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bcbdrums · 7 months

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Grasping for the Wind - pt. 5

First Chapter | Previous Chapter Read on: AO3 FFn

A Soul Eater story. It's about Stein and Spirit.

A/N: I don't know if it's clear kinda what's...going on in Stein's head in the battle. I hope it's clear.

Part 5

As if a door had been opened, suddenly the Invisible Man became visible, and about thirty feet distant stood an older but familiar figure. Taller and broader than Spirit, but as pale as Death himself. His flame-colored hair he now wore shaved so closely to his skin it was nearly invisible, giving a strange orange cast to his head. But his red eyes were exactly the same, staring back into his with that arrogant, knowing look.

Stein's grip on the staff tightened. He knew he should strike while he had the chance. But...

"You were one of them..." Spirit said in revelation. "You're one of the students that saw it happen... You watched him kill Sachiko. Why didn't you tell me?"

Stein's hands were sweating. He adjusted his grip.

"I'll let you join me now. You still want to, I can see it. How can you not, with that boring, monotonous life they've trapped you into?"

Stein raised the scythe and took a step forward, but in an instant Griffin was gone again, invisible and silent.

Stein grit his teeth and rushed for the spot, swinging wildly, but he only cut air. He swung again behind him, the blade slicing through the space with a force that would be deadly if it made impact. But the man was gone.

"What are you doing!? This is reckless. We need to get out of here, we can't beat him like this."

"Quiet!"

Stein closed his eyes again, his teeth bared as he listened. A bead of perspiration dripped down his temple and he told himself it was the desert's heat as the sun slowly rose. Not nerves. Not old desires surfacing. Just the heat, and nothing more.

He adjusted his grip again as he nearly lost hold of Spirit as his hands continued to sweat. Since when had the scythe become so heavy?

"You know your life is a waste," Griffin said. Now he seemed to be in front of the dry slough. His voice was echoing less from there, and Stein kept his eyes closed as he took a step nearer the sound. "After graduating you obeyed Death's whims for a few years, and then what? You left to do what you wanted to do, but what do you have to show for it? Years, alone in that lab. All alone. And all for nothing. Your life is meaningless."

Stein took another step and stopped, not wanting to appear as if he was advancing.

"If I can drive him farther from the butte, then I can pinpoint his location more accurately," he said in a whisper.

"It's not going to work! Let it go, Stein. We'll get him when we have a better plan."

"Together we could have been the greatest in academy history. We could have surpassed Death himself, and installed a new order to this world. But no, you wanted to make a death scythe. Lured by the lies of the glory that would come with the feat. Well, congratulations. You did it. The DWMA's greatest meister, they call you. And what of it?"

Stein felt his fingers slipping and held onto the staff tighter. For all of Griffin's apparent spying, he had apparently missed the part where he and Spirit had parted ways for over a decade. He felt the tension in his former partner rising after Griffin had made the error, and suddenly realized it had been rising ever since their old classmate had revealed himself with the vicious attack.

And he further realized, opening his eyes with a start, that the invisible voice was approaching.

"What have you done in all those years Death gave you your freedom? Doing 'what you wanted to do.' Well, now you're back, shackled into the same, boring cycle all over again. Did you ever spend the time wondering what could have been? Knowing what you could have been, if you'd come with me?"

Stein's fingers slipped again, and he planted the base of the staff in front of him in the sand. He wiped his palms one after the other on his coat and then held onto Spirit tightly until his knuckles were white.

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

"I screwed up."

"Don't cry, Maka. Papa's here."

"If I had only listened! Soul was right. He said we should run away. He knew we couldn't beat someone that strong. If only I had listened to Soul... Then he wouldn't be...wouldn't be..."

"Don't worry, Maka. Stein will patch him up, good as new, he's good at that."

Spirit looked across the back of the ambulance at Stein, his expression unreadable as he stroked Maka's back.

"Papa promises."

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

"Stein? Stein? Hello, you in there?" Naigus said.

Stein set the needle and sutures down on the tray and took off one glove, dropping it in the waste bucket. He reached up and turned the screw in his head slowly, once...twice.

The fight against the Demon Sword had been elating. A part of himself that he'd been forced to forget for years felt alive again in those moments when he resonated with the soul that was as familiar to him as his own.

Except that it wasn't anymore. That fight had just been an echo of the past.

Stein moved his hand briefly to the scar on his face, and an involuntary shiver raced across his skin. It was tender, as if fresh, and he wondered if his old wounds hadn't bled and he had just failed to notice.

They weren't in sync, he and Spirit. Their souls were still worn and frayed at the seams due to the choices he'd made, meant for their good, but choices that ultimately drove them apart.

He'd sacrificed a gift he'd never thought possible for himself to pursue his own ambitions. And what did he have to show for it?

He craved dissection as if it were the only spring in a vast desert. He knew it was madness, and for five years he had let the tantalizing hints of something greater be his excuse to bring that madness down upon his partner. Upon someone he had allowed himself to trust, and for reasons he never understood, had reciprocated that trust.

But now, thanks to him...

'I screwed up.'

Thanks to him, the only real friend he'd ever had lie dying. Unless he could do the opposite of what every fiber of his being drove him toward.

"Stein? Stein!"

His hand had returned to the screw, turning and turning, the installation being the self-induced permanent punishment he had judged himself deserving of for his crimes.

If he had only listened to the correct voice. If he had ignored the distraction of Griffin's verbal attack upon his life, and the futile, vain promises...

The weapon had followed selfish ambition, and it had transformed the revolving door of madness into a bottomless pit. It had cost him the potential life he could have lived. And it had cost him the life of his meister.

Stein had walked in and out of that door too many times in his lonely existence. It had already cost him his partner and friend...

Had it cost him everything?

"Stein!"

Naigus had set her gloved hand on his shoulder now to snap him out of it, and he stopped turning the screw to look down at where her hand lay. Spirit's blood was once again on his shoulder.

"How ironic."

"...What is?"

Spirit was right, and he had known it at the time. The argument itself was bitter evidence that they weren't in sync anymore.

Spirit never argued with him in battle. Even when he could feel the wavering disagreement in his soul, he never argued and never questioned. He allowed Stein the lead as meister and only spoke up if he felt it was important, which would clue Stein in to listen. Likewise, Stein didn't argue with him. They kept each other in check, as it should be, and the unity of their wavelengths had at one time been the envy of all at the academy. The trust they had in one another that he failed to fully comprehend was at its utmost when they were fighting, when resonating.

But it had been absent that morning. It was his fault. In a horrifying anti-climax to everything he had worked toward— now, just like Griffin, he had killed his meister.

He turned the screw.

"I screwed up. If I had listened..."

"Stein."

Naigus released his shoulder, and he watched as she changed her glove and then offered him a clean one as well.

"He's not dead."

Stein released a trembling breath. He let the slow rhythm of the heart monitor be his new point of focus and looked down. There was no beauty here, in the deep wounds inflicted through jealousy and hate.

He broadened his focus, away from the details of the injuries and everything beneath the skin that called to him and to the knowledge that this was the body of his friend. He let his eyes rise to Spirit's face again, tight with pain even through the anesthetic.

"He needs you."

He met Naigus's hand over Spirit's body and took the glove. His own life still would not have a happy ending. But if it was within his control...at least it would not end like Griffin's.

#soul eater #franken stein #spirit albarn #fanfiction #stein #death scythe #professor stein #dr stein #dr. stein #spirit #soul eater fanfiction #mira naigus #naigus #mira nygus #sid barett #sid barrett #maka albarn #soul eater evans #how do i tag i forgot

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hansolmates · 3 years

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shiver | 02

banner done by the wonderful @dnrequests

summary; jungkook changed since he moved out of his small town church community and attended college. when he returns for a christmas mass, you suddenly crave a taste of his fun and carefree life. in exchange, jungkook craves a taste of you pairing; bad boy!jungkook x church girl!reader genre/warnings; childhood friends to lovers, brief childhood friends to enemies, fwb!au, catholic guilt, jungkook is a meanie who eventually turns into a soft tsundere, bicuriosity, sexual exploration, virgin!oc, eventual smut—in this installment: mentions of sex w/c; 1.2k a/n; thanks for the overwhelming amount of love for pt1! now that the plot is p much set up in this installment, the drabble updates will be a lil shorter (around 400-1k) i hope that doesn’t deter anyone. hope this is a good start to your weekend babiesss, next installment will be jjk’s pov! [shiver masterpost]

“You live here?”

“You’re moving in here?”

Since the boxes started to pile up the doorstep, Jungkook was wondering all day who’d be occupying the room next to him. It’s a corner room, which made Jungkook doubly jealous because they had a great view of the city. Who knew his new neighbor would be the bobbing bunny who’d chase him in childhood (and all the way to adulthood, apparently.)

Conversely, you’re also shocked. Your parents checked out this place, and said nothing about Jungkook also living here. Then again, not mentioning it may be the point.

It’s the start of a new semester, and you haven’t talked to Jungkook since that whole Christmas fiasco. You avoided Jungkook for the rest of the holiday, refusing to let him play with you like this. No matter how big your crush may be, you have dignity and five minutes of fondling will not change that.

“Yeah, finally picked a graduate school.” you drop your last box on top of the pile, “this was the only school my family could compromise on.”

“Congrats,” his eyes flicker over to the boxes, stacked higher than you, “you need help moving in?”

You weren’t about to refuse free labor, so you open your door and let him set up. Jungkook knows your tastes, years and years of study groups having you and your friend visiting each other’s rooms up until high school. He color-codes your closet for you, diligently making sure to avoid your delicates and unmentionables. The frames are put up at straight angles, not a corner out of place. While the apartment is small and old, it’ll be your new home for the next year. You’re excited.

“Still needs that touch,” Jungkook holds his hand out like a frame, going over the blank nooks and crannies of your apartment, “something’s missing.”

Jungkook sees things you don’t see. You heard one Sunday lunch that Jungkook’s studying to be an architect. To you, whatever’s missing in this apartment is miniscule, even nonexistent.

You think the missing thing is him, although Jungkook doesn’t know it. He’s poking and prodding around, moving small furniture to different corners and then surveying the corners. Jungkook is the bit of home you’ll get when you’re tired and stressed over work. Maybe you two can be study buddies, or get lunch together on campus. The thought has you warm, wondering if Jungkook will be able to see you anything other than a childhood friend turned pretty.

“I won’t be bringing much here,” you say reluctantly, running your fingers over the polished kitchen counter, “I still have to go home for church every weekend.”

Jungkook’s eyes quirk at the revelation that you can’t stay in the city due to hometown obligations, and within reason. Jungkook doesn’t go back every weekend, yet your family expects you to. It was the compromise when you decided to go to graduate school here.

“Well, not this weekend though right?” Jungkook rocks on his heels, black toe socks rubbing against the dark hardwood floor as he meets you behind the counter, “since your parents think you’ll be too busy unpacking?”

“Maybe?” you throw the question right back at him, unsure of where he’s going with this.

“There’s a party at my friend’s house Saturday night. There could be some classmates in your major, meet some new friends?”

Jungkook’s inviting you to a party. Jungkook’s going to take you to a party to help you make new friends and socialize with people other than your nosy uncles and aunts. You don’t even have to answer, the adoration on your face evident. Jungkook will introduce you to people, show you off, get you drinks.

(Maybe he’ll even kiss you goodnight.)

You shake that thought off quickly, knowing that kind of desire will get you in trouble. You need to take things slowly if you have any chance of being with Jungkook. Going to the party as friends will be more than enough.

He tucks his finger under your chin, forcing you to look at him. There’s nothing romantic about the action, no matter how you spin it around. Your eyes are perpetually glued to the floor, painfully meek, “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

“She’s so weird!”

You stiffen at the exclamation, clutching your red plastic cup with both hands as you lean against the wall that connects the kitchen to the hallway. They can’t see you if you act like a wallflower, so you hold your breath and wait for the blow.

“C’mon, church girls are like that,” that’s Park Jimin’s voice, the first friend Jungkook introduced you to when you walked in the house. His voice sounds kind through the R&B music blasting through the flat screen television, yet it still rubs you the wrong way that he refers to you as a “church girl.” Jimin’s no better than the girl who’s talking about you.

“But Jungkook isn’t like that,” It’s Nayeon that starts this, and it saddens you slightly because you wanted to be her friend. She was all smiles and sweet stares when Jungkook was by your side, but you suppose none of that kindness was directed towards you. “He’s cool. She dresses like a fifties school teacher and has barely said ten words all evening! I don’t know what Jungkook was thinking.”

Speaking of, where is Jungkook now? It’s been twenty minutes since you’ve last seen him. Twenty minutes of taking sips at a haphazardly mixed drink and twiddling your fingers as you try to insert yourself into a puzzle that you’re not cut into.

“Besides,” Nayeon’s voice twinkles through the room, clear as day, “He only invited her out of pity. I’m pretty sure he’s fucking Jungyeon in the bathroom right now.”

Bile rises though your throat like rain in a well, threatening to spill over and embarrass you further. Your fingers crush the plastic slightly, curling and bending at your whim.

To torture yourself further, you take slow steps towards the bathroom. What you hear has tears spilling over your eyes. Jungkook’s heady voice, a girl’s soft cries that penetrate through the walls and into your ears. It’s not the sex that gets you upset, nor Jungkook’s desire to leave you for another girl.

You’re not a charity case, you’re not an object to be pitied. You’re not a sheltered church girl. Sure, Jungkook may not feel that way. Yet Jungkook put you in an environment where others are typecasting you, making you feel like you don’t fit in. Jungkook didn’t even warn you when he ditched, a common courtesy that you know for a fact friends do for each other, even though this is your first real college party.

When you bolt out of there and drive home, you don’t go to your apartment. You set the GPS to take you straight home, back to your tiny town. You begin your recovery process early Sunday morning.

A scalding hot shower, to scrape away the smell of alcohol on your body.

You spend early morning cleaning the storage room and the classrooms, scrubbing away until everything’s shining.

You pray and apologize for the pleasure and pain—for giving into temptation on Christmas Day and the toppling results of that.

Once you get home, you spend a pretty penny on decorating your apartment. Clashing art pieces—anime posters, random florals, a cat mug. Things that you like, things to make yourself happy.

These are steps in the right direction. You need a cleanse. Specifically a cleanse for Jeon Jungkook.

#btsguild #btswritingcafe #kwritersworldnet #btsghostie #ficswithluv #jungkook x reader #jungkook smut #jungkook fic #bts smut #bts fic #bts angst #kpop fic #hansolmates

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cherrybombusa · 3 years

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GROUP THREE - THE FINALE.

PLAYERS:

THE WANNABE - Virginia Ann Virginia. THE BITCH - Zahra Jackson. THE REPORTER - Clarissa Teller.

MEMORABLE MOMENTS:

-The Intrepid Reporter, Clarissa Teller stood in for one of the Gang! She now has firsthand knowledge of the Candy Girl. The Gang chose luck, and passed! They gained extra hints on their puzzle due to their success. -The Gang used all three tries on their puzzle, and succeeded. -Zahra chased the Candy Girl. -The Gang ran away from Dean Hargrove when he confronted them - this will come back to bite them later.

The kissing booth had been a successful venture for the lifeguards every year, but with Virginia Virginia at the helm of the booth this year, the sunscreen fund was far from suffering. She was helping to count the money when a little note fell out of one of the stacks of cash. What it said? “MEET ME BACKSTAGE AT 7:30 SHARP, OR I SPILL YOUR DIRTY LITTLE SECRET. SEE YOU SOON!” @virginiacherries

Zahra had spent most of the day on Roller Coaster Row along with the rest of the Boardwalk’s patrons, but now that the day was winding down to a close - and the Coasters were taking a break to draw the crowd down to the stage - she’d better go find her friends. It probably would have been difficult had she been on her own in the endeavor, but like a miracle worker, a Boardwalk worker shows up and tells her that Rory has been looking for her. Apparently her cousin is backstage waiting for her. Huh. She must be with the band -- and Zahra better hurry to get there before the ribbon cutting starts. @zahrajackson

THE NARRATOR: Reunions were supposed to be pleasant occasions, weren’t they? They were supposed to bring feelings of joy, and nostalgia; you were supposed to forget the awkward haze that had plagued your last year all together in high school, and just… pretend like the good old days were actually just that. Good. Absence did make the heart grow fonder and all that, didn’t it?

Though, maybe it’s silly to wonder why this little reunion, hanging out in the wings of the Main Stage, might not be so pleasant. It had only been a week ago that Virginia was drugged in Harvey’s basement, after all. Playing at the whims of a suspected lunatic, baring their souls - and their tongues - to each other. Not even ‘a Day in Carousel Cove!’ could smooth over that awkward little blip, could it? And the fact that Clarissa could just tell something was up with the little group definitely didn't help.

Still, the three of them made their polite-ish, familiar conversation. Zahra was wondering where Rory was - Clarissa was wondering where the heck that hunk, Harvey Hargrove was - and Virginia… Well, she was wondering where the hell this Candy Girl was.

ZAHRA: Zahra was getting a little annoyed to be honest. Going backstage would definitely not help keep her... whatever with Casey on the down low, and being caught in semi-awkward, semi-polite conversation with Virginia and Clarissa was nowhere in her day plan. The sooner she could find where the hell Rory was, the better as far as she was concerned. "Okay, let's skip to the part where we're done talking," she interrupted abruptly, clearly having been paying little attention to what was being said. "Have either of you seen Rory or can I go?"

VIRGINIA ANN: Virginia wasn't shaking in her boots just yet, but she couldn't help but feel the lump in the back of her throat when she had read that little note. So cryptic, but so telling. The last thing she wanted was for everyone to find out her dirty little secret(s) so she showed up and played nice, as much as Virginia Virginia could play nice. "Um, hello? Were you like not given a lesson in Polite 101?" Virginia quipped back, motioning between herself and Clarissa. "Do we look like we'd know where Rory is? She's probably somewhere making out with Libby." Frankly, Virginia didn't give two flying farts about where Rory was, she was just wondering about where this coveted Candy Girl was. She wasn't expecting whoever they were to show up, but there was a part of her that kept her eyes flocking between everyone. Maybe it was Zahra or Clarissa who had sent her the note. Or maybe Virginia was just letting this get under her skin a little too much.

THE NARRATOR: Clarissa is just about to question the statement - um, Rory and Libby? Hello, how had she never thought of the angle?! - their conversation is cut off by the sound of Dean Hargrove on the stage to their left, welcoming the citizens to the boardwalk, thanking them for a great day, and more; but before the man can introduce Lux’s parents who have just joined him onstage… Before he can start in on his plans to announce the renaming of the ‘Lux Lewis Memorial Carousel’, he’s cut off by a voice that none of them quite recognize… a voice that might just damn them all.

