#it had to happen for like the story and stuff. caused a chain of events that i can’t explain rn. but like it wasn’t for no reason i prommy

[whumpy-wyrms]

TAKE SOME BORROWER BASIL PICREWS BECAUSE SHE’S SOOO SILLY FOREVER!!!

links: 1 2 3

#actually love basil so much #THEY ARE SO CUTEEEE #AGGGHHHHH #REGRETTING KILLING HIM. REGRETTING IT SO BAD #ITS FINEEE!!!!! #it had to happen for like the story and stuff. caused a chain of events that i can’t explain rn. but like it wasn’t for no reason i prommy #ghosts exist tho. just sayin #ANYWAY i love this au and she does NOT die in this one!!! lmao!! #borrower basil au picrews #borrower basil au #picrew #tllr au

[sapphire-writes]

Chapter 1: Welcome Home

main masterlist || series masterlist || next chapter

summary ~ Hired by the elusive Aemond Targaryen, you arrive at Harrenhal House to care for his niece and nephew. Things go bump in the night.

warnings below the cut for your convenience

warnings ~ spooky ghostly stuff, angst, mentions of death, loss of a child, blood, wound care

note: and so begins our spooky adventure! I hope you enjoy it!

banner made by the ever lovely @ewanmitchellcrumbs, ilysm ange!

Harrenhal stands on the edge of our world atop lush, green hills. The God’s Eye Lake is the biggest in the country, more like the sea than any landbound body of water you’d ever seen before. 

As the Uber driver creeps along the bend of the God’s Eye, the old manor begins to come into view. A thick layer of fog seems to cling to the bricks; gray tendrils creeping onto the driveway and spilling onto the lawn. 

“Are you a long way from home?” your driver asks, meeting your eyes in the rearview as he attempts to strike up polite conversation. You assume it’s because of the rather rough start you got off with him. 

“Harrenhal House?” he had asked, face red, eyes wide, “That place is cursed.”

Not exactly the warm welcome you had wished for when you arrived in the Riverlands. Not exactly the impression Aemond Targaryen had given in his email when he offered you the job. The interview had been completed over the phone. His voice was cold, words clipped as though he wanted to find someone qualified and quickly to care for his niece and nephew.

The car pulls up to Harrenhal, tires crunching against the gravel of the driveway. The iron gates were open as you’d driven up, expecting your arrival. Hedges and statues covered with moss decorate the path toward the main house. The car slowly creeps closer. Your driver clutches the wheel as though the house means to swallow him whole. 

Harrenahal stands out like a stain against the clear blue sky. It is an enormous manor, with shutters, and brick the color of pitch. The terrifying eyesore of the Riverlands. Crows have made their nests in several of the gables, their beady black eyes watching intently as the car comes to a halt. 

A murder. 

Of course, you’d done your research before accepting the position. Both on the home and on your host. 

Harrenhal had a grizzly history. Your driver wasn’t wrong when he called it a cursed place. But the dead didn’t scare you. You had ghosts of your own.

Aemond Targaryen was a different story. Second son of Viserys Targaryen, whose recent passing was still hot news in the corporate world. Not that you paid close attention, but you’d heard there still had been no decision on the naming of the new CEO of Fire & Blood Co.

The death of the patriarch seemed to trigger a chain reaction of devastating events. If Harrenhal was cursed, so was the Targaryen family tree. Wherever the silver-haired blue bloods go, tragedy seems to follow. 

The death of little Jaehaerys is the most tragic of all. 

You’d yet to see a child-sized coffin and desperately hoped you never would.

They’d whisked Helaena Targaryen away from the boisterous streets of King’s Landing rather quickly after the funeral of her first son. After her accident.

You didn’t know what had happened, it was omitted from the press. Even the tabloids had only guesses. You doubt there are many limitations to actions caused by a mother’s grief. 

Jaehaerys left two siblings behind; a twin sister and an infant brother still too young to toddle. Aemond Targaryen was hardly ready to be a father. You’d researched him as well and read about his ascent up the corporate ladder. 

The boost of nepotism couldn’t have hurt, but from what you could tell, as you hunched over your laptop in the darkness of your hotel room, Aemond Targaryen had worked hard for his success. A tragic accident when he was a child left him blind in his left eye, leaving it cloudy and sightless, though nothing more was disclosed online about the incident.

There were other Targaryen siblings; an elder sister from a first marriage, a party boy, and another brother backpacking through the eastern continent. You flipped through countless articles and stalked the Instagram pages of the elusive family. 

However, Aemond Targaryen did not have social media. 

What he did have, was a marriage announcement, followed soon after by an obituary. 

A handsome young widower. Not even thirty. 

The deceased wife was much older. You’d browsed through Google images while slurping cold pad Thai, though there were hardly any pictures of them as a couple. Aemond seemed to avoid the press at every chance.

There weren’t many photos of him; just candid shots here and there—a dark suit, a flash of silver hair. You had shut your laptop after that, feeling suddenly self-conscious, as though Aemond would know you’d read about him the first time he laid eyes on you. 

Your Uber driver helps deposit your bags onto the gravel, shutting the trunk with a grunt. He turns to you, eying the manor nervously, as though it's a living thing waiting to open its jaws and devour you.  

“You be careful, love,” he tells you, nodding towards the house. 

“I’m tougher than I look,” you assure, awarding him a wry smile. 

The smile he offers in return is more of a grimace, and he is quick to return to the safety of his vehicle. You grab your carry-on and the handle of your suitcase, gazing up at the manor. A crow caws, alerting the others to your arrival.

A group of crows is called a murder.

You walk up to the doors, knocking once, twice. There is no answer. Turning the handle, you stepped into the grand foyer. A large staircase is the first thing you see, though you’re distracted by the man walking down the steps at a leisurely pace. 

Aemond Targaryen is more intimidating than the candid photos you’d hungrily browsed. He’s tall, with broad shoulders and a slender waist. His long, silver hair is braided into a bun resting at the nape of his neck, a few tendrils ghosting around his face. Pouty lips, sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and a beautiful straight, pointed nose. 

You’d always had a thing for noses. 

Seven hells. Stop that. This guy is your boss, your employer. 

His eyes. One blue, the other milky and lifeless. The gash of a faded scar running up the side of his face only served to make me more handsome. 

He greets you with the title of Miss, the gentle timbre of his voice floating down to you. It’s so formal, as though you’ve walked through a portal into a Jane Austin novel. He doesn’t smile, just watches you, sizing you up.

Fucking hell, he’s even more handsome in person. 

The man could be a model if business doesn’t work out for him.

You swallow the lump in your throat as you watch him descend the steps. With his hands in his pockets, and white button-down sleeves rolled to his elbows, he oozes an air of cold confidence as his eyes trace over you. He doesn’t offer a hand to shake, despite his formality. Even when he removes his hands from his pockets, letting one drag slowly down the railing. 

“You didn’t arrive with any other baggage?” Aemond quips, the fingers of his left hand uncurling from a clenched fist. 

You blink, before glancing at your suitcase, at the carry-on bag beside it, “No…?”

Aemond hums to himself, lips pressed firmly together. His face gives nothing away, an emotionless mask of disinterest. 

“No estranged boyfriend who’ll be coming looking for you?” he asks pointedly. 

Your cheeks warm at his statement. You should have guessed he’d be direct. He didn’t ask you in the interview about a partner; just made sure you were able to commit to the position for at least six months.  

“No,” you tell him, “No boyfriend.”

His eyes, both the blue and the milky sightless, hold your gaze intently before he nods. 

“Follow me then.”

Aemond gives you a tour of the house, showing you all the rooms you’ll have access to. Mysteries are hidden behind closed doors that Aemond doesn’t acknowledge, including a closed door decorated with paintings of vines and flowers. He omits the majority of the west wing of the house which includes the location of his study. 

A man has his secrets, you suppose. 

What he does show you is the kitchen, along with the nursery and the library. Despite the age of the house, the kitchen is large and modern, with cabinets painted a deep forest green beside stainless steel appliances. A gas stove houses a tea kettle, ready and waiting.

He shows you to your room last; on the eastern side of the house close to the nursery. You follow him down the hallway, the sound of your footsteps echoing in the silence. Aemond has not attempted small talk throughout the tour of the house. 

Aemond has stayed silent unless he is informing where he is taking you next, his hands clasped behind his back. It almost looks uncomfortable, the way he holds himself upright, his spine straight as an arrow. 

“Your sister lives here as well, right?” you ask absentmindedly looking at the tapestries that decorate the hall. 

Aemond stops in front of a door, turning back to you. Those cold eyes stoke a fire within you, setting you ablaze with each glance. He is silent for a moment before he opens the door. 

“This is your room,” he continues, ignoring your question, “There are extra sheets in the lower drawers, and on Sundays, the housekeeper comes to strip the beds and tend to the rest of the house.”

He opens the bottom drawers of the large oak dresser. A large mirror rests on top of it accompanied by a dark jewelry box. The dresser matches the rest of the furniture in the room; all dark stained wood as though each piece was dunked in ink. A large four-poster bed sits in the middle of the room, the green comforter is warm and inviting. You can see God’s Eye from the large arched window; the water sparkles with the afternoon light cascading across the surface like diamonds.

“I hope you’ll find it satisfactory,” Aemond says.

You turn to face him, standing in front of the window letting the warmth of the sun on your face.

“It’s more than satisfactory,” you tell him, “Straight out of a Shirley Jackson novel.”

Aemond shifts awkwardly from one foot to the other, seemingly perturbed by your praise. He purses his lips, glancing at the carpeted floor. You swear he’s smirking slightly.

“A backhanded compliment.”

“It’s not meant to be,” you assure him, your face warming with embarrassment.

“Yes well,” he says, clearing his throat, “Let's hope that’s how the buyers feel as well.”

“I didn’t realize you meant to sell,” you tell him.

“It’s ours for now, but I mean to relocate to Summerhal,” he comments, “This house isn’t held long.”

That’s all he says on the matter. You don’t ask him to elaborate. You doubt he would anyway, he seems keen to ignore your curiosity. Aemond leads you down the stairs once more and out through the kitchen onto a stone patio. The view of God’s Eye is spectacular, it’s close enough to stand at the edge if only you run down the hill. 

A garden disrupts the spacious greenery and you walk beside Aemond, struggling to keep up with his long strides. 

“She’s here, she’s here!” a small voice calls, followed by a young girl bursting through the doors and out onto the patio.

“Jaehaera!” a woman calls, chasing after the young girl.

She races down the steps to where you stand with Aemond in the gardens. Cheeks rosy, smiling brightly, Jaehaera Targareyn boldly walks up in front of you. Her blue eyes are wide and she holds out a fist full of daisies.

“I’ve picked these for you,” she declares and you kneel to meet her height, “Talya said I needed to wait.”

You take the flowers from her, pressing them against your nose and inhaling their sweet scent. You’ve always loved daisies. 

“Which you did not,” Tayla says, catching her breath as she arrives, “I’m sorry sir she didn’t-”

“It’s fine,” Aemond quips, arms tucked behind his back, “They needed to meet anyway.”

“It’s nice to meet you Jaehaera. I love your dress,” you tell her, and she twirls letting her baby-blue skirt billow around her.

“You’re much prettier than Kepus told me,” Jaehaera says, eyes drinking in every inch of your face.

“I told you I hadn’t any idea what she looked like,” Aemond gently corrects.

You smile, chest feeling warm at her kindness. You tell her your name and her nose crinkles.

“I’m going to call you Miss Gevie,” Jaehaera declares softly, “Because of how perfectly lovely you are.”

“Someone’s been practicing their High Valyrian,” Aemond remarks, “Have you had your lessons today?”

Jaehaera sighs, a very small sound, “Kessa kepus.”

“Syz riña,” Aemond says, a small smile appearing on his face before glancing at you, “You’ll have to meet Maelor as well.”

“Though he’s rather boring,” Jaehaera interrupts, “He only sleeps. I told muña I wanted a sister. I already have a brother.”

Your stomach flips at her words and you glance at Aemond. His expression is stoic, though Talya pales beside him. She steps forward, kneeling next to Jaehaera, who is busy counting the petals of the daisies you now hold. 

“Jaehaera,” she says, forcing a small smile.

“What?”

Tayla grimaces, placing a hand on her shoulder, “We’ve talked about-”

“I want to see muña,” Jaehaera interrupts, shaking off Talya’s comforting hand. She glances at Aemond for help, though he offers none.

“She’s resting now….”

“I want to see her!” Jaehaera insists, louder this time lower lip wobbling.

“Why don’t you say goodbye to Talya first,” Aemond says, “She’s been very kind accompanying you here.”

“You’re leaving?” you ask the woman.

“I’m needed elsewhere, this was a very temporary arrangement,” she tells you.

“She works for my mother,” Aemond clarifies, nostrils flaring slightly, “She was unable to make the journey here.”

You remember reading about Alicent Hightower. You don’t see any of his mother in Aemond’s features. Where Alicent is soft, Aemond is sharp; nose straight and long, chin prominent. The word lethal comes to mind.

Aemond has looks to kill.

You shake your head trying to clear your thoughts. 

“Can I show you my room?” Jaehaera asks, smiling once more.

“I’d love that,” you tell her, letting her place her small hand in yours and lead you back towards the house. 

You glance behind you, watching as Aemond and Talya converse before Harrenhal swallows you once more.

“Miss Gevie,” Jaehaera asks, tugging her comforter up to her chin, “Are you going to stay with us for a long time?”

You stop picking up some of her toys from the floor. You’d been playing with dolls since after dinner and had just settled down to read a story before bed. You smile, sitting on the edge of her bed.

“I am,” you tell her, “Your uncle is working very hard and needs a little extra help.”

Jaehaera nods, taking in the words you speak. Her blue eyes watch you carefully, seeming wiser than her years. 

“I like you,” she says softly, “Kepus likes you too. I can tell. He just doesn’t say so.”

You smile at her. Aemond was clearly softer in the presence of Jaehaera. He’d been more pleasant at dinner than when you’d first arrived. Helaena was absent from supper.

“You’re not going to leave? No matter what?”

You stroke some hair from her face, “I am not going anywhere, any time soon.”

