#this is the result of my pointless shame over my people seeing an inch of my hairy legs between my socks and pants😶 like who cares

[unganseylike]

everytime i cut myself shaving i think it is a message from the universe

#like the ‘what are we doing to our women’ tweet #this is the result of my pointless shame over my people seeing an inch of my hairy legs between my socks and pants😶 like who cares #over the last year bc of meds i was taking it was causing some strange hair growth including on my face #and i wld try to shave it and immediately cut myself and eventually i had to be like i am injuring myself in pursuit of something meaning #let it go. yknow? #like its still tough and i still do try to remove hair every so often but i feel like seeing that blood from nicks is a reminder #hey u are an animal let urself grow hair! #blood tw

[misterewrites]

The Fallen’s Redemption (Welcome to the Underground!)

Hey everyone! E here with the newest chapter! sorry it took a while to get out, been a wild month but it looks like everything's calming down so hopefully everything comes out more consistently. I hope you are all well and enjoying the story. Feel free to share, comment and all that jazz. I'm trying to promote myself more. Feels weird. haha that's it for me. Stay safe, wear your mask, wash your hands, vaccinate if you can and take care of your love ones. Have a great week! E out!

If you like an easier way to read the story or even find out what the heck’s going on you can read the whole thing right here!

 --> https://archiveofourown.org/works/27814297/chapters/74835963

It was truly impressive how one moment could shift without warning. How the highest and lowest point in a singular instant in time could reverse and just keep going.

Archie wished for once in his life it went in his favor.

The mercenary knew Oliver and Abigail had succeeded when the room settled: crooked walls straightened, the hallways were no longer elongated stretches of void and he could hear Abigail’s voice from the other room.

The demon knew it too as it bruised skin failed to heal quickly, the smoke curled off its body longer and longer as Archie sunk holy arrow after holy arrow into its form. Its muscles seemed to deflect as Fen rained blow after brutal blow upon it. It was actually pretty disturbing if Archie was going to be honest but he knew better to give pity to a demon.

Archie loosen the arrow notched in his bow but kept a wary eye on their foe. It was time to leave. This demon was trapped in this prison for a reason and Archie was suspecting at the very least it was indestructible. Attempting to destroy it would be pointless and a weakened unkillable demon was still a threat.

Archie paused, unsure how to properly convey his message to the berserk Fen. He inched closer, practically stomping to make sure Fen didn’t whirl around in surprise and attack.

He tapped the paladin’s shoulder gently but Fen paid no him no mind. He cleared his throat but Fen just kept swinging away. Archie snarled, gripping Fen’s shoulder tightly and forcing him to turn.

“What!” Fen glared “Can’t you see I’m busy destroying this demon?”

‘You are serious?’ Archie let his annoyance slip onto his face. He was about pull the paladin away when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye.

The demon, even beaten and in pain, was deceptively quick. It’s elongated arm shot out, aiming for a weak point in the armor.

Archie did not like Fen. Archie thought Fen was unnecessarily combative and stand offish. Fen was a pain to work with and had never once played on a team.

But Archie couldn’t deny who he was.

That’s why he joined the King’s Guard when he lived on the surface.

He acted without thinking, pulling Fen away with as much strength as he could. The claws cut into Fen’s arm but drew little blood. Most of the blood the demon managed to spill came from Archie.

-----

It was impossible to tell who acted quicker: Abigail, Oliver or even Fen.

The trio as acted one for the first time in the short while they knew each other: Oliver said nothing, opting to gesture with a middle finger towards the demon. It let out a pained shriek, reeling backwards as golden musical notes surrounded its head and a dissonance screech thundering in its ears. Fen swung backward, cracking the demon in the jaw and sent it sprawling towards the floor. Abigail raced forward, diving for Archibald's falling form.

For a lanky guy, he was heavier than Abigail was expecting. She barely managed to stop him from hitting the floor with a splat but found herself pinned under him as a result.

“Oh boy Archie” Abigail groaned, struggling to lift the mercenary “You got some weight on you.”

Archie gave a weak smile, his gaze unfocused and distant.

Abigail turned to call for Oliver but the bard was already there, carefully eyeing the wound.

“It’s not too bad” Oliver murmured to himself. He rolled his sleeves up, staining one red with the blood dripping from his hand “But we got to act fast. He’s going to bleed out we don’t get him fixed up.”

“Can you?” Abagail asked, trying her best to keep her voice calm.

Oliver didn’t answer. Instead he held a hand over the open wound, closing his eyes while muttering something under his breath.

The golden musical notes appeared once more and hovered over Archibald. A calming melody began to play as Oliver’s magic took hold. Oliver winced as his own wound knitted itself back together: pinkish skin reforming and sealed where he stabbed himself with the dagger. Archibald’s started to but something went wrong: A malicious energy poured from the wound, hungry and vicious. Oliver’s magic wavered and shimmered out of exist but the wound remained.

Oliver’s face paled, his lips curling into a snarl.

“Oh hell no!”

Oliver rose his hand once again, beads of sweat forming on his forehead as his magic reformed but once again the strange energy appeared and seemed to actively block the bard’s attempts to heal.

Oliver’s eyes grew manic “I am not letting someone else die! Curse or no curse.”

“Curse?” Abigail whispered as a chill ran down her spine “He’s been cursed.”

“A fucking demonic curse.” Oliver explained, frantically digging through his pack “Obviously my magic isn’t enough to break it.”

Abigail nodded numbly “We need holy magic.”

“Which we don’t have.” Oliver responded grimly “You have any thread?”

“Thread?”

“I’m going to try to stitch him up. I’m hoping the curse is only focused on magical cures.”

“R-right.” Abigail’s hand moved on their own, reaching for her pack while she desperately tried to remember where she kept the thread. It wasn’t the easiest thing with one hand but the other was wrapped tightly around Archie’s body. Definitely not the smartest choice but she refused to let go of him.

Abigail’s hand shook as the nerves started to eat at her.

“Talk to me farm girl.” Oliver sounded far off “You need to stay focus.

She took a calming breath “Right. Right. Calm. Are you sure threads would work?”

“No” Oliver admitted “But I’m hoping they last long enough for us to get him to the capital. He needs a real cleric or paladin” he glared openly Fen’s back as the paladin continued his cruel attack on the demon “and we’re going to need every second. Dragging him out the house, up the slope and down the tunnel is going to be a challenge but we have to try.”

The air grew thick with tension, the only sounds were Abigail’s panicked search and thuds of Fen’s assault

“Die demon die!” Fen growled with a righteous fever “I will send you back from whence your came!”

Crunch, squish, crunch, squish, crunch. The repetitive noise of Fen’s wasted efforts.

Oliver tried to keep calm. Oliver tried to focus on the task hand. Oliver wanted nothing more than silence.

Oliver always had a poor control over his mouth.

“WOULD YOU SHUT UP!?”

Abigail stood, shocked at the rage and fury that filled Oliver’s shout.

Fen caught it too. He paused, turning away from his prey and eyed Oliver’s distastefully.

“You dare…?” Fen began, angrily stomping closer to the pair.

“You fucking right I dare!” Oliver shot to his feet, hands clenched to fists “You are joke and worse, not even a funny one. Just a pathetic washed out paladin who doesn’t even realize why his God abandoned him!”

Fen held Oliver’s lute in a deathly grip “I am warning you bard if you push me further….”

“You’ll what?” Oliver roared. He closed the distance and even Fen couldn’t help but take a step back “You’ll attack me? A fellow human? Not very holy of you.”

“I….”

“What’s the point of killing monsters...” Oliver screamed, gesturing to the bleeding Archibald and fearful Abigail “...if there’s no one left to save when you’re done! What’s the point of punishing the wicked if good people have to die for it?”

Fen felt sick as realization washed over him. Young Archibald had gotten severely injured but he been so caught up in his fury he hadn’t realized what occurred.

“I….” Fen began weakly but Oliver wasn’t finished.

“Don’t.” Oliver spoke with an aura of finality “You made your choice. You chose your anger over your duty. If you regret the outcome, you should’ve thought about the choice more carefully. Abigail, thread.”

Abigail nodded and began searching for the elusive thread. Oliver turned away from the stunned paladin and pulled out a fine needle.

“Come on solider boy.” He spoke with a firm tone “You’re not dying on me. If you want to get paid, you’ll keep your breathing steady.”

Fen couldn’t hear what the others were saying. The guilt started to build in the pit of his stomach as his arms grew weak.

How could he fall so far? How could he forget his oath to the Solius, the god who saved his life and gave it meaning? How could he allow his anger, his bitterness poison his intention?

This god hadn’t abandoned him, he had abandoned his god.

He still remembered the quiet pride he shone with when he was anointed a paladin. A nobody from a town that no longer existed finally someone. A higher purpose.

The path to redemption is made by self sacrifice.

He thought it meant punishing the wicked creatures and enemies of Solius, giving his life to endless battle.

He closed his eyes in shame, unable to deny the truth of his failure any longer.

Fen’s eyes flinched as a light seemed to shine from nowhere. He opened his eyes expecting to find the irritating bard using his magic to annoy him further.

Instead he found a beautiful soft light emitting from his hands: an open palm and the weaponized lute glowed with an unearthly beauty.

He glanced towards the other but if they had seen the light, they made no indication of it. He could see the desperation in their actions: Abigail unspooling as much thread she could muster while Oliver threaded the needle in preparation for some makeshift surgery.

Fen looked at his hands once again and realized what Solius hadn’t left him. Not really. He always had been with the paladin but he was too blinded by resentment to notice. Now Solius was silently offering him the choice free of judgment.

What path will you choose: of peace or of war?

Fen was a warrior through and through. He was no healer, having never trained in such arts. He knew the path he chose when he swore himself to the god of redemption. A righteous blade on the mortal plane.

“Hey Archie” Abigail croaked, her voice hoarse with fear “It’ll be okay. Oliver’s just gonna shove a needle into your body.”

Archibald rolled his eyes sarcastically as if saying ‘oh fun’

Oliver pulled the thread to ensure it wouldn’t come loose “Sorry I don’t have medicine or anything to numb the pain or even proper experience but hey, what better way to learn new skills huh?”

Archibald shook his head in disbelief.

“I’ll do my best.” Oliver promised with a surprising amount of sincerity “Hopefully it will be enough.”

“Bard.”

Oliver let out a frustrated groan “Seriously?! Now? Can’t you see that I’m about to perform…”

“Allow me.”

Oliver turned to Fen, surprised to see his lute placed carefully on the floor and the paladin’s hands open in peaceful surrender.

“Can you do it?”

“I believe so.”

Oliver moved, allowing Fen room to work. Fen took a deep breath and gently placed his hands onto the open wound. Archibald flinched but stayed as still as he could manage.

The malicious curse crept forth.

“Solius, lend me your power to save this life. It is not yet time.”

Abigail let out a gasp as a gentle light began to cover Fen’s hands. The curse stretched and thinned under the glow of holy magic, shrinking and shrinking before vanishing completely. Archibald relaxed as his wound began to close, skin stitching itself back together until no trace of the injury remained.

Fen let out a tired sigh “The path to redemption is made through self sacrifice.”

“Don’t start.” Oliver warned “Help me lift him up.”

Oliver spared a quick glance for the demon but it wisely chosen to retreat deeper into the house rather purse a one sided fight. Better live with a pain that would heal slowly than face the group’s wrath.

“I got him” Abigail spoke up quickly “I can do it.”

“Well you heard the lady.”

-----

“There’s no sign of your beasts bard.”

“Not entirely true.” Oliver replied. He took note of the gnashed, clawed marks left upon the exterior of the house when they left.

Aside from the various scratch marks left all over the floor and outside of the walls, there was no sign of the mysterious creatures that chased them down the tunnel.

“That’s a lucky break” Oliver breathed in relief.

Archibald flipped off Oliver.

“Relatively.” Oliver corrected “How you feeling solider boy?”

Archibald shot him a glance that screamed ‘you seriously asking me that?’

“Force of habit. Sorry. Not sorry.”

The group stood at the mouth of the tunnel. With Fen’s help, they managed to get Archibald to the top with little trouble.

Abigail slowly approached the paladin “What will you do now?”

Fen paused, taking a moment to answer.

“I am not sure.” he admitted truthfully “As much as I despise your bard, he has given me much to think about.”

“I have that effect on people.” Oliver beamed with pride.

Abigail jabbed her elbow into his side.

“Rude.”

Fen gave a light chuckle “Thank you bard. I still hate you though.”

Oliver gave a noncommittal shrugged “I hate you too but you don’t have to like someone to learn something from them.”

“I am not giving you that one.”

“Yeah that tracks.”

Fen turned to Archibald “Will you be alright? I can accompany you to Haven’s Nest if you wish.”

Archibald waved him off and gestured to Abigail with a flexing motion.

“Thanks!” Abigail smiled brightly.

Fen grinned “I understand and I apologize for my lack of….everything. I will work on that.”

Archibald nodded in understanding.

“Goodbye” Fen turned towards the path to West End “Abigail, Archibald take care. Bard I hope I never see you again.”

“Same here paladork!”

-----

Abigail understood why Oliver chose the unexplored tunnel when they had been chased by the strange creatures: With Abigail carrying Archibald, it had taken the group an hour to reach the city gate. At full sprint it would’ve taken at least 20 minutes to reach but there was no way the group could’ve ran that length without the risk of tripping.

The city gate wasn’t too much different than the walls that surrounded Abigail’s hometown: Instead towering walls designed to be too tall to climb, it was a thick metal door built in the path of the tunnel mouth. There were a pair of guards stationed on their side of the wall, lazy and distracted.

“What happened to him?” one of the guards gestured to Archibald.

“A bad time. Gate closed?”

The other guard shook his head “Nah. We heard a commotion down the tunnel so we decided to shut it in case.”

Oliver nodded “Good call. Let us in?”

“Oi, I ask the questions. What’s your business in the capital?”

Abigail began to open her mouth but Oliver cut her off “Bard competition. They’re my roadies.”

“What’s a roadie?” One guard asked dumbly.

“My help. I’m a pretty big deal.”

The guards sneered “Sure big deal. Sing us something.”

Oliver looked at his fingernails “You can hear me sing at the competition. I don’t do free shows.”

“Fucking bards” the guard murmured under his breath as he knocked on the door with a booming thud.

Abigail could the creaking and groaning of clogs and springs and chains moving in unison. The door began to lift inch by inch. Abigail couldn’t help but lean forward, hoping to soak in her first experience at an underground city. However, instead of whatever she had been expecting, she found herself staring at a large circular cavern.

There were a few people about deep in conversion as well a handful of guards scattered around. Merchants calling in different tongues hoping to make a sale for their wares. On the far end was an identical metal door that no doubt led to the actual city. To either side the cavern walls that were covered with nonsensical graffiti: Phrases in various languages, different images in varying art styles.

“Processing?” Abigail asked with a tone of certainty.

“Yep. It’ll be a few minutes.” Oliver answered while he looked about.

Abigail shifted Archibald so he could be more comfortable “Did you want to sit?”

Archibald shook his head.

“Alright but if you get tired let me know.”

A thumbs up in response.

“Oliver….” Abigail whirled around only to find the bard scribbling some strange symbol among the mess of whatever what was on the wall “OLIVER!”

Oliver paid no mind to her, opting to finish whatever he was doing and making his way back to the other two.

Abigail rose an eyebrow “What was that about?”

“I like doodling. I get bored easily.”

“I was talking to Archie for like a second.”

“Bored.” Oliver repeated unhelpfully “Besides they magically clean the walls every night. Come on let’s get in line.”