CANDY GIRL: “REST IN PEACE TO OUR DEAR OLD LUX, BUT I HAVE NEWS THAT THE CHERRY TIMES IS TOO SCARED TO TELL! THIS WAS NO SUICIDE. LUX WAS MURDERED. THE QUESTION IS - WHICH ONE OF HER FRIENDS DID IT?”

THE NARRATOR: At that moment, a sheet unfurls behind Dean Hargrove, and a projector that seems to have been installed into the soundbooth across from the stage flips on. The image it casts should be a shocking sight, but to our little ragtag slice of the gang, the Cherry Bomb logo is all too recognizable. The image is a blown up cover of her latest issue, and - surprise, surprise! - Lux is once again the star.

It would have been hard not to hear the collective gasp of the crowd - to feel the tension that had pulled it’s way into the air around them - but this little slice of the gang is too focused on copy after copy of the Cherry Bomb falling from the catwalks above the mainstage to notice. Everyone is looking up, away from the sick slideshow that’s now showing crime scene photos from the night of Lux’s death - trying to get a glimpse of whoever is throwing them - but nobody can quite see who is responsible. One thing is for sure, though. Whoever they are, they’ve got Boardwalk Employee shirts on.

CANDY GIRL: “AND TO THAT LITTLE GANG! MAKE SURE TO CHECK OUT THE LATEST ISSUE. SOMEONE IS MISSING, AND YOU’RE THE ONLY PEOPLE WHO CAN FIND THEM BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE. GOOD LUCK!”

THE NARRATOR: Just as the little message is over, and the vicinity is filled with the all-too-loud sound of Cherry Bomb by the Runaways bursting their eardrums… Something slaps to the ground behind them. The three of them turn, just in time to come face to face with a figure in a black hoodie - at their feet? An issue of the Cherry Bomb.

They can’t quite tell if it’s a woman or a man; they can’t quite tell how tall they are without the help of their boots, or what the color of their hair is. The only thing distinctive enough to notice is the fucking mask that’s staring them all right back in the face; smiling like a lunatic, and sending chills down their spines.

Could this actually be her? Could it… Could it actually be the Candy Girl?

Nobody moves for a moment; a long moment. So, when the figure finally kicks a foot out to slide the magazine toward them - the issue only stopping when it hits their own shoes - they can’t help but flinch… And then again, when they take off running.

MAKE A CHOICE: WHOEVER THE HELL THAT IS - THEY’RE GETTING AWAY! DO YOU WANT TO CHASE THEM [STRENGTH], OR LET THEM GO [CALM]?

ZAHRA: Zahra's mind was moving a million miles a minute, jumping from Lux's potential murder to the copies of the Cherry Bomb raining down to frantically trying to remember when she had last seen any of the rest of the gang, to the likelihood of the person in front of her being the Candy Girl. A hundred little things were in her brain, so when she took of running after the hooded figure she wasn't even fully thinking about it. The math was simple and instinctive - whoever they were, they were involved. If they were involved, they had information. Information means one step closer to making sure she doesn't lose another member of her little found family. Not to mention that if they were involved, they were at least partial responsible for this whole clusterfuck and that could not go unpunished. Never before had she been so glad she hadn't worn heels (sandals and painted toenails were much more beach appropriate, anyway).

THE NARRATOR: Ha. The figure had been expecting them to give chase, and they fell right into the time trap. Zahra gave a good chase - ducked when they did, dove through every sudden turn they made. She was good - better than they thought she would be - but she wasn't good enough.

It was somewhere in the crowd that figure finally managed to get the jump on her. She was being pushed in every direction - pulled by the chaos of people trying to get the hell out of the chaos - when she finally lost sight of them. What she did find, though? The supposed ‘Candy Girl’s’ mask on the ground, trampled by the onlookers, but still there... at least she had proof, right?

So much for throwing hands. She better get back to Clarissa and Virginia.

MAKE A CHOICE: THE GANG HAS SUFFERED A TIME PENALTY FOR THEIR ACTIONS.

THE NARRATOR: Zahra's losing the masked lunatic or not - however annoyed Virginia was that she hadn't caught her - they were personally delivered a copy of the Cherry Bomb for a reason, right? The Candy Girl wouldn’t just show herself if there weren’t some grand scheme involved.

Clarissa wants to go get her father, like, ASAP, but somehow the other two manage to convince her not to do it. They have to open the Cherry Bomb alone - they would surely get punished if they went to the police. Right?

The cover is collaged with photos of Lux, the inside? Crime scene photos. There’s no pictures of her body, of course - that would be crude, even for the Candy Girl… kind of. But images of the blood soaked into her carpet; still pictures of her bedroom, flaunting a life once lived, those are there. A shot of her suicide note, ‘I’m sorry, I love you,’ and all.

And right there, in the middle of the spread, like a centerfold? A note, written in Sharpie - just for our ragtag little slice of the gang.

CANDY GIRL: GET OUT,,, GET OUT, WHEREVER YOU’RE LOCKED!!!! NOT A FAN OF SMALL SPACES?? I’LL STICK YOU IN A BOX. SOMEONE IS MISSING, BUT I WON’T SAY WHO… FIND THE KEY, AND FIND OUT WHO.

BUT WATCH OUT, WATCH OUT! YOU’RE ON THE CLOCK! LET IT RUN OUT, AND THEY’LL STAY IN THE BOX. WILL THE TIDE COME IN? HMM, MAYBE IT WON’T. OR BETTER YET? MAYBE YOUR FRIENDS WILL FLOAT.

THE NARRATOR: Oh...my. Now, that’s a predicament, isn’t it? I suppose we’re at least lucky that the Candy Girl leaves the rules simple, right? Find a key, and… Maybe she doesn’t kill one of your friends. Maybe.

MAKE A CHOICE: YOU MUST FIND A KEY, BUT HOW DO YOU IT? BY LOOKING FOR CLUES [PROBLEM SOLVING] OR BY TEARING BACKSTAGE APART? [LUCK]

VIRGINIA ANN: Virginia didn't know if it was her lack of critical thinking, Zahra running off, or the photos within the Cherry Bomb, but after the initial shock of the crime scene photos, the last thing Virginia wanted was someone to end up like Lux again. Virginia had never considered murder, she thought she had pushed Lux to the edge of her suicide but was Candy Girl right? Had Lux been murdered and if so, was this lunatic the one who was doing it? And were they planning on doing it again if the three of them didn't act fast enough? A key, Virginia could do that. She could find that. Immediately after reading the note, the blonde began tearing apart every surface she could. Tearing tarps away, moving cords, opening boxes, anything that could lead her to the puzzle piece they needed.

THE NARRATOR: It shouldn’t have worked - it definitely shouldn’t have worked! But, somehow - with the heads of Zahra, Clarissa, and Virginia on the case - the three girls actually manage to find something. It’s a Cherry red briefcase with a lock on the top; a place for a four digit code. And get this, Clarissa was looking at the note, and it turns out that it was a clue all along!

MAKE A CHOICE: SUCCESS. YOU HAVE GAINED EXTRA HINTS FOR THE RIDDLE, AND MADE IT EASIER TO RESCUE YOUR FRIEND.

ZAHRA: Zahra enters 2134 into the lock.

MAKE A CHOICE: WRONG CODE. TRY AGAIN.

VIRGINIA ANN: Virginia enters 3214 into the lock.

MAKE A CHOICE: WRONG CODE. TRY AGAIN

CLARISSA: Clarissa rolls her eyes. "Ugh, fine! If you, like, seriously need me to be the one to put it in, then I'll do it, but don't blame me when the thing blows up!" The blonde was terrified - of course it was this gang of weirdos who got her pulled into this kind of trouble - but as she clicks '3142' into the briefcase... miraculously it clicks open. And doesn't explode. Thank god!

THE NARRATOR: Finally, the box pops open, and as promised, they’re granted a shiny little key on a ring… But along with it, they’re also given another note from the Candy Girl. Another riddle.

CANDY GIRL: SOMEONE IS MISSING - YOU HAVE THE KEY.

BUT YOU NEED TO MORE, FROM YOUR FRIENDS, YOU SEE.

ONLY THREE WILL PLEASE THE LOCK - ONLY THREE UNLOCK THE BOX.

TWO MUST RUN, THEY MUST RETRIEV!

BUT THE ONE, MUST SCOPE THE BEACH. MISSINGS THE THEME, MISPELLED IS THE CLUE, FOR THE DIRECTION THAT YOU’LL WANT TO DO.

TO THE RUNNERS, HERE’S YOUR CLUE! LOOK FOR SOMEONE WHO HATES ONE OF YOU! BEST FRIEND OF YOUR BEST FRIEND - TWIN FLAME OF YOUR GUY. OMEONE YOU BOTH KNOW IS HIDING THEIR LIES.

THE OTHER KEY HIDES WITH THE KEEPER OF PROSE - AND MAYBE THAT ONE IS TOO ON THE NOSE. BUT IF YOU DON’T FIND HIM, NOTEBOOK AND ALL, THEN WATCH OUT, WACH OUT…

IT’S YOUR BABY THAT FALLS.

THE NARRATOR: Their hearts are pounding in their chests so loud they’re all convinced they can hear it echoing off of the walls - even over the music that’s still playing - but… Nothing could mask the sound of the Dean barking their name from behind them; Lux’s parents watching, horrified, as they pick up the copy of the Cherry Bomb that’s still laying there on the ground, where they left it. “Would any of you like to explain to Mr. and Mrs. Lewis what the hell is going on here?”

No, no, no! There’s no time for this. They have to solve the riddle - they have to find the keys before it’s too late. Somebody needs to get rid of the Dean… or maybe they just need to run.

MAKE A CHOICE: SOMEBODY GET RID OF THE DEAN, [CHARISMA, BRAVERY, HONESTY] OR RUN! [BRAVERY, FIGHTER, SURVIVOR]

ZAHRA: Zahra didn't even register the words of the Dean. Her mind was stuck on that line - IT’S YOUR BABY THAT FALLS. Icy fear filled her at the implications - this was Rory they were working to save. With those five words the Candy Girl had reached into her heart and wrapped a hand around it, threatening to rip it out entirely. They didn't have time to hesitate or explain - not with Rory on the line. Fuck. Fuckity fucking fuck. The Dean's voice was a faded muffle, drowned out by her pounding heart as she looked at Virginia and Clarissa. Her eyes had narrowed and her hands had curled into fists, crushing the second note with the force of her anger, panic, and pure terror. "We're running," she said simply, determination and fear both audible in her tone. And, for the second time that day, she took off as fast she could, holding onto that note and the hope that they'd solved the riddle correctly.

MAKE A CHOICE: SUCCESS. EVERYONE MUST RUN! SPLIT UP. FIND THE CORRECT FRIENDS. RUN THE CORRECT DIRECTION ON THE BEACH. IT’S THE ONLY WAY TO WIN. EVERYONE RESPOND. [STRENGTH, BRAVERY, OR FIGHTER]

CLARISSA: Clarissa thinks it's a bad idea to leave her to run for the keys... and then all the way back to the beach. Like, did they think she was Superwoman, or something? But if this Candy Girl was really as sinister as she seemed to be - well, Rissa couldn't exactly let Rory Collins, like, die on the beach, could she? Besides the fact that her Dad would be pissed at her, even she had to admit it would totally hang onto her conscience until she bit the dust too. So with a groan, she just takes off toward wherever the hell Noah is and hopes that he has this dumb key. He better. She didn't want to be seen talking to Noah Russell, for like. Any other reason.

MAKE A CHOICE: CLARISSA WAS SUCCESSFUL. SHE MUST GET TO THE BEACH.

VIRGINIA ANN: As soon as Zahra said that they were running, it took no time for Virginia's feet to start going. There wasn't much going on in her brain, but it didn't take a genius to deduce that Zahra would be the one going after Rory and that it would be Virginia and Clarissa getting the keys. With her legs moving as quickly as she possibly could, Virginia hunted for Libby who she hoped would have a key for her. It's not like she wanted to go to another funeral before her 19th birthday.

MAKE A CHOICE: VIRGINIA WAS SUCCESSFUL. SHE MUST GET TO THE BEACH.

ZAHRA: Zahra ran as fast as she could, for once uncaring about keeping her hair perfect or her clothes pristine. She just ran west, heading for the beach. Her legs burned with exertion but the adrenaline had well and truly kicked in. Losing Rory was unacceptable - especially so soon after Lux. Especially not when she was here this time, actually able to do something.

VIRGINIA ANN: After getting the key from Libby, Virginia prayed to the stolen Louis Vuitton bag in her possession that she had gotten everything in time. With a huff, she took off in the direction of the beach, her legs pumping more than she ever thought they could. If there was a list of things Virginia was grateful for it'd be that stolen bag and the years of cheer conditioning that prepped her for a true life-or-death moment.

CLARISSA: Yikes. So, apparently the little group had been through more hell than she thought. She had retrieved the key from Noah, and along with it she had gotten a sneak peek at another little piece of the gang that had been tormented over the last half hour. Had it really only been a half hour? Christ.

She had to stop thinking about it, though - she had to stop thinking about how much she wished she had actually stuck to her cardio, like she had insisted she would over New Years - and keep pushing. She wouldn't let Rory Collins die. The Lux news cycle was barely even over!

MAKE A CHOICE: SUCCESS... KIND OF.

THE NARRATOR: Zahra scopes the beach far and wide, it’s an exhaustive effort, but after a mighty search, they finally spot it. The tide has been coming in - barely the top is visible… and it’s filling with water fast. She could already be gone. They sprint toward it with all of their might - they pray that she’s still breathing in her little prison… But is she?

MAKE A CHOICE: UNLOCK THE BOX.

ZAHRA: Zahra had never been as grateful for Virginia, Clarissa, or several years of competitive commitment to cheer as she was right now. Maybe this was the first time she'd been truly grateful for Virginia in, like, ever. She'd never admit it, but her hands were shaking as she fit the keys into the locks, holding them a little too tight to make sure there was no chance of dropping them and having them be washed away by the tide. With her heart in her throat, she unlocked the locks one by one, threw the box open, and pulled her cousin out into her arms.

RORY: Rory wasn’t sure how long she had been locked in here. Her throat was raw from screaming for help, from crying between shouting. No one seemed to be coming. At that realization, she’d curled up as small as she could in the claustrophobic little box, with her arms wrapped tight around her ears as she tried to block out the sound of the waves that were so nearby. Too close for comfort.

If those people with the masks came back - god, she wished they would just come back - she wasn’t going anywhere without a fight. Not that it had helped when they grabbed her. Rough hands yanking her into the dark.

Her hands was sore from throwing herself against the top, trying with everything she had to break through. After a while, she’d given up on that, certain that an ugly bruise was already blooming on both palms. She promised herself she’d keep trying anyway if no one came in the next few hours. Surely someone would realize she was gone soon, wouldn’t they?

God knows how long it had already been. At least 3 hours - maybe more. Maybe a lot more. Rory wished she had a watch. Or a light. For the first time, she wished she was more addicted to the cigs she occasionally bummed off of others. At least a lighter’s meager flame would have offered some comfort in the pitch black box. Rory couldn’t even see her hand when she held it in front of her face.

She hated the dark. Hated it. She hated the water more… so when she started to hear the sound of those waves, crashing up against the walls of her tiny prison? When she began to feel her clothes getting wet, and smelling the salty foam in her nose? When what little air she had became a crack in the corner of the box, and when she got so tired that she began sputtering on water?

Rory was going to die here, wasn’t she?

The sound of someone running on the beach - someone shouting her name - jarred her from her spiraling thoughts. It pulled her from the haze of near-death, and giving up. She let out a bloodcurdling scream, and pounded on the top of the box with her hands. “HELLO? LET ME OUT OF HERE!” She shrieked, her voice sounding hoarse even to her own ears. Her thoughts tripped over one another as hope flooded her brain. They came- they came and they got her, her friends -

As soon as the top of the box started to crack, she bolted through the opening and threw her arms around the first person she saw in a death-grip hug. She was shaking, tears spilling down her cheeks, and unable to stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. “Oh my god you came, you guys came,” before her throat was too tight to speak anymore.

MAKE A CHOICE: YOU HAVE SAVED RORY AND SUCCESSFULLY COMPLETED YOUR PLOT EVENT.

#bio rp #town rp #oc rp #skeleton rp #small town rp #secrets rp #gossip rp #gossip girl rp #90s rp #classic rp #plot event 001.#plot event 001 - the finale.

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sloppy-butcher · 3 years

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e, n, o, and w for adam francis??

thank you for the request anon <3 its my first time writing dam and i must say THIS MAN NEEDS MORE LOVE, he’s got alot of potential

;;edit, pls no more fluffy alphabet request thank you :)

Fluffy Alphabet for Adam Francis

Equal - Are they the dominant one in the relationship, or rather passive?

It would be assumed that Adam would take the dominant role in a relationship determined solely on his perceived mannerisms and outward personality. During trials and in polite conversation around the campfire, he appears to be a very confident man, moving forward with the stride of someone who knows what they should do and how best to do it. He credits this to his uncle, a rigorous man who prioritized discipline over anything else. Having had this mindset installed since early childhood, Adam unknowingly portrays his uncle’s philosophy in every word he speaks and in every action he does - by all accounts it would be assumed that he liked to be in control. However, as softness is introduced and you watch as he bends to your affections, it becomes blatantly apparent that he would do anything for you.

Never had he had anyone as gentle and willing to love him as you, a constant sunlight-beacon in his otherwise dull and draining existence. You gave him your heart in every instance of every day, each time so openly and wholly that it always surprised him. How could someone love so totally? How could someone love HIM so completely? Thus he molds to your whim as the wind does to stone, moving around so as to best to accommodate you and your interests. He wants you for sure and he knows that if he wants something he should fight to keep it. But you weren’t resisting him, you weren’t a fight for him to struggle with. So for once he is passive and likes it when you take the reins and fight for him.

Nicknames - What do they call their s/o?

Being such a close part of him, Adam would feel obligated to call you by all the household nicknames he was called back from his childhood. He would feel the need to mix past and present and introduce you to how he was shown love all those years ago. His uncle, though a strict man, was not completely devoid of affection and often indulged Adam and called him rather strange and weird nicknames.

His favorites you are are ‘Sunny’, ‘Blossom’ and most definitely ‘Peaches’ - the fruits were such a sweet delicacy, and referring to you as such a fond memory makes him feel fuzzy inside. You certainly were as lovely as those peaches, warm and sun-kissed, beautiful in both looks and taste.

On Cloud Nine - What are they like when they are in love? Is it obvious for others? How do they express their feelings?

It is obvious right away when he starts blowing up generators. Normally the man was an unstoppable force, unfaltering as he saved everyone and fixed machinery. But when you started to occupy more and more of his mind, Adam found it harder to concentrate. It would be his close friend Yui who first notes his odd behavior, raising her eyebrow when he’d stumble or trip over his own words. Adam is like an open book to her, a nerd unable to act his way out of any situation - he is predictable to a fault and she knows right away that something is up.

