#Welcoming the Head of Orpheus Metal!

[blackjackkent]

Camp scene with Lae'zel was sweet enough as far as it goes:

"It is not in a githyanki's nature to say 'thank you'. Our language doesn't even have a phrase for it. Chraith'kan zharn is the closest equivalent I know - 'May your enemies know agony.' But after releasing me from Orin's grip, there is only one proper response: Thank you. Sincerely."

"You're welcome."

"Ah, hm. Well. Good then. Let's carry on."

It was kind of cute - she approved and got a little bit flustered and awkward about it. But - realistically, the game can't offer me an actual scene that matches my specific Hector headcanons.

And I think there's a far more interesting way this reunion could play out. >:)

-----

There's a flicker of some magic dispelled as Hector unlocks the chains binding her to the altar; in a flash, Lae'zel's eyes are open and she is up off the stone, rocketing backwards away from him and the others. Gauging the situation in a quick sweep of her eyes, she comes up with a sword off the body of one of the dead cultists and has it up in both hands, warding off an attack that does not come.

Hector goes utterly still, both hands spread at his sides.

Silence. She stares at him with a baffled, hunted look; the point of the sword trembles minutely, then steadies as she redoubles her grip. "Hector?" she rasps.

He nods slowly. "It's me. It's all right--"

Even barely conscious, she moves like lightning - a sudden dart forward this time. He's weakened from the fight with Orin and not expecting the blow, which cuffs the hilt of the sword across his jaw with an impact that makes his ears ring. Her free hand grabs him by the collar and pulls him in a throw he's almost certain she learned from watching him fight; the momentum flips him up and over her hip and lands him in her place on the altar.

She kneels over him, the blade at his throat, her eyes full of blind rage and tortured pain.

"Is it not enough?" she snarls. "Is it not enough that you have tormented me, all these days, that you now appear before me wearing his face? Do you think me such a fool?" The cold metal presses over his jugular. "It is you who are foolish, Orin, to open my chains and think I would stay my hand on a mere pretense."

"Stop--" he hears Karlach shout.

"Stay back, doppelganger," Lae'zel barks without looking up. "One further step and I shall sever your queen's head from her body." She leans forward; Hector can feel the heat of her breath on his cheek as she hisses in his face.

"Cease your blaspheming of my friend's image, shka'keth. I would see your true eyes before I open your throat."

"Lae'zel--" he gasps out. "It's me! Orin's dead! It's me-- I promise you--"

She freezes. Her head draws back; the pressure of the blade eases just slightly. "So many days I have waited," she mutters. "I swore to myself I would not be weak when the moment came..."

"It's me." Hector's eyes flick wildly around the room as he grasps for some way to prove it. "You-- we met on the nautiloid. You thought I was a thrall. We escaped, we crashed... we found you in a cage with the tieflings... Shadowheart didn't let you forget it for weeks..." His breath catches on a slight, hysterical laugh without any humor. "The creche... you took me there, we saw through Vlaakith's lies together... we traveled in the shadows and you told me of the light of the Astral Sea..."

He feels, to his shame, that his voice is starting to shake, to crack-- the battle exhausted all his control and he barely has the strength to think, and seeing her staring at him with such fury, after all he has done to try and reach her, feels like a last brutal blow struck by Orin from beyond the veil.

"Ch'mar zal'a Orpheus," he mutters shakily, parroting the words he has heard her mutter in camp. "You opened your mind to me when you made your choice to turn away from Vlaakith... you trusted me then, please trust me now..."

She draws a sharp breath in; her eyes narrow. His words are breaking through the haze, bit by bit, a little of the mad rage starting to fade. Her head jerks and he feels the familiar prod of the tadpole connection in his mind, his parasite squirming in answer to hers. For the first time he can recall, he is desperately grateful for that connection, for the proof it offers.

Images begin to flash between them, a thousand upon a thousand memories of their shared struggle. He groans, his eyes rolling back in his head. "You almost broke my jaw, that night in camp, and said perhaps our pain would bleed out of our wounds..." he whispers. "It hasn't yet, but I have hope... put the blade down, Lae'zel, please... it's me..."

She draws back. The sword slips from her fingers, clattering onto the stone next to the altar.

"Kaincha..." she mutters. "You speak truth..."

He sits up slowly, rubbing involuntarily at his neck where the blade pressed. "Have I ever lied to you?" he asks softly.

Her shoulders are rigid, her whole body taut, and he can see that every bit of her strength is going into preventing her from trembling. "She came in so many faces. Every one familiar. Every one a mockery. I came to doubt my own eyes..."

"It's all right," he answers gently. "It's done with now."

He's dimly aware that Karlach has come up next to him, that one of her hands is resting on his shoulder, that she is bent forward on the balls of her feet in a protective aspect, ready to strike should Lae'zel show any further sign of violence. But the fight has gone out of the githyanki warrior now; with the moment of adrenaline gone, she looks beaten and exhausted. Ashamed.

He considers a moment, then deliberately pitches his voice a little slower - a sharper snap, like those he heard from the githyanki at Y'llek.

"The way out is clear," he tells her firmly. "Go back to camp. Rest. We'll talk when I return."

She blinks - and he sees a flash of something like relief through her eyes at having an order to follow. "Yes," she agrees with a crisp nod, standing at once. "I will wait there." She turns, looks around the bloody atrium as if fully registering it for the first time.

A slight pause, and then she adds, "I should offer my gratitude. But there are no words with which I was trained to express it. You came through fire for me, and I answered you with a blade."

"Thank you is enough," Hector says; a slight smile tugs at his lips.

She snorts softly. "Hm. Thank you, then," she mutters. "It is... insufficient, as is much in your barbaric tongue. But it will do for now."

Without another word, she stalks up the gore-slicked stairs towards the sewers.

They all watch her go, and then Hector groans softly and lets himself fall back to lie on the altar again, staring up at the vaulted ceiling. Karlach's face drifts into view as she leans over him.

"Same old Lae'zel, eh?" she says dryly. "Gods, I'd give her a thrashing for threatening you like that, if I wasn't so glad to see her."

"She was afraid," Hector says absently. "And I don't blame her for it."

Jaheira sits down on the edge of the altar with a weary sigh. "There are none of us, I think, who have not done something foolish in the name of fear." A smile flickers across her face. "That said, had she injured you, we would have made her feel it."

He shakes his head. "It's all right," he says firmly. "The Chosen are dead, finally, and we've stood against all their machinations; the last thing we need is to start tearing ourselves apart now. She's back with us. That's enough."

#bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #hector carlisle #drabble #lae'zel #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #bg3 fic #bg3 drabble #orin the red #bg3 tav #long post #i'm pretty proud of this one actually :D #and once again i really really wish I could draw to render this moment effectively

[projectorpheus]

STYX: ACT I, SCENE I, PART I

The note sits in the palm of your hand. Quaver, double flag. When was the last time you heard real music?

Outside, the sun beckons. Dust storms stir; tsunami in the tropics; gunshot in your ear. It’s 2100 and Earth is dying, constellations stripped of light and sent to the ground — or maybe just the pit of your stomach, where hunger has made its home. Where you stand, bare-lunged, days passing like a butchering.

Blue light from the music note. Words slicing air.

THE UNIVERSE ENDS IN SIX MONTHS. HOW MANY LIVES WILL YOU LIVE BEFORE THEN?

A laugh makes its way from the base of your throat, through closed teeth. The universe ends in six months. SO WHAT? It has ended for you countless times, only to start again in the morning. How many times have you died? And how many times have you come back, resurrected, only to find pieces of yourself lost — torn, sheared, sacrificed? Wrist moves to toss the piece of metal into the trash.

One blink.

A single blink, and your surroundings change.

Bright lights that come from a ceiling unreachable. Momentarily, foolishly — you wonder if it’s the sky. But no — the sky you live under is murky and polluted, dust-littered clouds. You are surrounded by walls. White, white, white. Without a speck of dust, without a drop of blood. Well — you briefly look down at your hands. No blood the human eye can see, at least. ( But oh the heart — the heart has too long a memory. )

The only color in the room comes in the form of the bewildered features of the group surrounding you. Some gazes you recognize; some unfamiliar; some you have only known in your dreams.

Before anyone can speak, a rather circular robot rolls its way into the hallway, beeping happily.

“Welcome to Orpheus HQ!” Any more happy beeping and you think that its head would look quite nice on your bedside. “I’m Eurydice — your guide and assistant. As our gift had said, the world will end in six months.” Beep that you think is supposed to resemble a sad sigh. Then, more happy beeping. Eurydice’s lights flash multicolored. Is this some type of concert? “Thankfully, we have worked all these years to prevent humanity’s extinction! And you play a huge part in it!” Not a concert — maybe some sort of infomercial. You can almost imagine the robot’s would-be finger unfurling and pointing at you.

“You have all been selected for your unique brain chemistry. It’s compatible with our program and very rare. Hence the kidnapping situation. Sorry about that.” Sorry, not sorry is what it means to say. “Our scientists will be greeting you shortly — please do feel free to roam around and explore my home. It has some sweet kicks, as the kids would say.” Eurydice quickly rolls anyway before anyone can reach out to grab it.

Bullshit.

The Earth has been dying for the past century. What is this — some type of deus ex machina for the end of the world? What’s more — one where you are chosen to save the world. To play the hero. You can also imagine the hidden cameras; the audience laughing from their screens.

You want out. You want to leave, strides taking you down endless corridors.

You lose track of which turn you took. It all looks the same — sterile, untarnished white. Ceilings without end; lights that hurt your eyes. Hallways winding and leading you back to the same place. IN FRONT OF YOU, THREE DOORS.

OOC DETAILS LOCATED WITHIN DISCORD.

#story.

[jflashandclash]

Attrition of Peace

Twenty-Six: Alabaster

Cock-Blocked by a Talking Head

 Warning! There’s a mildly grotesque… thing (?) in this chapter. I’m not really sure it needs a warning or what that warning would fall under, but… you’ve been warned? Regardless, I hope you enjoy! Or love to hate it after the events of that last chapter! Your choice!

               Alabaster hadn’t faced such a paralyzing conundrum in years: if he stood up, he might wake up Kally, but if he stayed where he was, he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Being this considerate was highly illogical.

               What he should have been thinking about was what other ingredients he could mix that shape shifter’s ear with to make a more poignant transmodifcation potion or what he was going to do with the Pax brothers and their band of Ol-Sissies in the morning. In particular, how he was supposed to feed them, considering he remembered Axel tearing through half a box of cereal before Alabaster had his morning tea steeped.

               But here he was: his heart panging erratically each time he or Kally moved in their shared sleeping bag. He didn’t know this girl. Well, he sort of knew her—he’d read her journal, about her mother, her adventures with the Pax brothers and her story ideas. But that shouldn’t have been enough. He wasn’t like Ajax, just falling in love—er—liking—er—infatuating over someone because. He had to think things through. They had to make sense.

               This must have been Eros’ or Aphrodite’s folly. He refused to be their puppet, or fall to the whims of—

               Until Kally shivered and he debated whether or not he should shift closer or put an arm around her. Was that horrendously inappropriate?  

               Relief came to him in the worst way possible: the sound of a guitar, a wretched song, and some shriek-mutterings.

               “Oh, Jack must have escaped,” Alabaster muttered, wanting to groan.

               “Escaped?” Kally asked, her voice too alert to have been sleeping. She sat up, and Alabaster saw their chance to go inside, though he couldn’t will himself to get up. He felt dumb for how much he liked sitting beside her. From the disconcerted look on her face, she might have been thinking the same thing.

               “Claymore and I keep him gagged and locked up for safekeeping,” he said. With assigning everyone a room and everything with Pax, he’d forgotten their nightly ritual of detaining Jack. Plus, at Camp Othrys, they didn’t have to, and Alabaster couldn’t help but feel nostalgia with the Pax brothers around.

               At her disturbed stare, Alabaster assured, “He should be okay. When he’s alone, he normally just wanders around the yard composing ballads—”

               Someone shouted. After a delay of recognition, Alabaster and Kally locked eyes. That had been Ajax, his voice weakened from sobbing. Had there been other shouting? Alabaster had been so focused on Kally, he’d written off other sounds as the neighbors.

               A loud split, like thunder had torn a crater in the earth, cracked in the air. The ground trembled once.

               They shoved the sleeping bag away and scrambled to their feet. Neither was armed—they should have gone inside for weapons earlier. He had extra spell prepared on his pants but…

               Alabaster stumbled when one of the runes on his pajama pants glowed brilliant green. He gritted his teeth.

               Kally grabbed Alabaster’s arm to help pull him up. “What’s that?!” she asked, her eyes searching the yard for Pax.

               “Someone is trying to break through my barrier,” he hissed.

               A very powerful someone. He could feel the Mist twisting to the command of another.

               “Are there any children of Hecate after you?” he demanded. This was almost as bad as Lamia.

               Kally shook her head. “N-no. Uh—unless—I think Leo’s girlfriend could do magic? Was the original Calypso a child of Hecate?”

               Alabaster’s eyes widened. “The sorceress? Why didn’t you say—” he cut off. No one but the Pax brothers would have realized how vital that was, and they might have been sparing Jack’s feelings about Calypso.

               A dark figure skirted around the side of the house. Alabaster flinched. Something shouldn’t have gotten through his barrier without him detecting—

               Alabaster relaxed when he recognized the single glint of Pax’s hazel eye and heard the racking hackle of Jack’s song. Alabaster tensed all over when he saw that Pax was alone. No—not alone—

               Pax scrambled up the stairs. He trembled and choked on sobs when he skittered to a halt in front of them. He was pale. Mud smeared his knees, and there was a nasty bruise forming on his neck, like someone had tried to take a chunk out of it. He bent over and put his free hand on his knee. His other fingers were tightly clenched in a mess of short, dripping red hair.

               A mess that was definitely talking.

               “--okay, kiddo, it was just Nico, and we hate that—” the head said.

               Pax gathered himself enough to say, “Jack’s dead.”

               “I see that,” Alabaster said, unable to look away.            

               When Pax registered Alabaster’s and Kally’s looks of horror, he gave another sob—this one of relief. “Can all of you hear him too?”

               Alabaster nodded.

He could see Kally do the same from the corner of his eye.  

Some part of him was fascinated. The other part of him wondered if his fascination signified how much more therapy he needed. Had this been another situation, Alabaster might have chastised Pax for bringing home wartime trophies. Alabaster already thought it was gross when the weasels did it.

               Pax let out a hysterical laugh, twisting the mess of hair. Alabaster’s stomach clenched. He’d had to dissect plenty of bodies for spells, but he didn’t often recognize them. Jack’s face was ghastly pale. His eyes were sunken and his lips looked parched and blue under the spittle and blood. There was a hole in his cheek, leaking more fluids. Despite all of that, his eyes were alert and his mouth wouldn’t stop moving. Now, he was humming the tune to, Don’t Stop Me Now.

               Pax laugh-cried, “Oh, thank the gods! Not that I’m happy all of you are going crazy too, just that it isn’t just me.”

               Kally reached a hesitant hand out towards Pax, but stopped. “Ajax, are you—”

               “No!” he cried, “No, I’m not okay!” Alabaster guessed she was going to say, hurt, but knew stopping a Pax mid-rant was like stopping a train with a school crossing sign. “I’m holding a decapitated—”

               “—very handsome—” Jack interjected.

               “—very handsome, talking head of a surrogate father I’ve had to watch die twice! And I’ve probably been exposed to all kinds of diseases, like ebola—”

               “—actually, it was pneumatic plague,” Jack corrected indignantly, “Keep your pandemics straight.”

               “—shingles, and whatever he gave Annabeth! Oh, and Will’s blood.”

               “Mono,” Jack said.[1]

               “Annabeth is here--?” Kally started to ask, but put a hand to her mouth. “Is Will okay?”