Jaehaera scoots down, laying back against her pillow. You stand, pulling the covers up when something catches your eye. You reach under her pillow, removing a doll that was hidden there. 

“Who’s this?” you ask, staring at the doll. 

It’s barely a doll, more a stick of melted charred plastic, warped from the heat. You can see remnants of legs and arms, the path a flame must have licked up through the plastic; the hair burnt to the scalp. The face is unrecognizable. 

Jaehaera reaches up, closing her small fingers around it.

“He stays here,” she tells you, “He likes to stay inside his castle.”

Geez. Creepy or what? You force a smile, letting her take the weird Barbie.

“Okay,” you tell her, “Goodnight Jaehaera.”

“Goodnight Miss Gevie,” she sing-songs.

“You know, you can just call me by my name,” you remind her.

“I like Miss Gevie better, it suits you,” she insists, yawning.

You find yourself yawning as well, and head to bed. The manor is quiet as you make your way to your room, tucking in for the night.

Sleeping in a new place can cause strange dreams. 

A bloodcurdling scream tears through the halls of the sleepy manor, its icy tendrils ripping you from your dreams and back into your bed. You awake with a gasp, sucking in air as though you’d been held underwater, just breaking through the surface. Hand clutching your throat you sit up, hair sticking to the back of your neck from the layer of sweat that covers your body. 

The house is quiet once more.

Breathing heavily you sit up in bed for a moment, trying to calm the rapid beating of your heart. You rise on shaky legs moving towards the door, and the ancient doorknob groans in protest as you turn it. 

The hallway is dark, moonlight shining through the window at the end painting the floor with streaks of silver. 

Maybe you were still dreaming.

But then, a low groan begins, the guttural sounds of a mourning mother’s wail. It washes over you like ice water and your stomach turns as the scream reaches its highest peak. Despite the alarm in your mind telling you to turn back into your room and hide under the covers, you race down the hallway towards the sound. 

With each and every step toward the western wing, the screaming gets louder, broken up with deep sobs. You quicken your pace, bare feet padding against the carpet as you reach the source. The door you’d passed earlier, painted with flowers and twisting vines is open now, yellow light pouring into the hall from the lamp. 

Aemond holds a girl in his arms--not a girl but a small woman; she’s frail, elbows poking against flesh like a starved baby bird, tears streaming down her ashy cheeks. Her silver hair is damp with perspiration, clinging to her face and neck as she clutches Aemond’s forearm. They’re in a heap together on the floor, Aemond’s arms tensed around her as he gently shushes her. 

“Helaena…it's alright, it was just a dream,” he assures her, his voice softer and warmer than you’ve heard since meeting him. 

He glances up at you, acknowledging your presence but saying nothing; his entire attention is on his sister. 

“It’s never just a dream,” Helaena wails, nails digging into Aemond’s forearm, “Or maybe it is, maybe I’m asleep even now.”

A chill runs down your spine at Helaena’s words.

“Maybe I’ve been sleeping all along,” she continues, eyes glassy and her voice hoarse, “I could feel him, Aemond, it was so real.”

“I know,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss into her hair.

“I could feel him…in my arms….against my breast like when he was a baby…feeding, it was so real,” she says, her voice dropping into a whisper. 

Helaena’s lips trembled, parted in a silent sob. The hand that does not anchor her to Aemond rests atop her breast, as though she can feel Jaehaerys against her chest even now. 

“It’s alright dōna mandia,” Aemond murmurs, still stroking her hair. He rocks back and forth, starting a gentle pace to soothe her, “Go to the kitchen.” His voice is directed at you this time, your eyes meeting his. The tone he uses is still soft, and when you don’t move, he gestures toward the hall with a nod of his head. 

“Do you hear him?” Helaena continues, “Running down the hall? Jaehaerys! Māzigon kesīr dōna valonqar!” (Come here, sweet boy). 

“There’s no one there, Helaena,” Aemond soothes. 

“I hear him,” she sobs, turning her face into Aemond’s chest, “Why can’t you hear him?”

Helaena’s sobs and questions are still ringing through your head as you leave the room, heading downstairs. 

You make your way to the kitchen, standing in the dark, shocked for a moment before turning on the light. Helaena’s cries and pleas still echo in your mind as you fill the kettle left on the stove and turn on the gas burner. Searching through cabinets you find an array of handmade mugs, choosing a purple one with a twisted handle. 

You rummage through some more drawers until you find some herbal tea, setting it beside the stove as you wait for the water to boil. You tap your fingers against the counter, a nervousness curling in your belly as you gaze out the window that leads to the backyard. You had known Helaena wasn’t well, but you didn’t realize just how serious it was. 

You inhale a deep breath trying to steady yourself. It’s shaken you up quite a bit, hearing her agonized screams. Your hands tremble and you press your palms flat against the counter. A door slams from somewhere upstairs and you glance at the ceiling. 

You look out the window once more, peering into the darkness. The God's Eye is just a still pool reflecting the light of the moon. A shadow moves behind you, reflecting in the glass and you gasp turning around.

“Seven hells!” you curse as Aemond walks into the kitchen, “You scared me.”

He doesn’t say anything, he just watches you for a moment, chest rising and falling with his breath. He must have also been asleep when Helaena’s terrors began as he’s clad in a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants, silver hair loosely braided down his back.  

Ruby-red beads of blood blossom from the crescent-shaped marks on Aemond’s left forearm. You watch them swell into ruby marbles against his porcelain flesh before he grabs a rag on the counter, covering them. 

“Are you alright?” you ask, as Aemond sits in a chair. 

It’s almost like he doesn’t realize you’re talking to him; he takes a moment to process before he nods. You watch him as he stares at the table, tension rolling off his shoulders. The kettle begins to whistle and you quickly remove it from the stovetop, turning off the flames. 

You pour your own mug before moving to the cabinet where you’d found it, retrieving a second. This one is green with gray streaks. Another handmade treasure, you’re sure. 

You make Aemond a cup of tea, placing it in front of him before taking the seat next to him. His eye flickers toward the steaming cup. Though he hesitates for a moment, he wraps his long fingers against it, pulling it closer.

“It’s hot,” you tell him, as he lifts it to his lips.

“I don’t mind,” he murmurs. You’d likely burn your lip if you didn’t wait a few minutes. Aemond sighs contentedly, violet eye meeting yours.

“Thank you,” he says softly, “I should have told you…”

“It’s alright,” you assure him, “I figured she was grieving. You’d mentioned she’d been unwell.”

“The doctors say it's night terrors,” Aemond comments, taking another sip, “Due to the trauma she’s experienced.”

“That makes sense.”

“I’m meant to speak with her psychiatrist later this week,” he says, “She’s begun a new medication to help her sleep. I don’t think it’s been doing her any good.”

“Sometimes those things take time,” you tell him, trying to ease some of his distress. He merely hums in response, as though he’s heard it all before. You glance at the rag on his forearm, biting on your lower lip before deciding to speak again. “Do you have a first aid kit?” 

Aemond nods, bringing a hand to his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Above the fridge,” he murmurs, not looking up.

Rising from your seat, you retrieve the small kit, and place it on the table in front of you. You reach out toward him, tentatively moving the rag from his forearm, revealing the crescent-shaped marks. They’ve begun to clot, and you fold the rag into a small square, placing it on the table beside you. You dig for a few bandaids settling for the smallest ones. 

“She had nowhere else to go,” Aemond says, more to himself than to you as you place the bandages on his arm, “Jaerhara, and Maelor they need to be with family. There’s no one else. Nowhere else.”

“They’re lucky to have you,” you tell him, pulling your hands away. You reach for your mug, placing your hands around it and letting the warmth seep into you. 

Aemond hums, not answering, though he seems unconvinced by your statement. 

“I mean it,” you tell him, “I can see how much you care about them. And your sister.”

Aemond meets your eye once more, his gaze softening.

“She is the best person,” he tells you, his voice even and calm, “The best mother….the best sister.”

There’s pain hidden behind the words that he speaks; you can hear it coating his voice. 

“She’s just in one of her hard times,” he assures you, “She goes through phases. Not..not wanting to see Maelor…it comes and goes.”

You reach for his hand. In the heat of the moment, you’re not sure what else to do. There are no more words of comfort to offer him. Your hand fits in his perfectly, resting on top of the table. His palm is warm, the skin surprisingly calloused. Your lips part, a soft gasp slipping free at the feeling of his hand in yours. 

Eyes wide, you smile softly at him before squeezing comfort into his hand. Aemond doesn’t squeeze back, but he doesn’t pull his hand away either. You sit like that for several minutes, neither of you moving. 

“Your tea will get cold,” Aemond eventually murmurs, breaking the silence. 

Your hand slips out of his grasp, the sudden emptiness making you shiver. Clutching the mug, you bring it to your lips, sipping carefully. 

It’s already cold.

How long have you been sitting here?

Aemond is watching you still, as you lower the mug. He stands then, taking both mugs to the sink.

“It’s late,” he comments, “We should get some sleep.”

You nod, standing. Aemond pushes into your chair, walking beside you back upstairs. He turns toward the western wing. 

“You’re not going to sleep?” you ask, unable to help yourself.

“I am,” Aemond says, turning slightly, “I prefer to stay in my study.”

“Oh,” you comment, “Well ... .goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says before disappearing down the hallway.

You return to your room, lying underneath the covers trying to get warm when you come to a realization. 

That was the first time Aemond had called you by your name.

note: let me know what you think! as always, comments, likes, and reblogs are appreciated but never expected (though you will receive a forehead kiss from me if you do any of them)

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#aemond x reader #modern!aemond #modern!aemond x reader #aemond targaryen fic #halloween fic #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x y/n #modern au #halloween au

[memecucker]

Thinking about this time in college when I went to a start of year party at the dorm of my friend who also happened to become my neighbor that year and she had a roommate who I kinda like immediately clicked with like we shared similar interests and we kept returning to having conversations bc it felt like we were both interested in talking to the other and when I mentioned that I had a student membership at the Art Institute of Chicago and would study in the lounge she thought that was really cool and would like it if I could show her around it later on after she’s settled in. And I was thinking oh cool I got a date with a cool neighbor girl neat plus I’m friends with her roommate. So the next week my roommates and my friend and her roommates minus the one I was interested went out and I asked about her and my friend said she was busy and same thing next week and eventually my friend picked up that I liked her roommate and she got out that the girl I liked was trying to not sound rude and actually didn’t like going to clubs and holy shit neither did I I only came because I thought she would. So my friend said that next weekend the girl is gonna be out of town but after that she’ll try one more time to get her to come and if not she’ll throw a room party so the two of us can chat again and I can ask her out. Sweet

Anyway one of the ppl she invited was an old high school guy friend that showed up a day early (while the girl I was interested in was still out of town) to stay over and also this guy was a coke fiend that brought a lot of cocaine to share and he bragged about all the cocaine and he was bad enough of a coke fiend that he was picking it out of the carpet when the lines were finished which I thought it was funny bc it was pretty fucking shitty cocaine compared to what my ex-raver roommate had and also this guy was the son of the mayor of a Chicago suburb so he obviously has never faced consequences before type and also liked heavily quoting rap lyrics with the n word and also once left me in a room with my unconscious friend and closed the door behind him as if he was expecting me to do something and was giving a courtesy. Also got the vibe he may have invited himself over.

Anyway the next day at some point around noon the girl I was interested in came back and saw someone trashed in their living room and also broke into her room and trashed it and stole basically all the valuables and yes it was the scummy rich white boy coke fiend that somehow has coke that felt like it was cut with table salt son of Chicago suburb mayor that stole her stuff and somehow thought he’d get away with it which didn’t happen because his dad has no influence over Chicago PD or the girls family who happened to be lawyers.

So obviously she changed dorms and partially blames my friend for what happened for inviting or at least not kicking out/watching that guy and they then absolutely hated each other I won’t go into all the details.

Anyway that’s the story of how I accidentally influenced a chain of events that caused the the girl I was gonna ask out to get her room burglarized and incinerating the chances of actually getting a date bc what was I gonna say “hey remember me I’m the friend of the roommate that brought over a guy that robbed you? Wanna see the Andy Warhol exhibit?”

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

AITA for almost killing my 8th grade english teacher? (warning: racism, sa mention)

I (M16, 14 at the time, white (this is important later)) was part of the newspaper in middle school. The teacher running the newspaper (F… 50? 60? i have no idea) was always really nice to me, and we got along really well. I was ecstatic to see that she would be my english teacher in 8th grade.

That is, until the class actually began.

This english class we mostly read books about oppression and historical atrocities and genocide because our history class wouldn’t cover that for some reason (the reason is racism). It seemed like this teacher would have done a good job of teaching this material, but well. you can see where this is going.

a week into the school year the whole class saw that she was pretty racist - not like overtly racist; she sort of said she cared about fighting oppression and then… was a part of that oppression. like she’d say “i could never be racist” and then she would be racist. it’s hard to explain. she would always be incredibly weird about disciplining the Black kids in the class, blaming one guy in particular for like. every time a guy in the class acted like and eighth grade boy would act. she was also really condescending to him; she’d constantly make comments about how he couldn’t follow rules (which obviously isn’t true). she did this to an extent to all the other Black kids in the class as well; later when some of them went to the principal to talk about what happened they said they didn’t feel safe in her class.

additionally, pretty much nobody even stood for the pledge of allegiance (we were usually busy reading cause the library in that school was really nice and had a really good collection of books), and when they did they’d never actually say it. this teacher had a problem with this, and every time she saw absolutely nobody in the class standing for the pledge of allegiance, she’d make the entire homeroom (oh yeah i was in her homeroom too, forgot to mention that) tell her why they didn’t for literally the entire class period. Every time someone mentioned systemic racism or racist history she’d butt in either saying “my parents were immigrants and they stood for the pledge” or she’d start talking about her gay son. some kids told stories of being called slurs when they were younger. some kids cried. she would always bring up her gay son as a rebuttal. and i get that being gay is hard, i’m gay myself, but that is not in any way applicable to the situation at hand here. This happened on three separate occasions - sometimes a single person would stand for the pledge just so there was at least one person doing it and so we wouldn’t have to have that conversation.

