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youvebeenlivingfictional · 3 years

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I’m Always Curious Part Thirty Seven

Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist Notes: I hope everyone’s having a good week 💕 This one is uh... Long-ish

Warnings: Canon-typical violence; angst; fluff Summary: “Couldn’t unearth that eight hundredth notebook?” Una asked dryly.

I’d given up on trying to find my old translations by the time we reached Catalpa.

Paledore commed that he was making headway with some of the translations, anyway, though he didn't have anything he was fully confident in sharing with the team. As soon as we dropped out of warp, a shuttle with a few of our engineering officers was on its way over to the Hutton to lend a hand. With transporter and warp capabilities down, as well as limited transmission capacity, their team was spread thin.

“Have we got a fix on the crew’s location?” I asked Number One as we strode toward the transporter bay.

“Not yet. We have the coordinates of their last transmission, but whether or not they’re still there is a but of a gamble.”

“Any breakthroughs on the translation?” Pike asked, looking over his shoulder at the two of us.

“Not yet, but Paledore’s on it.”

“Couldn’t unearth that eight hundredth notebook?” Una asked dryly, and I shot her a look.

“Notebook?” Pike asked as we all approached the transporter pads.

“One of the runes looked familiar from a class at the Academy. Couldn’t find where I took the note down,” I explained before stepping onto the transporter pad beside Watson. I caught sight of the Captain glancing back at me, seemingly poised to say something before he turned to face forward again. My brow furrowed, curious, but I didn’t get the chance to ask him what it was before we were beaming down.

Catalpa’s surface was arid and bright. It took a few moments to adjust to the light that the three suns in the sky shone down on us. I looked around at my fellow crew members before I turned, searching for any other signs of life, or any other Starfleet crew members. “Alright,” Pike said, looking around, “Let’s split up— teams of two.” I had assumed Una and Spock would pair off, but Spock moved to go with Watson, his junior officer, and Una with the Captain. That left myself and Thira— but that was more than alright with me. We’d be looking for the crashed shuttle that the crew of the Hutton had taken down. There was a chance that there would be crew members within the surrounding area, and even if there weren’t, if Thira could patch the vessel, we could get it off of the ground and use it to scout for the landing party. Pike glanced around at the groupings of us, his eyes lingering on mine for a moment before he nodded firmly, glancing away and issuing a stern, “Be careful,” To the group.

“Sidhu here.” “Anything?” Una’s voice was nearly unrecognizable through the thick crackling of the static. “Nothing,” Thira answered. I glanced over as we waited for an answer, for further instruction, but none came— just the crackling hiss. I shook my head a little bit, raising my hand to swipe at my brow. “How long have we been down here?” Thira muttered, tucking her communicator away again. “Couple of hours at least.” “I need— I need to sit,” Thira huffed tiredly, lowering herself onto the ground and opening her jacket a little. She waved her hand at her face, trying to cool off. I looked around. Where we were looked no different from where we’d beamed down, but I knew for a fact that we hadn’t gone in circles. I huffed, walked around to stand in front of Thira, offering her some shade, and she sighed, smiling. “Thank you.” “No problem,” I smiled a little in turn before glancing around. I could feel a breeze, picking up a little. “...You feel that?” I asked, looking in the direction it was coming from. “Yes, finally,” Thira muttered. I frowned at the sight of what seemed to be a shadow moving in the distance. “Thira.” “Mm?” “What’s that?” She turned to look at it, frowning, and pushed herself to her feet, trying to get a better look. I lowered my hand to my communicator as I heard it trill. Before I could get out my greeting, Paledore’s voice crackled through: “Commander! — Ambushed crew — translated — runes of — Folmarian—!” My stomach twisted at what did come through, as the shape of the shadow became clearer and clearer still. It was a vessel, a large sand-skimmer outfitted with fore and aft guns. “Thira, move,” I pushed her arm behind me, “Run.” “Folmarian what?” She asked, taking a couple of steps back as I urged her. “Pirates.”

The bad news was, we could not outrun the sand-skimmer. A planet as barren as Catalpa was, there was nowhere to hide. In addition to the unforgiving landscape, we’d been walking for two hours; we were tired, we were thirsty. The good news was that we found the crew of the Hutton. Of course, they’d had their communicators taken away, as Thira and I had, as well as their phasers before having their hands bound, but, you know. You take what you can get, really. There were seven members of the Hutton crew on that sand-skimmer. I watched, dismayed, as one of the skimmer crew members smashed our communicators to pieces before flashing me a toothy grin. “Won’t need that where we’re going,” He rasped. His fellow crewmates had chuckled; I felt Thira tense beside me, and I’d simply lowered my eyes. There was no way for me to track where we were going. Whatever this ship-type, it had some cloaking device that kept it hidden from the Enterprise’s sensors. “What are we going to do?” Thira mumbled. “Don’t panic,” I reassured softly, “They’ll find us.”

“Shouldn’t we fight them off?” I frowned at one of the crew members of the Hutton that had scooched up beside me when our captors were occupied. I glanced around at the surrounding ship before asking, “With what?” “I cannot stand to just waiting,” They hissed. “I understand that, but anything we do will be risky. We have no weapons— no way to free our hands.” I hesitated before admitting, “During the Klingon war, I was taken hostage, briefly. It was terrifying, but I knew that my crew was coming. We’re here because your crew reached out as soon as they realized something was wrong, something bigger than your vessel could handle. They’re going to find us. We just have to wait.” The Hutton crew member went silent beside me, shifting moodily. “...When were you captured?” I nearly didn’t hear Thira’s question about the rush of wind around the sand-skimmer. I shook my head a little. “Let’s just say we stopped using a tether on Tag and Runs after that.”

Waking up to Christopher’s voice had been the sweetest sound in the world, once. This particular instance, however, was… More than a little imposing. “Attention: this is Captain Christopher Pike of the U.S.S. Enterprise.” I wasn’t sure when I’d drifted off, but now Thira was nudging her shoulders against mine, forcing me awake. “It has come to my attention that several Starfleet members, including two of my crew, are aboard your...Vessel.” I had to fight a grin off at the pause, looking around and trying to locate the source of his voice. It was too low in the atmosphere to be coming from the Bridge of the Enterprise— he had to be close. “If you halt now, return our crew members to us unharmed, we promise you that we will let you go. If, however, you choose to engage us in combat...I cannot speak for the condition you will leave in.” I had to huff out a soft laugh, unable to help it. The crew of the skimmer were rushing this way and that, doing their best to locate the source of the threats, to man their guns, to raise their shields. They didn’t do it quickly enough, however, because within seconds, members of the Hutton and the Enterprise alike were being beamed aboard. “Beam us out!” The member of the Hutton beside me snapped, even as Phaser fire began whizzing over our heads. “I’m sure they would if they could,” I gritted, trying to shrink myself down against the rail of the ship. “That’s not good enough!” They yelled, “If I’m ever aboard a starship again—” I was hardly listening— I was watching Una cover Spock’s six as he worked at an imposing-looking control panel. She caught my eye and I gave her a quick nod, letting her know that I was okay before the two of us averted our gazes again. Questions and answers could come later, when there was time. “Are you listening to m—?” The Hutton crew member yelled, but before they could complete their irate tirade, they were beamed out. “Shit!” I hissed, glancing up after them. “Clear, Captain!” I heard Una yell. Captain? But— “Copy, Number One. Five to beam up—” Why wasn’t he on the Bridge? He should’ve stayed on the Bridge— I saw Thira beamed out before I saw Christopher just in front of me— And then the ship dropped away. -- I didn’t think I’d ever be so happy to be sitting on the floor of the transporter bay with my hands bound. I glanced over to see Spock already working to untie Thira’s hands, and I glanced behind me as I felt Una’s nimble fingers working at my own restraints. “How’d you find us?” The words were thick in my mouth, my tongue heavy and dry. “Paledore got some help, worked out the runes. We did a fine-tuned scan of the planet, there’s a map carved into its crust, and a deeper magnetic mantle. It was interfering with our communications and initial scans.” I glanced up as Una helped me to my feet, and I caught sight of Christopher leaving the transporter bay. He glanced behind himself, but he didn’t turn, didn’t meet my eye— he just hesitated for a half-step before going on his way. “Med-bay, both of you,” Una tacked on before I could say a thing. -- The dehydration was an easy fix. The sleep deprivation, that was fine, I was used to that. Boyce had given myself and Thira the day, and while she was taking it to rest, I couldn’t get my head to settle. It was the worry I couldn’t get out of my mind— the half-looks that Christopher had been giving me, before I beamed off of the ship and when I’d been beamed back on. I needed to speak with him. He didn’t seem surprised to find me standing beside the Captain’s chair, expectant and quiet. He just glanced up, told Number One that she had the conn, and led the way to his ready room. The door slid shut behind us, and I folded my arms around myself, looking around. “You’re alright?” “Yes, Captain.” “Then what is it that you need to discuss, Commander?” I couldn’t help my sharp glance, the furrow in my brow. His tone was so austere; his eyes were guarded, and a little cold. “...The mission on Catalpa. Before we beamed down, you seemed like you were going to say something—” “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean—” “And when we beamed back aboard,” I spoke up a little bit, speaking over him— I wouldn’t let him hurry me out of the room, no matter this discomfort, “You also seemed to hesitate.” Pike shook his head a little bit, lips pressing into a thin line. “That sounds like a matter of your perception, Commander.” “...Don’t do this,” I pleaded softly, “We’re just getting back to… Something normal, and Catalpa’s a hiccup, but—” “A hiccup,” He scoffed, “A hiccup doesn’t almost get you killed.” “Captain—” “I had it.” “...Had what?” It took him a long moment, but— “The notebook that you were looking for, I… It was in my quarters. Several of your notebooks still are. I’ve been… I have been meaning to give them back to you.” I considered this for a moment before I managed, “Then how did Paledore—” “Once I realized that you couldn’t find it, that it was likely my error, I beamed back aboard and gave Ensign Paledore the materials he needed. But it was clearly too late.” I watched Christopher turn away from me, walking over to the window. “I see,” I finally said, “Well...The point is, we made it off of the planet—” “No, the point, Commander,” Christopher turned back to me, “Is that you were nearly killed because I can’t let go of you!” I was stunned into a surprised silence, my mouth falling open a little as Christopher lowered himself onto his couch and put his head in his hands. My heart had ticked up in my chest. Christopher and I had been toeing this line for so long, but for him to simply dive headfirst into this conversation— my mouth was as dry as it had been when I’d been beamed off of the planet. “I almost lost you again,” He said quietly, “And it would’ve been my fault.” I took slow, careful steps over to him before I hesitantly knelt down in front of him. I reached up, lightly gripping his wrists and tugging his hands away from his face. “...Technically it’s mine for not digitizing my notes, right?” I tried to tease, to bring a smile to his face, but Christopher’s lips barely twitched. “I should’ve given them back a long time ago,” He mumbled, defeated and tired as he said so. I settled back onto my heels, brow furrowing in confusion. “Why didn’t you?” Christopher’s face shifted, his eyes flashing, his hands leaving my grip as they cupped my face. “How?” He asked lowly, “How can you still not know what you do to me?” In that moment, I felt more joy and more fear than I had the moment I’d seen him aboard the sand-skimmer. “Christopher,” I mumbled weakly, shaking my head a little. He didn’t give me a moment to falter or to shy away. He just drew me in, pressing his lips firmly to mine. I leaned into him, bracing my hands on his thighs. We took our time, indulging in each other’s little shifts and pauses, the feeling of our lips slipping together, heady and sweet. I teased my tongue along the seam of his lips and thrilled in the soft groan that emanated from his throat. When Christopher leaned away, it was only long enough to draw me off of the floor and onto the couch. I settled into his side, his arm curling around my shoulders as mine wrapped around his middle. He rested his forehead against mine, eyes closed as he drew in a deep breath. I leaned in, pecking his lips gently, trying to soothe the hurt that was lingering over him. “I’m sorry,” He murmured plaintively against my lips. I nodded, smoothing my hand over his side. “It’s alright.” The words were hardly out of my mouth before he was kissing me again. -- Number One had the conn for...Quite a while. Tag list: @angels-pie ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @mylittlelonelyappreciationtoo ; @how-am-i-serpose-to-know ; @onlyhereforthefandomandgiggles ; @inmyowncorner ; @tardis-23 ; @paintballkid711 ; @katrynec ; @hypnobananaangelfish ; @elen-aranel ; @blueeyesatnight ; @hotchswifey ; @carbonated-beverage ; @lunadegitana

#I'm Always Curious #Captain Pike x Reader #Captain Pike x You #Captain Pike/Reader #Captain Pike/you #Captain Pike fic #Captain Pike Imagine #Christopher Pike/Reader #Christopher Pike/You #Christopher Pike x Reader #Christopher Pike x You #Christopher Pike fic #Christopher Pike Imagine

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ask-fantasy-sanders-sides · 4 years

Note

Hey Roman, Logan! Side note: we just found out you guys are Fate Touched. So. That explains quite a bit. Ask her radiance if you wanna know more :) - 🗡

”So I can assume you already know about Virgil's situation?" Logan asks, frowning slightly as he tries to puzzle out what all he should say in this situation. Goddess or not, he's not sure if it's safe to tell her the extent of what he's seen…

Eilistraee nods, "I know about his Sorcery. —Do not worry, Logan. I wouldn't tell the Sisters or their cults unless I had to. If I was planning on handing him over to be executed by the Gods, I would not have helped you save him."

Logan finds himself believing her. But, before he can let the existential dread of what they’re discussing — Which amounts, most probably, to interplanar treason — settle in, he has to comment,

"I don't remember telling you my name."

Eilistraee smiles at that, like she knows something he doesn't. Which, Logan will reluctantly admit, is possible in this specific circumstance.

"Virgil has told me about each of you. —And, of course, you and I are already acquainted." She smiles at Roman, who nods.

"I hope you aren't insulted that I haven't visited in… over a century?"

"We were both busy~" She teases, as if a century is anything to a Goddess.

"I'm not sure what is going on." Logan admits, getting them back on track once he's come to terms with the fact that he is, in fact, doing this.

"By all means, almost everything I've seen him do over these past few days should be impossible. He's wielded Mythal magic, changed the flow of time, and experienced more frequent Wild Surges than any wild magic Sorcerer I have ever heard of. I thought, initially, that he had been born with the power... But, if those spell-scars are any indication, he was not. Still, I've never seen spellscars of that shape or size."

"And they're angrier than before!" Roman cuts in, "I had seen his arm under those bandages a few nights ago, and they didn't look nearly that bad. But we didn't encounter any wild magic between then and now, so I don't know how they could have gotten worse…?"

"Virgil's current power is not something he was born with, that much is true." Eilistraee nods, "He was born with magic latent within him, but he purposefully pushed it down and ignored it. What he can do now stemmed from a disastrous encounter with Nethermancy, in which he was mutated by the Far Realm."

Roman and Logan gasp, and Patton is hopelessly confused. He looks between the three spellcasters in the room, hoping one of them remembers that he is but a regular, mundane person.

"...Ne...cro...mancy?"

"No, Nether. Dark Magic." Roman stage-whispers, looking frightened.

Well, that clarifies nothing at all, Patton frowns, then turns to Logan,

"Lo, you didn't mention that one the other day. I thought you said there were only eight?"

“That is because Nethermancy no longer exists." Logan frowns. Eilistraee sighs and shakes her head,

"As most things you will find tend to be… That is not entirely true. You know your magic comes from the Weave, yes?"

All three of them nod at that, and Patton knows the beginning of a lecture when he hears one. He tries his best to keep listening as Eilistraee continues,

"You can visualize the Weave as a spiderweb. Many threads tangle together to form it, more densely interconnected in some areas and more sparse in others. When you cast a spell, you are plucking on the web. Lesser tricks only jostle one string, while great feats of magic pull on the points where many threads are connected.”

"So, the less strings we pull, the lower the spell's level?" Roman muses. She nods.

“Mystra is the spider who sits at the center, building and repairing the web, feeling the vibrations of all those who touch it and biting away those who pull too hard. After all, if you pull too harshly, the web will unravel… But the web is not the source of magic in the Universe. It is just where you mortals can syphon it from. Magic is something that has always existed, long before the gods, and will continue long after us.”

Logan nods, "The early humanoids who tried to hone magic before the Weave was woven were all destroyed, and turned into the first liches."

"So Mystra, with some help from my Father, created the Weave as a blanket." Eilistraee smiles, "A safety net, that holds raw power back and converts it into something manageable -- something mortals can access."

Logan smirks, “Which is why Elves were the first humanoids to master magic. They had an insider.”

"So like a sieve? For flour?" Patton asks, and the goddess grins at the visual. Logan nods, almost impulsively taking over the lesson,

"Sure. Now, imagine pulling a wire on that sieve out of place. There is a hole for more coarse clumps to fall through, yes?” Patton nods, and Logan smiles at him, “That is what we are doing when we cast spells. When you pull on a thread, a bit of this raw power seeps through, but the gap only releases as much as that thread once covered. The less you ask for, the less you will receive. And if you don’t cast a spell correctly, the thread isn’t pulled at all, and no magic happens.”

...Now Logan frowns, beginning to catch on to Eilistraee’s point.

"But, Nethermancy was not like that.” Logan muses aloud, “It stemmed from the Shadow Weave; the warped copy of the Weave Mystra's sister Shar invented, by mixing magic with corruption from the Far Realm."

"The Shadow Weave is the space in-between the windows in the spiderweb. The darkness between the threads. Hence, it's name." Eilistraee explains, "When you reach into it, there is nothing to decide how much you take out. And, since you have not disturbed the strings, Mystra cannot even sense that you’re there. It is lethal to reach your hand into raw magic like this, in the same way it was lethal to cast before the Weave was constructed."

"Which is why it was never active." Logan adds, cautiously, waiting for her to correct him. "Supposedly, the Blue Flame burned it out during the Spellplague, before it's creator ever used it. Or, so everyone was led to believe…?"

Eilistraee nods, "The Shadow Weave was never destroyed. Shar lost control of it, but it still exists alongside the original. A spiderweb without a spider... And, by now, you are aware that my brother's kin do not follow the same rules when it comes to the lethality of raw magic."

"So, he was exposed to this Shadow Weave somehow, and now he keeps tapping into it on accident?" Roman frowns.

"Yes. Without either Sister Goddess's influence to limit him, Virgil has tethered himself to the spaces between. Now he pulls at it without trying, weakening the weave around him and accessing magic Mystra outlawed decades ago."

Eilistraee turns to Logan, suddenly very serious,

"You've done well to teach him control, but it is still something he will have to learn. He is the only thing moderating his contact with raw magic. He has no safety net to protect him if he takes too much, and no way to stop himself from doing it. This is not your usual pupil whose spell will fizzle out if they fail, his will combust. He must learn to hone his ability."

"I can teach him." Logan nods resolutely, already determined to see this through to the end. Eilistraee frowns.

"There are already many in your world who know about his mutation. Many wish to use him as a weapon on a scale you cannot imagine, and many more wish to destroy him altogether. People who will show no mercy when they come for him, and anyone who would protect him.”

Eilistraee turns to address all three of them, making an imposing figure where she towers in the middle of the room,

“You will face more peril at his side than you have ever read about in your history books, and his powers will bring untold destruction if you fail. Are you so sure you wish to involve yourself in this?"

"You'll find I already have." Logan stares her down, hoping he is more stubborn than she is, "I am not going to give up on him now. I knew it was going to be difficult when I first asked him to join me."

(So, that might be a little white lie. He didn’t know it would be so difficult that a literal Goddess would warn him to pack up and go home, but… Well, no one is going to tear him away from a project he’s already started, nor a friend who needs his help. And, after all, Logan doesn’t know anyone more qualified than himself to teach Virgil how to use magic.)

Eilistraee seems to mull over his words for a moment. Roman and Patton are keeping quiet, either letting Logan speak for them as the group’s leader or too exhausted/shocked to say anything.

...And, after an excruciating several minutes, the Goddess smiles.

"Very well then. I entrust his safety to you, Professor Logan." Eilistraee — the Goddess. What is today?! — smiles, as if as amused by the situation as Logan is winded by it.

"Don't fail him."

"We won't!" Patton cheers, elbowing Logan's thigh to shake him out of his surprised stupor. Eilistraee grins.

"We?"

"Yep! We're a bit of a package deal~" Roman nods, smiling at the other two. "And, I mean... if Logan goes on some sort of super perilous adventure and doesn't invite his resident literal Celestial, I don't even know what I would have to do! The sheer disrespect? I would throw a fit."

"You are both cordially invited to the 'super perilous adventure.'” Logan rolls his eyes, “Not that either of you ever need an invitation to insert yourselves into my travels..."

Logan tries his best not to smile, ignoring their laughter at either side of him.

"You will need more than just the three of you, I'm afraid." Eilistraee smiles,

"I have full confidence in you, but the fact remains that Virgil will also need a mentor who is, themselves, a Sorcerer. There are some skills that can only be taught from experience."

"Where are we supposed to find another Sorcerer?! It's rare enough that we found the one!" Roman whines, making Eilistraee grins.

"You are willing to aid a man you just met last week in a plot against the natural order, but you don’t think you can find one measly sorcerer?”

“Those are two totally different tasks! —Protecting people is my very specific skillset!! Finding them is not my job!” Roman blushes and pouts, and Eilistraee downright laughs. She shakes her head,

“Oh, I was just teasing, d'anthe~ Don't worry: I think he will find you, soon enough."

Eilistrae lays a hand on Roman’s cheek, “And speaking of you... I sense something is troubling you?”

Roman frowns for a moment. He sends an uneasy look at Logan and Patton...then sighs.

(If they’re all getting involved in Virgil’s surprise cosmic destiny, he supposes he might as well let them in on his…)

“It’s my Mother.” Roman sighs,

“I know she’s been ailing for a long while now, but… Something’s happened to her while I was gone, I can feel it. Something’s wrong. But my powers don’t seem to have changed at all, so...I can’t really tell.”

Eilistraee frowns, and Roman hops in again before she can speak, “I-I would contact her, but she still can’t speak to me! I don’t know how I’m supposed to help! I assume Mama has more information once we get to town, but it’s been killing me to wait in the dark. I know there are rules about how much you can meddle, but… Throw me a bone here?”

That gives the Goddess pause. She seems to debate something for a moment… Then nods.