               “He was looking a little on the corpsy side after Jack finished his family bonding,” Pax used Jack’s head to gesticulate on family bonding. Someone needed to take Jack’s head from him… but Alabaster really didn’t want to touch it. “Then Nico went all shadows and poofballs to save him and Melinoe captured him to use him as a shadow bridge and now the others are coming for us,” he babbled in one breath.

               “We need to wake up everyone, assuming that cracking noise didn’t wake them up,” Alabaster said. He could feel the shield around his property waning. “The barrier will only give us maybe—five more minutes at this rate. Ajax—”

               Pax burst into a fit of giggles. He almost doubled over. Both Alabaster and Kally flinched.

               “Get it?! Get it?! Jack’s the head of Orpheus Metal. The prophecy! Orpheus’ head won by heart’s loss. I’m at the loss! Why are the Fates so much more creative than me today!” Pax continued to giggle between sobs and gasps. “You win, Fates! You win this round!”

               Many stories said Orpheus’ head sang after it was cut off, though Alabaster didn’t know why they would need a singing head. What they needed to do was get inside and ready for a fight. If Annabeth and Nico were here, he had a guess as to which demigod would be leading the charge. The thought of fighting Percy Jackson excited Alabaster, but not in his pajama pants.

               Alabaster went to command them inside when Pax hugged himself, not seeming to care that Jack’s head bopped against his hip. He choked and coughed.

               “Aw, kiddo, it’s okay—” Jack started.

               Kally removed one of her socks and jammed it into Jack’s mouth. She shivered, examining Pax. After opening and closing her mouth once, she pulled Pax into a hug.

               Normally, Alabaster might warn that she was falling for one of Pax’s ruses. But Pax could barely breathe. And Jack was definitely dead in Pax’s hand. A shudder of horror rumbled through Alabaster when he realized Death really couldn’t keep Jack away.

               And part of him broke, knowing Pax really needed him right now.

               Kally reached back, grabbed Alabaster’s sweater, and dragged him into the hug.

               He counted out five seconds, trying not to think about how freaked out Pax was. Or Kally. Alabaster had seen plenty of severed heads. He guessed this was her first.

               “We need to get inside,” Alabaster said. Later. They could help Pax later. And… do whatever you were supposed to do for decapitated heads to Jack. “Let’s get inside and get Axel.”

                 As Alabaster had hoped, the others were readying themselves. They must have heard the crack. Axel was decorated with a myriad of weapons strapped on with various holsters: hoplite swords, daggers, knives, and others, both celestial and human-made. He had donned his Nemean Lion pelt. With that, his bracers, and his old leather pteruges[2], Axel looked more like the honored lieutenant Alabaster had proudly looked up to.  

               The child of Eros had his bow ready, peering out the front window like a sniper. Euna had Backbiter drawn, standing beside him. Merry sat on the stairs, pale, jutting her jaw to one side.

               The weasels practiced a war dance all around the living room.

               Needing no instruction, Axel handed Alabaster his playing cards as he, Kally, Pax, and… Jack entered.

               “What in Hades is going on?” Calex demanded from his lookout by the window. “We heard—Holy Hygieia! Pax, why do you have that mental bloke’s head?!”

               Jack finally managed to dislodge and spit out Kally’s sock. “I believe the full term is ‘mentally handicapped’ for the political activists. Don’t want to upset Axel,” he teased.

               “Oh gods, it talks,” Calex hissed, touching his temple with one hand.

               “Jack’s dead,” Pax greeted his brother.

               “Again,” Axel acknowledged as he handed Pax the Silver Tongued Snake helm, his bronze chest plate, some clothing, and Pax’s utility belt and attached daggers. His eyes glazed over Jack the same way Alabaster had seen Axel register other dead in the field of battle: a current logistic, grief best left until grief had time. Though Axel did puff up his cheeks and pop them.

               Alabaster flicked his Mist cards through his fingers. Claymore’s was on top, but now wouldn’t be the time to awaken him. As much as he wanted Claymore’s guidance, another body cluttering the room wasn’t what they needed. He flipped to the next set of cards, summoning his bulletproof vest. He hesitated on the imperial gold sword. No… for this, he wanted his old weapons.

               Axel handed Alabaster his Cloven Witch Boy helm, the goat skull enlaced with Stygian iron.  The Triple A Chimera helped each other suit up like no time had passed since their last mission.

               There was a card towards the bottom of Alabaster’s deck that he’d almost thrown away on multiple occasions. He withdrew it, summoned the contents, and handed a thin vial off to Pax. “This is the remnants of some knock out serum. You get one shot. Don’t waste it.”  

               Jack hummed the whole time and Merry and Calex looked like they might throw up.

               “Pax Bae, sweetie, you and I need to have some real talk time about you bringing body parts and dead things home,” Merry whispered.

               “They sent a diplomacy party—” Pax explained while Axel strapped down Pax’s bronze breastplate.

               “Amicablicious!” Merry cheered. “So why—”

               “—that Jack attacked. And now it looks like I played whack-a-mole with Will Solace’s face and poofed Nico Di Angelo into hipsters and Hot Topic.”

               “Did you?” Calex asked, his eyes narrowing.

               Axel and Kally shot Calex a look. Kally’s was of bewilderment. Axel’s was anger. His message was clear, don’t question my brother.

               Pax’s jaw dropped and began to tremble again. “How could you ask that? You know I ship Solangelo.”

               “Maybe we can still use some sweet talk. Pax, what exac—?” Merry started to ask.

               “AJAX PAX!”

               A rumble shook the house and something roared along the shutters. The window glass exploded inward.

               Calex and Euna shouted and dove onto the floor.

               Everyone crouched and ducked.

               “Let’s talk and flee, shall we?” Pax shouted over the boom of wind as it knocked over lampshades, tore loose papers out of the bookshelf, and knocked Alabaster’s favorite teacup off the coffee table. It shattered on impact with the rug.

               “What is that?!” Kally asked.

               “If I had to guess? Jason expressing his feelings. He’s a very sensitive kind of guy!” Pax shouted back.

               Something smashed into the front door. A piece of the wood fractured. Alabaster wanted to curse. Though weakened, his rune barrier hadn’t collapsed yet. No living thing—human or monster—should have been able—

               The wooden frame cracked, and something silvery thundered into the living room.

               Alabaster summoned one of his best Mist cards: his two pronged, Stygian iron staff. Whichever magic user they were facing must have been powerful to sneak in a—

               A silver worktable.

               With the wind dying down, Alabaster could swear there was a faint, “Felix! Come back! I wasn’t supposed to program you with door ramming abilities until next week!”  

               Maybe they would have shared a collective sigh of relief, had the sentient table not bound across the room. Before any of them could get in the way, the worktable slammed into Kally, knocking her flat.

               The table lifted a leg above Kally’s head.

               She yelped and twisted out of the way of a blow that would have crushed her skull. Instead, the table leg pinned her sweatshirt hoodie, preventing her from rolling away. Kally scrambled to squirm out of the article of clothing.

               Alabaster slammed his staff into the leg, jolting her free.

               “Hunnie!” Pax shouted.

               The weasel scurried out from under the couch. Her approach became much more intimidating when Hunnie expanded to the size of the couch. She slammed into the worktable, rocketing the table back through the front door.

               “Out the back!” Axel commanded.

               “But—the van and Vinyl—” Calex started.

               “Now!”

               Alabaster had abandoned so many houses over the last year, all he could do was internally sigh at the thought of going back on the market. At least it was easier with Claymore around.

But, he wanted to take a stand and fight. He’d run from Lamia and the Romans for months. And now, he could possibly have the chance to fight Percy Jackson and Jason Grace and show the pawns of the Olympic mafia what they’d taken from him?

               While he hesitated, Pax grabbed the hand he had on his helmet and Kally grabbed the one on his staff. They dragged him back through the backdoor they’d entered moments ago.

               From a glance behind, Alabaster could see Euna dragging Calex and Merry in a similar way. Axel followed out last, assuring the group was together.

               As they raced down the porch, the rune on Alabaster’s pant leg shattered. A jolt of pain and weakness spread from the break, darkening his senses momentarily. The rune barrier collapsed. The house was now exposed.

               They couldn’t make a stealthy retreat, not with Jack mumbling the whole time and the clank of their armor.

               The three weasels swarmed around their feet. Hunnie was back to her tiny size, having either won or given up on the fight against the work table. For the sake of defending Hecate’s craftsmanship, he hoped the former.      

               “Alabaster! Best retreat?” Axel demanded.

               “The forest,” Alabaster snapped. Despite Lamia’s recent absence, Alabaster had gotten into the habit of planning escapes. Reflexively, he’d directed Pax and Kally towards the woods, taking the lead.

               “Merry—I know it’s a lot—you gotta keep going!” Kally gasped over her shoulder.

               “C—can’t—” the daughter of Dionysus panted. From their stories earlier, Merry had completely depleted herself of energy. A couple hours rest wouldn’t recharge the strongest of demigods after causing a Dionysus level dance off.

               “I have you,” Calex said.

               Alabaster glanced back. Calex had picked Merry up, but they were already so far behind. And carrying her would only slow the Brit down.

               They needed something to cover their retreat, but Alabaster wasn’t sure his concealment spells could hide all seven of them—eight if you included Jack’s grumbling head.

               Beyond them, Alabaster could see five figures approaching from the side of the house.

               The barometric pressure dropped.

               “STOP!” Pax shrieked.

               For an instant, Alabaster thought Pax or Axel had used their Mayan magic. That’s how it always felt before they did.

               Instead, a flash of light blinded Alabaster ahead.

               Something popped.

               For an instant, Alabaster couldn’t see or hear anything. The earth rumbled under his feet—something was shifting. He, Pax, and Kally fell on the grass.

               When he managed to blink the floating spheres out of his vision, he could see something had shifted the earth ahead of them. There was now a deep trench, in a semicircle, around the back of the house. Like someone had collapsed a tunnel underneath.

               They were trapped.

 [1] Mel Beta Note: “I’m not sure what’s stronger right now: my sense of humor or my sense of morals. I’m so emotionally confused!” However, Mel had the disclaimer that Jack exposure may cause confusion. Like a Psyduck.

[2] This is the proper name for those fancy leather skirts the Romans wore. “Skirts” just didn’t fit the right mood of the scene, though I assure you Pax was thinking of them as skirts.

#The Attrition of Peace #Traitors of Olympus #Heroes of Olympus #Percy Jackson and the Olympians #fanfiction #Alabaster #Pax #Kally #Calex #Euna #Welcoming the Head of Orpheus Metal! #Weasels #Jason #Correction: pissed off Jason #A kickass silver work table

[sxnyarostova]

romantic comedy

*announcer voice* welcome, welcome, to the wild west. nah no this isn't but the vibes are very much wild west vibes, tw//guns

Orpheus watches as a girl barges in through the door, wrapped up in an old, ratty coat three times too big for her. She doesn’t look suspicious; well, not really, anyway. Orpheus doesn’t exactly have an alarm system that goes off in his head whenever he finds someone fishy; Mr Hermes does, but Mr Hermes isn’t here right now, so he puts on his customer service smile.

“Hi,” he says. “What can I get for you today?”

“A beer,” she says, voice rough. There’s something about her that fascinates Orpheus, though, something so wild and unrestrained that piques his interest. Maybe it’s the way her eyes look like precious jewels under the glare of the lightbulbs screwed into the ceiling.

“Right,” he says, pivoting on his foot to get the beers. When he turns back, smile still intact, Orpheus nearly drops the beer in his hand with the sight that he’s met with.

The girl has pulled out a gun from the pocket of her coat, and she’s aiming it at him, of all people. Wiry, awkward Orpheus has finally gotten a gun drawn on him; this will make a fun story to tell the kids, he thinks to himself. That is, if he makes it out of here alive.

“Hey, now,” Orpheus stammers, slowly setting the bottle down and holding up both of his hands to show that he’s unarmed. “I don’t- what do you want?”

The girl’s eyes look borderline crazed; Orpheus’ heart leaps up into his throat.

Slamming her hands down on the table, the girl hisses, "Whatever's behind the counter," slow and still. She presses the cool barrel of the gun up to his forehead, face twisted into a scowl. "Now. And no sudden movements, boyo. Wouldn't want your head blown off, would ya?"

"Y- Sure," Orpheus manages to stutter out, pulling away from the metal and bending down to retrieve the money that the girl so desires- but he watches with a calculated smile when she sees what he's pulled out of a small, metal box. Girl’s breath must be stuck in her throat, Orpheus thinks. Who would’ve thought that wiry, awkward Orpheus would know how to shoot, anyway?

“Two can play at that game, eh?” he says flippantly, twirling the revolver in his hand. She’s not sure if he’s only pretending so that he can play off his nervousness. “I’m not that bad a shot, y’know. Champion of the county a couple of times.”

The girl grins manically. “Huh,” she says, tucking her own gun back into her pocket, the weapon settling into the material. “How about we meet outside in an hour, huh? By the old train tracks. It’s been a while since I’ve met one like you.”

And with that, gun-girl is gone, leaving a puzzled and charmed Orpheus behind.

#hadestown #orpheus #eurydice #orphydice #amity writes

[druid-for-hire]

new hadestown au: BIKER ! EURYDICE, in which she’s a rogue lone-wolf biker dwelling in the urban jungle of a Neo Tokyo-type city called Hadestown, wracked with biker gangs, violence, poverty, corruption, and civil unrest, still recovering and rebuilding from an apocalyptic event many years ago. Heavy-handed with the AKIRA inspirations here, haha.

She fights for herself on the dangerous streets, an illegal racer with a consistent top-three placement and a reputation for ferocity that earns her the money she needs to scrape by. And then she meets Orpheus: a dopey bartender who has no place being in her business.

okay okay okay i’m gonna be jumping around a lot here. be warned. thanks @supercantaloupe, @regzillas, @birdmanlyss for your contributions! (sorry if i missed someone it’s been a while)

she's a lone wolf in a city infested with biker gangs and it's brutal

she's run over plenty of limbs in her day

then there's orpheus, this gentle, kind-hearted soul, an indie musician and shes like. fuck. now i gotta keep this bastard safe

puts a long pipe with a mess of bolts and metal on the end in his hands and tells him he'd better buckle up and learn to fight the road

this sort of thing is common among biker gangs to cause destruction and knock people off their bikes onto the road. other types include mallets, hammers, baseball bats, etc

shes small but knows a lot of self defense and is very good at handling herself on the road

besides teaching orpheus to steel himself and yes use that pipe on people, push them off and jam it in their wheels and let it break if it does, she's gotta teach him to hold on while she pulls all this crazy shit on her bike

she avoids taking him on the road because having to fight people gives him so much stress but he also stresses about her so it's all weird

the first time orpheus sees her run over someones arm hes like ""???????????????????!!!!!!!!"

