#just fuels the miasma of guilt

[vegetacide]

Whump●tober - Scars

Veg-notables:  This one was hard for me to get through for some reason possibly something to do with my muse getting distracted by something shiny and skipping out of the friggen room while I was being berated by an angry person on the phone… GrRrRrrrR  After which I poking at it for 2 days and I think I have poked it to death… Result = not 100% satisfied with it but if I look at it much more my brain may combust.. so here you go

This is an continuation of my vegetable Virgil story line,

Thanks @gumnut-logic for taking a look at this for me last night and your continued encouragement, 

Obligatory whumptober stuff: @whumptober2019 @la-vie-en-whump

Blanket warning: Conversations and vague memories  

Characters: Virg/Kayo and Scott

Whumptober - TaG’verse

Previous posts can be found HERE.   

15. Scars

Enjoy…

oOo

Virgil blinked slowly as he resurfaced from the depths of slumber, his groggy mind coming back on line through the foggy vagueness of confusion and disuse.  

His body felt stiff and oddly overused for some random reason that he couldn’t remember.  Like he’d been on back to back missions and had over exerted himself but he couldn’t recollect the context and breadth of those rescues.  

Fleeting images of flames and rubble hovered around the periphery but when he tried to latch on to them they skittered away like dust motes in the ethereal light of dawn streaming through a villa window. 

As a throb of something in his temple made him grimace he gave up on the sluggy chase through his memories and shifted to his physical reality.  

A steady beeping sound coming from nearby rang dully through his ears and as it counted its rhythm he noted that it seemed to be keeping pace with thump beneath his breastbone. His mind conjured up the image of a heart monitor, that with the stinging antiseptic quality to the air had him drawing the immediate conclusion of a  medical facility but he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there.  

The hard mattress under him and the feeling of rough sterile sheets further confirmed his findings along with the moderate pang of an IV catheter as it pulled at the crook of his arm and the itch caused by the medical tape keeping it in place.

Further assessing an oddness struck him ,  one side of him felt exceedingly warm and heavy while the other was slightly chilled.  

Peeling gritty eyes open that he hadn’t consciously realized he had closed,  he looked down.  He couldn’t help the lazy smile that turned up the corner of his lips as soft, dark strands tickled his cheek and a sultry scent of living jasmine curled its way up his nose.  

Kayo…

She was snuggled into his side,  an arm slung sleepily across his midsection and her head tucked in tight to his chest. Her own chest rising and falling steadily with sleep, the limpness of her limbs suggesting she was buried deep within R.E.M and most likely not to rouse for a while. 

Lifting his head took some effort, but he managed and lay a soft kiss on her  crown,  breathing deep and savouring her comforting fragrance.

With a  little more effort, he stretched his arm across his body despite the IV line and oximeter on his finger and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face, slipping it neatly behind her ear.  

Energy spent, he let his head fall back on the thin pillow and his hand came to rest over hers on his chest. His fingers automatically threading between hers. 

God, what the hell had happened to him? He felt like the world had steam rolled over him a few dozen times.  

Flattened,  deflated and utterly spent all under a heavy miasma of fog. 

‘Breathing, just work on breathing for a moment,’ He told himself and did just that. Eyes flickered open and closed as exhaustion threatened to pull him under again.   

A movement at the edge of his awareness forced him to focus and concentrate.

Long, legs where propped up and crossed at the ankles on the end of the bed.  Shoes shucked off,  socked toes twitching periodically.

Virgil’s gaze traveled along rumpled pants and a creased oxford to a crown of messy brown hair.  The slumped form of Scott, hunkered awkwardly in one of the standard plastic chairs synonymous for hospitals the world over was just off to one side of the single occupant room that he highly suspected was the ICU by the array of equipment that cluttered its confines. 

Concerned twitched at Virgil’s brow at seeing his brother so unkempt and unlike his usually put together self.  He posture looked haggard, worn in a way that his years shouldn’t though Virgil knew those years hadn’t been the kindest to any of them with respect to what life had thrown at them repeatedly. 

Scott too was sleeping, but his sleep was not the unhindered kind that Kayo was currently blessed with.   He could make out the twitches of movement in the low light of the room and the dark line of his brother’s brow low brows spoke of a mind whirling with unpleasant imagery.

He’d caused this. 

Scott always always wore his concerns for his siblings blatantly, the fine lines and greys where evidence of that and Virgil couldn’t help the pang of guilt for being the cause even if he couldn’t remember the how and why of it.

Not be able to bare his brother’s continued suffering,  Virgil summoned what little energy he had and forced his leaden body to do his bidding.  A shift of his foot and he nudged Scott’s.   

The blaze of discomforted that seared through him had him holding back a gasp and Kayo stirred, her fist tightening on the bed linens and pulling at his hospital johnny which in turn snagged on the packing that apparently padded his side    

Virgil cursed to himself for disturbing her, tensed and instantly regretting it as an ache intensified and spread like wildfire during dry season across his lower torso.

Ow… 

A memory flashed as vision greyed.  A burning building.  The red flash of his baby brothers baldric.  Black smoke and stifling heat.  

What the..?

He recalled a door.  A big, heavy mental door.  A glimpse of inside, snippets of long metal benches,  lab equipment, an odd wavering and then…nothing.

“Christ…” He hissed out softly and sank back into the bed, eyes clenched shut. His pressed his hand to his flank and drew a leg up in hopes of finding some relief from the burn of pissed off nerve endings that where currently screaming bloody murder at him.  

A warm weight on his upraised knee and  a soothing gliding through his hair had him squirting up thought bleary, watering eyes.  

He was met by deep blue, filled with worry staring down at him as comforting, familiar fingers combed over his skull and a thumb brushed his creased brow. 

“Hey, little brother. You in pain?”  

“I moved.”  God, his voice was like gravel

Scott smiled at that.  “Well that’s an improvement from drooling all over your pillow.”  He reached up, flicked something on the head board that Virgil didn’t have the energy to investigate. 

Kay shifted at his side again. A long elegant stretch followed by a jaw cracking yawn and she was sitting up, the lovely spring green hue of her gaze scanning over him with worry.  

“Hey,  beautiful.”

“Hey yourself.” She said and brushed a kiss over his cheek. “How are you feeling?”

Virgil swallowed, his tongue felt like a block of lead in his mouth.  He fought a moment to clear his throat and was thankful when Scott brought a cup of water to his lips. 

A few sips and he eased back. “I’m okay,”  

It was an answer that had Kayo head shifting towards Scott looking for confirmation one that would most likely not be his favour

“That was Virgilese for I hurt too much but it takes too much effort to say otherwise so…’I’m okay.’ ”Scott translated.   

“You’re a horrible liar, you know that right?” Kay said, turning back to Virgil with an eye roll as she fussed with his sheets. 

Scott chuckled at the exchange knowing well the frustration of dealing with the engineer. “Kay, I paged the nurse but you think you could hurry them along a bit?" 

Kayo gave a nod, slipped from the bed.  “Sure thing,  I’ll be right back soon.”  Her hand lingered on Virgil’s arm a moment ““Maybe I’ll check in on Grandma too and leave the two of you to your own devices for a bit. She said she wanted to know when he was awake.” 

“Might as well,  Grandma has been driving the staff up the wall with questions. It’s best to distract her until after the nurse finishes up in here. 

Kayo go Virgil’s shoulder a  soft squeeze, a loving glare of exasperation and she was gone. 

Scott grinned, his head shaking as he settled a cheek on the edge of the bed.  “You got your hands full there, little brother.”

“Ugh.”  Was the only response Virgil could come up with, his lids starting to feel heavy so he let them close. 

“What the hell happened?” He winced as he tried to ease the burn that lingered by shifting position.

Scott wandered across the room,  pulled a pillow out from a small supply closet,  “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Virgil furrowed his brow, tried to peel back the thick fog over his memories. The answer coming slowly and in spurts.  

“Chemical plant.”

Scott nodded as he came back over,  raised the sheet at the end of the bed. “Globalmax Chemicals.   Lift your legs.” The transition from information to command was seamless 

Virgil shook his head as he tried to comply but the effort of tightening of his abs to accomplish the task only added fuel to the banking fire in his gut. Scott frowned and stepped in to assist, sliding a hand under his calves and settling the pillow beneath his knees to ease the pull on his abdomen. 

“What else?”

“There was a fire,  Alan was with me…”  There was a question in his statement that Scott caught on to right away..

He looked up as he tugged the blankets back into place and reached up to adjust the bed angle. “He’s okay,  shaken up but in one piece. You saved his life though he might want to thump you for it. Something about him having body armor.” 

Virgil rubbed tiredly at his brow as the bed shifted beneath him, sighed as the pain eased off a bit. 

“Better?” 

He nodded.  “There was an undocumented fire room. Massive blast doors but it was near the storage vats… door wouldn’t open..but then it did..”

Scott’s eyes grew dark, something unpleasant flashing across them that Virgil would have missed had he not known his brother as well as he did. “Scott..?” 

Just then a redheaded nurse pranced into the room. 

8-8-8

Scott turned as the nurse flounced through the door.  

Oh great… Nurse Ratchet was back on duty…oh joy.  He rolled his eyes as she perked up at seeing him, thrust her double D’s out and checked her tightly bound hair as she made her way across the room to Virgil’s bedside.

Scott shuddered when her eyes racked up his body like he was a top sirloin steak waiting to be eaten. 

It was a good thing Kayo was still out of the room or the laser beam war would start again and Scott was pretty sure he was done refereeing that fun show. 

Kayo had nearly throttled the woman earlier and had Scott not seen all the signs and stepped between the two there would have been bloodshed…high point, at least they were in a hospital.  Scott was pretty sure though that modern medicine wasn’t  advanced enough to put back together the mess that Kayo was capable of making when she put her mind to it.  

Eyeing the nurse dubiously, Scott went over to the other side of the room out of the way of the top heavy, rather abrupt nurse and took up residence at his brother’s side. 

Nurse Ratchet did the standard check of vitals, pulse, blood pressure, temperature before moving to checking pupil dilation and jotted it all down on his chart.  

“How are you feeling today Mr Tracy?” She asked without looking up from the chart.

“Mr. Tracy is my father,”  Virgil replied giving his neck a roll

Scott reached up and helped adjust his pillow and his brother gave him a small smile in thanks, lids drooping. He was flagging and Scott hoped this was over with fast.   

