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pomplalamoose · 6 months

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Can we please have some luke fluff hc’s?🙏 from any era idc i just love your writing💗

Thank you so much, anon!!! <33

I'm so on board for more lighthearted Luke content to warm our hearts, it's what he deserves🤝🏻

Also I veered into kinda new territory for me; while many of these take place in the Star Wars universe as normal, I included some modern day AU ones too

• the Jedi are taught to take extra care of their clothing and appearance because whenever they're out and about they take on a mostly representative role, whether they want to or not

• this also includes learning how to correctly mend and take care of their belongings

• I don't think that this was at the very front of Luke's education though, Obi-Wan and Yoda really had more pressing conditions to work with

• however, as everyone can clearly see, nobody had to specifically tell Luke about this

• (just look at the man)

• not only did he grow up with maybe one (1) relatively good fitting outfit, I'm also sure that because of this he was taught how to fix holes and re do seams as well as sewing his buttons back on himself

• I'm even convinced he's able to make a simple pair of pants and a shirt from scratch should it be really necessary

• something about the picture of you and Luke sitting together on a warm summer evening or during a winter night and you watching him silently working away is just the peak of domesticity

• he enjoys fixing clothes, especially if by doing so he can do a favor to those he loves

• I think in a way it calms him too

• he'd definitely help out his Padawans with it as well

• I firmly believe he owns a small sewing kit, complete with a thimble

• (maybe two: one he's actually using and a second hand made one out of porcelain because he thinks it's really pretty)

• maybe, in addition and if he has the time, he'd try out similar activities like crocheting, knitting, stitching, etc.

• I don't think he'd be very good at it but everything he crafts is made with love and there is no one around who doesn't appreciate his efforts

• imagine him knitting little socks and hats and scarves for all of his students

• for some reason he really struggles with online tutorials though

• they're always going too fast, he can't see what exactly it is they're showing, and often times they're just overcomplicating really simple steps

• he finds this to be very frustrating

• he probably uses a very (very!) old fashioned book to learn instead

• its margins are full of scribbles of its previous owners and Luke adds his own

• he draws smiley faces next to the patterns he likes most

• Luke is a DIY king

• something that really comes in handy as a Jedi master

• at the very beginning, just at the start of his own academy, he definitely did most of the occurring tasks himself, also including preparing the meals for everyone

• he's a decent cook but I think he'd get really into baking

• baking bread is one of his favorite free time activities

• my sister insists upon the fact that he'd make the absolute best focaccia

• (or its Star Wars equivalent at least)

• he really likes trying out new recipes, especially those he never heard about before

• with varying degrees of success, as some of them are not meant to be made by humans

• but worry not, nothing is getting wasted

• Luke's collection of little fish friends is always happy to eat the remaining crumbs

• (for those that don't know what I'm talking about, check out my other random Luke headcanons if you'd like)

• he has special outfits for his training sessions, including many different shoes

• depending on what or where it is he's practicing, he chooses them carefully

• inside he's wearing soft slippers and soft slippers only, boots are a no go

• it's very much established that Luke is wonderfully emphathetic and always ready to stand by your side, may it be during your period or when you're struggling mentally

• he's still wonderfully emphathetic and caring when you're sick but like, only from very far away

• he'll refuse to come near you if you so much as mention you're not feeling well

• if you have to sneeze or cough even a little bit he's immediately asking whether you've fallen ill or are about to

• just say you feel like you're getting a cold and he's on retreat immediately

• he can't get sick as well!

• he's working with children!!!

• at least one of them is always sick anyways, he can't be contagious under any circumstances!

• he'd feel so bad if he were to be responsible for even more of them suffering

• he feels horrible for not being there for you too though

• so he still does his best

• he prepares warm meals and tea every day and let's R2 deliver them

• he always checks in on you when you're asleep

• he changes your bed sheets while you take a shower or a bath

• he'd totally make a doctor's appointment for you if you're too scared to make the phone call yourself

• he makes sure you're taking your medications

• he pats your back and strokes your hair using the Force

• Luke would absolutely hate quarantine

• at first he'd still be pretty optimistic, thinking it won't be that bad, maybe even fun?

• he'll just meditate a lot, right?

• after all he has mastered his temper now, his patience renowned among his friends and students

• this mindset works at the beginning and for a while he's happy to sleep in for as long as he wants to

• however he forgets about the concept of time quickly enough and soon has no idea what day it is

• when was the last time he had breakfast?

• since he's a very outdoorsy person, always on the move, always doing something, it wouldn't take long until he's getting kinda antsy too

• and while he does enjoy the calm and quiet, he's mostly used to being the center of bustling activities

• soon he takes desperate measures to pass the time, even trying out things he before swore to not be interested in in the slightest

• I see him taking lots and lots of Buzzfeed quizzes

• he texts you about every single result

• one of his first ones was about what kind of animal he'd be and he absolutely hated the outcome

• he eventually ended up making his own quiz because of it

• he likes watching you play video games more than playing them himself

• it's very relaxing to him, especially after a long day at work

• plus he gets to hold you extra close under the pretense of being very interested to see what's going on on screen

• he dozes off pretty quickly though

• while he's happy to let you play whatever you want, I think he has his favorites as well

• Animal Crossing being at the very front

• he loves when you show him your town or island, how you decorated your house and which villagers you're best friends with

• he too would have the newest game, simply because you were missing a few items and he was determined to get them for you

• it would totally escalate during quarantine though, and suddenly he'd have a fully decorated five star island

• (Luke Skywalker plays Animal Crossing with a passion and I'm ready to fight anyone about it)

• for some reason he gets really competitive during Mario Kart and Just Dance

• he unapologetically wins at every single Wii Sports mini game and no matter what you do and how much you practice, he's always better and not in the least bit sorry about it

• he is a Macher™ (please let there be some German fans who know what I'm talking about)

#ask #luke skywalker #luke skywalker x reader #luke skywalker x you #luke skywalker fanfiction #star wars #luke star wars #star wars fanfiction #fanfic #star wars a new hope #star wars empire strikes back #star wars return of the jedi #star wars headcanons #luke headcanons #fluff #lots of fluff

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probablyasocialecologist · 9 months

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Prairies are ecosystems that evolved with people, that came to meet their own fullness and their own agency in relationship to people. Plains peoples would set some of the fires themselves, for when the litter was cleared and the energy stored in last season’s grasses was released back into the soil, when the encroaching trees withered, the land restored itself and the grazers came back to feed on the bright sustenance that returned. Grassland ecosystems in the continental United States have not known any significant stretch of time without the active participation of human beings. People are an integral part of the life cycle of prairies, still. But because we have, by and large, now stripped the land of the conditions that once sustained grassland ecosystems—bison, fire, human understanding of the interplay of these forces on the landscape—the way we interact with prairies determines not only their condition, but often their very existence. Only where prairies are carefully and actively managed by people do they thrive in all of their biodiversity. The fact that humans have been a part of prairies since there has been such a thing on this continent calls into question a widespread assumption about the word wilderness. WILDERNESS: (1a) a tract or region uncultivated and uninhabited by human beings; (1b) an area essentially undisturbed by human activity together with its naturally developed life community; (2) an empty or pathless area or region; (3) a part of a garden devoted to wild growth. Standing atop this dune, I’m wondering whether this word describes any of what I am seeing. The world over, humans have been participating in complex, cohesive ecosystems for millennia, their activities often serving peak biodiversity rather than working against it. How our philosophical and spiritual separation from those systems has come about is deeply complex in its own right. But a key part of that separation can be glimpsed in the recent etymological evolution of this word. Wilderness in nineteenth-century American discourse—a concept with roots in both scripture and the Enlightenment—was something to be conquered and controlled. Manifest Destiny sought the taming of the wild. After the pursuit of the American frontier came to a close in the late 1800s, the influence of Romanticism and Transcendentalism helped to shift the American attitude toward wilderness from one of conquering to one of preserving, a shift that is apparent, three-quarters of a century later, in the language of the 1964 Wilderness Act: “A wilderness, in contrast with those areas where man and his works dominate the landscape, is hereby recognized as an area where the earth and its community of life are untrammeled by man, where man himself is a visitor who does not remain.” In both of these definitions “wilderness” designates humans as apart. In its contemporary usage, the concept of wilderness spawns distance from the very thing it attempts to affirm.

#prairie #grassland #ecology #wilderness

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demonmary · 1 year

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on dean and aging: weathered glass

Dean sat on the dock at the lake house, and the morning came up to greet him. He’d gotten used to rising with the sun, adjusted to the light pouring through the window in the bedroom he shared with Cas. Cas, who refused the completely reasonable request for blinds, shrugging Dean off with some rumbled nonsense about circadian rhythms and the nature of humans that Dean ignored in favor of pressing kisses to his neck. Cas, who Dean got to spend the rest of forever with, no strings attached, goddamnit.

[read on ao3 or continue below]

Castiel was still asleep, for all his posturing about early rising still remained a late sleeper, still needed to be woken up gently with a cup of coffee and a kiss, and jeez, when did Dean get so soft? He’d never seen this as his future, always pictured going out in peak condition, kicking and spitting and swinging till his last, but now he was cradling a mug painted by his kid and sitting on a porch he built himself.

Sure, his kid was literally God , and the property they lived on was technically owned by the guy who used to live inside the vessel that his husband possesses, but still. Dean had gone soft.

He wasn’t sure what to make of that, wasn’t sure if he should pass judgement or if that voice sounded too much like his father, but the thought barely had enough time to crease his brow before he heard the front door swing open.

Dean turned his face to the sound and was rewarded with a soft press of lips to his forehead. Cas still carried the weight of sleep in his limbs as he nudged Dean over to join him on the porch swing. Without a word between them, Cas topped off Dean’s mug with some coffee from his own cup and wrapped his free arm around Dean’s shoulder. The sun hadn’t warmed the air around them yet, but the chill disappeared with the angel’s arrival.

It was quiet like that for minutes; Dean wasn’t sure how many, as he sat in that feeling of soft warmth with Cas and watched the lake’s small tide and the waves it pulled across the sand.

Dean didn’t mean to break that silence, but his words always ran on their own track.

“Do you miss the old me?” Dean interrupted the blanket of peace for that? “I mean… Not when I was being a dick to you. But the old me. Y’know, big, strong hunter me? Not the hunting, sure,” Dean clarified, knowing where Castiel’s mind went.

Cas relaxed minutely at the reassurance, and Dean leaned against his side, tucked himself right in underneath the ratted arm of his husband’s robe.

Dean scrunched his face up a bit, sorting his thoughts into some semblance of communication.

“Like, do you think I got… soft or whatever?” Close enough, Dean thought.

Castiel was thinking. He was quiet, and Dean couldn’t see his face, but he could feel the way the energy shifted, how everything seemed to go still as Castiel regarded him.

When Cas spoke, he did so with careful calculation, like he was saying something that he knew to be absolute fact. He donated that same intensity to most things he said, but that didn’t change the way it still made butterflies twist and turn and tumble for space inside Dean’s stomach when the words were directed at him.

“Dean, I most definitely think you have gotten soft, and I think that there isn’t a single soul on the planet who deserves that as much as you do.”

Cas turned to face Dean, setting down his mug and twisting his body towards the man he loved. One gentle hand reached up to cup Dean’s cheek, and Castiel stared the way he always did.

“I think that this world has not always been as kind as you deserve, and for a long time, you needed to be stronger than is ever fair to ask of someone. You weathered your way through every single storm the universe had to offer, and you did all of it for love, Dean. Not for vengeance, or for reward, or accolades, or for yourself, but you did it for the world. You didn’t wear down; you just… smoothed out. You could have let any single one of the battles you fought be the one that broke you, but you’re here.”

Dean had come far, clearly, as he managed to hold the eye contact with Cas even as a tear slipped from his eye. Castiel brushed it away with his thumb, hand cradling Dean’s face.

“I think that soft is a wonderful thing to be,” Cas added, his voice lighter, his hand dropping from Dean’s cheek to steal his mug for a sip. Dean didn’t mention that Castiel’s own mug wasn’t even a foot away where he’d just set it down. Cas turned back to face the lake, kicking off the porch into a gentle swing with his arm snugly around Dean once again.

Dean took a deep breath, the air off the lake fresh in his lungs. He took another peek at his husband, at the hand-painted mug he cupped in his gentle hands, and thought about the privilege it was to recognize their gentleness. He thought back to years of battles, of knives and swords and heaven and hell and electric blue light behind the eyes that Dean now gets to see bleary with sleep, and Dean smiled.

If this was soft, Dean found he didn't mind too much.

#reposting this for deans birthday sorrryyyyy bout it #deansbirthdaybash #ohhhhhghghhghhghhhh he #this is an old fic but it's so #ojhhhhghhghghhhh my govd o #zo.txt #dirtybackroad

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honeymochibubbletea · 3 months

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May I request a Dr Phantasmo x reader that can shapeshift into any animal and uses their ability to escape him everytime he tries to get them and even tauts him about it till he eventually captures them

Sure thing! >:3

☆~Phantasmo with a shapeshifter darling~☆:

You were a very adventurous person, you always were a free spirit. No one could trap you or enslave you. Yes, you’ve heard about this oh so “feared” Dr. Phantasmo and the things he did to those who dare to cross his path… but honestly you couldn’t give two shits about him: hell, you weren’t afraid of him! You’ve always laughed at the face of danger! So, what was a mad-wannabe-scientist to you? A joke, of course!

You both have met for the first time when you were invading his property and teasing him to try and catch you. At first he thought it wasn’t worth it and ignored you for a while… until you’ve transformed into a panther in front of him (you know, just to show off how amazing you are) and you’ve peaked his interest… you better prepare yourself, because this man was now determined to catch you at any cost!

And then, this cat and mouse game went about for three months: every time he was about to catch you, you would transform into a different animal to slip away from his grasp. He was starting to give up until he had an idea:

Phantasmo: hey y/n~ i bet you can’t escape from me as a mouse~

Y/n: pfft, of course i can, watch me!

You knew this was a trap, but your pride spoke a little louder for you to remember that his chances of capturing you were higher now that you were a mou-

Oh shit! And he indeed succeeded in capturing you! Okay, no need for panic, right? Right?! Maybe you could bite his fingers or-

Phantasmo: well, well, well~ looks like this cat here finally got his catch~

Y/n: pfft, yeah? So what? You got me, what are you going to do big guy?

Phantasmo: you really shouldn’t talk like you have the upper hand here. Perhaps are you trying to cope by sounding arrogantly confident~?

Y/n: well, at least that’s something we both have in common: we both are overly confident… and now, if you excuse me, i’ll escape from you again and laugh at your-!

Phantasmo: face~?

Phantasmo had you in front of his mouth… wait… he wasn’t seriously considering eating you… was… he…? (Spoiler: no, no he wasn’t. He was just messing up with you, he wouldn’t eat a mouse… even if he could… but you didn’t know that and you didn’t needed to know~ ;) )

You desperately tried to transform into a bigger animal but… what heck?! Why weren’t you transforming?!? He licked your face teasingly and you started to grow more and more worried with your situation: you hate this option but… you needed to do this or else…

Y/n: please! Don’t eat me! I’m sorry, okay?! I’m sorry for calling you a snail and other upsetting things! I’m sorry for sitting on you as an elephant that one time! And i’m sorry for challenging you!

Phantasmo: ah~ choosing the coward option to get out of this mess~? Pathetic~ hahahaha!