"Don't worry it doesn't happen often" "WHAT IS 'OFTEN'"

she has a red songbird on her helmet and flowers on her jacket

and flowers painted on her bike too probably

or patterns like on the album cover

orpheus thinks it’s the prettiest shit he’s ever seen

so eurydice races, right? everyones like “who is this tiny little upstart” and then she takes off her helmet and shakes out her hair and everyone loses it

somethingsomething ig hades (who is something of a crime boss here, similar to Tombstone from the Spectacular Spider-Man cartoon, but not so unambiguously villainous in nature) becomes a contractor and he catches her in like, a bad contract that's hard to get out of without some kind of consequence

and now orpheus has to topple a capitalist again

anyway she like, meets orpheus in this little bar he works at

it's about lower middle class, so it's not too bad but it's still mostly populated by like, poorer people and bikers, etc.

they meet and it's cool and fun blah blah Come Home With Me shit

also this is a scene:

biker!eury: we gotta cross through downtown orpheus: what???? but there's a riot going on there! right now! eury: that's too bad, it's the fastest way! that's why you get this! (tosses him her pipe weapon) orpheus, barely catching it: sajskhsfdfs ???? eury: and i am gonna take this. (kicks open a trunk and takes out a rifle) orpheus: ???????!!!!???!?? WHERE DID YOU GET THAT AND DO WE REALLY NEED IT eury: Yes we do now come on orpheus: H-HOW did you get it eury: (loads gun) no worries orpheus: No i have many worries HOW DID YOU--

actually, on this emergency ride, orpheus proves surprisingly competent with her pole weapon—ruthless even, and eurydice wonders just where and how the hell he learned that

the conversation she has with him about that is the same one where he shows her his old, old scars

(besides ruthless—orph has apparently learned how to pose and intimidate. he does stuff like putting the tip of the pole-pipe to the asphalt as they’re riding, skipping on the road and creating sparks)

eurydice loves her bike more than certain relatives 

certain complications lead to it being destroyed by hades as punishment for doing him wrong. and it destroys her. that is her most trusted sacred bike, that thing has been with her since she was a teenager

once she repurposes that devastation into white-hot anger orph has to physically restrain her from hunting hades down and breaking his kneecaps with a thick lead pipe

he's never seen her this absolutely devastated and furious

he goes to persephone for more work because he wants to buy eurydice a new bike

he keeps it a secret from her until he leads her out to a garage, hands over her eyes

(some of these bits are copypasted from my friend @regzillas​)

orpheus takes his hands off and says Tada!!! it's just like the old one, there's no painted birds but she can do that. She just stands there in total silence mouth open, and orpheus goes 'so? do you like it?' before she bursts into tears. and at first orpheus is like :O!!!!! oh no!!! do you not like it? and eurydice through sobs just says 'nobody's ever done something like this for me’

it's... beautiful, it's touching, it's deep and it's love and she's so in love and she loves him so much, and she cries and holds him close and takes him in and she's so overwhelmed by her emotions, full of the care that orpheus so freely gives to her; and it's a breath of newness, fresh air in the cycle of dread and bitter anger that haunts the city (but she's still going to find hades and shoot him in the foot)

he just holds her and kisses her head

they spend the day painting it, the day after he buys the bike

hand-painted. and they both leave their handprints in paint on it, like carl and ellie do on their mailbox in the beginning of Up

a significant amount of time is spent thinking of a good name

theres lots of joking and eurydice playfully shoves orpheus and he falls over into paint

okay i wrote something like. Obnoxiously long for orpheus. i sort of have his backstory in this down, but i don’t have anything for eurydice unfortunately :( suggestions are welcome! but first: Hermes

biker!au hermes owns a chain of bars, several of which find their patronage among the ruffian youth, several of which are more refined and serve the middle class, and another several of which serve the upper crust hermes has a hand in every world and it serves him pretty well, and his chain is a bit of a channel of communication and its unspoken rule that whatever socioeconomic class or gang or organization you're a part of, hermes' chain is neutral territory no fighting allowed

eurydice walks in and hermes just gives her a Look and taps the 'no fighting' sign and she huffs

hes >:( if anyone does try to start shit. the honor system is strong enough that usually the other patrons will just throw them out, and if there are really problems, they'll hear from hermes personally

he maintains a very strict "no bitching in my fucking kitchen" atmosphere

and now, Orpheus

this really is kind of akira but without the government conspiracies; the city is a neon corrupt hellscape that’s still struggling to rebuild after an apocalyptic event that wiped it all through. the city is wracked with frustration and violence and anger, there are still urban ruins everywhere and the scars of rebuilding and struggle are plain in every corner of life; plain to see are the shells of ruined buildings, gigantic boats levelled from the sea and left in the middle of inland sectors.

orpheus was abandoned by his mother at an early age—kind and timid, he had to learn fast how to be suspicious and cautious in cruel ways. he couldn’t land himself a spot in any of the groups that other ragtag raging folks had eked out for themselves, still too hesitant or ungraceful or young for any of them. sure, he made friends, sitting and talking with lots of people, but never got to really team up—all he could do was just fight for himself in the blown out corners of the city. weapons made from whatever he had. a young child already spitting blood and teeth in hadestown’s vicious ground-floor landscape.

hermes is his mother’s close old friend, though the times they see each other are few and far between. when he saw him, hermes hardly recognized her son, wild-eyed and clawed and alone in one of the city’s more dangerous neighborhoods, with a pole full of screws slung over his back. how did she lose track of her kid for so long? he thinks. and takes him in.

hermes eventually realizes that his mother didn’t lose him. meanwhile, tiny orpheus, kind-hearted orpheus, despises hermes at first. he’s full of suspicion and desperately wants to lean into hermes’ kindness, but the streets have taught him to hold back. he spits curses at him, though the words slide right off hermes’ shoulders. it’s not genuine.  just frustrated. and picked off of the delinquents that were his friends, just like most everything else about him.

(hermes knows he’s gotten his trust when orpheus starts getting soft, when he’s crying over littler things; it means he’s been deemed safe to be vulnerable around, and he damn near starts crying himself.)

orpheus owns a little vespa! it’s covered in stickers, some of them worn out and old, some places with just the adhesive and the fuzzy white paper from where he tried to pull them off. some of them aren’t even proper stickers and just shit he peeled off from places while he was wandering around and stuck onto the vespa

even in canon i see him as the kind of guy who like. you look at him and think jesus how is this guy still alive he’s so noodly and soft, but he’s unexpectedly sort of street smart

anyway i mentioned this before but didn’t elaborate. biker au orph, to eury's surprise, does have his collection of scars, since he had a bit of a rough go at life

also he’s just ungainly and runs into shit

you can see em on his sketch page. he has a bit more than what’s shown, but what’s visible is a little slash across the bridge of his nose onto his cheek, and two on his left forearm. he probably has a stab scar in his side from just getting fucking knifed. the ones on his left forearm are from when a drunk coming out of a bar charged him with a fork

eurydice also has scars. kind of hard not to with the kind of life she lives

ok thats it. For Now. i don’t know how persephone or the fates or the workers factor in, if at all. I barely know how Hades factors in, mostly what i’ve said so far and that he does what he does to support himself and persephone. ah well! just have this

as this is extremely based off of AKIRA, i verily recommend listening to the movie’s soundtrack. besides the fact that it slaps hard as hell, the opening song, Kaneda’s Theme, has the perfect vibes for the city and the tone of eurydice and orpheus riding at night through it

#hadestown #hadestown art #hadestown fanart #hadestown au #broadway #musicals #biker au #my art #this au first came into being because i wanted eurydice with fingerless gloves

[therainbowwillow]

When Hell Freezes Over AU: Part 6

Apologies for the wait. I honestly did not have an idea for what, exactly, I wanted to happen. Then I found inspiration! And then Tumblr deleted my draft. So... overall, this took far too long. Enjoy! There will be an epilogue shortly.

As Hermes approaches the bar, he notices the air has already begun to warm. People trickle into the streets to witness the miracle they’d played no role in causing. How many of them had refused to help search for Orpheus? How many deaths could’ve been avoided if they’d found him sooner? How much of this had been his fault? As he’d run home, Hermes had seen so clearly every mistake he’d made. Every one of them could easily lead Orpheus to his death.

At a glance, the boy looks dead already. Orpheus’s faint heartbeat and shallow breaths remind Hermes that he still has a chance, a slim chance, to survive. He spares the bar no more than a glance, instead turning towards the train station. The cars are always pleasantly heated, another of Hades’s attempts to appease his wife. He lifts Orpheus inside and gently lays him across a booth.

Hermes finds a stack of blankets under a seat. He drapes them over Orpheus, bundling him up like a young child. He brushes the young man’s wet hair out of his eyes and takes a seat beside him. Orpheus tosses in his sleep, draws in a shaky breath.

Orpheus gasps and sits bolt upright. Hermes catches him before he falls back against the booth. “Orpheus?”

“We... we need to go,” Orpheus stammers. 

“We don��t need to go anywhere. Eurydice will be here soon.”

“I can’t let them hurt her,” he pleads. “The Furies will come for us.” 

“No, Orpheus, we’ll be fine.”

“Take me to Hades. Let him decide what will become of me. But if he lays so much as a finger upon Eurydice, I swear to the Styx-”

“Orpheus...” Hermes warns.

“I swear to the Styx I will end him.”

Hermes pulls him closer. “Hades has kindness in his heart. You’ll both be alright.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t mean-”

“Hush. I don’t want your apologies.” Hermes pops the cork out of a nearby bottle, its contents still steaming. “From the River Phlegethon. It’ll help.”

Orpheus takes a sip. He winces. “It’s hot.”

Hermes nods. “But it will help. Get some rest.” Hermes gently lays him back against the booth. 

...

The doors roll open and Persephone steps inside, half-carrying Eurydice. Almost immediately, the train begins to move, willed forwards by some unseen driver.

“Is he alright?” the young woman asks, her voice trembling. Persephone lowers her into a booth. 

Hermes hands her a stack of blankets. “Fine. He needs rest.” 

“What happens now?” she wonders. 

“You won’t be separated from Orpheus,” Hermes says. “You will be spared from the worst of your punishment.”

“How can you be certain? Orpheus...” she lowers her voice. “You saw the chaos he caused.”

Hermes nods. “My agreement with Lord Hades stands.”

“And what was that agreement, exactly?” Persephone inquires. “The terms. Specifics. I know my husband.”

“Eurydice was to stop the winter,” he explains. “She succeeded, which spares them from the worst possibilities. The Furies were... not satisfied, but Hades’s deal was final. I ensured Orpheus’s safety, as well as Eurydice’s. Your husband will decide his terms, but there will be a reward for Eurydice’s success. And like I said, the worst is ruled out.”

Persephone half-smiles. “You always were a good liar, Hermes.”

He glances at Orpheus. Afraid, Eurydice thinks, for her lover or of him? “Persephone?” He almost sounds offended. 

“Not a lie, I suppose, but certainly not the whole truth,” Persephone corrects herself. “My husband did not let you off so easily. What did you sacrifice? What did you sign away?”

“Nothing,” he snaps, anger flaring in his eyes.

“Hermes... After all these centuries, I’d have hoped you would have more trust in me.”

“Seph...”

“Give me the truth.” Her voice is firm.

“That’s the trade, I suppose,” he mutters. “Your trust.” She narrows her eyes, says nothing. “Stop him. By whatever means necessary. That was the deal.”

“If I failed...” Eurydice begins.

“You wouldn’t have gotten the chance,” Hermes tells her. 

“The knife.” She reaches into her pocket and draws out the blade she had so desperately tried to rid herself of. It had returned. It had always returned to her pocket. She examines it now, up and down. Two metal snakes weave their way up the hilt. “Take it,” she growls.

He does. In his hands, the blade transforms into a staff, wrapped up with the very same serpents. “This was my only choice.”

“A 50/50 shot to kill Orpheus?” 

“The alternative...”

“What the hell did you agree to?” Eurydice snarls.

He looks away. “The knife. You wouldn’t have been given a choice. You... still belong to Hades. He would have guided your hand and Orpheus...” his voice trails off.

She smiles, as if admiring his madness and she laughs, soon cut off by sobs. Hermes seems to consider giving her some gentle touch of comfort, but Persephone is at her side first, shooting him a sharp glare. “You...” Eurydice wipes her eyes. “You would’ve watched me murder him.”

“Would you have preferred the furies?” he asks, not rhetorically, Eurydice realizes. She remembers the screams of disloyal workers. Thieves who had stolen from the work lines. Shades who had dishonorably killed men in life. 

“Yes.” Her answer is almost a gasp. Would she really prefer his pain over... What? Her guilt? She knows it is selfish, but to kill him would have been torturous. No amount of Lethe water could wash away ingrained horrors. And oh, how desperately she would have tried to forget.

The rest of the train ride is silent. Hermes sits as far from Eurydice as he can get, never taking his eyes off of Orpheus. Persephone speaks under her breath, as if preparing an argument. Eurydice stays at her lover’s side, half wishing he would wake. 

She remembers what she had seen in the woods. The road to Hadestown. But the underworld hadn’t taken her. She had woken, Orpheus in her arms. He’d been so cold. So helpless. He hardly looks any better now. His wounds had been bandaged, but he would bear scars. The madness of his attackers would survive by him. 

...

The train lurches to a halt. If Orpheus notices, he makes no motion to show it, still deeply asleep. Between Persephone and Eurydice, he’s easily carried. Orpheus had never been heavy. Always slender, light as a feather. His time in the woods hadn’t done him any favors. 

Hades meets them at the station. “Persephone.” 

“Husband.”

“Once again,” he remarks, “mortals prove themselves more capable than one might expect. Take the boy to my office.”

Persephone scoffs. “What now?”

“It is warm, Seph,” Hermes says.

She whirls, dropping Orpheus into Eurydice’s arms. She catches him with a grunt. “And who asked you?” Persephone snaps.

“He is my son. I haven’t forgotten my love-”

“Love?” she mocks. “You would have let him die. Not a word to me. Not a word to the girl who would’ve killed him.”

“He lives,” Hermes reminds her.

“For how long?” Eurydice asks under her breath, quiet enough that the others don’t hear her. Orpheus looks terrible. His hair is matted and his skin is still cold to the touch. She’s reminded, painfully, of her journey back to Hadestown after he had turned. She feels him slipping, just as she had. She speaks up now, louder this time. “Something’s wrong.” 

Hermes checks Orpheus’s pulse and presses a hand against his forehead. “He’s too cold. Listen to Lord Hades. I know it seems... well...” He lowers his voice. “Eurydice, he’s your shot at a future. Both of you. Even if Orpheus doesn’t survive.”

She flinches at the proposition, but rises to her feet, aided by Hermes, who takes the burden of Orpheus’s weight. Persephone rolls her eyes, but Eurydice waves her away. “The office,” she agrees.

Hades guides them down the thin streets of Hadestown, beneath high rises, where thousands of souls reside, and finally to his own office building. The first twenty-five floors, Persephone had explained once, over a bottle of wine, make up his bedroom. And the other seventy-five are his office and personal library. Eurydice had assumed it was a joke. But now the building stretches up before her and she’s sure there must be more than a hundred floors.

Persephone pulls open the doors. “Welcome to the castle,” she says, sarcastically. Hades steps inside, letting his hand brush against his wife’s as he moves past her. Persephone guides them to a lounge room where Hermes lays Orpheus across the over-sized couch. Eurydice strikes a match and the fireplace instantly roars with flames.

Hades takes a seat in the stiffest chair in the room. Persephone drags her cushy armchair beside his nearly solid seat and sinks into it. “A deal,” Hades begins.

Persephone groans loudly. “You’d think the God of the Dead would have a little more empathy,” she emphasizes the word, “for the sick and dying.” 

Hermes just about collapses into his seat, across the room from the others. An argument, he remembers. He needs to pose some argument. The room is spinning. He blinks, trying to force the spots out of his vision. He’d felt like this since his first venture into the woods. He’d considered mentioning it, but he’d never found the chance. 

“And I don’t just mean Orpheus,” Persephone adds. “Hermes?” He glances up at her. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters.

“Go find yourself a blanket,” she tells him. He doesn’t move. If he stands, he’s pretty sure he’ll pass out. 

“Can we just... get on with it?”

“You want a drink?” He shakes his head slightly. He hadn’t eaten or drunk much at all since Orpheus had disappeared. It made it easier, somehow, to know exactly how his son felt. It was starting to wear on him. Hunger, thirst, his lack of sleep... but a god should be able to bear it, and so he does.

“I will not waste time,” Hades continues. “It appears that our poet...” Hermes almost smiles. When had Hades begun to consider Orpheus anything more than ‘the boy’? A phrase he said as if the young man was a bag of dirt. The King of the Underworld continues: “May not have long to live.”

