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child-of-the-cataclysm · 11 months

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Chapter Twenty-Three: Oil and Lemons

The interrogation, such as it was, had only lasted half the time I expected. Of the four fingers Morati brought with him, only one had outright perished in our conflict. The two who had attacked in unison, however, were in no condition to respond to interrogation, even with the brief ministration of one of my Silver Hand members who was versed in field medicine. That left only one besides Morati himself who could possibly give up the information I needed.

Unfortunately, before I could even hope to break down her defences enough to get the information I wanted on how they discovered we were here in Bemric (as well as how close other fingers of the Bloody Hand might be), my sentry gave a shout.

I came out of the door to investigate, only to find the sentry’s throat impaled with a simple blade, held outstretched in the hand of the only member of the Bloody Hand who I had killed during our clash. The flesh around the centre of their chest boiled with blackness, shifting and seething with an intensity that made clear something unnatural at play. Their skin, previously appearing only pale, seemed to gleam impossibly white, as did their teeth, bared in a grimace of fury which seemed almost as sharp as the blade with which they had murdered my ally.

Furious, I lashed out, whipping a knife from its sheath at my side and letting my arm spin off the motion into a strike at their neck. Their eyes, burning an even more intense red than they had during our clash, locked onto my own. In an impossibly quick movement, their free arm flickered out, grabbing my own by the wrist and bending it away until the knife clattered to the floorboards beneath us - then off the side of our platform and down into the streets of Bemric below.

They retrieved their blade, letting the body of my ally slump to the ground. A paper-thin voice, sharp yet soft, emitted not from their mouth, but from the air around me, seeming more like an echo than the spoken word. “Filthy drake. Did you think a spur of your flame would end me?”

A laugh, unnatural and low, echoed around my head in the same fashion as the voice. The other members of the Silver Hand who remained here with me stood in the doorway, weapons drawn but unwilling to advance while the adversary still held my arm and a free weapon. “My emperor will be freed. You will take your own leader, such as she is, in exchange. We will go our separate ways, for now. Some time soon, we will see each other again, and you will all die.”

My subordinates looked to me, and I shook my head. In my heart, though, I knew they wouldn’t obey.

(~)

In the wake of a bargain of blood, any leader would feel a failure. When that bargain is for their own skin, that failure seems a deeper one that you could possibly fathom. It’s not entirely fair to judge oneself a failure because of the actions of your subordinates, but… If the Silver Hand was so reliant on me that they would trade the end of one front of the war for the return of one of their leading members, it did not bode well for our ultimate success.

It spoke somewhat to the lack in the methods I had used to build the Silver Hand. For all that we had ambitions to improve things for the average person, and for all that I believed in my own cause, declaring myself the rightful ruler of the land had led to the movement being viewed less as a revolution and more a clash of nobility - which would-be dictator do you support? The king, in all his genocidal glory? Morati, the bloody bastard who would commit acts of torture the sensitive mind would balk at? Or me. The Sentrica brat, too young to understand the games of politics but plenty old enough to plunge a realm into war.

Most of the Silver Hand didn’t properly understand what we fought for. All they saw was a chance at a better hand at the wheel. And who could blame them for that? Does the rock at the bottom of the stream understand the ocean the water carries it towards? No. It only follows the flow.

(~)

As wrong as it felt to be traded for Morati, it had happened. In short order, I rallied Lek, Gerevor, and the two surviving people who had stayed behind with us when the rest of the Hand evacuated. With Morati and his strange underling free, the Bloody Hand would certainly be back earlier than previously predicted - and if we were still anywhere near here, not only would we be wiped out, Bemric itself would certainly feel Morati’s wrath.

The little boy from the family I had celebrated with flashed to the forefront of my mind as we traded a pouch of coins for a farmer’s cart. We couldn’t let these people be caught up in our war.

We didn’t bring the other members of the Bloody Hand. Moving quick enough to get out of here would be difficult enough without anyone trying to struggle against us. As loathe as we were to give up potential sources of information, we left them in their impromptu cells - and alive. It was not our way to execute prisoners of war.

Gerevor and Lek laid in the cart. Lek was in no shape to keep up on foot, and while Gerevor may have been able to, he would likely have grown exhausted far quicker than those of us who hadn’t been through… whatever horrors Morati had wrought.

Looking at them in the cart, it occurred to me that Gerevor likely would have laid with Lek even if he could keep up in full. Whatever Morati had done, the two had obviously gotten more than close enough to become inseparable.

Whatever chance we had lost today, retrieving my old friends was… if not worth it, a decent consolation prize.

The rest of us were in disguise. There wasn’t much to be done in terms of hiding my eyes, unfortunately, but thick cloaks bought off the farmer with the cart covered us well enough that we were unlikely to be picked out as anything more than a family of farmers travelling to market at Chester. I walked alongside the cart, since the seats were only really enough for two - and, if we were attacked, I wanted to be ready without having to get up first.

We had left behind a coded message - one iteration with the farmer and another at our old base, letting the others know what had happened and that we would redirect our meeting to Chester. With all of the groups directed to meet back up in Bemric, there was a decent chance that at least one of them would run into Bloody Hand members, but… We had to trust that they could deal with that on their own.

Flick was, ironically, now the one I worried about the least. Even on his own, even infiltrating the capital itself, his ability to slip would make it far easier for him to escape an ambush than any of the others. I could only hope that they would be clever enough to scout ahead, rather than ploughing forward under the assumption that everything would go perfectly.

(~)

To journey as we did, in a small group with a cart, advertising ourselves as having something worth carrying but without any escort of arms would have been nigh-unto a death sentence for anyone else in these days of war. If it wasn’t the Bloody Hand or some Crown patrol running three days low on rations, it would be bandits. Luckily for us, we had nothing of value other than our own skins - something that nearly anyone would fight for with a martial abandon that would even most odds.

And, of course, we had me.

Even with that to drive us and myself to protect us, it was a blessing from the gods that we evaded trouble for as long as we did. A mere hour or two outside Bemric, we ran into Liara’s unit and Flick, heading towards Bemric together after having met up somewhere along the way. Liara, blessedly, had swelled her numbers. Whether one believed in the Lady or the broader spectrum of gods swirling around our mythologies, it was clear that either Liara was truly blessed by some higher being or she was simply the kind of genius which comes along once a generation with the capacity to change the world.

Sometimes I think what might have happened if Liara had greater ambitions than she does. In those moments, I am glad for her laziness.

With Liara’s unit alongside us, we looked far stronger. In fact, we were strong enough in number and appearance that we would deter all but the most desperate of bandits - but also strong enough that any military units would immediately identify us as the same. This was why we had intended to travel to Bemric in fragmentary groups. Morati’s actions had left us exposed.

While we travelled for Chester, we shared our information. Flick inquired after the rest of those stationed at Bemric, and I told him of the move to the waterfall base until a new home could be identified. Liara spoke of a spreading trepidation she had found in the civilians. The Kadien Empire’s influence was spreading day by day - and with it, the reach of the Bloody Hand. Even towns firmly in the grasp of the Crown mere months before were now flying the flag of Morati, lest the less merciful power take them apart.

In turn, Flick shared his findings - though he did so in abbreviated form, saving much of it for our full meetup. His findings suggested that the Crown had experienced a coup - something bloody and horrible had swept through the capital, led by disenfranchised nobility angry over lands they’d never seen and subjects they’d never met lost in a war they would never fight in - and by agitators from Morati. The king’s faction had prevailed, but only by the use of some horrifying old world weapon which spat fire and metal death at a distance, strong enough to puncture walls and plate alike to rend apart that which the bearer wished to destroy.

Upon hearing of them, I looked to Liara, who nodded a grim confirmation - these were the “rifles” she had spoken of. Flick looked discomforted at the idea that such a thing was being unleashed; once a weapon is brought out for any reason, it takes a far greater effort to put it away than it does to simply keep using it, even in a different fight.

So, the king was still in control of the Crown, but many of his nobles had been killed or imprisoned, whether by his faction or his enemies within the capital walls. Depending on which specific nobles turned against him and which still lived after the clash, there were dozens of ways this could go on, but the most likely was that the Crown would sue for peace - at least with the greater of the threats against them - and give this slice of the Shattered Kingdoms over to Morati for now. It was dire news.

Worse still, the chance that they would pursue the same peace with us was infinitesimal, and Morati’s agents within the capital would certainly have retrieved some of these rifles for use by the Bloody hand. We could soon face a far worse fight than we had previously imagined - and one in which even Flick and I would fail to measure up to the forces arrayed against us.

(~)

The morning after we departed Bemric, in the wee hours where the sun peaks her head out over the horizon and the sky is painted in oranges and purples, a scout returned from the land ahead telling of an ambush laying in wait. Sighing, I broke myself from my entrancement with the sky. There would be other sunrises, provided we lived through this danger.

One by one, those of us who had been resting were roused, stirring from slumbers both restful and restless and readying ourselves. Some checked over their weapons. Others tried to eat something from our supplies. Still others whispered prayers to the lady - or whatever other god they felt most appropriate. Lek and Gerevor were the most striking.

Over our brief journey, the two had told me of the circumstances in which they found themselves arrayed against Morati. They had tried to leave this conflict, and Morati had decided that all must serve until he said otherwise - even those who had been his most faithful friends were not free from a lifetime obligation of servitude under his new Imperial moniker. I had considered asking if they were willing to fight with us, having seen Morati’s brutality first hand, but… In every quiet moment, they sought peace with each other. Lek showed emotion I had never seen expressed so clearly, and Gerevor quieted to keep their love between themselves. No matter how much I feared I was like Morati, such displays were too much for me to then request that they throw themselves back into the battle, even for a good cause.

So now, when such a battle might be inevitable, to see that same quiet peace come over them - eyes closed, hands clasped in each other’s, sitting cross legged in front of each other so that Gerevor’s height was not too much for them to rest their foreheads gently together - made me feel as if their travelling with us, even, was too much to ask.

As much as I would avoid asking them to join our fight, so long as they moved with us, some fights would prove inevitable. With the rifle coming onto the battlefield soon, the chance that one of them might catch a fragment of the old world and leave the couple broken was truly depressing to imagine. For their sake, even more than the rest of the men, I conferred with Flick and Liara. We would avoid this ambush, rather than attempting to spring our own.

We passed around the Bloody Hand with a wide berth. Even still, one of their scouts found us, and Flick had to slip out and silence them before they could get the chance to raise the alarm. We would need to increase our own scouts to avoid further conflicts.

I would not deny a taste for battle. Whether my cause was just or not, whether my claim was fair or not, a part of me knew that, even if a revolution was not on the cards, I would have stayed on the battlefield. Indeed, by what my heart told me, I may very well have joined Morati’s Bloody Hand, had I not met the people of the capital and learned how very… human they were before learning of his attack strategy.

Day by day, that taste turned sour. Seeing Lek and Gerevor breathe together in near-silence, peacefully celebrating another day where they would not risk death in a battle they did not want, it felt sourer than ever on my lips.

#CotC

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childofthecataclysm · 1 year

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Chapter Twenty-Three: Oil and Lemons

My subordinates looked to me, and I shook my head. In my heart, though, I knew they wouldn’t obey.

(~)

The little boy from the family I had celebrated with flashed to the forefront of my mind as we traded a pouch of coins for a farmer’s cart. We couldn’t let these people be caught up in our war.

Whatever chance we had lost today, retrieving my old friends was… if not worth it, a decent consolation prize.

(~)

And, of course, we had me.

Sometimes I think what might have happened if Liara had greater ambitions than she does. In those moments, I am glad for her laziness.

(~)

#CotC

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the-piece-of-spadille · 3 years

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Eustass Kid | Sorrow

Pairing: Eustass Kid x female reader

Notes: Mentions of death, and injuries.

Word Count: 2k

Killer was the first to hear the dreadful news, he was making his way down the street to the local bar where he was to meet back up with Kid. He heard a hushed conversation between two gentlemen and at first, he thought it was just another made up rumor. There’s simply no way that the Raven Pirates were dead. Their captain, (Y/n), is apart of the Worst Generation and has proven many times over, that she’s worthy of that title not only to the government but especially to Eustass and his crew.

It wasn’t until one of the men spoke about a fight that involved two Admirals that made the Killer’s blood run cold. He remained hidden and waited for any possible truth in the conversation. The names Aokiji and Kizaru came up a few times and that was enough for Killer to grab both men and drag them to his Captain. He knew, in the pit of his stomach he knew that something happened. If any part of the rumor turns out to be true, his captain is going to want blood and so will the rest of the crew. One simply doesn’t harm Kid’s beloved.

The Kid Pirates soon found themselves sailing off to a winter island in the New World. Kid and Killer were able to get more information from the two men at the market before Kid destroyed the town in a furious rage. There was suspicion about an informant that tipped off the location of the Raven’s to the Government. A fight had already broken out between Pirates and Marines before the Admirals made it to the island. It was an easy win for the pirates until the Admirals showed. They don’t have the details, but the fight took a gruesome turn and many pirates lost their lives. No report has been made yet by the Government, at least not publicly. Which in turn means no record of who’s alive or dead.

Kid always said that he would be the one to kill them someday. (Y/n), the captain, got under his skin like no other. They both live bold and fearless lives and often they came into contact on the seas as enemies. That was before the incident with the Red Hair Pirates.

It was (Y/n) who managed to keep Kid alive after losing his arm. She allowed him and his crew to recover on a winter island that the Raven’s use as a second home. It was then the relationship between the two captains began to shift. She would often check on the man, get him anything he needed, and most importantly, told him not to stop chasing after what he wants most.

It became evident that previous and new threats held no real weight to them. They still fought like cats and dogs, but it was different. The crewmates on either side saw what was forming between them and knew it was going to be a long road ahead before either side could truly rest. It turned into a long and agonizing game of who would fall victim to their feelings first.

Ultimately (Y/n) was the first to fall, she grew tired of all the pent-up emotions and grabbed Kid by his signature coat and pulled him down to her height and kissed him. It stroked Kid’s ever-growing ego that he did not give in first and he paraded around the island as if he found the One Piece for weeks. With the warm memory in thought, he breaths a heavy sigh as he watches the passing sea. “You’re fine… you have to be.”

Starring out at the vast number of graves of the fallen crewmember, (Y/n) stood in the middle of a snowstorm. It’s been a total of three days since the lost of her crew. All but two members perished by the hands of the Admirals. It took two days to make it to their island and another to bury and lay them to rest, but she promised them she’d bring them back home. “Please Captain (Y/n.) You need to warm up and rest. It won’t do you any good if you freeze to death out there” the voice yelled across the field of snow. Instantly whipping her head around, glaring at the last remaining crewmate.

The words “freeze to death” played over and over in the captain’s head. That’s exactly what Aokiji did. He froze them to death while Kizaru pinned (Y/n) to the ground and made her watch as the other shattered her crewmates into pieces. Tears roll down her redden checks as she looks over at the graves for the last time tonight and whispers a “goodnight.”

(Y/n) makes the slow tread back towards the warmth of the building. The injuries and cold catching up to her. “Sorry about the choice of words Captain, you need to rest. You’re heavily injured and you shouldn’t be out in that storm in your condition.” Avisa, the youngest and newest member of the crew being only eighteen, covers her captain with her own coat and holds the door open. Avisa was incredibly lucky to be mostly unharmed after what they went through. “We should probably change your bandages and disinfect them again… has your eyesight changed?”

(Y/n) groans from shifting the coat open and revealing the endless bandages wrapped around her body. “It’s… it’s as good as it’s going to get, I’m afraid. I lost about half the sight in my left eye.” The young girl shifts around, grabbing more bandages and disinfectant before settling in front of the captain and unpeeling the dirty bandages from the wounds earning a whimper of pain.

“Wait, before you start with the disinfecting, I could use a drink.”

“Sure thing Captain, I’ll go fetch you some water.” Just as the girl began to move a loud boisterous laughter bounces around the walls of the otherwise quiet room. The two women jump from their seated positions at the voice of a man. “She means booze girlie” the voice snickers. (Y/n) pushes the girl behind her and does her best to seem threating but it’s proving to be hard in her state. This nearly makes the man laugh again but he gets a glance at the wounds scattered across her body.

The outside lighting does little to show who’s at the door and it wasn’t until the man spoke again that (Y/n) recognized who was there. “Take it easy doll” Kid spoke, hand in the air stepping inside. “Kid” her voice wavers. Taking a few steps towards him but stops and clutches her side in pain. His smile falters as he crosses the room to grab her and keep her upright.

He’s familiar with the layout and takes her to a bed in the closest bedroom. “Sit before you bleed all over the floor.” He walks out the room to motions for the rest of his crew to come inside. Killer follows his captain back into the bedroom to inspect (Y/n’s) wounds. Avisa, with a bottle of opened booze sitting on the table, had already unwrapped her wounds and had proceeded to disinfect her wounds.

There’s deep bruising along her ribs on the right, followed by three holes no doubt left by Kizaru, scatter over her torso. The worse being on her left shoulder. Kid grabs the bottle on the table and takes a generous swing before offering her more. “I did my best to stitch the wounds with what we had, I’m pretty sure her ribs are broken. She was…” the young girl had to stop keep herself from crying. Killer, as gentle as he could muster, touched the swollen and bruised area earning a sharp intake of air followed by a cry of pain.

“I’d say three are broken and the rest are just bruised. What did you use for stitches? I see a few places that need to be touched up.” The masked man turns away from (Y/n) to talk to Avisa. “Horsehair. There’s a small ranch not too far from here.” He nods in thought, “we’re going to need more.” The pair leave the room to go retrieve more supplies and to fill in the rest of Kid’s crew on her condition.

Kid looks around for something to cover her body and he spots (Y/n’s) coat, or rather what’s left of it. It was a beautiful thick, long coat, jet black in color, and made of raven feathers, now it’s barely recognizable. It’s a lot smaller in length now from being ripped. More feathers decorate the floor than the actual fabric. It also mirrors the holes littered in (Y/n). It was a gift to her from him. “Say something please.”

Kid looks over with an unreadable expression and shrugs off his coat and walks over. His hand traces over the new scars and wounds that littered across her. He pays extra care to the open wounds before his amber eyes meet hers. He brushes the hair out of her face to get a better look. Half of her left eye is clouded over with a faint scar to go with it. He knows now isn’t the time to get angry, but all he wants to do is tear the bastards heads off for hurting her. He can’t even begin to imagine what it feels like to lose her crew on top of everything.

He takes a deep breath, something she has told him numerous times to do, and thinks back to what she said to him when he was in a similar situation. “It uh… adds character.” (Y/n) laughs until she feels the pain in her ribs. Kid scowls at her before dropping himself on the bed and his coat on her to cover her up. “Thank you for trying to cheer me up.” He makes a “tsk” sound before telling her to shut up. She grabs his hand and plays with his fingers to calm her nerves. “It was planned.”

“What?”

“It was Scratchmen Apoo who told the Admirals where we were headed. Had to be. He was trailing us for a couple days and when the Marines spotted us, they let him go.” A stray tear falls down her cheek before she can wipe it away. “We we’re cornered into an island, so we abandoned ship for the time being and fought. We were fine until those bastards showed. They started to take us down one by one. Kizaru trapped me underneath him and held me in place. Made me watch.” Kid wiped away her flowing tears and placed a long kiss to her hair. He’s never wanted to hurt someone so bad in his entire life. Forcing her to watch. “It was Avisa who saved me. And to think I almost didn’t let her join… she shot them with sea stone bullets.”

The anger rolling from Eustass can probably be felt in the next room. He recently formed an alliance with Apoo and was already having his own issues with the man. This is the final piece straw that broke the camels back. Kid knows he can’t be trusted, and he need to be brought to an end. “I’ll make them all pay!”

Kid jumps up ready to storm out and take his frustrations out on whatever he can get ahold of but (Y/n) speaks up just as he’s at the door frame. “I want to be apart of taking them down. I need to. For the sake of my crew.” Kid turns around and stomps into your direction and places a heated kiss on your lips.

“Hurry up and get better, because your sailing with me.”

#eustass kid x reader #eustass kid #kid pirates #one piece #one piece writing #eustasscaptainkid #eustass #kidd #eustass kidd #one piece killer #one piece kid #one piece imagine #one piece headcanons #reblog plz

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mischiefandspirits · 3 years

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Oldest and Newest

Damian tugged down his face mask as he looked out over Gotham city. He was finally here.

After two decades of anticipation, after nearly a decade of work, it should have been a happy occasion.

He tugged the mask back up as he heard a scream nearby.

He stopped three muggings, saved a woman from assault, and stopped a robbery by the time a flicker of purple started following him.

He scared off some men that were following a woman then pretended to take off northward before ducking around a water tower and sneaking up on his pursuer as they tried to follow. He took them in before approaching.

They looked about five foot six. The dark body armor and cloak hid their build some, but the way they carried themself proved they were muscular even if not overly broad. As he grew closer, he could see that the armor was primarily black with dark purple detailing that matched the cloak’s color. They also wore a full face mask like his friend Vesper’s, though theirs had white lenses that stood out against the black fabric instead of being completely black like the older vigilante. They were cautious, yet sure-footed as they raced over the rooftops which showed a familiarity with the territory and an understanding of its dangers.

Similarly, their growing annoyance showed they’d realized they’d lost him so Damian swooped in to pin them against an air conditioning unit. They tried to throw him off, but his larger size and superior skills kept them pinned long enough to bind their hands and tie them to the unit.

“Who are you and why are you following me?” he growled, crossing his arms and looming over them.

They stared at him for a moment, head tilting to the side, then snorted. “No wonder he got mistaken for B a few times. Are you seeing this guy?” the young woman -- judging by her voice -- muttered to herself before saying, “I’m Spoiler and I’m following you because you randomly showed up in Gotham and started playing vigilante. Don’t you know Batman doesn’t like that?”

“And yet, here you are doing the same.”

“Excuse you, I’m Batman’s partner. I earned my place on these rooftops.”

“Right.”

She tilted up her chin and crossed her arms. “I am!”

Damian frowned, but didn’t move to redo the ties she’d slipped. Vesper had told him that his father was a solo hero. Batman worked with the Justice League and the Birds of Prey as necessary, but he’d never had a permanent confidant or taken on an apprentice like some of the other heroes. The closest thing he had to partners were the Batgirls. According to Vesper, though, neither ever developed a close bond with the man. The two might be called in as backup or would team up with his father when their paths crossed, but they never depended on one another. His father was more of an inspiration, patron, and occasional teammate than a partner to either woman.

Spoiler didn’t seem to be lying, however, and appeared too forward to be capable of deceiving him. Had something changed in the four years since he’d talked to Vesper? Perhaps he should have gone with his original plan of waiting to go out until after he’d spoken with her the next day after all.

Hindsight and such were not going to change the present, however.

He looked over the woman again. Girl, he realized. Given her proportions, she was likely in her mid-teens though he could be wrong as the armor was rather concealing. An apprentice, then, which explained why she had not fallen beside her supposed partner. The mission his father perished on must have been deemed too dangerous for her to accompany him.

He carefully thought over his next words. He was not ready to announce his presence yet as clearly he had some research to do and he needed to speak with Vesper. He also didn’t know how trustworthy Spoiler was. Even if she was telling the truth about being his father’s partner, that did not tell him just how far his father’s trust in her went and therefore how far he should trust her in turn.

He stepped back from the girl, dropping his arms and attempting to take on a less antagonistic posture. “Then I am sorry for your loss.”

“Loss?” Spoiler questioned.

“Batman’s death,” he answered slowly. Had no one told her?

“What? Batman’s not dead.”

Oh, no, she was simply trying to hide the truth. “My contacts within the Justice League say otherwise.”

Batman's death had left Flamebird uncharacteristically despondent of late, understandably given how close his father and Damian’s were and the fact Flamebird had been on the mission where Batman perished.

“Someone’s going to get an ass beating,” she muttered, storming to her feet. She poked him in the chest. “So what, you find out Batman’s gone and decide that means you have a free pass to just do whatever you want in my city.”

Damian pushed her hand away, fighting down the urge to stab it. “As I think we’ve established, I had no idea you existed. I simply had business in Gotham and thought I’d do some good for a recently undefended city.”

“Yeah, well, now you know the city is being defended.”

“By a child, yes,” Damian scoffed before he could stop himself and the girl bristled.

“Who the fickle frack are you to judge me?”

After being momentarily stunned by her euphemism, he answered, “I am Ẓill.”

She stared at him and slowly shook her head. “Yeah, no offense, it’s def a me problem, but if I try to say that I will totally beat it to hell and back with a tire iron then set it on fire and spit on it just for good measure. Is that an alien language?”

“Arabic.”

“Shit. Yeah, okay, that’s why I’m sticking to the Romance languages for now.” She glanced to the side. “Do you know Arabic?”

“I-” he started, but she waved him quiet.

“I thought you were going to learn after the last run-in with… Okay, yeah, that’s fair. So… Well of course he can, the little polyglot.” She turned back to Damian as he started to wonder if the girl was insane. “So your name translates to Shadow. Mind if I just call you that because, again, I will not be responsible for the atrocity that leaves my mouth if I try to pronounce Arabic without time to practice.”

“Shadow is fine.” She wouldn’t be the first, as it had taken both Flamebird and Beacon awhile to learn how to pronounce his name properly, and the Ismoian still called him that on occasion as a nickname. More accurately she called him Shadow the Hedgehog, but that was a reference he refused to investigate given Flamebird’s reaction to it. “Who are you talking to?”

She gestured to the side of her head. “Augur. He’s our eye-in-the-sky computer guy. Hacking, running comms, information gathering, strategy, all that fun stuff.”

“I thought Oracle worked with Batman when he needed assistance with that.”

“Oracle? I mean, she helped train Augur and helps out when he needs a hand, but she’s got the Birds of Prey and Vesper, not to mention helping out the Justice League sometimes. I think she used to do a lot more for Batman back before Augur, but she’s got her own shit to do now. Augur’s our main man.”

He really should have waited to speak to Vesper. Clearly his information was more out of date than he thought.

“So, Shadow Weaver, what brings you to Gotham then?”

“Shadow Weaver?” He growled when she nodded, radiating amusement. That was clearly another reference he didn’t want to know anything about. “My being here is none of your concern.”

“Random unknown vigilantes being in my city are, like, the definition of my concern,” she said, cocking a hip.

“Your city?”

“Yeah, my city. So either tell me why you’re here or get lost.”

“And if I don’t?”

She shifted into a fighting stance. “I’ll make you.”

Damian snorted at the threat, then was yanked backward by his hood. He brought his hand up to defend, which was knocked aside.

He froze when he recognized the featureless mask staring down at him.

“I told you to keep your head down,” Vesper reprimanded, poking him in the forehead.

“If you had warned me that Batman had picked up a disciple this wouldn’t have happened,” he huffed and Spoiler pretended to gag.

“Ew, gross, don’t call me that. Makes it sound like I worship B or something, which, yeah, no.”

“Stop picking fights with Spoiler,” Vesper said and poked his forehead again. “Batman is already going to be mad enough.”

Damian’s eyes darted away from his friend and, behind Vesper, he saw Spoiler flinch.

Vesper let him back up and shoved him away. She turned to Spoiler. “I’ll deal with him. He’s a friend. Sorry.”

The girl nodded and left.

“Come on.”

The older vigilante led him to the rooftop of a clock tower. She used a biometric scanner to unlock a hidden hatch and they slipped inside, dropping down ropes into a workspace.

There was an elaborate computer setup in one corner, oddly lacking a chair, and a workout space in the other. Mirroring that was a modest medical area in one corner and a kitchenette in the other with seating at the island. Elevator doors stood between the computers and medical area while a couch and some chairs sat at the center of the room.

Pulling off her hood and mask, Cassandra led him to the couch. He removed his own hood and mask then pulled his katana off his back to lean against his leg as he sat next to her on the couch.

“You look good,” she said, glancing over him.

“You too. It’s good to see you again.”

