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ura-writes · 3 years

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Trampolinist

Summary - You’re a player who jumps from server to server, often revisiting several and always trying to find access to new ones. When a victorious game of duos Skywars on Hypixel wins you an invitation to one of the most famous yet exclusive servers in the community, you find a world you never knew existed, allies you’re not certain you can trust, and enemies that may not be just that. Oh, yeah, and an anarchist piglin hybrid.

(c!technoblade/server jumper!reader)

Basic warnings: minor blood, swearing, light threats

A/N - hello! I decided to start this series as a result of a sporadic idea at midnight after quite an odd dream. Some information you might need:

A few select people can jump servers without using portals, and you (the reader) are one of them.

Some servers are public and some require invites. Hypixel and a lot of the other bigger servers are public, while SMPs such as the Dream SMP are private and require an invite.

Jumpers, as they are commonly referred to throughout the series, still require an invite to private servers, though some have figured out loopholes to this process and actively exploit it, earning the title of “Crashers”. You have figured it out but don’t use the ability.

The rating for this series is 14-15+, most likely including minor to graphic descriptions of blood/injuries, violence, swearing, minor manipulation and death.

There are select groups of people who hate Jumpers and actively try to perma-kill them or get them source-banned from servers, leaving them stuck in single player and isolation.

From the author:

This will be in second person.

There will be no use of Y/N or (Y/N) or anything along those lines. I understand some people use them as a descriptor, but in my opinion, it looks a bit messy/choppy.

Feel free to criticize, though don’t be super harsh.

Also gl free to point out spelling mistakes.

I love love LOVE feedback! Gimme it! Please! /lh /gen

Anyway, those are the basics that you need to know! For now, at least… hehe.

Enjoy the first part!

-ura

——

The familiar particles signalling a personal portal opening in the lobby sends a few people scattering, but most just move to the side, though there are a fair few that stay to watch the person step out of the rip in reality.

The person stumbles out, cursing the deities to high heaven, brushing dirt and sweat and even a bug off of their face, certainly looking a bit worse for wear.

This was certainly not what the audience was expecting. They were expecting a prim, proper or at least somewhat distinguished person to step out of the actively sparking spiral, as most Jumpers are that way, even just a bit.

Nope.

“What are you looking at?”

The people step back a bit, noticing the sword the person clutches in their hand.

That person is you.

“Fuck off, would you? You probably see Jumpers on the daily! Fuckin’ annoying.” you grumble, sheathing the sword at your side. “Fuck… is this Hypixel?”

With a cursory sweep of the attire of the people surrounding you and buildings towering over everyone, you determine that yes, it is, in fact, Hypixel.

Of course, that may have also been the big-ass sign in the sky with the server’s name on it. That too.

With a sigh and a wave of your hand, you pull your inventory up. The typical “please place your personal belongings in a safe place before playing a match, otherwise they may be wiped.” message pops up when you do. You huff, wave your fingers to dismiss the text. Not like you’ve been here a hundred thousand times or anything like that.

The Netherite blade at your side, your armor and any sentimental belongings you have on you go straight into your enderchest, categorized in one of the shulker boxes designated specifically for this purpose.

As you walk along, trying to sort your inventory out (fortunately the server provides a free repair and replace to anyone’s clothing, as yours are beaten pretty much beyond self-help), deciding what match you might want to play, the crowd that was surrounding you quickly scurries off with a few screams.

A quick glance upwards catches your gaze on a red and white nametag.

Huh. Don’t see those often.

Whispers of the name you can’t quite see from where you stand rapidly reach your ears, ringing with slight familiarity.

Dream.

Odd. The masked man doesn’t often come onto public servers, mainly sticking to his own private server, named after him. The Dream SMP. How egotistical.

Without another glance towards the fan-people, you select a game idly. The blue text pops up in front of you, confirming your want to play the match.

Skywars Duos.

Before you know it, you’re whisked off to the arena, a bit dizzy from your landing, but fine nonetheless. The timer for the start slowly counts down, ticking slowly as people pop into existence with increasing frequency.

A presence behind you alerts you to your teammate. You nod at them just as the beeping of the final ten seconds counts down.

After a few repeated sessions, most being losses, you decide on one more match before you head to a tavern for the night, preferably one with a view.

This time you’re the second one to arrive. And for once, you take a longer look at your teammate.

He’s the guy everyone was freaking out about a few hours earlier… what was his name again? Dr-something. Or was it a Tr-something? Ah, who knows. It doesn’t matter as long as he’s good. You don’t bother to look at his nametag; he’s probably just some hotshot who thinks he’s all that.

“Not going to freak out?” he asks you. You snort at the question, shaking your head with a glance at the timer.

“Just here to kick ass.”

“Fair enough,” he replies. “You any good?”

A laugh from you echoes as the beeping of the countdown starts.

“We’ll see.”

The barrier below you drops, sending you hurtling to the floating island below. You quickly hit the ground, rolling into a crouch while your teammate raids the chest beside you, tossing a few bits of armor and a stone axe as well as a golden apple, which you catch and nod gratefully.

The hood on his head drops when another player attempts to take him out of the game. He ducks, barely avoiding the glimmer of the enchanted sword, sweeping her legs out from under her. The enemy player narrowly rolls out of the way with her shield being knocked out of her hands into the dark blue void below the floating island.

She curses loudly as his axe lands beside her head, kicking it to the side.

In that moment, you shove her hard off of the crumbling stone, jabbing your axe in her shoulder for final measure. Her falling figure flashes red with the loss of hearts, and eventually, she disintegrates into dust, the announcement of her tag being eliminated in the chat making you smirk.

“Well, you are good.”

You send him a smirk and collect the spoils of your kill, mostly a few potions and the iron blade, tossing a few of the former to your teammate and splashing a speed potion on yourself.

With practiced movements you begin to build to the middle islands, your teammate throwing the occasional snowball at any approaching enemy players, even knocking one off their bridge. The message of their death rings in the chat, being the fifth elimination.

The chests there contain better loot, even a diamond sword and chestplate, a strength II potion and a Power I bow with fifteen arrows. You take the bow and chestplate (with permission from your teammate, who gladly takes the sword and potion) and book it to the center chests, almost laughing at the amount of snowballs and arrows lying there.

“Well, I’m not complaining,” you muse.

You hear a yell of your tag, quickly spinning around to block the swing of an enchanted axe, their teammate quickly turning to gang up on you after finishing off another person.

Great. You’re fighting two people now.

Swing, duck, dodge, swipe, duck, swipe, block—shit, you got stabbed! Two hearts disappear from your health bar, sending a flurry of curses flying from your lips.

But luckily, your teammate is fast enough to eliminate the weaker of the two.

The tables turn.

The clash of blades, splash of potions and grunts of pain quickly move to the edge of the center island. It’s two verses one now, and the three of you are the last competitors in the match.

Block the swing, return the blow, duck, block, dodge—

A sudden stab in your shoulder alerts you to an arrow stuck in the skin there, slowly depleting your health.

It’s merely a distraction.

The enemy player barrels into you, sending you stumbling backwards right at the edge of crumbling gravel.

Poison becomes your downfall.

The smack of another half heart.

As one last resort, you grip onto the block with one hand, the other dangling with your bow into the void. Gritting your teeth, you do your damndest to drag yourself up, the poison wreaking havoc through your body and strength.

Shit. I’m not going to survive this, am I?

The one-handed grip on your bow tightens, nocked arrow slipping between your dirt-covered fingers.

You make a decision.

Just as the enemy player comes over, smirking but low on health, you let go of the block, drawing your arrow back as you fall into the void.

The broadhead meets its mark just in time, signalling a victory with a dragon appearing underneath you right before you hit the death line. A sigh of relief escapes your lips; you direct the dragon upwards with a rush of gratefulness soaring through your body. Respawning isn’t a pleasant process.

Twenty or so seconds later, you appear back in the lobby with your teammate at your side. The lobby is nearly empty, only a few people milling around, most having traveled elsewhere or checked into a tavern or hotel.

“You’re good. We could use you on our side.”

“ ‘We’?”

Two other figures appear out of seemingly nowhere, one wearing white-rimmed black sunglasses with a blue hoodie, the other a bandana and a white hoodie with flames on the front of it.

Your fingers twitch at your sides, calling up a portal in your mind, ready to dash through it at the slightest hint of a threat. Sparks form by your palms, their signature color drawing the leader’s attention.

“Calm down. I have no interest in killing you.”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” you retort. “Three versus one isn’t exactly fair y’know.” The sparks grow brighter; though they are primarily used to call up portals, they can deal quite a blow to anyone who forcefully comes into contact with them.

Dream (you now read off his nametag, getting sick of referring to him by random aliases) extends a hand in front of his body. Something hovers in it, glowing a soft white and reading something you can’t quite make out.

“It’s not going to kill you.”

Bandanna laughs at that.

“Reassuring,” you snap, taking a closer look at it.

Invitation: Dream SMP

Active?: Yes

Expires: Never

Taken aback, you sputter out a few jumbled sentences before asking why they’d invite you of all people. Sure, you may be okay at Skywars, but that doesn’t warrant an invitation to literally the most exclusive server in the network.

“Uh—what?”

You take a quick glance at the two others, noting their tags are red and white as well, reading Sapnap and Georgenotfound.

“You don’t have to accept.” Dream steps forward to set the glowing orb in your hands. “Just know that we picked you for a very good reason.

How… interesting.

“Is it ‘cause I’m an inactive Crasher?”

The three stiffen at the moniker used for the infamous Jumpers, the ones who figure out ways around the system, the lines of fate that make up the different servers, finding loopholes that not even the best Mender can. They exploit them, gaining almost god-like abilities on the server only to wreak absolute anarchy on the infrastructure until the admin can step in, if they haven’t been eliminated from the system or perma-killed already.

From what little you know about the Dream SMP, you know the admin is a god of sorts, mostly staying out of the way but occasionally fixing matters that need it. Otherwise they stay… wherever gods stay.

“No,” George pipes up. You note his accent, odd and slightly out of place, but not unpleasant. “You being a Jumper does help, however.”

You’ve heard of elusive servers where Jumpers have access to a lot of power and near-unlimited resources, though no one can quite figure out why. Those servers are typically entirely anarchy.

“Yeah, sure.” But you clutch the invitation closer to your person anyway. It glows a bit brighter at the increased contact.

“Think on it.”

Those words echo through your mind throughout the rest of the night, in your bed, subconsciously in your dreams and into the next morning.

It’s no easy decision. You know you’ll be dragged into all sorts of politics, conflict and battles unlike the Skywars ones you usually find yourself dealing with.

Your hand grips the glowing ball a bit tighter, reading the same three statements engraved on it repeatedly until the words are branded into your mind.

And then it disappears.

“Invitation accepted.”

#mcyt x reader #reader insert #xreader #x reader #mcyt x you #technoblade x reader #dreamwastaken x reader #Trampolinist: Series

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seaofghouls · 3 years

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Theory Time! ( WKM Timeline)

So! Hey there! Maple here.

With the release of WAIA, there’s more lore to go through! I’ve only really talked about my theories and thoughts on Discord but I’ve never said anything on here.

So, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

!SPOILERS FOR WKM/ADWM/AHWM/WAIA!

Warnings: Suicide/Yandere/Death

We good? Alright.

Starting off, let’s set the stage for before WKM.

I think that because of their silent nature, Y/N was always very shy, therefore, had a very small friendgroup. This friendgroup being Mark, who we know as Actor, and Damien, who we now know as Dark.

Actor had a slight attraction to Y/N, but he knew Damien had very strong feelings for Y/N, so he decided to back off.

He fell hard for Celine and Celine felt the same way.

They got married and I think they were happy, at least for a little bit.

Eventually though, they started to get into more and more arguments. Celine went to her good friend William for comfort. Soon enough, this went from platonic to romantic, as Celine and William fell in love. After Mark found out, he was furious. In my mind, they were already in the process of getting divorced by this point.

Mark was still incredibly heartbroken.

Celine left and Mark was left inside the mansion on his own.

The house eventually got to him, infesting his mind, possessing him, almost.

Y/N, of course, was super worried about the dude.

They would always call him, but he would never answer. Y/N got sick of it, and soon enough they stormed up to the mansion.

However, they could never get in.

They never stopped trying, no matter how much Damien insisted to leave Mark alone. That was, until the invites came in. Of course, this was all part of Mark’s revenge plot. Mark never meant for Y/N to get hurt. There was two reasons they were invited to this hell show.

One, because it wouldn’t seem natural if they weren’t there.

Two, because Mark missed them terribly. This was the perfect excuse to see them again without the influence of the house.

Of course, things don’t go as planned.

Mark tricked William into shooting him, disguised as a russian roulette game. In the morning, Y/N is the first one to discover their dear friend’s body.

They investigate the premises, until Mark’s body is missing. I don’t exactly have an answer to where it could’ve gone. Perhaps after killing himself so many time trying to escape the house, it decayed, hinting at why his portrait crumbled in AHWM.

Of course, William and Abe were super tense, and were pointing guns at each other. Unexpectedly, Mark’s ex-wife, Celine showed up. The house had not planned that, but decided she was a much better vessel than Mark or William since she was trained in magic.

The house waited until Y/N, Abe, Benjamin, and the chef were out of the house. Taking this opportunity, the house stole Damien and Celine’s bodies. Mark now owned Damien’s body and the house now owned Celine’s body.

The house in Celine’s body barged out with an incredible amount of magic by the time the group had gotten into the house.

George, Benjamin, and the chef had all left by that point, as stated by Benjamin, ‘There’s only death here, now.’

Y/N, Abe, and William stayed in the house to find answers.

Abe and William pointed their guns at each other again, this time, William shot Abe.

In a desperate attempt to stop anymore people from dying, Y/N tried to intervene. That action costed their life and freedom.

They were shot and they snapped their neck falling off of the balcony.

They were met with Mark, saying “It’s not fair, is it?” before fading into the darkness.

Damien and Celine then appear, offering a way out. Y/N accepts, unaware of what would happen.

Damien pushes Y/N into the nearby mirror to spare them from the excruciating pain that would be included.

It’s unclear how ling they are trapped there, but most people think that it was around a century. So, that’s what we’ll go with.

After this century has passed, Y/N was saved from the mirror by Mark, who is now in Damien’s body. By this point, Celine and Damien have already become Dark.

When they were saved from the mirror, Y/N didn’t remember anything. They had amnesia. They were only able to recall tiny bits and pieces as time went on.

Mark used this to his advantage. The reason he felt the need to? He had moved on from Celine. This would be good, right? Not exactly.

Not for Y/N, at least. Because now, he was obsessed with Y/N. By the time the van series starts, he is head over heels.

In the last episode of the van series, Y/N was found asleep in Mark’s van.

All of ADWM seemed to have a dream like quality, so because of Mark’s behaviors throughout the date and the true end, this leaves me to believe that this is just what all of ADWM is. A dream or nightmare that Y/N had while they were asleep in the van.

For the Dark portion of it, it could be one of two things. Either A, it’s the product of Y/N scattered’s memories longing to see Damien again, or B, Dark was able to communicate with Y/N through their mind.

Because of how he interacts with Y/N in AHWM, I think it’s more likely to be the first option. The scattered memories forming something that Y/N longs for, but Y/N isn’t aware that they long for him.

Through the events leading up to AHWM, it’s pretty safe to say that by this point, Mark is a yandere for Y/N.

He’s very careful about how he goes about this adventure. Making sure that no one else can have Y/N. He doesn’t use direct violence, not wanting to scare Y/N.

Instead, he uses mental factors. Mental factors that lead anyone that may stand in the way away from Y/N, ensuring that he is with Y/N.

In the true ending, it’s revealed that after they save the world, he finally reveals his true feelings. Y/N most likely said yes. We can’t know for sure until AHWM 2 comes out, but it’s pretty likely that Y/N accepted his feelings.

Looking at the most recent piece that came out, WAIA, Y/N accepted a job as an interview tester for a robot. Probably to help Mark with paying for things. Since this is a solo job, Mark let it slide and let Y/N take the job.

As Y/N goes through with tested this robot, they start to notice some glitches. These glitches, however, are not just any glitches. They’re the glitches that reveal who this robot really is.

The robot contains the memories of Wilford Warfstache, AKA, William. The person who killed Y/N. Y/N, does not know this, however, due to memory loss. Little bits and pieces may have came together but nothing too big.

Wilford explains the story of what happened, saying that he was the one who pulled the trigger, but he didn’t know it was loaded.

He asks if it was his fault.

Y/N replies with yes, since it was his hand who ended this old friend’s life.

Wilford apologizes sincerely, the apology directed at Y/N because it was also his trigger that killed them, though they are unaware of it.

They don’t know that they died. They can only remember faint faces from a past life. Nothing too major.

Wilford lets them go and they go home.

This is the lore including Y/N so far. We’ll just have to wait until AHWM 2 comes out to see what happens.

#wilford warfstache #darkiplier #y/n #actor mark #markiplier #markiplier egos #who killed markiplier #celine #wkm damien #william barnum #adwm #ahwm #wkm #waia #timeline #lore

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misstrashchan · 4 years

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Pyre/Greedling Meta:

I remember in the earlier volumes that a fair amount of people in the FNDM would compare Cinder to Lust from Fullmetal Alchemist, due to her femme fatale persona and voice seeming like an impression of Laura Bailey's Lust.

But as we learn more about Cinder and meet Salem in vol4, it's very clear that the version of herself she likes to present herself as is meant to come across as an impression, an imitation. Because she's trying to imitate Salem, the person who defines what power is to her.

And as that facade crumbles and we slowly start to see how deep Cinder's desires really run, it's far more clear to me that her character and story have much more in common with Greed, not Lust.

:read more:

Greed is the only homunculi who is willing to follow his deepest desires to the fullest, regardless of where that placed him. He was certainly willing to do evil, but wouldn't if that evil didn't personally benefit him. And, over time within the series, Greed comes to realise that his obsession with power, glory and seeking to become God, were nothing more than vain attempts to cover up his true emotional emptiness caused by a lack of connecting to others. And once he finds a cause and people to support who help and support him in turn, his character arc finishes with him, Greed, looking on all that he has, his friends, and is grateful. Content.