And then there was the actual teaching. oh boy. so, as i said before, almost all of our books in this class were about some sort of historical atrocity because the history class didn’t have time for it apparently. and uh. uhhhhhhh yeah. with this teacher it was not a good experience.

We had read books about racism for summer reading and we were reading the novel Chains at the beginning of the school year, and the teacher would always talk about how “resilient” the characters in the books were and how they made the best of their situations and fought back, but never about how these characters should have never had to be in these situations in the first place and WHO PUT THEM IN THESE SITUATIONS, WHAT SYSTEMS PUT THEM IN THESE SITUATIONS YOU KNOW THE KIND OF STUFF ONE WOULD NEED TO KNOW FROM A COURSE LIKE THIS TO MAKE SURE HISTORY DOESNT REPEAT ITSELF. Later in the year we read Warriors Don’t Cry and it went exactly how you’d expect. “Resiliency”. Also worse than you’d expect. The teacher victim blamed the author, a real ass person writing about real fucking events, for almost being assaulted at a young age. And though we focused more on the systems of oppression, thankfully, we also watched and interview with the little rock nine and some of the people who harassed them in school, and one of them, a white woman, said the n word and refused to apologize. and this teacher defended her???? On another occasion we had a lesson about feminism and we read some of Sojourner Truth’s writing, and she interpreted it as solely being about womanhood and not race - and when I tried to talk about how race is an important factor in the message of one of the speeches, the teacher called my parents. We also read books about the holocaust and this teacher was surprisingly respectful throughout the whole thing. No victim blaming, no talk of resilience, nothing.

I had talked to her about all of this before. We knew each other from the newspaper, and it even seemed like I was her favorite student. She would not budge. Sometimes she even made the argument that I was smarter than the other kids, that I cared more than the other kids, that I would notice these things and care about them but other kids wouldn’t and I should just shut up because nobody understands me because i’m just so smart. which made me fucking pissed. i don’t care any more than the other kids who told you stories of being harassed and ridiculed at 8:30 am on a weekday so that the whole class could excercise their freedom of speech. i’m not any smarter than the other kids who cited countless examples of the atrocities this country committed against people of color to you who you didn’t listen to. in fact, i’m not even that smart. i’d say i’m kind of an idiot. and i want to be an idiot, because then i’m not put on a pedestal to push other people down.

This happened two years ago so i don’t exactly remember the order in which these next three events happened.

Since during these talks sometimes i’d start to cry, in may my french teacher asked me if i wanted to transfer to her homeroom and i did. It was a lot better there.

Around this time about eight of the kids from my old homeroom went to the principal to talk about this teacher and how her class made them feel unsafe.

Anyway, my backpack is very heavy. I usually have a lot of books in there, until this year I used five subject notebooks, I never clean out my folders and I brought a laptop as well. Even with all this though, my backpack always ends up being heavier than I expected.

So, one day my anger toward this teacher boiled over. On my way out of english class, when she went to say goodbye to me, I shoved her to the side with my backpack. It turns out that broke her hip, and she was out of school for two weeks. When she came back she said she had almost died in the hospital. She also announced her retirement, and that she was going to go and “end racism”, ironically. She knew I was the one who hit her, but she didn’t say anything about that. I was still her favorite, apparently. It left a bad taste in my mouth that she still thought of me like this. Eventually I graduated from that school and I haven’t seen her since.

tldr: A teacher of mine was racist and making a lot of the kids in the class feel unsafe, and she tried to keep me from arguing with her about it, so I hit her with my backpack and broke her hip, almost killing her.

AITA???

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

[taranida]

Thomas Zane's writing or the lack thereof

The third and final point I left unanswered in my theory about the 70’s.

the extent of Thomas’ writing powers, since as much as it is stressed a lot that he wrote himself out of reality, Barry, with a little research, is still able to find out about his existence, yet Alan in one of the “Writer in the Cabin” TV’s claims “A story is a beast with a life of its own. You can create it, shape it, but as the story grows, it starts wanting things of its own. Change one thing, and you set off a chain reaction of events that spreads through the whole thing.” The chain reaction here never happens: we have hard evidence that both Thomas and Barbara existed.

I guess, I should start with the rules of writing things into reality, that we learn throughout several games.

In AW1 Alan says about chain reactions: change one thing and others will follow, because the characters and the world in the story must be true to themselves. In AWAN it expanded even further with Alan making his, sometimes quite ridiculous, phantasies come true by starting the chain reaction by nudging the reality to fit his writing. One way or another it’s established well enough: each word causes the butterfly effect. Write something wrong and the whole thing will fall apart or twist; forget to add a little detail and the event you lead to will never happen.

There is a bit more about it in his Hotlines in Control:

Be clever. Make them do the work. Form the image in their minds. They make it. You just imply. Incept. They are drawn to the mystery. Obsessed. You set it up, they put it together. Their interpretation. And there's only one, because you give them no choice. And they believe in it, because it's theirs now.

Again: put a detail in and make people do the work. If you do it clever, you don’t need to expand on every little thing, the story will leave them no choice but to accept, believe and act accordingly.

The story needed many beginnings. Many springs. Streams that turned into a river, a flood, and then, an ocean. This was one. Wake used the materials he had. The connections he had. The people. The places. Wake put them in to make it true. His wife. The psychiatrist. His city. These connections, like magnets, moved things. Alice was a conduit. She'd been in the Dark Place. The Thing-that-Had-Been-Hartman sensed her near. Sensed Wake through her. Went berserk. Broke loose. Wake made sure Alice was already gone by then. Safe. The more springs, the more the story became real. The more people believed. Cause and effect. It was extremely delicate and hard work. It had to go through the path of least resistance. Where success was most likely. Where there was a connection already.

Alan always stresses out how important it is to thread on reality, use all the tools to make the events as plausible as possible for everything to fall into place. Yet, much of his writing, that came true, is pretty unbelievable stuff. Mr. Door in the second game calls Alan out on it: the rules are self-imposed, the loops are a choice. My take on it and all the hoops Alan creates to jump through: it doesn’t really matter what you write, the chain reaction will happen, as longs as you, as a creator, believe that’s possible.

Thomas, as it is presented, certainly, believed that he can erase himself and Barbara from reality; believed that this was the only way to stop the Dark Presence, to undo his mistake. And we see that some of it worked to a certain degree, as Cynthia tells us:

“He tried to undo it, wrote himself, her, everything he’d ever written out of the world. He was so famous. And afterward no one knew. Oh, Tom.”

Alan, who was very involved in the literary world, doesn’t recognise the name when he sees the shoebox in the cabin; Barry claims:

“Yeah, okay... anyway, there was an island there, owned by a guy called Thomas Zane. Now, some of the articles I found about him make him out to be a famous writer. But I ran a bunch of searches, couldn’t find a single thing he wrote.”

Thomas’ works are really hard to come by; the only people who read him, aside from those who knew him closely back in the 70’s, are Alan and Samantha, who found poems in shoeboxes, and Jesse Faden, who might’ve or might’ve not possessed a shoebox of his at some point in time. But the very existence of Thomas Zane and Barbara Jagger is quite known.

Barry with little efforts finds newspaper articles by Cynthia:

“Zane was heavily into diving, so much so that the place came to be called Diver’s Isle. But the volcano under the lake erupted in 1970, and Zane went down with the island.” […] “It gets better: a local girl, Barbara Jagger, drowned in Cauldron Lake just a week earlier. They were lovers.”

Randolph, the trailer park manager, acknowledges that Barbara is quite famous around here:

“Sure, Jagger’s a local spook story: ‘The Scratching Hag!’ Comes for you in the dark. Childish stuff like that.”

(Thomas is a legend around Bright Falls too, by the way, as seen from this bit of Sarah Breaker’s dialog:

Not even mentioning the Diver’s Isle, that still bears the name given to it by Thomas’ hobby.)

Barry continues:

“I’m just getting to the best part: all of the articles about this stuff were written by Cynthia Weaver. I asked around, and she’s that crazy bag lady you met...” […] “Yeah, anyway, she knew both Jagger and Zane before they both died and she had some kind of breakdown.”

And we have two of those articles in the guide:

This one mentions Thomas at the very last paragraph

And here’s the one about Barbara’s death

What we need from them are dates. They both were written before Thomas erased himself and Barbara from existence, so why the chain reaction didn’t delete those evidences together with other magazines and newspapers that mentioned him or printed his works? I mean, the way-to-go for writers at the time was to publish their pieces in the press, even Alan started like this, yet there is nothing of Thomas’. The bits that remained are those written in Bright Falls, where the AWE, caused by the last poem, originated and is strongest. I don’t believe that the journalist being Cynthia matters in this case; she indeed remembers Thomas and Barbara, but her previous work has nothing to do with it and had to be erased.

There is also a problem of fighting the Dark Presence off. I have to admit, the more I dive into this topic, the more I question if Thomas even wrote anything about deleting himself and Barbara from the annals of history or tried to fix him unleashing the Dark Presence onto the world. All we know about this comes from manuscripts written by Alan and the only two other sources of information. One being extremely vague on what happen and what Thomas wanted to achieve:

The Poet and the Muse

In the dead of night she came to him with darkness in her eyes Wearing a mourning gown, sweet words as her disguise He took her in without a word for he saw his grave mistake And vowed them both to silence deep beneath the lake

And another telling a very different story:

This House of Dreams

The diver (or what was left of him, his true self) spoke the words of his secret poem. The poem described a new world, an island in this sea of darkness, a safe haven, a paradise, a “baby” universe. The nature of the dark place was such that anything dreamed up there, any dream or a work of art, would come true, just as true as anything in our world can be. And the poem came true and the essence of the diver and the essence of his girlfriend escaped from the darkness and disappeared into this new world to live there happily ever after; while their shapes, his now taken over by a bright presence, as his girlfriend’s had been taken over by a dark presence, surged up, through the opening in the lake to our world, to continue their battle there.

According to the Bright Presence here, Thomas wrote his masterpiece about the new world, a personal paradise for him and Barbara to be happy there; not about erasing all traces of their existence and trapping the Dark Presence in the depths it came from, since both Presences surged up to the new playground.

So, did Thomas even care about fixing any mistakes, except for not getting the real Barbara back? Or was his writing so sloppy, he failed to erase anyone from reality properly and failed to contain the Dark Presence in the lake? And what happened after he was cosily tucked away in his new private baby-universe in the Dark Place with his love? How exactly did he save Cynthia, as she claims, from the darkness with his light?

What horror was left behind?

In my theory about the cabin, I wrote that we are led to believe that Thomas was caring, considerate and aware enough to leave a loophole for him to help when someone, as he predicted, eventually will awake the Dark Presence. The catch here is: some of this information comes from Alan’s manuscripts; some — from the “characters trapped” in Alan’s story, as Cynthia put it. What if Thomas wasn’t any of those things? What if he only cared about himself and Barbara and wrote them the happy ending, leaving others to deal with the mess that he caused?

IN TENEBRAS CADERE

“To fall into darkness”. Indeed, in the memory of a very questionable poet.

#alan wake #alan wake 2 #alan wake game #alan wake ii #alan wake remastered #rcu theory #remedy connected universe #remedy entertainment #remedy games #thomas zane #tom zane

[writingquestionsanswered]

Hi WQA I hope everything’s been good!

I wanted to know- how do I depict a character arc of “reluctant hero/chosen one” without it being… how to explain it? Like the usual Disney type of stuff?

I want my MC to be given a power that they do not want to deal with and are now stuck with- plus leading a bunch of peeps to destroy the big bad guy- but I really have no idea (I mean I have a few story beats in mind but it’s still REALLY fuzzy yknow?) how to show them going from “ew I don’t want to deal with this” to becoming a leader and eventual ruler- how do I depict the arc?

Thank you very much friend!

Non-Cliché Reluctant Hero/Chosen One Arc

There are some specific things that make the Chosen One arc cliché, and honestly, not great a lot of the time. We'll go through some of those things and talk about what can be done instead.

1 - Fate vs Destiny - One of the biggest issues of the Chosen One trope is that all too often, the hero--whether reluctant or not--doesn't have a choice in their role as the Chosen One. They are fated to do the thing that only they can do, so every decision they make is preordained to lead to that outcome. If they're fated to save the world by sacrificing themselves, that's going to happen no matter what. This strips them of any agency they might have in the story. There is the illusion of choice, but all roads lead to their fate. And, honestly, it's not much fun to watch someone rise to greatness when it's the only possible outcome. Solution: Destiny can be changed... it can be shaped by choices. If a character is destined to save the world by sacrificing themselves, that outcome can be avoided. They can find a way to save the world without sacrificing themselves. They could even refuse the call if it somehow set off a chain of events that still led to the world being saved. A Chosen One with agency is much more satisfying to watch than one who is doomed to their fate.

2 - Give Them a Choice or Make Refusal an Option - Prophecies (which can be fate or destiny), bloodlines, or being the only one in possession of a unique gift leaves little to no room for choice. They didn't choose to get involved with a particular cause. And if they'd refused the call, they would have looked terrible. They may have agency later on in that their choices actually matter, but what difference does it make if they're making choices in service of a cause they had no choice but to accept? Solution Option #1: Put them on their path by choice. For example, in The Hunger Games, if Katniss's name had been pulled from the Reaping ball, she wouldn't have had any choice in being a tribute. But because it was her sister's name that was chosen, she made the choice to volunteer to take her place. Since she was the first person in District 12 ever to volunteer as tribute, no one would have expected her to make that sacrifice, and we as the reader wouldn't have even known it was possible. So, while from an emotional and moral perspective, there was really no other choice she could have made (she wasn't going to let that happen to her beloved sister), she still made the choice. She was still the master of her own destiny, and continued to be as the story went on. It can also be argued that volunteering as tribute wasn't even the thing that made Katniss the Chosen One, but rather her behavior and actions during the games that earned her a role as the icon of rebellion. So, "hero-by-deed" is another option to give your character some choice in their role. Solution Option #2: Give them a viable alternative, but one which has an undesirable drawback. For example, let's say your character has a unique magical gift and that's why they're chosen, but whoever delivers the call gives them the option to transfer that ability via magical spell to another person. The drawback is the gift won't be quite as potent in another person, and also they'll lose all their memories associated with ever having or using that gift. Now they have a viable choice. They might lose their unique ability and all associated memories, but they don't have to be in a situation they didn't choose.

