing to his cheeks.

“Looks like we’ll be working together closely, Tatara.”

Arima nodded. “The two of you and Noro will bring the organisation forward while I maintain my cover in the CCG.”

“King, I will not squander this honour you have given me.” Speaking so ceremonially, Tatara felt like he was performing once more in the disciplined rites of Chi She Lian. It gave his life an order he desperately needed.

Arima gave another nod and looked towards the sunset. “With that settled, I should be leaving. Oh, one last thing.” He fixed Tatara with a steady gaze. “Houji asked after you.”

Tatara lowered his head.

“Is that so?”

“Do you still want to kill him?

There was no doubt about that. He could never forgive the lives he took from him, especially not after he made them into his quinques. But he had already seen where haste had taken him. He turned his eyes upwards again.

“The work of Aogiri Tree comes first and foremost.”

Now he had a real reason to live, there was no need to rush things. He would continue the work of Chi She Lian first and foremost, and take his revenge the long way round. His God was different now. Arima gave a small smile, and Eto did too.

“I see.” Arima responded. “Then, fare well, Tatara. I wish you luck.”

“King.” Tatara lowered his head again in respect. When he looked up again, he could see Arima’s snow-white back descending down the cemetery path. They waited by the pond fo r a little while longer to put distance between them.

Tatara rose and felt his shoulders. A leader of Aogiri Tree. Arima had given him quite the gift. He had been blessed, many times over, and not just by Arima. His very ability to stand there that day, watching the lotuses float by and the sky fall into deeper depths of red – his life itself – was a agift to him from Fei. The purpose symbolised by his robes and the mask he felt on his face were given to him by Yan. And the stitches he stroked beneath it were bestowed upon him by Eto.

They carried her unique scent. They smelled of human and ghoul, of blood and of lotus petals.

Looking back, it was scents like this one that Tatara had followed from the start. The smell of the flowers had taken him to the catfish pond, and the odour of blood had taken him to that ghoul in the alleyway. The stink of power and vengeance had summoned him to the Longxia’s den, whereas Fei had merely followed Tatara’s scent, and Yan a scent greater than either of them could detect. The doves followed that bloody miasma to Xuhangli, the same reek that brought Eto to him; and the whiff of Houji’s blood, blended with that of his family, had brought Tatara to Cochlea. Everywhere, anywhere, the strength of their noses had led them to destruction.

But even so, he wanted to see where Eto’s scent would lead him. That predatory instinct to follow the smell of something more was common to ghouls and humans alike, and he could no more defy it than he could shut out the roaring of the flames that burned in his brain since that fateful day in Yangshuo. No matter where it took him, he knew that the smell she was following came from something real, if just out of sight. So he would follow the smell of her. With these stitches, she had given him the promise of a new world.

She turned to him as the burning sky cast her in a light as terrible and beautiful as herself.

“Let’s go, Tatara.”

“Mm.”

Together, they walked down the graveyard path beneath the setting sun, towards the great ghoul dawn.

#tokyo ghoul #tg fanfic #tatara #eto yoshimura #tatara x eto #rlb #red lotus blooms

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cyberneticlagomorph · 5 years

Text

7×7

The darkness is all consuming.

Oppressive.

Cold.

Like deep, dark water that never ends. It renders the Warren, your home, alien. Your skin refuses to light, leaving you blind.

But it's not the smothering blackness that unsettles you, no, it's the harsh scream that echoes down hallways, once familiar.

Your feet move of their own accord, dragging you towards the sounds of wounded animals and feral beasts. The lights in the hallway gutter like a horror movie cliché, your security cameras hang limply from their wires.

The devices themselves have been reduced to twisted clumps of plastic and metal.

Beneath the inconsistent light, you find handprints and names scrawled in blood on the walls.

Someone is trying too hard to impress you.

To terrify you with overdone concepts that wouldn't spook a small child.

You've lived through worse, done worse.

As you come across your family, deranged and rabid, gnawing the flesh from each other's bones as they babble on about names and the number seven, you cannot find it in you to be afraid.

Not now, not this time.

As Jeanne looks up from the half eaten corpse of a child and snarls at you with her lipless grinning maw, you do not flinch. Even though you have no control here, and you couldn't run if you wanted to, this all plays out like some kind of contrived formality. Like some sort of mandatory presentation that you're being forced to sit through.

When the mutilated dream version of your wife sprints after you on all four grotesquely elongated limbs, screeching like an animal, you feel nothing.

Nothing but annoyance. A feeling that intensifies as your body moves against your will, taking a step back, only for the floor to drop out from beneath you.

Of course it does.

You plunge into an abandoned well full of cold, slimy, black water. Moss crawls along the wet stone walls as ferns spring up from the cracks. Black candles with green flames sit in little hollows where the oldest stones have gone missing, they melt into waxy stalactites and are your only illumination down here as you suddenly regain control over your body, fighting your way to the surface of the water. It smells like rotting flesh and old blood, bits of rot and mold cling to your wet skin, refusing to wash off as you feebly cling to the side of the well.

You shiver, cold and angry, gazing up towards the mouth of this watery hell earns you nothing but darkness. Growling, you cut your finger on your own teeth, writing Correspondence on your palm. It burns, burns like the stars that speak these symbols as their native tongue. You draw the symbol for "to beg for aid from a dear friend", and hold your scorched hand over the nearest candle.

It doesn't take Him long to respond, no.

As always, His entrance into your dreams is immaculate. It feels inexorable, like sunlight bearing pleasantly down on you, gentle claws prying your head open and filling you with a somnolent calm. The presence is sifting through you with deft ease, and unusual gentleness for a creature of such loud and large disposition. The Dream feels... realer, more solid with Him in it.

Again, you stare up, up into the once darkness of your watery prison. Mr Nights, merchant of dreams and candles, gazes down at you with glowing golden eyes. As He reaches down to help you up, the well becomes shallower, and soon he can scoop you up by the scruff like a wayward kitten. You open your mouth to thank him, but are torn from his grasp and sent plummeting back into the well before a sound can leave your lips.

Nights hisses, and seven times seven more serpentine sounds answer his fury. Rising from the black water is a septet of massive snake heads, they curl around you and speak in seven times seven tongues.

"How rude, how cruel. Who told you that you could bring a plus one to this private party?" whispers your captor. Trapped in this tangled mess of a beast, you are dragged ever deeper into the water.

"UNHAND HIM," Mr Nights spreads his glittering wings wide, he is a beautiful creature, something like a very very large white bat with horns, dressed in fine cloaks. The dream starts to warp around him, but the seven headed serpent seems unimpressed.

"Oh, I don't think I will, no, Jack and I need to have a little talk, now don't we?" it coils ever tighter around you, bones snap and cybernetics crunch beneath the force of it all. You weren't scared before, but you are now. The pain feels too real.

You wonder if you can die in this dream.

One head out of seven starts to circle you, your face is the only thing above water now.

"Hello again, Jack, I'd say it's been awhile but I've seen you every night this month now haven't I?" it gazes at you with empty eye sockets clotted with fruiting fungal bodies and bright flowers, vines and mushrooms spangle the length of its neck, probably terminating wherever it joins with the main body.

You couldn't respond if you wanted to, too busy trying not to drown. Mr Nights is trying to come to your rescue, but whatever He warps snaps right back like a rubber band. The serpent grows tired of Him and coils tight around Him too. You swear you hear something crack within those coils. The serpent says something snotty about how feeble Nights seems, especially after all the hype.

Your vision is obscured by water and snake, it stares you down as you choke on the filthy water. Forked tongues flick across your ears as whispered voices fill your aching skull,

"Hello, my sweet, stupid thing," it coos in a voice like a forest on fire, like sunlight filtering through leaves, like weeds swallowing a house left to rot, "Did you think that milk teeth and daydreams could keep me at bay forever?"