True to Oliver’s word, it hadn’t taken long to get through the processing: The same questions asked by the guards in front, a quick magical scan from the cleric to ensure nothing demonic was entering, a search to see if anyone was carrying anything illegal. A few minutes had passed and the trio was waved through.

Archibald regained enough strength to walk on his own albeit slowly. The group was among a handful other people eagerly waiting for the gate to open when a guard had given them some strange item. It looked like two thin marshmallows.

“What is this about?” Abigail asked only to find Oliver and Archibald place the strange item into their ears. Having no choice, Abigail followed suit.

The gate slowly opened, pulling to the side instead upwards.

Abigail leaned forward, catching her first glimpse of Haven’s Nest.

#welcome to the underground #My Story #Original Work

[spaceiplier]

SPACEIPLIER: Not My Time

Someone was screaming. Their voice was wrecked, as if they’d been screaming for hours. Had it been hours? Or longer? Shorter? Time was faded. Sounds were blending together. The voice was desperate, a hoarse cry, warbling as if they could barely get any air into their lungs. Each scream was punctuated by a dry gasp.

The screams weren’t angry. No malice, but the harsh howl of someone who was scared. No… they weren’t just scared.

The screams were terrified.

The screams might have had words. They were hard to make out, distorted and strained. They repeated the words over and over, voice cracking in fear, screaming so loud and broken.

Who was screaming?

Was it him?

It was as if he was standing over the scene; as if he had just been walking by the room, pausing in the door to take it all in. A stranger, watching as Icarus fell.

There was a bed. A hospital bed, with railing along the sides. Machines sat around the bed, showing readings, holding medicine, sending strange fluids through tubes. Heart and brain monitors. A scan of organs and lifelines. Wires and tubes connected to the figure on the bed, all leading towards doing something to the person screaming.

He took a step closer.

The person on the bed was tied down, padded cuffs wrapped around the ankles and wrists, straps looping under the bed to keep him firmly restrained. It didn’t stop him from straining against his bonds. His back arched off the bed, muscles taut and veins standing out as he pulled and screamed, thrashing his head from side to side, trying desperately to find some means of escape.

It was pointless.

The wires led to nodes, attached to different parts of the man's exposed chest, head, and arms. He wore only shorts; the rest of his body was covered in a thin layer of sweat. Two tubes lead to each wrist, each slowing feeding a substance into his veins, one clear, the other a thick dark red. It was surprising how they managed to stay attached despite his struggling.

But they did manage, and continued doing... something to him.

As he walked closer, morbidly curious, he found he couldn’t focus on the man’s face. He could understand details: eyes screwed tightly shut, an open and screaming mouth, spittle flying from the force of his cry, a pallor to his skin. Stark white lines ran down his back. But recognition was beyond him. The moment he thought he knew what the man looked like, he forgot.

Who was he?

The screams spiked for a moment, the man, shrieking out, “NO! NO, STOP!”

From behind him, a low voice spoke; it was a dangerous voice, despite a slight wheeze. He turned to see who it was, but they walked right through him as if he wasn’t even there. As if he was a ghost.

“The nightmares are getting worse,” the new voice said quietly, barely audible under the screams of the man on the bed. Their tone was exasperated, apparently unsympathetic towards the terrified man howling on the bed. “I can’t get any work done with this racket.”

The new person was familiar, but he couldn’t place them. It was like every memory was a step away, just brushing his fingertips as he reached for them, but he couldn’t understand; couldn’t see what was right before him.

The new person fiddled with a machine, pressing a few buttons. A mask was produced, with a tube leading back to the machine. The person turned to the man on the bed and grabbed his jaw, forcing him to keep still, even as he continued to cry out. Carefully, the new person slipped the mask over the man’s mouth and nose. With a sharp hiss, a gas filled the mask.

His vision began to fade.

Slowly, the man stopped screaming.

Slowly, the world started blinking out into black.

Then there was silence, and then there was dark.

Quiet…

.

.

“Did you really think that you were special?”

Darkness spread as far as he could see; endless, inky black that seemed to soak up reality. There wasn’t a speck of light, but he could still see his hands. They didn’t feel right. Something was missing from his hands. They weren’t that smooth before. Or were they?

“Running around the universe with nothing but a tank of fuel and half an idea. Did you honestly think that would make you a hero?”

The voice echoed in his head, bringing with it a dull ring that pierced him, coming in one ear and out the other. It hurt. It was too much. But the voice didn’t stop talking, echoing around him as he stood in the darkness, staring out into where nothing existed.

“You’ve failed. They hate you now.”

The dark was so cold. It sank into him, but he didn’t shiver. He could barely move, as if the darkness was clinging to him, slowing his movements, not that he moved much anyway. He just held his hands over his ears, although it did nothing.

“You let them all down. It’s all your fault. You could have saved them. You know you could have. You’re a hero, right? And the hero always saves his friends. But you didn’t. You let them down.”

“Please,” he tried to say. His voice wavered, as if he was on the verge of tears. He reached out, trying to grab something that wasn’t there. “Please, no…”

But this place had no mercy for someone like him.

“You’re pathetic.”

He tried to run, tried to get away, and for a moment the dark released him. He ran and ran, his feet pounding against nothing. His heart raced in his ears. The dark bent around him, warping back the moment he was gone. Tripping over his own feet, scrambling forwards and onwards, he reached for something that wasn’t going to save him.

“You couldn’t be the hero they needed. You never were a hero. Just a lost boy, with dreams too big and burning wings. Did you really think that someone would be there when you fell? Oh… you did… didn’t you? There had always been that hope.”

The darkness laughed, rumbling so deep that it shook him. The dark reached out, grabbing him. Even as he fought, he was dragged to his knees, pulled and prodded as he was forced to stare into nothing.

“Just give up, already.”

“No!” he shouted, but he could feel himself slipping. He could feel the weight in his hands of all the guilt and shame, of every regret he carried. He couldn’t remember who he was or what he’d done, but he could feel it. Still, he shouted back. Some primal instinct to fight urged him on. “No, I won’t give up! I never give up!”

Another laugh.

“But you did. You gave up. You let them down.”

He blinked, and suddenly there was a face inches from his own. Despite having no memory of his own face, he knew that this was it. Pale skin, with sunken red eyes that were shriveled and glassy. Skeletal hands reached up to cup his face. The skin was dead and cracked, pieces fallen away from the mouth to reveal yellowed and chipped teeth. Hair was falling out, no longer with a healthy gloss, but dull and thin. The face that had been his was so decayed and gone that he felt bile build in his throat. The face before him was dead.

And he couldn’t even scream.

“Give up,” the dead thing before him said, a bloody, wet laugh echoing from a hollow throat. “I did.”

.

.

“… the news? GAAP officials are under investigation… broken… I don’t understand… no…”

“… they won’t… Kjellberg… the Niners aren’t going to… Central Prison…”

The voices faded in and out. They sounded similar, but vastly different at the same time; a slurred, bubbly voice whose tone was cowed, and a serious growling voice whose spoke with strain, as if his lungs were weak. They spoke quietly, but with no reserve.

They didn’t know he could hear them.

And they were right. He only caught phrases and words as he slipped in and out of sleep. That gas was back, keeping him on the edge of consciousness. It fought to put him back under, but he fought back.

He wanted to wake up.

“There is no discussion,” the gruff voice said loudly, the volume breaking through his desperate scramble to stay awake. “I won’t… the finality… understand me?”

There was no response. Or maybe there was. His hold on the world slipped, and back into the black he fell.

.

.

The nightmares came in flashes.

Needles. Blood. Skin tearing and bones breaking. Sounds and sensations, all blurred together but still sharp in his mind. He couldn’t remember where the memories had come from, or why he knew them so clearly.

One after another, nightmares of people being taken away from him, people he once knew but now couldn’t remember.

Nightmares of dogs, and people, and places, and feelings. He couldn’t grasp onto the memories of where they’d come from. They haunted him, until they were taken away. Killed, hurt, kidnapped, leaving him. It didn’t matter. Everything he feared… one by one, they happened.

And he couldn’t remember why he cared.

.

.

When he woke up next, the world was blurry. It could barely be called waking up. It was more like a half dream, with one foot still in unconsciousness, pulling him back to the blissful wonder of sleep, and the other foot slipping on the ledge of consciousness. He was just aware enough of the real world to understand that it was real.

He tried to lift his hand to rub his eyes. It wouldn’t move.

That jolt of fear woke him up more.

Eyes still half open, but now more aware, he looked down at himself. A white sheet was tightly tucked in up to his chest. His arms laid at his sides, nodes and tubes attached to them. The same blackish red fluid from that weird dream slowly funneled into his veins. Many wires were tucked down under the blanket, and he could feel the nodes they led to attached to his chest and torso. His arms, though, were tied down.

Two thick black cuffs were attached to his wrists, firmly pinning him down. Wriggling a little, he could feel two more on his ankles. He was trapped here.

His breathing grew panicked, and as he breathed harder, he realized that there was a mask on his face. Crossing his eyes, he could see it was clear, with a tube leading towards one of the many machines surrounding him.

“Hey!” he tried to shout, but the words choked in his dry throat. He tried again, but with the same result. It came out a wheeze, barely audible above the beep of the machines.

What was going on? What was happening? Why was he here? What had happened to him?

Beep… beep… beep beep beepbeepebeepebeep…

The beeps grew faster, the steady beat of his heart now a staccato rush. He struggled against his bindings, back arching, body shaking. He thrashed and tried to scream, but nothing came out. His heart was pounding in his ears. Sweat was beading at his brow.

“Help!” he tried to scream, the words like nails in his throat. “Somebody help!” The words were just harsh whispers, reaching no one but him.

His hands clenched as tears of fear started building up in the corners of his eyes.

He was alone.

He didn’t want to die alone.

With a soft hiss, a gas filled the mask. It coated his tongue with a taste like burnt sugar. Then it coated his throat, soothing the coarse dryness. Then it reached his brain.

He slumped back against the bed. Black took over his vision, and a heaviness pressed on his mind as the drug forced him back under.

Go back to sleep.

Don’t think about what is happening.

Just sleep.

.

.

“You left me.”

This place was familiar. As with every dream, he couldn’t place why he knew this place, why the rush of warm wind over his skin and the smell of the fields felt like home, and each step down the street was a well-worn path in his mind. It felt safe.

There was a house there. It was very similar to the other houses lining the street, but this one felt special. Standing before it, he watched as the door opened. A short older woman stepped out, her clothes colorful, and her voice joyful but sharp. She called out, and soon several dogs tumbled out behind her to run around the street, though the largest white Dulcosi stayed close to her. The dogs yipped and zipped about as the woman yelled after them. A man appeared in the doorway with features close to the woman, and with long hair and a shy smile.

“You left them.”

He twisted around, heart suddenly in his throat. Who had spoken? There was nobody else here. Not another being on the street, which stretched so far that he couldn’t see the end. The voice – like everything else in these dreams – was so familiar. A voice that he loved. A voice that brought a rush of warmth, but at the same time fear.

This voice speaking with hate and anguish, and it tore his heart apart.

As he looked about, the scene fell away. The woman and man melted into colors that blended and twisted, reforming into something else: a cave with water trickling down in rivulets, pooling together at the floor of the cave. Shards of light shone through gaps in the ceiling of the cave. A song of water and wind filled the silence.

Sitting at the edge of the pool was a man, tall and broad, his skin gray and hard. He sat hunched over, holding a necklace in his hands. A crystal hung from a gray string, dwarfed by his hands. The man looked happy, but with a strange kind of happiness; longing, pensive, as if he was remembering something from long ago.

He walked towards him, but found himself stopping.

Just out of reach.

“You left him.”

The voice echoed throughout the cavern, but the rocky man didn’t seem to hear it. He continued to hold the crystal, unaware of the person right behind him whose hands shook as he reached out.

Who were these people?

Why did the simple action of looking at them hurt so much?

Again, the scene fell away. This time he was in a mechanics room of some kind. An engine was torn apart in the center, pieces and tools scattered around. Sitting by it, focused entirely on the task at hand, was a green-scaled man with a mechanical eye. A little green ball zoomed around his head, chirping happily. The scaled man reached up, letting the little ball nuzzle into his hand.

As he watched the man work, the door slid open behind him. He looked back, but the newcomer just walked through him. It was a robot with a crooked hat and a crooked grin. The robot and scaled man traded a few friendly insults before settling into a comfortable silence.

An action, played out a thousand times.

A scene so familiar.

“You left him.”

And with the echoing words, the scene shifted to another scene: a bedroom, decorated with paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling, pictures tacked to the walls, and a round, comfortable bed where two beings sat. One was a feline woman sitting with a broad laugh and sparkling eyes; the other, an android boy, lying on his back as he talked and talked of escapades long ago. They looked so happy. So familiar… he knew these people.

Why did he know them?

“You left them.”

The scenes began flashing, too fast for him to grab hold: scenes of broken ships, raging fires, and bandaged beings. Scenes that were faint, but still there. People he might have only seen once. People he knew he had helped. People from every walk of life who had once taken his hand as he tried his best to be someone to rely upon.

And as each scene flashed by, his heart sank more and more.

“You left them. All of them.”

As he watched, he felt something brush his knuckles.

He turned to grab that sensation, to take the hand that had barely tapped his own. But when he turned, his hands flew to his mouth instead, holding something back; a gasp, a scream, or a sob, he didn’t know. He felt his heart break as he saw a woman with dark hair, on her knees, with arms wide open and a laugh he knew he loved. Two dogs were rushing into her arms: a green Dulcosi, and a cyborg pup who rested in her hug as the larger dog zoomed in circles around them.

“You left me.”

The dogs disappeared as the woman stood. For the first time in this nightmare, she turned and she looked at him. Not through him, like the others. Her eyes met his and she smiled.

It was a watery smile, though. Tears fell as she stared at him.

He wanted to reach out. He wanted to go to her, to hug her, hold her, do something! He didn’t want to leave her again, he wanted to be there! But he couldn’t. He was trapped, frozen and staring back.

“Why did you leave me?” she said. The same voice, now coming from her, choked with tears. Accusatory, but longing. “You said you’d find me. You promised. Why did you leave? Why?”

He couldn’t answer.

He could only stand there and watch as she disappeared.

.

.

The first thing he heard was a heartbeat.

Not the steady thump from his chest, but a beep from a machine signifying his heart, rhythmic and almost comforting. It was weak, but it was there, quietly being emitted by a machine not too far away.

Next he felt the blankets covering the lower half of his body. He felt the pinch in his arm of a needle feeding something into his veins. He felt the soft clothes he wore and the sweat sticking his hair to his forehead; small sensations that built as he took in his surroundings through closed eyes.

His head hurt.

His eyes felt heavy.

His tongue was dry, and his breathing raspy.

He coughed, and blinked awake.

White ceiling, curving to meet white walls. Turning his head, he saw the machines. He felt like there used to be more… but how would he know that? This was the first time he was seeing this. It had to be. The pounding behind his head spiked as he tried to remember.

Don’t remember, it seemed to say. Not yet.

With a groan, he pushed himself up. With nothing holding him down he sat up, but wavered as the strength in his arms seemed barely capable of keeping him up. He shifted, leaning back against the headboard. Just that one action left him winded, his dry throat painfully taking in air.

“W-where…” he tried to say, but the words were lost in a rough cough. “Where am I?”

There was no answer.

He was alone.

The room was empty except for the bed he sat on, the machines, and a chair pushed off to a corner. No windows, and a closed door with no handle. Everything was spotlessly white, besides the gray floor and gray sheets still covering his legs.

Speaking of his legs…

He couldn’t feel them.