Eurydice squeezes her lover’s hand. Hermes hadn’t dared approach them once he’d set Orpheus down, but even from across the room, he sees how shallow Orpheus’s breaths have become. 

“If he dies, he is mine. No amount of willing otherwise will change that fact, so we must come to an agreement before he does,” Hades says, matter-of-fact. “Eurydice,” he flicks the young woman a coin. “He may need it. Bodies fade far faster the nearer they are to the Styx. You won’t have time for a funeral rite.”

She nods numbly and slips the coin into Orpheus’s hand. “Now, our deal,” Hades goes on, “Your achievements are admirable, Eurydice. As are your lover’s. I will not keep you apart from him. Still, he cannot simply go free. Orpheus killed at least a few dozen mortals by his own hand and many more by the power of his storm.”

Hermes tries to say something, but he finds no sound comes out of his mouth. Persephone fills in. “Hades... he’s a boy in love.”

The King of the Dead nods. “I have no desire to punish him. To the dismay of The Furies, that is. However, I must keep an eye on him. This will ensure his safety, to some degree, for our relatives on Olympus may not find him here.”

“Their terms then?” Persephone says, bluntly. 

Hades sighs. “Nothing harsh. He has suffered the loss of his lover twice over and he will contend with the horrors he saw for the rest of his days.” Eurydice strokes Orpheus’s tear-stained cheek. 

Hades continues: “The underworld is overpopulated. I had not planned for so many new shades. I have no housing or work for them, so they will be sent to the surface to live out their lives as they deserve. Hermes, you will guide their souls to the overworld. Slowly. Do not disrupt the flow of Hadestown.”

Eurydice smiles, solemnly. Her lover will appreciate that, she knows.

“As for the both of you, Orpheus will remain underground for the time being, as will you, Eurydice. Do not think of this as cruelty,” he quickly adds. “You will be safe and provided for. Your stay will not be forever.”

“How long is ‘not forever?’“ Eurydice asks carefully.

“For now, let us say ten years. You signed a contract, Eurydice, so you are legally mine,” he reminds her. “Orpheus did not. One of you is bound to this realm, the other is not. Thus, once I deem Orpheus ready to leave or our ten years is up, you will together spend six months on the surface and six months underground. Half the year for your death, half the year for his life.”

“That’s all?” Persephone asks.

Hades groans. “Don’t sound so surprised, my love.”

“Do we have a deal?” he asks Eurydice.

"And if he dies?” she mumbles.

“The deal stands. He did not sign a contract, he is not bound to this realm.”

“Then I accept your terms,” Eurydice says. “And in the name of Orpheus, I accept your terms in his place.”

#when hell freezes over au #hadestown au #hadestown #therainbowwrites

[hollywoodx4]

The Other Track (1)

(none of my tags are working right now so I’m hoping this one shows up somewhere on this hellsite)

This is going to be a sort of au series, I suppose. You asked for a fix-it-fic, but I haven’t really seen a fix-it fic in this way before (if I’m wrong, send me receipts or course) So. Welcome to Persephone’s Underground Railroad.           

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   There is no day or night here, no measurable significance to time passing or any indication that there is time here at all. Eurydice had tried, at first, to keep track. One long whistle to get to work, a long whistle to get home. Between then there was the sound of machines; harsh metal brushing against itself in a horrendous squelch that pinched at her ears, created heat where there was already sweat pooling and dripping. She tried to count the number of times she hit her axe in the mines, rounded about the bases of large machines when her intelligence had moved her to a new room. There hadn’t been breaks-why would they be needed, in this realm where nobody could make an independent thought and she barely remembered her name?

              It’s your fault. One whistle meant to get to work. She tugged on the strap of her overall and examined the large gear that had been chugging against the usual mechanical rhythm. You sent yourself down here. You abandoned him. You’re selfish. You deserve this.

              Eurydice tried to keep time while working, tried counting the ticks of the cogs or the steps of her feet. She tapped her fingers against her thigh once, but imagined his hands there and could no longer go on. Within the echo of it all, if she really concentrated, she could feel him. She couldn’t hear his voice, see his face…she fought against the current of repression long enough to know that the image could no longer be conjured. But she remembered the feeling of him; a warmth that didn’t bring pain, a racing heart that leapt, danced. Sometimes there were phantom touches-hands around her waist, a brush against her lips. The moments were fleeting, however, and they were fading.

              One whistle meant get to work, so that’s what Eurydice did. But she could not shake the feeling that there was more; more than counting cogs, more than pressing her axe against rusted gears and repeating her name over in her head. Eurydice, that’s your name. Eurydice. You can’t forget it. Eurydice…

              Her name turns to a sound outside of her own being and it her mind struggles to process it. The sound comes closer; footsteps in their own rhythm, breathing heavy and ragged, and then his voice. Her gaze shoots up and her mind is flooded with information. His hands on your waist, his song in your heart, his lips on your lips…Orpheus…

              She says his name once and does not want to let it go. It feels foreign, these words she hasn’t been able to say and this sensation of being hugged, being loved after an unknown time of isolation. She clings to him, and another sensation; fear. Her breathing grows heavy, her head spinning. She’s speaking to Orpheus but can not decipher what she’s saying. She clings to his touch, cups his face in her hands. He’s real. He’s here. He’s real, and you’re not going to mess this one up again.

              “Let’s go,” Eurydice’s voice breaks. “Let’s go right now!”

              Orpheus shakes his head, wonders why she would want to come with her. It destroys her, this shattered sort of speech. He dreams of the things he’d promised her. She dreams of laying in his arms, of gathering firewood and planting gardens. Eurydice knows they might struggle, but dreams of struggling together; a team. She looks upon his sorry eyes, cheeks reddened with the smoldering heat, tears their only solace, and promises him a future. She commits. I won’t run this time. I won’t run.

              But they do run; they run together, hand-in-hand. Orpheus knows the way, has it memorized by landmarks of the places that had drawn new wounds across his cheek and his arms. They stay away from the railroad, cut through thicket and climb through rubble. They run side-by-side, Orpheus with a ridiculous, boyish grin that has her laughing too. There’s no sense of time here but she doesn’t care; there is Orpheus, her Orpheus, and she would spend one thousand ageless moments here in this fire if it meant she could see his smile, hear his voice.

              “I found you,” He can’t stop saying the words, brushing his thumb across the top of her hand, stopping to sweep her into his arms. “I found you, I love you.”

              They’re found as they’re crossing a massive pile of upturned brick, some crushed to reddened stone with other pieces remain. They’ve surmounted a mountain of them at this point, thrown spare pieces to the side and listened to them clang their way to the ground. They’re found just crossing over its top, where the hideaways of old windowsills and wall markers are much further down. The pair of runaways stop in their tracks; Orpheus guides Eurydice behind him immediately, shields her with arms that grasp at her, hold her to him with little give. A single brick tumbles its way to the bottom of the pile and they watch it, breath stuck in their throats.

“You found her-you’re here.”

              When Persephone reveals herself, Eurydice can feel Orpheus loosen his grip on her; not too much, but just enough to urge her to hold tighter. This is the woman who’d danced with her up above, given her a cup of liquor and her approval and spent the nights chatting with them at Hermes’s bar. This is the woman that had looked upon her in the black clothes of mourning, scorned her husband and then let him undress Eurydice of everything that had made her herself. He’d given her the contract, he’d brought her down here. And now here was his wife, who’d looked at her with such pity but had let it happen. The woman who is celebrated in their dandelion summers spends her winters shutting out the world, and Eurydice cannot bare to see her.

              Orpheus is torn between a sigh of relief and another cry for help, an escape. He can sense the unfiltered anxiety coming from Eurydice, the way she shifts as much of her body against him as she can, breathes slowly, shakily against his back. He looks into Persephone’s eyes and is unable to predict what will happen next, whether they’re saved or doomed. He’s not sure that she knows, either. Her gaze never leaves him, barely falters as she stands in the rubble. Her nest of pretty curls is tied atop her head, held in place by a scarf she’s tied meticulously tight. Her clothing is scuffed, tights ripped and deep black fabric splattered with stain and strain. He can see the unsteady rise and fall of her chest; quick, as if she’s climbed this hurdle on a mission. Instinctively, Orpheus backs up, shifts his hold on Eurydice so that it is as tight as it is being given. He narrows his eyes.

              “We’re leaving.” It’s the first time either of the women has heard Orpheus use this voice, harsh and darkened, protective. Persephone steps back, mirroring his actions, and holds her hands in the air. This is not the same boy she had helped raise. This is someone different. Orpheus had always loved deeply, but not like this. As the hardened landscape surrounds them-the ember-reddened sky, the rubble and the ash-his lips draw themselves into a firm line and he squares his shoulders. In her second home, Persephone witnesses Orpheus cross the balance between the little, naïve boy with unbounded happiness to a man crushed with trauma, a man who’d almost lost the most important thing to him. A hefty wall of pain hits Persephone’s chest and knocks her to a seated position as she looks upon someone who is almost a stranger to her now; someone who looks at her, unsure, for the first time in his life.

              “We have to go.” He says it softer now, shakier. Orpheus does not move when Persephone sits, but softens the slightest bit. He bites his lower lip, taps his free hand against his thigh. “We’re going home.”

              “You don’t know how.”

              “Yes, I do.”

              “You could get hurt.”

              “Lady Persephone,” She shudders. His voice is that of a child, pleading and half-whispered. Orpheus shifts forward, a test; a trial of the optimism hidden within the nerve-hardened shell he’s created. Eurydice stays close, lets herself move to his side but keeps her eyes glued to the expanse of land beyond the rubble mountain. Persephone looks between the pair; her nephew and his blood-charred cheek, his slightly haphazard clothing and his arms large around the tiny stature of his lover. Eurydice, stained with grease and oil and sweat, with gaunt cheeks and flyaway hair, is a picture of beauty in the strange ember glow. It is the way that Orpheus looks at her, drinks in even this shattered appearance and brushes away that untamed hair, that stirs Persephone’s heart.

              “I know every stone. I know every place you could get into trouble. I can’t let you get hurt, poet. Hermes would never forgive me; I would never forgive me.”

              Persephone rises, brushes as much debris from her clothing as she can, and turns to face the rest of the unknown.

              “I can take you there. I can keep you safe.”

              “How do we know that you’re not lying?” It’s the first time Eurydice has said a word to her, and it cuts sharp like a dagger to her throat. Her tone is laced with well-practiced malice, lips drawn to a thin line. She clings to Orpheus, kicks a small stone with the toe of her boot. She wonders just how long it would take to run if they started now-if Persephone is as fast as she seems, what moves she’d favor in a fight. She sizes Persephone up as a threat, but the older woman simply shakes her head. There is pity in her eyes, and Eurydice pushes down the boiling of her blood. Pity is not her goal. Orpheus and his voice and their second chance is.

              “Well,” Persephone shrugs, steps down the rubble-pile without knocking a single brick. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”

#hadestown #orphydice #orpheus #eurydice #my writing #UG Railroad au

[fashionkingcarney]

ravenous, ravenous

pairing: orpheus/eurydice

When he looks up and spots her, standing paces away, his whole face lights up. “Eurydice,” he says, breathy and hopeful, and damn him for how her name sounds in his voice.

Home, he'd promised her.

i’m having the best time writing this, so it’s my dearest hope that anyone reading this will also enjoy! this bit is more of a come home with me rewrite, with a bit of a twist to it, which i suppose is fitting given that this whole canon divergent au is hadestown with a bit of a twist. 

more to come soon ;)

posted on ao3 as well

She’s got three quarters in her coat pocket. Pinched between her thumb and forefinger, Eurydice rubs them as she walks, the metal grinding against each other. A distant while ago, the coins had been a reassuring weight at her side, cold as the bitter wind stinging her nose and chapping her lips. Then; there had been more than the three, and the metal jangling around like a rattle in her pocket had been a comfort. A lullaby and a child’s blanket, soothing her to sleep when all she had for cover was her coat. Now; the remaining coins are warm to the touch, as if they’d stolen what little heat her body had held.

There’s something gritty in her pocket. Not sand, nor gravel, but something in between. It crawls under her fingernails, the bitten tips and cracked cuticles coloured a grey so dark it may as well be black. It creeps through the seams of her coat. On off days, when she takes a stick to it, ashy clouds billow from it, like puffs of cigarette smoke. Her meager attempts to preserve some level of hygiene always ends in coughing fits.

The man who’d travelled with her in a freight car between Colorado and Kansas had called it dust.

“It gets everywhere,” he’d said into the dark, his voice raspy. There’d been a whistle in his words, or perhaps it’d been the wheeze settled in his chest. She’d heard it in the silence of the night, each breath, a heave.

(She’d never ended up seeing his face, but when she flips through her memories, she draws him as grizzled, face prickled with shocks of white hair, too close cut to be called a beard, too long to be called stubble. Cheeks sunken in and clothes that had been soaked through enough times that they never dried quite right anymore. She’d smelled it for the first half of the journey, until she couldn’t quite smell anything anymore. Eurydice had heard of food turning rotten, but she’d never thought clothing could spoil.)

Eurydice pulls the lapels of her coat tighter against her body. As the winter drags on, the travellers crossing her path get sicker. The ice settles in their joints, the wind blows the dust everywhere, every breath turns their lungs blacker. Her tattered handkerchief soaked in water can only protect her so far. Fatigue is settling in, her stomach whines. It too is tired, and fully fledged growls take energy that she can’t spare.

The train had taken her to the end of the line, here in this town called New Asphodel, and the last of her funds had been traded a pit stop ago, for a bowl of warm broth to soothe her cracked throat. What remained; three quarters could buy her neither a meal, nor a place to rest. Eurydice rolls her shoulders and cracks her neck. Her backpack full of nothing gets heavier with every step she takes down this barely-lit alley, the rusted lamp posts casting shadows on the wall.

There’s little she wouldn’t trade for a safe place to set it down, but what is safe in this strange place?

A ways down, there’s a stream of light from a door left open, hanging wide on creaking hinges. She’s five sidewalk squares from it, when the smell bows her over. Fatty pork, charred on a grill, slow roasted potatoes. Eurydice swallows, takes a shuffled step closer. There’s something simmering, mixed with sweet carrots, a rich broth made from the bones of a gamey bird. Creamy corn stirred in melted butter.

The edge of a wooden crate slams into her chest, she stumbles back, arms pressed to her midsection. The corner had got her in the hollow of her stomach. She takes a breath, but the pain claws. It’ll leave a bruise, as everything else does.

“Oh my gosh,” the guy begins, breathy and rushed. “I’m—”

The crate falls to the ground in a clatter, the cans knocking against each other.

He’s tall and gangly, all bones and little else. His boots are scuffed, the soles cracked. The hems on his pants are frayed. He’s got an apron on, dirt patterning the once-white fabric in dark smudges. The left corner is folded over, the wind pressing the fabric against his legs.

“I…oh…” he mumbles, rubbing his hand through his hair, forcing up the longer strands on top.

In the light of the doorway, she sees his ears turn red, a flush streaking across his cheeks. It matches the bandana at his throat, a spot of colour against the dirty white of his tee. He must be crazy, she thinks. That he’d stepped out with nothing but an apron for cover. When there’s a storm in the air, the wind growing colder, the clouds above turning dark as the season’s mood shifts. Commonplace for this time of year, but this person doesn’t seem to understand, wandering in his half-sleeved shirt.

The snapped watch it, on the tip of her tongue dies in her throat.

“Boy!” thunders a man from inside, his gravelly voice climbing an octave in his fury. “How many times have I told you not to leave the damned door open? I don’t care what Hermes says, this month’s coal’s coming out of your paycheque!”