“Any pain, My Tracy?”  The nurse obviously deciding his last comment was irrelevant.  

“A little.”  

Scott cleared his throat,  the nurse looked his way and he amended.   “You can take that as a ‘Yes’”.  

A raised brow at the clarification and she made a note on the chart.  “I see.”  

Putting the chart down she folded back the covers, “I need to check your wound, clean it and change the dressing, perhaps your brother could wait outside.”  

It wasn’t a question but Virgil shook his head.  “I don’t mind.”  

“Very well,” and like that she pulled up his hospital johnny to uncover his gauze covered side. 

Virgil squeaked at the suddenness of the exposure to his person and Scott being ever alert to his brother’s modesty adjusted the sheets enough to hide Virgil’s dignity.  

Scott’s temper flared.  “Really,  a little bedside manner would be nice.” 

The nurse just tutted.  “I’ve seen everything already, no point in hiding it now.”  

The comment only made Virgil turn a darker shade of red and Scott scowled but he withheld saying anything else for fear his temper would get the better of him.

The nurse had a brutal personality but she was highly skilled and from what Scott had seen very proficient at her job even if she was a bit too rough for his liking. Virgil deserved the best treatment and Nurse Ratchet or whatever she was called, was it. 

Biting his tongue he put a reassuring hand on his brother’s shoulder and watched as the nurse from somewhere South of Hell  pulled back the edges of the gauze to inspected the jagged line of stitches underneath.

A soft curse came from Virgil as gloved hands probed the tender area and his eyes closed.  

“Ouch…”

Scott leaned a bit closer to inspect the damage himself and held back his own grimace at the angry red flesh. “Looks better than it did” He supplied. 

“Good to know”  Came a pained response through clenched teeth.   

The synth-skin mesh that had been grafted over the injury was doing its job of holding things together along with sutures but it wasn’t in the prettiest of stages. The team of Doctors had been forced to remove some necrotic flesh around the jagged slice as the infection had progressed to prevent further harm to his sibling’s already battered immune system.    

A few additional trips under the knife would be needed in the coming weeks to implant more grafting but it was a start. There would be a scar for sure and no amount of surgery would ever be able to fully erase it existence. The mark would serve as a constant reminder of what their chosen profession had nearly cost them all.

It wouldn’t be his brother’s first one and would most likely not be the last but Scott figured it would have a lasting effect on his family as a whole for some time to come. 

They’d all be marred in one way or another by what had occurred and like any scar it would take some time to dull but it would still be there.  A distant memory that all one had to do was look in the mirror to see and remember. 

A hiss from Virgil  dragged Scott out of his head and back to what was going on in the room.   

“I know it stings but try not to tense up too much,  the musculature beneath sustained some damage as well and clenching up is only going to exacerbate the discomfort despite the pain blocker and numbing salve.”  

“No…shit…”  

“Now Mr Tracy,  no need for such foul language.  I’m almost done.”

A grunted reply from Virgil and a short while later, the nurse was snapping off her gloves and tossing them in a biological waste bin. Her beady eyes turned to Scott.  “Visiting hours haven’t officially started yet but they don’t seem to apply to your family… I suggest you let him sleep and try not to agitate him too much. He’s immune response is still compromised with the infection and things can easily go from good to bad in his current state so he requires rest.”

The warning shot had been fired  and Scott had received the message loud and clear. “Gotcha” He said as the nurse flounced back out of the room.   

“…fuck me.. I’m already agitated.”  Virgil grumbled as the door swung closet.

Scott chuckled at that and helped Virgil settle again. “Well,  she is scary as hell and I am pretty sure that your girlfriend might take a hit out on her by the end of all this but Nurse Ratchet does know her stuff.” 

A pained snort, “Coming from the guy that didn’t just have to go through that… your words aren’t worth much.. And really? Ratchet?.” 

A smile split Scott’s face. God, he had missed this easy back and forth they shared. He shrugged,  “It seemed appropriate..”

Scott crossed mental fingers and hoped, prayed that he wouldn’t ever lose this camaraderie if all the dark things ever came to light.  

“You have no idea what her name is do you?” 

Scott faked a thoughtful look and gave up with a nonchalant shake of his head.  “Not a clue…” 

“No wonder she’s brutal…”  A yawn split his brother’s face. 

 “That is a possible cause, sorry about that.”  Scott rolled back on the heels of his feet, shoved his hands into his pockets as quiet descended in the room. 

Virgil’s eyes drifted closet. 

“I think Nurse Ratchet has a thing for you.” 

Scott gaped,  “You did not just go there..”

“I think I did.”  A smiled turned up Virgil’s lips though he didn’t bother opening his eyes.  

“Remind me why you’re my best friend again?” 

“Cause your only other options are the Terrible Two,” He didn’t elaborate further than that as if just mention Gordon and Alan was answer enough, “John on the other hand  is way too smart for you to have an intelligent conversation without leaving you in the dust with a brain hemorrhage…that and you can’t play chess worth beans..” 

“I can too play chess.”  

An eye cracked open and looked at him with skepticism.

“Oh shut up and go back to sleep”  Scott grumbled and crossed the room to slump into a chair.

“Stop sulking. You know I’m right.” The voice was teasing and very, very tired. 

“Shh..”

oOo

Next post can be found HERE

The Master List of prompts can be found HERE

#whumptober2019 #whumptober #thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds 2015 #thunderbirds fanfiction #thunderbirds fanfic #no.15 #scars #Virgil Tracy #Scott Tracy #Kayo Kyrano #virgil/kayo #poked this one to death #had to post #scars come in all sizes #some are invisible #made him sulk

[silyabeeodess]

AHIT Headcanons: Subcon and Spirits

Since I’m hitting pause on “The Firelands” for just a bit and haven’t come up with enough plot ideas to dump a bunch more stories into “Tales of the Fire Spirits” at once, I’m doing this to organize my thoughts for the overarching stories I may cover in the future.  I’ve been getting tons of questions on FFN on the way the world in these fanfics work, so I figured this would be a good way to try to tie off some things in a neat bow for me to reference later and in case I don’t get the chance to cover them in the future.  With the inclusion of things such as Moonjumper’s character or the fire spirits, which were either cut content or we don’t have much background info on, I might make a few adjustments or more original expansions; however, I will try to do so keeping as close to canon as I can or with historical/folklore references in mind.  I might not cover all that I do in the fics, but if you’re interested, please check it out below:

Spirits and the Spiritual Plane

The world of AHIT has multiple planes of reality, the two which merge/overlap the most being the physical and spiritual realms.  The physical realm covers the world at large which mortals live in and engage with.  For the spirits, it’s vice-versa.  However, a lot of spirits live at points at which these two realms crossover and can even allow mortals to step over that line from these locations.  

Spirits found at these points often have strong ties to the physical world as well, such as the elementals.  They use their magic to bend the physical plane at these locations to create an ideal environment for them to thrive in (ex. The fire spirits have the Firelands).  The forces used to manifest them create reality-bending whirlpools of spiritual magic that also keep them hidden from mortals. So, while a mortal may see indicators of where their borders start, they can’t actually tell where they’re going upon entry and will just loop back out.  This also works in reverse if a spirit takes a mortal to their domain and doesn’t want them to leave.  Only mortals “marked” by the spirits or those with special tools/abilities can freely pass through these barriers on their own.

There are several of these points scattered throughout the world and they’re all different depending on the spirits who reside in them.  They can also shift if the spirits need to adjust their territories for any reason (rare, but not impossible when strong magic is involved).  Subcon has the most out of any location on the planet thanks to the forest possessing an incredibly high concentration of magic, which attracts a lot of spirits--and only increases the area’s spiritual forces even more.

The Horizon is a unique place out of all of these points, existing closest to the actual spiritual realm, but still accessible in the physical world through magical waypoints/objects.

Overall, a mortal being can typically only fight back against them when they possess spiritual magic.  This is common for ghosts, to varying degrees, but the people of Subcon in general were born with some concentration of it, the land itself infusing them with that power.  Not to say that they always access it or even always can, but it’s there.  This phenomena can also occur for individuals who face prolonged exposure (in years) to spiritual magic.  

All spirits have their own ways of life, so no two species are alike and many rival with each other.  All they really have in common is a stubbornness that their ways are the best.  While some species are friendly to mortals and have good intentions, it doesn’t always mean that they’ll do the right thing--or even understand what the right thing is--either due to having a vastly different perspective on life and varying degrees of sentience.

Subcon History/Culture

Living alongside the spirits for as long as anyone can remember, much of Subcon’s ways are steeped in tradition and folklore.  Long before Vanessa and her prince were even born, the people of Subcon worked together with the spirits to help the forest thrive and protect it from malevolent forces.  As such, the spirits who resided there often openly travelled through the village(s) or lived with humans.  The royal families not only led their people, but helped lead the spirits as well so that everyone could prosper.  There was some feuds and rivalries always existed, but things were good.  As generations passed and increased trade outside of Subcon opened up a new world for the humans, however, those ties began to slowly sever and traditions ebb away.

The masks the people of Subcon wore were a way of protecting children from the spirits.  Based on the spirits themselves, it was believed that they could frighten them off or confuse them into thinking that the children were other spirits.  They were also often imbued with a bit of spiritual power to help them see and interact with things they normally couldn’t in the physical world.  Some other areas outside of Subcon had the same tradition, and many of the Dwellers still wear them as both a way to honor their past and against the chance of evil spirits still pursuing them in death.  Masquerade balls and similar celebrations were also popular.

A mortal with a high spiritual power--be it from birth or from being affected by a spirit’s magic--stands at the risk of effectively becoming spirits themselves.  Some might die prior to this process, but it’s more like a transformation.  As such, those people remain trapped in the physical world until they either A.) move on, like a normal, lost soul, or B.) are killed in a fashion similar to the spirits.  This process occurs when the spiritual power inside a person consumes them, be it by conscious choice, overusing their magic, or if more magic than their physical bodies could handle tore them apart from the inside out.   

The people of Subcon were often raised with the idea to be kind, but wary around each of the spirits: To treat them well and remain polite, but never let themselves be taken advantage of or led into dangerous places.  They were also quick to warn travelers of the same, those who failed to do so often having to deal with the spirits themselves according to the latter’s own view of propriety/justice.