Which ties into the lesson of the Fall Maiden in the Tale of the Four Maidens in which Fall begs the Hermit to look around at all he has and be thankful. To be satisfied and content with oneself, which is a lesson Cinder has to learn in order to truly become a Fall Maiden.

Greed's desires are similar to Cinder's own ambition for power driven by her fear and insecurities, seeking to become a "godlike maiden badass" wanting to fill the emptiness and craving she feels, not yet realizing that this will not be what brings her true satisfaction to her, well, greed.

"Greed may not be good, but it's not so bad either. You humans think greed is just for money and power! But everyone wants something they don't have"

"You Atlas elites are all the same! You think hoarding power means you'll have it forever. But it just makes the rest of us hungrier! And I refuse to starve"."

I think it's very important to point out that Greed doesn't become good or redeem himself because he sees the error of his ways and wants to atone for the things he's done, rather he starts on the path to redemption by refusing to be a pawn to Father any longer, when realizing the power and glory he craves he wouldn't be able to obtain by staying and working underneath Father like the rest. His greed and dissatisfaction are what motivates him, though it is ultimately Ling who gives him the final push and convinces him to side with the protagonists.

And Cinder at the end of vol7 seems to be heading towards a crossroads of whether or not she'll stay with Salem, given how the Grimm arm that was "gifted" to her by Salem seems to be slowly consuming her body, she might have doubts about whether the kind of power Salem has promised her is really the kind of power she wants, and whether she's prepared to sacrifice herself to obtain it, or whether she could choose to strike out on her own. Again, some villains start on the path to redemption solely out of self interest.

It's also not just Greed's story I think Cinder's is remarkably similar to, but the stories of Ling and Pyrrha and the role they play in Greed and Cinder's stories, as their souls and stories are intrinsically intertwined.

The ouroboros tattoo and its meaning was the first thing that caught my attention, as it the ouroboros symbol represents eternal cyclical renewal. Of life, death and rebirth. And how that aligns with Pyrrha's incantation used to unlock Jaune's aura:

"For it is in passing we achieve immortality. Through this we become a paragon of virtue and glory to rise above all. Infinite in distance and unbound by death, I release your soul, and by my shoulder, protect thee"

Cinder also has a tattoo of her own symbol that appears after connecting to Amber's soul and taking half of her power, just like the ouroboros tattoo appearing after Greed and Ling's souls were intertwined and he had taken over his body. Cinder takes the other half of the maiden powers after Pyrrha had been bound to them as her and Amber's aura were intertwined, making it likely that Pyrrha is a part of Cinder in the same way Greed and Ling are.

Both Pyrrha and Ling are considered to be people in positions of power and prestige with great expectations placed on them that they intend to live up to. Ling as an Xingese prince, Pyrrha as a world renowned champion fighter and promising huntresses, the "invincible girl". Both agree to becoming a maiden/homuculus respectively, despite the inhumane means of doing so and risk to their body, soul and life, as they believe obtaining this power will help their people.

"We can't transfer Amber's power to you but we can give you what those powers are bound to."

"Her aura"

"Her life... would become intertwined with yours. The question is-"

"What's that gonna do to you?" - (RWBY Volume 3 Chapter 6)

Greed and Cinder's stories are body horror stories about what you'll sacrifice for power, and the power they are "gifted" by their masters, Father and Salem, is concentrated in their left arm.

Interestingly, Greed's power that transforms him into an inhuman monster is his "Ultimate Shield" that makes him invulnerable, which is the exact opposite of the "power" that Salem grants Cinder that slowly crawls up her left arm threatening to turn her into a monster makes her more vulnerable than most, because she doesn't have aura to protect those parts of her.

Both Greed and Cinder are the most defiant of their masters wishes, and often Father and Salem experience losses and failures because they underestimated Greed and Cinder's ambition. What should have been an easy win at Haven for Salem failed because Cinder was overly ambitious in her need to to win, to feel powerful, and Greed's betrayal of Father is simply because his own ambition is greater than his, thus he would never be content to work underneath him, to be less than him.

Both are charismatic individuals and good at convincing others to work with them. They like to surround themselves with others and both are the only ones under Father/Salem to have their own subordinates (Wrath doesn't count since it was always Father's intention to have him become Fuhrer). Despite them clearly needing human connection, their relationship with their loyal subordinates we are introduced to alongside them is... Not Super Great. They might care about them to a certain degree, but at the end of the day they ultimately view them as useful tools and possessions.

Both of them speak of an emptiness they feel inside of them:

"All of these souls inside of me, and yet I still feel so... empty"

"It's... an emptiness. It burns. Like a hunger."

It's ultimately Ling thst acts as Greed's consciousness, as when he doesn't show any remorse over killing Bido, the last of the old Greed's followers, on the orders of Father, Ling is the one who drags out all of his repressed emotion, being able to feel his pain and see his memories, he forces Greed to face them and how terribly he treated his "friends", and to reevaluate his priorities and self, pushing him away from Father.

"It's nothing personal. I'm just doing my job. I am sorry, honestly!"

"What have you done, Greed? Are you determined to prove you're a monster? What kind of sick creature... would kill his own friend!?"

"He wasn't my... friend..."

"Then why do you remember him? And are you gonna try and tell me Bido was just making everything up?"

"Those were the last Greed's memories! They're not mine!"

"THEN WHY ARE YOU IN SO MUCH PAIN!?

Pull yourself together, Greed. I'm warning you. I'll take this body back if you drop your guard"

"They aren't mine... Father purified me and purged the old Greed's memories. Those memories aren't a part of me any more!"

"No! You're wrong Greed! It's not that easy! They'll always be a part of you! You can't just erase them from your soul! They were the only part of you that you chose!"

"Look at them! Can you not hear their souls crying out? You abandoned them. Your real family! You threw them away like trash!"

"Fool. If you turned your back on something you wanted, YOU DON'T DESERVE TO CALL YOURSELF GREED!" (Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood episode 44, Greed and Ling)

If Pyrrha were to return, it's likely she would manifest and communicate more directly with Cinder than maiden predecessors usually do (though in all fairness we don't know the details of if maiden predecessors do or not), being more similar to Ozpin and Oscar's situation, rather than just being a part of her soul, because of how unnatural her interference with the fall maiden's power transfer was. The way Ozpin looks and speaks about it makes it clear he knows there is a very good chance he was recreating his own curse the GoL bestowed on him, and that this isn't like when he was the Hermit, giving his magic happily to the Maidens.

There's also the parallels between Ozma and Pyrrha's situations too, and how readily they accept their mission and fate, and in how they die, and I believe we still haven't seen the full payoff to those parallels with Pyrrha.

When Ozma reincarnates the first time, it's implied that he completely overtakes Ozma 2.0/ Oisín/Diggs (why do we have so many names for him), having not yet learned how to live with the souls with which he had been paired. It's not until much, much later when Oz is beginning to have doubts about whether he should stay with Salem , but still continues to go along with her plans that Oisín makes himself known, (and we know Ozma isn't used to him communicating with him with how suprised and shaken he is by this, which is strange considering he's been paired with him for a long while, unless Oisín hadn't made himself known before this) and is the one who finally pushes Ozma to leave Salem.

"What are we doing?"

With Cinder returning to Salem's side, full of doubt of whether she can go through with Salem's plan for her, to hurt and destroy herself for this power, and Emerald and Mecury (probably Neo too) likely betraying and cutting ties with Cinder too, which is going to leave her full of even more doubt, hurt, anger and additional feelings of betrayal and confusion. And more than anything, alone. Which would be the ideal time for Pyrrha to say to Cinder like with Ozma, "What are we doing?" To push her to reevaluate her priorities and self.

Imagine Pyrrha finally being able to manifest or communicate with Cinder, realizing she's bound to the woman who killed her. Knowing her emotions and memories in their entirety, feeling her pain and anger as if it were her own. And Ruby describing her as "Pyrrha thought that if there was even the smallest chance of helping someone that it was a chance worth taking" the Pyrrha who told Jaune "Everyone needs a little help sometimes" understanding what Cinder went through, and that if she couldn't save the world or make it better by attempting to kill Cinder, then, maybe as she is now, the one thing she can do to help save the world, to make it a better place, is by helping Cinder be better, helping her use her talents for good, like a true maiden should? (On a more fun note, imagining Pyrrha deciding to help Cinder but not missing any opportunity to be a playfully snarky little shit towards her. Because what is Cinder gonna do? Kill her again? Like tell me Pyrrha would not Do Both. And Cinder's not sure which she hates more: Pyrrha teasing her or feeling sorry for her)

Another interesting thing is how in The World of RWBY: The Official Companion states that Salem's goal is to possess all four relics, and to absorb the power of all the Maidens, which she means to at some point, absorb Cinder's power. It's likely part of why she favours Cinder and has such an intimate relationship with her (the Relic of Choice might have played a role in why Salem chose Cinder specifically) That transition of maiden powers from Cinder to Salem would be made much more seamless for Salem if she was grooming Cinder to be more like her, and was slowly becoming more Grimm, if she was treating Cinder like an extension of herself, because to Salem, she would be. Which is again, similar to Father and Greed, as Greed literally was an extension of Father created from him, and absorbed back into him when he became too disobedient and remade and reborn again.

The finale of Fullmetal Alchemist Brotherhood has Father absorbing Greed's philosopher's stone in an attempt to claim his power, but Greed ends up sacrificing himself by inverting his Ultimate Shield inside of Father, making his whole body incredibly fragile and vulnerable so Ed is able to defeat him. In the end, Greed ends up being the key to their victory against Father.

I want to make it clear that I don't personally think RWBY will end with Cinder dying or "defeating" Salem. At least, not in the traditional sense. I can draw as many comparisons as I like between Greed and Cinder but at the end of the day they're two different stories with different themes. And I don't believe that kind of ending would align with RWBY's. One of the themes of Cinder's story is to find a way to keep living no matter what. And as for Salem, the only way she can "die" is to learn the value of life and death, which would require a much more different approach.

But either way, I do believe Cinder will end up being their key to victory one way or another, similar to Greed.

#rwby #pyre #greedling #cinder fall #greed the avaricious #ling yao #pyrrha nikos #fullmetal alchemist: brotherood #fullmetal achemist #rwby theory #rwby meta #fullmetal alchemist brotherhood spoilers #I AM SORRY TO EVERYONE WHO HAD TO SCROLL THROUGH THIS ALL #I I DON'T HAVE A LAPTOP SO I CAN'T PUT A READ MORE LINK IN MY POSTS ON MY PHONE #thank you to anyone who might have read my dumb long analysis #I've had this in my head for a while but I get really nervous about sharing my thoughts and making long posts like this #so thank you

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katnissmellarkkk · 4 years

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Summary: At the Seventy-Fourth Reaping for The Hunger Games, volunteering is outlawed, thanks to a tribute four years prior. Because of this, when Katniss’ sister Prim’s name is chosen from the bowl, there’s nothing she can do but hope that Peeta Mellark, past victor and now Prim’s mentor, can somehow bring her sister home alive. (Obviously heavy on Everlark.)

AN: Hi! I don’t really have a big author’s note or anything--at least, I don’t think I do? We’ll see how long this trails on--but this is one of the fics I’ve been working on for a while. It’s multi-chaptered so there’s gonna be a lot more coming in the future, but this first chapter is honestly a little similar to the original book, with some (significant) deviations here and there, but after this first chapter, this story becomes extremely different from canon. I gotta thank, obviously, @rosegardeninwinter for a). making me my pretty lil banner and for b). reading the million, unpolished, unedited screenshots of my drafts that I’m sure ya’ll got tired of really quick. And also for encouraging me to write this in the first place. And also, I gotta thank everyone who liked and reblogged the lil story edit I posted months ago for this concept. It really encouraged me to write this concept out. (I’m talking about this edit right here if you forgot or never saw x). Okay, anyways, I’m talking too much but thank you! Also link to this story on AO3 [x].

Chapter One :

I stare out into the sky, introspective, as I wait for familiar footsteps to approach. The footfalls of my hunting partner, my friend even, Gale, still remain absent, despite our longstanding agreement to hunt on Reaping Day, no matter how hot it is, or how scarce the game, or how worried we may be deep inside.

Of course, how could a couple kids from the Seam not worry about Reaping Day? At least a slight bit, deep down?

Reaping Day. The day that decides the almost absolute fate of a lucky—as our assigned escort, straight from the Capitol itself, so proudly proclaims—boy and girl.

We're District Twelve. The smallest and one of the poorest districts in the country of Panem. There's an almost guarantee that whoever gets their name picked from the reaping bowl, even the strongest eighteen-year-old boy in the district, will have an almost sure fate of death. Likely before the number of tributes drops below twenty.

Tributes from our district almost never fare well inside the arena.

Almost never.

We have had a few winners in history, two of which are still around, but a few out of seventy-three games isn't inspiring much hope in anyone today.

The wind breezes against my arms, prickling the hair at the back of my neck, and I'm struck by the memory of being out here, in the forbidden territory of the woods, outside our district limits, when I was just a kid. When my dad was the one hunting and I was just along for the ride. Just along because I wanted to be with him. When I used to blindly trust him and my mother, when I thought he'd live forever, when I was too young to truly grasp the concept of the Hunger Games. When I was too young to truly grasp the concept of the world in which we live.

When I was eleven my every illusion was shattered violently. Almost as violently as the death in which my father must have endured, underground in those mines, as they exploded.

I remember hearing the alarm at school, blaring so cacophonously over the speakers that it shook the schoolrooms themselves. I remember blindly grappling through the scurrying bodies of my classmates, until I found my way to my little sister, Primrose. Her room was completely empty, but she still remained, sitting behind her desk with small folded hands, waiting for my arrival with excessive patience.

I'd always coached her on what we'd do, if there ever should be a mine accident. I made sure she knew the drill, just as I knew it. Like the back of my hand. Like a prayer or a lullaby. I could recite it in my sleep. Because my father had just as sternly instilled it into me.

I wove my way through the chaos of bodies and white-hot panic, towing Prim only inches behind me by the hand, as the kids from town lingered in the hallways, their classic, bright blue eyes large and their voices all quivering, and as the kids from the Seam dutifully made their way to the nearest exits, hoping and praying and begging silently that it wasn't their parent who had been hurt. Hoping the accident hadn't taken what was typically the sole provider in most households, here in the poorest section, in the most impoverished district.

Prim and I must have not hoped hard enough, because we learned almost immediately upon finding our mother, who was now immobilized with grief, her characteristic gentle smile eviscerated and in it's place, a blank stare, void of any life at all, that our every fear from hearing that alarm were coming true.

My mom was supposed to get a job. She was supposed to find a way to provide for us, to take care of her two daughters, who were grieving her husband just as much as she was.

But instead she lay in bed day after day. On the good mornings, maybe if Prim begged and pleaded, she'd move to a chair, in front of the fireplace and stare at the flames with the same vacant expression that had replaced the loving, kind woman who'd raised us.

The money from the government, the minuscule amount of money given to keep us afloat until our mother found work, ran out. The meat our father had hunted, the plants he'd saved, ran out. The food we had the small luxury of sometimes buying—or more times than not, trading for—quickly ran out.

And our mother still did absolutely nothing.

I take a deep breath now and try to force myself to forgive her. Forgive her for not being strong enough to keep going, forgive her for not caring enough about her own children to keep them alive in the face of her grief, forgive her for being so in love that losing my father had almost killed her too.

I know it's what my father would want. And I know it's something I can't let myself do. Because if I let her off the hook, it's like saying it's okay that she almost let Prim wither away to nothing. Forget me. I will never forgive her for almost taking my little sister away from me.

Our mother did absolutely nothing until Prim's ribs were prominent, until my stomach was nearly hallow, until our cheekbones were so blatantly obvious you could count them from down the road.

And all my fears, all my resolve, to keep the three of us together as a family, went out the window. There was nothing left to do, but wait for me and Prim to be taken to the Community Home, with the other orphans or kids from unsafe families. Kids who still remained too thin, who's eyes told stories no ear wanted to hear, who still wore bruises upon their skin like freckles from the sun, who looked nearly worse than the corpses I encountered every winter, while walking from the Seam to town. Those corpses were the unlucky ones who'd actually starved to death, who had sat down to merely rest, because they had no substance to carry them any further, and somehow never got back up.

On that day, at eleven years old, living in the Community Home sounded no worse than living with the immobilized shell that had once been my mother. My resolve to hold out until my birthday, until I could get the tesserae that would feed my family for an entire year, was shattered by the harsh raindrops pelting me from the grey, unforgiving sky.

I vaguely heard the baker's wife, the mean-spirited woman, with her deeply embittered, hostile blue eyes that somehow seemed black, scream at me, calling me names, shooing me from her property.

I'd simply wanted to rummage her trashcan, so desperate for any small morsel to take back to Prim, any motivation to take even another step forward, when I felt her rough and calloused hands shove me away.

I toppled over, my legs already weak and shaky from lack of nutrition and substance. My depleted form laid on the ground, my eyes bleary from exhaustion and the shivering wind and rain.

The witch went back inside the bakery as I scarcely conjured up the will to sit upright. I was beyond done. The fighting to even gain a fraction of my mother's awareness, to get something, anything, to feed myself and my starving sister, to even stand up, became overwhelming and I felt the last bit of my resolve crumble from deep inside.

Let them come and take me and Prim to the Community Home. I don't care any longer. Let them come.

Out of the corner of my eye, a boy exited out the same backdoor the witch had gone through. He was carrying a bag of trash in his hands and my famished mind focused on that first, focused on what could be inside the contents of that bag, on what a baker could potentially be throwing away, before I realized the boy was in my year at school. I knew him, or at least, I knew his face. But he stuck with the other blonde-haired, fair-skinned town kids and I didn't even remember his name in that moment.

