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saintsofwarding · 1 year

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SAINTS OF WARDING; HUNGRY DEMONS

Chapter 4: In Which Things Start to Get Freaky Deeky

One time, Heisenberg had gotten the great idea to weld extra arms onto one of his soldaten. The base was a big guy, one of the mill-workers used to flinging around whole trees and contending with saw-blades huge enough to decapitate even Dimitrescu, so Heisenberg decided to give his corpse the works.

Huge steam-powered pistons bristled from its back, supporting massive scrap-metal arms ending in chainsaws. There was a small artillery unit that unfolded from the shoulder area, perfect for mowing down anything the chainsaws couldn't handle. It was gorgeous. Glorious. A flesh-and-metal crayfish from hell. The guy had no head- that was how he'd died, courtesy of a particularly vindictive log in the mill- but that, Heisenberg figured, was no issue. The reactor went in the chest. No need for a head. Nor eyes.

So he'd fired the guy up. It had gone as planned at first. A surge of power; the scream of mechanical parts. The furnace roar of the reactor, starting a whip-lash of movement down the soldat's body. He'd heaved upright, shedding a slurry of blood and oil, six arms lifting in tandem. Heisenberg had begun to laugh; he'd worked a week straight for this, welding, sawing, slicing and dicing and hammering and molding, and in the fiery heat of the workshop he'd stripped down to his undershirt, now soaked in sweat. It stung in his brand-new cuts, dripped in his eyes. It didn't matter. It was working. It was alive.

It was great up until the exact point when in its birth-spasms it swung round without warning. One of its arms lashed out and slammed into Heisenberg right in the sternum. The blow flung him off his feet and sent him sailing straight into an I-beam; when he came to, seconds later, the soldat was tearing apart the workshop in a shriek of sparks and hungry chainsaws, flailing blindly. Heisenberg had spat out the remnants of his cigar and brought his hands together. Metal crumpled. Bones splintered. The experiment burst in a shower of gore and shrapnel. The effort sent Heisenberg straight back into unconsciousness.

Then, he'd come to slowly, one ebb of awareness at a time. Not so now. He jerked awake with a yell, then fell back, groaning, agony cracking a hole in his skull. His head felt like it had been crushed, like that long-ago experiment. Now, though, he couldn't so much as move an arm to probe whatever those bastards had done to him.

Ropes bound him hand and foot. He forced open his eyes; dried blood crackled. He strained to see what was going on. Not just his wrists and ankles. They'd trussed him like a midwinter goose, yards of ropes binding his arms to his torso, his midsection to the chair. No metal, not even nails in the chair; he sent his awareness outward, past the haze his vision had become, and found nothing. Nothing. No metal, not anywhere within the limits of his power.

His breathing sharpened.

"Fuck," he muttered.

"Pretty damn impressive," said a cool voice from somewhere off in the distance. "Did I get that right?"

Heisenberg forced his head up. The room was dim- that accounted for some of the haze- and the concrete walls were streaked with damp.

A light clicked on and swiveled into his face, sending white needles down his optic nerves. He tilted his head back, a smile twisting its way over his face despite the pain.

"Sorry the show got cut short back there," he rasped. His mouth tasted like a productive day at a slaughterhouse. "Performance issues." He shrugged. "You know how-"

"Would you shut up?" the voice snapped from behind the lamp. It belonged to the woman on the horse, the one Heisenberg had knocked on her ass with a good right hook.

"No," Heisenberg said.

"Andrei," the woman said.

The gunshot lit the room in a flash; Heisenberg's kneecap exploded in a burst of blood. "Agh!" he yelled, pitching forward. His vision throbbed, but underneath it was triumph. "You...you shouldn't have done that..."

He reached out for the bullet, reached out to take it, send it back to its original owner, end them in another shower of blood, but his reach closed on-

On nothing. The bullet was there, lodged in his knee; it was there, he could feel it, and his power-

He breathed hard. Footsteps approached; a silhouette blocked out the light. A hand gripped his hair and wrenched his head back. The woman stared down at him, her dense eyebrows furrowed together, wisps of curly dark hair lit silver by the floodlight. A livid five-count bruise dappled her cheek and the corner of her mouth.

"Performance issues, was it?" she said.

Heisenberg found his voice. "What did you do to me?" he snarled. "And where's the brat?"

"Do?" The woman narrowed her eyes. "We didn't do anything."

Realization set in, cold and awful. There wasn't a lack of metal in his surroundings. He couldn't sense it, couldn't manipulate it.

His power had left him.

He was gutless, weightless. Decades he'd wielded his power, decades spent with it as a part of him, as vital as his lungs or heart. It was the only thing he had, that belonged to him, that had never betrayed him, that had never left him. And now it cringed inside him, a struck, scared animal.

He felt his Cadou, the weight of it in his chest. It didn't seem to be moving. Was it dead? Had these people killed it, somehow? Had Miranda's death been the final blow, and it had been slowly dying inside him since the village exploded?

No. No. His vision was red-ringed. He recognized the beginnings of an episode, of a loss of control. He had to keep control of the situation, of himself. He couldn't lose it now.

The woman still watched him. She'd been quiet for a minute, still gripping his hair. Now, she let it go, wiped her hand off on her trouser leg, and let out a small breath.

"The little girl's safe," she said. "Who is she, anyway?"

The teenager in the service station- this woman's sister, apparently- had assumed Rose was Heisenberg's daughter. The word didn't seem right, and he doubted this bitch would believe him if he claimed that was what she was to him.

"Just some sprog I picked up to eat later," Heisenberg said.

"Oh, come on," the woman muttered. She shook her head. Behind her, Andrei and a few of her other mooks shifted from foot to foot, looking from the woman to Heisenberg and back again. Every gun in the place was trained on him.

"Look," the woman went on. "Something is wrong with her."

Heisenberg didn't move.

"What?" he said.

"It's obvious if you have eyes. She's sick. And you know it, too. Monsters know monsters."

"She's not a monster," Heisenberg growled. The woman raised her eyebrows. "But you're damn right I am. And if you hurt her, there's nothing you can do, nowhere you can crawl, where I won't find you, and when I do I'll do worse than kill you-"

"So she is important to you," the woman cut in. "Shut up and listen."

This time- maybe for the first time in his life- Heisenberg did as he was told. He stared up at her, wishing again for his sunglasses. This light burned like a motherfucker.

"The offer's still on the table," the woman said. "You help us, we help you. We help your girl."

"Rose is-" He stopped himself. "The brat's special. She's- she's like me. You'll never understand what she needs like I do."

"You think? This town's been around a long, long time. Long enough to know all your stories, all the nightmares you helped spawn. We might not be monsters," she added, with a glint of dry humor, "but we know a thing or two about them."

Heisenberg didn't speak for a moment. The best option would be to tear this place apart. He could fuck up these people's day even without his powers, bash a few skulls, blah, blah. But despite all his bluster he didn't know a damn thing about what was wrong with Rose. He cut; he didn't un-cut. He wasn't Miranda, wasn't Moreau, wasn't even- he admitted with regret- Lady Dimitrescu. They would know what to do. If she was really sick, all he could do, all he could ever do, was watch her die.

He couldn't do that again.

"And in return?" he said. "You want- help, wasn't that it? With what?"

"You're Lord Heisenberg, aren't you?" the woman said.

The name had an immediate effect on the room, another shift and shuffle. One of the gunmen bent his head; another pulled a small medal from his collar and kissed it.

"Sure," Heisenberg said.

She nodded. "I'm Teodora," she said. "If we've got to call each other something. Come on. I'll show you the girl. And then you'd better see what we're talking about. After that, we can decide together whether or not we splatter the great Lord Heisenberg's brains all over the snow."

Heisenberg laughed. "Between this and the kneecap, Teo, I'm almost beginning to like you."

***

A mouthful of chewed herbs, pungent and burning, went on his kneecap. Between those and Heisenberg's increased rate of healing, the wound had nearly stopped bleeding by the time Teodora and the others led him to Rose.

His wrists were still bound, but they'd let his ankles go so he wouldn't have to hobble along. They took him from the building- a concrete shack surrounded by a wasteland of detritus. It looked like it had once been an industrial outbuilding, part of a complex of disused warehouses or workshops scattered on the town's outskirts. Soon it was lost behind him in the blizzard.

He faced front again with a sniff.

A streak of orange cut the mountains into sharp silhouette and glowed through the snow, morning well on its way. Heisenberg felt eyes on him as they led him into town, past barbed-wire fences and ramshackle buildings. They looked far more disused in the weak daylight; last night, he hadn't noticed the cracked cornices, the missing roof tiles, the boarded-up windows. Even the church on the hill in the town's center was missing its uppermost spire, holes in the roof and bell-tower exposing beams like the ribs of a decomposing animal.

This place was clearly newer than the village was, or had been rebuilt a time or two; still, Heisenberg felt an unwelcome shudder of fondness, of something like nostalgia. Disused or not, this was the same kind of place as the village.

Or, at least, it was the same kind of place the village had once been. Once the lycans were unleashed, once they'd descended on the villagers, turned them from scared worshippers to nothing more than fresh meat, all of that was gone. History, gone. Reverence, trust- gone. That was what Miranda did. She turned all those things to fear, to death. She killed them.

So did you, Heisenberg thought.

Was this just another kind of nostalgia? Had he mistook the fear in the villagers' eyes for reverence whenever they looked upon him? They had his image at their church's altar, but there was a kind of holiness in devils, too. Always a good idea to keep them in your prayers so they wouldn't come for you at night.

And what was he to them but metal-shriek and teeth bared, a defiler of corpses that should have been buried in holy ground? Another predator, like the lycans, like the varcolac, ripping at the dead?

These people were scared. Andrei kept glancing at the sky, and while Teodora rode her horse with a steady rein, he didn't miss how she kept her hand on the grip of the antique horn-handled pistol at her side.

They ascended the hill to the church, its stone walls set with long-faced saints in niches, its doorway framed by blue and red tiles. Graves rose from hummocks of frozen grass, candles guttering at the feet of carved angels, and in the bell-tower the great bronze bell hung roped like a sacrificial beast. Up the long, long flight of steps leading to the entrance, Teodora dismounted, strode to the studded doors, and knocked.

"Open up," she called. "It's me."

Chains rattled, and the doors creaked open. A pale face showed beyond- the girl from the service station, Teodora's sister.

"We heard gunshots," she said, her voice tight. "I thought-"

"It's okay, Emilia," Teodora assured her, pulling her into a quick one-armed hug. "I-"

"Oh, god," Emilia said, turning, if possible, paler. "It's you."

Heisenberg grinned. "Hey, buttercup."

Andrei dug the rifle into Heisenberg's right kidney. "Mind the goods," Heisenberg said, wincing as his kneecap grated against itself. "You...you shoot me on accident, you're shit out of luck..."

"We'll see," Andrei muttered.

With a glance at her sister, Teodora pushed through the doors, leading Heisenberg into the church's main hall. Echoes filled the place, eerie as the whispers inside the megamycete's dream. The walls were painted with dour figures hunting down wolves and stags. The ceiling rose to a vast, lofty dome. Gilt glistened at the altar, but at the edges the shadows got in, cobwebs drifting in the damp breeze.