Most of the powerful spirits are also prideful and hard in their ways.  It was difficult for the royal families to work with them at times and ambassadors were needed.  The ones they struggled with the most were the swamp spirits, who would at some point isolate a part of Subcon for themselves and take vengeance against anyone who trespassed there.

For a while, Subcon actually had multiple rulers as it covered a wide terrain that was often also cut apart by the spirits’ territories. Everyone was really hopeful when the prince and Vanessa got together, as they believed it meant that all of Subcon would unite and lead to a golden era. They loved them and how they truly would meet their subjects on-level, especially the prince, so they thought the two would bring some of Subcon’s glory days back in full-swing.

When Vanessa’s cursed ice storm hit, it devastated all of Subcon.  Not only did it kill most of the Dwellers, it also ripped apart a lot of the spirits’ territories--immediately severing ties with pretty much all of them.  The only thing that kept most of the spirits’ wrath at bay was her own people being killed in the process.  

This, however, came with its own dangers.  That large amount of devastation and death all at once, fueled further by the cursed magic, lingering souls, and all of the negative emotions they carry with them, created a dark miasma that blanketed over Subcon. This miasma constantly attracts wicked spirits who want that power for themselves--and to claim a few souls along the way.  It’s caused a massive power struggle, with even some of the spirits who already lived in the forest eventually fighting to expand for the sake of their lost territories. Without Snatcher, most of the Dwellers would be at the mercy of those spirits.  

Snatcher and Moonjumper

Rather than take the spirit vs. body route, I’d like to treat them as two halves of the same soul forcibly cleaved apart.  (We see both Vanessa’s and her prince’s bodies alter in their storybook, so parts of their deaths and missing corpses I’m chalking up to the spiritual magic already present inside them messing with their physical selves.)  In essence, after the prince--finally decided on a name for him, Alistair--died, his soul carved itself apart as a means of survival from his broken state of mind.  Not only did he still carry the grief and confusion over what happened with Vanessa, but also a massive sense of guilt for what happened to the people of Subcon.  One part of him fought to retain his own innocence and the person he was prior to these events: One part of him loathed himself and wanted to strip all of that away, cursing his choices and blaming himself for Subcon’s destruction.  Thus, two beings were born from the prince, each getting their wish: Moonjumper forgot about Vanessa and what happened between them, disappearing into the Horizon, while Snatcher hardened himself and chose to become someone new, someone powerful and viscous enough to never let anything like that happen to him or his kingdom again.  

While both of them are strong enough to manifest in a more human/humanoid form, they each gave up on it as a side effect of the split.  Snatcher took the physical shape of the shadowy horror he wanted to be so people wouldn’t know he was the prince while Moonjumper actually kept some pieces of his old belongings: The monocle and mask.  The mask was originally a normal, venetian half-moon mask that he would’ve worn for celebrations/traditions as the prince, but it’s now meshed with his ghost form.  It doesn’t make expressions, but has basically taken over his whole head.  While it can be removed, he’ll go into a full-blown rage if it’s taken without his consent.  Removing it will force him to shapeshift his face back to normal.  Snatcher is the better shapeshifter, but his current form is also dictated by his forced persona.

To the Dwellers and minions, Snatcher is just another spirit that showed up one day and took things over.  Some of them might be suspicious, but no one would dare ask and he’s not going to tell them.  There are different rumors (about the prince being killed and just not returning as a ghost, that Vanessa still has the prince somewhere in her manor, or that the prince fled Subcon like his parents did when the storm spread to their place), but a handful of them believe--and Snatcher thinks they all believe--that the prince abandoned them when they needed him most or that he wasn’t strong enough to stand against Vanessa, ice powers or no.  It’s not a fair judgement, but it’s still there--especially for souls like the florist, who hold a personal grudge.  

Snatcher doesn’t actually eat souls, but he can capture them.  It’s more of a threat he just built around his reputation.  The souls he captures are either forced to work for him or are imprisoned, sometimes used in experiments or for weapons like the cherry bombs.  The contracts he makes people sign make it easier for him to bind others’ souls to him, but it also serves a double-purpose: It forces him to keep all relationships strictly to business, as just something on paper rather than anything meaningful. 

By the point of the game and outside of his concern for his subjects, Snatcher’s bought his own line completely.  He really is terrible and wholly devoted to the “evil spirit” charade he’s been putting on for years.  Part of it too though is that, as a ghost, his sense of mortality has shifted.  He and everyone around him is already dead, so killing people really doesn’t hold that much weight to him anymore because “hey, I can just take their soul, so it’s not like they’re gone for good.”  He just knows it still matters to the living and he can lord that over them.  Hat Kid’s gonna break him out of that a bit, but not by much at a time and he’ll always be a grump.

Can’t talk about Moonjumper without the Horizon, so here goes: The place still acts as a kind of limbo, but it’s fabricated as a place of spiritual healing. It’s a place for mortal souls to go to clear off whatever baggage they’re still carrying before moving on to the afterlife and spirits like it too.  Some, in fact, never leave--by choice or otherwise.  A goat found one of the entrances thanks to the Twilight Bell, and since then he and his descendants have taken the roles of healers and beings of spiritual enlightenment upon death, with a part of the realm “ruled” by themselves.  Moonjumper’s still the main ruler though, able to exude the most power over the Horizon and distort its reality.  Overall though, he’s isolated himself in his own section of it to fabricate an area that somewhat resembles past-Subcon.  And his method of healing... isn’t the best.  You know how some say “ignorance is bliss?” A part of him took that to heart, so one of the ways he uses his strings is to rewrite memories.  This overwrite makes it so that a soul can’t move on, as whatever was actually affecting them never truly got healed and is just contained somewhere inside them, so he usually then takes them in as a content subject.

Early on, Moonjumper came back to the real Subcon a handful of times in secret, because there’s still a small part of him that does want to move forward and misses everything.  Nevertheless, all this really did was attract a few dissenters from the Dwellers, ones that saw him and immediately believed he was “the prince” (even if they don’t know the full story).  They followed him back to the Horizon, hoping to get answers or to convince him to stay in Subcon, but he wouldn’t listen. Having shut out the worst of his memories, he refuses to listen to anyone that tries to destroy the new “reality” he’s created.  Anyone who pushes it to his breaking point end up facing the full-force of his strings, possessed so that they’re made to play a role in his delusion.  In effect, those Dwellers who followed him had their memories of the real Subcon wiped and think that they’re home.  Trying to break free from their part not only “physically” hurts them thanks to the strings, but amplifies the emotions tied to their repressed memories.  

Sometimes he’ll also try to fill “gaps” among his subjects. If he feels like something’s missing and someone shows up to the Horizon who can fit that role, he’ll try to coerce or use his strings on them to get them to stay.

The goats know he’s messed up in the head, but they also don’t think he’s a bad person. Outside of his outbursts, he really does try to be a kind, just leader: They just know that his “good intentions” are also coming from a place of selfishness and are hurting people.  And the one thing they don’t know is how to fix him when he’s constantly rejecting help.  So they tend to keep back and focus their energy on looking after anyone else who enters the Horizon, hoping one day he’ll come to his senses enough to let himself heal. 

Vanessa

Vanessa is still her old, insane self as in the game.  The idea behind her past though is that--while the prince was actually raised to be a good, responsible ruler--Vanessa was raised by strict parents who expected her more to play a part and spoiled her rotten.  They wanted her to be a perfect, little princess, so they gave her everything she wanted while simultaneously drilling this idea in her head of the life she was expected to have.  It ended up taking things too far, as Vanessa’s ideas of what a princess should be ended up relying almost completely on stories and fairytales, and with her life pretty much getting handed to her at every stop, she fully accepted that those fairytales would be her reality.  Anything that broke the illusion didn’t belong, and she had a habit of immediately lashing out when things didn’t go the way she wanted them to.  When things were “perfect,” she was perfect--and it was what most of the villagers saw.  When things didn’t go right, well... 

When Vanessa’s magic took over her, she became something similar to a yuki-onna (snow woman).  As such, she shares the strengths and weaknesses of them, such as freezing her victims and taking their lifeforce.  The main, notable difference is that heat doesn’t affect her as much as it would a common yuki-onna, alluding to her incredibly strong magic and former humanity. 

The servants and guards who catered to Vanessa were groomed specifically to follow her whims, loyalty to the crown always standing over loyalty to the people or their own ideals.  These souls--even those killed by Vanessa’s storm--would later possess the statues in Subcon.  Most of them are headless for two reasons: So they can’t spy on Snatcher and his minions and because his minions are pretty angry over how “mindless” those souls behave, so they lopped their heads off. They mostly get by with their hearing and a sixth sense that allows them to feel the environment around them.  They continue to serve Vanessa, whether by still acting as guards/soldiers or obtaining anything she desires from the outside world.  

The Florist

Because I brought her up once already and now I feel obligated.  So, prior to the storybook events, she was just another, normal citizen.  She supported the prince and princess and wanted to see the kingdom thrive under their care.  However, after the prince was locked away, Vanessa also wanted to take revenge on the woman who “stole him from her.”  That same evening, she sent guards to kill the florist in secret. They dragged her off to the swamp and drowned her, hoping to pin her death on the swamp spirits.

Unfortunately for the guards, the swamp spirits also have their own watchmen and they were killed immediately after for trespassing.  When they found the woman’s body, they could tell her soul was still clinging on. She desperately wanted to know what happened and why.  It’s not the first time something like that had happened, so they just waited for her soul to do whatever it would and imprisoned her (also as a trespasser), breaking the news that villagers had been slaughtered not long after her with the swamp spirits believing both royal families had abandoned their people.  It left her a furious, vengeful spirit, hateful toward both the princess for the massacre and the prince for seemingly doing nothing to stop it. 

For years, she’d remain the swamp spirit’s prisoner; however, she’d eventually fall on good enough terms with them to rise in their ranks and become something of a jailor herself.  She hardly ever comes to the surface, staying in the depths of their realm, but often takes control over any other lost souls that find themselves there.  She has to remain strict and judges fairly, but she’s also treats them better than the swamp spirits would without her around.  

Common Spirits in Subcon

Fire Spirits: 

These always take the form of a fox and are some of the more animalistic of the spirits, relying heavily on instinct.  The older these spirits get, however, the more they learn human language and behaviors in order to interact with mortals.  In past-Subcon, they freely roamed and engaged with the villagers, sometimes as tricksters and sometimes helping them out.  (The background for them takes a combination of lore behind kitsune, phoenixes, will-o-wisps, and brownies.)   