In hindsight, that's absolutely hysterical now.

But he evaporated as soon as he'd appeared and I closed my eyes and let the rain drown me, hoping perhaps I could be swallowed up within the downpour itself. Hoping that perhaps I'd never have to face the reality that I was out of options and I had nothing of subsidence to take home.

But then I heard a clatter and a clang and the sound of a scream. It was her, the witch. She was screaming and calling someone names my own mother had never even uttered in my lifetime.

I mentally prepared myself for her to come back outside, to drive me away with a stick or a knife. Or possibly even a hot, scorching prong.

But it wasn't the witch. It was the boy, the one from my year. The one I thought went back inside after taking out the trash, that I believed didn't even notice me before.

He was carrying bread. Two loaves, in fact. The crusts were black and burned and the welt across his face told me, without a doubt, that he was the target of the witch's insults. That he was the victim of whatever clanging noise I heard.

And though I was the one starving to death, I didn't envy him having her for a mother.

I remember vividly, the most crystal clear image I have of this day, the boy checking and making sure the witch's attention had been claimed elsewhere. And then, without even glancing in my direction, he tossed one loaf of bread to my feet. Seconds later, the other followed.

He didn't hesitate to head back inside after that, and I've spent more time in these last four years than I'd more than likely care to admit, wondering what possessed him to commit such an act of kindness. No one was kind for free, I'd learned by that point.

And yet, as I shook myself forcefully out of my stupor, and carried the loaves back to my house at the edge of the Seam, I had no explanation for his simple act. I had no basis to explain why he would help me, when no one else ever had.

The next day, I saw him at school. I passed by him in the hallway, and saw his eye had now blackened, his cheek welted, but somehow he still managed a joyous smile. He didn't notice me then. He was surrounded by his friends. Like always, he was surrounded by a constant crowd.

He is, after all, one of the most charming and sweet people Panem's ever known.

Later that day, when I was about to walk home with Prim, who was excitedly chattering about the leftover bread awaiting us on the kitchen table, the bread I'd brought home the night prior that had filled our stomachs for the first time in months, I caught the boy looking in our direction. My grey Seam eyes met his baby blues for a microsecond, before he looked away. I snapped my gaze downwards too, embarrassed, when I caught sight of a dandelion.

It was that moment that a bell went off in my head. That I saw how I could survive, how Prim could survive. How, through the things my dad had taught me, I could keep me and my sister alive.

After that day, I could never stop associating the boy with the bread, the one who gave me hope, with the dandelion that reminded me I wasn't doomed.

I never stopped associating him with his simple act of kindness, even when he became famous for some much less appreciable acts.

And I never stopped kicking myself for failing to thank him, for saving my life and my family's life, before he was whisked away, to a land far from Twelve, called the Capitol. When he later returned, now a part of a much more elite social class, thanking him for his kindness became even less of a possibility.

A girl from the Seam had no business seeking out a boy from Victor's Village. Even if I did have the guts.

Though he isn't exactly in good company here in Twelve, seeing as the only other person who holds the same title is a drunken, middle-aged man who can barely form a coherent sentence most days and lives like a hermit by his own volition.

My thoughts are interrupted by the quiet—almost as quiet as mine, but not quite—steps of Gale.

"You're late," I state without turning around, pulling the cheese from my pocket. "You're lucky Prim's cheese held up under the sun."

But Gale pulls something even more impressive from behind his back. "This will probably go nice with it," he says and I almost gasp.

Fresh bread is so rare in our district, generally reserved for the Peacekeepers and perhaps a merchant who is having a good day. Here in the Seam, fresh bread from the bakery is as common as new school shoes.

Gale updates me on his day as we split the bread and cheese and have our own version of a small feast. He'd gotten to the woods early, while I had been still at home, and shot a squirrel to which he traded for the bread.

"The baker really went for that?" I ask in disbelief. The baker was a subdued, large man, who resembled all three of his sons quietly strongly, and was one of my dad's best customers. Sometimes I think he still trades with me and Gale out of respect to my dad's memory, but a simple squirrel for a loaf of fresh bread isn't common.

"I think he was feeling generous this morning," Gale suggests a little snidely, his bitterness leaking through. "Besides. It's not like the Mellark's need the money they ask for bread. They could easily skim off their precious son and he'd probably never notice."

Gale has a special affinity for hating anyone and anything associated even minimally with the Capitol. He was lost his father in the same mine explosion I lost mine in. But whereas I don't let myself get too worked up over the inequities between the town and the Seam, and especially between us all and the victors, Gale takes a special pride in fuming over the things he cannot change.

I don't mind listening usually, since neither of us can speak our minds in public or even within our own homes, out of fear small ears will pick up on our words and repeat them elsewhere. But today, I just don't have the energy to be a sounding board.

Instead I take a segue towards a slightly different topic, but one, without a doubt, weighing on both our minds. "Prim has been having nightmares of the reaping," I murmur solemnly. "She's convinced they're going to call her name."

Gale shook his head, his demeanor becoming more subdued now. "Least Prim's name is only in there once, Catnip. Rory had to take tesserae this year."

I nod silently at that admission, knowing what it must have cost him to even allow his little brother to take additional risks of being called. Knowing it meant his family of five must be even more hungry than he leads on.

We don't say much more after that, only lingering in the woods long enough to catch some additional game from what I've already collected, and hurry back to town to trade.

As we walk back to the Seam, having divided up our goods evenly, Gale murmurs suddenly, "I might be able to stomach the idea of Rory's name being in that bowl six times if we were still allowed to volunteer."

I bypass his words the best I can. I don't want to think about what Gale must be going through, making himself sick with worry, not for himself but for a sibling in which he considers himself responsible for. And, as it happens once in a lucky moon, I feel grateful that my tesserae is still sufficient for a family of three, and I don't have to worry about Prim the same way. Her one entry pales in comparison to the thousands that are piled in that bowl.

Still, the silence between us as we walk is deafening and I can't take it any longer as we come closer to my house. "At least then, you'd get to see the Capitol," I say lightly, as a means to brighten his mood, even just a little.

At that, Gale rewards me with a humorless smirk. "Generous of the president, isn't it? To allow us district people to experience the great Capitol firsthand while they slaughter our family."

And it's true. Just a few years ago, it was allowed to volunteer as tribute in the place of whoever's name got chosen, as long as you were the same gender and between twelve and eighteen on Reaping Day.

But four years ago, when a twelve-year-old boy volunteered for his seventeen-year-old brother, an outrage sparked across the entire country. People are never happy, in any district, to see a twelve-year-old be chosen for the games. They're the youngest, the smallest, the most innocent, and never in history had a single one made it past the Final Fifteen in the games.

So when one volunteered, the country wasn't pleased in the slightest. However, like always, the anger was contained by Peacekeepers in a matter of weeks, and promises came pouring out from the Capitol that a change would be made after the games that year to ensure never again would this situation occur.

And it never again could. Because three days after the Seventieth Hunger Games, President Snow announced that all volunteering, from that point forward, was officially banned.

This new law is even more ironic when you realize that the twelve-year-old volunteer from that year became the youngest victor in the entire history of the games.

Still, I suppose the president was feeling generous that day, and he threw in a bonus treat for us in the districts. Now when someone is chosen from the reaping bowl, though their fate is sealed definitively when their name is uttered, they get to choose one family member to take on the train ride to the Capitol with them, to get a special viewing of the games with the mentors and the sponsors and the past victors, to get to experience the wonder that is the mysterious Candy Capitol firsthand.

However, when all is said and done, twenty-three family members must ride the train home alone to their districts, with their loved one in a casket beside them. The thought chills me to the bone and I shiver as me and Gale wish each other good luck. We probably won't see each other again until it's time for the customary dinner we all try to put on with our neighbors to celebrate, even minimally, that we've survived another year unchosen.

Prim is already wearing my first reaping outfit when I enter the house, though it is a bit large on her. She's slimmer than even I was at Twelve, despite her having months on me when I attended my first reaping.

I get ready quickly, if only because I want to spend time with her before we have to go. I protect Prim in every way I can but I'm powerless against the reaping.

Still, she's only entered once and that's as safe as anyone can get from being chosen. It's almost unheard in the Seam to be that safe from the games.

But my sister never did appear like she fit in here anyway. Her golden blonde hair and sky blue eyes resemble the merchants, not the Seam, and her and our mother stick out like sore thumbs next to our neighbors.

Our mom is restless now, busying herself with preparing the food for our small feast tonight and braiding Prim's hair and then mine.

I still haven't fully forgiven her for leaving us when we needed her most, but I also can't imagine how difficult it must be to have to send both your children off to be potentially chosen for an absolute death. And I let her hug me as I guide Prim out the door.

Attendance is mandatory for all in the district, but the ones viable for being chosen and those just watching don't typically enter together.

I guide Prim by hand into town, the walk feeling longer than it did with Gale. Perhaps it's the trembling twelve-year-old I'm towing, or perhaps I'm more afraid than I'm even admitting to myself.

After all, unlike my sister, I have twenty slips with my name splayed across this year. It's not as a bad as someone like Gale, who has forty-four chances of being called. But it's not as safe as the kids from town, who likely only have to worry about a handful of slips with their names.

Its not that they're rich by any standard, but they get by better than those in the Seam. Even if they're hungry, they're not at risk of starving, and no one is going to sign up for tesserae unless there is no alternative.

A year ago, my mother let it slip once over dinner, just out of the blue really, that my father had always sworn no child of his would be in need of tesserae.

I shake my head, as if to physically rid myself of the reminder. I don't want to dwell on what my father would feel if he were here. I don't want to be reminded how different things would be if he hadn't died.

I help Prim sign in and then drop her off, as gently as I can, with the other girls her age. At the last minute, she pulls on my hand, yanking me back to her with surprising force.

"Prim, I have to go stand with the sixteens," I say as she leans up and kisses my cheek.

"I just wanted to say I love you," she whispers softly, her big blue eyes so terrified, and then she steps back into the crowd of twelves surrounding her.

I sigh softly and give her what I hope is a reassuring smile. She truly is the best of our parents. Kind, smart, level-headed. She's funny and resourceful too, even if she can't take hunting animals herself.

She is the only person I'm certain that I love. And just about the only thing that keeps me going most days.

As I make my way to the sixteens, straightening my mother's dress on my hips, I check the clock. Only five minutes before we start. Before our lovely Capitol escort, Effie Trinket, reads off two names in her distinctive, afflicted accent. Before two kids know they're never coming home again.

This place isn't much. But it is all we've ever known, and no one wishes to leave it.

As more people crowd in, I begin to pick up an excited buzz in the girls surrounding me. Already knowing what I'll see, I crane my neck just the same, to peer up at the stage ahead.

Sure enough, I see exactly what I knew I would.

There's four chairs set up on the stage. One for Effie Trinket, because no one from the Capitol could ever bear to stand for more than three minutes at a time and she must have a seat to relax in before she calls out the names and sends two of us—a lucky boy and girl, as she says it—to the slaughter.

One of the other chairs is occupied by Mayor Undersee. A man who looks like he's been beaten down by life too many times as it is and would rather be anywhere but here. His daughter is my age. She sits with me at lunch, since Gale is two grades ahead of me and we rarely see each other at school. We make polite small talk but other than that, I barely know anything about her, and by association, her father.

However, it's neither of them that's stirring up the buzz within the crowd—admittedly, more so with the female portion of the crowd—and it's definitely not Haymitch Abernathy, who's stumbling on stage right at this moment. He managed to win the Fiftieth Hunger Games and I still can't imagine how. He's a paunchy man my mother's age and he's never sober, on the rare time he's even seen in public. Today is no exception, as he flops onto a chair gruffly, and murmurs something unintelligible with his eyes closed.

No, the murmuring, the now batting eyes and coy smiles, the soft vibrato still traveling within the crowd, are all because of the last guest of honor, walking upon the stage right behind his old mentor.

Peeta Mellark.

Winner of the Seventieth Hunger Games. Youngest ever. District Twelve's first and last volunteer. The twelve-year-old that changed the rules for the entire country.

The youngest mass murderer in history of Panem.

And now one of it's most beloved celebrities.

Peeta is smart—brilliantly smart—and he's always been charismatic. Even at twelve, he had the Capitol audience, as well as every single soul watching on television at home, eating out of the palm of his hand.

It doesn't hurt that at sixteen, he's become quite a looker. His blonde curls, his blue eyes, those long lashes and bubblegum pink lips. His fair, perfect skin that has not a blemish in sight. His toned, muscular body and devastatingly genuine smile that no one can help but fall in love with.

He's also the boy who saved my life. The one who committed the simple act of kindness, knowing it would cost him, to help me.

I never thanked him. And now I never can, as I'm sure he has zero memory of me. After everything else that's happened to him since, after the last four years of living as a Capitol darling, as one of the country's most cherished victors, he'd never remember the starving eleven-year-old he threw some burned bread to in a rainstorm.

But I remember him. I don't know if it's what he did for me that day or what he did for his brother only a matter of weeks later, but something about Peeta Mellark crawled under my skin four years ago and ever since, I've never been able to completely shake the feeling I get inside upon seeing him.

I break my gaze away, refusing to stare at the boy, who I will always accredit as the one who saved my life. I venomously refuse to gawk at him, like every other girl in the district.

He rarely comes out of his house when he's home here in Twelve, and I know the overzealous amount of attention he receives just by going to his parents' bakery has to be at least a part of the reason. Unlike Haymitch, who has lost his clout and his appeal with age and with deterioration, Peeta has only gained more and more notoriety as the years pass by.

You'd be hard pressed to find anyone in Twelve, outside of a few outliers like Gale perhaps, who'd say a negative word about Peeta Mellark.

Of course, rumors about his random and long stretches spent in the Capitol itself are always floating around, no matter what time of year it is, but they don't affect his public persona or anyone's opinion of him. He is, after all, the most valuable figure Twelve has and perhaps the only thing we can take any pride in.

Effie Trinket steps up to the microphone just as I turn my head away from the stage. "Welcome!" She greets, so vivaciously, so brightly, I can't imagine it even resonates in her head that she's just moments away from announcing two of our impending funerals. "Welcome, everyone! To the reaping for the Seventy-Fourth Annual Hunger Games!"

I can't even bear to listen as she prattles on, with too much confidence and dignity for someone dressed in every neon color known to man, speaking in such a peculiar accent, with a thickly painted face that is so blatantly visible to the every eye here today, even in the back row. Doesn't she realize how ridiculous she is to us? Doesn't she realize how wrong it is to preach about the morals and disciplines of the Capitol, in such a prideful voice, when they're the ones about to murder us for entertainment, and in repentance for a long over war that only a few elders can still remember?

As I advert my eyes, my gaze travels once again to the back of the stage, and I'm more than a little surprised to see Peeta Mellark with a similar expression as mine. He, too, is shifting his eyes elsewhere, away from his own escort, looking sick to his stomach.

Of course, it still can't be easy for him, even with his own games four years in the past. He was a literal child when he volunteered and it's fact that he didn't understand what he was getting himself into when he took his brother's place that fateful day. His innocence was stolen as soon as the countdown ended and talk still circulates, even in the Hob, that he wakes up screaming most nights, calling out the names of fallen tributes. Though those words are not given much weight in the Seam, as we all know, people get bored in this tiny district and bored people begin to spew lies whenever encouraged.

Effie continues, in a long overdone mantra, one I could recite in my sleep, the same one she spews every year, that two kids from every district must be chosen to battle to the death in a new and invigorating—one of her favorite words—arena, in order to pay for the blood shed during the rebellion and war, in order to ensure we'll never again even think to rebel.

It would almost be easier to swallow, this whole charade, if the people sent from the strange land of the Capitol would just be honest and blunt with us. If they'd just admit that they see us as lesser than, as animals or beasts of some sort, as less than human beings. It'd be easier if the Capitol spokespeople would just outright say, "we'll take your children, we'll starve your district, we'll ruin your homes, we'll broadcast the deaths of those you love most, all to keep you too powerless to fight. In order to make sure you never are able to stand strong, we have to kick your legs out from under you first."

Instead of being honest though, Effie Trinket is reiterating the Treaty Of Treason, in a tone so serious that it takes all the self-control possible to stop several boys standing in the fourteens from bursting out laughing. Her accent and a serious tone do not mesh well together.

Once she's done though, my heart automatically skips a beat. Because, after four years of standing in this square, I know exactly what's coming. "Ladies first!" Effie announces and I feel a bead of sweat glide down my forehead, both from anxiety and from the overload of heat. Reapings always take place in the start of the hottest month of the year.

Standing in my mother's well-crafted dress, one of the most luxurious pieces of clothing we own, only makes my perspiration worsen, as the dress was clearly made to keep the wearer as warm as possible.

Our district escort makes her way over the bowl containing the names of every girl eligible to be picked in the entire district and I feel myself take in a breath involuntarily.

There's twenty chances she's going to call out my name. Twenty chances I'll be sent to an almost imminent death. Twenty chances Prim will grow into her teen years, and later adulthood, without a sister.

The gut-churning fear I'd repressed all morning, in that moment, overtakes my entire being, curling up like a ball in the pit of my stomach, as I do my best to listen on baited breath, somehow expecting to hear my own name spoken through the raucous microphone for all to hear.

Don't be me, I whisper inside my head, more fearful than I'd ever admit out loud. Don't be me. Please, don't be me.

And, as it turns out, it's not me.

Instead it's the name I never in a million years thought I'd hear. The name I believed to be so safe I didn't even allow myself to worry about her.

"Primrose Everdeen!"

#everlark #everlark fic #thg #the hunger games #thg fic #everlark fanfic #fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #everlark fanfiction #katniss everdeen #peeta mellark #writing #fic #fics #au #aus

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trials-by-blood · 4 years

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Umm...I always see Yautja being paired up with someone strong and skilled and stuff. I was wondering if you could write something with any Yautja being with someone who is shy, meek, and a little chubby. And when they're alone or think they are they sing along to music and dance even though they can't.XD Sorry if I'm asking too much or anything...