He shuffles back, his shoes dragging on the unpaved road, and races inside what must be a kitchen, leaving his crate of groceries at her feet. It’s filled to the brim, cans of preserved vegetables, jars of jam. A single block of butter and a wheel of cheese wrapped in brown paper. Eurydice swallows; that wheel would feed her for weeks. A month, if she rationed it carefully. Right then and there, she might finish the whole thing in one sitting, but she’d taught her body to forget its want, when she could barely satisfy its need. Had learned the hard way that a day’s feast would end in a month’s famine. But the food, hungry though she is, hadn’t been left for her.

What goes around, comes around and Eurydice curses the Fates but she won’t provoke them.

When she turns the corner and walks around to the entrance on the main road, she spies a sign, letters outlined in red-hued lights. It reads Tip tina’s, Tipitina’s, she realizes when she gets closer. The i in the middle has gone dark, the lit up sign a discordant splash of modern colour on an otherwise ancient building. It might’ve stood there for centuries, cobbled together with stones and cement, untouched by drought and floods and winter storms where dust coloured the snow and it fell to the ground like volcanic ash.

There’s a wraparound porch wide enough for tables in the winter, and empty planters hanging off railings, covered in hemp cloth. She takes a step closer to the wooden stairs leading up, and there’s sign hanging on the door over a hook, reading open in flowery cursive. It stands at odds with the architecture of the place, the décor of the lit-up sign proudly announcing most of its name. Like a patchwork quilt, she thinks absently.  

“Girl,” calls an old man, “What’re you doin’ out there in the cold?”

There’s a lilt in his voice, like the twang of a banjo she’d heard a lifetime ago, when a walk and a bus and a ride hitched on the back of a pickup truck had brought her east. Almost to the ocean, a man with broad shoulders and slicked back hair that smelled of sandalwood, had told her, the banjo playing over his hand on her thigh. And perhaps it’d been the girl at the microphone’s whispered love song, or the fingers of leathery bourbon warming her belly and all over, but almost had seemed so romantic then.

“Just passing through,” she mumbles, turning her face away. With her hands stuffed in her pockets, her fingers find the coins easily, the three quarters taunting her. This is all you can afford; a whiff of a meal and roofless shelter on the street.

The lines on the man’s craggy face deepen when he presses his lips together.

“You’ll catch your death out there,” he waves her over. “Come inside.”

She shakes her head, the feather pinned to her hair tickling the top of her ear. “It’s all right. I’m not staying long.”

He crosses his arms, silver creases folding along the sleeves of his jacket.

“I won’t ask again,” he says, the tone of his voice inviting no argument. “I’ve got the heater going inside, and warming your hands won’t cost you a dime.”

A dime is about all she might afford. But a warm place to sit and rest her aching legs, warm her frozen toes—it’s offered and nothing is free, she knows this. She knows, but the three quarters would buy her no more than this.

Eurydice climbs the steps up to the porch, the wood creaking under her boots.

“Name’s Hermes,” he says pushing open the door, and scowling up at the chorus of wind chimes that welcomes them when he opens the door. “You can call me Mr. Hermes.”

The boundary of his title, enforced by his directive, uninviting even as he invites her inside—the tension in her shoulders eases just the slightest bit. Familiarity bites. Formality; she trusts.

She’d gathered as much, but inside, Tipitina’s is very much a bar. Long glass shelves full of bottles, all varying degrees of empty. A long bar lining one side of the space, made of polished stone, set on thick, gleaming wood. As in most bars, the lights are dim, incandescent bulbs set in wrought iron fixtures welded to the wall. In the windowless corner, there’s a microphone on a tall stand, and a polished wooden lyre propped up against the wall.

“Where should I sit?” she asks, scanning the array of empty wooden tables, save for the couple in a corner booth by the window, sitting facing each other, their fingers tangled together.

Mr. Hermes grunts. “Do I look like a host to you? Find yourself a seat like the rest of them do.”

In the same flowery cursive labelling the front door, there’s a sign naming the swinging door off the side of the bar, kitchen. It remains shut, but through the gaps around the frame, the smells waft out. Roasted meat and melted butter and freshly baked bread. Fried potatoes dusted in salt. Nothing that her three quarters might buy.

The table farthest from the bar it is, then.

And it’s a far cry from standing out in the cold. Here, she stretches her legs, gives her shoulders a reprieve from carrying her bag. The metal legs of the chair creak, and the wood on the table is scarred with initials and crudely drawn hearts. But it’s a place to sit. She tucks her bag under the table, holds it secure with her legs, careful to not touch the dried chewing gum stuck to the underside. It’s a roof and insulated four walls, and a coal burning stove circulating warmth.

For that alone, it’s better.

People begin to file in, men and women alike, wiping the dust from their shoes on the welcome mat. The bells ring incessantly, as they enter and exit, only to enter again. Mr. Hermes rarely greets the customers, but when he does it’s accompanied by a scowl and a curse at those damned chimes.

There’s a folded menu on each table, but they go largely untouched. Orders are shouted from memory, she supposes, addressed to Mr. Hermes, who can’t possibly be getting any of it. He has no pen or paper or anything that he might write it down with. But they call out and he grunts. It might be organized chaos if there was a rhyme or reason to it, but as it stands, it’s disorder, plain and simple.

“’Aight,” he yells, when the din turns into an alphabet soup of drink and dinner orders.

It’s a spell over the lot; orders come in single file, and soon after, the kitchen door swings open to a man balancing a plate in each hand. Boy, the voice inside the kitchen had called him. He who had smashed a bruise into her stomach, dropped his groceries at her feet and ran.

By the cut of his jaw and the line of his shoulders—he’s no child.

He’s no server, either. He takes as many plates as his hands will carry, sets them down in front of customers one at a time. Gets it wrong half the time, though she can’t blame him; it’s guesswork, with neither table assignments, nor notes. It’s a small blessing that the bar is only half full of patrons. A full house and the food would be cold by the time he found its owner.

But the patrons’ moods aren’t soured by the abysmal service. There’s laughter and alcohol flowing freely, the conversation growing raucous when the drinks arrive before the food. Eurydice has neither food, nor drink. No complimentary basket of rolls she might fill her belly with. And it’s fine, she’s fine, she’s been far hungrier.

Desperation had brought her to the end of the line, opportunities dwindling as the winter stores dried out. There’s only so much a man might hire a girl for. She’d make do. She’d have to make do. With the match she takes and the candle she lights, a she breathes a futile prayer. Please let it be alright.

It’s ridiculous even as she covers the flame with her hands. When had the gods ever helped her?

They’d given her a sharp tongue and thick hair and dark eyes. A body that she could barter, for labour or otherwise. The otherwise for when there was no demand in the market for the regular sort of labour, and she’d—thought about it. Has thought about, thinks about it still. What might she barter her body for? Would it be her self that she’d be trading, or would it be just her flesh?

Desperation comes and goes as the year switches from blazing hot to freezing cold and back again. She’s not there yet. She isn’t.

“Come home with me,” the man who is and isn’t a boy says in a rush and Eurydice nearly falls over, the back legs of the chair she’d been leaning back on teetering out of balance.

He speaks in one breath but each word careful and enunciated, full of conviction. No preamble, no suave lines, no forward touches. Just a tall ask and no case for himself, save a twisted and torn paper something shoved at her face.

His name is Orpheus and he thinks her name is like a melody. Honeyed words, buoyed by the dreamy haze he exists in. It’s got artiste written all over it, his grasp on reality like a balloon filled with hot air, untethered. She’d crossed many a musician on this road to hell, all of them full of dreams and promises. And the thing with those promises—they’d tended to make those dreams contagious. Dangerous in this landscape; elbow grease can barely fill a belly, music is a luxury that coins are rarely spared for, if ever.

Eurydice shakes her head. “I’ve met too many men like you.”

“Oh no,” he shakes his head, “I’m not like that.”

She’ll believe it when she sees it.

“Make your case, lover,” she says sarcastically, “Why should I go home with you?”

Orpheus opens his mouth and closes it three times, starting and stopping and cutting himself off. He bites his lips and rubs at his head, in what must be a nervous tick. Finally settles on, “It’s not much, but it’s warm.”

She’d had a retort ready. Something to snap back and put him in his place, as she’d done for every musician, artist-adjacent since the last time she’d been stupid enough to believe in something she couldn’t touch. But she can’t remember what it was. A warm place to sleep.

Could she?

“And…” she starts, but she can’t finish.

A rowdy group of four leaves, yelling their goodbyes, adding teasing reminders for Orpheus to not break the dishes.

He hums to himself as he busses the table, sweet little tunes that sound out of order, bits of a work in progress, she assumes and then—she doesn't care. But he looks at her every now and again, just stands and stares, mouth open, as if lost in some daydream. Eyes alight with some gentle emotion she thinks might be hope, and—she knows nothing of that, wants nothing of it. Such fantasy only ever ends badly.

A liar and a player, she’d called him. As musicians always were, she’d met too many, to not spot the warning signs. He hadn’t even brought her something to eat, just a makeshift flower made of a twisted and torn newsprint. Worth nothing. Not even the offer of a drink. Just the paper flower and his home, offered to her in exchange for—she doesn’t know. Sex, she supposes, as all men want.

Desperation lurks, but at a distance. She’s got three quarters left.

“He’s not like any man you’ve met,” Mr. Hermes tells her, appearing out of nowhere, when she gets up to leave. “Think it through, girl.”

Eurydice knows better. She can’t afford to think this through.

She shoulders her bag and walks out of Tipitina’s, the chimes announcing her departure with its vibrant chorus.

The night is dark when she starts down the road. The streetlights feebly illuminate the road. In a town as small as this, this one street is all there is too see. The shops, the restaurants, the short-term lodging all lined up like schoolchildren. There’re fairy lights strung up outside, but they’ve gone dark, strings broken in places, swaying like the boughs of a fir tree.

The lights are still on in the window of the grocery store, though the only person she can see inside is the woman manning the counter. There’s a display behind the window to the right of the door, a pyramid of colourful jams and jellies in mason jars. Ambrosia, is stenciled over the glass pane in the colours of the rainbow. Eurydice’s mouth waters. A drop of that jam and even the driest cracker would become a delicacy.

She’d settle for an aged bag of jerky at this point, but this side of winter, everything costs an arm and a leg. Her quarters cashed in will buy her a sleeve of saltines, and nothing else.

Hand curled around the coins, she trudges down the steps, and back down the street. The hotel advertises rooms starting at an even seventy-five dollars a night, and around-the-clock kitchen service. The motel is cheaper but not by much. Still far enough out of her budget, that she can’t even bring herself to stop.  

For a place to sleep and a bite to eat, she needs a job. But while the storefronts advertise overpriced merchandise she could never afford, not one offers employment. Eurydice is no beggar. She’d sooner sell her soul than hold out for handouts.

The mercury drops as the minutes tick by on the round-faced clock mounted to the town hall’s bell tower. If she doesn’t find a place to take shelter soon, she’ll freeze by the time the sun comes back around. But she has nothing to sell and only her body to barter.

A home, Orpheus had offered her. Four walls to shelter her and a roof over her head. All for the small price of—whatever it is men want from her. Mr. Hermes might’ve promised he wouldn’t be like the others, but what did an old man understand of the others she had known?

Yet, as her options dwindle, she clings to the thought of him. The sweet smile on his face, the light in his eyes. The dimple pressed into the side of his cheek, deepening when he’d hum a particularly beautiful bar of whatever he was working on. Whatever else, musicians had never played out well for her, but this Orpheus with no artifice and no tact and arms and legs that more resemble a baby giraffe’s when he moves—there is something about him that makes her wish him to be the exception.

It’s her mind playing tricks, to make the only solution to her situation palatable. Eurydice knows this.

She doesn’t care.

The back door to Tipitina’s kitchen is wide open when she wanders back. Orpheus stands in the doorway, fiddling with his apron strings. He still doesn’t have a coat, and even with the heat at his back, he shivers. A crazy, impractical musician is what he is. She’s crazy for even considering it.

And yet.

When he looks up and spots her, standing paces away, his whole face lights up. “Eurydice,” he says, breathy and hopeful, and damn him for how her name sounds in his voice.

"You wanted to take me home?"

“Yes,” he nods.

She holds out her hand. "Well come on, then. Lead the way."

His hand is warm to the touch, rough in patches all over his fingers. Her own hand is tiny in his grasp, swallowed whole. This Orpheus; tall and skinny, pushed around by the demon in the kitchen. Perpetually wearing a blush, half of his mind in the clouds. Would he be her sanctuary?

Home, he’d promised her. She’d sell any amount of flesh for a safe place to rest.

#hadestown #hadestown fanfic #orpheus #eurydice #orphydice #i do love a comment ;)

[welcometohashihigh]

Awakening: Minato

Minato did not like trying to work with either the Investigation Team or the Phantom Thieves. Narukami was too open and carefree, and Kurusu was snarky and almost straight up rude. Like it or not though, all of them were in this together, and Minato would have to put up with them. Admittedly he did have to stifle a laugh when Kurusu almost fell through the window. So much for the elegant boy. 

“I’ll go first.” Sure, he wasn’t as strong or agile as Narukami or Kurusu, but at least he had a brain. The other two didn’t openly object, so Minato clambered up on the windowsill and stepped in. 

His breath caught in his throat. This new world on the other side of the window was spiralling with black and white, and he felt almost out of place in the absence of color. Minato gazed around a bit in this new environment before he stuck his head back through the window, motioning for the others to follow. 

Once everyone was within the window, Minato fell in a group with the rest of S.E.E.S. The others talked among their own group as well, everyone completely unsure of what to even think in this new place. Minato talked to Mitsuru, trying to figure out where the hell they actually were. 

“Do you think this is a place we could summon Personas?” Junpei held out his Evoker, the sleek gun reflecting the white colors of the area. Minato looked at it and took out his own. He couldn’t even remember the last time he used it. Though he had to admit, he wasn’t even sure if it would work for him anymore. 

“What the hell is that?” Sakamoto shouted, looking at three dark blobs that crept towards the group at a slow pace. The beasts were the same black and white as the place, however the patterns on them are far more angular than the area’s smooth spirals and swirls. “Are they Shadows?”

Kurusu ran in front of the Thieves, reaching up for his face. How strange. Minato wasn’t sure why he reached up in such a manner, but Kurusu seemed almost, frustrated after the motion. He watched as Kurusu shook a bit, a snarl edging his voice. 

“Do I not have it anymore? Am I not rebellious as I was?” Kurusu stared down the blobs, and Minato noticed how his eyes were taking on a strange red tint mixed with the normal gray. “Can I even summon a Persona here?” Kurusu seemed to be doubting himself, despite standing up to the monsters. Minato watched as he reached up again, this time only to pull at the curly hair that fell in his face. He was shaking, more than before, as suddenly his eyes went wide. 

“Kurusu!” Shirogane’s voice was filled with concern, but none of the Phantom Thieves made a move to help him. Not even Sakamoto, who was so obviously Kurusu’s best friend. In fact, he didn’t even flinch when Kurusu let out a sharp, pain filled cry. What on earth have these people been through? Shouldn’t they help him? Minato could feel his chest tighten, and despite the fact that he would openly admit he didn’t like Kurusu, he felt the urge to go after him. He took a step, but Sakamoto held up his hand.  

“Don’t interrupt him.” Sakamoto’s gaze swept over everyone else, warning them that it’s a bad idea to even approach the suffering boy. Kurusu fell to his knees, clutching his head in both hands. Tears streamed down his face from the pain as screams shook his frame. “I watched this once before.” Sakamoto looked at Kurusu, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “It hurt like that for me too.” 

With a loud shout, Kurusu’s arms fell to his side. He spoke softly, his words drawn out. “P….er...son...a…” Minato crept forward a little, peering into his...mask? A simple white eye mask with black spikes around the eyes. Where the hell did that come from? Kurusu smoothly slid to his feet, his gray eyes sweeping across the three blobs who had stopped advancing because of the odd behavior. A laugh echoed from his throat as Kurusu reached up, his fingers gripping at the mask over his eyes. He struggled with it for a moment, before a horrifyingly grotesque sound ripped through the air. Minato was frozen in place, but a few others made shrieks of panic as blood spurted from the side of Kurusu’s face. He was ripping the mask off his face with a loud shout of pain.