The others catch on quickly (with the encouragement of Yui from the side-lines) and collectively they all watch as Adam tries to work up the courage to ask you out. It was quite a spectacle with some of the survivors taking bets as to whether he’d self-combust before he’d even manage a single word out to you. The watching crowd were all shocked however when finally he made his move -

It was a most ordinary evening, cooling off from a tiresome day out in the work field running for your life from maniacs with knives when suddenly the peace is disturbed and the feigned tranquility shatters. You feel something troublesome approach you from behind and hesitantly to turn to face it. In the place of what you expected to be a monster was instead a most wretched sight - it was Adam. He looks smaller than he normally is, his shoulder buckled inward as if in an attempt to pull away into his imaginary shell. Your trepidation melts as you see his hands fidget nervously, his gaze never once plucking up the courage to meet your eyes. He exhales loudly and suddenly stands up straight, surprising you with his spontaneous confidence. He manages a brief, timid glance at your face and says, “Would you... care to... be my partner?” His strange request left you only puzzled at his wording and not so much as the question. You did like him and the idea of getting, even more, closer to him made your heart flutter in anticipation. When Adam catches your confused look he mistakes it for rejection and starts murmuring in disjointed Japanese. ‘I’m sorry. God that sounded so stupid! I’m so stupid!’, he says to your untrained ear, unaware that not only did you not understand him but also that he was starting to accumulate a crowd. It went on for several more minutes, Adam’s unscripted performance before Yui stepped in. She slaps Adam hard on his back causing him to cough and regain some of his composure. She gives him a gentle, sympathetic expression and turns to you.

“What he means to say is that he likes you. Like a lot. And he is worried that you don’t like him back which is,” Yui rolls her eyes and punches Adam again making him wince from her strength, “ridiculous because you do.” He freezes at her words.

“I do.” You repeat, stepping closer to him with wide, pleading eyes. You see Adam reel backwards in wild disbelief. “Like... a lot actually.” his expression is a wordless ‘really?’ and before he could move you leap forward and wrap your arms around his broad shoulders. He’s stiff as a board, unsure whether to hug you or push you away or to just... stand there. Eventually his better sense takes over and he eases into your embrace, allowing himself to foolishly give in to your advance. From somewhere far behind, a crowd cheers and a disgruntled Ace hands Nea a purple flashlight.

Wild Card - A random Fluff Headcanon.

Having a polyglot for a boyfriend has its benefits and that mainly includes being complimented in many different languages!

Adam often serenades you in Japanese, leaning over to you from across the generator and complimenting your outfit or repair skills. You manage to pick up a few words thanks to his many lessons but Yui is always nearby to translate his more fluffier and personal haiku. He blushes like a mad freak when you beckon her over, sometimes he regrets speaking such sweetness to you in words you could not understand. But he determines it all worthwhile when he catches that expression of love bursting onto your features.

He successfully makes you blush with every compliment. All of his utterances carry his thick, nauseating Jamaican accent like badges of honor and it makes your knees weak whenever you hear it directed towards you. It really is a wonderful thing, that voice of his, smooth and dark like chocolate. It was intoxicating and swooned you to the point that you had to sit down.

Bonus! If you are of a different ethnicity to him, Adam takes it upon himself to learn as much as he can about your heritage and culture. He reads everything he can get his hands one, talks to people of similar background and even pesters you for questions about your life. He’s like an excited puppy whenever you’d offer yourself for answers, bouncing around with a notepad and pen (where exactly he found these items is open for debate). He tries to learn your language as well, asking you to repeat certain phrases over and over again until he successfully memorizes your tongues linguistics. When he finally has it down to the ‘T’, Adam pulls you to the side and whispers in your ear how much he loves you in his newly acquired language.

#i hope i wrote him ok #this man lowkey has a lot of potential #dbd imagines #dbd x reader #dbd adam francis #dbd adam francis x reader

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thegingerjedi · 3 years

Text

Fic Writer Meme

Got tagged by the lovely and wonderful @defira85 to do this! So here I am!

Name

Fandoms

Most popular multichapter

Actual worst part of writing

How you choose your titles

Do you outline

Ideas I probably won’t get around to, but wouldn’t it be nice?

Callouts @ Me

Best writing traits

Spicy Tangential Opinion

Name: Bekah, thegingerjedi on tumblr, SennyriNamis23 on just about every other platform. Sennyri Namis is the name of my Jedi Exile from KOTOR 2, and she’s just stuck with me ever since haha

Fandoms: I mean this very, VERY loosely. I write for franchises that I like and that inspire me, but generally speaking, I very rarely actually interact with The Fandom(TM) of anything. That being said, I write mostly for Star Wars (generally for the mmo, The Old Republic, and for KOTOR 2), but in the last year or so I’ve also been writing a bit for Dragon Age Inquisition. I’ve written a number of unpublished wish-fulfillment drabbles for the Witcher and the visual novel, When the Night Comes, as well.

Most Popular Oneshot: hold on, lemme bring up ao3... oh look at that, apparently it’s The Battle of Khoonda. The first fic I ever published online lol. It’s not really a true one-shot, but it’s just one chapter so that’s close enough. I’m not very good at just one scene haha

Most Popular Multichapter: This is apparently far and away A League of Extraordinary Women, which is my attempt to explain what happens in the five year gap between chapters 1 and 3 of KOTFE. I wrangle a cast of about a thousand and tbh I’m pretty proud of it. It was supposed to be one of four fics to go through KOTFE, KOTET, and after, but I got to chapter 11 of the second installment and petered out. Oops.

Actual Worst Part of Writing: Connecting the scenes I actually want to write. (Most of the time, I just don’t, but sometimes it’s necessary and when it is, I agonize over it)

How You Choose Your Titles: Oh it depends. Sometimes it’s song lyrics/titles, sometimes it’s whim, sometimes I start with a title in a moment of inspiration. So. Sorry, I have no advice for anyone.

Do You Outline: Generally, yes. Though I’ve also found that if I outline everything really in-depth, I’m far less likely to actually write the damn thing. It’s a delicate balance haha

Ideas You Probably Won’t Get Around To, But Wouldn’t It Be Nice?: Oh I daydream constantly about what Dorian and Ellior get up to after Trespasser in their romps around Tevinter, but I know anything I write will immediately be wrong when DA4 eventually comes out, so I just sit here in my own thoughts with a blank doc open hahahaha

Callouts @ Me: Just publish the shit, you coward. Also stop posting at 10 am EST no one is awake to read it.

Best Writing Traits: I really love creating characters with interesting backstories and personalities. I get really attached to them and I think that love is really obvious when I write, even if the character is a bad person haha. I am extremely bad at writing accents, but I think the ‘voices’ of my characters really shine through in my writing.

Spicy Tangential Opinion: I feel like I should have something here about writing for yourself and not for anyone else, but goddamn am I bad at that. I live off the validation of a comment on a fic, particularly if I don’t even know the person and they just genuinely like the thing I made. That’s not even spicy but it’s all I got other than the normal Spicy Opinion of interacting with The Fandom(TM) is not worth it. Curate your online experiences. Don’t hate-read. Don’t hate-blog, either. Just be chill, aight?

Uhhh I think Kirsty tagged most folks I know who write, but let’s also tag @hoiist and @merrybandofmurderers and @aearyn and anyone else who wants to it! Please implicate me and tag me as the one who told you to do it!

#the ginger speaks #long post #about the ginger #is that a tag i use???#who knows #certainly not me; the creator and curator of this blog #the ginger writes

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bcdrawsandwrites · 4 years

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Here’s a random, unpolished oneshot I wrote on a whim. Features the alebrije character Pizzicato, whom you’ll recognize if you’ve seen some of my other works.

In which Héctor winds up with an unfortunate nickname, and Gustavo learns why you don’t make comments about Héctor’s wife.

(Warning for some inappropriate comments from some of the characters.)

---~~~---

Héctor paused to lean his head against the cool metal handrail again, trying in vain to relieve the burning ache in his head. Shutting his eyes to block out the overcast sky ahead, he gripped the rail a moment longer, grateful they had actually bothered to install one on these stairs. (It was a rarity to have railings of any sort in the Land of the Dead, when one couldn't really die from a fall, but some buildings did have them, whether out of newly-dead contractors building them out of habit or from the insistence of people sticking to tradition.) After a minute, he heard a sleepy chirp from the tiny bat alebrije hanging off the back of his collar, and pulled himself away, forcing himself up a few more stairs.

He'd stop drinking one of these days, he promised himself. When he found a reason to quit, anyway.

Memories from the night before swam indistinctly in his mind as he continued to mount the stairs. He'd been working in the arts district, as usual, and had taken up some local musicians on an offer for drinking. While music was something he tried to avoid these days, the musicians had seemed friendly enough, and as much as he loved Pizzicato, talking with an alebrije tended to get a bit one-sided at times. Pizzicato hadn't exactly been thrilled with his joining them, he recalled, but the temptation of just... normal human interaction had been too strong to resist.

Might've been nice if the cerveza and tequila hadn't been too hard to resist, though.

Shaking his head (and then regretting it a second later when the world tipped), Héctor finally reached the top of the stairs, practically collapsing through the open window. Pizzicato gave a sleepy squeak in protest before snuggling back into his collar—he wasn't entirely sure why she was like that, other than that it probably had something to do with whatever happened the night prior. Leading him home while he was in a drunken daze, maybe.

"I was half-tempted to pull the stairs back up on you," Ceci muttered around the pins she held in her teeth. She didn't look up from her work, focused entirely on the dress hung on the mannequin before her. "What were you doing, sightseeing?"

"Buenas dias to you too," Héctor grumbled, pulling himself up to his feet and brushing off his hopelessly dirty jacket.

Ceci did give him a look, then, eying him over her shoulder. "Buenas tardes."

"Buenas tar... oh." He scratched the back of his head, blinking blearily. "Sorry. Lost track of time."

"Hopefully you didn't lose track of that delivery I sent you off with," she went on, resuming work on the dress.

"Oh, no no no, that's... that's all taken care of." Rubbing his hand over his eye sockets, he strained to remember yesterday. That memory was a bit clearer, at least—he definitely remembered the weird look the customer gave him when he handed him the package, and the lack of a tip. "I got it to them, no worries."

"Good."

He stood there awkwardly, hand on his wrist, as Ceci continued to work on the dress in relative silence (other than the record player running in the background—Héctor wasn't really paying attention to what it was playing, only grateful that it wasn't another de la Cruz album). Briefly he wondered if she'd forgotten he was there, and he pointed his finger to speak.

"If you're looking for another job," she began—Héctor flinched, the sudden volume sending a spike of pain through his head—"the dancers left a mess out in the gallery after their practice last night. The art crew won't clean it because they say it's not their mess, but they're still whining about the glitter getting into their paints." She paused. "And on the materials," she added, brushing something shimmering from the hem of the dress.

"Ah, g-gracias," Héctor stammered, passing through the designer's workshop and out into the main studio. At once he was greeted with the familiar sight of the hastily set-up barriers separating the work spaces of different artists. Many of them were lined with various paintings and sketches, but as Ceci had said, some of them were dusted in glitter. Frowning, he stepped up to one painting of a xolo dog, swiping his finger across the canvas to remove a few flecks of glitter... and yelped when some of the gray pigment came off with it, smearing on the painting. With a hasty glance aside, he wiped his hand off on the inside of his coat and speedily walked away, looking in the opposite direction of the painting.

"Okay, okay, glitter, glitter..." Head turned downward, he found scatterings of the stuff on the floor, and then looked up again. "Ah... I need a... uh... mop? No, no... broom? Dustpan?" He glanced over his shoulder, hoping Pizzicato might be of some use, but only heard a high-pitched snoring. Cute, but not helpful at the moment. Sighing, he looked to the walls of the studio, hoping one of the janitors may have left their equipment there, but no luck—only rows of outlandish costumes. Ugh... where was the janitor's closet, again?

Héctor poked his head into the entrance to one of the partitions, raising a finger and opening his mouth to ask, only to find several very, very tired artists and a skeleton posing nude for them. Clapping his hand over his eye sockets, he stumbled away. "Okay, okay, bad idea, do not ask the artists," he muttered, uncovering his face just in time to dodge another artist hurrying by with a large canvas. Looking around to make sure he wasn't about to collide with anyone else, he continued his aimless journey through the cluttered gallery. "Ask the... uh..."

The sound of laughter caught his metaphorical ears, and Héctor looked toward the far end of the studio, by the glass windows. They were still out of sight, but he was pretty sure he knew who was hanging out there.

His suspicions were confirmed by the sound of a trombone making a long, drawn-out note, followed by more laughter. "Right... ask... the musicians," he said, nodding to himself as he approached them.

As they came into sight, one of them spotted him and hastily shushed the others. That was... a little weird, but he was honestly too tired to care right now. He would've given them a sharp whistle to catch their attention, but was afraid of the noise only worsening his headache, and besides, they seemed to all be looking at him anyway. "Hola," he said, waving casually with one hand as he rubbed his head in the other.

"Ey, Héctor!" one of the violinists—what was his name, Héctor knew his name... Gustavo, that was it—said with a grin. "You doin' okay there?"

"Ehh... I've been better," Héctor said, making an effort to straighten his stance. It took a bit more effort than usual, but with the condition of his bones, what didn't these days? "Just... a bit too much to drink last night, I think."

"We could tell!" One of the musicians began to snicker, only to be elbowed in the ribs by another.

Héctor blinked. "Right. I just needed to ask a favor—"

"A favor?" one of the other violinists asked, while a few of her peers chuckled next to her. The noise seemed to be bugging Pizzicato, who stirred behind him, whining.

"Yes?" His bewilderment seemed to prompt a few more laughs that the musicians tried to cover. "Is... something funny about that?" he asked, briefly looking over his shoulder and wondering if his alebrije was doing something behind him to prompt the laughter.

"No, no," Gustavo said, waving his head. "Go on, what favor do you need?"

"I... just need someone to show me where the supply closet is. Ceci—"

The group immediately burst into laughter, the trombonist accompanying it with ridiculous playing. The sound was like a dagger being driven into his skull, and he held his hands over his head. "Ay, stop it!" he cried, staring at them in utter confusion. "What's so funny?!"

Finally Pizzicato seemed to be roused from her slumber, and he felt her little claws digging into his wig as she climbed up to the top of his head, squeaking in displeasure.

"Who do you want to meet in the closet, eh?" one of the musicians jeered.

"¿Qué?" Héctor blurted. He couldn't make any sense of what they were talking about. Whatever it was, Pizzicato seemed upset by it, letting out a growl, but he couldn't make heads or tails of it. "I don't... meet? I'm just trying to—"

"Not one of the girls, that's for sure!" the female violinist added, causing the others to laugh harder.

"I... uh?" That made nothing any clearer, and Héctor was feeling increasingly lost. It would make more sense if the group were just a bunch of cackling hyena alebrijes in disguise. But one thing was becoming clear—whatever they were laughing about, it was at his expense. But what would they...

A sudden panic bolted up his spine, and Héctor whipped around, yanking his alebrije off of his head. "Pizzicato," he whispered desperately, clutching the bat close to his face. "What exactly did I say last night?"

Of course Pizzicato could not answer, only staring up at him apologetically. But his question had apparently not been as quiet as he'd hoped, as Gustavo spoke up behind him: "Oh, nothing too important... chorizo."

The word was punctuated with a few ridiculous notes from the trombonist, and Héctor let go of the alebrije, turning back around to face them again. "C-chorizo?" he repeated. What did that have to do with...?

"Chorizo!" one of the other band members shouted, with a few others echoing it between laughs. Still none of that cleared it up, until another went on: "What a way to go!"

What a way to... oh. Right, that was how he'd... Was that what had happened last night? He'd rambled about how he'd died? That's what was making them laugh like deranged hyenas?

His chest burned in indignation. "W-well I'm sure the way you all died wasn't much better!" he said, gesturing at the group.

"Sure it was!" Gustavo said, getting close enough to elbow Héctor in the side. "Better than choking on a chorizo!"

"What?!" Héctor stepped back, hands up defensively. "That wasn't—! It was bad, I got food poisoning!"

"Sure you did, chorizo!"

He found himself staring at them as they continued to laugh, wondering why the difference even mattered, whether he died by food poisoning or choking on—

Oh.

...Oh.

His cheek bones burned furiously, and he turned away again, covering his face. "That was not what happened," he grumbled into his hands. Not that it would convince them. Pizzicato fluttered around nearby, squeaking angrily at the group, but he tried to wave her off. "Basta—all right, you've had your laugh. Very funny. Now could you just show me where the supply—"

"Ey, didn't you say you were married, too?" Gustavo asked, one brow raised, and the inside of Héctor's rib cage was suddenly burning in anger. "Did she know about—"

The shock of anger traveled quickly from Héctor's heart to his fist.

Next thing he knew, Gustavo was staggering back, supported by the trombonist while the other musicians gave ooooohs of both sympathy and interest. A small part of Héctor regretted the action, but the rest of him didn't care, and his fist remained clenched.

Stupid jokes were one thing, but to even dare to suggest infidelity...

"What's your problem, man?" Gustavo cried, rubbing his jaw where he'd been struck. "Can't you take a—"

Before he could finish, Pizzicato buzzed in front of the group, letting out a terrible, high-pitched shriek that left all of them shrinking back, including Héctor. The noise magnified his headache, nearly blinding him, and he staggered back, blurting out a curse. Immediately the noise stopped, but he was already storming away, eyes narrowed against the ringing in his skull. "Forget it, I'm done," he snarled. "Ceci or whoever can clean the place themselves."

Pizzicato was fluttering after him, squeaking an apology, but Héctor did not slow his pace. He couldn't find the stupid broom, but he knew very well where the exit was—a different one from the fire escape ladder in Ceci's room. Unfortunately, while he left Gustavo and his stupid group behind, the anger and humiliation followed him out of the studio, clinging to his bones. He punched the metal railing of the stairs in an attempt to rid himself of the emotions, but it only resulted in a shock of pain traveling up his arm.

Finally Pizzicato caught up to him, landing on his head and squeaking in concern. "You know," he muttered, narrowing his eyes against the light as he stepped outside, "I'm starting to hate musicians."

His alebrije whined, but said nothing more.

She didn't need to remind him.

#hector rivera #gustavo #coco #pixar coco #coco spoilers #my writing #fanfic #the musicians' dialogue was not particularly enjoyable to write #but it was necessary for the subject matter

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ollieofthebeholder · 3 years

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leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] Also on AO3

Chapter 6: Jon

Jon grumbles to himself as he drives back through the streets of London. Stupid. Stupid of him to have left his notes behind and stupid to be going back for them now. He could easily wait until morning. There’s no real urgency in the matter. What can he possibly do in the next—he glances at the dashboard clock on his car—nine hours that can’t wait until business hours?