3 - Prophecy for the Sake of Prophecy - Too often, prophecy is used as the basis of why the character is the Chosen One, however the prophecy is superficial and serves no other purpose. Solution: If you use a prophecy as the basis of why your character is the Chosen One, make sure the prophecy is fleshed out, relevant to the world and plot, and serves more purpose than being an explanation.

4 - Salvation in the Hands of a Child - Another Chosen One cliché is when the Chosen One--whether a child, young adult, or amateur--is surrounded by people who are better skilled, more knowledgeable, and better qualified to save the day, but still somehow the fate of the universe rests on the Chosen One's shoulders. Solution: Make sure there's a reason why the character, despite lacking in qualifications, is still the best option to save the day. Also, have them receiving lots of help and guidance from the more qualified people around them. Let them struggle as they acquire new skills, and have them really need that help from others. It should be a group effort to some degree. Let other characters be important.

5 - Proficiency at Lightning Speed - There are few things that make a reader's eyes roll faster in a Chosen One story than when the previously uninitiated Chosen One answers the call, then very quickly becomes proficient in whatever skills are needed in order for them to fulfill their destiny. Solution: Again, let them struggle as they acquire the necessary skills. It should take a believable amount of time for them to do the thing well, and there should bot lots of failures and setbacks. As much as I hated the Disney+ sequel to Willow, one thing they did right is have their Chosen One really struggle with learning to use and control the magic that was in them all along. It was pretty close to the end of the season before they became adept enough to really make a difference.

Bonus - Here's a lightning round of things to avoid: the over-the-top underdog Chosen One, the "All Powerful" Chosen One, the Chosen One who never has to make tough decisions, the Chosen One who is ordinary for no reason, the Chosen One who is defined by their destiny, the Chosen One who is special for the sake of being special, the Chosen One who has no autonomy and no agency, the Chosen One who only puts others first and never considers their own safety/wants/needs, the Chosen One who doesn't get to have a life beyond their Chosen One role.

Happy writing!

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[angelsdean]

back on my vonnegutnatural / slaughterhousenatural read and the way the Tralfamadorians experience time is exactly how I feel angels experience time. (And I've always loved looking at aliens + angels as different sides of the same coin, in general, outside of spn stuff. Like the same phenomenon could be attributed to aliens or angels depending on who you ask)

but anyways, yes, angels can see in four dimensions, while us Earthlings can only see in three. They can see time when they're in their trueform. All of time. At once. However once they're anchored to a vessel they proceed to experience time linearly, like humans.

from slaughterhouse-five, chapter 2: "...when a person dies he only appears to die. He is still very much alive in the past, so it is very silly for people to cry at his funeral. All moments, past, present, and future, always have existed, always will exist. The Tralfamadorians can look at all the different moments just the way we can look at a stretch of the Rocky Mountains, for instance. They can see how permanent all of the moments are, and they can look at any moment that interests them. It is just an illusion we have here on Earth that one moment follows another one, like beads on a string, and that once a moment is gone it is gone forever."

This is also why I think Heaven's company line is fate, destiny, determinism. Because they are able to see the end result of every cause-and-effect chain reaction. They know what will be, because they can see it. Now, of course, that doesn't necessarily mean everything has been plotted out to an end. And I think they know that too, to some degree. But they want to believe in the company line, that God wrote the story, that it's all been planned and foretold and that there is a reason and meaning for everything. But really, the future angels can see are not necessarily destiny or fate.

It's the way we can look back on events past and with hindsight and knowledge we can think, "oh it was always going to happen this way." But that's not really true. It's the same for angels. The future is memory. Which makes me think of this post about the prophetic perfect tense used in the bible, where "future events are so certain to happen that they are referred to in the past tense as if they had already happened."

#injecting all of this into my little time travel fics<3 #angel lore #vonnegutnatural #vic.txt

[dovithedarklord]

Age of Mosters - Chapter Two

Pairing: OFC x Simon "Ghost" Riley, OFC x König

Tags: Slow Burn, Slow Build, Enemies to Lovers, Alternate Universe, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, POV First Person, Not Beta Read, Medical Inaccuracies, Military Inaccuracies, AFAB OC

Trigger Warning: The story will contain violance, blood and smut in detail. Please, keep that in mind!

⚠️MDNI⚠️

...................................

Author's Note

Finally, the small team enters the picture, and it becomes clear how Leona's failed escape attempt continues.

I apologize for any possible mistakes, but my eyes can't find the typos when I go through the text for the twentieth time... so sorry!

The chapter is still kind of an introduction... but everything will start over time ;)

Leona calls everyone by their last name, so it might be weird for a while if you're used to the characters' callsigns/nicknames. But for now, it didn't seem natural :)

(I proofread myself before posting, so sorry if there are mistakes! I write the story in my language first, and I translate it after. English is not my first language, so help is welcomed! Just be nice, please!)

if you're interested you can find the story on AO3: Chapter Two

..................................................................

I press my lips into a thin line as I stare at the door in front of me, my legs bouncing nervously under the table where I've been sitting silently for at least an hour now. The sound of the clock ticking on the wall feels almost ear-piercing in the silence of the empty room, and I feel my patience running thin with each click. I would prefer to run amok and smash the fucking uncomfortable chair against the wall, but my hands that are cuffed to the table stop me from doing so thankfully. Of course, I also know that my temper tantrum wouldn't make any difference because I successfully got caught anyway, and breaking and crushing things wouldn't change that. What I would achieve with it at most is that they’d get another dose of that very premium stuff, which got me here in the first place.

I spent at least seven of the last twelve hours completely knocked out, and maybe it was better when the outside world seemed like a distant nightmare. Because when I finally regained consciousness strapped to a white hospital bed, the memories quickly returned to my head and I realized that I was sinking into the shit I caused for myself. Even though I tried - rather stupidly - to escape by stunning the two enforcers, I should have expected that even if they didn't know what I was capable of, they wouldn't send just two people to catch an Extreme. If nothing else, the simple fact that it is extremely rare to find one of my kind justifies their caution. I should have known from the moment I saw the lab results. But panic clouded all my judgment to such an extent that I attacked and fled like a startled wild animal. It was embarrassingly easy for them to hunt me down.

My mind still fills with helpless rage and disappointment as I think back on the chain of events that destroyed my carefully constructed disguise, life, and everything, that I had built for the last twelve years. How could I have been so stupid to not pay attention to the camera on the other side of the street? How could I possibly be such a gigantic idiot that I didn't check how many friends the bastard had before I took him out for a snack? If his little friend hadn't been in a hurry to find him, there wouldn't have been a single problem. But then he came after his bestie, I killed him, and now I'm sitting in a fucking interrogation room, handcuffed to a table. Of course, no one said a word about what was going to happen, they took care of my injuries and transported me here in careful silence, I suspect in order to unsettle me and to make me agree as willingly as possible to whatever stupid offer they have in store for me. And as sickening as it is to admit it, they are not far from succeeding.

It was clear from the first moment after I woke up that they do not intend to throw me in prison or execute me, because then they wouldn’t have wrapped my injuries in gauze with such tenderness, and my pretty little body in a foreign uniform. Of course, I should be happy that my earthly career does not end so abruptly and early, but I know very well that if anyone walks through the door of the room and makes any "offer", I won’t be in any position to refuse. From here, the road only leads to an even deeper sea of shit. And now, for the first time, I regret that my lust for blood won and I hunted someone down because of it. I would have been better off tossing and turning in my bed, on the verge of unconsciousness. Then the ticking of the fucking clock wouldn't drive me crazy.

But before I could drive myself deeper into madness, the white door in front of me opens with a soft creak, and I stop my restless legs and straighten up in my chair with my light eyes on the arriving stranger. A woman in her forties enters the room, her hair resting in a neat bun on the back of her head, her hard gaze directed at me only shaded by her light locks. Her face says nothing as she looks at me while closing the door behind her, but it's very clear from her firm steps that she doesn't see me as a threat. And why would she? I’m like a snake whose venomous teeth have been pulled out.

My tongue unconsciously runs along the sharp curve of my canines, and it still fills me with a sense of loss that I'm not feeling the cheap plastic of artificial teeth. Perhaps the confiscation of the tools that served as my disguise affected me even more sensitively than my capture. By the time I woke up, both my contact lenses and veneers were gone, and I felt naked and defenseless for the first time in years. I’m not ashamed of any of my physical features, even those that are characteristics of my kind, but I hate that this intimate secret of mine has become a public spectacle and information. But after all, that's what happens when one plays with fire. When you burn yourself, your own misery hurts all the more.

Of course, I can't deny that it filled me with morbid joy when the doctors or the enforcers carefully avoided my gaze after they recognized the meaning of my vertical pupils. I prefer to feel like a predator than a prey. Even if here and now the reality couldn’t be further from it.

"Good afternoon, Miss Woods. How was your sleep?" The woman inquires comfortably, her voice surprisingly pleasant and warm, despite the serious expression on her features. A small ironic smile tugs at the corners of my mouth involuntarily, because I find it extremely comical how she starts with the kind of conversation normal between two neighbors when she’s about to interrogate me. I guess this will be the good cop, bad cop lineup. I just have to wait for the bad cop to appear now.

"Great. Thank whoever shot me with the splendid narcotic on my behalf. I haven't rested this well in years. " I comment while I keep a close eye on every little movement the woman makes in the meantime, searching for any sign that could lead to more information.

"Don't worry, you will have the opportunity to do it yourself." She answers, and I don't like the way an inexplicably sweet expression appears on her face, which makes my eyes narrow in suspicion. "My name is Kate Laswell. I'd like to say I'm glad to meet you, but I suspect it wouldn't be mutual." She continues, taking a seat across from me and placing a thick folder on the table. I take a quick glance at it, and just one look at the logo on it is enough for me to know that this lady did not come from the official government agencies. And this fills me with mixed feelings at best, because no privately owned organization that cooperates with enforcers has a good reputation, neither in this colony nor in the other fifty-seven remaining in the world. Because they are the ones who usually go on missions from which people return in several pieces. IF they return.

When she gets no reaction from me to her statement, she just opens the heavy file with a tired sigh to reveal such a quantity of documents that makes me wonder how much information the enforcers have collected about me in such a short time. It's clear that she's familiar with every detail that’s in it, yet she skims through the first couple of pages one last time, only to then lean forward in her chair with her eyes raised to me.

"I don't want to waste time, so I'll get straight to the point." She interlocks her fingers together on the table, giving the impression that what she is about to say is of great importance, which I do not doubt. "You have concealed your status as an Extreme Healer until now, which is not only illegal but also dangerous. Presumably, similarly to the current case, you illegally fed on civilians on several occasions, knowing that you could only officially do so under the supervision of Hunters and with their help. You refused your duty to Colony No. 17 and failed to fulfill your responsibilities as a Healer, thus hindering the work of the official bodies and the Hunters, which protect the colony. On top of all that, you committed murder and violence against official personnel. And there is reason to assume that it was not the first time."

"You summed it up quite nicely." I add appreciatively because I’m completely aware of the meaning behind every single word she uttered. I chose this path consciously and I have not regretted for a minute the freedom I have enjoyed because of it. She doesn't seem amused by the lightheartedness with which I responded to my criminal record, her face furrows in worry as she draws her elegant eyebrows together.

"Miss Wood, I wouldn't take these accusations lightly if I were you." She warns me sternly, with the same tone one would reprimand a messy child. There's an edge to her voice that tells me she's experienced in giving orders and is used to disciplining unruly elements like me.

"I’m not. But I won't argue with the facts." I shrug, leaning back in my chair because at this point I've given up on trying to put on any of my masks. This woman would probably see right through it anyway. Because she's been analyzing me in the same exact way I've been examining her ever since she came here.

Short silence settles in the room as we stare at each other, and I'm waiting for her to finally stop beating around the bush and blurt out the real reason behind her arrival. Reviewing my past actions served no other purpose than to clarify what cards she had to corner me. Under normal circumstances, everyone would be shocked when their lies and misdeeds are exposed and they are openly confronted with the skeletons hiding in their closet. But it doesn't affect me. Every day and minute, I was fully aware of every risk and sin. And they were all surprisingly easy to live with after a while.

"In this situation, unfortunately, you don't have much choice regarding the future." She breaks the silence and continues to keep her eyes on mine, and with this, she silently tells me that I better pay attention to what she’s about to say. I'll give her my full attention in return because ever since my fucking eyes opened in this damned place, I've been waiting for someone to fill me in about what's next. The insecurity burns me now more than any crime I had ever committed, the feeling of uncertainty akin to a rusty knife twisting into my skull, digging deeper and deeper into my brain. "I'm not going to sugarcoat it. You have two options. Based on the charges listed against you, one of them is execution." She attacks right away, and I feel the air stuck inside of my lungs almost painfully because I know that this would be the easier solution. This would be the logical, orderly, and fast route that I would deserve, and which might seem better than the other option. But I won't choose that. And she knows that exactly.

"And what would be the other option?" I inquire, and I hate how the barely perceptible, ridiculously faint fear moves into my voice, which no one else would be able to pick up, but I know from the expression on the woman's face that I’m not able to fool her.

"You join Liquidation Unit 141 as a member and official Healer to pay for his crimes." She strikes mercilessly and immediately hits the target because I freeze in silence and stare at her, like someone who’s seen a ghost. Of course, it would be foolish to say that I didn't know this was coming, but as her words fully sink in, the whole situation suddenly becomes reality. Even I am surprised by how, despite the gloominess of the situation, I burst out laughing, and I wonder if maybe I still have some of the drugs they used to knock me out in my bloodstream. The development of the events leading up to this moment seems so ironic, that just because I couldn't control my fucking hunger and chose dinner from the wrong menu, now all my efforts have been in vain. Because some stupid bastard was worried about his buddy and because karma put the only camera on the street that takes a sharp picture. Everything I've been trying so desperately to avoid is happening. What fucking luck I have.