Once, this had been a holy place. Now it was a refuge. Townsfolk filled the room, huddled on pews or at makeshift campsites. Some were armed; most seemed sick, or scared, eyes big. Most too, he noted, seemed to be younger women; they kept to the center of the room, hemmed in by other townsfolk bearing guns and axes, farming tools and hunting rifles.

A group in the corner paused around a soup tureen, their attention on Teodora and on Heisenberg in her entourage's midst. Even before the ropes, he knew he didn't look like he belonged anywhere near these people.

"What is this?" an old man asked, gesturing at Heisenberg.

"This is what you bring us?" another man said, massive and muscular, armed with what looked like a hand scythe. He wore a headband of bloodied bandages. "We want an end to the monsters, not another at our door!"

"Lord Heisenberg," Teodora said, "is with me."

She raised her voice, addressing the crowd. "He's proven a gracious lord, and has agreed to help us. I know there are elders here who remember the protection given by the Great Ones of the neighboring valley, who remember the old stories, who remember the Black God. Now, one of the God's chosen has deigned to bestow his protection upon us."

The big man with the bandaged head half-rose from the pew. Teodora cut him off with a raised hand. "Who are we to deny him?"

She dropped her voice. "Don't fight me. I know what I'm doing."

He scoffed, leaning in. "We've all heard that before."

Teodora's face twisted. For a heartbeat Heisenberg thought she would deck the guy. She didn't. She faced him, not backing down.

"Is this really what you want to do?" she asked, her voice level and cold.

The big guy stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head and stepped aside. Suppressing the overwhelming urge to jam the heel of his combat boot into the bastard's metatarsals, Heisenberg followed Teodora through the crowd. She held her head high, he noted, but her hands were in tight fists until they were out of the church itself and through a small door at the back, in a narrow, dim hallway.

She let out a soft breath, staring at a crumbling statue of a saint enclosed in a niche. A candle flickered at its base, throwing its somber, bearded face into flashes of shadow and light. Heisenberg wondered if she was praying, but before he could decide she glanced back at him.

"Come on," she muttered. "Some out there might think you're some kind of divine monster, sure, but that doesn't mean they won't hack you into relics."

"I'd love to see them try," Heisenberg said.

Teodora's mouth twitched. "Funny thing is," she said, "I absolutely believe you mean that."

A red-painted door down the hall opened to a kitchen, tidy and cozy. A few women worked at the stove, at the long tables set up down the room. In the corner was a small cot. A granny-looking woman sat at the bedside, singing a soft lullaby.

Rose slept in the cot. Heisenberg knew her by her white-blonde hair. That hadn't changed. The girl curled under the colorful knit blanket was years old, a toddler by Heisenberg's estimate. Her small, sweet face was set in a frown; her hands quivered as she clutched at the blankets, like she was freezing, despite the warmth of the room and the too-big sweater someone had dressed her in. Her skin was pallid, fragile. When she moved, she looked like she might break.

"She grows every hour," the granny said, speaking slowly, as if to ensure Heisenberg would understand. "Too big, too fast. She is not a child. She is..." She paused. "A holy thing, maybe. Without help she will grow like this until she dies. And then..."

The old woman spread her hands. "She will be with God again."

Heisenberg rounded on her. "Get out of my way."

She averted her eyes. He shoved her chair aside and knelt by the cot. Rose stirred as he stroked her hair, smoothing it behind her ear. Watch me, Mister Heisenberg! Her eyes opened, blue-gray and glazed. Dark veins pushed through their whites.

"Kid," Heisenberg said, low in his throat. He gestured to the others in the room. "Sorry about all the rabble. It's supposed to be just you and me, I know."

She blinked. A small hand reached from under the blanket. Rose touched his face, tracing the scar that ran from his cheekbone to the bridge of his nose, that stopped just short of shearing his face in two. Her hand was feverish, was trembling.

He caught it in his own and held it, tight.

"You and me," he said again. "With your power we can be anything. Go anywhere." A thought came to him. "Did you do something to me? Is it because of you I can't-"

He cut off. Her eyes were bright with tears. He was holding her hand too tight. He couldn't let her go. The anger returned, a hot churn in the pit of his chest, a crackle in the back of his throat. His Cadou spasmed. He tasted blood. So it wasn't dead after all. The power was there, all of it, a flood tide waiting to consume a city, but it wouldn't obey him.

It wouldn't come.

More and more. He bent his head to the fist clenching her hand. A promise is a promise. You're free, Karl. I don't want this. A perfect affinity. All these people watching. They can't see this. Maybe kill them all? Yeah. That would show 'em. Why couldn't she be perfect? Why couldn't she be untouched by her?

Rose let out a soft cry, and Heisenberg came back to himself. He blinked, then released Rose's hand. She hugged it to her chest.

"Hurts," she whispered.

"What the hell is wrong with you, kid?" Heisenberg growled, and the look Rose gave him made him wish it had been what he'd feared, that when she'd opened her eyes the first time after Ethan had given her to him they were golden, Miranda's eyes, if only so he could destroy something, if only he could take everything that could hurt him and grind it into nothing.

For a moment, he didn't care that she was Rose and not Miranda.

For a moment, he would do it anyway.

Impact rippled through the church. One of the women gave a short scream; another clapped her hand over her mouth, bearing them both to the floor. Dust rained from the ceiling as another impact slammed against the ground. Now Heisenberg heard something over it- a huge bass roar that reverberated inside him like one of his massive engines.

"It's coming back!" wailed the woman who'd screamed. "It's coming for us! It's coming for all of us-"

"Lada, hush," Teodora urged. "Stay here. All of you! You have the guns I gave you? Use them if you must."

She grabbed Heisenberg by the shoulder, pulling him round to face her. Another roar shook the church; screams and wails echoed down the hallway.

"You know that problem I told you about?" she said.

"Sounds big." Heisenberg's voice was still rough, unsteady. "What is it?"

"What is it ever?" Teodora said. "Monsters."

#saints of warding #re8 fanfiction #re8 #resident evil village #resident evil #karl heisenberg #rosemary winters #karl heisenberg x oc #sort of #chapter 4

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itwillbeall-dwight · 4 years

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what happens in metropolis

david tapp & dwight fairfield; canon-typical violence; saw timeline!dwight; panic attack tw; 3481 words

a/n: did you think i was gonna write things that made sense? HA thats very funny. anyways i hc dwight is from the saw timeline. why? because i like dwight and i like saw ok, shut up. i also want some dad tapp content and if i have to make it myself then i WILL.

i’ve got a couple more fics that are almost done, i promise im not dead. as always, drabble reqs are open, so if you liked this for some reason, get into my askbox ya dingus.

likes < reblogs, any comments in the tags are appreciated

ao3 mirror in the reblogs!

Preview: The leader gave a weak smile, moreso to comfort himself than anything else, it seemed, wincing as he rolled his shoulder. “OK… what now?” “We’ve gotta that off you. Did she… explain the rules?” “I… no, but I-I think I’ve got it.” Dwight started to shuffle where he was curled up, trying to get to his feet, but he was still somewhat shaky, like a newborn fawn, leaning on the wall of scrap as well as Tapp for support. He inhaled, and exhaled, breath still short. “There were… boxes, I think the key is in there.” Of course, that made the most sense, it seemed. “Right. You start heading to one of those, and I’ll-”

From across the yard, a generator powered on, and from where they sat, the clock started counting down.

Waking up by the campfire was like waking up from a bad hangover. There was a thump in his head and the taste of iron in the back of his throat, as he shielded his eyes from the distant light of fire. As he stirred, the little company residing by the flames paid him mind, checking on his condition, asking who he was with a pity in his eyes that he didn’t quite understand. But he told them regardless - he was David Tapp, a detective from the Metropolitan PD (former, though they didn’t need to know that, not yet), and, as far as he remembered, he was investigating the Jigsaw murders.

They didn’t know much, about the fog and forest that surrounded them, but the redheaded Meg told him what they knew, introducing him around the camp at the few people that were there - some of them were in a ‘trial’, she’d said, while also adding she’d explain that later, as well - trying to make him feel as at ease as he could be in the situation they were in. He sat down on a log as she went off to talk to the girl in the beanie again, taking his hat off and rubbing the back of his neck, looking down at the dull police badge that hung around his neck, almost mocking him at a false sense of status.

“I, um- hey.”

A voice next to him made him look up, meeting the eyes of a man in glasses, fiddling with his tie. The leader of the group, Meg had said. Dwight was his name. Tapp forced a small smile. “Uh… hey.”

“Do you, um…” He seemed oddly nervous, avoiding eye contact and simply moving a hand to gesture to the seat next to the detective. “Do you mind i-if I-”

He silently moved aside, letting the younger man sit down, oddly tense and awkwardly keeping his eyes on the fire in front of them, or maybe to the conversation quickly growing heated between the beanie girl and the tall brutish young man just across from the campfire. Tapp followed his eyes, leaning forward with his elbows on his legs-

“I-I know who you are.”

The phrase was somewhat unnerving, coming from the man in the glasses now staring very intently at him as his head almost snapped back to look at him. The detective hesitated for a moment. “Y… yeah?”

“...That sounded… really bad- god, I-I’m sorry, I just- I- argh, dammit-”

“No, no, you’re good, kid.”

He inhaled, and exhaled, wringing his hands as if to calm himself down. “You’re… Detective David Tapp, aren’t you? You were investigating the Jigsaw murders. I-I saw your… your memorial, on TV.”

A breath caught in his throat, if only for a moment, as he tried not to think about the thought of a send off when he still was still alive, in… some capacity. “I… see.”

There was an empty silence after that revelation, with Dwight still keeping his eyes on the man as he swallowed, seeming to try and wrap his head around the idea that someone had watched him live and die. “You did an a-amazing job, if it… means anything.”

He sighed, sitting up, his voice lower, as if not to alert the others - better not to spread the secret too far… at least, not yet. “Did they catch the bastard?”

He paused. “I… yeah. They caught one of them, I-I think. Kind of. He, uh… died.”

There was a quiet growl from the man. Of course there had to be more than one. For a moment, he thought back to the doctor he was tailing - just who else was involved in those twisted games of playing god? And if not him, who was it?

They didn’t speak much more on it, after that, as the trial had concluded and a hand slapped down on his shoulder, introductions moving swiftly on and leaving the young man who knew too much about him with his mouth hanging open.

Despite their first meeting, Dwight was a capable leader, Tapp soon learned. He was a kind man, sacrificial to a point, nowhere near as much of a coward as he’d initially thought, as he watched him push his friends over to take a slash from a machete or a pair of mangled claws. He made plans, gave orders - no matter the weak disposition it was given in, one that felt like paper in a strong breeze - and protected those who he called his friends, no matter the teasing and harsh words thrown his way by a select few. He was a man trying to prove himself, either to those around him or…

Tapp had learned what trials were, soon enough, guided by Claudette as they tried to evade the Trapper, a large, tall man, armed with a machete and bear traps, as if he was hunting down small game in the forest… in a way, that was almost accurate. That trial, while stressful, soon passed in success, and while the whole situation was still unbelievable, he soon found himself oddly adapting to the new world in the fog that he found himself in - get in, try not to die, repair generators, and leave. It didn’t take long for him to take the initiative and start giving input on plans of attack, earning a joking comment from the old gambler of the group that maybe he was better made for the leadership position than who was currently in employ. He tried to ignore that, for Dwight’s sake.