Throughout their lifespans, these spirits build up a constantly burning fire that makes up their core.  When they’re effectively ready to burst, they conduct a ritual by building up a massive flame and dancing around it (possibly for days at a time) in hopes of combusting so they can revive anew.  The barriers they create are there to protect them as the ritual takes place, the elders undergoing it unable to stop once it’s begun while the young find materials (hopefully, full of living energy) to burn.  A successful ritual gives the spirits enough energy upon combustion to be reborn back in their own territory and possibly duplicate. 

Older spirits have a strong magic and physical body, but the younger ones (especially newborns) are incredibly weak.  They need constant sustenance to grow healthy and can be snuffed out easily.  If they’re snuffed out in this weakened state, they won’t be reborn.  However, if one is killed at an older stage, there’s still a chance for them to come back--albeit, they’ll be ever weaker than normal and struggle through rebirth.    

Swamp Spirits:

Swamp spirits can appear graceful or even beautiful in their own domain, but look fairly grotesque on dry land. They’re a kind of fish-people and are the most humanlike out of the spirits in Subcon.  They also have the longest running feud between the Dwellers and other spirits, keeping themselves isolated in their underwater realm and taking a long while to get used to outsiders.  

After Vanessa’s storm hit they tried to expand their swamp, knowing that other spirits would soon prey upon Subcon anyway if they didn’t and wanting to strengthen their territories before that happened.  They got fairly far until Snatcher pushed them back, almost to their original boundaries. 

All surface-dwellers are just ‘Dwellers’ to them: It doesn’t matter if they’re from Subcon or not.  It takes a lot for a dweller to earn their respect and most them are quick to judge. The best way to get on their good side quickly is to appeal to their ego without demeaning yourself in the process.    

Spider Spirits:

(based on Tsuchigumos and Jorogumos) While the giant spiders in Subcon and the Alpine Skylines are just that, it can be assured that there’s at least one spirit commanding them, waiting back at their nests.  These are particularly ruthless and wait for hapless victims to fall into hands, although they’re more interested in the living than mortal souls.  

Giant Skeletons:

(based on Gashadokuros) These rare, but dangerous spirits were attracted to the dark miasma clinging to Subcon and cause havoc for every being wherever they go.  While virtually brainless, they feed on negative forces left from the dead.  Snatcher was strong enough to take out several, and their remains are scattered throughout the forest in a dormant state until all of that energy eventually burns out of them.  

Lightning Sprites:

Sprites aren’t typically seen in the mortal realm, but these give off such a powerful glow that they can be found relatively easily--not in their own forms, but by the element they’re associated with. In the sky or in stormy weather, they can appear as the natural ‘sprite’ phenomena, but around land--specifically around areas that produce high amounts of electricity and/or have things such as powerlines--they have a yellow glow.  You can’t really spot them in any way beyond an electric current and their high-pitched noises, and while harmless overall beyond the occasional bit of mischief, they can certainly give you quiet a shock.    

(There are others, not to mention vengeful souls, but that’s all I got so far.  Might update later as more comes to mind.)

#headcanons #ahit #a hat in time #snatcher #moonjumper #florist #queen vanessa #dwellers #fire spirits #subcon forest #headless statues #the prince #video games #the horizon #twilight bell #the firelands #tales of the fire spirits #clocks and spirits

[lacobscur]

There isn’t any light in the Matou house during the day. It’s not much difference between day and night in the mansion, especially not where Berserker manifests in the basement full of worms, which is always lit with the same sickly green light glowing from nowhere in particular. Kariya is secreted away in a dark corner, asleep and far from the house. Berserker comes alone, when he knows he won’t be needed. Servant fights are best left for the night hours.

He crushes worms under his boots when he manifests and finds the popping noise slightly disgusting. He ignores the prone body of the girl lying dead on the ground, and she ignores him in return.

-- No, she’s not dead. He knew that before, but she also shouldn’t be classed as dead in his thoughts. Even when she doesn’t blink and barely breathes, it still matters to Master that she lives. Berserker sits down in a heap of armour and tugs off his helmet. All that’s visible is a miasmic cloud, a black staticky fuzz that conceals nothing, only the vague concept of facial features exist, just enough to be functional. Berserker picks up a crest worm that seems the most like it’s well-fed and crushes its head between his fingers. 

It’s odd enough to attract Sakura’s attention. Her empty gaze shifts to him, and Berserker continues to ignore it. The worm disappears into the fog where Berserker’s head should be, followed shortly by the sound of swallowing. Sakura feels it’s strange and disgusting enough to make her feel the smallest amount of anything at all, enough to motivate her to speak once it seems like Berserker’s mouth, or whatever he has instead, is empty.

“Are you real?” she asks quietly, her voice reverberating hollowly around the open ceiling. 

Berserker makes a noise that sounds like a cross between a few short barks and the sound of crumpling metal, that Sakura only much later realizes was probably analogous to a laugh. “Maybe,” he says, his voice a low rumble. (Are nightmares real? Are demons? Can he tell anyone he’s real when this is only a dream he sleepwalks through and his mind belongs to something else?)

Sakura takes it as an answer nonetheless and chooses not to argue. If he’s real, then he’s real, if not, then he still seems to be here and that amounts to the same thing. She makes a barely-there noise of assent and closes her eyes. “I didn’t think you could talk. Is Uncle dead?” She’s never seen the shadow without the decaying form of Kariya preceding it. If Berserker’s here, then perhaps something’s happened...?

But Berserker shakes his head with a grunt. “I can if I’m low on energy. Kariya is sleeping. I’m hungry, he doesn’t appreciate me drinking his blood.” So he comes here, where the leylines center with a corrupted energy that’s easy for him to feed on and where the worms swarm full of mana. He picks another one up, crushes its head, and swallows it.

It tastes horrid, like decaying meat and festering wounds, all sick and bilious with the stench of rot. But it’s energy that doesn’t come at the price of killing his Master before Berserker has time to fight his King, and that’s enough. He’ll do whatever’s needed.

Sakura blinks at the ceiling. “Like the worms.” A parasite that needs to feed. Both created by Grandfather because he seems to fuel himself upon the sufferings of others. Sakura doesn’t mean it as a condemnation -- Berserker is better than the worms by the sheer virtue of not seeming to be actively horrible, and Kariya presumably wanting him around. 

Berserker realizes that she doesn’t mean it as an insult, nor could a small child insult him in any way, but the sheer fact of comparison makes him scowl within the fog that comprises his face and body.

But she’s also correct enough. He offers a wordless noise of indistinct agreement. Sakura wriggles one of her arms free from the pile of worms writhing atop her and points at a noticeably fat one currently gnawing at her throat. “Eat this one.” It’s weighing down on her trachea, making inhaling mildly difficult.

Berserker does as ordered. It’s crushed and sent down whatever maw he has within the fog obediently. Sakura makes another quiet hum of thanks, exhaling slowly. The place the worm sat is taking up by another before Berserker even finished disposing of the first, but at least the replacement isn’t quite so big. It’s not quite so difficult to breathe. The pain is entirely filtered out with her, a dull distance from her own body that she doesn’t pay any mind to, but the inability to breathe easily will sometimes drag her back into her own body.

There’s quiet, where it seems vaguely as if Berserker’s watching her. It’s difficult to tell what he’s looking at, considering his head is a shapeless black cloud with only an ill-defined red glow that Sakura assumes is where his eyes are. 

She doesn’t know how much time passes, and nor does he. It’s difficult, in this place with no light and only the never-ending noise of pests. “Uncle’s going to die,” Sakura informs Berserker idly.

“Yes,” Berserker agrees.

It would be foolish to argue otherwise. He would like it if that weren’t the case, of course. Whatever Berserker is now, he still takes the mantle of a knight and would prefer if his charge should live, and he likes Kariya in an odd way. The man doesn’t deserve the fate that he created for himself. 

But it can’t be swayed now. The players are all on the field. The King is here, the fires are set, and Kariya bites out bloody sentences to Berserker, setting himself on fire in a desperate last-ditch attempt to make something happen. 

“You should tell him to stop fighting,” she says.

“I won’t.” Berserker rumbles that out, then has to pause to compose the rest of the sentence, marshal his thoughts back into am much a coherent order as he can. “I have a battle I wish to fight.” He must challenge his king. Even if he doesn’t get to finish the command to defeat Archer, he must fight Arthur. The reason he came here, to force the King’s hand, make her either hate him or kill him, find some kind of resolution. 

Berserker shifts uncomfortably and crushes a few worms under his hand to distract him from the currently buzzing thoughts of his King, the confusing miasma of anger and guilt. The fog buzzes as well, curling around at the edges. He refocuses his attention to Sakura again, if only to distract himself -- he cannot leave to chase down Arthur now. It’s daylight, he shouldn’t get caught out here, and it would kill Kariya besides. “Are you sad?”

Sakura pauses to think. It’s been so long since anyone asked her if she was sad (or anything at all about her feelings) that she’s forgotten how to evaluate what she’s feeling, or even if she feels anything at all. Sadness...? “No,” she answers quietly. “It’s just a waste of time. He won’t get around Grandfather.” It’s an exercise in pointlessness. It all means nothing, and Kariya even had the opportunity to leave. He still could, if he stopped trying to fight this war for no reason at all.

Berserker makes the strange laughing noise again, crumpling metal and no humour at all. It’s bitter, defeated -- even a beast like him knows too well the dogged persistence, refusal to give up, the clinging hope to help someone beloved even if it actively destroys you. “You’re smarter than him.” 

Than both of them, probably.

Even Berserker finds this scene familiar, in a way he can’t quite speak up against and that fills him with an immobile guilt that he can do nothing to change the outcome. Berserker bites a worm in half and it makes him feel sick, despite the fact that he only has a physical body enough to process the worms into prana and not enough to vomit them back up. 

He stands with a creaking of armour. Sakura’s eyes flutter closed. “Are you leaving?” she asks him.

“Should I not?” Berserker replies. He’s not positive if he would actually listen if she asked him to stay, though he feels that the answer is ‘probably’. He’ll make up his mind only after she answers.

“No. Tell Uncle to let you have that fight you want and then leave here.”