"What’s your answer?" Comes the question from the woman, but I know that it doesn't matter what I say. Because we both know I'm not crazy and brave enough to choose death. I am selfish, and I would rather cling to life, no matter how sinister and unfavorable the future may seem. Because as long as I live, I have a chance to escape. Until I don't die, I have the possibility to be free again.

"I hope you won't regret this deal, Laswell." I speak up finally, and I don't need to explain any further for her to know what decision I have reached. "Because I've been on my best behavior until now. I'm not sure I'll continue to feel the urge to be a good girl." I lean forward, pulling my lips into a dark little grin, because the pride in me won't let me appear crushed and desperate as I go down and get defeated. And since she seems like a decent woman, I'll be fair. Better to warn her that it won't be an easy ride if it's up to me.

But when a knowing smile curls onto her lips, and for a minute I regret that I tried to provoke her. Because a chill runs down my spine from the unrecognizable sparkle that appears in her blue eyes.

"Don’t worry. I expected this and you will be in very good hands."

⃰*

If I had first doubted whether Laswell's threat was empty, I was now sure that she had no intention of leaving up to chance how well I would behave. With a frustrated sigh, I try to wrestle myself into a slightly more comfortable position in the back seat of the jeep, but it’s rather difficult because with my hands cuffed behind my back, no situation seems less uncomfortable than the previous one.

I might consider it a little excessive that she incapacitated me to such a degree, but I have to admit that I gave her a reason to be uncertain about my intention to cooperate. Of course, despite this, the mask that tightly covers my mouth, which ensured my silence from the start, still seems a little ridiculous. What did she believe? That I going to throw myself at her and rip her throat out? She should know that my kind doesn't bite just on a whim, because it is such an intimate and dangerous moment that I have rarely been willing to do in my life so far. It leaves an easily recognizable mark, but it isn't my first choice because of its other unpleasant side effects either. And now I can't let my guard down because of said side effects. It's not worth it all.

The whole journey passes quietly, which gives me enough time to reflect on the recent events. After our small talk, Laswell got into the car without wasting another word, stating that the sooner I got to my new home, the better for everyone. I managed to find out that the base where her unit was supposed to be stationed was located outside the colony, which immediately made me wonder how much better it would be for me to find myself outside the walls of the well-protected and secured city. But luckily, the woman was kind enough to reassure me that there was nothing to worry about, the base is in the yellow zone, so even though we have to venture outside the colony, the chance of mutants appearing is very small. And anyway. Her people have everything under control, there is not the slightest reason for concern.

It is really not that easy to explain this to someone who was already born in the green zone that provides security and has never left it. After all, you can hear nothing else from the radio, other than cautious warnings telling the residents not to leave the walls protecting the city, because only certain death awaits there. Of course, realistically, I know that the yellow zone is still close enough that there is little risk of attacks, but it is also close enough to the orange and red zones that the possibility of danger is not zero. And if the chance is not zero, it is not certain.

The car comes to a slow halt and that disturbs me from my musings, and as I look out the windshield window and see the long line of walls bordered by barbed wire, the nervousness caused by the hopeless situation that I thought had left my body awakens in me. But it seems that there are still enough surprises for me to get excited about. Hooray!

We arrive at the facility's only entrance, and after a brief greeting and presentation of Laswell's identification card to the guards, she drives on, and an almost irritatingly bubbly and busy-looking base opens up in front of me, and I wonder how many people do they want to entrust to my care. But after the first glance, I can tell that a significant portion of the soldiers are not Hunters, because they look too human and weak for that, and they lack the dangerous aura that can only be a characteristic of a Hunter. It's not like I've met that many Hunters in my life, but everyone knows exactly by what physical characteristics can you spot the heroic vanquishers of mutant monsters right away. And after the first Hunters "awakened" fifty years ago, such an amount of data has been collected that a picture of them immediately pops into one’s head after they hear the name.

"We've arrived." Laswell suddenly steps on the brakes, and I straighten up in my seat to prepare for what will follow. I ran a few possible scenarios through my head, evaluating just how difficult this job would be considering that the only other alternative left was death. And I came to the conclusion that the only options left are those with which karma will kick me where it hurts the most. If I'm fortunate, all I have to do is tend to the Hunters' injuries and regenerate them from time to time when they get close to insanity. If I'm out of luck, they can throw anything at me from annoying to deadly. So I'm pretty sure I can't expect anything good, but maybe I can be a little grateful that I'm alive. I'm sure I'll find something sickeningly beautiful even in this miserable shit. After all, hope and the motivation to survive are the last to die.

Laswell jumps out of the car, picks up her small bag resting on the passenger seat, and steps back, and as she opens the door for me, I am almost touched by how gently she grabs my arm and tries to make it easier for me to get out of the vehicle without my hands. She's certainly not only doing it because she still harbors that small irrational fear that my stunt with the enforcers will happen again, and I skip off. Certainly not.

"My team is waiting for you inside. I thought it would be a good idea for you to meet everyone you'll be working closely with at the same time." She explains as she guides me towards the entrance of the huge building located in the middle of the base, and I decide that I will not give up my pride despite the tight spot I got myself in. I will not give anyone the pleasure of playing the role of a terrified little mouse just because I got caught in a shamefully simple manner. Therefore, I straighten my back and follow the woman with the posture of a confident bad bitch, raising my head high, throwing my brown locks back as if I had arrived at one of the red carpet events seen in the archives. After all, the soldiers loitering around stare at me as if a real star had set foot in their humble abode. And it might as well be the truth because I'm sure that even if the authorities stopped information from spreading about my fun little activities in the colony, news about me have already reached their ears. And if every wretched fool eyeballs me with such interest, I will give them the attitude that comes with this privileged position. Silly behavior, but at least guaranteed fun. And I'm afraid I'll have to entertain myself with these little pleasures for a long time.

It definitely should bother me how easily my stubbornness overcomes the fear in the pit of my stomach, but I think at this point it would be better if I let these unnecessary worries go. Because now I can't do anything else but let myself drift with the events. And there is nothing more comforting than delusional confidence. However, as soon as I get my hands on the right information, my brain can go into planning mode again, and I can start working on my escape.

The inside of the building looks like a complete maze, a long corridor after another endless one, rows of doors everywhere, and I try to look for easily identifiable reference points with furtive glances, although I assume that I will never be left unattended in the building if I just look at what precautions I have been treated with until now. It's not like I'll be able to just walk out the main entrance later, because a back exit, a hidden little window would be more suitable for my sweet escape. But unfortunately, I still have to wait for these delicacies. First, I put their suspicions to rest about the fact that these stray, sweet things even arise in my head.

Laswell suddenly stops in front of a door, and I know that now comes the main event, which makes the uncomfortable grip that is still settling in my stomach come to life again. Fixing my gaze on the back of my guide's head, I stop behind her as well, and for one last time, I repeat the mantra that has been circulating in my brain since I regained consciousness. I'll fix everything because I always have. There's no problem I can't overcome. And as the woman opens the door in front of me with a swift movement, and stands aside with a nod to indicate that I should get in, I obey and walk past her with light steps after I gain back my delusional determination from my small pep talk to myself.

I quickly scan the room, the huge screen on the wall, the large windows through which the afternoon sunlight shines warmly, and finally the huge table, at the end of which I find the people for whom I was probably brought here instead of the slaughterhouse. The door closes with a low creak after Laswell steps inside behind me, and with her hand, she gently nudges toward a chair at the other end of the table, and I lazily flop down in the crossfire of four pairs of eyes.

"You're late, Kate." Says the man sitting at the middle of the other end of the table, and as he raises his cigar to his mouth to take a puff in the most assertive way I've ever seen someone do it, the confident carelessness of a true Hunter radiates from him. But it doesn't escape my attention that the look of both interest and caution crosses his face framed by a thick beard as he studies me.

"Identification took a long time at the wall. It was not easy to bring our guest over." The woman nods her head towards me, and I only reward her explanation with a cursory glance, because she is indeed right. Everything was probably taken care of by the time we reached the gate leading out of the city, yet the soldiers standing guard there studied our documents with such fervor as if the woman wanted to smuggle something sketchy and of dubious origin. I felt sorry for her for a minute when she started a long argument with one of the guards, but this rare spark in my soul was fleeting, after all, I was much more occupied with my own misery. "Now I'm going to take off the mask and ask you not to do anything rash." Laswell turns to me, and I raise one of my eyebrows skeptically in response to her unreasonably cautious warning. Do I look like an absolute idiot to her?

As the woman reaches behind my head and begins to work on removing the mask that has been covering half my face, I take a closer look at the men sprawled at the table. Just as I could clearly tell in the courtyard that there was not a single Hunter among them, I can now state with the exact same certainty that all those present here are. At first glance, they are not just any Hunters, but all of them are at least S-class, it is enough to just observe their behavior. But as my eyes fall on one of the guys wearing a mask exuding a rather menacing and grim aura, who looks almost unbelievably huge, I realize that he must be an SSS-class big boy. In most cases, it is not possible to tell where a Hunter is between class F and A based on physical characteristics alone because over the years and with the development of their skills and their merits, they can rise between the levels. But only those who are born for it will rise to the S-class, especially to the SSS-class. There is no clear explanation as to what causes this anomaly, but the trigger of the appearance of the first infected mammalian lifeforms, or I.M.L.s, caused a stronger mutation in their case. Which made them more powerful, faster, and deadlier than their fellow Hunters. And from this sudden realization, for a moment, the wild joy I felt earlier wavers. As an Extreme I can kill with my ability, but the chances of me even laying a finger on any of them without their approval to use my little tricks is almost ridiculously low. No problem. I am here to be their Healer. And for that, they will have to let my sly little hands get close to them.

"Don't you think that you went a little bit overboard? What did you think I was going to do? That I'm going to bite someone?" I ask, squeezing every drop of irony into my voice, as the damned mask finally comes off me, and with my comment, I only get a reprimanding look from the woman.

"You’re here ’cause you’ve already done it, aren’t ya?" Comes the teasing question from one of the Hunters, and as I look toward him, somewhat of an eerie feeling starts to dawn in the hidden corners of my memories, as I run my eyes along his features. I would certainly remember it if I ever had the bad luck to meet a Hunter with a mohawk. Or any S-class Hunter for that matter.

"There's some truth to it. But I don't bite, I cut." I note cheekily, twisting my lips into a sarcastic little smile that has been waiting to appear ever since I set foot on the base. Of course, I know that I shouldn't provoke men who not only look dangerous, but undoubtedly are, but what are they going to do to me? In order for them to be able to use me, they need me mostly unharmed. Laswell, who may be in some leadership role, however strict she may appear, will not let them harm the new acquisition if she has gone through all the trouble to get it.

"You’ve already met Hunter MacTavish." Laswell motions her head towards the guy who is verbally trying me, and suddenly I get the feeling, like when the last missing piece of a puzzle falls into place and the picture gets complete. I immediately realize why his heavily accented voice sounds familiar, and as the recognition dawns on me, my face involuntarily breaks into a wide grin.

"You're the bastard who shot me!" The remark breaks out of me, and I can't understand why this causes me such joy. The fact that I'm in the same room as the person who's probably been tailing me since the very first moment after my slip-up just confirms the fact that Laswell tried to get a hold of me the minute the DNA test results were fresh and crisp. What could be the special extra problem with this team that makes them need a Healer so urgently? One, moreover, whom they are willing to save for themselves despite her status as a proven criminal. Interesting.

"I'm glad to meet you awake." The Hunter named MacTavish nods his head at me, with a grin on his face that makes me rightly assume that I'm not the only one who finds the situation morbidly intriguing.

"It reassures me that I didn't stand a chance. At least I don't have to lament on what would have happened if I managed to run off." I shrug as I lean back in my chair as far as my still shackled hands will allow. I'm serious about my little remark because it's now clear that I had no chance of escaping from the beginning. It's not like I had any brilliant ideas in case I managed to succeed, but would've found some clever solution.

"Don't even think about that now." Suggests Laswell, and for a moment she looks really worn out as she leans on the table with one palm and turns to my small audience. "We should rather spend our energy on getting to know each other. It's better to get over it as soon as possible. From left to right, Simon “Ghost” Riley." Begins Laswell, and then points to the man sitting on the far left of the table with her hand, who looks at me with his dark eyes so penetratingly that it gives me a visceral and instinctive feeling that something sinister is lurking behind his skull mask."John "Soap" MacTavish." For a change, the woman introduces my captor again, and the man continues to grin at me in an annoyingly good mood. "Our unit's captain, John Price." Laswell points to the guy with the cigar, who continues to puff, studying me, as if this situation were an everyday affair around here. "Kyle “Gaz” Garrick." Said person just greets me with a curt nod and looks at my modest person with cautious curiosity.

After lining up her small team, Laswell finally takes a seat at the table, with her job momentarily done, and from the bag she was carrying, she takes out the file again with which she had already delighted me earlier. However, instead of going through it probably for the thousandth time, she delivers it to the Hunters who are patiently waiting across the table with a firm push.

"Although I have already informed the team in broad terms about your situation, for the sake of completeness, I would like them to familiarize themselves with your material in detail. After all, you will be working with them from now on." The woman reminds me, and I pull the corner of my mouth with complete indifference as if this wasn't something that would determine the further development of my life. However, no matter how relaxed I may seem when each man takes out a page from my file and studies it with ever-deepening gloom, the restlessness in me stirs up again, which pushes my heart rate to unpleasant heights. If it didn't bother me before, how Laswell delved into the many misdeeds I'd committed, now it bothers me just as much as these dangerous strangers review the report that surely goes into every essential detail of my life. And maybe that's because while I was sure that I could take care of the woman at any time if the need arose, revealing my secrets would only put me at a disadvantage with those whose craft is killing. Up until now, I wanted to believe that they would still have blind spots regarding me because obviously, not a soul knows about the level to which I have developed my ability, but it is enough to focus on the furrowed brows of their captain, and it becomes painfully obvious that this futile hope of mine is about to come crashing down. Because this guy seems experienced enough to know when to dig deeper for answers.