“What the…” Minato shook in fear. Kurusu tore the mask from his face completely and threw it to the ground, blood spinning through the air. It dripped down his face as a tornado of blue fire and wind whipped around him. Minato held his arms up as winds buffeted everyone, hot and intense. A deep, resonating laugh filled the room, vastly different from Kurusu’s own. When he looked up again, Kurusu wasn’t wearing the school uniform anymore, instead bearing a long black coat over a gray bodice, loose black pants, and pointy black boots. A pair of bright red gloves completed the ensemble, but the logistics of Kurusu’s outfit wasn’t the most pressing matter. The tall, winged demon that stood right behind him would have startled Minato if it wasn’t obviously Kurusu’s Persona. 

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!” Sakamoto burst into the same flames with a loud whoop, his outfit changing to a black fabric and gray steel pirate outfit. His gloves were bright yellow, and the fluttering tie around his neck was the same red as Kurusu’s gloves. A glinting steel skull mask covered half of his face, and a part of Minato felt that he had seen it before. The rest of Thieves followed suit, bursting into blue flames and changing into strange outfits. And the masks… My god, who are these people? 

Sakamoto walked up to Kurusu, completely ignoring the winged demon behind him. “Welcome back, Joker. It’s been a while.” The demon dissolved away, and the mask around Kurusu’s eyes returned. Joker? 

“This is really touching and all, but there’s still blob monsters there!” Satonaka, er, Chie as she asked to be called, pointed at the black and white monsters. Kurusu pulled off his mask, but right before the demon appeared again, Narukami ran forward. 

“I’m not letting you have all the fun, Kurusu!” Narukami pulled those thick glasses from his jacket and put them on. “I have a Persona too. Izanagi!” Nothing happened. Narukami growled and shouted again, but still nothing. Minato watched as he closed his eyes. Narukami was shaking, gritting his teeth. “No, my… My other self…”

“You just need to defeat your Shadow!” Kurusu looked at Narukami with an accusatory look, as if it was that easy. 

“It doesn’t work like that, Akira. Not for us anyway.” Hanamura kept his eyes trained on Narukami. “He has to make peace with his other self.” This was so different from the absolute airhead Minato was used to him being. There was something almost intelligent in the way Hanamura spoke about summoning Personas.

“If Kurusu can overcome his Shadow, I can make peace with mine.” Narukami smiled, his mouth almost in a grimace with determination. Minato watched as he held up a blue card, one that seemingly came out of nowhere. Making peace with your inner demon sounded easy, but he knew how hard it was to pull that trigger on his Evoker. He knew how hard it was to just accept death. Minato pulled the smooth gun from its holster on his hip, his thumb running over the letters of S.E.E.S. He could put it to his head, easy. But pulling the trigger?

“Per...son...a…” Narukami whispered quietly, a grin forming on his face. The card blazed to life in his fingers as he crushed it, a loud cry leaving him as the blue flames around him glinted in his glasses. “Izanagi!” A tall, cloaked figure rose to life behind Narukami, its glowing golden eyes glaring down on the blobs. It screeched and crackled with electricity, swinging the polearm at the monsters. 

“That’s right, partner!” Hanamura pulled out a pair of orange glasses and put them on. Minato noticed that they had the same colorful stripes on the side that Narukami’s did. The rest of the Investigation Team did the same as well, putting on various styles of glasses, all with those colorful stripes. 

Kurusu walked over to Narukami, a smirk on his face. “Izanagi, you said? My Persona is Arsene.” Sakura was bouncing up and down around the two, jabbering about how strong Izanagi was and how he could probably beat Arsene. 

Minato clutched his Evoker. He was strong too, he had to be. His hands shook, the lights glinting off the smooth metal. If people were talking he couldn’t hear them, a storm of thoughts pounding in his head. I don’t want to die. No of course he didn’t, he hadn’t wanted to die since last winter. But here he was, his fingers wrapped tightly around his Evoker. He couldn’t stand to get rid of it, but he never dared to pull the trigger. He could feel himself growing weak against his own mind. The gun started to slip from his fingers until he heard Mitsuru whisper to him softly. 

“You can be afraid.”

You can be afraid.

Minato’s hand moved to his head, the gun gleaming between his fingers. His index finger ran over the letters before shifting to the trigger. You can be afraid. As long as you just act. As long as you’re still yourself. You can be afraid. He stopped shaking, confidence overpowering him. “Pers…” 

You can be afraid. 

“..so…” 

You have the power to act. 

“...na…!” 

You’re yourself and that’s what matters.

With a loud bang, Minato pulled the trigger on the Evoker. Lights and flames spiraled around him as the power filled his entire being. Just because he was afraid of death didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to face it head on. “Orpheus!” The Persona blazed to life behind Minato, fire sparking around him. He felt a smile spread wide on his face, gazing over everyone. The shock on their faces was like oxygen to him, filling him with pride. 

I’m strong.

#persona #persona 3 #persona 5 #persona 4 #minato arisato #yu narukami #akira kurusu #hashi high

[erintoknow]

Don’t Look Back

today will be my first day at my new job, but i finished one last fanfic short before i potentially drop off the earth (hopefully not!). Fallen Hero fanfic, ofc, inspired by that damn Ortega dinner test scene from a while back that absolutely didn’t make me cry, haha, why would you even suggest such a crazy thing? about ~1k words, btw.

i don’t know if this is nsfw or not. nothing like ‘sexy’ happens? but you’ve got two ladies in bed with each other, so nobody tell my mom.

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

“I’m sorry.” You whisper into the room. It’s so dark in here, thank god. Shapes and colors reduced to the faintest suggestions. Shadows cast against the wall from somewhere else.

Her arms shift, pulling you closer against her. “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” The words hit your chest like an ice dagger. Will you ever do something so evil as to match this? Laying in Julia’s arms, in Julia’s bed? “Hey,” she squeezes you, “hey, I thought we already cried ourselves out?”

You run your hand over her arm, up her shoulder, letting your fingertips pull at her skin. “I’m sorry we couldn’t…” go farther, you want to say, but don’t. Go all the way, you want to say, but won’t.

A hand rubs your cheek, “Oh, I think we made do just fine,” Julia’s voice is light and genuine, bringing a memory of hands on skin. You want to believe her, that this wasn’t a disappointment. “Next time I’ll be prepared. Now that I know what we’re working with,” her voice purrs and you feel a shiver run down your back. There is going to be a next time, then. Maybe even a third, if you’re lucky. You’ve stepped over the event horizon; no one but yourself threw you out of this window.

“Alright then, I’d… I’d like that.” you whisper, “thank you.”

“Your welcome?” Comes Julia’s bemused reply.

What’s one more fall, at this point?

“I was so lost,” you say suddenly, surprising yourself, “without you, or Anathema, Sentinel, all the rest… even Steel, I guess.”

“‘Even Steel’?” Julia asks, mirroring your fingers tracing her back, with her tracing yours.

“Every family needs a stick-in-the-mud I guess.” Neither of you laugh. “You all made me feel like… like I was… like I was a real person?” You choke, teetering on the edge of truth. “Human?”

“Of course you’re human Ari,” Julia retorts, her ignorance another stab of pain to your heart. Then adds after a second, her voice soft again she says, “you were my best friend.”

You shift position so you can kiss her, it takes a trial run in the dark, tasting salt, before you find her lips. It doesn’t last long enough.

“You were all such… extraordinary, amazing people. You made me want to be special too. To… to do something more with this… power I had then petty theft or…” You don’t have the courage to finish that sentence, instead weaving your legs between Julia’s, a hug of knees. “And I wanted you to notice me. To… really see me, like how I saw you.”

“Ari…” Julia laughs, but it has a bitter edge to it. “How did neither one of us say anything?”

“And then…” You pull yourself as close as you can, until your ear is pressing against her chest, until you can hear her heartbeat. “They took me away.” Your voice strains, it’s like the words themselves hurt your throat. “They took me away and no one ever came to get me. You never came.”

“Ari…” Julia’s voice is pained as she wraps her arms around your back.

“I thought you all had– had thrown me away. So I told myself I hated you too.”

You can feel the electric charge from Julia’s mods raising the hairs on the back of your neck. “If I had known, Ari, I swear–“

You cut her off. “So I did what I had to do. To survive. Just like before. Whatever it took. Whatever it cost.” You dig your nails into Julia’s back, one finger tracing a too-familiar pattern from memory. “Then one day, I… got lucky. I got out again. But… some years had passed and everything had changed. I– I had changed.”

“Just who are these people, Ariadne?”

You suck in your breath, feel the familiar static of Julia’s thoughts, forever unknown to you. Already you’re regretting your honesty. You’re just going to ruin your own revenge, or worse, get Julia killed. “I told you already Julia. You can’t save me. You can’t save the dead. This isn’t something you can just… punch and make better.” She doesn’t need to know about your own plan, not yet. Not tonight. “Ariadne died in that apartment, right alongside Anathema. Julia… I don’t know who I am now.” You laugh, feeling hollow, grateful it’s too dark for her to see your face . “A ghost, maybe? 

Julia’s heartbeat is pounding in your ear, her arms pressing against you as if she can somehow squeeze the negative emotion out of you. “You’re not a ghost, Ari.”

“Yes, I am.” Your reply is sharp, immediate. “I’m not real, Julia.” You’re not crying again. You’ve already had enough tonight. It’s not happening again. It isn’t.

“You are.” Julia repeats forcefully, squeezing you a little for emphasis. “What… parts you were born with doesn’t matter. You are a real woman, Ari.”

You sigh, frustration and fear mounting, how is it not obvious? “You don’t–“ you want to clarify but now your courage is failing you again. That’s what? The third time this night? It’s not like ‘cowardice’ wasn’t already on your list of sins. “…thank you.”

“Can you…” Julia’s speech is slow, deliberate, as if she’s terrified of what the answer will be, and that alone gets you attention. “ Can you ever forgive me? For not coming?”

You don’t respond at first, instead you trace your fingers up the back of Julia’s spine, feeling the scars, the outlines of metal, the years of work both man-made and natural that went into this woman beside you. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to do this?” You lean in, kiss her shoulder before moving up to her neck. “You pulled me out of that grave, Julia Ortega, my very own Orpheus.”

Maybe it’s not the answer she’s hoping for, but it’s the only answer you have. 

———

In the dark, in the aftermath as you contemplate the safest way to get dressed again, a soft voice pokes through the machine-quiet, thrumming from the chest underneath you. You shift position, looking up at the shadow of her face. “Julia? Are you… singing?” You whisper. Julia doesn’t respond but you can feel her head nod on the bed. You let yourself close your eyes and listen for a moment, and then– “oh, no, no, stop. Stop, Julia, you’re terrible at this.”

Julia laughs and you find yourself laughing along with her. “Well then,” she shifts a hand free from under you, running it through your uncombed hair, straightening out the knots. “You going to show me how it’s done?”

You freeze for a moment, paralyzed with fear, a sinking dread of the void you know is coming to swallow you whole. Then Julia’s hand strokes your hair again, and at least for a second you feel anchored. Real again. “Okay,” you whisper, “just this once.”

#fallen hero #fallen hero fanfic #fanfiction #fhr #fhr/Ariadne #julia ortega #chargestep #orpheus and eurydice #gay disasters #wlw fanfic #fallen hero: rebirth #trans character

[themidtowners]

When taking a visit to Midtown:

(a collaborative effort between @s-s-southsideserpentine and @thebetterjonesboy, inspired by the style of @hgk477)

1. Take in the scenery. The lush trees and scenic views of the sunset are one of the only things the two block-radius has to offer.

2. Notice the layout. The six small houses tucked next to the train tracks, the eerily empty shopping center beckons you with its green-lit warnings. The fog looms in thick clouds over the ground, no matter the weather that day.

3. Don’t comment about how quiet it is there, they already know. For a neighborhood that parallels the train tracks, you sure never see the train passing through. Late at night when you hear a train whistle in the distance, ask yourself whether or not this is a fever dream.

4. Tell yourself that it isn’t; that you were hearing the next freight shipment from the Blossom Maple Farm. Make yourself believe it.

5. When you need to buy yourself groceries, take a visit to the Grocery Outlet. Don’t ask the locals why they call it the “grossout”. It’s better that you not know.

6. Before you enter into the tiled, timeless cavern that is the grossout, pull out your stopwatch. You’ll want to know how much time you really spent in there.

7. When you reach into the dairy fridge to grab yourself some milk, don’t question the hands that come from behind in order to slide you the last quart of 2%. They know more than you know…ask them questions.

8. If you find yourself needing to use the restroom, you might find that it’s in your best interest to reconsider. If you’re brave enough to venture into the depths of the great unwashed, knock on the door three times before you check the handle.

9. If it’s unlocked, it means they welcome you. Try your best to drown out the drip-dropping sounds of sourceless water that echoes throughout the grey-tiled restroom.

10. As you make your way up to Buddy at register one, mind the shadows. They follow you as you bob and weave between the produce section and the deli, but vanish the second you check over your shoulder.

11. When you hand the cashier your sweaty, crumpled-up dollar bills, don’t look him in the eye. He doesn’t like when people stare at his scar. Drop your change in the tip jar, whisper a thank-you to him.

12. He and all the other spirits appreciate it.

13. Upon exiting the grossout, pull out your stopwatch. Did you spend more time in there than you thought? Less? It’s quite funny, isn’t it? How time seems to escape you here. Nevertheless, we hope you enjoy your stay.

14. If you find your clothes in need of a wash, follow the dull glow down the block. It’ll lead you to “Stop n’ Wash”, the local laundromat.

15. It’s often hard to distinguish the tired churn of the machines and droning buzz from the static silence of the dreary town.

16. Keep an eye on the clock on the wall, locals murmur about how they swear it never moves. There’s a reason the unofficial slogan is “Stop n Wash, where time stops and your clothes might get washed.”

17. The locals sit as they wait, at most a quiet hum of conversation, often nothing but the whitenoise. During the day sometimes there’s a faint breeze of 90’s grunge drifting through the background. Old magazines, tattered books, earbuds and hoods, the blaring light of a cell phone against a face you swear you saw once in a town across the state.

18. That shadow in the corner lingers. Vaguely shaped of a person, you might look to a local in alarm. They won’t take notice of you, so you’ll look back. The shadow isn’t there any longer and the skin on the back of your neck will begin to crawl as the hair on your arms starts to stiffen.

19. The air will begin to feel thick, like you’re trying to breathe in molasses. As you begin to feel like you’re suffocating, not understanding how everyone is unphased, you’ll stand and try to leave.

20. If you can’t find the door, wait for the lights to flicker. The 3rd bulb in the first row will flicker twice before the 1st bulb in the 2nd row flickers once. The doors will be there, waiting. The exit sign searing your dilated pupils.

21. If you feel the gaze of a hundred pairs of eyes on your back as you leave, don’t panic. They’re just curious, harmless though unsettling. Don’t look back, Orpheus was warned and you ought to heed the advice he chose not to. Tales are told for a reason.

22. Don’t pause in the doorway, just go. Didn’t your mother always tell you it was bad luck? You really mustn’t question so much whilst your visit continues on.

23. If you’re lucky enough to have brought your car with you, the gas station is the best place to go for cigarettes and a cheap fill up.

24. When you get out of your car, roll up your windows. Lock your doors. Don’t make eye contact.

25. As you approach the dimly-lit convenience store that’s attached to the local Gas & Go, look down. The masses of old men that flock around it’s doors lick their chops as you approach.

26. If you ask any of the locals, they’ll sadly admit that said group of men rarely leave their sidewalk perch. It’s been the same group of men for years. Nothing seems to change.