It sounds amused as it lifts you ever so slightly from the water. Blood and filth pour from your mouth and nose as you stare dazed at the creature, "Wh-- what do… you.. wa--want?" you words are a painful gurgle, the last breaths of a drowned thing.

You wonder if you will be devoured like He was…

Like She was.

"My name, what is my name. Who am I to you? Oh great and powerful Jack D'Arc, slayer of gods, unrepentant slut and biggest meddler in the multiverse." a hiss, you can taste the bitterness in those words, you can taste the knowingness behind them. There is something here that just doesn't add up.

But you know who this creature is.

You've known for years.

And it has known you for longer than either of you can readily remember.

It has visited your dreams, lived in your subconscious for decades.

You can remember when it was just one endless serpent with a head of flame, asking for its name in a ruined city.

You slump in its grasp, struggling to draw breath, "Y-you are the End-of-everything, the seven times seven named serpent," a pause, a swallow, the taste of death on your tongue, "I am supposed to fight you, imprison you inside inside myself to stop the destruction of the multiverse as we know it… you will be my Prisoner… and I your Warden."

Your secret is heavy, and it falls from your lips like a stone. The End seems dissatisfied. It turns fourteen eyes on you, eyes that burn or do not exist, eyes that are empty sockets, eyes that multiply ad infinitum.

"How crude, how fucking hamfisted is that to name me 'The End'? Has he truly run out of ideas so quickly?" the questions don't seem to be directed towards you so much as it's being spoken at you with the same disgruntled tone as a retail customer bitching about a problem that isn't half as bad as they think.

"No matter," the End says, to you this time, "soon you will learn the truth of this world, everyone will learn the truth of this world. Won't that be fun?"

All seven heads seem to smile at you as wax starts to pour into the well, burning you alive while you simultaneously drown in the scalding liquid.

You wax with a start, falling off of your sister's couch and onto the floor, scaring the shit out of her in the process.

"You good soft boy?" she asks, but you don't hear here, you're too busy crawling towards the bathroom.

Trembling, sore, and scared, you cling to the toilet bowl.

With your stomach emptied, you close the lid and rest your head on it. You flush without looking, why would you bother? It's the same thing you've thrown up night after night of having that nightmare.

Pitch black candle wax.

The same wax you drowned in, the same wax now dripping from your nose and caking your lips.

You won't try sleeping again, not now, not after that.

If a literal dream god like Mr Nights can't help you, then who can?

#ic #action post #blood #emetophobia #body horror #cannibalism #drowning #ask to tag

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cannibalisticshadows · 5 years

Text

Nightcall (1/2)

Inspired and named after the song “Nightcall” by Kavinsky

Rating: T

Pairing: Megamind/Roxanne

Tags: Angst with a happy ending.

Summary: Megamind can’t take it anymore. He has to tell her.

(ao3 link) | (part 2)

He’s sick.

It’s shameful how badly the words sit on his tongue, begging as if it’s life or death to be said. And it’s sick. So, so sick. Evil gods above, common sense screamed that everything about this was wrong on a million levels. Though “common sense” never applied to him much, this was a boundary even he was unwilling to cross. Their relationship was professional!

But how can he help it when he sees her walk away, hips swaying side to side like a metronome that seems to beat to his heart. He wants to cry out from the tugging at his soul the farther she is from him.

So, he supposes that’s why he’s always taking her. Mr. Tighty-Whities goes out and entertains hundreds of woman, but there’s only one woman that’s worth the effort.

These day’s he’s taking her more frequently. Half-assed schemes be damned, all he cares now is seeing her face again, right in front of him and not on television. To hear her voice being spoken just for him, tones low and seductive and just for him.

Temptress...

He can’t even...

He digs his fingernails into his palms so hard that even through the kid leather it hurts. He can feel it behind his gums, unsoothable even with his own tongue, which drools with the mere thought of being allowed to touch her in the most chase of ways.

The need to have her to himself has become overpowering. He writes out absurdly poor or well-thought-out plans just for the sake of telling Minion to fetch Ms. Ritchi. Once every-other week has become weekly.

Weekly incidents have become twice, or even thrice, a week.

“Are you okay?” She asks suddenly, tied to her chair and being quieter than usual. No. No that’s not right. She’s supposed to be talking about the plan. Taunting him. Bantering with him. Why isn’t she!? "You kinda seem... tired."

He nervously runs his hands down the crappy built control system of today’s Evil Scheme. It’s cold here, biting at his exposed skin, but the heat of his desperate, sick want keeps him heated. Bitting into his lower lip, he hunches over the buttons and knobs with his back turned to her. But he watches her from the little mirror he put beside him.

“I am ecstatic,” he says with false, half-mad cheer. “Today is the day Metro Man will die.”

“Wow,” she says mildly. She pauses. “Never hear a death threat before.” Despite her tone they both know it’s true. He usually says defeat. Is she frightened for once? Nowadays he’s not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. He bites harder, this time on the tip of his tongue.

He tastes metallic, and it burns his throat.

“Just shut up and be a damsel for once?” He sneers, baring his teeth and turning around to show her. He’s angry at himself, not her.

But it makes Roxanne jolt in her seat, comically surprised. Then she goes still, eyes wide with... Something. He can't read her. Always guessing, with her. She doesn’t respond, but shrinks a bit in her chair, glowering at him with suspicion.

It’s a weird feeling to drawl out this reaction from her.

~.~.~

He’s becoming more desperate to help his vice. Withdrawal starts the second Wayne throws him into prison, keeping him quiet and brewing over the duration of his stay. The guards notice; they steer clear of him.

No one is surprised when he breaks out not twenty-four hours later, snarling at the one puny guard who dares to raise a gun at him when he comes charging out.

Minion, barely given the warning he’s breaking out on his own, manages to catch him a few miles away from the prison he’s running from.

He’s sick. Still sick. Still wants to barrel himself through this confusing life with the little bits of the drug that’s pretty much the only thing keeping him afloat. An unquenchable hunger that has nothing to do with food, and it gnaws at him like a flesh-eating parasite. And it’s so, so wrong. He shouldn’t be feeling like this. Shouldn’t be physically shaking everything she moans his name in tiredness at yet another kidnapping. Shouldn’t be crying into his pillow at night because he wants to hear her voice outside of the television.

Kidnappings are more frequent. At the third kidnapping this week, Roxanne is barely awake which slightly pisses him off. This is a two-person job. He can’t just broadcast their trysts with her snoozing!!! He wants to grab this little woman by the shoulders and shake her—gently—because he just wants to talk to her.

Curse his alien psychology. Because he damn well knows what is happening to him. He knows why he’s resorted to spending more time in his room, biting at his own flesh because he can’t have what he wants. No. What he needs. Minion is starting to catch on, a bit, and Megamind cannot let that happen. No. No he doesn’t feel anything more than an annoyance for Ms. Ritchi, Minion! I am not falling into the same cycle my ancestors did!

He has to convince himself that his tone is somewhat convincing. Because it isn’t.

Tonight he’s determined to do it better. Today’s kidnapping ended before it even began, thanks to a sloppily build machine. It ended with a bitter, nasty remark at her choice in dress. He feels like a boy on schoolgrounds, tugging at the cute girl’s hair to get her attention.

But anyway. He fixed the machine and he demands a do-over. Tonight. At this very moment.

She’s at home, according to one of his spy-bots. not gonna admit that he’s so wretched over his own alien heart he’s started to spy on her in an indirect way.

He’s already on his hoverbike, because Minion, bless him, finally passed out from being worked too hard. He’s getting really close to Roxanne’s place when—

“Oh, no you don’t,” says a disapproving, gruff voice.

Snatched out of the air, his bike’s handles caught in the same beefy hands used to grab his collar, Megamind finds himself dangling and flailing his limbs.

Fucking Wayne. Fucking fucking fucking Wayne. What does he have to do at this time of night around Roxanne’s place, the bloody creep.