This should have been no different. Though this was his first time in the Autohaven Wreckers, loud annoyed groaning from Nea when the fog cleared was enough to make him think that this wasn’t going to be easy. After catching sight of Laurie and Dwight, the four of them split off, aiming to find generator’s around the wrecker’s yard, for efficiency’s sake. One was already powered by the time he spotted a pair of blinking lights… but between the trees, something else caught his eyes. A box, not like anything he’d seen previously, steel casing rusted, though untouched. But the box, while interesting in its own right, wasn’t what made him approach the damn thing.

It was the monochromatic ventriloquist dummy sat on top.

Seeing that bastard puppet was enough to make him approach slowly, staring at the box it sat upon - it was like seeing an old friend, but one you’d want to snap the neck of. And it stared back, almost mocking him. His stomach turned. Had Gordon followed him? That had to be who this was, right? Tapp gritted his teeth, wanting to punch the damn thing off of its torture throne, but knowing that would probably alert… someone to where he was, someone he didn’t want to know. So he forced himself to tear away, fists clenched. It was like wading through water as he crouched down by a nearby generator, pulling at levers and twisting at cogs to make it sigh and whir… though that puppet never stopped looking at him. And he never stopped looking back, until-

A loud scream made him duck behind the generator for a moment, wincing at the grinding of metal against a scrap wall, and the begging, the pleading… no one had ever reacted like that before. The curiosity was enough to make him look around the mechanical device to catch a glance of the Jigsaw killer.

He recognized her movements, and the way she carried herself almost right away, and the way he kicked himself would have made him double over. Of course Amanda was involved - the bastard broke her down, and rebuilt her in his own design. And now, she was just as much of a prisoner as he was, stuck in the fog with nothing to do but suffer at the hands of her fate. Though she took hers with pride, it seemed. She enjoyed the hunt, the chase and the kill. Was she too far gone to be saved from that which she thought had first saved her? He couldn’t entirely say.

The philosophical waxing had to be paused, though, as quiet, panicked whimpers made him stop, hands hovering over the generator he was about to resume repairing. He listened to the strained, weakened breathing, almost holding his own to listen. It was just in front of him, where the attack had failed. Slowly standing to his feet, the detective did what he did best - keeping his posture low as to not be spotted by the pig-headed woman, he went to investigate.

It was Dwight, hidden behind a wall with his back pressed against it, and he was in a bad way, holding onto the space around in his collarbone, blood staining his palms as he tried to muffle his panicked That wasn’t what originally drew the detective’s attention, however, as a familiar helmet was strapped to his head, almost entirely covering his face. He felt his stomach drop.

“...Fairfield-” He kept his voice quiet, but it still startled the nervous man, who only started to panic more, it seemed. He put a hand on Dwight’s shoulder, and god, was he shaking under his grip. “Right, right, just breathe, kid.”

Tired eyes look up at him from inside the helmet, strained and shallow breaths from hyperventilation making his chest move up and down at a worrying pace. He couldn’t say anything, he only held Tapp’s arm in place to keep him there.

“C’mon, you got this, in and out.”

Dwight soon followed instructions, taking as much care as he could to breathe, though he hiccupped and stuttered from tears every so often.

“Yeah… there you go. That’s it.” It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Tapp gave the man a gentle nod, digging into his belt for a couple of medical supplies he’d scraped together earlier in the trial. “Let’s get you up and at ‘em, yeah?”

He calmed down enough to start panic rambling, and the way he switched from one extreme to another was almost welcome, as Tapp gently wrapped the bandaged over the deep cut from the hidden blade. Dwight spoke of before the fog, when he was alone in his shitty apartment with nothing but two birds to keep him company, barely earning enough to afford to live, but surviving by the skin of his teeth every month when the rent was due. He’d hardly slept before, but murders on your doorstep didn’t make it any better, especially since they were targeting the average man, just like him. And after an accident he conveniently skipped around, his paranoia only got worse.

“I-I saw one, once.” He stuttered, voice almost echoing through the trap on his head, as Tapp tied off the gauze.

“A murder?”

��A trap. In the open. A-and no one could do anything about it, I saw it on my way to work. The girl, she was- I… god, they just-”

“Fuckin’ Christ…”

“Yeah… yeah, that. Exactly that.” The leader gave a weak smile, moreso to comfort himself than anything else, it seemed, wincing as he rolled his shoulder. “OK… what now?”

“We’ve gotta that off you. Did she… explain the rules?”

“I… no, but I-I think I’ve got it.” Dwight started to shuffle where he was curled up, trying to get to his feet, but he was still somewhat shaky, like a newborn fawn, leaning on the wall of scrap as well as Tapp for support. He inhaled, and exhaled, breath still short. “There were… boxes, I think the key is in there.”

Of course, that made the most sense, it seemed. “Right. You start heading to one of those, and I’ll-”

From across the yard, a generator powered on, and from where they sat, the clock started counting down.

That only started to send Dwight off again, eyes growing wide with fear as he looked back to the detective, who seemed equally as stunned. It seemed like she’d been busy, workshopping her craft.

As the leader started to buckle under his own weight again, Tapp grabbed onto his arm - not too hard, but just firm enough to keep him in place - and began looking around between trees for that bastard puppet that he’d seen earlier in the trial. As he tried to keep them both out of sight, he heard the stifled breathing behind him, as the leader tried to calm himself down while the two leaned around a tree, watching the Pig chase after the determined blonde in the blue shirt. He reached to grip onto Tapp’s shoulders, knuckles going white from the force, palms sweaty. Tapp put a hand on top of one, and gently tapped at it for a silent comfort. Once the killer was well distracted, he led Dwight to the first box. No luck.

A second box, on the same side of the junkyard. A quarter of the time gone. Nothing.

Box three, on a hill besides the dingy old shack. Half time. Nothing.

Now with only one box left, the leader was growing more frantic. Tapp held onto his wrist as he pulled him around the killer shack, pressing his back against the wall, his own heartbeat in his ears matching the beeping from the helmet. He looked back to the younger survivor.

“It’s just up ahead. Go.”

“She k-knows I’m- I-I’ll die, I’m going t-to-”

“I’ll cover you. Go, grab your life.” He was firm in his demand. But still, the leader didn’t move. He repeated, raising his voice a little. “Go!”

Dwight followed that order, practically stumbling over himself to leap to the box and shove his hands into it, wincing as his hands dug into needles and thorns on the inside that he couldn’t see.

And while the detective’s eye followed him, he noticed someone else following him as well, concealed in the grass, ready to pounce. He gritted his teeth, silently asking her to forgive him someday for what he was about to do (and what he had already done), before reaching down by the entrance to the old shack and grabbing a handful of pebbles. Tapp weighed these in his hand for a moment, before tossing them in her direction.

Bullseye. He heard her squeal from the hit, before growling and standing to her feet, turning in the detective’s direction, where he made no attempt to hide himself, ready to throw another rock should she choose to ignore him. “...Fancy meeting you here.”

“Could say the same to you.”

“I hadn’t realised I wasn’t the only pig that they’d let out of the slaughterhouse. I would have thrown a party for your arrival, Detective.”

The bite of her words was venomous, purposely crafted to throw him off, but he did not let it show. He still looked her in the eyes and stood his ground, until he could smell the rotting pig head she wore. “Would have appreciated it a lot more than this, Ms. Young.”

“Tell me, Detective,” Now Amanda, she was a woman of wearier disposition, broken from circumstances, but this new woman, a woman made of a pig? She thrived in the violence and the fear. That much he deducted, from the way she looked up at him, and though it was hard to see her eyes, he could almost see the fire in them. “Are you sure this is the game you want to play?”

For a moment, Tapp’s eyes fell behind her head, where Dwight had taken his hands out of the box, dripping with blood and sweat and shaking from fatigue and stress, before looking back to her. “It isn’t a game I haven’t played before. I can dance.”

He tried to lead her some distance away from the puppet-adorned box where they leader still struggled, but the Pig was no fool, catching him by surprise in an open area with a knife to the gut, pinning him to the floor in his surprise with a wrist blade to his neck, threatening to slice it open a second time. The detective gritted his teeth, both from the pain and the strain of pushing her arm away, until he was just able to push her off of him, scrambling to his feet and blocking the entrance to the shack with the palette at the door. He took the time she was taking to break the obstacle to leave the shack, with no choice to run closer to the trap box, closer to Dwight, to a small collection of scrap metal walls, formed with another wooden palette and a window frame, which he quickly vaulted over to avoid a failed swipe.

“Dwight!” He looked back as he ran the killer around a long wall connecting to the window, still seeing the leader digging through the box, loud beeping ever imminent. “Dwight, come on!”

The timer was so close to flatlining, and Dwight wasn’t doing too hot, panicking as he tried to find some solace in the cold metal expanse in front of him.

Tapp quickly slammed the palette down onto the killer’s head, hearing her squeal as he stood there, breath catching in his throat. “Dwight!”

He pulled his hand out of the box with a key in hand, quickly unlocking the mechanism and ripping the trap off of his head as it snapped open, surely to be his end if he’d messed up just once more. Breathing heavily, he felt along his face, blood gathering on his fingers from where the rusted teeth had dug into his cheeks, among the cuts and bruises from rummaging through the boxes to find his life.

The detective was almost so caught up in himself that he didn’t hear the growl and the sound of the palette breaking behind him, the adrenaline kicking in to push him forward into a sprint, taking hold of Dwight again and pulling him along as the Pig gathered herself, and got back on their trail. “C’mon, time to go.”

They were lucky to make it just in time, a failed swipe from the killer catching at their back as they ran into the fog where she couldn’t chase them. Tapp looked down, finally letting go of the younger man and placing a hand on his shoulder. “You OK?”

A breathless laugh escaped him, as he looked up to Tapp. “I- I- you- we- ...I’m alive. I’m alive!”

The detective smiled, about to say something before he was cut off from a tight hug, the younger survivor happily crying into his chest, getting snot all over the front of his vest. Tapp’s hands hovered for a moment, not entirely sure how to react, before he finally decided to just pat his back.

“Thank you, thank you so much, thank you-”

“Hey, slow down, catch a breath.” He couldn’t help but laugh a little, though it was a lot more awkward than the few times he’d had to comfort lost kids who came into the station. Still, Dwight appreciated it regardless.

“Well, you guys seem just fine and dandy.”

Dwight pulled himself away suddenly, looking up as he pushed up his glasses and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, as Laurie finally joined them in escaping the trial, sheepishly stepping away. “I… yeah.”

She gave the two of them a look, almost fond. “Nea said she knew where the hatch was, and while I wanted to stay to see her out here, I’m almost glad I didn’t. You’d never hear the end of it.”

“Wouldn’t put it past her.” Tapp chipped in, as the young woman nodded, flipping the flashlight she’d brought with her between two hands.