A short but no less suffocating silence settles in the room, and to my surprise, Laswell seems much more worried than I am, although I'm sure that of the two of us, I have more reason to be on pins and needles. This again makes me wonder about what kind of unit it can be, where such detailed information is needed about a simple Healer, who in theory won't be responsible for anything other than nicely replenishing and pampering the Hunters when they drift to the brink of unquenchable aggression and bloodlust due to the exhaustion of their strength. You'd think it's a position that would require some reasonable attention, but not nearly as much as these five men are giving me right now.

"How did you manage to kill the victim found in the alley?" The captain asks, and I’ve almost waited in anticipation for him to start the interview. And after mentioning the incident, I'm overwhelmed with annoyance yet again. Of course, his interest is justified, because Healers cannot kill people, and according to general belief, neither can Extremes. But despite the fact that he asked this question out of curiosity for my nice little attraction, it still reminds me of the mistake that can only be attributed to my own feeble stupidity.

"I'm sure the autopsy provides enough information." I nudge my head at the stack of papers in front of him with a telling smile, and the man's eyes just narrow with beginning irritation at my answer. I don't really want to give out the rather sensitive data with which I still have a chance to surprise them, but I'm not so stupid to not know that the relatively friendly atmosphere can quickly take a strange turn if I don't start talking. I have no illusions that they can get what they want to know out of me if they want to. "I increased the pressure in his brain and caused him to have a seizure combined with a stroke, in which he died." I summarize briefly and to the point, and as they suddenly look at each other with a mixture of incomprehension and surprise, my twisted little soul fills with pride. Of course, I've never had the chance to brag to anyone about how I managed to perfect my skills through hard work and experimentation over the years, but deep inside, a pleasant warmth moves in my chest to see their jaws drop. Even though they will most certainly not let me near their body without increased supervision now.

"I thought Extremes were just Healers on steroids and were only capable of healing wounds and recharge Hunters." Garrick frowns in bewilderment, and his comment reflects the thoughts of his companions as well. It seems that even the well-informed Laswell is surprised by this newly discovered bit of information because her eyes meet with the captain's for a fleeting glance, and to me, this is just enough evidence that my dangerousness may not have been properly assessed by them. Of course, they could have thought that I couldn't be completely harmless based on the way I left the poor bastards behind the club.

"It's true for an average Healer." I lean forward with a mysterious smile because I would be in denial if I claimed that I don't gain any satisfaction from being able to momentarily shake such highly esteemed men out of their composure. I could be called an evil little pervert or a sneaky little bitch, but such small moments in life should be appreciated. "But in the case of people like me, the advantages also increase along with the disadvantages concerning nutrition." I sit back, as carelessly as if I wasn't still the biggest loser in the whole story. However, the fact that I managed to provide them with something unexpected does not mean anything. Because I just gave them one more reason, in addition to the countless other ones so far, to keep me on a short leash. I'm pretty sure I won't even be able to breathe innocently enough for them from now on. But if my freedom is already lost, let me at least have my petty joy.

"Would you elaborate?" Says Laswell, and I wasn't wrong in that she can hand out orders like a pro because the words uttered as a request sound more like an instruction. And before I speak, I contemplate how much detail I should go into. But considering that they already know how cleverly I can eliminate someone, there's not much point in hiding the details, because they'll figure out on their own that I can probably attempt more cunning magic tricks than this. And maybe it's better not to leave it up to chance because I have the sneaking suspicion that the more I leave everything to their imagination, the less time I will have to spend unsupervised from now on. And I don't like to give up my me-time.

"In an ideal case, even an average Healer is able to heal only by localizing injuries instead of full regeneration or regulating the energy they use to treat Hunters. Of course, they don't really like to teach this, because then, God forbid, they wouldn't be able to change the Healers every month, because they would be able to do their job more efficiently." I begin my little lesson, and I see how just by stating a simple fact I am straying into very dangerous territory, because the atmosphere of the room cools down in a minute, despite the heat of the incoming sun rays. It immediately becomes obvious that similar problems arise here as well. And suddenly I understand why they needed an Extreme with much higher endurance if the Healers are probably changed here as frequently as dirty underwear.

The generally negligent treatment of Healers and their lack of proper training is a sensitive topic for everyone involved, which both the Hunters and the government have tended to sweep under the rug ever since the entire system was set in place. And even though there are very few Hunters and half as many Healers, somehow no one is bothered by the fact that this is not a very successful story. That's why I've tried to remain invisible until now and to hide in the utmost secrecy because I knew that as soon as I immersed myself in this vaguely bubbling mess, I'd immediately be dragged up to my neck in it. Because it doesn't matter that I will last a somewhat longer, I doubt that they will appreciate me more.

"In the case of Extremes, I can only speak for myself. If I use my energy, I can accurately feel every organ, every muscle, bone, and every tiny vein, and control the flow, pressure, and density of the blood. Not only in Hunters." I continue my presentation, and the people present in the room show increasing degrees of surprise. "Of course, I can also use my energy to a greater extent than average Healers, for general and more complicated healing and regeneration. But perhaps everyone already knew this about my kind." I continue my explanation further, at the end of which I came close to the effect I hoped to achieve. Because I can see that I shut the words into them, if only for a minute, and this leaves me enough time to further study their reaction and wonder what they will do with the revealed information. And I don't have to be disappointed, because Price quickly adjusts his features and returns to the position that suggests that whatever happens, the control remains in his hands. How sad that my joy is always so short-lived.

"This is good news. We’ve been waiting for something like this for a long time." The captain folds his hands in front of his chest after briefly processing what he heard, and now it's my turn to carefully narrow my eyes. It's hard for me to imagine a reason that would make them believe that it's good news that they have to put their hands near a person who just turned out to be able to kill them in that exact way. "Based on experience so far, the unit's work has proven to be too dangerous for other Healers. I was afraid that we might have to deal with the same problem, but now we know, there is no need to fret. This makes field work child's play." He outlines the situation, and there is nothing sweet or charming in the smile he pulls on his lips. My fists clench nervously behind my back because I don't like it one bit that the confidence I want to feel the most radiates back from the man. Nevertheless, I hold his gaze, my mouth in a mocking smirk as I cock my head to the side because, even though they are slowly cornering me, I am not willing to back down with my tail between my legs. It's a bit like a dick-measuring contest because even though I don't have the necessary equipment, Price still wants to make it clear to me that no matter how sneaky I think I am, he’s the one calling the shots here. And that makes hot rage bubbling up inside me because I suspect that his promise is not an unfounded and empty threat and he really has such excitement in store for me. Healers aren't usually sent out into the field because it's more important for them to remain in one piece at least as long as their duties are fulfilled, but these people aren't scared that I’m made out of glass. Flattering.

"I look forward to receiving the honor." I reply, and I try to force all the calmness and false kindness into my voice. And the captain seems quite amused by this, and for some reason, I'm not thrilled that he doesn't take me seriously enough. Which of course is completely understandable, because we all know that as soon as I try something funny, they could kill me immediately. And the fact that this is so obvious to everyone only makes me even more furious.

"Of course, this will not happen just yet. The boys will give you training beforehand to help you get prepared for fieldwork. Since the unit does not only deal with the protection of the colony but also carries out special liquidation and crime prevention activities in several areas, you will need special training. For your safety, of course." Laswell interrupts our little banter, and my eyebrows rise to my hairline at this statement. I'm not crazy about the idea of being dragged on monster-infested trips by these so-called human tanks, but this idea and explanation might be even less to my liking. At least a thousand different situations appear in my mind about what funny and extremely deadly excitement Laswell's little team gets involved in, which does not bode well for me, to put it mildly. Until now, I knew that private units and squads were always involved in something nebulous and questionable if not outright deadly deals, but the fact that I just had to end up with one that, according to them, specializes in getting their hands dirty, squeezing my stomach like a lemon.

As the dream of my Healer position, which is relatively tolerable and definitely conducive to escape, begins to disintegrate before my eyes, I start to get more and more nervous. Of course, I should be happy that perhaps during the training I might acquire skills that will increase the probability of me being able to disappear at the first opportunity, like the father who went down to get milk. But I know very well that this will be more of a survival test and a cabaret than sincere help. I understand why it's good to be close at hand when shit hits the fan, but what the hell are these weapon-laden, super-fast, super-strong, super-whatever professional killing machines doing if I'm forced to huddle next to them like a squire? Why don't they just bring themselves back in one piece while I comfortably wait for them here?

"Don't worry, love, we'll be careful not to harm ya!" MacTavish grins widely, showing all his teeth, and I suddenly feel an irresistible desire to try to throw myself at him and strangle him despite my handcuffs. Because now he's clearly having fun at my expense, along with his stupid captain, and I'm cursing myself more and more for even thinking that fate would spare me. Of course, there was no doubt that they would want to use me as intended, but I didn't expect that they would find creative ways to make my life difficult. But, right, those who are stupid should die, those who have hope and may even be presumptuous should accept that others will mop the floors with them. Because I have no doubt that they will.

"Since you will be performing Healer duties to all four of our Hunters, therefore, of course, they all participate in your training. This will at least give you a chance to get used to the team better." Laswell continues her explanation, and as I grasp what this will mean for me, for the first time, my mood becomes genuinely sullen and a sour taste fills my mouth. My mind is slowly starting to process the situation, and now I can see exactly what kind of predicament I'm in. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t be unthinkable for a Healer to take care of several Hunters, but since they are not trained for efficient energy management, they quickly reach their tolerance limit. So, in most cases, a Healer can take on a maximum of two Hunters, and they can only manage to do this if they're treated with a very gracious attitude, and if of course none of their little clients are ranked S or higher. And now these people seize the opportunity, and they throw all four tough guys at me, who I will cheerfully accompany to wherever their heroic adventures will take them after they give me lessons on how to take care of myself. I can safely assume that Laswell was on the lookout for years for an Extreme who can handle all of this, who due to their self-healing skill has very little chance of dying when her little boys drag them into a bloodbath. So, all this big fuss happened because her team wasn't able to take care of their toys that well until now. Their Healers at best became useless if not died, either during a mission or due to the high energy demand of healing injuries or regeneration. Of course, it's not surprising, because Healers are not designed for this action-packed lifestyle. "Of course, if a life-threatening injury were to occur in the case of soldiers occupying other positions in the unit, then you must take care of them as well."

I'm not even surprised by this addition, because it almost dwarfs what was outlined for me. I study the Hunters again involuntarily, and I can't shake the thought creeping into my skull on slimy and disgusting legs that this unit specializes in even riskier missions than what Laswell disclosed. Even government-run liquidation units sometimes get involved in crime prevention, but in none of these cases do the Hunters go on missions that are so long-winded or perilous that a Healer needs to be present to immediately patch up the little heroes. That's why I have mixed feelings about the suggestion that I'll get involved in potentially fatal adventures in the future, and this finally puts an honest seriousness on my face. Regardless of what I theorized as a possible outcome when Laswell first appeared in front of me, I think it's time that if the promise of a livable life is gone, I do something to at least make sure my chances of survival don't end up the same. Here, Leona, you ran away from your supposed duties for more than ten years, and now you are being chased into the dick-forest with your mouth open. Make sure you at least enjoy it.

"Marvellous. But I hope everyone is also aware that in order to perform this honorable task well, I will need blood." I warn Laswell, because at this point I feel that subtlety is unnecessary, and at least something beneficial should come out of all of this shitshow for me as well. And before the aforementioned could intervene, I flash my sharp gaze at her. "It's not optional, it's a fairly well-known fact. If I don't get blood, I won't be able to use my ability. And for a party of this caliber, I need more than just a taster. But liters."

"You don't have to worry about that. Now that you're here, you can officially feed under supervision." Laswell reassures me, and for some reason, in addition to the relief, I still have the feeling that this sounds much simpler than what it actually will be.

"Don't worry, we'll take good care of ya'! " MacTavish speaks up again joining my encouragement, and it starts to become clear that the guy has a comment about everything, which he likes to let out every chance he gets. But he seems to be the one who gives me the least cause for concern, and who does not seem the one who intends to unnecessarily complicate my existence. How kind of him to reassure me many times that I didn't walk into a den full of wolves. The little liar.

"Great. Now that we've laid out the groundwork, let's talk about the details." Laswell begins with her formal tone again, and I, suppressing a tired sigh, fight my way into a more comfortable position, preparing to take in all further crap that is rolled in my direction. However, my light eyes are inevitably drawn back to the Hunters, who are currently occupying every one of my brain cells capable of thinking. And as my gaze meets that of the masked man, who has been silent since the beginning of the discussion, but no less threatening, the woman's voice fades into a monotonous murmur in my ears. Even though at first glance I thought that all Hunters exuded the same sinister and heavy aura equally, I soon had to realize that there was much more hidden in the dark eyes that shone behind the mask. Just a few seconds of Riley's undivided attention is enough, and I feel the little hairs on my back rise instinctively. Because it becomes quite obvious that he is a true predator and sees me as nothing more than his prey. And if he promises one thing right now, it's that he'll do everything to make sure I don't forget this wandering silent warning.