27. Hair gets greyer, beards get longer, but their unsettling presence is constant. Keep to yourself and you’ll be safe.

28. Every time you step foot inside the small store, the man behind the counter will great you with a startled, “You alright?”, as if he himself cannot fathom another person setting foot inside.

29. Nod your head and smile. Fake it if you have to. Pay for your carton of cigarettes, tell him $20 on pump #2. Hand him your card and nod appreciatively when he passes you the receipt.

30. Look at his name tag. Some say the only thing that changes about the man behind the counter is the name sewn into his starched shirt.

31. Walk quickly back to your car. Sit in the driver’s seat as your tank fills up.

32. Don’t forget to lock your doors.

33. If you are unable to afford the luxury of your own car, don’t fret, public transportation is always an option. The red and blue lights of the bus stop are welcoming and unsettling all in one.

34. Sit on the cold metal bunch until you realize that the bus is never coming.

35. If you see the headlights crawling through the fog, you might want to rub your eyes. It came long before you arrived, and won’t come again until long after you leave.

36. Some of the locals joke about how they swear sometimes the destination bar on the front of the vehicle reads “nowhere”, but the emptiness behind their eyes will leave you with the haunting feeling they might not be joking as much as they’d like to think they are. Laugh along, humor them. They need it.

37. As you make your way back to whatever godforsaken place you’ve managed to find lodging for the night, don’t worry too much about the rustling coming from the brush. The locals tend to gather in the shadows, singing songs in mother tongues.

38. If you find yourself unable to fall asleep, do not worry.

39. Check the clock on the old wood bedside table. Through the thick layer of dust you can see the neon red numbers, 00:00. Don’t think too much about it.

40. Remember, time is fleeting here. If it exists, it’s certainly not linear.

#midtown au #the midtowners #welcome to midtown #here lies court's post #m & c collab #riverdale au #riverdale fic #southside serpents #sweet pea #fangs fogarty #oc: arielle renee katz #oc: nadezhda andreevna sapozhnikova #oc: dmitri andreevich sapozhnikov

[persona-minty]

Robot Revival AU

Sooo I was talking to @friskyghost about a certain AU they created (link) and they were kind enough to indulge me and talk about it for a while. It was really fun! Anyway, I asked and they said I could make a post about what we talked about and they said yes, so I’m going to do just that. @friskyghost is the primary creator of this AU, but this post is mostly mine with my own headcanons and details that may not hold true for friskyghost’s version of the AU. Persona 3 and 5 spoilers abound and this is a pretty long post, so be warned.

Premise/TL;DR

Minato, Hamuko, and Ryoji are all resurrected several years after the fight against Nyx, except there’s a catch. While their souls are still around and unable to naturally move on, their bodies have long since decayed, so SEES finds a way to infuse their souls into Plumes of Dusk and then crafts three Anti-Shadow Suppression Weapon bodies to put those Plumes of Dusk into. Later, Hamuko, Minato, and Ryoji are sent off to Shujin Academy along with Labrys and Ken during the same year the Phantom Thieves will be active. Naturally, they get caught up in the goings on of the metaverse.

Appearances

Minato, Hamuko, and Ryoji all look like they did back in 2009, except with several clear Anti-Shadow Suppression Weapon features, like the headphones and metallic shoulder and leg joints Aigis had. Labrys looks essentially the same, and Ken and all of the other members of SEES save Aigis are just older versions of themselves, likely similar to what we saw in Ultimax.

Prelude

Elizabeth and Theodore figure out a way to permanently destroy or detain Erebus, perhaps thanks in part to Yaldabaoth’s creation/birth. From there they dismantle the seal and set Minato and Hamuko, twins in this AU, free from the seal. Ryoji is there with them, has been since the creation of the seal, and decides that if the twins are leaving then he will too. Liz and Theo relay all of this information to SEES, and SEES acts by creating robotic bodies for the three of them. So Hamuko, Minato, and Ryoji all come back to life.

Of course then there are happy reunions. Hamuko, Minato, and Ryoji are happy to be alive, and their friends are happy to see them again. It’s great for everyone, but despite the fact that all of this is generally seen as positive, there are drawbacks. Hamuko and Minato have to get used to having suddenly jumped forward in time several years, all of the friends they’d worked so hard to make being so much older than them, technology being so much more advanced (a bit ironic coming from two robots), and so many world events having come to pass while they were in stasis in the Great Seal. Ryoji is less affected, having only existed for a couple of months in 2009 before. The matter of them finishing high school comes up, because Mitsuru has always been a bit of a stickler about that, though she is gracious enough to say that they don’t have to if they really don’t want to.

The original plan is for them to attend Gekkoukan, but they realize that most of the teachers that taught them back in 2009 are still teaching at the school, and furthermore, some of their friends/social links are still living in the area. They’d surely be recognized if they hung around the area, but they’re not ready to answer any questions about their miraculous resurrection to those not in the know yet. So Ken suggests that they attend the same high school that he does: Shujin academy. Originally he transferred to investigate the mental shutdowns that began occurring some time ago and showed several similarities to Apathy Syndrome, but despite that he was unable to find any potential crossover points where shadows could get access to those affected by the mental shutdowns in order to cause those shutdowns like how they caused Apathy Syndrome. Still, he stayed at Shujin partially because it was a school on par with Gekkoukan so he felt no need to transfer back, and partially because Shinjiro, not dead but permanently injured and therefore basically incapable of fighting shadows without putting himself at great risk, now lives in Tokyo and since waking up on graduation day, he and Ken have become closer and closer and healed past wounds.

It’s then that Labrys decides that she wants to attend school as well, and transfers to Shujin with them, both for her own curiosity’s sake, and to help them adjust to living in robotic bodies. So Shujin gets five transfer students that year: Minato, Hamuko, Ryoji, Labrys, and Akira. Minato, Hamuko, Ryoji, and Ken are all third years, while Labrys is a second year.

Entering Shujin

So the twins, Ryoji, and Labrys begin their year at Shujin Academy. Immediately there are whispers that one of the transfer students is a dangerous criminal, but it’s quickly determined that it isn’t the twins, Ryoji, or Labrys. Instead, it’s a second year transfer student that none of them know. Among them it’s decided that they shouldn’t make quick judgements on this student, but that they also have no reason to get involved with him and should just focus on adjusting. 

For the first two weeks or so, they just hang around and try to get adjusted. There seems to be five new rumors about the criminal transfer student each day, while Minato and Hamuko are gathering several admirers akin to Akihiko or Mitsuru in P3 because of their maxed stats. Ryoji, Ken, and Labrys share in that popularity to an extent.

Hamuko, excited about playing volleyball again like she used to, wants to sign up for the volleyball team. The coach of the volleyball team, Mr. Kamoshida, seems very supportive of this, but Hamuko discovers that her new robotic body might be harder to hide if she were to begin playing volleyball. This majorly bums her out, seeing that they can’t risk revealing themselves, but her friends are there for her and promise to play volleyball with her outside of school. She joins a less risky club, like the cooking club, and Minato joins something like the light music club. Labrys, meanwhile, takes interest in the student council and makes it her goal to become the student body president next year, after the current president has graduated.

Then, two weeks in or so, the twins have a very strange dream. It’s a place that’s a very familiar shade of blue, but so different from what they remember. Instead of an ever moving elevator, they find themselves trapped in a prison cell, peering out at Igor from behind steel bars. Liz and Theo have been replaced by two little girls named Caroline and Justine, and even Igor himself seems very different. He tells them of a place called Mementos and how to get there, and then they are released from the dream. They wake up, discuss amongst themselves, and then discuss it with Ryoji, Ken, and Labrys at school. They all decide to investigate after school.

Entering Mementos For the First Time

After school, they go to investigate the place called Mementos. It’s similar to Tartarus, and Ken theorizes that perhaps this is what he was looking for when he first began investigating the mental shutdowns. They run around for a little bit and discover that though Ryoji has no persona, he can still operate just fine as a navigator. Meanwhile, Minato and Hamuko have been “reset”, kind of, so they only have their respective versions of Orpheus and Messiah right now, but they still retain the ability to gain more personas through Shuffle Time. At the end of their investigation session, they venture into the Velvet Room once more and are told by Igor that Mementos is a manifestation of humanity’s sins.

Once out of Mementos, they discuss what they should do next. They agree that Igor must have shown them Mementos for a reason, and that it very well may have something to do with the mental shutdowns and/or psychotic breakdowns. So all of them agree to head back to Mementos again. Admittedly, it also feels good to fall back into the groove of fighting shadows. For Minato and Hamuko especially, since they’re struggling with the drawbacks of their new bodies and their sudden jump in time, so something familiar is extremely welcome.

The Calling Card

The next day at school, a calling card is posted about Mr. Kamoshida. It’s from a group calling themselves the Phantom Thieves, and claiming that they’re going to take Mr. Kamoshida’s twisted desires and change his heart. The next day, Mr. Kamoshida doesn’t show up for school. Nor the next day, and so on and so forth until the assembly where Mr. Kamoshida confesses his sins onstage and vows to kill himself. Mr. Kamoshida is taken into custody by the police, apologies are made to the people who Mr. Kamoshida’s actions affected, and rumors begin to swirl.

Minato, Hamuko, Ryoji, Labrys, and Ken are intrigued by the Phantom Thieves, but not overly interested right now. They’re more focused on discovering why Igor showed the twins Mementos, and they don’t yet consider the possibility that the Phantom Thieves may be persona-related.

Mementos Exploration (1)

They investigate further and further into Mementos, until they discover that they seem to have found the end of it. Mementos was much smaller than any of them imagined, and Ryoji even says that he was almost positive there was more. They discover the answer when they talk to Igor, and he says that they have barely scratched the surface of Mementos, but that to access more of Mementos the public would need to be aware of their existence.

(This is around the time that the Phantom Thieves first enter Mementos, but they do not cross paths with our group).

Making the Public Aware of Them

They discuss whether or not they should go forward with the exploration into Mementos. They are all a part of the Shadow Operatives, so taking care of shadows seems almost natural. Minato and Hamuko also trust Igor, despite him seeming very different, because of his assistance in the past, and the fact that it was Liz and Theo that freed them from the Great Seal. However, they have no idea how to proceed in Mementos, as they have to find a way to become known to the public. Ken, Labrys, or Ryoji then points out that the twins are musically gifted, and if they became famous that way then perhaps they’d be able to get further in Mementos.

After a quick brainstorming session, they come up with the idea to post a video of themselves on YouTube (or an equivalent), hoping that will be enough. Their video is a good enough quality that it draws in many people, but not enough to get them much further in Mementos. They try posting a few more videos, but the results are the same. They lament the fact that this does not seem to be working very quickly and debate just giving up on Mementos, but word of their struggle makes it’s way to the rest of the Shadow Operatives and the next day they find that their videos have skyrocketed in views because Rise promoted one of the videos they made.

(I haven’t decided quite what I want these videos to be about. Since the twins are always wearing headphones I definitely want it to have something to do with music, but I don’t know what yet. If need be, just imagine them posting covers to idol songs.)

Mementos Exploration (2)

The popularity that ensues from Rise’s actions is enough to get them further into Mementos, and it’s here that they discover that some people have actual shadow selves in Mementos. That’s when they decide that the mental shutdowns could be from someone killing these shadows, and first consider the possibility that there might be another persona user in Tokyo, and not one with good intentions. Remember, Ken was investigating the mental shutdowns from the perspective of someone who had dealt with Apathy Syndrome and automatically assumed shadows were the cause of the mental shutdowns.

Meanwhile, the Phantom Thieves take care of a few side requests in Mementos while looking into the Madarame case and Yusuke. When our group finds out about these requests, they officially determine that the Phantom Thieves can access the metaverse and are likely persona users if they can navigate Mementos without dying. That means they become suspects in the mental shutdowns case, at least to our group, but it’s not definite. They have no proof aside from both the assumed culprit and the Phantom Thieves likely having personas and being able to access Mementos, and the Phantom Thieves only showed up a little while ago while the mental shutdowns have been happening for a few years at least.

Still, our group makes the decision, with the approval of the other Shadow Operatives, to investigate Mementos and the Phantom Thieves further. If they wouldn’t, the Shadow Operatives would send others to check it out, because this seems important. As is, Mitsuru wants to send others in, protective of the twins after everything that’s happened, but they all but beg her not to. I think the twins would probably see this as a very good opportunity to get used to living again, especially in these new bodies in this new time. They really became comfortable with living their lives when they fell in with SEES, and this is a similar enough situation that they’re eager to get entangled with it. 

Conclusion

I don’t currently have anything more for this AU imagined, but I think it’s a strong start and has a lot of potential. The story from there would continue with the Phantom Thieves doing as they do in the game while our group investigated them and ventured further into Mementos. Meanwhile, Minato and Hamuko would be dealing with all of their emotional turmoil from being resurrected, being robots now, and being six years into the future. Like honestly, that’s a triple whammy right there, but at least they have each other to confide in. Meanwhile, we could get a more in-depth look at Ryoji, Labrys, and Ken’s characters, or at least a fan-written version of them.

I have what I believe to be a really interesting idea for the progression of this AU that involves our group joining Haru and Morgana in Okumura’s palace, but I haven’t fleshed it out yet so who knows if I’ll ever make a post about it. As it stands, if you like this AU you should go check out @friskyghost, who created the original concept for it. I think they’re a really cool person.

Thank you for reading this suuuuuper long post, whoever made it this far, and FYI, if anybody wants to come chat with me about any persona AU you or I create, I’m always up for it. Message me anytime. Seriously. I love fleshing out AU’s.

#persona 3 #persona 5 #minato arisato #hamuko arisato #robot revival au #ryoji mochizuki #labrys #ken amada #friskyghost #persona au #persona 3 spoilers #persona 5 spoilers

[achilleid]

-- Orpheus’ Epilogue--

EISLIE

The iron gates were shut, words emblazoned on the sigil at its center reading bold and clear:

SALUS IN ARDUIS

It was the same words that had been written in neat, capitalized font on the single website Eislie had found for the college that claimed to lie within. From the bars, she could just barely make out the shape of buildings over the crest of a hill and down a dusty dirt road.

What she could not make out though, was a call box or any other means to let someone know she was here.

Which was typical. Any college that couldn’t even bother to update its website probably didn’t think much about simple, practical things like gate accessibility. The entire website, still up in a tab on Eislie’s phone, looked like something a middle schooler from 1997 would slap together on Geosites. Its background was a tiled with watermarked symbols of the school's emblem, a typically greek-esque laurel wreath around a barely discernible shield containing more symbols. Other than a brief box of text detailing the schools foundation date and location, Eislie had not found one contact number or email address. So it was safe to say the administration was stuck in the 90s too... or long gone.

A quick search however showed the school’s doors were still open and with a humble, yet respectable enrollment count of roughly 143 students and a staff of roughly eleven professors, not counting any assistants. There was even an on campus dormitory, a track and a respectable sports field, though the grainy photos on the website were from the early 1900s or perhaps even later.

A breeze cut the heat from the tendrils of August that clung still to the early September air, churning the otherwise stifling warmth into something tolerable. Eislie frowned, blowing a strand of brown hair from her face and turning back to look at her Uber driver, who was waiting patiently in the front seat of their sedan. 

That she had even been able to find an Uber driver was a miracle in itself, the small town of Kilead the only sign of life within a several mile radius. That Eislie had never heard of it before, despite having lived barely an hour out of the way, was another peculiarity. It was as if, without even actively trying, both Kilead and Anthea College were absent from the notice of the rest of the world. Content to ignore and be ignored.

Even her driver had been perplexed at her directions, having to search his GPS numerous times for the town and eventually having to settle with dropping a pin in the nearest vicinity. What had started as a quaint ride however, Eislie could tell was quickly becoming a troublesome one. The driver poked his head out of his rolled down window, floppy blond hair carried up in a gust of wind.