She nodded, then lightly slapped his arm. “What were you thinking, Damian? I know I told you how protective Batman is of his territory.”

Damian’s left hand came up to trace the phoenix engraved onto his right bracer. “When was the last time you spoke to someone in the Justice League?”

She frowned, studying him. “I have been on an Outsiders mission for the past month, and was busy with a show the month before that. If Oracle has worked with them in that time, she hasn’t said anything. Why?”

“A little under a month ago, a JL team went on a mission. I don’t know the full details, but it had something to do with Darkseid and… Batman did not make it back.”

She didn’t react visibly, but her voice was soft when she asked, “You are sure?”

“Jon was on the mission. He said Batman was vaporized right before their eyes. I’m sorry.”

She bowed her head and closed her eyes. After her moment of silence, she looked up at him, face blank. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Why are you here? Why do you care? You’ve always been interested in Batman, but this is… more.”

He sat up straight, hands fisting on his thighs. “I told you my name was Damian Naji, but that was a lie. My name is actually Damian al Ghul. My mother is Talia al Ghul… and my father was Batman.”

She studied him. “Batman… did not know?”

“Not as far as I am aware. Mother told me she told him she miscarried because I would be a distraction to him and the cause. After everything you’ve told me about him, I think she and Grandfather were just worried he’d take me from them. If she told him after I left, I don’t know.”

“Why didn’t you tell him? You could have come to him for help when you ran away from the League.”

“Tt. You know how I was back then. I was everything Father stood against. He wouldn’t have wanted anything to do with me. Not until I could prove I was worthy of him.”

She reached out to take his hand. “That’s not true. He knew my past and he accepted me.”

“You killed one person, instantly regretted it, and never killed again. I spent almost ten years as an assassin. It’s not the same. Besides, you were just an occasional teammate. I’m…”

“His son. Which is exactly why I know he would have loved you. Batman cares deeply for those who he considers his own. Even Oracle and I. He keeps -” She frowned and looked down. “He kept his distance from us, but only because he felt he didn’t have a right to us. Oracle had a parent and was independent, only needing help getting her feet under her. I was an adult, legally, when we met and Oracle took on my training since she was the one who found me and had practice working with younger heroes due to assisting Black Canary with the Justice League’s minor division. Had he found you, though, he wouldn’t have hesitated. You would have been his.

“He would not have been happy about how you were raised, but he still would have loved you. He would not have turned you away, even if you had wanted to continue down the path of an assassin. He would have seen that wasn’t what you wanted, though, and taught you a new way. You would not have had to do it on your own.”

Damian shook his head. “No, I had to prove that I wasn’t what my mother made me. I had to prove I could follow his rules, only then could I present myself as his heir.”

“You wouldn’t have had to prove anything to him.”

He pulled his hand away to trail it against his bracer again. “Perhaps you are right. You knew him better than I. But I did have to prove it to myself.”

She shook her head and wrapped an arm around his shoulders despite him being a head taller and twice as wide. “How?”

“My first kill was on my sixth birthday. I was fifteen when we met and I decided to leave behind the League’s ways in favor of Father’s. It… took me longer than I liked to push through the instincts to kill so on my sixteenth birthday I made an oath. Ten years of saving lives to atone for ten years of taking them. Only if I reached my twenty-sixth birthday without taking another life would I come to Gotham.”

“That is why you’ve come.”

“No, my birthday is still a few months away, but… Jon told me what happened. I realized I was too late so I am here to… I thought if I could never present myself to Father absolved of guilt, I could at least protect the city he devoted himself to since I believed it was now undefended.”

“You did not know about the others,” she chuckled.

“You told me he worked alone,” he growled.

“He did when we last spoke.” She pulled away, tilting her head. “Am I your only source for information?”

“Yes. I did not know if I could trust any other source given his reclusiveness.”

“But I only told you about Batman. What about behind the man under the cowl?”

He slumped back against the couch.

“You do not know who he is,” she said, amusement in her voice.

“Mother always told me I would learn who he was when I’d earned it. The only things I know are that I am his only family and heir. That’s why I asked you to meet me. I wanted to do this properly and cover his responsibilities in and out of the mask, but I can’t do that without knowing who he is. I’d hoped that either you would know or you could help me figure it out.”

She hummed and glanced to the side.

He followed her gaze to see a clock on the wall. It was nearing two in the morning.

Suddenly she hopped to her feet and dragged him up. “You said you are staying at Hotel Belle Monico?”

“Yes, room 3215.”

“Go straight back there and get changed.”

He nodded, figuring she wanted to get some rest. “Alright. I’ll see you later then.”

After getting her confirmation, he climbed up the ropes and did as told. It only took him fifteen minutes to get back to his room and another twenty to change out of his vigilante attire, lock all his gear away, shower, and put on his sleeping clothes. Once that was done he started to debate whether or not to get some sleep or do a bit of research first.

A knock came at his door.

He grabbed the small dagger he kept on him at all times and palmed one of the knives he’d hidden around the room as he approached the door. He peeked through the peephole, then tucked both weapons into his waistband and opened the door.

Cassandra had lost her own suit in favor of a casual teal dress and gold-brown leggings. She frowned as she took him in and started shoving him further into the room before he could say anything. “Get dressed.”

“What’s going on?”

“Clothes.”

Well aware he wasn’t going to get anything out of her, he slipped into the suite's bedroom and changed into some slacks and a polo.

“Good,” she said when he came out, then turned on her heel and left.

He quickly followed after grabbing his wallet and one of the room’s keycards.

“Where are we going?” he asked once they were in the elevator, but she just smiled at him.

The silence continued as they climbed into her car and she drove them through the city. He tried to ask again when they crossed a bridge out of the main city and into a neighborhood filled with mansions and old manors, but she remained tight-lipped until they pulled up to the gate of a larger manor.

She rolled down the window and hit the call button, which was soon answered over the video screen by an older gentleman in a butler’s uniform.

“Ah, hello, Ms. Cain,” the man said in a warm, British accent. “I was told you might make an appearance, but I didn’t think it would be so soon.”

“Hello, Alfred. Should this wait?”

“No, you might as well come in now. They’re all still awake after tonight’s events,” he sighed and the gates began to creak open.

“Sorry,” she said and he waved her off before the screen went dark.

Curiosity itched at Damian, but he stayed quiet as Cassandra drove up to the front door and they climbed out.

Alfred met them at the door. He gave Cassandra a kind smile then turned it to Damian. “Always a pleasure, Ms. Cain. And who is this?”

She looped her arm around one of Damian’s. “An old friend. Alfred, this is Damian Wayne. Damian, this is Alfred Pennyworth.”

He didn’t react to the name, assuming she’d just given him an alias, but the calculating expression on Alfred’s face as he stared at Damian’s had him second-guessing the assumption.

The expression was quickly replaced by a sad smile, however, as the man stepped back to allow them into the manor. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Master Damian.”

“You as well, Mr. Pennyworth.”

“Just Alfred, my boy. Please come in. The others are winding down in the family room.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Cassandra said, then led Damian into the house by his arm. They went up the main staircase in the entrance hall and into the first door on the left where they found a room inhabited by a group of children.

The oldest were a pair of teenagers sitting on the couch.

The girl was white, but tanned with long blonde hair pulled into a messy braid and dark green eyes. She was thin but muscular and he could see her arms were covered in small scars thanks to her Gotham Sirens tank top. She was cradling a sleeping infant who was wrapped in a Wonder Woman blanket and clutching a stuffed Batman.

The other teen was more androgynous, body hidden under an overly large White Arrow hoodie and Supergirl sweat pants. They were Latine with their skin a pale brown and their eyes a silvery blue. Their hair was black and chin-length. They had a video game controller on their lap and a tablet in their hands.

The next oldest was a preteen boy with a book sitting sideways in an armchair, back against one arm and legs draped over the other. He was fair with freckles speckling his face around his navy eyes. His hair was short and a dark red, almost black color. He was thin and muscular like the girl, but there was a touch of broadness to his shoulders that spoke of a bulkiness to come with puberty. A German Shepherd was squeezed onto the chair with him, half-tucked under the boy's legs with his head on the boy's stomach for pets.

The last child was a few years younger than the preteen. He both had the most conditioned and the least combative build of the children, having more of a gymnast's figure. His skin was of a similar olive tone to Damian’s, though a few shades lighter, and his curly hair was brown-black. Damian couldn’t see his eyes as he was dozing on a rug in front of the tv with a three-legged pitbull puppy, both curled around a large stuffed elephant. A video game controller was abandoned behind the boy.

The three awake children turned to Damian and Cassandra when they entered. They all greeted her warmly, but the girl and boy eyed him warily while the androgynous teen studied him with sharp curiosity.

“Who’s your friend, Cassie?” the boy asked.

Cassandra shoved Damian further into the room. “Your brother.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So last month I made a post asking if anyone had written a story where the Robins' ages were reversed as is the trope, but they still got taken in by Bruce in the same order as well as giving some ideas for how that could work. No one ever got back to me on if that was already a thing so I figured I might as well write out one of the scenes that really caught my interest when brainstorming.

#batfam #damian wayne #cass cain #stephanie brown #batman #rabno #fanfiction

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hogwarts-riddle · 4 years

Text

Eternalism: Chapter V

The streets of London were much like Hermione remembered them and yet different at the same time. It was strange to see so many cars that would have been considered antiques in her time, and so many people wearing clothing that she had only ever seen before in museums. The whole world was like a museum to her, and while she had never been the most enthused by history, it was still fascinating to her.

While the streets were crowded with people dressed to the nines with an assortment of fancy furs and hats, there were a few of those who were considerably less privileged. Every now and then she would spot a group of beggars poking their heads out of alleyways, holding up tin cans as they pleaded for even so much as a bread crumb.

It broke her heart to see such things and made her feel rather guilty for grumbling about her own life. Sure, she was stuck in an orphanage where she was made to slave away for Mrs. Cole, but she still had a roof over her head and two half-way decent meals a day. These people had neither of those things.

She had to force herself to look away, ignoring their cries for help as she followed after Tom down the sidewalk. There will always be those who are homeless and hungry in the world, she thought. As much as she would like to help everyone, it was impossible for her to do so. If she succeeded in her mission, she would save the lives of many who had perished in her time. That is enough, she told herself.

“Where did the professor say that we were supposed to go again?” Hermione asked, focusing her full attention at the task at hand.

Tom, who was holding the piece of paper that Dumbledore had given them with directions, was looking this way and that to find something. “It’s called the Leaky Cauldron and apparently it’s supposed to be at the end of this street, next to a barber shop.

“Though, I wouldn’t be surprised if he gave us the wrong directions.” Tom added cryptically.

Initially she had expected to know exactly where the Leaky Cauldron was located, seeing as she had been there many times, but it was becoming more and more clear to her that she didn’t remember it as well as she thought. She hadn’t accounted for the fact that London in 1938 was not the same as London in 1997.

They searched for a while longer without luck. Hermione had thought for sure that they would be able to spot it easily enough with a blue and red swirly pole standing out front, but there didn’t seem to be any such pole to be found. Eventually they gave up on searching and sat down to rest for a bit.

“Perhaps we ought to return to the orphanage,” Tom suggested. “I think it’s clear to see that this so-called professor was lying.”

He didn’t show it outright, but she could tell that he was disappointed. The thought of leaving the orphanage behind and entering a world of magic had delighted him just as much as it had her. However, she refused to give up so easily. Unlike him, she knew for a fact that this world did exist. They just had to find it.

She recalled what Dumbledore had told them, as well as her own memories of visiting the place. It was made purposefully difficult to find in order to keep muggles away. She imagined that the building itself wouldn’t have changed that much in fifty years, as it looked as though it came straight out of the dark ages.

She started searching again with that particular architecture style in mind. There were a couple of such buildings scattered across the street, but they all looked to be abandoned, making it difficult to determine which one was hiding a magical pub.

She was just about to look away when she suddenly saw a woman dressed in vibrant green robes much like she had seen witches and wizards wear, escorting a young boy towards one of the abandoned buildings.

“Look over there,” she nudged Tom, pointing the mother and son pair out to him. “The lady is wearing a witch hat.”

Before he even had time to fully process it, Hermione had grabbed him by the hand and led him off in the same direction.

The appearance of the building before them began to change with every step they took towards it. The windows which had previously been boarded up, were now in perfect condition with not so much as a crack in the glass and a sign appeared out of nowhere, hanging above the door that read ‘Leaky Cauldron’.

Hermione couldn’t contain her excitement as they waited for the woman and her son to slip inside before following after. She couldn’t wait to re-enter the wizarding world. Even though she was fifty-some years into the past, it still felt like home to her.

The moment they crossed the threshold inside, they were bombarded by the smell of alcohol mixed with smoke. It was by no means necessary pleasant, but it was familiar to her and made her feel oddly at ease.

The pub wasn’t overly crowded, with only a handful of people scattered about, seated at tables with a bowl of stew and a mug of drink. It would have been no different than the average pub had it not been for the fact that the spoons were stirring by themselves and dishes were flying through the air to and from the tables.

“Excuse me, sir, but could you tell us where we might find Diagon Alley?” she asked the man at the bar. Much like Dumbledore, Tom the barman was quite a bit younger than she was used to, but it was still him. “Professor Dumbledore said that you might be able to help us.”

Turning to face them, he gave them a good look over. “A couple of first years, are you?”

They both nodded their heads.

“Very well, follow me.”

Silently they followed him behind the bar, through the storage room and out through the back door where they found themselves face to face with a brick wall.

“This is Diagon Alley?” Tom asked with a furrowed brow.

The barman shook his head as he pulled out his wand, which incidentally looked like nothing more than a long twin twig, and began to tap the wall with it. Hermione could still remember the exact combination. Three bricks up and two across.

“No, lad, this is Diagon Alley.”

The bricks began to move all on their own, forming an archway that looked out onto the familiar cobblestone street she knew all too well.

Her eyes sparkled with joy as she took in the sights. She had visited Diagon Alley many times before but somehow each time was just as exciting as the first. It was like going to a carnival. There were always new wonders to behold.

Remembering her own first time visiting, it wasn’t hard to imagine what Tom was feeling. She could clearly see the look of awe in his eyes. He was practically bursting with excitement, eager to explore every inch of the place. Then there was a part of him that hungered for the knowledge contained within this place. He yearned to learn everything there was to know about magic.

The more she got to know him, the more she realized that he really wasn’t all that different from her. As strange as it was that she could relate in such a way to the future Lord Voldemort, it was also rather nice. She had never met anyone who hungered for knowledge as much as she did.

With his hand still wrapped in hers, the two of them hurried off down the street, winding their way through the crowd of witches and wizards both young and old. They didn’t even cast a backward glance to see the archway closing in behind them.

Pulling out their school supply list, they decided to head to the bookstore first. Hermione led them straight to what might just be her favorite shop in all of Diagon Alley; Flourish and Blotts.

The necessary set books for first years were mostly similar to those she had in her original first year, save for a couple that hadn’t been written yet. Some of the information in the books was bound to be different as well and she was looking forward to comparing which publication was more accurate.

They had a bit of trouble figuring out how they were supposed to pay for everything, but then they remembered how Dumbledore had mentioned the school having a student fund. The shopkeeper explained to them that any and all of their purchases would be charged to the school’s account.

Next they went to get their uniforms. She was surprised to find that Madam Malkin’s wasn’t in existence yet. It really shouldn’t have come as that big of a shock to her though as she thought about it. Madam Malkin had seemed rather young. She wasn’t even sure if the kind witch was even born yet.

That meant that the only place to get robes was at Twilfitt and Tatting’s.

Inside Twilfitt and Tatting’s there were many wizarding families standing around, some parents waiting as their children were fitted while others were waiting with their children to be fitted.

“Maybe we should come back later when it’s not as busy,” Tom suggested.

She shook her head. This being the only clothing shop in the entire alley, she had a feeling that it would be just as busy when they came back.

“We have time. Unless you’re particularly eager to go back to Mrs. Cole?”

Tom pulled a face at that, causing her to giggle. She knew that would work.

Slowly but surely the line moved along and eventually it came their turn to be fitted. Stepping up onto the stools, they held their arms out, allowing the seamstress witches to take their measurements. Shortly after, another boy came up and joined them on the stool to Hermione’s left.

Hermione had to do a double take when she saw him. Upon first glance she could have sworn that she was standing next to none other than Draco Malfoy, but then she remembered where she was. It definitely wasn’t Draco. With a bit of a better look at him, she noticed that his features were different. His face wasn’t as pointed as Draco’s and his eyes were bright blue rather than silver.

Though the hair was much the same. Just as perfectly well kept as the ferret. She had always hated how envious she was of that hair.

She had gotten so carried away thinking about Malfoy that she noticed too little too late that she had been caught staring at the boy. When she finally snapped out of it, she found him smirking at her with a smug little look on his face.

“My name is Abraxas, Abraxas Malfoy,” he said. “And you are?”

Abraxas Malfoy… The name sounded vaguely familiar, as if she might have heard it or read it somewhere before. Judging by the fact that he was a Malfoy, she could only guess that she had heard Draco mention him. She wasn’t exactly sure how the two were related though.

“I’m Hermione, and this is my friend, Tom,” she greeted him, motioning to Tom on her other side.

Tom acknowledged Abraxas with no more than a brief nod of the head, to which Abraxas responded by copying the gesture. They clearly didn’t care too much about each other.

What Abraxas did next was not at all what Hermione had been expecting. Reaching out, he took hold of her hand and pressed his lips gently to the top before winking at her.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She was at a loss for how to feel about this. A part of her couldn’t help but blush, for though she knew he came from a long line of pureblood supremacist prats which would likely continue for at least two more generations, he was rather handsome and was certainly treating her better than his descendants ever had. Yet, at the same time a part of her felt disgusted as it registered in her brain that he was only being nice to her because he thought she was like him.

“You as well,” she forced herself to smile at him, not wanting to appear impolite. Realistically, she had no reason to be impolite to him, because she wasn’t meant to know anything about who he was or what his world was like. They were simply two children who had just met for the first time.

They talked little after that as they finished up with their individual fittings. She managed to wave goodbye to him before Tom grabbed her by the hand and pulled her away, reversing the roles from earlier. He didn’t let go until they were well away from the shop.

“I don’t like the way he looks at you,” Tom muttered.

She was floored by that. Could it be that Tom Riddle was jealous? The very idea sounded so ridiculous that she almost didn’t believe it. Then again, she supposed that it might not be all that ridiculous after all. He was very much human, capable of feeling different emotions, as he had proven to her in the last month or so that she had been with him. She couldn’t really fault him for being protective over the only real friend he had ever had.

“Don’t worry, Tom,” she assured him. “You’re not going to lose me that easily.”

He waved off her concern, but she saw the corners of his lips tugging up. There was no use hiding from her. It was clear that he was happy to hear that.

Their next stop was undoubtedly the highlight of the trip; getting their wands. Tom had gotten the same wand she knew him to have as Lord Voldemort. It was 13½ inches long, crafted of yew wood with a phoenix feather core. That wasn’t all that surprising to her.

What was surprising was the wand that had chosen her...

When she first walked into Ollivander’s, she had been expecting to get her old wand back. The very wand she had used for years had been placed into her hands, but for some strange reason, it just didn’t seem to connect with her like it had the first time around. She tried wand after wand after that and none of them seemed to have that spark.

Then, Ollivander finally pulled out yet another wand that she knew well. 11 inches long, crafted of holly wood with a phoenix feather core. It was also the exact same wand that would have belonged to Harry. She hadn’t meant to connect with it… It just happened…

“The wand chooses the witch, Miss Granger,” Ollivander had told her.

She was hesitant to take it at first, fearing that her doing so might somehow prevent Harry from being born, but relented in the end as she didn’t want to raise any suspicion from Tom or Ollivander. In the end, she was grateful to have Harry’s wand this time around as it would serve as a reminder of her brave old friend.

Tom was all too pleased that she had ended up with the sibling of his wand.

Before long, they had finished the rest of their shopping, checking off every last item from their list. They knew that they ought to return to the orphanage soon, lest they miss supper, but neither of them were quite ready to leave yet and so they decided to just look around for a while longer.

Hermione had to admit that it was actually quite nice having someone to experience the magic of Diagon Alley with. In the past, or rather the future, she always went with her parents, and while she loved them dearly, it just wasn’t the same. They didn’t understand the world of magic as she did. They found it all confusing and overwhelming. She was constantly having to explain everything to them. It was nice not having to explain everything for once.

“What’s down there?”

Noticing that Tom had stopped walking, she followed his gaze to see what it was that had caught his attention.

She had to shut her mouth tightly to stop herself from gasping. They were standing right in front of the entrance to Knockturn Alley. She should have known as much. How could she have been so stupid? Of course Knockturn Alley of all places would catch his attention!

“I don’t know, but it certainly doesn’t look like a nice place,” she said with a gulp. “I think we should get out of here.”

She started to walk away but was stopped as Tom reached out to pull her back.

“Honestly, Tom, I don’t think we should go in there.”

“Why not? It’s a part of Diagon Alley, isn’t it? Why would it be here if we weren’t allowed to go in?”

She had to admit that there was some logic behind that. Why did the wizarding world let Knockturn Alley exist if dark magic was against the law? Surely the ministry wasn't so blind? Perhaps it was the result of pureblood witches and wizards bribing the ministry to turn the other way? That definitely sounded like something the Malfoy’s would do.

She let out a sigh. There was no use trying to fight him on this. She knew that he would find a way to sneak down there no matter what she did or said. Still, it was her job to make sure that he didn’t go down the same path as before, and so it fell to her to follow him and make sure nothing happened. I suppose I can always stun him if things get out of hand, she thought.

“Alright,” she gave in, “we can see what’s down there.”

Knockturn Alley was just as creepy as she remembered with cobwebs in every corner and old hags selling severed fingers for a galleon a piece. There were all sorts of horrible shops down there dealing with everything with everything from necromancy to poisons. Though, to be fair, there were a few shops that weren’t quite so bad that dealt in everyday potion ingredients as well as cauldrons.

Then they found themselves standing before the worst shop of them all; Borgin and Burke’s. This was the shop that Tom would one day work at after graduating from Hogwarts. Not on my watch, he won’t, she vowed to herself. However, she knew that wouldn’t be happening for years and so she allowed herself to relax a bit.

Tom was just about to open the shop door when they heard a voice call out to them. “What are you two doing down here? Surely you know that this area is off limits to all first and second years.”

Stopping dead in their tracks, they turned and saw a man approaching. He looked rather like a vampire with long dark hair, pale skin and dark eyes. She wasn’t sure who he was but judging by the fancy robes he wore, she had to assume that he was someone of importance.

Whoever he was, she had a bad feeling about this...

“I’m sorry, sir, but this is our first time here and we got lost,” Tom explained. It wasn’t exactly a lie, but it wasn’t entirely true either.

The man raised a single arched brow at that. “Is that so? Well then, allow me to escort you back to safety.”

Leaving the two children with no time to object, he promptly turned and started back the way he had come, motioning for them to follow. Despite the heavy robes that looked as though they would slow him down, he was actually surprisingly fast and they had to break out into a run just to catch up with him.

He led them back to the steps that led back up to Diagon Alley, where he finally came to a halt and turned back to face them.

“I do not want to see the two of you down there ever again, do I make myself clear?” he asked them.

They nodded their heads in unison.

“Good,” he said with a sigh.

They started up the stairs, their legs moving as if someone was controlling them, and as she thought about it, she considered that perhaps that was indeed the case. Reaching the top step, she turned back to see if the man had his wand out or could be seen reciting an incantation, but he was already gone.

Who was that man? He had left without so much as telling them his name. What was he? He dressed like a wizard and yet there was something about him that indicated otherwise. And why did she get the feeling that he had just saved them from something horrible?

“Can we leave now?” she asked.

This time, Tom agreed without hesitance. He looked just as confused and startled as she was.

#tomione #tom riddle #tom x hermione #tomione fanfiction #tomione fandom #harry potter #harrypotter #harry potter au #harry potter fandom #hp fandom #hp fanfic #harry potter fanfiction #fanfiction #hermione granger #HP #AU #eternalism

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k0gamis · 4 years

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Nightmares ➝Shinkane Week Day 3 ➝WC: 7203 / Rating: M (gore mentions/themes) / AU

Trapped in an apocalyptic world falling apart at the gruesome, decaying hands of a governmental experiment gone completely abysmal, Akane and Kogami take shelter in an abandoned apartment to wait for help.

***

She had to keep them moving.

His coughs were getting worse by the hour, growing more loud and guttural each time. He insisted he was fine. Occasionally he dry heaved, producing nothing except small pools of stomach acid once there was nothing left of their morning rations to expel. Every time it happened, he was left gasping for breath, and then the sharp intake of air only triggered more coughing. Then he would be left doubled over, unable to stand up entirely on his own by the violent force of his chest, and she was stuck trying to hold him up and clap him on the back until the fit passed.

Eventually, she decided he wasn’t in any shape to keep searching with her. By no fault of his, his coughs were too loud and attracting too much attention, and his condition wasn’t suitable for fighting by any means. She couldn’t help him if she was busy trying to protect him while killing them off, especially if they came in too high of numbers for her to handle on her own.

Not only that, but the sun was starting to sink dangerously near the horizon, so if they didn’t felt shelter soon, they would be utterly fucked when night fell.

They took refuge in an abandoned apartment above what looked like an old crafting store. There were shelves of unpainted wooden figures left untouched, and below them small, dusty bottles of paint. Though it held some sentimental semblance of a life they used to live, like a ghost wandering aimlessly near its grave, Akane wasn’t too preoccupied with observing all the small details as her eyes darted from corner to corner, listening quietly for any stray movements that were not theirs. She supported him under his shoulder as they approached the stairs in the back, which creaked under their weight. Nothing was out of the ordinary downstairs, and the upstairs, a small studio with an attached bathroom, was clear as well.

Short of breath after the trek up the steps, Kogami dropped his backpack to the ground and fell back against the wall, letting himself slide down until he sat on the floorboards, which were caked with dust. He fished out a bottle of water from his pack and took small sips while he struggled to catch his breath.

Akane, in the meantime, secured the door with the deadbolt and the lock on the knob, then made her way to the single window on the other side of the room, covered by a translucent drape that did very little to keep out the light. She could tell it was originally white in color but held a stain of sunlight, a dim yellow layer etched into the material. The fabric was dingy and any excessive force would tear it instantly. She wondered how long it had been since it was touched by human hands.

She pulled back the curtain and surveyed the area in front of the store. Nothing lurked in the streets, and there was no sign of their friends or a rescue party. The window slid open, secured only by a single latch in between the two panes. On the outside, placed next to the window, was a base to mount a flag pole. Perfect.

Using a broom, a sheet from the set of drawers in the corner she sliced up using a knife, and an old tube of lipstick found in the medicine cabinet, Akane put together a makeshift SOS flag and stuck it to the base outside, then locked the window. If their friends happened to search this area, surely they would see the flag and at least investigate. At the very least they would check to see if there were other survivors, regardless of if it turned out to be the two of them.

When she put her attention back on Kogami, she noticed he was trembling, and his forehead was covered in sweat. His eyes were closed but snapped open when she put the back of her hand to his skin, which felt starkly cold in comparison. She knelt in front of him, her eyebrows knit together worriedly.

“You feel warm,” she said. “I’d say you have a fever.” She handed him his bottle of water and told him to drink some more, so he did. Then she gestured to the dingy bed in the corner with an old-fashioned brass headboard and frayed quilt, and before she could even suggest it, he outright declined.

“I’m not sleeping on that filthy thing,” Kogami muttered. His voice came out worn, and much huskier than usual.

“Oh come on,” Akane argued. “It’s better than this filthy floor. At least a bed is comfortable.”

“I’m fine right here,” he insisted. She stood up, sighing in frustrated defeat. He was always so stubborn about the most ridiculous things.