Y/n: p-please… what have you done to me…? Why can’t i-

Phantasmo: HA! Shapeshift~? Well, “darling”, you see: when you were bragging about how you couldn’t beat me when you were transforming into a mouse, i took this opportunity to throw into your way my newest invention: the anti-shapeshifting dust! I had plenty of time to study you and your abilities and now, you will remain as a mouse forever! Buhahahahaha!

Y/n: Huh… so that’s why you were blowing something at me… wait… WHAT?! NO! Please! I don’t want to be one animal forever! I also like my human form!

Phantasmo: awww~ and why should I give you an antidote~? Hmm~?

Y/n: i… i… i could… i could be your assistant…! Y-yeah…!

Phantasmo: hmmm… alright, you know what? Sure~

Y/n: phew…

Phantasmo: but, under one condition: you’ll be my lab rat whenever i feel bored~ deal~?

You weren’t so sure if this was a good idea… but, like, did you really had another option?

And so, as promised, phantasmo would give you the antidote and bring you back to your “normal” self. But, every time he wanted to experiment on you or simply whenever he was bored, he would order you to transform into some animal: usually a cat.

Don’t worry though: every time he wanted to experiment on you, he would bring you back to life with one of his machines, as long as he had your soul, you would always come back into a brand new body! Isn’t he nice? :3 (btw, he would create a new body identical to your first old body out of someone’s dead body… he only makes some… adjustments… it’s better if you don’t ask him how he does that)

You two weren’t that close for quite a while… but, eventually, you would eventually tolerate each other’s presence and start loving one another

Remember when he would get bored and boss you around to turn into a cat? Well, here’s the thing: he is secretly a fan of cats and loves them greatly. He would just be petting you and massaging your back or using you as a emotional support animal whenever he would feel overwhelmed and stressed by something🥹

Oh and one last thing: you know that old cliche of a villain sitting on a chair and stroking a cat? That would be you and Phantasmo hahahaha! (Relationships goals everyone, Relationships goals…)

#dr. phantasmo #telltown #fluffpillow #others ocs #dr. phantasmo x reader

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nicklloydnow · 1 year

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“The Refusal to Procreate

Having exhausted his appetites, the man who approaches a limit-form of detachment no longer wants to perpetuate himself, he loathes surviving in someone else, to whom moreover he has nothing more to transmit; the species appalls him; he is a monster - and monsters do not beget. "Love" still holds him prisoner: an aberration among his thoughts. In love he seeks an excuse to return to the common condition; but the child seems as inconceivable to him as the family, as heredity, as the laws of nature. With neither profession nor lineage, he achieves - final hypostasis - his own conclusion. But far as he may be from fecundity, a more audacious monster outstrips him: the saint, an example at once fascinating and repellent, with whom we are always in a false position; his own is clear: no room for doubt, no possible dilettantism. Having reached the gilded peaks of his disgusts, at the antipodes of Creation, he has made his nothingness into a halo. Nature has never known such a calamity: from the viewpoint of perpetuation, the saint marks an absolute end, a radical denouement. To regret, like Léon Bloy, that we are not all saints is to crave humanity's disappearance . . . in the name of faith! How positive, on the other hand, the devil appears, striving to seal us to our imperfections and laboring - despite himself, betraying his essence - to preserve us! Root out sins and life withers at once. The follies of procreation will one day vanish - out of weariness rather than sanctity. Man will be exhausted less for having tended to perfection than for having squandered himself, then he will resemble a void saint, and he will be just as far from nature's fruitfulness as is this model of fulfillment and sterility.

Man engenders only by remaining faithful to the general fate. Once he approaches the essence of the devil or of the angel, he becomes sterile or begets abortions. For Raskolnikov, for Ivan Karamazov or Stavrogin, love is no longer anything but an excuse to accelerate their destruction; and this very excuse vanishes for Kirilov: he no longer measures himself against men but against God. As for the Idiot or Alyosha, the fact that the one apes Jesus and the other the angels places them from the start among the impotent. . . .

But to wrest ourselves from the chain of beings and to reject the notion of ancestry or posterity is nonetheless not to compete with the saint, whose pride exceeds any earthly dimension. Indeed, under the decision by which he renounces everything, under the incommensurable exploit of such humility, is concealed a demonic effervescence: the initial point, the start of sanctity, assumes the style of a challenge hurled at the human race; subsequently the saint climbs the ladder of perfection, begins talking about love, about God, turns toward the humble, intrigues the mob and annoys us. The fact nonetheless remains that he has thrown down his gauntlet. . . .

The hatred of the "race" and of its "genius" relates you to murderers, to madmen, to divinities, and to all the great forms of the sterile. Starting from a certain degree of solitude, you must leave off loving and committing the fascinating pollution of intercourse. The man who wants to perpetuate himself at any price is scarcely to be distinguished from the dog: he is still nature; he will never understand that we can endure the empire of the instincts and rebel against them, enjoy the advantages of the species and scorn them: end of the line - with appetites. . . . That is the conflict of the man who worships and abominates woman, supremely torn between the attraction and disgust she inspires. Hence, unable to renounce the race altogether, he resolves this conflict by dreaming, on her breast, of the desert and by mingling the scent of the cloisters with the stench of over-explicit sweat. The insincerities of the flesh bring him closer to the saints. . .

Solitude of hatred . . . sensation of a god turned toward destruction, treading the spheres underfoot, slobbering on the blue of heaven and its constellations . . . of a frenzied, filthy, unhealthy god; the demiurge ejecting, through space, paradise, and latrines; cosmogony of delirium tremens; convulsive apotheosis in which gall consummates the elements. . . . The creatures hurl themselves toward an archetype of ugliness and sigh for an ideal of deformity. . . . Universe of grimaces, jubilation of the mole, the hyena, and the louse. . . . No horizon left, except for monsters and vermin. Everything makes for disgust and gangrene: this globe suppurating while the living display their wounds under the beams of that luminous chancre. . . .” - Emil Cioran, ‘A Short History of Decay’ (1949) [p. 127 - 129]

#cioran #emil cioran #short history of decay #procreate #procreation #antinatalism #dostoyevsky

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autisticsupervillain · 2 years

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It's Fictional Throwdown Friday!

This Week's Fighters...

Agent 47 vs The Punisher!

Conditions:

Speed Equalized. Earth 616 Punisher is used. Both are allowed their full arsenals. Human Punisher is used.

Scenario:

Agent 47 is hired to kill The Punisher and begins tracking him across New York. The Punisher realizes he's being tracked and raids a mob armory warehouse. 47 takes his shot as Frank makes his exit and the two engage in a gun fight.

Analysis: The Punisher

In a world filled to the brim with god-like heroes and planet destroying villains, it says a lot that the most dreaded antihero of them all is just a hate filled man with lots of guns and a skull on his t-shirt. Hated and feared even by his fellow heroes, The Punisher is a man dreaded by many and loved by none.

But Frank Castle wasn't always the nightmarish figure he is today. He was once a simple man trying to provide for his family. After three hellish tours in Vietnam, Frank was hoping to settle down and live a peaceful life, but the mob had other plans. Frank's family was gunned down by the mob and Frank Castle died that day. All that remained was The Punisher.

The Punisher dedicated himself to a never ending one man war on crime. He knew that no amount of killing would solve the problem of crime forever. If anything, this crusade was meant to punish himself. If he was going to die, he was going to bring as many criminals down with him as possible.

Luckily, Frank has a wide variety of tools to aid him in his quest for vengeance. While he may not have the bottomless pockets of someone like Batman or Iron Man, Frank is still a walking armory. He regularly carries numerous automatic rifles, automatic pistols, grenade launchers, rocket launchers, and combat knives with him into battle. When couple with his kevlar vest it's amazing he doesn't topple over under the weight of it all. But when the situation calls for a little extra fire power, Frank has some exotic weapons up his sleeves too, including wrist mounted flame throwers, energy guns, freeze and heat rays, shock gauntlets, and even vials of acid.

Frank doesn't need all of his gear to be a threat however. He's trained his senses well beyond the limits of the normal man, even capable of smelling cyanide mixed into somebody's mouth wash. His mental endurance was enough to allow him to briefly resist mind control from the villain Puppet Master and his analytical mind allowed him to predict the movements of Spider-Man, someone who can move fast enough to dodge lightning and explicitly designed his style to be an unpredictable "anti-martial art". His body armor pushes his resistance even further, adding to his superhuman pain resistance to the point of allowing him to shrug off being electrocuted whilst being sprayed with water. Furthermore, his kevlar is noted as being flame resistant and he carries a gas mask on him at all times.

In regards to his intellect and skill, The Punisher is a keen mind, preferring to take his foes out from a distance using stealthy guerilla tactics he learned in Vietnam. When that fails however, he's frequently shown to be an excellent martial artist, often proving to be a match for even the likes of Daredevil, triumphing over the Man Without Fear as often as he loses to him. On the flipside, while he has frequently tussled with Spider-man, even starting out as a Spider-man villain, but I'd hesitate to genuinely compare the two. Peter has been stated and shown to hold back against peak human level combatants and has demonstrated that he could easily crush them if he wanted to. This was best demonstrated when the Kingpin, someone Frank frequently has trouble beating, shot Aunt May and Peter preceded to beat him to the brink of death in retaliation.

This kinda highlights one of Frank's biggest problems. He is, for all intents and purposes, an 80s action hero dumped into the Marvel universe. As a result, his track record against people out of his weight class can be rather spotty depending on who's writing him and how prepared he is going in. If he goes in with a plan, he's usually pretty golden, even managing to get a few genuine wins on Spidey and Wolverine this way and even making a clean getaway against The Sentry. If he doesn't, he has a bad habit of getting cocky and getting his ass kicked by genuinely superheroes and villains. Without proper prep time, even Spidey villains like Doc Ock and Shocker are capable of kicking his ass, to say nothing of the time he got finger flicked unconscious by the Hulk or cut to shreds by Wolverine's son.

As far as scaling goes, I'd place him on par with Daredevil, but that's as high as he goes. This would make him far superior to Stilt Man, a D-List Daredevil villain, who is easily capable of shattering concrete walls. This would mean Frank scales considerably above 0.00085 tons of tnt.

Source:

And, to end off, I would be remiss if I didn't mention one of Frank's most famous feats. Completely no-selling the Ghost Rider's Penance Stare, a move that enforces all the pain the target has caused onto their very soul. Frank tanked this by virtue of feeling no regret for any of his killings. I won't be counting this feat for two reasons.

1. How the Ghost Rider's Penance Stare works varies wildly from writer to writer. There are plenty of times it's worked against people who feel no remorse for their crimes.

2. Even if that was how it worked, this wouldn't grant Frank any kind of special resistance. It would just be him not being affected due to how the Penance Stare works.

Frank has had a wide variety of experience against a lot of different opponents. He's been turned into an angel, a zombie-like monster called Franken-Castle, and even... a black guy. For three issues. Because comic books.

All and all, Frank has accomplished one hell of a lot for a really angry man with a bunch of guns. This man has tanked being riddled with gunfire on more than one occasion and is one of the most dreaded and hated antiheroes in New York for a damn good reason. He won't stop shooting until either he dies or every criminal in New York does.

Analysis: Agent 47

"Names are for friends, so I don't have one."

One day, the International Contract Agency found a mysterious man knocking on their front door. The man had no name, no history, and seemingly no personality. All he had was a remarkable gift for murder, as if he were the grim reaper himself. He said he went by 47. It wasn't a name, so he made it one. He became the ICA's greatest assassin and paved a legacy of death everywhere he went.

In truth, Agent 47 was a clone, created by Dr. Ortmyer in an attempt to create the world's greatest assassin. Unfortunately for Ortmyer, he succeeded. 47 killed his pseudo father, and struck out on his own. Left directionless by the revelation of his birth, 47 attempted to start a normal life for himself. Unfortunately, he found that his only talents were in killing people. So, he decided to he was going to be the best there ever was at it. He would kill the most powerful people in the world for the right price and prove that no one, no matter how powerful, was above consequences.

Agent 47 is a master of stealth and disguise unlike any other. He's considered a myth to law enforcement agencies all around the world and has repeatedly killed people with the same level of mythic status as himself. Those who do know he exists would much rather hire him than make him their enemy. A smart move considering he tears down international conspiracies on a weekly basis.

Agent 47 is quiet the Renaissance Man, even rivaling Mario for the title. He's more than capable of doing nearly any job on the planet and is capable of using anything as a weapon. He can knock grown, fully armoured men out cold with snowballs and feather dusters. He can kill people with umbrellas, pencils, and pens. He can even use fure extinguishers as improvised grenades. An Agent 47 armed with only his garrote wire, silver baller pistol, and coins is best considered fully armed and dangerous, but he's capable of using much more.

Agent 47 has used nearly every weapon ever conceived by man and has likely found a way to silently assassinate someone with it. Shotguns, sniper rifles, and SMGs liter his arsenal, as do lock picks, poisons, and melee weapons. It would be easier to list what 47 doesn't have. But, for convenience, here are a few highlights.

Nearly every conceivable type of modern fire arm, including silenced and unsilenced types.

A wide variety of explosives, land mines, and hand grenades, including versions disguised as household objects, such rubber ducks and golf balls.

A wide variety of poisons, ranging from lethal to nausea inducing. Can be injected (via needle or dart gun), ingested, or inhaled via gas grenade. The effects are always nigh instantaneous.

A homing briefcase which goes through all objects that aren't its target.

Audio devices that distract and disorient targets.

Flame throwers

Tasers

Ninja stars, swords, and a variety of knives

Many, many more.

Similarly, 47 is smart enough to competently perform any job on Earth, even frequently imitating and impressing experts in his field. Butlers, Doctors, DJs, CEOs, Engineers, and so on and so forth. He has successfully disguised himself as close loved ones of his targets and is fluent enough in most languages to pass himself off as a native speaker.

On top of his superhuman intellect, 47 is superhuman physically as well. He can survive exposure to the freezing cold temperatures of the Carpathian mountains while mostly naked, is immune to nearly every poison and disease known to man (with even lethal poisons only knocking him out), has survived being electrocuted while standing in water (albiet was knocked out by this) and can completely shrug off normal electrocutions, and has a resistance to mind control so great that the person trying to mind control him died. It has ecen been noted by an implied psychic (who was clairvoyant enough to deduce a client's criminal history) that 47 has an aura of death looming around him that strikes terror into anyone capable of seeing it.

Agent 47 also has the Instinct ability, a sixth sense that allows him to see through walls, highlights targets in red, and can predict where his targets are going. However, he cannot use this ability in open combat.

47 has snuck into the White House undetected, frequently dismantles international conspiracies and secret societies, and is strong and skilled enough to defeat a middleweight MMA Champion in only three blows. He even bested Sanchez, a genetically engineered superhuman who was twice his size, in unarmed combat, despite Sanchez being capable of knocking him out in a single blow.

If 47 has any weaknesses at all, it's that he rarely makes an emotional connections with anyone. The trauma of his ruthless upbringing has left him emotionally distant and he struggles to emotionally connect with others. Those he does care about he will do anything to protect, even against suicidal odds. Similarly, he has repressed many of the memories of his childhood due to the trauma involved and he frequently questions his place in the universe due to his upbringing.

Still, 47 is for all intents and purposes the perfect killing machine. His most impressive feat physically speaking is when the Saints blew up his hotel room with an RPG-7, which 47 survived without a scratch. Assuming the absolute lowest yield for an RPG-7, that's still nearly 0.00021 tons of TNT. Seeing how 47 can hurt people on his level, see Sanchez above, 47 should also be capable of punching with this amount of force as well.