“I can lend my aid to you for tonight, so long as you remain on land under my blessing. But, Sune is still in a very weakened state... Expect one of your Dreams tonight, little Prince.”

Roman smiles softly, trying to mask his spark of disappointment.

“...Thank you. Anything is better than no contact! But… I was never very good at deciphering those things.”

“If you need help deciphering your visions, you can always ask one of my Dark Ladies, or one of your Heartwarders. But, your Mother is a goddess of emotion; It is unlikely any of them will be able to help you more than yourself…”

Eilistraee gives him a sympathetic smile, “...Or, maybe, your usual companion in that place?”

“I doubt that.” Roman smiles back, more amused than he is dejected.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve shared a dream with my brother. I’m starting to think he’s purposefully ignoring them… And, to be honest, I wouldn’t put that past him.”

“That may be so, but you two must reunite soon.” Eilistraee warns him with an unexpected sincerity, “Your Mother needs you both, now more than ever. You are aware that your Fate is joined with these three, but he has a part to play in all of this, too. He always has.”

“My conversations with the whispers always seem to stem back to him, that much is for sure!” Roman grumbles, to himself more than anything. Eilistraee pats his shoulder.

“The guards will lead you back to House De’anonen. The road ahead of you is long and perilous, and I don’t expect to be the last to tell you so… Now, get some rest!”

Roman nods, much too tired to argue on that point. Some young women in silver robes come to lead them out of the temple, and Roman and Patton meander after them out of the room. Logan follows behind them slowly... But, he pauses at the door.

He turns back to Eilistraee, and asks lowly,

“Nethermancy from the Far Realm…” he hums, still not quite sure what he’s trying to remember when he asks,

“That he encountered here? Outside of the Underdark?”

...Eilistrae doesn’t answer right away.

A sour look crosses her face for a moment. She sighs,

“Your curiosity is your greatest strength, Logan. It always has been.” She smiles, turning her back to him to exit the room through the farther door, “But you, of all people, should know that poking at what writhes in the grass is a dangerous game.”

She walks out of the room, her voice echoing behind her as she disappears down a long, shadowy hallway,

“Be sure you are prepared for what’s hiding there.”

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Ask 97 ( @sjrose1217 , @snowydragon10 , @amazonprimebox )

Game Start

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Rules

Most Recent Recap, in case you feel like you missed something!

Available for questions: Logan, Roman, and Patton! (Virgil is asleep)

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Eilistraee makes her exit as the party gets ready to sleep for the night, with few hours of night remaining and little energy to keep their eyes open any longer.

Now they have some hints for what is to come, but will they be able to put the pieces together? Or will the dangers she warned them about get the better of them...?

#(translation) d'anthe -- an affectionate term for a child or suboordinate #please tell me if i need to tag anything else!#lets roll #ttrpgau art #ttrpgau Eilistraee #ask rpg sanders sides #asks open #sanders sides rpg au #game lore #Her Luminous Imperial Majesty Empress Shri'Neerune Q'Xorlarrin of Drathireiv'dre #long post #long answer

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 4 years

Text

Bad End: Part of his World.

Have some yandere Azul content that no one asked for, because damn, have you seen that face he made in the opening movie...?

I am genuinely surprised that no one asked for anything yandere yet, haha. Of course, yandere relationships are not healthy in any way, shape, or form...so they definitely should not be idealized, but I find those kinds of prompts fun to write.

Brought to you by my last brain cell and my undying Octavinelle thirst. I want to see Azul lose it and I want to see the eels smash some kneecaps, so sue me.

It’s kind of a long piece (1000+ words), and it contains some very triggering topics...so check under the cut if you want to read.

***Warning: minor spoilers for the prologue of the main story campaign and Azul’s Unique Magic.***

***This imagine also has the following triggering topics/tags: yandere, drowning, murder, excessive violence, emotional abuse/manipulation.***

Imagine this...

A thousand glittering fragments litter the floor of the Mirror Chamber.

You stagger back and sink to your knees, not caring about the shards of glass that bite your skin.

An instant. It had taken but an instant for all of your hopes and dreams to shatter and scatter to the wind. One good, hard, thwack with a cane to send the fragile mirror into pieces.

Your only route home is gone.

Forever.

Your eyes water. The tears well up and threaten to spill over onto your cheeks.

“Why...? Why would you do such a thing?” you spit out the words vehemently, poison coating every syllable. “How could you do such a thing?”

“Why? Because I love you, of course,” comes Azul Ashengrotto’s composed, cheerful reply. He speaks so nonchalantly, as though he were not the one that had destroyed the mirror just mere moments earlier.

Azul approaches you, stepping on broken glass and splintering the fragments as he crushes them under his soles. You don’t have the strength or the willpower left to resist as he yanks you to your feet with a gloved hand.

“Get up, for Neptune’s sake,” Azul chides, clicking his tongue. “You look like an absolute wretch, crumpled onto the floor like that.”

He musters a tight lipped smile.

“Oh, but don’t worry--I can doll you up in a fine frock and some pearls. You’ll look just like a mermaid princess. Doesn’t that sound just lovely?”

You are still in shock--you do not respond, much to his annoyance.

“You should be rejoicing, my dear--I’ve done of all of this for our sake. That’s seven years of bad luck I’m taking on for you, you know--but I’ll take my chances. With enough effort, even the greatest of misfortunes can be reversed.”

His smile becomes sinister.

“Why, I even took it in my own hands to reverse the misfortune of my beloved leaving me.”

“You’re insane...you’re insane!” you choke out through your tears. Your vision is starting to become blurry.

“I prefer the term cunning.” He frowns, narrowing his eyes at the tears that are now streaming down your face. “Come now, that look is rather unbecoming on you.”

“I’m...I’m never going to be able to go home! Because of you, I’m never going to see my world again...!” you sob, trembling.

“See your world?” The corner of Azul’s lip twitches in irritation, but he is quick to recover. “My dear, I believe you are quite mistaken. Don’t you see?” He spreads his arms out. “This is your world now.”

“No...No! I won’t accept that! I’ll never...I’ll never accept that!”

“You know better than to argue with me, (Y/N),” Azul says darkly. “You are a part of my world now--no. In fact, you are my world. My entire world--and I will stop at nothing to eliminate anyone or anything that threatens to take my world away from me.”

“You’ve already taken my home,” you whisper hoarsely. “What else can you possibly do to hurt me?”

“Well--for starters, those pesky friends of yours,” Azul speaks lightly. “I can send Jade and Floyd after them, you know? Moray eels are known to be very...vicious predators.”

“Leave them out of this, you monster!” you attempt at a roar--but your voice comes out raw, shaking.

Azul scoffs. “A monster, am I? Would a monster offer you a life of luxury under the sea? Would a monster swear on his life to protect your from that which would tarnish you?”

His beauty--it is warped, distorted.

Like the blithe ocean whipping up a storm.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he instructs you in a low tone. “We will go to the Mostro Lounge at once. I will draw up a contract--and you will sign it, forever binding us together. For each day that you refuse to do so, the twins will be visiting your friends, one by one, to have a little chat.”

“Y-You wouldn’t...t-the headmaster will never let you harm his students...!”

“I would. He cannot stop me. No one can.” Disgust suddenly flickers across his face. “And I think I shall have the twins begin with that filthy, mangy mongrel of yours, since you seem to be so fond of dogs--I do so despise land animals. So uncouth.”

An unsettling spark lights his eyes.

“I think a drowning will do him some good. He is strong, yes--but he cannot take on both of the Leech Brothers at once. They will smash his kneecaps first, so he cannot flee--then they will bind up his limbs and hold his head under the water until he stops breathing.”

The color drains from your face. Your entire body quakes--with repulsion, with anger...but, most of all, with fear.

Azul continues, delighted at his own horrifying idea.

“We’ll bring you his corpse to celebrate the occasion. You can take one last good, long look at him before we dump that pathetic mutt into the ocean.”

“Don’t you dare touch a hair on Jack’s head--”

“Do not speak his name,” Azul interrupts you sharply. “I do not ever want to hear another man’s name on your lips.”

You settle down into an uncomfortable silence. You can see your terrified reflection in Azul’s spectacles and his eyes--a quivering mess, entangled in unseen tentacles.

Choking.

“Remember, it is entirely your choice, my dear,” Azul points out, his voice becoming a soothing purr. “You have it in your power to make the right choice to protect him--to protect all of your friends. All you need to do is sign the contract.”

He strokes your face with a gloved hand. His touch is too gentle, too tender--they do not match his harsh offer and the threat of bodily harm, of intent to kill.

“Do we have a deal?”

“J-Just...just don’t hurt him. Don’t hurt anyone...!”

“Then you will sign, yes?”

“Y...Yes. W-What ever you want, Azul...!”

“Whatever you want, darling,” he corrects, as if speaking to a misbehaving child.

“W-Whatever you want...d-darling...”

“Excellent. It’s a deal.”

And with that, Azul embraces you, pressing you firming against him. Burying your face in the crook of his neck. Strangling--drowning out the light at the bottom of the sea, robbing you of your freedom, crushing your wind pipe.

Again--you are choking.

You are trapped.

He holds the world in his hands.

His world.

A twisted smile on his face.

#Azul Ashengrotton #Reader #Reader x Azul Ashengrotto #Azul Ashengrotto x Reader #twst #twisted wonderland #disney twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland headcanons #twisted wonderland scenarios #something no one asked for #imagine this #tw // drowning #tw // murder #tw // emotional abuse #tw // emotional manipulation #tw // yandere #yandere #tw // excessive violence

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secret-engima · 4 years

Note

*raises hand and waves it madly* I WANNA HEAR BOUT THE OG NOCTIS TIME TRAVEL VERSE!!! You've got /seven chapters/ completed already?! Can we get snips of them, pretty pretty pretty please?

SNIPS!!!! Gladly. :D Have a sneak peak at some of the time-travelers waking up in the past rather- abruptly. >:DD

...

He pulled instinctively on air even though he knew nothing would happen —the Crystal was gone and magic no longer existed— and was astonished when he felt a familiar dagger hilt materialize in his left palm. What in the name of the Astrals? That … should not have worked. It hadn’t worked for the past two weeks, so why was he able to call one of his lost daggers now when all of the weapons he had sheathed on his body —and his original clothes too— were missing?

He was beginning to think that he was missing a very large and very important chunk of time in his memories. Though why an enemy would change him into silk pajamas —he was surprised silk even existed anymore, it was so fragile and easily degraded— was beyond his understanding at the moment.

Ignis managed to find his way to the door, nearly stumbling several times as he misjudged his legs’ capabilities and overbalanced, which almost caused him to knock into the other obstructions in the room —a chair with a fully functional cushion, a low coffee table, and the edge of a carpet—. Silently cursing his loss of soundless movement —or competent, well-balanced movement at all— he managed to locate the doorknob and test it.

It was locked, but only by a simple doorknob latch, which he promptly turned. Testing the knob again to confirm it was now unlocked, Ignis listened hard for sounds of anyone nearby and —after determining that his section of whatever-this-building-was was otherwise unoccupied— he yanked open the door.

He promptly screamed in shock and fell back, hyperventilating in renewed panic as he scrambled to make sense of the sudden, agonizing assault to his senses. His eyelids screwed shut and his right arm flew up to cover the lids, granting merciful darkness that was only interrupted by dancing, flickering spots of color that he knew weren’t real. It was only after he had realized what he had just thought that he stopped breathing entirely and went deathly still.

There had been something other than darkness. Something noticeably different from the darkness that had been his companion and enemy and ally all at once for ten years.

He lowered his arm and cautiously slitted his eyelids. He swallowed back another cry and slammed them shut again when he was assaulted a second time by the brilliant light spilling in from the doorway. His breathing had restarted, but he had to struggle to keep it even marginally steady as realization and disbelief warred in his mind.

Light. The pain had come from his eyes —eyes that shouldn’t feel anything anymore, hadn’t for years because the nerves were too damaged— because of too bright a light. Even pointing his face directly at the sunrise with his glasses off did not garner that kind of reaction. Nothing did. Except now.

Ignis attempted to open his eyes for a third time and managed to keep them open again despite the stabbing pain it caused in the back of his head. He stumbled out into the light, eyes flicking back and forth as he tried and failed to process the fact that there were now colors to the shapes he sensed in front and around him. There were shadows and contrast and detailed shapes and pinpoint locations despite the fact that he hadn’t touched anything other than the wall —the only thing keeping him upright now— and- and-

By the Astrals he could see.

...

Pain in his entire body, but mostly in his left shoulder and arm. It throbbed and pulsed and in general felt like a voretooth pack had just used him as a chew toy. It was bad, but not as bad as before, when the fire of those ancient smug sons of- —no, better not finish that thought, they might be listening in somehow and decide to finish cooking him for his impudence— had burned up his arm and body and-

Wait a second.

Someone was grabbing him, shaking his shoulder —not the broken one thankfully, but it still hurt like blazes— and shouting at him from far away. Concussed then. Really concussed. I should probably stay awake then. Except he couldn’t stay awake because he was dead, wasn’t he?

He had to be. He remembered dying. So why-?

He cracked open his eyes and stared dazedly at the figures crowding around him, shouting and shaking and gesturing at each other in clear confusion and concern. He recognized most of the faces as people who were dead too. Which meant he was dead, but for some reason arriving in the afterlife felt like being run over by a behemoth or falling from several stories up after a failed warp.

Not fair. He groused mentally. He’d had enough concussions and broken bones and throbbing body-sized bruises in life thank-you-very-much, he really didn’t think he deserved them in death. Especially after how he’d died. Someone slapped his cheek and he hazily opened his eyes again —when had he closed them?— and tried to focus on the face of his best friend directly above him. He felt a swoop of dread upon seeing that face, because that particular friend wasn’t supposed to be dead, he had an important mission to complete and couldn’t afford to be dead.

He was fairly certain he must have whined something along those lines through clenched teeth, because the face above his turned incredulous, then absolutely terrified. He wanted to protest that the expression on his friend’s face really wasn’t helping his case, but then blackness encroached his vision and he realized that passing out from pain was apparently a thing in the afterlife as much as normal life.

His final thought was that if this was the afterlife, he would like a refund to go be a disembodied ghost instead please. You couldn’t hurt if you didn’t have a body, right?

Though, knowing his luck, ghosts probably had perpetual motion sickness from floating all the time. Which would explain the moaning…

Then blackness finally won out over the frantic yelling and painful shaking of his shoulders and cut off his thoughts before they could get any more nonsensical.

... (and another snip of Nyx and the holy puppy for good measure XD)

“Who is Pryna anyway?”

“She should still be at your location, she is the one who gave you the letter.”

“Sorry, Princess, but I found the letter wrapped up in a silk bracelet tied to a puppy’s leg.”

“I know, the puppy of which you speak is Pryna.”

Nyx looked incredulously at the white pup he had been absently petting, “You’re joking.”

“I am not. Pryna may look and act like a dog, but she is actually a Messenger, one of the first with which I ever formed a covenant. She is far more intelligent than she looks, and she is able to discern between those who hold future memories and those who do not.”

Nyx stared down for a long time at the dog he’d just been scratching the ears of. The dog —Messenger? Pryna?— looked back up at him and barked softly, “A Messenger.”

“Yes.”

“A magical being sent specifically to bear messages from the Astrals themselves to humans.”

“That is one of a Messenger’s primary duties, yes. Though Pryna and her brother Umbra are of a … lower rank, I suppose you could say, of Messenger. That is why her form is animal rather than human. As such, her duties are not so much to bear messages from the Astrals as is it is to aid me in my duties as I require. That includes delivering important messages to other humans when I cannot contact them via conventional means. Her magic is how she found you.”

Nyx very carefully closed his eyes, counted to ten, opened them and took a quick swallow from his shot glass, “You had a magical being break into my apartment to give me a letter. In the form of a puppy.”

“Did she? My apologies. Messengers sometimes have trouble recalling the rules of human privacy when they are given a task, and Pryna is very young by their standards.”

Nyx debated asking what the age standards of Messengers were, then decided that he was better off not knowing, “I pet her.”

The princess sounded amused, “That is alright. She has the form of a dog, that includes several of their instincts and the things they find pleasurable. You may continue to pet her if you wish, she will not mind.”

Nyx held a staring contest with the magical dog that had broken into his apartment before he sighed and resumed scratching her ears.

#SE asks #anon asks #Secret Engima Rambles #Melodies and Manuscripts #Everything Ends (Begins Again) verse

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spookyceph · 4 years

Text

Peace Offering, a Shigadabi Fanfic

The first in a series of Shigadabi fics. Because why not?

WARNINGS for mention of destructive/depressive thoughts, language, and unabashed self-indulgence.

Rating: Teen and Up

Words: 3,378

Also, find it on my Ao3 account @ CarlyChameleon.

For someone who hated to drink, Tomura spent a lot of time sitting at the hideout’s bar. He couldn’t have done it if the place were still in business—some unlucky server would’ve had several drunk assholes to mop up off the floor before the night ended. But with it sealed off from the outside world the atmosphere suited him fine. It was quiet. Clean. Both adjectives that applied to his room upstairs, but locking himself in there too long gave him the urge to start climbing the walls. Even he needed to get out of his own head once in a while, whether that involved speaking with Sensei or just watching Kurogiri dust the glasses.

The open space of the bar never threatened to close in and suffocate him. All the different sizes and shapes of the bottles occupying the shelves, glinting in the low lighting, gave him something to look at while he thought besides a glowing screen or blank ceiling as he laid in bed. Or, like now, he could simply trace the swirling grain of the bar top with one finger and think nothing. Or what passed for nothing in his case—his mind churned and surged as relentlessly as the sea grinding away the edges of the land. He’d only learned how to roll back the tide enough to allow for some sleep or brief breaks that kept him from throwing himself off the roof and quieting his brain for good.

The Internet had fished up terms like rumination and obsessive compulsive and thought loops when he’d done a search once. Psychobabble for being his own worst enemy, in other words. Tracing patterns in fabric or wood or pictures or whatever did help sometimes like a few of the articles had suggested, though. Listing colors or items in his surroundings too when he became overwhelmed and started to flounder. (Breathing exercises, however, could fuck right off—all those did was cause him to hyperventilate as he counted each inhale and exhale faster and faster.) The tricks allowed him to hit reset and go back to a previous save point, in a way. The level didn’t get any easier when he returned to it, but the momentary respite allowed him to regroup and adjust his tactics.

He’d been doing an awful fucking lot of both ever since Giran’s first two finds had moved in. Tomura’s nail scraped against polished wood, digging in while his mind replayed the conversation with Kurogiri the evening before, clear as a cutscene.

We cannot further our ends without skilled support, Shigaraki Tomura.

I know, damn it. He couldn’t have even said what his party was fighting on-screen. He’d just kept selecting Attack each round. That doesn’t mean we have to take in every stray Giran drags in from the gutter.

True…yet please recall why we hired the man in the first place: to scout for promising candidates. He wouldn’t present us with anyone he considered beneath our notice. Each point had been spoken with the polite but unwavering logic that had won him the job as Tomura’s handler to begin with. Drifting over to the computer desk, Kurogiri had warped two manila folders onto it. At least skim their profiles before declaring your ultimate decision.

So, Tomura had. And he’d seen beyond a doubt that the fucking walking Rorschach test had been right, as usual. The description of the brat’s quirk had been particularly surprising. Tomura’s mind had roiled with all the possible uses for her. The smartass’s, on the other hand, didn’t boast as much versatility, but it did promise the kind of ranged and wide-area attacks needed to control a battle.

Giran had brought him an illusionist assassin and a black mage. With them, he’d have a better chance at clearing higher level quests. He hated the facts, but that didn’t change them, as he’d been taught in no uncertain terms during the little excursion to UA’s training facility.

Thus, Toga Himiko and Dabi, whoever he really was, had been granted permission to move what worldly goods they possessed into rooms of their choosing upstairs. Tomura hadn’t bothered to learn which. He figured he’d reduce the chances of murdering them in their sleep if he didn’t know.

His hand left the bar and relocated to his throat. The fingers didn’t scratch, but they flexed in the familiar pattern. Letting those two move in might have been a mistake—yet another in a growing string of them. He shouldn’t have given in to Kurogiri so easily because of rattled confidence. He should have insisted all recruits stay somewhere else until they proved their worth and loyalty. To hell with Giran’s professional instincts. What if they were spies for some hero agency? The Toga brat especially, with a quirk like hers. Barring that, they still hadn’t made it past basic introductions without trying to kill each other. How could they be expected to follow orders or not botch a mission because of their own petty goals? And anyway, both of them were just fucking weird.

A sound barged into Tomura’s thoughts from the outer world. Only the small, metallic click of a door handle turning, but it made his head snap in the direction of the hallway. Kurogiri never used the door. He didn’t need to.

Sure enough, there slouched a tall, ragged figure. The zombie. The one name wonder. Dabi.

The skin of Tomura’s throat stung as his nails finally found purchase. Of course the last person on Earth he wanted to see would show up at that very moment. Of course. Because the universe fucking hated him and the feeling was very much mutual.

For a minute, Dabi just filled up the space in the doorway, watching and being watched. When Tomura didn’t move to attack, he finally stepped into the room. His ugly boots clomped on the floorboards as he approached. Still wary, still keeping an eye on where Tomura’s hands rested, he paused at the far corner of the bar. Kurogiri must have had a chat with both newcomers, oh yes. Now they had to be aware of just how close they’d come to never annoying the shit out of anyone ever again.

“So.” Dabi nodded toward the shelves. “We gotta pay for booze or is it included in our membership?”

Even while asking a simple question he couldn’t sound anything less than full of contempt. Putting on an air of boredom despite the knot of tension between his shoulder blades, Tomura shrugged. “Knock yourself out. None of this shit comes out of my pocket.”

No further invitation was required. Dabi strode behind the bar and started examining labels, back turned. Tomura’s fingers twitched. Patchwork asshole. Like he’d fall for a trap that obvious.

Dabi settled on a dark blue bottle with a foreign label. Turning around, he grabbed a glass from beneath the bar, twisted the cap open, and poured without restraint. Fumes wafted over, crinkling Tomura’s nose. Great. Wonder-fucking-ful. The reek of alcohol made his stomach tie itself in knots just as much as it had after his first and final hangover.