The three of them returned to the campfire, Dwight and Laurie sharing a small conversation, taking care to almost dote on his face wounds from the trap he’d barely escaped from, while Tapp listened along. Dwight had almost recovered from the ordeal, though his voice still shook, and it made him think. They knew each other… or at least, he knew of the detective, of the traps, of the killings. How intimately was still up to debate, but the way he reacted in the trial told him that it was something that had deeply disturbed him. And while he’d never been much of a leader himself, but Dwight looked up to him, in the way a student did a teacher - protection, and guidance. Was it because of his attachment to the case? He didn’t deserve the title, or the treatment (he’d still failed, on the larger scale, of Dwight’s account of the public execution trap was to be believed), but if one person still believed in him despite his failures… then he had to get out, if only for that.

He needed to catch the Jigsaw killer, or whatever was left of them as a collective. For the sake of people just like Dwight.

#dead by daylight #detective tapp #dwight fairfield #off the record #prove thyself

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kazbrkker · 4 years

Text

Chapter 4: Proxy War

Chapter summary: Alexis and Alex head to the second part of the mission: destroy General Barkov’s airbase. (2953 words)

Warnings: mentions of PTSD, anxiety and bruises.

26 OCTOBER 2019, 1900 "Alexis" and "Alex", Codename Aces CIA with Urzik Militia Al-Raab, Urzikstan.

First day into the assignment and Alexis had already received two generous gifts.

A fresh pink and red bruise rested just above her elbow, courtesy from the soldier earlier. Travelling further up her left tricep was another strip of exposed flesh, from a bullet that grazed her while they were running for their lives. She scoffed at the addition of new injuries, hastily ripping off a gauze to bandage the wound and hoped they wouldn't scar.

Struggling single-handedly, she managed to roughly rip a jagged piece of gauze. Almost thoughtlessly plastering it against her bare flesh, when without warning, her pathetic excuse of a bandage was snatched from her.

Alex loomed over her seat, crossing his arm. She scooted over the table she sat on. He chastised, "Don't underestimate these flesh wounds. They are small but nasty, especially in dusty environments like Urkzistan. Takes little to get infected."

"This is why I rarely get assigned to places like these." She mumbled dejectedly, watching him patch her up perfectly.

Alex had feather light touches for such a muscular man. She teased, to which he placed a finger on her forehead and pushed. He was more tender only when it came to her, a fact that everyone knew. Moments later, he proudly patted his handiwork. Alex lowered to eye level with the bandage, pouting smugly.

Alexis frowned at his suspicious behaviour.

"A kiss for your booboo?"

'Dumb ass.' Alexis sent an unforgiving hard flick! to his forehead. He snickered, rubbing the red spot.

Hadir entered the room with a few fighters, a brief pause in his steps upon witnessing their close proximity, "Alena... How are your wounds?"

From her peripheral vision, Alex subtly bit his lip and roughly tossed the bunch of bandage into the medkit. "Not Alena– " She placed an easing hand over his to silence him.

"I'm still alive. Are we ready?"

"Always about work, Alexis. You hardly changed." Hadir's gaze followed their intertwined hands and chuckled, somehow amused by their reactions. "I set up shop on the edge of Barkov's base. Keep those fucking dogs in check. Friends close, enemies closer. No grenades, so we improvise."

He handed them bottles of molotov cocktail. Impressive, for what scraps it was made out of. Alex echoed the same sentiment.

"What, you think we fight this war with sticks and stones?"

Sensing the pricks in Hadir's words, she quickly hopped off the table and patted Hadir's back. "With sharpened sticks and a big enough stone, why not?"

They followed Hadir to the roof. "You are too optimistic, Alexis." She laughed at that statement. "Those bastards only understand violence... So I show them violence."

"Violence is not a catalyst, it is a diversion. Too much of it, the evil it does is permanent, Hadir."

"You'd have to send me more English dictionaries, Alexis." Hadir cheekily replied in his mother tongue. "Barkov has an air force, so we have one too. RC planes loaded with C4."

Witnessing the unfamiliar grittier edge in Hadir, Alexis thought back to her first encounter with the siblings. It wasn't hard to read Hadir, the man was practically wearing his heart on his sleeves. One could say that pointed to a certain amount of naivety, but she liked it, a kind of genuine rare in their line of work.

Headstrong, direct, loyal, three words used to describe Hadir and it would be the truest thing one could hear. Like his sister, Hadir didn't quite fit in the mold. Five years ago, the lieutenant possessed a vivid sparkle in his eyes that was lacking in his sister. Always eager for a fight, a true never-backing-down-spirit. Today, the light dulled.

But what would she know? Perhaps that was the unfortunate cost of living in a civil war.

When they reached the roof, the sun had long set, leaving behind a cast of darkness that enveloped the sky. Even in nightfall, Urkzistan still felt like a hundred degrees, but the staggered waves of wind did some to alleviate the heat.

Alex and Alexis each grabbed a remote controller for the RC planes, crashing it into the army's helicopters. There was some excitement in using amateur, yet creative equipment like these, evident in her uncharacteristically large grin. "Good hunting."

"Stay low. The airbase is ahead."

The drones flew over the hill to the airbase's tarmac. Using the bird's eye view, she expertly memorized the tarmac's landscapes before crashing her drone into a target. The remaining helicopters exploded upon impact, illuminating the night sky in a series of twisted fireworks.

"Good flying, brothers and sisters... Let's get down there." Farah praised, a smile at bay. Weapons in hand, they hopped down to the airbase's perimeter.

"Airbase perimeter is dead ahead! Second team will cover us with the cannon." Hadir yelled over the sounds of the explosions.

Alexis subconsciously reloaded her M4A1 while Alex requested for air support. His words barely registered in her brain as a bout of anxiety hit her, feeling choked. Her grip tightened on her rifle, forcing big intakes of oxygen into her burning lungs. She quickly released her fingers in an attempt to fulfil the urge to feel the Earth under her, big handfuls of sand, dirt and grass.

Her heart thudded painfully in her throat, telling herself, 'You're okay. You're okay, you're here. Breathe.'

"Copy, 3-1. I'm tasking an unmarked gunship to your position, stand by." A muffled reply from her comms grounded her back into reality, she was here, this was happening.

Alexis hurriedly looked around, everyone else was too focused on the plan to notice her. Like it never happened, she forced herself to swallow the thickness in her throat, and along with that, her fear. She packed her emotions into a box and pushed it far into the back corner of her mind.

Alexis placed her all her focus, hyper-fixated on one thing: survive.

"Roger that," Alex replied, crouching beside Alexis. They were surrounded by the full force of the militia. Their spirits were contagious, feeding her a much needed level of adrenaline and confidence.

"Get ready! We attack their armories, take their weapons, and take their airfield! Cousins– we fight to free Urzikstan and take back our country. For Urzikstan!" A mortar cannon fired to breach the airfield's perimeter walls. That was it, upon Farah's orders, everyone sprinted, guns blazing into the south wall of the airbase.

It was like clockwork, shooting, running and hiding behind covers. She slipped back into familiarity, the anxiety in her dissolved and overtook by a rush need for survival and adrenaline.

The two CIA agents worked seamlessly, benefits from the countless missions that shaped their chemistry. She glared at Alex, annoyed when he stole her shot. He shrugged, firing his rifle while branding an excuse. Truthfully, he just liked to piss her off.

"You were distracted."

"I'll give you something to be distracted about." Her words mixed with more tautness than normal, but in the midst of all that blood and fighting, Alex didn't pick up on it.

"Hm. Wouldn't be the first time."

Alexis specially took a break from firing to throw her middle finger up. She aimed her carbine at the snipers on the watchtower opposite her. Two sharp bursts later, they lifelessly fell over the tower.

"Good job, Alexis! Watchtower is clear! Move in, move in!" Farah yelled and they pushed further into the base. Following behind Farah's team, Alexis and Alex flanked left, two sharpshooters ridding of enemy hostiles within seconds.

The enemy backup came instantly —two helicopters hovering over the airbase. The heavy fire forced them behind a tiny wooden crate. Lucky for them, Hadir's plan was foolproof. He loaded just enough RC planes, and more. Alex took remote control of the RC planes.

Seeing their cover was so small, Alex immediately shielded her with himself, hugging her as tightly as he could to minimize their exposure. Alexis quickly reached for a Molotov but paused. A crafty smirk as she kicked around for the biggest piece of concrete she could throw. She looped a tactical rope over the rock.

"Take the southeast one, this one's mine!" She ordered, blindly nudging Alex's knees and pointed at the helicopter just 300 yards shy from their position.

"With a rock?" Alex bewilderedly asked, multitasking while controlling the RC planes.

"Mind your business, I'm a good shot. Remember Cairo...?" Alexis trailed off to close her right eye in concentration.

"Unfortunately."

She filtered through the comms, "Hadir! Watch this!"

Eyeing for the tail rotor (the weakest link in a helicopter), she used the length of the rope as torque, then released. The heavy weight of the rock propelled it forward, the rope entangled among the spinning blades before the block of concrete broke its spin. Small sparks ignited as the blades came in contact with the object. Within seconds, the tail rotor failed, causing the helicopter to spin uncontrollably.

It crashed into a flower of sparks and fire. Alex whistled lowly in admiration at the sight, a mumbled 'damn' escaping from his lips.

"What did I say about finding a big enough stone?"

"Well played, I guess you don't have to send me more books, Alexis!"

"Visual learner, then." Lady Luck certainly was shining down bright on her, blessing her with good timing and that majority was the work of the pilot's own anxiety. Not that she would ever tell. She winked at Alex, jerking her head at the other destroyed chopper.

A number of militia members also witnessed the fiasco, all shouting Arabic words of praises. Her stunt did wonders to renew their fighting spirits. They pushed right towards the first armory.

Alexis waited for the most apposite timing before sprinting to her next cover, flawlessly lodging bullets in the new waves of snipers on a hangar's roof. She spotted a distinct red building. "3-1, got eyes on the armory."

"Copy that, I see it too. Two tangos, let's drop 'em." They cleared the armory for reloading.

"Good work, both of you! Regroup outside! Tarmac is through the gate. Everyone to the gate!"

Alexis was a phoenix on the battlefield. Her presence mighty, fearless and deadly within a single shot. Years of experience flowing in her blood, every move was calculated and precise. One shot, one kill, she dropped targets effortlessly. She knew exactly where and when to shoot, throw a grenade or to advance. It was compelling to see her move.

It had been longer than five minutes and yet, their air support still was nowhere near them. She was growing impatient, this tarmac was the turning point vital for their success. As another round of hellfire rained down, more of their own got caught in the crossfire. They helplessly watched as grunts of pains called out, watching comrades pierced with rounds of ammunition dropped dead beside them.

"Saint to Watcher, we are taking heavy fire from enemy helis! Get us that air support, now!" The chopper was late, and the agent was furious watching others pay the price. She'd be damned if she cared if her tone was 'appropriate'.

Switching to a crawling position, a sudden pain shot from her arm. She groaned mid-shot, knowing the bandage came loose and her dive roll into the sand and dust did not help. She stayed to clear stragglers while the rest pushed through the barracks to advance further into the tarmac.

"Sister! The tarmac is ahead of us!"