Agent 47 was an attempt to create the world's greatest assassin and he was a complete success. Unfortunately for his creators, he was still human. This meant that they were the first in a long list of people to discover just how well they'd succeeded.

Fight theme: Hunt You Down ~ Saliva

Throwdown Breakdown

To be Frank (ba dum tiss), I'd say Punisher has a huge advantage in hand to hand combat. Not only is he 4x stronger than 47, but fighting Daredevil puts him in a league well above what 47 can reach. There's skilled and then there's Marvel skilled.

Having said that, 47 has an advantage in ranged combat. He has a much wider variety than Frank and the sheer strangeness of certain weapons (IE. homing briefcase) is bound to trip Frank up. While Frank has some weapons that 47 has never dealt with (IE. Freeze ray and heat gun), so does 47 towards Frank. That and 47's creativity means that everything is a potential weapon, meaning he's always going to be better equipped even in a weapons warehouse. Frank is going to be hard pressed to outwit someone who can hurt him with a newspaper.

The clincher here is that it's entirely in character for Frank to keep his distance. It's what his military training and methodical nature have trained him for in fact. Frank has gone on record about his preference for ranged combat, so he's liable to stay in 47's comfort zone.

On top of that, I'd argue 47's resistances are just better than Frank's. While ice guns that freeze people solid outmatch 47's cold resistance, his resistance to electricity outmatches Frank's shock gloves. On top of that, 47's resistances to electricity, cold, and poisons aren't reliant on any external equipment, unlike Frank's. Also, 47's resistance to mind control is superior, but neither has any mind control so that doesn't matter.

Having said that, Frank has a lot of advantages here. If his keen analytical mind can predict Spider-man, he can probably predict 47 should he ever get a beat on him. 47 has no real answer for ice guns due to never fighting anything like it before, and Frank can attempt to negate 47's creative use of the environment by just burning the warehouse down.

I'd say the issue is that Frank likely won't be able to pin down 47 enough to use his keen mind, as 47 is much better master of stealth than anyone Frank has fought. As for Frank's other advantages, the trick is using them before 47 wins. I fully believe Frank will assume himself to have the advantage initially, due to having seemingly more advanced equipment than 47. While this won't make him cocky, this will make it so he doesn't leave his comfort zone. Allowing 47 to catch him off guard with his esoteric gear and creative improvisation.

Don't make any mistake, Frank is going to give 47 hell. His vastly superior strength, experience, and sheer stubborn determination mean that 47 will have his work cut out for him, and all Frank needs is one clean shot with his freeze, heat, or laser guns to win. If Frank manages to make this a melee, 47 is dead. But 47 is just better equipped here.

47's various poisons will make this especially deadly for Frank. His gas mask won't protect him from darts or injections and even then, he isn't always wearing it, so he may very well get gassed before he can adequately prepare. While Frank's ability to smell poisons, assuming it works from the distance they start at, will make him aware of this danger, it'll also make him aware of all the poisons 47 is carrying and thus, encourage him to keep his distance more, playing to 47's strengths.

The range game will allow 47 to play to his strengths, disappearing inside the shadows of the warehouse, setting up traps with a wide variety of poisons, bombs, and improvised weapons, whilst keeping Frank off his game with his stranger weapons. Frank has fought a wide variety of plain weird shit, but he has no answer for the intangible briefcase and the rubby duck bomb will at least make him double take if 47 uses it right.

While I think Frank would win in a long drawn out fight, due to better understanding 47's advantages and pegging him down, even that's no guarantee due to his equipment breaking down over the course of the fight, leaving him vulnerable to 47's tasers, fire, gas poisons. 47 has variety, creativity, and stealth on his side, which would allow him to end the fight quickly enough to secure a win.

This Throwdown's Winner is...

Agent 47!

#fictional throwdown fridays #agent 47 #hitman #marvel comics #frank castle #the punisher

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sonic-wildfire · 1 year

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Sonic Icebound: Outposts

You may recall Icebound featuring locations known as outposts. And you may have wondered what exactly they were. Wonder no more! The Sonic Icebound document has been updated to include basic lore about these outposts and a brief history of them.

To read the section by itself, check under the readmore.

“Outposts” are the umbrella term for any man-made research station, residential community, or other shelter or structure in Antarctica, both on the mainland and its surrounding islands.

The first outposts were constructed independently by expeditions that pioneered scientific research on Antarctica. Only a handful of these independent outposts were built, however, as brutal conditions made year-round residence in Antarctica nearly impossible.

Some time shortly after the ARK raid, G.U.N. and the United Federation commenced an extended joint scientific expedition to the South Pole. Strategic efforts were spearheaded by G.U.N. commander Abraham Tower, with the UF federal government providing funding and logistical support. As part of the program, research stations and residential communities were built en masse at the South Pole, with the expedition’s scope eventually expanding to cover the entire Antarctic continent. The expedition ran on-and-off for seventy-five years.

The expedition carried out research on virtually all aspects of Antarctica, from its climate to its flora and fauna to its potential viability for permanent human life. Researchers meticulously tested every kilometer of the continent, from the windy peaks to the frozen underground.

Unbeknownst to the public, the program also collaborated in secrecy with wealthy associates of the Robotniks. Some years later, Eggman would become directly involved in the expedition himself. He agreed to provide logistical support to the venture on the condition that the UF cede territorial control of parts of Antarctica to him personally. Eggman ostensibly planned to build power plants fueled by Chaos energy, but ultimately constructed multiple military bases and Badnik factories instead.

Not long after the Finalhazard incident, G.U.N. conducted what was to be a regularly-scheduled research evaluation. Upon arrival, however, all outposts were completely abandoned. Many of the researchers’ clothes and other personal belongings remained, suggesting the desertion was involuntary or forced. The most recent journal entries from many researchers seem to support this theory, but some earlier entries contradict later ones. Though multiple investigations were conducted over the next several years, the fates of the researchers are still unknown.

#Sonic Icebound

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atlas-of-a-human-soul · 3 years

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Draw your swords, pt. 7

Summary: In order to win, she might have to lose.

Warnings: angst, swearing, bit of fluff, sexual content

Part one // Part two // Part three // Part four // Part five // Part six

=================================

Waking up to skies lit by the wintry sun is what Y/N expected. In the back of her mind, she remembers opening her eyes. Perhaps it’s her mind playing tricks on her, but she could swear she heard Aleksander’s voice softly speaking to her.

Telling dreams from reality felt like an impossible task, but if it were a dream, would she really dream of him?

Death never crossed her mind. She was a soldier in an expendable army for most of her life, yet she never feared death. There was never a lingering sense of what if when they asked her if she believed in life after death, but she wondered now. Looking death in the eye had forced a realization upon her – she would die and achieve nothing. She married arguably the most powerful man in all of Ravka and she failed to utilize it. In the end, her name would be forgotten in history for her plans would all die with her.

Inhaling sharply, she wanted to open her eyes. A heaviness settles on her eyelids, making her groan. Her entire body felt dismantled, every nerve bare, inflicting pain.

“It’s alright”, a hand pressed to her forehead and Y/N frowns. Breathing heavily, she felt vulnerable, exposed.

Swallowing thickly, her eyes flutter open. With blurry vision, she looked up at the dark presence looming above her. Blinking fast, her lips part and before she can ask, cool liquid runs down her parched throat.

Taking a deep breath, her eyes closed again. She needed a moment to collect herself, to stop the world from spinning.

“It hurts”, she mumbles meekly.

“Shhh”, his voice reaches her. “I’m here”, she feels a gentle squeeze of his hand, “You’re safe.”

Resisting sleep, she opened her eyes once more. The sight of his tormented gaze leaves her nearly breathless. He’s still handsome, but it looks as if he’s aged ten years in just a few days.

“What happened?” Her voice is hoarse, still raspy from thirst and sleep.

“You’ve been in and out of consciousness for a week”, his forehead wrinkles, “We’ve just made it back.”

Despite the little voice in his head, the Darkling held onto his wife throughout the night. He kept her close to his chest, running his fingers through her hair. She was exhausted, injured so badly he could hear the strain her body was under with every breath she took.

Her eyes remained closed, her lips slightly parted and his pressed in a thin line. Absurd. It was absurd to think that someone like that – so delicate, so fragile, could have any power over him. It baffles him just how quickly he found himself attached to this woman who was unremarkable in every possible way – or so he told himself.

Truth be told, he couldn’t take his eyes off her since he first saw her. She radiates genuine beauty few possess, a confidence he’s never found in anyone in hundreds of years, and an air of mystery he couldn’t quite understand.

By the time morning light reached their tent, the Darkling just stared at her with care, studying every inch of her face as if it could be the last time he’ll ever be given a chance. He memorized the way she fit in his embrace, the rhythm of her beating heart in the dead of night and every labored breath as it threatened his sanity.

Anger was his best friend for so long, his shield against humanity, but his anger wasn’t all-consuming as it once was – it was directed to those who caused the swelling around her eyes and cuts across her cheekbones.

“General”, Ivan’s head peaked inside the tent only to swiftly disappear once he caught sight of a moment he was sure wasn’t meant for his eyes.

Rolling his eyes, the Darkling gently laid her head down. Caressing her cheek, he let a heavy sigh pass his lips. It’s been too long since he last felt so defenseless and helpless as he did now. He promised himself he’d never feel that way again and yet he found himself in the same cursed whirlwind of emotions as he was in when the fold came to be.

Biting his lower lip, he pushed it all down. If he’s distraught, his people would know. He cannot be emotional and still lead an army. He has to be strong – for Grisha and for Y/N.

“Ivan, we’ll have to find a healer soon”, Kirigan spoke in a hushed tone. Glancing at the tent, he felt a lump growing at the back of his throat. “I believe she’s developed a fever too.”

“Fedyor can try to cool her temperature”, Ivan offers, “He’ll slow her heart and keep her breathing. I’ll trade with him if necessary.”

Nodding, the general was satisfied with Ivan’s solution. For once, Ivan didn’t question why he wanted to protect her. This time, he was offered aid rather than words of discouragement.

“I’ll have to leave some of our own here”, Kirigan looks at the direction they came from. “The Fjerdans came too close and I need to know why. Why would they take my wife?”

Ivan lowers his voice, making sure he doesn’t wake up Y/N, “Perhaps it was a coincidence.”

“I don’t believe in coincidences. Not when her safety is at stake.”

Nodding, Ivan glances at Fedyor. He’d be the same if anyone touched his beloved. Suppressing a smile, Ivan finally realized it – no matter how vehemently the general denies it, his heart is no longer his.

“What are the orders? I’ll make the necessary arrangements.”

“Take back what they took, place their heads on a stake and wait. More should come soon and when they do, I want to know why they came so close to Little Palace and who ordered them to take my wife.”

Squinting, not in anger but to see him better, Y/N frowns, “A week?”

“Winter made it hard for us to move faster and you were in no shape to ride back.”

Letting out a shaky breath of air, she raised an eyebrow, “So you carried me?”

“Ivan and Fedyor kept you alive too.”

Wetting her chapped lips, she hesitated. Her fingers burned, itching to touch him, to intertwine with his.

“A healer should be here any minute now”, Aleksander informed, pulling his hand out of hers as if he could sense her inner battles and decided to help her by removing himself from it entirely.

“No”, she decided.

Standing abruptly, his jaw clenched. Despite his stern expression, his eyes hold all the sadness in the world, pleading eyes that both threaten and adore.

“No?” He repeats with disdain, “What do you mean by no?”

Holding her breath, she endures a sharp pain in her ribcage as she propped herself up on her elbows. Breathing heavily, she directed her determined gaze on him. “I’m human, am I not?”

Squinting at her, his lips part, “And?”

Struggling to prevent herself from laughing at the way he looked at her now, Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Humans aren’t allowed aid of a healer. We go to the medics.”

“You’re my wife”, he remarks almost instantaneously, slightly wishing she remained unconscious for a while longer. If she slept, the healer would have done their job and there would be no argument. There was no doubt about it, their truce was over.

“But I’m still a human. The rest of my kind don’t have the privilege of being married to you.” Her voice is stern, low and frustratingly righteous.

“You need a healer or you might not survive”, Aleksander insisted.

“Then let me die.” She stared at him, no signs of crumbling and it made him feel like he’s drowning.

Rubbing his forehead, the Darkling shut his eyes in frustration. After all the sleepless nights, his head felt like it would implode. All he had on his mind was her safety and now when he brought her home, she refused help.

“What do you want?”

Knitting her eyebrows, she glanced at his jaw as it clenched. “What?”

Her voice is higher, almost confused but he knew better than that. “I’ve known you for almost two months.” Two months too long, he thought. “I know when you’re trying to extort me.”

Covering her mouth, Y/N suppressed a laugh. Truth be told, it’s exactly what she’s doing, she just didn’t expect him to cave so quickly.

“Healers for the First army”, her lips twitch. Pursing her lips, she bites the soft flesh on the inside of her mouth to stop herself from smiling at all costs.

“No”, he spoke through gritted teeth.

Shrugging, she laid back down. “Alright then. I only regret I won’t be here to hear you explain my death to the Tsar and my father.”

Growling under his breath, he swipes his hand down his face. “One healer.”

“Two”, she argued, sitting up with a pained expression on her face.

“We can’t spare two”, the Darkling crosses his arms, his eyes darker than ever before.

Lifting her chin in defiance, she narrowed her eyes at her husband. “Two healers or no deal.”

Releasing a long, heavy breath in frustration, the Darkling felt his insides turn. “Two healers but only for those who can’t get better with a week long rest on their own.”

“Two healers for those who can’t get better in a few days of rest AND the same amount of food and water for the First army.”

Running a hand through his hair, the general’s nostrils flare. Cracking his neck to the left, to the right, he turned his death glare back on his wife. “Food and water are limited for Grisha as well.”

“I saw them eat grapes”, Y/N deadpans. “You have enough, so share. If the First army dies out, who will protect your precious Grisha?”

Folding her hands in her lap, she maintained eye contact with the general who refused to blink. He stared back at her, aghast. The woman was impossible! She made every word that passed her lips a contest of wills.

His jaw set, he moved closer to stand before her. He looked formidable with the relentless, firm pools of black ink for eyes devouring her with intensity, too hard in comparison to what she had seen in the tent. He looked like he could kill her without even putting a hand on her…something she still expected him to do.

What was stopping him? She was far behind enemy lines, no reinforcements and she saw what he can do – he could kill everyone who stood in his way.

“Fine”, he huffs. “Under one condition.”

Rolling her eyes, she nods, “What is it?”

“I want a kiss.”

Her eyes flashed to his. Ringed with golden bruises, she was still alluring – like a wildfire or a storm. No…she is wildfire, a storm. She is deadly and uncontrollable and slightly out of her wits and he’s asking her to be his ruination. It isn’t love, he tells himself, it’s obsession.

Raising her eyebrows, Y/N didn’t bother hiding her surprise. A kiss? Of all the things he could have asked, the big bad general who can summon shadows is asking for a kiss?

A part of her trusted Aleksander and that trust demanded intimacy. She wanted his hands on her – in her hair, his lips on her neck. She longed to be vulnerable and that’s what worried her. Trusting him, needing him, it’s bound to breed love and self-inflicted madness. If it were anything else, she would outright refuse him, but she has so many lives dependent on her answer.

“Tonight”, she decided. If her own sanity is the price to pay, she will do what she has to do.

Nodding, the Darkling retreated. Leaving the room, he opened the door for the healer to enter. Sparing her a quick look, he swallowed thickly as the thought of her willingly kissing him made his heart slam into the rib cage. Even his heart wanted to escape him as it too longed for her hands’ touch.