She took another sheet from the drawer and laid it on the ground between him and the bathroom so he was at least protected from the floor’s grime, then tossed a thicker blanket at him to cover up with. He caught it, and she went to investigate the kitchenette on the other side of the room.

Thankfully, there was still running water, so she was able to refill their water bottles. That much relieved her considerably, since she was worried about Kogami getting dehydrated. She didn’t find much in the cupboards except for some crackers, an expired box of pancake mix, and a few cans of non-perishables.

Even more thankfully, she found that the electricity still worked, though there were only two lights in the entire studio; one in the kitchen and one in the bathroom. In the hospital where she and her friends had initially taken refuge, there was a generator that kicked on to still power the building. Anywhere outside of it, there was no telling if there was power of not.

She supposed that when the disaster initially struck, whoever was working utilities must have had some foresight and an overwhelming sense of empathy, deciding to keep everything on until the resources available drained themselves. It’s what she would have done.

In the bathroom, she found a bottle of ibuprofen. She wasn’t sure if it would help his cough, but it could reduce his fever at the very least.

When she returned to him, he’d moved over to the sheet but still sat up against the wall, the blanket lying in a crumple on his thighs. While he swallowed the pills she spread the blanket out over his legs, then handed him the sleeve of crackers from the cupboard.

“They’re probably stale,” she said apologetically, “but hopefully you’ll be able to keep them down.” He hadn’t had anything to eat since very early that morning, and he’d already vomited his stomach of everything in it multiple times throughout the day.

“I’m not hungry,” he said. Then he fell into another coughing fit. She knelt by his side, holding his shoulder while he doubled over and struggled to breathe amidst the coughing. She could tell he was resisting the urge to vomit again. Ultimately he succeeded, and the fit passed. She handed him more water and the crackers.

“You need to eat something.” Her voice was firm, leaving no room for negotiation. So he succumbed to her wishes and nibbled on the edge of a cracker in between frequent sips of water. While he ate, Akane sat down in front of him, crossing her legs, watching him eat absentmindedly while she thought.

“Do you think it’s contagious?” she asked finally.

“I think it’s pneumonia,” he said quietly. “Which usually is.”

“Do you remember what medicines treat it?”

Kogami had to think back a bit, to the days where he studied medicine before opting for a drastic career change as a detective, and came up with an answer.

“Antibacterials,” he said. “There are a lot of types of pneumonia so there are lots of treatment options.”

“What are they?” she asked. “I’ll bring back whatever I can find, but it would help to know what I’m looking for.”

“What, right now?”

“Well yeah. The sooner, the better.”

“Are you crazy?” he argued. “It’s getting dark out. And you haven’t eaten anything either.”

Almost as if on cue, her stomach growled. He gave her a sharp, knowing look that dared her to lie about not being hungry, because she almost did.

She studied him with a torn look. Although he looked less sweaty, his face was pale and his body still quivered. And his last coughing fit worried her. He didn’t go very long without breaking into another one, so she was desperate to find him the medicine he needed. She really did not want to wait another day. But still, she knew he was right. Going out in the dark was infinitely more dangerous than during the day, and the only thing that kept her strength going until now was adrenaline and the duty she felt to protect him.

“I’m going first thing in the morning,” she declared. That much was not up for debate. He wasn’t keen on the idea of her going out by herself, and he hated sitting on the sidelines being utterly useless for help, but they didn’t have many options.

Akane offered to take the first watch so he could sleep, which he desperately needed. She pried open a can of fruit and ate from it periodically until she figured they should switch, then scarfed the rest of it down once he woke her after the sun came up.

In the early morning hours, Kogami had been overcome with nausea and relocated to the bathroom floor, giving him easier access to the toilet to vomit into. That was where she left him, handing him his gun and a refilled bottle of water, then told him to lock the door behind her, promising she’d be back before sundown.

He never did bother getting up to lock it, mostly because he couldn’t find the strength to.

He waited for what felt like forever, dozing here and there for incomprehensible amounts of time; it could have been an hour, maybe only a few minutes. He really couldn’t tell the difference. He would wake when his head started to fall to the side, which would jolt him upright, or he would wake when his stomach felt the need to empty itself despite having nothing to rid, and he’d hover over the toilet bowl and let his stomach convulse needlessly until the wave of nausea passed, and then he’d sit back against the wall and stare at the ceiling until he dozed off again.

The last time he woke wasn’t due to either of those things. It was a door slamming downstairs that jolted him awake, quickly followed by a scream. It belonged to Akane, and he could tell she was in pain.

That fact alone was enough to make him fly to his feet, ignoring the sharp pain in his chest as he moved, grabbing his gun and throwing the door open to leap down the stairs. On the way down he heard a crash, a struggle, and the sound of banging on glass, and his head started to spin as he raced down the steps multiple at a time, around the landing and making his way to the first floor.

Akane was backed against the wall, holding a crowbar against her thigh with arm, and gripping the top of that arm with her other hand, breathing heavily through clenched teeth. Approaching her was one of them, staggering on one good leg and dragging the other behind it, slashed at the knee.

Instinctively, Kogami raised his gun, preparing to shoot it, but then noted the glass door and windows behind it, and the two bodies trying to claw their way through on the other side. If he shot and missed, he could shatter the glass and give them a way in.

So instead, ignoring the shooting pain in his chest and the spinning sensation, he charged for it, shoving his boot into its torso and kicking it away from her, causing it to tumble to the floor. He snatched the crowbar from her hand and raised it over his head, then brought it down on its skull, smashing it to slimy pieces until the body was still.

He stood over it for a moment, breathing heavily, fighting off the urge to start coughing. For now it seemed the other two bodies were trapped outside, but he didn’t feel right leaving the door unguarded. The one he’d just killed had gotten in somehow, and though he didn’t have time to survey the whole floor to see if there were any other openings to secure, he felt better sliding one of the shelves in front of the door to ensure it wasn’t going to open anytime soon.

The adrenaline pounding in his ears was starting to wear off, but skyrocketed a second time once he turned back to Akane, who’d sunk to her knees and was doubled over in pain, gripping her upper arm with icy knuckles. She kept her mouth shut with clenched teeth and wouldn’t respond to him, wouldn’t tell him what happened, nor would she let him remove her hand to inspect her wound. So he settled for hoisting her over his shoulder and running back up the stairs to deal with it instead, grabbing her discarded backpack that had dropped to the floor on the way up.

When the door was locked both ways and he brought her to the bathroom, finally out of the immediate threat of danger, his legs gave out on him. He collapsed to his knees and hurriedly set her on the ground on her side. He had to take a minute to rest his head, as he felt the threat of fainting dance around his vision, until a coughing spell came and brought with it another session of dry heaving, which was the worst possible timing imaginable. He could hear her breathing grow heavier and more vocal, until she was just groaning in one long drag of pain, only taking breaks to inhale and repeat.

When his symptoms finally passed over and he didn’t feel like he was about to black out, Kogami turned his attention back to Akane, who still laid on her side, curled into a fetal position. Her hair clung to her forehead, covered in sweat, and her skin felt hot to the touch.

“What happened? Did you get scratched?” he asked, but he still couldn’t get a response out of her, probably because she was in too much pain to form words, let alone coherent sentences. She still clung to her arm.

He noticed her fingers covered in blood, so he retrieved one of the first aid kits from the backpack nearest to him. With careful force, he rolled her onto her stomach to straddle her and wrenched her hand away from the wound, pinning her wrist to the floor and leaning down to inspect the damage.

She nearly screamed when it was exposed to the air and writhed in pain when he tried to pull away the torn fabric of her shirt, which stuck to her skin. What he saw underneath was nauseating, as was the smell. It was too deep and too wide to be just a scratch.

When he noticed what looked like teeth marks, his spine stiffened, his eyes widened, and his stomach sank through the floor.

Akane had been bitten.

He had to force himself to stay calm.

This wasn’t the first time it had happened to someone he knew. He hadn’t been there when his best friend was bitten; he’d only heard stories after the fact, which was gruesome all on its own. He never imagined he’d have to experience something like it himself.

“Cut it off,” she pleaded suddenly through gritted teeth. Her voice was strained and it cracked when she spoke. Kogami was visibly taken aback.

“What?” he asked, even though he’d heard her just fine, knew what the words meant, and knew it was the most logical course of action. But there was something terrifyingly raw about her words that prevented him from connecting them to reality.

Cut it...off? Was he even capable of doing that? There was no anesthesia, no way to numb her, and all he had for means of cutting was an old kitchen knife. Just the thought of hurting Akane, by any means, made his stomach churn. And she was asking him to...cut her off arm?

“Hurry!” she yelled. “Before it spreads more!” That was all she managed to get out before her words melted into a sharp cry that made him jump. He watched as her hands balled into white fists on the floor. He knew he had to do something.

When Ginoza had been bitten, he had required an impromptu amputation. Kogami hadn’t been there when it happened, so he didn’t have a clue as to how he should do this, though he doubted Masaoka knew any better than he did, and he’d succeeded. Ginoza had survived an amputation with essentially the same tools Kogami had. Now he was alive and well, surely out there searching for them right in that moment. If Gino could survive, Akane could survive, too.

He had to do this, or else she would die. Or she would turn. Although to him, they were essentially the same thing.

Kogami left her on the floor temporarily, and returned shortly with everything he needed that they had available. His hands trembled at the thought of what he was about to do.

A sheet was laid on the floor, and he set her atop it. Her sleeve was rolled up to her shoulder where he disinfected the skin as best as he could. He sat on her back, holding her down with his weight, trapping her free arm between her torso and his leg. He gave her a cloth to bite down on. Like it was going to help anything.

He was really going to do it.

He held the knife tightly in hand, pressing the blade against her skin. He focused on breathing slowly, calming himself. He had to do this, and to do it, he had to be focused. He had to ignore her cries, ignore the way her body would thrash against him, and he had to be quick.

He swallowed thickly. She yelled at him in desperation, crying around the cloth for him to hurry, for him to just do it and get it over with.

So he did. And Kogami swore he would never forget the sound of pure, anguished agony as she screamed while he did.

Even after it was over, after he wrapped what was left of her arm in tight bandages, after collecting the mess and her dismembered limb in the sheet and throwing it down the stairs, she groaned in agony as she drifted in and out of consciousness behind the bathroom door.

It killed him to sit there and listen, unable to do anything about it.

But he figured it was best to separate himself until she regained enough strength to do anything other than lay on the floor and sob, until his infection passed or was no longer contagious, whichever came first. Either way, it was a waiting game. He found himself counting the minutes it took for her to regain consciousness every time she fell silent. He hated listening to her cry but the sound relieved him immensely despite that. It meant she was still her, still alive.

In her backpack, he found a number of small, labeled bottles that all contained various types of medicine. Her venture had been successful, it seemed. At least there was that.

Among the pill bottles Kogami found a familiar name, levofloxacin. He was pretty sure that was one of the antibacterials used to treat pneumonia. There were tons of variations of the illness and subsequently there existed a wide variety of medications to treat it, and he couldn’t be sure which would be the most effective without knowing which strain he carried in his lungs.

But what he held in his hand was the only thing she’d brought back that had a chance of helping, so he took two pills anyway, then moved on to look through the rest of the bottles, taking a mental inventory.

A few minutes later, his stomach convulsed. The pills did not want to stay down, just like everything else he swallowed. He tried to inhale through his nose and exhale through his mouth and clenched the muscles of his abdomen, gripping the pill bottles in his hand tightly, as if focusing all of his energy on straining his body to keep still would fight off the urge to vomit. He had to keep these pills down. He had to.

Time seemed to pass slowly as he sat there, his whole body rigid to fight it off, and eventually the urge passed, and he let himself breathe, his head relaxing against the door in exhaustion.

On the other side of the door, Kogami heard Akane stir again. This time, she seemed a little more alert than before. Though, by the severity of her crying, she sounded as if she was in just as much pain.

Then he realized what he was holding in his hands, what he was sifting through in her backpack. They had ibuprofen on hand but he wasn’t sure that would do anything substantial to help her. But if there was an opioid among these…

He thought hard for the names he could remember… there was morphine, fentanyl, hydrocodone, oxycodone--wait, he remembered reading that on one of the bottle labels.

“Kogami,” her aching voice said through the door. It was breathy and quiet, hardly above a whisper, and it sounded more like a question than anything. As though she were searching for him. Her breathing seemed heavy, like the act of saying his name alone was an exhausting task all on its own. He could hear the tears on her face.

“I’m here,” he said, rummaging through the bottles as quickly as he could. He could hear her sigh of relief in between labored breaths. She didn’t say anything else; she was probably too exhausted to, or she just passed out again. When he found the bottle of oxycodone, he decided to risk it, and checked on her so that he could change her bandages and offer the pain reliever. If she was still awake, that is.

And she was. She was staring at the floor when he entered, and her body was angled awkwardly, as though she’d been laying on one side for too long but was unable to switch to the other. Her bangs clung to her forehead, her cheeks were dirty and stained with tears, and her shirt felt damp in some places when he removed it to tend to her bandages.

She seemed aware of his presence, evidenced by the slow, focused movements of her eyes following him, but she didn’t say anything. She laid completely still while he unwrapped the gauze and replaced it, other than a few involuntary spasms of pain.

The only response he could get from her was a nod of approval when he asked if she wanted to try taking the oxycodone he’d found, and he held up the back of her head while she sipped some water to swallow the dosage. With his thumb he wiped away her tears before they were replaced with a seemingly endless, silent stream.

He wanted to hold her for longer, to cradle her in his arms while they...did what? Wait? What else were they able to do?

He was sick, growing weaker by the minute, attempting to fight off an infection with a medication that only had a small chance of being effective, and she was recovering from an amputation without a sliver of proper medical care. Neither of them were in any shape to continue their search for transportation to get back to the others, or any sort of help, for that matter. Their options were pretty much limited to sitting around and waiting for help to come to them, and to stay alive in the meantime.

Against his desires, Kogami decided it was best to let her rest without further risk of infection from him, but he couldn’t bring himself to sit anywhere else in the room besides the bathroom door. It wasn’t the most comfortable, and after awhile his ass had gone numb, but he refused to leave her alone.

Outside the window, he could see the shadow cast from the lowering sun on the makeshift SOS flag Akane had posted billowing in the wind. He smiled, internally praising her for her quick thinking. At this point, it was the only thing they could rely on for help. If he survived long enough for Ginoza and the others to come searching for them and finding the flag, he would owe her his life.

As the sun sank further, leaving the room a dull orange, Kogami found his eyes begging him to let them close. He could feel the skin beneath them visibly sagging the longer he forced himself to stay awake. It wasn’t safe to sleep without someone staying on guard, so he couldn’t. He refused to further jeopardize her safety. He’d already been the cause in what lead to her passed out on the floor. He’d already been the cause of her screaming.

In the silence of the evening it was hard to keep it from coming back to mind. If he wasn’t actively trying to think of something else, it would catch him off guard, and he would be tormented to the memory of holding the knife while she struggled to hold herself still underneath him, and he would find himself on the verge of hyperventilating.

To distract himself, he thought of his mother. He wondered if she had survived this long, if at all. The cold realist in him knew without a doubt that she hadn’t, and she had likely died a painful death at the hands of them. Still, he pictured her smile, warm and bright and unforgettable, like the way Akane’s face looked when she told him for the first time that she loved him. He wondered what his mother would have thought of Akane, meeting her with the knowledge of their relationship rather than the pretext of just being a coworker. Back then it was so much more complicated.

Life as a whole had been so much more complicated. Even he, a quiet man who liked to live comfortably and simply, could admit that he missed a life like that,.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Akane stirring inside the bathroom. He’d counted nineteen minutes, almost exactly on the dot, which was shorter than before, and she didn’t seem to be crying. Was that a good sign?

Almost immediately, he retracted that thought as a particularly low sound could be heard from behind the door, one that made his spine rigid and his blood run cold.

She growled. And it was not unlike theirs.

He waited, frozen. His breath was held tight in his lungs, while his ears listened in high alert for something more.

It didn’t happen a second time. Instead, she fell silent. He didn’t exhale until his lungs were screaming at him to breathe, and even then, he continued to listen intently for the next noise, the next anything, be it a cry, a shuffling of her clothes, he didn’t care what it was. But nothing happened.

A few uneventful minutes passed. Kogami was almost able to relax by the end of them, until he heard her stir once more.

“Akane,” he dared to say, his tense voice breaking the heavy silence.

“Hm?” she hummed, sounding confused and pained. But, she was conscious. No crying, and no growling. He let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Maybe in his exhausted stupor he had just imagined it.

“How are you feeling?” he asked. He felt stupid asking it, seeing as how he had a pretty fucking good idea of how she was feeling, but he didn’t know what else to say or ask.

“I don’t know,” was her whiny, mumbled answer. He still didn’t hear any crying at the very least.

“Did the medicine help?”

She answered through hefty breaths, “What medicine?”

“I gave you some a little while ago when I changed your bandages,” he explained.

“My what?”

She must have forgotten, or maybe she blacked out the memory, not that he blamed her. He wished he had that luxury. He could hear the beginnings of panic as her breathing rapidly picked up, and he guessed she’d just re-discovered her missing limb.

He started to move, as fast and as carefully as his weary body would let him, to let himself into the bathroom and console her, but she fell silent again before he could get all the way up.

It was dark outside when she woke once more. Thirty-three minutes and thirty-nine seconds. Her cries were mixed strangely with a bone-chilling growling sound that was different than before, but just as terrifying.

He hadn’t imagined it.

And when she stirred again a few minutes later, it was the same, and she didn’t respond to her name. He felt inexplicably cold.

His hopes were stretched thin when the next time she woke, when she called out for him repeatedly, and he called back to her saying things like “I’m here,” and “you’re okay,” but she didn’t seem to understand him. It was as though she could hear the sound of his voice, could hear his presence, but she couldn’t hear the words he said nor could she tell where his voice came from. She couldn’t form words of her own outside of screaming his name as her volume escalated in panic.

He desperately wanted to open the door. His hand wrapped around the knob, but his entire arm trembled so hard he couldn’t keep a grip on it. Just like her screaming, he couldn’t un-hear the growling. It was inhuman. And he was scared of what he might see if he opened the door.

She didn’t stay awake for longer than two minutes, anyway. As he let his arm fall from the knob once silence took over, he scolded himself for his act of cowardice.

He promised himself he would move to the bathroom the next time she regained consciousness, the next time he heard her voice, but he never did.

Whatever noises were coming from inside the room were not from Akane, not from his Akane, and he felt his heart harden each time she passed out again without responding to her name.

It seemed to be around midnight--although what did it matter anymore, really--when she woke for the sixth time. His eyes were surely a deep scarlet, and he could feel the skin beneath them throbbing, from his general unwellness and from lack of sleep.

That same, cold realist knew there wasn’t a point in continuing to try, but he did it anyway.

“Akane,” he said, in a voice that didn’t sound like his. It was cold and without emotion, something he’d never felt when saying her name before. Perhaps it was because he knew, deep down, that he wasn’t speaking to her anymore.

As expected, she didn’t respond.

Kogami sighed, then grit his teeth and stood to his feet.

Strangely, his hand didn’t tremble, even when he picked up the knife from the floor, the very same he’d used on her earlier. He doesn’t hesitate either, when he entered the bathroom, or even when he saw her form on the floor lying helplessly in a pathetic, growling heap.

She was facing the wall, and her clothes were drenched in sweat. He closed the door behind him, and for a minute, he just stood there, watching her.

Her body twitched, as though various nerves all over the surface of her skin were being prodded at random. When he finally knelt, and put his hand on her, he almost retracted it immediately from how hot her skin was.

She seemed to notice his presence then, turning her head, her mouth open with teeth jarringly barred. She growled at him.

Kogami swallowed the lump forming quickly in his throat. He set the knife to the floor so that he could maneuver her into a sitting position in front of him, pushing her back against the wall. She struggled with him a little, but her efforts were laughably weak and futile. He easily subdued her, even in his own weakened state, by trapping her thighs between his feet and shoving her arm behind her back. He held her in place with one hand pressed tightly against the center of her chest.

Beneath his palm, he could feel how rapidly her heart raced. It was alarming. But her eyes were what frightened him the most.

They were red around the rims and fogged over with a blanket of milky white, leaving zero trace of her lively brown behind. He stared at them with disdain, ignoring the incessant growling, while he picked up the knife.

He held it to her neck, angling the sharp end of the blade against her skin.

The utter hatred he’d reserved for himself earlier bubbled in his stomach, crushing him, weighing him down. If only he hadn’t hesitated earlier when she told him to cut her arm off, screaming at him in desperation while he sat there like a coward, scared of hurting her. Those precious seconds he wasted could have saved her. She was the braver one of the two, the one who knew what to do, the one who made the decision, the one who forced herself to lie still and endure the agony of it, while he took his sweet fucking time getting to it, all because he was scared. He had no right to be scared, not while she bravely made the ultimate sacrifice.

He was scared, and he failed her. And now he sat here, holding a knife to her throat, unable to hold back tears as he prepared to end her life because she was turning, because he hadn’t stopped it sooner when he could have. It was his fault.

He was the reason she went out on her own in the first place, and he could have helped her properly barricade the abandoned shop downstairs. It was his fault she’d been bitten and it was his fault she was turning, that she was dying, and that he had to kill her.

‘I’m sorry,” he said, his voice small and cold and pathetic, like it made any difference.

His fingers on pushed the knife, breaking through her skin, staring into eyes that didn’t belong to her anymore.

And then something made him stop, just as a small trickle of blood pooled onto the blade.

Tears formed on the crusty, scarlet rims of her eyes. Her chapped lips came together to form a word, but nothing came out that wasn’t gargled with low growls, like she was choking on them somewhere in her throat.

He sat frozen in place, watching as her body shuddered violently, and then the growling ceased, replaced by shaky, labored breaths, and a single word she somehow managed, with visible difficulty, to force out.

“Wait.”

Her blood dripped onto his fingers, and he dropped the knife to the floor.

Slowly, like stray beams of sunlight shining through a thick layer of clouds, the milky fog gave way to hints of brown, as though the tears spilling over onto her cheeks were washing it away. He could see them clearly, the traces peeking out from underneath, even through his own wet eyes.

She continued to shake in uncontrollable spasms, even as she pulled her arm from behind her back, bringing her hand to his cheek for a long moment. It was as hot, but he didn’t flinch away, even when it started to burn. Then she brought her hand to her neck, where blood was trickling from her wound.

That broke through his trance. The cut wasn’t deep, he knew, but the bleeding needed to be stopped immediately. He glanced around himself frantically, searching for something to absorb the blood, and when he found nothing in the immediate vicinity, he yanked his shirt over his head, ignoring his aching body’s shivering protest. He bundled the fabric up and shoved it to her neck, pushing her hand aside.

When her fingers came to rest on top of his, Kogami dared to look up, finding her eyes staring at his. His heart hammered in his chest. They were her eyes. The fog had faded from satin white to a dull gray glaze, but beneath it her could see her. It was unmistakable.

She was fighting it. She was coming back to him.

The realization was unbelievably overwhelming, and he found himself falling forward, the top of his head smacking into the wall as he curled his face into her shoulder, and he wrapped a trembling arm around her back, his hand clenching around her fingers that snaked into the spaces between his. He sobbed, and she sobbed into him, with him.

It wasn’t long before he fell into a coughing fit. He turned his head sharply to the side to avoid coughing on her, and she held him feebly while they waited for it to pass, but by then, she lost consciousness again.

The bleeding from her neck had slowed enough for him to bandage it properly. While he was at it, he checked the gauze on her arm and changed that too, and as the minutes passed he found it harder to keep his eyes open. In the dresser drawers he found two replacement shirts for both of them; the smallest one he could find was loose-fitting on her frame, but considering how terribly coated her body was with sweat, it was for the best.

After all of that, he didn’t feel right leaving her alone anymore, so he decided to hole up with her in the bathroom. It happened to be the warmest section of the apartment, and since he’d subjected himself to being exposed half naked to the air, even with a new shirt he couldn’t stop shaking. Her temperature helped considerably once he pulled her against him, her back to his front, while she lay sprawled between his legs.

Though she was small, her weight was heavy enough to make it harder for him to breathe, but he couldn’t care less. He refused to be separated from her.

Part of him, the rational part, recalled exactly why he’d kept the door between them in the first place. That same part of him was sensible enough to grab the various medicines, along with water, the sleeve of crackers she’d forced on him, and their weapons before he resigned himself to the bathroom.

The part of him that felt like iron, debilitated and in desperate need of sleep, couldn’t remember if he’d locked the door or not. From where they sat he could see it clearly, but he pulled the gun to rest closer to him, just in case.

Her warmth called to him, lulling him to let his eyes close, but he refused to sleep until she woke again. This time there was no growling, not anything remotely inhuman, and her eyes were almost back to normal. Despite how heavy he felt all over, that much made his chest feel considerably lighter.

He had her drink some water and gave her another dose of pain medicine. He tried to get her to eat something, to at least nibble on some crackers, but she fluctuated between full consciousness and a half-asleep state too frequently for her to make much progress with eating. He, himself, was starting to slip, his body giving out on him. He knew he couldn’t force himself to stay awake forever.

It came down to waiting from there, as neither of them had the strength to move from that spot. Survival depended on the flag she’d hung outside. His arms clung to her, wrapped tightly around her front, while he let his gnawing eyes finally close.

If they were going to survive, it would be because of her.

He must have fallen asleep, because his eyes flashed open suddenly, and sunlight now filled the room. The sun had come up. For a moment, he sat there, confused; he felt like he’d been woken by something. It couldn’t have been Akane because she lied still against him, sleeping quietly. He didn’t see anything in the room before them, and the door was still closed.

Then he heard it. There was something moving downstairs.

His hand moved for the gun sitting beside him, while his arm screamed at him in the process. His entire body was stiff, throbbing with a dull ache. He ignored it, releasing the safety on the gun and securing the soles of his boots into the tiled floor, pinning himself in place in case he needed to shoot. He stared at the door intently, waiting with his breath drawn.

Voices could be heard, though they were muffled through the floor between them. Then he could hear footsteps up the stairs, and a voice he recognized yelled in horror at something gruesome on the middle landing.

His heart started racing. He listened on, his eyes fixed on the doorknob.

The voice grew louder, and Kogami quickly realized it was accompanied by others. There were three, and he recognized two of them. Whoever the third belonged to, they were a stranger to him.

For a second he was worried he was hallucinating, until the footsteps stopped just outside the door and were replaced by banging when the doorknob wouldn’t turn, which made Akane stir. Though she didn’t wake all the way, he was relieved to know he wasn’t the only one hearing things.

A voice called out their names from behind the door, and Kogami swore he could have started crying right then and there when, in his near-delirium, he put a name to the voice. He attempted to call back, but his voice came out raspy and quiet, and then he started coughing before he could clear his throat and try again. It still did the trick, at least.

“I hear Kogami in there,” he heard Ginoza say urgently. “Where’s the ax?” Moments later someone was smashing the door apart near the knob, until a hand reached through the wreckage and unlocked it, and then the door opened.

He could have felt more relieved if he wasn’t busy trying to keep his stomach from violently dispelling its contents. His head turned to the side to keep from coughing directly on Akane, he couldn’t see who broke down the door.

“Oh my god,” he heard, this time a female’s voice. Kunizuka. Guess they didn’t look to be in that great of shape.

“We have to move quickly,” said the third person Kogami didn’t recognize. “Before more of them wander this way.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ginoza enter the bathroom and kneel in front of them. He didn’t say anything, probably staring at the horror that was Akane’s missing limb evidenced by the empty sleeve hanging from her shoulder. If anyone knew the pain of dismemberment like she did, it was him.

The coughing subsided moments later, and by then Ginoza was starting to lift her semi-conscious body from Kogami’s arms. She stirred some more as her head fell against his chest, and she mumbled something incoherent, which Ginoza ignored, passing her to the newcomer with bright orange hair.

That made him alert. He trusted Ginoza to handle her, but a complete stranger?