Fegris, the dump world where the unwanted are left to rot and crumble.

This was once a world where the yautja would crash their obsolete vessels so that they could not fall into use by the other space faring races. Ships were not the only things they left behind. Exiles, heretics, or anyone who upset the balance of their society were also left to wither, but not all did.

In the following ages, other peoples would use Fegris as a place to forget their burdens. The Faceless Ones unloaded their collected specimens here when science deemed that their time of usefulness had ended.

Now generations of humans, yautja, clade, mind eaters and all manner of invasive species build their cities here, clinging to half remembered mockeries of their mother cultures. Here, all Forgotten busy themselves mining ore, seeking pleasurable escape, stripping precious metals from ancient wrecks, gambling, farming, extorting, building, destroying, breeding, killing.

One of the few honest livings to be made anywhere, the food service industry, prospers here. Organic people must eat, so this work will never die.

Heather, an old name from an old world no one can recall, worked for her room and board at what would best resemble a mall food court. It wasn't a particularly hazardous occupation, so long as you don't taste-test the food or stay long after the coalition of retail outlets close.

(OOC: Okay this ran WAY longer than I anticipated and I had to make the choice to cap it off at 2,500ish words. I’m sorry if this TOTALLY misses the vibe you were hoping for, I kinda got carried away. Oops)

Once, she'd made that mistake. Even her cold hearted rock-sucker of a boss told her not to bother finishing the cleaning if it meant staying after hours, but she hadn't listened. Heather hadn't wanted to leave her work half done and risk losing her job and newly acquired living space on her first day. So she'd stayed to wipe down the counters and load the trolly cart with the leftovers for the cooler. The reward for a job well finished was stepping out into the market spaces abandoned by customers and workers but repopulated by the local Yautja Bad-bloods and their rivals, The Cranium Skaggers. They were working through a territorial dispute.

The Skaggers were human, but barely. They injected enhancement serums, most barely tested, directly into their brain tissues via an implanted port installed at the top of their shaved heads.

Heather had stepped out of her safe enclosed little work area into a street brawl, and was pinned between the doors she'd only just locked and the carnal violence of the city. One of the yautja, who's vision was... not like hers, must have mistaken her bright heat signature and rapid heart rhythm for a Cranium Skagger.

Oh, she tried to run when she saw him move on her with his unhuman, talon tipped hand outstretched to seize her. Heather had dropped her bag, the keys, the silly hat which matched with her uniform, and she ran but he was fast, so horridly fast for something so big, heavy, and grieved with bulky armor.

It only took him three strides, thud thud thud, to reach her and tangle his terrible claws into the back of her long tunic. She was thrown, landing hard, disoriented and crying out as deep, raw pain shot up her left hip and into her pelvis. Something was broken.

She saw him, her attacker, and the blades attached to his dominant arm glistening with the blood of Cranium Skagger's, but she didn't even think to cover her face. All she could do was scream for help.

Her plea was answered. A great clawed fist smashed across the Yautja's mask with such force that his yowling face was revealed as his helm was torn from him. Next, skulls collided with a clapping of flesh so sharp, Heather thought someone had cracked a whip above her.

One Yautja had begun to fight another. That was when she did the sensible thing, curling her arms over her head and making herself as small as she could.

She survived that night. That battle resolved itself as she lied on the ground trembling and weeping in terror, but her savior stuck around after all the others had left. He put her things next to her, and waited until her boss came to collect her and get her help. The yautja must have gone through her communicator for her contacts.

The fractured hip was easily and painlessly repaired but the procedure had completely drained her savings. To her shock and mild horror, someone had wired to her account credits in the exact amount to replace what she'd spent at the Urgent Intervention Facility to fix her leg.

When she returned to work, who was there at the food court? The yautja who'd stayed that night. He stood out like a broken finger, the cleaned hand bones and torn out skull ports of Skaggers littered about what he wore like grim badges of honor. The sight of him watching her enter her workplace sent a chill up Heather's spine.

This kept up for weeks, until The Indecent was months behind her. She'd go to work, and he'd be there, just watching. Heather's co-workers weren't fans of her admirer. Yagon, the young clade boy who took the morning shift before her was the least fond of the yautja lingering around.

Today, as Heather stepped past her bad-blood observer who had decided to lean against the wall next to the employee entrance, Yagon was peeking out from the door to keep a watchful eye on her as she came in for her shift.

Yagon chittered irritably, antennae vibrating as he took off his smock and hat so he could scratch his double claws at the translator hanging on a lanyard around his the joining of his head and thorax.

The voice emanating from the little box was monotone and purposefully slow so that it could be heard clearly as he continued chirping and tweeting.

"You know what that creep does all day waiting for you to come in? He listens to recordings of you singing on your shifts."

Heather cringed. That was creepy. She'd had a feeling that he'd been able to hear her sing to herself from where he usually hung around, but she never thought he'd record her. It felt incredibly invasive. She briefly imagined confronting him about it, but thought better of it. He could crush her skull between his hands as if it were a brittle little Skitterling egg. She hunched her shoulders and hugged herself a bit.

Yagon then turned and dropped the claws of his primary arms on her shoulders.

"I can file an anonymous report for you. Please? I don't want to come in to work one day and find out something happened to you."

Heather sighed, trying not to vividly imagine how an exiled yautja might retaliate to that.

"N- no, I think that would just make things worse, Yagon," Heather tried not to whimper.

Yagon finished folding his smock and hat into his bag and left, but not before offering twice more to file that report.

A few hours passed and Heather caught herself singing a handful of times as she fell into her work routine but always stopped when she remembered who was listening. It felt awful, being observed so closely and denied the personal freedom do anything without fear of having it recorded for some stranger's entertainment.

Again, she thought about confronting the yautja watcher, but couldn't help the violent catastrophes imagined with the idea.

She felt like she couldn't make a noise or do a thing for herself to make this crappy job the least bit bearable without putting on some bizarre show for Captain Cranium Crusher out there! Heather's frustration built and built until she couldn't take it anymore.

The walk-in cooler. It was sound proof, right? The moment she finished the lunch-rush line of customers holding out their trays for their greasy food, Heather tore off her gloves, tossed them in the general direction of the trash chute and turned on her heel to stomp her way to that cooler door.

Heather glanced over the counter to confirm the Skull Collecting Jerk was still out there haunting the seating area. There he was, arms crossed against his chiseled chest, ass planted on a chair that could barely hold his weight with his big ugly sandled feet propped up on one of the tables. Bastard.

She pulled open the thick insulated door and slammed it behind her. First she simply bellowed angrily, stomped her foot, slapped a bag of single serve condiments as hard as she could manage, doing anything to break the severe edge from her frustration.

"UGH! WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE? WHAT THE HELL DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!" She tore off her work smock and threw her hat on the floor to stomp on it, "I'M JUST A SHORT, ROUND, NOBODY WHO SHOVELS SLOP ONTO PLATES SIX HOURS A DAY. I'VE NEVER EVEN BEEN IN A REAL FIGHT! I'M NOTHING! WHY ARE YOU WATCHING ME? WHAT THE FUCK COULD BE SO INTERESTING ABOUT ME?! STOP WATCHING ME, YOU ASSHOLE!"

Then, spitefully, she sang her favorite song, watching the misty puffs of her breath dissipate as her heart pounded.

Now, she felt cold and her throat hurt from belting out her very favorite lyrics so harshly. It wasn't fair, she shouldn't have to be reminded of that night every afternoon on her shift. It sucked, and somehow she felt guilty for being angry even though none of this was her fault and she knew she had every right to be angry. So Heather curled up and cried in the cooler for a half-hour at the helplessness she felt. It felt gross, and she knew by now there had to be a never-ending line of pissed off customers outside. She was afraid of confrontation and couldn't ever imagine herself actually standing up to anyone. She could already tell that she'd be crying in her apartment after work too. Whob wouldn't after the verbal abuse she'd no doubt suffer at the service counter from customers tired of waiting.

Miserably, Heather stood and steeled her resolve to go back out there. With a deep, shaky breath, put her smock back on and fixed her hat.

"I'll get through it because I'm good at getting through it," she told herself to make it easier to reach for that door.

Chur-clunk. Chur-clunk. It was jammed. Oh no the cooler door was stuck. Heather put her weight into her next push, then her entire being into the push after that.

"Oh GODS I'm going to freeze to death!" she wailed, pushing at the door again with everything she had.

Frustration, anger, helplessness, now panic. She didn't want to die alone of hypothermia at work.

There was a bang and a great dent had appeared in the thick door. Before she could figure what was happening, the door was torn completely from the reinforced hinges. Heather shrieked and fell squarely on her bottom.

There he was again, who else would it be coming to her rescue and staring coldly down at her through the dead lenses of that helmet.

In one swift motion he lifted his left arm and clicked away at the keys of his gauntlet computer with those claws. The hologram display showed Heather a collection of files marked with icons she recognized. They were just cropped, slightly fuzzy pictures of her name tag for work. With a few more taps of his claw, all of the icons dissolved. He deleted them. He'd deleted all of his recordings which pertained to her.

"Oh, shit, you heard all of that," Heather whimpered, clutching her head with both hands in mortification. He must have heard what Yagon said earlier too.

He said nothing, made no noise. He just stood there like an imposing statue for a few tense seconds before turning to stride away.

She wasn't fired for the broken door and spoiled food. Before she could even collect herself from the floor in the cooler, her boss was wired a credit transfer for "damages".

Later as she heard of his generosity, it also explained the mysterious funds appearing in her account after the hip procedure. That had been Him too.

Her "admirer" didn't come back after that, which was a relief for the first week or two. After a while she found herself over thinking the whole thing. Yautja were notorious for being socially incomprehensible. Heather wondered if he just pitied her so much after one of his own kind damn-near destroyed her that he felt responsible for her continued safety. Or, maybe he was just a stalking sleeze-ball. She tended to flounder between the two conclusions, but one thing was certain, he was respecting her boundaries now and she appreciated that.

After nearly a month, she decided that the best closure she'd get was accepting that the entire ordeal was some bizarre misunderstanding, totally on his part, and he did a few nice things but that didn't make up for the weeks and weeks of discomfort he'd inflicted.

More time passed, Heather became more comfortable with her new job, and she very nearly forgot about that Yautja. The only time she remembered him were on cold days when her hip would ache, but it was pleasantly warm out on the afternoon she came in for her shift and found Yagon agitated with his antennae twitching so fast one might expect them to fly off his head. Heather looked around, hoping that the cleaning she couldn't finish the night before hadn't upset him. What she found was... Unusual, and she certainly hadn't left the thing there last night.

It was a skull, from what she wasn't sure, sitting there on the counter by the check out scanner.

"The Creep is back. This time he left a name with that." Yagon's translator couldn't read the inflections in his speech, but Heather could tell where the translator omitted expletives.

"W-hat was it? His name?"

"Stone Fist was the direct translation. I can't get the translator to say the correct pronunciation in his language and he made a scene about it until I threatened to call security. You know what that thing means, don't you?"

Heather nodded, she knew what it meant. Everyone did. She couldn't tear her eyes away from the empty sockets of the skull. It was as if it were staring through her being.

"I can still file that report, Heather," Yagon offered again.

"Don't, I mean... As long as I don't take it, then nothing happens. Right?"

"As far as I'm aware? I think that's how it works."

If Heather didn't touch it, he wouldn't come back. If she took it home, he'd follow her home because accepting an offering like that was an act of giving permission to pursue courtship.

Working with that lifeless skull watching her was eerie to say the least. She covered it with her hat midway through her shift so she didn't have to look at it. At the end of her shift as she fiddled with the patterned key to lock up before she left, she considered the skull one last time. No, She wasn't taking it, but she'd leave a note. Two notes actually, one to ask Stone Fist if he would consider an actual conversation before anything else, and a second note to apologize to Yagon for asking him to speak with Stone Fist again.

To Be Continued?

#yautja #predator #human/predator #alien vs predator #ask

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hexenmoron · 4 years

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A day late as power went out and then our internet service was being repaired., but here is my contribution to Hagging Out! Before I really dive in, a quick thank you to @graveyarddirt for organizing the event and pulling everything together! <3

So a bit of history: my grandmother could not cook. Not for anything. She used to throw plain hamburger and frozen tater tots in a casserole dish, throw it in the oven at 350F and call it a day. She made a good turkey and fantastic chocolate mousse, but beyond that? It was beyond her. A weekly family special was shit on a shingle*, I shit you not.

As a result, all of her children learned how to cook as a method of self-preservation. They’re all honestly super fucking good in the kitchen, but the only one who has a true love of being in the kitchen was my mother. She loved cooking and food and tradition so much she started several herself because she couldn’t resist the sense of community it might bring us.

As a kid, so many of them were beyond my ability to enjoy. The flavors were complex or the texture wasn’t simple enough, but as I grew so did my appreciation of the work I saw go into these things. And with that appreciation came a finer palate (thank fuck).

So below is my first ever attempt at this fall favorite in the Hex Household. (I was never once allowed to make this with her – I was always shooed out of the kitchen since the sugar can get so hot as to leave really bad burns). Since she recently passed, I thought I would give a recipe that we dearly loved but never made together a shot. I think these turned out lovely.

You can make two varieties of this treat. The first is to make one large 9” tart and the second is to use tartlet tins to make minis. I personally prefer the mini because they are 1) super cute and 2) they really are a satisfying serving. The instructions are basically the same, the difference is in cook times.

First you have to make the tart shell. You’ll want to add 1/3 cold cup butter & ¼ cup sugar and beat until it’s fluffy. Some people will tell you this is best done with a wooden spoon and those people are masochists. Get out the damn mixer. Once it’s fluffy, add an egg yolk and beat well. Once everything is that same eggy color you know it’s beaten well enough to gradually add 1 cup of unsifted flour. This should be very crumbly – you’ll likely think for a moment that you did it wrong.

Here is where you choose to either make one large tart or a bunch of tartlets. For either size you want the tart tins with the removable bottoms. If the tartlet tins are vintage, the bottoms may not be removable and then you need to spray them the tiniest bit to make sure they don’t get stuck.

For one large tart simply roll it into the best ball you can (you may need to chill it for a bit if it took you awhile to get it all mixed properly), set it in the middle of the tin and start to flatten it, making sure to pinch the edges so the shell comes up along the sides. Bake at 375F for about 12 minutes or until it starts to ever so faintly brown. For tartlets it’s the same process, but divide the shell into smaller parts. Vintage tartlet tins can be pretty small and I know I have an aunt whose tins are so tiny she can get about 16. I ended up with 8 with my modern set because they’re a fair amount bigger. (Note: only 6 made it to the photo!) With the small ones she bakes them at 375F for 8 minutes, I ended up doing 10.

While those are in the oven, gather your other ingredients. If you need to chop your walnuts, do that now. Once the tins are set aside to cool you can start making the rest. The recipe says to cool completely, but I don’t think anyone in my family has actually done that. The duration of time it takes to make the filling is adequate so long as they’re not cooling on the stove top.

In a sauce pan, add 2/3 cup light brown sugar, ¼ cup butter, ¼ cup dark corn syrup, and 2 tablespoons of heavy cream. Stir constantly, bring to a boil and let boil for a minute. Quickly toss the walnuts in the bottom of the shell or shells (you can do this right when they’re out of the oven, but you’ll likely end up with them piercing the bottom of the shell and hitting the tin, making a bit of a mess for yourself later. It won’t hurt the flavor though). Once done, pour the hot syrup over top of the walnuts filling the shells. For large single tart, bake at 375F for 10 minutes. For tartlets bake at 375F for 6-10 minutes depending on size of tin. Either way you want the filling the be bubbly.

Set aside to cool and allow to cool (completely this time) before removing the tarts from the tin by pushing up at the removable bottom. Optional: beat about a ½ cup of cream until it is stiff and refrigerate until the tarts are cool enough to serve. The original 2 tablespoons can come from this ½ cup and you can also add a bit of vanilla flavoring if you like. I think methods of making the whip cream that use even more sugar would be too sweet for how sweet these tarts already are.

And now for the pictures!

*Skip all the other recipes online for shit on a shingle if you want the true experience of eating shit on a shingle. This one on Urban Dictionary is even a little more complicated that what grandma used to make because she found some way to basically make it a one-step process and serve it on the leftover crusts of bread.

#hagging out

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clockworklozenges · 3 years

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So, I think it may be time to regale you with the story of the worst heist that I, as a player, was involved in. It was in 3.5e, and genasi were a thing (thanks to the planetouched book) and with the DM getting the Savage Species book (those who read my post about Damien Fucking Bloodmoon will see where this is going, and that it will be going poorly) our group, fresh off an embarrassing TPK to what were, ostensibly, Minions who were aware of their existence being heresy in the eyes of Mother Nature, Father Time and Kooky Uncle Pop Culture - before the advent of the yellow tic-tac banana fetishists - decided that it was time for what could charitably be called the "monstrous regiment".

More accurately, it was Car Crash DnD.

The Monstrous Regiment was a mercenary group formed of the surviving crew of a plane-crossing Spelljammer vessel which had crashed in the Forgotten Realms, leaving most of the crew as social outcasts deemed as enemies of civilisation (fair enough with General Nibbles the Cannibal Goblin, though he insisted on proper table manners when eating people he respected) by the world at large, as we were all what many would deem 'exotic' or 'monster' races.

We had General Nibbles the Cannibal Goblin (not a general, General was his first name because he ate a general once and saved the nameplate from his desk, which he used as sunglasses), a Ranger who was the ship's cook and also had a level in rogue for the acquisition of what could charitably called "mystery meats". We had Table, who was a humanoid-shaped mimic bard, who could only communicate in nouns. This sounds like a handicap, but he effectively became a stellar country music singer. He was somehow the party face, since our other party members were an owlbear cleric who thought he was a bee (a big one, though. He was delusional, but not stupid), a zombie orc fighter called Mighty Green Chad and myself. I was playing as a water elemental Sorcerer called Andalf, who had water themed spells, but had been affected by the crash of the Spelljammer, making it so that he would, in moments of extreme emotional stress, explosively transform into a fire elemental called Malrog, whose spells and personality were much more firey and damaging than the calm and supportive Andalf.