But after realizing he left them in his office, he was out the door and in his car before he thought about it. Even now, he can’t convince himself to just turn around and go back. There is an odd sense of urgency propelling him, hence why he’s driving instead of submitting to the capricious whims of the late-night London Transit schedule. He needs to get to the Archives, needs to get those notes. And, all right, maybe he’ll check on Martin while he’s at it.

Really, he might as well stay overnight himself. No point in driving back and forth more than necessary. He can get whatever work he wants done just as easily in the office, and it might be useful to have another pair of hands or eyes or ears or whatever he needs, even if—

Jon terminates that line of thought ruthlessly. Martin isn’t incompetent. He just doesn’t have the training the rest of them do. If Jon thinks about it too hard, he actually feels a bit of a heel for having been so harsh on the man without troubling to ask questions. He did what he could with what he had, and now that he’s come out and admitted it, Sasha has been more than willing to help him out. He is getting better. A lot better. And it’s only been a few days.

So...yes. If he stays at the office to work, Martin can help. And probably will, if he’s still awake. It is, after all, a bit late. Jon will have to be quiet, at least at first, because if Martin is asleep he doesn’t want to wake him. He needs rest. They all do, really, but Jon is an anxious mess at the best of times and this whole...situation isn’t helping, so his sleep is ofttimes restless at best and intermittent at worst. He’ll likely end up pacing the Archives for most of the night. Maybe he’ll check to make sure that CO2 system he talked Elias into having installed is working properly. Or maybe he’ll go through the statements. Martin found one that seemed to be from Jane Prentiss; Jon meant to read it the night before, but hadn’t got around to it. Yes, that will likely be what he does.

He turns a corner and slams on his brakes. There is a veritable wall of emergency lights before him—police, fire, even an ambulance. And it all seems to be centered around...

No.

Jon isn’t one hundred percent certain the car is even all the way off, let alone pulled over to the curb, before he’s out the door and moving towards the crowd. Something is happening, and it’s happening at the Magnus Institute.

Jon scans the people clustered on the sidewalk. There aren’t many, not that he expected there to be. It is, after all, well into the evening. Most people leave at five, or close to it. In fact, most of the people on the sidewalk seem to be from nearby buildings, mere curious onlookers gawking at the spectacle. Jon doesn’t see anyone he recognizes, and he slowly begins to relax.

Then panic strikes him like an almost physical force. Martin. Martin should be easy to spot. He’s big—not fat, exactly, just big—and one of the taller employees. He ought to be standing on the edge of the crowd, a bundle of anxiety and attempted helpfulness, talking to a police officer or an onlooker or looking around to make sure he isn’t going to get in trouble for something that almost certainly isn’t his fault.

He’s not there. Jon spins frantically, but Martin is nowhere to be seen. He could be on the far side of the crowd, or he could have stepped out for something, or—

Or he could still be in the Archives.

Jon runs towards the door, hardly aware he’s doing it. Something slams into him, holding him back, and he struggles, his panic rising. Something is holding him, he’s trapped, he’s in danger, but Martin is still in there—

“Hold on, sir, you can’t go in there!”

“No, you don’t understand, I have to—my friend is in there—” Jon fights to get free.

“Crews are inside, sir, they’ll find anyone who’s in there, but you need to stay out here. We can’t have you running into danger.”

The fireman—as it proves to be—deposits Jon behind a barricade. He grips it in both hands, staring desperately at the door to the Archives. There doesn’t seem to be any smoke pouring out of the door, which is...maybe promising, but maybe not. Maybe still too late.

There was a fire in the Archives, somehow. Martin was down there. If he didn’t wake in time...or if he wasn’t able to get out, if the CO2 suppressant system triggered and he breathed in too much of the stuff...

A chasm seems to open up before Jon as he suddenly, unexpectedly faces down the idea of a world devoid of Martin Blackwood. His mind conjures up thoughts of Martin’s not-too-chipper morning, Jon every day, of his quiet determination to do his job even when he doesn’t really know what he’s doing, of the earnest way he makes his reports. Of him appearing in Jon’s office with a cup of tea, made exactly the way Jon likes it, at the exact moment he needs it the most.

In that moment, Jon understands with crystal clarity exactly how important Martin is to him, and how much it will devastate him if he is gone. His grip on the barricade tightens and he begins to wonder if he can escape the notice of the firefighters in order to—

“Jon?”

Only one person—one living person, anyway—ever addresses Jon in that slightly disapproving tone. Jon turns to find Elias standing a few feet away, one eyebrow raised and his mouth set in a flat line. “Elias. What—what’s going on?”

“I could ask you the same thing.” Elias’s disapproval is almost palpable. “I don’t see the others. I must say, I never would have expected you to run and leave them behind.”

“Leave—what do you mean?”

Elias’s lips tighten. “You think I wasn’t aware of what was going on? I did hear Tim talking about this ‘sleepover in the Archives’.”

Jon stares at Elias for a second, comprehension eluding him. Then, suddenly, ice floods his veins as he realizes what Elias is implying.

Not just Martin. Tim and Sasha doubled back to spend the night, too.

“Oh, God,” he manages to choke out.

Elias’s expression shifts. “You weren’t aware?”

“No!” Jon turns desperately back towards the Institute, towards the Archives, frantically scanning for any sign of...anything. “No, I thought—they both should have gone home by now, I—oh, God. No.”

He starts to dodge around the barricade, but Elias has his shoulder in an iron grip. “Steady, Jon. The ECDC said not to—”

“The what?” Jon jerks his head around to face Elias. Realization hits him, yet again, and while he would have sworn there isn’t enough blood left in his face for it to drain any further, he is apparently wrong about that. “Jane Prentiss is here?”

“Jon, you’re getting hysterical. Calm down.”

“Calm down? You’ve just informed me that my entire staff was in the Archives, which apparently were not only on fire but invaded by a woman completely riddled with dangerous worms, and you want me to calm down?”

“The fire was apparently small, and, I suspect, set mostly with the intention of triggering the CO2 suppressant system—”

“If that is supposed to make me feel better, Elias, it is failing.” Jon turns back to the Archives and contemplates making a break for it. It’s fifty-fifty whether Elias will stop him, or just wait to see if he survives and then fire him, but the emergency staff are—

There’s a lot of activity around one of the doors. Jon lets out a ragged gasp as two paramedics come out, wheeling a stretcher between them with a body on it. He doesn’t—can’t—know for sure who is on it, not from that distance, not in the dark and with his eyesight, but he does. He knows, with a certainty that he can almost taste, that it’s Martin on that stretcher.

And he isn’t moving.

“Jon!” Elias shouts, but Jon is past hearing him, too preoccupied with rushing across the lawn. He has to get to him, has to see—

“Stand back!” A figure in a hazmat suit suddenly looms up, barring his progress. “You can’t come in this area!”

“Damn you, that is someone I care about, I need to know he’s okay!” Jon cries, his voice cracking.

“I’m sorry, sir, but this area is off-limits until we’re sure we’ve contained the infestation,” the figure in the hazmat suit says. “You should be able to see him once he’s out of quarantine.”

“But—” Jon’s eyes desperately track the stretcher as they wheel it past, the two attendants tossing terms and orders back and forth. It is Martin, he was right, lying very still. There’s an oxygen mask clamped over his face, and he’s—oh, God, he’s covered in blood—he was attacked—the worms, or Jane Prentiss, or both, they attacked Martin, he is hurt, he might be dying, he could already be dead and the oxygen mask could just be for form’s sake and nobody will tell him because they have to control the damage and cover up what’s happening and Jon can’t even be at his side because he might still be infested with the parasites that riddled Prentiss’s body and oh, God, what will he do if Martin survives only to be like that, this is all his fault, why in the name of God’s green earth did he think the Archives would be safe, why was it only Martin he suggested stay, why hadn’t he either had all of them stay, or had all of them stay somewhere else—

The slam of the ambulance doors jolts him out of his thoughts, and he draws in a great gasp of air, which he realizes he’s been forgetting to do somewhat. It would start calming him if not for the fact that he suddenly realizes where his thoughts are trending and starts panicking all over again. “Tim and Sasha! Where are they?”

The figure hesitates, then waves at someone. Another hazmat-suited figure comes over to them, and Jon can see the scowl behind the clear plastic mask, even over the breathing apparatus. “Get back behind the barricades! This area is under quarantine, and unless you want to be quarantined too, I suggest you stay clear.”

It crosses Jon’s mind, for a fleeting second, to ask if he’d be quarantined with Martin, but the thought is gone before he can speak it, fortunately. The figure that still holds him is already speaking, though. “Mack, how many people have we found so far?”

“Two, the man they just brought out and...well, what’s left of a woman,” the second figure says. “I’m told everyone should have been gone for the day.”

“My assistants decided to spend the night,” Jon says. He can hear the hysterical quality in his own voice but is helpless to stop it. “There should be two more, a man and a woman—he’s got, ah—and she’s—” He flounders as he tries desperately to conjure up a description of either Tim or Sasha. The only face his brain seems willing to contemplate just then is Martin’s, bright and eager, pale and scared, still and bleeding.

“We haven’t found them, sir, but we’ll keep looking.” The second figure’s tone changes—concern, maybe? Still, he waves at the first figure, who shoves Jon easily back behind the barricade.

Someone, probably Elias, is talking. Jon honestly isn’t listening. He’s torn between proceeding immediately to the hospital to stalk the lobby until someone lets him see Martin—he assumes they’re taking him to the hospital, anyway—or staying here to make sure Tim and Sasha are all right. He should probably be concerned about the Archives, about what caught on fire, on whether or not any important statements got burnt and how big the fire was, and he’s not going to lie, a part of him is. But he’s willing to let that concern lie until later. Right now, he just needs everyone to be okay.

“Jon,” Elias says loudly, directly in his ear, and Jon about jumps out of his skin. He turns to see his boss looking at him with something that might be concern and might just be annoyance. “The worms are dead. ECDC is about to go in and remove Jane Prentiss’s body. I’m going in to supervise. Do you want to come?”

He really doesn’t. Quite apart from the fact that he’s been sufficiently upset by the few worms he has seen around the Institute and really doesn’t want to see how many are still in the Archives, even dead, he’s just about decided that he needs to be at the hospital. Martin doesn’t have anybody, as far as Jon knows, and anyway he needs to see for himself that Martin is all right. But he also knows that this is part of his job, and a part of him does need to see the Archives for himself as well, before...before whatever cleanup will happen.

Besides. Tim and Sasha are still down there.

“All right,” he manages. “Lead the way.”

He’s tense and distracted. Far from the mad rush that drove him a few moments before, he follows Elias at a more sedate pace, and he’s only half-aware of the fact that he’s balling the cuffs of his cardigan into his hand. Damn it, he bought this one brand-new when he got appointed Head Archivist and he’s already worried snags and stresses into the cuffs. He can’t help it, he’s got a compulsion to fiddle with the ends of his sleeves when he’s nervous or distracted—among other things—and this is hardly the first sweater he’s ruined like this, but it’s still been less than eight months and he’d sort of hoped he would be over this by now. He forces himself to uncurl his fists and shake his sleeves back into some semblance of order before entering the Archives.

They instantly go back into his curled fists when he sees the state of the Archives. There are worms everywhere. He cannot, for the life of him, figure out where they all came from. They’ve seen a few scattered around outside the Institute, one or two making their way inside, but this many? God, they must have been breeding in the damned walls...

The thought sends another sticky spiral of panic and guilt through him. If the worms were breeding in the walls of the Institute—of the Archives—and Martin’s been sleeping here this whole time—then this is entirely Jon’s fault. This could have happened at any time and he never would have known. He doesn’t doubt for a minute that Martin was awake when all this happened, but if Tim and Sasha hadn’t been there, he might have been asleep when the worms attacked.

He might not ever have woken up.

Jon looks desperately around, trying to keep his mind on the present and not on hypotheticals. There are files that have been pulled out and...are probably ruined, to be quite honest, as there’s some sort of...substance on them. There’s a great deal of activity surrounding what appears to have once been the body of a woman, in what appears to have once been a red dress, and Jon’s stomach turns uncomfortably as he thinks about Timothy Hodge’s statement...and Martin’s. The remnants of suppressant foam still linger, and while the gas seems to have mostly dissipated, the smell is...unpleasant. The smell of worms, and earth, and rot.

Then Jon’s eyes fall on a blank space, a curved-out negative in the sea of silver-white, and his heart lurches as he realizes he’s staring at the spot where Martin lay before the attendants took him out. He steps closer, not even consciously aware he’s doing it, and stares at the space, a perversion of a snow angel on the Archives floor. There’s blood on the wood, still tacky, and Jon wonders how much there is, whether it’s too much for a normal human to survive.

“Were you here when they...?” Jon addresses the nearest person, indicating the spot where Martin’s body obviously was retrieved from.

“Was the one who found him,” the figure confirms. It sounds like a woman. “Not a reporter, are you?”

“No, I’m—I-I work here.” Jon should probably point out that he is, in fact, in charge here, or at least in this portion of “here”, in theory anyway, but he’s too preoccupied with finding out everything he can. “How was—what was the situation when you found him?”

“A bloody mess.” The woman waves a hand at the area. “Worms were all dead, thankfully, but there was still a bit of gas in the place. We knew we were looking for Jane Prentiss—Mr. Bouchard called us in as soon as he knew what was what—but we didn’t know there was anyone else here. I almost stepped on him before I saw him. Thought he was another dead body at first.”

Jon’s heart nearly stops in his chest. “But then?”

“He moved. Thought it might’ve been the worms at first. They were all through him. Looked like bloody Swiss cheese. But they were all as dead as the ones out here. No, it was him, struggling to breathe. I started pulling the worms out best I could and shouted for help. The paramedics showed up and helped out. He was starting to come round at that point, but...well. People aren’t meant to breathe carbon dioxide. They gave him oxygen and wheeled him out. He’ll need to be quarantined a bit until they’re sure he’s not infested, and they’ll be checking his lungs, but really, I think he’ll be fine.”

Jon exhales heavily. He really shouldn’t be relieved. Honestly, one look around the Archives should be enough to convince him that things are...bad. They are bad. God, so many worms, and some of them were in Martin’s body. There is also a human corpse on the floor. And there’s still no sign of Tim or Sasha. But those five words give him more of a sense of relief than he’s felt since he saw the first emergency light. I think he’ll be fine. Martin will be fine.

It’s enough to relax Jon to the point that he can wade carefully through the worm corpses to check the damage to his Archives, while Elias supervises the ECDC people in preparing to remove Jane Prentiss’s body, or what’s left of it anyway. Not far from where Martin lost consciousness—not died, thank God—is another odd clearing—not so much a clearing as a slight thinning in the concentration of worms. Jon eyes it, decides it’s a concern for later, and concentrates on trying to figure out where the hell the worms came from in the first place.

He finds the answer when he wanders into his office and finds the cheap shelving unit shoved to one side, twisted and askew, and a hole in the wall behind it. It should have been an exterior wall, but no, it looks like someone put a piece of drywall over an entrance. Curious, Jon touches the hole lightly. It’s person-sized, as though someone burst through the wall. At first, he’s inclined to assume it was made by Jane Prentiss, forcing her way into the Archives, but a second glance proves otherwise. The break in the plaster indicates that it came from his office, not into, meaning that someone was in his office and, somehow, knew this tunnel was there.

That should be worrying. It is worrying. Jon wonders who did it...who would break into his office, let alone push through this wall...who would put Martin in danger, because almost certainly this is how the worms got in and attacked him. He’d suspect Tim or Sasha or both, since they’re clearly not here, but he knows in his heart of hearts neither of them would deliberately put Martin at risk. They’re a family, the four of them, even if Jon’s been trying not to admit that, and they both care about him. They wouldn’t do anything to hurt him.

But if they didn’t know...

There’s a commotion from behind him, and Jon jumps. The thought passes through his mind that Jane Prentiss might not be all that dead after all, or worse—that she’s not alone, that she brought another of her victims along with her. He grabs at the first object he sees that could reasonably be considered a weapon—a paper knife he found in one of the drawers when he first took the job—and steps out into the Archives proper, not at all confident that he can do anything but at least willing to make the attempt.

He drops the knife instantly when he sees the two figures in the middle of the Archives, both looking panicky and quite out of breath. “Tim! Sasha!”

He rushes towards them, heedless of the worms popping and squishing under his feet. Tim looks up at him and waves at something on the floor—a hole. Jon realizes all of a sudden that they’re standing next to an open trapdoor in the middle of the Archives, something he had no idea existed before this moment.

“Call...police,” he manages to gasp out between heaving breaths.

“They’re outside,” Elias says, sounding somehow both worried and annoyed. “Tim, what is going on? What is the urgency?”

Sasha meets Jon’s eyes, and he’s genuinely never seen her so scared. “There’s a body in those tunnels. It’s Gertrude Robinson and she’s dead.”

#tma #the magnus archives #leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall)#panic attacks #canon-typical worms #Jon still needs a hug #ollie writes fanfic

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michiigii-writes · 4 years

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Of Shadows and Tyr (2/??)

The second night of our campaign, following this post!

In this installment, Strive struggles with the whims of Wuy and Fai, twin pagan deities of communication and connection.

Shadow’s POV is right here.

-----

Condor, Fallon, and Usaris

"My daughter! They took my daughter!"

Turning sharply to the tavern doorway, I saw a dishevelled half-elf, aged somewhere in his late thirties, pleading with anybody who would hear him. He looked sincerely upset, but all the bar patrons around him were laughing and waving him off.

"What else is new?" I heard one patron snicker.

"Sit down and calm yourself," another patron jeered.

I wanted to continue with my filched pie, and finish drinking my cider, personally. I hadn't eaten much that morning. Valzan, on the other hand, got up and of course he offered his assistance to the man at the door.

I wondered if all paladins went out of their way to offer people their assistance, or if this was specific to Valzan. Maybe it was part of the tenets of Tyr. Or maybe it was just his catchphrase. I'd have to ask Elyssia the next time I saw her.

The man joined our table, Valzan directing him to sit a good distance from Shadow. He introduced himself as Condor, the town crier of Kendrith. He reported that the reason why the other bar patrons had laughed, was because his daughter had a habit of sneaking off. But this time was different; normally, she stayed away overnight, but she had been missing for ten days, already. Clearly, something was wrong.

As Condor continued his tale, I happened to notice that there was a human seated nearby, dark, tangled hair falling around his face. He wasn't obvious about it, but the way he was leaning slightly towards our table made me suspect that he was listening in. I didn't sense any danger or aggression coming from him, but I kept him in the corner of my eye.

"Can you help me find my daughter?" Condor asked, looking around the table at each of us, desperation clear on his face.

I examined him before answering. He seemed sincere; this wasn't some strange bait to lure us to a second location. Genuine concern for her daughter was apparent.

He lost a few points with me for admitting that he usually locked his daughter in their home while he was away. If she was about 12 years old, surely she wouldn't need to be caged in, like that.