A spike of panic pierced him. He couldn’t feel his legs. Why couldn’t he feel his legs?!

He lifted the blankets hesitantly. For a second, he nearly believed that they wouldn’t be there. Thankfully, they were: ten toes attached to two, too-thin legs with a white line running down each. Trying to wiggle his toes did nothing. Trying to lift a foot, bend a knee, anything really, resulted in the same predicament.

They weren’t moving, and he couldn’t feel them.

“What happened?” he rasped.

He tried to remember. Despite the pounding in his head, he honestly tried. What had been the last thing to happen to him? It was all a blur. There had been people… someone had been talking… god, why couldn’t he remember?

For that matter, why couldn’t he remember who he was?

That fact didn’t seem as alarming to him as his useless legs. His name was just a dull ache in his mind, something he could worry about later. His legs were useless bags of meat. He needed to leave to find out what had happened, and to do that he needed to walk.

He couldn’t exactly do that if he couldn’t even wiggle a toe.

“This sucks,” he said to his legs.

The legs – thankfully – did not respond.

As he was grabbing his leg, trying to find any feeling, the door opened. He looked up to see a man walk in, wearing a long, dark coat with a deep blue suit underneath. He held a holo-board that he looked at with casual interest. Hair fell into his face, slightly obscuring it, but as he looked up two lines running down from his eyes were revealed, one red and one blue.

“Ah, you’re awake,” the man said. His voice was slightly wheezy, but deep and gravely. There was a pinch to his voice, a sharp ring accompanying the words, quiet enough to barely be noticed. The man looked down at him with disdain, his next words entirely formal. “How do you feel?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but all that came out was a hoarse cough.

The man set down the holo-board with a sigh, leaving the room. Shortly, he returned with a glass of water. He handed it over, straw sticking out at an angle. The man watched as he quickly drank it, the cool water a relief to his dry throat.

“T-thanks,” he said, handing it back and wiping his mouth. “W-where am I? Who are you? What’s going on?”

The man sighed, setting the glass down and glaring at him. “As annoying as ever.”

“What?”

The man walked around the bed, checking a machine. Glancing over at him with a frustrated glare, he said, “Looks like the process is nearly complete. The memory loss will fade soon, but I suppose I can answer some of your insufferable questions to shut you up. You are on my ship. My name is Madapriel, but… but you called me Dark.”

“We know each other?”

“Unfortunately.”

“What happened? Why can’t I feel my legs? What’s going on? Who are you?” Wha—” he tried to rattle off, a million questions burning. He wanted answers, wanted to know why everything before waking up was a mess he couldn’t make out, why he was here, who he was. He fell silent as Madapriel picked up a pen, glaring at him.

“I see that nothing can quell that infuriating mouth of yours.”

He sat down on the chair, picking the holo-board back up and writing a few things down before glancing back up. “What do you remember?”

“Nothing,” he said. He pressed his temple with the palm of his hand, eyes screwed shut. “It’s all blurry. I can’t even remember my name.”

“Interesting,” Madapriel said in a disinterested voice, writing that down. “Seems the trauma ran deeper than I expected. Though, I should have anticipated this. You were quite the emotional creature.”

“Thanks?”

“Are you in pain? In specific areas?”

“My head. Got a pounding headache. Uh, my chest a little? Right here,” he placed his hand over his heart. “It’s tight. Throat hurts from being dry. Why do you need to know that?”

Madapriel wrote that down.

“I’m going to tell you a name,” Madapriel said, making careful eye contact with him. It was intense, the blue and red in his irises unnerving, “and you tell me what comes to mind, or what that name makes you feel. Alright?”

“O-okay,” he said, glancing at the door and back. What the fuck was going on.

“Chica.”

Home.

There was a rush of warmth in his chest. The tightness remained, but it somehow became a good sort of tight, as if he was so full of love for this name that it hurt. This name was what he associated with his home. This name brought the same feeling of being in a place so safe and loving that it was all encompassing. He found himself smiling.

“I feel… good. Wait, why does that name make me feel good?” His eyes narrowed. The warmth turned to suspicion in a snap, tight warmth now cold worries.

“I never understood that,” Madapriel said quietly, seemingly to himself, watching him as if he was trying to drag an answer from him that he didn’t have. “Your connection to that animal. It was so… wrong. No, poor choice of words. But you were attached. You cared more than anything for that creature. You would have died for her. Of course, you would die for anyone. It’s that human side of you; the obsessive need to care for a family. No matter blood, it was a bond. It disgusted me at first. We are not creatures of bond; we are creatures of loyalty. But you were both…”

Madapriel tapped the pen against the holo-board, absently watching him.

“We were close before what ever the fuck happened to me?” he asked, trying to prompt some sort of real answer.

Madapriel blinked. For the first time, a smile appeared on his face. It wasn’t a kind smile. It was sardonic and dangerous. A mocking smile.  

“Close is a word for it,” Madapriel chuckled. He stood, his hands behind his back as he leaned forward to give him one last look. “Your name is Mark. Mark Fischbach. You are half human, half Xanhull. Ten months ago, you were executed for treason against the GAAP, the reigning government of this galaxy. You were killed because you are of my kind. You were killed because you wouldn’t give me to them. You were killed because you realized the corruption in this universe. It was pointless, other than to send a message to me. And for that I spit in their face. Also, I owe you a debt, so I brought you back. You’re welcome.”

And with that, ignoring Mark’s open-mouthed gaping, Madapriel walked out of the room without another word.

“What the fuck,” Mark muttered.

.

.

He didn’t see Madapriel much. He would come in occasionally to monitor how he was recovering, but he didn’t answer any more questions. He ignored most of Mark’s comments, and the ones he acknowledged, he answered merely with a glare before leaving. For the most part, Mark was alone in the white room.

He still couldn’t remember, but little things began popping up. Things that felt familiar now brought back blinks of memory. What Madapriel had said about his past, however… he couldn’t remember it. It was as if he’d handed him just the corner pieces to a puzzle. The beginnings were there; all that was left was to assemble the rest.

Mark just couldn’t see the picture.

Sleep was restless. He never remembered the nightmares, but more nights than not he’d wake gasping as if he’d run a marathon. Shaking and covered in sweat. A name would always be on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t quite speak it. Pieces of his mind wouldn’t allow him to understand where he’d come from.

So he wrote.

It took a few days of asking, but finally Madapriel relented in giving Mark a holo-screen. It couldn’t access anything of the outside world, but he could write there. And so he did. He wrote everything he felt. He wrote the details Madapriel had told him. He wrote the fleeting bits of memories from his nightmares. Mark wrote until he had nothing left to write.

It was all he had to try and remember.

.

.

Mark was doodling when the door slid open.

It had been nearly a week since he’d officially woken up, slowly growing stronger, slowly gaining the stamina to stay up longer, and to support himself. He’d finally managed to not only wiggle his toes, but lift his foot a little. Progress was progress, no matter how slow.

As he sat on his bed, drawing a shitty rendition of a dog, the door opened and someone walked in. Someone who wasn’t Madapriel. For the first time since he’d woken up, someone other than the grumpy Xanhull was in his room.

Mark startled as they walked in, hands in their pockets and whistling much too casually.

“Oh!” the new man exclaimed as his pink eyes landed upon Mark. “I didn’t know you were here. Totally…” The man eyed the door with worry before turning back to Mark with a broad grin, and extended a hand in greeting. “Allow me to make myself acquainted. My name is Wilford Warfstache.”

Wilford was… well… he was everything Madapriel wasn’t. Bright in voice and appearance. His hair and mustache were a matching pink to his eyes. His voice was bubbly and slurred, probably due to the exaggerated motions of his jaw. He moved with gusto, every gesture emphasizing his personality. Darker pink lines curved around his skin, and as he leaned in closer, Mark saw they were scars. Even his clothes were brighter, with light browns, pinks, whites, and yellows.

“Mark,” Mark said, taking his hand and shaking it. “You uh… you look like me.”

Wilford narrowed his eyes at him, hand still tightly grasping Marks. For a moment he stared at his face, as if trying to find a resemblance. Then he shrugged and let go. “Faces are meaningless to me.”

“Why do you look like me?”

As Wilford let go, his features rippled. As if made of water, it shifted until he no longer looked like Mark. Instead, he looked like a bald human man with dark eyes and three-day scruff. The scars remained, but it was an entirely different person. The man smiled and winked before his features rippled back into Mark’s long and broad features.

“Shape-shifter,” Mark said, gasping with surprise. “Aren’t… aren’t you guys extinct?”

Wilford looked down at himself. “Well, I haven’t died yet.”

Plopping down into the chair, Wilford pulled a knife from a pocket. Twirling it between his fingers, he looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. Mark watched him, carefully setting down his doodles.

“Are you with Madapriel?” Mark asked, pulling himself into a more alert sitting position.

Wilford’s absent smile didn’t change, but there was a twitch in his jaw and the corners of his eyes. The knife in his hands slipped for a moment, but he quickly caught it. Returning to the flip of his knife, he glanced over at Mark and said, “Yes.”

“Did we know each other? Before I… you know… died.”

“I thrashed your friends’ asses in a fight before, but not yours, to my recollection,” Wilford shrugged. “I don’t often remember the people I have seen.”

“What does that mean?”

Wilford twirled the knife around his ear. “Much like you, I don’t remember my past, though everything is a bit blurry. Friends, enemies, lovers, and strangers… they all fade together. Even the ones I want to know, I forget. The details of my life are ever shifting. Some days I’ll remember the times I adventured across the Seven Grah’eol, but the next I’ll only remember the names of old companions and nothing else.”

“So, you don’t remember anyone?”

Wilford laughed, “If I don’t see you within the week, I will forget everything about this conversation.”

“That’s horrible,” Mark said. It was bad enough having no memories of his past, but he was remembering. Slowly, to be sure, but he was. To think that everything and everyone he loved would disappear beyond his control would be terrifying.

“I suppose,” Wilford said, pointing the knife at Mark. “You’re remembering.”

“A little bit.”

“What do you remember?”

“Not much.”

Wilford thought for a moment. “You remember what they look like? Or their names?”

Mark shook his head. “No. Just little pieces. Hair color, how their voices sounded, bits of conversation or times I spent with them. Nothing tangible, and nothing that stays.”

Wilford reached into his pocket and pulled out a comm. With a few taps, he created a file and sent it over to Mark’s holo-board. It dinged as the file arrived, a little light blinking. Mark picked up the holo-board and tapped it open.

The screen flooded with images of people, all of differing species and features, even including a few animals, robots, and androids. A few were headshots from official GAAP databases, but others were more casual, more familiar, as if taken by friends or family. These pictures were the ones Mark was drawn too: a picture of two women – a human and a Ninkain – walking hand in hand down a busy and colorful market street; a picture of an android with blue hair, throwing a ball for a cyborg dog and a Dulcosi; another image of a Velm and a Grauldur, talking seriously as a blur of the same pale green Dulcosi and Mark himself ran by. These pictures were fond and intimate.

Mark looked up. “How did you get these?”

“We have a robot. Name is Google. He actually belonged to you for a little before Madapriel took him in. He can find and take pretty much anything. Real useful for what we’re looking for.”

Mark was too busy looking through the photos to actually listen to Wilford. Each photo was like a shock to his memory, over and over again, confirming that he knew these people. He knew them. They were just too far away to reach each.

“What are their names?” Mark asked, stopping on an image of a woman with long dark hair. One eye was mechanical, her other deep brown. She smiled at the camera, one hand pulled to her chest and the other holding the comm. Her eyes crinkled with happiness. Behind her, half his face buried in her hair as he kissed her, was Mark. His hand rested on her shoulder, with a scene of flowers and greenery behind them.

They looked happy.

“Just tap on it,” Wilford said, getting to his feet and heading towards the door. “Names should be attached to faces. See ya.”

And without another word, or explanation for his departure, Wilford was gone. 

Mark didn’t care. He just held his holo-board, looking at the picture. Hesitantly, he tapped the picture of him and the woman. A little tag popped up next to their faces, with his own name, and the name of the woman he was holding so tenderly.

Amy Nelson.

“Amy,” he breathed, and as he spoke her name, he knew that he had to remember her. All of them. And he would find them again.

.

.

“FUCK!”

Legs buckling under him, Mark crashed to the floor with a yell. He was able to lighten his fall by grabbing onto the bars on either side of him, but even then, his strength wasn’t enough to keep him from hitting the floor with a thud.

Madapriel didn’t even look up from his holo-screen. Sitting at his desk, looking through files and whatever other things he searched through in his work, he pointedly avoided watching Mark’s failures to walk a straight line.

In his office were two bars, spanning from one end of the room to the other. They were set apart at a distance enough for Mark to fit between them. Hands on the bars, he attempted to walk -- attempted being the key word. Still weak from months of inactivity, he found himself falling time and time again. Bruises were starting to build up on his knees and arms.

“Again,” Madapriel said, typing something into the holo-screen.

“AgAiN,” Mark repeated mockingly, his body in pain. He’d been at this for nearly two hours. He’d only just started walking a few days ago, and every night, Mark would attempt to massage the tension out of his overworked legs. They were beginning to build the muscle back up, but it was still torture just trying to walk five feet, let alone the ten spanning the room.

Mark pulled himself back up.

Arms shaking, breathing hard, he glared at the three feet left until he’d reach the far end.

A road of glass.

Keep walking.

One step at a time.

Mark kept took another step. And another. And another. And another.

Each step was painful and shaky, but with one last push Mark made it to the end. He let himself down, sitting on the floor. Once he reached it, all strength left his body and he collapsed. Panting breaths wracked his chest as Mark grabbed his shirt, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“You have one more walk to go,” Madapriel said.

“Fuck off,” Mark said, the words gasps of air.

Madapriel didn’t respond, allowing some sympathy for Mark’s condition in his own way. The minutes stretched out. Slowly Mark’s breathing evened, and the shaking lessened. He was still exhausted, but now at least he didn’t feel like he was dying.

Mark flopped his head over towards Madapriel.

The Xanhull wasn’t looking at him, again entirely absorbed in his work. It was a familiar sight, but not just from the three weeks Mark had been awake on this ship. His memories were coming back; they were still wonky, but he was remembering.

He remembered Madapriel on his ship’s doorstep, weak and dying. He remembered Madapriel in the forest fire. He remembered the wrecked ships, the burns on his hands, the hurled insults, and all the moments in between where he’d come on Madapriel's ship to see him buried in work, so entirely focused that he barely acknowledged his visitors.

That was who he was seeing now.

A man who hated him with every fiber of his being, who had used him and had tried to kill him and the ones he loved. A man who had hurt him and who had left him after he had saved his life.

“Why did you save my life?”

Madapriel sighed. “I owed you a debt.”

“What the fuck does that mean? You hate me.”

Finally, he looked up from his screen. Hands laced together, eyes boring into his, Madapriel smiled grimly. “I don’t hate you, Mark. It was never really you that I hated. I suppose you remember the first few months I lived upon your ship -- the things I said, and the harm I caused.”

Mark nodded.

“Those were the actions of an angry and confused man who didn’t understand the universe he was now in. I cannot excuse my attempts on your life, nor the lives of your compatriots, but know that those actions are not ones that I would take again.”

“So, what changed?” Mark asked. “Because I remember everything up till the moment you burned my hands and ran off my ship.”

Madapriel chuckled. “I did. I changed.”

He stood, walking over to Mark. He extended a hand, offering to help him up. Eyeing him warily, Mark took it. One hand still in his, the other on his shoulder supporting him, Madapriel helped Mark hobble over to the couch. The two sat. Mark tense and wary, Madapriel smiled cynically.