He’d thought that drinking the toxic shit might help shut his brain up. And, after choking down an acidic gulp—he’d chosen something a deep gold because he’d just liked the color—it had, sort of. His thoughts had softened, stretching out and slowing with a new elasticity. So, even though his chest and nostrils had still been full of napalm he’d knocked back another swallow. The volume of his mental chatter had faded with the third. By the fifth it became benign background noise. The alcohol’s chemical burn had faded away on the seventh. Memories slid into blank blackness sometime after the tenth.

Kurogiri must have warped him to bed that night because when Tomura woke, sweaty, shaking, sicker than a lab rat, the man already had a bucket at the ready. He spoke not a word while letting Tomura puke his guts up. Or when he brought miso broth, umeboshi, and tea after the dry heaves stopped. He didn’t have to. Tomura hadn’t drunk a drop since.

“You look like you swallowed a bug.”

Tomura’s gaze leapt up from the bar to find Dabi staring at him over the rim of the now empty glass. A little riff of unease jangled his nerves. He’d never seen eyes such a deep blue. They caught and glinted in the low lighting the same way the selected bottle did. The patches of ruined skin sagging beneath just made them more striking.

“Must be the company.” His tongue moved too sluggishly to be sharp, turning the comeback into little more than a mumble. Another jolt of realization lanced through Tomura: Father wasn’t shielding his own face. There wouldn’t be much to see with his hair hanging in a messy curtain…but he still had to repress the urge to fidget on the stool and shift away.

Dabi smirked. Tomura couldn’t tear his stare away from how the smooth skin of his upper cheeks and the trauma-purple scar tissue of his jaw pulled in opposite directions against the surgical staples—the fuckmothering staples—binding them at the seams. The smirk only grew under the attention.

“Yeah, about that…” Dabi reached into his raggedy jacket and Tomura tensed. Then mentally cursed when not a weapon but a small jar was produced. Dark glass, unlabeled, it looked utterly boring in the other man’s palm (also stapled, also intensely weird) as he offered it across the bar. “For you.”

“What…what’s in it?”

“A gesture of goodwill.”

The scarred corner of Tomura’s upper lip peeled back just enough to show a glimmer of teeth. “You couldn’t have given me one in the first place by introducing yourself properly?”

Those disquieting eyes almost glowed. “Sure. But then I wouldn’t have seen who you are. People always show their real selves when they’re pissed.”

A fine tremor infected Tomura’s hands. One swift, short lunge. That’s all it would take to disintegrate Frankendick’s face for good. There would be no Kurogiri to play referee either… “So, what? That was just part of some elaborate test? You going to amaze me with an in-depth character analysis now?”

“Nope. I’m not feeling that generous.”

Right. That did it for his quota of fucks to give for the day. If he stuck around for another thirty seconds there really would be a murder in progress. Tomura turned away from the bar with a scoff.

“Hurts, huh? The stuff around your eyes.”

He froze with one foot on the floor, one still hooked on the bottom of the stool.

“Itches like a sonuvabitch too when it’s humid probably,” Dabi continued, sensing the hook had set. “What’s in the jar helps with that kind of thing.”

“Nothing helps.” The words hissed out of Tomura like a jet of steam.

“This will. I make it. Look how good it works on me.”

For the next solid minute, Tomura could do nothing except grapple with the question of how this staple-faced fucker could even be for real.

Dabi, for his part, let his smirk soften into something that almost resembled an actual smile. Unscrewing the jar’s lid, he set it down on the bar and dipped two fingers into the contents. When he reached forward, Tomura’s hand shot up and captured him around the wrist. Only his index finger didn’t touch, pointed at the ceiling and ready to clamp down in an instant.

On the verge of being reduced to bloody slush staining the floor, Dabi just cocked his head. “Jumpy, are we?”

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” It came out entirely too high and strained to spare Tomura’s dignity.

“I told you. Showing goodwill.” A pause. “Are you touch averse?”

“Am I what?”

“You know. Like, being touched gets you nervous or grosses you out. That sort of thing.”

“The fuck would I know? It’s not like I ever let anyone try!”

Okay. That hadn’t come out quite as intended. Tomura dug his fingers into Dabi’s wrist, deep enough to leave marks even through the sleeve of a jacket, daring the bastard to laugh or make a crude quip. Instead, said bastard quit smiling. His strange, stained-glass eyes only observed, absorbing details while giving none away. Contrary to the lack of mockery, hot blood rushed straight up Tomura’s neck and flooded his face.

All he had to do was flex one finger and Dabi would be dead. Every scenario that played out in inside his mind showed him having the clear advantage at such a close range. So why, why, why had the pulse in his chest and temples kicked into hyper mode?

“Think of this another way,” Dabi said, as if reading his thoughts and causing another spike in blood pressure. “As a show of trust.”

“T-trust?” The word tripped up Tomura’s tongue like it came from an alien language. “We tried to kill each other yesterday.”

The response was a shrug. “That’s yesterday. Like I said, you showed me what I wanted to know. Now I’m returning the favor. That’s why you were so pissed, wasn’t it? When I didn’t make an introduction? You wanted to see if you could trust me. Well, here I am, close enough for you to use your quirk on without much chance to dodge. Still not gonna tell you my name, though.”

All valid points. And having Dabi at his mercy did make for a strong show of dominance. It still didn’t explain why Tomura was the one on the edge of his seat. He eyed the pale goop coating Dabi’s fingers. Sensei had educated him on a wide variety of poisons used for killing or incapacitating victims, but he held few suspicions from that angle. Another crackpot personality test sounded more plausible. For cowardice? To see if he’d flinch if confronted? The only thing Tomura knew for sure was that he couldn’t back down without proving both. He could do nothing except follow the limited dialog and action choices to see what ending he got.

Gathering his will, he eased his fingers from Dabi’s wrist. “Fine. I accept.” A little forethought went a long way; the words came across as gracious rather than sullen.

Dabi continued to study him for a few more heartbeats. When he caught no hint of a trick he reached out and closed the gap.

The warmth came as a shock. It radiated off his fingers just before they made contact with Tomura’s cheek. Against skin they bordered on searing. Despite the extensive training in muscle control and pain tolerance Sensei had drilled into him, a twitch from his jaw betrayed him.

Raising his eyebrows a fraction, Dabi pulled away a few centimeters. “All right?”

Mismatched ass rag. He’d probably raised his body temperature with his fire quirk to provoke a reaction. Rather than Decay his hand and snap it off at the wrist, Tomura said through a snarl, “I’m fine.”

Dabi’s hooded stare declared his doubts on that, but he reached out again. Tomura didn’t falter a second time. The ointment, whatever it was made of, glided onto his cracked skin hot, clingy, and stinging. The fingertips applying it, though, did so with gentle strokes. After a minute or so the sting fizzled into tingling and the heat turned tolerable. It seeped into Tomura’s skull, his jaw and neck. The pinched muscles of his face slowly relaxed. Not so terrible after all. Weird to the nth degree, and he had no clue what he’d do if Kurogiri warped in on them, but not awful. Maybe he’d order Dabi to do this again in the near future. See how much the fucker smirked when his plan worked too well.

Fingers sliding into his hair scattered all petty plans of revenge. Tomura jumped and jerked his head away, blinking, startled.

Dabi’s skin pulled at the seams slightly from a small smile. “Your hair’s covering the other side of your face.”

“Oh.” The only way he could have sounded stupider was if he’d fried his brain like the UA kid with the electricity quirk. A possibility, given how his cheeks and neck were burning up. How the hell had he wound up on the defensive—again? This was why he liked games: whenever a dialog option or approval interaction went wrong he could backtrack and do it over until he got the desired result.

He should kill Dabi where he stood. Eliminate such a major factor of uncertainty. The League needed members to grow, yes, but it also needed stability. Kurogiri would come to see that eventually. Even if he didn’t there wasn’t shit he could do about it in the end. Tomura’s fingers curled on his thighs, ready to leap up and grab any bit of exposed flesh.

A gentle, stitched up hand beat him to it. Dabi brushed aside Tomura’s hair, tucking it back behind his ear. The tickle of the messy strands and strokes from warm fingertips sent fireworks sizzling and popping along the bundles of nerves in his neck and shoulders. Instead of going in for an easy kill his fingers dug into his legs. He barely managed to swallow what would definitely have been a humiliating noise in his surprise. He didn’t even want to consider what his expression had betrayed in that instant.

Was this why people hugged and held hands and all that? Because contact gave them a high? Somehow, Tomura doubted it. Novelty and his inexperience were probably heightening the sensations. Every touch he could remember had been a threat, either given or received. This would turn out no different. He raised his eyes from the bar, intent on finding some shred of evidence to support the suspicion.

Instead, he caught Dabi watching him. Not focused on rubbing the salve in. Not gauging reactions. Just…staring straight at him, irises as bright as the hearts of candleflames. Brain upended, Tomura shrunk in on himself a bit. Seriously, what the blazing fuck did this guy want? Why not spit it out already? The game didn’t have a point without a clear objective.

Tiny sparks spat across the network of nerves in Tomura’s scalp as fingers slipped into his hair again, combing through it. The sharp, involuntary breath he sucked in had nothing to do with the few strands that got caught and pulled by staples. Dabi took his hand away only to let it settle against the curve of Tomura’s cheek. The mildly calloused pad of his thumb caressed soothing heat into the peeling skin.

“There. Better?” His voice was almost as soft as his touch.

Against his will, Tomura realized it was. Not just his face either. For several glorious seconds, his thoughts stayed silent, at rest. There was nothing but warmth and blue eyes and strange feelings he had no names for.

Then the last possibility he would have considered for the whole bizarre encounter breached the calm surface of his mind, churning it back into chaos.

The stool tipped precariously under Tomura as he lurched back from Dabi’s reach. He latched onto the bar’s edge in the nick of time, keeping a finger on each hand away purely by the grace of reflex.

“You really are jumpy. Like a damn stray cat.”

If looks could Decay, he would have given Kurogiri something to sigh about in the form of sixty-eight kilograms’ worth of dust sprayed all over the immaculate shelves and cabinets.

Willfully oblivious, Dabi pushed the little jar across the bar top. “Here. Keep it. Should last awhile.” The smirk returned to his mismatched face as if it had never left. “Don’t expect me to share my chapstick, though. You’re on your own with that one, creep.”

Nothing but a strangled sound of outrage managed to escape Tomura’s constricted throat while the unbelievable bastard grabbed his chosen bottle and sauntered away. He considered flinging the empty glass after him. Using his quirk to bring the entire building crashing down on everyone inside. Crawling into the nearest hole and never coming out too. By the time Dabi was halfway across the room, Tomura had made his decision.

Slowly, his hand went to the jar. One finger touched the lid.

Dabi stopped in front of the door.

A second finger touched the dark glass.

The handle turned.

Three points of contact now.

Faint light spilled in from the hallway.

Tomura’s thumb wrapped around the jar in fourth place.

The door swung shut behind Dabi just as Shigaraki Tomura made his gesture of goodwill disappear, not in his grip but into his pocket.

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sebastianshaw · 4 years

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Fic idea where its a swap and Shaw had a demon in his (titts) chest and Haven is the partner of Emma for the hellfire club. Bonus points if Haven has Shaw's mutation?

(Ok so firstly this is a wild concept and I LOVE IT! I’m sorry this took AGES to do because honestly this is so cool? But Bill happened, and, y’know...anyway! Also please take note this would be 80s villain Emma so she’s a bit more evil/heartless than you might be used to.) Radha Dastoor was a bit of a mystery to her White Queen counterpart, and it was in ways the latter’s telepathy could not help her with. For instance, she truly was not involved in the Inner Circle for her own gain. And though she had achieved the title of Black Queen, she did not wear it half so proudly as she did her nickname from those children she spoke of from years ago---Haven. And how had she even become Black Queen anyway?! She wasn’t ruthless or cutthroat or cruel, she did not politic or power-monger or manipulate. She just got here because it seemed everyone liked her just that much. How in the world did that work?! No one in the Hellfire Club liked ANYONE else! And no woman ever got anywhere by being likeable! ”And tell me again why I should care about this, darling?” ”Sebastian Shaw is an American industrialist on a scale rivaling a modern Rockefeller or Forbes--” ”Yes, I’ve heard of him, his wife drags him here sometimes.” ”---but we have evidence of his companies turning to most...uncharacteristic activities for him.” Haven spread out papers from a folder beneath her elegant gold-ringed fingers, ”Funding terrorist groups of all kinds, with no apparent commonality to their causes, only to the degree of chaos and violence they commit. Orchestrating civil unrest and environmental disasters across multiple countries. The death toll has hit the millions.” ”Again, explain to me the part where this concerns me enough to offer my aid.” Haven was trying to appeal to her morality, which Emma found hilarious. Would this poor dear never learn? It seemed she would, for she sighed and gave Emma a good answer at last, “Because the holdings of the Hellfire Club are taking a beating as well, Emma.” ”Then we either kill him, or find a way to profit from this.” Really, what was Haven expecting her to say? This was so tiresome. And knowing Haven, she’d hate either option. Not that it would stop Emma from doing it. She’d probably do both! ”And, Emma---it’s not just his money doing this.” Emma arched an eyebrow, and Haven continued, “He’s manifested...incredible powers. Powers beyond...description. The reports suggest teleportation, reality warping, just...wiping people out. Into nothingness. Rewriting them from existence.” ”A mutant.” ”Perhaps. He’s in his 40s and I have it on good authority he never showed such abilities before.” ”Good authority?” ”His wife. Lourdes. She’s a mutant herself, and she---she brought this to my attention. She is terrified, Emma. Terrified of her husband. Of what he is doing. Of...who he is now. She says he is not himself.” ”Darling, none of us are who we pretend to be UNTIL we get the power to show it without risk,” Emma smirked. So many people, she knew as a fact, seemed good only because they did not have the POWER to afford to be what the world considered evil. This Sebastian was likely not a different man at all, but only showing who he had truly been all along beneath the surface. But Haven was right, this late-age manifestation was unusual, and perhaps he was not a mutant---but if he was this powerful, as Emma now perused with interest from the sheets, then he should be harnessed as any other asset. ”Very well,” she acquiesced primly, crossing one boot-clad ankle, “When can we leave?” ”Right now,” Haven replied, “Lourdes is a teleporter.” ***

The security was child’s play. Emma simply turned off the minds of the human ones-- “You didn’t KILL them did you Emma?” “No, darling, sadly that might prompt a police investigation and then it gets to be such an irritation wiping EVERYONE’S mind who knows about it”--- and as for the mechanical ones, well... ”Not that I ever understand you, Haven, but your mercy towards machines is truly ridiculous,” Emma commented, hanging back as Haven tore through the massive mech guards with her bare hands as though they were paper...paper that she was really very careful with, all things considered. Haven, too, was a mutant, but her powers, unlike Emma’s own, were physical. The other woman could absorb the physical force of any blow, and not only be unharmed by it, but channel it into strength. In other words, the harder she was hit, the more powerful she became. A most ironic power for a pacifist. And a pacifist she was. She never used these powers for anything worse than a gentle restraint on others when she could have crushed their bones into gelatin. And she ALMOST did the same with these machines, taking them out yet in the way that would cause the least damage. ”It’s reflex, really,” Haven admitted as she tossed a robot the size and weight of a car aside from her, “I logically KNOW they’re not alive, of course, and cannot feel pain, but my body just...automatically halts itself from doing all I could.” ”It’s called muscle memory, dear,” Emma side-stepped a bit of gravel that had been projected her way when the ‘bot crashed into the pavement of Shaw Industries’s now very battered private parking garage. She didn’t want dust on her shoes! ”You’re so used to reining yourself in you do it, as you say, automatically. Even with automatons!” ”Why, Emma, that’s quite a clever wordplay!” ”Also automatic, darling.” Once the droids were all dispatched, they continued, until they reached Shaw’s office and found him---not there. ”The roof,” said Emma, “I scanned for his mind, and he...I think he’s one the roof but Haven...” For the first time Haven had ever seen, Emma Grace Frost looked afraid. ”Haven, there is something else there in him. And it isn’t human.” *** He was one of the biggest men that Haven had ever seen. Photos had not done him justice, particularly since those photos had been taken of him while in the confines of a restraining business suit that disguised his massive physical. Now he stood before them in the middle of the roof, missing the top half of said suit, hirsute chest bared. But more remarkable than how a 40-something man stayed in a shape akin to an Olympic powerlifter, was that even from a distance, his eyes were solid black, like oil filling his sockets. And the fact that he was levitating before them as golden energy crackled in the air around him, the sky dark above, a strange vast symbol beneath his feet. ”Hello Dastoor, Frost” he said calmly, “I felt you poking around in here...he told me. So there’s really no point in lying, I suppose. A relief, really---I was getting tired of keeping things under wraps.” ”Under wraps? You’ve been making a bloody mess of the entire planet!” Emma said, but Haven heard the shakiness under her typical posh indignance. Haven didn’t blame her. The very air around them was...wrong. There was an ENERGY in it, a presence, something horrible that seemed to crawl under her skin and nest in her cells like a toxic infection of the soul. Every breath felt like an anathema against nature, every hair on her body seemed to simultaneously be standing up and trying to invert at the same time, her skin wanted to do the same, her stomach wanted to void itself--- ”I’m making the ideal world, you understand,” Shaw said, still very calmly, ”All of this destruction, it has a purpose---to give man something to rise above. The strong will prosper from it, the weak eliminated by it or crushed under the heel of the worthy. The world has become too soft, too gentle, and the parasites have flourished, feasting on the work of the deserving, miring the great in mediocrity. You and your kind, Emma, Haven, you understand that, do you not? The Hellfire Club has sought power, control, has always used its influence to push things as it pleases...and our goals are not dissimilar. He has told me of your powers, and I make you this offer: Be my angels, my acolytes, and you may live.” ”No!” both women erupted, but for different reasons. Haven because the idea was repulsive to her, immoral, evil. Emma because she had seen what was steering Shaw, what was only TELLING him that this man-made apocalypse would create his ideal world as it pushed him forward towards its own agenda...and what that agenda REALLY was. ”Shaw, you are being used!” Emma shouted, afraid to go back in his head again, ”It is NOT remaking the world for YOU, you are merely--” Emma vanished. As though she had never existed. Haven looked at where she had been, then back at Shaw, just before she too disappeared. ”No!” Lourdes emerged from her hiding place in the shadows, “Sebastian, what did you do?!” ”Lourdes?” Sebastian blinked his obsidian eyes. Up close, one could see they were not EXACTLY solid black---they were dotted with stars. And right now, flaming suns supernovaed within their centers. ”Lourdes, I had to, these women came here to--” ”Sebastian, I brought them here to save you!” she wailed, “Can’t you see you’ve gone mad?!” Shaw blinked down at her. And after a moment, he said, ”No.” But Lourdes sensed he was not speaking to her. ”No, I won’t. Not her. Let her go. She can do no harm.” ”Sebastian, what...who are you talking to?” Lourdes eyes widened. He really HAD gone mad. ”Lourdes,” he raised his hand, outstretched to her, ”Those women...they don’t exist anymore. Because I decided they did not. And I could decide the same of you, but---” I can’t ”---I shall let you live as a punishment instead. You will live with the knowledge you brought DEATH to these women who COULD have lived in the world I created---where YOU could have lived with me. Go--” Go, get away, save yourself “---and rue this day the rest of your miserable, wasted existence in the great plan to come.” “Sebastian--” Lourdes began to plead, tears welling in her dark eyes as she looked up at what had once been her husband. “Go!” he roared, and Lourdes vanished, not erased but teleported far away, not by her own power, but by his.

And Sebastian Shaw looked out at to the world he---W̴͈̔̌̏̄̅̃͆̂̌͗E̶̢͍̻͂́́̑̋̌̉̊͊̽͌̿͝ͅͅ

̸̢̡͈͇̯̪͖̬̳̼̬̈͆́̈́̍̆̎ ---would conquer-----D̸̖͎̜̣̱̈́̿͐̎̈͂͌̈́̈̕͜͝ͅE̴͕̥̣̖̋̽̈̉̈́͒̊̚S̷̳̦͉͚̲̭̱̤͌̃̈̈͋̑͑̈́̈̎̀̕T̶̳̹̆̆̈̈̃̐̍͋̈́̈́͒̀͘R̷̡͔͓̝̞̳͉̟̱̤͌̎̈̆̓̒͜O̷̢̢͇̥̯̻̝̠̦̫̲̝͕̣̒͊͋͂̋̽͂̏̂̄̆̉́̈́̑Y̸͓̓̂̉̽̈́̓̂̍̈̈́̇̽̕͝--and reshape in his---M̸̛̳͖͐̓̍̽̔̎̍̈́̈́̏̿͠Ÿ̷͖̰͎̯́̐̈̚--image

#fic #writing

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tearofisha · 4 years

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Disquiet Ghosts of Khaine: 2

The Long Journey Home.

Arnam Trask. Arnam bloody Trask. Contained in my Spiritstone and disconnected from the universe around me, the only face I could remember was that of the Deathwatch Sergeant. Honourless scum. Arrogant scion of a dead Emperor. Though my body decayed on the forest floor where I fell, I could feel the Power Sword burst through my chest and out of my back like it was happening now. Time passed. How much or little time was impossible to tell as my confinement within the Spiritstone didn't allow for outside stimuli. I don't know how long I lay waiting, but it was long enough that the edges of my memories began to fray and mottle like an ancient painting and it was all at once I made the most heartbreaking realisation of my life. My lover, Sahritha. And I simply cannot remember her face. No matter how furiously I tried to recall, ultimately her face would become that of Arnam Trask's tattoo'd form before driving the sword home once more. My grief was infinite and as my body melded into the surrounding nature, time itself slowly meant less and less as I fell into the deepest darkness.

Then my saviour came, a wanderer plucked my Spiritstone from the shell of my armour like a child would steal an apple from an orchard. For the first time in what felt like forever I could feel the presence of another Aeldari soul nearby as though he were a lighthouse in an infinite ocean. Like a thief in the night he went from planet to planet collecting the souls of his fallen kin and when his packs were filled with the most macabre of loot he began the long road home. Even as I began the lonely trip with my rescuer my mind orbited around thoughts of Trask and the Deathwatch. He was out there, somewhere in the stars and he will answer for his crimes against my people. The bastard Astartes will suffer for what he did, I swear it to the Bloody Handed God he will suffer.