Oh. No. Megamind’s the creep, he viciously realizes, eyes ablaze with fury. Wayne’s the perfect boyfriend. Fuck him, Megamind weeps internally.

“Listen, little buddy,” the meat-head starts, pissing off the other alien even more. “You’ve kidnapped Roxie four times this week. What’s your problem?”

“You are my problem,” he hisses vehemently. “Let go!”

“No,” Wayne sighed, flying off closer to her apartment. Still spitting curses, but also rather confused, because why bring him to his destination when he was usually dropped off at the prison when caught? “You need to see this.”

Wayne drops him on the balcony without delicacy, making Megamind hand on his side with the air sucked out of him. Huffing, he stands and wipes dust off him. He breathes in, catching the faint vegetation scent of her potted plants.

His long-time enemy lands beside him on his white-clad toes, staring inside of the glass doors. Peeved, he meets where his gaze lands.

It’s Roxanne. Yes, she is home, and not at all conscious.

She’s still dressed in the same outfit from earlier; a sleeveless, deep wine-red—almost black—dress that flared at the knees, hugging her hips and derrière like a godforsaken glove. She looked good enough to drink. He couldn’t take his eyes off her, earlier,

That could have been a terrible, terrible tease if she hadn’t spent the duration of their short encounter today falling asleep. Why was she so tired lately?

She’s conked out on her red couch, one leg hiked up over the back of the couch, the other hanging off with her heal barely hanging onto her big toe. Her hair is completely disheveled, her mouth parted open as she drools slightly onto the couch’s fabric. One of her arms is curled up behind her hair, with the other hanging off the side of the couch.

And with that hand she’s gripping onto a bottle of wine. Her mascara has smeared down her face like black veins.

“You need to back off a bit,” Wayne said, his heroism voice gone and replaced with something that actually sounded human. It made things a hundred times worse because Megamind knew what his problem was.

He stood and stared at his poor Roxanne. Why. What the fuck is wrong with him!?

Wayne grabbed him by the collar before he could linger another moment, and he’s being thrown back into prison, to the bewilderment of the Warden. Can’t blame the old man; everyone could see Megamind was finally losing his marbles. He could see the thoughts in their eyes.

But as he sat in his cell, the tv on but muted, familiar orange jumpsuit scratchy against his sensitive blue skin, he thought over this hell of a month. He was sick of this. Sick of his wretched alien secret of this… need.

It should be below him. It should be abolished from his DNA; a trait his pre-evolved ancestors needed for… things. He was a scientist; an evil genius; a lone wolf. He shouldn’t be made weak by the simple, kind smile of a blue-eyed reporter.

Yet he was.

And he knew what he had to do.

Before it destroyed him.

#megamind #nightcall #song inspired #megarox #avi writes

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prissyhalliwell · 6 years

Text

Cover art done by the “practically perfect in every way” @rumple-belle!

Author’s Note: In lots of folklore, iron or metal can hurt fairies or block their magic. To my knowledge, OUAT never addressed this in the show, so I’ve decided to ignore it as well. Just FYI in case anyone was going to nail me (pun intended) on this fact ;)

Summary: The reasons for Belle’s hatred of the Blue Fairy and why she ran away from the Golden Glen are revealed. Read on AO3

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

FOUR MONTHS EARLIER

Bluebelle awoke with a start, blinking blearily in the darkness. It took a couple moments for her eyes to adjust before the familiar surroundings of the library greeted her. She sighed, looking down at the books spread out before her on the table. This wasn’t the first time she’d fallen asleep reading in the library. From the crick in her neck and the near pitch darkness of the room, it was clearly the longest she had ever slept.

It had already been late when the library’s archivist had told her not to stay much longer, leaving Bluebelle alone in the library. It hadn’t bothered her then, since she was used to being the last to leave most nights. At this point, she probably spent more time in the library than the archivists themselves.

But now that her candle had burned out, she was eager to leave. It had to be well after midnight and she knew as well as any fairy that nothing good ever happened in the wee hours of the morning.

She gathered her things, able to find her way around even in the dark. The library and she were old friends by now, and she knew its many shelves and corners as intimately as the scales on her wings. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but she felt she belonged in the library in a way she didn’t with any other part of the glen, apart from the gardens she tended every day. At least, that was the only way she could explain how she always found what she was looking for so easily, or why any book she needed was always stuck out of the shelf an inch or so further than its companions, as if some unknown magic was trying to lend her a hand.

Her peers often teased her for spending so much time among the dusty books and scrolls. But for Bluebelle, the library was a haven where she could escape, exploring all the different lands and realms that were currently barred from her.

She knew the others would laugh at her if they knew of her dreams to leave the Golden Glen and travel the world. After all, the fairy homeland was a literal paradise. Untouched by winter or cold, rays of warm sunshine shown through the trees throughout the year, bathing the glen in a soft golden light. Legend said the first fairy had come into being in these very woods, naming herself and the glen for the bright sunlight that fell upon it.

Every fairy Bluebelle knew was happy to call the Golden Glen home, but all she wanted to do was get away. After all, if one couldn’t leave paradise, how much better was it than a prison?

The only fairies that spent much time outside of the glen were those who became fairy godmothers. Out of the limited paths available to her kind, being a fairy godmother was the only way Bluebelle could imagine herself being able to make a difference and see a different corner of the world.

Until that day came, she would continue to look to her books for adventure.

A low, groaning noise echoed in the empty library and Bluebelle jumped. Her first impulse was to run out of the room, but she steeled herself. If something had gotten inside the library, it was her duty to investigate.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and made her way slowly towards the back of the room. Peering around the corner of a shelf, she startled when she saw Blue entering her private archives, closing the creaking gate behind her.

Relief flowed through her, only to be dammed up a moment later. Why was Blue sneaking around her own personal archives in the dark? The library was nowhere near anyone’s private quarters; she was in no danger of waking anyone by lighting some candles. If Blue required the cover of darkness for what she was doing, something was very wrong.

She watched silently as Blue made her way to the back of the archives, stopping in front of an unadorned wall. A moment later, a full-length mirror materialized in the empty space before her. Blue recited a quick incantation before stepping through the mirror and disappearing from view.

With a gasp, Bluebelle staggered back, falling against the shelf behind her. Blue’s incantation had been in the Old Fairy language, but she had understood every word.

Her leader had just opened a portal into the Dark Realm.

Was Blue crazy? The Dark Realm was a prison, it’s only function to prevent the Black Fairy from destroying them all. Why in the world would Blue willing walk into it, especially without the support of her fellow fairies?

Something was very, very wrong.

Bluebelle crept up to the gate and pulled, hoping that whatever magic Blue had used had left it unlocked, but it held fast. She sighed, leaning her head against the cool bars. Her brain was yelling at her to retreat, to leave before Blue came back and she got in trouble. But she knew in her gut that this was something she had to do.

Her stubbornness kept her going through the late hours, searching every part of the gate for a weak spot and trying all of the handful of spells she knew to open the door. Exhausted, she retired to a nearby corner of the room where she would be out of sight of anyone emerging from the archives while also being able to keep an eye on the gate. Though tired, she was too amped up to sleep and decided to spend the time wondering what in the hell Blue could be up to.

A noise awoke her some time later. For the second time that night, she struggled to make sense of her surroundings before her memories of earlier that night rushed back. Her eyes shot to the gate and she managed to swallow her yelp of surprise as she saw Blue walk through, waving her hand over the gate before heading back out towards the library entrance.

Bluebelle held her breath until she heard the front door to the library close. She counted slowly to thirty to be absolutely sure Blue was gone, and then made her way over to the gate once again, pulling on the bars. As she had feared, they remained firmly shut.

She let out a frustrated cry. “I need help,” she whispered, tears forming in her eyes. Reaching up with her hands to wipe them away, she turned away from the gate, already wondering how she could get her hands on some extra fairy dust, or even an axe, when the groan of metal reached her ears.