"I see it! Brother, get us more planes in the air!" Hadir tried, but in a turn of events, the militia's safehouse was under attack.

Fuck. She didn't like how the tables were turning. They really needed that damn helo.

"My planes are down. We need air support. If you guys really want to help us, now is the time!" Hadir pleaded.

Alex nodded reassuringly, "We have a helo on the way! We're on our own until then! Where's the last armory?"

"In that hangar across the tarmac! We take it and the base is ours!"

"Roger that! Saint," Alex called for her. "Race you there."

"Rog." She replied lazily, pushing herself off the ground and charged to the next armory. "Let's end this."

Alexis ran past the second hangar, where Farah and her soldiers were successfully sweeping up the enemies. Catching her breath, she met an awaiting Alex outside the armory, a displayed triumphant smirk since he reached first.

Hushed whispers came from inside, revealing their headcount. In the same formation, they boosted each other on top of the armory to reach a latch. On the count of three, Alexis used all her strength to open the heavy latch door for Alex to snipe the three soldiers.

"Last armory is secure. Resupply on us." Alex commented. Both of them busied refilling their ammunition. She caught with ease as Alex tossed an unloaded sniper rifle. Her lips curved upwards approvingly. "A Windrunner...? You are too good to a lady, Echo 3-1..."

Alex watched her hands appreciatively glided along the .50 BMG's body with a grin, knowing it was her perfect weapon. Her happiness was short lived when the airbase power was cut off, leaving them in the dark. He shrugged as she returned it and left. Without a thermal scope, it was useless to them.

"I hear incoming!" Farah alerted as more tanks rolled up to the hangar. Alexis cursed, this was never ending without their helos.

"Shit! Alexis, we could really use some help here!"

Her comms sounded, "Echo 3-1, Viper 1-1 on approach. Ready for tasking. What's your position?"

'Oh hell yes', she thought, immediately ceasing fire and slumped on the ground to regain her energy.

"Viper, this is 3-1. God damn good to hear your voice!" Alex conveyed in relief. "Friendlies in the hangar, taking fire from troops on the tarmac. You are cleared hot!"

"Farah, Hadir! Get your people to stay inside the hangar!" Alexis shouted, pointing at the helo. The siblings nodded in gratitude.

"Saint to Viper, did you take a nap or something?" Alexis thought she recognized Viper's voice and callsign. Beside her, Alex almost had a cardiac arrest from her unexpected accusatory tone.

Instead, a chuckle came from the receiving end. "Saint! We ran into a little fuel situation at baseplate. How many times must I save your pretty ass?"

Alex glanced questionably. 'He had a crush' she mouthed, waving dismissively. Alex rolled his eyes in response, of course he did.

All of them remained in the hanger while Viper cleaned up. As they looked around, their headcount was drastically reduced. This sucked —she hated this part. The part where they paid the price, a hefty one, even for the victorious.

A sudden burst of gunfire shot into the hangar, barely missing the lot. "Jesus!" Alex commented, equally taken aback.

Alexis yelled into the comms, "Viper, do you mind doing a little landscaping – a tank right outside the hangar! Pretty sure we almost fucking died!"

"Copy. Anything for you, Saint." Alexis was about to call Viper out for his inappropriate comments, but since Viper was the one saving their asses, she stopped and settled for an unsatisfying eye-roll. From the annoyed expression, it was clear Alex felt the same.

After a few rockets and hellfire from Viper, they successfully claimed the airbase. "All targets destroyed. Tarmac is cleared of enemy movement, over." She looked to Farah, a warm smile slipping on the commander's face.

They won. They took the airbase and shoved it where it would hurt Barkov. Without air support, his army would face tremendous setbacks.

"Solid copy, Viper 1-1. Appreciate the high heat, don't be a stranger." Alex thanked.

"Never by choice, 3-1. Nice to hear from you again, Saint, hope to see you at the next one! Viper, out."

"Don't I know it! Echo and Saint, out." Alex interjected before she could even touch her comms.

Walking through the empty airbase, her adrenaline pumped at the sweet taste of victory. For Alex and her, victory was probably their only constant. The taste no longer revelled on their tongues the same way it used to —watered down after hundreds of missions. To them, today would have been just another victory tucked under their belts.

But for the Liberation Force, they were a step closer to freeing themselves from the cage Barkov ruthlessly shoved them in.

As Alexis, Alex, Hadir and Farah surveyed the scene of their victory, a once foreign feeling of contentment coursed through her veins. From the look on Alex's face and the way he ethnically perched his arm over her, he definitely felt that way too.

"So you do kill Russians." Hadir said jovially.

"Only the bad ones."

Hadir looked to them sincerely. "Today was a great victory for Urzikstan. Thank you, brother and sister."

"We make a good team." Alex passed a genuine smile, proud.

Alexis huffed, looping her arms around the siblings endearingly as if to stake her claim. Her uncharacteristic affection shocked him, even though he was aware of their history. "Welcome to the team, Alex."

Farah smiled. "Yes, we've bought time, but Barkov will retaliate."

"So will we." Hadir finished. They'd be more than ready.

They had no idea where this war was going to take them. However, one thing was for sure. When they were done with this assignment, Roman Barkov would be dead. It was a promise they swore upon.

Farah glanced at her team. After today, they were comrades.

a/n: sorry this was a very technical chapter. peep alex's silent jealous streak tho... masterlist here. want to be tagged? let me know!

#call of duty x oc #call of duty x reader #alex modern warfare #echo 3-1 #john price #kyle garrick #kate laswell #farah karim #hadir karim #oc: alexis #ysr writes: kl #killer instinct #fanfiction #alex cod #modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare

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ifridiot · 5 years

Text

Maybe

this fic is, uh, something like six years old? I’ve edited it a little for typos but otherwise it’s not revised. posting for the relaunch of the @ask-the-becile-boys blog.

warnings for swearing, violence, and consideration of self-harm

Some things you can only do alone, in private, with a gun in your hand.

They all know you like guns. Hell, they’d have to be blind not to know, and while your family (for lack of better word, for what is blood to those who have none?) is a lot of things, none of them are blind.

So they know you like them, and they’ve got to know you have at least a couple; Father gave you one for Christ’s sake so it’s not like it’s a big secret. And there’s only so much you can do about the stench of gunpowder and burning oil from your little… exercises.

What you don’t think they know is how many of them you’ve collected over the years. The Thompson they all know about (Father’s sneering little gift, a nod of acknowledgment to your being his little assistant, his loathsome pet), and maybe about the neat little Schmidt M1882, since you bought it yourself instead of stealing it, paid a whole thirty bucks in some back-alley bargaining when it was new and have treasured the thing ever since.

But about the others, no, you don’t think they know. Hare might have an idea; the little rat’s full of so many half-baked theories about what everyone else thinks and does that it wouldn’t surprise you if he thought you maybe had one or two more. And you know now that he’s got himself convinced that you’re out shooting people, out there killing for that jackass you call Father or Master.

You let him think it. Just like you’ll let him go forever thinking that you kicked his narrow aft to hell and back without regret, that you don’t hate yourself for almost killing the stupid shit in your rage. It’s easier to let him think what he wants because he’ll never understand anything else.

To date, you have collected twenty-six guns of various firing speeds and size. All but the first two you’ve stolen from passed out drunks in bars or plucked from the hands of trigger happy brawlers looking to plug lead into something they can’t kill. A couple you’ve hustled in dark corners of seedy sub-markets, trading or bullying for something you want more than what you’ve already got.

Some of them are tiny things; they feel like toys in your hands for all that they could end a life with a careless gesture. Others are complicated, none quite as powerful as the Trench Sweeper but still intimidating in your grip. You’re particularly pleased with the Winchester M97, the severe click-snap of the pump-action striking a base chord in your processor that’s very much like pleasure.

It’s never been exactly made subtle that you look threatening. Unsmiling, stiffly postured, you look colder than your brothers, quieter and more insidiously menacing. From all three of you violence is expected; you’re thieves and bullies and thugs, and of the trio, it is from you people expect the most evil, for you are quieter, more restrained, clearly calculating while Hare is all direct action and Jacky is a mad whirligig of untamable, unpredictable energy.

In reality, you don’t care enough about most things, most people, to be calculating anything. Hare’s the ambitious thief, plotting ways to put money in his pocket. For you, you’d rather just watch, just remain in the backdrop. Failing that, you have no problem reinforcing the idea that you’re the measured one, the scary one; you keep your silence, photoreceptors boring into the eyes of anyone stupid enough to start staring at you.

But contrary to the image you project of the clean-cut criminal, you’re not looking for a fight. Hare will willingly scrap with anyone stupid enough to pick a fight with a metal man, but you’d just as soon walk away. And even Hare isn’t out looking for the fights, even Hare, who wants so badly to let out some of the aggression that been ground so deep into him it might as well be hardwired, isn’t going to provoke a fight.

Because the truth of it is, you’re not programmed for it. You’re perfectly capable of lying and cheating and hurting if you have to; it’s not going to break you to break them, but nine times out of ten, a glare can suffice, or a puff of dark smoke – hell, a raised fist if you must, but that’s enough to send most humans scurrying. And at the end of the day, you’re all of you cowards. You don’t have the guts to be killers; you’re pickpockets and hoodlums and low-down societal dirt, yeah, but none of you are killers.

It makes you feel just that much more complete to have a gun in your hand.

To be clear, you have no desire to become some mindless weapon, to be pointed and fired. You do not romanticize or moon over the idea of killing humans. The idea is actually in its own right quite repulsive to you.

With a gun in your hand, though, you are not the same automaton who must do as Master Becile wishes. You are not the bot who has come to the realization that the only way to keep your brothers in any semblance of safety is to pretend to be their enemy. With a gun in your hands, you wouldn’t have to watch your creator mete out punishment, knowing that anything you did against him would only worsen the situation. You could stand up for your brothers, finally be really on their side instead of quietly placating and suggesting and politicking your way through your Father’s moods.

“I would kill you in a second,” you growl, voice low and muttering though there is no one to hear you. Your hand snaps out, sweet little Remington clutched against your palm, the crack of gun fire shattering the silence of the evening. The barrel smokes, the bottle your bullet crashes through seems to explode off the fence. Roughly seventy yards between you and the target, and it’s nothing short of perfect. You feel good, but it’s a dark good, muddied with pent up rage, a sort of budding mania that often overtakes you on these little outings.

Fanning the hammer, shots fire rapidly, the line of rusting cans and glass bottles disappearing as they either burst or fly off the fence. The harsh grind of your voice raises with the thunder from the gun, biting out words buried deep inside yourself. “Shoot you down like a rabid mutt.”

The Remington is only a six shot, and you toss it, not quite carelessly, back down when it’s spent and grab another handgun. Though this little piece of land is quiet, out of the way and inhabited only by the occasional vagrant, you’ve never taken out either shotgun, and especially not the Thompson. Besides, power aside, there’s something so much more personal about the handguns.

It’s something about how they explode in your hand, smoke and thunder and the acrid stench of gunpowder; each pull of the trigger like hooks inside you, dragging out emotions you pretend not to have. All the anger, all the rage, all the built-up bitter hatred, ripped from you and screaming through the air, ripping into metal and glass and dispersing into nothingness.