“After I left your ship, I saw this galaxy; one that my kind had formed. We had built this government. We had built the foundation of this galaxy, where its denizens enjoy peace and safety. I saw that, despite the eradication of my kind and of our way of life, we still remained -- in hiding, and as refugees, but we remained. And many,” Madapriel said, shaking his head almost fondly, “were like you: lost, scared, and with no idea of where they had come from. Many half-breeds had been born into a universe that would gladly hunt them to the grave. It was a universe I had not expected, but one that I had been brought into. I gained an understanding of who you were. The person that I hated was an idea: an idea of all that I had lost; of all that had been taken from me.”

The fondness turned to cruel determination. His jaw twitching with fury, Madapriel stared Mark in the eyes as he said, “I swore that I would take it all back. Never again will I watch as the GAAP tore my people apart for their personal gain. I will take back my home.”

Mark was quiet for a moment.

Madapriel didn’t treat emotions the same way Mark did. Since waking up, and since regaining those memories, Mark knew that he felt them to their fullest. He let himself feel every emotion as they came. He cried, he raged, he laughed, and he screamed. Mark was an emotional being.

But the man who shared his DNA wasn’t.

Madapriel’s emotions seemed fundamentally different. They were based in logic, in the evaluation of wants and needs. He would hate Mark for being the idea of a lost world, and he would save Mark for being the idea of a world regained. He had no time for attachments he didn’t need. The universe wasn’t full of stars to Madapriel; it was full of actions to be taken, and there was no time to wonder at a burning dot in the sky with dreams of something founded in longing.

“What was the debt?” Mark asked.

“You saved my life,” Madapriel answered simply. “Your DNA brought me back. Your hospitality saved this form. Then, after all that had happened, it was you who made me realize what I should do, what goal I should search after. Xanhull do not leave a debt unpaid. No matter how, we repay what is given to us.”

“A life for a life,” Mark said.

“Yes.”

For a moment there was quiet. Looking down at his shaking hands, Mark took in the burns. It was strange that there was a part of him he didn’t understand, one that Madapriel had hated him for, but that had been no choice of his own.

“How did you bring me back?” Mark asked, still staring at his hands.

“Your orb was too weak to regenerate on its own,” Madapriel said. “A rare condition with full blooded Xanhulls, but common with half-breeds. Unassisted, you would have died and withered away, but with my help I was able to bring you back simply by feeding you a mixture of my own blood and a few regenerative medicines. It was enough energy for your orb to slowly bring you back.”

“Your blood?”

“Yes. Actually, for a little while, none of your blood was your own. It may have changed your genetic makeup, actually. I haven’t run any tests. But this may enhance your Xanhull side a bit more. Nothing drastic – you still can’t regenerate on your own – but your markings are now prominent, your eyes are permanently your true Xanhull red, and you may be able to further control your body temperature.”

“Huh,” Mark focused on his hand. For a second he swore it was warmer. “Neat.”

“Still the same irksome man, I see,” Madapriel said, standing and pinching his brow, eyes furrowed shut. “I tell you how I brought you back to life and it’s ‘neat’?”

“What were you expecting?” Mark threw up his hands. “It’s been a weird few weeks.”

“A thank you? Some sort of intelligence?”

“Sucks to suck, cause thanks for bringing me back but no thanks for everything else. It’s still fucked up and weird. I still don’t know what really happened other than I fucking died. I don’t know what happened to my friends, and you won’t let me leave!”

“Do you really think you could leave in your current condition and survive?”

“Beats sitting here and doing nothing.”

“You are learning how to walk again!”

“You’re keeping me in the dark!”

“There are bigger things at play than your little problems.”

“And your problems aren’t the only problems in this fucking universe!” Mark shouted, pushing himself to sit as far out as he could.

Madapriel glared down at him, gesturing wildly with frustration.

Mark glared back.

The door burst open and Wilford walked in.

“Uhhhhhhh…” Wilford looked between the doppelgängers having a glare-off and slowly backed out again. “I’m just going to… bye.”

The door closed.

Mark struggled to his feet. Fueled by annoyed anger and the sheer stubborn desire to walk back to his room, he staggered away. Not looking back at Madapriel, trying desperately to not trip on his own feet, Mark walked away.

“You still have to walk through the bars one more time.”

“Fuck you.”

And Mark walked out the door, falling on his face the moment it closed.

.

.

“Mark…”

Whispers echoed in the dark, calling for him, begging him to find them. So many voices, dragging him in every direction. He spun in circles, staggering about in the darkness. He wanted to save them. He wanted to find the voices.

“Mark… find me…”

“This way…”

“Why are you leaving me…”

“Help me, Mark…”

“Please… Mark… why did you go…”

He couldn’t find them.

Desperation built as he ran through the darkness. He had to find them. He had to save them.

He couldn’t find them.

.

.

It took nearly a month for Mark’s legs to rebuild to be strong enough to hold him up. Within half an hour he’d be shaking, but finally Mark was free to walk about the ship. He would have gone insane if he had had to stay in that bed any longer.

Madapriel’s ship was as spotless as Mark’s room. There weren’t many rooms, but the halls wound about the ship in a way that made it feel bigger. Mark had managed to explore all of them but two: Madapriel’s personal quarters, and the locked room.

“Leave that room alone,” Madapriel had said when Mark had questioned him about it.

So, of course, Mark had made it his mission to get into that room.

After a few minutes of searching, leaning against the wall as he wandered about the ship, Mark found Madapriel in the kitchen. He stopped short in the doorway, taking in the scene before him.

Madapriel stood at the counter, an array of jars and vials about him, a cardkey on the counter’s edge. Several of the jars had things in them: an eye, a clump of fur, a heart. The vials seemed to be full of blood. A few were pushed aside, as if unwanted. Mark remembered when he had walked in on Madapriel long ago in a similar situation. All the DNA, kept safely away. He didn’t remember seeing any of these, however. Madapriel noticed Mark in the doorway, but didn’t acknowledge him. He continued to look at the vial in his hand, turning it over and over with careful examination. He didn’t seem to be searching for anything. Just looking.

“What are you doing?” Mark asked.

Madapriel set the vial of faintly glowing, red blood down, eyes moving to meet Mark’s. “Thinking.”

“Uh, about what?”

Madapriel sighed, and for the first time… he looked tired.

“You come from a much different life than I,” he said, “and sometimes that is infuriating. All the stories and traditions I was raised upon you have never known. What I expect out of my own kind I cannot see in you.”

Mark moved closer, sitting down across from him. His legs ached with relief.

“There were stories,” Madapriel continued, picking up another vial. This one faintly glowed blue; the red blood contrasted against it starkly. “Long before my time – before any of the Xanhull on Unohsket I knew – there was war. Battles waged for control. Power. Peace. The usual idiotic motivators of war. From those wars, however, came stories of leaders -- those who took up what we called finality.”

“Finality?”

Madapriel flipped the vial in his fingers, eyes following the blood as it sloshed about. “Finality. Our forms are fluid, taking on the DNA of those our orbs come into contact with. Changing to adapt. To survive. To assimilate with those around us. But there is a way to take a final form, and become strong enough to survive on with one face. You’d need a special ingredient, however.”

Flicking his fingers on his free hand, a holo-project appeared. A crystal appeared, hovering over the counter. Streaked with veins through the black rock that shimmered with every color, and some he couldn’t fully comprehend. It was beautiful, but even through the projection Mark could feel how much energy came from it.

“Valdtal,” Madapriel said, eyes locked on the crystal with tired hunger. “One of the rarest minerals in the universe, mined to near extinction by warring factions, pirates, and ancient species long gone. There are only three planets left in this galaxy that still hold trace amounts of this crystal. And one of them – the one that is most accessible – is Wilford’s home planet.”

As Mark blinked with surprise, Madapriel smiled slightly.

“Wilford, as in the weird pink guy who also looks like me?”

“Interesting thing about Wilford’s species,” Madapriel said, flicking his fingers again. The valdtal changed from a crystal to a world, similar to the pictures of Earth Mark had seen in history books from before the evacuation. “They don’t know about their own home world. They are so destroyed by what happened to them that they don’t even know where home is. Of course, it might be better that way. They are too destructive to reclaim such a peaceful place now. But they had one piece of valdtal that powered their entire planet, and with Wilford, I can claim it as my own.”

Mark leaned forwards, tapping on the planet. It blinked, zooming in. It stopped on the image of a building in shambles. Planets had overgrown parts of it, and one half had completely caved in.

“With Wilford,” Madapriel said, changing the holo-projection back to the valdtal, “I can use the valdtal to create a final form for myself. See, our orbs store energy to be able to reform a body. When we have a body, the orb is focused on keeping the body running and alive. When the body dies, all the energy is condensed to take on a new form. Regeneration is impossible with a body, but with this,” Madapriel gestured to the valdtal, “my orb will have enough energy to not only regenerate this body and keep it at its strongest potential, but take on multiple species’ traits. I will be able to take on a form able to take back what I am owed.”

Looking over at Madapriel, Mark noticed how tired he appeared: the taut shoulders, the dark circles under his eyes, the unwashed stringy hair. So entirely focused on his goals that everything else was flying out the window. He was tired. Decades of plans, and years of relentless hunting was catching up with him.

He was ready to snap.

Mark didn’t want to be there when he did.

As Madapriel stared at the crystal, determinedly watching it slowly spin, Mark leaned in.  

The cardkey was inches away.

Mark laid his hand over it, picked it up, and dragged it back.

Madapriel didn’t seem to notice, closing his eyes and sighing at that moment. As Mark pocketed the cardkey, he seemed to realize that he was letting down his guard around him. With a huff and a shrug of his shoulders, Madapriel waved his hand and the holo-projection disappeared.

“You should be resting,” Madapriel said gruffly, gathering the vials and jars, taking them back to the cabinet. “We’re getting closer.”

“Close to what?” Mark asked, keeping his hands in his pockets as he stood. He wobbled slightly, but managed to stay on his feet.

Madapriel didn’t respond.

Used to not getting answers to what he wanted, Mark made his way out of the room. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t already gotten more information than he’d bargained for. That, and he had other plans.

He walked back down the halls till he reached the locked door.

Mark didn’t know why he wanted in this door so badly. Maybe it was because everything was being kept from him. Sure, Madapriel would give him some information, but that was only the beginning. It was never the full truth. He’d use the valdtal for a finality, but he wouldn’t tell him why he wanted the finality. He’d tell him his friends were alive, but not where they were.

The lack of memories was grating on him, making him easily manipulated. He was remembering, but too slowly. He could remember the argument with Sean. ANTI taking over. A fucking horrible memory to leave on, but his brain seemed to enjoy torturing him.

Being left in the dark was infuriating.

For once, Mark wanted control. He wanted to know what was behind that door.

So, he pushed the cardkey against the scanner and watched the door slid open.

As the door opened, Mark felt his heart drop.

"Oh my god…"

At first, he didn’t realize what he was looking at. A mess of wires and cables snaked about the tiny room. The walls were lined with blinking motherboards. Rows and rows of computers, all leading towards the center of the room. It was pitch black, other than the little lights on the computers, and the light spilling in from the newly opened door. This room was made to be shoved away.

In the center of the room, chest torn open and face blankly staring, was Mark.

It was his face, and Mark stumbled back in shock. But as he continued to stare, he realized it wasn’t him. It was Google.

He hung from the ceiling; two hooks latched to his shoulders to hold him in a position resemblant of standing. Cables and wires spilled from his chest, attaching him to all the computers around him. His jaw was gone, replaced with a series of wires spilling from his mouth, winding back behind him and plugging him into another computer. The limbs were intact, but hung limply.

The eyes were the most haunting piece of this horrific picture: they were empty.

Dead.

Google was a robot. He didn’t feel a thing. In fact, this probably made the robot more satisfied. All the robot was programmed to do was improve, and Mark could only imagine that’s what Madapriel had been doing to him. No, it wasn’t Google that made Mark feel sick. It was his own face, torn apart and hanging there.

Used. Molded. Manipulated.

“What are you doing?!”

Mark spun around to see Madapriel marching towards him, fury radiating off him.

“Uhhhh…” Mark said, eyes darting between the wide-open door and the furious Xanhull.

Madapriel snatched the cardkey from him, closing the door. As it shut, Madapriel faced him. “I told you, leave that door closed.”

And in that moment, Mark felt himself get angry.

Heat built in his hands, racing down his skin.

He was tired of not knowing what was going on. He was tired of waiting for Madapriel to decide what was going to happen.

He was tired, and he was angry.

“All you’ve been telling me is what to do,” Mark said, throwing up his hands as his own stubbornness returned. “Fuck! I’m tired of being kept in the dark about everything, Dark! I’m tired of just sitting around waiting for you to figure out your shit. Why do you have Google all strung up like that? What happened to my friends? Where are we going? What are you doing with the valdtal? What the fuck is going on?!”

Madapriel snarled, hands clenched. “You don’t understand the scope of what is at play.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mark said, hands waving as he glared at Madapriel. The scope of what was at play, what-fucking-ever. The scope of what was going on was he was stuck and had no idea what was going on. “I’m a pawn. Just a piece in your big plans, whatever.”

For a moment Madapriel glared at him. Then, in an instant, the anger was gone and instead a mocking, cynical smile replaced the bared teeth. He shook his head, a chuckle on his lips. “Oh, Mark, you aren’t even a pawn.”

And he walked away, leaving Mark fuming.

.

.

Blood.

There was so much blood.

Strangled screams.

Wet tearing.

He was so tired.

“Mark!”

Sean’s face appeared in front of his, mouth dripping with blood, flesh wedged between his teeth. Glitch lines ran down his face, but both eyes were clear. He was begging. He was frantic.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Sean pleaded. “Mark, don’t you dare fucking die. Don’t you dare. I snuck through garbage for you, don’t you dare fucking die on me.”

Mark opened his mouth to respond. He wanted to reassure him that everything would be fine. He was just tired. He was just going to sleep now. There was a moment where he breathed in, a sad smile on his face.

Then he breathed out.

As the breath left him, Mark felt everything go numb.

Everything went dark.

“No, no, no, no, no!”

The voice was fading.

“MARK!”

He was so tired.

There was too much blood.

He just…

He just wanted…

He just wanted to say goodbye.

.

.

“I fucking died.”

Madapriel didn’t look up from his screen. “Yes. We established this well over two months ago, Mark.”

“I remember dying.”

“So do I. Many times.”

“It sucked.”

“Yes, it usually does.”

“My friends are in jail,” Mark slamming his hands on the desk, trying to get some sort of reaction out of him. It did nothing. “Why didn’t you save my friends?”

“Because that would have been an exercise in futility. I barely made it out of there with your dead body, much less four living ones.”

“You have a supercomputer on your side. You could have broken the system and gotten them out.”

“And with them, every incarcerated criminal in the galaxy. You’re not thinking clearly, Mark. I did what was most logical.”

“My friends are—”

“Your friends are currently planning an actual escape attempt. Not the half-assed attempts by that idiotic Velm. They’re smart people. And with the help from Kjellberg, they will be out within the next few months. Just in time to see you again.”

“Goddammit, Dark!” Mark exclaimed. “I can’t just sit here while my friends and family are being hunted or wrongly imprisoned. I have to do something.”

“Then go back to your room and rest,” Madapriel responded, finally looking up to give him the stink eye. “You do nothing whining to me.”

“ARGH!”

Mark spun around and walked back to his room.

He remembered everything. He remembered dying, and every moment leading up to it. He remembered coming to terms with his death, and the last time he saw his friends. He remembered the pinch of the needle and the fire of the poison in his veins. All the sensations he had forgotten were now stark in his mind.