More time passed and the sensations of travel were totally lost to me. Not the wind in my air, rain on my skin or the fresh air in my lungs, these were robbed from me and I yearned for the feeling once more. An empty void of sensory nothingness was my reality, barring the ghostly presence of my rescuer that resembled a silhouette. It reminded me of my childhood, falling asleep and being carried in my Fathers arms, the feeling of movement and noise quietly intruding through peaceful rest. He's been dead for years, as has most of my family. It broke my heart that I couldn't remember their faces anymore. The sadness and guilt was such that I might have been washed away like a stone in the tide...But suddenly there was more, more voices and shapes. Dozens. Hundreds. They glided like faceless wraiths through the avenues and streets until I realized. I was home.

Returning to Ulthwé at last, my savior handed mine and others stones to a new figure. He was not a ghost like the others, not a dim lighthouse in an infinite ocean- he was a bonfire. I'd heard of these types before. Spiritseers. Those that handle and manage the dead within the Infinity Circuit. Sure enough, we walked the lonely paths into the sacred core of the Craftworld.

"Fear not, friends. You will soon be among the ancestors again." he spoke. For the first time in un-numbered years, I heard a voice clear as crystal. He was quiet, soft spoken like he was trying not to wake someone. It was comforting. The winding paths took us into the heart of Ulthwé , where the crystalline core of the Craftworld thrummed with psychic power. Indeed, every step the Seer took brought more and more voices into focus, as though we were outside a theater and could discern muffled voices before opening the doors and entering. One by one, he placed our stones in receptacles that connected us to the Infinity Circuit. I was the last to be moved, and the journey from cold separation to the warmth of his hands to the sudden vibrancy of the Infinity Circuit was utterly overwhelming. Every generation of Ulthwéan that could be saved was here, thousands upon thousands of ghosts like myself suspended in a new afterlife. The noise of chatter and muted joy was intense, as though I had entered a party in full swing while painfully sober. It was all so much, from my lonely silence to this. Death, to nothingness, to every ghost I had ever followed in the footsteps of was a dizzying ascension. I sought out some quiet, to my surprise all I had to do was think and I was there. I had hands again, fingers and hair. In fact, my form was just as I remembered before my life was taken by Trask. Arnam Trask. My killer. Without intention, my fists clenched and jaw tightened and I couldn't stop the tension in my body physically manifesting like a spring ready to snap. Then I heard a voice.

"Are you overwhelmed? Many are upon entering here for the first time. It's okay, you're safe now." It was the Spiritseer again. "My name is Eldrin Shadewalker, a Ranger called Rishaeron brought you home. Welcome, brother. What is your name?"

"Aevytal." I took a breath and tried to calm myself. "This is...a lot." I said, waving my arms inarticulately at my surroundings, only now noticing my hands were shaking.

"It's okay, Aevytal. Tell me, what happened to you? What do you remember?"

"Deathwatch. They ambushed my Wave Serpent and slaughtered my comrades on Isha's Grove. An honourless Sergeant killed me after killing the Exarch." I shamed myself at the thought. Reliving the final, humiliating moments of my life. Deep in my core I could feel Trask's sword burst through my gut once again. Unbidden, my hand checked for blood from a wound that no longer existed since my bodily form now nourished the forests of Isha's Grove.

"Oh, I'm sorry." The Spiritseer said quietly, his pale face twisted with an anguish that set a pit in my stomach. "Isha'Verdane'inais. Yes, a dark day. Have you heard anything about what happened?"

I shook my head. Eldrin indicated I should sit with a robed wave and so I did, the rising anxiety tickling the back of my throat.

"A very dark day I'm afraid, yours was not the only transport targeted by Deathwatch that day. There were no survivors at all, a hundred Craftworlders and the entire colony of Exodites were eradicated that day. It was a tragedy no one foresaw and one that was mourned hard by the citizens of the Craftworld" The Spiritseer leaned forward in his chair and couldn't help fidgeting with his bejeweled fingers.

"A new colony of the Imperium lies in the place of our cousins, which is partly why it took so long for your soul to be retrieved safely."

"How long?" I stammered, the cold sting of anxiety stroking the back of my neck. "How long was I waiting in the dirt before someone was brave enough to crawl through an Imperial world like a Warp-damned thief?" My anger was uncontainable, already I had risen to my feet and clenched my fists. It was the tantrum of a scared child, I knew but one that had been bubbling for years of solitude. I hadn't felt this way since I first stepped on the Path of the Warrior, emotions clouding my judgment without control or will. Already I was dreading the answer.

"The slaughter that took place on Isha's Grove was close to a generation ago, Aevytal. Once the planet was colonised there would be no return without further tragic losses, we couldn't risk the same mistakes happening again. I'm sorry." the Spiritseer spoke softly.

Generations...Hundreds, maybe thousands of years. What of my love? My family? Ulthwé and the galaxy moved on without me while my corpse rotted in the muck, in painful contradiction to my wish for a good death. All because of Trask. The sword that cut my life from me had shattered the reality I used to know, and it was all the fault of Arnam Trask. I felt sick, betrayed, abandoned and more than anything else fury. The blood I felt in my astral veins burned with the need to kill, to maim, to repay the suffering I had endured onto the ignorant galaxy. The Spiritseer rose from his seat, his gaunt face grimacing with concern, before putting an end to my anger with a wave of the hand that returned me to my Spiritstone, alone in the dark once more.

#aevytal #eldar #40k fiction #rishaeron #spiritstone #part two #chapter two #eldrin #spiritseer #fanfiction #40k writing #black library notice meeeeeeeee

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geejaysmith · 5 years

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Wolf 359 Classpects, pt. 1

Soooo, while I was still busy with the last few weeks of my summer internship, I did keep thinking about classpecting the Wolf 359 cast. Possibly too much, because it wouldn't leave me alone until I'd solved my own God Tier riddle. Unfortunately, it got really long in the solving because I have many Thoughts and want to share all of them, always, so uh, a complete Classpect Analysis of Wolf 359 will be in parts? This first one covers Eiffel's, Hera's, Lovelace's and Minkowski's aspects.

DOUG EIFFEL: An utter no-brainer; ya boi Dougie Fresh is a Breath player if I ever saw one. For Chrissakes, he's the communications officer, and the first one to start complaining about the monotony of being stuck in a deep space sardine can. Breath is associated with communication, freedom, openness, and change - "free as the breeze", you might think of it, but that also leads to Breath players having trouble pinning themselves down to anything. They get skittish if they feel pinned down, and frustrated when stuck in place. Doug's noncommittal aloofness, the way he's off in his own little world (partially to hide from the fact he really does not like himself very much at all), and the way he's incorporated media into his self-perception all match pretty well with John and the Nitrams. But at the same time, he's the one playing mediator even as early as The Sound And The Fury. Being largely outside of the War Industrial Complex the other characters are so familiar with and thus mostly free from its dogmatic worldview of hierarchy and order, he's becomes the One Sane Man when he's the one to shout "what is WRONG with you people?" when "murder" shows up in the top 3 potential solutions to a problem, and he has no hesitation in saying what's on his mind. And it's not all complaints and bad ideas, either; he's got whole speeches telling the others how amazing he thinks they are and how in awe he is of their skills. A key catalyst in the plot of Wolf 359 is the reaching effects of his radio broadcasts. Also, there's something hilarious to the fact that for the aspect associated with communication, Doug *literally* cannot lie to save his life. I kept my ears open for the infamous Breath Hex on my second listen - that is, the strange little way in which things Breath players say tend to come to pass in reality. Cigarette Candy is basically 20 straight minutes of the Decima virus being Breath Hexed into existence, and he guessed Lovelace's situation in one - "Maybe she's a clone, or like a *really* good robot replica."

HERA: Another easy one. Although Hera is resistant to splintering as we've come to recognize it, Heart players are nothing if not determined to be an individual. They have a firm idea of themselves as a person and defend it fiercely, including compartmentalizing away pieces that don't fit their self-image. Maybe less actively putting them down like Jade Harley did to Jadesprite (the manifestation of the negative feelings she repressed out of fear they'd make her less useful) - that would mean attacking or denying a part of themselves - and more... "why yes, I put this part of myself in this box, and I may look at the box on occasion, the box definitely exists, but I don't go near the box and I definitely do not touch or open or interact with the box. And then one day, I will die." So that piece finds other avenues to express itself because it can't not do that. Hera's programming dictates she be "chipper and non-confrontational and always ready to help", but she actively resists being a mere utility and always has - her earliest know action was to attempt a jailbreak of the manufacturing facility she was made in, born rebel that she is. She will insist upon her name over her serial number unless you force her not to, and gets passive-aggressive at people treating her like a machine. And yet, even as she teaches herself to ignore commands literally written into the base of her personality, she doesn't reject her directive to be helpful, nor does she express a wish to be a flesh-and-blood human, or even really to have a physical form? She has a human self-image in mental spaces (we presume, I will semi-seriously point out there's nothing definitively stating she doesn't see herself as like, her fursona or something), but when she has to limit herself to a human-like view of the ship, her immediate reaction is "this is weird, I don't like it." This is honestly something about Hera that I think may be unique among non-villainous AI characters; she seems to be content with being what she is in general, and she just wishes for people to treat her as a person and not a piece of equipment they can do with as they please.

ISABEL LOVELACE: Arm-wrestled Hera for the Heart aspect and lost, despite Hera not actually having any arms, but that's okay because there's two aspects that fit her much better: Blood and Time. I ultimately went with Blood.

This is the part where you notice I'm onto the third of four characters in an aspects-only meta post, yet there is still a lot of post to go. This is because These Kinds Of Characters, the sort that're constantly on emotional lockdown, are a Challenge Mode, and for me to truly be satisfied with my classification I have to start drilling into the bedrock of what it even means to have an aspect in general, what it means to have a specific aspect, and what each aspect is really about. When you're on that level you tend to find yourself throwing out explicit expositional statements as incomplete, oversimplified, or unreliable, and looking at the text directly with a subtextual electron microscope. Brace yourselves. I have thrown the author out of the airlock, and I am about to get verbose.

Lovelace's character sheet describes her in contradictions, and we get to see two different sides to her that resolve into the complete picture by the time Lovelace Mk. III wakes up. There's Captain Isabel Lovelace, goofing around in her earlier logs, and The Terminator. She does things Her Way and is very much prepared to fight you if you object - the whole reason she was picked for the Hephaestus mission was her willingness to go against (in her words) "stupid orders" and do what she thought was right. She's also fiercely loyal; The Terminator is the end result of her anger and grief for her lost crew and at her failure to get them home alive. Her backstory episode has her summing up her complicated relationship to the Air Force with "I owe a lot of who I am to them." And even before she and Minkowski have completely stopped butting heads, Lovelace shoves her out of the way of an exploding wall panel that would've killed her, and takes a near-fatal bit of shrapnel to the gut in the process. At her best, Lovelace is a fearless, boundlessly determined, dedicated firebrand of a leader. At worst, she can be impatient, stubborn, shortsighted, and ruthless. I dunno about you but that reminds me of a certain... angry crab that I know.

"Time" was what a few people chimed in with for Lovelace and while I see some of the connections (her awareness of the time loop, "Variations on a Theme", her multiple selves and multiple deaths, the repeated motif of clocks and pocketwatches) I don't think she quite fits in with the other Time players. Unlike most Time players, she doesn't have a fixation with historic context, the "Why Things Are The Way That They Are." This manifests in Dave's paleontology and his taking of source material for ironic twisting, Aradia's archaeology and knowledge of The Nature Of The Game, Damara's... /noises and vague gestures bc I don't want to go back through Meenahbound but her role as The Handmaid fits the pattern, and Caliborn's own warped, thoughtless replication of narrative archetypes. Context. Decisions. What came before and how it shapes the now, where your decisions will take it from here. The consequences those decisions will have. The details versus the larger picture. Even failure has its place in that scheme - that's the Time aspect. Lovelace doesn't like to dwell, she's a very "barrelling forward momentum" kind of person.

Side note: Aradia, Dave, and Damara all face hesitation to take action they had to learn to overcome. Also, all of them had to be pushed to use violence except in self-defense; Aradia let Vriska cross a series of lines before beating the everloving shit out of her, and Damara snapped after what, years? Of Meenah's abuse. Dave, on the other hand, never raises a hand to another person except as a complete necessity. Caliborn is, if anything, an aberration here in that he's outright homocidal and self-doubt is something that happens to other people. Caliborn is an outright aberration to a lot of Time player patterns, and to SBURB in general, because it's SBURB, so the rules are made up and the points don't fucking matter, except when they do, because Fuck You, The Author Said So.

No, Lovelace's approach to decision-making is that regrets are for afterwards, and "if I fail I deserve to be out of this picture; also, this situation has gone entirely pear-shaped, time to fling myself into the sun." (and that sounds an awful lot like someone that I know very well, but I'll deal with that royal mess when I get to the crazy whamma-jamma that is Classes). Impatience and railroading of other people can be her undoing just the same as assertiveness and decisiveness are her gifts.

...aaand then I went ahead and watched the live episode and yeah, major Karkat vibes there. However, I note that I don't believe we have ever hit hard evidence in Homestuck that Blood players are capable of Chilling The Fuck Out - this is part of the limitations of classpecting characters who weren't made for this system, you really have to dig into how much of their behavior is situational and where you see the kernel of individual perception shine through, the Rosetta Stone by which you begin to see the constants. "Where the object becomes the subject", to quote Memoria.

Finally, I think it's also worth noting that while Lovelace has a lot of connections to Time motifs, she also has connections to a lot of Blood motifs that arguably become more important to her story. Personal bonds and social justice are two of the Blood aspects strongest associations - see Lovelace's loyalty to her crew, and extending her desire to avenge them out to everyone Goddard Futuristics has ever used and tossed aside. The physical body and literal blood are other strong associations, and gee, how many times does the O-negative Cure-All Alien Juice in Lovelace's veins become a critical plot point? Not to mention the implication that her new friends all pulled through the finale because all of them now have her blood in their system. I'll accept that she's closer to the line between Blood and Time than some, but I'm holding by ground here:

(Also, here's some irony for you, she may share an aspect with the Cancer trolls, but her birthday is August 11th, making her a Leo.)

RENEE MINKOWSKI: Minkowski was the hardest of these 4 to come to a decision on. My first inclination was Mind. Her general disposition put me in mind of a Life player. But then, I sat down and thought my way past the Commander's layers of emotional armor and ultimately settled on Light.

First off, by being a stickler for protocol and procedure as well as an Actual Responsible Adult, Minkowski is a kind of character that Homestuck straight-up just does not have, so snap judgements aren't gonna cut it here. This is, again, another limitation of the classpecting system - all the examples we have to draw from are teenage disasters stuck in a lawless hellscape of some description or another, and written by an author allergic to boxing himself in with hard conclusions. But I digress.

Commander Minkowski is also stubborn. When she sets her mind to something, she digs in her heels, cranks the dial to 11, and then breaks off the knob and pockets it so you can't turn it back down. We see this as soon as episode 2, and at it's most hyperbolic when she Captain Ahabs the plant monster. Her's is iron-willed, bloody-minded, unstoppable, Determi-fucking-nation - when she sets her mind to it.

The submarine thought exercise is what had me initially lock her down as a hero of Mind before I mulled it over. The exercise is meant to provoke thought about priorities - what you think your role's purpose is in that situation will determine your priorities, and thus, your decisions. Mind heroes' most prominent skills are in riding the flow of causality, watching decisions, their causes and their consequences, and directing that path. They know people, and how to direct people. But the need for this means that they can get a little co-dependent. Other people are understandable - it's themselves that Mind heroes have the greatest struggle with. Without that vehicle of another person, Mind heroes may find themselves adrift and struggling to define themselves. This is fitting, given Mind is the most direct counterpart to the Heart aspect.

However, upon further examination, I found that this framework of priorities setting your decisions can also be extended to the Light aspect. What is "lucky" in a given situation? What do you define as a fortunate outcome? Rose arguably gets Grimdark'd by something like this, she asks the cue ball "are the horrorterrors evil?" and in doing so attempts to pry into the motivations and intent of *indescribable eldritch beings existing on a nigh-incomprehensible plane* and wedge it down into a relative human understanding of morality, which is sort of like trying to fit the Pacific Ocean into a water bottle. She was trying to deduce what impact the horrorterrors would have upon her and her friends, but asked the wrong question and got an answer she couldn't handle. She didn't recognize Doc Scratch was baiting her into this by leading her into a specific framework through which to ask the question. Vriska died because of her failure to recognize she was in a situation where luck didn't matter. Aranea got trounced because of her inability to recognize that reshuffling reality to prioritize herself and her preferred outcomes still didn't overcome the fundamental nature of timelines - you try to take over the alpha timeline with an insubordinate branch? That's a doomed timeline no matter how you slice it, and we know what happens to those. Luck and knowledge are both used by the Light-bound to give themselves power, whether in showing themselves off as The Smart One or the The Helpful One or The Unstoppable One, but their limited viewpoint often leads them to overlook the limitations of their own framework, or in other words, missing the bigger picture. I'll point out here also how Minkowski has the entire DSSPPM memorized and is the one who wants to get to the bottom of whatever the hell is really going on up at Wolf 359. Additionally, one of her other ambitions, at least once upon a time, was writing musicals. The verbal arts are one of the domains of Light players.

So while on the surface, Minkowski bears the most resemblance to a Life player, Life players tend to have an element of conformity to them. Unquestioned assumptions they've internalized have about the context in which they exist. Light heroes, on the other hand, need conformity so they have something to defy when they jump up and down screaming LOOK AT ME!

So after much pontificating, I came to a decision. In the end, what Minkowski wanted more than anything else was a stage. Maybe to direct rather than hold the spotlight, but still; that's a Light hero if ever I saw one.

#wolf 359 #homestuck #classpect meta #holy crossover batman #wolf 359 classpects

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bubsgirl291 · 5 years

Text

So I Have Decided to Give Spinel the Happy Ending that She Deserves by Writing my Interpretation of What Would Have Happened if Pink Took Spinel With Her

In the Absence of Red Spider Lillies

Written By BubsGirl291

Three months, two weeks, and three days. Standing in the same spot, waiting for her to come back. She’ll come back—right? Spinel continued to smile and gaze upon the warp pad where Pink once stood. It would be any second now.

***

Pink diamond was furious. It was clear to her now that Blue and Yellow were not going to let her stop the progress of the Earth Colony as Pink Diamond. She needed to do it by force; by someone that they could not ignore.

Her form began to change—her cotton-candy hair curling into coils falling to the floor; bloomers, peplum, and shoulder pads becoming a delicate, ruffled white dress, with a star-shaped cut-out surrounding her newly-rotated gem. If war is what it takes, then war is what you’re going to get.

She glanced at Pearl, who had an inscrutable look on her face. “We’re going to need all of the help that we can get, My Diamond,” She breathed. “But who could we possibly know that would be willing enough to rebel against the Diamond Authorit—“ Rose paused, a giddy grin forming on her face. “I know exactly who to ask.” Pearl turned her head to the side, giving her a quizzical look. “Oh? And who would that be?”

***

Three months, two weeks, and four days. Standing in the same spot, waiting for her to come back. Aaaany second now. Spinel continued to smile and gaze upon the warp pad where Pink once stood. But then, something started to change. The warp pad burst into a beam of blue light, and two figures slowly took shape in the light’s midst. One was visibly shorter than the other; they seemed to be some sort of pearl, for their nose gave them away. Could it be? The bright blue light slowly vanished, revealing that the smaller figure was in fact Pink Diamond’s Pearl. Oh my goodness! She’s finally ba—wait, who is that gem standing next to her? That isn’t Pink. What happened to Pink?

The taller gem gracefully descended the steps, Pink’s pearl following closely behind. She paused about two feet away from Spinel, and the Gem began to cry. She covered her mouth, and regret filled her sad eyes. “I am so sorry—“ she whispered, her voice shaky. “Why are you sorry? I have never met you before.” Spinel responded, confusion evident in her voice. All of a sudden, Spinel felt the strangest urge to cheer her up, even though this Gem definitely wasn’t her best friend. “I—never should have left you here—what was I thinking?” The gem got out between sobs.

“My Diamond, I do not think that she recognizes you,” Pink’s Pearl whispered rather loudly to the other gem. “O-oh! I f-forgot about that,” the taller gem exclaimed, wiping away her tears. “It’s me, Spinel. Pink—Pink Diamond?”

Spinel’s eyes widened, and she blabbered “w-what?? B-but you look—“

“Different? Yes, yes I know.”

“How am I supposed to know that it’s you?”

“I’ll prove it to you.”

The gem’s form began to shift, the gem rotating in the center of the glowing blob to reveal that the gem was in fact, a Diamond. Spinel’s eyes widened once again, but this time, she was standing in front of Pink Diamond—her best friend. She had come back!

This time, it was Spinel’s turn to cry, for she was just so happy to see her again. “That game went on for a long time, huh? It was kind of getting old, to be completely honest with you,” Spinel laughed, small tears falling down her cheeks. She expected for Pink to laugh too, but she did not. Her face only fell into more sadness. She grimaced and avoided her gaze. “Spinel, I have something to confess—“ Pink replied, and Spinel began to worry. “It wasn’t a game... When I had left you here, I had never intended on coming back.”

Spinel was floored. Her tears ceased. She clutched her chest, her eyes wide. She felt numb. Now, why was she going to do that? Surely, she is lying. How could she ever forget about her best friend? Friends don’t leave one another behind, right? Spinel looked up numbly at Pink, and asked in a whisper, barely audible to hear, “but why would you do that...”

They stood there for a long time, seconds feeling like minutes, minutes feeling like hours. Pink carefully broke the silence, “because I thought that I didn’t need you anymore. I thought—since the colony was created, I needed to become a serious leader, and that you were keeping me from becoming that.” Spinel simply stared at her with her heartbroken eyes, and it tore Pink apart inside. She crouched down, and put her hands on Spinel’s shoulders, gazed into her eyes, and continued, “but I was wrong. You kept me sane, and you were always my biggest supporter when no one else was. I never realized how much I needed you, until I realized that it might be too late. I hate myself for being so stupid to leave you here, for who knows how long, and put you through exactly what the Diamond Authority has put me through. Neglect. Pain. The feeling that I am not enough, because if they don’t make the time for me, then that must be the case. I want to be better than them. I don’t want to put you through that, because you don’t deserve it. I cannot fully put into words how sorry I am for even attempting to do that to you.”