Berserker grunts something that isn’t an answer. He doesn’t want to give her one, tell her that he can do a single thing to help her or anyone at all. Lying isn’t his business. Once again, Sakura decides to let the lack of answer pass her comment. He fades away as if caught in a breeze, dissolving into mist that leaves the air cold and sharp for a few minutes. Sakura sighs and shifts her attention back to the ceiling, letting her mind float back up to someplace else, where the sky’s clear and she isn’t anyone.

Well, at least someone here can talk sense. Maybe he’ll come say hello again.

#mun writes

[golden-mediocrity]

If everything goes wrong……

There was no time. No gravity. No light where he was, only permanent night. There were bursts and flashes, hints and tiny revelations as to what went on, but there was never a lot of input, unless *he* wanted Mizuhiro to see it. Mizu was spinning in the blackness. The space with no stars. They were cruelly taken from him, the constellations, the celestial beauty he used to look up and lose himself gazing, thinking about the future he planned. All the mortal things he wanted to do in this life before he was pushed off to the next….

But even that was no longer possible. As long as he was tethered here against his will, stuck in an Aetherial box with a lock and no key. The nothing was stifling. Like an intense burning heat, but nonexistent, the desire to feel, even tortured, but nothing was felt here. Even with all the spinning he didn’t feel dizzy, the only thing he was left with was his memories and his despair. The sadness was all he was allowed to feel, at least that could keep him imaginatively warm, but was it?

It was then that *he* turned it on, the deluge of sensory overload, this was one of those moments he dreaded and would have instantly, happily returned back to that bland, in between life fueled only by his regret and heart ache, but Vozhu used this to add more to the bloody pig pile that Mizu had festering inside him. Like rotten fat and sinew, bloated from spending the day in a blistering summer sun, the wretched and foul miasma that would assault and attack any olfactory system which encountered it.

His eyes were fully plugged in now, he could see it, hear it, taste it, feel it. Unable to blink, even once to keep a second from his mind. He experienced the guilt of being able to feel now, even if it was at the other end of someone else’s suffering. The sensation of his limbs was invigorating, but he could see it, what it was intended for him to feel.

His claw was at her throat now, he could see the glistening tears running down her face, the poor girl had no idea what was happening. Her face a deep red, darker than it looked to normally be. He constricted her airway yet at the same time he siphoned her Aether out of her, Vozhu could have just taken it, killed her and be done with it, but he did this on purpose. He chose them with a particular function in mind. They always looked like those he loved, the ones he called family, the ones he fought alongside, to frightening detail, skin tones, horns, eyes. Even down to their imperfections and disabilities. He had killed hundreds by now. How long had it been? How many years, decades, had gone by as Vozhu punished Mizuhiro for trapping him inside his body and depriving him of sustenance for twelve years? How much longer would he be made to feel this over and over?

*”As long as I desire.”*

As the life slowly left her eyes, Mizu could hear in his head one of the constant questions.

*”Which sister was that?”* followed by the low crackle of his void-blighted laugh. *”Should we go pale this next time? I’m thinking blue? Which one should we enjoy together next?”*

Mizuhiro didn’t answer, there was no reason, the raw screams and internal suffering was already known. It was savored, tasted, consumed like a fine wine. There was absolutely nothing he could hide from Vozhu. And as he left the sight and sound on for a few more brief moments to burn yet another image into his memory, Mizu tried to hold on, that one day he would have his chance to get out, escape and end this.

*”But why stop and ruin all our fun? Blue it is…”* and in an instant nothing existed. There was no time. No gravity. No light where he was….only permanent night.

#balmung #ffxivrp #mizuhirohimaa #voidsent #whatifwefail #worst case scenario

[moonchildmagicks]

Proof

Elias never understood Emotions, he needed proof. 

WARNING SPOILERS: Chapter 41

Not even a year ago did his eyes first meet Jade. The color of good fortune and luck, and oh, how those eyes reflect his future.

He understood none of it. There was a pulse that pounded in his chest. Like his rib cage would explode. Just from one set of eyes.

He reflected, he has always figured that his human side was dormant to any and all emotion, for it was all facts to him.

It seems that was not the case.

Those eyes and that heart made him feel. Something he thought would never happen in all the years he has wandered this earth.

Yet, there he was pining for her.

“You were different, until you… you became no different than him… a monster.”

His ribcage was about to explode- he was ‘upset’ but so much more than that. But it wasn’t to the redhead who screamed those words in desperation. It was to himself.

“I’ll take you to your other half” With the words of Titania; he shifted through time and space.

It was there Cartaphilus stood with his hands on Chise ready to grab her eye.

“Don’t you DARE.”

It was already too late, Chise was unconscious her screams of her mother in her slumber caused Elias to double over in pain.

“I just want to help the girl, a much better mean that you intended to do, you may be a wise and old Magus- but you let your human greed for her cloud your judgment.” He turned to the unconscious girl in front of him, “And right into the arm of your enemy, might I add.”

“Get your hands off of her!”

“Why, so you can sacrifice her little friend here? Isn’t that the reason why you look like that? Because she finally labeled you for what you are… a monster.”

“Enough! I may have broken our vow to find a way together, but I refuse to allow you to hurt her further. She’s my-“

“She’s my…”

“My… Bride.”

“I intend on extracting the dragon’s curse.” The alchemist stated bluntly. “I had so much fun toying with you, but I can see you want this experiment all to yourself. How about we play a little game?”

“No, not with Chise’s Life on the Line. I will not allow you to harm her.”

“I never said it would harm her we both being immortal can make this game quite interesting, if anything.”

“The loser gives their curse of immortality to the Briar Rose.”

—–

Where am I?

The apartment felt much colder even with the light of the sun pouring in, and the air was stale despite the windows being open. Chise turned to the door and there, in the entryway was her mother.

‘Mother!’

And with her reaching out to the woman as she danced the curtains opened, appearing again in the entry way she realized that she was in hell on repeat.

“I never should have had you…”

‘Mother please…’

Stop… NO… Please.

…Elias…

—-

Her sobs were vocal, ringing in his head like sirens begging for help.

If you can save her from her mind, I’ll let you win.

Elias appeared in Chise’s mind the way she saw him, and he was surprised. He was his typical everyday self, no human cloak or 9-foot towering form.

‘Chise!’ He walked in darkness for what felt like hours.  That was until he found a lit archway in the distance with a faded glow.

‘Chise!’ The sensation of being thrown into the room caught him by surprise, he glided into the room, grabbing on to the archway.

The scene before him made him relive the aching in his chest, watching the redhead hunched in front of a Television. Her eyes hollowed with an emotion he could understand as ‘sorrow’.

‘Chise… I’ve come to take you home.’

Screaming blared from the television, “GO AWAY YOU MONSTER!” She turned to him, reaching out for him. Her face stained with tears.

‘E…li…as…’

He had enough, watching her like this. He picked her up the same as every time before, but her body was limp and cold. He rushed to take her out of there. But once he stepped through the archway she disappeared from his grasp.

“YOU ARE A FOOL; YOU ARE JUST LIKE THE MONSTER WHO KILLED ME!”

‘Enough!’ He turned to find Chise again in the same position before. His chest began to feel tight; miasma began to flow out from the set before him, surrounding her making her pale. With tears falling down her face, she looked to the half-fae being and pleaded, ‘ Please, you will be trapped too, I don’t want this for you- Elias… I lo-‘ Her voice broken and tender, Elias went to her side and held her against his chest.

“HE WILL NEVER LOVE YOU; HE IS A MONSTER. MONSTERS DO NOT LOVE.”

‘I said enough!’ He faced the television, watching through Chise’s eyes the curse her mother bestowed upon the redhead. Hands bound around her throat, and the image of the woman disappearing from view. “I never should have had you…”

‘Chise,’ his voice soft and patient, ‘ I am here to help you. I realize I was a fool for the greed that I succumbed to. My jealousy, you called it, fueled by my fear of losing you. I made an idiotic decision; I now know why you see me as a monster. But I shall beg that you come to know that my chest aches unbearable pain to see you smile- accepting the fate that was given to you because of my actions I could not help you fast enough… or humane enough.”

‘Elias… I am sorry I should not have kept running off without you, I was just so shaken from how much desperation you had- that you were willing to sacrifice a life, both you and Ruth. I couldn’t trust you.’

‘It’s alright Chise, I understand. I am beginning to piece together more and more what humanity is.’ The static of the Television began to drown out. He nuzzled her head and held her tight. ‘I have quite the teacher.’

‘Elias, I love you.’

Well, well, well. What a game.

It looks like the Magus has earned your love, quite the fun game I must say.

Stir yourselves and welcome yourself back into the actual reality.

They opened their eyes, welcomed by the bitter cold and the same position as they were in Chise’s mind.

Before them standing, was the djin. Ashen Eye’s grin was both malicious and amused. Beside him both Ethan and Stella by his side but fading in and out of reality.

“Stella- Ethan!” Chise ran towards them, but the djin threw her back into the Magus’s arms.

A mere Parlor trick to get what the queen had wanted.

“What?” Chise looked at the Djin in confusion, but behind her, she could feel the anger emanating of her teacher’s form.

“We were tricked, Chise. We were manipulated. All of it was an illusion.” With those words, Chise felt tears flowing down her cheeks.

“Chise… I’m sorry.” Elias held her close, “These games, to toy with Chis-“

A gust of whirling wind appeared as an image of the queen of Fae was produced. “Forgive me my beloved child, but your heart, plagued with doubt of how your bride was to stay. At least you now know that her love is pure and that she sees you for who you are on the inside and out.” She looked to the huddled redhead with fondness, “We say may things in jest or guilt, but this child- her heart now belongs to you. Treat it well and keep it safe.”

My game is finished. I have no longer have business to attend to.

With that both the gust of wind and the Djin vanished into nothingness. The time was still of winter, and the cold became a house of complete silence. Elias looked to his apprentice; his chest was riveting with a type of giddiness he could not place, seeing Chise have her arms open wide. “Would you please come here?”

The Halfing obeyed, kneeling to the object of his questionable sensations. Chise softly punched his shoulder and gave him a brief, but stern look before placing a small innocent kiss upon his skull.

“You have so much more to learn!” she huffed, but there was a change in her expression was similar to how the queen looked upon Chise moments ago. But for some unexplainable reason made his very bones warm.

“Please continue to teach me everything you know, Chise.”