“Who’s this?” he asked, his tone overprotective and bitter. He started to move to get up, but then his legs, weak and trembling, gave out on him, and he fell back on his ass. His head began to spin, and the edges of his vision started to cloud with black around the edges.

“There’s no time to explain,” Ginoza said, kneeling back down to help Kogami up. “You can trust him. Kunizuka, take the front.” Yayoi, who’d busied herself with recollecting all the supplies strewn on the floor and shoving them into their discarded backpacks, stood and nodded, shouldering the packs and picking up the ax. She temporarily erased the look of deep concern her face to lead the way back down the stairs, followed closely by the newcomer holding Akane, and then by Ginoza carrying Kogami on his back.

He must have lost consciousness on the way down, because the next time he woke he was seated in the back of a car. Akane, still asleep, was strapped in next to him, and Kunizuka sat beside her, gripping her hand. Ginoza was driving and the stranger with odd hair sat in the passenger seat, positioning a rifle out of the cracked window, ready to shoot. Though from what Kogami could see out the windshield, there were no immediate targets in sight.

“You’re awake,” Kunizuka announced.

“What the hell happened?” Ginoza asked. Kogami grabbed his throbbing forehead. The memories of the past twenty-four hours suddenly felt blurry, now that he was no longer trapped in the bathroom, and he could breathe knowing proper medical attention waited in their near future.

A lot had happened, emotionally and physically. His stomach quivered at the thought of recounting the nightmare of it all, so he said nothing. That in itself seemed to say everything.

#my fics #shinkaneweek #shinkane #psycho pass #akane tsunemori #shinya kogami

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appleasing · 4 years

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Light Observations as an Art Student in Quar

It’s strange being interested in art right now. With a great deal of the world (rightfully) panicked that they will be getting a potentially-deadly disease, it feels selfish to be wondering, “but what will happen to Art?” However, as it has it I’m an art student who was removed from her studio due to school closings, who wants to work in the field upon graduation, and I can’t help but be curious.

While art schools were closing and galleries were postponing events, there was speculation that corona would be great for creation. Quarantine was supposed to stimulate artists, with no shortage of uncertainty fueling creation.

Since quarantine has started, I have had little to do besides observe what has happened to the art world, and think on what all of this means for the status quo.

Observation 1: No one was ready for this, and inconsequentially so, especially not my college.

Back in March when higher education began to close, art students were deeply concerned about rounding out their semesters. There was a hesitation in the air, with students and faculty being left in the dark over plans for studio and equipment access.

Sub-observation 1: Art professors are notoriously bad with technology, and hate answering emails (Deeply challenging in an online course).

While online classes are a valiant effort by professors trying to salvage their curriculum, there is little to be said for the value of online art learning. Students were left without the equipment they are promised when enrolling in an art program.

Sub-observation 2: I am tired of people telling me it is exciting for me to be making work in this way, right now. Art is not making me feel excited, it is making me feel useless.

Imagine you’re a carpenter. You have all your necessary tools in front of you, and you are told to build a box. Suddenly, someone comes in and tells you it is not safe to stay in your woodshop. You may not re-enter the shop until we can guarantee it is safe, and we have absolutely no clue as to when that will be. You have some tools, but one of them breaks. You cannot go to the store, and the Amazon employees are striking. You do not cross the picket line. You decide not to search for tools.

Now, everyone is very excited for the carpenter. “Aren’t you so excited to make the box? No one has ever made a box under these conditions! We are in completely unprecedented times, you should be excited to make this box.”

The carpenter is not excited, they do not learn to make a box in these new circumstances, the carpenter instead spends the next two months learning to make sourdough.

Observation 2: Cancelling everything and creating a world where I have no schedule doesn’t make me want to fill my time with making art, it makes me want to binge Saw movies.

The halting of opportunity surrounding corona is not exactly the inspiration we were all waiting for. This void of creation is not as freeing to the artist as we hoped. In fact, according to some galleries, artists are having trouble making art at all.

With the world being separated by circumstance, there is a disconnect that has formed in the arts community. In the contemporary, collaboration between artists is huge. Artists inspire each other to make art, and become invigorated by each other to make new work.

Quarantine is the antithesis of community. With no one to tangibly share work with, there is little motivation to create. Art is inherently developed to be shared, and this sharing has been completely stunted.

Observation 3: I have no idea how bad anything is, still.

At times during quarantine it is hard to figure out exactly how dire things. Turns out, mass isolation is a big deal, life-altering really,and we are having a much harder time recovering from it than certain other emergencies of yore.

In an Art Basel panel discussion, Lisa Spellman, founder of 303 gallery in New York, describes the difference between how COVID-19 is affecting art versus previous tragedies. She describes the aftermath of 9/11, and how art communities responded in its wake. She described how public officials were begging galleries to continue to host events, to retain some sense of normalcy in the city. The thing that healed New York was the sense of togetherness which brought communities back together.

In this new type of tragedy, the arts are in the fourth and final phase of New York’s reopening plan. This choice makes sense, with art being low on the list of priorities for keeping anyone healthy. However, it does mean much longer of a wait time for our communities to be able to experience that same sense of togetherness.

Observation 4: I don’t like quarantine art.

Two months into the nationwide calls for self-quarantine, there have been a slew of works being made about staying at home. Some artists are photographing themselves bored in their living rooms; some are documenting empty streets, and storefronts with signs that say “closed due to COVID-19”. Honestly? I think it’s mostly boring.

Back in 2016, when Donald Trump was first elected to office, there was a light consensus that Trump would spur a quality increase in political satire. In a matter of months, there were men painting themselves orange and adorning blonde wigs on television screens across the world. A few months after that, seeing even the bonafide Trump face on television felt like a tired, cruel joke.

In a similar way to the Trump comedians of 2017, COVID-19 art has the potential to quickly grow stale. The work is simply too surface level to be sustainable. Though potentially therapeutic to view for a moment, the audience quickly moves on as they are unable to dig deeper into work that is only observational, with no punchline.

Plus, we all know what is going on, and a dozen photographs of empty streets aren’t going to make us feel any better about it.

Observation 5: I like Instagram more than I thought I did.

It has been a delight to watch everyone try to figure out how to transform their physical presence into shareable online content. Some have done great, others are struggling a bit, but I have enjoyed the growing pains. Something is nice about seeing formal institutions being forced to figure out Instagram live.

In order to not be left behind, online programs and workshops have been developed en masse by galleries across the US. Due to this, programs that used to be sheltered in galleries are now on view through Instagram stories. In a strange way, galleries are now creating more accessible content than ever.

This forced accessibility is the most groundbreaking thing the art sphere has managed in quarantine. One thing art spaces have always failed to grasp at is how to get the everyday person into their galleries. Art has simply never been commonplace in the mind of the working class, and is dismissed as high society nonsense. Which, honestly, holds true in the old way of doing things.

Suddenly, since no one can access anything, everyone can. Anyone is able to click through a digital gallery, with institutions as big as the MOMA putting their exhibitions online for free. It makes art attainable, with no cost or intense time investment, and no need to leave the house. Maybe now it is about putting it in front of the right (new) people, but it is certainly an improvement.

This shift in attainability is game changing, and should cause museums to think long and hard about returning to their old practices. Just because quarantine is lifting, does not mean everyone has the same ability to participate in art spaces. Accessibility to a general public is something artists and galleries have been striving for for years. We are now, in a bizarre way, the closest we have ever been to that goal, and it would be a shame to see galleries reopening be the thing that shuts people out.

Closing Observation: I am not sure if the novel coronavirus will be good or bad for art but I am not even certain if that matters if we all perish.

#art #appleasing #blog

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gtseven7 · 4 years

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Seven Princes

Magical boys AU in a slightly medieval era AU.

Summary:

Seven handsome travelling entertainers capture hearts of the crowd by their amazing voices and artisic dancing as they slowly drain their audience's inner soul magic.