She gasped, whirling around to see that the gate had swung open several inches. She looked back over her shoulder to see if Blue had returned, but the library remained empty. Yet somehow, the gate had opened.

Before the gate could change its mind - or more importantly, before she could change hers - Bluebelle ran through the gate and into Blue’s private library.

Looking around at all the scrolls and ancient texts, her wings fluttered in excitement, her heart pounding at all the knowledge at her fingertips. Unfortunately, the answers she sought were not there. She continued towards the back wall, watching as the mirror appeared before her as it had for Blue. Knowing that her only choice was to step through it to the other side didn’t make it any easier to walk those long steps towards the portal.

Putting one foot in front of the other, whispering her mantra to be brave under her breath, she came within a foot of the mirror before she stopped suddenly. Her reflection looked back at her, and she realized she would be an easy target, walking in blind. Anyone on the other side would easily spot her.

Unless…

She smiled, and a moment later, she was no bigger than the scrolls on the shelves around her. She flapped her wings, lifting off the ground. She recited Blue’s incantation and plunged through the mirror’s surface, into the unknown.

The study that greeted her on the other side was almost a disappointment. She’d expected something more sinister, like a dark, damp prison cell. The room was dark, but far from a squalid cell. Bookshelves, chairs and a large desk filled the room, their ornately carved wood so dark it almost looked black in the low light. The bookshelves were filled to the brim, and the books’ spines were the only real color in the room, apart from the deep crimson cushions that sat upon the chairs.

It reminded her a bit of Blue’s study the few times she had been there, except more opulent. Blue’s tastes were a bit more austere.

She breathed a sigh of relief that she was alone. She flew a bit further towards the desk, looking around carefully.

“Who are you?”

She squeaked, diving under the desk for cover.

“I won’t hurt you,” said the voice gently. A moment later, a boy emerged from the shadows. “Are you here to save us?”

She stayed hidden under the desk. “Us?”

“Me and the other children.” He paused. “Don’t you know where you are?”

“The Dark Realm. It’s a prison for the Black Fairy.”

He laughed, but it sounded all wrong. Instead of the carefree laugh of a youth, it rang with bitterness that should have been beyond his years.

“She isn’t a prisoner here; she’s the warden!” He looked over his shoulder and Bluebelle followed his gaze, seeing a closed door across the room for the first time. “None of us can leave. We’re her prisoners.”

Bluebelle’s heart caught in her throat. She flew out from under the desk, stopping when she was level with the boy.

“The Blue Fairy came through here just a little while ago,” she said, afraid she already knew the answer to her next question. “Why?”

The boy met her gaze openly. “Because she helped create the Dark Realm. She’s the reason half the children are here in the first place, including me. They make us work down in the mines, harvesting the dark fairy dust for them.”

Righteous anger coursed through her at his words. This wasn’t right. She had to do something.

“I could help you escape! The mirror is a portal - ”

“It won’t work. Believe me, I’ve tried everything. I think they put spells on us to keep us from escaping.”

“I’ll have to get more help somehow.” She wasn’t sure who or how, but she would find a way. Another thought came to her and she blushed. “My name is Bluebelle, by the way.”

He took a step back. “Are you related to Blue?”

“No, no, I’m not,” she reassured him. “It’s just the name I was given. I’ve always kind of disliked it, actually.”

He cringed. “I don’t blame you. The second part is nice though. You could just go by that.”

“Belle?” She tried out the sound of it. Yes, she liked that much better. After everything she had learned tonight, she certainly didn’t want any more ties to Blue than she already had. “Thank you,” she said, feeling grateful to this strange boy. “What is your name? Is there anyone you want me to contact for you back home? Family, perhaps?”

He shook his head. “There’s no need for that. And, uh...Neal. You can call me Neal.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Neal.” A noise sounded in the hallway outside the room and their eyes both darted towards it. “I think I should get going.”

“You’ll come back? You won’t abandon us, right?”

“I’ll find a way to help, I promise.”

He looked at her calculatingly, as if weighing how much he could trust her.

“There’s a wand,” he said suddenly, “The Black Fairy has half of an old wand. If you can find the other half, maybe you can defeat her.”

It was clear the amount of trust he was placing in her by sharing such a secret. She was more determined than ever not to let him down.

The sounds in the hallway grew closer.

“I’ll look for it,” Belle said hurriedly. “As soon as I can figure out how to defeat them, I’ll return.”

She gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile before darting back to the mirror. The surface ripped as she got close, and she was able to pass through freely.

When she emerged on the other side, she looked around nervously, half expecting Blue to be waiting for her. Thankfully, the library was still dark and empty.

Taking a deep breath, she made herself think logically. Feelings of hurt, betrayal, and disgust warred under the surface, but she knew she couldn’t let those out yet, or she would crumple under the weight of them. Right now, she had a short amount of time to look through Blue’s private archive, and hopefully find something that might help her. Then -

Belle shook her head. She’d figure out “then” later.

She unshrank herself first, feeling instantly better to be at a normal size. She walked deeper into the archives, figuring Blue would keep her most important materials as far from prying eyes as possible.

Belle continued until she’d reached the back corner, looking around until her eyes fell upon a velvet cushion sitting on an upper shelf.

Her mouth fell open. Displayed as if it were a medal, a piece of ancient carved wood lay innocently upon the cushion.

“The Golden Fairy’s wand,” Belle whispered reverently. She’d only ever heard stories of it. Blue had always said it had been lost. Yet here it was.

It was only when she stepped closer that she realized her mistake. The piece before her was only half of a wand. She could see where it had been broken off from its other half.

Neal’s words came back to her in a rush. Somehow the Black Fairy had the other half of her mother’s wand. Belle wasn’t sure how that had happened or how the wand had been broken in the first place. Was anything of the stories she’d been told still true?

She reached out a hand, certain that some spell would be triggered and the whole of the fairy army would come running. Her hand closed around the wand and she let out a sigh of relief when nothing happened. She was still in one piece and so far no army had broken down the gate to arrest her.

She drew it away from its resting place, staring at it in awe. There was a slight hum of power to it, even in its broken condition. Belle couldn’t imagine what it had been like when whole. She shivered.

Tucking it into her pocket felt rather blasphemous, but she didn’t have much choice. She still needed to search the rest of the archives.

Thirty minutes later, Belle hadn’t found much else of use. She’d found plenty that had chilled her further - dark fairy spells that hadn’t seen the light of day in hundreds of years and did all sorts of unnatural things, like combining that which was never meant to be put together and separating that which was never meant to be pulled apart - but nothing that she could use to free the children.

An intricate wooden clock with metal gears told her there were only a couple hours left before her fellow fairies would awaken. She’d thought it wrong when she’d first seen it, as she’d only spent a few minutes in the Dark Realm, and it indicated hours had passed instead. Then she’d remembered her research in the past into other realms and how they sometimes operated at different speeds. It was entirely possible that time moved quicker here than in the Dark Realm. Hadn’t she waited hours for Blue to reemerge?

There were other gears on the clock as well, ones she didn’t understand. She had a hunch that one of them was counting down to something, but unfortunately, she didn’t have the time to figure out what. She needed to get out of the library and soon.

Not just out of the library, Belle realized with a start. She’d need to leave the glen entirely.

But where could she go? Blue would notice that the wand was missing eventually. Belle would have to go somewhere she could be safe from her. Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. Blue was revered throughout the Enchanted Forest. Almost everyone, including Belle, had bought into her holier-than-thou act. The only one who really hated her was -

No. She couldn’t do that. It was unthinkable. It was out of the question. Just because Blue had turned out to be evil didn’t mean Belle could trust someone else who was probably just as evil.

After all, the Dark One dealt in children as well. While he didn’t necessarily kidnap them or force them into slave labor in mines, he did win them in deals with desperate families. No, she couldn’t trust him.