She paused for a moment, in order to let her words fully sink into Spinel’s mind, for her apology was quite a heavy one to handle. After a few moments, she continued, “and on that note, I promise to be better than those who have tossed me aside, and take you with me to Earth, and I ask you to join me. Join me in my rebellion to save an innocent planet from total annihilation, and to liberate it from the tyranny of the Diamond Authority. We can make a stop to this, together. Will you join me, Spinel?”

Spinel started to smile, warmth welling up in her chest. “Yes. I will follow you to the end of the Universe and back if I have to.” Pink Diamond smiled back, and gazed upon Spinel in a way that she never had before. With love in her eyes. Until this moment, Pink has never realized how much she cared about this gem, for she was the family that she had never had. Her, Pearl, and Spinel would be each other’s support system. They were in this together, and she had no doubt in her mind about that.

Spinel gazed back at her with an equal amount of love and adoration, and pulled Pink into a hug. “I forgive you. I could tell that that was hard for you to admit, and I truly appreciate that you care enough to come back for me.” She pulled away, and said, “now, let’s go kick some Diamond butt!” Pink Diamond nodded, and shifted back into the form that she was in when she had arrived. Rose looked at Pearl, then Spinel and smiled, “let’s go home.”

The three of them ascended their way up the steps to the warp pad, and Spinel and Pearl stood on either side of Rose. She reached out, and the three held hands in anticipation, ready to start a new journey, together, and there was no turning back. Spinel gazed upon Rose’s face, and knew that she was worth fighting for. And Rose felt the same. The warp pad began to glow once more, the bright blue light engulfing them. When the light began to cease, there was nothing left in the garden, and for the next six-thousand years, not one red spider lily grew there.

***

Alright, so that is pretty much how I pictured that this situation would go! This is my first ever ficlet, or how her you call it, so I hope that you guys like it! This story was inspired by these Instagram posts: [x] [x]. Alright, so to close it up, I hope that you guys enjoyed this! Have a wonderful day!

-Yours Truly,

BubsGirl291

#giving Spinel the happiness she deserves #Spinel is baby #alakazam alakazem Spinel is now a crystal gem #Yay Pink Diamond actually is nice and solved her own problems for once #steven universe the movie #spinel steven universe #spinel #alternate realities

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ren-akimiya · 6 years

Text

Stalker Metamorphosis

I walked into my office with a crime investigation folder in my arms. After a long chase, we finally put that psychopath behind bars. However, despite knowing that she can get sentenced for her entire life, or put in an asylum, she didn't resist much. Or maybe not at all. She simply put everything in her hands down on the floor as we pointed guns at her. And those eyes... just staring into the abyss of nothingness. It was rather creepy. I have seen similar eyes on victims of homicide. Shock and extreme trauma cause it most of the time. It felt like... she was a completely different person from what we were expecting. She had a diary with her. I know it is rude for one to read a complete stranger's diary, however, I am really interested in what can be in it. Wacos like her usually write interesting and creepy shit, and I always loved horror as a genre in almost everything. Games, movies, books... let the genre be horror, and I always gave it a try. The chills running down my spine, before a good scare or when an eerie music began to play in the background, brought a sense of euphoria as well. Sometimes an effective jumpscare filled my mind with ecstasy as well however it always felt cheap on the long term. Guilty pleasure what I call it. Maybe I sound creepy, but tell you what, I am a genuine and cool guy. Sometimes a little bit too passive.

I put down the folder on the closer end of the desk and jumped into my chair. The diary was inside my pocket, ever since the arrest so I did not need to take it away from the evidence safe. There is a smaller chance I get discovered this way. Holding back evidences can put me into every kind of trouble however curiosity got the better of me. I guess there is no turning back at this point. My fingers slip under the cover and with a steady motion towards myself, I opened it on the first page. As expected, nothing was on the first page. Why the hell did I even open on it. Turning on the next page revealed what I was looking for. The handwriting was pretty and organized. It was odd from a sort of artist as far as I know. Or maybe I am just generalizing.

Entry 1:

Dear Diary,

I’m happy I’m starting you.

Well, my psychiatrist suggested writing a diary so that I clear up my mind from all the things happened to me. I am not entirely sure though what he was referring to...

He was asking questions about what was the last thing I remember before I fell into a coma. I had a really hard time answering them. Until my CT scan doesn't come back to him I am restricted of using anything electronic since it can worsen the possible damages in my brain. Better safe than sorry I guess. However, he recommended me to write a diary or some sort to clean my head from the cloud that blocks my thoughts and help me remember certain scenes. I have no idea why he wants me to do that. Did I see a wanted criminal or something that bad happened they need to catch someone? I think it is better for me to pull myself out from the case entirely. I don't want any other trouble in my life I already have. Speaking of problems, ever since I got back to my senses I can't shake this odd feeling off of me that someone or something is watching me from behind. I also happen to catch glimpses of it on my horizon but never too close to identify it...

Sound and feels pretty unnerving if you ask me knowing someone is watching me maybe going to do something to me… I just hope nothing happens and I am just imagining things.

Oh well, this all that I wanted to write down for this day. Wow writing my thoughts down to you is pretty fun as well. I might develop a habit out of this. I feel so old school right now...oh well I hope I write down on you soon.

From, Naomi

I put the diary down on the wooden table, under the light of my desk lamp then crossing my fingers in front of my head and resting it. Thoughts rush through every synapse of my brain, piecing together the unnecessary info and the already known facts about the caught girl. No motive or possible explanation in this entry…

Reaching down under the paper again, I turned the page to reveal the next entry in the strange diary

Entry 2:

Dear Diary,

Finally, back at school. I was worried that I would fall behind my studies and fail, after working so hard for getting mom and dad’s approval to get in this college. I cannot let my hopes and dreams shatter just because of this little coma. I know they can’t make huge exceptions like letting me pass all the test. I would not want it either. I would just pull more unnecessary attention on me. I don’t want that…. I don’t want to be noticed anymore...Please just leave me alone...Not anymore...I think I uncovered the secret that lying that certain night’s shadows...

It looks like the entry ends here. The part with the dots appears to be less organized and more like scribbles. The psychology book about handwriting would say that the person who wrote this was in fear. The strokes of the pen suggest that the writer’s hand was shaking while writing. I bit down on my finger, ripping of a small fragment of my skin chewing them into softer dusty matter then swallowed it. A really bad habit of mine. I start doing this thing when I feel excited or I am bored. Few of my colleagues who I am friends with said that I should try dropping this childish habit, since they and science says that removing your skin causes bacteria to invade your body. Are they thinking that I am some kind of idiot? I am fully aware of that fact. I just can’t help it…

Shaking my head, I turn a few more pages only running through the lines with my eyes. Nothing really interesting except this shadow figure that entry 7 describes. I stopped scrolling to put on under my metaphoric magnifying glass.

Entry 7:

The shadow person is getting more and closer with each passing day. This goddamn faceless figure. I think it resembles a huge figure. Mostly humanoid in shape however it keeps on warping and warping sometimes. And not just that but I think I began hallucinating even weirder shit. Sometimes when I turn on a corner, everyone disappears from this city. It becomes abandoned. I roam the empty streets for a while, begging to find someone with me without any luck whatsoever. When I snap back to reality I am usually at the same spot where this hallucination started. Yes, I classify them as hallucination since I see them clearly but no one else does. I never move from my original spot either. What else could it be? Exactly, nothing else, other than a hallucination.

I heard about killings taking place in the city more and more frequently. Coincidentally, my hallucinations became more common and longer. What if...these two things are linked somehow…

The entry ends here. The author noticeably became more frustrated than ever. Organized writing and structure were thrown out of the window at this point. Her fear emitted from her writings, like a sinister miasma choking me. Chills ran down on my spine while reading the entry. This is what I was waiting for. Excitement. From the very moment I first averted my gaze at her broken facial expression and empty emerald green eyes I knew I was in for some exciting events.

My pupils filled most of my eyes, pushing out my iris to the outer rim of the inner ring and every single hair on my arms stood on their edge. I could not wait even a millisecond and turned to the final page. The entry was this:

Entry 13:

Dear Diary,

I was really glad to start you so I could talk about this dark secret with you. Dark secret... sounds pretty cliché if you ask me. I am finally putting together the pieces of the puzzle. The meaning behind this hallucination, the Shadow Being and the genocides occurring across the city. Meaning? What the fuck am I even trying to say. There is no meaning to anything what am I doing. I don’t even know why am I hallucinating. Maybe I am just simply going nuts. These medications that the doctor gave to me have no goddamn use.

I hear him telling things to me. I don’t know what, but I am certain that he is talking to me in a strange language. I can’t even think it is human language… He is getting closer to me. One night I woke up to him staring at me, just a couple inches away from my face but when I blinked, he was gone in an instant. Why am I referring to that thing as a “he”? It is something beyond human knowledge. A malevolent beast that wants nothing else just to take people away and murdering them in unspeakable ways. Or maybe this is just all in my head…

Never mind... Nothing matters anymore. Whatever that thing is, imaginary or real, I am giving myself up to it. I am tired of running…

Thank you, my dear Diary. You were a wonderful companion throughout this journey.

I closed the small journal and put it back on my table. Averting my gaze at the case folder on the very edge of my desk, I pulled it under the yellow light of the desk lamp. The newly gained information fit right into the missing spots of the case’s jigsaw puzzle. Though the case was solved as soon as we caught the poor thing in the forest. She made a shelter there to keep herself from hurting more people. Her final acts are worthy of acknowledgment, as Naomi, however, it will not erase the fact that she killed people.

I let out a long sigh then got back up from the comfortable hold of the leather chair and I left my office with the journal in the pocket of my coat. The rain was pouring from the sky so for the distance between the door of the building and my car, I opened my umbrella. If I am correct, she must be in jail still. I don’t remember the chief talking about transferring her to an asylum or prison. Starting the engine, I drove down in the dim lit road towards the district’s police station. The words from the diary formed images in my head, flashing into my mind like lightning. For some reason, I felt myself more and more agitated with each passing street light as the distance between me and the complicated serial killer lessened. Pain stung into my stomach like a tiny blade and my arms became shaky again. I have not felt like this ever since my first case. Adrenaline rushed through my veins and my heavy feet pushed down on the gas pedal ever so slightly. The engine roared up and the mechanical beast that I was sitting in almost muting the popping sound that the rain gave as each drop landed on the windshield. The adrenaline rush got the better of me until another traffic light put me to a halt by changing to red. It was strange that only the final light gave me a red signal. All other were green or just changed to green like some strange coincidence. And only the final one stopped me, for the better. I would have been sent to the afterlife by the coming truck with a frontal collision. most likely sending my body flying across the windshield or the breaking glass piercing through my skull.

As the light switched to green I took the final turn to the police station. It was technically closed by this time of the day, however, there were always a few officers who were on nightshift to look out for the ones locked up and to answer possible calls. Rushing inside the station from the rain, the officers looked at me dumbfounded.

I asked where can I find the girl that we took in a couple of hours ago. They looked at each other, dumbfounded by my request then one sighed and took me to the cells in the room that opened from the very back of the building. I told him that I would want some alone time with her, to that he widened his gaze then shrugged, leaving the room. I venture forward to the only cell that held someone captive. There she was, sitting by the wall, looking downwards at the floor, or at her feet. Her hair, a brown and semi-short mess. The body was still covered in dirt and her clothes were tattered and torn. When she heard my steps getting louder she raised her head up from between her knees and looked into my eyes. The same soulless eyes I have seen when we caught her. Her huge pupils, trying to focus onto mine, as her emerald iris was only visible on the very outer rim of the central ring. It was like she was in some sort of trance.

Sighing, I pulled the journal out from my pocket and giving it a push, I slid it to her. To this it looked like, life went back into her. Reaching out to it with shaky hands, she lifted it up and held it close to her chest. A gentle smile curved onto my face then took a few steps backward.

“So you have read it. But why?” she asked, in an extremely low tone. It was like she was whispering. My answer was presented to her with a sigh.

“No particular reason. I thought that a psycho’s diary would hold many horrors, waiting to be uncovered. And it looks like I was right.”

She responded with an “Oh,” then looked back down on the floor.

“But why did you bring the diary back to me? It makes no sense…” she said. And that struck me. I had no answer to this question. Possible answers raced through my mind like cars, however, neither of them would have done any good. I was wondering if I would be able to chat with the other one inside her. The so-called Shadow Person, however, it was a fact that bringing her out would only do harm to her. I already broke a few unwritten regulations of mine with bringing the diary back to her. It was time for me to leave, so I left her with the question, hanging unanswered.

On the way back home, in my rear-view mirror, I noticed something. I adjusted it a little bit to gain a better sight on it. Something that I should not be able to see. It looked like a hole anomaly in space, warping and changing into... into a humanoid shape.

#creepypasta #horror #thriller #first person view #psychological #spooky #tie in #short story #crime

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wrightfiction-blog · 6 years

Text

“Axl and the King”

This is a short story I wrote in March of 2017 and it seems like a good way to start off this blog. Inspired by the work of Lewis Carroll.

Axl, for that is what we must call our protagonist, was flailing about. This may seem odd until we know that they were all tangled in a Sunday dress which very much refused to come off.

‘Alexa!’ an adult’s voice yelled, ‘You had better not tear that dress!’

'I don’t know what we’re going to do with her,' another adult sighed.

'She’s nearly a teenager, this is just what happens,' the adult voice said, 'She’ll get over it.'

The dress still would not come off, it was snagged just too tight round Axl’s neck. ‘Get off!’ they cried at the cursed thing. Axl hated dresses; hated that they were not pants; hated how they felt in a dress, how they looked in one. This dress though was particularly heinous, they thought, with its lace and bow, and finally it came off. Axl then put on boxers, sneakers, cargo pants, and a t-shirt. Now properly dressed, Axl bounded to the garage and soundly shut the door behind them. Stuffing an assortment of tools into a backpack (which I neglected to inform you Axl had), they climbed upon a bike and shot off towards the Ditch. The Ditch was part of a dead creek which ran just off the side of a nice park where babysitters brought their kids. Coming upon the chain link fence which sectioned off the bank, Axl lifted up a flap of fence which had been cut loose (by them) and slid underneath it along with their bike. Planting down at the bottom of the Ditch where the steep banks offered some privacy, they dumped out the backpack of tools and set about to make alterations to the bike. The bike was not in need of repair, but Axl enjoyed tinkering with the gears and chain and liked to keep everything good and oiled.

In the Ditch, Axl carefully removed the bike chain and set to cleaning out grease from its links with a small metal file. Hanging it from a handlebar to keep it from dirt, they then checked if the chainring or gear were warped in any way, which can happen from the pull of the chain. Seeing everything in order, Axl decided to replace the chain. The grease from between the links of the chain, however, had gotten on Axl’s fingers and would smear the clean chainring and crankarm. ‘Darn it,’ they said, ‘I’ve nothing to clean with. If only there was some water I could’—but wait, there was water in the creek. Axl looked down at the bed and saw a small but steady stream of water running just a couple of inches below where he sat.

‘There’s never been water here before,’ Axl said. Indeed there had not, at least not since they had first started frequenting the dead creek, which Axl supposed must now be called the live creek. Leaning the bike gingerly against the bank, they went to investigate this strange occurrence.

Axl began to walk alongside the stream in the opposite direction to which it was flowing. Going further and further, the stream became larger and larger. Quickly it was no longer a trickle but something resembling a proper creek, with the water maybe sixteen inches across. Then, quite suddenly, it went no further and Axl stopped at a sizable puddle.

‘This must be where the creek is coming from,’ Axl said, ‘But where did the puddle come from? There’s nothing on the other side of it! It had to have come from somewhere, so how do creeks begin?’ and Axl sat to thinking on this question. It might have been caused by rain, only there had not been any recently. Axl knew lakes and rivers were fed by mountain snow, only there had not been any snow and they did not live on a mountain. ‘Perhaps someone spilled a bottle of water, only it would have to have been a very large bottle. It looks like bottled water though, it’s so clear,’ Axl said looking down at it. In fact, it was so clear that they could see directly through it! On the other side of the puddle they could see an oval (it was properly an ovoid, as the puddle world did exist in three dimensions). ‘If I could just see a little better,’ Axl said peering down, when then Plop! they tumbled head forward into the puddle and was spit out the other side, landing with a great Thump! Not at all hurt, but a good deal damp, they sprang up and looked round. ‘Now where did… Ah! There’s the oval,’ (ovoid), Axl said walking up the bank to it. ‘Oval,’ they asked, ‘why are you crying?’

‘I’m not an oval, I’m an egg. My name’s George.’

‘Why of course you’re an egg. I’m Axl.’ Then after a pause where George continue to cry large droplets which fell down into the creek bed and which, Axl supposed, must have been what formed the puddle, they asked again, ‘Why are you upset?’

‘It’s because of Humpty Dumpty’s wall,’ George said.

‘Humpty Dumpty? You mean from the rhyme?’ And Axl recited it:—

‘Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall;

Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

All the king’s horses and all the king’s men

Couldn’t put Humpty together again.’

‘That does sound somewhat like it,’ George said sniffling, ‘Only you’ve got the words wrong. It should be:—

‘Humpty Dumpty sat on his wall;

Humpty Dumpty would never fall.

All of his donkeys and all of his men

Wouldn’t need to put anything together again.’

‘That doesn’t sound at all right,’ Axl said, ‘What happened to the king?’

‘He sat on the wall. It’s in the first line.’

‘Well why does his wall make you cry?’ Axl asked.

‘Because my family and friends are on the other side of the wall and I cannot cross it.’

‘How did you used to cross the wall?’

‘There didn’t used to be one,’ George said, ‘And besides, I lived on what is now the other side of it.’

Turning round, Axl saw a massive wall built along the floor of the creek. ‘It must be twenty-five meters high!’

‘I should think it larger than that,’ George said somberly.

‘Wait here, I’ll go and see if there’s something to be done about it.’

Scampering down the bank, Axl ran to the far edge of the wall which was still under construction. There was seen the strangest sight in perhaps all of their life. A great number of eggs were working with donkeys to set bricks. The donkeys all wore suits, which had gotten filthy from the dirt of the bank and the dust of the bricks. The eggs were stranger still. On either side of each egg, and atop their heads, were pieces of construction paper pasted onto them which gave them a strange pseudo-cube shape.

‘Excuse me,’ Axl asked one of the eggs.

‘Very well,’ the egg said and continued working.

Axl stood a moment, then turned to one of the donkeys. ‘May I speak to you?’

‘What an intriguing question!’ the donkey exclaimed. ‘What do you think, Marge?’

‘Hmm, it does need consideration. What do you think, Karl?’ Marge replied.

‘I think,’ Axl said interrupting, ‘That I may speak with you.’

‘Now that’s just conjecture,’ Karl said.

‘I was wondering,’ Axl pressed on, ‘What exactly you are doing here.’

‘That I can answer,’ Karl said assuredly, ‘We’re building Humpty’s wall.’

‘We’re surveying it,’ Marge corrected, putting down a wheelbarrow of bricks.

‘Yes, surveying it,’ Karl said, mixing cement. ‘We’re surveying the proposed building site.’

‘You’re building it right now,’ Axl said. ‘Look, you’re both adding bricks to it.’

‘Not at all!’ said Marge. ‘We’ve yet to even vote on the wall you silly—’ Here Marge stopped arranging the bricks and stared at Axl. ‘What exactly are you?’

Axl froze. ‘I… I’m’ their heart was pounding and a dizziness was setting on. ‘I’m…’ They bolted past Marge and Karl, leaping over the low unfinished portion of the wall and sprinting up the opposite bank. ‘You ca’n’t cross!’ an egg shouted after. Ignoring the incredulous screams coming from behind, Axl bounded over the top of the bank and carried right on through a field of bright green grass until there was no more breath left to carry on any further. ‘Stupid, stupid!’ Axl admonished themself harshly, ‘All I had to say was “My name’s Axl and I’m a… I’m a:”—ohhhhh’ Axl moaned, casting down onto the grass. ‘What am I to do now? I surely ca’n’t go back the way I came, but I need to see about that sad egg.’ They thought for a moment. ‘I shall just keep heading the way I was until I meet someone I can ask for directions.’ Thus resolved, they set forth at a determined pace. However, the strangest thing occurred. Not more than twenty minutes had past when Axl came up against the wall again. ‘I was sure I had been heading away from it. I shall just have to turn around and go back the other way.’ But again, after not very long at all, they were back up against the wall! ‘Stop following me!’ they shouted, running away again. And again the wall appeared, looming tall and ominous, it stared down with judgemental eyes and said in a deep voice, ‘You do not belong.’ Axl whirled around, preparing to take off, but slammed headlong into an egg.

‘My goodness!’ the egg exclaimed, ‘You might have cracked me!’

‘I apologize,’ Axl said getting up from a bed of daisies which they fell into.

‘I should hope so,’ the egg said. ‘Now where were you off to in such a hurry?’

‘I was trying to get back to my friend at the creek, only—’

‘The creek?’ said the egg, much agitated, ‘Why would you go to such a dangerous place?’

‘What’s dangerous about it?’ Axl asked.

‘South of the creek is where the Penedesenca Eggs live.’ said the egg matter of factly, as though that explained everything. ‘I myself am on my way to be shaped,’ the egg continued proudly. ‘Your shape seems a bit off as well, now that I examine it closely. Perhaps you would care to join me?’

‘All right,’ Axl said, supposing that they might learn something helpful about the wall. ‘But I ca’n’t stay long, my friend is waiting for me.’

‘Excellent,’ and with that the egg, whom I forgot to mention was Meredith, walked up to the wall and rapt on the bricks. All at once the blocks gave way revealing a door, inside of which was a passage and a long staircase which led to the top of the wall.

Stunned, Axl said, ‘It’s hollow.’

‘Why of course it is,’ Meredith replied, ‘How else would we go up to the top if not from inside the structure?’

Climbing the steps together Axl asked, ‘Why be atop the wall anyway?’

‘It’s where all the good eggs go, everybody knows that.’

‘Is that why it was built?’

‘You certainly ask a lot of questions,’ Meredith said annoyed. ‘One should be careful about overindulging. The wall was built to maintain order. Before everyone was all jumbled up together, then Humpty proposed we should get organized and tidy. It’s what he ran his campaign on.’

‘And people voted him to be king?’

‘Most did not,’ Meredith said. ‘It’s a good thing he won the election anyway.’

Now coming to the last stair Axl and Meredith exited onto the wall. Looking out from that vantage point, Axl saw that there was not one wall, or two walls, but eighteen all laid out in an eight by eight grid. It was all called ‘the wall.’