It becomes rhythmic, automatic. Fire, fire, fire; six shots, gun spent, drop, new gun. Begin again.

Shots tear through the little field, rocketing into the targets you’ve meticulously placed on the surrounding fences; on stumps and hanging from the crooked branches of nearby trees. As you fire, you talk to yourself, voice rising and falling. Growling and shouting.

You curse your Father, the only man you ever expected to give a single fuck about you or your brothers. The more anger you pour into your words, the hotter your furnace burns, until you feel fire spitting from your maw with each word. And still you scream. You call him a bastard, you call him selfish; you tell him (though you’ll never say it to him, never in life) you wish he would die, that you wish you could kill him. Why, and you want to know so badly; why build us if you hate us? Why keep us around if we’re such garbage?

The words spew out of you, a vomit of wasted emotion. All your hate, all your rage, every single negative thing that you’ve turned back in on yourself, twisted in your guts like barbed wire. And that’s exactly how it feels, it hurts exactly that much, like you’re wrenching barbed wire from your guts and out your mouth. But it must go on.

At some point around the time you’re picking up the sixteenth gun (Smith and Wesson .32, for what it matters) you realize that the words aren’t so much coming out as words anymore; just an increasingly harsh yelling. Giving in to that is good; no more words, just the energy tearing through you, all the blackness pouring out like the bullets, like the flames.

In the end, by some mistake or some unconscious fluke, you’ve expended every target and you’re left holding a gun with one bullet. The gun is your favorite, that little honey of a murder machine, the Schmidt M1882.

Suddenly the intake of air required to keep oxygen on your flames is ragged, your grip on the gun too tight. Your arm is actually shaking from the exertion of the last fifteen minutes’ shooting, or maybe from the weight of the gun in your hand, and you find yourself staring at your hand, willing your fingers to release or at least slacken, but they don’t.

With measured slowness, as if you must be very careful in the action, you lift the gun, turn it, and press the muzzle against your temple. It’s hot; a perfect circle of heat, and you shudder.

Photoreceptors click off, the gun steadies. Why not? What exactly have you got going on that’s so wonderful? Your father is a selfish, moody prick who cares absolutely nothing for you or your brothers; your brothers, one of whom is as close to a drunk as he can be and hates you, and the other who is glitched beyond help and terrified of you. And you care so little for yourself. You’re nothing, a shadow of a man, not particularly successful in your endeavors to protect your brothers and there isn’t one single thing you can think of to redeem the hateful, horrible things you do in your father’s name. You deserve to eat this bullet just for your little meeting with Hare, even if the rat was looking for punishment.

So why not.

Just why the fuck not?

With a sigh, very soft and rasping with embers and soot, you lower the gun, hand finally relaxing as your photoreceptors click back on.

You sit on the grass and pull out the maintenance kit from the bag in which you stash your little collection, fingers glancing fondly over the barrel of your Winchester, still securely folded away in the bottom of the bag. Before you can go, the guns must all be cleaned, oiled, and reloaded; made ready for the next time your anger reaches a point where it might escape in some other way.

As you clean, you do not think about your actions prior; you content yourself with the repetitive action of breaking the guns down, cleaning, oiling, tending to them. You don’t want to go there. You don’t want to think about what you may or may not have done, even though the smell of your overheated system is accosting your olfactory with the reek of burnt oil. It’s better not to go there, not to try facing it. Bury it, throw all the other dark things in on top of it, and shoot it down later.

Because you are a coward, and you are unjustifiable, and you are too low to bother wasting bullets on.

Because you love life even if yours isn’t worth anything.

Because maybe somewhere in that pit of hate and venom, Becile doesn’t hate you. And maybe Hare will understand one day what you try to do, why you’re the bastard that you are.

Because maybe, just maybe, there’s a point to it. You just have to find it.

#becile bots #the skull #the skull becile #neoma writes

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mostly-aus-and-feelings · 6 years

Text

Collision - Crash

Work heavily inspired by theprojectava

specific work of inspiration for this chapter is -

https://theprojectava.tumblr.com/post/161711113423/saturn-you-taught-me-the-courage-of-stars-before

Chapter 3 - Crash

“I’m going to go to space!”

“No, no, no. No going to space unless it’s in something that I build. I am your older brother it’s my job to get you to space and back safely.”

“You’re not even older than me by five minutes. Doesn’t count.”

“I’m older than you by 317 seconds and it does too count!”

“Fine. Then you better enlist at the Garrison too because I’m going to space. Bitch.”

They had always been together, maybe not always side by side but they had always been close enough to be there. Ryou had always figured that they would be together until the end, but looking back he figured that destiny had always been trying to split them up and when it had found that no force on Earth could do it, destiny gave Shiro visions of stars. So, when Shiro went for them, Ryou followed as closely as he could but, he’d never dreamed of them the way Shiro had. His paradise wasn’t in space, it was on Earth, digging through scrap metal and tearing apart engines only to put them back together better than ever. To build something better. But still, he followed Shiro to the Garrison and he became one of the best damn engineers they had the displeasure of working with.

He should have known that the day Shiro fell in love with stars that Ryou would lose him to them. He should have seen it coming but, he’d apparently had put too much faith in Shiro’s love for Keith, his brother’s younger protégé and firmly denied crush, would be able to bring him back home. But it hadn’t. because even though Shiro was ass over heels in love with Keith, the stars had still been his first love and though they were beautiful, space was a cold and cruel bitch.

Something wasn’t right though. Because he may have lost Shiro to the stars but he was just that; lost. He wasn’t gone. Ryou could feel that he wasn’t gone.

The Garrison was lying.

They said it was a crash. They said it was either due to engine failure or pilot error. Which was absolute bull shit. Ryou had built that engine himself. He had Matt Holt test it himself daily and neither of them had ever let themselves get too distracted by lingering looks, or subtle touches, or rushed kisses in a closet in the engineering lab. And Shiro was the best pilot the Garrison had. Hell, those bastards had boasted and bragged about him for months. Top of his class, best of the best, the one that everyone should aspire to be. They put his brother on a shining pedestal and then had the audacity to push it into the mud with their lies of pilot error.

It took watching Matt’s little sister, Katie, get dragged out of the Garrison kicking and screaming about them covering it up, about them not even sending someone out to actually investigate what happened, and just lying through their fucking teeth, for all the pieces to snap into place. Matt had always said that his sister was one of the smartest people he’d ever met, that she was probably even smarter than he was. Is she was putting pieces together than he should be too. So, he drops out. And he grabs Keith on his way out because the kid was on a war path. Ryou couldn’t even find it in himself to be mad when he finds Shiro’s room torn to shit, looking like a tornado ripped through it instead of a distraught teenager. It would have broken Shiro to see Keith like this so, Ryou grabbed him and left. Neither of them glancing back.

Ryou doesn’t even finish the plans to the ship he’s going to build, to the ship he’s going to take to fucking space to find his brother, before Keith disappears too, taking the hover bike that he’d been fixing up for the past few months while Ryou had been busy planning. It hurt. It felt like he’d failed Shiro once again. But he couldn’t blame him. Keith was young. He had more to do in his life than morn a man lost to the stars. Keith needed to move on and being stuck in a scrap yard was not helping him do that. So, no. He didn’t blame him. But, that didn’t stop him from getting drunk and cursing him for abandoning his brother just like everyone else. He starts drinking a lot after Keith leaves.

He stops drinking the day he finishes his ship though. He tests everything, from the engine and thrusters all the way down to making sure the fucking toilet flushes properly. Matt would have been proud. He has everything prepared, everything ready to go. He builds a launch pad and sets up the ship. He’s ready. He’s leaving. He’s going to find Shiro and his crew, drag their asses back to Earth, and never let his stupid brother leave this planet again. Firing up the engines is a powerful feeling.

Turning them off and just sitting in the cockpit, starting up into blue sky, is a defeating one.

It’d been over a year. Not by much. 12 months and 17 days. But still, Shiro had been missing for over a year. In space. Vast, endless space. The only lead he had was Kerberos and even that would take him months to get out too. Maybe everyone was right. Maybe Shiro was gone.

Or maybe not.

When Ryou had left the Garrison, he’d planted a device that would allow him to pick up any radio chatter they put out, hoping, praying really, that he’d eventually hear something about Shiro. Or about anything weird that might explain something. He’d given up hope around the time Keith left. But reports of a ship crashing to earth and causing a red alert caught his attention. And a name. A name that make the world feel as if it were falling from under him.

Takashi Shirogane.

But before he could finish grabbing what he thought he might need; food, first aid kit, a fucking bat in case the garrison tried to stand in his way of getting to Shiro; the reports changed to another code red of how Shiro had been taken from garrison personnel by four as of yet unknown individuals. Ryou punched the wall. Could nothing go right? Could destiny not just keep Shiro in one fucking place for 10 fucking minutes so that Ryou could get to him?! Please?!

The chatter was over as quickly as it had started and Ryou was beyond frustrated. Patience yields focus had always been something Shiro loved saying but Ryou could absolutely confirm that it was bull shit. He’d been patient, he’d done his waiting and his planning but none of it mattered.

The chatter started again around noon the next day. This time it wasn’t talking about a ship, but a… giant blue lion? And something told him that if he was leaving, that if he was going after Shiro, he needed to leave now. The reports were talking of the blue lion leaving the atmosphere as he’s doing his final checks before he turns on the engines. Ryou had never dreamed of the stars. He’d never wanted to go to space. He’d wanted to build things and live surrounded by plans and projects. He’d wanted to stay firmly planted on the Earth. But he wanted his brother more. And if that took shooting himself into the void of space after a blue lion then so be it. Though he would have to admit, seeing an alien war ship was a bit more of a surprise than he’d expected.

He gunned his thrusters when he realized that the ship was about to go into the same warp it had just come out of and if he wasn’t behind it, tailgating on the wake it left, then he was going to lose Shiro. again. He was thankful for the auto-pilot feature he’d installed because his ship was not made for the speed it was currently traveling at. He was pretty sure he passed out at least 6 times in the several minutes it took them to get to the edge of the damn solar system. But even then, after everything, he still wasn’t fast enough to make it to the wormhole the lion flew through. If Shiro wasn’t dead by the time Ryou found him, he was going to kill him.

The alien war ship was stalled for a long time, Ryou hiding his ship in the space debris so as not to be seen, before what looked like a portal opened up for it as well. He knew it probably wasn’t going to the same place Shiro had gone but he was already the far out and going back to earth no longer felt like an option.

Months turned into another year but that was fine. He could be patient. He could wait for this war to be over. Because he was a part of it now, and months of fighting with rebels against the Galra empire had taught him that sometimes destinies were different than what you planned.

Especially when destiny directed you on to a Galra ship to plant bombs in all of its main engines and you get lost trying to get out, only to stumble into a lab where you find your brother being held captive in a tube full of really gross looking liquid. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“You know what, you little shit, fuck you.” Ryou cursed as he activated the electric baton that he’d lifted off a Galra soldier during his third or so month in space. “If anyone should have gray hairs, it should be me after all the shit you’ve put me through.” He slammed the baton against the glass, fracturing it and send spider-web like cracks through it. The second hit, caused it to crack even more. The pressure of the liquid behind the cracks caused it to shatter and Ryou stepped back to avoid the initial rush before moving back in to catch his brother as he fell. Shiro’s physical weight plus the emotional weight of staring his younger brother in the face again after two long years, made his knees buckle and they dropped to the floor. Ryou checked his pulse and let out a relieved sigh when he found it, dropping his head and pressing his forehead to Shiro’s.