And he could do nothing about it.

Sure, dying had sucked: his body shutting down, the horrified face of Sean as he arrived too late to save him, the terrified scramble of his mind as his body gave one last push to stay alive.

But it was all the consequences of those actions that haunted Mark.

His family and friends thought he was dead. Gone forever. They were trapped with little hope of escape, no matter what Madapriel had said. His mother and brother were now fugitives. His dogs… fuck, he didn’t know what had happened to Chica or Henry.

He didn’t know what to do.

It was killing him.

.

.

It was only a few days later that they finally arrived.

It felt like forever.

Madapriel handed Mark a backpack of supplies, and with a nod, shoved him off the ship. The tiredness was still there; an ancient ache in his bones. Whatever he was planning on doing, he obviously wanted Mark gone so he could begin. Wilford waved from the hanger door as it closed behind him, Madapriel standing beside him with crossed arms. He hadn’t explained anything about where he was dropping off Mark, or why.

All he had said was, “You are insufferable,” with his usual snarl.

So, Mark left; grateful to be alive, angry at his ignorance, and afraid of what was to come.

The ship flew away, quickly disappearing into the night sky. Mark stared after it for a moment.

Then he turned and faced the village.

The planet he was on was called Kuebiko. It was a small planet known for its large, sweeping farmlands and the gentle species inhabiting it, called Kyrs. Standing under the night sky, Mark could see for miles in every direction, fields upon fields of golden-brown plants waving in the quiet breeze. A few towers dotted the fields. A ring of at least seven moons softly illuminated the small world.

In the distance, a small village was clumped under the shade of a giant tree. The tree reached up towards the sky, nearing six thousand feet tall. It was a giant, providing protection and life to the people below, and as good a marker as any to head towards.

Mark shouldered his pack and began walking towards it.

The path to the village was well worn. Many feet had trodden this road, hauling their produce and walking back to their homes from a long day’s work. Two grooves were dug into the path from decades of wagon travel. Mark found himself walking between them, eyes on the stars.

Dying had been horrible.

This should go without saying, but with nothing but his own thoughts for the past two months, it was all he had been thinking about, wondering when that memory of death would appear. And when it had… fuck, Mark would have given anything to forget.

The feeling of his own body – screaming as the poison ravaged his heart and his veins feeling like worms under his skin – had left him with more nightmares. He remembered coming to terms with his own death. He’d spent those last few days in that cell doing just that. During the death itself, however, there had been moments where panic had taken over.

Mark didn’t want to die.

And in those final moments, his mind scrambling for anyway to prevent his fate, Sean had burst into the room.

Even with the poison in his system, Mark had felt relief. There was terror at his friend seeing him die, but more than that, a longing not to die alone. He had been so scared, and in the moment he needed someone the most, Sean had been there fighting for him to stay. It hadn’t been anything more than the knowledge that he wasn’t completely alone.

But then he had been.

Mark didn’t remember death. All he remembered was feeling cold and alone, terrifyingly empty, an all-encompassing fear dredged down into his base human instincts of survival. Even after letting life go, he ran on the fear of being dead.

He didn’t know if it was the fear as he came back to life, or the fear of actually being dead, but it sent chills down his spine whenever he thought back on it.

Mark shivered as he looked up at the stars.

He wanted to live more than ever now. He wanted to take what had been given back to him and make something out of it. That kid leaving his dorm room at the academy had now fledged into a man forged in a fire he never should have seen. It was humbling, but at the same time Mark’s ego had never been bigger.

He was alive, and he was going to fucking do something with it.

Walking into the village, the light of the moons was washed away by the lowlights of the lanterns hanging from ropes, crisscrossing over the streets. The buildings were all earthen, molded against the giant, looping roots of the tree appearing from the ground. A few Kyrs sat outside a tavern. The tavern sat at the edge of the village, obviously nearing its closing hour.

As good a place as any to spend the night.

Mark walked towards it, nodding to the Kyrs spending their evening drinking with friends. They nodded back, unperturbed by the arrival of a stranger. As Mark pushed open the door, he saw a tall Kyr woman wiping down a table. Kyrs were naturally tall, but she surpassed seven feet. Dark hair fell in ringlets around her tawny, bovine features. As a bell rang at Mark pushing open the door, she looked up with a kind smile.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, her voice as soft as silk.

“Just looking for a room,” Mark answered. “Maybe some food if you have any?”

“A room I can provide,” she answered. “Food will have to wait till morning, however. It is a bit late, my dear.”

“Figured it was a long shot,” Mark said with a shrug. He reached up to shake her hand. “Name is Mark.”

“Floyya,” the Kyr answered. “Let me see what I can do about a room for you.”

She walked towards the bar, ducking behind it to find a registry. Mark followed her, leaning against the bar. He might have the ability to walk back, but he was still working on endurance.

As he waited, he looked around the rest of the tavern. Greenery grew from the walls, and a series of lanterns hung from the ceiling. Tables and stools were scattered about. A fireplace – dead for the summertime – sat at the far end of the establishment. Sleeping in a corner was a dirty looking Kyr, drool pooling on his chest. At the bar, head in arms and fast asleep, was a Velm. Nobody else, other than Mark and Floyya and the few outside, took up space.

“Here we are, my dear,” Floyya said, handing him a key made of rock-hard wood. “Just up the stairs and to the left. Last door.”

“Thanks,” Mark said, taking the key. “What is that going to cost me? You take common credits, right?”

“Yes. That’ll run you twenty credits for the night, and an additional ten for a meal in the morning.”

Mark dug through his pack, producing the necessary credits for a room and meal. Handing her the money, Mark turned to go to his room.

As he turned, the Velm sat up with blurry eyes.

Those eyes widened as they met Mark’s similarly shocked gaze.

“You’re dead,” Sean whispered.

They stared at each other. Taking each other in. Terrified to break the silence, and terrified to acknowledge who stood before them.

Sean didn’t look good. His face was haggard, thinner than Mark had ever seen. His hair was matted on one side, and his scales were dull and dirty. Dark circles hung under his eyes. His clothes were filthy and torn. A tribute to the year that had passed.

An entire year.

Gone in a blink for Mark, but lived and fought for Sean.

“Are…” Sean took a step back, fear and shock in his eyes. “Are you real? You’re not another nightmare?”

Mark huffed out a small laugh, looking down at his hands. “Last time I checked I was pretty real.”

For a moment Sean just stared at him. Then he began to laugh. Head thrown back, holding his stomach laugh. Laughing and laughing into silence that Mark didn’t know how to fill. He laughed until he cried. Wiping away the tears, he looked back at Mark.

“You’re not dead,” Sean said. For a moment he sounded nearly disbelieving, as if he thought Mark’s presence there was a prank, some trick played on him. Then the laugh came back, loud and frenzied. He threw up his hands. “You’re not dead!”

“What are you doing here?” Mark asked, dumbfounded at what was happening before him.

“Felix sennnnnnnt me,” Sean slurred. “Niners get food from here.”

“Is he drunk?” Mark whispered to Floyya.

“I would assume so.”

“He’s not dead, guys!” Sean spun in a circle, nearly falling over. “Just a joke. He wasn’t dead. None of that mattered. He’s back and he’s not dead! Isn’t that just great, guys?!”

“Can I buy a room for him too?” Mark asked.

“Sure thing, dear.”

Floyya brought him another key as Mark hesitantly moved towards Sean. His arms swinging wildly as he staggered, Sean nearly collapsed into Mark when he grabbed him. The moment he got an ounce of support, he went limp. Mark staggered for a bit under the sudden weight, but managed to get Sean’s arm over his shoulders. Taking the key, Mark walked with Sean towards the stairs.

“You’re not real,” Sean mumbled. “Noooooooooo. I watched you die. You died and were dead and I watched you die.”

Mark didn’t respond.

He just closed his eyes, sighed, and kept going forward.

Mark brought Sean to his room, laying him down on the bed. After making sure he wouldn’t drown in his own vomit, Mark closed the door behind him, leaving his drunk friend muttering and half crying, half laughing on the bed. He leaned against the door.

Fuck.

Mark knew that seeing them again would be hard. He died. He left them for a year. They had all thought he was never coming back. Of course it wouldn’t be happy. Of course everything would be awful.

Not entirely.

Just enough for his heart to sit heavy.

Mark gathered himself enough to walk to his room. Sitting down on the bed, he stared down at his scarred hands.

Everything would be okay.

He had to believe everything would be okay.

.

.

The sunlight was streaming through the window when Mark woke up.

This was the first time he’d seen sunlight in forever.

He lay there, letting himself wake up as the sun warmed his legs where it spilled over. It had to be early in the morning. Outside he could hear the first workers heading out towards the fields. A few of them – younger Kyrs – shouted and laughed in the dirt streets.

It was a good morning.

Today was going to be a good day.

He had to believe it would be a good day.

Mark got up. Gathering his things, he headed down the stairs to the main tavern area. It was late enough that the last morning patrons were heading out, mopping up the last of their breakfast. A few men sat in a corner playing a game with cards and carved pieces of rock. Mark signaled a server, taking a seat at the bar. She brought out a plate of blueish eggs and bread.

Digging into the food, Mark asked, “Has the Velm left yet?”

The server shook her head, long ears flopping. “Not that I’ve seen.”

“Thanks,” Mark said around a mouthful of food. Guess he was waiting for Sean.

It didn’t take long. By the time Mark was finished with his food Sean came staggering down the stairs. Holding his head, as if fending off a headache, Sean entered the room and looked up. Meeting Mark’s eyes, he froze.

They stared at each other.

“Fuck,” Sean said.

“Hi,” Mark answered.

They stared a little while longer.

Finally, Sean scowled, something defensive and hard taking over his features. Never mind the tears building. Never mind the way he stalked forward as if it all would fall away if he didn’t move quick enough. Mark braced himself as Sean rushed forwards, grabbing Mark and hugging him.

“I watched you die," Sean mumbled into Mark's shoulder.

“I know.”

Sean pulled back, looking over Mark’s face. “You don’t look dead. You look… different. Thinner. Your eyes are fucking red.”

“It’s a long story.”

Sean laughed, but it wasn’t like the laugh of the night before. That laugh had been drunk and hysterical; the laugh of someone who didn’t believe what they were seeing. This laugh was quiet but sharp; a short bark of sad, cynical pain.

“I have the time,” he said, taking a seat next to where Mark had just been. Mark slowly joined him.

“Okay.”

And Mark told him. Everything about the days leading up to the GAAP capturing him and his crew. Being torn from them without a chance to say goodbye. The days leading up to his death. That moment before death where Sean had screamed at him to stay. Every nightmare-filled night he couldn’t remember, and the moment he’d woken up. The months of struggling to regain his body, and the months of trying to remember who he was.

Sean listened through it all.

Never speaking.

His expression changed, though. Throughout the story, the cold exterior broke, little by little, as Mark talked about dying and coming back. When Mark told him about finding Google he flinched, but said nothing. It was a lot, but Sean didn’t ask questions. He just listened until Mark finished.

As he finished, Sean groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“You’re back,” he said. “I can’t… I just can’t seem to realize that. You’re actually back.”

“Guess it’s just not my time to go,” Mark said with a sad smile. “But I’m back and ready to get our friends out of prison.”

Sean winced. “I’ve been trying, Mark. Once I got back on my feet after you died, I did nothing but try to get them back. Felix has been trying to gather forces to get in there. Been making contacts, trying to work through with the Grumps, but....” He shook his head. “It’s going to be difficult. The die hasn’t been thrown our way.”

“We can do it,” Mark reassured him.

Sean rolled his eyes, tired exasperation in his words. “Even dying can’t stop you.”

Mark laughed, but it was weak. He knew that Sean could see through it. He was too good of a liar. Sean knew what his kind looked like, and he knew that Mark didn’t believe those words the same way he used too.

Something changed when he died, and he wasn’t sure what.

“What was dying like?” Sean asked, sounding almost scared. “You… you said you remember dying. What do you remember?”

Mark looked away. Clutching his mug of water, he stared into it. He suddenly felt cold as he thought back to that day. “It was cold. Empty. I was alone. I don’t remember any afterlife. There just wasn’t anything. Or at least, nothing I remember. I just know I was alone. I don’t want to go back to that.”

Sean was quiet.

“I wasn’t dead for long. Dark made sure of that,” Mark said. “But being dead… it changed something in me. I don’t know what. You can’t die and come back the same. Something is different and it scares me. That cold… that loneliness… I can’t sleep without feeling it. I can’t close my eyes without feeling that darkness pulling me under.”

Mark closed his eyes, feeling that cold. Remembering the nightmares of desperation where he was taken away from everything he loved. 

He shivered and opened his eyes.

“I know we weren’t on the best terms when I died,” Mark said. “I said some things that I wish I could take back. I wasn’t… I wasn’t a good person. I was so angry all the time. I didn’t know who I could trust, and I took that out on you. I know you can’t forgive me, but—”

“I can’t,” Sean said, interrupting him. “You’re right. What you did and said broke all of that trust. I am ecstatic that you’re not dead. Really, I am. I just can’t trust you. We aren’t friends, Mark. Not now, and we won’t be for a while.”

“Is there any way to regain that?”

“I won’t say no,” Sean said.

Mark nodded; eyes still focused on his mug.

He wanted to be Sean’s friend. He did want that trust back. But there were more important matters at hand: their friends in prison; the balance of the galaxy thrown into sway; the knowledge that Madapriel would soon enact plans that could change everything. The trust could come later. What mattered now was finishing what had been started.

“Then I suppose,” Mark said, looking up with a tired smile, “we’re just a pirate and a dead man, going to break into a prison.”

Sean smiled back. “I suppose so.”

.

.

Abe had received the distress signal four days ago.

It was from a planet he’d never heard of, so far in the Outer Rim that it normally would have taken him weeks to travel there. Good thing he’d already been searching out by Nihill. It only took him a few days to reach the planet: green and blue, an abnormally calm planet in a mess of danger.

He landed in the clearing before the building emitting the signal. Stepping out of his ship, Abe looked up at the structure. A temple, it looked like, blocky and carved with intricate designs of colors and swirls. Greenery had started to overgrow it. It was beautiful, in its ruins.

The main source of his mission, however, sat on the temple steps.

“Wilford!” Abe shouted, running forwards. It didn’t miss him, that flash of confusion in Wilford’s eyes as he crashed into him, hugging his broad shoulders. “Wilford, why the fuck are you so far out in the system?”

“I was with Dark,” Wilford answered. Abe pulled back, helping Wilford stand. Wilford took a step back from him, pointing behind at the temple. “Dark wanted the crystal in there. He couldn’t get it because he isn’t what I am. Only a shifter could get in there.”

“Couldn’t he just use shifter DNA?”

“It’s a copy,” Wilford shrugged. “That’s what he told me. Only real shifters would be able to shift fast enough to get past all the traps and safeguards. He was right as usual. I got the crystal and gave it to him.”

Abe looked around. “Where is the slimy bastard now?”

“Oh, he left me here.”

“What? Why?”

“He didn’t need me anymore,” Wilford answered. For the first time, a slight shake appeared in Wilford’s jaw. “He told me what he promised me though. He told me about where I came from. Who I was. What happened to my friends. Gave me this file so I wouldn’t forget.” Wilford held up a little chip.

“That’s good, right?” Abe asked. “Wilford, what’s wrong? This is what you wanted, right?”

Wilford laughed, but it was forced. “Of course it was. I know who I am now, and Dark doesn’t want me. I was… I was never wanted.”