‘Isn’t it grand?’ Meredith said.

All along the wall, which were very narrow, were buildings and constructions of all kinds. Just ahead an enormous building balanced atop the wall with its sides spreading out maybe twenty meters in either direction. That was the house of parliament, Meredith explained. Axl needed to be silent when passing through so as to not interrupt their session. One could not go around the building, as the wall only ran in one of two directions, except where it intersected and ran in two more, but one always arrived in the same place as the wall was a closed circuit. Inside of parliament there were donkeys on the left and a great many more eggs on the right, all jittering about as traffic passed between the bisected building. Despite being used to hardships related to passing, Axl fared no better in navigating past opposing traffic. The wall was so narrow it allowed only the smallest margin by which to move by one another. It was even harder for Meredith, whose round shape made keeping balance almost impossible. ‘That’s why we need to get shaped.’ she explained.

As Meredith dealt with quite the commotion, the result of another round egg having tipped over and rolled along several desks belonging to members of parliaments—‘Why we need to be shaped!’ Axl could hear her yelling from amongst the commotion—a donkey named Eustace leaned over and asked, ‘Could you stand a bit more to the other side?’

‘Certainly,’ Axl responded, stepping over a few paces. ‘Why must I though?’

‘There’s a very careful balance in parliament which must be maintained,’ Eustace said, ‘Ca’n’t have too many on one side or there’d all be a mess.’

Axl looked from side to side, examining parliament. ‘You say it must be balanced?’

Eustace nodded.

‘And does each member only vote once?’

‘Indeed,’ Eustace said.

‘Then why are there many times the number of eggs as there are donkeys? That’s not balanced at all.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Eustace quipped, ‘There must be more eggs for parliament to be even.’

‘How so?’ Axl asked.

‘You really know nothing of government at all,’ he scoffed. ‘Donkeys may weigh upwards of thirty-five stone, whereas eggs are as light as fifty grams. That is why there must be a standard four thousand four hundred forty-five eggs per donkey to keep parliament balanced so that it doesn’t tip over.’

Before Axl could tender a response, Meredith scurried them on and out the building, saying, ‘Must be getting on now. Oh, there’s Humpty now!’

Just outside parliament, sitting on the wall, was Humpty Dumpty. He had a small, bunched up mouth and beady eyes which squinted down on at the ground below. He was shaped entirely like a cube.

‘Humpty!’ Meredith greeted.

‘Ah Meredith, good to see you, good to see you. Glad you could make it, very important you know, all the good eggs—having a wonderful time you know—all the good eggs are making their way up. I knew it would be a success, the wall—best wall by far, that’s what they all say, all the good eggs you know—I knew it would be a success. Nobody builds walls like me.’ Humpty carried on like this for sometime, until he took notice of Axl. ‘Ah, a newcomer I see! Everybody wants on the wall. We’ll have to make sure you’re good you know—safety is very important, I’m always looking out for safety aren’t I? Everyone agrees—that’s why we’ve got to separate the good eggs from the bad you know. Now Meredith, which shape will you be going with?’

‘I’ve given it a great deal of thought, Humpty,’ Meredith said, ‘And I think shape number two should suit me the best.’

‘An excellent shape Meredith, excellent shape. My second favorite. Almost went with it myself you know.’

‘Pardon me—’ Axl said.

‘I suppose I can,’ Humpty said.

‘What I meant was—’ Axl began.

‘I knew very well what you meant!’ Humpty said excitedly, ‘And don’t go trying to say that I didn’t. I’m very good at meaning out words, why just the other day—one of my strongest suits—just the other day I was reading a law about about railways which said: “The king may authorize the creation of railways for essential national interests provided there be a parliamentary approval of budgets.”’ Here Humpty nodded to himself very satisfactorily.

‘And?’ Axl asked.

‘And what?’ Humpty asked offendedly.

‘What about the law?’

‘You ask a lot of questions you know,’ Humpty said, ‘Not one of those troublemakers are you? They’re always—I tried to work with them. Nobody’s more willing to compromise than me—always trying to trip me up in their schemes. Well the law you know, when I read it I said: “Well what are railways but horizontal platforms? Vertical railways, that’s what we need. No reason a railway couldn’t be built upwards. And national interests, really only a king can determine what is of interest to a nation. And parliamentary approval of the budget, that of course does not apply when someone else is paying for the rails.”’

‘Who’s paying for it?’

‘Parliament,’ Humpty said soundly.

Just then Meredith came back from being shaped. Shaping, Axl found out, was when the eggs were put into one of two compression machines which squared off their sides making it easier for them to sit on the wall. ‘Isn’t it marvelous!’ Meredith exclaimed. ‘I can balance much better now.’

‘Very excellent, very excellent. Now then,’ Humpty said turning to Axl, ‘Which shape will you be having?’

‘I don’t think I’ll have either.’

‘You don’t mean that you’re happy with that shape?’ Meredith put in.

‘Well…’ Axl looked down at their body; the body which was supposed to fill out the dress they’d worn earlier; the changing body which more and more allowed others to confidently label them as:—‘I don’t want either of the shapes you have.’

A veneer dropped from Humpty’s face. ‘You wo’n’t stay on the wall without one of them.’

‘Then I wo’n’t stay,’ Axl said crossing their arms, ‘I need to get back to George at the creek anyway.’

Humpty’s face shrunk and twisted with rage until it looked like it might fall in on itself.

‘Lies! Treason!’ he screamed, stomping up and down. ‘I want that, that shapeless thing off my wall! Throw it off!’

For a brief moment panic seized Axl, but this gave way to a rapid succession of thoughts on what action to take. ‘Backwards, through building, down stair, gone,’ was what Axl’s mind ran. Pivoting on their heel, Axl moved back along the wall as fast as they could, which was no easy feat given that Humpty’s furious stomping was shaking the entire structure. Coming to parliament, there was chaos. Its members were frantically dashing from one side to the other trying to keep it level as it wobbled on the shaking wall. Axl ran through it all, being careful to dodge the flying eggs the donkeys threw to one another to quickly adjust the weight on each side.

Out the other side, Axl went into a full sprint as a party of eggs pursued. In the best conditions the wall could fit two eggs abreast, and these were not the best conditions. The round eggs especially were having a time of things. ‘Why we need to be shaped!’ Axl heard a shrill voice yell from behind.

Coming to the stairwell, Axl all but slid down it and once in the passageway slammed against the inside wall and tumbled out the other side. The sounds of pursuit still came. Splashing through thick mud, they took cover behind some dying hedges and waited. There came the sound of murmuring voices from the base of the wall, then cruel laughter. While waiting to be sure the eggs had gone, Axl looked round. This was not the field from which they had entered the wall. ‘I must have gone out the other side by mistake,’ they said. Stretching out behind them was a wasteland. The thick mud spread out in congealed pools, suffocating the flowers which seemed to have once grown here; craters pockmarked the land as far as Axl could see.

After waiting several minutes, Axl slowly rose from cover and approached the wall. They were going to find the door, cross the other side, then cross again to the creek. Feeling the wall, they checked for anything. A button, a groove, a handle or knob—there was nothing. Axl began to tug at the brick seams, then push all their weight against them; nothing. ‘I’m trapped,’ they muttered. ‘I’m trapped!’ they cried. Sinking down to their knees, covered in that awful mud and surrounded by the corpse of a garden, they began to sob.

A gentle hand placed itself on Axl’s shoulder. ‘Are you all right?’ a voice asked.

Turning their head, Axl looked up into the soft eyes and concerned face of a snowball. ‘Let me get that for you,’ the snowball, whose name was Mabel, said. And taking a small piece of snow from her body she dabbed Axl’s eyes and cheeks. The cold felt wonderful on their puffy eyes and their tears leapt from their face to be with the snow. Axl’s face now quite dry, and them giggling a bit, Mabel placed the snow back on her body and helped Axl to their feet.

‘Thank you,’ Axl said.

‘You’re welcome. But why are you here crying all alone?’ she asked. ‘If one is going to cry, one should do it with friends.’

‘I was trying to find the door to get the other side of the wall,’ Axl explained, ‘only I couldn’t find it.’

‘I am sorry to tell you this, but that door only opens from the inside. You ca’n’t go back that way.’

‘But I need to get to the creek!’ they exclaimed.

‘Here now,’ said Mabel , ‘We shall go and speak with Connor. I am certain he can help you.’

At first look one might not have known Mabel to be a snowball, given the mud and waste which had accumulated on her, but she was indeed that. Now wading through the mud with Axl she became even filthier, but was no less the snowball for it.

Not far away they found Connor, an icicle, who greeted them cheerfully.

‘Connor, do you suppose you could help this one get to the creek?’

‘Absolutely!’ Connor exclaimed. ‘I can take you this moment.’

‘But how?’ Axl asked. ‘The door won’t open.’

‘I’ve chiseled a hole in the wall, you see,’ Connor said, ‘You can crawl right through.’

‘But I don’t understand, if you’ve made a hole, why are you two still here?’

‘We could never leave without all the other snow and ice folk,’ Connor said, ‘And if we were to all leave together, why we’d just be rounded up again and put back here. I made the hole just to be able to visit with my dear friend, George.’

‘But that’s who I’ve been trying to get to this whole time!’ Axl yelled with joy. ‘I found him crying, but then got separated.’

‘Are you the one from the puddle-world then?’ Connor asked. ‘Why, you’re the very first thing George told me about when I saw him.’

‘Is he all right?’

‘As all right as one can be, given the circumstances. He was very grateful for your offer of help.’

‘Only I’ve not been able to do anything. I couldn’t help at all.’

‘Thank you all the same,’ he said. ‘Let me take you across and you can return to puddle-world.’

‘I ca’n’t leave you all though, there must be something I can do,’ they said.

‘We have always depended on the kindness of strangers,’ Mabel said with a forlorn smile, ‘But so long as the wall is there, I am afraid nothing can be done.’

This was not good enough for Axl. Something had to be done. ‘Why ca’n’t it be torn down?’ they asked.

‘I would surely break before getting far at all,’ Connor said, ‘And there aren’t enough icicles to do it. It’s just too big.’

Axl thought for a moment. ‘Have you seen Humpty get angry?’ they asked.

‘Often,’ Connor and Mabel said in unison.

‘When he got angry with me, his stomping shook the entire wall.’

The others, who had never seen Humpty atop the wall, as they were not allowed on it and could not see the top of it from the ground, took Axl’s word at this.

‘Suppose you make a hole in the wall right under where Humpty sits, and then I shall go back up and make him so angry that he will stomp the entire thing down!’

It sounded a marvelous idea to the others, and after pointing out that Humpty was just one side of the parliament building, which was large enough to see from the ground, Axl crawled through the hole to the creek as Connor began chiseling a new one.

Once on the other side, to Axl’s great relief, they found George.

‘George,’ Axl called, rushing over.

‘Why hello!’ George said. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d be coming back.’

‘I’m sorry, I got a bit lost.’

‘Then I am very glad you found yourself,’ George said.

‘I met Connor and Mabel. We made a plan to get rid of Humpty’s wall.’

Axl explained what was to be done as they walked along and the pair soon found the place where Axl had first crossed over. This portion of the wall was still incomplete, its construction having been significantly delayed due to the fact that Karl and Marge had fallen into an intense discussion about whether the stranger they had met could have crossed the wall despite the fore-egg’s clear exclamation of “You ca’n’t cross!” As they talked, Axl and George stepped across once more into the field.

‘Now there’s new evidence what needs consideration,’ Marge said.

The two experienced a bit of difficulty retracing Axl’s steps in the field, but did eventually locate the bed of daisies Axl had tumbled into before. From there they felt along the wall until happening upon a button which opened the door. In no time at all they were atop the wall.

Moving quickly along, Axl and George soon came upon Parliament. They at first feared that the members might impede them, but the members were too absorbed in a discussion as to whether the wall should have an official doctor. From the snippets they caught, the prevailing opinion seemed to be yes.

On the other side sat Humpty and Meredith, whose surprise at Axl and George quite disrupted their conversation about microwaves.

‘Come crawling back I see,’ Humpty said, ‘Well I’ll have none of you or that bad egg either.’

‘They ought to be put on trial,’ Meredith added.

‘Yes! Spies, that’s what you are,’ Humpty blustered, ‘You shall be sentenced at once!’

‘There hasn’t even been a trial, let alone a verdict,’ Axl protested. They were not actually trying to reason with Humpty, something they considered highly improbable, but wanted to draw him into an argument.

‘There ca’n’t be a trial, I’ve fired the Chief Crown Prosecutor!’ he boomed. ‘But there shall be a verdict! I say guilty!’

‘Excellently adjudicated,’ Meredith applauded.

‘Well I say we’re not guilty,’ Axl put in, ‘And in fact, I say that you’re guilty.’

‘That’s nonsense! Utter, complete rubbish!’

‘Why is it only nonsense when I say it?’ Axl asked.

‘Because I say so!’ Humpty screamed.

‘Who cares what you say. You’re nothing but a buffoon.’

‘Off my wall, you nasty, nasty thing you!’ Humpty screeched as he began to stomp furiously up and down. The wall shook violently, and though they could not see it, directly below a crack began out of the hole which Connor had just finished burrowing. Upwards and upwards it crept, splitting the brick, until it reached right under Humpty’s feet. Axl and George saw it and they watched as Humpty’s feet came down one last time. Crack! The brick crumpled beneath him, and then the brick below that, and the one below that. Humpty plummeted downwards, tearing through each layer until he smashed the entire foundation. This spread more cracks along the wall in every direction, and then those bricks began to break, which made still more cracks. In a moment all eighteen sections of Humpty’s wall were covered in fissures and crumbling to dust. As the portion which Axl, George, and Meredith stood on began to give way, the three fell down to the earth. Losing sight of the other two, Axl saw only the hard ground rapidly getting closer. They shut their eyes and waited for the inevitable. But Axl was not hurt.

They sat up from a pile a snow which had completely cushioned their fall.

‘Mabel?’ they asked.

There was no reply.

Sitting there, Axl surveyed the wreckage. Nearly every bit of wall was gone. The only part which remained was Karl and Marge’s, which they later decided would not make sense to finish. Not far away, Axl spotted Connor and George holding hands and walking towards them.

‘You’re all right!’ Axl said to George.

‘I am indeed! I rolled when I hit the ground.’

‘It’s a good thing that eggs are round,’ Connor said. ‘Speaking of which, Axl, could you please move?’

‘Of course,’ Axl said, getting up.

Connor leaned over and began to scoop the snow up and pat it into a ball. Mabel was back to her old self.

‘I would have said something,’ she said, ‘Only you landed on my mouth.’

‘Thank you so much for catching me.’

‘We have a lot of cleaning to do,’ George observed.

‘I could help,’ Axl quickly volunteered.

‘You’ve done so much already,’ Mabel said, ‘We can handle tidying up.’

‘I suppose I had ought to get home anyway,’ Axl said, ‘There are things there I should take care of.’

‘Always feel free to visit,’ Connor said, ‘We’ll certainly never let this wall be put together again.’

The four of them headed back towards the creek, where Axl said goodbye to three of them and three of them said goodbye to Axl. And stepping back into the puddle, Axl came up once again in the world they had come from. Gathering up their bike they set off towards home. ‘I need to talk to my parents,’ Axl thought.

The End.

#wrightfiction #short story #political allegory #lewis carroll

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thetakenpokemon · 6 years

Text

Act 2 - Blades United

[PoV: Valence]

“Anytime now.” I hear Richmond say.

“Oooh, I can’t wait~” Artemisia coos, although I’m thankful that for once she’s not fawning over me...her voice still makes me shiver in fear due to the potential of her suddenly turning her sights back at my form.

Today is the day when Rodrigo, Rinako, and Vedika arrive. It’s been several days since our...disaster of an encounter with that hybrid. We’ve all managed to heal up just fine since our injuries were thankfully relatively minor, but at the same time I still can’t stop thinking about what we could’ve done better.

That and I’m trying to ignore the fact that we technically had a near-death experience.

I look around the bus stop, sucking on a peppermint stick absent-mindedly. The various Pokemon here are most likely looking to go to some faraway town or whatever, that or meet some sort of family member or friend like we are.

The sounds of a vehicle make my ears flick, upon turning my focus to it I feel excitement well in my stomach as I see a large bus pulling in. With a loud hiss the giant vehicle slows to a stop, the larger than normal automatic doors sliding open in order to allow those within to exit.

The three of us watch with various levels of excitement as Pokemon of all shapes and sizes file out, waiting for recognizable faces.

And then they came.

Stepping out of the bus is the three other members of the Praxic Blades; Rodrigo, Rinako, and Vedika.

You can easily pick out Rodrigo due to him being a large Chesnaught, the normal greens replaced with faded gray. Besides a belt being one of his only articles of clothing, his face contains two vicious scars over his left eye...in which is covered by a black eyepatch.

Rinako however is a prime example of a hybrid between a Medicham and Bisharp. The Bisharp genes have given her a more slender (and rather shapely if I might add) look, as well as the noticeable ‘armored’ plates around her forearms and lower legs. Her red hair is tied in a long ponytail, the length stretching past her waist.

And Vedika...

...

I feel myself cringe greatly the moment my eyes full upon her.

Vedika however is something else entirely. She’s a Gothitelle with Jynx genes, possessing jet-black hair whose locks eventually shift into a distinctive blond color. Her clothing is also something else, the only words I can find is that she’s wearing a ‘warlock mesh suit thing’ along with a black cape. Don’t ask me why I described it that way, since looking up the name of what kind of clothing she’s wearing is the least of my priorities.

“Artemisia! Valence! Richmond!” Rodrigo laughs joyously. The large Chesnaught eagerly closes the distance and wraps his arms around the three of us, pulling us all into a tight hug. “I am very glad to see that all of you are perfectly fine!”

Now due to my shorter height, Rodrigo’s arms happen to be wrapped around my head instead of my back like that of my companions. The only sound I could make was a muffled cry of exasperation, in which apparently gone unheard.

“Goodness, Rodrigo!” Artemisia laughs. “We are more than fine, it takes more than a fight to keep us down after all~”

“Rodrigo, I think you should release them.” I hear Rinako suggest in an amused tone. “I don’t think Valence could last much longer.”

I feel the pressure on me release, followed by a great sense of relief. I quickly start gasping for sweet oxygen, never having appreciated it as much as I did then than I did now.

“Oh no! Is Vency alright?” I hear Artemisia shout, making me choke on the very air that I’m greedily gulping.

“N-NO! ALL GOOD!” I sputter, frantically waving my hands to fend off the arms of an Artemisia that’s attempting to pull me into her imprisoning embrace. “BREATHING FINE! VALENCE IS GOOD!”

“I see that Valence is just as pathetic as always.” Vedika comments with disdain.

After managing to fend the smothering menace off, I shoot a glare at the Gothitelle. “And I see that you’re still a brooding witch.” I shoot back, rather boldly at that.

Her eyes narrow ever so slightly as an almost maniacal smile forms on her lips, in which I quickly realize that I fucked up. “Witch?” She hisses through clenched teeth. “To call me a witch is to assume that I warp others with ghastly magic.” The air around her hands shimmer with a blackish aura. “If that’s what you believe me to be, perhaps I should solidify this statement of yours by-”

“Vedika, another time.” Richmond sighs, lifting his glasses in order to rub his eyes.

Thanks Richmond, glad that you’re stepping in to my aid now of all times. Not that I don’t appreciate it, but at the same time you leave me to Artemisia almost one hundred percent of the time.

A sudden growling noise makes us all pause, the distinct noise catching us all off guard. However when we turn our eyes to the source, our gaze befalls upon a rather flustered Rinako.

“I never realized you housed a beast inside your stomach.” Rodrigo comments humorously.

"In my defense,” Rinako quickly speaks up, her face taking on a noticeable shade of pink. “The last time we’ve eaten was five hours ago.”

“Five hours ago?” Artemisia gasps, placing a hand on her chest. “Well that simply cannot do! Come! I know a place that serves an excellent pizza!”

Out of all of us (besides Rinako), Vedika is the one that perks up the most. “Pizza?” She repeats, her normally scornful eyes now containing a certain eagerness that looks both adorable...and very unnerving.

“Yes!” Artemisia laughs, grabbing the Gothitelle’s hand and proceeding to drag her away. “They even make a mean Hawaiian, your favorite!”

Now, first of all...to grab Vedika’s hand like that and drag her is considered suicide since she can very well kill you in numerous horrible ways (and enjoy doing it too). But Artemisia? Not only is she unscathed, but the witch-warlock seems to not mind it in the least.

“Well? I can’t argue with pizza.” Rodrigo chuckles, following after them.

“Pizza...sounds very nice.” Rinako nods numbly, her lips curving upwards at the prospect of filling her currently ravenous stomach.

Richmond merely rolls his eyes and places his glasses back on his snout, following after the rest of them.

Me? Although I do follow after them eventually, the thought of Vedika loving pineapple on pizza is very...very believable.

Now I like sweet stuff, but NOT on pizza. That stuff is just evil, putting together two things that shouldn’t even mix. And Vedika loving that? It shows that she truly is a witch.

#valencezangoose #richmonddelphox #artemisiabisharp #rodrigochesnaught #rinakomedicham #vedikagothitelle #praxicblades #act 2-2 #plot

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snake-cutie · 7 years

Text

The Day I Became a Time Traveler And Introduced Merlin the Wizard to William Shakespeare

The started day started normal. I was out in the garden, taking care of my plants and flowers so I could eat later that day and me, being clumsy as always, I tripped over something and fell flat on my tush. I got back up, and as I looked down, I saw an odd, shiny amulet. It was oval shaped, and since it was kind of shiny, I bent down to pick it up. As I touched the faintly glowing, dark-crystal-blue, coppery object with strange, circular markings on it with what looked like bites taken out of the etched symbols, I felt a faint electrical shock run up my arm. It was a bit painful. Me, being the sane person that I am, I dropped it in shock.

I went to find a stick to pick it up. I pushed it, but of course couldn’t pick up the object with the stick. I looked at it curiously at all angles. It was a flat, oval object about the size of the bottom of a can of soda pop. It was surprisingly heavy – the stick couldn’t move it at all.

“What an odd and interesting amulet this is,” I thought. “Wait. Maybe it’s a locket. It looks like there are hinges on the side. I wonder if it can open.”