The first explosion shook him out of the elation he’d been feeling at seeing Shiro again. At being back with his twin. His other half. He took a breath and slid one of Shiro’s arms over his shoulders and stood as he wrapped an arm around his brother’s waist. The metal arm made him falter for just a second, as did the discolored scar that ran across the bridge of his nose. But now was not the time to think of the implications of new features. Now was the time for him to get his ass in gear and get his little brother to safety.

Moving around the ship was slow going, even more so since he had to be extra careful of guards and sentries since he wasn’t just going to be able to drop Shiro and fight and the explosions were happening more and more meaning that the countdown to total engine failure was coming to an end. They had just about reached his ship, which he had hidden in a transportation hanger when the ship suddenly pitched to the side, sending them sliding. Fuck. Being this close to the outside of the ship, he could almost feel the atmospheric gravity of the moon, pulling them in. They needed to get out of here. Now. Ryou grabbed Shiro and dragged him to his ship, dropping him into the only passenger chair with probably a little less grace than intended.

“Sorry, not that sorry.” He muttered, buckling him into the seat before hopping into the pilot’s seat. He quickly pulled out a device and punched in a code, making the hanger door open. It was probably a good thing that Shiro was unconscious. There was no way that he wouldn’t get a firm and obnoxiously serious lecture about his flying. Sentries suddenly started marching into the hanger, weapons drawn and immediately firing on sight. He started the ships thrusters a little harsher than necessary but launched them out the hanger door. He cursed loudly and repeatedly as he caught one of the wings on the side of the hanger door, effectively ripping it off and sending them spiraling. Yeah, he definitely would have gotten a lecture.

He tried to fly them out of the ship’s wake so that they wouldn’t be pulled down with the ship but the explosions had created a field of debris that kept them too close. They were going down one way or another and fuck it, if it wasn’t going to be on his terms. Ryou turned the ship so that instead of trying to fly out into space, he was flying towards the moon, using the Galra prison ship as a heat shield as they entered its atmosphere. Once through, he turned the ship to the right and activated the thrusters, sending them speeding away from the falling ship. He tried to keep it steady as warning signs started popping up and alarms started blaring. He looked over at Shiro and took his brother’s hand as he braced for the crash. he couldn’t help smiling a little before his ship smashed into the surface of the moon and he blacked out.

“-ou! Ryou, I swear to god! Open your eyes! Ryou, wake up!”

What the fuck. Why did Shiro sound so panicky? Did they sleep through a class again? No… wait. They hadn’t had class since they had graduated as officers. Hell, he didn’t even go to the garrison any more. He was too busy looking for-

“Shiro!” Ryou shouted as he launched himself into a sitting position. They stared at each other for what was only a few seconds but what felt like a small eternity before they were wrapping their arms around each other and squeezing, each trying to hug the other as close as possible. He didn’t even realize that he was crying until he heard Shiro let out a sob. They both paused and moved back, looking at each other’s face, not so identical any more, before letting out a noise that was half sob, half laugh. Ryou ran his fingers through Shiro’s two toned hair and Shiro grabbed the back off his neck pulling him into another hug.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

“I know, I’m sorry too!”

Ryou wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that but it was long enough that they finally ran out of tears and the ones they had shed were starting to dry on their red faces. His face kind of hurt but they were alive and they were both smiling, so he really couldn’t see a down side in any of this. He had his brother back. He had Shiro back. Maybe not entirely in once piece but who cared, they both knew that one of them was going to lose a limb one day though they had both figured it would be Ryou during some engine blowing up in his face. Shiro was alive. He was safe. He was back. Destiny had tried to separate them. It had found that no force on Earth could do it so it sent them to the stars. But fuck destiny. Sure, they hadn’t been side by side but now they were back together and no force in the fucking galaxy was going to separate them again. Destiny and Zarkon’s War could kiss his ass.

The sound of engines flying past broke up the good feeling and they both turned to look out the cockpit window, Ryou pulling Shiro closer to him. Two lions flew overhead, not unlike The Blue Lion of the Legendary Voltron that he’d seen what felt like a lifetime ago, though these two were Green and Yellow. He turned to look at Shiro, who was smiling again. The smile wasn’t as wide and abundantly happy as it had been, it looked like it had aged a little. But that was understandable. A few moments ago, all that had mattered was that they were back together. Now, they were back in the middle of a war, people counted on them, and shit needed to get done.

“I need to get to them… we should go before they leave us here.” Shiro said, sounding just like he had when he was heading off for his mission to Kerberos. No, he sounded different. Back then he’d only sounded like a mission leader. Now, he was one. Ryou nodded before taking a moment to look at all the ways Shiro had changed. The ways they had both changed. They were taller, they both had scars, they both had a look in their eye that spoke of different horrors. Shiro was different than how he had been back on Earth, but so was he. And they were together again so he really didn’t give a shit.

#theprojectava #shiro has multiple clones #implied sheith #the real shiro #ryou #takashi shirogane #ryou shirogane #fanfiction #voltron fanfic #lots of cursing #lots of crying #family #reuniuon #voltron #hurt and comfort #writting inspired by art

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readbookywooks · 7 years

Text

Bran

Dancer was draped in bardings of snowy white wool emblazoned with the grey direwolf of House Stark, while Bran wore grey breeches and white doublet, his sleeves and collar trimmed with vair. Over his heart was his wolf's-head brooch of silver and polished jet. He would sooner have had Summer than a silver wolf on his breast, but Ser Rodrik had been unyielding.

The low stone steps balked Dancer only for a moment. When Bran urged her on, she took them easily. Beyond the wide oak-and-iron doors, eight long rows of trestle tables filled Winterfell's Great Hall, four on each side of the center aisle. Men crowded shoulder to shoulder on the benches. "Stark!" they called as Bran trotted past, rising to their feet. "Winterfell! Winterfell!"

He was old enough to know that it was not truly him they shouted for—it was the harvest they cheered, it was Robb and his victories, it was his lord father and his grandfather and all the Starks going back eight thousand years. Still, it made him swell with pride. For so long as it took him to ride the length of that hall he forgot that he was broken. Yet when he reached the dais, with every eye upon him, Osha and Hodor undid his straps and buckles, lifted him off Dancer's back, and carried him to the high seat of his fathers.

Ser Rodrik was seated to Bran's left, his daughter Beth beside him. Rickon was to his right, his mop of shaggy auburn hair grown so long that it brushed his ermine mantle. He had refused to let anyone cut it since their mother had gone. The last girl to try had been bitten for her efforts. "I wanted to ride too," he said as Hodor led Dancer away. "I ride better than you."

"You don't, so hush up," he told his brother. Ser Rodrik bellowed for quiet. Bran raised his voice. He bid them welcome in the name of his brother, the King in the North, and asked them to thank the gods old and new for Robb's victories and the bounty of the harvest. "May there be a hundred more," he finished, raising his father's silver goblet.

"A hundred more!" Pewter tankards, clay cups, and iron-banded drinking horns clashed together. Bran's wine was sweetened with honey and fragrant with cinnamon and cloves, but stronger than he was used to. He could feel its hot snaky fingers wriggling through his chest as he swallowed. By the time he set down the goblet, his head was swimming.

"You did well, Bran," Ser Rodrik told him. "Lord Eddard would have been most proud." Down the table, Maester Luwin nodded his agreement as the servers began to carry in the food.

Such food Bran had never seen; course after course after course, so much that he could not manage more than a bite or two of each dish. There were great joints of aurochs roasted with leeks, venison pies chunky with carrots, bacon, and mushrooms, mutton chops sauced in honey and cloves, savory duck, peppered boar, goose, skewers of pigeon and capon, beef-and-barley stew, cold fruit soup. Lord Wyman had brought twenty casks of fish from White Harbor packed in salt and seaweed; whitefish and winkles, crabs and mussels, clams, herring, cod, salmon, lobster and lampreys. There was black bread and honeycakes and oaten biscuits; there were turnips and pease and beets, beans and squash and huge red onions; there were baked apples and berry tarts and pears poached in strongwine. Wheels of white cheese were set at every table, above and below the salt, and flagons of hot spice wine and chilled autumn ale were passed up and down the tables.

Lord Wyman's musicians played bravely and well, but harp and fiddle and horn were soon drowned beneath a tide of talk and laughter, the clash of cup and plate, and the snarling of hounds fighting for table scraps. The singer sang good songs, "Iron Lances" and "The Burning of the Ships" and "The Bear and the Maiden Fair," but only Hodor seemed to be listening. He stood beside the piper, hopping from one foot to the other.

The noise swelled to a steady rumbling roar, a great heady stew of sound. Ser Rodrik talked with Maester Luwin above Beth's curly head, while Rickon screamed happily at the Walders. Bran had not wanted the Freys at the high table, but the maester reminded him that they would soon be kin. Robb was to marry one of their aunts, and Arya one of their uncles. "She never will," Bran said, "not Arya," but Maester Luwin was unyielding, so there they were beside Rickon.

The serving men brought every dish to Bran first, that he might take the lord's portion if he chose. By the time they reached the ducks, he could eat no more. After that he nodded approval at each course in turn, and waved it away. If the dish smelled especially choice, he would send it to one of the lords on the dais, a gesture of friendship and favor that Maester Luwin told him he must make. He sent some salmon down to poor sad Lady Hornwood, the boar to the boisterous Umbers, a dish of goose-in-berries to Cley Cerwyn, and a huge lobster to Joseth the master of horse, who was neither lord nor guest, but had seen to Dancer's training and made it possible for Bran to ride. He sent sweets to Hodor and Old Nan as well, for no reason but he loved them. Ser Rodrik reminded him to send something to his foster brothers, so he sent Little Walder some boiled beets and Big Walder the buttered turnips.

On the benches below, Winterfell men mixed with smallfolk from the winter town, friends from the nearer holdfasts, and the escorts of their lordly guests. Some faces Bran had never seen before, others he knew as well as his own, yet they all seemed equally foreign to him. He watched them as from a distance, as if he still sat in the window of his bedchamber looking down on the yard below, seeing everything yet a part of nothing.

Osha moved among the tables, pouring ale. One of Leobald Tallhart's men slid a hand up under her skirts and she broke the flagon over his head, to roars of laughter. Yet Mikken had his hand down some woman's bodice, and she seemed not to mind. Bran watched Farlen make his red bitch beg for bones and smiled at Old Nan plucking at the crust of a hot pie with wrinkled fingers. On the dais, Lord Wyman attacked a steaming plate of lampreys as if they were an enemy host. He was so fat that Ser Rodrik had commanded that a special wide chair be built for him to sit in, but he laughed loud and often, and Bran thought he liked him. Poor wan Lady Hornwood sat beside him, her face a stony mask as she picked listlessly at her food. At the opposite end of the high table, Hothen and Mors were playing a drinking game, slamming their horns together as hard as knights meeting in joust.