masterlist/next

~~~~

Magic has always been a part of humans. It resides in the deepest corners of our souls, waiting to be used. The power of the magic fuels our desire to live, our thirst for life. That ember inside us is what keeps us burning to go on. Very rare, very few people with innate prowess can tap that inner magic and use it physically.

A soul's magic is one of the strongest magic there is. Its power is immeasurable, deadly and at the same time it forges. Even the greatest magician of all cannot use it.

[[MORE]]

Magic and sorcery has always been abundant to world. But it is a part of an external source, a tool or an ingredient. It never is from the inside. Few people can use it, but not all of them knows how. The soul's power is something incomprehensible, only a link to your own ember inside can start the fire and make it spark. And once the fire was lit, the power surges. And once on the hands of a wrong person, the power darkens, bends its nature for the user.

Souls are the brightest things you could see, it would burn so bright, a light in the deepest darkest corners of the word. But it could also be the darkness that will swallow the light. Many people have been trying to get a hold of such immense power but no one knows how. Even those who were able to grip the fire inside succumbed to the dark world there is and perished with their burn out.

Its power may be the strongest of them all, but it is the life source of a human. As the magic burns, the souls burns up too until it becomes an ash. Those who had the innate ability never lived to tell, they all have gone with the wind.

It is a price to pay after all.

It burns so bright. The most beautiful thing Jaebum has ever seen. When he was younger, his father told him, always believed in him. "My son, I know you will be able to touch your soul. I just know it in my guts." He never believed his father, thinking he was delusional, still not over being overthrown on his title as the 'Greatest Sorcerer' by some young magician lad. It was his father's frustration, his dream. If only he could tap into his own, he would still be the greatest, he would still be prodigous. When his wish for himself did not pan out after obssesively trying everything to light it, he pushed his dream to his son. Jaebum had trained under extreme conditions, hoping his soul will open even just a tad bit to tap onto that immense power that elders have said to be not only a legend. He was sixteen at the time, tired and resigned to the world. His heart aches a little. When will his father stop? Magic is not all there is. Sorcery is not life. There is so much more to the world and Jaebum sees it. He wants to experience it but it was never his choice. And a good son that he is, Jaebum will comply. Jaebum will do whatever it takes to make his father realize his dream even if his own perishes. His love for music and artistic dance can be shoved down to the deepest corners of his mind.

Then it happened, right after his father's last breath. Their small town of peasants, in chaos as horses of knights from King Jean's army storms into the heart of the city. Kids and mothers running away from the black steeds as they try not to get caught and be slaves to the the tyrancy of the King. Houses were burning, small buildings fell as the snake soldiers destroy everything they touch. It was what Jaebum thought the pit would look like. Fire everywhere, children screaming and crying for help as they get dragged away by merciless men. Women fighting back for their lives and freedom, not wanting to succumb to King Jean's pleasure with his plans for them. The men of Dilfae, brave souls they are,fought with little sorcery they knew. A gift that Jaebum's father shared to the whole town. On the front lines Jaebum's father stood, small wooden stick in hand, the only magic tool he was left with. "You will not get us! This is our land!"

Harsh laugh from men who deemed it right to trample on peasants echoed in Jaebum's head. It angers him. But he was still but a child in his father's eyes, sheltered in a small hut that has tumbled down. From a great distance, he could see his father give his all. Dilfae became their home and his father will fight to death to protect its people. Because when he became nothing, the people of what seemed to be a small pathetic town welcomed them over and loved them outside magic and sorcery.

Tumbling down the dirt, Jaebum's father coughed up, red slowly rose up his throat. The men on their steeds cackled as they go over the other parts of the town to put the symbol of their claim. Jaebum ran over, his gangly legs stumbled as his heart races in his chest. He could still make it, he could still save his father.

"Pa!" He called out. What used to be the Greatest of them all, was lying on the dirt like a piece of trash. "Pa! You'll be okay. Don't worry!" Jaebum, even with his hands shaking, helped his father up, both were kneeling on the ground, already feeling large doses of thick liquid gushing out from the older man's stomach. Tears were streaming down the son's face as he chants a healing spell his father thought him. "You will be healed Pa. This is nothing."

His father smiled, his face showed he knew the finish line has come. He cupped his son's cheeks. "Jaebum, I know you have it in you. I know you never believed it, but I know. I..urgh...know...I know it in my heart."

Dread climbed up to the teen's throat. His father's eyes are fluttering close but he still kept chanting the healing spell. He still tried, he would save his father. He wouls save his Pa. Hugging him, Jaebum kept on saying the phrases, choking on his own sobs. Burying his head on the crook of his Pa's neck as he hugged him dearly, Jaebum felt the overwhelming ache in his chest. There was unmistakable heat from inside that seemed to be tearing his heart into pieces figuratively and literally. His ears started to ring that is almost deafening. He held his father's body tighter, wishing everything would be just done. His lips chanting healing like a prayer even as he felt his father's air stopped fanning his slightly curled hair.

Then lightness. An overwhelming brightmess washed over him and everything around him.

When he opened his eyes again, the burning stopped. The literal fire around him was gone. All there was, was ruins and people of the town and enemies from another kingdom lying on the ground.

Jaebum gently put down his Pa's body and stood up. "What...what happened?" Looking around, there was no sign of movement, any hint of what chaos there was earlier. It was a dreadful peace that surrounds Dilfae with all the bodies lying down on ground dirt. The first thought that came into Jaebum's head scared him. "Are they all dead?" he asked himself, fearing what the answer may be. He walked up to the nearest body, crouched down to feel his pulse, right hand hovering over the man's chest to feel magic. If the magic still pulsates, his neighbor was still alive. And it did, in Jaebum's relief. He started shaking the man but he did not wake up.

Suddenly, a noise of feet scuffling coming from behind fallen house debris interrupted Jaebum. "Who's there?!" The noise stopped and a head peaked. It was a boy, fourteen at most. He remembered the kid. A shy boy from three houses over that seemed to always have a book in front of his face and doesn't really go out of the house. "You...Jinyoung!"

Jaebum immediately ran towards the boy, feeling very protective of the frail kid shivering in fear. "Are you okay?" The boy nodded before being enveloped in a tight embrace. Jinyoung realized he was silently crying as his tears soak up the sleeves of his older neighbor. "Ssh shh. We'll be okay. We'll be okay..." The young boy kept on crying as he hugged back. A surge of protectiveness settled in Jaebum's guts. The older of the two patted the crying boy's head, in an effort to calm him. "Are you hurt?" The shake of head saying no relieved him.

"Let's...let's get out of here for the meantime. Before more soldiers come here."

As Jaebum drags Jinyoung away, he looked back at his father's lifeless body. It aches him to leave his Pa, but he just couldn't get himself to leave the poor boy alone in fear. This is righteousness his father taught him; he will stand by it as a memory of him.

#got7 #got7 imagines #mark tuan #im jaebum #park jinyoung #jackson wang #kim yugyeom #bambam #choi youngjae #magical au #fanfic #got7 fanfic

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shianhygge-imagines · 6 years

Text

In The Name Of Love [Wrench/Reader] Finale

Series: In the Name of Love Part 4/4 Chapter Title: At The End Of My Love Words: 4,462 words

Brief AN: So, I’m back from the dead. Since I haven’t written, nor posted anything in a while, I’m going to slowly start writing and posting again. The first order of business, was to finish “In the Name of Love” because it’s been two years(I think?) since I started “Project Wrench Your Heart,” and it’s among the easiest to write out of all my series. This ending, might have you all... really livid, but I’m rather pleased with it.

edit 28/8/18 16:52: edited for POV discrepancy, and reformating

|Masterlist|

In the Name of Love: Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I want to tell you a story, my dear audience. It’s a story that anyone might be able to relate to - one about heartache. Specifically, this story is one about a young woman who fell in love with a man whose smile halted her breath, and whose tenacity would inspire her to walk with him to the ends of the Earth. It’s a story of how her love would quickly become her greatest weakness - a slow poison to eat at her mind, body, and soul.

I want to tell you that his love for her was pure, and that the two lived a life full of happiness. But that is never the case with most relationships. Despite all that she would say and do, his love for her faltered and wavered, doubts, fears, and lust consuming him while she desperately sought to save him. It wasn’t enough for him, so the young woman let him go.

Yet still, it hurt.

She loved him with all of her being. If he was in danger, she ran to his aid. Even when her life would tear at the seams, she ran to him. Even if he would hate her, she would run to him.

You would run to him.

You would help him.

You would save him.

And you would take his hate.

Because in the end, it was all for him.

“At the beginning of my love, there was only blind devotion, innocent and uncorrupted. I could only see the best in you despite your actions. I would make whatever excuse I could to keep myself blind.”

You knew that this story could only end in two ways. In one outcome, you and Wrench would both perish, losing your lives to the woman who had created such a large divide in your relationship. In another, you would rise victorious, having saved Wrench from Lydia and her deceit. The ramifications of both outcomes were dire enough that you stood, frozen, at your position in the darkening alleyway.

You had sacrificed so much for Wrench - losing your arm, your heart - and while you still held onto it yet, you were sure that you might even lose your humanity if everything went south.

Still, you waited patiently and silently as the sun set, casting the streets of east San Francisco into the dark. This was your job. Only you and Isa’s cohorts would be able to get this done.

Given that you only had one arm left to use, you’d armed yourself with a silenced pistol, extra ammo, a few grenades (of the explosive, smoke, and flash variety, and a hunting knife. In all honesty, you felt out of your comfort zone without your rifle, but having only one limb severely limited your lethality with a two handed weapon.

And then, just as the sun disappeared from the horizon completely, the screams started.

Despite knowing what would go down tonight, you flinched just the slightest. Those weren’t screams of rage, after all. They were screams of pure unadulterated terror.

You gave a count of ten before you sprinted out from the cover of the pitch black alleyway. In front of the safe house gates were three armed guards, each wore kevlar vests and held a Blume modified military grade rifle - their attention seemed to have been redirected when the screaming started, and had their backs facing you. All three seemed to have been frozen in place, no doubt horrified that someone had gotten past them. But none of them moved from their places, likely in terror.

And with your position, crouched not even ten feet away from them, it wasn’t difficult to hear why. Gunshots were heard followed by horrified screams, but unlike before, when it had only been screams, you heard begging and the sick sound of screams dying in throats. The squelches of something.

One of the guards shoved at another’s arm, “Hey, man. You go check that out.”

“W-what? Are you fucking insane? There’s a slaughter going on in there, and you want me to waltz in there and do what?” The shoved guard’s voice rose pitch after pitch in fright.

“Yeah, Wellington, if you’re in any condition to be telling Thomas what to do, maybe you should go in.” The last guard seemed about as willing to go in as the others.

“Oh fuck off, McCullum! I’ve got kids and a wife waiting for me.” Wellington snarled with a shack of his head.

“Hey! I’ve got a baby girl on the way! No way am I leaving my wife and child!” Thomas protested, before turning to look at McCullum, “And what about you?”

“…Boyfriend.” McCullum grunted quietly, crossing his arms and turning away. “…He proposed last week, but given how dangerous my job is, I didn’t answer him yet.”

“Oh yeah… that handsome doc working at the Children’s Hospital, right?” There was a sudden realization in Thomas’s tone, and by the protective glare on McCullum’s face, the guard held his hands up in surrender. “Hey! I’m not judging! You love him, and who am I to judge.”

“So we all got people waiting for us back home.” Wellington muttered, staring down at his gun and indecisively shifting back and forth on his feet. “But we also have a job. If we don’t go in, we might be out of a job. But if we go in, we might die.”

From you crouched position, you grit your teeth and clenched your hands. You wanted revenge. DedSec wanted revenge. Blume wanted revenge. But how many people, innocent people, were going to get stuck in the crossfire. The three men standing guard? They didn’t ask to be employed by such a corrupt system, but it was their living. Isa, Chikage, and their men? All they wanted was peace. You, DedSec, and Blume were the ones that dragged the others in.

You were already going to take the life of one or two individuals tonight. Did you really want to take three more?

Heaving a sigh at your sudden development of a moral conscious, you stood and holstered your gun, putting your hand up and walking around the car slowly. “Hey.”

All three men whipped around with their rifles trained on you, laser sights marking three points on your body, head, heart, and lungs, but none of them fired. Ignoring your instincts to duck for cover, you kept your hand in the air, “Beautiful night, isn’t it?”

“What the hell do you want?” It was McCullum that interrogated you with a snarl, flicking the safety off the rifle.

You made a small motion with your head towards the safe house gates. “I need to get into that place.”

Wellington gave a mocking laugh, “Are you kidding me? We’re not going to let you in, kid.”

“Well someone has to go in.” You were playing this a little too close to the chest for you liking.

“Trust me, kid, you don’t want to go in there.” Thomas warned, and as if on cue, another terrified scream rang from behind the gates.

“Hmmm.” You mused in thought, “It sounds like your coworkers are dying, sir.”

“And you’re not moving from this spot.” McCullum warned when you took a step forward.

You were getting impatient now, so you dropped the whole act. “Listen, boys, I need to get into that place one way or another, and you’re kind of in my way. It’s obvious that all of you are unwilling to go in there and help, so why don’t I make you guys an offer?”

“And why would we listen to anything you had to say?” Wellington snarled, and from the glint of a street light, you could make out his trigger finger flexing just the slightest.

“I mean… you don’t have to. Just thought I’d throw it out into the open.” When no answer came, you took it as a sign to continue. “You see those cameras up there?” you pointed with your remaining limb at the two discrete lenses poking from atop the gate and covered by some foliage. “When everything is said and done, and all your coworkers are dead, your employers are going to investigate whatever happened tonight. All they’re going to find are dead bodies in the building, and you three, standing out here, not doing anything to help. Now tell me, without a potential culprit for these murders, who do you think is going to become the figurative scape goat?” Understanding seemed to cross their expressions, and you grinned, “They’re going to blame you three. And suddenly, your names will be blacklisted and wanted everywhere. Everything you hold dead will be forfeit. And everyone. But if you let me into that safe house, I’ll give you my name, and I’ll erase all trace of your involvement with Blume, whether it be your employment with them, or your presence here today. And then I’ll get you all jobs of your choice. I’m a woman of my word.”

There was silence before Thomas spoke up, “Your name first.”

A sly smirk appeared on your lips, “Are you all in agreement? Because I’m not just going to give my name if all of you aren’t going to go along with it.”

Reluctantly, McCullum lowered his gun, and after a while, Wellington did as well. “Fine. But you better keep your word.”

“Hmm. Y/N L/N.” You mumbled, walking past them and through the gates. “And I’ll contact you all once it’s done. You should probably go home now. The authorities might arrive soon, so you’ll want to be far away.”

Without a goodbye, you strolled through the rest of the way and disappeared in the darkness.

“In the name of love, I would kill, I would steal, I would cheat, and I would lie. All for you. All for something I thought would bind us. But slowly, our love became corrupted. Was it because of me? Was I too obsessed with you? Was it because of you? Was it because you took advantage of my love and obsession? What happened to make you abandon me so? And yet still, I crave to be by your side?”

It didn’t take much to block out all the bodies littering the halls. It didn’t take much thought to block out the sounds coming from the shadows. The squelching and crazed giggles. Because deep in this mass grave, was your target. Your end goal.

“The Prince bids you good hunting.”

“Follow. Follow. Your damsel awaits.”

“Hehehe guarded by an ugly troll.”

“And a small snarling bitch.”

“Oh…”

“Troll’s dead, Troll’s dead!”

“Disgusting red. Don’t touch.”

“Don’t touch.”

“Don’t touch the bitch.”

“Don’t touch the damsel.”

“They belong to the hunter now.”

“The arrows will guide you.”

Those were among the voices that you could understand. Some were snarling, and some sounded borderline crazed. But you followed the giant red arrows leading you through the safe house anyways. You didn’t trust these goons, but you trust Isa and Chikage to keep their subordinates in line.

When you arrived at the heavy set of double doors, it’s steel complexion marred with a giant red X, you heard the giggling, louder than ever. To the side of the doors, propped up on the wall, was the corpse of a giant man with a shredded throat and multiple puncture wounds along his body. He was the man who held you down just as Lydia hacked your arm off. And you felt no remorse at his death, simply took in his face stuck in terror and turned away.

“X marks the spot.”

“The hunter found the treasure.”

“Time to kill the yipping bitch.”

“And take back the damsel.”

You took a deep breath in and waited ten seconds before exhaling, and shoving open a door, your pistol drawn to take aim.

The interior of the room was unfurnished save for a few left over tables and chairs, the paint along the walls cracked, and the ceiling missing panels. The room was dimly lit, casting shadows all over the room. And at the center of the space, stood Lydia, dressed in the same dark outfit that she’d assaulted you in.

“So, you really did survive.” An arrogant smirk was on her lips as she crossed her arms and straightened her posture to maintain a superior stance. “Too bad you were too late to save the others.”

“Where’s Wrench?” You demanded, grip firm on the pistol as you kept the firearm pointed and aimed at her.

“Wrench, Wrench, Wrench. That’s all you seem to talk about, you know? So fucking boring and predictable.” A mocking sneer twisted what would have been a pretty face before she stepped aside, allowing you to see that Wrench had been strapped to a chair and gagged. “He’s a bit roughed up, I’ll admit. And I might have broken him a little.”

A bit roughed up, yes. You could see the bright bruises on his unmasked face from where you stood. And the normally bright blue eyes of his were dull and lifeless. His clothes were disheveled and ripped, as if he’d been thrown around. But he was alive.

“Give up, Lydia. You’ve lost.” You gave it your best shot, but you were in no way as intimidating as Batman, what with only one arm, and dressed in streetwear.

“Hmmm… how about no?” Lydia drew her own gun - a hand cannon - and pointed it at Wrench’s head, turning the safety off. “You have nothing to threaten me with, Y/N. But I have lover boy. Oh… but he’s not your lover boy, is he? He’s still mine.” At your hesitance, Lydia continued to speak. “Oh you should have seen his face during this entire fiasco. He was so fucking happy that I gave him the time of day, and was all too happy to leave you. It was pathetic really. Wasn’t it Wrench?” a muffled whine of humiliation was her answer. “He wasn’t even a good fuck. Couldn’t get me off for the life of him.” Lydia released a long suffering sigh, “Not like Dusan. Now there’s a guy who was hot, wealthy, smart, and oh boy could he make me cum. But no matter. Don’t have to pretend anymore. I have what I want now. Dusan is still mine, after he left his girlfriend. And I single-handedly brought down DedSec. Now all I have to do is… tie up all the loose ends. Starting with lover boy here.”

“Oh? Are you scared of me, Lydia?” You had to get her attention away from Wrench. “C’mon, you’re scared of a one armed cripple? That’s just pathetic. Face me. One on one, just knives.” You holstered your gun and drew your hunting blade. “I know you like to use your machete, Lydia. And besides, what do you have to lose? I’m a cripple. And if you manage to kill me, you’ll only have made Wrench suffer more before you kill him.”

Lydia smirked, and brought out the machete strapped to her back, putting the hand cannon away as she waved the blade around. “Oh… I know you’re baiting me, Y/N. But you’re right. You’re an easy kill, and guns just aren’t personal enough. Fine. You have yourself a duel.”

It didn’t take a moment before Lydia was charging at you, swinging her machete with calculated aim. She wanted this duel to last - wanted to hit you in non lethal areas. It would hurt, and you would slowly bleed out, but you would last longer. Your eyes sharpened in concentration as you dodged the downward slice by dodging to the side, careful to stay on your feet because Lydia had the advantage in maneuverability.

Yes, you were baiting her, you were glad, in a sense that she caught onto your game so easily. It would make her too confident, too arrogant. It would be easy to get Lydia to slip up. So you bid your time, dodging the oddly angled attacks, getting a feel for the room and throwing some cheat shots at her.

Dodge her swing, get in close, quick slice to the abdomen, and dance back away.

Rinse and repeat.

Thanks to what Isa did, you felt like you could keep it up all night, but Lydia didn’t have that advantage, and you quickly began to notice that her motions were getting a bit lazy, there was less energy in her swings.

And then there.

Lydia faltered in her swing due to a misstep, whether it be from carelessness or fatigue, you took advantage of it. You went in and swing your hunting blade down, severing the tendon in her dominant hand, forcing her to drop the machete. She let out a harsh choked scream as she leaned forward to grab at any part of your body. Dancing to the side, you watched as Lydia overstepped, and with a well aimed kick to the back of her supporting leg, she went crashing down to the floor.

Quickly, you got to your knees, straddling the struggling woman, and taking out her hand cannon from her hip holster. With a look of distaste, you threw the hand cannon across the room before arming yourself, once more, with your hunting knife.

“GET OFF OF ME!” Lydia screamed, writhing on the floor and trying to hit you. Her attempts were weak and ineffective given that she was laying on her front instead of her back. The cut on her wrist was still bleeding severely, so she must have been feeling the effects of blood loss by now.

You didn’t lighten up on the pressure against her back, sitting firmly as you played around with the hunting knife in you hands. “An eye for an eye.” You muttered thoughtfully, before plunging the knife through her lower back, in the same place that you had been stabbed by her.

“W-what? Are you going to torture me now?” Lydia hissed in pain, “Well! D-do your w-worst! Dusan will avenge me!”

“You know,” you drawled in low bored tones, “I highly doubt he’ll care about you being gone.”

“No! He’ll get you! He’ll send people after-ARGH”

You interrupted her protests by twisting the knife just a little and pulling out. “You see… Dusan’s got bigger worries than getting vengeance for the death of his latest squeeze. He’s got to worry about DedSec.” You let Lydia go and went to stand, casually putting the hunting knife away in favor of your silenced pistol.

There was a slight shiver of satisfaction from the look of horror on Lydia’s face when she fully registered what you had said. “…no. NO! I killed them. I KILLED THEM ALL!”

Shaking your head, you took out your new cellphone and dialed a familiar number, setting it to speakerphone. The line rung once, twice, before the other person picked up, “Y/N! How is everything on your side?”

“Things are going great, Marcus!” You answered, savoring the look of horror on Lydia’s face. “How is everyone?”

“Well, they’re great! Thanks for having our backs, Y/N.” Marcus thanked, his voice sounding a bit remorseful. “Even though we don’t deserve it… Just… thanks. How’s Wrench?”

“I’m about to get him now. I’ll see you at the gates.”

“Sure thing. Be safe now.”

“Of course.” With a click the phone went dead, and you were left with the despairing wails leaving Lydia’s mouth. Flicking the safety off the pistol, you took aim at Lydia, “You know… I really wanted to make this last. Make you feel everything that the members of DedSec felt. But I realized that I would have done everything that you did to us. And I guess it’s a bit late to take the moral high ground, but for what it’s worth…” You gave a tiny smile at the woman. “At least I’ll never become like you.”

Lydia made to lunge at you just as you pulled the trigger.

She made no sound as she died. Just fell to the floor with a single bullet through her head.

A sigh left your mouth and your shoulders slumped in exhaustion. It was done. Now, all you had to do was get Wrench to safety.

Turning on your heels, you found Wrench, his shoulders shaking and tears falling from the eyes that stared at Lydia’s lifeless body. He didn’t speak as you untied him, as you ungagged him, or even as you supported him on the way out of the safe house. There was only silence and your thoughts.

Thinking back to the way that Wrench had stared at Lydia’s body, with tears streaming down his cheeks; with tears still streaming down his cheeks, you lamented that maybe he’d really loved Lydia after all. That he’d been in a one-sided love as you had. And almost bitterly, you wanted to take satisfaction that he’d experienced what he’d put you through. But it was so vindictive, that you couldn’t.

At the safe house gates, you saw that the three guards had taken your advice and left. In their place were the remaining members of DedSec, ready to receive Wrench, just like you planned.

“Wrench!” Sitara called out in worry, she and Marcus sprinting over. “Y/N… I’ve got him.” The woman assured you, pulling Wrench away from your side so that you could balance your entire body again. “Thank you. We can never repay you.”

As Sitara led Wrench towards Josh and Ray, who stood by as guards, you couldn’t help but see Wrench look back at you. Solemnly, you waved your arm in farewell, “Get better soon.”

“You’re not coming back with us?” Marcus questioned, peering at you through his lensless purple glasses. “Wrench might need you.”

Your face set in a heavy frown as you shook your head. “I’m not coming back to DedSec. And I’m not going back to Wrench.”

“But… he needs you, Y/N.”

“No…” you protested, crossing your arms to create a makeshift shield. “Wrench needs his friends. He needs you, Sitara, Josh, Ray, and even Wrench Jr. But he doesn’t need me.” Seeing the argument that Marcus was going to start, you firmly stood your ground and said what you needed to. “I love Wrench. From the bottom of my heart, I do. But the relationship that we had, that we have… it’s poison. For both of us. And in order for either of us to be able to function, I have to leave. So long as I’m around him, I’ll continue to tempt myself, and to make him feel bad.”

“So you’re just going to leave?” Marcus snarled, “Without saying goodbye to him?”

“I think he and everyone else heard me, Marcus.” You huffed, eyeing the group in the truck, who stared looking extra guilty. “But you know that I’m right. And you know that I’m right. So unless fate makes it so, this is the last that you’ll see of me, Marcus.” With one last nod towards the members of DedSec, you bid them farewell, walking down the street and out of sight. “I wish you all the best.”

One week later…

ZzzzzZttt

“So you are a woman of your word.”

You took a long swig of your drink and gazed, unimpressed at the man before you. “Yes, Mr. McCullum, that’s what I said last week.” You gestured towards the open seat at the cafe table. “Sit.”

ZzzzzZttt

It was the first time you saw McCullum since your first meeting, and in the day, dressed casually, you could finally make out what he looked like. Tall, probably in his mid-thirties, short beard and styled short black hair. He was a handsome fellow, that’s for sure, though his ice blue eyes were intimidating.

“I heard from Wellington and Thomas.” McCullum informed you, analyzing you critically. “They said you wiped their employment with Blume and got them jobs at Cybertech and Abstergo. You’re a difficult person to track down, Y/N.”

ZzzzzZttt

Another long sip of your drink as you watched the people go by from behind your sunglasses. “I did contact you, McCullum. You just overreacted.”

ZzzzzZttt

“Of course I overreacted!” McCullum snarled defensively, “You contacted my fiancé!”

ZzzzzZttt

“Ah. I should also congratulate you on the engagement!” you sent the taller man a bright and beaming grin, genuinely happy that someone you knew had a happy romance going on.

“Ah.. Yes…” McCullum coughed, a blush making its appearance on his cheeks, “Thank you, by the way, for the engagement gift.”

Your smile widened, “I’m glad you two liked it!”

“But… ah… isn’t an entire apartment a bit too much?”

ZzzzzZttt

“Nonsense!” You protested with a kind smile, “The two of you were living in the slums, and that just wouldn’t do. Though I suppose, you’re here to ask me about that job, now, right?”

“I… Yes…. I wanted-”

ZzzzzZttt

… The table fell silent as you glared at the cell phone in your bag.

“You know that I don’t mind if you get that, right, Y/N?” McCullum cleared his throat, staring as you took the offending object out. “It must be important.”

With a grimace, you unlocked your phone to find several unread messages:

Wrench 2:30pm

>> Y/N. I know that you’ve been reading these. Answer me.

Wrench 2:32pm

>> Please? Answer something?

Wrench 2:35pm

>> I’m sorry, alright? I never should have doubted you. I shouldn’t have betrayed you.

Wrench 2:37pm

>> It’s not the same at DedSec without you.

Wrench 2:38pm

>> And you just disappeared from our radar like that.

Wrench 2:40pm

>> I never got to say goodbye to you.

Wrench 2:42pm

>> I wish we could try again.

Typing a quick reply and sending it, you quickly placed the phone down and went back to addressing McCullum. “Sorry for that. Anyways, while I did get rid of all the evidence concerning your involvement with Blume, you gave a bit of a shock when you requested your ideal job.”

McCullum leaned forward in his seat, his ice blue eyes holding all the seriousness that his being could muster. “I was serious, Y/N. I want to work for you.”

A grin crossed your face, and you nodded, clearly elated at the prospect of employing McCullum. “Tell me, McCullum. What do you know about CyberMasque?”

“At the end of my love, I finally see what I must do. I tried so desperately for you to see me as I saw you. I didn’t want to give up on you. But your words, your actions… that in the end, when all was said and done, nothing had changed in your stubborn heart. I know what I must do now.”

Y/N L/N (Me) 2:44pm

>> Let me go, Wrench. Forget about me. Move on.

Wrench 2:45pm

>> I don’t think I’ll ever.

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed my work, please consider buying me a Ko-fi!

#shianhygge #shian imagines #watch dogs 2 wrench #wrench imagine #reader x wrench #wrench x reader #wrench #watch dogs 2

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dreamofcentipedes · 5 years

Text

Red Lotus Blooms: 5 - A Rude Wind

Summary: A monster is forged in flame. As light burns out, red leaves unfurl. Tatara’s destiny is entwined with another: this is his story.

Characters: Kousuke Houji

Rating: Teen Words: 9,902 Link to AO3

Link to Table of Contents.

A/N: Sorry for the wait, but seeing as this chapter is almost as long as all the rest combined, I hope it’s worth it!

Small mistake last chapter: I referred to the “1st Ward Headquarters” when it should be the “1st District Headquarters” as Beijing is divided into districts, not wards.

Something was carried in the wind. Something sharp and altogether unpleasant. That was Houji’s impression when he first left the aeroplane to feel the Chinese air blow rebelliously at his face, as if the nation was rejecting him from the start. But he did not come here for leisure time. He was here to make war, or rather, to end it. He was being dropped into the middle of an ongoing battle which the Chinese CCG as an entity entire felt unequipped to face. So they had requested the aid of the Japanese CCG. And the Japanese CCG had requested him.

“Special Class, if you don’t mind me asking – why me? Beyond my familiarity with the language, I don’t see why…”

Yoshitoki Washuu gave one of his traditionally gentle and reassuring smiles. “You are overly modest, First Class Houji. First Class Mado has recommended you in the strongest possible terms, and his intuition has proven time and time again to be nothing to scoff at. As for your achievements, well, they speak for themselves. I don’t think the Clowns will dare raise their heads again after the punishment you put them through.”

Houji could not help but give a small smile at the praise. “Thank you for your kind words. But if the scale of the threat is truly what the reports have indicated, might it not be best to send in someone more experienced? I’m still only a First Class Investigator.”

“Houji, you are only still a First Class Investigator because the promotion ceremony would delay this expedition. You are well worthy of the Associate Special Class rank already. And after this, who knows?”

Houji put his hand thoughtfully to his chin. To be promoted so rapidly, even beyond his mentor, First Class Mado…it felt wrong, somehow, as though he did not deserve it. He opened his mouth to offer another polite objection, when –

“Or do you not think you can do it?” Yoshitoki asked him, his eyes piercing and the corner of his mouth smirking gently upright in challenge.

Houji closed his mouth, and his brow furrowed. Yes, this was a mission he was being entrusted with, after all. He would not fail. “That is not so, Special Class Washuu. If this is truly your wish, then I mean to carry it out to my utmost ability. I will not fail you.”

“Then it is decided.” Yoshitoki chuckled.

And so, when all the paperwork was processed, Houji found himself on a jet plane to Beijing. His journey was suffused with doubt. How could any single person possibly turn the tide for them? The enormity of Chi She Lian’s forces made the Clowns live up to their name – a practical joke next to an organisation of this apparent discipline and efficiency. Conservative estimates calculated that they must be ruling over two thirds of the ghouls in their capital. As he watched the barren mountains loom up underneath him like a grasping hand from the underworld, he considered what his future might hold, or whether he would even have one. How long would he be here, exactly? One wrong move, and it could be forever.

He was met at the airport by a tall, wiry fellow with thick-rimmed glasses and a solemn countenance. He introduced himself as Jiang in a voice that mumbled from the depths of the earth.

“Are you the investigator in charge of this mission?” Houji asked after introducing himself, hoping his doubt wouldn’t show in his voice.

“Ah, no, perish the thought.” Jiang responded in a completely even tone. “That would be Special Class Wu. I’m something of a personal assistant to her, in an unofficial capacity.”

Her? Houji’s ears pricked up. He reminded himself that he ought not be surprised after witnessing First Class Aura’s excellence in the field. Times were changing, and for the better. Still, to have reached Special Class already – China must either be a very modern nation, or this Wu must have broken the glass ceiling with an overwhelming force of talent.

“I see. Where is Special Class Wu now?”

Jiang gave an American-style shrug. Houji silently bristled at the brazen informality, but evidently Jiang must have noticed regardless.

“Ah, forgive me. You are a young man. The youths around the office tell me I need to “loosen up”. Their words. I try to imitate them occasionally. I see you are a man of class, and will not perform such indiscretions again.”

His voice did not sound apologetic, though, it was the same flatline he said everything else in. Neither could Houji see how their ages were especially far apart. In the first place, none of this was even remotely important to the topic at hand. It had only been an hour or so after landing, and already Houji had a bad taste in his mouth.

“Special Class Wu is…well, Special Class Wu is Special Class Wu. She is, how would you put it, erratic. Likes to do things on her own terms. I don’t think you’ll like her.”

Houji put a mental hand to his forehead. He was starting to see why their investigation wasn’t getting anywhere. Breathing out an internal sigh, he told himself to reserve his judgement. For all he knew these people were the same kind of eccentric geniuses as Kureo Mado, and he had worked alongside him splendidly. For now, he reminded himself that he was the outsider here. First and foremost, he had to learn from them.

“Special Class Wu…” Jiang mused, looking off somewhere into the distance. “Hm. Haven’t said that in a while.”

Houji was now seriously worried. “You haven’t seen her in that long?”

“Oh no, she could hardly do without her pet monkey.”

…Was he referring to himself that way?

“It’s just that, no-one really calls her by that name.”

“What do they call her by?”

Jiang gave the dullest snicker Houji had ever heard. “Well, it’s…I think it’s best you met her first. Then you’ll understand it. Well, without further ado, I’ll take you to our First Ward HQ.”

With that, Jiang walked off to the escalator that would take him to the car park. Houji followed him with a sceptical eye.