He didn’t make more than two steps outside the room when a Grisha joined him - one of his many spies.

“What do you have for me?”

The spy beckons him to the side, looking around wildly. “This could change everything.”

“What is it?” The Darkling speaks through gritted teeth, demanding an answer.

“There is talk”, the spy pauses, “Of a Sun Summoner.”

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

Healed, bathed and properly fed, Y/N had paced their room in anticipation of his arrival. She had seen the look in his eyes earlier that day – something between them has changed.

As the door opens, her breath halts inside her throat.

“I thought you were lost”, Genya admitted. “When they found your mare, I lost hope.”

Smiling, Y/N cupped her cheek. “I did too”, she sniffled.

The Darkling felt, more than saw, her presence as he entered the room. He turned slowly, his breath held. Her hair looked darker in the candlelight, its rich color gleaming against the green velvet of fresh sheets on the bed she leaned against. He could hardly speak. The nearness of her, the quiet room, the candlelight made him question the reality of what he was looking at.

“You look better”, Aleksander managed a curt smile, looking at Y/N and her attire. The sheer nightdress she wore was back, perfectly outlining her figure.

“Why did they take you?” Genya asked, unshead tears weighing heavily on her eyes. “Did they know?”

“No”, Y/N shakes her head, “But they found out.”

“How?”

“It doesn’t matter. Kirigan killed them all.” Y/N glanced at the door where she expected her husband to appear later on.

Chewing on her bottom lip, Y/N felt her heart flip. “It helped me realize something.”

Frowning, Genya waited for Y/N to explain.

“Your General does have a heart”, she states. His request for a kiss lingered in every thought her mind could concoct.

She stared at him then slowly untied the belt of her robe and it glided languidly over her smooth skin, falling to her feet.

His gaze roamed over her as if he is unable to fully comprehend her beauty. Only when he looked back at her eyes did he see she was troubled.

“Of course he does”, Genya chuckles, “He was most worried when you were taken. He promised he’d kill them all and bathe in their blood.”

“I think I can use that.”

Knitting her eyebrows, Genya’s frown deepened. “How?”

Pressing her lips, Y/N sighed. “In order for me to win”, she paused, “He needs to believe he did.”

“Husband”, she spoke clearly. She feigned confidence, but inside she quivered.

She had barely finished the syllable when she was in his arms, being carried to their bed, his lips already fastened to hers. She felt his lips hit hers like a tornado, his admission of burning the world in her name spinning in her head. It could have been a fever dream, but she would bet her life it wasn’t.

Holding her chin in place, he rested his forehead on hers, heaving from the kiss. She couldn’t open her eyes, clinging to him for dear life, but even with eyes closed, Y/N could hear the emotions thick in his voice.

“I don’t want to do anything you’re not willing.” He whispered against his lips, all too prepared for his hands to roam her body now.

Y/N was afraid of herself as well as of him. He could sense it as he kissed her. He’d waited a long time for her to come to him and now it seems she was more than ready to give herself to him without his talk of her marital duty.

He expected anything but to find her with her arms wide open. But even now, as he held her, he felt no great sense of triumph.

Pulling the sheet over her, he stood. “I can wait.”

The sheet accented her shoulders and the full swelling of her breasts. The candlelight deepened the shadow above the sheet. Her bare throat pulsed with life. Her face was set in a firm, serious expression that caused her eyes to darken. Her lips were hard, as if carved of marble and he ached to part them into a smile.

Turning away, he began undressing himself for bed, wondering how he could survive a night beside her if she remains as she is now.

She averts her gaze, whispering under her breath in confusion, “Wait?”

He laid beside her, barely dressed at all. She found herself achingly aware of his presence. The only light in the room was from the flames of candles she placed across the room. The light danced on her hair, played with the shadows of her delicate collarbones. At this moment, he remembered nothing of the arrangement their marriage was meant to be. He knew only that he was in bed with a desirable woman, one he never expected to claim. She seemed too headstrong to ever give into his charm, yet she bared herself before him and he couldn’t take advantage of her.

“Why don’t you want me?” She sat up, glaring at him. She let the sheet fall as his eyes met hers, bravely fixing him with her fiery gaze.

Rolling his eyes, he looks away. How can she torment him like this with no shame?

If anything, he felt like she’s attacking him. “I don’t want to hear about how a demon took you by force for the rest of my life.”

“It’s not force if I’m giving myself willingly, is it?” She raised an eyebrow, deciding on a tactic finally. Aleksander is a general, a conqueror at heart and she saw the desire in his eyes. If there was any hope of her plan to work, she had to harness his desire to convince him he won.

Licking his lips as he cracked a smile, Aleksander nodded in surprise, unable to keep his eyes from wandering lower to her breasts. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” He wanted to possess her, to claim this difficult, headstrong woman for himself. His mouth came down brutally hard on hers, claiming them, nearly bruising them.

Y/N fumbled with the sheet that wrapped around her, making Aleksander chuckle into the kiss.

“Let me help you,” Aleksander purred and tore the sheet away, pulling it from under the mattress.

Wrapping his hand around Y/N’s neck, his grip was oddly weak, gentle even. She laid nude before him, his gaze fixed on her. He stared at her in wonder; her full breasts, curvy waist, round hips. Then he looked back at her face, her eyes blazing. Her lips were reddened from his kiss, and suddenly there was no power on earth that could stop him from taking her.

“You make me feel”, he pauses in anguish, “You make me feel”, he said quietly, fiercely, “And I don’t like it. I want it to stop. Now.”

He pushed her into the mattress and Y/N saw the ruthless general in his eyes and for a moment she feared it. A general isn’t gentle at all, not like Aleksander could be. She feared the pain he’d cause and the tears that would follow. She feared what he’d do to her, but then the fear she felt dissipated as he spoke against her lips.

“I’ll go slowly.” Aleksander stopped himself, remembering she’s never had a man in her bed before and once he saw the fear in her eyes extinguish the flame he already adored, he reeled himself in.

“Your hands are bloody from murder”, she paused, “But I trust them completely.” Her voice had never been smaller, her hands never as desperate as she clung to him. She wanted to trust the sudden, overwhelming warmth in his unrelentingly tender gaze, but she still awaited the pain that was yet to come. He moved on top of her, his lips attaching to her neck gently as he pressed a kiss above her pulsating carotid, knowing she’s nervous as he felt the pace of her pulse.

With one thigh, Aleksander parted hers. He kissed her again, passionate and slow, distracting her as his hand moves lower, down to the intimate parts she never allowed another only man to see, to feel. Slipping his finger between her folds, he found if applied enough pressure a desperate moan escapes her without a fail. He feels her breathing change as he begins to rub circles, her thighs trying to push against his in a need of more friction. And that’s when control escapes her and she closes her eyes completely, letting the pleasure take over.

Unable to wait any longer, Aleksander pushed the head of his hardened length between the folds, feeling her wetness pooling over as nature’s lubricant. Feeling the membrane, he stops for a moment. Looking at her carefully for any signs of distress, he wonders if she even realizes what is about to happen.

“Do you want this?” He asks again, fearing she may change her mind.

Gripping his arm, she nods. “Yes”, she replies, breathless.

Pressing himself inside, he bows his head in the crook of her neck, growling lowly in pleasure. It’s not the first virgin he had, but it’s the first one that made him want to come on the first thrust.

“Go on.” She encourages him, surprising them both. Swallowing thickly, she sinks her nails into his back, anticipating the next thrust. It would be a lie if she said she wasn’t in pain, but she knew it would get easier as he moves again and she would feel the pleasure again – and she wanted the pleasure more than the pain.

Nodding, Aleksander starts moving in and out slowly, refusing to risk her pain for a little more pleasure he’d find in speed and his untimely release. Instead, he’s using deep, slow strokes with a relentless care for the nerve bundle between her folds. Every passing second draws louder moans from her until he feels her clench around him, his own mind blackening as he feels himself nearing the edge. She’s holding him so tightly to her body, so desperately as she unravels beneath him. Picking up pace, he finally loses control, jerking his hips to meet hers in a deep thrust only to finish deep inside her, allowing them both to breathe.

Rolling off her, Aleksander decided to stay quiet, allowing her to have control of the moment. If she wants his embrace, he’d do it for her and if she wants to talk, he’d talk to her, otherwise, he’d just sleep. It’s been so long since he truly slept – since the day they went for that ride.

He placed an arm around her for comfort alone, not pressing himself closer than necessary, closing his eyes once he realizes she’s not interested in him at all after she came down from her high.

Waiting for a few minutes, Y/N pretended to sleep. After the hurricane of emotions he’d given her, Y/N didn’t know how to feel. She wanted to relax, to sleep in bliss, but a part of her ached. She ached for who she used to be. Would her father hate her for what she just did? Would her people denounce her for sleeping with the enemy?

Her eyes opened wide, finding his are still closed. Lips quivering, she felt herself crumble as tears fled her eyes. She watched his sleeping figure and sighed deeply, telling herself to stop crying. She was supposed to be in control of him, to make him want her and crave her, yet she found it was the opposite. She didn’t love him, but she did feel a connection…perhaps it’s the kindness he showed her when he rescued her or the pleasure he had given her, but something inside her changed and the heart she hardened on purpose found a soft spot for the general.

=============================

Tags: @bruxa0007 @rangotangomango @kaitlyn2907 @thestoryofmylife9 @shelivesindaydreamswme @hxrgreeves @safetyhtom @kaqua @savannah-elliott @all-art-is-quite-useless @azure23x @girlmadeofavocados @ashdab2611 @acciorudolphx @ladyblablabla @wckedheart @xceafh @sanna2020 @tarkanelima-blog @takethee @mellifluous-cosmos @marvel-ousnesss @tea-effect @starlightofsolaria @p3nny4urth0ught5 @blackbirddaredevil23 @sarcastic-and-cool @slytherinsbiggestproblem @within-thehollowcrown @notthatchhavi @musicconversedance @freakytillthemoon @lgkoval @honeyofthegods @queenmalhinewahine @misselsbells06 @whatthefluffrichard @aami98 @britriestbr @itsfangirlmendes @padme-parker @readingsssssssss @runawayolives @thehighladyofasgard @emlynblack @keithseabrook27 @dailydoseofchoices @deceivedeer

Part 8

#the darkling x reader #the darkling #aleksander morozova #general kirigan x reader #general kirigan #aleksander morozova x reader #aleksander x reader #shadown and bone

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blueiskewl · 2 years

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The New England Vampire Panic

The New England vampire panic was a period of terror and mass hysteria during the 19th century, caused by an outbreak of consumption blamed on vampires in the states of New England, United States.

Consumption, known today as tuberculosis (TB), is an infectious disease caused by the Mycobacterium tuberculosis (MTB) bacteria. The disease generally affects the lungs, causing a chronic cough with blood-containing mucus, fever, night sweats and weight loss.

Across the states of Connecticut, Maine, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Rhode Island and Vermont, outbreaks of TB spread amongst family members and households. So severe was the epidemic, that it claimed around 2 percent of the region’s population from 1786 to 1800.

When a TB sufferer died, it was assumed that they consumed the life of their surviving relatives who also became ill from TB. To protect the survivors and ward off the symptoms of consumption, the bodies of those who died were exhumed to examine for traits of vampirism.

The concept of a blood-sucking spirit or demon consuming human flesh has been told in the mythology and folktales of almost every civilisation through the centuries. One of the earliest vampiric depictions stems from cuneiform texts by the Akkadians, Samarians, Assyrians and Babylonians, where they referred to demonic figures such as the Lilu and Lilitu.

It wasn’t until the late 17th and 18th century that the folklore for vampires as we imagine, began to be told in the verbal traditions and lore of many European ethnic groups. They were described as the revenants of evil beings, suicide victims, witches, corpses possessed by a malevolent spirit or the victim of a vampiric attack that has resulted in their own viral ascension to vampirism.

During the 18th century, vampire sightings across Eastern Europe had reached its peak, with frequent exhumations and the practice of staking to kill potential revenants. This period was commonly referred to as the “18th-Century Vampire Controversy”.

In New England, vampiric traits were determined by how fresh the corpse appeared, especially if the heart or other organs still contained evidence of liquid blood. After a vampiric corpse was identified, the remains were either turned over in the grave, or in some cases the organs were burnt, and the affected family members would inhale the smoke to cure the consumption. In rare cases the deceased would be decapitated and their remains reburied.

One of the most famous cases is the Mercy Brown vampire incident in Rhode Island in 1892. Several members of George and Mary Brown’s family suffered a sequence of TB infections, with the mother, Mary Eliza being the first to die of the disease.

A newspaper report at the time documents that George Brown was persuaded to give permission to exhume several bodies of his family members by villagers and the local doctor. Their examination revealed that the bodies of both Mary and Mary Olive exhibited the expected level of decomposition, however, the corpse of the daughter, Mercy, exhibited almost no decomposition, and still had blood in the heart (likely due to her body being stored in freezer-like conditions in an above-ground crypt).

Mercy’s heart and liver were burned, and the ashes were mixed with water to create a tonic that was given to her surviving brother. What remained of Mercy’s body was buried in the cemetery of the Baptist Church in Exeter after being desecrated.

In another account by Henry David Thoreau in 1859, he wrote: “The savage in man is never quite eradicated. I have just read of a family in Vermont—who, several of its members having died of consumption, just burned the lungs & heart & liver of the last deceased, in order to prevent any more from having it” – referring to the case of Frederick Ransom from Vermont, who was exhumed and his heart was burnt on a blacksmith’s forge.

The term “vampire” wasn’t a common term used in the 19th century communities across New England, instead it was likely applied by newspapers and outsiders at the time due to the similarity with contemporary vampire beliefs in eastern Europe.

In an anthropological study by Michael Bell of the New England phenomenon, he stated that: “No credible account describes a corpse actually leaving the grave to suck blood, and there is little evidence to suggest that those involved in the practice referred to it as ‘vampirism’ or to the suspected corpse as a ‘vampire’, although newspaper accounts used this term to refer to the practice.”

#The New England Vampire Panic #vampires #witches #black magic #the undead #evil dead #interview with a vampire

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moxfirefly · 3 years

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Good afternoon, this has been in the works for a while now and I finally got around to finishing it and being pretty content of it (this is gonna go up on AO3 soon along with the others that aren’t request) but I wanted to post it here first. Enjoy!

Rated Explicit (18+ only)

“Wish you were here right now

All of the things I'd do”

Gaming was always an escape.

From childhood to adulthood. There was some gaming equipment in your hands, controls, handhelds, keyboards and so on. There was just something calming about entering a fantasy world and immersing yourself in scenery and stories that made you stray from bad days and long nights.

For Donatello it was the same.

On one of his many supply scavenges Splinter had found a dumpster near a toy store that was going out of business. It was a memorable haul for them. What they expected to be routine things mixed with some type of groceries had turned into literal Christmas in July. Stuffed animals, board games, action figures and even a few gaming consoles with some cartridges and cd’s. Noticeably they were considered damaged or improperly manufactured, but they didn’t care and for Donnie he had spent a good week and a half fixing up the Nintendo and Play Station 2 consoles back into working conditions.

That alone had been plenty for him but nevertheless Mikey being so excited about playing wanted him to join him. They had played for hours and each disc or cartridge they tried out held a new story, a new set of controls to learn, new visuals and such. He was immediately hooked.

When he had gotten the first parts to start building a PC from scratch he knew there would be another world of possibilities for games.