It is too hot here, and too noisy, and they are all getting drunk. Bran itched under his grey and white woolens, and suddenly he wished he were anywhere but here. It is cool in the godswood now. Steam is rising off the hot pools, and the red leaves of the weirwood are rustling. The smells are richer than here, and before long the moon will rise and my brother will sing to it.

"Bran?" Ser Rodrik said. "You do not eat."

The waking dream had been so vivid, for a moment Bran had not known where he was. "I'll have more later," he said. "My belly's full to bursting."

The old knight's white mustache was pink with wine. "You have done well, Bran. Here, and at the audiences. You will be an especial fine lord one day, I think."

I want to be a knight. Bran took another sip of the spiced honey wine from his father's goblet, grateful for something to clutch. The lifelike head of a snarling direwolf was raised on the side of the cup. He felt the silver muzzle pressing against his palm, and remembered the last time he had seen his lord father drink from this goblet.

It had been the night of the welcoming feast, when King Robert had brought his court to Winterfell. Summer still reigned then. His parents had shared the dais with Robert and his queen, with her brothers beside her. Uncle Benjen had been there too, all in black. Bran and his brothers and sisters sat with the king's children, Joffrey and Tommen and Princess Myrcella, who'd spent the whole meal gazing at Robb with adoring eyes. Arya made faces across the table when no one was looking; Sansa listened raptly while the king's high harper sang songs of chivalry, and Rickon kept asking why Jon wasn't with them. "Because he's a bastard," Bran finally had to whisper to him.

And now they are all gone. It was as if some cruel god had reached down with a great hand and swept them all away, the girls to captivity, Jon to the Wall, Robb and Mother to war, King Robert and Father to their graves, and perhaps Uncle Benjen as well . . .

Even down on the benches, there were new men at the tables. Jory was dead, and Fat Tom, and Porther, Alyn, Desmond, Hullen who had been master of horse, Harwin his son . . . all those who had gone south with his father, even Septa Mordane and Vayon Poole. The rest had ridden to war with Robb, and might soon be dead as well for all Bran knew. He liked Hayhead and Poxy Tym and Skittrick and the other new men well enough, but he missed his old friends.

He looked up and down the benches at all the faces happy and sad, and wondered who would be missing next year and the year after. He might have cried then, but he couldn't. He was the Stark in Winterfell, his father's son and his brother's heir, and almost a man grown.

At the foot of the hall, the doors opened and a gust of cold air made the torches flame brighter for an instant. Alebelly led two new guests into the feast. "The Lady Meera of House Reed," the rotund guardsman bellowed over the clamor. "With her brother, Jojen, of Greywater Watch."

Men looked up from their cups and trenchers to eye the newcomers. Bran heard Little Walder mutter, "Frogeaters," to Big Walder beside him. Ser Rodrik climbed to his feet. "Be welcome, friends, and share this harvest with us." Serving men hurried to lengthen the table on the dais, fetching trestles and chairs.

"Who are they?" Rickon asked.

"Mudmen," answered Little Walder disdainfully. "They're thieves and cravens, and they have green teeth from eating frogs."

Maester Luwin crouched beside Bran's seat to whisper counsel in his ear. "You must greet these ones warmly. I had not thought to see them here, but . . . you know who they are?"

Bran nodded. "Crannogmen. From the Neck."

"Howland Reed was a great friend to your father," Ser Rodrik told him. "These two are his, it would seem."

As the newcomers walked the length of the hall, Bran saw that one was indeed a girl, though he would never have known it by her dress. She wore lambskin breeches soft with long use, and a sleeveless jerkin armored in bronze scales. Though near Robb's age, she was slim as a boy, with long brown hair knotted behind her head and only the barest suggestion of breasts. A woven net hung from one slim hip, a long bronze knife from the other; under her arm she carried an old iron greathelm spotted with rust; a frog spear and round leathern shield were strapped to her back.

Her brother was several years younger and bore no weapons. All his garb was green, even to the leather of his boots, and when he came closer Bran saw that his eyes were the color of moss, though his teeth looked as white as anyone else's. Both Reeds were slight of build, slender as swords and scarcely taller than Bran himself. They went to one knee before the dais.

"My lords of Stark," the girl said. "The years have passed in their hundreds and their thousands since my folk first swore their fealty to the King in the North. My lord father has sent us here to say the words again, for all our people."

She is looking at me, Bran realized. He had to make some answer. "My brother Robb is fighting in the south," he said, "but you can say your words to me, if you like."

"To Winterfell we pledge the faith of Greywater," they said together. "Hearth and heart and harvest we yield up to you, my lord. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command. Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you."

"I swear it by earth and water," said the boy in green.

"I swear it by bronze and iron," his sister said.

"We swear it by ice and fire," they finished together.

Bran groped for words. Was he supposed to swear something back to them? Their oath was not one he had been taught. "May your winters be short and your summers bountiful," he said. That was usually a good thing to say. "Rise. I'm Brandon Stark."

The girl, Meera, got to her feet and helped her brother up. The boy stared at Bran all the while. "We bring you gifts of fish and frog and fowl," he said.

"I thank you." Bran wondered if he would have to eat a frog to be polite. "I offer you the meat and mead of Winterfell." He tried to recall all he had been taught of the crannogmen, who dwelt amongst the bogs of the Neck and seldom left their wetlands. They were a poor folk, fishers and frog-hunters who lived in houses of thatch and woven reeds on floating islands hidden in the deeps of the swamp. It was said that they were a cowardly people who fought with poisoned weapons and preferred to hide from foes rather than face them in open battle. And yet Howland Reed had been one of Father's staunchest companions during the war for King Robert's crown, before Bran was born.

The boy, Jojen, looked about the hall curiously as he took his seat. "Where are the direwolves?"

"In the godswood," Rickon answered. "Shaggy was bad."

"My brother would like to see them," the girl said.

Little Walder spoke up loudly. "He'd best watch they don't see him, or they'll take a bite out of him."

"They won't bite if I'm there." Bran was pleased that they wanted to see the wolves. "Summer won't anyway, and he'll keep Shaggydog away." He was curious about these mudmen. He could not recall ever seeing one before. His father had sent letters to the Lord of Greywater over the years, but none of the crannogmen had ever called at Winterfell. He would have liked to talk to them more, but the Great Hall was so noisy that it was hard to hear anyone who wasn't right beside you.

Ser Rodrik was right beside Bran. "Do they truly eat frogs?" he asked the old knight.

"Aye," Ser Rodrik said. "Frogs and fish and lizard-lions, and all manner of birds."

Maybe they don't have sheep and cattle, Bran thought. He commanded the serving men to bring them mutton chops and a slice off the aurochs and fill their trenchers with beef-and-barley stew. They seemed to like that well enough. The girl caught him staring at her and smiled. Bran blushed and looked away.

Much later, after all the sweets had been served and washed down with gallons of surnmerwine, the food was cleared and the tables shoved back against the walls to make room for the dancing. The music grew wilder, the drummers joined in, and Hother Umber brought forth a huge curved warhorn banded in silver. When the singer reached the part in "The Night That Ended" where the Night's Watch rode forth to meet the Others in the Battle for the Dawn, he blew a blast that set all the dogs to barking.

Two Glover men began a spinning skirl on bladder and woodharp. Mors Umber was the first on his feet. He seized a passing serving girl by the arm, knocking the flagon of wine out of her hands to shatter on the floor. Amidst the rushes and bones and bits of bread that littered the stone, he whirled her and spun her and tossed her in the air. The girl squealed with laughter and turned red as her skirts swirled and lifted.

Others soon joined in. Hodor began to dance all by himself, while Lord Wyman asked little Beth Cassel to partner him. For all his size, he moved gracefully. When he tired, Cley Cerwyn danced with the child in his stead. Ser Rodrik approached Lady Hornwood, but she made her excuses and took her leave. Bran watched long enough to be polite, and then had Hodor summoned. He was hot and tired, flushed from the wine, and the dancing made him sad. it was something else he could never do. "I want to go."

"Hodor," Hodor shouted back, kneeling. Maester Luwin and Hayhead lifted him into his basket. The folk of Winterfell had seen this sight half a hundred times, but doubtless it looked queer to the guests, some of whom were more curious than polite. Bran felt the stares.

They went out the rear rather than walk the length of the hall, Bran ducking his head as they passed through the lord's door. In the dim-lit gallery outside the Great Hall, they came upon Joseth the master of horse engaged in a different sort of riding. He had some woman Bran did not know shoved up against the wall, her skirts around her waist. She was giggling until Hodor stopped to watch. Then she screamed. "Leave them be, Hodor," Bran had to tell him. "Take me to my bedchamber."

Hodor carried him up the winding steps to his tower and knelt beside one of the iron bars that Mikken had driven into the wall. Bran used the bars to move himself to the bed, and Hodor pulled off his boots and breeches. "You can go back to the feast now, but don't go bothering Joseth and that woman," Bran said.

"Hodor," Hodor replied, bobbing his head.

When he blew out his bedside candle, darkness covered him like a soft, familiar blanket. The faint sound of music drifted through his shuttered window.

Something his father had told him once when he was little came back to him suddenly. He had asked Lord Eddard if the Kingsguard were truly the finest knights in the Seven Kingdoms. "No longer," he answered, "but once they were a marvel, a shining lesson to the world."

"Was there one who was best of all?"

"The finest knight I ever saw was Ser Arthur Dayne, who fought with a blade called Dawn, forged from the heart of a fallen star. They called him the Sword of the Morning, and he would have killed me but for Howland Reed." Father had gotten sad then, and he would say no more. Bran wished he had asked him what he meant.

He went to sleep with his head full of knights in gleaming armor, fighting with swords that shone like starfire, but when the dream came he was in the godswood again. The smells from the kitchen and the Great Hall were so strong that it was almost as if he had never left the feast. He prowled beneath the trees, his brother close behind him. This night was wildly alive, full of the howling of the man-pack at their play. The sounds made him restless. He wanted to run, to hunt, he wanted to—

The rattle of iron made his ears prick up. His brother heard it too. They raced through the undergrowth toward the sound. Bounding across the still water at the foot of the old white one, he caught the scent of a stranger, the man-smell well mixed with leather and earth and iron.

The intruders had pushed a few yards into the wood when he came upon them; a female and a young male, with no taint of fear to them, even when he showed them the white of his teeth. His brother growled low in his throat, yet still they did not run.

"Here they come," the female said. Meera, some part of him whispered, some wisp of the sleeping boy lost in the wolf dream. "Did you know they would be so big?"

"They will be bigger still before they are grown," the young male said, watching them with eyes large, green, and unafraid. "The black one is full of fear and rage, but the grey is strong . . . stronger than he knows . . . can you feel him, sister?"

"No," she said, moving a hand to the hilt of the long brown knife she wore. "Go careful, Joien."

"He won't hurt me. This is not the day I die." The male walked toward them, unafraid, and reached out for his muzzle, a touch as light as a summer breeze. Yet at the brush of those fingers the wood dissolved and the very ground turned to smoke beneath his feet and swirled away laughing, and then he was spinning and falling, falling, falling . . .

#ClashofKings

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