It was Houji’s first time in Beijing. He had been to China before on school trips offered by the Academy Junior School for those taking the Chinese language elective, but never to the capital. As he watched the city roll by outside the car window in the evening light, it very much reminded him of Tokyo. The same great illuminated monuments to business and commerce and prosperity stood tall and proud in the skyline, while the more modest but nonetheless decent housing units rushed by in front of them. The same sense of cramp, the same thorough urbanity. Yet there was still a great scent of ‘difference’ in the air: not so palpable as the hostile wind that had greeted him at the landing zone, but the slight sense of unease any unfamiliar territory might give you, digging up the instincts of the ancient hunter-gatherer unsure whether predators might be lurking round the corner. Only Houji was sure. He was here to fight them.

The 1st District Headquarters was, as Houji well expected from Tokyo’s precedent, a gargantuan building with the same slick futuristic sheen common to the CCG style in every country. Even here, however, the sense of difference pervaded. He only had to enter the building to see a brief array of the faces of overtime workers finally heading home – but none of them he knew, and though he understood their chatter, it did not come naturally to him.

The layout was also different, and somewhat counterintuitive, but Jiang was there to lead him to the Information Desk where he recorded his arrival and was filled in on the bare bones of organisational detail, as well as the location of the flat they have procured for him. As a ‘guest of honour’, so to speak, Houji was flattered he would be given his own private accommodation rather than a crowded barracks that a larger, lower-ranking force might have to deal with. A fat file was slapped on the counter in front of him at the end of their debriefing with his name written in kanji on a large post-it-note. The case files for Chi She Lian, he presumed.

That was it for today, Jiang told him, and he expected to see him the next day at 9AM sharp. Houji asked if Special Class Wu would be joining them. Jiang made as if to shrug, stopped himself, and settled for an enigmatic and unhelpful “We’ll see”. Sighing when he was out of sight, Houji used the keys he was given to unlock his temporary vehicle and drive to his temporary home, which was comprehensively decent for all intents and purposes.

The next day, he arrived at 9AM sharp, not so much because of Jiang’s warning but because of his inherent punctuality. Jiang himself arrived fifteen minutes late. Houji, pursing his lips, spent the beginning of this apparent break trying to see if he could find a female investigator among his fellow punctual investigators, but it was as male as his Junior Academy locker room. Where exactly was he supposed to look to for leadership? As he let out another covered sigh, he noticed something.

All the eyes in the room were on him. Not subtly, or flickeringly, as any stranger to a workplace might expect, but earnestly and expectantly.

Could it be that they were looking to him for leadership?

It would make sense. He had been assigned this mission on a condition of parity with the leaders of the Beijing team. And it seemed that neither the squad leader nor her self-proclaimed monkey intended to offer any leadership of their own, so that only left him.

Houji stood up from his allocated office desk and bowed.

“I’m First Class Kousuke Houji, an investigator from Tokyo. I’m here to assist with the Chi She Lian case. I look forward to working with you.”

The frost of tension slowly but surely began to melt, as they began to approach him and make conversation with him. They seemed to be truly grateful to have him – even relieved, somewhat. They began asking him a whole host of questions about the case which Houji, having only read the case files the night before, felt woefully ill-equipped to answer; yet they seemed to appreciate what suppositions he could offer anyway and nodded enthusiastically.

It was around this time that Jiang showed up. As soon as he entered the room the chatter died down and the investigators buried their heads back into their cubicles. Houji wondered at this man who could simultaneously break the rules and display the utmost impertinence and yet send his own subordinates into such a pitiful display of submission. He looked behind Jiang’s shoulder, but there was no female investigator behind him.

It seemed Jiang had glimpsed the commotion before his entry into the room, as he gave Houji a side-eye and sardonically congratulated his popularity. From that point onwards, the real work began – or so Houji thought. They laid out the essentials of the case, zoned in on recent potential evidence and suspicious happenings, went through reports of alleged sightings of the man in the red iron mask, and sorted the believable from the spurious with more or less unanimity according to Jiang’s line. If lacking a certain creativity, it was typical, solid investigation work, and Houji was briefly uplifted at the genuine competence of the division.

However, there was one thing that unnerved him throughout the process and that was confirmed to him at the day’s end, after Jiang dashed off and the team extended an invitation for Houji to join them for a meal and some drinks. Flattered by their ready acceptance of him, Houji accepted in turn, and, at the Dim Sum restaurant around the corner, he got to know some of their real thoughts about the leadership and the case as a whole.

It transpired that the work day he had experienced, which would have been a perfectly respectable starting point, was the same work day that they endured week in and week out. They went over the same evidence and same arguments on a daily basis, with a new dead-end lead cropping up maybe once in a few months. The lack of enthusiasm Houji had noticed from everyone at the meeting apart from himself was beginning to make much more sense: the investigation into the biggest ghoul threat Beijing had faced in recent history was proceeding at the pace of a sea slug. Houji had expected complications – they wouldn’t have called him in, otherwise – but the situation was far worse than the reports had dared to say, presumably to preserve the reputation of the Chinese CCG. No wonder they had been so pleased to see him.

Apparently, it had not always been this way. There was a time – two years before – when they were almost certain that they had Chi She Lian in their sights. One more slip-up and they could nail them to the wall. But the final, damning piece of evidence never showed up. Their leads tailed off into oblivion, and to that day no-one was quite sure what happened. The best they could come up with in the end was: “Guess they realised they were getting sloppy.”

Since then, their material had been frustratingly sparse. Even while large-scale turf wars had undoubtedly been breaking out, the only information they’d managed to collect from the battle scenes concerned the ghoul groups decimated by what they assumed had to be Lian: and nothing about Lian themselves. All of a sudden this enormous organisation had become completely invisible, with what seemed to be an uncanny dedication to erasing all traces of their presence, save the corpses of their enemies. The passion of two years ago was extinguished: now even Jiang, who had been the soul of passion back in the day, could not summon the will to show up to work on time.

Houji struggled to picture this image of Jiang, but they had enough mysteries on their hands already. There was one mystery that was bothering Houji the most.

“Was it the same way for Special Class Wu?”

His team blinked at him for a moment.

“Special Class – ah, you mean – well – can we call her that here?”

“We call her that to her face, in the office.” Another responded. “Everyone does. She’s taken it on as a badge of pride.”

“Well yes, but with First Class Houji…”

“It’s alright.” Houji interjected. “I won’t make a fuss, whatever it is.”

One swallowed before taking a sip of his drink, and then swallowed again.

“We call her – ah – we call her the Whale.”

Houji instinctively frowned, and his companions looked bashful.

“The Whale? Why?”

“Well, um, it’s really best you see her yourself. She likes it, though. The whale swallows everything in its path, she says. Ah, but she’s not like Jiang. She’s the only one who’s still keen on the case. Obsessively so, if it’s off the record.”

The more answers he got about this Wu, the more questions he had. It was an entire month of the same tiresome and unproductive schedule before he had some of those questions answered. On that day, finally, Wu came to the office.

No-one in their group had any idea she was coming. So when Jiang arrived even later than usual with the famous investigator in tow, chaotically the room scrambled into order. When he saw her, as was promised, Houji understood that peculiar nickname.

Special Class Wu was a large woman. Excessively so. Although Houji would never say such a thing out loud, to classify her as ‘morbidly obese’ would not be an exaggeration. She was also an excessively old woman, far older than anyone he had seen still in active duty in the CCG. She seemed well past even retirement age, pushing or even beyond seventy. And Houji could not help but think: how could this person possibly be a ghoul investigator?

He could understand if she was in the upper brass participating by command alone, like their elderly Chairman Tsuneyoshi Washuu. But being an investigator required an enormous degree of physical activity that someone of her age and fitness could not possibly possess. How on earth could she have reached the rank that she did – and as a woman, as well, starting out in as patriarchal a time as what must have been the 1950s or 60s? It was truly remarkable. The only answer Houji could think of was nepotism.

As Houji pondered all this he abruptly remembered his manners, and stood up and bowed.

“Do I have the honour of speaking with Special Class Wu? My name is Kousuke Houji, a First Class Investi-“

“Yes, yes, yes,” she drawled in a raspy but imposing voice, “You’re that Japanese greenhorn we asked for, aren’t you? Can’t imagine anyone else in this office taking on the case. Well, more fool them.”

Greenhorn? Not even Jiang had prepared Houji for this. She walked right on past him with slow and heavy steps before easing herself into her chair by the largest desk at the end of the room, which had been gathering dust since before Houji had arrived. She swung her briefcase onto the table and rummaged through its contents while the rest of the room looked on in awkward silence. Eventually she produced a plastic evidence bag containing what looked like photographs. Pulling at the seal with her wide fingers, she tipped over the bag and let them flutter onto the desk’s surface.

“Yahtzee.” She celebrated with an offputting grin stretching the corners of her wide wrinkled face, black eyes glinting beneath miniature spectacles and framed by choppy and tangled silver hair.

The room was still, before Wu impatiently called out: “Well, what are you waiting for, come see, come see!” Jiang seemed to already know and hung back with just a hint of satisfaction, but everyone else gradually inched closer to the photographs in question.

“This is…” Houji began.

The photographs displayed the scowling jowls of a large man in a white robe tinged with red flames. With all the photos together, his face was fully in view.

“This is,” Wu finished, “Yun Tao. A janitor at the Changping State Primary School, or so my knowledgeable friends at the registry tell me.”

A janitor at a primary school…is a Chi She Lian ghoul? Houji’s stomach felt queasy.

“Oh, don’t be so squeamish, Kousuke, if he was dumb enough to eat the children we’d have caught him years ago. Anyway, I suggest we pay our new friend a little visit and get some real information. What do you say?”

It was certainly the breakthrough they direly needed. But why was this person he only met a few minutes ago calling him by his given name, exactly? Mado’s “Houji-kun” took some getting used to, but this was something else.

Houji interrupted the excited hum of his colleagues to pose a question to the Special Class:

“Special Class, may I ask why you did not delegate any aspect of this investigation to your team? Either in taking the photos, or in matching the face to the name?”

“You’d slow me down.”

She didn’t hesitate for a second.

“Like you’re doing now. Well, are we going to catch this rat or not?”

The whole team left in immediate haste to stake out the school grounds, lying in wait for when Tao might leave for his lunch break. At around one o’clock they cut him off at a deserted street corner, and told him they’d like to talk. Tao was not willing.

Before they could draw their quinques, a bikaku was already swinging at them and making a mad dash back down the street. His speed could not match Houji’s, however, and he descended on him from above with his Iitsu, matching him blow for blow before quickly overpowering him and levelling his blade at the ghoul’s throat. His colleagues erupted into a cheer, to which Houji let himself feel a little pride, before asking the ghoul if he was willing to talk now.

The ghoul spat in his face.

Houji gritted his teeth in frustration. It would feel an atrocious waste to have to kill his first lead in a month without getting anything out of him. He hesitated before hearing the thunderous footsteps behind him, and the monstrous slap on his back.

“Don’t worry Kousuke, I’ll take it from here.” The Whale told him with a grisly smirk, and stomped on the ghoul right on a certain vulnerable point that made Houji have to look away.

After Houji left the screaming ghoul and returned to his co-workers, he watched her take out a bikaku knife from her briefcase, and proceed to do something to the ghoul that he couldn’t quite make out from behind her gigantic back. From the ghoul’s screams, however, he could take a good guess. It was distasteful - but it was a ghoul, he supposed. His colleagues had similarly awkward expressions, save for Jiang, who was cool as a wintry breeze.

After at least twelve minutes of this, there was one final yelp from the ghoul before it fell completely silent. As Wu walked away, heaving a satisfied sigh, Houji could see a multitude of bloody sores in the ghoul’s body and finally in its forehead.

“It’s gonna be a long day, boys. He didn’t know anything about the identities of the leadership, but he did know that there’ll be a general meeting at an abandoned warehouse in Huangdichuan Wharf at midnight tonight, and it would be a most terrible shame if it were interrupted. Rest up while you can.”

There was no time to organise a full-scale operation, so rather than taking on the entire mass of ghouls who appeared, it was decided that the mission would be focused on reconnaissance and, if possible, capture or assassination of the leadership. It was a mission their group of twenty-odd people would be handling alone. To prepare for whatsoever may come, they changed into their battle gear, black and inconspicuous with grey pads protecting their chests, knees and shins.

Houji was unsure how to feel about the mission. After hearing the perspectives of the men themselves, they were not incompetent like they first seemed to be. He was sure they were all capable investigators and fighters too, Jiang included: it was just the unyielding difficulty of the case they had been assigned to which had been weighing them down and making them act up. He had come to understand the feeling all too well in his month working on the intractable thing. But as for Wu…

She had proven her investigative abilities even if Houji was sceptical of her M. O. He still did not understand what use she could possibly be in a fight, yet she insisted on being one of the investigators stationed directly at the warehouse, positioning younger and fitter agents like Jiang on the outskirts to guard against threats and prevent pre-emptive escape. She would be in the heat of the battle if it broke out. Yet although they shared parity on this mission, she was still of superior rank to him, so in respect of that he withheld his judgement until he saw her in action himself.

Wu, apparently, saw all of this on his face when they were crouched upon the roof of the house just over, hiding behind the chimney. When the ghouls arrived and the session began, they would move onto the roof of the dilapidated warehouse itself and peek through the cracks. While they waited, Wu decided to badger him in her usual gleeful, grating manner.

“Why the long face, Kousuke? Don’t think we can do it? Be honest.”

“…I am unsure of the wisdom of coming here in such few numbers, I must admit.”

“Such measured words. A polite man. Cautious. Frightened, perhaps?”

“That’s not so. I only intend to show my respect.”

“You only intend to conform to your role, you mean. What possible reason could you have to respect me? I haven’t given you any.”

The stress of the mission compounded with Wu’s incisive and intruding questions began to ground on Houji’s nerves at a rate even his patience could not handle. He had only met this woman a few hours ago, but she was already treating her professional equal with such blatant disrespect. It was unthinkable, and yet here it was.

He wanted to say No, you haven’t, and then teach her a thing or two about manners and proper conduct. To abandon her investigation team for an entire month and completely neglect the arrival of a foreign asset was an unprofessionalism he wouldn’t have expected from the greenest rookie. For someone of her age it was downright despicable. But he did not say these things, and kept his mouth clamped tightly shut. Because unlike her, he was a professional.

Then Wu burst into a boisterous, noisy cackle.

Something snapped. Fury boiled over onto Houji’s face as he spun around and clammed a hand over the Whale’s mouth. What was she thinking? The ghouls were due to arrive any minute - she could have just revealed their presence! Laughing, at a time like this? And although he said nothing, his face showed it all. Wu pulled his hand away from her mouth with a look of cool calculation that had something intimidating within it. Houji’s anger was tempered with the creepings of a primal fear, a perspective that must have been like that of a krill before a whale’s maw.

“As I thought. You really are an angry person, Kousuke. Why do you hide your feelings?”

Houji said nothing, but turned around and sat with his back to her.

“No good? Then let me ask you something else. Why did you become a Ghoul Investigator?”

Houji heaved a tremulous sigh. He had no desire to answer her, but he felt like the schoolboy before the schoolmaster, too awestruck by authority to tell a lie or hold a silence.

“My parents were killed by ghouls.”

“You say it so dispassionately.”

“Why should I say it differently? It’s not an uncommon story. It was the story of almost every child at the Academy’s Junior School.” Houji stopped there, but Wu said nothing, so he continued. “Once, perhaps, I thought I was special. That my tragedy had brought me some destiny l must fulfil. But that was before I looked around me and realised just how commonplace it all was. How commonplace I was.”

He could not see Wu behind him, but he was sure she was analysing him with those eyes like fish-hooks.

“So why are you still in the CCG?” He heard her throaty voice ask.

“…I refuse to believe anyone would stay in the CCG only for selfish reasons of the kind I began with. Like I said, I looked around me and saw that this was the lot of everyone. That we were all fighting together and relying on each other to create a better future. I am a cog in a greater machine, and I mean to fulfil those duties to the best of my ability.”

“But,” Wu interjected. “You’re not normal, Kousuke. If you were normal, we would never have requested just you alone.”

Houji was silent at that. It had been the thing that had bothered him from the start.

“Let me ask you a question now, Specia-“ He stopped himself. “-Whale. Why did you join the CCG?”

“Oh,” she chuckled, “for nothing so noble as you, Kousuke. As you may have guessed, I have something of an appetite. Maybe I’m greedy, but I think most humans are this way. My family was quite poor, you see, so I wanted more to consume.”

Houji was puzzled. “Money, then? Surely there were jobs with better pay.”

“Oh, money was only part of it. Like I said, I wanted more to consume. I wanted to grow bigger than the small pond I found myself in, and I didn’t want to be eaten by any bigger fish. I could think of no hungrier organisation than the CCG. How ravenous a person must be to eat the people-eaters! And now, well, you’ll never find a bigger fish than me. That’s why I’m happy for people to call me Whale.”

The lady had a talent for confusion, not to mention provocation. Houji only felt more wary about her than before. To think of the CCG as nothing more than a ghoul-eating ghoul…it was an irreverent mockery of the pride he had dedicated to his work; that his colleagues had dedicated to theirs. What exactly was she was implying they were ‘hungry’ for? He almost thought to ask, but then the ghouls arrived.

As midnight approached, one by one and then as a horde they began shuffling to the meeting place, dressed in white robes with an array of grotesque masks obscuring their identities. Watching these ghostlike monsters congregate in the darkness was like a scene from hell. The sparse streetlamps only served to illuminate their horror and to make their gruesome shadows dance behind them like witch’s familiars. A month after his arrival, Houji was reminded that he was in a strange new land, full of secrets and enemies he had yet to fully understand. Gradually, they poured into the warehouse until the trickle came to an apparent halt. The two spies stole to the warehouse rooftop and peered through the gaps between the sheets of corrugated iron.

The ghouls were all staring up at an indoor balcony which overlooked the main warehouse floor. There, a tall figure with white hair and a red iron mask overlooked his congregation, flanked by some other ghouls that must have been of similarly high rank.

Houji shot an inquisitive glance at Wu. They were too close to risk speaking, but his message clearly got across, as Wu shook her head. So, despite the hair and the mask, this man wasn’t Svarog, who the case files had reported as being Chi She Lian’s leader. Wu had seen him in person once, so she could tell; from her uncouth gestures, Houji guessed that this man was too slender to be him. He furrowed his brow. Perhaps this was just a cell meeting? They had thought that the red iron mask was Svarog’s alone, but it could just be a generic status symbol for those of higher rank.

They watched the proceedings unfold and listened carefully. After some general formalities, the man in the mask outlined their recent progress, clarifying and challenging much of what the CCG had estimated about their current position. One thing in accordance with what they had predicted was that it was indeed Chi She Lian that had been leading these turf wars against smaller bands of ghouls, with one name, Longxia, being frequently repeated. It was not an unknown name to the CCG database. Then, when he was about to move onto outlining their future plans, the leader suddenly fell silent. After some pause, he whispered to his attendants.

Houji gritted his teeth. This looked bad. He glanced over at Wu, but although she was weighty, she had barely shifted at all from her prone position since setting up: there was no creaking from her. Then, could he have been careless? Revealed his presence, somehow? As the ghoul’s attendants began leaving, Houji gingerly reached out to tug at Wu’s sleeve. They needed to go, now. But Wu stubbornly shook her head. Houji yelled inwardly at her obstinacy, and tugged with more force. They would be coming any minute. Lying prone like this they would be fish in a barrel – they couldn’t get any more information and they were no use to anyone dead. But Wu refused to budge.

In an adrenaline-fuelled frustration Houji violently let go of her sleeve and began clambering up off the metal rafters. And with every move, clang, clang, clang. Taking one final glance through the peek holes, Houji saw the white-haired man staring right back at him, and he realised his mistake.

Wu gave an almighty groan and shifted herself up from her position at last, condemning Houji with a disgusted look of pity that filled him with shame. She swung over her attaché case and clicked the release.

From the gush of steam she extracted something that looked like volcanic rock, pulsating red like lava flow. The stocky quinque began to wrap itself around Wu’s arm. Then, she knelt. Before Houji could even process his confusion, through the cracks of the rafters, she opened fire onto the crowd below.

Houji could hear the rumble of explosions and the shrieks of ghouls beneath as Wu shot out barb after barb from her quinque. Daring a glance below, he could see the whole warehouse erupt in fire like a divine punishment, ghouls pouring for the exits, out into the streets.

“Get ready, this is Chi She Lian.” She growled. “They won’t just leave with their heads bowed between their legs.”

Houji nodded vigorously, jolting himself out of his shock. He released his own quinque, the dual spears called Iitsu, and took up a defensive position, feet dancing uncertainly on the rapidly warming rafters. He kept his eyes on the lookout for any attack against Wu as she took aim again, this time towards the street itself.

“Wait!” Houji spluttered. “You’ll…”

“Relax, it’s just an industrial area. There’ll only be ghoul casualties here.” Wu muttered calmly before launching another missile into the hosts of ghouls below, just as they were regaining some semblance of order. The ones not instantly incinerated in the blaze frantically rolled on the ground to quench the flames or else ran for cover behind imposing granite buildings. In the distance, he heard shouts and the noise of combat – some of the ghouls must have crossed paths with one of the surrounding teams. The scene was so hellish that Houji was almost distracted; but before it was too late, he heard the quiet rumble of careful feet gliding across metal, and he turned around.

A ghoul hurtled towards him wearing the mask of a crazed devil, hands outstretched, bikaku raised. On sight, Houji skewered it through the throat and flung it aside, only to find two, three, four more charging towards him. Swinging his swords in the air, he fended off one blow after the next.

When it came to combat, Houji felt fully at ease. It was like a trance where he could let his instincts take over entirely; and they served him well. He drove one lance through the heart of his nearest opponent and caught the one beside him with a roundhouse kick to the jaw, sending him hurtling off the rooftop. A kagune from behind him tripped him up for a moment, leaving room for another to dash towards his head, but it only succeeded in grazing him. He lopped that kagune off with one sword and in the same movement swung around and, to the background song of explosions, decapitated its wielder with the other. The final enemy flung her rinkaku around herself in defence, but Houji knocked her back with the sheer force of his body and hammered at her with the blunt edge of his quinque until she fell to the ground and her kagune unfurled. For a split-second, she was wide open. It was enough. Iitsu flashed down, and its target never got back up.

Houji took a moment to breathe. He noticed the charred remains of several other ghouls with ukaku kagune lying further away on the roof, and saw Wu blowing lightly on her quinque. All quiet. Except…

He swung up Iitsu just in time before the kagune sliced him in two. The sword caught the tip, but the force drove him back across the rooftop as the kagune pursued its prey. He lowered his centre of gravity as much as he could and only just managed to avoid tumbling off the edge. The two forces of kagune and quinque had come to a standstill – but if Houji hadn’t heard its telltale whistle as it cut through the air, he would’ve been dead in an instant. Eventually, seeing that it was fruitless, the blood worm of kagune retracted, returning to its wielder – the ghoul in the red iron mask.

“Impressive.” Came the muffled voice of the ghoul, all the more fearsome in its distortion. His crimson eyes burned like a steady fire. “You must be new.”

Those eyes suddenly darted to the side and leapt several feet away as one of Wu’s barbs landed exactly where he was standing. It exploded and rattled the rafters all around, some falling into the scorching pit below. The metal was becoming unbearably hot to stand on.

“Don’t waste time on the greenhorn.” Wu cackled and gave a toothless grin. “I’ve been waiting for you long enough.”

Barb after barb rattled off from Wu’s quinque, narrowly avoided each time by the masked ghoul as he leapt from side to side of the rooftop. Sheets of metal were sent tumbling down with every explosion, and Houji himself often had to barrel out of range as Wu let nothing stand in her way. He heard the ghoul curse “Whale!” to which Wu burst out into raucous laughter.

“Tell me, masked man, where is Svarog these days?” She chanted as explosions erupted around her.

There was no response from the ghoul as he dived in and out of the hellfire, until, all of a sudden, he rushed towards Wu. His arm began to mutate.

There wasn’t enough time for Wu to redirect her weapon before the gigantic pillar of a kakuja came hurtling in her direction.

“Svarog’s dead.” His fiery voice crackled.

There was only enough time for Houji to jump in the way, Iitsu raised, and take the blow. With a tremendous crash, they both tumbled between the gaps in the rooftop rafters into the inferno below.

It was the chance of momentum that saved Houji. The ghoul fell too, and fully activated its kakuja to survive the flames below. As the man turned into hulking beast in mid-air, all Houji had to do was cling onto its leg, and the monster took the fall into the furnace instead. Nevertheless, the shock of the impact made Houji’s whole body ache in pain, but he recovered more quickly than the beast and flung his bruised form into an area yet untouched by the devouring lights. His hands were burnt just by touching the kakuja, which was scolding hot, but he forced himself to grip his quinque regardless.

Behind him, he heard the echoing thuds of the kakuja’s great column-like appendages lifting the colossal body up. It was like a knight, or else a lizard. Its body was silver-grey and layered like armour, with a skeletal collarbone and a concave chest. The remnants of the ghoul’s white cloak covered its lower half like a samurai’s hakama. A beak, or helmet-like structure encapsulated his head, and from it blew gales of blue flame. If this gathering of ghouls was Pandaemonium, then surely this was Satan.

Houji readied his quinque, and rushed towards the devil.

There was no way Wu could spot their location behind the fire and smoke, and any more hits from her quinque would collapse the whole warehouse. In this battle, he could only rely on himself – so he used the element of surprise. The ghoul was clearly not expecting Houji to make the first move, and was left completely unprepared for the flurry of strokes that followed.

Every strike was a hit, but none of them seemed to do any damage to the kakuja beyond pushing it backwards. The creature roared in annoyance and swung out one of its great poles, catching Houji in the chest and sending him flying towards the fire. Just in time, he pushed forth his quinque so that it crushed through the flooring and stopped his momentum. He collapsed to the floor, clinging onto his weapon.

He was badly wounded. Two sudden jolts to the chest and burnt hands did not leave him in good fighting condition. But how was the ghoul? In that kakuja, could he feel any pain at all? Houji gritted his teeth, and stoop up for another bout. He might not be able to kill the ghoul, but that was never a mission priority. They had their information, although half of it would be useless now that Chi She Lian knew that they know it. For now, all he needed to do was get out of there alive.

As the titan began lumbering towards him, he noticed the hole he had made in the floor. Perhaps, then, if one does not slash, but stab, with the right force…

He didn’t have much time to think before fire gushed towards him again. He rolled out of the way and leapt and jumped between all the jets of flame that came his way, some much too close for comfort. When the pillar swung his way again, he knew he could not manage a jump, so this time he slid under it. And in that moment of surprise, with all his strength, Houji mustered a great thrust towards the creature’s sunken chest.

Iitsu cracked through the armour. Houji pushed onwards. The great beast roared in pain and toppled onto the ground once more with a calamitous crash.

As soon as the small victory was won, Houji scanned for a way through the fires and made out a winding pathway. There was a part of him that wanted to continue – to see if he could take out this dangerous ghoul once and for all – but he had given into his emotions once that night before: now, he had to be objective. He turned and began to ran, but that moment’s hesitation was too much as he felt the back of his jacket catch on fire.

Eyes widening in horror, he dashed with all the speed he could summon through the roaming red monsters, batting at the fire on his back with his quinque, grimacing through the pain, coughing through the smoke. Eventually, somehow, he saw the outside. Uncharacteristically screaming, Houji landed his back on the concrete and rolled furiously to quench the flames. Eventually, the last wicked blue tongues died down into embers that died down into ash. Staring up at the black, smoke-suffused sky, Houji was ready to pass out.

But out the corner of his eye, he could see white-cloaked ghouls approaching.

He heaved his heaviest breaths and struggled desperately to right himself, but they were running, ravenous, vengeful. Their mania was so intense he could not distinguish the ones with masks from the ones without – both wore faces from nightmares. One ran right past him into the warehouse, screaming “Loong!”, but the others were heading straight towards him. He managed to get an arm in front of him, but they were coming too quickly; and then, all of a sudden, they burst into flames.

The boom came after the flash of light, intermingled with cries of agony. Houji’s arm dropped out from under him as his energy failed him. The fire filled him with panic as he wondered if the kakuja ghoul had managed to catch up with him, but it was useless – he could not move. The tails of a white coat fluttered in front of his vision, and a wrinkled hand picked up his quinque. Houji breathed out an inaudible objection, then watched as the wide figure used his quinque to nonchalantly dispatch of those screaming ghouls that survived the blast. When that was done, the figure returned to Houji.

“Sleeping on the job? You really are an amateur, Kousuke.”

Wu. Of course. Houji gave a groan that came out more as a whisper. He could not help but chuckle what little he could as well. She crouched down, perhaps to pack up his quinque, before lifting him up and leaning him against her weight, cooing “Upsy”.

As she dragged him out of there, away from the smell of burning and the sound of crackling cinders, he gave one final glance back into the warehouse. There, he could still see amidst the red fire a solitary blue flame raging, like it was glaring at him. Loong, he had screamed…

Houji had not managed to stay conscious long after that. What he discovered from Wu in the hospital on his awakening was that most of the ghouls had escaped, as had been expected, but there were two major skirmishes with the surrounding teams. Each of those battles had claimed a CCG life.

With the news, Houji balled up his fists. His voice wasn’t strong enough to talk, let alone scream, but he had known the men whose lives were taken. He had talked with them, worked with them, drunk with them. He had seen how they respected him, and he had respected their tenacity and will to fulfil their duties as best they could.

They were gone now.

He remembered that solitary blue light, and the gauntlet of pain he had run through that night. Those men had felt the same thing, and never made it out the other side.

He had failed them. He could not forgive himself for that.

But more than anything, he could not forgive Chi She Lian for that.

When Houji left the hospital, he left it with a renewed vigour, and a burning passion behind his typically cool façade. The investigation made more progress than it had in years.

During this time, Houji began to appreciate why Wu held the status that she did. She had saved his life, and he would not forget that. He reflected on how, during the battle, Wu easily got the upper hand over a far greater number of ghouls, by herself, without moving an inch. He began to understand how somebody as old and unhealthy as her could hold such a high position: very simply, movement was not necessary for her. Her skill with her quinque, Hollow, was so prodigious that she could wipe out her opponents without so much as a step forward. When he inquired about her history, Houji discovered that Wu had been in the CCG since she was twenty years old. Her age was merely proof of her incredible skill – a less adept Investigator would have died long ago.

It remained the case, however, that Houji had also saved her life when he defended her from the ghoul’s attack, who they had now codenamed ‘Loong’. Despite her skill and solitary behaviour, no-one can win a battle on their own, it seemed. Or perhaps she had merely trusted in Houji enough that she did not feel the need to act herself. It was Jiang who suggested that aspect of her behaviour, after years of dealing with it himself. Given the way she talked to him, Houji found it hard to believe at first, but then he reflected on how, at the hospital – a visit that certainly surprised him – she had told him that she knew he could handle Loong when he fell into the warehouse, and if she had not, she would have razed the place down.

It was this hidden appreciation of his talents, together with his gratitude and respect for her skill, that made Houji begin to view Wu in a new light. Most importantly, he had learnt to trust her judgement. Houji had thought of himself as cool-headed, but he saw himself how prone he could still sometimes be to moments of panic on the one hand and overconfidence on the other. He wanted to be more like her in that regard – to have such a level of calm calculation that one could even laugh while under fire – and so he observed her carefully.

This was not always easy, as Wu continued her habit of disappearing for days at a time, although her returns to the office were much more frequent than before. This was another habit Houji learned to live with: she was only acting true to her epithet, as a whale only comes to the surface of the water every once in a while. When she did come, however, the team felt much more like a genuine team. Enthusiasm was restored. They had names to work off, information. They were all eager to avenge their fallen comrades and end Chi She Lian for good. Even Jiang started coming to work on time, and Houji began to see the aforementioned passion that he had thought impossible for the man.

The investigation, propelled forward by the life Houji’s investigatory and combative skills injected into it, successfully allowed them to cross paths with Chi She Lian many times since, and often with Loong himself. No matter how many times Houji met him in battle, a victor was never clearly decided, and both always left to fight another day. The same could not be said for all of their comrades: painfully for Houji, his initial team of twenty was cut down to thirteen.