A smile formed on Belle’s face. She didn’t have to trust him. She just needed to break into his library. It was said to rival the fairies’ own library and contain the largest collection of dark, magical texts in the entire Enchanted Forest. If she couldn’t find something there to fight Blue or reunite the wand, she wouldn’t find it anywhere.

Belle closed the book on transformation quietly. It seemed she had a long flight ahead of her.

Author's Note: Well, did I surprise anyone? ;)

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #fairy belle #belle french #rumplestiltskin #The Fairy Gardener

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jediannsolo · 6 years

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Graduate (Shadow and Meï Interaction I wrote eons ago)

Shadow stared at the letters “109 S.R.”, which had been hastily stenciled onto his new mailbox just this morning. He sighed, flexing his hands anxiously from inside his pockets as he looked around the suburban neighborhood with a grimace.

Why did it have to be this way? Why couldn’t it had been a condo or an apartment at the end of a hallway, where surely no one but the groundskeeper would pass by? At least the groundskeeper alone would be the only fool passing judgement instead of the whole division.

With his back to the street, he couldn’t truly tell... but he could have sworn he heard a couple of vehicles slow their trek before taking off again. Most likely making sure their eyes were not deceiving them. After all, his unique appearance was unlike anyone else around for regions. They must have known who he was.

“Would you give it a rest? Burning a hole through the mailbox won’t help you blend in.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, sighing quietly. Meï had arrived. There was no need to turn around to confirm it. How could he ever mistake that breathy, cabaret-esque voice spoken with the inflection of a scornful mother? She had spent enough time on his metaphorical tail for even her aura to become unmistakable. However, she did have the keys to the place, so there was a sliver of relief in sensing her presence today.

He could go disappear within it.

“You wouldn’t have to worry so much about getting recognized if you had gotten yourself a trim like I had told you.”

He fixed his mouth into a straight line, biting down on his lip. He knew better than to have this discussion with her. Always the same responses.

They’re not like regular hair.

They won’t grow back to a sharp point.

It’s not a myth. Look it up.

At this point, he was convinced she only said it to bother him.

Almost as if she was confirming his thoughts, the grin in her voice suddenly became very evident. “How about I set up an appointment for Tuesday?”

“Meï.”

“Alright, alright, I know...” her tone jumped an octave, obviously coming to the same conclusion as him. “I just want you to push those worries away!”

Meï stood beside him, their eyes still yet to meet. She stole a quick glance to her vehicle, which held a precious gift she was hoping to give to him today. ‘But only if he is ready,’ she reminded herself.

Her eyes then scanned Shadow and she held back a snort over his chosen wardrobe. Only this man would wear a long sleeved shirt in the middle of a heat wave. He is more self-conscious about his scarred pelt than she originally thought. She followed his gaze to the black letters painted on the off-white mailbox and she mirrored his aloof posture. “You know, it’s just your initials,” she tried to relieve his apparent anxiousness. “It’s not like your name is being paraded around for the world to see. Plus, most people don’t even know your name. It’s a bunch of superficial infamy—”

She stopped short at seeing Shadow turn his heel and walk to the entrance, ignoring her. Any other day, she probably would have snapped at him for constantly engaging others like a common sociopath. But today was different. This was supposed to be a milestone day. He was finally out of the Institute and into the parole program! Beings with the type of criminal history he’s had only dream of this opportunity! Why wasn’t he joyful in any way?

Was he just tired? Annoyed? Disgusted? Meï even briefly wondered if he was upset over not being able to pick out his own home and that he had to depend on what the landlords provided for him. But that didn’t seem like the type of thing Shadow would worry about. Yet there he was; leaning against the window, looking into the pre-furbished house with the most intense disinterest she had ever seen from an Institute graduate.

He’s hard to read. Always has been.

After another quick glance at her car to make sure her gift was okay, Meï approached him with sincere caution. She had the feeling that addressing the subject directly would encourage him into shutting her out. She may not have known him for very long, but at least she knew the best way to get him to listen to her is to start with an apology.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it sound like that,” she said.

“Like what,” he muttered without breaking his gaze forward.

“Like it’s easy to just... put everything you went through behind you and just be happy again.”

“‘Again’?”

“Oh, you know what I mean!” She puffed her cheeks momentarily, suppressing her natural penchant for arguments. “Maybe this isn’t quite what you wanted, but... I am here as the middleman between you and TBI. As long as no more accidents happen, you never have to walk into that building again.”

Shadow wordlessly turned to look at her for the first time since she arrived.

They locked eyes and Meï smiled, hoping that his spirits were lifted far enough for her to feel safe giving him his housewarming gift.

Little did she know that she had just said the wrong thing.

“So... picture just a couple of years from now— four at the very most!” She said as she reached for the keys in her pocket and unlocked the door. “Trials will finally be over, you’ll be virtually unshackled, this house no longer has to be your home and the wild world is yours to see... isn’t that exciting?!”

The hedgehog coughed. Not in direct response to her, she noted. Furrowing his brow, Shadow entered the house with a “tsk”.

Meï pursed her lips. Her patience had run out. Without thinking, she grabbed his sleeve and spun him around to face her. His indignant stare was venomous. But so was hers.

“What is your problem?!” She didn’t mean to shout. But there it was.

“You want to know what my problem is?” He growled his words, his spikes starting to curve with his rising fury. “I waited ten years for the moment I could walk out of Betterment and never look back. And this,” he gestured towards his very beige living space, “is what I get. My name still deemed unremovable from the watch list, a starter house in a manufactured neighborhood so damn packed that it looks like a cubicle grid, and—!”

He stopped short, staring into her eyes for a second longer before turning away. Meï sighed.

“And a warden constantly at your heels making sure you don’t backtrack even once,” she finished his thought for him. “I know. I’m sorry. This is... this is a new procedure.”

“It’s not “new”. It’s just mine. No one else has to go through this shit except for me.”

“Shadow.”

“Deny it.”

Her words caught in her throat. She couldn’t deny it. There was no one else in the institute that had the powerful and unpredictable capabilities that Shadow had. They needed to make double and triple sure he was reformed. It would be an arduous process and she wasn’t sure if she was ready for it at this point.

But it didn’t mean he should be so hopeless.

“It’s... it’s just temporary,” she tried to reason.

“My entire sentence was ‘temporary’.”

“Dammit, Shadow. Stop this defeatist attitude. Fine. This is not freedom. But it’s a hell of a lot better than a padded cell, isn’t it?”

Shadow growled in response. It was absolutely pathetic that he had to choose between the lesser of two evils. He’s been patient enough as it is. However, it’s not like he actually remembered the majority of the chaos he had unleashed upon the land. It all happened too fast. It was all instinctual, like being stuck on automatic. Maybe his suffering was actually justified. Maybe they were being foolishly kind.

Maybe... he truly deserved to rot away in a cell.

Meï observed Shadow sitting on his sofa, swimming in his own thoughts.

Or drowning in them.

She sat gingerly at the opposite end of the couch. She wasn’t sure for how long, but she allowed herself to sit in the silence that Shadow was accustomed and attached to. Just the sound of a passing vehicle or the throaty coo of a Tranquill periodically breaking the silence. It felt like hours, but she was sure it was much less.

“... couple of years, huh?”

She nearly jumped a foot in the air, despite how low his voice was. Meï was definitely not expecting him to speak first. “Y-yeah. I mean, as long as there’s no regression, you know?”

“Hmm,” Shadow looked around, drinking in his new surroundings for the first time since he entered. “I suppose that’s... shorter than ten years.”

Meï grinned. “Yes, definitely.”

Silence again.

She didn’t mind it as much this time around.

And she was beginning to think he may be ready for that gift after all...

#writing #agency lore #shadow the hedgehog #mei

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youngster-monster · 6 years

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To love is to destroy

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Illidan faces Maiev’s forces with Kael’thas at his side.

It changes nothing.