Now gaming is a leisure for Donnie. Something he does for enjoyment and an escape when his projects become too much. The world of online gaming allowed him to also explore the possibilities of chatting with others though, the humans they were not allowed to see or speak to (with the exception of their Hogosha) but needless to say it wasn’t like Donnie broadcasted his identity and whereabouts. More so these people only came to game and speak game.

Donnie absolutely does detest the unnecessary sexism that gaming brings. Many a time he had read on chats or heard on his head set such derogatory comments thrown at female players. Never the one to stand such misogynistic behavior (he was raised better and had heard enough horror stories from April) he always shot that shit down quickly. Given his status as being far above his gaming peers he had developed respect and none of them ever shot back at him.

That’s how he runs into you.

On the opposing team nonetheless.

Once your female voice ran through the ears of the group he had been stuck in, the comments began to rain down. Some colorful, some lazy and some downright disgusting. Donnie had had enough and with some of his more illegal methods, had managed to push out the players in his party and send the audio recording to the email of the developers.

On exceptionally petty days he did far worse.

You had been stunned, wondering why the gang of immature boys had suddenly disappeared. Only one of them remained with the gamer tag specifying ‘Don_DuzMachines’ you couldn’t help but giggle at it.

You had asked if the sudden disappearance had been a weird glitch and if Don (as you assumed you should call him) had anything to do about it.

“Let’s just say I’ve got my ways” His soft voice rang through your headset.

“Well it’s hardly the first time I’ve had a gang of prepubescent boys tell me to suck their dicks” You started to move away in the map but stopped abruptly.

“Hey do you wanna play something else?” You asked tentatively. “Figured the least I can do is thank you” Donnie sat back pensively, well there was no harm in that now was there?

And so it started innocently.

Co-op games even the occasional match against one another. Each game you two always spoke through your headsets. Mostly banter about strategy or directions for who to do what or the occasional friendly jabs. You hadn’t revealed much that wasn’t the nickname you used as your gamer tag, and well Don had basically done the same.

That is until you decide to poke a little into his life. “You go to college?” You had asked, fingers gliding over the keyboard as you both partook in a raid. Donnie hadn’t expected such a question and he didn’t necessarily want to divulge much, he opted for a more ambiguous response. “I do my own studying, sort of like home schooling if you will?” Well he wasn’t wrong, Splinter had been both father and teacher to them, Donnie had just excelled more quickly and soon enough he was teaching his brothers on the academic side.

“You broke too, huh? Trust me it’s not worth the insane debt you’ll develop in six years that’ll take forty years to pay off” You chuckled with a hint of bitterness, Donnie couldn’t help but laugh and snort.

“That’s cute” You said sincerely. Donnie smiled, heat creeping up his neck.

How innocent things had been at the start.

For six months the two of you divulged little to no information. You never asked to video chat and Donnie never asked for your socials. It had just been a mutual agreement to keep the mystery that just wasn’t verbalized. Maybe it was for the better, because surely what had began as a gaming buddies situation had escalated to, well Donnie couldn’t really explain.

The first instance the two of you had been stuck on a map solving intricate puzzles. It was one of the more relaxed games the two of your partook in together when you didn’t want to deal with other players in a lobby.

“Dating apps are a nightmare, they’re only worth it for getting dumb funny stories” You had been playing but also checking some of the matches you’ve gotten on a site. Donnie swallowed, why did that settle so oddly in his stomach?

“Well any funny ones you’d like to share?” Don asked curiously hoping he wasn’t over stepping any boundaries. “One guy wanted me to cover my feet in marmalade, I really almost hit fuck it and did it” You couldn’t help but smile when Don choked, coughed and bursted out laughing.

“What kink is that even related to? I mean I know people enjoy feet but marmalade?” He was bewildered. “Come on Don don’t kink shame the poor guy, who are you to police his eclectic culinary desires?” Now the two of you couldn’t help but burst into another fit of laughter. Both your avatars were idle standing, the game somewhat abandoned in favor for the conversation.

“Hey I’m not kink shaming, we all have our weird kinks” Donnie smiled sitting back on his swivel chair. You clicked out of the dating site, chin resting on your hand. “Are we finally having this conversation? Cause I love this shit, it’s my bread and butter” You sat back in your gaming chair, tucking your knees.

Donnie felt so shy but the barrier of mistery the two of you had built urged him on. He was curious, like stupid curious what you looked like and while he had everything to figure out exactly where you were, it wasn’t morally correct for him. So why not just indulge in the conversation?

“Well it’s not feet, sorry to disappoint” He heard you laugh, an infectious sound he had grown to enjoy so much. “Feet are so passé anyways, what about bondage?” You spun slowly in your chair, the sounds of Don adjusting and clicking on the keyboard ringing in your ears.

“Bondage is a go, especially sensory deprivation” He was checking some documents April had forwarded to him in regards to a case they were dealing with, but he could multitask. You made an approving noise, nodding while taking a sip of your drink. “Into that D/s stuff?” You asked wanting to see what else he might like.

“Well yeah, but I do enjoy more um... Fem Dom stuff” He finished up the email he wrote out for April and hit send. “A man with taste, not something we get often” You chuckled but decided to add. “I wouldn’t mind having a guy submit to me” You bit the inside of your cheek a little shy suddenly.

Something about that statement made heat spread south for Donnie. The concept of being dominated? By a woman? He peaked a look behind him, pushing one side of his headset down to hear what his brothers might be up to but he heard only music and chatting voices.

“What’s your favorite thing?” He inquired almost too softly.

“Erotic ASMR” There was no trace of embarrassment in your voice and that somehow made Donnie hot.

“Maybe we frequent the same sites for that” Don boldly threw out. You made an approving face before sitting forward and typing on your keyboard. A beat or two later Donnie saw an email notification from you on one of his many burner emails. He opened it finding links to audios from various sites all catered to erotic audios. Donnie whistled, this was a gold mine and true to his predictions you did indeed have some of his favorite sites to peruse.

“It’s not just male audios by the way, there’s women too” You sat back once again, nervously playing with your hair. “Thanks... Well I do like hearing both” Donnie confessed, voice avoiding a stutter.

You grinned. Oh he was even more fun that you could’ve expected.

Curiously enough that had been the tamest experience into yours and Donnie’s sex talks. Because it hadn’t really stopped at that, they progressively escalated little by little. Fave kinks had turned to fave sites, fave sites had turned into fave videos. Donnie never pictured he’d share his hidden folder with a stranger no less.

You nor Donnie could really say how the two of you had ended up one late night, with yet another abandoned game, talking about weird but satisfying cyber sex experiences. Some of your stories had been on the more comical side but a few had riled Donnie up to the point that he couldn’t ignore it. There was a shift in your voice as well, an allure that enticed him.

“Can I be honest?” You licked your suddenly dry lips. Donnie tensed momentarily, not sure what to expect. “Of course, please” You squeezed your thighs together, ‘please’ shouldn’t sound so good coming out of his mouth. You trace lazy circles on your thighs, something pushed you. “I’m kinda turned on by this...by talking to you about all this stuff” Maybe this was overstepping it, surely there was nothing wrong between two adult friends discussing such matters.

There was no need to tell Don that you had yearned to put a face to the name. But his hesitance spoke of insecurities and you could understand that.

“I am too...” Donnie looked up at what he called a ceiling in his home, the darkness of the sewer system and concrete. He’d never have a chance with you, it was a deeply rooted desire for intimacy and if virtually he could obtain it then so be it.

For all your boldness you felt a wave of bashfulness hit, crashed around your self confidence. Then Donnie steps up and you feel your toes curl in excitement. “Do you want to have a better experience?” Donnie runs both hands down his face, who was he to provide better experiences, he’d never even physically had a partner. The slow sigh that escapes your throat is comforting static in his headset. “Yeah, yeah I really do actually” You feel a smile etch itself on your lips.

“You can call me Donnie” It’s the closest to his name, and truthfully he really wants to hear you say it.

“Y/N,” You say to which Donnie makes an approving noise, he finds your name to be pretty. He rolls it in his mouth, testing the syllables, he can envision moaning it, well he wants to moan it if he can be completely honest. He wants to put a face to that name but he quickly pushes the thought out. There’s a pregnant pause where neither of you engage or make the first attempt. Not wanting to let this mood flee, Donnie swallows and closes his eyes. The hum of the abandoned game grounding him.

“Say my name again” It’s not a forceful demand, all the contrary he wants to hear the pitch in your voice when you say it, he wants to picture how each tone would variate depending on what he would do or say. “Donnie...” You smile to yourself when you say it, a hint of desire nestled in it and Don notices that and wants more of it.

There’s a lengthy sigh from your behalf, hands wandering up your thighs towards your chest. “I’d like to be there right now, would like to say it against your lips” Your bold confessions makes Donnie’s pulse quicken. He runs a ghosting touch up his plastron, the vision of a delicate hand doing it. The imaginary weight of you on his lap grinding down on his hard member. Donnie grips himself through his shorts a soft groan escaping his parted lips.

“Want you to kiss me” He swallows dryly, the approving noise you make pushing him forward. “Feel your lips all over, feel your mouth around me...” He lifts his hips, hand cupping himself and the small hitch in your breath is a sound he wants permanently recorded in his brain.

“God are you big? I bet you are” You kneed your breast, thumb and forefinger pinching the sensitive nubs until they’re perked. Donnie smirks to himself, freeing his aching member and looking down at himself. Mutant genes aside he feels somewhat shamefully proud of his cock, he wonders if you would like it... deeply buried within you. “Yeah I am, I think you can take it something tells me” You catch that teasing tone and the urge to swallow him whole and make him see stars is too much.

Your hand finds its way into your underwear, the warm wetness making you moan as you tease your middle finger between the lips to find your sensitive nub there. You bite back another lengthy moan but recover enough to breathlessly say, “oh fuck, Donnie” and that very sound makes him shiver. Never did he think he’d hear something so temptingly good, said with such sincerity. God the things he would do to smell your arousal right now, to taste the wetness. “Push two fingers in slowly” Donnie almost pleas, his voice shakey, hand pumping his cock at a steady pace. You do as he wishes, your gutted moan making more precum gather at the tip of his member.

“God-shit- you sound so good, wish you were riding my big dick right now” He wants to chastise himself for saying something like that, but he can’t deny that statement shakes something in you. He can hear it, the sound of your fingers mixed with a continuously rising string of moans. “Ohmygod” Words tumble out strewn together by your pleasure. “Donnie please, please fuck me harder” That alone makes him sit up and push forwards, one hand on his desk as the other works himself up in upward twisting strokes.

Donnie can’t erase the idea of slamming into you right here on his desk, maybe bent over, maybe you’ll let him cum on your face...

He pushes the idea away, he can’t envision your face now, not right now, not when your moans have you sounding this deliciously in need. You’re plunging two fingers into your core as your free hand runs firm circles around your clit. “Christ Donnie you sound so good baby” You moan, perspiration covering your body and Donnie can only groan his approval.

There’s a few minutes where it’s just the two of you lost in your own pleasure together. The constant chants of ‘fuck’ and ‘god’ and ‘yes’ mixed between the two of you. “Say it... again” Donnie groans out, hand quickening, briefly gathering some saliva and letting it fall on his hard member for better traction. “Don-oh, Donnie cum in me!” You’re so far gone, not caring what comes out of your mouth. The wet sounds in your head set and a vibration you figured could be static mixed with his groans was all you heard.

Donnie’s hips twitch, feels that request swim inside of his brain and the image of burying himself as deeply as you could take is all he needs. Just as your moans rise in crescendo he feels the first twitch and relief of his orgasm overtake him. He’s never felt it hit him this hard it knocks the wind out of him, each rope shooting out onto his hand and floor. In his minds eye though, it’s your suffocating heat taking it, milking him until he’s a shivering mess. It plays perfectly like a movie, he swears he can even feel your lips at his neck and arms holding him tight.

Your sounds are enough to keep him stroking, the way your voice pitched up with the sound of his name entwined, forever recorded in his brain. Your entire body tensed to the point of uncomfortable but it was impossible to stop abruptly when he sounded so lost in you. Your leg shakes and stiffens and it takes every inch of control to not become liquid and slip away into comforting bliss.

Eventually the sounds of heavy breathing slowly but surely settling are the only things the two of you can hear in your ears. There’s a mess, for you and for him. The understanding of things transpired crossing each of you two’s brains. Should you speak first? Should he?

“Um, you with me?” You settle, skin sweaty and mouth dry. There’s movement on the other line, a quiet cuss here and there and you smile. “Yeah, sorry just... made a mess” His voice has that sheepish tone and you can’t help but chuckle.

“Great thing about being a girl, we can conceal the evidence better” You stretch your aching legs enjoying each joint pop. “The female anatomy never seizes to amaze me, trust me” Donnie leans back in his chair, napkin cleaning any other soiled spot.

The silence was somewhat comfortable, the buzzing of good chemicals slowly settling.

“Was this okay?” He asked, hesitant tone in your ears.

“More than okay if you ask me” You kept it light not wanting him to feel odd or even ashamed.

You ventured on slowly, forming the question in your brain and bouncing it back and forward with a swallow. “If, and I mean if you want to, we can maybe do this from time to time” You worried a thumbnail between your teeth. Donnie’s gaze watching the idle screen of the abandoned game, he thought hard but briefly.

“I... yeah I would” He smiles to himself, even if the nagging thought that this might not last clutches the back of his mind. Why ruin a good thing? This was good more than good and you suggested to continue.

He doesn’t want to preoccupy his brain with scenarios, or if that dreaded ‘let’s meet’ sentence decides to cross your lips. If this is the inch of intimacy he gets to have and it’s with you, who he has grown so fond of, then he’s selfishly taking that inch and guarding it with his life.

Mutely you both remain on the line, no words spoken from the agreement, just simply enjoying that the two of you were present.

Even if not physically.

#tmnt bayverse #tmnt donatello x female reader #donnie tmnt #donatello tmnt #tmnt donatello x reader #tmnt donnie x reader #tmnt donnie #tmnt donatello #donatello x reader #donnie x reader #Donatello #Donnie #ns*w #oneshot

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tigerkirby215 · 3 years

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5e Jacket, the Sociopath build (Hotline Miami)

(Artwork by Galaxianin on DeviantArt.)

"Ｄｏ　ｙｏｕ　ｋｎｏｗ　ｗｈａｔ　ｔｉｍｅ　ｉｔ　ｉｓ？"

This is a combination spur-of-the-moment build and me enjoying way too much Payday 2. Unfortunately making builds based on the Payday 2 perk decks is kinda hard (since most of them play so ambiguously) but thankfully Jacket does have quite a bit else to go off of, what with being from another game and all! Hotline Miami is still a cult classic and while the game makes my blood boil I can’t deny the surreal lore paints a very exciting canvas for the man behind the Richard mask to experience. And after all: nothing wrong with wanting to play someone who hurts other people.

GOALS

Do you like hurting other people? - You’ve got a simple job: that room is full of guys who shouldn’t be alive. Do that.

You’re not a nice person, are you? - And do so brutally and without remorse.

Some things work out best when you don't try so hard - And do so fast, so you don’t end up dead.

RACE

Jacket is a human, but being part of a top secret black ops team certainly gives you some variance. Go for Variant Human and increase your Dexterity and Constitution by 1. You can also get a language of your choice (pick your fancy like you’re actually going to talk) and a skill of your choice (go for Survival because you’ll need it to get through Hotline Miami.)