“Fuck that guy,” Abe said, lightly punching Wilford’s arm. “He got whatever stupid crystal he wanted, and you got your past back. Now we can get out of here.”

“I’m sorry, friend,” Wilford said, looking over at Abe with confusion. In that moment, Abe’s stomach sank. He saw the confusion and the lack of recognition. The slight fear behind pink eyes Wilford would never admit he felt. The lost way he tapped his fingers against his leg. Abe had seen this happen so many other times, but never with him.

He had deluded himself into believing it would never happen to him.

But Wilford asked his question, and Abe clenched his fists to stop himself from screaming.

“Who are you?”

#spaceiplier #official story #markiplier #darkiplier #Wilford Warfstache #jacksepticeye #abe

[pyrewriter]

Red Vendetta

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Eliksni Name pronunciation:Esyra (E-si-ra)

The little machine Pyrrhaks, Brykis and I had captured was left behind during our sudden uprooting. It was unfortunate that we could not extract any data from the little machine but bringing it along would have only led more Risen to us. Ogethres kept true to his word when it came to needing his best

Seasons had passed since our guild was forced from our compound on the island and had since begun rebuilding, this time nearer to the coast. The peninsula that humans called the "European Dead Zone" was already teeming with House Dusk activity and any further inland would take us into the Devil’s old territory. The coast still had its share of sprawling cities that had been reclaimed by vegetation since their abandonment centuries ago. Salvage, data, even suitable ether conversion sites were scarce though and much of the guild was stuck aboard their shuttles due to lack of space. Having such a large amount of our guild already aboard proved to be a great boon however. 

During a season of heavier than normal rains when thick clouds blanketed the sky ,often darkening the land below to near black, our guild was once again uprooted. Crimson clad beasts descended from the through their veil of clouds like rain, crashing down in drop pods shot from their battleships. Swiftly we began gathering those not already on shuttles while anyone who could fight was sent to gather what supplies they could carry and retreat. Our window of escape was narrow and rapidly closing but together we pushed on to save everything we could. I had heard stories of these creatures, organized formations and movements, ruthless tactics, and hard to bring down even in single combat. These ones were different from those I was told about, I knew of smaller ones with special abilities but there were more.

Hounds nearly the size of Vandals swarmed everywhere, melee berserkers rushed into the fray butchering anything not their own, flame spewing juggernauts razed everything around. These were not any of the legions I was told of. Regardless I was on the front line with initial strike survivors, our line would not last but it wasn't meant to, we knew to resist was pointless and to surrender meant only a shameful death. We over extended at first to give those further from the Ketch a chance to gather what they could before retreating fully. The formation of the frontline and simultaneous retreat of noncombatants was the first major coordinated movement of such a large number of Eliksni since the Reef Wars.   

Our foe continued to push us further back as our line collapsed slowly, they hammered us from the sky and pushed us back from the land but did not move from our rear. Whether it was out of honor, pride, or lack of capability I do not know ,however, their intent was clear. Push us to the water to funnel our people into kill boxes along the coast. On most other guilds such a tactic would almost certainly spell death but we were more than prepared for a coastal maneuver. 

"How far, Ketch!?" I heard Brykis yelped over the rumble or combat.

Without taking my sight off the battlefield before me I shouted between shots "Not close enough, fight on, wait signal!". I lobbed a shock grenade causing one that I had apparently stuck to leap over the advancing line and charge, eyes flaring red beneath it's helme. The grenade's detonation resulted in a violent burst of light and gore, momentum carried the remains forward before falling. Fighting continued for hours as we inched closer to the Ketch while our people behind the line boarded shuttles with what they could carry or strap to Servitors and Shanks. I remember watching so many from my guild and others I had never seen before slump to the floor dead or writhe while they howled in pain before being carried off. 

Our line was shrinking and our numbers were decreasing faster than the enemies until finally the signal came over our communicators. "Collapse line, Ketch ready, skiffs loaded, exodus underway" on cue every Eliksni across the fighting line unloaded everything they had left. The sudden unyielding barrage of arc bolts and shock grenades severely disrupted the enemies advancing formation. Many drew their knives to take the opportunity to decimate the front line of our enemy that had taken many lives and was uprooting so many more.

I would be lying if I said that I did not take part in the display of savagery myself, again I watched as Elikisni ,from Dregs to Barons, fought and fell in vicious melee combat side by side. Some were cleaved in half, others torn to pieces, many were pummeled by fists or shields. It was a great tide of fury and vengeance for all they had done but on that day few displayed such anger as one in particular.   

As I was burying my blade into the neck of a shield bearer I heard a familiar voice bellow a thunderous "WITNESS ME!" it was a female and one I knew. 

Turning I saw a Captain ,it was Esyra, "WITNESS!!" I roared in reply followed by several others including Brykis. I and the others who replied stood with weapons raised high as we watched Esyra drop her armor before charging the enemy commander at the center of their now broken formation. She let out one final resonating howl, there was a blinding flash as she ignited her ether tanks, Esyra and everything around her had been reduced to vapor. I had already claimed more than my share of the enemies heads but for her...they owed me.

A similar sentiment seemed to echo through the minds everyone around me. Together myself and all who roared in reply drained our ether reserves, every fiber of my being screamed out for them to pay and the tithe was blood. By the time our ether ran dry enemy reinforcement were within scanner range but I had already run my blade dull. Only then did we finally retreat to the Ketch with Esyra's armor carried by Brykis, her and weapons slung to my side.

When the frontline survivors were aboard the Ketch and every shuttle fired in unison what weapons they had in an attempt to at least partially clear the skies. Using the gap created from the flak we made a break for open water. The moment we were out of the shallows our ships dove ,we didn't dare go too deep, only far enough that we wouldn't be easy to see from above. For a while I mourned our losses while aiding survivors with their recovery but it was just a distraction from what I was dreading. 

Esyra, a member of the same brood as Brykis and myself but she worked so much harder as a female and quickly rose to Captain.She would have meetings with Pyrrhaks from time to time so we met often enough to catch up on what we had done in the time between. As a Captain and a female at that she was important and had duties to uphold but she was kind, gentle even. Esyra wasn't there for my ascension but after our first relocation when we met she confessed she wanted me to be her mate. 

It was her right as Captain to simply make me her mate but she gave me a choice and like an immature Dreg I said "First I reach Captain, I earn right to be mate". Looking back I don't believe her asking was out of respect for my skill or strength but because of one of the strongest emotions that one can have according to humans. I only came to this realization after finally mustering enough backbone to take stock of her equipment.

"Going to quarters?" Brykis asked after seeing me on my way out of the med-bay.

My head was hung low so it wasn't hard for my brother to tell where I was going, turning I replied "Disrespectful to leave be, needs to be done". He nodded in response before returning to what he was doing, I locked eyes with father along the way as well. Our exchange was silent but there was no need for words, a gesturing nod was enough. Once I was in my quarters habitually I started dismantling, inspecting, cleaning, and repairing every weapon in the room. Of course it was a distraction but it was customary to start with the instruments used by the one you mourn. 

I moved on to my armor and started working slowly but no matter how long I worked time felt like it was just standing still. Esyra's armor was heaped in the corner but her helm was staring at me, even with my back turned to it I still felt a gaze ,her gaze, beaming at me. Putting down the piece I was tinkering with I spun around to stare at the helm for a moment to meet it's gaze, breathing deep I let out a heavy sigh and set to work. I wasn't an armorer so until recently the only Captains equipment I had worked on was my father's but after our exodus from the peninsula every Eliksni was needed for everything. 

Esyra's was personal though so I took extra care, dismantling and changing out damaged plating before repairing or replacing it's internals. The short range transmat module was fried along with the shield generator but the ether systems were almost fully intact. Among the normal arc cells and tools that most Captains kept on them there was one item in particular that stood out as unusual. It was a data slate that had a single entry on it. 

==Entry translated from Eliksni==

;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;

Esyra final communication, deliver to Mate Ellrimksyt upon receiving

Ellrimksyt, you strong, if reading this then stronger than me, hope fell in spectacle, hope we...were together. Maybe I fall before could say, say now to be certain, Ellrimksyt, I pick you as mate for more than strength, respect, status. I pick you because admire, you not Eliksni by birth, you Eliksni by heart, you grow, you live, you fight Eliksni. Not know how word, you make feel more than respect, I see you and chest warm. Think Humans say "deep affection". As expression, with privilege as Captain I bestow mementos, my helm and weapons, now yours, keep as decoration, use or modify, your choice. 

[Audio recording attached]          

;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;:;

==Audio entry Redacted by scribe==

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#destiny #eliksni #fallen #fanfic #eliksni fanfic #Ellrimksyt #Chapter 4 #sorry for taking so long

[theincorrigiblemagpie]

Rishton Ka Chakravyuh (Episodes 65, 66) - Can we calm down with the Bollywood music?

October 23 & 24, 2017

Listen, all I want to do is keep up with my daily dose of Anami and Satarupa. IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK FOR.

Anyway, we’re doing 2 episodes together, cos whattodo about my asli dunya.

Right off the bat, fucken Harry, nincompoop cousin of the nincompoop Avdhoot, shows his kameenapan by grabbing Poonam with 2 of Avdhoot’s lame friends and trying to rape her in a billiards room.

Hereon, if there was ANY doubt about how they’re subverting (admittedly hamhandedly but I’ll take it) the traditional hero-heroine roles in a desi soap, may they be forever laid to rest.

Anami A) finds Poonam’s bracelet that she’d given her on the floor outside the billiard room.

B) bursts into the room in silent, shaking rage and a teary Poonam runs to her and hugs her for comfort.

C) after the two chelas run away, knowing what’s good for them, thrashes Harry within an inch of his life.

D) grabs a reluctant Poonam’s hand and drags them in front of everyone and makes Harry apologise to Poonam.

(LMAO that girl in blue at the back is the same Mean Girl who’d picked on Anami on her first day of college and later claimed to have befriended her. Good to see we invite friends and not complete randos.)

Ofc Kamini plays the typical upper caste/class bitchy slut-shaming aunty and humiliates Poonam and tries to blame it on her. Anami tries to talk sense into her but Kamini threatens to blow it out of proportion. And THEN.

Everyone’s Godmother Satarupa steps in. She gives Kamini false hope by saying, yes, it was Poonam’s fault.

And then finishes the sentence with “it was her fault ki Poonam didn’t give him a tight slap the very first time Harry tried to molest her and that she didn’t do what Anami did.” (Which is a very problematic thing to say, but very dramatically effective.)

Man, she put the fear of GOD in Harry by stalking toward him. Matlab, I could momentarily SEE a genetic resemblance between Narayani Shastri and Mahima Makwana, I tell you. What powerhouses.

She finished the whole scene by telling Kamini that she should thank her lucky stars Anami found Harry and not Satarupa herself because...

She literally leaves off there and we must infer that Kamini knows about Satarupa’s tendency to quietly get people who sneeze wrong bumped off.

Ofc Pujan tries to smooth things over while Kamini leaves with Harry. Ngl Kamini is a real babe and deserves better than to be married to this useless scheming Pujan and have a useless grown ass son and nephew. She shoulda gotten herself a sugar daddy instead.

Pujan promises deep vengeance (ofc because the Durga idol falling and breaking will be the ultimate apshakun and hence, revenge). Rolled my eyes so hard, they almost fell out of their sockets.

So, we have full band baaja and they’re bringing the idol in with shots that have come out of a white person’s wet dream of colourful, exotic Incredible India.

And OMG IT HAS A HALF OF A SECOND EXPRESSION ON ITS FACE. I mean the very pointless Baldev ofc.

Anami, our local Spiderman, notices a thorn stuck in one of the palanquin bearers feet amid all the chaos and bends to pick it out. Giving herself the perfect vantage point to also hear the loosened screw drop out and immediately dive under the palanquin to save the idol.

After a moment of panic, everyone is reassured as she emulates the Flavour of the Season, Baahubali.

No, seriously.

Like, people don’t even TRY to help this skinny SEVENTEEN YEAR OLD girl who has been FASTING all day to carry this massive idol that probably weighs more than her for the first 5 minutes. For show.

Then, we get Baldev grabbing one end and Satarupa grabbing the other end and Dadaji Vikram clearing the dropped embers in her path with his stick.

Not before he’s had time to process the whole thing and question his entire life and worldview, though.

How Hum Saath Saath Hai. If it was made by Ram Gopal Verma.

This is the face of a man who has messed up very badly all his life and only the tip of the iceberg has become visible to him and he suspects the presence of the Titanic wrecking monster below the surface.

Gayatri makes obvious statements about Anami being deviroop and being sent to protect Lal Mahal etc etc. Lady, I don’t think it’s quite going to pan out like that.

Anami places the idol in its spot and when the pandit wants her to start the pooja, Vikram is all “no, Avdhoot must do the puja.”

Once a chauvinist piece of trash, always a chauvinist piece of trash.

He does look shifty while saying it, though so Gayatri swoops in and tells him that this puja wouldn’t even be happening if not for Anami so he can stop being  a jackass. And also tells Pujan to shut it when he tries to intervene. With the happy result that Anami gets to do the puja. Which we’re made to suffer through with dramatic intercuts of Sudha wild-dancing with dhunuchi at her asylum all set to Jai Maa Kali from Karan Arjun.

I wish I was making this bit up.

Just going to leave these screencaps here because truly what cinematography but what jaatra-level writing, shyah.

(Note that Baldev has reverted to his usual stony glum-face. Like, why do they even pay an actor for his role.)

Dheeru makes a lone entry and skulks around. He joins the family conclave that forms after the puja where the adults talk about the future of Lal Mahal. Gayatri, Satarupa and Dheeru are all heavily and vocally pro-Anami and want Vikram to change his mind about Avdhoot. They use major puja metaphors to make their point. Pujan is stuck because he doesn’t want to be seen rooting for his son for selfish reasons while no one cares about what Baldev has to say (nothing), as usual. The man is an irritating cardboard cutout.

But THEN, I am reminded of why I fucken love this show and am still surprised by it when they tone it all the fuck down and VIKRAM makes the most logical point of all.

He points out that he’s willing to back down from all his prejudices and accept Anami as heir. But that will not change that Anami will not accept this family as her own. Royal Steel and Lal Mahal need stability which she will not provide because she has been uprooted from the only place she considers home (Benaras) and she will leave the moment she is legally able to. They need to accept that.

Yeah, Gayatri, even I hate it when chauvinist men make sorta vaguely legitimate points.

But then, Dheeru points out that he hasn’t given Anami that chance even. He’s sentenced her without allowing her the slightest room to prove herself.

AND THEN, Vikram finally relents because “Dheeru has never made a wrong decision for Royal Steel.” Whoa I think he’s referring even to the unexplained fall Dheeru took and went to jail for.

He says ki since Avdhoot has been given a chance to prove himself (LOL WHAT WHEN DID HE PROVE HIMSELF HE’S LITERALLY DONE THE EXACT OPPOSITE OF PROVING HIMSELF ALL THROUGH GODDAMN SAVARNA PATRIARCHS), Anami should also.

Vikram will personally test the two of them and judge based on their capability (sure) and not their gender and take it from there. I can’t explain how much all this talk of (fake) meritocracy and inheritance gives me intense michmichi.

But it does lead to this hilarious scene which explains exactly how the two main interested parents feel about this situation.

Satarupa is like “I’ve already fucking won this just give Anami the crown and don’t go through this farce.” And Pujan is like “GOD FUCK ME SIDEWAYS.”