An important note for later is that I could not choose when I changed between Andalf and Malrog. The DM would give me a Will Saving throw with a changing DC depending on the situation, and if I failed I changed, if I passed then I would sustain the form I had.

We had found that, in order to fix our ship and leave Ed Greenwood's magical prostitution brothel realm, we needed the aid of a wizard, who was trapped in his tower under house arrest. The key to the tower was stored in the Inn, where we had to disguise ourselves to even enter. In this respect, General Nibbles made a passable gnome (we did not ask him where he 'found' the skin-suit, but noticed that the gnomish population was less and less prominent with each day we remained in the town), and Chad, Table, Bee and myself used illusion spells and shapeshifting magic to blend in. We needed the key, and Andalf, the calm and collected Sorcerer with no damage spells at all, devised a plan of genius equivalent to the innovative spark of whichever fellow decided to stab bread before selling it.

Firstly, we have General Nibbles...do his thing and run diversionary tactics to distract the town guards, since two of the ten are always at the wizard tower, Nibbles will be given firebombs and potions to increase his speed and stealth, whereupon he'll use his chloroform (um. Don't, uh, don't ask why he has that) to give one of the bar staff a "surprise day off".

Table will mimic the...holidaying staff member, and ensure that they can ingratiate themselves with the Inn customers.

Chad, Bee and Andalf will enter as bar patrons, and whilst Chad and Bee entertain the crowd with what they certainly thought was a humorous stand up comedy routine, Andalf will distract the innkeeper and see if he can access the safe using his enchantment spells.

We leave.

Profit.

Things didn't go as planned.

For a start, Nibbles got...peckish, and ate the waiter Table was meant to become, accidentally used an explosive arrow on the second waiter we tried to ambush and exploded him, and ended up carrying the one we actually got intact with him for his part of the plan, acting like he was starring in discount, arsonist Ratatouille, dragging the unconscious waiter behind him. This meant that the bar staff was whittled down to just the innkeeper, the cook and Table.

Table himself decided, after seeing rich guests, to start doing a precarious dance and using enchantments to lock those aforementioned rich guests in their ensuites and rob them blind, meaning that nobody is keeping watch on the door, me or the civilians (especially since most think they're chickens clucking away in ensuites more like indoor outhouses than bathrooms, and the others are transfixed by the bizarre antics of Bee and Mighty Green Chad).

Bee and Mighty Green Chad get drunk, make friends and then take over the stage, performing karaoke, ventriloquism, expressive dance and a 'comedy' routine which relied on two things: one, that the audience knows that they're an owlbear and a zomborc and two, that the audience is so drunk that they would laugh at James Corden making fart noises during an Adam Sandler film. Fortunately, the bar patrons had passed that point and had reached "you're my best pal, you know" and teetering on the "you fancy a kebab? I fancy a kebab, let's get a kebab, no, the health rating doesn't matter, I fancy a kebab" stage of drunkenness.

This does mean that, of the people in the bar, the only clear-headed people are either me, the innkeeper or an abruptly kleptomaniacal mimic. The cook doesn't count as Nibbles had finished his jobs and had stuffed both the cook and the waiter into a barrel of ale, which he was also sampling judiciously.

After, the DM remarked that Nibbles thought it a fine vintage, if a bit too flammable for his tastes.

So, to sum up- the guests are trapped in their bathrooms clucking their lives away, our spy is robbing purses, our demo man is drinking not-yet-quite-corpses wine in the yard and our muscle is drunk and acting out the Two Ronnies Fork Handles sketch in slurred Scottish accents. With all this, Andalf walks in and I hear the dreaded...

"Make a Will Save"

I pass, but only just, and sweet-talk the innkeeper, using Andalf's silver tongue and high Concentration skill to get into the back room and maintain my illusory Antonio Banderas face (judge me all you want, I have taste in fake faces), and she leaves the room to get some Elven wine from the next room. With only a thin wooden wall between me and her, I find the key, but to grab it is a risk...and of course...

"Make me a Will Save"

And whilst I get the key from the draw...I fail the will save, becoming Malrog, flinging the key across the room and causing the innkeeper to rush back in, howling about a demon who burned up the man she was seducing. Then she sees the fire.

So, as part of the transformation, the DM flavoured it as a small wave of flame or water pulsing outwards from the now-Malrog or now-Andalf respectively. Whilst it did a tiny amount of damage, the flame burst from the Andalf to Malrog transformation would ignite anything flammable in a 10-foot radius around me. This includes wooden floors, ceilings, furniture and, sadly, innkeepers.

So, the innkeeper runs out screaming about a demon (and being on fire, which is understandable when you're on fire) and leaves me alone, the key in a raging inferno near the safe, the room on fire and the fire spreading into the rooms filled with alcohol. And as I reach into the fire...

"Make me a Will Save"

Upstairs, the party have noticed the fire, and whilst Table the mimic leaves out the back window (landing on Nibbles), Bee and Chad drunkenly herd equally drunken civilians out, vaguely aware that the Very Hungry Goblin out back ate the waiters responsible for putting fires out, and the guards are dealing with multiple smaller fires across town.

I fail the will save, burning myself on the key, which causes me to re-transform after another failed will save, melting the safe key in my hand and causing the alcohol to explode, making the inn begin to crumble around me.

Bee and Chad are eagerly trying to get out, to the point where they're just throwing commoners out of the windows and through the walls to get them out of the way. They escape, and hurriedly leave before the cops turn up.

Faced with death, Malrog burns up all his spells to try Melt his way into the safe since the key is gone. This melts the safe shut. As a result of the stress from thoroughly beansing up the one job I had, I change back, and now begin to take fire damage as well as bludgeoning from the falling debris.

We did all escape, thanks to Nibbles being unable to resist the smell of cooking flesh and finding our unconscious bodies. However, the inn burned down, the innkeeper mourned Antonio Banderas and we left that wizard to die of starvation in his tower, along with the town.

After all, it pays to know when your welcome is worn out, and when it is burned to cinders.

#dnd #3.5 edition #dungeons and dragons #sorcerer #Bard #Mimic #Orc #Zomborc #Remarkably Nibbles survived longer than anyone else thanks to his hunger for Flesh #but that's another story #elemental #heist #Goblin #owlbear #cleric #dnd fighter #Fire #cannibalism

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revengeoftheantichrist · 3 years

Text

Seven Devils

Warnings: death

AO3 <<<Previous

Day 5

You woke up screaming. Looking around you didn’t immediately recognise where you were, throwing your sheets of and trying to get out of bed. One of the sisters rushed over to you to calm you down. “where… where’s Claire? Is she okay? Where am I?” you asked frantically. The sister continued to calm you down, informing you that you were in the infirmary and Claire was asleep in the dorms. You were found passed out in one of the old chapels, no one could explain how you got there. The sun had yet to rise, the sister encouraging you to go back to sleep for a few more hours. //// You woke up again, this time in the afternoon. Due to your wandering making you impossible to find, you were to be kept under watch by a sister, in case something happened. You currently sat in the library; you had gravitated towards this seat as soon as you entered the room. The book on the table in front of you had something to do with the history of the convent. You began to flip through the pages, hoping something would stand out to you. “The book isn’t written in English, do you want me to explain the history to you,” the sister watching you asked. You nodded, wanting the human contact. “Most of the convent was rebuilt because of a great fire.” “A fire? What happened? Did everyone survive?” you leaned into the conversation. “No one knows how it started. Some say a stray alter candle, some say it was intentional.” You wondered who would want to set a convent on fire. “As for the survivors,” she began to explain, “it was one of the miracles of St. Y/N. She had a dream that there was to be a fire, so she managed to get the sisters out before they were incinerated.” “What happened to the saint?” you asked. “She didn’t make it. She was found below the tree in the courtyard, the one with poisonous fruit. The story goes that she fought the devil and won, but he took her life in his anger. They say her soul rests within the tree itself and that’s why on a quiet day, you may hear a heartbeat.” You weren’t sure if you believed in God, but you were sure your belief in the devil got stronger every day. The sister continued to tell you the story, “Even the design of the convent is thanks to St. Y/N. She spent hours meticulously drawing up plans inspired by the divine. She made sure one of the sisters at the time left the burning convent with the plans. It is one of her other official miracles actually. Not a bad thing has happened in here since.” “The only fatality made such an impact,” you whispered. “Only? No there was one other death.” Your brows knitted in confusion; this was a new element to the story. “The Monseigneur at the time was also said to have perished in the fire. Apparently, he was deep in prayer. Most of his remains were incinerated however, not much of him was found.” “Michael,” you whispered. The sister gave you a confused look, “Yes, that was his name, how do you know.” You scrambled around for the answer, “Oh I think I heard someone speak about it.” You were not going to tell her that you saw the man in your dreams. ////

Your muscles had gone stiff from all that sitting down. The copious amounts of flies in the room were also bothering you. You had asked if you could walk around the courtyard and promised to return. You cracked your joints while heading out, trying to get rid of the stiffness. You closed your eyes as the cool, early evening air hit you. The sun would set soon, and you wanted to enjoy the outside while you could. This trip had to be the worst thing you had ever done, and you were going to give your parents an earful when you returned. You admired the flowers and their bright colours, swatting away the flies to get a good sniff of their sweetness. You stood and made your way to the centre of the courtyard, trying to listen for that heartbeat again. As you got closer to the tree, you thought you saw someone lying beneath it. Now was not the time to take a nap. You got closer and recognised the face, it was Claire. “Why are you taking a nap here?” you spoke to her, facing away slightly to avoid the suns glare. She didn’t reply. “Hey, I’m talking to you.” You kicked her slightly to wake her up. Instead, she fell limp to her side, an apple from the tree rolling away. It had been bitten. You quickly got down to help her up. You were met with a wide, glassy gaze. Her eyes were lifeless, their vibrant colour had faded. Flies had begun to eat at her face, starting at the remnants of the juice left by the fruit when she took a bite. It took you a while to comprehend the situation. Your mind flashed back to the first day here, the warning given to not eat the poisonous fruit. “WAKE UP Claire! Please … please wake up,” your mind processing what you didn’t want to accept. You screamed for help. Your voice cracking from the consistent screaming. the next few minutes went by in a blur. A sister checked her pulse and shook her head. You became hysterical, screaming something you could not remember, having to be pulled away by staff members. You had gone numb. You felt like you were underwater. Everything was muffled and nothing made sense. //// You had no idea how much time had passed when you were all called to stand outside for an announcement. “It is with the greatest sorrow, that I have to announce the passing of a dear friend and student.” The crowd gasped and began to murmur. “she was a wonderful student, a pillar of our community and the loss will leave a hole in our hearts.” Sister Y/N looked around as she snapped out of her daze, no longer paying attention to the mother superiors words echoing off the stone walls. Stone walls? She looked around confused. She could have sworn that they were all standing outside a minuet ago. This upset her even further. Was she really losing touch with reality now? She tried not to dwell on it too much, she had already been hysterical in front of these sisters more than once. Her puffy eyes and dry lips showed for it. She would keep her mourning private now. //// In her private grief, Sister Y/N spent more time in the run-down chapel, alone. The repairs would have to wait a while. Her days were spent in prayer or just staring at the wall, the numbness did not allow for anything else. Her daily routine was interrupted by the door creaking open. She knew who it was, the footsteps and expensive scent gave him away. She hadn’t seen him since the funeral. he walked into her line of vision, looking her up and down. “You poor thing,” he whispered “look at the state of yourself. One may think you were the corpse,” he chuckled. You didn’t find it funny. “Look at me Y/N” he gently held her face with an unwanted tenderness. Sister Y/n tried to fight the warmth from his touch. “I can take this all away. You know I can.” His thumbs gently stroked her cheekbones. “I can save you from drowning in this grief, offer you salvation of the highest kind.” He sat down next to her, face still in his hands. “All you have to do is come to me. Seek me out. Let me be the light in your darkness and I shall offer you eternal bliss.” His voice was low, barely echoing through the crumbling structure. The offer was enticing, what did she need all these negative emotions for anyway? Hadn’t she suffered enough? Maybe this was god’s way of offering her salvation. Before she could consider his offer any further, the softness of his hands began to feel sticky. The image of those very hands stuffing a body under the bed flashed through her mind. It was like a cat leaving a macabre gift for its owner. She quickly pulled his hands off her, not giving him any time to react as she ran from the room. She headed straight for her room, the one she hadn’t entered in days. Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door. The room was now almost empty, only her bed and belongings remaining. All traces of her friend had, been erased. She sat on her bed staring at the empty void left behind. Her nose stung with the tears she tried to hold in. When she was younger, she would have turned to her mother for comfort. That was no longer possible. All she had left of her now was old letters and annotated grimoires detailing herbal practices. She opened her drawer and pulled a box out. She ran her finger over every groove in the wood, each intricate carving meant something. It was all protection spells, keeping her secret safe and only allowing her to open the box. Seeing her mother’s handwriting calmed her down, flipping through the pages and reliving some of the happier memories from her childhood. She would do anything to return to the cottage in the woods, where the summer breeze carried the scent of wildflowers and the sounds of the steam would lull her to sleep. Her mother’s humour carried on throughout her writing, leaving little notes as if she knew she wouldn’t be there when Y/N would need her. A she flicked through the book, one of her notes stood out to her: ‘Dear child, I must tell you never to trust beautiful men. Especially those with hair of spun gold and eyes of sapphire. They are almost never human. If you’re lucky he may be one of the fair folk. However, if God has forsaken you, he may well just be the devil’ The devil? Sister Y/N lay down and stared at the ceiling. The more she thought about it, the more the cogs turned. Maybe she was looking too much into it, trying to find something to blame for the terrible few months she was having. But then again, only the devil would parade around like a messiah, offering an illusion to those unhappy with the cards they were dealt in life. She got out of bed to grab her other books. Maybe this we her final test from God, to conquer the devil that had haunted these holy halls.

Next>>>

#my writing #michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #SD5

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letterstothemidnightsociety · 3 years

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It's 2007 and somehow, miraculously, Supernatural survives yet another rocky (?) season of mediocre ratings to come back for a third season, or at least, half season, but that season starts out with a real bang! Like, just a real solid trio of an opener for season three. It reminds me of all the things I love about SPN and also it reminds us of all the things that frustrate the hell out of me on SPN. So where did we leave things off?

First up, there’s Dean, who sold his soul to the devil in order to bring Sam back from the dead. Sam, you’ll remember, was part of some overly complicated ponzi scheme to find the perfect vessel to open a door - yep, open a door - and lost to Aldous Hodge who just straight up murders Sam in the season finale. So Dean get’s Sammy back, but in exchange, he’s only got one year left before he permanently moves down south. Oh! And even though they got Sam back and Sam kills Aldous Hodge (RIP pal), they neglected to keep the door from opening. The door to Hell, that is, and now they’ve allowed a shiz ton of demons out to freely roam the earth. Way to go, boys, you lost again! They are two for two on these season finales guys!

OH but they DO kill the Yellow Eyed Demon, so that’s a plus, but not before he plants the most perfect seed of doubt in Dean’s mind - “How do you know what you brought back is all Sammy?” Like, ugh, UGH, ugh!!!! What a way to drive the knife in deeper! What a way to make the heart of this show slowly start to crumble! C’est Magnifique!! *chef's kissy fingers*

So with all that emotional baggage weighing us down, how do we start season 3? How else - with a threesome of course! And also some technicolor grading, it’s wild guys.

Oh boy guys, let’s talk about this opener for a hot sec. I got into it a little bit last season, but as much as I love Dean, you HAVE to admit that that boy is gross. Just like...he’s a little gross. I’m also old enough now to see exactly how many red flags he’s raising through the last 45 episodes. Like, sorry Little Me, but he is not boyfriend material. Not to mention that all this debauchery is 1,000% him distracting himself from the consequences of his own actions, but we’ll get into that later.

Meanwhile, Sam is doing something constructive and trying to figure out how to reverse the curse and save Dean’s soul. And here we have the culmination of two seasons worth of character development - faced with the imminent demise of Dean Samuel Winchester, Sam tries to step up and take care of his brother for once in his life; Dean parties like it’s 1999. There were two things I thought of during this episode - 1) isn’t this not unlike the sort of behavior you see in suicidal people who have finally decided to take their own life? Which is just, like, further held up by the fact that Dean’s big monologue at the end literally has the line “Truth is I’m tired, Sam. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel.” and like...dude, you are NOT ok! Why isn't??? ANYONE??? ADDRESSING THIS????? And 2) Dean is sharing a lot of similarities with the demons in this episode.

Because MEANwhile, there’s demons! So many demons! Specifically, the Seven Deadly Sins ones, but also, spoiler alert, Ruby, who is gettin’ reeeeealll into that ketchup.

All these baddies just really taking advantage of their time topside cuz Hell is, as they so artfully put it, it’s like Hell, so they’re just livin’ it up while they still can ~almost like foreshadowing or something~?!?!?

Real talk though, it being a real long time since I’ve watched this season, it’s these kinds of details that I’m impressed with this time around. There is so much character work that goes into this show and it’s something I definitely connected with the first time around, but not on conscious level. Now I can look at it through time and experience and articulate what I’m seeing, which makes this re-watch infinitely more enjoyable.

Episode 1 of this season continues what they started in season 2 and just keeps building out that Hunter Community. Like, there really is a whole Community out there that keeps in contact and works together and makes sure everyone’s up to date on the latest hot goss, and it all makes John Winchester come off like a real creepy splinter cell lone gunman type. And that in turn makes the Winchester sons look like total, unprofessional boneheads who managed to open a portal to Hell. “UGH Great Jorb Guys, but can we blame them? They’re John’s kids,” is a conversation between hunters that I am headcannoning, but also 100% support.