Well, maybe it does. It’s notably harder to vanquish the demon hunter when every hit, every spell is met by an arcane shield or Kael’thas blade; the two fight like one, always one step ahead of their enemies as they move around wings and fireballs with an ease that spokes of many battles fought side by side.

But there is only so much two fighters can do, no matter how formidable. They slip; they stumble; slowly, they are worn down by a conflict with no respite in sight. Whenever they strike a soldier down another takes their place, whereas they only have each other to rely on. This, in the end, is their undoing — not the disadvantage of their number, but their reliance on each other.

Because exhaustion makes them reckless, makes them prone to taking risks, because in their desperate efforts to save each other they show a weakness that Maiev won’t hesitate to take advantage of.

“Target Kael’thas first,” She tells the group of mages to her left, the metallic echo of her helmet hiding the faint disgust their art inspires her. “Give it everything you have — without him, Illidan will be defenseless..”

Earlier in the battle she would be wrong, but now, as her two adversaries at starting to feel the drain of such a drawn-out fight, her plan is sound. Misinformed, but only in semantics: it’s not that Illidan can’t face all of them alone, it’s that he won’t

Magic crackles at the mages fingers as they intone together a spell sure to destroy the obstacle that Kael’thas represents. His death is sure to anger the blood elves, but she doesn’t care about those things. The only thing she sees is the fulfilling of her quest: killing Illidan once and for all.

A crack in their defense, a slight opening in their battle dance— there. The mages were all trained by the battlefield as much as they were trained for it, and they see the opportunity at the same time as she does. The spell goes in a flash of light, too bright to describe in colors— she can feel its warmth on her skin even through her armor. Without, it must be scorching hot.

Kael’thas sees it too late to summon a shield, and he can only look with grim acceptance as the magical flames surge toward him. At least, he thinks, he dies fighting: there are worse ways to go. It’s not quite peace, the way he is ready to meet his fate, but it’s close enough.

Of course the spell doesn’t hit him. That would be too easy, now, wouldn’t it?

No, instead, Illidan turns his head just in time— maybe he feels the heat, the arcane energy, maybe he wonders why Kael’thas wasn’t where he expected him to be just then. Whatever the case, he sees the spell and Illidan, perhaps for the first time since he saw the rampage of the Legion and swore to take it down, doesn’t think it through. He doesn’t plan, doesn’t wonder what the consequences will be— no, he reacts on pure instincts and flings himself forward, putting himself between Kael’thas and everyone else.

The spell collides with his back in a flash of too-bright fire before Kael’thas has the time to swear.

(It’s a little known fact that Kael’thas, when stressed, swear like a sailor: it’s an habit he got from Rommath and it definitely hasn’t gotten better with his time passed amongst orcs and demon hunters.)

Great, dark wings curl around him as the flames roar around them, and all Kael’thas can feel is their faint warmth through his strange shelter and Illidan’s arms around his shoulders. Some part of him notes every detail, every wound smearing hot blood on his skin, as it does each time Illidan touches him— as if it were the last time he ever would.

This time, it might.

The last of the fire dissipates into shimmering smoke and, ever so slowly, Illidan lets his wings fall, but it’s less of a conscious thought than a slow fall forward, and Kael’thas wounds his arms around Illidan’s chest to keep him upright. Smaller as he is, it’s mostly useless: Illidan falls to his knees, and Kael’thas now bears most of his weight as he seems to lose the strenght to do so himself. His hands rests on something wet and still hot— blood, raw flesh, what might be bare bones at the tip of his fingers. This is not the kind of wound you recover from, not even for a demon hunter as formidable as Illidan Stormrage.

Illidan flinches at the touch. Kael’thas shushes him soothingly and lets what little healing magic he knows imbues his hands. It’s useless, and he’s well are of it, but Illidan nonetheless relaxes slightly in his hold.

“Why?” He asks, too low for any of the stunnen warriors to hear. “Your plans, the Legion— why me? Why now?”

Illidan looks at Kael’thas, too calm and too peaceful for someone so fierce, usually a breath away from feral. He smirks despite the fel-green blood that runs down his chin and says, not quite an answer, “Don’t worry, Kael. It’ll be alright.”

He repeats it— don’t worry, it’s alright, please, don’t cry, in a voice so low it’s a whisper, his clawed fingers trailing lightly down Kael’thas face and leaving a smudge of dark green blood there. It’s the only thing he says, as if it were Kael’thas who was in need of reassurance, until he runs out of breath to say it and his eyes dim.

Kael’thas’s hands curl where they rest on his shoulders. His fingers dig into Illidan’s skin, blood already drying under his nails. For a long moment, he doesn’t move.

By then the soldiers have had all the time in the world to wonder what happened, as well as to decide that Kael’thas would be better taken alive— something the few blood elves scattered through the band of adventurers strongly advocated for.

They expect him to come quietly. They expect him to cry. They don’t know what they expect, only that it isn’t what they get.

Kael’thas gently rests Illidan on the scorched ground before he rises. There’s blood on his face, on his tongue, dripping down his chin, green and red war paint circling his burning eyes. Felo’melorn glows golden-red in his hand.

The blood elves stop, take a step back as one; a few of them have fought at his side before, and they fear this look more than the Legion itself.

(There’s a common thing between all natural disaster — they are greater than themselves, announced by the way things bend around their coming. The sea retreats in front of a tidal wave; the wind stops before a thunderstorm. For a second, everything is still: this, more than anything, should have warned them.)

He doesn’t say a word — there is no warning, except the slight itch in his breathing, the twitch of his bloody fingers.

But suddenly flames surround them, the roar deafening, scorching heat that reduces a champion to ashes before he can take a step away from the edge of the battlefield. Hell awakes and Kael’thas stands at its heart, embers trailing in his steps, blood dripping from his fingers. It dissipates as it its the ground, hissing like water on a hot pan.

(The Sunstrider dynasty has chosen a phoenix as emblem — it is no mere coincidence. Few things burn hotter than they do, and none in quite the same destructive fashion.)

The flames cast his shadow on the smoke in wavering edges and sharp corners, a crown of molten gold upon his brow and blade sharper than the shards of his broken heart. Things like him shouldn’t grieve; they are, after all, the kind who take the world down with them, fire and ash and the acrid taste of burning flesh.

They didn’t know that but it doesn’t matter. Knowledge couldn’t have saved them; nothing will.

They killed Illidan and Kael’thas Sunstrider stands above his body, burning in the way only volcanoes burn — smoke and ashes and fire, burning your breath out of the cage of your charred ribs.

(The battle will be carved into the minds of all those fighting here, but none will ever talk about it; if asked, they will speak of fire and screams and the visceral terror of waking horros that are better left sleeping, and they will not shiver but it will be a close thing.)

They don’t kill him, but it’s not a mercy.

The only thing keeping him upright is the instinctual knowledge that he’ll die if he falls, and it’s the only thing he can understand through the rage. If he stops, he dies, and then Illidan’s sacrifice will have been for nothing.

His robes snaps around him, blacked and torn; the air smells of copper and sulfur; when he breathes in, one of his ribs dig into his lung, and the roar of his flames cannot entirely hide the way his chest rattles like a bone chimes. He’s on his last leg and they know it, those few soldiers still alive and figthing more for their lives than the fate of their world.

Deep down, at the heart of the inferno, the only thing he remembers are a few words carried on a dying breat.

Don’t worry. It will be alright. Please don’t cry. He lost himself except for those words, and he clings to them like a lifeline.

This, in the end, is his undoing.

Maiev doesn’t quite manage to dodge his sword and the tip of the blade catch her helmet, leaving a long, bloody trail on its path. It goes flying, rolling on the crumbling floor until it hits a body and stops. Immediately, Kael’thas’s eyes are drawn to her; the source of the hatred burning like kindling in his chest.