Curiosity got the best of me. So, ignoring the shocks of pain, I picked it up. Surprisingly, it was very light and not hard to open at all. I pried the two sides open and what did I see? Glowing, freely-swirling silvery-gold fine sand filled one side of the cavity.

I dipped two fingers into it, and to my surprise, it was deeper than I expected. In fact, I was able to dip my entire arm into it. What the …?

I pulled my arm out. The silvery-gold sand (pixie dust?) started glowing brighter than before. My arm felt a tad warm but no worse for the wear. The dust started making a chain, extending and moving out of and away from the amulet locket, up my arm, and around my neck where the two sides of the chain met in the middle behind my neck and clasped itself.

I started to panic when I couldn’t get it off. The chain wouldn’t come off my neck. The rest of the locket dust seemed to have a mind of its own and started swirling angrily around me. Like a tornado, swirling, swirling all around me, I felt like I got caught up into the wind storm and then started to free fall through the sky, down and down and down!

The only thought running through my brain was, “Oh, gosh. This is how I’m going to die!?”

So I started panicking even more.

Then all of sudden, it was over. I felt my body hit the ground. The dust stopped swirling around me. I could feel dirt and sticks under my body. I could feel the sunlight around me, but barely. I slowly picked myself up off the ground and sat up. I looked around me. I saw that yes, indeed, I was in what appeared to be a forest. But where?

It looked as if it was evening. Which I thought was odd because just a few minutes ago it was morning. I started getting up. I looked down.

“What the heck? Why am I wearing a dress?”

It was a very medieval dress: long, flowing, in a style and material that was better quality than a servant’s but lower than a queen’s. It was a dark indigo blue, the same color as the locket.

That’s when I noticed that I was still wearing the oval amulet. I looked down at it and held it up. It didn’t give me a shock or anything, which I thought was odd. But I was hungry so I decided to think about the amulet later and decided to walk toward the direction where I thought there might be civilization. And where the people spoke English, of course.

I walked and walked and walked for what felt like miles along the side of a stream, pushing bushes out of my way and climbing over rocks. After what felt like hours, I heard a haunting howl. Wolves? Here? Oh dear! I stopped in my tracks. It was almost dark. I sort of panicked. It was close to night. The wild animal might smell me. Fight or flight set in. So I booked it, running as fast as I could, trying to put distance between me and the inhuman noises behind me. I ran and ran and ran, gasping for breath until … I hit hard against something and felt on my back. I screamed as loud as I could.

“Quiet, girl. You’re going to wake up the entire wilderness if you keep screaming like that.” It was a quiet but fierce whisper. A man’s voice. Young? Old? I couldn’t tell.

I clamped my mouth shut, shaking with fear. I gathered all the Gryffindor courage I could muster, and I looked up.

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Who would’ve thought?

“Lancelot?” I asked. “What the heck are you doing out here?”

“Milady, I do not know what you mean,” said the brave and handsome knight. “What are you doing out here alone, without any guards to protect you?”

“Oh …” I stammered. “Well, you see, sire, Merlin and I decided to play a game with some of the village children and teach them how to play ‘Hide and Predator.’ I guess I hid too well and they couldn’t find me. I guess they gave up and decided to go home.” I am such a liar.

“Well then, milady,” said Lancelot, “I guess I should take you back to Camelot where you will be much safer than in the forest and Merlin won’t have to worry about you anymore.”

He guided me to his horse and we rode to Camelot, and he took me back to a young version of Merlin. Which is how I met Merlin, who was still a little bit older than me and not yet the famous wizard. (But of course I didn’t tell Lancelot that.)

Very quickly, Merlin and I became fast friends, and nobody seemed to think it was odd that a princess and a man servant could become friends. Heck, I didn’t even know I was a princess at that time.

I did tell Merlin one afternoon that I knew he was a wizard and I reassured him that I would not tell anyone else that I knew this – because I knew that he wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.

“What do you mean by ‘secrets’?” he asked.

“Heh, heh, well, you see, Merlin,” I said, “I’m not really from this world.”

“What do you mean by ‘not from this world’?” Merlin was very puzzled.

“Well, you seeee … I picked up this locket,” I pointed down at it, “while I was gardening, and somehow it took me to this parallel universe where you are really quite real.” I chuckled nervously.

“Where I’m ‘real’? So you’re saying that there’s a reality where I’m not real?” Merlin shook his head. “So you’re saying that magic brought you here?”

I nodded.

“And you expect me to believe that,” he scoffed.

“Well yeah. Because it’s the truth,” I said impatiently.

“I don’t believe you.” He reached out to grab the locket.

“Don’t touch it, Merlin!” I yelled, but it was too late. Right as he touched it, blue-gold dust started swirling around us angrily, just as angrily as it had the first time I had opened the locket.

Merlin and I swirled around and around in a tornado wind, rising and spinning off the ground.

Panic flashing in his eyes, Merlin yelled above the wind, “What is going on?! What is happening?!”

Me, feeling extremely sarcastic because it was his fault that this was happening to us, started singing, “Let’s do the time warp agaiiinnnnnn!”

Just as he was starting to say something, we both crashed onto the ground in a pile, him landing on me. Which was quite uncomfortable, if you ask me. “Ooomph!”

“Zounds, forsooth and by Saint Mary!” exclaimed a low and startled voice. “What? When? How? How didst this come to be and who art thou?”

Merlin and I looked at each other.

“I, I, I cannot say, for I do not know the answer meself,” Merlin stumbled. “And where are we, pray sir?”

“Thou art in my study,” came the amused reply. “Where dost thou think thou art?”

“This isn’t Camelot, that much is certain,” Merlin said, untangling himself from me, shaking and dusting off his clothing as he stood up.

“Camelot, my man? Tell me more.”

I stared at the stranger and stood up quickly. I took in the man’s appearance. The pointed beard. The twinkly eyes. By golly, even the earring. And those clothes … could it be?

“You’re, you’re … You’re William Shakespeare!” I gasped.

The man stood up from his desk. “Aye, that I am. And how, pray tell, might thou knowst me?”

“Well, you see … it’s quite a long story, Mr. Shakespeare,” I said shyly as the blood rushed to my cheeks.

“Eh, a long story, you say?” Mr. Shakespeare smiled at Merlin and me. “I do love a good story. Pray tell, would you tell it over supper? I am quite hungry and you two look quite famished yourselves.”

“Are you sure, Mr. Shakespeare? We wouldn’t want to take up any of your time.”

“We? What do you mean by ‘we’? You seem to know him quite well already. I’ve barely just met the man. Somebody please tell me what is going on!” exclaimed Merlin.

“Oh, all right, if you insist,” I said, glaring back at Merlin. “Mr. Shakespeare, this is Merlin the future famous wizard of Camelot and the Knights of the Round Table. Only Prince Arthur doesn’t know it yet. Merlin, this is Mr. William Shakespeare, who will someday write lots of plays and become so famous that the Queen of England will come to watch them and people all over the world will study him and know about his works for hundreds of years. Sorry about all the spoilers, Mr. Shakespeare. Afterall, all the world’s a stage and all the people are the players.” I bowed theatrically to both men and grinned. (Okay, I really smirked like I knew everything that that the men were going to do. Because I did. Not that the men liked that.)

“You two can discuss your lives over supper,” I added. “Shall we be off to the tavern, or wherever you take your suppers, Mr. Shakespeare? It’s been a long day, and I’m quite famished, thank you very much.”

The two men stared at each other and then at me. And off we went to the tavern for bread and a pitcher of ale.

And that is how I introduced Merlin to William Shakespeare.

How Merlin got back to his timeline and how I returned to mine, using the dark-crystal-blue, coppery amulet-locket with strange, circular markings on it with what looked like bites taken out of the etched symbols – and how that forever changed my interest in history and literature – is, well, another story for another time. I guess you’ll have to come back and see me again, dearies.

#merlin #william shakespeare #doctor who #time travel #long post #my writing #was a descriptive essay for English in highschol

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cosmicsnowcryptid · 7 years

Text

Remains to be Seen

Thank you for the 900 followers, lovely owlets. As promised, I wrote you a little something. Actually, well, a lot of something. It’s incredibly long.

I had you vote on who you’d like me to write about- The Host or Darkiplier- and… well, you’ll see.

While this is a reader insert, it is pure angst, featuring lots of blood. There is no romance or fluff. Not even close. I actually had to go through and rewrite a portion of it, because it was way too dark, even by my standards. (That’s really saying something, too. Oops.) It’s still incredibly dark, actually. So, you know, apologies in advance.

This is not a happy story, because the entities you are dealing with do not live happy lives.

Enjoy.

You don’t trust him. You don’t trust any of them.

But you don’t have a choice.

Not anymore.

The feeling of your hand gently rapping against the door is a comforting one. There’s nothing particularly special about the door itself, except for the fact that it exists; in this place, a place of void and shadows, anything truly tangible is a welcome relief.

“Come in,” a voice calls. You swallow back your fear and walk inside, silently willing your legs to stop shaking. Whatever’s in there can’t be any worse than what’s out here.

When you had questioned the others, all four gave the same description: a man with no eyes, one who lived in self-exile in the darkness. You expected to encounter something equally as horrifying as the man you were now trying to escape, the one who could warp and twist the world around you in flashes of red and blue, filling your skull with a piercing ring and your mind with thoughts that weren’t your own. What you weren’t expecting was... this.

“Please close the door behind you.” His voice is gentle and clear. “I don’t want the warmth to escape.”

You nod once, stupidly, before realizing he can’t see you. A blush creeping up your cheeks, you quietly murmur an “okay” and shut yourself in the room.

The bookshelves around you are stuffed to the brim, books stacked haphazardly upon each other and in piles along the floor. This should make the already small space feel constricting, but instead it’s oddly cozy. The warm lighting and earth tones in the room make your shoulders relax instinctively. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say that you feel… safe.

“Would you like to introduce yourself, or would you like me to do it for you?” His head tilts up to meet your gaze, and you find yourself grateful that he’s wearing clean, neat bandages.

“I’m not… I don’t know what you mean.” You admit.

A soft smile graces his lips. “You can tell me what you look like, or I can see for myself. Whatever makes you feel more comfortable.”

“Um.” You look down at yourself, suddenly self-conscious. “You can see.” You say, although you still don’t understand what that means.

Almost immediately, his voice slips into a lower, more even rhythm, as if reading from a script. “The Host studies the stranger standing before them, trying to read their facial expression.” His words become increasingly quieter until you can hardly decipher them. You pick out a few- something about height, the anxiety in your eyes, the shape of your lips, possibly. After a moment, his voice picks back up.

“...realizes that the visitor is uncomfortable and straining to hear. The Host offers his apologies, explaining that his narration was only for his benefit, to understand what the stranger looks like, and he didn’t know that they would want to hear. He shares with them that there is no reason to be afraid of admitting that they didn’t know what was happening, and they are always welcome to ask him if they are confused. The Host gestures to the chair in front of the desk, offering it to the stranger, before he slips out of his narration.”

You blink hard and take him up on his offer, settling into the plushness of the chair in front of you. “...Oh.” is all you can think to say.

“I hope that didn’t startle you. I know that can be a little unsettling at first.” He rests his hand on the book in front of him, gently brushing his finger over the raised dots on the paper before closing it softly.

Softly, softly, softly. Everything he does, everything about him, seems soft.

“No, it’s okay.” You insist quickly. “I just didn’t know what you meant. They didn’t tell me much about you. They made you sound like some sort of… oracle or something.”

“That’s not entirely off-base. Just a little more ominous than I’d like. I can only see things as I say them, but my voice can outpace events. It’s a bit of a trade-off, you see. Talking like this, I am in the dark, both literally and metaphorically. I don’t know what will happen or what is happening around me, unless it’s something one of my other senses can help me understand. When I’m narrating, however, I see more than I ever could when I had my vision. It comes with the curse of always being a few seconds away from the present. You can see how that would be…”

“...anxiety-inducing.” You finish his sentence without entirely meaning to. He gives one short nod.

“I was going to say ‘isolating’. But that works as well.”

You look down at his desk, studying the items on display to avoid looking at his face any longer. There is too much sadness there, too much grief, and knowing that you can’t do anything about it makes your heart ache. Although he is technically one of them, you get the sense that he feels almost as trapped in this place as you do.

He pushes aside the recording microphone that rests in the middle of the desk in order to fold his hands on the table. “I assume you’re here for a reason.”

“I… yes. I am. I need your help. They said you help people.” You feel an unusual pang of guilt in your heart, wondering if anyone ever visits Host simply to provide him with company.

“Who are ‘they’?”

“They…” You frown. “The four. The ones that answer your questions. They’re the only ones who will talk to me here. I think… I think they have to, though. I asked them for help, and they told me they couldn’t, so I asked if they knew someone who could.” Almost as an afterthought, you add, “I think one was called Oliver. I’m not sure about the others.”

The Host leans back in his chair a bit, giving a small sigh. “Let me guess. ‘A man with no eyes, self-exiled into the darkness, beyond the shadows but not beyond their reach.’ Am I close?”

“That’s… exactly what they said, actually. It seemed a bit cryptic considering how concise they were about everything else.”

The sound of his quiet laugh is not exactly bitter, but is lacking any semblance of joy. “It’s not their fault. That’s the only description they have in their database, and I can’t exactly blame them for that.” He clears his throat. “Now, I would very much like to help you. I will let you explain the situation yourself, but if you need help at any point, I can narrate for you. Does that sound alright?”

You let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding, letting yourself melt a little more into the chair. This is a safe place. I have someone on my side now. I’m not alone.

“That sounds wonderful. So… um, I don’t know exactly how you can help me. If you can help me. But I need to get out of here. I just want to go home.”

He absently nods, considering your words. “That shouldn’t be too difficult to arrange. I don’t know why no one else was willing to help you. It’s unusual for someone to end up here on accident, but it’s happened before. I don’t know why they sent you to me instead of guiding you back themselves.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence as you shift in your seat. “Well, it wasn’t really an accident.”

Host’s entire body suddenly tenses up, his fingernails digging into the fabric of the chair. “...How did you get here, then?”

The anxiety radiates from him in waves, disrupting the serene feel of the study. Your heart drops as the feeling of safety leaves you all at once. “I- um. I don’t remember the details. It’s a bit fuzzy, with, um…”

Your stuttering is interrupted by his narration voice, still smooth, but a bit more strained than before. “The stranger can’t recall all of the details of the event, and the Host, riddled with anxiety, takes over the conversation for a moment. If he prods the stranger, he will find out the details they do remember. They recall only bits and pieces of the situation leading up to their arrival here. Desperation, pain, the smell of smoke. They remember crying. They remember faces, blurs of motion. A scream. It may have been their own.”

“Host?” You slowly begin to rise from your chair, alarmed at the increasing intensity of his words, feeling a twist in your gut as your memories are recounted in front of you.

“The stranger tries to cut him off, deciding not to reveal any more of their memories, but it’s too late. The Host has already seen the diverging paths, the way the future may have gone, and he has heard their story. He knows.” His breathing speeds considerably, and your hand hovers in midair, as if to touch his shoulder. He moves out of the way before your arm is even in motion, pulling his chair back sharply and raising his voice.

“He knows what the stranger has done. He has seen the paths that the future may have taken, and he has seen the one where all is revealed. He cannot help the stranger. He will not help the stranger. They must leave immediately.”

You pull back, stepping around the chair as if to put something in between the two of you. “Host, what happened? What’s wrong? What did I do?”

“THE STRANGER KNOWS EXACTLY WHAT THEY DID.” He shouts, hands balling into fists. “And if the Host had known, he would not have allowed them entry. The Host cannot undo what the stranger has done. The stranger has made a deal with Dark, one that they did not uphold, and that is why they have been brought to this place. The stranger wants the Host to cross Dark, to help them get away, and the Host would not help someone escape a deal with Dark. The Host would never disrespect Dark. The stranger must leave, now.”

Your eyes widen as you watch his trembling figure, and all at once, you realize what is happening.

“The Host begs the stranger not to ask.” His voice is now a whisper.

But it’s too late. The words have already left your mouth. “Host, why are all the lights on in here?”

He takes a shallow, ragged breath and backs away from his desk until his back is pressed against the wall. You begin to back away, too, one hand in front of you as if for protection, the other behind to search for the doorknob.

“Host?”

No reply. You hesitate for a moment, watching his face pale and his knees wobble dangerously. You can’t leave him like this, can you? Your self-preservation instincts scream at you to turn and run, but he looks so… vulnerable.

“The Host insists one last time-” He begins, voice breaking on nearly every other syllable.

“Host.”

“The Host can’t breathe. The Host is terrified. The Host is begging, please, please, please. The stranger will get in trouble. The Host will be hurt again. Please, please, please.”

“Host, what did he do to you?” Your hand brushes against the doorknob, but you don’t make a move to leave.

“You don’t know what he’s capable of, he tells the stranger, he yells at the stranger, he SCREAMS TO THE STRANGER THAT THIS IS THEIR LAST CHANCE TO LEAVE.”

“Host, was he here? Did he hurt you?” And then, dread lacing through your veins, turning them to ice, you quietly add,

“We’re not alone right now, are we?”

Everything happens in slow motion.

The Host slides down the wall, gripping his knees to his chest and letting out a choked whimper. At the same time, you spin around and try to rip the door open.

The handle will not budge.

When you turn back to face him, another figure has placed themselves between the two of you, drenched in shadow and wearing a wolf’s grin.

“The Host is so, so sorry.” You hear him murmur. “He should have known why the stranger approached him. He should have narrated. He should have made the stranger leave. And now it’s too late. The Host is so, so sorry.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him,” the man in front of you says, waving a hand dismissively. “He can’t help but narrate when he’s upset. And he tends to get upset when I find out that he has tried to betray me, again.” He makes a soft tsk in the back of his throat and turns to regard the other man.

“What am I going to do with you, Host?” He sighs, weaving his hands behind his back and taking a few slow steps in the Host’s direction.

“The Host is so very sorry. He did not mean to betray Dark, but he did not want to watch another stranger get hurt in his room. The ringing in his head is growing stronger, and it hurts. It hurts so much. The Host wants nothing more than to make it stop. The Stranger is still standing by the door, but they are unable to move, no matter how hard they try. They have to watch, just as the other visitors have, just as the Host has had to watch so many times.” The words are barely more than whines.

“Have to watch what? What do I have to watch?” The words escape without your permission. Why won’t you move? Why can’t you move? Why won’t you help him?

“The Host has always had to watch. The Host has had to watch since he was the Author. The Host has had to watch Dark use him to get to other people, to hurt other people. Dark’s influence was so much stronger than the Author’s, and he filled the Author with hatred. Anger. A lust for blood. He made the Author destroy lives, and when he started faltering, when he was too weak and the characters could fight back, Dark showed him things.”

“That’s a decent summary.” Dark muses. He’s standing over the Host now, regarding him with a pleasant expression. “And what kind of things did I show you, Host?”

“Dark would take away his influence, release control of the Author, and then he would make the Author watch what he had done. He made the Author watch them scream, watch them writhe on the ground, watch them beg for death. Look at what you’ve done, Dark would tell the Author. This is what you wrote. This is what you do to people. How could you be such a monster? As the Host continues to tell the story, Dark removes the physical restrictions that were placed on the stranger, silently inviting them to step forward and watch.”

It takes you a moment to realize that he has switched back to the present, and you take a tentative step forward.

“A little closer, dear.” Dark invites. “No need to worry, I don’t bite. I want you to be able to see. Come and look.”

Your eyes flick between the two men. Although they have the same general features, the Host looks so much more… fragile. You bend down to his level, close enough that you can see the indentations in his bandages, the concave markings where his eyes once were.

“Good.” Dark whispers in your ear. You don’t know when he moved behind you- and, in fact, you don’t know when you moved so close to the Host. When did you take more than a single step at all?

“The stranger’s confusion is justified. Dark’s influence can make a person do things without their knowledge. It terrifies the stranger. It terrifies the Host, too. The Host begs the stranger to put the letter opener down.”

What?

As the words come out of his mouth, you become acutely aware of the sharp object in your hand. Why do you have it? When did you pick it up?

“The stranger is inching closer with the blade. The Host cannot fight back. Dark is smiling.”

You blink, and you’re suddenly holding the weapon inches from the Host’s face. You let out a gasp, one that turns into a shriek, and fling the letter opener across the floor, letting it skitter to a stop against Dark’s foot.

“What are you making me do?” You demand, standing abruptly and whirling on Dark.

He gives you a gentle pat on the shoulder and tilts his head, almost looking sympathetic.

“Host, do you remember when you were shot?” Even though his words are directed elsewhere, his eyes remain locked on you.

“The Host could never forget.”

“And I saved your life, did I not?”

“Yes. The Host is indebted to Dark. He owes Dark. Without Dark, he would be nothing.”

“But I saved it on one condition. We don’t have to get into the details. I’m sure our friend here doesn’t care about the ins and outs of our business deals. Let’s skip forward a bit, shall we? To the part where you broke our agreement. You had only one rule and you failed to keep it. And what was the punishment?”

Dark’s arm snakes around your waist and he shifts slightly, placing you side by side, facing the Host. His grip is firm, almost painful, and a violent shiver races up your spine.

The Host does not reply.

“Oh, come now. You’re an author, are you not? And we have a guest here who is patiently waiting to hear your story. You wouldn’t want to disappoint them, would you? So, let me ask again. What was the punishment?”

“The Host… struggles to narrate with-with the pressure. It hurts. The Host would b-be more understandable if Dark would s-stop the ringing in his head.”

Dark’s fingers dig into your side, keeping you from reaching for the tortured man on the ground. “I can understand you perfectly well. Tell our friend what the punishment was, and then I’ll consider helping you.”

Another long pause.

“...She was so kind.” The Host’s voice is almost inaudible. “She was kind to the Author. She understood what he had been through. She knew that he was only operating under Dark’s influence, and that he didn’t want to hurt anyone. He had never wanted to hurt anyone. And she knew. She was gentle, and she was patient, and she was so, so beautiful. The Author… he wrote so many stories about her after his abilities waned, after they no longer affected the world around him. He loved her. It’s impossible to put into words how much he truly, deeply loved her.” He wavers, and for a moment you think he may pass out. You want to wrap him in your arms, to stop the pain, to help him breathe.

But still you stand, doing nothing.

“And?” Dark urges.