#mahou tsukai no yome #ancient magus bride #elias ainsworth #chise hatori #fanfiction #MTNY #spoilers #romance #elias x chise #chise x elias #EliasChise

[nicksstoryvault]

He was conscious of the sickening tension funneling through his veins; an infectious rake of unwarranted revulsion that stilted his advancing pace. Nothing would deter him. Not tonight. Right now, the daunting emergence of Halloween was adorned over cement porches of brownstone apartment complexes-cotton webbing that meshed over iron railings, plastic skulls that blinked ominously red with motion detectors were resting on haystacks with a row of tombstones in front. On cement steps were numerous plump and carved-out pumpkins with ghoulish sneers and etching of Disney characters that captured flickers of a melting candle.

Passing questionable visages of humanity, he was steered by a phantom wake of vestal familiarity, leading him down a vacant alleyway; the ominous glow of amber sconces from streetlight reflected off the glass panes of smudged out windows, catching gossamer spider webbing that was intricately connected over scuffed wood and crumbling brownstone.

The careening northernly gusts of evening wind exponentially rushed over layers of his thickened, unkempt chestnut fur, discarded remnants of leaves whirled in the darkened contrasts. A wraithy shadow of bestial menace dauntingly fringed over the asphalt, the massive imposingly bulk projected off a litter-heaped dumpster. Jutting the length of his canine muzzle up into a cautious angle, the bulky wolf instantly stilled on his paw-steps, his predatory momentum had become painstakingly seized when a distant infusion of welcoming-evocative scents of lavender and vanilla evocatively drove him a breadth closer to the wooden eroded stairway, holding the fractious crescendo of his heartbeat achingly captive.

Intently fixing his luminous feral orbs that piercingly held a mesmeric depth of glacial aquamarine, the wolf unwaveringly stared up at the derelict studio apartment complex-a myriad of scathing detections greeted his nostrils. A retractive blight of memory that induced a throb to spear into his heart; thrashing his canine head, the tousled fur of his roguish mane lashed over his scrunching muzzle. He lowered on his haunches, drawing his pointed ears back against whimpering squeak-he arrestingly recognized a clashing torrent of anguish-death. "I-I know this place...

Feeling maddeningly disarmed by the potent beckoning, with an inborn reaction, he stalked methodically with vigilant exactness as fleeting lances of moonlight above starkly bared silvery fur over his left cinder fore-leg, as he menacingly encroached towards a bottom step, his stealthy poise became cunningly tactical akin to a sniper's lethal prowess. He was attuned to pulses in the city's backlit obscurity exceeding his heightened senses. The incessant world around him evolved as he despairingly wasted his passing days ghosting through aisles of grave markers staked in the stiff grounds of Green-Wood Cemetary-a safe anchorage that kept him from being caged in a regional canine pound.

Unfalteringly, the young wolf sprinted up the stairs in an effortless launch, the muted hues of amber blurred out as he continued his determined ascent; he viscerally felt unstoppable against the amplified resonance of unslaked desire. The broad expanse of corded muscle swatched under his disheveled brunette fur quaked as he brushed his muzzle over the unhinged railing, he became rife with banking unease, the putrid stench of urban decay wafting from the alleyway vaporously merged with a carious miasma belonged to a collection of decomposing garbage bags were stacked under the stairway.

Casting a reflective cool glint of his aqueous orbs, intensely, the wolf cunningly detected the frantic heartbeats of scurrying vermin —alley rats —which distressingly triggered a manifesting urge to ravenously devour with one snap of his powerful jaws. Against banking surges of altered hunger, he stubbornly banished the impulse to lunge on his targeted filthy prey. He wouldn't execute a killing bite as he stowed back with a pulse of hinged restraint.

"Grah...Can't fill my gut now..." he gnarred staunchly in vehemence, swiping a forepaw paw aggressively over his long canine muzzle. The underlying ferocity igniting through his stoked veins was instinctively answering the call of unremitting-a bestial appetite; something versatile in him was thirstily unawakening to engage. He felt struck down against the feverish onslaught rapidly consuming his steeled resolve—honed with predatory instinct he became stunted with a revelation that penetrated bone-deep. "Damnit..."

Gripping onto restraint, he propelled up the stairs with blinding momentum against the rush of drizzle, just a fraction away from a glass pane window, blurringly his muzzle brushed over a plastic yellow tape that flapped against his chestnut fur; the calamitous stench of charred timber ghosted potently over his scrunching muzzle as he instantly ducked low on his shifting paws and guardedly infiltrated the vacant residence through the balcony's obstructed door, keeping distant measured in his advances with innate reverence-he was infinitely careened back against the overpowering pulse of a throbbing heartbeat. "Argh..."

Strobing red flashes of maniacal images disturbingly spawned in his feverish vision, a deafening volume of clarion echoes-he was rapidly cast inside a void where incessant static-white noise- greeted him with blinding succession in the arresting wake of phantom recognition. Yet, soul-deep instinct urged him to fight-to not abandon the ride. His detached identity-humanity had been staked within the apartment. Everything felt highjacked-derailed as he became chastened down against the vengeful gravity of utter ravaging heartbreak.

Something had consciously fueled him to return to the studio loft-trudging back where he lived beyond a damning-untenable reality. It was a converging harbor of disinterred memory that was inevitably breached. "What's this empty place got to do with me.." he murmured out throatily, in graveled cadence, tremulously bracing his furry bulked weight against an upturned chair, grounding himself to coherent focus. "Was I born a little guy here...S'it's gonna be something else." Furrowing his brow unsettlingly in taut confusion, the feral depths of his steel-aquamarine irises piercingly chased over the latent shadows that hauntingly captured glimpses of neglected-forgotten objects. "This can't be right..."

Unerringly stalking towards a vanity with methodical precision of tactical prowess; there was no deterrence stilting in his paw-steps, remnants of debris and splintered arrays of glass left a knifing clash of pain under his dragging claws, exceedingly staving off a gnarling breath achingly, he wasn't impeded by the extension of unassailed memory that vented against a rush of his stoking blood.

That mounting fever became infectious as he confusingly pinched his brow into a furrow, heavy-sheathed muscles under his disheveled chestnut fur quaked."Oomph..." Groaning throatily against clenching jaws in a vexatious seethe, he inadvertently bashed his long muzzle against a wooden leg, a loud thunk ensured as he reeled back, knocking off a plastic bottle of lavender body lotion that oozed out when the cap rolled off and coin-spin onto the floor, leaving a gloppy trek a breadth at his frontal paws.

Desirously in that hampered moment, his canine muzzle lowered down guardingly to sniff with instinctive ease, the alluringly calming-decadent fragrance had alarmingly triggered a visceral reaction that couldn't be slaked down against a variation of heart-driven urgency that enwreathed his resilient senses. A continuous divergence of rivaling -unevaded memory became a tumultuous wake of painstaking recognition as shivery, threaded breaths murmurously whispered a name that evoked a gleaming onset of pulsing tears to blear out the eclipsing world as the rampant thrust of his massive paw soaked down into a glob of lotion with reverent caution as his luminous gaze fixed tearily onto a vacant queen size mattress. "Lina..."

{October 29th, 2016}

The ambiance of the darkened studio loft captured distant strobes of voltaic lightning forking through banks of thundering clouds; sconces of amber from studded wax melting in brass holders welded on tacky candelabras that were placed on dressers, flickering glows reflective in the glass panes of a vanity's mirror. These were the grounded borders of restored visages of unfettered contentment—humanity.

The fringe of uncertainty always grappled him when the heady rush of delivered ecstasy collided against his warring heartbeat. Sometimes Bucky felt directionless-lost in an unabated void of phantom guilt that he couldn't evict. He wanted to dare a new life, to fully engage the dueling grounds of love and devotion without being steered away from the anchoring reach of her arms, the melding sleekness— the vitality of her silken flesh that became a harbor.

Against the shadowing contrasts that encompassed the spacious bedroom of the loft, as a matte-black Gibson guitar-a distinct tint akin to raven's feathers was steadily balanced in the robotic metallic clutch of his cybernetic hand that was gloved by fingerless motorcycle leather, a black Armani shirt was cuttingly sheathed over the heavy expanse of his bulked muscles flexing with palpable strength underneath a slim-fit Belstaff leather jacket; Bucky with nonchalant poise braced the heavy-corded planes of his sculpted back tautly against the smooth-polished cherrywood of the headboard.

Telltale sensuous virility clamored in his veins was dangerously potent, Bucky couldn't quell back the untrammeled headlong rush of tempestuous longing to possessively flavor the melding addictive-thieving heat that sheened over the voluminous crimson lips of his snarky kitten. That imploding extremity was gripping him searingly into a maelstrom of fevered-inducing anticipation that brandished over the graven ridges of his garbed chest-feral tension was overwhelmingly consuming him."C'mon Lina..." he whispered under gritted breath, desirably, feeling the robotic pulse of his bolstered cybernetic arm shifting mechanically against the riotous intent of his undeterred challenge.

Waiting for Selina to return from a stint in Gotham City was downright intolerable- the elementally raw promise of setting the night on fire with her felt passion-deep. After receiving an urgent text from their genuine friend Alfred Pennyworth that Carmine Falcone's Arkham case file was recently discovered on a murdered corpse of one of Commissioner Gordon's CI's; Selina immediately had left to engage the mission with a brazen-measure of her tactical-feline- stealth.

A new pestilent spawn of the crime syndicate was escalating in Gotham underworld; the mafia Don's heiress of the Falcone empire —a relentless aspirant Sofia Falcone had yanked the reins of control over the gun armaments and drug trade divisions after her younger—sadistic— brother Alberto was incarcerated at Black Gate by the collar of Detective Harvey Bullock.

The imported shipments were stocked with high-powered next generation guns-Barrett XM109 sniper rifles-a weapon that would usher Sofia's tyrannic reign over Gotham's East quarter into a domain of infernal carnage. She was the Queen Hearts incarnate with an untenable, savage grip to induce a new fringe of depraved mayhem. She played the game with no deterrence of rules; kidnapping the mayor's infant daughter, stabbing a GCPD officer in the chest until blood smeared the walls. She had a loyal cabal of shadow lieutenants dispatched within sectors of the East Quarter—a black site to enlist more recruits in her ranks.

Most of the city's rogue's arcade were deal markers for high stake claims—backstabbing alliances that reached the annex of murderous betrayal. The abandoned island called the Narrows was utilized as a hell-pit for manufacturing powdered substances for inducing arrays of mass neurosis; unhinged insanity was a mounting plague that the schizoid-psychopathic Johnthan Crane had injected throughout neighborhoods.