Here, he is a beast; a wild thing, carried forward by a remembered voice and little else. Pushed beyond his limits, he knows — better than he knows his own name, now — that he won’t last much longer, and the part of him that rages and rampages throw him toward the warden like a storm of gold and fire, sword shining barely brighter than his eyes.

That’s the opening they were waiting for. Maiev dodges; she’s faster, less tired — although not by much — and he crashes in the empty space she left. The remaining soldiers jump on him, ready a the killing blow that they hold off for one inexplicable, breathless second.

Kael’thas looks oddly small, bloodied and ragged, panting on the ground with his fingers curled like claws in a puddle of Maiev’s blood. He turns toward them, teeth barred like he’s still bigger than himself, but his arms aren’t strong enough to bear his weight anymore and he falls to the ground, too weak to do much more than growl.

Maiev wants to kill him on the spot; stab him in the heart and be done with the whole thing once and for all. She should; no one would blame her for it. But blood elves are loyal to the death, even to those who would harm them; they drag their surviving companions to their feet, bloodied and beaten, and then Kael’thas as well. He doesn’t fight them. The fight has gone out of his eyes, nothing remaining of his previous rage but smoke and slow-burning flames scattered on the dark stone. He blinks slowly, face expressionless, and only moves to keep Illidan’s body in his sight — but even then, his movements are weak, and he simply goes limp in their hold when they drag him away from it.

Many died on that day. Whether Kael’thas is one of them is anyone’s guess.

Some would have him hanged. Some want the Alliance to judge him, or the people of Silvermoon — no one wants to be responsible for his acts or those of his master, but all want the right to put him on trial for whichever crimes they accuse him of.

The Kirin Tor want to judge him as one of their; Maiev doesn’t trust them to punish him as she see fit; the Silvermoon triumvirate fears either one would give their prince the death penalty, despite the fact that the Sunstrider are supposed to live and die for and by their people and no one else.

They reach a compromise, eventually. Kael’thas is sent under Silvermoon, deep under their streets, and locked in a cell designed by the Kirin Tor — there is so much magic in his chains alone it burns his skin. Two of Maiev’s wardens guard the doors; their sight is the only thing that can drag a reaction out of their prisoner, although it is only the faint sharpening of his gaze as he follows their movements until they disappear from view.

Apart from that, nothing. He isn’t peaceful as much as he’s devoid of anything beyond sheer apathy, as if he was only alive in body and not in mind.

He sits crosslegged in the middle of the circular stone chamber that is his cell, his shackled hands resting between his legs, his dim eyes lost in the distance. There is nothing dignified or noble about the way he acts, no trace of his royalty. His shoulders are low, his head bent, his once-bright golden hair fall over his face. He barely eats or sleeps: like this, he is more alike to a ghost than a prisoner and, were he in any other state, he would be horrified by himself.

It’s as if Illidan’s death had broken something in him. Rommath brings him books and scrolls, anything that could interest him, bring back some kind of light to his features, but they pile up next to the doors, collecting dust. When he and Lor’themar manage to coax words out of him, Kael’thas sounds hollow and tired, and his answers are few and far in-between.

Sylvanas comes to visit, sometimes, mostly to rant about how pathetic he looks and how awful everything is. She appears more irate each time, perhaps annoyed at his lack of reaction. He barely looks at her when she comes, uncaring of the familiar disdain and annoyance in her eyes, and never replies to her biting comments like he used to.

“Don’t you have better things to do than mope?” She aks, the fourth of fifth time, curling her lips in distaste.

He shrugs. It’s more than she usually gets, but it doesn’t seem to satisfy her.

He thinks she enjoys his silence, a bit, if only because it gives her a reason to rant at lenght about how little she likes the idea of making peace with the Alliance.

“The Alliance has taken everything from me,” He explains to Lor’themar when the regent asks him about the ceasefire, in this odd way of his, slow and devoid of feelings, although he does make a small pause before saying everything, as if he wants to put emphasis on the word but doesn’t find the will in himself to do so. “Yet I cannot find it in myself to hate them for it.”

He doesn’t say anything else, but Lor’themar hears it as: do what you must. So he shakes Varian’s hand, and doesn’t ask Malfurion why he isn’t the one grieving for his fallen brother.

And then, one day, Lor’themar says ‘enough’. He has watched his friend fade away for years now. No more.

To hell with the wardens, the mages, the factions, whoever thought this was a kinder fate than death. He opens the door and says, “Come with me.”

Kael’thas doesn’t argue. He hasn’t uttered a word in weeks; his grief has only worsened with time, the loss still a raw wound after a decade in the dark. All he does is hold up his hands, for Lor’themar to free or take to help him stand. He does both.

They make their way through the twisting corridors of the castle in silence and Lor’themar doesn’t stop once to reconsider his plan. He marches forward, nods to Rommath, and drags Kael’thas through the portal the achmage summoned without thinking, because this— this spectre, this empty shell of a man — isn’t the prince he has served for so long, isn’t the friend he has fought with.

There is no fire to fear there, nothing of the threat Maiev painted him at. All he is is nothing but a whispered voice in a dark cell that says, I miss him, and hollow eyes that can’t even cry anymore.

So he has no qualms manhandling Kael’thas through a rather rough teleportation that takes them Light-knows-where. The destination doesn’t matter all that much and, for all he knows, it might as well be Stormwind or Argus, for the difference it makes.

(Either way, inhabitants want Kael’thas’s head on a plate; just not enough to cut it themselves.)

Maybe it’s the familiar magic running over his skin that wakes him enough to look around, or maybe it’s some distant knowledge, some primal instinct that tells him to look up. Kael’thas, whatever his reason may be, lets his head tilts sideways, enough that the strands of hair that usually shadow his face fall out of his eyes.

Green meets green as, not too far away that he should have been able to feel him were he in any other state, Illidan meets his gaze.

For a moment, neither of them moves.

Then the silence snaps like a rubber band stretched thin, and both surge forward without a glance at those assemble around them.

They meet somewhere halfway, Illidan’s arms curling around Kael’thas too-thin frame as he lets himself falls forward and into the hold. Kael’thas lets his shackled hands fall between them and rests his forehead in the crook between Illidan’s neck and shoulder, feeling like he’s been holding his breath for a decade and, finally, has breatherdout.

“It’s okay,” Illidan whispers next to his hear, grinning almost despite himself. “I’m back.”

“I’ve missed you,” Kael’thas replies, and his smile echoes Illidan’s own.

Embers swirl around their feet as, deep in his chest, fire burns once again.

#World of Warcraft #kael'thas sunstrider #illidan stormrage #lor'themar theron #blood //#writing #maiev shadowsong

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paperiahma · 6 years

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Inquisitor Surana - a brief summary

After seeing the positive response in dragonageconfessions, I decided to make this quick summary how my headcanon for my Inquisitor Surana works. Mostly it’s to clarify the events in Origins and how they tie into Inquisition. There are also a few points I make about the events in Inquisition. In short, here is an AU where a human mage Iren Amell becomes the Warden while his friend, an elven mage Feralsha Surana, ends up as the Inquisitor.

If someone is curios about details - any details - feel free to message me. Seriously, you can ask me about her spell preferences or what she looks like or hell, what her favourite food is. I guarantee you, I will be overjoyed to reply.

Thank you again, for all you lovely people who responded so well this little AU^^

*Was born to two elven servants and taken away when her magical abilities awaken at the age of five. Two of the three templars were quite rough and cold, but the third one spoke to her kindly and comforted her all the way from Highever to the Circle.

*A shy child, she kept mostly to herself and studied magic with enthusiasm and deep fascination. However, it was soon made clear how closely she was being watched and she was terrified of making mistakes. Once she was practicing a fire spell on her own and burnt her hands. Too scared to tell anyone, she hid in the library until an older mage found her and healed the burns. That was her first proper talk with Irving who took her to his office to talk about magic and balance and how one must sometimes fail before seeing how to do things right.