In some ways, the relationship with Lian was still a stalemate, but it was no longer static: both sides had to put in their utmost effort to keep it that way to avoid being swallowed up by the other. It was tough work, but fulfilling. Houji came to truly appreciate his time there, with all the loss and hardship that came with it, as well as the people he worked with.

Time passed this way for two and a half years.

And it all led up to this moment.

After the car that took Houji from the battle site arrived at the 1st District Headquarters, Wu told Houji that she had just had a phone call.

“An anonymous tip.” She beamed in her usual menacing manner.

Houji was taken aback. This was highly unusual. He stuffed the lotus into his pocket – it was not likely to garner much attention compared to this.

“It was precise, too.” Wu continued, “Eerily so. 5th District, she even gave us the postcodes.”

“So, we’ll be investigating it?”

“What,” Jiang scoffed, “You wouldn’t? If this isn’t a breakthrough, I don’t know what is.”

“Anonymous tips are exceedingly uncommon for the CCG. Why would a human want to remain anonymous when dealing with ghouls? How could they have such precise details on Chi She Lian? I think we should proceed cautiously: this might be a trap.”

Wu played with the telephone cord. “Still, a trap is still worth looking into, don’t you think? This would be the first time they’ve tried anything like this.”

“So we should just take the bait?”

“Prepared, of course. Or do you have any other leads?”

Nothing substantial, Houji had to admit. Uneasy as it made him, this seemed like too rare an opportunity to just pass up.

“No. When do we move out?”

Midnight, again. Thankfully, the postcodes in question were away from the civilian population, since the ghouls would only gather away from prying eyes. Their team of fourteen, preparing for a trap, moved as a single group instead of splitting up, pacing quietly through the silent night as they approached the old junkyard where these ghouls were supposed to be squatting. Their hands were on their quinques, ready for the worst.

In the distance, Houji could make out rugs between the rusty mountains of battered cans, computers, and washing machines where these ghouls appeared to be sleeping. An encouraging sign, though Houji did not know how he felt about dispatching them lying down. In the end, he did not have to make the decision. A watchman in a toucan mask gave a high pitched yell, and soon enough the ghouls were scrambling up to fight.

Perhaps it was because they were tired, or perhaps they were simply weak: either way, the twenty or so ghouls that lived here were taken out in less than a minute, half of them by Houji alone, until only one was left alive for questioning – a frizzy-haired female who was quivering like a bowstring. Wu didn’t even need to lift Hollow. Houji noticed that none of them had been wearing the robes of Chi She Lian, but there was no reason they should when they were not on official business. He turned around, and –

No, not all of them.

One more ghoul remained, emerging from the junkpile. Another female, this one in the ceremonial garb of Chi She Lian. Her face was covered by a mask styled like butterfly wings. And her red bikaku kagune had its coil around Jiang’s throat. He kicked, wheezing, hacking, but the girl only tightened her grip.

“Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.” She whispered, almost gently, to him. With a much harder tone of voice, she turned her attention to the remainders of the squad.

“Which of you is in charge?”

Both Wu and Houji began to speak at the same time. She waved a hand and let him proceed.

“I and Special Class Wu share parity in charge of this investigation. Please,” a fierce edge crept into Houji’s voice, undermining his formal words, “would you release our agent?”

“Not until we’ve come to an agreement.” If the girl was afraid, she did not let it deter her.

“Is that why you invited us?” Wu piped up. The ghoul looked surprised. “Oh, come, I remember your voice. I’ll wager these good-for-nothings weren’t even Chi She Lian. So it was a trap, you just needed a bargaining chip. But damn and blast, I didn’t expect you to hide in the garbage – really not very ladylike! Then, neither is eating people.”

Wu seemed to have lost none of her good cheer despite seeing her assistant struggling to breathe. Was it just an act? Houji couldn’t mimic it. His eyes were darting nervously back and forth between Jiang and the ghoul. He just wanted to get him to safety as quickly as possible.

“Just tell us what you want.” Houji insisted.

The girl paused, as if summoning her courage.

“Immunity.”

“…Immunity?” Houji repeated, dumbfounded. Wu burst out into contemptuous laughter.

“Immunity.” She reasserted, angrily. “For me and my brother.”

“Or you’ll snap my little monkey’s neck, is that it, hmm?” Wu probed, after recovering from her laughing fit.

“This is just insurance.” The ghoul clarified. “I don’t trust the CCG to honour a deal with a ghoul. But it’s in your best interest. I have information you desperately need, and I’ll give it to you if you just promise to let me and my brother go.”

Houji swallowed. He didn’t like making deals with a ghoul, but if it would spare Jiang’s life…

“What is it?”

“The identity of the leader of Chi She Lian.”

The tension was electrified by quiet. Only a gust of wind and the clattering of stray cans disturbed it.

“Deal.” Wu spoke at last.

Houji spun around towards her. “You can’t make that decision by yourse…”

“Do you disagree?” She interrupted.

He took a deep breath. “No.”

“Then it’s a deal.” Wu confirmed with an unsettling smile.

The ghoul breathed in as well, like she was also steeling herself.

“Yan Huo.”

Houji didn’t know the name, but some of the investigators gasped and Wu was wearing an expression of flabbergasted glee.

“Yan Huo of Huo Industries? There’s a ghoul that far up the ladder of power?” She inquired eagerly.

“Yes, that Yan Huo.” The ghoul replied. “You can do what you like with him. Raze Chi She Lian to the ground. I hope you do. I only have one request – leave one week before attacking Xuhangli, so my brother and I can escape. We’ll skip the country and be out of your hair forever. We just want our lives.”

There was a pause as Houji and Wu considered it. The ghoul looked panicked.

“If you don’t-” she threatened, with her kagune tightening around Jiang’s throat. His face had grown pale and his eyes were practically bulging in their sockets as he hung there limply, conscious but defeated.

Wu spoke up. “How are we to know that it’s you who’s escaping? If we don’t know your identity, we don’t know who’s leaving the premises - and we can’t let anyone else go.”

The ghoul hesitated for a moment. Then, she pulled up her mask to reveal a young face and a shock of white hair. She’s just a kid, Houji thought, even while knowing she was a ghoul.

“I am Fei Huo. My brother is Tatara Huo. He’s two years older than me - you can’t miss him, his hair is like mine.”

Houji was taken aback by the name. Huo…then that means…

“So you’re saving one brother at the cost of the other?” Wu sneered. “That’s one nasty family feud. What did Yan do, dock your pocket money?”

Fei’s lips trembled, but her eyes glowed like fire. Jiang gave a gasp as the coil began constricting again.

“Stop, stop!” Houji yelled. “We understand your conditions. And Jiang…”

“This dove is coming with me,” the girl replied coldly, “I’ll release him when we get to the airport, tied-up so he can’t hurt anyone. If you intervene and get the flight cancelled, I will kill him before you can get there. As to which airport you’ll find him at, well, you’re investigators, aren’t you? I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Houji began to object. “We can’t agree to that-”

“You already have.” Fei responded, pulling her mask back on. “Thank me, I just solved your investigation for you. Just keep up your end of the deal.” She hoisted Jiang further into the air. “I’ll be leaving now.”

The ghoul started walking away, and Jiang looked back, frightened and pleading. He looks so vulnerable, Houji thought. There was nothing of his usual brash demeanour and the contrast deeply saddened Houji. They now had the power to crush Chi She Lian, but he still felt powerless. He lowered his head in shame.

“No, you won’t.” A raspy voice countered.

Fei spun around in shock. An expression of relief flooded Jiang’s face. Houji looked to his side in surprise as Wu stood her ground confidently.

“Jiang dear, you’ve been a good monkey. But we aren’t monkeys to ghouls.” She raised Hollow.

There was no time to stop her. He raised a hand. He cried out. But the barb shot out all the same, and Houji only had time to see the light die in Jiang’s eyes, to see how the young girl contorted in horror, before the missile made impact and ignited.

Their bodies were burst asunder in the blaze.

The investigators stared in a misery like fear. First Class Kousuke Houji clung onto the lotus flower in his pocket for security, but the tighter he grasped it, the more the fragile thing fell apart. And Special Class Huiyin Wu, ‘The Whale’, blew on Hollow as if nothing had happened, before sparing a glance to the captive ghoul behind her.

“Oh, and kill that one too.”

By the time they left, twenty-three bodies strewed the junkyard. But much more, much more had died there.

Something was carried in the wind. Something sharp and altogether unpleasant.

#tokyo ghoul #tg fanfic #tatara #kousuke houji #tg fanfiction #red lotus blooms #rlb

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borkingbarnes · 6 years

Text

The Price of Kindness

This is my submission to @withstarryeyes‘s writing challenge. Congrats on 300, babe! 💕

Prompt: “That is way too expensive!”

Characters: Steve Rogers, Avenger!reader, Sam Wilson

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: Mentions of PTSD and war, veteran coping, but happy ending?

A/N: This took a waaaaay different turn than I intended when I first started writing, but here it is. I’m not sure how I feel about this one because of the turn but feedback would be lovely!

ps: I’m going to link the Veteran’s Support Foundation donation link here if anyone wants to donate. I think the work they do is very important. And of course, a thank you to all the men and women that serve/have served.

pps: thank you to @jaamesbbarnes for giving this a read ahead of time and giving me feedback! I have hella love for you, babe!

Walking through the automatic doors of the grocery store, a blast of cold air hits you, making a shiver run down your spine. As you’re about to go grab a cart, you see the super soldier beside you freeze in place from the corner of your eye. Looking over to him, you can’t help but smile at his expression.

His eyes are wide, mouth slightly parted as he takes in the expanse of shelves before him. The view was so surreal to him that for a moment he just stood there.

“You alright, Cap?” You ask him, right before he stumbles forward as Sam runs into the motionless man in front of him.

“Sorry. Just never seen so much food in one place before”, Steve mumbles and give him a small smile before grabbing his hand so he wouldn’t continue to block the doorway. “There’s enough food here to feed a small village.”

A sympathetic frown makes its way onto your face, though you try to hide it. You can’t help but feel sadness for the super soldier. He was so young when he enlisted for war, still a kid. He had fought battle after battle as Captain America, but no one bothered to think about Steve Rogers, the kid that never got to grow up normally. From missing so much time of his life to having practically been shoved into the future and having to cope with the loss of his past and readjust-- it made your heart ache for him. You had certainly tried to help Steve whenever you could, and though his amazement at advancements was endearing, you couldn’t help but feel for the man.

Shaking your head slightly to clear your mind, you rip the grocery list in two and hand half of it off to Sam as he comes back with two carts. You part ways with him as Steve trails along behind you, still looking around with an awestruck look on his face.

You had been sentenced to grocery duty after drinking the last of Tony’s chocolate milk. In your defense, you hadn’t known it was his, it hadn’t been labelled or anything. It had simply been in the shared kitchen’s fridge. How were you supposed to know it was his?

Steve had volunteered to come along, knowing how extensive the Avengers’ grocery list was. With such highly intensive lifestyles, the amount of food that passed through the compound put buffets and restaurants to shame. He also had just wanted to see what modern day grocery stores were like since he hadn’t been in once since the 40s.

Sam had owed you a favor which you decided to call in, but not without some grumbling on his end. It was no unknown fact that it took way too many trips to carry in all the groceries.

“Alright. First thing’s first, we need milk. Birdboy drinks so much milk we should just get him a cow,” you grumble as you walk beside the cart that Steve is now pushing. It wasn’t uncommon to see Sam walking around the compound drinking out of a 4 litre jug of milk casually. The worst part was that he went through multiple jugs a day. Was it possible to die from calcium overdose?

As you picked up a jug of milk an incredulous “WHAT?!” sounded from beside you, effectively startling you as you drop the jug back into place.

“WHY IS MILK MORE THAN FOUR DOLLARS?!” Steve exclaims as a few people around you begin turning their heads your way. You duck your head, a little embarrassed by the scene the super soldier was causing, but can’t help but find the whole ordeal to be quite funny.

“Inflation,” you giggle, taking the jug he held in his hands and placing it into the cart.

“But—But it was only 10 cents back in my day! That is way too expensive! How the hell do people afford to live these days?!" He asks, brows still furrowed.

“No idea, Stevie, I guess it’s a good thing Stark is rich” you say, piling in five more jugs into the cart before practically dragging Steve from where he stood, still ogling at the price.

The two of you continued along, with Steve occasionally exclaiming things such as, “what do you mean a sack of potatoes is almost five dollars?! They were only fourteen cents back in the day! Fourteen CENTS, Y/N!!” and, “why is a carton of eggs five dollars now?! Are they breeding super-chickens now?? Will these eggs cure people of diseases? They have no right being so expensive!!”

However, despite all the comments, you still caught Steve sneaking a few things onto the cart. Mostly sugary snacks. The man had a major sweet tooth quite possibly due to growing up during a time where sugar was scarce, so he just couldn’t get enough of it now.

“Hey Steve, you think we could use your senior citizen’s discount?” Sam asks after you guys have met up again. The joke earns him a snort from you as you try to cover up your laughter. Steve however, looks displeased, shaking his head at the both of you.

After checking out your groceries and stuffing the back of the car with everything that was bought, you made your way back to the compound.

“Stop the car.” Steve says suddenly, barely waiting for Sam to pull the car up to the curb before he’s getting out already. You hear the trunk open and turn around, looking at the super soldier confusedly as he rummages through the groceries in the back. However, your heart soon swells at the sight of Steve carrying an armload of food towards a homeless man sitting against a building a few feet away.

You couldn’t help but let a smile make its way onto your face as you see Steve kneel down and begin talking to the man. He wasn’t in uniform in front of cameras or speaking at a public event; this was all Steve Rogers, the man with a golden heart. He wasn’t just an act or a face to the values that Captain America symbolized, he fulfilled them. Steve Rogers really was the kind, loyal, and giving man that the suit was meant for. No charades, or facades, or acts, it was all him.

You reach for the door handle and get out of the car too, emptying a bag out and replacing its contents with non-perishable foods for the man as Sam does the same after parking the car. Walking up beside Steve, he’s already in deep conversation with the man.

“Thank you, God bless your souls” the man says as you and Sam hand him the bags of food.

“Y/N, Sam, this is Frank, he’s a veteran” Steve says, sadness tinging his tone. You knew that this hit home for him and Sam. Since he had known about suffering war veterans, Steve had volunteered countless hours to give talks and offer support. Sam also routinely donated to Veteran’s Aid support groups as well.

“It’s nice to meet you, Frank” you say to him, offering him a kind smile.

“It’s nice to meet you too, ma’am. Not many pretty dames stop by to chat with a fella like me anymore. Think I’m finally beginning to accept that I’m not as handsome lookin’ as I was a few years ago” he says, and you can’t help but smile. It was clear that despite his conditions, he had not lost his humor and charm.

Sam’s phone began to ring and he walked off as you and Steve continued to talk to Frank. He had grown up in Manhattan, enlisting at the age of 21. After he had served, he was no longer able to locate his family and his PTSD prevented him from being able to hold a steady job. Your heart broke for this man. It just wasn’t fair that he had risked his life for his country and received a life on the streets in return.

“We’ve gotta go,” Sam says frowning, as he walks back over. “Mission briefing from Fury himself.”

Steve and you nod as Sam reaches into his wallet, pulling out the remaining money he had and handing it to Frank with a nod.

“I’m going to make a call to a VVA Service Officer friend of mine,” Steve says, taking out a pen and the small sketch pad he kept in his jacket pocket. “This is his address and phone number. You can even head on over now if you’d like. He’s just a couple blocks from here. I’ll let him know to expect you, okay?” He says, ripping out the sheet of paper and handing it to the man.

Frank nods, a smile on his face now. “Thank you, guys.” He says as you give him one final smile. The whole encounter had truly humbled you, making you realize just how good you had it.

Your mind wanders to Steve and you realize that maybe there were other reasons that had made Steve relate to Frank. Steve too had gone to war and came back to having almost everything stripped from him. From his family, to his previous life, and even certain emotions he was allowed to show. You really hoped Steve’s VVA friend could help Frank find some peace, and even more so, you hoped that Steve could find some peace as well. It was sad that the world could take advantage of such a kind soul and continue to batter it for so long.

It was silent on the rest of the way home, each person lost in their own thoughts.

“So uh, I’d say your first trip to the grocery store was a success, huh Cap?” you say as the three of you pull up into the garage of the tower, trying to ease the mood.

“Yeah,” he replies, “The prices of food may have grown, but it’d be willing to pay just about anything in the name of kindness.”

Tags: @withstarryeyes @wildlifepixie @sgtjbuccky @silver-starburst @chrevastan @boopboopbarnes @goldenkillmonger @just-add-butter @1xxmrsalphaxx1 @sadbhabie2020 @coal000 @jaamesbbarnes @dewy-biitch

Masterlist

#wsewritingchallenge300 #Steve rogers #captain America #marvel #Chris evans #falcon #sam wilson #Steve rogers x reader #sam wilson x reader #avengers #marvel imagines #Steve rogers imagines #anthony mackie #marvel imagine

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eleeria · 6 years

Text

The Trial

Vanir’s hooves cut a strange sound on what remained of shattered roadways as his rider picked a path southwest. The Ghostlands had borne the brunt of the Scourge attack, and with the annihilation of most of those who had lived in the area, the roads had fallen to ruin. While residents kept paved areas around their scant houses well-lit at night, the woods seemed nearly a safer option even with the addition of dangerous wildlife. The road itself was perilous compared to the loam and underbrush, but was the only real way to know she was headed in the right direction, with the tree cover so thick and gnarled.

The residents of Tranquilien had warned Eleeria of as much when she had passed through. The paths be nearly as dangerous as the woods beyond, lady Knight, an undead man had informed her, looking a bit overawed to have a lone Blood Knight approaching the tiny hamlet. Make sure to take a light with you. The roads hold dark people and dark things these days.

He kept staring at her until she was made almost uncomfortable by it. Eleeria knew that occasionally Blood Knight units would come to the Ghostlands to train. But she wondered how long it had been since any had been stationed here, if ever. How long had it been since a Knight had asked after them? Or anyone in Quel’thalas? How often did people hope to forget about the tiny, struggling town in the midst of such greater suffering across the globe? The thought softened her sharp features, and she had hopped down from the saddle there in the center of the ruined courtyard and asked if they needed help. Give me and my horse lodging for the evening and I’ll help you with any tasks that need a strong arm or a sharp sword, hm? Eleeria had spent the remainder of the day and evening in Tranquillien — carrying wood and stone for the continuing reconstruction of the surrounding areas, and culling overly aggressive wildlife. She had left the next morning significantly more dirty and tired than she had been the day before, but infinitely more settled. But by the evening, the Adept had not yet left the eastern road, stretching towards the old Amani territory. By all accounts, the building she searched for should have been spotted hours ago. And yet the further she went into the Ghostlands, the most lost she felt.

Dahliria had agreed to meet with her a week ago regarding the hilt that had so recently come into her possession. An astute member of the Sunreavers, Dahliria certainly had some experience with identifying powerful magical artifacts. The older woman had taken the hilt into her hands and examined it carefully, pulling out a magnifying glass and other strange magical instruments.

“You said it came from the Ghostlands?” Dahliria was a sharp woman, every inch the professional Magistrix. Her eyes did not waver from examining the hilt she held in her hands as she spoke, as if looking for clues otherwise unfound as of yet.

“Yes, I think -- the crest on the hilt there? It’s an old family sigil of a house that used to reside in what’s now the Ghostlands. Star-something.” Eleeria had leaned forward to point out the design to her magister friend, and the older woman frowned thoughtfully. “The family itself isn’t that important to me, however. I’m just looking for the rest of the sword.”

“And you are certain it is a sword of some importance? That its loss would have been recorded? Or shall I put scrying as a backup endeavor?”

Eleeria had shrugged sheepishly. “Maybe save it for last?”

It had been of enough importance to be noted. Dahliria had been able to trace the sword back to its original owner; apparently it had been broken during the Third War, its owner a spellblade of some middling renown. He had been known mostly for his single-handed defeat of a band of trolls that raided his home village. But the sword itself had been a product of one of the best runesmiths of the age: a proper spellblade, rare now that the spellbreakers had largely perished, gifted by the State only to its most talented students. The blade had been severed and its owner killed, his entire family perishing during the Fall. The Runesmith had died as well, and his swords had become rare indeed. Imbued with magic during the forging, an intensely difficult process, he had only produced one or two that remained whole after the Fall. But the few villagers who had survived mostly due to luck had preserved the pieces of this sword, believing it to be sacred. How Ashideena had come by the hilt, Eleeria would never know.

The research had been the easy part. She had spent hours searching for the remnants of this village and the ruins they supposedly kept the sword in. There was no good way to find what had been lost -- with so few people living in the Ghostlands, Dahliria’s instructions were remarkably unhelpful. Near to the troll encampments of Zul’Aman, close to the mountains that separated Quel’thalas from the Plaguelands. It should have been easy, and yet...all Eleeria seemed to find was corrupted wildlife and decaying flora. As Vanir continued to trek down the road, light glinting from her fingertips so that both she and her destrier could see before them, Eleeria realized somewhat belatedly that she had walked this road before.

Her head swiveled to the left -- staring up the nearby hill as if she could see the crumbling set of ruins beyond. She had made so many errors over the course of the past year. It was here in these lands that she had convinced so many people to kill an entire human city for her own selfishness, and agreed to raise them from the dead. Where she had condemned so many elves into fates far worse than they could have imagined. There had been no honor in what she had become in those months after Waraylon’s death. She had acted on her own desires, and so many people had paid for it; perhaps that was where her doubt stemmed from, that had kept her from embarking on this journey for so long.

I was a monster. I could become one again.

But it was the Order, in some ways, that had pulled her from those dark hours. The Order, and the Sunwell. The flood of power and light into her life had been a lifeline; Eleeria had gripped onto that power and followed it instinctively. It had led her to the Kestrel Company -- to those faces both stern and grinning that welcomed her every day. It led her to Ashideena, who recognized that she could do more than simply wallow and wait for something to happen to her.

Eleeria took a deep breath, pushing the doubts from her mind. “I can do this.” Vanir whickered in response, eking a smile out of the knight. Her horse was always so vocal that it made her happy simply to be about him. “I’m really glad I found you after Lordaeron. I was really worried about you, you know.” Another sigh, and the two of them pressed onward, into the dark.

It was dawn before she finally stumbled across the sleepy village she had been searching for. One of the only remaining settlements in the Ghostlands aside from Tranquillien, it was barely more than a cluster of four or five houses, all carefully guarded. Men and women peeked from their windows at the sound of approaching hooves. When assured that it was no Ren’dorei or other threat to their livelihood -- likely cheered by the sign of the blood phoenix across Eleeria’s chest -- they exited their homes and swarmed towards the Adept. And yet -- despite the cheerfulness of the mood upon her arrival, something felt innately wrong to Eleeria’s magical senses. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and she shivered. Vanir shied slightly as well, certainly sensing something in the air. “Easy…” She murmured to her destrier, hopping down from her saddle to greet those who came to welcome her. “Let’s not scare these poor villagers away, hm?”

“A lady knight!” It was the shriek of a child that brought her back to the physical present. Eleeria grinned as she saw a girl no older than ten come careening out of her house towards the small woman and her horse. With an ‘oof!’ Eleeria fought to maintain balance as the little girl’s arms wrapped around her legs. “Minn’da told me there was no way I could be a lady knight like Liadrin, and now you’re here in our town!”

Eleeria laughed, gently easing the girl’s death grip on her knees so that she could stand upright. Vanir glanced down at the child, and both he and his rider’s gaze turned towards the rest of the town. While the younger residents seemed delighted, the oldest of them seemed worried. Perhaps they, too, had sensed the strange magic in the air; more likely, Eleeria assumed, they had suffered some ill effects from the magical haze. She glanced back down at the little girl with a smile, hiding her worry for the moment. “Aye, I’m no Liadrin, but I’m both a lady and a knight. What can I do for you?”

At the question, the few older villagers moved forth to speak to her, a woman about Eleeria’s age putting a hand on the little girl’s head to still her slew of questions about magic and swords and boys. Eleeria let the child hold onto her hand and inspect her black and crimson armor carefully while she heard the more pressing concerns. Many of the villagers reported a sickness creeping through the town: on top of the normal colds and bouts of influenza, there was a strange lethargy rising in many of the older citizens. Eleeria surmised that it was likely due to the magic she could feel about the place. Though she yearned to see her way to the nearby church and finish her trial, it was hard for her to find any good reason to simply walk away from their troubles.

“Well you’re in luck then, as I’m a mender for the Order. Show me to your injured, hm?” She let herself be led from house to house. Some of the remedies were easy -- warm, herbal tea for those with congestion and recommendations of rest for those with colds. She checked for signs of deterioration of existing conditions; checked for symptoms of pneumonia in those who had seem their symptoms and kept working despite them. The warm touch of the Light set bones and scourged away infection. Eleeria had noticed that her magic had grown softer towards those she considered friends over the past few months; now it was a soothing thing to be healed by her, rather than something to be feared.

But as her light brushed against this lethargic sickness, Eleeria made a face of dismay. This was nothing natural -- her suspicions were confirmed. The same magic that hung over the village appeared to be infecting its citizens as well. And as she cast her magical awareness farther afield, she discovered it curling into even the healthiest of people. “What…” She reached further -- grasping for the magic harming the elderly man in front of her, trying to ease it from his chest.

The sudden touch of the void against her magical net made her recoil. Eleeria stopped, down at her hands. Quickly, she released the strange magic, light soothing the cough that had risen to her patient’s lips. “Who has been out here tampering with the void…?” Immediately, her thoughts went to the Ren’dorei; was it possible that a few of them had been left here in the Ghostlands, and were now causing mischief? Perhaps. Eleeria frowned, casting her magic out again. The feel of the void covered all of these little homes. It was as if the very village had been contaminated, throwing the entire thing into discord and lethargy.

That’s not good. Let’s hope there’s a source to all of this. Eleeria had been unable to sense even the faintest shadow magic prior to her connection with the Sunwell; now it pressed on her mind, an uncomfortable sensation, as she began to trace the spell back to its origin. Standing, she glanced to the few villagers who remained -- among them, the small child who was so enamored with her -- and offered a reassuring smile. No need to alarm them, just reassure them. “I think the source of this may be magical in origin. Don’t worry; I’ll go check it out, myself.” The villagers seemed to breathe a sigh of relief that the knight would help them -- one that did not reach Eleeria’s lips. As one of the local farmers agreed to watch over Vanir while she was gone, Eleeria stepped forth from the tiny hamlet, feeling the weight of responsibility settle onto her shoulders like an unfamiliar mantle.

The dirt trails through the woods had been long since abandoned. Covered in brambles and other detritus, Eleeria could only go so fast without tripping over her own plated feet and falling straight into the briars. She used the brunt of her hammer to clear some of it away in the worst parts, but it was still difficult to traverse as it wound out and away. The magic’s trail led her towards a building in the distance; Eleeria altered her steps to head there, brushing aside the forest’s natural debris as she did so.

The building was older than the Fall by some several years, but had since fallen into deep disrepair. Although it had once been a grand thing, glass domed with several towering columns, the dome itself had shattered some time ago. A few of the columns had fallen as well, leaving the entire building structurally unstable and certainly abandoned. A layer of debris and weeds coated the interior and exterior both. It had been a long time since anyone in Quel’thalas had followed the church of the Light -- and even if they had, Eleeria was fairly certain that it would have fallen out of disuse purely because its parishioners had died in the Fall. As it stood, it was a testament to the times long past, a monument to the sword that stood within and nothing more than that. The building seemed to radiate with the arcane and void both, likely the source of the spell that lay over the town. Eleeria frowned -- Dahliria’s notes hadn’t mentioned anything about the sword being void corrupted, and from the look of the building this was certainly where she had meant to go all along -- and made her way to the chipped and broken stairs, ascending into the temple.

The interior was like every other temple she had entered into these past few years: cracking and sagged, the frescos that had covered the interior walls and ceilings had long since begun to chip and fade. The elven faces that stared down at Eleeria as she examined the space with a moment’s pause seemed to almost judge her, azure eyes unblinking as they stared into her soul. She remembered the first time her mothers had taken her to a church of the Light: she had been young, clutching to their hands anxiously. The frescos had terrified her then, too. They had seemed so angry, the light a forbidden thing for people of their class and rank. It was something handed to those with privilege, those people able to come to churches like this and stand at the altar, praying to Belore. Though the light had long since faded from this church, the memory remained; Eleeria looked away from the pictures still remaining, unsettled and vaguely judged by their constant vigil.

The adept prowled towards the front of the church, ignoring the stares of the frescos and the overwhelming void aura that seemed to permeate the building for the time being. The origin of the spell had to be around the building somewhere; Eleeria was more concerned with finding the remains of the sword at the moment before she located the source of the magic. Plate footsteps reverberated in the empty space as she checked the side alcoves, finding them bereft of the weapon, and moved up towards the scattered remains of the altar. As her feet hit the stone stairs separating the dias from the nave, she stopped only for a moment on the second-highest stair. Hesitation limned her features, alone as she was in the darkness, and she stared at the top of the sanctuary that had always felt so removed from her.

Not any more. With an audible breath, she took the final stair onto the dais, ascending to the most sacred of places within the church itself. The empty and broken windows would have been full of light in better days. Now, vines crawled across the ceiling and walls, intruding into the space and nearly covering a tarnished reliquary against the wall. Eleeria paused for a moment, an ear twitching -- was that the sound of footsteps? She swore someone else had to be in the building with her, from the sharp sound that came from the surrounding foliage. It was as if something had wanted to catch her attention, and the small woman turned, surveying the nearly collapsing building. Nothing -- in the gloom she could see absolutely nothing amiss. And yet, something tugged at the edge of her awareness, sliding away as she reached out to grasp it. If something was following her, it was magical in origin; her eyes roved the rest of the church for signs of life and found none.

Eleeria…

She frowned, ignoring the sound of her name for the moment. Surely it was the whisper of the vines and nothing more; Eleeria would not hedge suspicion on something she couldn’t see. Turning around, she strode for the reliquary, pulling vines off of the gilded lid to peer inside. Thankfully, the box had survived the ruin of this place. From the now-depleted sigils on the stone plinth it stood upon, it seemed some creative mage had hidden the box from Scourge detection — likely paying for it with their life. The lock itself was imbued with sigils still active, and yet...upon further inspection, there appeared to be another spell layered over the sigils. Her fingers hovered above the lock, trying to discern the spell and yet -- it was no arcane rune that she could easily understand, and no work of the light to be felt by intuition. That she could sense the magic at all narrowed down the options, but she stalled for a moment before deciding to simply touch her hand to the spell to see what happened.

Eleeria!

The force of the void hit her in the chest, knocking her to the ground with a sharp clang of plate on marble. Eleeria gasped for air, clutching at the place where she’d been hit. The world seemed to shift around her, shadows creeping across the empty space. It was as if she had been struck with sudden vertigo; moving became difficult, her head spinning as she pushed to her knees. Pictures and images flashed before her mind’s eye, borne by the void as it coalesced into something more tangible: Waraylon, telling her about selling his soul for the power of an old god. Her father, glancing down at a child in his arms. Herself -- flashes of her, thousands of glimpses through the eyes of others. They did not seem to have a set timeline, nor did they seem to put forth any particularly interesting set of circumstances. Eleeria closed her eyes as the flashes of light and color became too much, rubbing at them with her free hand.

When she opened them, the shadows had taken the vague form of a man: seated in a chair of shifting void, the creature seemed to cross its legs, staring with features she couldn’t discern but nonetheless felt the intensity of.

The little spark has become a sun in her own right. And here she stands, on the cusp of greatness. But I would speak with you before you make your decision, little one.

The voice seemed to come from nowhere, and yet, everywhere at once. It was just as she remembered from her dreams; just as she remembered from their momentary connection the moment she held Waraylon’s daggers. The thing, the...void creature from her memories was in front of her. And judging by its tone, it seemed interested to speak with her. Pulling herself to her feet, she gripped her hammer in her hands, placing it between herself and the creature. “What do you want with me? Did you put that spell on the lock? How did you know I would come here?”

I have been watching you. This discussion is long since due. With every word, the shadows seemed to shift. They swallowed the cathedral whole with their slow expansion. No more could she see the deteriorating columns or the vines breaking through the upper windows. All that surrounded Eleeria was darkness, the shadows so deep she could barely see her own hammer, the faint golden sheen of lightforged metal clouded in the gloom. There is a bargain between your family and I. So far, you are the only one who has not willingly come to my side. And yet, it intrigues me where it should irritate. Not one of your kin has ever embraced the light before, and I daresay it’s fascinating. Where do you draw it from? By right, you should be one of mine, and yet…

The creature shifted forward, extending an arm. Dark fingers curled under Eleeria’s chin despite the distance between them, turning her head this way and that. Though she yearned to cut them away from her, she seemed unable to move at the moment. Seeping cold spread from the place where the Creature’s void spell had hit her in the chest, muscles locking and forcing her to stand still. And yet...you are a precious, small light in the abyss. One defiant fledgling. And the tide grows ever stronger in the rising of the void.