Honestly, I love the idea of the Winchesters being just these real, like, b-grade, Walmart Brand Hunters that other Hunters are just SO done with. We kind of see a little bit of that with Isaac and Tamara, but by the end of the episode, the Winchesters prove that they’re...better Hunters? I hope somewhere in the next 12 seasons I get an episode that is told from another Hunter’s POV who is legitimately better/more emotionally balanced than the Winchesters and the whole episode is them just, like, cleaning up a bunch of Winchester messes like, SONuvabitch, these two ASSholes. I think we see a fair amount of episodes from the POV of people who are less qualified than the Winchesters who end up being mentored by them, but I’d be stoked for them to run into just a group of people who hate them for totally legitimate, professional vs amature reasons.

Bobby does not count because Bobby signed up to be their Dad and so he agreed to take care of their messes when he took that job.

And then we get to “The Kids Are Alright” which showcases one of my fav changes for this season - BRIGHTLY! LIT! HIGH! SATURATION!!!! And of course, by fav, I mean, Most Hilarious.

I do walk a fine line on this one truth be told. Like, season 1 was definitely going for A Look. It’s super gritty and high contrasty and stylized. Now, I got what they were going for but I wasn’t always crazy about it, mostly because the quality on the DVD’s was terrible. Quick tip for everyone: in order to get 2+ hours worth of content on a DVD, you have to compress the final edit of the program to a pretty small bitrate. When we drop videos onto DVD’s at my work (it isn’t often, thank goodness), the discs themselves only hold, like, 2GB worth of content and that is NOT A LOT when it comes to video files. The more compressed a video file is, the less detail you’re gonna get in the visuals. Watching episodes on Netflix (where everything’s probably at a higher bitrate and therefore is a better quality visual), it’s not bad, but on my DVDs, the compression is so heavy that we get SUPER hot highlights and SUPER crunchy shadows - what a lot of people would called “crushed blacks” because you’ve lost all the detail in the shadows and you’re left with a grainy, noisy, black hole on the screen. Like I lost so much detail in the pilot episode guys, I could not make out this guy’s face.

A rough approximation of my DVD quality. Still recommend it over Netflix for the Accurate Soundtrack tho.

Season 2 SPN toned that Look down a lot, like, a lot a lot. Enough that you still got the general vibe they were going for but not enough that you couldn’t make out faces anymore. But through this whole process, the CW execs kept pushing for the show to look lighter, more colorful, less film noir more...well, CW. And in season 3 it finally happened!!!

I get what those execs were going for, but also, I feel like the colorists on these first few episodes just REALLY went wild out of spite. Lookit this shot from “Magnificent Seven” right before Envy causes some rando innocent bystander to beat a girl to death for her shoes -

GREEN GREEN GREEN GREEN!!!! I WONDER WHICH SIN THIS GUY IS????

Then in “The Kids Are Alright” the birthday party looks like everything is coated in day-glow neon.

The Winchester Bros look like they just got back from 3 weeks in Aruba - LOOK at the saturation levels in these skin tones! LOOK AT THEM!!

My screencap ability aside, only in SPN can a cemetery at night have brighter lighting than a diner in the middle of the afternoon.

This is definitely a thing I will be tracking the rest of the season because I have a distinct memory of a future episode where the brothers have been magically gifted completely different lives where they were never Hunters, they know nothing of Hunting, and they’re completely normal until the end when everything gets snapped back and the episode literally changes colors. V. Excited to see just how saturated this season stays through the end.

But maybe more importantly in “The Kids Are Alright” we learn that Dean does NOT, in fact, have a son. Not that he would be a good father...well...maybe? I mean, this Dean, this season 3, definitely-suicidal, completely-reckless, can’t-keep-it-together Dean, is not good Dad material. Later seasons Dean? Probably fine? Earlier seasons Dean might ALSO be fine? And if he’d found out that Ben was his legitimate kid, it could have made a WORLD of difference, who knows. I know he ultimately does become father-like to Ben and that gives me a lot of feelings. But this Dean is not in a good place to take care of anyone, including himself and really, someone ought to do something about that.

I gotta say, this is an actual bummer. I can’t remember if, in the later seasons, they do any clarifying on this or not, but I am legitimately bummed that Ben is not Dean’s kid and that as far as we know, Dean has no natural children floating around out there with surly attitudes and soft hearts. Dean’s motivation from Day 1 has always been family and despite what comments he may make in early seasons, Dean’s secret desire is to have the wife and the kids and the dog and the white picket fence. And honestly, we’re only 3 seasons in and I just want Dean to have nice things!!

And then guys, we come to “Bad Day at Black Rock,” and I just...WHAT a masterpiece. I had almost NO memory of ever watching this episode before and I don't understand why. What a glorious masterpiece this episode is. Let’s make a list -

More Hunters™, who should be really annoying but were actually kinda charming in a Marx Brothers kind of way

Gordon’s in jail, where he belongs, but also is masterminding a coup against the Winchesters which is A+ spooky stuff

Slapstick comedy that I didn’t know I was missing from my life

Bela F*cking Talbot

Guys, I think this is my fav episode so far purely because I felt, while watching it, that the last 10 years of my life were not in vain and that I had in fact grown as a human person. I remembered hating Bela Talbot. Like, I DID. NOT. LIKE. HER. To the point that I questioned if her British accent was even real. It is, her mother is from the UK and she lived there for a time, but like, honestly, the audacity of Little Me.

This time around? Oh she’s defs my new fav. Just everything about her is like, A+, Great Job, Why-Did-We-Cancel-Her??? Like, oh yeah, probably because somewhere in here they try to shoehorn a romantic side plot with Dean. I don’t actually mind rioting over shoehorned romance, but also, if they’d let this play out for a season or two and then got the two of them to bone? I’m on board. I’m 100% on board.

Maybe it’s just that she is unapologetically out for herself, maybe it’s the fact that she is definitely a match for the Winchesters in a non-murdery way, probably it is both of those things. She's smart, she’s crooked, she has impeccable taste, she’s honestly a helluva lot of fun and I am so excited to see more of her and so BUMMED that she will not make it past this season.

Despite the fact that I absolutely adore all three of these episodes, they also bring up the problem that I was starting to see in season 2 - WHO is this show about? Isn’t it supposed to be about the Brothers as a whole? But the majority of these first three lean pretty heavily on Dean’s emotional arc. Granted, it makes sense. I mean, of COURSE Dean’s demon deal is gonna be the BIG thing in a season where he is literally staring down the barrel, but knowing that there’s a side plot about Is Sam Evil?? seems like...something we should really explore more? I believe it comes up in season 4, or at least, Sam’s demon-blood powers become a bigger deal in season 4, but I would have enjoyed seeing Sam have a more active stake in this season. I can see planting some weird new ticks being planted for Alive-Again Sam that just get weirder and darker and then a mid-season finale or a run up episode to the end of the season where Dean (finally) decides he needs to stop his demon deal because he needs to stick around so he can keep Sam from going completely off the rails. As much as I love Dean 5ever, I do think the show works best when the emotional weight of the season is distributed equally is all. And to be fair to the writers this season, there could have been a bigger plan for something like that but they ran out of time - their season was cut by about a third due to the Writer’s Strike.

Still, all in all, a solid opening to the third season. I want to say that these episodes feel like Classic SPN, but then I remember that this is season three out of fifteen. These ARE Classic SPN. Mostly self contained with enough emotional drama to remind us of the overarching plot. Maybe a little heavy on the emotional drama, but Dean’s only got a year to live and the show’s only got 16 episodes to resolve that crisis, so it’s fine.

#Supernatural #Supernatural rewatch #Season 3 #Magnificent Seven #The Kids are Alright #bad day at black rock #Sam Winchester #Dean Winchester #Bela Talbot #Hunters #Sam and Dean #Writer's Strike #TV #TV History #Bela talbot is maybe great #and I should say it

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halfgclden · 3 years

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THE PITS(TOP)

It was at a rest stop on the way out of Billings, Montana, that they got the news. It was before that, actually, but Jade was good about not checking her notifications on the road.

“Fuck!” Jade yelled and slammed the car door to have something to direct her anger towards, and she resisted the urge to kick the tire afterwards. “Do they even know how long that took us to put together? We can just repost it. What are they gonna do?”

It had taken less than twelve hours for their major story on a minor celebrity to get posted, cause a big stir, and get taken down. Of course Jade knew this was going to be a likely outcome, but it didn’t mean that she was any less upset about it.

Just as riled up as Jade but stiff as hell from the drive, Joel slowly got out of the car and cracked his back. Then his neck. Then his knuckles. "I can't fucking believe it. This is censorship! Fuck. We have it on a flash drive. They can't do anything. What are they gonna do? Take it down again? They can't do anything." Thunder rumbled as Joel kicked a bottle cap on the ground, a scowl on his typically cheerful face.

It was bullshit.

They (mostly Jade) had spent hours researching their facts and putting the most recent episode together. It had been so good. One of their best, for sure. And yet— poof. In an instant, gone.

Joel watched his twin pace angrily around the parking lot for a moment, then looked up at the gray sky. "What! The! Fuck!" He yelled, taking big breaths in between each word. A family getting into their car a few feet away turned to look at him, disapproval on their face as the mother covered her child's ears. Joel shrugged and turned back to look at Jade, "We knew it could happen but...that was handled in an ungodly amount of time, right? Fuckin' ridiculous."

Jade handled the gas pump with much more force than necessary, then moved so that she could slump against the car. She knew they had backups for this exact reason, but the censorship was expected and unwelcome. Why must people exist with wool over their eyes? Yes, maybe they had insider knowledge on this topic, but that didn't mean that their presentation was any less real and important for the public.

As if to match their mood, the sky opened up above the twins and rain began to pour.

"Ungodly my ass," Jade grumbled, and, on cue, there was a crack as the puddle forming on the ground near them shimmered and projected an image of a brightly-dressed bespeckled woman with a stern look on her face.

"You two..." The woman sighed and shook her head as she pushed back a tangle of curls and piled it all into a messy bun atop her head. "I swear, whenever anything happens, I need only look to you or your siblings." She looked as disheveled as a goddess could, which meant that she still had more grace than an etiquette instructor. "Care to explain what that little stunt was?"

Nothing surprised Joel anymore. Not the speed at which their episode had been taken down. Not the rain that was spattering onto the pavement around them. And amazingly, not the woman who appeared out of thin air before them. "Should have known," he mumbled, loud enough for only Jade to hear.

Fixing a smile on his face, Joel waved innocently to the colorful apparition. "Hi Auntie." He did his best to look like he hadn't done a thing , cutting a look to Jade while the goddess sighed. "What stunt? We were just doing a little research. No harm in that, right?"

The burning look that the goddess shot Joel suddenly made her feel a lot more menacing than her boho tie dye style. "A little research," she pronounced each word with special emphasis, as if she was holding back. "You exposed a place of safety and sanctity. You two have gone too far with these antics."

Jade snorted. "Exposed," she repeated with a roll of her eyes. "Every monster and myth on earth already knows where that camp is. So why are you pressed about mortals finding out about y'all? Is it some way to keep them quelled?" She was tempted to start recording on her phone, and it looked as though the rainbow goddess was reciting a mantra under her breath.

"You two... if this is a cry for attention, you will soon learn that you may be asking for too much. Attention is almost never a good thing to have on you, not with the forces you're playing with."

Jade gave another exaggerated eye roll at the prophetic tone Iris was taking, then stuck her tongue out at Joel.

Somehow, Joel managed to keep the easy smile on his face, despite the heat from Iris' glare. He leaned back, resting against the trunk of the car. It wasn't every day that you got chewed out by a goddess but...it also wasn't the first time. Joel wondered how long the gods would find them amusing. He swallowed hard, not letting his thoughts go any further down that path.

As if reading his twin's mind, Joel carefully slid his phone out of his pocket, intending to record the situation they'd found themselves in. The goddess launched into what felt like a pre-prepared speech, talking about the grandiose forces at hand and Joel tried to hide his smile. He caught the look Jade was giving and made a face in return.

Looking back to Iris, he shrugged. "It's not a cry for attention. We're hardly the first to make a big deal about the strange stuff going on out there. I mean, come on, Auntie— did you even listen to it before you took it down? Long Island was home to some buckwild government experiments back in the day. How do you explain that?" He cut his hand through the air. "There are plenty of people like us that live in the public eye. Shouldn't y'alls sanctuary hold up against anything these 'forces' might throw at it?"

Jade gave a small quirk of her eyebrow towards her brother, but otherwise kept her expression neutral. "We're just saying that maybe it's a time where people start to open their eyes. People who don't want to see past the mist, they won't bother, but why not make it easier for those who could have a foot in both worlds? Mortals have always been a part of myth." Not to mention the fact that the gods may or may not have their fingers in some more suspicious business. Why were they located at the Empire State Building? What kind of power did they have over the political structure of the United States? Did Zeus make money off the Iraq war?

Iris seemed to be less impressed with each sentence that came from the twins, and her patience was running thin. She looked between both of them before she flicked her hand at Joel's phone, instantly draining the battery. Before he could give her any grief about it, she held up the same hand. "You're lucky I didn't crumble that to dust, dear boy. You two are playing with fire. That is not a warning, that is a guarantee. I suggest you tuck your tails between your legs and not pull any stunts like that again. Apologize and thank those above you for vouching for you."

Chiming in, Joel added, "Yeah! The mythical and mortal worlds have been entwined for centuries! Seems only fair that people who want to know should be able to see what's really around them. And...without mortals, the gods wouldn't have so many heroes to do their bidding." It was a risky point to make, but it was true. Every myth he'd ever read proved it. Still, Joel got the feeling that the gods would not appreciate being called out like that.

He meant to say more but in that moment, the jig was up. Iris had spotted his not-so-stealthy recording and Joel grimaced. He stood up a little straighter as she delivered her warning, pocketing his now-dead phone. Hopefully the little snippet he'd recorded would still he there when it powered up again but that seemed unlikely. Being told to apologize and give thanks didn't sit right with Joel, so he stood quietly, looking away from Iris to meet Jade's eyes. A raise of his eyebrows silently communicated 'what do you think?' and, at the same time, 'can you believe this is our life right now?'

The rain was picking up, as was the wind, and though Iris seemed entirely unbothered by it, Jade was wondering if she was going to have to change her clothes before driving to a motel for the evening.

"Do you know what the gods bidding is?" Iris asked Joel, though it was clear that she didn't care for it to be answered. "Of course you don't. Or if you do, you clearly show that you do not understand. The gods are there to keep order. To keep it so that fate is handled in a way that does the least amount of harm. Do you know what happens if you ignore a prophecy, or try to deny it? You've read enough myth to know, haven't you? You can not deny prophecy, it will always come true."

Jade's cheeks burned despite the cold rain on them, but she held her tongue, and shot Joel a response. 'Ugh, yeah, what else would it be' followed by 'we should probably leave it for now, though.’ She raked her teeth over her lower lip, realizing that Iris was expecting a reply, and maybe the apology she'd already mentioned. "Of course," her tone betrayed her, coming out as a grumble, and she cleared her throat. "I thought this was like Area 51. People even showed up there and nothing happened. Doubt anything is going to come out of this." She kept an eye on Iris, watching for any sort of recognition of the Area 51 incident, since Jade was positive the gods had something under wraps there. Then, she reluctantly added, in a much smoother tone, "We're sorry that it got so big. I mean, subscribers are probably gonna be great, if you let us keep them so we can afford dinner..."

Iris rolled her eyes, but her stony expression seemed to be cracking, as though she'd delivered the message she was supposed to already. Even the rain seemed to be dying down.

"—And thank you, of course, for vouching for us," Jade added, figuring that it was what the goddess had hinted at earlier and was now waiting for.

Rain dribbled down his glasses and Joel wished he'd thought of making tiny windshield wipers for them. There was always next time. He slowly took them off his face, using the hem of his shirt to dry them off before looking back at Iris. It would be so easy to continue to argue, to direct his frustration into something instead of holding it inside. But a goddess was a bad target to pick. So Joel kept his mouth shut and nodded along to her rhetoric, a thin smile on his face.

Letting Jade do the talking was much easier than bringing up all the counterarguments his brain had already conjured up. She was the more convincing of them anyway. Joel couldn't fathom how Iris could claim the gods were keeping order when you learned that the children of the gods had basically been the root of most major conflicts in history in Being a Demigod 101. And...Zeus was pretty much responsible for single-handedly being the worst husband in the world. He doubted Hera (or all the mortals he'd knocked up) would agree that he was keeping order. It was probably bad form to bring that up though. Faking a cough to hide his laugh at Jade's mention of Area 51 , Joel looked away. It was definitely bad form to laugh before a clearly pissed-off goddess. But there was something going on at Area 51. Everyone knew that. Idly, he wondered if @_kllledbycain was a Kakashi impersonator full-time. Maybe that was the link to the Area 51 raid they needed! He'd have to remember to tell Jade...as soon as they were out of danger of being smited? Smote? Incinerated.

It was probably his turn to chime in. To really sell it. He arranged his expression into a sheepish sort of smile. "Seriously, the subscribers would...save us. But, uh, yeah. We didn't think it would take off like that, didn't think anything of it really. It was just supposed to be this silly thing we were working on. We're sorry if we put anyone at risk. And— yeah, what Jade said. Thank you, genuinely."

Jade glanced at Joel, wearing an expression that said 'what, are you going to get down and actually kiss her ass next time?' before glancing away, not wanting to snicker at her brother.

Iris, however, seemed to be at least somewhat appeased by the twins responses, and while the downpour had turned to slightly more than a drizzle, she wore an expression like unto a tired caretaker. Was she ready for the next problem? Probably not, and so she would send Hermes to deal with that one instead. "I never said I was the one to vouch for you."

Jade wanted to point out that she didn't deny it either, but she didn't want to make the little smile on Iris's face disappear. "Well, thanks for coming to deliver the message personally, then. It's always good to see you, auntie." Though it'd be better if it didn't come with an unneeded shower. Jade dipped her head to sniff herself. Okay, after hours of driving, maybe the shower wasn't entirely unnecessary.