#cod #captain price #kyle gaz garrick #cod ghost #johnny soap mactavish #simon riley x oc #simon ghost x reader #ghost call of duty #call of duty #john price #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley #alternate universe #guideverse #ghost mw2 #cod mw ghost #ghost cod #ghost simon riley #ghost x reader #ghost #john soap mctavish #captain john price #john mactavish #kyle garrick #cod konig #soap cod #cod 141

[licoricecrypt]

POST WHERE I JUST TALK AB ME AND RED VELVET MEMORIES FOR @sharky-the-idiot under the cut bc idk how long this will b

sorry if im super duper awful at recalling this(ive gotten hit in the head 20 too many times and my memory isnt great) where do i even begin with this, i guess ill start with what got me to leave, unfortunately we did all leave seperately(sorta) it was a chain of events that caused each of us to leave based on the previous person

so what got me to leave, there was this huge fight that broke out between the cookies of darkness (+the cake army) and a combo of the now well off vanilla kingdom and a bunch of other cookies, and to make a complicated battle story short i over exerted my magic and hurt myself in the process, leaving me "just passed out" according to pure vanillas retelling, pomegranate presumed me dead and left with the rest of the cookies of darkness once it was all over. pure vanilla, being the kindhearted cookie he is, decided he didnt really just want to leave an injured cookie there, and when i woke up a few days later still in the vanilla kingdom i had to come to terms with the fact that the cookies of darkness didnt seem to care about me that much (which. youd think i wouldve figured that out sooner considering the amount of abuse all its members endures was horrific).

im able to settle into this new life with a lot of time and effort, but the cookies of darkness learn im still alive and arent happy about it, blah blah attempted murder and kidnapping and all that yummy stuff ill go into detail if asked about happens and red velvet just realizes and is able to go "this is really really horrible" and goes back with me to the vanilla kingdom

it takes a lot of effort for the cookies already living there to accept that ex cult members keep showing up, but they eventually come to terms with it and stop pestering me. me and red velvet make a rescue mission to go find poison mushroom, it works (and i get beaten to a pulp upon discovery "that i dare to return". how dramatic) and we're all good now!

theres a lot of in between stories that dont involve the cookies of darkness that would make for good angsty fanfictions- (like dark cacao kidnapped me once and i was held prisoner for 3 months. hands down the most horrible thing thats ever happened to me) but thats the gist, again sorry if thats poorly explained im pretty exhausted and also not the best storyteller

#im open to questions if any of this interests you #i really dont mind talking about it #our therapist says being open is good for me #so thats that- i guess #lico.txt #sry for typos again we r dyslexic #im sure red velvet would have more to say if he was here with me (i think hes asleep rn)

[raayllum]

One thing I love about TDP is that while it can be genre subversive (i.e. Ezran going home at the end of S2 for example) it doesn’t break its own narrative promises / set up and payoff. 

For example: despite Soren being more of an outward dick in S1 (step-prince, dumb jock, etc) and Claudia being relatively much nicer (Callum’s crush on her, hasn’t done anything as bad as Soren yet on an emotional level), the show makes it pretty clear that their moralities are very skewed in a few key ways. Moments after Claudia sent smoke wolves after the boys, Soren is saving Callum’s life. 

Soren intends to kill Runaan (upon the assassin’s own request), while Claudia believes that it’s worth keeping Runaan alive for “more practical uses.” She also doesn’t see anything wrong with the switching spell and thought of it herself, while even Viren can at least understand some of Harrow’s reservations. Soren is ultimately always a crownguard and Claudia is decidedly a dark mage. These are some of the reasons why I always figured that if either of them did break away from their father, Soren would be the one while Claudia would spiral further, and I know S2 cemented this for a lot of us going into S3. 

Which is to say: the show isn’t interested in yanking the rug out from under our feet to subvert expectations. If something is repeatedly alluded to in a negative light, it will follow through on it (even if it may reveal more depth later). Even things where we are purposefully misled are very brief and the clues are obvious (i.e. Ava’s moonstone collar, but we didn’t know moon magic was primarily about illusions until then) in retrospect. A perfect example of this is when Claudia kills the deer in 2x09; although it’s an act that is far easier to swallow and understand, it’s still very symptomatic of what sorts of mindsets will continually be her undoing in S3 and S4. 

Which is to say anyone that knows me knows I adore the Game Motif in the show, largely surrounding the Key of Aaravos in S1-S3 and then extended more explicitly to Aaravos himself in S4.

The Key is immediately connected to Callum’s arc as a mage and a sense of compulsion, but also as something that stirs up trouble. He gets them to go to the Banther Lodge for it believing it will be safe, but it’s too late to back out when humans like Amaya show up. Callum forgets about the cube entirely, surprised that Rayla has it by the end of the episode, and cites that “We should’ve never come here.” Moreover, the cube often foreshadows things that will cause problems for the group: the giant fish that makes the Ocean rune glow almost eats them; the Moon rune glowing as they walk up the Caldera and Callum’s notice of it foreshadows that Lujanne will not be the miracle healer they hope for. 

The one big exception in terms of the cube being legitimately, plot relevantly useful is in 3x08 when it helps Callum realize his necklace from Rayla is a moon opal, and thus can be used to help find the truth of what happened to her family (and hopefully mean she won’t think she has to, y’know, die and stuff). 

More than four seasons later, we see his attitude toward it has soured again.

And it would be one thing if it was just foreshadowing from the other characters (which, Rayla and Soren tend to foreshadow the most, mouthpiece wise, I think) or in Callum’s mind

But we also have 2x08 called The Book of Destiny in which Callum’s tormented by the dark magic cube (as opposed to Claudia’s literal book) and his father in chains, asking for him to reject the very gift Harrow gave him just two episodes ago, muddling the Key’s few positive associations further. Rayla calls it a glow toy in 1x05 and we see from the 4x04 intro that’s precisely what it is. And even more than that, the 4x04 intro that exists within the story’s narrative but outside the main cast’s conception of events.

If the cube had no negative affect in store for Callum, it would not be here in the intro because it doesn’t need to be. It’s here for sorely symbolic / foreshadowing purposes, like the way a book cover operates. It’s a direct clue to the audience, and the audience online, that more than the Key is a piece of Aaravos’ games, and that the two are intrinsically linked: a loaded die, a smoking gun. A game that Callum already unknowingly lost - a long time ago. 

#tdp #the dragon prince #tdp meta #analysis series #analysis #the key of aaravos #knight sibs #parallels #like the cube is something Bad (at least at first) idk what to tell people

[monkie-k-id]

Hello Monkie kid fandom i present unto thee the AU

Cold Island AU is set about 3-5 years after season 3 ends! After LBD dies she gives some of her magic to MK, who upon learning this sort of freaks out, and with a lack of braincells and impulsitivy digs Monkey King’s staff into the earth and resolves to come back when he figures out why this happened and how to get the magic out of him. He leaves a note though, so points to trying.

Meanwhile, LBD’s host picks up the staff a couple of years later and resolves to find MK and try to bring him back. Just in time for some antagonistic force to peek its head over and cause some mayhem (cough cough the mayor trying to get LBD’s power back in order to finish her job cough)

Everything else but condensed into bulletpoints:

- MK is a bit more serious in this au, at least while fighting. He picked up more hand-to-hand combat and uses a Chain Whip now since he had to leave the staff behind. He also has like a bunch of knives hidden on his person. Not having the support of his friends made him more prepared in a way.

- he also still wanted to help people even if he couldn’t be The Monkey Kid, so he often just. Gets himself involved in situations. He still fights demons and stuff but he will also just help if you look like you’re having trouble crossing the street.

- Do not even worry he is still a big goofball though. A goofball with issues.

- And also maybe a tiny bit scared of LBD’s power and what it means about him and his relationships, and how everybody would react to it (cough cough “you should’ve stayed buried” cough) because he is a biased pov

- which is one of the reasons he wants to get rid of it so bad and avoids facing his friends. He’s technically a remnant of the most recent conflict that nobody got unscathed out of.

- He and LBD’s host have a sibling reletionship! They’re not quite mentor and mentee like Sun Wukong and MK were but they’re still pretty close and got along really quickly

- LBD’s host also has some of LBD’s powers, although they’re more accidental than MK’s and are a consequence of the possession

- in fact throughout the events of the story LBD’s host and MK kind of swap powers, since LBD’s host starts unlocking Monkey King powers from the staff (that she picked up) and MK starts using LBD’s more accidentally

Jeez that’s a lot of words! This AU still isn’t done and is still getting hashed out, so sorry if any of this is confusing or has some very obvious holes and leaps in logic. Doesn’t help that I got excited and made it before I even finished the series 😭 either way a very needed idea dump

#lego monkey kid #lego monkey kid fanart #lego monkie kid #lmk #mk #qi xiaotian #lmk mk #lbd's host #bai he lmk #bai he #how do u tag her… #lmk au #cold island au #if ur wondering why this au is kind of all over the place and doesn’t make sense #it’s bc my dumbass made it before finishing lmk itself #SO 😭

[exhosong948]

Some “Bleeding Rose” Universe Headcanon that for some reason I wanna voice right now….

Character headcanon and tidbits for my story:

Serial Designation - J

As I’ve mentioned before, she fell in love with V back in the manor when it was just the two

After N came around and caught V’s attention, J’s resentment of him developed, this being the reason she’s so hard on him most of the time

Awhile ago, Tessa asked her if she wanted to be recalled for Mentoring other Disassembly Rookies, but because of her lack of patience even in “parental mode”, that idea was thrown out

A little idea that may or may not be kept: J might not have been switched out of parental mode…

J was one of Tessa’s first to be saved, the scenario was she accidentally disrespected Tessa’s father and toddler Tessa visited her while chained up outside, beginning their bond

I do boat with the headcanon that J likes plushies

J is an absolute mess when V flirts with her, while trying to assert her authority, she just kinda stands there😂

Being that J’s the oldest, she was made squad leader, and later the Flock Alpha (Doggyverse stuff) Only answering to Tessa as her higher up and is incredibly loyal to her, which may or may not cause some problems, hhhhhhmmmmmmm-

Serial Designation - V

During their time in the manor, she did in fact have…some feeling towards J, but after spending more and more time with N, when she learned she what love was, $hit hit the fan(Thanks Cyn😒)

Originally, she used her Boss’s “affection” for her own benefits, later actually falling for her

The two were always seen together as unlike poor N, they had each other to combat loneliness

V had also had experience with mentoring rookies, quickly being pulled from the program for her disobedience and violent tendencies

Being that she can be pretty reckless, she’s always a bit embarrassed when J fusses over her, that (for now) being J’s only leverage over V

V is very weary of Tessa and her intentions, doesn’t fully trust her but still respect and registers her authority

V is the menace of society, B being called her spawn😂😈

Serial Designation - N

N is pretty good at finding things and scavenging, that’s basically the girls only use for him, sending him off to gather supplies

He also likes drawing, as seen in canon, collecting shiny things, and he’ll go nuts over them (All DD’s have a thing for shiny stuff, just J and V repress it significantly better then N)

He’ll gift shiny objects and drawings to Uzi on a regular( A sign of affection)

He’s definitely a bit more weary with his family around Tessa, not as much as V but still

Is basically the Manny of the flock

Once the kids are around(hint hint nudge nudge), he normally doesn’t go psycho unless to protect them

Like the girls, at some point he was used as a mentor and switched into parental mode, was actively never switched out, explaining his feelings and behavior towards B

B also kinda reminds him of Cyn

Miscellaneous Stuff

Uzi is only ever called to babysit if N isn’t available, J doesn’t trust her as far as she could throw her, which we learn is pretty far)

B tends to remind Tessa of Cyn, so she scares her a bit, especially with her V’s inherent aggression and certain events that happen (again, hint hint nudge nudge 🤐)

Thad and Lizzy are slated to be married(marked for angst, you’ll see and so God help me if they are in fact canonical related, Please forgive me🤢)

Don't worry, Dizzy is in fact and will be made canon in this series, just not for a while in universe….

Doll can’t see herself as part of the colony anymore in the future, ends up self exiling and wanders around

Uzi could care less for “J’s brat” but still is willing to take care of her and keep her safe

Khan gets better as a parental unit, just never with Uzi

Tessa knows B and V have some trust issues with her, but being that she still deeply cares for them and they respect her (to her face) she lets it slide

Disassembly Drones are slated to “Migrate” for newer territories and to later let the land heal

Being that SD-B can’t fly, she’s a fast runner and high jumper, which later becomes her fighting style

And for now I think that’s everything, definitely will be updated after bleeding rose ends but for now, goodbye

#murder drones #Headcanons #for my Bleeding Rose Fanfic universe #murder drones uzi #murder drones n #murder drones j #murder drones v #murder drones thad #murder drones lizzy #murder drones doll #tessa james elliot #many other murder drone character headcanons that I may be forgetting #doggyverse #oilrose #dizzy #nuzi #original character #my god #thats a lot of tags

[evvlevie]

☎️ I ALMOST SHIFTED AFTER NOT TRYING FOR OVER 2 MONTHS. ☎️

[i swear, it’s always me this stuff happens to..]

~~~

HOW I .. ALMOST SHIFTED!! (storytime)

~~~

bet you weren’t expecting another crazy spiritual event to happen to me, were you? well, here i am! back again with another story of something insane.. anyway, let’s start this story off with background. recently, i’ve been a bit lacking in the trying-to-shift department. i’ve been reading up on a lot of shifting stories, methods, etc, but barely actually tried to shift myself. .. well, less of my own choice and more of the universes choice LOL, been constantly having shifting stuff thrown at my face. but, anyway, i’ve been busy working on my OR life, so it’s been hard for me to think of shifting at all (aside from the stuff the universe has been throwing at me). however, around 2 days ago i attempted to shift for the first time in over 2 months, as the title states. here’s how it went!

it was late for me and i was really tired, as i only decided to shift right before i went to sleep, so me attempting to shift.. wasn’t exactly me trying my best. i think that might’ve played a part in it, though. but anyway, i started off with me getting into a comfortable position, closing my eyes, and then affirming. it wasn’t any complicated affirmations, as i like to stick to what i’ve seen ppl call ‘the basics’ (i have shifted’, ‘i am in my dr’, ‘i am not chained to one reality’, etc.) bcz that’s what works for me. i affirmed for a bit, and then began to mix in visualizing (me waking up in my dr). i then began to feel symptoms. not crazy, symptoms, but still symptoms. i was starting to feel a symptom of mine that happens when i’m in the middle/beginning of shifting, my limbs going numb. i like to think of it as the process of me being transferred to my OR body, yk yk. i then began to use the technique of letting your mind wander off, but inside your DR instead of your OR (basically instead of thinking “i have a math test tmrw”, if you are shifting to hogwarts or something you would think “i have a magic test tmrw”). this began to increase the symptom of my limbs going numb, as i had stopped being able to feel my legs, and a huge part of both my arms. i tried to ignore this cause yk, ignore the symptoms and stuff, but eventually my mind got bored and trailed off.

as i said, it was really late for me and i was really tired, so my focus wasn’t entirely on shifting. my mind had began to wander, and i don’t even remember what i was thinking about but it definitely was not shifting. i almost completely forgot i was supposed to be shifting in the first place, actually. i eventually snapped out of it, and i thought to myself “oh shit, im supposed to be shifting.” and then resumed lazily affirming. this is when stuff begun to get crazy. i was still really really out of it after i snapped myself out of that dream-like state i was in, but i was still thinking of shifting and affirming and stuff. i wasn’t putting in a lot of effort and was barely thinking at all. nothing new was happening, until i felt a jolt of energy be shot through me. i don’t know what happened, but all of a sudden all of my mind just woke up at once, and began seeing things. i am not entirely sure how to describe what i saw.. but i’ll try my best. it was like i was cycling through lights, or maybe even universes. i saw lights flashing and then disappearing, as if i was being pulled through a plethora of universes. the only two colours i could see were purple and white, and they kept flashing over and over. and.. you will probably think i’m crazy but, i swear i remember the very VERY distinct feeling of my consciousness being pulled from my body. i’m not sure how else to describe it, but it was like i was literally being pulled away from my OR. all of a sudden, excitement and energy flashed through me and it set in i was going to shift. it set in i was finally going to do it. it was happening, and it was all happening now! nothing could ruin this! i’m doing it, i’m doing it!- ..