Eleeria gasped as the cold hit her lungs, making it almost a struggle to breathe. With a futile motion, she attempting to pull her head back from its strange embrace. “Whatever it is you’re planning, I want no part in it! I know you’ve been following me since the day I picked up those daggers--”

It laughed. Oh, much longer than that. Did you think I would let such a fascinating member of the Silverwing family escape our blood debt?

“--but I am not for sale!” The sudden crack as she yanked her body back was as the breaking of ice in the warmth of summer; the pieces of the void’s hold shattered with the sudden infusion of light, rendering it unstable and useless. Eleeria stumbled back several paces, weapon at the ready as she dropped into a fighting stance. “I don’t know what my family did to wrap you up in their lives so thoroughly. But I don’t care. You took Waraylon away from me, and I will never forgive you!”

Oh, my sunlight. The thing stood; Eleeria watched it shift, the form expanding to become so much taller than she that it nearly hurt to look at. It stepped closer to her and she eased backwards, step by step, until her back hit the sudden stone of a nearby pillar. The thing leaned its ever-shifting features pressing into a cruel smile. For a moment, it reminded Eleeria so much of Waraylon’s devious grin that it hurt. She took a breath, staring it in the eye. Everywhere the thing touched, more tendrils of cold enveloped her, cracking slightly but persisting despite her warmth. Did your father never tell you about the bargain between myself and your family? Did no one ever tell you what a foolish endeavor it was to turn your face to the sun-kissed light of day?

A series of images passed between them as the thing pressed its finger to her forehead, the cold slipping behind her eyes. A man so similar in feature to herself and her father, receiving eerily familiar daggers from the creature that now stood in front of her. The smile of his son as she ripped the daggers from his dying father’s hands. One and on, the chain of violence went -- to the last, her father taking the daggers from her grandfather--

And then, handing them painlessly to her. A chain, unfulfilled, the gap stretching ever onwards as her father had decided in that moment to pass them to her out of some feeling other than anger and revenge. “Siren’s Reach. They came from you.” She could feel her pair of daggers growing cold against her thighs from where she’d always strapped them for easy access, just in case her hammer was ever lost to her. Now she felt foolish for bringing her family’s treasured weapons, though she knew she could not blame herself for not knowing the truth.

Yes. And when you chose not to kill your father, you broke a long line of power stretching back for generations. It would be easy, you know, to change that. To become what you were meant to. Those shadowed lips grazed her jaw and suddenly the small adept found it hard to move at all. Her fingers locked around the shaft of her hammer, breathing slowing to a shallow gasp. Eleeria’s eyes stared into the blankness of the void as time seemed to still around her. So many have told you the light is the easiest path, and yet -- surely they have not tasted the embrace of the void. The creature’s voice was enticing, smooth and pleasant to her ears. The light requires much of you. These vows would require things you know you are not yet ready to give. You have seen the dangers of weighing too heavily on yourself in the name of that which you hold most righteous. How far will that honor take you, little sun?

She could still feel Weleria’s fingers around her neck, strangling the life from her. It was as if she had watched a woman crack under the weight of her own honor’s expectations and could do nothing to help but take it as a cautionary tale. Ashideena and Amren, too, had learned to simply mask their feelings in public for the sake of the greater good -- and sometimes in their private lives as well. Perpetually retreating into a barrier of their own making for the sake of honor. It reminded Eleeria so much of her time as an assassin: though the terms of the game had changed, the rules remained the same. Give everything, from her time to her morality to her very life. And even then that was never enough: Lanrec and Siildore were proof enough of that. Everything for state and country. Everything for Quel’thalas and a people who so rarely had believed in her, had given nothing for her. Honor would take her to an early grave at best -- and into the clutches of undeath at the worst.

Eleeria could feel her hold on her weapon growing weaker as the cold spread through her veins, leaving her numb. And yet she could not find the strength to pull away once more, instead closing her eyes with a pained sigh. “I’m so tired of all these expectations.” Her voice was a whisper.

You have every right to be. I would never ask so much of you. Cold arms wrapped around her and ever so gently eased her off of her feet and into its embrace. They felt like Waraylon’s arms -- reassuring and strong, carrying her to their bedroom. With her eyes closed, Eleeria could almost will it to be so. You know what you could become, with my help.

“Yes...” She did not need the creature’s aid to see what would befall her -- after all, Eleeria had already lived it. She could feel the weight of caring for so many lost souls and uncaring citizens slip from her shoulders. Eleeria had been a monster: seflish and vicious, prone to acts of violence that furthered her own means. With the power of the void, she knew she could be all that and more. From merely a conqueror to an empress. To a queen. The darkness had wrapped itself around her, she knew; and yet her body was so heavy that it was difficult to want to care. Thoughts unspooled from her mind and filtered into the dark as she let the weight of the past several months ease from her memory. Gone were the feelings of inadequacy; gone were the doubts about her ability. Gone too, the strange and heavy sensation of having someone’s life in her hands as she worked with magic and medical skill; gone were the sleepless nights worrying over the Kestrel Company...on and on the burdens went, until the last: a final night with her fiance. A conversation, played over in her mind so many times.

“You can be so cruel when you want to be, Eleeria.” His words. She remembered them like they were said just moments before, as he curled into a ball on the floor. And yet strangely...Eleeria felt resistance upon reaching the next part of the memory. Some force, pressing into her mind -- trying to stop her from reliving that moment. As if it were afraid of that moment, that convergence point between then and the now. Eleeria frowned, finding the will within her to shove that suppressive force out of her mind. She would let the memory play out; she wanted to remember it once more before giving in. One more recitation of the words she had sent her lover off to die with.

“But I know that you don’t mean them. I know you lash out when you’re scared.” He had cried in front of her -- bared his vulnerability, and she had not taken it for the gift it was until he was dead and beneath the sea. “I hope one day you can love yourself like I love you.”

Of course.

That was when everything had changed, for her. The conversation that had sent her down this long path to begin with.

Of course it didn’t want her to see what happened next. It was afraid of what she was becoming.

Eleeria realized with a start that she was being tricked into giving up, falling back into those dark depths. It had been so easy to be manipulated by those honeyed words that she hadn’t realized it was attempting to lull her into complacency to complete the transaction it felt it was owed. And she had nearly let it win and given up, fooled into a false sense of comfort at its familiar touch. Gripping her memories with a mental force of will, she pulled them back into her body, gathering them back into the very parts of her that made her a living thing.

And then the cold evaporated in a rush of sun and heat and will -- and blindly, Eleeria Silverwing reached out to grab the spectral hand of the void creature whose fingers were mere centimeters from her soul, and dragged it out from her mind in an onslaught of Light. “I am not your tool to be used or deceived!”

Void lanced down her hand in painful, cold spears. She could feel her hand cracking into pieces, the slow trickle of blood down her forearm as the void seemed to break it from the inside out -- and yet she did not give up, even as the creature hissed and writhed in her grasp. Slowly, she pulled those icy claws out of her skin and her mind. In its wake rushed the warmth of the Light she had grown to love this past year and a half, filling her with a sense of purpose stronger than the void could ever give her.

“I am not yours.” She ground the words out through clenched teeth as her bones felt near to cracking in her hand. The thing struggled as her gloved palm heated with holy fire, trying to escape her hold. “I will never belong to the void. I am not my father, and I refuse to be part of his and yours and my family’s stupid bargain. I am a fucking Blood Knight of Quel’thalas, and so help me if it’s the last thing I do in my life I will put you and and all your kin into the ground for the plague you’ve spread on me, my family, and the people of this town you’ve enslaved in your lust for power!” The creature’s hand disintegrated under the sheer force of Light magic pressed into its skin, and with a cry it dragged itself backwards, furious shrieks echoing off of the church walls. The shadows spread and shrieked around her: claws lengthened from remaining fingers, limbs stretched wide and poised to shred flesh. The creature bared its teeth at Eleeria and she bared hers in turn.

No! This wasn’t supposed to happen!

“Yeah well, I do a lot of things that aren’t supposed to happen, so get fucking used to it you creepy shit!” She picked up her hammer once more with a soft grunt, ignoring the violent pain in her right hand. She could feel her skin cracking away like plaster, but ignored it for the moment, attention focused on the creature in front of her. “If you want me then you’ll have to kill me first. And I’m telling you now, motherfucker: this is not how I die!”

She did not wait for its response. Light flared in the darkness as Eleeria lunged for the thing and its many limbs and teeth. Swinging her hammer upwards, she brought the large weapon straight down into the creature’s shoulder. Light radiated from where she struck, and the void split into several smaller monsters to protect itself. Claws and teeth raked at her legs and arms as Eleeria slammed the butt of the hammer into one and spun to crack another in two. They seemed to amplify as she tore into them. For every one she killed, two more stepped to take its place -- until they were grabbing at her hammer, pulling it and her to the ground. Eleeria screeched in frustration; the hammer itself rippled with angry fire as the void sought to tear it from her hands. Holy light rippled from her fingers into the weapon, at odds with the void pulsing around her. The bulky hammer was dragged from her hands with a start; as cold fingers gripped at her arms and dragged her to her knees, her weapon fell from her hands and into the void beneath her feet. Instability rippled through the church as the lightforged weapon met the pure void. She wrenched her arms away from the voidlings to throw up a holy barrier just in time. The hammer shattered with the sudden infusion of void magic, hitting her barrier and rebounding straight into her enemies. The things shrieked as the light-suffused projectiles embedded in their spectral flesh, melting them into an oozing puddle on the floor. And yet, still more came. They appeared to be endless, crawling forth from the summoned darkness with no pause. Eleeria’s hastily erected shield slowly faded, but she refused to fear. As the final shimmer of protective light dimmed from view, Eleeria grabbed for her connection with the Sunwell, drawing deep from that endless source of magic.

She remembered the first time she had reached out and touched its power. Eleeria had been terrified at the time — to hold something so infinitely powerful in her hands was to know her own mortality. How easy it would be, to burn herself alive with her own doubts and hesitations. She could only touch such power for a few moments before feeling it necessary to let it go.

But she was an initiate no longer. That fire surged through her veins, and Eleeria did not shy away from it, as she had in the past; she maintained a firm hold on it with a mental hand, unwavering. There were so many things to be afraid of in her life — so many uncertainties even her new path could not rid her of. But one thing she was absolutely certain of was that she could control the Sunwell’s power with an iron will to save herself as those in need. Fire rippled across her form as she pulled, and pulled, feeling flames in their wake across her skin, bursting from her back in a wing-like arc. And when she was certain she could hold no longer — some folly of mortality at last, birb of actual necessity to let all of that magic go somewhere — Eleeria opened that mental hand and forced the magic out of her in a blinding aura.

The shadow that had curled around the church was dispersed in an instant, banished by radiant light. The void creatures shrieked and dissipated under the force; the strongest of them, injured but not completely destroyed, sank back into the depths. One by one the creatures were destroyed or dissipated; only the Creature itself remained, shrieking and clawing at the floor. Eleeria stepped forward, holy energy still radiating from her in waves. Stooping to grab the sharp pieces of what once had been her warhammer, she ducked forward, jamming the pieces into its shoulders. She threw the rest of her magic into its form, allowing the lightforged pieces of her weapon to amplify her strength.

You can’t kill me! Though it was screaming in pain, spectral noises that made the Adept’s ears pin back, her nose beginning to bleed, it did not seem close to dying. You will regret this day that you did not join me! I will tear your heart from your chest and claim your soul as mine if I must!

She did not care about the threats to her person. Leaning in, she bared her teeth at the creature in elven shape as it seemed to dissipate beneath her. “Get out of Quel’thalas. Remove your curse from this village and leave these people’s lives. Or I will show you the meaning of fear, void abomination. And I will tear your heart out and burn it to ash!”

She could feel the sudden shift in the atmosphere as the curse over the town began to pull away. The void creature opened its mouth, baring elongated and sharpened teeth at her; Eleeria merely bared her own, unafraid. She did not relent until the last scrap of void magic had ebbed away: back into the Creature struggling beneath lightforged fragments and the magnitude of magic running through Eleeria’s veins. I will return...mark my words, Eleeria Silverwing… It struggled to maintain shape, now. Eleeria leaned in one last time, close to those teeth -- ignoring the surging pain in her injured hand, and the lingering feeling of exhaustion ebbing closer to reality.

“The next time you return, I will kill you. And I will have my revenge for what you did to my father. And what you did to Waraylon.”

With a final twist of the broken hammer, the Creature disappeared with one final shriek.

And Eleeria let the pieces go, sinking to the floor. The sounds of the Ghostlands resumed after a long moment. No longer did the area feel so oppressive with the weight of the void. The last of the Sunwell’s strength slipped through her fingertips, until it was no more than the normal stream of light she normally managed. Picking herself up off of the ground with a groan, she tucked the pieces of her hammer she could find into her belt. For a moment, she paused, before stumbling to the door. The sword she had come for could wait -- the village, she decided, was more important than some old relic. As Eleeria stepped outside, however, the faintest hint of light in the pre-dawn morning revealed that the village was...sleeping peacefully. It was as if the villagers had never noticed the Creature that had been lurking here for who knew how long. Eleeria sighed, slumping against the doorframe. With one long, last look at the houses in the distance, she turned and walked back up that long aisle, vaulting the stairs of the dais and finally putting her injured right hand to the lock.

Compared to the Creature that had come before it, the lock was so easy to parse that it nearly brought her to tears of relief. Every movement in her right hand had become an agony. As the arcane spell met her fingers, she cringed in pain, though she knew the spell was not meant to harm her. It was a brush of feather-light magic against her soul; for once, Eleeria bared herself to it, letting it search her heart. What will you do with it? The lock seemed to ask, gently turning Eleeria’s emotions over in its magical sight. What do you wish to do with the sword?

“I want to use it.” She had used up her anger on the void that had inhabited this place. All that remained was exhaustion -- and determination. Eleeria closed her eyes, Light already stitching up the scrapes and gashes along her arms and legs. “I want to use it to protect Quel’thalas. I want to keep my people safe from the Alliance at our doorstep. I want to protect them from the threat of the void that lurks so close and threatens to destroy us and our Sunwell with us. But...more importantly, I want to be a leader for our people. I will banish the nightmares from our shores, both known and unknown. And when everything seems bleak, I will be the light in the darkness, to lead them home again.”

She could feel the truth in those words. Though once she had hated that her people had left so many by the wayside -- so many lost and abandoned children like herself -- she had found it in her heart to forgive them. Eleeria stared down at the lock in her hand and allowed a smile to creep across her sharp features. What would she do with the weapon? She would fight -- of course she would fight. But she would do just as much to help the people she was meant to protect. Eleeria wanted to make a better Quel’thalas; becoming a Knight would allow her to do that. And perhaps, in time, there would be no more abandoned and neglected children. Perhaps those who had starved and scraped for a life in the country of her birth would be raised to equal footing with those who had not. She could only try her best to ease the disparity and the anger. And it was a task that she took upon herself with a glad heart.

...that will do.

It felt as if the people who had led her to this moment stood next to her as the lock slowly unclasped, falling into her outstretched hands. Ethalarian, Ashideena, Amren, Weleria -- the list went on. So many people had offered her their own hands outstretched, to bring her from assassin to this, and she would not let them down. Eleeria opened the box, gathering the pieces of the sword in her hands. It thrummed with welcome power, and she gathered it close to her, making sure no parts were left behind.

With a heavier step, but an infinitely lighter heart, she left to go check up on the village.

#writing #wyrmrest accord #blood knight training

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eastvalley · 6 years

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Jane Austen’s books in upcoming Brazilian telenovela

Yes. Unexpectedly, there is going to be a Brazilian telenovela inspired by Jane Austen novels, called Orgulho e Paixão (Pride and Passion). It will take elements mainly from Pride and Prejudice, however it will also feature characters taken from Emma, Sense and Sensibility, Northanger Abbey and even Lady Susan… And something from Mansfield Park as well. It is set to release in March 20th, 2018.

Honestly, as a Brazilian, I’m really surprised. I was never one to watch many telenovelas myself, but still… I never saw this coming. Even with all the changes made, not being a direct adaption, etc.

The story will be set in early XX century Brazil, specifically at the fictitious Vale do Café (Coffee Valley), at the countryside of São Paulo state (in real life, the coffee production in the region was very high and important to the country back then).

It will be protagonized by Elisabeta Benedito (Elizabeth Bennet, of course) and various Austen characters, all put together. Original characters and plots will also be in the mix. It seems this telenovela will have around 150 chapters (which is an average number for this type of media) - hence the extra material. The channel airs 6 chapters per week.

>>>About some changes regarding characters:

*note: I will explain the facts using the book names for clarity, but all characters had their names or at least surnames modified (either slightly or dramatically)*

IMPORTANT: As you know, I have written this before the novela started, so there were some incorrect information I got from entertainment websites. I think I have corrected those (marked as edits). The general information was correct, but there were some false details...

- Forget Mary and Kitty Bennet. Catherine Morland (Northanger Abbey) and Marianne Dashwood (Sense and Sensibility) join the Bennet sisters in their place (4th and 6th one in the picture).

- Emma Woodhouse will live with both father and grandfather. Her family will be going through a serious financial crisis, but she doesn’t know that. Emma will be best friends with Elizabeth, and for the delight of Mrs. Bennet, she is determined in finding good suitors for all Bennet sisters.

- George Knightley, here a lawyer, will initially be married to a woman with an incurable disease, who will eventually perish (apparently Miss Woodhouse herself put the couple together). Naturally, he will end up falling in love with the oblivious Emma.

edit: As the telenovela started we see that Knightley is not married to the other woman as of the beginning of the story (though he will be) - in fact he is not in any relationship - but Emma is indeed trying to set him up with her. He, however, is very much in love with Emma already (but she has no idea). Fun fact though: Knightley is friends with Colonel Brandon (Sense and Sensibility).

There’s sadly been no mention of other Emma characters. But I’m guessing we will have at least one other guy interested (or seemly so?) in Emma.

- No sign of Caroline Bingley or Lady de Bourgh in the way we know them, though there will be other characters trying to put an end to Elizabeth and Jane’s involvement with Darcy and Bingley. Comes to mind Bingley’s mother, a powerful woman devoted to business (who will fall in love with Emma’s father, and vice versa), and Susana, cunning ambitious divorced(?) woman - inspired by Austen’s very own Lady Susan - who works for Mrs. Bingley. The Darcy family is still from England, but owns a house in São Paulo (they build railroads). Darcy’s father is also alive and will come back to Brazil in his disapproval of Elizabeth.

edit: The Darcy family doesn’t own a house at São Paulo, they are hosted by the Bingleys!

- Wickham (Pride and Prejudice) and Willoughby (Sense and Sensibility) seem to have been fused into one character as a womanizer poet - for the horror of the Bennets (since now Marianne is part of the family as well). He won’t be involved with Elizabeth though, someone else will.

- There is also a character standing in for Fanny Price (Mansfield Park), but she will be bitter and vengeful (although shy) due to the treatment she receives from her uncles – and apparently a straight up villain? Who knows how that will go though, she may get better later… or not. Anyway, she will work as governess at the Tilneys’ (Northanger Abbey) mansion. One of her brothers in the story, here named Ernesto, works at the coffee plantations in Emma’s family lands. He will not be satisfied by the conditions of his parents/class and fight for them. Ernesto and Elizabeth will work together towards egalitarian causes and in the process, he will fall for her - and it seems she will be drawn to him as well, before choosing Darcy.

edit: No “uncles”, just the Tilneys! She’s been in the mansion for years, became cold and distant, not even visiting her family. She resents them for “leaving” her there (they are poor and her mother wanted to give her better conditions, but like...it didn’t go so well). Also, Fanny’s parents are Italian immigrants, and while part of the family works at coffee plantations, it is not at the Woodhouse lands. Also I’m not sure about Elisabeta and Ernesto’s work for “egalitarian causes” happening, though that would be in character for them, we still have to see that...She does go after a job, despite being raised to be a housewife, but anyway. Also he fell for her pretty early, but since she wanted Darcy he moved on.

More information is yet to come.

>>> More personal comments:

Yes, 100-200 episodes is a lot, I agree. If it was a minisseries with like…20 chapters or something it would be nice. But as a telenovela, they are going to create a LOT of stuff. I’m trying to keep that in mind, ha. It’s really not going to be a direct translation from page to screen, guys. I just hope it’s not dull or…anger inducing - but fun and cool! We do have really good stuff made here, but like everywhere else there’s bad stuff too, of course…

About the Bennet sisters: I find it a neat idea! Lizzie, Jane and Lydia were always the focus, after all. It’s just a pity there is no Elinor.

I don’t like the idea of a initially married Knightley though, even if he will become a widower. Guess I’m gonna have to just deal with it. Hopefully it will be quick… Also I think they should have kept Emma’s father as an older man, instead of giving her a dad AND grandfather.

edit: REALLY don’t know how the marriage thing is going to go, now that I know he loves Emma before it happens… I’m worried XP I really hope they can develop things nicely…

And I think it would make more sense if at least Darcy had remained with no living parents…or if they really wanted to include one, it should have been his mother, I think. Oh, well…

Now, regarding the Wickham/Willoughby combo - Yeah, I think having both of them would be too much, right? A fusion makes sense! Not sure about the whole “poet” thing though…why not keep him in the military, like Wickham? Oh, well…

And “Fanny”? Well, now THAT is definitely different. I’m glad Mansfield Park is not a favorite of mine! ^^’ We shall see how this goes…

#orgulho e paixão #pride and prejudice #jane austen #sense and sensibility #northanger abbey #emma #judging by recent news it seems we will see darcy and elizabeth's married life as well

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xtruss · 3 years

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Afghanistan and the Haunting Questions of Blame

In Senate testimony, the generals acknowledged America’s “strategic failure” in its longest war, and their differences with Biden.

— By Robin Wright | September 30, 2021

Defense Secretary Lloyd Austin at the Senate Armed Services Committee hearing on the end of the war in Afghanistan.Photograph by Patrick Semansky / Getty

After the First World War, a conspiracy theory dubbed Dolchstosslegende—or “being stabbed in the back”— was popularized in Germany to explain its historic military defeat. The myth claimed that the war had actually been lost by weak civilians who had caved to the enemy, signed an armistice, and stabbed in the back a brave German military that would otherwise have won.

“There were echoes of that after the war in Vietnam,” Stephen Biddle, a Columbia University professor and the author of “Military Power: Explaining Victory and Defeat in Modern Battle,” told me this week, as top U.S. military leaders testified about America’s defeat in its longest war. “The loss in Vietnam was all President Lyndon Johnson and the feckless civilians who wouldn’t let us do it right.” Donald Trump invoked the same conspiratorial idea to explain just about everything that went wrong during his Administration, including his election loss. “Stab-in-the-back myths can be poisonous in all sorts of ways,” Biddle warned.

A month after the Biden Administration completed the chaotic withdrawal from Afghanistan, Washington is struggling to understand how its vast human, military, financial, and diplomatic investment, made over two decades, simply collapsed, with the Taliban sweeping back into power and the United States scrambling to get out. The rancorous debate over blame threatens to further divide the nation. In two days of testy and occasionally snarky questions, members of the Senate and House challenged the three men who oversaw the war’s end to explain it. They were painfully candid. And there were plenty of mea culpas.

“We helped build a state,” Defense Secretary Lloyd Austin told a Senate panel on Tuesday. “But we could not forge a nation.” He questioned whether the United States ever even had the right strategy—or, over two decades, whether it had “perhaps too many strategies?” The United States now has to acknowledge uncomfortable truths, he said. “The fact that the Afghan Army that we and our partners trained simply melted away—in many cases without firing a shot—took us all by surprise. And it would be dishonest to claim otherwise.” General Mark Milley, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and America’s most senior military officer, bluntly conceded failure at an “incredible” cost. “Strategically the war was lost,” he told the Senate Armed Services Committee. “The enemy is in Kabul.”

The testimony revealed a chasm between what President Biden claimed came out of a lengthy consultation with his generals and what the Pentagon advised. The military recommended keeping a residual force of twenty-five hundred U.S. troops in Afghanistan, General Kenneth (Frank) McKenzie, Jr., the head of Central Command, testified. The goal was to prop up—psychologically even more than militarily—President Ashraf Ghani’s fragile government and Afghan security forces to allow more time for elected leaders in Kabul to negotiate with the Taliban on the makeup of a transitional government. The rivals had been talking since last September, and the Taliban had refused to make major concessions. Under the plan, U.S.-led nato forces would have been able to hold Bagram (a strategic air base that provided air support to Afghan forces; it was abandoned during the U.S troop drawdown). The timing of a future withdrawal would then depend on conditions, such as a successfully brokered peace, and not tied to an arbitrary date.

The sworn testimony was in stark contrast to the version Biden has offered the American public. Last month, the President claimed that the military never advised him to stay. In an interview, ABC’s George Stephanopoulos asked him, “So no one told—your military advisers did not tell you, ‘No, we should just keep twenty-five hundred troops. It’s been a stable situation for the last several years. We can do that. We can continue to do that’?” Biden replied, “No. No one said that to me that I can recall.” The White House has been scrambling to rectify the discrepancies. “These conversations don’t happen in black-and-white, like you’re in the middle of a movie,” the White House press secretary Jen Psaki told reporters. Pressed by Republicans about their conversations with Biden, the Pentagon leaders declined to criticize him. “I was present when that discussion occurred and I am confident that the President heard all the recommendations and listened to them very thoughtfully,” McKenzie testified. “That’s all any commander can ask.”

Other themes emerged from the testimony that may prove more important in understanding the scope and consequences of an epic failure by the world’s most powerful nation against a guerrilla insurgency that lacked both armor and air power. The fallout will extend well beyond South Asia. “Our credibility with allies and partners around the world, and with adversaries, is being intensely reviewed by them to see which way this is going to go,” Milley told the Senate committee. “I think that ‘damage’ is one word that could be used, yes.”

A deeper assessment of America’s mistakes, which were many, is still to come. “This is a twenty-year war,” Milley told the House committee on Wednesday. “It wasn’t lost in the last twenty days, or even twenty months, for that matter. There is a cumulative effect to a series of strategic decisions that go way back.”

Milley cited many decisive factors and pivots: he noted the problem of Pakistan offering sanctuary (There were NO SANCTUARIES. These people live on the both sides of the borders. IT’S ALL BULLSHIT. They cross borders freely without any restrictions.) —for decades, and continuing to this day—to the Taliban’s fighters and leadership. The U.S. military was just a thousand metres from Osama bin Laden’s hideout in Tora Bora in the first two months of the U.S. intervention in 2001; the Al Qaeda leader slipped away into Pakistan, where he hid for another decade.The general didn’t get into politics or diplomacy, but none of the four Presidents who waged the war was able to get Pakistan, a nuclear power which sees the Taliban as an ally against its archrival, India, to contain the extremist movement. Did he know why? Because Fascist Terrorist India is an ally of the US now to contain China. It’s quite sure that both India and the United States can’t F*** with China. China will beat the S*** of them and that’s for sure. US abandoned it’s old ally Pakistan because of India. The Pentagon leaders admitted to other mistakes: poor U.S. intelligence; endemic Afghan corruption exacerbated as the U.S. poured billions of dollars into the country; the Doha agreement negotiated between the Trump Administration and the Taliban that excluded the elected Afghan government; and especially the U.S. military’s fundamental misreading of the Afghan military’s lack of leadership, morale, and will. Here Braindead General failed to mention the hidden agendas and dirty tricks of the United States’ “FAKE WAR ON TERRORISM” in the region. Well equipped with modern warfare machineries, WAR CRIMINAL United States and its War Criminal puppets, UK, FRANCE, GERMANY, ITALY, AUSTRALIA and the WEST still got the well deserved deep f*** by the native WARRIORS, THE TALIBAN, and YET BLAMING PAKISTAN for their failure of NON WINNABLE FAKE WAR ON TERRORISM. WTF? Pakistan absolutely did the right thing to take care of it’s own interest first. Pakistan don’t give a damn f*** to the ‘Invader War Criminal United States’ and or to it’s ‘War Criminal Puppet Allies’ when it’s comes to the SOVEREIGNTY of PAKISTAN.

Austin, a former four-star general who served in Afghanistan, was explicit in a stream-of-consciousness list of the mistakes the U.S. made in simply misunderstanding Afghanistan. “That we did not fully comprehend the depth of corruption and poor leadership in their senior ranks,” he said, “that we did not grasp the damaging effect of frequent and unexplained rotations by President Ghani of his commanders, that we did not anticipate the snowball effect caused by the deals that Taliban commanders struck with local leaders in the wake of the Doha agreement, that the Doha agreement itself had a demoralizing effect on Afghan soldiers, and that we failed to fully grasp that there was only so much for which—and for whom—many of the Afghan forces would fight.” A fatal flaw in U.S. strategy, the Pentagon officials said, was trying to create a military that was a “mirror image” of the sophisticated U.S. military in a poor South Asian nation with limited literacy. It was costliest for Afghans. Somewhere between sixty thousand and seventy thousand members of the Afghan security forces died in the twenty-year war, compared to more than twenty-four hundred U.S. service members. An estimated forty-six thousand Afghan civilians perished, too. The United States had the technology to track the Afghan military in its fight with the Taliban, Milley said, but failed to grasp how its pullout would affect Afghan morale. “You can’t measure the human heart with a machine,” he said.

Given past claims by both Republican and Democratic Administrations, the testimony was chilling and will offer fodder for historians for decades. The Pentagon spent eighty-three billion dollars to train and outfit the Afghan security forces. Eight hundred thousand Americans in various branches of the U.S. military rotated in and out of Afghanistan, some multiple times. For two decades, top generals repeatedly reported that progress was being made. This week, they acknowledged that it had not. “You wish you’d seen that kind of candor during the war,” Christine Fair, a professor of security studies at Georgetown University, told me. “Why were you wrong about ninety-nine things if you’re honest about the hundredth?” McKenzie acknowledged that U.S. military leaders may not have listened to warnings from more junior U.S. service members working day to day with Afghan forces. “I think that’s a reasonable criticism,” he testified. “I’ll be very candid with you.”

The most alarming conclusions from the hearings were about the future of the jihadist threat broadly and Al Qaeda specifically. On the twentieth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, Milley acknowledged, jihadism got a “shot of adrenaline” from the U.S. withdrawal and the Taliban’s return to power. American credibility was badly damaged. “It’s a big morale boost,” he said. The prospect of a future attack is “a very real possibility.” One of the seven conditions that the Taliban never met, as part of its deal with the Trump Administration, was to renounce Al Qaeda. Under the Taliban, Al Qaeda may be able to reconstitute in as little as six to twelve months and then, again, threaten the U.S. homeland, the Pentagon officials warned. Without U.S. troops on the ground or in neighboring countries, it will now be far harder to track Al Qaeda, isis-Khorasan, or other extremist cells in Afghanistan.

The most unnerving aspect of the two-day hearing, though, was the rank partisan politicizing of a war waged by two Republican and two Democratic Presidents with the goal, in theory, of safeguarding all Americans. Republicans on both the Senate and House committees called on Milley, who was stoic and stone-faced throughout, to resign. “This country doesn’t want generals figuring out what orders we are going to accept and do or not,” Milley shot back at the Republican Senator Tom Cotton, of Arkansas. The Republican tirades were often ill-informed and politically self-serving. In the House, Representative Liz Cheney, of Wyoming, called the criticism of the military by opportunistic fellow-Republicans “despicable.”

The testimony appeared to signify that the long de-facto alignment between Republicans and the U.S. military is over, Biddle told me: “The Republican Party is turning on them. That’s a tectonic shift.” As the U.S. looks ahead, the threats to national security and democracy will be the rise of hyper-partisanship and the erosion of public trust in government institutions, a trend exacerbated during the Trump Presidency. “The military may be the next institution that gets the rug pulled out from under them,” Biddle said. The Pentagon leaders’ testimony this week—which at times bordered on being a confessional—was striking, but may not be enough, Michael O’Hanlon, a military expert at the Brookings Institution, told me. “At some level, it’s inspiring, but anyone who is fair-minded would have to say the ending was catastrophic,” he said. “We’re all still in a state of shock about what happened.” Defeat is defeat. And the judgments and relentless pursuit of political advantage are only beginning.

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