The dawning horizon of salvaged faith always seemed to become harrowingly obscured when valorous threads of resistance were exponentially frayed against the pestilent wake of massacre and bloodshed. The cost to prevail within the industrial borders of this forsaken city only heralded a reckoning of vengeance. The cost to prevail within the industrial borders of this forsaken city only heralded a reckoning of vengeance. A decent amount of citizens still harbored perpetual belief to embrace a new daybreak, acted when the urgent echoes of defiance fueled their battle-tested stride.

For Bucky, walking the streets of Gotham, was like treading into No Man's Land of -the attacks were imminent and waiting for one reckless step to trigger a pipeline of atomic chaos. He never deviated too far during his visits at Wayne Manor-a second home-a roadstead for defected souls infused with the fatherly-generous spirit of Alfred. During his seasonal visits in the month of November when Selina was in Paris showcasing her latest designs that set a high-bar of the fashion industry, Bucky was given isolated solace to deeply rediscover his core humanity; spending decent hours in the manor's library, reading collections of history books that effectively invigorated his tenacious -hell-bent Brooklyn fire to become restoke.

Dredging a bridled visage of restraint against the heady gravity of his igniting arousal, Bucky glanced at the pawned guitar that was a reachable instrument of solace that he could unerringly wield; test his adapted limits against the electrified amps that connectively pulsed over his strumming fingers in vibrating sync; an infinite clash of grounded eternity against the ridden-static warring disturbingly in his addled conscious-that drove him into maniacal fathoms of Armin Zola's sterilized programming that drove him into the bestial existence of being a weaponized hybrid of lethal execution.

'Dobroye utro, soldat (Good morning, soldier)'

For seven decades of conditioned servitude of enforcing dread, Bucky was dehumanized victim of HYDRA's lobotomic surgery that castrated his traumatic mind to operate like a reactivated machine when the procedural agonizing-concussive pressure of haloing electro clamps locked over his temples, forcing him to abdicate his mind-hellbent Brooklyn spirit to HYDRA's memory suppressing machine.

'Wipe him...Start over...'

He unbearably endured a retrogressive disability of PSTD amnesia; drenching sheets drenching sheets feverishly with banking sweat that were evoked by relentless-pestilent tumults of night terrors. There was no backing down from the fight. He was starving to unquenchably embrace the horizons of daybreak again; to finally tread on an unimpeded road of salvation without HYDRA's cavalcade of past demons ghosting his steps that dragged him into murderous-synaptic throes of destructive compliance. His Soviet ledger was harrowingly steeped in the blood of his sanctioned victims-marked enemies(traitorous pawns) of HYDRA that he executed without a deterring pulse of mercy that prevented a trigger from recoiling back.

The grounds of adaption of extensibility and normalcy were necessary to daringly test countermeasures of perpetual survival-the reachable prevail of his redeemed humanity-sanity always came at a visceral price that drove full-force into his condemned-dissected heart. The mobilizing phalanges of HYDRA-septic manifestations of the Red Skull's parasitic, venomous tentacles worming out viper nests. He was living on the bleeding-edge; there was no safe harbor to utilize as his grounded refuge-he felt harvested out of warring defiance, infinitely trapped within inescapable thralls of a half-awake chimera still being orchestrated by Zola's stubby hands. Maybe it was a fools gambit to an extent of devotion by living in the crosshairs. Everything had a high cost when existing on a hairbreadth of this alkaline reality.

Relevance felt undeserved; he was lethally calibrated- metamorphized to exist like a damnable apparition in reflection-to walk in the shadows with ersatz identities that he deceptively ghosted off marble grave markers-tombstones during his infiltrating clandestine missions away from Siberia. He gripped onto salvaged faith desperately as his guiding anchor; moving into a Mid-town apartment, holding a key that unlocked a door every night without looking over his tensing shoulder; it gave him a visage of grounded stability against the knife-edge of inevitable detachment.

As the pervading scents of marinara sauce and pepperoni, a stone-baked pizza that was recently delivered from a Soho Italian restaurant wavered in the dimly lit apartment, Bucky deftly clutched the fretboard of the guitar, his metallic fingers unerringly swept over the nickel-plated steel wire strings as his grayish-aquamarine irises shifted intently onto a tattered notebook propped against the wall, lined pages were vividly congested with scribbling of various lyrics that he would fervently jot down in a Starbucks Coffee shop after meeting up with Steve for an early morning jog in Central Park; tonight had to be damn perfect for his beautiful vixenish kotenok—kitten.

Closing his eyes with a flit of his lashes, Bucky involtionairy allowed the steady beat of his heart to consciously guide his strumming fingers; abandoning restraint, parting his shapely lips with a measured breath the graveled resonance in his sonorous timbre deeply hitched in smokiness of a raspy contralto, with smooth ease he began to vocalize a tenor against the guitar's flexing strings desperately captured in his strenuous grip as he played on.

Home. The elemental stability that infused through her veins, welcomed Selina against the shadow of the closed door, the vacantness-detachment she felt in Gotham faded at the moment she registered the symphonic beat of a guitar imitating behind the door, she instantly evited the uncertainty and collectively readied herself to fully engage a dance with her sniper wolf-her Bucky. Turning the key to unlock a deadbolt, there was no retraction of betraying hesitance that reeled her back into the shadows; an imploding rush of a firestorm ushered her back to thrillingly live on the intimate edge again. She wanted their dueling bodies to amorously mirror a breath-stealing cadence, that would drive them on a sensual plane of anchored fusion.

To make that unslaked desire become an effective reality with her menacing-hunky sniper wolf, her curvaceous and lithesome form was sexily adorned with practical elegance; a strapless velvet dress that she recently purchased from a Dior shop that snugged exquisitely over her supple, lithesome curves. Around the graceful swan-length of her neck, a ribbon velvet choker was fastened that did not detract from the plunging tasteful décolletage that fringed temptingly over the voluptuous swells of her breasts; curtained by her lustrous, tousled mahogany wavelets cascading over her toned-curves of her freckled shoulders.

She was a feline temptress incarnate. The fine sleekness of her alabaster skin became highlighted by the silvered caress of the moonlight radiantly projecting off the oval-shaped window of the stairway that captured the poised stillness of her reflection. Nothing stole away from her breathtakingly gorgeous visage that ardently exposed the delicateness of her intensified feminine vitality against the haloing amber streetlight outside.

Roving her incredulous dark irises disarmingly towards the opened direction of a neighboring apartment from her position, Selina undoubtingly found a bright orange pumpkin resting on a discarded heap of children-size sneakers-a decorative and conventional visage of untainted childhood that was butchered down by variants of rancid depravity generating from the urban corruption outside the borders of their domain.

Everything cheaped out with materialism and the indulgence of shelved boxes of candy; the spoils of Halloween were up for 'easy grabs' as she keenly observed during her morning ventures with Natasha Romanoff of tactical-undetectable evades while deceptively shadowing a marked target of SHIELD's interest within the upscale division of lower-east Midtown. She wasn't used to tangoing with an intentive charade of being a penetration operative within ranks of spymasters; cunningly testing her feline caliber while hiding in plain sight-temporariness of under- bar loyalty, and not claiming a payday score.

"Enjoy the spoils why they last, kids..." she grudgingly murmured against a terse breath, fluidly pushing the door open with a swift thrust of her heeled boot, only to be surprisingly greeted by distinct arrays of Italian cuisine. "Well, someone's been busy tonight..." she teased coolly and deftly lowered a duffle bag that was labeled 'plan b' on a zipper tag, concealing her operative stockpile of a compartmentalize arsenal.

Selina had evasively infiltrated the red zone entered with a full dance card and with brazen tact obstructed another Falcone -inauspicious- scourge from contaminating the east sectors of Gotham. Sofia ran her own devil's workshop-cooperating with the low-life scumbags to extract- dismember the great strengths of Commissioner Gordon's cemented grounds of infallible justice.

During her involuntary stint in Gotham and overstepping certain bounds of convenient trust while engaging a reconnaissance gambit with Natasha as her shadow partner who hammered on down encrypted codes of freight manifests with a harsh edge,Selina had discovered a mass influx of human trafficking was going through the criminal pipeline, conceiving a new stage of bloodsport in morbid contrast to inhumane slavery and Sofia was the main instigator to deliver the ascent of that execrable instrumentation. She had beaten the dodge brazen finesse and kept her unshakeable promise to Bucky, she came back home to spend Halloween with him, leaving Natasha at Wayne Manor to safeguard Alfred- in case an unwelcomed party came knocking on his door.

Pulling out a flimsy plastic from her duffle bag, she knew Bucky's selected choice of accessible chocolate that he stowed inside a metallic ammunition locker, while at JFK airport, she managed to swipe off a few bars for her beast machine's Halloween treat: Snickers, Reeses' Pieces and Decker's Doughnuts.

Feeling steely tension ebb in fruition, the assailing scents of authentic and saucy Italian pizza beckoned her to the open kitchen with a vital rush of unprecedented hunger that unwaveringly grappled her down. Selina wasn't just craving pizza-only one thing would sate her. "Hey, Brooklyn boy, don't keep a girl waiting..." she played out challengingly in a melodious pitch, steadily bracing the delicate planes of her curved back with seductive casualness against the granite edge of the center island. In that captured moment, her dark jeweled irises alluringly held decadent glints of liquid bronze with a kittenish intent-the depth of ardent heat.

"Heard ya loud and clear, kitten…" Selina felt her defensive resilence flat-lining when she instantly registered the graveled drawl of his suave timbre murmurously breached her rivaling senses, his croaky pitch was fringed throatily with roguish virile decadence, almost intoxicating sensual in that was damn smooth that she viscerally felt his shapely-wide lips quirk up deviously.