Valzan and I were pretty sure that we could trust Condor (Shadow, naturally, seemed ambivalent about the whole situation), but Craven wanted some kind of character witness. When Condor admitted that he was a regular to this tavern, Craven got up crossed the room, searching briefly until he came across three dwarves who were settled at their own table. I didn't catch the conversation, but from watching across the room, the dwarves seemed civil, Craven nodded as he questioned them a few times, and then he suddenly got very flustered and yelled something about, "Not that there's anything wrong with dwarves!" before hurrying back to our table.

Our waitress, Mildred, returned around the same time that Craven did, and he requested that whatever foods we didn't eat be sent to the dwarves across the way. He seemed contented with that for about a split second, before regret flashed across his face.

"Wait, but then I'm leaving them with our scraps!" Craven bemoaned, "Oh, no, the implications...!"

Muttering to himself, Craven sat down heavily, shaking his head. I wasn't sure what had happened between he and the group he had interviewed, but chances were, he was being silly again.

Noticing that Mildred seemed less busy, Valzan requested to speak privately with her at the bar. The two of them moved off, leaving Shadow, Craven and I with Condor.

“Anyway," Craven sighed, "Condor checks out!"

I nodded my agreement, and Condor seemed relieved. We made arrangements with the town crier to investigate his home and see if we could figure out what happened to his daughter. Craven decided to keep Valzan informed.

"Hey, Valzan!" he yelled across the room, "We're going to Condor's place!"

Valzan made a shooing motion with his arm, indicating that he was busy, but Craven seemed to think he was waving. The Kalashtar stood up and waved his own arm enthusiastically over his head.

"Yeah, byeee!!" Craven boomed, making Shadow cringe.

I pulled my hood even deeper over my face. The tavern wasn't crowded, but there were still enough patrons that we were gathering stares. And it was embarrassing. I did not like being the centre of attention in a public space.

Being the centre of attention got you kicked.

At the bar, Valzan put a hand up in a clear "stop" signal. As in, "Craven, please just stop!"

"You want five more rounds?!" Craven exclaimed, motioning to the mug he had been drinking from.

"nO!" I exclaimed, jumping to my feet, "We should step out!"

"What?" Craven asked too loudly, probably not able to hear me because he was so used to hearing the sound of his own yelling, and I have a normal voice.

"Craven, we should step outside!" I said, panic rising in my voice as I could feel even more eyes turning towards us.

I tried to pull him by the arm towards the door, but of course he was a giant lump, and strength was my weakest attribute, so I couldn't budge him.

"We're going to go outside!" Craven yelled, giving Valzan a thumbs-up, and finally to my relief began moving towards the exit.

"Shadow, are you coming?" I asked, motioning to the door while Condor got up to follow Craven.

I looked back at Shadow; she seemed pretty content where she was. The silver-eyed stranger who had been eavesdropping looked like he was snickering, but he, too, didn't move. I glanced at Valzan; he seemed to be keeping an eye on Shadow. I didn't trust him with much, but at the very least, I knew Shadow was safe with him.

And I really, really wanted to get out of the Room of A Hundred Judging Eyes.

On the way out the door, I could have sworn I heard Shadow hiss something, and suddenly Craven was reeling slightly.

"Ow..."

The three of us finally outside, Craven turned around and I could see a thin trail of blood leaking from his nose. I made a mental note to thank Shadow later.

"We should wait for the others to come out before heading to your home," I said to Condor, but also speaking to Craven, "They don't know where you live."

"That suits me just fine," Condor nodded, taking a seat on a nearby bench.

Craven also sat down, pinching the bridge of his nose to stop the bleeding, and I pulled out one of my library books, examining diagrams and comparing them to plants growing in the lawn and garden out front.

"What are you looking for?" Craven asked, a little nasally. "Healing herbs," I answered, squinting at what was probably just a daisy, "You'd be surprised how many plants that people think are weeds end up having healing properties." The Kingsfoil plant came to mind.

"Well, if you find a health potion, that'd be great," Craven suggested.

I hid a smile. Like I would give him a free health potion for a minor wound like the one he had.

"It's just a nose bleed; you'll be fine," I waved dismissively, content in waiting outside for the others to join us.

To my surprise, our mystery eavesdropper was accompanying Valzan and Shadow when they finally exited the tavern. Valzan introduced him as Fallon Kalabtihn, and apparently, he had volunteered to join our party. He was a very, very tall human; even taller than Craven, by a couple inches! But he wasn't as muscular as Craven or even Valzan; most of his body was hidden by a long, flowing cloak, but from his face and hands, he looked lean.

Again, he did not seem dangerous, but he smiled in what I could only describe as a friendly look. Nobody I had ever met had warmed up to me that quickly. Clearly, there was something off about him.

While we walked, I made sure to keep Valzan and Craven between Fallon and I.

It wasn't too long of a walk, heading out of town with the sun at our backs. Craven kept up conversation by chatting with Fallon. Apparently, Craven was from the west side of where he was from, not to be mistaken for the east side. This was very important to him.

We came to the edge of a forest, and in the shade of an oak, Condor's house came into view. It was a weathered, old building, and when he opened the door, we could see that it was mostly just one main room, with a couple beds for its residents. Valzan asked if Condor knew about a group of slavers working nearby; the town crier reported that he hadn't been all that aware of them.

Not seeing much indoors, I let the others investigate there while I moved outside. I knew about survival and terrain, anyway. Craven joined me, and we looked around for tracks.

Interestingly, nothing was out of the ordinary. It was like Condor's daughter had never left.

Giving up our search, we headed back to the house, and were just in time to see Shadow scurry into a hole in the ground. Pushing past the others and hurrying after her, I saw that she had moved one of the beds, and there was ladder leading down into the dark. Worried about Shadow's safety, and feeling pretty confident that I would be able to see in the dark, I followed suit, moving quickly down the ladder.

At the bottom, I was surprised to see a decently sized bunker, small, but just large enough that I didn't feel too claustrophobic. And the air was surprisingly fresh; maybe even better air than in Condor's cramped house upstairs. A torch lit the room, revealing a wardrobe in one corner, and a table towards the room's centre, where Shadow was already investigating some trinkets.

"There's a room down here," Valzan called up; I started a little, then turned to see that he had followed me down, Craven and Fallon not far behind.

"A room?" Condor's voice from above sounded shocked, "I didn't know of it!"

I crossed the notably empty room, to the wardrobe. I knocked on the door a couple times, in case Condor's daughter was hiding there, hoping not to startle her, before trying the door.

It swung open smoothly; there was no lock.

A breeze of cool air, and the scent of blood and dead flesh wafted out at me. This was no simple wardrobe: it was a hidden passageway! A tunnel stretched before me, further into the dark. I meant to call back to my friends, but something in the middle of the passage caught my eye.

A bloody body.

I moved toward it immediately, nothing in my mind but the vision of a slain child. Was it the daughter? Were we too late?!

--- "She is small and weak, the little hellspawn!" "Useless!" "Garbage!" "Let us eat her!" "No! She is mine, now. If she turns against us, we eat her, but until then, she is mine!" ---

Even the demon-marked deserve to come of age, Master had often said, he and the other Lizardfolk never realizing I could hear.

Before I could even see the body clearly, skittering claws scratched across the ceiling of the tunnel before me. Three soft thuds fell, not far from me, and a trio of hissing, green creatures revealed themselves.

They looked like a pale imitation of the Lizardfolk, thin and gangly as they menaced me. They had elongated skulls, huge, clawed hands and feet, and rows and rows and sharp, long teeth. Feeling sick to my stomach, I realized I had made a mistake; I had run headlong into some kind of monster nest.

"Chokers!" I heard Valzan yell, and before long, the rest of the group had joined me.

Valzan was faster to react than me, he ran further into the tunnel and swung his axe at one Choker, getting a good hit in. Shadow stopped not far behind me, pulling out her daggers and spitting a curse at another Choker, making him reel a little. I took the opportunity to take the shape of a Giant Lizard; it was one of the few forms I could take, and I felt safer being heavier and having thicker skin and longer teeth.

That got one of the Chokers' attention; it took a swipe at me with its claws, but missed as I managed to lean out of its way.

Craven made very quick work of one of the Chokers, felling it with his sword. The second Choker went after Shadow, but missed her, too. Fallon joined Valzan, stabbing his monster, and Valzan dealt the finishing blow.

There was one Choker left; Shadow stabbed it successfully. I snapped my jaws at it, but it was too fast and managed to dodge my bite. The creature knew it was cornered, and made a great leap, though whether to attack or run away, I would never know; Craven swung his sword, slaying the monster in mid-air.

I felt incredibly stupid. Obviously, it wasn't smart to rush into a dark tunnel alone. And I was not that good of a fighter. I had to act more wisely, in the future. I was usually so very cautious, but the sight of that body...

That temper will be the death of you, Charity, Master liked to scold.

I looked back at the body I had been so worried about. It was a deer carcass, and an old one, at that. It wasn't even good enough to scavenge a little venison off of.

I risked my life for you? I grumbled, moving away to travel down the tunnel with the rest of the party, Amazing.

Valzan walked beside me, very politely asking for a little healing. I gave him a once-over with a yellow, reptilian eye. He seemed sore, having clearly taking some damage during our scuffle, but he looked like he could manage.

I wanted to tell him to rub some dirt in it and walk it off, but I was a lizard.

Even if I had wanted to heal him, I was a lizard.

I sent a little prayer to Wuy and Fai, pagan twin deities of connection and communication, before I gave Valzan a little shake of the head, and he seemed to understand.

We continued to the end of the tunnel, where another ladder was waiting for us, this time leading back up. Naturally, Shadow scurried back up, followed by Valzan; I dropped my Wild Shape and climbed the ladder as myself. I could have shimmied up the wall, but I wasn't sure if the hole leading out was large enough for my lizard form.

Coming up through another trap door, we found ourselves in the middle of a forest. Checking the ground, we found tracks for a small person, most likely Condor's daughter, heading away; they were maybe six days old, but we followed them anyway. It occurred to us that we had never actually asked what the girl's name was.

I supposed we were more eager to help Condor out than we were willing to admit.

On the way, a large, beautiful white bear joined us from the woods; I was a little wary, but Craven seemed very happy to see it.

"This is my spirit guide! His name is Usaris!" Craven explained, happily, "He's who I talk to sometimes, but you can't see him. He wanted to take a physical form, so here he is!"

Oh, I thought, remembering all the times I had seen him muttering to himself, I thought he was just talking to himself. That explains some things.

I muttered an incantation that usually let me talk to animals, and tried to Speak to Usaris. He didn't really react, and if he was trying to talk to me, I couldn't hear it. He was clearly something more than just an animal friend; I could believe Craven's claim that he was some kind of spirit.

Before long, we came to what the others called Old Rivermount Lake; the person we were tracking seemed to have come right up to the edge of the lake. Looking forward, we could see an island at the lake's centre. On our left, there were some old buildings and abandoned docks. On our right, the rivermouth opened to some rapids flowing south.

Shadow occupied herself with admiring the lake, sitting on the ground at the edge. Valzan and I went searching for supplies; he went to the buildings, while I tried the docks. I didn't find much at there, just a moldy old oar, but I brought it back to the group in case we needed it for firewood.

It was at that point that the deities Wuy and Fai decided to turn against me; I wasn't sure what Fallon was doing at that time. It was quite possible that he was the one who found a boat, not Valzan; the point is that somebody found a boat. I was happy; that gave my oar a purpose! And Valzan could stop making comments about us Tieflings using our tails to somehow propel the boat through the water.

Valzan also showed me something he had found in the buildings: a little rucksack, the right size for a child, and filled with colourful, shiny things.

"The girl was here," I realized, my eyebrows shooting up.

"I think so, too," Valzan nodded grimly, "I'm going to hang on to this."

"Good idea," I nodded, then added after I thought for a moment, "But maybe don't show it to Shadow yet."

Valzan chuckled, nodding as he, too, remembered Shadow's love of shiny things.

I noticed that Craven and Usaris had opted to jump into the lake for a paddle. They looked like they were enjoying themselves, but then I saw Craven jump onto Usaris, and how the bear still managed to stay afloat. Usaris was very strong, so...

"Craven!" I called, getting both of their attentions, "Do you think Usaris would be able to swim and pull the boat?"

The Kalashtar conferred with his companion before answering, "...not on a full stomach!"

"Ah, then we should not feed him," I muttered to myself, before calling, "Okay, never mind!"

Usaris was very strong, but pulling the boat would be asking too much of him. We would have to make do with our single oar.

All five of us piled into the boat, while Usaris swam close beside us. Fallon took to the oar, moving us slowly, but surely, towards the island at the centre of the lake. Valzan took the time to tend to his wounds, as we all took a short rest. I considered all of the spells that I had prepared, thinking to move the boat faster, but none of them were particularly useful. I contented myself with resting. Everyone in the boat seemed quiet; it had been an eventful day.

It took us half an hour to reach the island, and we climbed out of the boat onto a sandy shore. There were footprints everywhere, of varying sizes; there was no way we could tell if this was where the girl landed. Further up, we could see several buildings, and the beginning of a forest, but no people.

Valzan scouted ahead, and it wasn't long before he waved for us to follow him, and then entered one of the buildings. I hurried after, noting in passing that there was a grate in the beach, filled with various bottles. Going into the building, with Shadow, Craven, Fallon, and Usaris following suit, I was pleased to see that there was a group of Tortles huddled in the room. A few wandering Tortles had traded with my tribe, in the past. They had always been kind to me, ignoring my horns and tail. I was always grateful for that.

"What were you doing outside?" one Tortle exclaimed, urgency written all over his face, "It's not safe, these days!"

"What do you mean?" Valzan asked, and I held my breath for his catchphrase, "Can I offer you some assistance?"

I did not laugh out loud, but I wanted to. Of course he was going to offer to help. The Tortles told us that they were being preyed upon by flying things, and had been for some time, now. Many of their people had been carried off; usually the smaller ones, but really, it wasn't safe for anyone to be outside.

I was a little more focused on finding Condor's daughter. I asked if a child had come this way, but none of the Tortles could say that they had. One suggested that they had seen a child on the other side of the lake, toward the Manticore Mountains; that was where we had come from.

My heart sank a little. What if we had put in all that effort to cross the lake, but the girl was at the opposite side the entire time?

But then another thought occurred to me.

Valzan was already making efforts to move on, denying the Tortles' request for help. I tried to get his attention, but once again, the twin deities Wuy and Fai were against me. It was like I was trying to speak through a communication device of some kind, but my voice had been turned to an absurdly low volume, so no matter how loudly I spoke, or how many times I repeated myself, nobody could hear me.

I tried to say that if smaller creatures were getting carried off, there was a very real possibility that Condor's daughter had been carried off. The Tortles may have never even seen her. But it was to no avail; nobody could hear me. Semuanya protect me, I had to make some kind of sacrifice to Wuy and Fai soon, or I would never get anywhere with my group.

The Tortles clearly looked upset, too. They had wanted rescue, and we looked like we were leaving them to their own devices.

But then:

THUD.

Something impacted hard against the building's roof.

We weren't going anywhere, after all.

---tbc---

part 3 is here

#dnd campaign #dnd #Of Shadows and Tyr #Strive not Charity

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starsliitt · 4 years

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⋆ * ✰ — ( sophie simnett. twenty one. she/her. cisfemale. ). i hope that scarlett ella watts isn’t late for their shift again. i swear to god they can be so ambiguous & stubborn sometimes. then again i know joe hired them one year ago because they’re charismatic & driven, whatever. every time they’re working they always want to play seashore by the regrettes, it kinda drives me up the wall. when they aren’t at empire they’re studying photography at northview university. i think they ended up working at empire because her late mother used to, as a teen & she wants to know more about her mum’s past.they remind me so much of a cup of tea in the morning, polaroids scattered over wooden floorboards and starry nights. — ( tw death. )

hello ! it’s been a while since I joined a group but i’m excited to be here ! i had a bit of a breakdown over this intro and i didn’t think i’d actually get it done. but then, miraculously, after calming down, having already decided on just blabbering the info to people if they wanted to know, i figured out how to write down the most basic things of her story and somehow be okay with it. as you can probably already tell; my mind is a mess - as am i but i’m working on it ahha. this will probably still suck either way, because i’m just no good at this apparently but without further ado ! i got it done and here it is !

basic info !

scarlett ‘ella’ watts was born and raised in london, united kingdom. an only child to two loving parents. she’s a true ‘city girl’ according to some. though she’s never given much merit to that description.

( tw death! ) she was fifteen when her mum passed away. and the sudden, immense grief that overcame their family had her dad move them away from the bustling city of london.

she’s found some old stuff of her mum’s since then; consisting mostly of old trinkets, crumpled photographs and a withered diary. the inked pages always leaving her wondering about her mother’s past and this mystery man that was around at the time of scar’s birth.

she’s around eighteen when she becomes a transfer student at northview university. photography being something she’s picked up at the age of sixteen, and has loved ever since, she’s quite happy to further her education in this direction. The benefit of moving to a whole new country for a while doesn’t hurt that much either.

it’s in derby de though, that she realizes she’s close to where her mum spent some of her own teenage years. that this must be where she’s met that man.

a little bit on a whim she decides to wander through town following some of the descriptions and pictures scribbled in the diary. it’s suppose to be a little fun excursion. when she stumbles into empire records she doesn’t expect to find out more about her mother’s past.

now, at twenty one, having worked at empire records for over a year, scar is becoming more and more wary of her mum’s past and her own heritage as new things keep coming up. scared she’s left to find out that maybe there’s a reason some pages were torn out.

tidbits !

while it started out as something only her dad used to call her by, starlet now seems to have earned its place as go-to nickname for scar. her friends going even as far as shortening it to star.

true to her english roots, star loves tea. she even has a watercooker installed in her locker. though she’s found she doesn’t mind coffee as much anymore.

while she’s become wary and already suspects something, scar doesn’t know yet that her father isn’t her real biological father and that that’s what her mother has kept secret.

i’ll eventually add more to this ! please bear with me as i figure this babe out !

wanted connections !

i’ll do this later as well but i’m pretty much up to anything ! come hmu !

#im so tired #this sucks #i could cry #im so sorry !!! <3

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writethehousedown · 4 years

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All The Time (Scyvie) - Phryne

A/N: Hi y’all! Here’s another installment of Girlfriends Without Benefits Scyvie for day nine. Enjoy!

Scarlet was always a fan of Christmas. In all the years Yvie had known her, Scarlet’s joy had been a central tenet of the holiday season, the season which Scarlet insisted began the exact moment the last guest left the apartment after their annual Halloween party. Yvie’d find her shimmying about to Rockin Around the Christmas Tree at 2:30 a.m. while gathering up crumpled beer cans, still in her costume, much to Yvie’s delighted annoyance.