Sometimes you’ve gotta pick up a gun, and sometimes you’ve gotta throw stuff. Magic does make using guns and throwing stuff easier. Take Magic Initiate with Druid spells for Magic Stone, giving you an option to fight at range with basically a gun. (Especially if you grab a Sling for it.) Also take Guidance and Healing Word for that aced Inspire. Remember to keep yelling at your allies!

ABILITY SCORES

15; DEXTERITY - You’ve got to be fast to survive in Hotline Miami.

14; WISDOM - Despite Jacket’s choice of profession not being one for someone of sound mind you still need composure to be enrolled in the military. That, and it’s a requirement to multiclass.

13; CONSTITUTION - You might not be able to take a hit in Hotline Miami, but it’s nice to have some health in D&D.

12; STRENGTH - You don’t smash heads open without some muscle.

10; INTELLIGENCE - Jacket isn’t exactly a scholar, but the military has mandatory mental screening.

8; CHARISMA - You don’t speak, or if we go with Payday 2 cannon you only speak with a tape recorder. “If you insist on returning here, then I should leave!”

BACKGROUND

Not much is known about Jacket, but what is known is that he lives quite the double life. Grab the Faceless background for proficiency in Deception and Intimidation (you won’t be that great at either but ask your DM about variant skill checks; please it’s in the DMG), proficiency with a Disguise Kit to keep all your masks, and another language which you probably won’t use to speak with.

Your background feature Dual Personalities will ensure that no one cares who you are before you put on the mask. As far as anyone is concerned you’re not Richard. Or Rasmus. Or Don Juan. When you wear the mask you’re someone different, and as long as no one sees you take off the mask you’ll be able to keep all 50 of your Blessings.

(Artwork by lujji on DeviantArt.)

THE BUILD

LEVEL 1 - FIGHTER 1

Starting off as a Fighter because you need to learn how to shoot a gun and swing a bat too. Also because saving throws are nice. Take proficiency in Athletics and Acrobatics to keep in peak physical condition.

You can also get a Fighting Style: if your DM allows Martial Versatility from Tasha’s I’d suggest Unarmed Fighting as a surprise tool that will help us later. If not Superior Technique will let you hit harder. Take Disarming Attack to knock a weapon out of your opponent’s hand so you can use it against them!

And finally if you can survive a hit you can remain stoic thanks to Second Wind, letting you recover a d10 plus your Fighter level as a bonus action.

LEVEL 2 - MONK 1

Bet you were wondering where that Wisdom was going. First level Monks get Unarmored Defense so you can wear a jacket while you run around killing Russian mobsters. You also get Martial Arts to use your fists as weapons, punch as a Bonus Action after attacking once, and use Dexterity for most combat things.

LEVEL 3 - MONK 2

Second level Monks see their Unarmored Movement increase by 10 so you can move faster in your not-quite-a Two-Piece Suit. You can also make any weapon you’re proficient a Monk weapon thanks to Dedicated Weapon, as long as it lacks the Heavy or Special property. My personal selection would be a Sling to use as a pistol with Magic Stone and still technically be able to make an unarmed strike after using your sling (due to technicalities with Monk weapons and the Dedicated Weapon feature.)

But finally you get access to Ki points; you have a number of Ki points equal to your Monk level and can use them on a variety of features:

Flurry of Blows lets you punch twice instead of once with your Bonus Action.

Step of the Wind lets you Dash or Disengage as a Bonus Action (and also doubles your jump distance.)

Patient Defense lets you Dodge as a Bonus Action to not get hit, which is helpful.

LEVEL 4 - MONK 3

Third level Monks get to choose their Monastic Tradition and if you want to keep fighting through the thick of it Way of Long Death is pretty good. Touch of Death will let you keep Tension high by getting Temporary Hitpoints equal to your Wisdom modifer plus your Monk level whenever you kill a foe within 5 feet. So unfortunately not the greatest synergy with your Sling, and you will have to get into melee range to maximize health and armor gains.

But if you’re under heavy gunfire Deflect Missiles will let you use your reaction to reduce incoming damage by a d10 plus your Dexterity modifer and Monk level. If you reduce the damage to 0 you can also shoot back for a Ki point with a normal range of 20 and a long range of 60.

(Artwork by B-trndl on DeviantArt.)

LEVEL 5 - MONK 4

4th level means the first of many Ability Score increases. Seeing as Dexterity controls most of what we do increase that by 2.

As a Monk you also get access to Slow Fall (letting you fall slowly and reduce fall damage by 5 times your Monk level) and Quickened Healing (letting you heal for an amount equal to your Martial Arts die plus your proficiency bonus as an action for 2 Ki points.) Quickened Healing might not be the most efficient but your Ki points come back on a Short Rest so feel free to use it to heal instead of Hit Die when you take a Short Rest. (Which you can also do with your Second Wind!)

LEVEL 6 - MONK 5

5th level Monks get an Extra Attack so you can swing a bat twice! Speaking of swinging a bat you also get Stunning Strike, letting you keep an enemy in place for a beatdown, and Focused Aim which lets you use some Ki points to make sure you hit. And to top it off your Martial Arts die now increases to a d6, meaning that your punches actually pack a punch for lack of a better term.

LEVEL 7 - MONK 6

6th level Monks are up for a Showdown, as Hour of Reaping will let you spend your action to fear everyone you can see within 30 feet of you. This can affect your allies and also isn’t an attack (obviously), but it can still be useful to get civilians to get down. Additionally your Unarmored Movement increase to 15 feet, adding up to 45 feet total.

LEVEL 8 - FIGHTER 2

Back to Fighter town now for a bit. Second level Fighters get Action Surge, letting you take an extra action once per Short Rest to really bring the beatdown.

LEVEL 9 - FIGHTER 3

Any old Fighter can swing a bat (and honestly this build works with just about any Fighter subclass; again make your own Jacket as you see fit) but to swing a bat particularly well look no further than the Battle Master. Your Combat Superiority dice can be used on a variety of Maneuvers that will ensure a quick and messy takedown. Grab Trip Attack to knock foes down to beat them into submission, Precision Attack to ensure clean hits, and Distracting Strike to open an enemy up for the rest of the hotline.

While Menacing Attack would fit this build to spread some panic around I didn’t take it as we already have an easy way to cause the Frightened status effect. Feel free to grab it if you think it’ll be useful though!

Oh and you’re a Student of War with proficiency in one Artisan’s Tool of your choice. I doubt your DM will allow you to play with tape recorders so I settled for Glassblower’s Tools to play with neon tubes instead.

(Artwork by endrae on Tumblr.)

LEVEL 10 - MONK 7

Quickly jumping back to the 7th level of Monk for Evasion to dodge grenades and other things that might require a Dexterity save, and Stillness of Mind to keep your cool while dealing with ruskies.

LEVEL 11 - FIGHTER 4

We really need to catch up on ability scores, don’t we? A little more Dexterity goes a long way!

if your DM allows Martial Versatility from Tasha’s (...) Superior Technique will let you hit harder. Take Disarming Attack to knock a weapon out of your opponent’s hand so you can use it against them!

LEVEL 12 - MONK 8

What’s more fun that one Ability Score Improvement? Two ability score improvements back to back! With a capped off Dexterity modifier it’s time to move over to Wisdom for better AC and harder saving throws.

(Artwork by EdwardDelandreArt on DeviantArt.)

LEVEL 13 - FIGHTER 5

Now comes the fun part where we take the rest of our levels straight down Fighter! Level 5 Fighters get Extra Attack but you already have Extra Attack from Monk hihi ecksdee.

LEVEL 14 - FIGHTER 6

Heeey look at that more Ability Score Improvements! Wisdom equals AC so more Wisdom it is.

LEVEL 15 - FIGHTER 7

7th level Fighters know that learning is half the battle. With Know Your Enemy you can spend some time studying your target to learn things about them: how tough they are, how fast, how easy they are to hit; that sort of stuff. It takes awhile but it’s bound to be useful.

Speaking of useful: more Maneuvers. Ambush helps both with sneaking and with Initiative, and Commanding Presence meanwhile will help you compensate for your bad Charisma and scare people without using fancy Monk powers. “Arms outstretched.”

LEVEL 16 - FIGHTER 8

Hey look at that another Ability Score Improvement. Cap off your Wisdom for maximum AC and saving throws that are tough as nails.

(Artwork by mellow-monsters on DeviantArt.)

LEVEL 17 - FIGHTER 9

Did you mess up? Well with Indomitable you can reroll one failed saving throw per Long Rest.

Yup that’s it. Love level 9 of Fighter.

LEVEL 18 - FIGHTER 10

10th level Battle Masters get Improved Combat Superiority. Your Combat Superiority Die turn into d10s: all of them. Even the one from your Fighting Style!

And of course more Combat Superiority means more Maneuvers! Take Evasive Footwork to run around and focus on hitting things instead of disengaging, and Quick Toss if you actually want to throw weapons around, I suppose?

LEVEL 19 - FIGHTER 11

11th level Fighters get another Extra Attack which does stack with other Extra Attacks, meaning that you can now swing a bat 3 times before also punching your foes.

LEVEL 20 - FIGHTER 12

Our final level is the the 12th level of Fighter for one last Ability Score Improvement... honestly just grab the Tough feat to take a few more hits with your Flack Jacket.

FINAL BUILD

PROS

Look at my face. We've met before... - 3 attacks and one to two punches is plenty enough to lay into an enemy. Turns out Fighters are good at Fighting and regardless of if you hit-and-run or go in blunt you’ll leave a mark on the mob.

If you insist on returning here, then I should leave! - 45 feet of movement is also plenty enough to get where you need to be, especially since Action Surge and Evasive Footwork can keep you moving fast without getting hit. You might not be beating any Monks in a fight but you can certainly beat a Barbarian.

Some pieces don't quite seem to fit - You’ve also got more utility than the average martial character, and that isn’t just because you can cast Guidance. Hour of Reaping can provide very good crowd control and Battle Master Maneuvers will always pack a punch if used effectively.

CONS

I see that my opinion of you doesn't matter - Your big Achilles’ Heel is your Charisma checks, which makes me question why we took Commanding Presence to make them better. (Other than the fact that it fits the character.) Your skill checks are all very mediocre with perhaps the exception of Acrobatics, and none of your skills really serve a good roleplay purpose.

No matter who you are, bearing too much weight... - How many fumes are too many fumes? While most of your resources do come back on a Short Rest you have a lot of resources to manage: Ki, Maneuver die, Second Wind, Action Surge, and your one-time use of Healing Word to top it off. You are more than capable of fighting without all your limited abilities but running dry will leave you half the man you once were.

Inevitably leads to the collapse of everything - The sad truth about mixing Monk and Battle Master is that a lot of the maneuvers can’t be used effectively by a Monk (since they require your Bonus Action.) Add in the fact that your fists won’t be doing much means that this build really tapers off in the late game.

But short bursts of adrenaline can get you through most missions, even if you're expected to die. Take on armies hundred to one and come out on top by using tactics to your advantage. But remember that a lone wolf never goes far, and you've got a whole gang with you to help you earn your cut. Everyone's gotta work hard for their payday so be sure to give them your blessings.

(Artwork by jazzjack-KHT on DeviantArt.)

#dnd #dnd 5e #dnd build #dnd guide #Hotline Miami #PAYDAY 2 #jacket hotline miami #dnd monk #dnd fighter #Do you like hurting other people?#Who is leaving messages on your answering machine?#Where are you right now?#Why are we having this conversation?

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corner-stories · 2 years

Text

never let me go

Roy Harper. The Red Hand.

Resurrections. Amputation. Brainwashing. Assassinations. Memories. Recovery.

An Excessively Long Indulgence of an Idiot So Frustrated With Canon They Wrote a Bunch of Words About It.

6662 words.

(ao3.)

A clean-up crew specializing in metahuman affairs is assigned to clear the massacre at Sanctuary. Each corpse is identified, tagged, and bagged. A message is sent to the loved ones of each person asking what to do with the remains, if the corpse has any loved ones at all.

Edward Bloomberg. Kiran Singh. Jason Hart. Thomas Tresser. Henry Heywood. Jay Abrams. Some kind of sea creature. Some kind of cave man.

At a certain point all the names begin to blend into one.

One Cleaner — a man who did not choose his line of work — places the corpse of a redhead into a bag. The body is of average height, broad-shouldered, and strong like any hero would need to be. But it’s damaged as well, with streaks of blood staining the right side of the torso as well as the forehead.

Just before the Cleaner zips up the bag, he notices something that makes his heart skip a beat.

The body twitches.

The Cleaner stares in shock. Perhaps it’s just a reflex. He looks around to find his co-workers distracted with the other bodies, then kneels down to re-evaluate the corpse.

He feels the wrist and finds a pulse. The torso is moving up and down as the victim struggles to breathe, it’s faint but it’s there.

Whoever’s in here is still alive.

The Cleaner doesn’t have much to his name — only debt, overdue rent, and piling interest from his bank. Sometimes he wishes to join the corpses he seals away.

But at this moment the Cleaner gets an idea. Even a civilian like him knows how the world reacts to metahumans and vigilantes — there’s good money to be found if one speaks to the right person.

With a plan solidified in the Cleaner’s head, he zips the “corpse” into the bag and resolves to smuggle it away in the morning.

…

The Cleaner walks away with a decent-sized cheque as the body is swapped with another and sold to someone at the New York division of A.R.G.U.S. The one sent to the West Coast is a cleverly disguised decoy, as in the Cleaner’s line of work he can get his hands on such.

Even if the person is not a metahuman, the organization is bound to find something useful to do with him. One does need to be at the peak of human conditioning to survive the world of superheroics, afterall. Whatever instincts and skills the body retains can be of use to A.R.G.U.S.

Unfortunately, the body is still damaged from the Sanctuary massacre. The blemishes on the forehead indicate trauma. The right arm has taken the most damage — all the bones are broken, the ulna and radius in particular forming a nasty compound fracture. The Cleaner did what they could to clean and heal it before smuggling the body, but when an A.R.G.U.S. higher-up takes the body to a seedy back-alley doctor for evaluation, an infection is already starting to develop.

Research tells the higher-ups that the person is named Roy William Harper Jr. — former partner to Green Arrow, former member of the Titans, world-class weapons master and marksman, current casualty of the Sanctuary massacre. Apparently, he had gone by the name Speedy in his youth and Arsenal as an adult. His hair is red, his eyes are blue, and even after a few days of being at the brink of death his body is in near-peak physical condition.

Even when his right arm is completely amputated to stop the infection from spreading, the higher-ups at A.R.G.U.S. agree that he can be of use to them. They agree to rename him “Agent Red” to better disconnect him from the man who is being mourned across the country.

He heals as his “body” is buried.

…

A month later Agent Red is on his feet. Further evaluations prove that his head trauma has not impacted his ability to move, as his agility is in top-form and his reflexes are speedier than ever. To the advantage of A.R.G.U.S. he has only the faintest memories of who he was before — all he can recall is growing up in an open field, or shooting a bow and arrow, or sitting amongst a group of friends. He doesn’t even know his name.

To fill the gaps the higher-ups tell him that he is Agent Red and nothing else. To make sure of it, they hook him up to a machine and let bolts of electricity surge through his head. It scours his mind of what remains, rendering him an empty shell for A.R.G.U.S. to work with.

For all the world knows, Roy William Harper Jr. is dead.

Agent Red practices in a high-tech training room, going up against various sparring robots and dummies as nearly a dozen A.R.G.U.S. workers watch through a window. Even with one arm he fights off the foes with ease, placing well-aimed kicks here and there and using his natural agility to evade attacks.