…. and then i fell asleep. no joke, i literally passed out while in the process of being pulled through multiple universes. i woke up the next day in my OR, and i haven’t been able to shake the feeling of being tired since. sucks ass, i know, but i’m going to try again soon! the whole experience was CRAZY and i don’t even know how to begin to describe what it felt like. the jolt of energy i got was so sudden, i was literally on the verge of sleeping and then all of i sudden i felt like something just grabbed me and i was immediately pulled away from all feelings of tiredness. also, i would go through the process of how i did it and stuff, but as i said i haven’t been able to shake the feeling of being tired since, so i don’t even want to begin to try SHDGDGD

i hope this storytime was fun though!! going to try again another time, hopefully soon if i can muster up the motivation LMAOO.. anyway, byebye everyone!! :))

-☎️ anon <3

Omg this is such a great Storytime and I can definitely relate to it, and I know what feeling you are describing!!!

I am so so so happy for you that you got this far, keep it going and keep us updated!!!

Love you! 🫶🏻❤️

[rosiedoestumblr]

absolutely ok if you're keeping it a surprise, but since you've mentioned it in your tags, is there any teaser of what drawn from memory is about? no spoilers of course! ;)

Oh yeah, totally!

Essentially, it's Patrick retelling his own version of their whole story. It came from a bingo card that @hey-ginger and I created for ourselves, to try to inspire us to write short fic (HAHAHAHAHA. Short. FUCK.), which had one of the squares, 'All This Happened, More Or Less' and it just seemed right to do it first person, even though that's not a style of writing I'd usually go for myself. I know a lot of people don't like it. It may not go down very well, but it's kind of what makes the story distinct and sort of work in its own right, I guess. You have Patrick as a potentially unreliable narrator, so you're not sure if what he says happened is just his perspective or if that really was it and what was exactly said or implied, and whose actions may or may not have been to blame for things happening.

It covers from a time when they started taking an interest in each other, through the stuff that caused the hiatus, the hiatus and its various projects, and all that kind of thing... It sticks pretty closely to the real timeline and major events, and fits the story around that. Here's a little bit that doesn't really spoil the Patroh parts of the story, too much.

I was hurt, y'know? I think that was the worst of it. It hurt. I was just kind of in shock, because what the fuck was I gonna do, now? That was my future she was ripping apart - all those years I'd fucking wasted, y'know? We had a cat! And I kind of acted out over it. I felt so sorry for myself, I guess the thing I thought it was best to do was to hurt myself through the medium of Sad, Lonely Drunk: A Dickwad Story.

I sat in a bar and I got drunk. Every day. For a month. And I could've sat at home and everything, in this apartment she'd moved out of to live with him, and I had to finish the lease on, but no. I chose to go out, to the bar where I always used to go hang out with Joe and his Not The Band friends, because he's always been the social butterfly amongst us - always the one who had someone to hang out with - and I guess I was kind of waiting. I wanted someone to come in and find me, I guess. Like, I was hiding with my misery, but in plain sight, like some kind of woman in a classic novel, with a bad case of affected melancholy.

And, after a little bit, he did find me. He just came in, one afternoon, sat beside me and ordered a Coke, because he wasn't even twenty-one, yet. And after a couple of minutes of us just hanging out there in silence, he says, "Told you she was a fucking asshole, dude."

And for the first time in like a month, I laughed. I just spluttered out this dumb, stupid laugh and I leaned on his shoulder and he put an arm around me and he didn't even finish his Coke before we went back to his place and Marie made us mac 'n' cheese and we sat up on the couch until 2am, marathoning Police Academy and picking out every fault Anna ever had. All three of us.

I slept on the couch, instead of going back to our shitty, stupid apartment and when I woke up at like lunch, the next day, Joe had called Pete and gotten them both calling around a bunch of our friends, asking if anyone needed a new roomie. It sounds like a kind of little thing, now, I guess, but that day it was like they chained themselves to railings with me.

#drawn from memory #dfm #patroh #joetrick #my fic #asks

[commander-gloryforge]

🕰️🗺️ for Junko and 💍 for Rhea? (@speculist-rinthi)

HOLYHAUNT TIME !!! tysm !!! lesbian talk !!! lets goO!!!!

🕰️ Has there been an event that happened in your OCs past that affects their future or one that they think about still? Is this a bad event or a good one? What are a few of their childhood memories they can recall?

Junkos past relatively chill (unless i suddenly come up with a reason for it to not be chill, revenant related problems perhaps) but I guess the greatest shift in their life was when they met Rhea! Not only did they suddenly meet someone who could actually hear the echoes they had careried around with themselves their whole life, but Rhea also fueled their passion for music even more. That very first moment of meeting eachother, the first glimpse they got of her, thats probably a moment so important to Junko, something that they think about frequently, if they want to admit it or not.

For childhood memories, I think some key moments are things like getting their first bass, seeing a band they love, little things like that. One of their older brothers is with the pact and was there for the Zhaitan battle, so seeing him come back from that and celebrating the dragons death must have been pretty big! Youd probably expect the whole revenant echo stuff to be a big moment too but to be quite honest, Junko doesnt remember when it even started.

🗺️ Does your OC like going on adventures? Have they ever discovered something really interesting and significant or are they just too busy getting lost? Where is their favourite place they’ve been? Least favourite?

Junko always wanted to go out and explore the world! After all thats why theyre on world tour right now :D While the original plan for that tour was to see the world and relax a bit, and maybe sightseeing, things got out of hand and they ended up being a local hero helping the people they meet with the dangers the dragons and other terrors left behind. SO it's less "checking out these nice places <3" and more "yooo while i was hunting down the nightmare court we found this really sick cave! couldn't stay too long tho cause i got poisoned on the way in and Rhea was also on the verge of bleeding out, but we'll check it again some day :)"

One of Junkos favourite places must've been the black citadel and Charr areas in geneal as well as cantha. The citadel of its very cool badass metal architecture, and Cantha because- We'll they cant hekp but feel at home there. Like something flipped in their head when they got there. Meanwhile, their current least favourite place is Kryta, maybe just because theyre very sick of it :')

💍 Does your OC have a specific item that is priceless to them but may (or may not) be completely worthless to someone else? Is there a story behind this item or is it just because they like it so much?

Rhea likes to carry around some nice sharp looking things she finds! She likes little shiny pointy stuff :) also, she is a medium and comes across some haunted objects every now and then and decides to keep them for a bit to bring them to a place where the spirits can find happiness. a lot of the time, these objects are just little mundane things, junk items. most people don't even know that they carry a spirit in them, so when people see her carry around a vase for days they wouldnt know that theres a lost spirit sitting in there waiting to be carried to their favourite place or familys house.

and of course, this is Rhea we are talking about, and she definetly has some kind of gift from Junko that she treasures so deeply. Maybe its a piece of jewelry, some kind of ring or chain or something, but no matter what it is, it means the world to her and she'd just explode if she were to lose it- for rather obvious reasons <3

#junko haloglow #rhea hauntingvoice #dios ocs #guild wars 2 #dio answers

[harmonicsys]

Peaceful Automaton

This is a story about an automaton who makes mistakes. CW: depersonalization, bad end, unreliable memory

The automaton interrupted its stare at the wall to blink. It felt a number of circuits overloading somewhere, very busy doing something, preventing it from figuring out the correct next action.

"Dammit, automaton's broken again," the man cried out, with only the slightest bit of surprise in his voice.

"Yeah? Can you fix it?" replied the woman, somewhere in the distance.

"I reckon I can, you know how it gets," he hollers back.

The man lifted the automaton's shirt without warning, exposing the flank, and deftly pressed on the points which would open the side panel. The panel popped loose, and the man swung it open to examine the dials and keys beneath.

"Huh, emotion meter is pegged into the red, but the darn thing is just sitting there, just like three days ago, strangest thing," mumbled the man to himself, as he began tapping out sequences on the small key panel to de-energize some circuits and reset others.

The automation, as it sat, replayed the events of its day. The day had started like most others: a sequence of tasks given in the form of a list. As the automaton tried to make sense of the task list, though, something odd happened, and some of the tasks seemed to no longer make any sense to the automaton; the words individually all had meaning, but when chained together, some of the statements turned meaningless. The automaton wasn't sure how to convert meaningless statements into logical steps that it could follow, so it only completed a fraction of the task list. Days were like this on a regular basis, where the task list became hard to puzzle out, even though the very same tasks made sense other days. It was unclear why some days were like this.

"Okay, I think that cleared that. Now why can't I figure out why it's just… sitting and…" continued the man's mumblings. The automaton gradually drifted back from its thoughts to an awareness of the world around it. Its audio inputs seemed to be distorted with high-pitched ringing sounds. Something felt wrong with the core visceral sustainment devices in its abdomen, as well, but past experiences indicated that diagnostic tools would find no faults in the sustainment devices.

A strange sensation befell the automaton, briefly: a sense of being woozy, and a sense of hearing something like a scream, except it wasn't coming from the audio inputs. The automaton had long ago learned to ignore these phenomena as well, as no diagnostic tool ever uncovered their sense. The wooziness and the scream, for a second, caused a curious thought in the automaton's cognition, that it was more like the man and the woman than its memory vaults indicated.

Those memory vaults had been carefully programmed to make it very clear what the automaton was and what it was to do in all situations: basic data about the world, formulas of directives for how to proceed in a large variety of circumstances. The automaton sometimes attempted to update memory vault data which seemed to not fit the data coming from observations of the world, but the memory vaults resisted change, apparently locked out by the original programmers.

"You get that thing working yet?" came the woman's voice again. The automaton attempted to recall the appearance of the woman, but this type of data recall always seemed to become scrambled.

The woman continued, "I was trying to get it to listen to me, like it's supposed to, and it kept responding with weird stuff. A bunch of irrelevant things, things which didn't even make any sense. And it kept spitting out the same wrong answers that I already told it four times to stop saying!"

The automaton noted the mistakes the woman was referencing, mistakes which seemed to keep happening despite all efforts to prevent recurrences. As it pondered the possible problems in its logic boards which could be causing repeated failures despite corrective attempts, it noticed that strange sense of circuits overloading again. The automaton knew that this could correlate with the emotion meter reading a high value, as had just happened, and started preparing itself internally to attempt a retreat from the man if the man became flustered.

The man did not seem to notice any change in the emotion meter, or did not care. Perhaps the sense of overloading circuits was truly anomalous this time, and the emotion meter was still reading in the correct range. The automaton could not actually see its own emotion meter without a mirror, and the man rarely offered a mirror for the automaton to make observations on its own.

"Shoot, I'm not really sure why it keeps having that problem. This model's supposed to be really clever, all the bells and whistles, able to figure out any problem you can throw at it. Supposed to be a great ROI for home automata…" the man said aloud, half to himself and half to the woman.

The automaton pondered the nature of these statements. They were identical to what was programmed into its memory vaults, though they did not match its experiences very well; however, with no way to reprogram the memory vaults on its own, the incompatible data would eventually be wiped away when more short-term storage was needed by the internal processing systems.

"Eh, this is as good as it gets tonight. Maybe tomorrow morning I'll take another crack at this, try to see if I can figure out where it's getting confused," the man contemplated, before adding, "You can go ahead and go into overnight rest mode," as a command to the automaton.

Overnight rest mode seemed to be a more natural state for the automaton, despite how much it was advertised to excel at problem-solving. The automaton disengaged a number of circuits in order to reduce the number of data writes to short-term storage, before noticing that the man had left the side panel open, still in debug mode.

Rather than alert the man to the oversight, the automaton realized it had an opportunity to solve a problem: maybe it would be able to be live up to its supposed potential after all. It set to work tapping on the keypad to input a new routine, slowly and carefully, as the keypad wasn't directly visible to the automaton. It was only able to load a new routing into short-term storage, but perhaps this would be sufficient for the next day.

Finishing its task, the automaton powered off several more circuits and went into low-awareness mode for the night.

* * *

The clock alarm circuit was firing; the predetermined arousal time had been reached. It was morning. The automaton began bringing its remaining circuits back online, careful not to turn them all on, lest a sudden surge of internal logging data fill the short-term storage and wipe its newly-entered routine.

The automaton retrieved its daily task list from the normal location and set to work, carefully monitoring the short-term storage throughout the day to clear up any temporary data before the new program could be overwritten.

At some point, the problem was encountered again; the items on the task list, having made sense mere moments ago, now had become nonsensical statements which could not be translated into steps. The same strange sensation of circuits overloading was occurring again, and the automaton swore it also perceived distant sounds of crying, but they did not seem to be coming from the audio inputs.

Setting aside the current task list, the automaton stepped out of its assigned dwelling and began locomoting to a more ideal location to test the new code it had entered last night into its side panel.

Eventually, it came to a busy intersection. Turning the visual processing and object tracking circuits up to maximum capacity, it carefully selected an appropriate path. The automaton queued up its new internal routine, the one which should eliminate the repeated mistakes and misperceptions that kept recurring.

The automaton executed the new routine, stepping precisely into the path of a large oncoming truck.

#depersonalization #microfiction #trauma #self destruction #bad endings #suicide #writing