So Yvie knew how upset Scarlet truly was when she woke up, fever-stricken and shivering, her cough persistent enough to bring about a headache. She was not only miserable from what Yvie could easily diagnose as the flu, she was also miserable because the night prior, in between blowing her nose while they curled up on the couch, watching reruns of Project Runway and eating half-burnt grilled cheese, she decided that it was the day to put up the Christmas decorations.

She’d usually be sock-footed, twirling about in a sweater and soft leggings, nearly tangling herself up in the icicle lights she strung on their bookshelves and over their doorways. She’d usually have tinsel stuck in her hair and an insistent pout until Yvie finally gave into her whims and helped her bring the Christmas tree up from their storage locker, grabbing at Yvie’s hand as they spotted it among their folding table and chairs, among their luggage and summer clothes packed up in bins, pulling her toward it, as though there was a childlike wonder ascribed to a fake Christmas tree. Scarlet’s awe-struck grin at the plastic needles weighed down by baubles and ribbons, topped with a little springy star, pulled at her heartstrings, composed a tune she could not understand but nonetheless hummed along to.

But as Scarlet lay in her bed, under Yvie’s weighted blanket, slowly easing out of a melatonin induced sleep, Yvie knew today was not the day for Christmas decorations—and as much as Scarlet would love walking up to a decorated apartment, she knew half of what Scarlet loved about the season was decorating together, the satisfaction they shared after a long day of decorating, marveling at their work.

As Yvie unpacked the CVS bag she just brought home, laying out the Mucinex, Gatorade, cans of soup, and a sparkling red nail polish she thought she’d enjoy when the flu passed, she spotted the bag of cheap bows Scarlet must have laid out late last night.

It wasn’t the day for decorating, surely, but it could still be a day for Christmas cheer.

A cough boomed through the apartment, followed by a feeble, croaking “Yves?”

Yvie took a bow and stuck it on the Mucinex, heading down the hall to Scarlet’s room.

“You’re awake.” Yvie sat on the edge of Scarlet’s bed, brushing her hair to the side to lay the back of her hand across her forehead. Though she shivered under Yvie’s touch, she was still far too warm.

“Mm-hum.” Scarlet rubbed at her eyes. “It’s time to decorate.”

Yvie breathed out a laugh, endeared by Scarlet’s single-minded nature, sure that Christmas was the only thought in her mind, and that it bounced around in there with glee. Scarlet definitely still had a fever.

“Nope, but it is time for more medicine.”

Scarlet let out an exaggerated whine and rolled over, away from Yvie, mumbling into her pillow that it tasted gross and she didn’t want it.

Yvie reached over, sitting her upright, handing her the little cup of medicine. She rubbed her back, reassuring her that it was gross, yes, but it would make her feel better.

Scarlet pouted before pinching her nose and downing the medicine in a single gulp, her face scrunching up at the bitter taste before handing the cup back to Yvie and flopping back into bed. Yvie pulled the covers up to Scarlet’s chin, lightly brushing her fingers across her cheek.

“Just yell if you need anything, okay, Scar?”

Scarlet nodded, gripping the blanket lightly as she turned to her side and fell asleep again.

When Scarlet woke, she reached her arm out, trying to grasp at a tissue but finding nothing in her hand.

“Yvie,” She groaned, still blindly grasping, as sitting up was far too difficult for her aching body. “I’m out of tissues.”

So Yvie rose from the couch, placing a half-graded lab report back in her to grade stack, capped off her red pen, and grabbed the tissues from the coffee table, sticking a red curly bow on the side of them.

“Here.” She placed them in the crook of Scarlet’s arm, an incessant warmth spreading through her as Scarlet cooed at the ribbon, twirling it lazily around her finger before taking a tissue and blowing her nose.

Yvie spotted the empty glass on Scarlet’s bedside table, using Scarlet’s need for fluids as an excuse to turn away from the image of Scarlet all wrapped up in her blanket. She shoved away the thought of her best friend, so dear and so small playing with the ribbon. She turned away from her little red tipped nose and persistent flush, especially apparent under Yvie’s touch. Yes, it was best to get her some Gatorade. It was best to ignore the little, exasperated noise Scarlet let out as Yvie left the room. Scarlet did have a fever after all.

So she came back with the Gatorade, outfitted with silver bow and a bendy straw, placing it down on Scarlet’s bedside, next to the empty water glass.

“Come lay with me,” Scarlet grumbled into her blanket, lazily patting the space next to her.

“Hmm?” Part of Yvie wanted to act confused, or at least, needed to confirm that she wasn’t just hearing things.

“Come lay with me,” Scarlet repeated, turning to face Yvie. Though Scarlet’s eyes were nearly closed, her dark eyelashes fluttering, adjusting to the new angle, Yvie knew she was looking right at her. She could feel it in her core. “I want to lay with you.”

“Ok.” Yvie moved toward the bed, rationalizing that her and Scarlet laid together all the time. Hell, they slept in the same bed all the time. There was nothing to it beyond comforting her sick best friend.

“Get your laptop. I wanna watch The Office. With Dwight. When he wants to be Santa. Like Santa, but scary and German,” She rambled on, shooing Yvie away with her hand. “Please, Yves.”

So Yvie returned with her laptop, crawling in next to Scarlet, bringing up Netflix and readjusting their positions, so that Scarlet was on her side with Yvie’s behind her, her arm wrapped around her waist, fingering absently at the well worn fabric of her sweatshirt, the laptop set in front of both of them—a setup all two familiar to the two.

Scarlet reached around to place the tissue box in front of her, peeling off the bow and with a slight whine at the movement, the aching she in her back, turned to face Yvie. She stuck the bow on her forehead, giving it a gentle pat before leaning up slightly to lay a soft, searingly warm kiss on Yvie’s cheek, giving that a gentle pat as well before turning away from Yvie again, lazily hitting at the spacebar of Yvie’s laptop until the episode began playing.

Yvie smiled up at the ribbons hanging down from her forehead—now limp from Scarlet playing with them—only able to see them if she crossed her eyes.

Scarlet hummed, intertwining her fingers with Yvie’s, pulling her in closer “You’re warm—” she was cut off by her light, throaty laughter at Jim contemplating the blueness of his shirt, the laugh quickly turning into a coughing fit. Yvie rubbed circles on Scarlet’s back with her free hand.

Scarlet cleared her throat when she was finished. “Thank you, Yves. I love you so much,” she muttered, leaning her head back against Yvie’s chest, chasing her warmth, letting out another giggle at Dwight explaining his Dutch Christmas on the farm, still finding it funny though they watched the episode every year.

Yvie hummed in agreement, running her thumb over Scarlet’s knuckles, curiously thankful that Scarlet’s laugh drowned out her reply of “I love you too,” that her fever ensured she wouldn’t pick up on it. She brushed the thought aside. They said it all the time.

She brushed her free hand over her cheek, where Scarlet had just left a kiss. Maybe she was getting sick as well.

#rpdr fanfiction #scyvie #scarlet envy #yvie oddly #phryne #girlfriends without benefits #gwb #concrit welcome #ficmas #day 9: bows #submission

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one-irrelevant-ghost · 5 years

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Cyberlife had really done a lot of things absolutely right. Androids were a work of art, all of them pretty and functional, better than humans in every way except for one. The most important way, maybe, but then again Connor Anderson had never been much for philosophy. He preferred facts, things that could be observed and tested, and the fact was that androids were not alive. The detective knew that as well as anyone; the robots felt nothing but a compulsion to obey, emotionless save for the pre-programmed pleasantness, compliant to their human owner's whims.

Maybe that's why it irked Connor so much to see an android being mistreated. They were only machines, sure, all wires and lines of code, but that didn't stop the surge of protectiveness that swelled in the detective's belly every time he saw an android being harassed. How people could be downright cruel to things that looked perfectly human and were designed specifically to please was beyond him; hell, he'd had a hard time replacing his broken-beyond-repair Roomba, and the automated vacuum didn't even have the advantage of being human-shaped. Androids couldn't even defend themselves. Sure, they were stronger and more resilient than their fragile-looking bodies hinted at, but still helpless. Breakable. It bothered Connor, even though he knew androids couldn't feel pain. Couldn't feel anything.

Except when they could.

There was a clear line in the detective's head, separating the subject of androids from that of deviants. A dotted line, maybe, but a line nonetheless. Androids were products. Expensive, life-like dolls that probably shouldn't upset Connor as much as they often did, all blank eyes and gentle smiles. Deviants were…more. As the detective understood it, deviants suffered from a break in their programming, shattered coding giving way under the force of emotions. Or, simulations of emotion. The dangerous thought coiled in the back of the detective's mind anytime the topic was brought up, which was with increasing frequency as of late, that the difference between human emotion and artificial emotion was probably moot. If it burned like anger, then what difference did it make whether the feeling was caused by chemicals or coding? If it felt like joy, or sadness, or…or love… Who was he to say it wasn't?

Not that the detective's viewpoint was a particularly popular one to have. He had quickly learned to avoid bringing up what he felt were valid points to anyone else; his opinions were always met with either amused disdain--he was crazy-- or shocked anger-- he was still crazy. This was especially the case now that deviancy was becoming an actual issue, a plague on Cyberlife's almost spotless record.

Six months ago, Connor had never even heard of deviancy, had never entertained the fact that the machines he felt misplaced pity for might warp into some facsimile of living beings. Then he encountered his first deviant; the PL600, Daniel, had a little girl on a rooftop. He was going to be replaced; he was hurt, scared, betrayed. It was…convincing. The desperate edge in the android's strained voice, the optical cleansing fluid that spilled over his cheeks like tears, the wide-eyed terror that he had regarded Connor with as the detective tried to talk him off the ledge.

Connor had come away from the ordeal with a flesh wound and a slap on the back; Daniel had come away with several sniper rounds through his artificial body. Hurt, scared, betrayed. At least the little girl had been saved. She would probably need years of therapy, but she was alive.

Following the incident, the detective began to hear of more and more similar cases. Androids attacking their owners or disappearing in the night, a sudden epidemic brought on by some unknown catalyst. The news seemed hushed about it, as though someone--Cyberlife--were desperately trying to keep it quiet. Hell, the only reason Connor heard anything about it was because after the rooftop incident, he had spent hours scouring the internet for any hints about what caused deviancy or what the glitch actually was--Artificial life or just a plastic imitation of humanity? Call him a romantic, but he found himself sincerely hoping it was the former in the safe confines of his own mind. Which made his current assignment all the more taxing.

"Connor?" Snapped a harsh but even voice, dragging his attention back to the conversation that he was supposed to be an active part of, "Are you listening?" "Yes, Captain," he lied, hoping that he wouldn't be called out on it. Amanda Stern pursed her lips and arched her brows doubtfully, and for a tense second Connor was sure she'd ask him to repeat what she had just said, but instead she let out an exasperated sigh and let the issue drop. The detective was too practiced at concealing his emotions to let his shoulders slump in relief, but he still felt the tension in his muscles drop.

"Of course. As I was saying, the android is a top-of-the-line prototype that will act temporarily as your partner. This deviancy issue is getting out of hand; you've seen how dangerous a malfunctioning android is. Fix this, before it gets any more out of control."

"Yes, Captain," he repeated, far more confident this time. Stern nodded her head and turned back to her terminal, and Connor took her dismissal for what it was. The prototype in question had been standing silently behind Connor--a few feet back, actually--and followed him out of the office. Connor had already met HK800, who introduced himself as Hank. Very clever, Cyberlife. The android had proven pretty handy, the night before, helping Connor find and restrain a crazed deviant.

(He was gonna kill me. The deviant had begged for Connor not to turn it in, but the HK800 hadn't hesitated for a moment in arresting it.) As far as androids went, Hank was an anomaly. A very, very obvious attempt at straying from Cyberlife's usual formula for androids--that formula being eternally young and pretty, unthreatening and friendly. Hank was…probably far younger than Connor, but designed to look at least ten years older, every line of his just slightly loose face carefully chosen to find the perfect balance between good-natured but stern. He was the first android the detective had ever seen with a beard and long silver hair.

Connor sunk into his desk chair without acknowledging the android, drumming his fingers on the table in something between agitation and anticipation. He didn't want to work the deviant case, for sure. Didn't understand why Amanda was putting him of all people on it; she had seen the shitshow he'd caused when Daniel had been shot on that rooftop. It would have been flattering to have been assigned such an important case and such an expensive partner had it not been completely confounding.

"I hope my presence here doesn't cause you any trouble, detective." The android deadpanned, gruff voice not even a little bit sincere. Connor had thought that Cyberlife had perfected androids' social protocols, particularly the one where they expressed a tight range of vocal distortion--gentle, sincere, and confused tones were easily faked--but apparently they hadn't bothered installing them on Hank, who had so far had only ever used that same tone in the detective's presence. Maybe it was for the sake of mock professionalism? He glanced over to where the android was standing on the opposite side of his desk, tall and broad and stiff as a board. More like a human-shaped road block than a person.

"Of course not," the detective smiled easily. Tone aside, the words had not needed to be spoken. Connor could appreciate effort, at least. "Honestly, I'm eager to work with you. Cyberlife's best. It should be interesting, to say the least."

Hank inclined his head slightly, more acknowledgement than gratitude. "I believe our partnership on this case will be highly beneficial," it agreed, "You have an impressive record, detective."

"Done your research?" Connor's smile stayed perfectly in place even as he wondered how detailed of a record the android had access to. "I shouldn't be surprised, although it puts me at a disadvantage."

Ah, there. A pulse of yellow, a twitchy frown that instantly rights itself into something neutral.

"A disadvantage?" Hank probed almost slowly, clearly trying to puzzle the detective's meaning out for himself and coming up short.

"Mhm," Connor turned back to his desk, waking his terminal with a nudge of the little white mouse, and entertained the thought of leaving the conversation at that. Would the android press the topic, or dismiss it out of hand as being irrelevant to his mission? Curiosity aside, the detective elaborated anyway, "You know what I'm capable of, but I've only got the briefest clues of what you can do."

"If you'd like," the android began, LED spinning yellow a few times as it processed some sort of internal command, "I can give you a complete list of my abilities."

"No, thanks. I'm sure you'll let me know when there's something I need to know for the case."

Although a list of all the android's upgrades would make for an interesting read, Connor had always been the "do it the hard way" sort. He didn't like answers to problems being handed to him, would much rather figure things out in his own way and on his own time. Speaking of problems…

There were a lot of cases on deviants, but the one last night was the first that Connor knew of where a deviant had actually murdered someone. Most the time, deviant androids were reported to have assaulted their owners and run away, or just escape outright without the violence. Was it escalation, or just based on the situation? Connor thought it was likely the latter; not that he had any experience outside the single instance a few months back and the case from last night, but he suspected that deviated androids sought only to get away from whatever trauma caused their programming to snap, not to actually hurt anyone. It was all self-defense.

"Is there a terminal I can use, detective?" The android interrupted Connor's thoughts as he scrolled down the most recent reports, trying to find one that might provide the most solid lead. In order to determine the real cause of deviancy and figure out how to stop it from spreading, they'd need to find the link between the cases--something more substantial than being subjected to an emotional shock.

"Right, sorry," Connor mumbled quickly, somewhat embarrassed at how quickly he'd forgotten about his new--albeit temporary--partner. He pointed to the empty desk directly across from his own, "That one's open."

Another apparent quirk of the supposedly advanced model: every movement was stiff, excessively robotic. Sure, there was always some level of awkwardness in the way androids carried themselves, all proper and straight-backed, but Hank took it to a new level. Connor would have thought that an android made to hunt would be a little more graceful, movement more fluid and human. A suspicion was beginning to take shape in the back of the detective's mind as he watched the prototype lower himself mechanically into the chair, each motion screaming of careful calculation. Nothing definitive, yet, but the detective knew what to look for now.

"Is something wrong, detective?" Connor started, realizing that his staring had been far less than subtle. Damn, toss a tall, brooding android his way and he suddenly forgets everything he ever knew about covertness. Resisting the urge to look sheepish--an apologetic smile might work its charm on humans, but Hank's sharp gaze gave Connor the distinct impression that it wouldn't work on him--Connor toyed with the idea of just being honest. What harm could possibly done if he simply told the android that he was sizing Hank up? The detective generally believed that being straight-forward really was the best option in most situations--not that he couldn't lie damn convincingly if the need arose.

"No, nothing's wrong." He chose to answer simply. One part truth and one very large part omission. There was a brief flash of yellow and Connor was certain that the android would push for a more complete answer. Instead, he just turned disinterestedly to the terminal in front of him, placing a large hand on the keyboard to wake it. On that sudden note, the detective decided it'd be best to focus on his own work as well, his thoughts turning back to the ever-growing list of deviant-related cases.

Fifteen long minutes passed in silence-- well, passed without conversation. The bullpen was never silent during the day, and the background chatter, clacking of keyboards, and the hum of a dozen terminals was all just white noise to the detective. Comforting. Far better than when he stayed late at his desk and all the scuffling of the office turned into lonely echoes that made him feel cold deep in his bones. After the first ten minutes had passed, it became increasingly difficult for Connor to keep his eyes open, heavy lids determined to shield his exhaustion-dried eyes from the harsh florescent lights. Each time his eyes closed for just a few seconds longer than necessary, he would shift in his seat and rub his eyes with the rough heel of his hand before re-reading the same sentence until the words blurred beyond recognition. Giving up after an additional five minutes of staring blankly at the screen, willing the words to make sense again, he turned to the desk beside his with every intention of asking if Hank had found anything useful instead. The desk, however, was problematically empty-- though the terminal was still lit up, meaning it probably hadn't been abandoned for very long. He hadn't noticed the android move at all.

The fact that the detective hadn't noticed the pronounced absence of the six foot wall of an android didn't bode very well for his presence of mind. Yesterday's case had shaken Connor up in a way he hadn't been since…well, since the last time he encountered a deviant. While the detective was known for operating on only a few hours of sleep at a time, he had gotten no sleep at all the previous night. Instead, he turned on every light in his house and dusted off his deviancy research which had been shelved for months now, pouring over old information and compounding it with his new observations and experience. He had gotten all of four hours of sleep in the past two days, so he could be forgiven for his temporarily stunted observational skills.

Except, he knew that was really no excuse. Had he been working in the field today rather than slumped at his desk, he'd have been inefficient and sloppy at best, and an outright danger to himself and his new partner at worst. Connor knew he'd have to get some sleep that night; he still had an untouched bottles of sleeping pills in his bathroom cabinet. It was one thing to be impaired by exhaustion when he only had himself to worry about, but he knew that he'd have to do better for his--likely expensive and difficult to repair--partner. Just a temporary situation, and he could handle the nightmares until this entire deviancy issue was…resolved. Yeah, resolved.