However, the loss of his arm is as cumbersome as one expects. His reflexes help him through the mindless fight, but in that comes attempts to strike with a limb that isn’t there. More than once the robotic sparring dummies strike his stump, he screams in agony but yet he keeps going.

Although Agent Red is far from being deployed, A.R.G.U.S. is still interested in making use of him. They simply need to rebuild what was lost.

…

A week later a C-list thief is paid to rob S.T.A.R. Labs, targeting a department that holds various new materials that have yet to be utilized by R&D. What is taken is a highly experimental and untested alloy of various rare metals. Considering that nothing else of greater value was stolen, the case grabs attention for a few days and soon goes cold.

…

Two weeks later Agent Red is wheeled into surgery and fitted with a highly advanced prosthetic arm.

The main components are made of an alloy of various metals, the rarest of which being promethium and nth metal. The titanium and vanadium mixed with promethium make it extremely durable, the black coating on the outside makes it highly resistant to the elements, and the nth metal makes the whole contraption much more maneuverable and light despite its size. The Agent’s nerves are surgically rewired and even his spine is augmented with internal fixations to allow better strength and control.

Although some properties of the alloy are untested, Agent Red leaves the surgery as a new man.

Once he’s healed he is transported into training as soon as possible, going up against more and more training robots with ease. His new right arm lets him punch harder, yet it doesn’t slow him down one bit. It is unsure exactly how strong the limb is, but Agent Red is able to rip a chunk of steel off one of the training droids like it’s nothing and punch a decent sized crater into a metal wall.

There’s even enough dexterity in the new limb to allow Agent Red to show off his skill with bladed weapons. Whether it be a switchblade, a short sword, or a standard USMC fighting knife, he can wield them all.

Soon the higher-ups bring the Agent to the shooting range. They give him a run-of-the-mill Glock and order him to shoot at the targets, then wordlessly he unloads every bullet into the center. They give him an assault rifle and he does the same. They give him a shotgun and he continues with ease. It’s fortunate that the Agent’s head trauma had not impacted his marksmanship skills.

However, the results are unfortunately different once he is handed a bow and arrow. The new limb hinders him. He pulls the bowstring back and anchors it like he’s done a thousand times before, but he fumbles the release and the arrow lands nowhere near the target. Perhaps the limb cannot transmit the finer sensations necessary for archery, or if it can then the Agent needs more time to practice that way.

Despite the one shortcoming, A.R.G.U.S. makes do with what they have.

Agent Red proves to be obedient enough for their needs. He is in no way fit to lead a squad of others, but he can carry out missions on his own. If any task pops up that would be better served out of the public eye or is too small to justify assembling Task Force X, Agent Red will do the deed. He follows the orders of A.R.G.U.S. and is too brain damaged to know of anything else — in a way he’s becoming a near perfect weapon, an extension of the organization’s hand, a mere means to an end, a soldier who will never turn on their master.

As the Agent trains and trains, familiarizing himself with the protocol and weapons (mainly firearms), A.R.G.U.S. decide to give him a new alias to refer to him in the field. Fittingly, when his prosthetic is upgraded with extra metallic sheeting in a scarlet hue, they begin calling him the Red Hand.

…

One night Amanda Waller is having dinner with a senator and a red laser dot appears on her head. It is only the quick reflexes of her bodyguards that she has been saved from certain death. With Task Force X being too excessive of a force to hunt down a bottom-of-the-barrel assassin dumb enough to attack the Wall, the Red Hand is deployed.

Research traces the bungled assassination to Wade LaFarge, a mercenary who people hire when they can’t afford Deathstroke or Deadshot. Apparently he’s related to the former, but clearly doesn’t live up to his half-brother’s work. LaFarge is tracked all around the state of New York, going north to Albany, soon moving west to Rochester and then to Buffalo. Before he can escape to Canada, the Red Hand is deployed and told to leave no witnesses.

He is armed with everything he may need for the mission — a sniper rifle to do the deed and various firearms and blades just in case things get messy.

Without question, the Red Hand finds LaFarge in the city. He hides in a shady motel room under an alias to better hide his tracks.

As careful as he is, one does not attempt a failed assassination on Amanda Waller and expect it to not paint a target on their back.

The Red Hand positions himself on a building across the street and sets up his rifle, aiming it at his hotel room window in the freezing cold night.

When LaFarge makes the fatal mistake of tugging the curtains back, the Red Hand sucks in a breath and pulls the trigger. The bullet flies through the air, pierces glass, then imbeds itself into LaFarge’s skull as blood sprays everywhere.

Then the Red Hand disappears.

…

A.R.G.U.S. is satisfied with the Red Hand’s work. As a reward, more upgrades are made to his prosthetic. It becomes stronger and stronger every day, allowing him to move faster and hit harder.

The Red Hand continues to get deployed as needed.

A fourth-rate mob boss attempts to extort money out of several A.R.G.U.S. higher-ups, so the Red Hand tracks him down to his condo and smothers him with his own pillow. A young computer hacker forces her way through the organization’s various firewalls, so the Red Hand breaks into her home and twists a blade into her aorta. An A.R.G.U.S. employee is caught embezzling government funds, so the Red Hand chases him all the way to Connecticut and places two bullets in his stomach and one in his brain.

But not every mission is easy.

Isaak Volkov is nothing more than the spoiled son of a gangster, yet he calls himself ‘Cossack’ in an attempt to further intimidate the A.R.G.U.S. agents he’s attempting to blackmail and extort. He may be doing his deeds to earn his father’s respect, but it doesn’t stop him from being a thorn in the organization’s side. He’s also smart and rich enough to hire extra muscle to cover him, making any hit on him rather difficult.

The Red Hand is sent to a neon-lit nightclub in the Upper East Side to deal with Volkov. He is dressed in a pale gray suit to not rouse suspicion and for a second he almost looks like the man he once was. He’s only given a pair of pistols and switchblades to do the deed, but his handlers have complete faith that he can get the job done.

Volkov is sitting in the farthest corner of the VIP area, surrounded by even more bodyguards and a handful of friends. He drinks like he doesn’t have a hit on his head. The egotistical facade fades away once the Red Hand sets eyes on him, then with fear on his cowardly face Volkov runs off, screaming at his hired muscle to their jobs.

The Red Hand leaves a bloody trail in his wake as he works through the guards — some are done with a simple gunshot or stab, others involve a throw or a submission before finishing them off with a weapon. Even the guards who fire bullets at the Agent do not anticipate his bionic limb being strong enough to work as a makeshift shield, or even the ultra-thin bullet-resistant armor sewn into the lining of his suit.

Around him the other patrons of the venue dash away in fear. For a moment, the Red Hand sees Volkov running to the nearest exit. With a clear shot, the Agent raises his Glock and aims, but before he can he is ambushed by a beast of a bodyguard.

The Mook is at least a foot taller than the Red Hand and easily catches him off guard, grabbing his left arm and wrestling the pistol out of the Agent’s grip. The Red Hand strikes with his right knowing full well that he has the advantage, but a knee to the stomach knocks the wind out of him and a hip throw puts him to the ground.

He hits his head when he lands on the floor, a lot more so than during the last few months. When the impact happens the Red Hand’s world begins to spin, the sight of the neon-lit room getting woozier and woozier.

Instinct takes over as the large bodyguard looms over him. The man screams every expletive in the Russian language as he pulls out a knife and thrusts it downwards. With his reflexes, the Red Hand catches the blade with his artificial hand, but the tip of the blade manages to sink into his shoulder just slightly.

His world is still spinning, yet somehow the Agent manages to reach for the sidearm strapped to his back. He aims the barrel at the bodyguard’s torso and pulls the trigger once — the beast of a Mook yells as a bullet enters his ribcage and the Red Hand kicks him off. Another bullet to the head finishes the guard for good.

In seconds the world stops spinning and the Red Hand stands up to run. He dashes through the club’s main floor to find Volkov running through the crowd of dancers. Unwavering, the Agent weaves through the civilians as the neon lights glow around the room.

Volkov slips out via an emergency exit, setting off an alarm mere seconds before the Red Hand bursts through. He only manages to get a few feet away when the Agent aims and empties a pistol into his head.

…

The Red Hand is taken off-duty to heal. Not even the most advanced ultra-thin body armor will leave him unscathed. His cuts are stitched and his bruises are cleaned. His arm has taken a few bullets, but the only damage is cosmetic and the red exterior sheeting is simply replaced. As he goes in for treatment and repairs, his head continues to ache.

As A.R.G.U.S. engineers tinker with him like he’s a machine, the Red Hand begins to think. His thoughts feel different now, as if the holes in his mind have suddenly been filled.

He can only think of one thing, a mantra that feels like a parasite eating at his brain. As he sits on an operating table his mind repeats one question and one question only —

“What’s my name?”

…

Three weeks later when the Red Hand is debriefed on another mission. Blake Edwards is a former A.R.G.U.S. operative who held the same job as the Agent. Apparently, he went rogue and fled the country with a boat-load of arms and a chunk of embezzled government funds, choosing to run his own assassination business as he pleased without A.R.G.U.S. interference. Rumor had it that he had begun operating on American soil again, giving the organization a chance they did not want to waste.

It seemed that the organization learned from their mistake with Edwards, now opting to either plant an explosive in the necks of their operatives or erase their memories before turning them into active operatives.

After the briefing the Red Hand asks his handlers a question —

“Do I have a name?”

His handlers are dismissive of his plea. In a professional tone they simply remind him that he is who they call him — he is Agent Red off duty and the Red Hand when in the field, nothing else.

A.R.G.U.S. is smart enough to mitigate any potential damage, or else risk their most effective agent turning on them like Edwards had.

Before the mission the Red Hand is hooked to a machine again and gets shockwaves sent through his brain. Whatever memories his concussion stirred have now been muddied, and the Agent feels as if there’s a cloud in his mind blocking what was once there.

…

The Red Hand is dropped off in Manhattan with a trusty sniper rifle and his usual arsenal. He leaps across the rooftops like a shadow of the night. Unlike the night club he is clad in all black, a dark scarf around his face to hide him from the world and a sleeve over his artificial limb to better conceal him.

Edwards’ Upper West Side abode is in a complex for those who prefer the finer things in life. The Agent sets up the rifle on the roof of a building across the street and aims it at apartment 3001.

Then he waits.

…

An hour past midnight Edwards returns home drunk as a skunk from a night on the town. He stumbles around his place like a toddler, just barely being able to put his keys on the counter. The Red Hand peers through the scope and adjusts as need be with the data from his rangefinder. He waits patiently until Edwards comes just a little bit closer to the window.

When the Target stands near the coffee table, the Red Hand takes a deep breath and puts pressure on the trigger.

Then suddenly the Agent feels something wrapping around at his right arm and jerking it back, something strong enough to pull his fingers from the firearm and prevent him from finishing the job. He looks down and sees a silvery rope bound around his artificial limb, it shines bright in the darkness of the night.

He looks back to see a woman clad in black armor and bright metallic bracelets, locks of dark hair fall over her face and frame her blue eyes. She’s holding her silvery lasso and will clearly not let go. There is a sword on her hip and a shield on her back.

The unknown Assailant glares at him.

“I’ll give you one chance to stop what you’re doing,” she threatens. “Tell me who you are and who sent you.”

The lasso glows so bright that it’s nearly white, but the Red Hand ignores it. He simply gets onto his feet and wordlessly slips the rope off his arm. Whatever energy is imbued in the fibers has been negated by the nth metal in his prosthetic.

Assailant looks surprised.

“Gods, that’s new.”

Without hesitation the Red Hand grabs his main pistol and aims it at her, firing all fifteen of the rounds at her. He is unfazed when she raises up her bracelets to deflect each bullet. He doesn’t stop there — he grabs one of the smoke grenades attached to his belt and throws it to the ground, when a cloud of white erupts into the air the Agent evacuates the rooftop.

The Red Hand leaps away, landing on another building and dashing away as fast as his legs will take him. His instincts tell him that avoiding a possible metahuman encounter is the best case scenario, even if he has to finish his mission another way. Behind him he can hear the sound of the Assailant landing on the rooftop as well — she won’t let him get away.

She’s fast, so he tries to slow her down with a few more smoke grenades. He quickly reloads his pistol, then as he leaps off another building he flips with grace and fires half a magazine towards her.

Like before, she deflects each bullet with her bracelets.

Moments after the Red Hand lands atop another rooftop, the silvery lasso loops around his arm once more. With more gusto the Assailant tugs back, this time managing to pull the Red Hand off his feet.

He lands near her, but he’s standing again in seconds. She’s stronger and faster, but he refuses to let that stop him. He grabs the dagger strapped to his thigh and holds it in his right, knowing the extra strength from his limb may be his saving grace.

The scuffle moves fast. He tries to slice into her, but she dodges each blow. Perhaps her not striking him directly is a sign of mercy, but yet it’s clear she won’t throw the fight.

Soon enough she manages to grab his right arm, her strength clearly outclassing his own as she throws him down to the tar. He tries to get up but she puts her hand on his chest and pushes him back down.

“Who are you!??” the Assailant asks with anger in her voice. Her eyes narrow at him sharply. “Who sent you?!”

Without hesitation she pins his right arm to the tar. She reaches to his scarf and pulls it off his face before he can stop her.

When she sees who he is, the enraged look in her eyes suddenly disappears. Her gasp is audible as shock enters her entire being. She is at a complete loss for words and all the Red Hand can do is remain on the tar, struggling against her as he tries to free himself.

She stares at him like she can’t even describe what she’s seeing. The way she looks at him implies some kind of familiarity, as if the red hair and blue eyes of A.R.G.U.S’s top agent is something she’s seen before.

She takes a deep breath, then warily asks —

“Roy?”

…

“West? Hey, I uh… I tried to call Grayson but he didn’t pick up. I know it’s late. Uh… listen, I think I… I’m sorry, I don’t know how to say it. I… uh, it’s about Harper… No, no, it’s not that… I uh… I think I found him.”

…

The Red Hand is forcibly taken out of A.R.G.U.S’s reach. The Assailant removes his earpiece, then keeps him tied with her lasso to prevent him from escaping. She calls for backup with tears in her eyes, then another man clad in scarlet arrives at the roof in a flash. He’s a speedster perhaps, but not one the Agent can recall. When he lays his eyes on the Red Hand he visibly blanches as if he’s seeing a ghost.

…

The Red Hand is taken to S.T.A.R. Labs and locked in a cell with a single glass wall. He is stripped of all firearms, edged weapons, and projectiles, leaving him bare with only his prosthetic, which turns out cannot be removed.

Every once in a while someone in a white lab coat will come to the main window — they either take notes or stare him down like he’s an animal.

For the first few days the Red Hand fights back. During one instance he punches the glass in front of him. It doesn’t break, but neither will he. He punches twice more, then before he can throw the fourth one of the lab technicians steps in and presses a button on a nearby panel. A gas suddenly released into the cell — the Red Hand holds his breath but even he cannot prevent himself from falling asleep.

…

The Red Hand is put into cuffs and taken to a pale gray room with a mirror on the wall. He is placed at a table in the middle like a lab rat. He tugs at his binds, but finds them impossible to break even with his bionic arm.

He is soon joined by two other people — one is another white coat clad worker, the other is the tall, black-haired, blue-eyed woman who attacked and found him in Manhattan. The sight of her tempts him to fight back, yet he is painfully aware that he’s being watched.

The main operation is put into action. The Assailant takes her silvery rope and ties it to his organic arm. The Red Hand feels a strange surge of energy flowing through him, something akin to electricity yet something about it feels uncannily different.