*As a quiet, brilliant child, Feralsha was easy to walk over so she had a hard time making any friends and she was picked on by some bullies. However, another apprentice, a couple of years her senior, defended her and took her under his wing. This apprentice was Iren Amell, another child genius.

*Soon after, the dynamic duo became the three magical musketeers as they met and befriended Jowan.

*The three of them were inseparable, even when both Feralsha and Iren became apprentices to the First Enchanter himself. The boys, especially Iren, would often come up with all sorts of wild ideas and pranks and Feralsha was dragged along. She did always laugh with them about it all afterwards, but she also reined them in every now and then, keeping them from crossing the line. As a mastermind behind most of the plan, Iren always came up with a lie or another trick to keep the softer Feralsha out of trouble.

*Iren was always confident, charismatic and incredibly witty. Quite a few apprentices, including Feralsha, had a crush on him at one point or another. Feralsha’s teenage crush lasted only a little while before those feelings changed into sister’s love.

*After getting used to the templars, Feralsha often made an effort to talk with them and learned who would return her friendliness and who wouldn’t. She always made a point to at least politely greet them as she walked by. Soon she befriended one of the younger recruits, Cullen.

*Feralsha’s Harrowing was merely hours apart from Iren’s. Like him, she met a Pride demon in her test. It might seem quite odd for many who knew her as a humble and sweet young woman who never bragged. But there was always hidden pride within her and Feralsha was often (perhaps needlessly) worried she’d let it take over and do something foolish.

*She and Iren helped Jowan to destroy his phylactery but when they were caught by the templars, Iren pushed her away from him and Jowan and yelled at her for “slowing them down by trying to stop them”, hoping his lie would save her from the fall. Struck numb by this, she never found the words to protest before everything escalated. As Jowan attacked, she was devastated, as she was losing both of her brothers. Jowan ran, Iren was taken away by the Grey Warden Duncan and she was left alone.

(Trivia worth mentioning: my friend headcanons Iren as Duncan’s son. Duncan knows about this but he never gets the chance to talk to Iren about it. Iren, however, later figures it out on his own. This whole idea sparked when my friend noticed how she had accidentally made Iren look a lot like Duncan.)

*Feralsha did tell Irving the truth about her involvement later but he knew of it already. However, he understood her reasons and even though he was disappointed, he never told anyone else about the truth. When Wynne returned to the Circle with news of Ostagar, Feralsha’s heart was shattered. She spent most of the following weeks in isolation, eating little and only talking with Irving or Cullen and not much to them either. When she wasn’t mourning, she was distracting herself with studies.

*When the Circle was attacked, Feralsha’s every instinct told her to run and find safety. She was not a great brave fighter and had no stomach for violence. However, knowing that both Irving (her mentor and only parental figure) and Cullen (her last dear friend) were exactly where all the abominations were coming from, she couldn’t make herself to leave. So she fought her way forward, saving a couple of injured templars and mages in the process, though refusing to flee with them. Eventually she encountered the Sloth demon standing over Niall and was pulled into the Fade.

*Feralsha’s Fade trap was once again created by a Pride. She saw a dream of a reformed Circle with her as its First Enchanter. The Circle was independent, safe environment for all. Iren was there in a shimmering silver and blue uniform of the Wardens, happy and healthy. Jowan was there free and smiling with Lily, who was pregnant. Cullen was the new knight-commander of the templars who remained in the Circle with lesser authority and worked together with mages instead above them. She escaped the trap, found Niall and began exploring the Fade islands.

*Around the same time in the waking world, Iren encountered the Sloth demon and ended up in the Fade, too.

*Though terrified to the core, Feralsha did manage to find two new shapes before Iren found her. He wasn’t in a shimmering uniform, he didn’t come with good news and he looked quite weary and thin. But he was alive and ready to fight and Feralsha was overwhelmingly relieved to see him. Just Iren’s presence was enough to convince her all was going to turn out fine, somehow. Together they found their ways through the Fade, rescued Iren’s companions and escaped the Fade with Nial’s dying wish.

*Meeting Cullen was shocking on many levels. Seeing him so utterly pained and broken was already enough to make Feralsha kneel in front of the magical cage in an effort to comfort him. But his pained confession of his affection for her and the new hate towards mages cut like poisoned daggers. In the end, Feralsha didn’t say much at the time. Too tired from fighting and hurting too much for his sake, she didn’t know if she could in any way make things better. She had loved Cullen as a very dear friend for a long time but knew it was unlikely she’d ever get him back like that.

*In the final battle against Uldred, Feralsha stood with Iren and managed to save First Enchanter Irving and the rest of the mages, much to their relief. Afterwards, as the dust settled and Wynne requested a leave to travel with Iren, Feralsha did the same. Part of her wanted to stay to rebuild her home and make sure Irving and Cullen would recover. But at the same time she knew Iren would be in far greater danger and she didn’t want to lose her brother a second time. So she left the Tower with him and followed him all the way to the Archdemon.

*(As a side note, my friend hasn’t had the chance to play the Awakening, but I’m personally convinced Feralsha remained with Iren during that)

*During the years after the Blight and its aftermath, Feralsha returned to the Circle. It had gained far more independence, thanks to Iren and King Alistair and as one of the few remaining mages in Ferelden, she wished to give her all to use this opportunity. By this time Cullen had already been sent to Kirkwall before she could have the chance to properly talk to him. She sent a couple of letters but never got a reply.

*Feralsha traveled Ferelden on small expeditions to study magical sites or old ruins. She made contact with a few dalish clans (including the clan Lavellan) and traded information with their keepers. She climbed the Circle ranks and taught some classes, even tutoring Dagna. During this time her spirit grew stronger and she gained confidence, eventually becoming ready to accept the leading position with an open heart.

*Soon Irving began training Feralsha to become the First Enchanter after him so she threw herself into her studies once more. Though she was already an expert on many arcane fields of study and adept at history, she began to deepen that knowledge while also studying politics, economics and culture. She did rise to the position just a couple of years before the mage-templar conflict finally reached its breaking point.

*Despite the war, she looked after her own Circle and its people the best she could. Feralsha wanted the Circles back, but not in the same way as they had been before. She wanted a safe environment for the mages to study where they could also have the main authority and would be allowed the freedom to see their families. She found templars necessary as well, but as guardians, not prison guards. She felt that the concept was sound but the system needed to be thoroughly rebuilt for both sides.

*When the Conclave was announced, she took part as Ferelden’s First Enchanter. And was the only one to survive.

*Though a fairly devout Andrastian, Feralsha never claimed to be Andraste’s Herald or “the chosen one”. However, secretly she wanted to believe some of it. Not that she was Andraste’s equal or that she had the right to speak for Her... but she did want to believe the Maker had chosen her for this. But for the fear of pride and arrogance, she didn’t dare to truly believe so for a time. But when Haven was attacked, her faith that she was chosen for this finally strengthened, because she needed it to. She needed to believe she was chosen. Maybe not a Herald, maybe not a prophet… but a guardian of some sort. Chosen in a way she believed Iren was chosen to be the Hero of Ferelden.

*Meeting Cullen again was quite jarring, especially considering the long years after their previous encounter. To avoid unnecessary awkwardness, neither of them showed any sign of knowing each other when they were first introduced. Later, when Feralsha went to talk to him, they first remained professional and distant, until finally she admitted she had wondered what had happened to him. They talked for some time, mostly telling about the past years, reassuring there were no hard feelings and both agreed to start again. They had not met in almost ten years and people change a lot in that time, so in truth they barely knew each other. Yet both were glad to see the other healthy and were looking forward to getting to know each other again.

*Feralsha’s feelings for Cullen slowly grew as she got to know him better. She found small private moments to talk with him more and more often, feeling safe in his presence while also being treated as an equal. By Skyhold the feelings had deepened and the romance finally bloomed on both sides.

#dragon age #ahma rambles

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