“...And the Author killed her. Dark had saved the Author’s life, and the Author had broken his promises. He had tried to run away with the girl. So Dark got in his head, and he made the Author kill her. He stabbed her. He stabbed her over and over and when she wasn’t dead he strangled her and there was so much blood and she was screaming and the Author was screaming and there was so so much blood and then Dark, Dark made him watch, he made him watch it over and over and HE DIDN’T WANT TO SEE IT, HE DIDN’T WANT TO SEE IT EVER AGAIN, HE WANTED TO STOP SEEING IT BUT HE COULDN’T AND IT WAS THERE WHEN HE HAD HIS EYES CLOSED AND IT WAS THERE WHEN HE HAD THEM OPEN AND THEN HE GOUGED THEM OUT SO HE WOULD NEVER HAVE TO SEE IT AGAIN BUT THAT DIDN’T STOP IT, IT NEVER STOPPED and and and there is so, so much blood.” His nails dig into his face wildly, clawing at the bandages. “So much blood. So much.” He doesn’t seem to be aware that he is even speaking anymore, repeating the phrase until the words jumble together into an intangible babble. “Somuchbloodsomuchbloodsomuchsomuch.”

You thrash against Dark’s grip, throwing your arm out to the Host in a desperate attempt to latch onto him and pull his hands from his face. “You bastard.” You hiss. “Are you making him watch it again? You BASTARD. Let me GO. Host, listen. Listen, come back to me. It wasn’t your fault. You’re hurting yourself. Please stop.”

“It was his fault, though.” Dark purrs in your ear. “He made a deal, and he didn’t follow through. He clearly hasn’t learned his lesson yet, has he? Because when he found out why you were here, he tried to let you go. That sounds rather unrepentant, doesn’t it?” You can’t see his expression, but you can feel his amusement as you struggle, watching the blood soak through the Host’s bandages and streak his face like tears.

“And this,” he lightly grabs your wrist and uses your own hand to gesture to the Host, “is your fault.”

You stop thrashing.

How? You’re not sure if you say it out loud or not, but either way, he seems to hear you.

“I am a forgiving man. I brought you here to give you a second chance, another try at holding up your end of our deal. That’s a kind of mercy that no one else would ever offer you. And yet, I look away for one second and you try to betray me.” He gives a heavy sigh, laced with faux regret. “Instead of accepting my generosity, you tried to turn the Host against me. And now look what’s happened.”

The Host is on his side now, curled up in the fetal position, cradling his head between his hands.

“How could you do this?” Dark’s voice echoes in your mind. “He didn’t deserve this, did he? See, this kind of thing is why he’s hidden himself in this room, away from everyone. People like you are the reason he lives in fear. Just look at what you’ve done.”

“Th’host so sorry.” The man on the floor mumbles.

“He can’t even snap himself out of his narration. It’s pathetic. And look at all that blood. He was only trying to help.”

You sway a little, only being held up by Dark’s arm around your waist. The grip is no longer painful- it’s strong enough to keep you upright, but loose enough that you can feel how dangerously close to toppling you really are.

“Dark’s n the stranger’s head. He-his t-the shadows in their mind and his influence k-keeps them- k-keeps- he’s in their head n the stranger they know, they know and they can’t stop it. There was so much blood. The Host, he- he is so, so sorry. He knows the stranger doesn’t want to. He knows. B-but that doesn’t stop him from being afraid.”

“‘Doesn’t want to’ do what? Host, what don’t I want to do?” You feel Dark’s rumbling laugh against you as you struggle to speak.

“Look at that.” His voice is doubled, tripled, an entire jury condemning you at once. “After everything you did to him, he’s still trying to clear your conscience. It’s such a shame that you’d let this happen to him. What’s even worse is that, even after watching all of this suffering, it’s just not enough for you. You’re going to stab him, too. That’s just cruel.”

The letter opener is back in your palm. Your eyes drift in and out of focus. You try to drop the weapon. Your hand curls around it instead.

“The stranger pushes away from Dark’s grip and drops to their knees, hovering over t-the Host.”

The metal in your hand glints under the lights. It is cold. So cold.

“They run their h-hand over the Host’s side and push away his coat. Dark is smiling again.”

Your fingers brush against him, and through the fabric of his shirt, you can feel the scar tissue.

“The stranger wonders how many times this has happened to the Host. The answer is many, many times. The Host should have stopped trying to help his visitors long ago. He is lonely, though, so lonely, and he clings to the company they give him. The Host must learn that he cannot trust anyone. He should not trust anyone but Dark. The strangers, the visitors, they watch him suffer, they break him. And then Dark puts him back together.”

“I can’t believe you would do this.” Dark chides you. “He was the only one here who wanted to help you- besides myself, of course. This is heartless. You know that, don’t you? And yet, you’re going to do it anyway.”

“The Host is s-so, so sorry. He knows that the stranger doesn’t want to. He knows that Dark’s influence is making them do it, is keeping th-them silent. They want to scream, but all they can do is cry. They are trying to tell him something. Dark is not putting you back together. He is the one breaking you. Those are the words that are stuck in the stranger’s throat. But what they don’t understand is that Dark is doing both, and it is a mercy. He uses the visitors against the Host so that the Host can learn. If the Host stops letting them in, Dark will not need to use others against him.”

Dark claps once, the sound distorted and harsh. “I’m so proud of you.” His voice is velvet. “You learn more and more each time. Maybe this time will truly be the last.”

“I can’t do this.” You manage to force the words past your lips in an almost inaudible whimper.

He clucks his tongue. “You think much too highly of yourself.”

“The Host is so, so sorry. The stranger is, too. They run their hand along the side of Host’s face, softly, before sinking th-the blade…. His side, between his r- between his ribs… they twist. It hurts. H-hurts.”

His words trail off. They morph into a strange choking noise. A gurgling sound.

He is silent.

“Look at what you’ve done.” Dark is behind you now, twisting your wrists, forcing you to look at the palms of your hands. “If you had just done what I asked, this never would have happened. Do you understand why it’s so important to listen to me, now? Why you need to keep your end of the deals you make?”

You feel yourself nod, eyes locked on the blood dripping from your fingertips. Dark hums his approval. “Good. Now, let’s have you sit back down and we’ll talk about how you can make amends. If you’re willing to cooperate this time, we may not even have to make you see that again.”

Even as he says it, you know it’s a lie, because you’re still seeing it. You haven’t stopped seeing it.

The droplets snake down your palms and stain them scarlet. He says something else and you nod, not knowing what you’re agreeing to, but not particularly caring, either. All you care about is the steady drip, drip, drip of your sins falling from your hands.

It will never matter how many times you wash them, how you try to hide them, how clean they will look to everyone else.

To you, they will always have blood on them.

“And there is so, so much blood.”

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trbl-will-find-me · 7 years

Text

Darkness on the Edge of Town

Hello everyone! Welcome to life post-GRE for me. If you’ve left me prompts, I have not forgotten! Just wanted to get this out for Friday the 13th.

There is one lesson every kid knows that every adult has forgotten: here there be monsters.

Sally + Central. Pre- EEAE.

John Bradford has learned not to trust in human decency, that it is a concept wholly dependent upon the existence of civilization and its social contract, a concept that crumbles in the face of the impetus to survive.

So, no, literal white picket fences do not instill in him a sense of confidence.

There is a storm on the horizon, the low rumble of thunder filling the air with the promise of rain. The breeze ruffles the leaves of the trees and something stirs on the edge of the wind.

“It’s gonna be bad,” Sally says. “Can feel it in the air.”

“It’s the south in the summer, Magpie. This is what all storms are like.”

She shakes her head. “This feels different.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “You mean trouble.”

She nods. “Think so. Just a hunch.”

He casts a glance down the tree lined street. Officially, the town shouldn’t exist. They are still at least a day’s tree from the nearest haven, and several more outside of ADVENT territory. Still, he can’t dent the obvious signs of non-alien life.

Another roll of thunder sounds in the distance and he feels it in his chest. Sally fidgets with her braid, eyes fixed on the building clouds.

The odds of being struck by lightning are 1 in 3,000, he tells himself. But then again, the odds of losing the woman you love to alien invaders and being made to watch as everything you’ve ever worked for or loved is reduced to rubble are a hell of a lot lower and those events came to pass all the same.

Perhaps testing their luck is not the best idea.

Sally shifts from foot to foot, her eyes darting from heaven to earth and back again. Her hands fidget with the straps on her pack, in search of something to hold.

“I don’t like either of our choices here,” he says.

“How bad could it be? We made it past an ADVENT checkpoint last month. This doesn’t seem half as dangerous.”

“Houses, lights, electricity: this doesn’t seem odd to you?”

She shrugs. “I’ve got two dead people’s memories in my head. I’ve got a pretty forgiving definition of that word.”

He sighs. “Stay close.”

They’ve made it a few blocks into the town when they first notice the posters, faces staring out at them in silent accusation, wrapped around wooden telephone poles.

They’re new, maybe a few weeks to a few months old at most, written by hand and run off on a copy machine. They look like something out of the world that was, the world before the aliens, and a knot forms in his stomach. There are three or four different posters, each in its own distinct hand, with its own distinct face. An uncle, two children, a godmother, and a nephew are all among the lost.

The hair on the back of his neck stands on end as another, more insistent rumble passes through them.

“This a better fit with your definition of odd?”

She hugs her arms to her chest. “It’s definitely weird, but I don’t think it’s ADVENT. We’re easily 300 miles from the closest city center.”

“That’s what worries me.”

“It’s not gonna matter if we get caught outside when this storm breaks.”

A gust of wind picks up behind them, blowing the stray hairs from Sally’s braid in front of her face.

He tries to think of something glib, something funny. There’s no way she hasn’t picked up on his anxiety, on his concerns about this place. He wants to find something, anything, to reassure her, to reassure himself.

Lightning splits the sky ahead of them, and rain begins to fall. Maybe he should have taken the 1 in 3,000 odds.

–

They push further into town and the missing posters grow more abundant. They wallpaper poles, fences, front doors, and mailboxes. They stick out from storm doors. They flap in the breeze.

She does not see any people. More importantly, she does not feel any people.

She does not have her mother’s skill with the gift, and certainly not her father’s. She cannot wield it as a weapon, cannot wrap herself in it as a shield. How could she, when she has spent so much of her life learning to contain it. But she can listen. She can sense.

There is nothing here.

She holds to that, focuses on it.

Something flickers at the edge of her vision, and when she turns her head, the once immaculately manicured lawn of the house is now overgrown, the lights are off, and the shudders hang ajar.

She stops dead in her tracks and turns, surveying the rest of the street. The lamp poles still shown brightly down, but they now illuminate decrepit ruins and creeping decay.

Thunder booms overhead, the telltale sign of the storm’s approach.

“Central,” she says, voice beginning to shake. “Tell me you’re seeing this.”

“Seeing what?”

“This.”

“This is what towns used to be like.”

“You’re not seeing what these houses look like?”

“Magpie, I grew up on a street that didn’t look much different.”

“Shudders falling down? Doors ajar? Cracking sidewalks?”

He wrinkles his brow. “The hell are you talking about?”

“You don’t see it?”

Her heart begins to beat a little faster. She can feel something prod at her mind, and she tries to quiet her thoughts. She does not want to lose whatever small advantage she has.

“What?” “That,” she says, wrapping her hand around his forearm. “All of this.”

He blinks once, twice, and she can feel a slow wave of confusion emanating from him. “The hell?”

“You see it now, right?”

“Yeah, Magpie. I see it.”

The drizzle begins to gain strength.

“I don’t … I don’t think we should be here.”

“Until this storm passes, we don’t have much choice.”

“We could take our chances.”

“You and I have sucker’s luck. We’d both get hit.”

“Yeah, but this smacks of psionic bullshit,” she says. “And that scares me a lot more. Getting struck by lightning is one and done.”

“Very comforting.”

She shakes her head. “I’ll take a quick death over a slow one any day.”

“The fact that you’ve thought about that …”

“Oh, come on,” she says, quirking an eyebrow. “No way you haven’t.”

“I’m older.”

“And I’m pragmatic.”

Thunder cracks above them.

Sally feels something beginning to pull at her again, the same unknown force from earlier. She sees the world around her begin to distort again, melting back into the same façade of suburban perfection, and responds with a hearty mental shove. The street snaps back into sharp focus around her, and she feels the hair on the back of her neck begins to rise.

“Something’s here,” she says. “I don’t know what, and I don’t know who. But it’s not ADVENT.”

The rainfall graduates to a downpour, sticking her braid to her neck and threatening to soak through the outer lining of her pack. Every instinct she has tells her to get out, to leave while they still can.

“Can’t go on that long. We’ll let it pass and get back on the road.”

She really wishes she were strong enough to drag him out.

They push further towards the town square. Missing posters litter the ground, the sidewalks, the street. There are so many, more than she will ever be able to count. It doesn’t seem possible for so many people to have disappeared from one town. On the green, the gazebo’s roof has caved in, exposing rotted boards and disintegrating shingles.

“Why is this part of town okay?” He asks.

“You’ve got a funny definition of okay. Look at the gazebo.”

“So, it needs a new paint job.”

“And a new roof?”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s collapsed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“There!” She gestures.

“I don’t know what you’re —“

From the corner of her eye, she sees something advance.

“Central,” she says, cutting him off. “I’d love to have this conversation with you, but we have to get out of here.”

“In this? We’ll be walking into flooding.”

“Then let’s at least get out of the open, alright?”

“Agreed.”

–

He knows something is wrong. He doesn’t know what, but something is amiss. In the almost three years he has traveled with her, he has learned that Sally doesn’t spook without reason.

Yes, the town is empty, and that’s unsettling. The fact that everything looks as if it’s been perfectly preserved, left aside by a populace that’s collectively left for dinner, does, indeed, add another level of alarm. And yes, there are a lot of missing persons posters, but for god’s sake, it’s been fifteen years and he’s altogether too used to the sight of them to think twice.

But Sally? He can’t explain Sally. He can’t explain why her hand rests on the revolver at her side, readying it for a fight.

They’ve bunkered down in one of the houses off the green, their packs left by the door. Normally, she’d settle down; four solid walls and a roof tend to ease both of their minds.

Not today, though.

Outside, lighting splits a tree and she jumps. “Fils de pute,” she mutters.

“Language, Magpie.”

“You swear,” she retorts, wrapping her arms around herself.

“I’m older.”

“I might not get that chance.”

He glowers at her. “Don’t even joke.”

“Who’s joking?” She asks, her eyes darting around the room.

“Alright, I give up. What’s going on?”

“There’s something here,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “And it’s getting closer.”

“ADVENT?”

She shakes her head. “Worse.”

“Worse? You wanna elaborate?”

“You don’t see this place for what it is.”

“Magpie —“

Skinny fingers wrap around the exposed skin between his sleeve and his glove, flesh and bone and the metal of mismatched rings pressed against his wrist. His vision warps and distorts, as buildings stretch and squash like a fun house mirror, then snap back into shape. Something moves near the window behind Sally.

“See?” She asks, a frantic edge to her voice.

“How’d you do that?”

“That’s … it’s … something else is here.”

The lights flicker and her grip tightens. The world warps again and he can almost make out the gazebo, now ruined, before the perfect, empty vision snaps back into place.

Outside, the rain runs down the street in small rivers.

His head spins and he squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel a headache coming on, not a migraine and not a hangover and not withdrawal, but something else entirely.

“No, no, no, no, no,” someone says and he’s pretty sure that someone is Sally. Pretty sure, but by no means certain. The world feels wrong, slow and sepia, and there’s a nausea settling in his stomach. He knows he should get up, should find out who’s upset and what’s wrong and.

No. No no no. This is wrong. He knows this is wrong. 1 in 3,000 odds and they should have taken them. Quick death beats a slow one. The door bangs and he wants to yell, wants to remind her We live in a house, not a barn, Magpie.

A house. A house. What house? Low slung brick in the Kansas sun, sunflowers off the back porch. Bright brick and brighter shudders, a house with history, a house with ghosts, her ghost, her ghost on the floorboards, the floorboards that have probably rotted, could have, should have, don’t die wondering, her voice in his ear.

Magpie. Magpie. Little bird, little girl, gone. All gone. Young and small and vulnerable and shouldn’t have let her go, promises to keep, promises that can’t be kept, never could be. Little girl, flash of blue, make it quick for her, come for you next.

This is always how it ends. Can’t protect one; can’t protect the other. One dead and the other soon to follow, a whole army of ghosts to follow you down. Can’t fight, can’t win, surrender now, make it quick for her if you —

Not real, another voice comes in. Not real, not real, not real.

He can’t think, not well enough to place it, but it’s familiar. Not her, and not Steph, but there’s someone he’s forgetting. Someone who he can almost think of, whose name is on the tip of his tongue. Red hair and a flash of blue and.

Sally.

–

Not real, not real, not real. She holds to the thought, clings to it. It is now as much her weapon as the gun in her hands, as the knife in her boot.

Not real, not real, not real.

There are things she knows. Her name is Sally Élise Royston. She used to answer to Punch. She still answers to Magpie.

Not real, not real, not real.

Her parents are dead. They were XCOM operatives, and they both gave their lives in an attempt to stop the aliens.

You don’t know that Papa is dead, some other voice, one not quite her own, offers. You never got —

Not. Real. Not. Real. Not. Real.

Her name is Sally Élise Royston. Her parents are former XCOM operatives. They are dead. She is alive. She is here and whole and alive and she needs to get out.

Not real, not real, not real.

She needs to get out and she needs to get him out because he is the last, closest thing she has to family and she will be damned if she loses him too.

Rain pelts down on her, soaking her through. She spares a moment to be thankful it is the dead of summer, not winter, shuddering at the memory of being too cold, too cold, can’t go further, just let me, just—

She shoves at the presence clawing at her thoughts.

Not real, not real, not real.

She forces herself to focus on her surroundings, on the way the boards rot and the sidewalk chips. The missing posters littering the ground curl and warp under the force of the deluge, the insistence of the water. She focuses on the feel of it in her boots, against her skin, soaking her socks; of the cold grip of the gun in her hands. She refuses to look at whatever flickers at the corner of her eye, the almost glimpses of someone else’s memories.

If she’d just turn her head, she’s sure she’d know whose.

But, no. No. She knows a trap when she sees one, knows temptation when it’s flashing right in front of her. She has a job to do. She cannot falter; she cannot fail.

But you were scared, no? She’d once asked her mother.

Of course we were, but, you can’t run forever, came the response. Eventually, it catches up with you. Better to fight on your own terms. You wanna squish the spider in the bathtub or when it’s crawling up your leg?

She will not be trapped. She will not run. She will end this.

XCOM’s gone, Central never fails to remind her. You’re a few years too late to the party, Sal. Can’t be second generation anything if it doesn’t exist.

Past. Present. She doesn’t care.

Her name is Sally Élise Royston, but she answers to Magpie. Her parents are gone, but her family is not. She is terrified, but she is XCOM; she will not waiver.

Vigilo confido.

Her mark appears almost in front of her and she stops short. He looks barely human, caved-in chest, long fingernails caked with what she suspects to blood, and an almost skeletal face. He reaches for her, and she stumbles backwards, keeping the gun pointed straight ahead, even as her arms shake. She pulls the trigger, hitting the man in the shoulder, but it does nothing to stop his advance.

She considers the possibility that she’s going to die here, in the skeletons of the so-called American Dream, a whole town rotting as her tombstone. She’d like to laugh, to find some irony in it, which is what she’s almost certain Central would do, but can’t. There’s a sort of terror creeping up her spine, and a lump in her throat. She thought she’d be braver than this.

A shot rings out from behind her and, instinctively, she dives for the nearest cover

The man — no, the thing grabs her by her wrist and yanks her to her feet, sending her gun flying.

She thought she had a few more years before she’d be staring down the barrel of an assault rifle pointed directly at her.

–

He is not drunk.

He is confident in that knowledge.

There are two Sallys, one dragging the other. One is shouting, the other silent. One is armed, one is not. Both are soaked to the skin.

Same body language.

“Central!” One calls.

Same gait.

“Central, do something!”

Same look of terror.

“Central!”

He is not as confident in the knowledge of which one is real.

The shouting one has all the hallmarks of Magpie. Some French-English pidgin, a touch of indignation, and the sense that whatever’s she dragging is entirely too heavy for someone her size. Sally’s clever, always has been, and he doesn’t put it past her to have nabbed whatever the creature is.

He knows they are out of time. The thing she’d warned him about is here, and he has a choice to make.

1 in 3,000 beats 1 in 2, he thinks. Should’ve stayed on the road. Should’ve kept going.

A gunshot wound this far from help won’t end well. There’s bleed out, there’s infection, there’s healing. There is the fact that he should almost certainly be shooting to kill.

Tick tock, something says in his head.

But there’s something else, a different voice. The voice from earlier, panicked and unsteady. Oh god, it says. Oh god, not real, not real, not real, fils de pute, not real, not real. There is no color in the face of the dragged girl, but there is a quiet terror and, if he looks carefully, if he focuses, something like trust behind her eyes.

Mortal terror has almost always rendered her mute. Retaliations. ADVENT patrols. Men who for whom the idea of she’s thirteen sounds more like encouragement than admonishment. Without fail, they knock her into silence, knock her back to the scared little girl he’d collected from a ruined haven one winter’s night.

Thunder crashes over head and one of the two flinches.

It’s enough. It’s all he needs.

He takes aim, fires, and the whole street goes dark.

–

For a moment, there is only the sound of rain.

“Magpie, tell me that’s you.”

Her heart is racing and she can’t quite think straight, but still. “It’s me,” she manages, standing. The blood rushes in her ears and she tries to slow her breathing. “How’d you know?”

He shakes his head. “Just did.”

She pokes at the bloodied body, shot clean through the head, with the toe of her boot. “You think he was working alone?”

Central looks around, as if truly seeing the town for the first time. “I’d say that’s a safe bet. Still, let’s not take any chances.”

“Agreed,” she says, trying to hide the shiver that runs down her spine. “Let’s get out of here.”

She makes her way back towards him, never quite taking an eye off of the body in the street, all too secure in the knowledge that it could have been her.

He seems to know, too, wrapping an arm around her shoulders as they head back towards the house where they’d left their gear.

“Why do this?” She asks.

He shakes his head. “Couldn’t tell you, Magpie.”

She leans into him, and he pulls her into a one armed hug.

“Time to go?”

He nods. “Time to go.”

#xcom #fic #central officer dadford #happy friday the thirteenth!#adoptive parenthood looks good on you bradford #darkness on the edge of town

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