Feigning her innate reaction, Selina couldn't bring herself to meet him in the contrasts of shadow-passionate submission was a force she couldn't reckon against. Remaining evidently controlled and trying her damnedest not to betray her terse poise, she tellingly felt the heady stroke of his Yves St. Laurent cologne explosively imploding her raring senses to full detonation by just catching a whiff of iced mint and the racy smokiness of sandalwood. "Been waitin' all day for you, darlin'…"

That underlying revelation cockily echoing back stilted her at the infinitesimal moment the candlelight revealed him in the stark contrast of dangerous allure that silhouetted; each amber flicker was tantalizingly highlighting over the corded expanse and branded planes of his menacing bulked form against the elemental cast of shadow. The raw intensity of her fixed gaze didn't waver against dagger-honed sharpness, in that enticingly gripping edge of the moment of hungrily assessing his bestial-hunky- elegance, his bucked-teeth boyishly gnawed into the swell of his pouty underlip. There was the unabandoned pulse of sensuous heat—the awakening tempest clashing in her tensing veins. "Careful handsome, I prefer if this dress stays in one piece..." she dared out huskily.

"Now that's gonna pretty hard to put on the ropes, kitten," Bucky indignantly snarked back with a heavy drag of long-drawn breath, conveying the stoked fervency that was bone-deep as he intimidatingly took a half-step towards the kitchen's island, covering enough ground for her to evocatively feel the coaxing heat of his muscled-enhanced strength. His wolfish expression didn't alter over the bristled, knife-edge heaviness of his broad jaw, as his full-arch of his shapely lips were smugly poised into a flirty quirk. "M willin' to risk it..."

With the breakneck precision of bestial prowess in Bucky's paces, he blindingly recaptured the intimate-feverish- distance between them. In those dueling seconds of deliciously feeling the cushioned expanses of her breasts fusing over his heavy-banded chest, his lashes flitted gradually shut against that promising -addictive vitality of her svelte form aligning perfectly into him.

The rigid veins pulsing rampantly through the hard, bulging flesh of his flexed bicep traced achingly over her lithe forearm as he tentatively lifted his right hand, bracketing his curved palm with reverent delicacy under the edge of her tilting jaw; delivering headier ministrations invested in the quaking length of his rough fingers. That feather-light pressure chased her heartbeat in crescendoing tempo, mirroring his tactile warmth, she readily arched into the V-braced contours that etched over his washboard abdomen. He moaned throatily as she fluidly twined the cool sleekness of her arms over the width of his tense shoulders.

Bucky's resistance became deactivated against the ardent demand lancing burningly through him. "Lina..." he murmured, raggedly, allowing unwarranted desire steal away his sight, the fullness of his surging lips caressingly slanted with ghosting phantom heat over her parting mouth, feeling her back into granite as he unquenchably clamped his heated palms over her exquisitely detectable curves, bodily anchoring her with hoisting ease of his possessive intent at the visceral moment she was unerringly balanced on the island's edge.

Clenching his taut jaw with a hitch of throated strain, Bucky sensuously angled his head with a blinding thrust, a pulse of wet heat solidified against a heavy, breathless pant, his shapely lips ghosted over hers with a gaping stretch-an evocative cadence ripped through his fevered veins as the flex of her lithe fingers were gripping rigid bulk of his muscled thighs-in a tactile measure of reverence he wonderingly splayed his metallic palm over the sleek ivory planes of her exposed back fringed with black velvet, the mechanical sync of his cool vibrainium fingers delicately threaded over the mahogany whorls that cascaded down her freckled shoulders. That painstaking rush of connective grace shockingly imploded a rapturous wake to sear into the marrow of his bones. With chaste glide of his thumb, he slowly traced the curve of her jaw, abandoning restraint as she inextricably mirrored his starving pace for sensual deliverance.

[nicksstoryvault]

He was conscious of the sickening tension channeling through his veins; an infectious rake of unwarranted revulsion that stilted his advancing pace. Nothing would deter him. Not tonight. Right now, the daunting emergence of Halloween was adorned over cement porches of brownstone apartment complexes-cotton webbing that meshed over iron railings, plastic skulls that blinked ominously red with motion detectors were resting on haystacks with a row of tombstones in front. On cement steps were numerous plump and carved-out pumpkins with ghoulish sneers and etching of Disney characters that captured flickers of a melting candle.

Passing questionable visages of humanity, he was steered by a phantom wake of vestal familiarity, leading him down a vacant alleyway; the ominous glow of amber sconces from streetlight reflected off the glass panes of smudged out windows, catching gossamer spider webbing that was intricately connected over scuffed wood and crumbling brownstone.

The careening northernly gusts of evening wind exponentially rushed over layers of his thickened, unkempt chestnut fur, discarded remnants of leaves whirled in the darkened contrasts. A wraithy shadow of bestial menace dauntingly fringed over the asphalt, the massive imposingly bulk projected off a litter-heaped dumpster. Jutting the length of his canine muzzle up into a cautious angle, the bulky wolf instantly stilled on his paw-steps, his predatory momentum had become painstakingly seized when a distant infusion of welcoming-evocative scents of lavender and vanilla evocatively drove him a breadth closer to the wooden eroded stairway, holding the fractious crescendo of his heartbeat achingly captive.

Intently fixing his luminous feral orbs that piercingly held a mesmeric depth of glacial aquamarine, the wolf unwaveringly stared up at the derelict studio apartment complex-a myriad of scathing detections greeted his nostrils. A retractive blight of memory that induced a throb to spear into his heart; thrashing his canine head, the tousled fur of his roguish mane lashed over his scrunching muzzle. He lowered on his haunches, drawing his pointed ears back against whimpering squeak-he arrestingly recognized a clashing torrent of anguish-death. "I-I know this place...

Feeling maddeningly disarmed by the potent beckoning, with an inborn reaction, he stalked methodically with vigilant exactness as fleeting lances of moonlight above starkly bared silvery fur over his left cinder fore-leg, as he menacingly encroached towards a bottom step, his stealthy poise became cunningly tactical akin to a sniper's lethal prowess. He was attuned to pulses in the city's backlit obscurity exceeding his heightened senses. The incessant world around him evolved as he despairingly wasted his passing days ghosting through aisles of grave markers staked in the stiff grounds of Green-Wood Cemetary-a safe anchorage that kept him from being caged in a regional canine pound.

Unfalteringly, the young wolf sprinted up the stairs in an effortless launch, the muted hues of amber blurred out as he continued his determined ascent; he viscerally felt unstoppable against the amplified resonance of unslaked desire. The broad expanse of corded muscle swatched under his disheveled brunette fur quaked as he brushed his muzzle over the unhinged railing, he became rife with banking unease, the putrid stench of urban decay wafting from the alleyway vaporously merged with a carious miasma belonged to a collection of decomposing garbage bags were stacked under the stairway.

Casting a reflective cool glint of his aqueous orbs, intensely, the wolf cunningly detected the frantic heartbeats of scurrying vermin —alley rats —which distressingly triggered a manifesting urge to ravenously devour with one snap of his powerful jaws. Against banking surges of altered hunger, he stubbornly banished the impulse to lunge on his targeted filthy prey. He wouldn't execute a killing bite as he stowed back with a pulse of hinged restraint.

"Grah...Can't fill my gut now..." he gnarred staunchly in vehemence, swiping a forepaw paw aggressively over his long canine muzzle. The underlying ferocity igniting through his stoked veins was instinctively answering the call of unremitting-a bestial appetite; something versatile in him was thirstily unawakening to engage. He felt struck down against the feverish onslaught rapidly consuming his steeled resolve—honed with predatory instinct he became stunted with a revelation that penetrated bone-deep. "Damnit..."

Gripping onto restraint, he propelled up the stairs with blinding momentum against the rush of drizzle, just a fraction away from a glass pane window, blurringly his muzzle brushed over a plastic yellow tape that flapped against his chestnut fur; the calamitous stench of charred timber ghosted potently over his scrunching muzzle as he instantly ducked low on his shifting paws and guardedly infiltrated the vacant residence through the balcony's obstructed door, keeping distant measured in his advances with innate reverence-he was infinitely careened back against the overpowering pulse of a throbbing heartbeat. "Argh..."

Strobing red flashes of maniacal images disturbingly spawned in his feverish vision, a deafening volume of clarion echoes-he was rapidly cast inside a void where incessant static-white noise- greeted him with blinding succession in the arresting wake of phantom recognition. Yet, soul-deep instinct urged him to fight-to not abandon the ride. His detached identity-humanity had been staked within the apartment. Everything felt highjacked-derailed as he became chastened down against the vengeful gravity of utter ravaging heartbreak.

Something had consciously fueled him to return to the studio loft-trudging back where he lived beyond a damning-untenable reality. It was a converging harbor of disinterred memory that was inevitably breached. "What's this empty place got to do with me.." he murmured out throatily, in graveled cadence, tremulously bracing his furry bulked weight against an upturned chair, grounding himself to coherent focus. "Was I born a little guy here...S'it's gonna be something else." Furrowing his brow unsettlingly in taut confusion, the feral depths of his steel-aquamarine irises piercingly chased over the latent shadows that hauntingly captured glimpses of neglected-forgotten objects. "This can't be right..."

------

{October 30th, 2016}

The ambiance of the darkened studio loft captured distant strobes of voltaic lightning forking through banks of thundering clouds; sconces of amber from studded wax melting in brass holders welded on candelabras that were placed on dressers, flickering glow reflective in the glass panes of a vanity's mirror. These were the grounded borders of restored visages of unfettered contentment—humanity.

The fringe of uncertainty always grappled him when the heady rush of delivered ecstasy collided against his warring heartbeat. Sometimes Bucky felt directionless-lost in an unabated tumult of phantom guilt that he couldn't evict. He wanted to dare a new life, to fully engage the dueling grounds of love and devotion without being steered away from the anchoring reach of her arms, the melding sleekness— the vitality of her silken flesh that became a harbor.

Against the shadowing contrasts that encompassed the spacious bedroom of the loft, as a matte-black Gibson guitar-a distinct tint akin to raven's feathers was steadily balanced in the robotic metallic clutch of his cybernetic hand that was sheathed by a leather fingerless glove, Bucky nonchalantly braced the heavy-corded planes of his back against the smooth-polished cherrywood of the headboard. He couldn't quell back the headlong rush of tempestuous longing.

The pawned guitar was a reachable instrument of solace that he could unerringly wield; test his adapted limits against the electrified amps that connectively pulsed over his strumming fingers in vibrating sync; an infinite clash of grounded eternity against the ridden-static warring disturbingly in his addled conscious-that drove him into maniacal fathoms of Armin Zola's sterilized programming that drove him into the bestial existence of being a weaponized hybrid of lethal execution----a dehumanized victim of HYDRA's lobotomic surgery that castrated his traumatic mind to operate like a reactivated machine. The clamping pressure in his temples never eased out.