Oh btw, while this intense conversation is happening, Adhiraj and Tanya have arrived and all the kids start dancing to Nagada Sang Dhol (INCLUDING ADHIRAJ which is EXACTLY as awkward as you imagine it is). Can’t even screencap, I’m telling you. Avdhoot is genuinely at least in lust with Tanya? (YUCK) Harry is giving him advice upar se! Matlab MEN ARE TRASH. He was beaten up not 4 hours ago for being an almost-rapist. I hope Adhiraj beats both Avdhoot and Harry up solid (I won’t even consider it police brutality). Where is Ila, man? Why is she missing the awkward fun?

Also, I was mistaken. Everyone is aware of everyone’s identities, it seems. There is no surprise at Adhiraj’s appearance and Avdhoot clearly knows Tanya is his sister so they know he’s Dheeru’s son? Dheeru also had figured out that the girl he met on the road is Anami of Lal Mahal. I dunno, I may have missed stuff when I tried to catch up on 40 episodes together. But then why were Pujan and Baldev treating Adhiraj as just a CBI officer when he brought Anami home after the chemistry lab accident? Surely they should’ve brought up his connection to Dheeru to taunt him better?

Possible continuity errors, methinks. ANyWay, tomorrow we have nutty Sudha’s desperate bid to force Anami’s hand and come to Lal Mahal by trying to commit fake suicide. Fun. Not. Honestly, Sudha and Baldev deserve each other and Satarupa needs an intense, powerful, interesting man who has some conflict of interest with her but is also drawn to her. And while we deserve decent women friendships, I also am teetering on shipping Anami and Poonam because that was some relationship-y symbolism in the beginning. 

Whatevs man, just give me Satarupa and Anami (and Gayatri) dealing sick burns to the men and I don’t care about anything else.

#rishton ka chakravyuh #rkc #narayani shastri #mahima makwana

[whatdoyouexpectthistime]

‘Choosing Sides’ Part Twelve - Beyond That Line

There was an eerie sense of déjà vu that accompanied Miho from home, back to the north entrance of the academy. As she walked, she touched lightly against the wound on her shoulder, a slowly healing reminder of her first real involvement in police work beyond pen and paper – but it wasn’t this that really troubled her.

“Kaga is your boss now,” she said under her breath, and though in her head it had been meant as a resolute utterance, it sounded sour to her ears. “Just… ugh… stop being such a fucking pansy, Miho,” she growled at herself. “You get shit, because you take shit – Christ. He crosses the line again just report him.”

An incredulous chuckle sounded loudly, and Miho stopped at the gates.

It had been her own laugh, because she recalled the ardent speech she’d given Kaga about why it was pointless to report the students who had accosted her in the bathroom.

“Rock and a hard place,” she sneered, mostly at herself. “God I hate being an idealist.”

She then straightened when a car approached, rolled slowly to a stop beside her, and wound down the passenger side window.

“Hmph,” Kaga grunted, appraising her openly. “I see you still don’t know the difference between ‘cute’ and ‘sexy’.”

Did he just..?

“Get in,” he instructed, leaning so far over he was able to push the door open from the inside.

With knitted brows, torn between whether to be mad at being ordered around so curtly, or a little flustered by the backhand compliment, she complied.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” she asked thinly once folded into her seat with belt secured.

“Nope,” he quipped, driving away. “Just be thankful there isn’t a blindfold in play.”

Desperately, Miho bit her tongue until she could open her mouth without snapping.

“So, now with me joining Public Safety is all but a formality, what should I call you?” she asked instead, not that she expected to like his answer.

“Personally I think ‘Instructor’ is a little demeaning, not that it seems to have bothered you so far,” he replied, eyes not leaving the road. “So I’m thinking Captain when we’re on the clock, and Hyogo when we’re not.”

“I’m not calling you Hyogo,” she snorted, distracting herself by absently flicking the zipper on her handbag.

“Didn’t seem to have much issue with it last time,” he noted airily.

“Last time was work,” she pointed out. “You have to earn that kind of private familiarity – why am I even explaining this to you? It’s either Kaga, or asshole, take your pick.”

“Hmm, well at least you’re fired up,” he mused, impervious it seemed, to her barbs. “You’re going to need it tonight.”

“Which is fine – you twisted so… - would be a whole lot more fired up if I knew what I was about to walk into,” she muttered.

“Just follow my lead like last time, and everything will be fine.”

Silence then swallowed them, and Miho didn’t feel the desire to attempt more conversation. No matter how she tried, it always ended up in irritation with him. She gazed out the window, trying to figure out the context of their next mission, but soon enough, Kaga pulled into a car park and shut off the engine outside a traditional Japanese restaurant.

“More drug dealers?” she questioned, but still got no response.

“Just call me Hyogo,” he smirked, before wrapping an arm around her waist and nudging her toward the entrance.

Snapping into character, Miho tried to relax the tension in her body, even though she wanted to give that arrogant bastard a solid shove in the ribs.

Inside the restaurant was bustling and warm, unlike the cool and dark atmosphere of the bar they had visited previously. This time, Kaga didn’t ask her where they should sit, and with her still in his grasp, guided her through the tables to the door of a private function room.

“Relax,” he told her quietly as they paused just outside. “People are going to read that tension all over you.”

“Sorry,” she muttered, exhaling slowly and trying again to release the clench of her muscles.

“Here we go,” he prefaced, opened the door, and strode in with her, grinning like the cat who got the cream.

Miho’s breath caught when all eyes within the room turned to look at she and Kaga.

“Congratulations!” came a chorus of familiar voices in unison, and Miho blinked at the congregation of academy instructors, various persons she knew from the MPD – men and women- and even a couple of her bodyguard friends.

“Surprise,” Kaga dropped when the noise died down, and though she couldn’t see him at her back, she could feel him smirking.

Still, she felt humbled as much as shocked, so much so she had completely forgotten his hand still sitting against her hip.

“You did this?” she half stated, half questioned.

“Bet you feel like a bitch now, hmm?” he murmured just a little over her shoulder, and Miho turned her head slightly in that direction, her reply just as quiet.

“You’ve been a douche-bag – you deserved it,” she told him plainly, then softened her tone and let out a dramatic sigh. “But for this? Thanks.”

“You’d better not fuck up that exam then,” he warned, finally sliding his hand away and stepping around her. “Or you’re paying me back every cent this cost.”

“Your own fault for the premature celebration,” she volleyed, and he looked back at her sharply.

She, however, just smiled innocently.

“Fujiwaaaara!” came a singsong call from the other side of the room, and Miho spotted Kurosawa Toru waving at her like a maniac.

“Ugh,” Kaga spat, taking Miho’s hand and jerking her toward where Ayumu and Kyobashi were engaged in deep discussion about something technical. “I specifically didn’t invite that village idiot.”

“Oof!” she grunted as she was pushed onto a seat, and Kaga sat down opposite. “You don’t think it would be polite for me to thank everyone for coming?”

“I’m paying, so I make the rules,” he declared pompously, signalling for a waitress. “If they want to say hello, they can come to you. Beer here please, and for her too.”

“Don’t keep her all to yourself, Hyogo!” Kurosawa complained, unceremoniously bumping Miho along the cushioned floor until she was squished up against Kyobashi. “She’s supposed to be the centre of attention!”

“Your drunk ass is usually the centre of attention,” Kaga maligned, but looked from him to where Kyobashi had offered Miho has hand, which she took and shook.

“Congratulations,” he grinned at her, hanging onto her much longer than necessary. “Not that I’m all that surprised mind you – all those friends in high places.”

“I like to think this is the result of my own hard work,” she sniffed with mock indignation, reclaiming her hand and nodding to the waitress in thanks when she brought her beer.

“All that hard work, making those friends in high places?” Shinonome offered, typical in his provocatively sharp comment.

“I guess it’s a shame for you then, Shinonome,” she snickered over the rim of her beer glass, “that you’re not in a higher position of influence.”

Both Kyobashi and Kurosawa thought this was hilarious, but neither Shinonome or Kaga looked all that impressed.

“Wow, Toru,” Miho mused, leaning a little against his shoulder. “Look at the salt on these two.”

“You’re right,” Kaga then announced brusquely, getting to his feet, dragging Kurosawa away and pulling Miho to her feet. “You should probably greet everyone.”

“Hey!” she protested, barely able to keep her beer from spilling.

“That twit gets Toru, but I get Kaga?” Kaga hissed as he steered her toward Chief Namba.

“Probably because your name’s not Toru,” she poked cheekily, spurred perhaps by the joviality of the setting to allow certain trespasses go.

The night was a surprisingly enjoyable departure from all the thinking Miho had done of late, perhaps a little too enjoyable. As the evening drew closer to morning, only a few remained drinking, and suddenly Miho was completely lost to the giggles.

“… such a puppy,” she grinned, leaning down to peer at where Kirisawa was passed out and snoring, before she inched aside his collar so the others could see the hickies Jazz had given him. “So adorable.”

“Yanno Fujiwara,” Kurosawa, somehow still awake declared, though he slurred his words and wobbled even when seated, “I think you and Lieutenant Kurosawa would make such a cute couple.”

“Kurosawa is you!” she cackled. “You mean him?”

With the flop of her body, definitely beyond competent control, she laid her head down beside Kirisawa’s.

“Hmm?”

“You’ll invite me to the wedding won’t you?” Kurosawa sobbed suddenly, wiping his eyes.

“Of course I’ll invi-whoa!”

The empty glass Miho had been clutching in her left hand rolled harmlessly against the table as Kaga pulled her to her feet yet again.

“You’ve had way too much fun for one night,” he told her firmly.

“Quick, wake up Hiroshi!” Kurosawa spluttered, batting at Kirisawa’s shoulders in a vain attempt to wake him up. “The demon prince, Kaga, is making off with your queen!”

In truth, Miho was far too busy laughing at Kurosawa’s little pantomime, that she didn’t put up much of a fight, and Kaga was able to navigate her outside with relatively little trouble.

“Where’s the afterpaarty?” Miho beamed, hanging off Kaga like an ill-fitting coat.

“You’re going home,” he told her firmly. “Such an embarrassment.”

“My place then, hmm?” she winked impishly, but then frowned, poking him in the cheek. “Oh come on, don’t make that faace. It was such a great party, you, you…”

Her sentence devolved into another fit of giggles as Kaga tried get her to his car.

“… no really, you, you threw me a great party, and I am ever, so grateful.”

When he’d finished opening the passenger side door, and folded the seat belt out of the way, he straightened to find her staring at him with obscene focus.

Muttering obscenities under her breath, he put one hand on her head, and bent her into her seat.

“Buckle up.”

It didn’t take long for Miho to fall silent, and by all appearances she was sound sleep when they reached her apartment. But when Kaga opened her door, he found she was wide awake.

“Where are we now?” she asked, innocence in her tone well beyond her age.

“For fuck’s sake,” he hissed to himself. “Home, you’re home. Come on, it’s well past your bedtime.”

This time was more of a struggle to get her to walk – she seemed much more interested in the zipper of his jacket, then the chirping of an insect in the garden, then the clouds, than she was about getting safely inside.

“Second time lucky?” she grinned audaciously, leaning heavily against the wall while Kaga ferreted around in her purse for her house keys.

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered again, keys jingling in an agitated fashion for a few seconds before he pushed her door inward. “You need to just go inside and straight to bed,” he instructed decisively, perhaps as much for his own benefit as hers. “And don’t complain about your head to me tomorrow.”

“Oh,” she dropped, her eyes sliding to her own shoes as she unsteadily shuffled beneath the unobstructed doorframe. “I get it…”

“No, no, you really don’t,” he growled to himself, shaking his head before pointing. “Fujiwara, just go inside.”

“Fine!” she ejected loudly, then spun on her heel.

It took two seconds for her to disappear into the darkness of her apartment.

Three for there to be a crash, and then her complaining.

“Oh for fuck’s...” Kaga snarled, hitting the light inside the door to reveal Miho on the tiles, tangled with an umbrella stand. “Really, I should have given you to Ishigami.”

“You don’t mean that,” she sniffed sulkily, gripping his upper arms when he stooped to pick her up. “Right?”

When her feet touched the floor she continued to cling to him, and Kaga found himself uncharacteristically immobilised.

“Stay,” she beseeched on little more than a hazy breath.

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Kaga huffed, but he was grinding his teeth.

“I do,” she disagreed, lifting one hand and brushing aside his slightly dishevelled fringe. “Shall I say it in English too?”

Kaga clicked his tongue, taking the wrist of her offending hand and bending it gently away.

“Come on,” he prompted, inching her toward her bedroom. “Before I lose my cool.”

Why? Why? Why? Why? WHY?

“I want you, to take off your pants,” she told him in English, sighing against his arm, and Kaga rolled his eyes before shoving her back onto the bed.

“Yeah well, we’re both gonna be unsatisfied,” he complained, more to himself than to her, and he crouched to take off her shoes.

“We don’t have to be,” she taunted.

Kaga looked up.

“Mmm, this may be the only chance you get, Captain… Kaga… Hyogo,” she drawled, her eyes swimming with drunken heat, arms draping around his neck, her fingertips kissing like butterflies at the nape.

Kaga found himself struggling, a lump forming in his throat… a lump forming in his…

But her kiss woke him up. It was so thick with the aftertaste of alcohol, that he wrestled away his base instinct to take what Miho was offering and more, and separated their lips with gentle, but steadfast hands.

“At some point,” he told her, his forehead resting against hers as he gathered all reserves of his willpower, “I am going to make you pay for this.”

He then pushed her back again, rolled her to the side, and managed to cover her up with the bedspread.

“Really?” she asked faintly, gaze now completely unfocused, but also the kind of sad Kaga would never admit got to him.

“Yeah, really,” he grumbled, calling over his shoulder as he exited the bedroom. “Go to sleep.”

He didn’t hear her moving around, and he had paused to listen for any further signs of resistance – in no small part of his body wanted her to – but all he could hear was the sound of slow, deep breathing.

“You’re officially more pathetic than Goto,” Kaga said to himself, digging his hand into his pocket for his car keys.

But they weren’t there.

“Really?” he exclaimed in a fed-up hiss, and with an impressively long string of cuss words, much longer than the last, he began to search.

To no avail.

“I’m… I’m in hell,” he announced, staring back through Miho’s door, the door he’d left open just in case he could find his keys outside.

They were not in the entryway amid upturned umbrellas, nor the lounge, which only left…

“Deep, dark, hell,” he sighed, getting on hands and knees and crawling back into Miho’s bedroom.

If she noticed him there, she gave no sign, but her obliviousness did not help Kaga locate his missing keys, until finally, with a glance at the bedside clock, he made the decision to quit.

Straightening, he looked back down at Miho’s sleeping face.

Her make-up was slightly smeared, and her hair was coming free from its braid, but even in the dimness he had to admit she was beautiful.

“The hell are you thinking?” he exhaled again as his body leaned of its own accord, and his fingertips reached out for the strand of hair resting across her cheek.

But again he stalled, stalled at the very last second.

“Yeah, beyond that line, is creeper,” he chuckled in a self-deprecating fashion, and let her be, untouched.