“Yo— so you good? You want me to stick ‘round?”

He was no doubt, fresh outta high school, spending his last summer making a few quick bucks before starting his own college career. Decidedly not here by the way he wrinkled his nose at the uniforms and old-fashioned looking brick buildings on the website Eislie showed him at the beginning of the trip.

Eislie had hoped for a short visit, a quick stop and drop-- Hey you guys sent me a schedule and an alarmingly expensive bill, but I’m pretty sure I have never gone here so check your files. Please and thanks.

The letter and its envelope were tucked into her book bag, slung over both shoulders to keep from putting too much weight on either side and worsening her limp. That limp was also the reason for the Uber driver to begin with.

“No… I’ll be okay. I think I saw a local cab company when I was searching things out, so you can uh— go.”

Eislie had a feeling she’d regret this decision, even as the driver beamed, happy to be released. He gave her a short wave and rolled up his window, backing out from the shaded drive at breakneck speed. The sound of the revving engine sent a shudder down Eislie’s back. It had only been three years since her own accident, the one that had left her with a limp, a head full of fractured and faded memories and massive, sudden migraines. 

The doctors had said she was a marvel, recovering her facilities and basic functions the fastest they had seen in an auto-related head injury. Eislie had long since grown past being self-conscious of the small burst of scar tissue on her left temple, receding her hairline right along the puffy skin. It was more annoying now than anything to have to recount the story of how she got it.

Long legging or jeans kept wandering eyes from the surgical scars on her leg where they had put her right shinbone back together and from the rather ugly and impressive one where the compound fracture had originated.

Eislie was grateful for the head injury for taking the memories of the impact and the pain with it.

The drive up to the buildings did not look overly long and she had a collapsible cane prepared should her leg start giving her trouble. The problem was, and remained, the gate.

Frowning, Eislie stepped forward, drawing her palm over the latin motto, running her thumb over the edge of the metal and noting the green smudge of barely-there moss on her skin.

This was a bad idea. Maybe if she acted quick she could get the Uber back and just go home. Send a strongly worded letter again and hope this time they stop sending her past-due notices and speeding her anxiety into hyperdrive. 

Granted, how many Eislie Bishop’s were there in the world? It was entirely possible she had applied for classes at Anthea once, back in the dark space where her memories were fuzzy and faded like an under-exposed photograph. When she asked her mother on the subject, she’d brushed off her concern with stilted, clipped words. Not her usual response to Eislie’s attempts to get reassurance. 

Leave it alone. Just ignore it. Miranda had said.

Eislie sighed and turned from the gate. Her foot caught her ankle, shorting the distance needed to lift passed. In an instant, her right leg fluttered and gave out, a swear managing to spit from her lips before she toppled backwards. Eislie twisted to grab onto the bars of the gate for support, another shocked shriek coming from her throat as the gates swung open, dragging her through the dirt.

Eislie blinked, pushing up onto her hands and knees and glaring down the open iron gate with a withering stare.

“No witnesses...” she murmured to herself, taking the opportunity to slip off her bag and take her cane out. Clearly she had misjudged her own clumsiness level for the day, a mistake she would not be making again.

Eislie brushed the dirt from her jeans and used her cane for support to rise back up to her feet. Turning one last time, she looked at the open gate and the road out from it. She shrugged and left it, minding her footing as she began the slow trek down the path and towards the college.

--

By the time she reached the crest of the hill, coming down onto the beautifully tended grounds of Anthea College, it had become obvious to Eislie that either the college boasted the most unfriendly assortment of students she had ever seen-- or she was genuinely not meant to be here.

The students were of a variety of ages, looking anywhere from late teens to late twenties, all wearing the same smart looking dark blazers and either slacks or a skirt in matching shades. Each jacket bore the same heraldry she had seen crowned in a laurel from the website, embroidered in gold, blue and red. 

Each student also bore the same slack jawed expression at the sight of her, voices erupting into hushed whispers, eyes widened and some faces even paling. Eislie had never had such a welcome in her entire life, even when her scars were new and ugly and standing out red and angry across her skin. Not even when she was in her wheelchair, not even when she was relearning how to drink without a straw and constantly dribbling on her clothes.

Eislie, at first, did her best to keep her head high, eyes ahead, but after a constant stream of students taking wide steps from her approach and chatter breaking out the moment she passed she found it harder and harder to keep her eyes from her feet instead.

The buildings looked to all have been built around the same period, sturdy and well-made with rough, brown bricks. Ivy dominated the side of one building, it’s double doors were dated but handsome, the dark wood contrasting against its own bright brass hinges. A small plated sign left of the door read in plain lettering-- Administrative Building. If that wasn’t the office she needed, Eislie knew someone could probably point her in the right direction… and anything was preferable than continuing to be among so many gawking expressions.

Eislie carefully made her way up the small set of stairs, a slight ache making her lean a bit more onto her cane. The walk had not been unpleasant, but it had been quite a ways further than she had thought it would be.

Strangely, all feeling of exhaustion left her as she came to stand fully in front of the arched doorway. Eislie all at once felt something warm in her chest, a feeling of contentment, of comfort. It was as if, all at once, this was no stranger, but a familiar face. A peaceful place. A home. Eislie reached out and touched the curved handle and jumped when static sparked from her fingertips.

The air was not dry.

Eislie slowly reached for the door again, settling her palm onto the handle and her thumb upon the latch and found her thoughts forming together into a single phrase—

Welcome home...

But the voice was not of her own mind. It was softer, indiscernible in its gender or age. Eislie felt her eyelids droop and her body lighten as she pressed down the latch and pushed forward.

The door did not budge.

Before Eislie could even think to pull instead, the door abruptly opened outward, the heavy wood edge hitting into her and knocking her backwards.

Her reflexes had been enough to avoid injury, but not to avoid stumbling. Eislie dropped her cane, ready to try and break her fall backwards unto her bum and hoping to all the stars above that she did not topple right down the stairs.

But the impact never came. An arm roped around her waist and with it’s owners assistance, she righted herself within the circle of their grip.

The young man had held tightly to the opposite door handle to leverage them both, hoisting her hard against his chest. 

“I’m so sorry!” Eislie burst out, desperately avoiding eye contact as she looked around for her dropped cane.

“I wasn’t paying attention, I apologize. I—” 

The young man stopped, his own gaze taking in her appearance with quick successive glances. He had sharp grey eyes, framed by dark brows, both of which were slowly rising in the same look of bewilderment his fellow students had shared. In the grapple, a few strands of his smoothly gelled back hair had fallen into his face. He was handsome, that much went without saying, with a sharp nose that curved downward slightly and high cheekbones. Very Glory Days Gregory Peck, if Gregory’s Peck’s mother had been from Asia. The man he would become had not quite yet completely overtaken the boyish looks of his face.

In short, Eislie had no issue with his close proximity. A smile spread over her lips, rude manners of these Anthea kids be damned.

“Mutual apologies?” Eislie prompted when the young man did not speak again. He released her quickly, his expression not one of confusion anymore, but certainly not one of friendliness. Despite that, he picked up her cane and handed it back to her.

“Thanks! I’m actually looking for the enrollment office, I think I’ve been receiving someone else's mail and wow. They were not kidding when they called this place exclusive. Like, ‘could you add a couple more zero’s to the end of that balance’ right?”

“It’s inside.” the young man said curtly, stepping out of the way and holding the door open for her. He would not look at her, in fact, Eislie noted, his eyes were fixed on her cane. She could hardly blame him, it was a flashy design and had coloring as shiny and luminescent as an oil spill. 

“Style and function, right?” Eislie said, trying to break the tension as she gave the cane a little wiggle. The young man looked at her then, something pained in the way he turned his lips down into a frown.

Yikes. Not her best material, she guessed. Eislie stepped through the doorway and turned back,

“Do you—”

But before she could get the question out, the young man had released the heavy door and it fell shut.

So much for hospitality.

#wip; orpheus' epilogue #writeblr #camp nano july 2021 #camp nanowrimo july 2021 #writing #writing excerpt #what i got so far!

[365footballorg-blog]

Atlanta City Guide: Everything you need to know for 2018 MLS All-Star

July 23, 20187:26PM EDT

We’re less than a week away from this 2018 MLS All-Star Game presented by Target, and people in Atlanta are already mad at me. There’s no way to get this perfect. What’s beautiful about Atlanta – and one of the many reasons it’s the greatest city in the world – is that inside the sprawl are handfuls of sub-cities, each littered with their own distinctive neighborhoods. And yet a culture persists in all of them that is in someway uniquely, and indisputably, Atlanta.

My Atlanta experience is different than the next Atlantan’s, and that person’s will be different from the next; however, I still feel capable of guiding you through your short stay, hosted by Atlanta United. There will inevitably be disagreements. But if having a discussion about where to go, what to do and what to eat doesn’t devolve into an argument about which is the fourth-best barbecue restaurant in Atlanta (it’s Heirloom), then have we even had a discussion about Atlanta? The good news is, even the fourth-best of things in Atlanta are amazing. You can’t go wrong. I’m just here to give you some ideas.

Where to Eat

Home grown GA | http://www.homegrownga.com/

Let’s start with the basics. After afternoons of attempting to chase down Zlatan to get even the grainiest of pictures of him on your Insta-story (that’s why you’re here, right?) and taking in everything else this week has to offer, you’re going to be hungry. Since there are no other MLS teams in the South [Yet. We see you, Nashville!—ed.], I’m going to assume that if you’re using this guide, y’all ain’t from around here. Fortunately, there are plenty of places to get authentic Southern food or great food with a Southern twist.

Breakfast

If you’re a breakfast/brunch/insane-amounts-of-calories-early-in-the-day person, it’s hard to go wrong going to places like Homegrown in Reynoldstown for their signature comfy chicken biscuit, Ria’s Bluebird in Grant Park for pancakes, The Flying Biscuit Cafe in Candler Park for (duh) the biscuits, and, if you’re on the Westside, the West Egg Cafe. If you get the option to put pimento cheese on anything, do it. If you’re unsure of what that is, you’re just going to have to trust me.

Lunch and Dinner

For lunch and dinner, there are no shortage of incredible options that, in addition to being delicious, will keep you from bankrupting yourself before the end of the trip. More high-end places exist, but if you’re looking for those ,you’re asking the wrong 20-something writer.

My first recommendation is to go to the massive and extremely popular adaptive reuse project known as Ponce City Market, look at Ponce City Market, watch people who don’t know any better go into Ponce City Market, and then as soon as you can, go across the street to the tiny white building known as Eats for an incredible “Meat-and-3” plate from an Atlanta institution. I recommend you get the jerk chicken for the meat and demand that one of your three sides be collard greens.  

If the intro had you wondering what my top three best barbeque restaurants in Atlanta are, I’ll settle this debate quickly: B’s Cracklin is third, Community Q is first and somewhere in the middle is Fox Bros. All three are phenomenal though.

If you’re looking for a burger and fries, the standard in Atlanta is at Holeman & Finch Public House. Famously, the restaurant sells just 24 of their double cheeseburgers each lunch and dinner. If you don’t want to work that hard for a burger, you can head to their always open Ponce City Market location if you really want to, or you can just find the nearest Grindhouse for a cheaper and equally delicious option. For some of the best fried chicken in America, find a spot at Busy Bee Cafe, The Colonnade or the famous Mary Mac’s Tea Room.

If you can’t decide what you want and you’re looking for multiple options all in one place, Krog Street Market and Sweet Auburn Curb Market have you covered. For ethnic cuisine, head to the legendary Buford Highway and take in any of the 1.3-mile road’s diverse restaurants, especially Pho Dai Loi 2 for incredible Vietnamese.

Late Night

If you’re up late, leave where you’re staying and walk either a half mile to the left or a half mile to right. Either way you’re going to run into a Waffle House. If you’ve never had the pleasure of a late-night trip to Waffle House, you won’t truly be able to appreciate the South until you do. Other options include the Cookout on Moreland Avenue (entirely better in every way than the one on Ponce De Leon), Midway Pub in East Atlanta Village or Delia’s Chicken Sausage Stand.

Speaking of late night . . . 

Where to Drink

The best way to attack Atlanta at night is to go by neighborhood. For a more low-key night, head to East Atlanta Village or Poncey-Highland (which includes the famous Clermont Lounge). For a solid mix of college kids, hipsters and clubs check out Old Fourth Ward. Decatur has plenty of options. Midtown is extremely LGBTQ+ friendly. Head to Buckhead to waste all of your money. Little Five Points and Virginia Highlands each have their own popular hangouts. Like with food, it’s hard to go wrong going out anywhere in Atlanta. Everyone is welcome everywhere.

Additionally, you can take some time to take in some of the South’s best breweries such as Monday Night Brewing, Torched Hop, Sweetwater, Orpheus and Second Self to name a few.

Now if you’re trying to drink a little earlier and catch a match . . . 

Where to Soccer

[embedded content]

Brewhouse Cafe in Little Five Points, one of Atlanta United’s official pub partners, is the most popular soccer bar in town. Midway Pub and Elder Tree in East Atlanta Village both have plenty of scarves on the walls. As an added bonus, Elder Tree houses one of the best and most dangerously seductive drinks in Atlanta with its EAV Sweet Tea.

Meehan’s is an excellent stop if you’re downtown and if you happen to be a Liverpool supporter. Fado Irish Pub locations in Midtown and Buckhead will always have a game on.

If you’re hoping to get into a game rather than watch, check out our now world-famous 5-a-side pitch at the Five Points MARTA Station. You can also bring a ball to the gorgeous Piedmont Park fields and join a game there.

What Else to See and Do

Posing in front of the Innovation Mural on the Beltline. | Courtesy of Atlanta United

Go to Sweet Auburn and visit Martin Luther King Jr.’s house and the King Center. Go see some of the best street art in the world – use the handy map provided by StreetArtMap.org, and checklist these ATLUTD-themed specials:

Go catch a concert at The Masquerade, or Aisle 5, or The Tabernacle or one of the many other brilliant venues. Look at all the used chicken wings on the ground and wonder how they got there and why there are so many of them.

Go to Centennial Olympic Park, remember that Atlanta once hosted the Olympics, and then shell out some money to visit some of the more touristy yet still awesome attractions around the park, like the Georgia Aquarium and other museums that happen to be just down the road from Mercedes-Benz Stadium. Take a short trip up I-75 and climb Kennesaw Mountain for one of the best views in the state.

Walk The BeltLine. Go to Jackson Street Bridge at sunset for the customary picture of Atlanta’s skyline. Go to church organ karaoke at Sister Louisa’s. Go to metal karaoke at Dark Horse. Go see a bad movie at The Plaza Theatre. Get a Frosted Orange at The Varsity.

Go the Atlanta Botanical Gardens. Drive and stay in your car to catch a movie at Starlight Six Drive-In Theater. Get a popsicle from King of Pops. Go find the Dungeon Family House.

Ask a random stranger on the street what to do, they’ll tell you 50 more things. You won’t get bored here, I promise.

How to Get Around

Courtesy of ATLUTD.com

Traffic can be a slog – build in time. Note you can take MARTA straight to the Benz [My ATLUTD season-ticket-holding brother-in-law confirms it’s the best route on gameday.—ed.] And if you’re up for a bike, you can always Ride the Stripes thanks to Atlanta United and Relay Bike Share.

How to Prepare

Know the culturally appropriate response to “Knuck if You Buck” if it comes on. Listen to as much OutKast and Pastor Troy as possible. It’s spelled “y’all” not “ya’ll”. We reserve the right to banish you to Florida if you say “Hotlanta”. Be prepared for Atlanta United fans to be welcoming, hospitable and completely smug about our incredible team and culture. Grits are just ground corn.

That pretty much covers it. Welcome to Atlanta.

Series: 

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Atlanta City Guide: Everything you need to know for 2018 MLS All-Star was originally published on 365 Football

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