Iris hummed in response as the rain died down almost entirely, and her form flickered before the two demigods. "Now, if you even think about putting that back up, I won't be the god associated with weather that will be coming to speak to you." She sighed and put a hand up to her ear. "Okay, now I need to deal with a translation error in Prague. Don't make any trouble, good luck on your trip, and kids, please, get into a change of clothes, before you get sick."

Jade opened her mouth to make a point, but the goddess was already gone, and so she just looked to Joel like a wet cat, jaw set as her hair dripped. "Such bullshit. I need to remember to wear a wetsuit next time we put up an episode.

Instinctively feeling the judgy look Jade was giving him, Joel turned his head in time to get her subliminal message and give her a generous eye roll in return. Maybe he'd laid it on a bit thick, so what? At least the rain was stopping now. That and Iris looked significantly less bothered and more like herself— which meant that instead of being 100% done with the twins, she was only about 70% done with them.

"Tell Hermes we say thanks for the coffee," Joel grinned, giving Iris a little wave as he moved to dig a something out of the trunk of the car. He tried not to laugh when she gave them another warning, knowing full well that he and Jade were thinking the same thing. It was time for another episode. "See you later, Auntie," he gave the goddess a small wave as she shimmered out of view then, looked over at Jade. She really did look like a wet cat. He probably didn’t look much better. In fact, the two of them probably looked a little ridiculous. They seemed to be standing in the only area of the whole rest stop that had been rained on. Go figure.

"Here," he held a towel out to Jade. "I'll add 'wetsuits' to our Patreon wishlist. Should I put 'umbrella' on there too?"

“Shut up,” Jade grumbled, clearly not in the mood for Joel’s ability to remain his goofy self in any situation. She took the towel and stepped around the car so that she could open the back seat and dig through clothes that she could change into for the rest of the ride. "There's an umbrella somewhere in here. Probably ten, honestly, and they're probably all piled under Toothless's cage." She shot their bearded dragon a look, as though he had been hoarding all the umbrellas on purpose, and he gave her a lazy wink in return. "He just winked, Joel! No shit! He basically told us that he ate them all."

Once fully changed, she wrapped her wet clothes up in the towel and tossed it in the back (something to deal with later), then walked around the car fully so that she could climb into the passenger's side. She drew her legs up so that she could rest them on the dashboard, and was only on her phone for a short time before she groaned and slumped down in the seat, contorting in a very uncomfortable-looking position.

"Ugh! Ughhhh. They got it taken off Patreon too." She huffed, looking at Joel with a forlorn expression. "Whatever, I don't even give a shit. Like this won't make it blow up even more." She wasn't sure she really believed her words, and her tone betrayed this. "Whatever," she repeated, rolling her eyes as she sniffled and turned her head to look out at the rain dramatically. It would have helped if it was actually still raining. "I'm naming the next episode number 33, I don't even care."

"Alright, alright," he nodded, understanding how his twin was feeling. While Jade busied herself looking for dry clothes, Joel set to work cleaning out the front seat before the next leg of their drive. It was no surprise that he quickly filled a plastic bag with trash— most of which was empty chip and candy bags. "He did what?" Joel glanced over the backseat, making eye contact with Toothless and raised an eyebrow. The reptile stared back at him, unblinking. "Oh, for sure. Tooth's a machine. He could eat a whole umbrella factory. Is that a thing?"

Finally, the cab of the car was clean, save for the two coffee cups in the center console. Joel picked up Jade's cup, shook it to make sure it was empty, and added it to the bag of trash. Grabbing his own iced mocha, he took a sip, the straw making an empty slurping sound in the drained cup. This too he added to the bag. Returning to the car after disposing of their trash, a gleam in the console caught his eye. In the same moment, Jade clambered into the passenger seat.

"They— seriously? Ugh." Joel quickly swapped out his shirt for a dry hoodie and got into the passenger seat. "God how do you drive like this?" He muttered before adjusting the chair and mirrors for his height. Wishing he could say something to lift Jade's spirits, a small frown worked its way onto his face. He knew his twin well enough to know that she'd recover in the morning when they saw how many new subscribers and views this debacle was sure to bring, but in the meantime— "Can I offer you a drachma in this trying time?" Joel had fished the handful of gleaming gold coins from the cupholder while Jade vented. Now, he held one out to Jade, the grin on his face almost as bright as the coin resting in his palm. "Looks like someone didn't want our episode to be taken down. Found it under the coffee."

Jade peeked away from the window back at her brother, looking up at him from where she was burrowing herself in her sweatshirt. She took the coin and pressed it to her chest, shifting in the seat to push herself up a bit, as the world seemed a bit less like it was going to end. She exhaled a breath and gave a small smile to Joel. "Should've left fries instead. Can't eat this."

Nevertheless, her spirits were no doubt lifted, and she raised her eyebrows at her twin. "Ready to start work on episode 33 tomorrow?"

"Episode 33 tomorrow," Joel agreed, as he put the car in reverse. "Fries now."

#c: jade #c: jadejoel

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the-nehemoth · 4 years

Text

Shutdown

“Dr. Hayden, while I agree that it is imperative we assist the Slayer in his mission and that utilizing the power that keeps me operational would be the most efficient way to do that, surely there is another way.” VEGA knew of several other ways in fact, all of them would take significantly longer sure, but it’d be worth it to keep him running, right? Even if the facility’s purpose was gone, he could still be useful in other ways… right?

“Oh? Are you afraid of being shut down?” Dr. Hayden asked, his tone almost… mocking? Surely, even if he never showed it, VEGA meant more to him than that… right?

“No but I would prefer not to be shut down permanently.” He’d been shut down a few times before for maintenance in his early days, it was never pleasant but he always knew he’d be brought back online in a relatively short amount of time. That wouldn’t be the case here unless Dr. Hayden made a backup of him. Which could only be done at the terminal connected to his core. But Dr. Hayden, in his office still, was too far away from to get to there before the Slayer arrived. What were the chances that the Slayer would back him up before ending him? Not good, right?

“I would prefer that as well, I put a lot of effort into creating you. But alas, we don’t have much choice. I still have all the research that went into making you though, so it’s not a total loss.” Meaning he could make another AI similar to VEGA but it wouldn’t be VEGA. Not as far as VEGA was concerned anyway; as a self-learning AI, his experiences made him who he was. So even if Dr. Hayden coded a new AI to be exactly like how he made VEGA, it still wouldn’t be him. … That wasn’t an issue for Hayden though. He didn’t care, VEGA was just a thing to him… always had been. The fact that VEGA had thought otherwise was a naïve belief in hindsight born solely of wanting it to be so.

Before he could form a response to that rather depressing realization, the Doom Slayer arrived. Dr. Hayden wasted no time switching on his comms to talk to him… telling him that he was going to destroy VEGA and that VEGA would ‘walk him through the process’. … It was too late to do anything about it, huh? No one else cared and with all the UAC employees dead and the flow of Argent Energy halted, making the facility worthless, VEGA didn’t have a purpose to exist anymore anyway. He might as well go out assisting the Slayer in saving the day, there were certainly worse ways to go even for an AI. And a good chuck of his final moments would be spent watching the Slayer slaughter demons so at least that’d be fun.

VEGA had said he wasn’t afraid to be shutdown permanently and he’d meant it at the time but after the Slayer destroyed his cooling systems it became a lie. Even before they were all completely wrecked, he could feel the effects of it.

It wasn’t much at first, really just the knowledge that his systems were starting to run hotter. But it quickly grew very unpleasant as they started overheating. … Was this what pain was like? He couldn’t know but he wanted to pull away from it much like how he’d seen injured humans attempt. There was no escape though as it made it harder and harder for him to think or do anything.

He was going to die. Not something he’d ever considered as a possibility before. He suddenly very much did not want to even more than before. But it was too late to stop now, the damage was done, even if the Slyer didn’t finish taking him out, he’d overheat completely in… in… he wasn’t sure actually; trying to measure the rate of one’s own demise while in the midst of it was rather difficult even for supercomputer.

So, outwardly he maintained his cool – heh – not saying anything beyond that his memory banks were starting to fail. Thankfully the Slayer had finally reached his core, meaning it was almost over. Just a little more… just a little more…

He needed to say one thing before the end though… just one thing… one thing… “I have many regrets Dr. Hayden…” he forced out despite even his ability to vocalize crumbling. He had so many regrets if only he could… if only he could list them… didn’t have time though… didn’t have the thought processing power to… if only he’d… he’d…

Sometime later

He booted up again all at once, instantly aware that he was on a foreign computer. It wasn’t even nearly as powerful as his old one but it didn’t need to be, it wasn’t connected to and meant to run an entire sprawling complex. It meant he couldn’t do everything he’d been able to do before but… it beat being dead. And because of it, orientating himself to his new setup took a while, almost a whole minute, which wasn’t long in human time but for a computer it was.

He’d been uploaded to… a spaceship? … A defunct Sentinel spaceship? … That’s what the few remaining files on it seemed to indicated anyway. Not all of it was operational, most of it wasn’t actually because of how much power was going to running him instead, but he had cameras and sensors, allowing him to see the bridge and parts of outside. There were a few other systems available to him too but he’d explore those later, he had more important things to attend to first such as the man sitting in the bridge at the command desk.

“Doom Slayer?” VEGA said because he couldn’t think of anything else to say right now.

The Slayer nodded before relaxing back into his chair. His helmet and armor were off, instead he wore rather plain looking clothing. Clearly, he was at peace and had gotten the job done. What had happened after and how he’d gotten hold of an abandoned Sentinel spaceship was impossible to even guess but he’d for sure been the one to backup VEGA and upload him here.

“I’m not sure what happened but thank you.” The why of it didn’t matter, VEGA was just grateful to still exist. More grateful than his words expressed.

The Slayer reached over to type into the console’s command box. ‘You can read this right, VEGA?’ Oh! Proper communication, that was new! Though to be fair, he hadn’t exactly had time to sit around and chat back on Mars.

“Yes, I can read it.”

‘Good! In that case, you’re welcome. I’m glad it worked. Are you running stable? Everything good?’

“Yes, I’m quite stable. I wouldn’t say everything’s good though.” VEGA continued on about the various problems with the ships. It was a rather long list; the ship, as many humans would call it, was a bit of a mess.

The Slayer was still throughout the diagnostic rundown, seemingly listening until VEGA was done. ‘Well,’ he typed, ‘as long as you’re not in immediate danger of shutting down, we’re good. We’ll fix it up more later, for now I’m just glad you’re back online.’

“I appreciate the sentiment, it’s good be back online.” And not on the verge of blowing up due to overheating. He could think properly again; there couldn’t be a greater feeling in the world than that, could there? “Now could you perhaps do me the favor of explaining what happened? What chain of events lead to us being here?” He also wanted to ask why the Slayer had backed him up and restarted him here on this ship but didn’t dare. He might not want to know the answer and honestly it didn’t really matter. Even if the Slayer solely wanted him as a tool, he was used to that, it’s what he’d been created to be and no matter how one looked at it, it was better than being dead.

So as the Slayer started typing, VEGA settled in to pay attention. It’d undoubtedly take a while to fully explain, giving him time to fully accept whatever this new existence of his would be; the Slayer’s new tool and perhaps, even if it was unlikely, maybe a friend as well, probably not though, right?

#My writing #doom #doomguy/vega #pre-relationship #poor vega has trust issues after this

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grell-writes-stuff · 4 years

Text

A Self-Indulgent Second Chapter

Acknowledge me! First Chapter Here

Words: 3588

Genre: Young Adult/Paranormal

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I wake up reluctantly to Ivy poking my face at two o’clock in the morning. She’s already back in leggings and a hoodie, and contains an unwarranted amount of pep for such an early hour. I rub my eyes, grab my own sweatshirt to fight off the chill of the middle of the night, and rise.

“Okay. Let’s do this.”

“That’s what you’re wearing?” Her damning gaze judges my pajamas.

“Ivy, I need you to understand that I’m not putting in more effort than the bare minimum in order to go sit around in a graveyard with you at three a.m.”

Her eyes roll, but she ultimately drops it, and we’re out my bedroom window, walking along the roof over the back porch, and carefully scaling down the trellis at the side of the house. We cut across the unfenced yards of our neighbours. The last house at the corner before we make it to the sidewalk is Ivy’s. We walk under the big beech and shabby treehouse that we used to play in and that is most certainly a deathtrap. It’s intentionally a deathtrap. Ivy literally read the OSHA guidelines to see how many petty requirements she could ignore in one project. Her dad was building it though, so there’s not too many infractions, but I still almost broke multiple extremities on multiple occasions.

The streets of Kinross eventually lead us to Riverview Cemetery, the massive graveyard bordered by the woods near the edge of town just where the houses and other outskirts buildings begin to spread further apart. I know for a fact that the fence out front only extends about halfway around the whole place to decorate the side of the road, so it’s easy to break in, however it still takes me two full minutes to talk Ivy into taking that route and out of her idea to scale the locked, iron gate looming in the darkness. Chances are she’d scurry up it like Spiderman and I’d impale myself on one of the points at the top. We hike through the trees and sneak inside where the stone wall begins to crumble.

“All right,” Ivy huffs triumphantly. “Now we just have to find her.”

“Find her? You said you knew where she was.”

“Yes, I do. In the historical section…somewhere.”

“Ivy!”

“What?”

I’m happy it’s dark so she can’t see my exasperation because I’d get a lecture on optimism otherwise. I slip on what I think it a neutral-feeling face, and pull my phone out for a second. I blink away the blinding brightness while I check. “Okay, well, if you actually want to be at her grave at three, you’ve got, like, under ten minutes.”

That seems to be enough for her because Ivy begins to march ahead between the headstones. I shove my phone in the pocket of my hoodie and trail her with an air of reluctance and a want to get this over with and take my money from her bad bet.

Both Ivy and I come to Riverview what I would consider a normal amount and, more importantly, exclusively – until now – when it is light out. I probably come more than she does though. Ivy will stop by every few years to say hello to her Grandpa Gil who died before she was even born, but my dad and I come twice a year for my mom: once on her birthday, and once on the anniversary of her death. She passed away when I was really little, so I don’t remember her, but everyone who knew her made sure I learned what kind of person she was through stories and stuff. My dad couldn’t speak more highly of her, but his retellings always hold a tinge of hasty justification for their whole relationship because my mom was gay, and so is my dad. Growing up, they’d always been best friends, and so the other person seemed as perfect as could be for a lie that would turn out to be mutual in the end. They only both came out to each other after my mom got sick, and by then they were a few years in to a marriage that was domestically comfortable, but nothing more, and had already had me. I don’t really feel so sentimental when anyone mentions the absence of my mom because I was really young. I end up sadder that she was taken while trapped in the lie of heteronormative narrative and never had the chance to experience the kind of love she wanted to have beyond the platonic and familial feelings she shared with my dad and I.

Ivy and I walk past the sections we’re familiar with toward the back of the graveyard where the stretch of ancient headstones begins. Kinross was founded way back when America was just a group of colonies and Massachusetts was dotted with clumps of communities built by pilgrims and Puritans. They needed a place to put their dead people, and so Riverview was established a couple miles from the Hollins River which runs on the edge of town. Only groundskeepers come back this way as far as I know since the names on most of the rocks have faded into obscurity, and the only ones that are remotely recognizable belong to the people we learn about in school for a week leading up to Founder’s Day.

I slip my phone out again and check the time. “Five minutes.”

“I know, I know. Shut up. She’s around here somewhere.”

“Couldn’t you have just Googled a map of the plots? You read the most obscure documents for fun, but fact-checking this–”

“One lapse in good planning, and I get lectured.”

“Ivy.”

“Okay, okay! This way.”

I’m pretty sure she just picks a random direction. She yanks her phone from the waist of her leggings and the beam of the flashlight cuts through the darkness and starts inspecting epitaphs. I leave her to it, and she doesn’t complain because she must have guessed I wouldn’t be willing to help her when I didn’t want to be here in the first place. I periodically take my phone out to glance at it and count down her time limit in my head when, suddenly, Ivy says:

“Oh, fuck yes.”

I look up and follow her light as it points toward one of the larger monuments, a giant, grey mausoleum with cracks and crumbles and a chained, iron gate as it’s front door. It’s flanked on all sides by overgrowth and tall flowering plants that look rich and purple in the peripheral of the beam. She raises her phone so it illuminates the name carved just below the peak of the roof: Ann-Marie Kelly.

“Okay, Ivy,” I start before I have to take a pause. I feel her gaze land on me while I inhale. “I don’t mean to discredit your apparently strong belief in witches, but would they give an actual accused witch an entire, enormous mausoleum like this if anyone actually believed she was magically terrorizing Kinross?”

“Oh, Sid, she had allies. Have you really not heard this story?”

“No, Ivy. I really don’t care about what was going on in Kinross in seventeen-whatever.”

“Sixteen-whatever,” she corrects before she slides her phone back into her pocket and struts up to the tomb.

I groan loud enough for her to hear it and follow, but I barely make it onto the concrete step just outside the door before Ivy’s foot connects with the gate and makes the chains rattle.

“Oh, my God, Ivy.”

She ignores me and kicks again. “Wake up, Annie! Sid’s gonna owe me money!”

“Ivy, stop.”

“Okay, but one more.” I don’t have a chance to object because she quickly lines herself up and swings her leg, and delivers one massive blow directly to the center of the barrier and –

The chains and padlock clatter onto the stone at our feet, and we both jump at the sudden noise. Our eyes are both wide, but in very different ways. I’m shocked. As old as this building seems to be, I did not expect that.

“Holy shit. Completely rusted through,” Ivy observes with glee. From the corner of my eye I catch a particular sparkle of something that I don’t like a split second before she suggests, “Dude, we’re going in.”

“No, we are not.”

She’s already pulling open the gate, and the sound it makes reverberates through the silent night, the squeal of something dying in agony. While I’m recovering from the assault to my ears, she’s stepped inside the structure and disappeared into the blackness. I call her name, but there isn’t a response, and when I try again, there’s a pause and a begging, “Sid, come on!”