Continue to Part Thirteen - This Cuddly

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The Entrepreneur Roller CoasterYour Essential Guide Book for Thriving as an EntrepreneurDarren Hardy“All human beings are entrepreneurs. When we were in caves, we were all self-employed… finding our food, feeding ourselves. That’s where human history began. As civilization came, we suppressed it. We became ‘labor’ because they stamped us, ‘you are labor’. We forgot that we are entrepreneurs.”- Muhammed Yunus, Nobel Peace Prize winner and microfinance pioneerIntroduction“Once you make a decision, the universe conspires to make it happen.”- Ralph Waldo EmersonThis chapter talks about how he became an entrepreneur. This wasn’t something that he planned or decided on with forethought, but rather something that happened in the spur of the moment. The business prospect that enticed him was a company that offered you the chance to buy home water filtration systems at wholesale, then sell them at retail prices and make a profit. (Almost like pursuit of happiness more water filters and less x-rays-T.K)He mentions his mentality as a kid. He use to work commission based jobs, and less 9-5 jobs like fast food. He did this because he wanted to march to his own beat and learn things on his own. He wanted to control his own future and not be constrained by minimum wages and pointless rules. He basically became a door to door salesmen in the beginning, but for him that was a learning moment, every new door meant testing a new angle. In the selling process he used everything from compelling stats to new selling methods. He worked all day and sold nothing, he left the house with 40 water filters and came back with 40 water filters. He was crushed. After assuming he failed and crashed he went to his system of support which was his grandmother. Guess what she did? She ended up buying one in the process of him explaining his sales process. The next logical step for him was asking for referrals. He succeeded in that and ended up selling 16 more. Like any story of a young entrepreneur, it was going to well for him and something bad had to happen and it did. The water filters that he installed were not installed properly and as such ruined his grandparents' home. He had to undergo so much from embarrassment and fixing the other ticking time bombs.The feelings he remembered from the first moment of deciding to become an entrepreneur were:The initial anxiety of taking the leap and investing his hard earned money and the moment where he noticed he might not be cut out for the business and might lose his savingsThe thrill of seeing the first arrival of his product and the initial deflation after his father's reaction and disappointment.I remember feeling the optimism that everyone would buy, the hollow pit in my stomach when everyone said no, the elation of selling the first product, and the exhilarating blur the sales streak that followed.He remembered the shame, embarrassment, and the struggle to overcome the failure that flooded my first few weeks in business.Business is a frightening, exhilarating, and totally addictive thrill ride.Now is the time to rideHe states that ““ It’s never been this good and it will likely never be this good again.”... We have access to the best and brightest business minds in the world. We see all the latest economic news, press releases, and trend data. And we’re sitting on the greatest success archives ever collected in business history.”This it! Right now. Unlike any other time in human history. But you better hurry.For decades ivory towers monopolized the playing field, and as such, held the keys to success.They controlled:The raw materials and resources to create products.The money and talent.The shelf space in stores, and the ships, trains and trucks to fill them.The media and marketing, from newspapers and magazines to radio and TV.They made the game, rules and always have a guaranteed victory.Each of these control points are now open to the public, and are now optimized by the truly crafty individuals. The playing field has truly been leveled. The world’s marketplace is at everyone’s fingertips-literally.People far less smart, capable, talented, or hardworking will stand up. People with lower education, social standing, or family connections will take notice. Even people who are not as nice, kind, or generous as you will take action.What you need to be an entrepreneurYou need to be a lot tougher. On your journey to be an entrepreneur you will face rejection, negativity, and doubt. You will have to face these problems without flinching.You’ll need to be well equipped. It is an emotional ride and it happens in the real world. In the real world you need to be prepared with skills. So you’ll need skills like sales, leadership and productivity.You will need confidence. Everyone starts off scared no matter the pursuit. Doubt is part of the process, and we all get hurt in the processThese are the things that will be covered in the book.“Love doesn’t make the world go ‘round. Love is what makes the ride worthwhile.”- Franklin P. JonesChapter 1The Height RequirementWhat It Really Takes To Survive And Thrive In BusinessIf you walk around any amusement park, what do you see in the line for roller coasters, no matter the kind of roller coaster, a nervous kid with his back against a lined board. Each mark is an inch, and there’s always one that matters the most. It’s the line that marks the height to ride. A kid will do anything to reach the line from standing on their tippy toes to fluffing up his hair. They do anything for a fraction of an inch.What is required for the rollercoaster of entrepreneurship is not height, but rather love.“The first and most important factor in building a successful business is that you have to love it.”- Darren HardyFinding What MattersHe talks about his successes this chapter how he went from selling door to door to a 5 million dollar operation. He shares a story. He was on recruitment quota and he had to get one more. The person he was talking about was a 50 year old lady. To join his crew there was a 5K commitment and that would take her savings. She asked him is this for her, and he took a minute and said no.Guess what he did next and this was crazyyy-T.KHe drove and he went through deep thought. He knew she would not have succeeded in this business and he imagined the heartbreak she would go through if she failed. He underwent a character awakening moment and it no longer felt right to him. He called the lady back named kate. He told her “I’m not coming back. Ever. The office and the business are yours. I’m done” True to his word he never came back because he feel out of love from his business. If there isn’t love, there wasn’t anything.Love It.... or Else!Steve jobs during an interview at a D5 conference said “People say you have to have a lot of passion for what you’re doing and it’s totally true. And the reason is because it’s so hard that if you don’t, any rational person would give up. It’s really hard. And you have to do it over a sustained period of time. So if you don’t love it, if you’re not having fun doing it, you don’t really love it, you’re going to give up. And that’s what happens to most people, actually. If you really look at the ones that ended up, you know, being “successful” in the eyes of society and the ones that didn’t, oftentimes, it’s the ones [who] were successful loved what they did so they could persevere, you know, when it got really tough. And the ones that didn’t love it quit because they’re sane, right? Who would want to put up with this stuff if you don’t love it? So it’s a lot of hard work and it’s a lot of worrying constantly and if you don’t love it, you’re going to fail.”If you don’t love your business, then you’re not gonna make it. You’ll give up.“Starting a company is like staring into the abyss and eating grass”- Elon MuskThe truth about the phrase “looking for my passion” is an excuse in disguise, we use it to cover up the fact that we are not progressing, growing, and taking action in life. The problem isn’t that you lost or missing. Passion isn’t something to discover, it’s already inside of you.Darren liked to compare passion to electricity in a light switch. It’s always there ready to be turned on. The electricity is just waiting to be turned on. Passion is just like electricity, all you have to do is flip the switch.There are 4 light switches to turn your passion on.Switch No.1- Being passionate about what you do.People often judge one person’s front of stage persona with their back of stage reality. How often do singers spend on stage or reality speakers like oprah on camera fulfilling her mission of “using television to transform people’s lives” . The reality is only around 5 percent and the rest of their days is endless meetings, negotiations, and many more random activities. He warns of not over romanticizing the idea of being wholly passionate about what you do. It’s true that 5% of what people do is fun and amazing, but I don’t care what you do, it’s going to suck most of the time. Nothing is going to fun all the time. Give up on that notion now. Is it shocking, if it is get used to it, because it’s the truth and not an opinion.Switch No. 2 Being Passionate about why you do it.He doesn’t love what he does, but why he does it. He doesn’t like to always live out a suitcase or do so much research on endless data logs. I love to empower entrepreneurs around the world. Even if what you have to do is difficult and a dark choice, the passion of why you do it outshines any of the darkness.“The two most important days in your life are the day your born and the day you find out why.”- Mark TwainIf your truly in love with the results of what you do(the why) then you can navigate the tough 95% with grace and passion too.Switch No.3 Being passionate about how you do itIf love and are passionate about what your doing, you don’t do it for gratitude, but rather you do it for yourself. Love the concept of doing things with excellence and thrive on it. Bringing passion to anything you do no matter how boring it is, is an extremely difficult task.People who live by the how switch is truly inspiring. No matter what profession your in bringing enthusimsm and excellence is a result of how you do things, rather than why or what, because those can only carry you so far.When you have passion, opportunity will find you, and people will beat a path to your door.Switch No.4 Being passionate about who you do it for.If anything else fails, this thing is always consistent, you will do things for who it benefits.He shares the story of one of the people that attended one of his forums. The person’s name is Todd Duncan. He has hit rock bottom and what motivated him to get back to the top wasn’t the how or what, but rather the only thing that mattered was who.At 45 Todd was at the pinnacle of success, he was an author of twelve books, public speaker, and owned a successful business. Todd not only succeed in his professional life, but also his private life. He made a wrong move, even though it looked like the perfect move. It cost him millions, and in the middle of recovering he had even sell the business bearing his name. This caused him to lose his company and job, while maintaining a non compete. He was stuck in the endless abyss of legal battles, but fate turned for the worst and his wife had cancer. She later passed away. Later the person who fired him settled causing him to recover everything he lost.I asked him one gut wrenching question why did he enter a battlefield that had just punished him, embarrassed, and beaten him so mercilessly?He answered, “I was instantly a single father of my two teenage boys who had just lost their mom… I had school tuition and mortgages to pay, and debt to manage”He had to become a pillar of strength not for himself but rather for his family behind him.“ If you haven’t found something you are willing to die for, you aren’t fit to live”- Martin Luther KingIt doesn’t matter which switch you flip, but rather as long as the choice matters to you. Once you flip the switch, it’ll give you the boost you need to persevere through the dips, twists, and loops of the track ahead on the entrepreneur roller coaster.Finding Your Fight“Almost every great achievement began with someone finally getting,`Enough!` and standing up to fight.”- Darren HardyA good enemy gives you reason to get passionate, a nemesis pushes you to your limits. Love and hate are the same thing. If you love something, you equally hate what threatens it.Finding Your StrengthThe entrepreneur roller coaster is about how well you can identify your unique advantages, and to move your business forward.In the 1990’s billionaire Warren Buffet did not invest in internet stocks. He was clowned by everyone, but surprise the internet bubble popped and he was called a genius.When asked why he didn’t invest, he held up his index finger and thumb to make a circle he called this his circle of competency. I only get involved in opportunities that are inside this circle.We all have unique skills, talents, and advantages and it is our job to identify it.Were you born strong?When Darren Hardy was a child his teacher once said to him that “success was not in your DNA”The teacher implied to him that even if your not successful at writing, you are successful at other tones. The connotations behind those weird meant everything was decided from the moment he was born. She simply meant that he was not good at writing, but rather he will never be good at it.He admitted that his DNA wasn’t special, but then againSteve Jobs was born to two college students who didn’t want to raise him and gave him up for adoption.Mark Cuban was born to an automobile upholsterer. He started as a bartender, then got a job in software sales from which he was fired.Former Secretary of State and retired General Colin Powell was born in Harlem to immigrant parents from Jamaica. He was a solid C student.Tony Hawks was so hyperactive that he was tested for psychological problems.Barbara Corcoran, known as the Queen of New York City, is one of eleven children, started as a waitress, and admits to having been fired from more jobs than most people hold in a lifetime.Everyone single one of these people went through turmoil and they all were on the cover of Success magazine.You are the creator of your destiny as long as you walk on this earth.Strength TrainingAround David Foster's 60th birthday Darren Hardy decided to interview him. The hitman maker behind celine dion and many more.Even after winning 6 grammys he still went on to work 7 days a week and more than 40 hours a week. He had literally won the game he had money and fame so I asked him why?He said to me” On a Saturday morning, when it’s quiet, there is no place I would rather be on the planet no exotic beach, no lounge chair, no golf course than in my studio making great art. That’s not working, but rather that's living to me”This lead Darren Hardy to the conclusion that successful people aren’t genius, but rather maniacs. There is this false narrative that people are born geniuses or have some innate talent. This is the exact opposite people on top of the game merely found something they love. They developed a nearly maniacal drive to continually improve their skills performance, and outcomes.Why is it that we fall for the myth of innate talent? It’s really simple and Darren summed it up into one phrase.Darren Hardy said that “ The thought that I can’t is a lie. We use it to excuse ourselves from trying.”The sad reality of the situation is we use other the excuse of genetic luck, while avoiding disappointment in ourselves.Micheal Jordan Said “Everyone has talent, but ability takes hard work.Chapter 2Secure your shoulder harness“Great Spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds”- Albert EinsteinThe definition of a freak is: A person who is obsessed with or unusually enthusiastic about specified interest.Hearing this, wouldn’t it be hard to believe that an entrepreneur isn’t a freak.The opposite of a freak is normal. Normal is defined as: Conforming to the standard or the common type.He uses a description of a crab trap and why does such a fast and agile, always get caught by the thousands. They have a human like traits and that is to drag down whatever that doesn’t conform. When a crab falls for the trap and takes the bait. More crabs follow, just to follow. So what happens when the bait is gone. Nothing they stay because all the other crabs are staying they conform. The next thing that happens it crazy. When a crab tries to leave the trap, the other crabs claws them down forcing him to stay.Five Strategies to embrace your inner entrepreneurStop being likeableThe perfect example of this is the presidency. He used the example of Barack Obama during his reelection. He has become the most powerful man in the planet. He was mid speech, but he only won with 51% of the vote. So that meant the other 49% believed that he was unfit for office, but guess what he was in office for 100% of people that voted. The higher you climb, the more people hate you..If everyone around you thinks your doing a good job, something is wrong. Reframe your perception of disapproval, and it will empower you rather than drain you.Become LaughableAs a kid we all never wanted to be the bud of a joke. Well is always that because there a bunch people that were laughed at, but they had the final laugh.You ever heard about the joke where a man bought 160 acres of an orange groove to create the happiest place on earth.Well Walt Disney and his heirs are laughing with 515 million people that have truly entered a wonderland.There is a whole list of famous people that were laughed at when they shared their ambitions. Trust me and the wise implications of Gandhi, people laugh at revolutionaries, extraordinary achievers, and icons… at first. So if you believe in your dreams, visions, or plan, don't let snickering and finger point deter you.Define SuccessHe used a very personal example for himself, when faced a shift on his definition of success. His whole life, he worked and worked to be able to impress his father. One day he got so wealthy he decided to buy his dad a new house with all the works. The first thing his father did when he saw his new house was point out the flaws. Darren was devastated because he finally thought he would be able to impress his father, but it didn’t work out. He thought he was unsuccessful because of that. In that moment he realized that he would have to create his own definition of success.Right after this moment he went around and interviewed 100’s of successful people. One interview that shook the core of his beliefs around success was Maria Shriver. Her answer led him to the idea that too often do we base our success on other people and not enough time trying to crave our own version of success.Simply speaking your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma, which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own voice, heart, and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become.Get a GripThis is another story that he read, that changed his opinion of the way people should live their lives. This article he read broke down some common stats around funerals.The article stated that you could live a long full life as a good citizen, a good friend, and a good human… Even then only an average of ten people would care enough to cry.This wasn’t the worst part. 50% of people will skip your burial and go to the afterparty because the rain.He then explains the 18-40-65 rules. That simply means that as an eighteen year old we constantly worry about everyone else’s opinion. Then when we’re 40 we only care about our loved ones feelings. Then the 65 rule which means we realize that no one is really thinking about us.Reduce Recovery TimeOn the journey to be an entrepreneur we all will face step backs, failure, and disappointment, and obstacles. These kinds of problems are mandatory, and yes, they hurt. You will get hurt over and over, what separates the freaks from the normals is how long it takes for you to get back up. It is in moments of great disparity where we realize our next steps and marks for achievement.Martin Luther King Jr said “The ultimate measure of a man is not where stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge.”We can either be the men who overcome insecurity and turmoil to reach the everest of achievement or we fall into the depths and be buried by the waves of mediocrity. You can either be a challenger or a conformer.The path gets dark, sometimes dark then others, but there will be few moments of light. Those moments will make it all worth it because comfort after adversity is triumph.Confucius said that “ Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but rather getting up every time we do.”If you want to get better, you have to push yourself. If you push yourself, your going to fail. What goes up must come down. If your not falling, then your not getting better.This philosophy is detrimental towards anyones growth. It is okay to fail, even better, it's important to fail because it’s proof that your trying and your aiming to be better than your old self and the limits set by that. With that mindset setbacks and obstacles shouldn’t be moments of despair, but rather moments of celebration.

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