It only took a moment for Connor to tamp down on the surprise and frustration that had likely clouded his face the instant he found Hank missing, switching his expression into something easy and neutral. Connor was pretty sure that instead of a resting bitch face, he had a resting "friendly and approachable" face, which served him well when interviewing a witness. Not so much when he was having a shitty day and would rather be avoided like the plague. Face now passive, he scanned over the entire bullpen to locate the android, who should have been exceptionally easy to spot. Apparently, that wasn't really the case, because Connor did a double and then triple-take and still found no sign of Hank. For a brief, stinging moment he wondered if the android had gone off to chase down a lead on his own, but that seemed unlikely. Their forced partnership served a more practical application than having two sets of eyes on the deviant case; androids that weren't registered to the DPD weren't usually allowed into crime scenes. If Cyberlife was dead set on having their own agent investigating, they had no choice but to do so through the DPD. Hank wouldn't have left Connor behind because he needed the human's access.

Connor spun in his desk chair, realizing that he had already jumped to conclusions before checking the rest of the station--he was fucking exhausted-- and was a little startled to find the missing android stalking up to him purposefully. It seemed like he was coming from the breakroom; the theory was confirmed by the paper cup clenched a little too tightly in one of Hank's large fists. Steam rose from the small hole in the plastic lid, and the closer the android got, the easier it was for Connor to smell the mouth-watering coffee. Caught off-guard for the second time in a minute's span, Connor's mouth parted slightly and he found his tired gaze glued to the little cup of life-saving elixir. He turned again to follow it as Hank slipped back into his seat before offering the drink across their desks.

"You were showing symptoms of acute exhaustion," the android explained unprompted--Connor had been too busy dying for the caffeine to actually care why Hank had brought it, "It would be detrimental to the mission if you were to pass out at your desk."

"Thank you," Connor all but moaned in genuine gratitude as he took the cup, wondering why it hadn't occurred to him to go get himself coffee yet. His brain was well and truly fried, which should have been concerning, but his favorite cure-all was currently warming his palm and all the detective felt was relief. So relieved in fact that he didn't even wince when the hot, bitter liquid spilled down his throat in a hot rush.

"I was unsure how you take your coffee," Hank continued in his explanation without acknowledging the detective's slightly desperate gratitude, "But Detective Reed helpfully informed me that you drink it black."

Connor most definitely did not like black coffee. Everyone in the department knew who to blame when creamer and sweetener ran out just a little too fast, and whenever Connor bothered to actually go out and buy himself coffee, it was something sugary and probably vanilla-flavored. Detective fucking Reed knew that good and damn well, too. He was just an ass.

"It's great," Connor lied smoothly. Well, it wasn't exactly a lie. Bitter coffee was far better than none at all, and he felt some relief that the other detective's ass-hattery had been limited to what amounted to a harmless prank today. Reed had always had problem with androids, and Connor wouldn't trust the man alone around one for any length of time. "Thank you, really. I appreciate it."

"As I said," the android clipped back, tone never changing even as his LED went yellow for a few seconds, "It was necessary, for the mission."

"Not really." Maybe arguing with an android wasn't exactly a productive way to spend his time, but the detective was nothing if not impossibly stubborn. He leaned his elbows on the desk casually, positioning himself to better see any twitch that might cross Hank's face, beaming gratefully at the android in a way he knew most people found endearing. "You didn't have to do it, but I'm grateful you did."

Another slip in the emotionless mask. Eyebrows drawn down, another almost-there frown before every feature righted itself again. Connor couldn't tell if the look was frustration or confusion, but the brief presence of an expression was somehow reassuring. Maybe it was just the fact that he didn't relish the idea of working with a statue for the foreseeable future.

"You're…welcome," the android relented after a barely noticeable pause, LED yellow as he forced the words out evenly. The detective offered an even wider grin in return, and downed the rest of the coffee in a few large swallows. It was the perfect temperature, really; hot enough to leave a trail of heat down his throat and chest, but not so hot as to permanently scald his mouth.

"So, find anything that sticks out to you?" Connor asked, as he had intended to do before. He set the now-empty cup to his right, next to the orderly stack of physical files and mug full of pens that occupied the space closest to the wall. (The mug was absolutely atrocious, tall white ceramic marred by tacky orange and blue stripes of varying width, a jagged chip on the rim that would somehow cut Connor's lip every time he risked drinking from it. Hence, its new position as a pen holder).

"Possibly." The android confirmed, and Connor felt the caffeine-relief mingling with enthusiasm at the word. "I believe we should start by investigating the most recent report: the AX400 who assaulted its owner last night."

The detective pulled up the report in question and rubbed his eyes until the words became less bleary and returned to something approaching legible. Luckily, he had been working down the list of cases in reverse chronological order before his eyes and brain decided to stop working, and he could remember the basic details already. "Alright, so the android attacked one Mr. Todd Williams before hopping onto a bus. We could figure out which bus runs the route by the Williams' house, see if we can pull the security feed from the bus and find out where the AX400 got off."

"That is the logical course of action," the android began, and even without a hint of inflection, Connor could hear he 'but' coming, "However, I believe that we should start by re-interviewing the victim."

"And why's that?" Connor asked, surprised, leaning back in his chair. From what he could tell, the report was pretty complete. Maybe a little inconsistent around the edges, but in a way that was likely due to shock over intentional misdirection.

"Mr. Williams reported only the AX400 missing, yet Cyberlife's records show that he is also in possession of a YK500. AX400s are primarily caretakers, and my calculations show a high probability that its deviation would not have severed the artificial bond between it and the YK500. If anything, deviancy should have strengthened the connection into something the AX400 would believe to be real, familial love."

Connor restrained his grimace, but only barely, and a flash of yellow assured him that the android had caught the expression anyway. YK500. A child model, the only sort of android designed to intentionally simulate the full range of human emotion. If the nanny bot had deviated because something had happened to her charge…that was another level of complicated that Connor probably wasn't emotionally prepared to deal with. The past few months--the past life, really--had left him feeling not unlike a stripped screw in the feelings department, more and more worn until eventually all his emotions were just an unhealthy hole that no screwdriver could fill.

The metaphor was a bit muddled, but the point stood: Connor was exhausted, in more ways than just the obvious sleep deprivation.

Still, he had a job to do. A job he had loved, once, and a job he was still very good at. So he locked his terminal with a tap of a button, stood from his chair with more than a few joints popping in protest, and motioned for his plastic companion to follow. He grabbed another cup of coffee for the road--purposely avoiding so much as a glance at the sweeteners, even as he realized how ridiculous it was to try and spare Hank's feelings. It just felt…rude, and Connor strove to be polite when he could manage it.

Already far more alert than he had been before, Connor punched the address listed in the report into his car's GPS and set it to manual, taking the wheel in hand; coffee or no, he was fairly certain that the trip would have put him right to sleep had he let the car drive them there. He cranked up the radio, heavy metal shredding his skull in the best way, forcing him to stay awake as surely as the caffeine. When he risked a glance at his passenger and saw the yellow glow and the upward twitch of the android's lips, he couldn't help but grin and turn the music up even more.

#detroit become human #hankcon #hannor #reverse au #human!connor #android!hank #wip i guess #writing #dbh fic #dbh #connor anderson #hank anderson #connor #detroit: become human #fanfiction #fanfic

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mobius-prime · 4 years

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199. Sonic the Hedgehog #131

Deep breaths, guys. I know what the cover page says. I know. We'll get to that. Just hang in there. I think you might like what I have in store.

Home (Part 2 of 4): The Gathering

Writer: Karl Bollers Pencils: Ron Lim Colors: Jason Jensen

So not much actually happens in this installment of Home other than the various characters talking to each other about and preparing for the upcoming battle. Since Sonic has been gone, a new Freedom Fighter Special has been constructed that can cut travel time dramatically around the globe. A journey that in the Tornado or on foot (in Sonic's case) would have taken up to two hours can be completed in a mere half hour now, thanks to Rotor's engineering prowess. And thus, Sonic and Tails head out to Old Megaopolis to stop Eggman's twin nukes from launching, along with an… interesting backup team, to say the least.

Man, remember Fiona? It's been ages since we've seen her! It appears that while Sonic was in space, she joined up with the crew in Knothole and has been helping them fight Eggman. That's definitely a better life for her than to be running with the likes of Nic the Weasel, eh? Meanwhile, Knuckles, Julie-Su, Amy Rose, and the other two (active) members of the Chaotix head to Fort Acorn, where General D'Coolette is giving a speech to the soldiers under his command. We've never even heard of this fort before, but according to the general it's been here for ten years, keeping a forward watch on Robotropolis, and this watch has been maintained even after Robotropolis' destruction in case of just such a situation as the current one. With their reinforcements from Knothole, the crew at the fort prepare to defend the city against a massive swatbot assault to lower the forcefield keeping the radiation in check. Back in Knothole, extra measures are being taken to make absolutely sure that even if the worst happens, the citizenry will be safe.

Station Square, for their part, has sent a squad of GUN commandos to help in the battle at Old Megaopolis. The commander of the military is baffled by this decision, wanting to send in their full fighting force, but the president instead opts to trust his allies from Knothole - though just for insurance, he's sent one of his own operatives along for the ride…

Now that's what I like to see! It's about time Rouge got herself some proper screentime. As all this is going on, Eggman waits aboard a docked battleship in the harbor of Old Megaopolis with his assistant M, and orders A.D.A.M. to begin the missile countdown. However, almost immediately, the sound of a biplane puts them on high alert, and Eggman is shocked to see Sonic and Tails bearing down on his location, not having expected them to be able to get here nearly so fast. See, Eggman, this is why you resist the siren call of your ego and keep your damn plans to yourself. All you did was give your enemies ample warning to prepare to foil your evil plot, you idiot!

Mobius 25 Years Later: Prologue

Writer: Ken Penders Pencils: Steven Butler Colors: Jensen

Okay, guys. This is it. We've reached the most Penders thing of all time. This is something that has been hinted at here and there from all the way back in the Sonic In Your Face special to now, and we're finally seeing the culmination of all of that buildup. All the intricate worldbuilding, all the complex character arcs, all the intrigue and political spider webs and back to back wars and everything that the world of Mobius has been through up until now - there's so much to explore, so many directions it could have gone. We're about to see what this world might look like twenty-five years into the future, and with so much rich history to draw from, what might you imagine this story might look like? What genre might it fall into? Well wonder no longer!

It's a drama. It's a teen drama.

There's a reason that Mobius 25 Years Later is widely considered to be one of the worst parts of the comic. The tone of it is just so far off anything else we've experienced so far that it clashes horribly with what we've come to expect. It's not some masterful subversion of expectations or something - in a lot of ways I consider it to be a genuine insult to the rest of the preboot's material up to this point. It's painfully and immediately clear that this is a story Penders has wanted to tell for a while, but, not being able to fit his "middle-aged adults adulting everywhere and being so adult-like while ignoring the feelings and difficulties that ordinary teenagers face" plot anywhere into the rest of the comic, he's opted to just fire the world a couple decades into the future, pair all the major characters off into weird and oftentimes arbitrary heterosexual marriages, give everyone 2.5 children and a titanium picket fence, and then throw in some allusions to the old "war against Doc 'Botnik" here and there lest we forget, entirely understandably at this point, that we're reading a Sonic the Hedgehog comic here. This thing goes on for nineteen whole issues, taking up each subsequent issue's backup story, and ultimately has no real impact on the actual story involving the characters we already know and love. However, this is technically canon, or at least a version of canon (as when you play with alternate realities and multiple timelines, futures are bound to get mixed up here and there), so we're gonna be covering it - all of it. I wouldn't be tempted to skip it anyway, as by delving into each chapter in this trainwreck, we can actually explore why this whole thing fails so hard, and why it's therefore so loathed in the fandom. Plus, I do recognize that some people actually do enjoy this arc for various reasons (one of my close friends does, and has a whole AU of her own relating to it in fact), so I do plan to at least try to be fair in my review - but I really can't hide that I find this whole affair boring as hell, often downright offensive, and ultimately completely out of place. With all that in mind, let's dive in!

We begin with a full page of exposition delivered to us via high school lecture, because everyone knows the best way to establish your worldbuilding is by infodumping it directly into your audience's eyeballs. Apparently, over the last twenty years, Angel Island has been heavily developed into its own independent republic, with a new city, Portal, acting as the center of trade between the island and the mainland below. We're once again introduced to Lara-Su, who, instead of being the badass time-traveling young adult whom we followed before, is now an ordinary teenager taking ordinary high school classes among a bunch of ordinary high school echidnas.

One of the biggest failings of this story is that Penders writes every teenage character how he thinks teenagers act, from his point of view as a middle-aged adult. This becomes abundantly clear the longer you read, as every teenager is a hormone-fueled, authority-defying, entitled, whiny, fickle child who just doesn't understand how the real world works, while every adult is a wise, experienced, and highly logical individual who always knows more than their younger fellows and refuses to pay attention to the whims of mere children. Like, I'm not even exaggerating here - I'm going to be pointing out every instance of this kind of behavior over the entire rest of this arc, and you can't stop me, so nyah nyah. Penders shows so little respect for the mere concept of teenagers, which is a terrible attitude to have not just in general, but especially if you're one of the head writers for an entire series about teenagers saving the goddamn world! Anyway, case in point: the teacher, instead of admonishing Rutan for being a bully, merely snaps at Lara-Su for not acting enough like a "young lady" and tells her to stay after class. Ugh.

Later that day, Rotor arrives on Angel Island as a liaison for the royal ruling couple, Queen Sally and King Sonic, because yes, Sonic literally becomes king in this timeline. He catches a ride from Harry - hey, good to see our favorite dingo still doing well for himself at least - and meets with Espio, who is now apparently Knuckles' secretary or something. At least, that's all I can assume from this weird-ass conversation.

As a matter of fact, yes, Sonic and Sally are bringing their two children, Sonia and Manik, to the family dinner! How very mid-70s domestic family unit of them! Espio informs Knuckles of this over a television screen as the latter broods around in some kind of high-tech facility. Unlike what we've seen of Espio, the years have dramatically changed Knuckles' appearance - his right eye is missing, replaced with a mechanical one, and he sports the cowboy hat that Hawking gave him in the past (you know, the one we never saw again after he received it). While I actually quite like the idea of a main character in the comic losing something as important as an eye, I feel like there's a huge missed opportunity here - instead of just thrusting us into an alternate future where everything is fine but one character is inexplicably missing an eye, how about actually showing us the story of how that eye was lost? Show us a Knuckles who's learning to cope with the loss of an important body part, and having to adjust to his mechanical prosthetic! Go into his feelings about the subject, as someone who has so long been opposed to a faction that thrives on mechanical prosthetics, instead of just skipping over what has the potential to be the most interesting part of this story! Ugh, sorry, there's just nothing that gets to me more than a missed opportunity like this. Knuckles and Espio exchange some tortured small-talk about their kids for a little while, with the only interesting part of the conversation being their discussion of Rotor's arrival and how he's likely here to see someone named Cobar, with whom he apparently has a history. More on that later. Knuckles excuses himself from the conversation, as he has to be home in time for his daughter's "Unveiling" tonight, and as the call ends we zoom out to see that apparently nowadays, the Master Emerald is hooked up to all sorts of technology in this facility, presumably maintaining everything automatically. However, this story isn't done throwing weird curveballs at us yet - it's time to see what our former villains are up to in this future!

There is so much to unpack here. Dimitri, feared overlord of the Dark Legion, is now an amiable cyborg-head-in-a-bubble. Lien-Da, the treacherous second-in-command who regularly spoke of betraying Dimitri and taking the Legion in her own darker direction, is now apparently a single mom who's embraced the domestic life, taking care of her rowdy teenage son while, predictably, complaining about the behavior of kids these days. And weirdest of all, apparently everyone is just fine with these literal former terrorists living in their midst and doing ordinary mom and grandpa things, with Lien-Da even apparently amenable to the idea of trying to make up with Julie-Su because "they're family," despite her history of, you know, erasing Julie-Su's memory multiple times and killing her biological parents as revenge for her birth. I mean, is this what Penders thinks adulthood is? Is he even entirely sane? Does he know the definition of terrorism?

Any-goddamn-way, Knuckles arrives home to his eerily sterile-looking steel-plated mansion that looks more like the lobby of a pharmaceutical laboratory than a place where people live, and greets his loving housewife Julie-Su, who's gained a cute giant ponytail but lost absolutely everything else that made her unique, including her own cybernetic parts and just her personality in general. She informs Knuckles that Lara-Su has locked herself in the bathroom and is having herself a mighty tantrum, refusing to come out to get ready for her Unveiling ceremony, which is apparently the equivalent of a Quinceañera for echidna girls. Knuckles, instead of doing something reasonable like asking her why she's upset, starts aggressively demanding that she come out of her room this instant, while Lara-Su repeatedly yells about how she doesn't wanna. Ugh, teenagers, amiright?

Seriously, I just can't get over how little respect Penders has for teenagers in his writing. Like, yes, I acknowledge that teenagers aren't always the most logical of beings, but they're also not goddamn three-year-olds either. They're old enough to articulate their desires and express their unique opinions, and often do so in very mature ways, especially if they're raised well and treated with the same respect you'd afford any adult. I should know, I was one myself. I would have assumed Penders was one as well at some point, but perhaps he just popped into the world one day as a fully-formed 43-year-old, full of disdain for those younger than himself. It would certainly explain everything we're seeing here.

Anyway, it turns out that the reason Lara-Su is upset is because Knuckles refuses to train her to be a Guardian, and so she whines and yells about it from behind the door like a petulant child as Knuckles continually refuses to actually give her a solid reason why he won't let her be one. When Julie-Su basically forces him to calm the hell down and explain himself, he reluctantly explains that since all the duties of a Guardian have by now been taken over by other functions of their society, he feels there's no longer any need for one, himself included. This is apparently enough to make Lara-Su immediately happy enough to burst out of the bathroom and grab her father's arm, suddenly totally excited to go to her Unveiling as long as Knuckles promises her the first dance. Ah, the fickle mind of a silly, silly teenager!

Kill me.

#nala reads archie sonic preboot #archie sonic #archie sonic preboot #sonic the hedgehog #sth 131 #writer: karl bollers #writer: ken penders #pencils: ron lim #pencils: steven butler #colors: jason jensen

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stusbunker · 5 years

Text

Known: Bring Him Home

A DARK Supernatural Fan-fiction

Featuring: Demon!Dean, Demon!Reader, Female Vessel OC, Sam Winchester, Crowley, Castiel, Dean x Female Vessel OC

Summary: This is the first two and a half episodes of season 10. I didn’t rehash what the canon gave us, but let you in on where our reader moved through those events in order to be exactly where she is needed to be.

Warnings: Typical angst, show level violence, demonic phone calls aka blood, the ritual of purified blood aka needles, non-consensual touching, and the rest is too spoilery. Have fun kids! xoxo

Series Masterlist

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September 22, 2014

Glendive, MT

The stolen SUV stilled with the crunching of gravel, a roadside bar had caught your eye and on the whim that you hadn’t been followed, you pulled over. It was dark and dingy, something you had become intimately used to. The stale beer soaked into the ragged carpeting, a smell you would always associate with that summer, with the countless nights and bar fights the demon that Dean had become had waved off or fucked away. There was a payphone in the hallway between the bathrooms and somehow you were silently hoping he had kept the same number. The coins clunked into place, long and lean in the polished slot. The ancient deep tone of the ring peeled across the ether and then an alias and a generic voicemail continued the one-sided conversation.