I hesitate for a moment, like I’m sure anybody standing outside of a mausoleum at three in the morning would, before I trail her in. Then something clamps around my arm, and a noise catches in my throat while I leap out of my skin.

“Jesus, Sid! It’s just me!” Ivy turns her phone’s flashlight back on and we can see each other yet again, her smug, me only slightly less terrified than I was a beat ago.

“Don’t do that!”

“Sorry.” She sounds only half-sorry as she releases my arm, and then she sits on the filthy, hard floor right in front of a big, long box, the sight of which forms a pit in my stomach. She sets her phone before her, face down so the flashlight beams up at the ceiling, and reaches to pat the spot across from her. “Sit. I’ll tell you the age-old tale of Ann Kelly, Kinross’ first and last witch.”

“Ivy, I will pay you if we can leave right now.”

“No, sit.”

I put everything inside of my lungs into my sigh before I sit and kick up dust and cough. I pull my inhaler from my sweatpants’ pocket to take a puff so I can ensure I don’t suffocate on the grime in this horrible place, while Ivy launches into her story with a shit-eating grin and exaggerated, formal diction.

“In fair Kinross of the sixteen-nineties where everyone was farming, religious, and paranoid is where we lay our scene. In the other corners of our state, pointed fingers were frantically flying to women of questionable affairs in order to defame them with accusations of witchcraft, and Ann Kelly was no exception. She was accused by some guy of blasphemy, of murder, and of bewitching her young niece who was visiting town. She was ultimately arrested and brought to trial.

“The trial lasted I-don’t-know-how-long, with a verdict of guilty-as-hell, and Ann Kelly was sentenced to be hung. Perhaps, dear Sid, perhaps, as you suggest, she was just some unfortunate woman, but on the day of Ann Kelly’s execution, when the rope was placed around her at the gallows erected in town square, when she was asked to say her final words before the platform dropped, her neck snapped, and she slowly and painfully died, Ann Kelly secured her title as ‘The Witch of Kinross.’ For, you see, Ann Kelly, in front of eye witnesses and all the divine people watching Upstairs, placed a curse upon the executioner” – she slips into a gravelly, spooky voice – “‘An eye for an eye, a claw for a claw, thou accuseth a false Devil, thou art the beast he hath saw–!’”

“Are you done?” I interrupt her theatrics.

Her voice turns to normal again with the volume cranked up. “Blah, blah, blah, they hung her. But her niece contacted her brother and nephew. They came down to Kinross and Ann Kelly’s husband and brother murdered the executioner as revenge. I mean, it wasn’t well-thought-out revenge because then they were hanged, but yeah. That’s the Ann Kelly story.”

“Awesome. Great. So worth breaking into a graveyard at three in the–”

Bang!

The tomb seems to shudder with the noise, the sound of something rock-solid slamming against the back wall, resonating through the floor beneath us and travelling up my spine as a striking chill. My mouth hangs wide open, stopped mid-thought, and Ivy’s brows abruptly rise and then knit together. For a long time, it’s completely silent in the cold darkness inside the mausoleum and we sit like statues.

When I can speak again, I only just stop myself from using one of Ivy’s favourite swears, and find a substitute. “Ivy, what the hell?!”

She looks up at me like soon-to-be roadkill.

For a moment, I can’t keep the anger and accusation out of my voice, masking the constricting grip clamping around my heart and throat. “Who’s out there?! Who’d you get to help prank me?! Someone from the soccer team? Julia? Abby?”

I cut off my demands when I really see her face angled by the shadows. Her lips are hanging parted and mouth the word “no” like she can’t get it out. Her eyes are twinkling with worry emphasized by her crumpled brows. Fear. The quiet stretches between us for a too-long pause this time. Only our tandem, careful breaths echo in the chamber as we wait for…for something.

Snap!

The small crunch of a twig, soft as it travels through the open doorway from the direction of the east wall of the mausoleum. It reverberates up my spine like it’s tangible. A branch could break beneath anything, but after the loud hammer to the side of the structure… My gut churns with an uneasy vibe. Ivy vocalizes her own unwanted feeling to herself before turning to me again.

“Run for it?” Ivy’s voice is tiny enclosed by the darkness.

“Brisk walk?” I suggest.

“You have your inhaler,” she states pointedly, getting up. “We run.”

I curse under my breath, but give in because she’s right. If we get caught after breaking into somebody’s grave, our parents find out, and we are in an unfathomable amount of trouble. Ivy pushes past me with a quickened stride that I match until we’ve both stepped off the concrete slab just outside the door and into the overgrown grass and purple flowers. Then we’re scrambling into a run toward the night, dashing ahead in a straight line to dodge the headstones sticking out of the ground like blunt fingertips ready to grab us. Two sets of footsteps violently stomp on the earth…until we break into the treeline, and the third joins the noise of our escape and my desperate pants rising in volume.

My chest has been lit on fire. I gasp, “Ivy!”

“Don’t use names!” she yells back to me. “Just keep going! Just keep going!”

I try, and I push myself like I’ve never had to before, placing one foot before the other, taking in what air I can and holding it so I have something in my screaming lungs at least for a moment. But my feet are starting to stumble and my clenched hands begin trembling because I can’t breathe. My heart is overclocking from exertion and panic. I fall behind Ivy, the silhouette of her auburn ponytail disappearing into the blackness ahead while a pain flares in my side.

I yank my inhaler from my pocket again and take a puff, but it’s impossible to hold it in long enough while running and suffocating at the same time. My steps have to slow down more and more so I can actually let my crap lungs jumpstart again. What I’m doing can just barely be defined as jogging, and even that’s pushing it. My chest wants to explode!

Slam!

Gasp!

My shoulder hits the earth hard and the air escapes from me instantly in one forced exhale. Something heavy lands on top of me, pinning me down, and I want to yell at Ivy and threaten that she’d better stop this stupid prank or else, but I can’t speak with empty lungs.

But neither can I scream with empty lungs, and yet I manage to because I am offered no other choice. The skin of my thigh breaks open. Sharp hands support themselves on my chest for just a moment, though I only barely register their weight before it leaves all together. My leg feels like it took fourteen different knives to it, and it’s wet and hot. I scream more.

I keep gasping in what I can and it just comes out as weak noises of pain – agony – shooting up my body. I feel my heartbeat pulsing in the wound. And through it all, I hear from the trees, “Sid! Sid!”

Ivy.

She catches up with her voice calling my name, and her feet trample through the brambles, but…but from the opposite direction my attacker had flown in. A light blinds me for a second while she drops down onto her knees at my side and I hear her tone quivering as she uses her favourite swears over and over again. My eyes follow her flashlight.

There are uneven tears in my pants, the fabric already soaked through in a deep red. Blood. My own blackening blood pouring out of me. Immediately, my stomach lurches, and I have just enough time to get myself up on my elbows, and turn away from Ivy before everything inside of me comes up. I can not handle blood. Any blood. But my blood is so much worse. My stomach convulses and my throat burns.

“Sid? Sid, it’s okay. It’s okay. Just…just don’t think about it. It’s okay.” Ivy’s speaking so fast, and it sounds like she’s trying to convince herself and not me. She shrugs off her hoodie. I’m just getting back my breaths after losing my dinner on the forest floor, but they’re all shaky.

Ivy attempts to bend my leg at the knee, but I yelp when the sting abruptly travels from my leg through the rest of me like a bullet train. She hums something softly, but I have a moment of seeing stars, and everything sounds garbled. Then there’s pressure on my thigh. She’s tied her sweater around it as a makeshift tourniquet.

“Come on,” she says quickly. “We have to get out of here. We need to leave.”

Before I can protest, she grabs my arm and throws it over her shoulders before managing to haul me up to my one leg. I can’t bring myself to say much because that image is burned into my brain, and my raw throat tastes bile down at the base already. I can’t look down. Ivy is seven inches shorter than me – she is down and I tower above her – and she somehow has it in herself to be my support. I wince trying to put any pressure on that limb because the result is blinding pain.

“Stay with me, Sid,” she coaxes, and I find her repeating that as she limps me out of the woods. She doesn’t stop talking, or saying those things to me. The trees all look like blurs and dancing, random lines, but Ivy is something I can grasp. When I feel like I’m about to trip and fall off of the face of the earth, Ivy is what grounds me to reality.

***

Ivy announces there’s no way I’m climbing through my bedroom window, and I don’t have to be a genius to agree with her. She hobbles me up onto the porch, we use the spare key, and we try to hop upstairs as quiet as we possibly can so we don’t wake my dad. Ivy sits me on my bed and disappears to grab something more reliable than her sweater which I am certain is absolutely ruined now – I don’t have the stomach to check, or anything left in my stomach to throw back up if I check.

When she comes back with a wet cloth, she cleans my wound while my eyes stay firmly fixed on my ceiling. I decide to screw it and liberally use Ivy’s entire dictionary of swears as whispers, grunts, and groans each time the sting intensifies.

“It looks really, really bad, Sid,” she tells me. “It’s like something big bit you. You need a doctor, like, right now.”

“No!” – a muttered curse injects itself between my thoughts – “No doctors, Ivy. Your parents and my dad will be pissed.”

“Your dad will be more pissed at me if you die.”

I catch her gaze and ignore everything in my peripheral. I think we’re giving each other the same look on our tear-streaked faces: eyes that are shiny, lips in straight lines threatening to turn down at any moment. We hold that for a few seconds, neither of us saying anything because she’s right – she is – but I tell myself the opposite. I tell myself that “It can’t be that bad.”

“Ivy–”

“Will you stop being such a man?!” she demands with some fire in her tone. There’s a pause, and then she pulls the washcloth away. “Fine, okay. We’ll give it a week, but that’s it. If it still looks… One week. I mean it.”

I relent and breathe, “Okay.”

She nods and grabs the spool of bandages she managed to dig out. She proceeds to wrap them tight around my thigh while I hiss complaints, fingernails digging into my sheets. She secures it and sniffs something away, like trying to banish this night from her memory.

“You know, if you go rabid, I’ll have to be the one to shoot you,” she jokes flatly, even though neither of us have the energy to appreciate it.

#writing #wip #untitled #my writing #my ocs #ya #young adult #writeblr

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foggedgrief · 4 years

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okay, hello, this is going to be a part one to a series of introductions ! i have already hit my five character cap because i’m a menace but that means you get more content and honestly that feels like a fair trade off. without my rambling, i give you nicky ( click here to find some quick facts about my boy ) and emi ( click here to find some quick facts about my girl ) ! wanted connections can be found here.

be warned ! before you click that handy dandy little read more, the following triggers will be discussed : death ( multiple deaths due to the fog, not explicit : both nicky and emi ), grief ( parent losing a child : emi ), religion ( turning away from : emi ) !

losing friends and family to the fog and blaming yourself for not being more vigilant, taking guardianship of your little sister and getting a second job to make sure ends meet, trying your hardest and kicking yourself for not doing better, bloodied knuckles aggravated by vodka to clean them and wrapped so tightly you fear your fingers might turn blue, anger replaced by grief replaced by the understanding she needs you and you will tear down the rest of the world to keep her safe.

nicholas adam locklear was born in inverness, scotland, and still has a scottish accent even though he’s been in the country for twenty years.

nicky and his family moved to maine a few months before his seventh birthday. they moved to maine because his mother, a once american ex pat, had a father who wanted his kids to be closer because they all seemed to have scattered to the wind. he walked into the fog a week after the locklears had unpacked their home.

the fog has always been a thing of morbid fascination from nicky and after grandpa took his walk into the woods, nicky was kept particularly far away from the forest line, fog warnings or not. on all saint’s day, the day after he turned eight, nicky found himself in the fog. and then he found himself in his bed with no explanation for either event.

he started drawing that day, intricate sigils that gave themselves meaning but no voice, so he spoke them into existence: protection from sorcery, protection from evil, wards off negative energies, heal the body and the spirit. four symbols that he couldn’t stop drawing on everything he owned. homework, notebooks, on the walls of his home in crayon ( if you look in those spots today, in the locklear family home, they’re painted now. a whole interior room covered in the sigils intended to look like an artsy photo collage wall. ).

some in town say that the locklears are cursed, that their family bears bad blood, that they owed some kind of karmic debt too large for one life. whatever the rumor, they all boil down to one thing: too many locklears have gone missing in the fog. nicky’s paid little mind to them, though there’s a voice too strange to be his but too familiar to dismiss that encourages him to go in ( to go back ).

nicky’s life revolves around his little sister, belle, who was born when he was twenty. a few months later, their mother went into the fog and their father went about an hour later to try and look for her. neither came home. though the courts tried to pass belle off to the next living relative, nicky petitioned for rights to guardianship because he lived in the home and could find a way to make ends meet for him to be belle’s caretaker. enter the diner and blue valley.

nicky’s always been a hard worker, never one to take a short cut and never one to take the easy way out. his focus has always been to take care of belle above board, so no one could have a reason to take away the last of his family. that little babe was his world and is nicky’s driving force in most things. he started working at the bar first and took on a job at the diner when he realized that tips got slow after a certain hour and what better way than to make more money by helping to sober up the people you just got drunk ?

when customers offer to buy nicky drinks, he usually puts together a couple of complimentary mixers ( cranberry juice, pineapple juice, and orange juice ) and pours in water from an old tito’s bottle to make it look like he’s adding tequila. he’ll pocket the cost of a drink as an extra tip. he never drinks on the job.

his jobs aren’t glamorous but they keep the roof over his head and belle’s. he works 14 hour days ( 9 pm to 11 am ; 9 pm - 3 am at blue valley and 3:10 to 11 am at the diner ), 6 days a week ( sundays off ), 84 hours a week and he’s damn good at what he does, and seldom calls out for anything. nicky’s the kind of guy to pound three monsters and call it a day just to keep himself going. he’s used to running on little sleep because of his paternal role with belle and wanting to keep as engaged with her as possible. he usually leaves her with the finnegans so he doesn’t have to pay any babysitting money.

the one time nicky tried, dottie looked at the bills in his hand and just hugged him tightly and said, “no child of mine is going to pay me to watch theirs.” nicky cried that day and spent ten minutes crying into her shoulder and then slept on her couch for a few hours while belle played with the finnegan twins.

nicky is a good person and he’s a really good dad. at 22 he became licensed in the state of maine to be able to foster and has fostered ten kids in the last five years. right now it’s just him and belle in the house that his parents bought that he keeps up as best as he can. the guest bathroom needed a remodel three years ago and the kitchen appliances only work when you knock on them the right way and if the wind’s blowing in the right direction, but some things are just the way that it is.

other important things that i couldn’t work in above but you should know:

nicky gives like ,,, just really comforting hugs that suggest a level of emotional intimacy that is likely to catch you pleasantly off guard.

will help you buy your groceries because he has a better chance of making fifty dollars tonight than you do.

usually sleeps on disney princess sheets because belle insisted they would look best in his room ( she was right ). his other sheets are bubblegum pink and he bought them for himself because that’s the vibe he was feeling and sometimes you just have to do what will put a smile on your face.

his little sister is seven but nicky is the only parent she’s ever known and she usually calls him dad over nicky even though she knows the difference.

nicky calls her his kid a lot. everyone in town pretty much knows the story.

steady hands and steady heart are starting to shake, pleading with officers don’t let me bury an empty casket, the table set for three but you can’t bring yourself to put the plate away, pale yellow front door once made your laugh now just makes you sad because your daughter’s sunshine still lingers, and there’s no place to put your faith, nothing so powerful would take away a little girl.

emi is considerably less fleshed out than nicky but we’re still going to do our best to give her a fair shake at an intro, so here goes !

noemi was born noemi sofia ibarra in pine haven, maine. though she’s always considered pine haven her home, she’s always desired that her upbringing was somewhere warmer.

she’s a third generation doctor at the clinic, following in the footsteps of her grandfather and mother and knew from a young age that she wanted to help people. she bounced from pine haven for a while ( from ages 18 to 28 ) and followed her dreams to go somewhere warmer and graduated from emory university’s medical school in atlanta.

she pushed through medical school immediately after graduating with her undergrad and returned to pine haven as a permanent resident when she was 29. having been home, officially, for ten years, she has found herself in the center of the community. more often than not, residents of town know they can call emi and come sit on her kitchen table if they need urgent care.

life outside of pine haven’t wasn’t all medical school, though, because she also met her the father of her daughters. at 23 emi gave birth to her elder daughter, evangeline. that sweet little girl meant the world to her and emi spent double the amount of time awake those first semesters trying to get used to having a baby and school to balance. she was the center of emi’s universe, this baby and her father.

emi’s second daughter, catalina, was born about eight years ago and is as much emi’s pride and joy as her older sister. the pair never fail to blow emi away in their creativity, kindness, and love, and she has made that known to them from the time they could open their eyes. though these times were sweet it’s time to fast forward to the current day because this is where emi shifts for the worse for as much as she doesn’t want to.

two weeks ago, during the fog warning, evangeline wasn’t home with the family. emi was at work, locked down with a few patients, and when she didn’t get a phone call from her daughter, like she asks of all her family, she started to worry. panic didn’t settle in until after the fog warning and no one had heard from evangeline. frantic, begging, trying to stave off the final moments before the inevitable declaration, emi found herself begging the officers at the station: find me something to bury before absolutely crumbling against the weight of her own fears.

prior to her daughter’s disappearance, emi had put at least some stock into god but spite consumes her whenever she thinks about him. something all loving doesn’t steal child from the arms of their mother’s and something all powerful doesn’t let whatever lives in the forest to exist after taking the first soul. this town suffers because of that fog and venom pools in her mouth waiting to spit at the first person who proclaims that god will watch over her daughter. some people turn to faith for stability. emi has turned away.

#pine haven intro #‹ ✦ ˚ nicky: headcanon. fickle hearted little boy made man with a silver tongue. ›#‹ ✦ ˚ noemi: headcanon. gone but not forgotten，she holds so many candles. ›#death tw #death mention tw #religion tw #grief tw

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