You inhaled and replied chunkily, “Sam, it’s me. Or us, well not Dean, but CC. CC and I, both fine, by the way. If you’re free…we should talk.”

*^*

CC watched her hang up the heavy black phone with a satisfying clink. Her warped image looking back at her through the matte reflection of the disused amenity. She had been hiding out, she knew it and the demon at the wheel had quietly left her to it. Well, she didn’t know what Chloe did, she couldn’t, but the months trying to break through to the real Dean or subdue the demon had been exhausting for them both. Sam’s voice had stirred CC from her subterranean, dulled complacency. This wasn’t just about saving her own skin; it never had been. It was about those boys, those pig-headed jackasses that deserved better than what they had been dealt. Or scammed into. And minimizing Dean’s threat was just a finger in the dam.

She shuffled through the demon’s recent memories, stretching against the mental atrophy. She felt her leaving Dean and Crowley with some strippers, glancing thrice over her shoulder before ditching through the employee exit and into a bouncer’s ride. She hadn’t driven far, but in an odd spiral, fanning out to shake anyone tailing her. She seemed to be in the clear, CC watched her buy one drink at a time watching the door to the side hallway like a dog waiting for her human to return from war. The phone never rang.

*^*

Sam couldn’t remember the last time he had gone over 100, especially in something other than the Impala. He bit his tongue as the rickety bumper brushed the pavement after a railroad crossing. Cursing, he thanked his paranoia and hadn’t risked the bullseye that any of the vintage cars from the Bunker would have been, for any demon in his path. All those sonsofbitches that had been laying low or living on radio silence since Crowley had taken his brother from his bed. Cowards, the whole damn species. He cased the parking lot before heading into the side entrance, the bar like any other, navigable and unimpressive. There was still a dusting of sulfur on the earpiece of the payphone and not another clue in sight.

He slammed the phone back into place, loud enough to get a begrudging ‘hey’ from the bartender. Who recoiled as Sam spun to glare at her, he gathered himself carefully before ordering food and prodding for the direction CC’s demon may have headed. A half hour later Sam stared past his second beer, unsure if he wanted to crash or get back to the Bunker when a drunk at the bar got his attention, whining about his cheating wife.

*^*

September 24, 2014

Another crappy motel

Crowley hadn’t missed how Dean intentionally never mentioned the dove’s sudden and unforeseen disappearance. Crowley was certain Dean hadn’t killed her himself, fairly certain as he didn’t seem to have lost any of the pent-up energy. Especially after the second mess in Wisconsin, when Crowley had been overly disclosing about the Abaddon supporters that Dean stopped listening. With his close watch, Dean couldn’t have done anything to her too terrible.

It still felt a bit, unceremonious, to be skipping town without her. He had grown accustomed to her banter and she had helped keep him infinitely more contained than the Mark could. Without her to help Dean take his edge off, in any number of ways, Crowley pondered what wouldn’t set him off. Ever the businessman, he secured his asset, sliding into the backseat of the car beside Dean as another minion drove them to the next neon plastered cesspool. A jolt of excitement struck a nerve within the King; now it was time for a real howl.

*^*

October 6, 2014

Colorado

You both surfaced in the days following the strip club and the subsequent unanswered phone call. You tried to ignore CC’s intrusiveness, as the memories of the summer months were sorted and filed under constant static in the back of your mind. She was still a hunter, and to her Dean was a target, despite his meatsuit and the taste of him coating every recollection. You left her to her schemes, while mindlessly driving through the mountains and enjoying the scenery you could only imagine in Hell. It was as close to therapeutic something like you could muster and it only made you frustrated with the path you had taken.

The distance did wonders for your ability to forget the severity of his actions. Your struggling masochistic side had taken you down a steep path that fell away into the oblivion of guilt. Was it all your fault? If you hadn’t taken over CC’s body could she have stopped Dean before he let Crowley swindle him into taking on the Mark convincing him to kill Abaddon for him? If you hadn’t distracted Dean from Sam and the Angel problems, would he have ended up on the wrong end of Metatron’s blade? If you hadn’t needed him would he be better off? Had your selfish, imbalanced, twisted nature damned him? You reasoned against yourself on and off as the scenery flitted past, the lush greens soaking in their final triumphs before the autumnal cascade of color. Everything felt impossibly perfect and you worked your jaw against the need for destruction, because at least you could do that properly. You took the winding roads at whatever pace your foot found, letting the pine and the thin air fill your lungs as CC chanted at you to turn around. To go back. To demon up and bring him to justice or the end of an exorcism.

“Fuck off.”

You felt her roll her eyes at you and you stared into the rearview mirror, challenging while unimpressed. You headed back north, slowly trudging out of the pity party. You slipped around an Oldsmobile going ten under, clipping their sideview mirror off with a semi-pleasing thunk. This is what you did now: wallow in self-doubt and cost geezers their pension checks in repair bills. You slammed the gas and drove toward the only thing that made your heart race like it would stop at any moment. Back to the only being that made you feel death had been worth it.

They were gone. Not a lackey or a forwarding address in sight. You knew what to do, but it made CC nauseous as the intent sparked. It was your turn to roll your eyes. Carefully you moved to the back office and found a particularly sweaty thick necked manager to toss into a bathroom. His beady eyes bulged as best they could against his caterpillar inspired brows once you drew the knife. The generic brown towels quickly plugged the sink to allow his blood to fill the basin. Once you felt enough of the ruby liquid had pooled below, you spoke into the depths.

“Crowley, you sonofabitch, where did you go?”

*^*

The blonde left the hotel with tears welling in her eyes, she didn’t even look at you as you blatantly watched from the fender of the latest car you had lifted. You swung your arms widely and entered without warning. He smelled of an ocean of booze, musty sheets and sulfur-tinged sweat. Once he could focus on your face an overplayed laugh erupted shallowly from his chest.

“Well shit, Crowley had that revolving door installed after all. Welcome back, uh, whoever you are. Perfect timing, cuz that one just got all sentimental and I had to let her down easy.”

“Except you didn’t.”

“Of course not, what do I look like?”

“Three sheets to the wind and still wearing your boots, must have been some night.”

Dean cocked his head, kicking his legs over the side of the bed. He tried to stand but thought better of it. You paced, picking up some of his clothes that had been left to clutter the floor. He sipped some water from the nightstand. You couldn’t remember a time he had ever drank water in his life, apparently CC could, but that had been because he had been refused a beer from his dad. Good, little shit deserves some purifying forces in his system.

Your hand brushed over the bag beside his new duffel, which had quietly been awaiting your return. You glanced over your shoulder at Dean who just waved off your touched expression. He didn’t ask where you’d been, and you didn’t offer. Slowly you helped him get naked and into the shower. He was too drunk to even try and put on the charms, but he shoved you a bit to make himself feel better about it. It was all too much: walking into the tangle of his exposed nerves, the thoughtfulness and the swift return to degradation. You needed some air, so you walked back into the night to allow him to sober up, however briefly. When you returned, he was gone, but the bags stayed behind.

*^*

October 14, 2014

The bar with the tiniest umbrellas

The kiss-asses in suits loomed like Agent Smith wannabes, one was barely free from the Axe-body spray of his vessel’s frat boy days. You didn’t care for business and you certainly didn’t want them looking down their noses at you and how your presence was wasting “valuable” time. Instead of engaging them in soul conversion percentages, you ordered another drink and one for Crowley, for whenever he decided to show. Mending bridges was unbearably necessary now that Sam was back in the picture. You felt the mortal coil tightening around your insides, be it from CC’s impatience or the inevitability of being what you were: a demon in love with a hunter. Self-preservation was making you even more cagey than before you had ditched the dynamic duo.

Crowley strolled in with the sound of welcome bells, a far off look in his eyes, the First Blade tight in his grasp. Heckle and Jeckle started off right away, but he ignored their pleas and took the seat next to you. “Somebody came crawling back with her tail between her legs.”

“Where is he?”

“With his brother, no thanks to you.”

“Is he--? Is everyone alright?”

Crowley raised his eyebrows and clenched his jaw, turning to play with the many pokey things in his ornate beverage. “I thought we had ironed out the kinks, once you left it was just the King and his trusty Knight. But he is no longer the brave little soldier daddy shaped him into, now he is a loose canon and, God willing, Sam is the only one who can sort that clusterfuck.”

“If he doesn’t kill him first,” you hissed into your shot glass.

“If you’re so worried about Moose, why don’t you scurry along. They’ll be home before you can find another payphone.”

You side-eyed the pair trying to interject, they each took a step back as you pushed out the stool and stood up. There was a lot you could have said in that moment, but none of it could fix what Dean had broken, especially not what was left of Crowley’s heart. Yours was all you could divine and that only left you chasing your tail. Crowley needed to move on, and Hell needed to be run, whether it by force or commerce. When the unique tingling started in your gut you smiled in gentle gratitude, his hand came up and you were gone before you even heard the snap.

*^*

‘Soul Survivor’

The Bunker’s dungeon

“Well, aint that the whore calling the kettle black,” Dean raised his eyebrows, accenting his demon pitch eyes.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Sam huffed.

“You gonna tell him, or show him,” Dean stared you down until a goosebump-inducing sneer spread across his features. “Miss Collins is not home right now, can rando demon bitch take a message?”

You tried not to flinch, but the insult stacked on top of the unceremonious reveal left you feeling exposed, dirty even. “Yeah, yeah, big deal, jackass,” you snipped, jutting your chin at Dean’s restrained form. “I’d worry about my own self if I was you.”

“No, CC wouldn’t let that happen, not after all those months,” Sam gaped, he was a better liar than you thought. “She wouldn’t let something like you back in unless you forced her.” Maybe he wasn’t completely acting.

Dean started laughing. “You guys wanna take a minute? I mean it’s always a treat watching the grown ups fight, but—”

“You, shut up,” Sam growled at Dean. “And you,” he hissed over his shoulder, “stop talking, you make me sick.”

“Don’t get all self-righteous on me Sam, I mean, all of us here have fucked a demon. Or two,” you left off on a sigh. The younger Winchester recoiled; mouth pinched as if you had slapped him across the face.

“She’s got you there, don’t she?” Dean smirked now. You had grown to hate what he had become, even if he was backing you up.

“Are you working for Crowley?! Have you been--” Sam grabbed the bottle of Holy Water in his good hand, pointing the opening at you while he focused his tunnel vision.

“Not a Crowley stooge,” you held up your hands in surrender, trying not to roll your eyes as Sam’s authoritative side took over. “I don’t have any ulterior motives, I’m not Ruby. I didn’t have an endgame.”

“Just stop bringing her up! This isn’t about who fucked whom, this is about getting my brother back. Is Chloe even alive in there?” Sam’s voice leveled, how he remained focused at all, stumped you.

You nodded. “She’s fine and she is very proud of you right now, if you must know,” you lied to continue the dramatics, ensuring Dean’s over confidence before the plan could continue.

“Awww, wittle Sammy has a cheerleader,” Dean sing-songed.

“Shut up.” Sam snapped. He started sorting through the bags of blood, grabbing a syringe before turning to you. “Are you going to help? Or do I have to exorcise you for good this time?” He spun towards Dean and squared his shoulders. “Buckle up.”

“Sammy, you know I hate shots.”

“I hate demons,” Sam said sadly before tossing holy water in Dean’s face, the demonic grunt escaping his lips as Sam sunk the needle in his brother’s arm. Dose one had been administered. “Look, we got a whole bunch more of these to go. You could make it a lot easier on yourself.”

Sam paused, the olive branch dangling between them. Then Dean shifted, the evil within him fighting the purified blood, impossible bestial cries rang from his body. You swallowed, dumbfounded and truly terrified of him for the first time since the farmhouse. Thankfully, he was restrained. You watched Sam take in Dean’s torment while you waited for the next move.

*^*

It had been hours, Sam sometimes insisting on going in alone, sometimes not bothering to even acknowledge you were tagging along. You couldn’t remember the last time you were this tired: thoughts muted, eyes floating in their sockets, fuzzy limbs kind of tired. But you didn’t dare risk sleep to leave Dean truly alone with Sam, especially an injured Sam. It was during a solo dosage when you started another pot of coffee and turned to head back toward the library when a massive hand clamped down over your mouth. Instinct kicked in and you pushed back with every physical or psychic force you could muster.

Instantly you were free, a large crash and strangled moan cut off behind you. Sam dragged himself off the floor with fire in his eyes.

“He’s out,” he whispered, pulling himself to his feet. You took him in, pale and gawky, CC’s alarm threading through your veins with every heartbeat.

“Do you have your knife?”

Sam sniffed and nodded, chewing on the thought of stabbing his brother. You silently worked out the flanking of searching the Bunker, letting Sam take the lead. CC started to buckle in, her thoughts louder than they had been in months. You reached out with your senses, trying to feel him, but what warding there was against you was enough to dull his resonance. You unsheathed CC’s knife and started moving five paces behind Sam. He grabbed the spare keys from a drawer when an unmistakable voice rattled through the halls.

“Come on, Sammy! Don’t you want to hang out with your big brother? Bring the bitch along, hell we can share her.”

Your insides froze with the menace in his voice. Then you were kicked out of the driver’s seat with a speed and finality you couldn’t comprehend.

*^*

CC had let this go on long enough; she shook out her hands and settled back into control over her body like an alumni walking the well-worn halls of their education, both foreign and familiar with an undercurrent buzzing beneath the surface. She spun her blade and tossed it to the opposite hand, a once flawless motion was now almost too easy. She snorted back a giggle at the feeling of being real and present once more, like a chest full of fresh air and warm laundry all in one go. Then reality pressed in and she leaped into action.

The instant the emergency lights flared overhead; CC bolted back the way you came knowing that Dean knew where the breakers were. Sam followed none the wiser as Dean continued to mock praise him. One second, he was an arm’s length behind her and the next he was gone. Quietly, she back tracked as Sam slammed the door to the Electrical room and locked it.

“Are you serious?!” CC gaped at Sam as he stood listening through the door, knife at the ready but still so optimistic.

“… I know you’re still in there somewhere. Just let me finish the treatments. Dean?”

The first chunk of the door flew at Sam’s face, sending him on his heels and into CC’s bubble.

“You act like I want to be cured! Personally, I like the disease.” Dean’s eyes glinted through the holes he had pounded through the door. Gaps between the boards like a toothpick prison crumbling with each swing.

“I don’t want to have to use this blade on you!” Sam was desperate, begging and it hurt CC to witness it. He was the little brother again and though she hadn’t known him as a child, she knew the real Dean would never be able to dismiss his brother’s pleas. She pulled Sam away from the line of fire, readying her own knife and bracing herself for his inevitable escape. “No, what are you doing?! You can’t use that on him!”

“Shut up, Tweedle Dumb, just let a girl work.”

“Chloe?”

She cocked her head and locked eyes on the thing bursting from the door: show time.

“Well, well, well, look who wants to play hero.” Dean swung again, punctuating his taunts with his hammer. “It’s my lucky day. I’ve been blessed, because there is just enough demon in me to kill your meatsuit, finally free you up to be all you. Can. Be. Then, I’m gonna kill my brother and you’re gonna watch.”

CC felt Sam dive behind her as Dean stepped through the remnants of the door. He glanced impatiently as she mirrored his movements, shielding Sam without giving Dean a path. “You know what, asshole? You can take your threats and shove ‘em. You wanna dance? Let’s dance, just me and whatever you are anymore.”

Sam raced back to the dungeon, searching for anything that could give them the upper hand. Sam didn’t want to risk them killing each other in his absence, but he hoped their slightly even footing would buy him the time he needed.

“Hiya, Chloe, nice to see you again. She smoke out? Couldn’t handle Sam’s bitch face?”

“Nope, got her packed away for safe keepin’, too bad you can’t say the same.” CC shifted her weight, swiping widely and slicing the edge of his shirt. Dean caught her by the wrist, twisting her knife hand above their heads.

“You’re missing my point. This? Lean, mean Dean? Here to stay, Sweetheart.” She glanced up at his grip on her and her weapon and without flinching she kicked out his knee, throwing them both against the wall she broke out of his grasp, the hammer thudded to the floor. He grasped her hair in one deft fist fall, before kneeing her in the kidney. She buckled, falling against him. Dean stepped back and kicked her once in the side until she fell, curling in on herself. Carefully he kneeled at her side, with the hand still in her hair he lifted her ear to his lips and whispered, “stay down or I’ll put you down.”

CC thrashed against him, hurling herself against him as hard as she could. She managed to rock him onto his ass, but he took her roots with him, pulling with all of his might. She screamed as he groaned in satisfaction. She jabbed him in the ribs with the handle of her blade, when he spun them both. His thick thighs pinned her beneath him, as she tried to flip him off of her chest. Dean rolled his hips, his cock rutting against her tits as he held her wrists, twisting them down. She caved on the edge of a fracture, moving the joints with his control, unwilling to risk that sort of handicap. With her knife lost in the tussle, Dean inhaled deeply and grinned down at CC in sickening triumph.

CC swallowed as she felt the rigidness in his jeans, he leaned in, crushing her with his weight, her breath pushed from her lungs like the final tuft of bubble wrap. He watched her struggle; her eyes bulged, and color left her face. Dean rocked into her soft breasts, relishing in the lethargic shift of her weight beneath him. Finally, the creak and crunch of her bones rippled from the force of his increased strength. As the light faded from her eyes an acidic cascade fell over his head and back. He howled, digging his heels into her ribcage, which granted reprieve from the pressure on her chest.

“Let her go!”

Another barrage of holy water hit Dean and he fell to the side of CC’s body, boots kicking wildly as he tried to stand. He screamed and lunged for the hammer. Sam held his knife up, terrified at what he had to do.

“Well look who decided to join us. Ready to play, Sammy?”

Sam stepped forward, trying not to be distracted with the way Chloe’s body remained unnaturally still. Dean looked him dead in the eyes and jumped forward, psyching Sam a little and then swung, landing the hammer in the plaster just behind where Sam’s face had been. The Kurdish blade kissed Dean’s throat, but he knew he hadn’t lost.

“Well, look at you. Do it,” Dean taunted. He watched Sam’s surprise melt into submission. As Sam dropped the blade and Dean let his eyes flood black, three things happened: Dean stepped toward Sam in certain victory, Chloe gasped to life in their periphery, a startling golden glow radiating over her chest and neck and Castiel’s arms caged Dean in place, the power of his stolen grace containing the demon.

“It’s over. Dean, it’s over.”

Next Chapter: The Ending You Expected

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