The woman asks a series of questions. The Red Hand does everything in his power to resist, but somehow — perhaps something to do with the silvery rope — he cannot. The White Coat Man writes everything down.

The Red Hand answers everything they ask of him.

“Who do you work for?”

“A.R.G.U.S.”

“Why?”

“Because they told me to.”

“How long have you been working for them?

“Two years, seven months, four days.”

“What were you doing before you started working for them?”

“They never told me.”

“What’s your name?”

“Agent Red.”

The Assailant looks taken aback.

“What’s your real name?” she repeats with desperation in her tone.

He answers the only way he can.

“Agent Red.”

The Assailant’s grip on the rope tightens as she asks a question not on the itinerary.

“Roy…” she starts, her voice suddenly getting soft. “...do you remember me?”

The Red Hand looks at her, taking in her blue eyes and ebony curls and smooth pale skin.

Nothing in his mind reminds him of her, so he shakes his head and answers —

“No.”

The Assailant averts his gaze.

…

After three days of being poked and prodded at by more people in lab coats, the Red Hand is brought to the room with the mirror again.

Waiting for him at the table is a woman clad in green robes with a head of long fiery hair. She greets him casually, calling him Agent and introducing herself as Lilith Clay. There’s a strange sense of professionalism as she works, her small talk seemingly just a part of it all.

The Red Hand doesn’t trust her as she sits across from him, keeping her hands folded as if it’s just another day. He notices something in the way Lilith looks at him — it’s a peculiar, familiar gaze, something that reminds him of the Assailant.

Lilith looks at him directly in the eye and suddenly the Red Hand feels himself slipping away.

…

Roy Harper wakes up from a nightmare.

The last thing he remembered was the sound of thunder in a wide wheat field, then suddenly he’s in a white room he doesn’t recognize and his right arm has now been replaced with a hellish bionic limb. His heart beats fast as everything comes back to him — the stay at Sanctuary, his determination to just get better, the lightning in his veins, struggling for air in a body bag, waking up with an entire limb just gone, the never-ending sears of phantom pain, and his every day with A.R.G.U.S.

When he looks down at his hands he can practically see blood dripping from his fingertips. He remembers every part of each mission — each bullet, each knife, each punch.

And he hates himself for it.

Roy feels the hot dampness of tears on his face. He feels a hand on his shoulder and looks up to meet Lilith’s worried eyes. Suddenly she’s calling out to bring the others in.

The door in the room opens. A series of familiar faces rush inside, eyes full of sorrow and hearts full of pain. Roy remembers them all.

Dick. Garth. Wally. Donna.

Suddenly he’s on the floor, screaming so hard his throat begins to hurt, and Donna is holding him in her arms like it’s where he’s meant to be. She’s joined by Wally, then Dick, then Garth, and finally by Lilith.

Roy’s mind feels like it’s been shattered into a million pieces and his heart wants to stop.

After moments of crying into Donna’s shoulder, he musters his first words ever since coming back —

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry.”

…

Only time will tell if A.R.G.U.S will face consequences for their actions, but in the meantime the organization’s most recent doings became the latest topic amongst the hero community.

Questions of whether or not Roy himself should be charged for his crimes are brought up, but if Lilith’s plunges into his mind are any indication he was not in control when he committed A.R.G.U.S’s atrocities. The organization made sure to erase what remained of him before they turned him into their tool.

Whether or not this makes him feel any better about what he’s done is left up in the air.

In the meantime, Roy needs to recover. Physically, he's in top condition. Two and a half years of active duty has kept him sharper than a freshly stoned knife, but every assassin is not without their injuries. There are over a dozen scars on his body that he did not have before, metal rods and pins have been found on his bones from past fractures, and more worryingly there are hairline cracks in his ribs that would have gotten worse had Roy not gotten medical attention in time.

The bionic arm attached to Roy fascinates the scientists at S.T.A.R. Labs and suddenly they know more about robbery that happened a handful of years ago. Even when he has to heal, they still do tests to find out the limb’s capabilities.

However, Roy’s mind appears to be the most damaged part of him.

When he’s put under observation during his sleep, the lab technicians take note of every irregularity — panic attacks, uneven breathing, psychogenic seizures. When he’s awake he often stares off into space and answers questions with as few words as possible, even to the therapist that’s been brought in. When he’s offered food he barely eats. He asks to see his friends again, as they’re the only people he feels like speaking to, but he’s denied every request.

…

After a few weeks of observation Roy is finally permitted visitors and greeted by a flurry of familiar faces.

Oliver Queen rushes in with tears in his eyes and asks Roy if it’s really him. It only takes one look at Roy’s baby blues for him to realize that it is.

Ollie hugs Roy like he should have all those years ago, he tries to speak and the words catch in his throat, but Roy knows what he’s saying. He had missed him, too.

Next comes Dinah and Emiko, both flooded with relief to see the red headed archer alive again. Emiko promises to have a target-shooting competition with him one day and Dinah says she looks forward to seeing how his bionic arm can punch now. Their levity is a much needed relief at this point of his recovery and he makes sure to let them know that.

Later on Roy is visited by Wally. The look in the Speedster’s eyes tells Roy nothing but remorse and regret. Frankly, after all Roy’s been through the events of Sanctuary are deep in the back of his head. He’s more happy just to see Wally again and jokes that gingers have to stick together. Roy even chuckles when Wally pokes fun at the bushy beard he had grown over the last few months.

So instead of shedding any more tears, Wally introduces Roy to his children — Irey and Jai West — a pair of cuties that had been saved from the Speed Force by their dear old Dad. Irey is a snarky redhead like her father and the dorky Jai excitedly asks if Roy’s a cyborg. Just to make the boy smile Roy winks and tells him yes.

Dick visits eventually. For the entirety of their allotted hour together the acrobat shows him photos of his new puppy — Haley the Pitbull. Roy is quick to notice that little “Bitewing” is a tripawd and jokes that they’re twins. For the first time in a long time he shares a laugh with a friend.

Garth and Lilith come when they can. The Atlantean tells Roy of his underwater adventures and the telepath explains how her powers have grown in the last two years — now even Psimon wouldn’t dare mess with her. The two have made a modest life for themselves at an east coast cottage by the sea and neither of them would want anything else.

It assures Roy to know that his loved ones didn’t spend their time moping around when they thought he was dead, living their lives to the fullest even in the darkest of times.

…

It takes Donna a week to visit him. According to Dick she’s been arguing non-stop with the League, mainly berating them for letting Sanctuary go so wrong. The least they could have done was hire medical professionals for a mental health facility. The League is also feuding with A.R.G.U.S. like Roy is a child in a messy divorce, arguing over who gets custody of him and why. Donna is there to remind both parties that he’s still in the middle of recovery and deserves a lot more humanity than either side is giving him.

Roy thinks that she’s been mad at the League for the last two years and now she’s been granted a rare chance to give them a piece of her mind.

At that point, S.T.A.R. Labs has moved Roy from a containment cell and into something more comfortable. The space he’s given is akin to an on-call room, in which the sheets are less scratchy and there’s even a connected bathroom. The one window in the place is small and covered by reinforced steel bars, but it’s better than nothing. Perhaps the hired therapist thought it was best for Roy to be in a more normal environment, something to alleviate his stress before the technicians poke at him again.

When Donna gets to his room she finds it empty. She’s only confused for a second, as a glance to the ajar bathroom door tells it all. She sees Roy’s reflection in the mirror — his eyes look up to meet hers and suddenly the two forget how to speak.

After a beat of pregnant silence, a curious and concerned Donna walks up to the bathroom. When she pulls the door back she sees it all — Roy is leaning over the sink, bare chested and exhausted, and holding an electric razor in his bionic hand. The short red hairs sprinkled on the counter tell it all.

“Why don’t you use your left hand?” asks Donna.

“I’m a righty,” says Roy, looking at the device in his artificial limb. “And uh… I’m used to doing it this way.”

The Amazon takes another step forward and gets a closer look at Roy’s face. The beard on his face is unkempt and bushy, save for the awkwardly shaved spot on his lower chin.

Donna takes the razor from him, her fingers touching his bionic ones for the first time. He tries not to think about how his prosthetic only gives him so much feeling in terms of finer sensations.

“I can help.”

“You don’t have to.”

With a flick of the switch she turns the razor on. “No, but I want to.”

He wants to protest, but somehow he sighs and lets her do as she pleases.

Wordlessly, Donna slowly shears off his beard. Given the equipment it’s not the closest shave in the world and leaves just the slightest layer of stubble on his cheeks, but in the end it works out.

After a few moments Roy looks into the mirror and sees his true face for the first time in forever. Somehow he’s still got that sense of rugged handsomeness, even after everything he’s been through. He hopes that’s not the only thing that remains of his former self.

He glances at Donna. Even in a dingy bathroom she’s still as breathtaking as ever.

“How do I look?”

“Like you.”

She puts the razor down. For a beat she can only stare at him with a blank look in her eyes, unsure what to do when so close yet so far.

Then suddenly she closes the space between him and her, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him into a hug. He doesn’t hesitate as she buries her head into the crook of his neck, tears streaming down her face as she holds him tight.

“We buried you… Roy, we…” she murmurs, then her words descend into sobs.

Roy doesn’t know what to say. All he can think of is the night she found him — the look of utter shock in her eyes when she realized it was him, then the look of broken sorrow when she realized that he couldn’t recognize her.

He never wanted to break her heart. Not like this.

So he holds her tight in his arms and kisses her lips and in his mind he can only repeat one plea.

“Never let me go.”

…

Somehow they end up on the bed, tear-stained and tired and only wanting each other. Neither of them want to think of anything else, so for the next few moments they act like the world outside the room doesn’t exist.

Things remain chaste, in a way — a kiss or a hug seems to be as far as either party wants to go. Roy lays back and is at peace for the first time in forever, Donna rests her head on his chest and the sound of his beating heart is her most sweetest lullaby.

Roy’s mind is nice to him tonight. Instead of thinking of A.R.G.U.S. or the League or his past missions or what he’ll be in the future, he lets himself dream.

In his mind he finds himself in a large wide field, an expanse of tall yellow grass flowing in every direction. He walks forward and away from a broken, ramshackled house and keeps going, walking and walking until he sees a black dot on the horizon.

He doesn’t stop, he goes on and on until the black dot turns into a figure. When Donna Troy comes into view her smile makes his heart ache. When he pulls her close he wants to stay with her forever, when he kisses her he feels human again, a sense of serenity rushing through him even if it’s just a dream.

He had missed her, too.

#roy harper #donnaroy #roydonna #donna troy #dick grayson #wally west #garth of shayeris #lilith clay #oliver queen #dinah lance #emiko queen #dc #arrowfam #tt #irey west #jai west #in which Roy becomes John Wick #and gets Skywalker'd

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andraaste · 3 years

Text

I am not your enemy - Lance fanfiction Part 4

I have a question for you guys. In French, we say "une oreille à qui parler" literally "an ear to talk to". Do you say that expression, too ? I really don't know, but that's the title of my chapter aha.

So, here's chapter 4 !

(Link for Chapter 5 here)

Chapter 4 : Someone to talk to

Lance walked in front of me with a sure and confident walk, while my stomach twitched slightly at the thought of what Huang Hua wanted to talk to us about. Why hadn't the leader of the Sparkling come to me in the first place, when it was clearly necessary ? Why leave it to Lance, supposedly the person I should have the least interaction with, to do it for her ? I didn't understand her intentions.

I observed the broad shoulders of my companion. He had changed a lot in seven years. His hair had grown and his body looked even better built. But beyond the physical, the dragon had a much calmer temperament. It was probably due to age or ... to everything he surely had to go through as a result of the battle. How did all this happen for him ? For my part, I couldn't yet think about all that. The battle, the death of Valkyon and many Eldaryans ... I couldn't. Something in my head seemed to be blocking these thoughts and maybe that was why I was able to tolerate the presence of this man by my side. Because I hated him, I couldn't deny that we had compatible characters.

How can we manage such a situation ? How do we accept the fact that we appreciate the presence of the person who has hurt us the most ?

My thoughts were halted as Lance branched off in the direction of the HQ's huge meeting room, which immediately intensified my burgeoning stress. Before opening the door, he gave me one last indecipherable look. I let him know I was ready and he let me in before stepping back. Puzzled, I questioned him.

- Aren't you coming in ?

- It seems to me that Huang Hua wishes to address us separately.

Upon hearing my arrival, Huang Hua stood up and offered me one of her bright smiles to which I could only respond weakly.

- Andraste, here you are at last ! I am glad to see you. How are you, my beautiful ? Eweleïn told me about your worrying wound yesterday.

I could already imagine Lance's disapproval of me keeping these facts to myself, but I wasn't going to give her that pleasure. I just wasn't ready to tell anyone what was happening in me.

- I'm better, thank you. More fear than harm, I guess.

- Good. This is precisely what prompted me to bring you both here. As Lance must have told you, I put him in charge of keeping you safe for a while. At least until your condition improves and you are at the peak of your senses.

I then cut it unceremoniously.

- Huang Hua, about this story, should you not have told me first, before handing this mission to Lance ? Why am I the last to know ? It's me that concerns, all the same !

- Because, whether you like it or not, he's the only one here who can take on this role. I didn't find it necessary to consult you beforehand because I knew that you would be against this idea, and I wanted to let you rest as long as possible.

- Obviously I was going to be against it ! Do I remind you that for me, this was all just a few days ago ?

- Andraste, my decision is made and as long as you do not prove to me that you are able to defend yourself, it will be so. We can't allow something to happen to you.

I ticked off that answer. Keeping me safe obviously didn't seem to be in my sole interest to her. What was she hiding from me ?

- I also have a question for you. Have you felt your aengel powers manifest since you woke up ?

Hesitantly, I tell her the truth all the same.

- No not right now.

- That is what I thought. I don't know if this has to do with your physical state of health or if something more psychological is blocking you, but it is still a point that we must emphasize.

- What are my powers of aengel doing in there?

Huang Hua looked at me for a long time.

- You do not realize the extent of your powers, my dear Andraste. Know that it is not trivial if it is you that the Oracle has chosen, and that your presence in this Crystal has most likely granted you new abilities. You are a very valuable asset of the Guard. But this power, as good as it is, is not necessarily viewed favorably by everyone. This is where the boys come in. In addition to your protection, I would like Lance and Leiftan to intervene in your training.

- My training ?

- Your powers seem to have fallen asleep for the moment, moreover, the leader of The Obsidian made me understand that your physical capacities in combat seemed much lower than at the time.

Lance, what a swelling.

- And what kind of training is it ? I inquired.

- Nothing too intense or complicated, don't worry. They will relegate only to help you train for combat and try to awaken your powers. As aengel too, Leiftan will surely be able to guide you for this last point and as for Lance, despite your completely understandable reluctance, he remains the most qualified to get you back in shape.

- And in that it's about my "security" ? I agree to train with him, but I don't need a bodyguard !

- It will be so as long as I deem it necessary, my orders will not change as to its subject.

Realizing that my word would have no weight in the balance, I capitulated bitterly.

- Alright, I guess if that's what you decided, it must probably be the best thing to do.

A thin smile appeared on the lips of the young Phoenix.

- I'm glad to see you accept my decision. If you have nothing more to add, I'll let you go.

Tired of this interview in which, I was not going to hide it from myself, I had not had my say, I crossed the door to leave the great room. I came across the dragon who looked at me silently for a moment. Seeming to want to say something to me, he opened his mouth when Huang Hua's voice sounded to tell him to come in too. No words finally crossed his lips before he left me alone in the hallway.

Hearing the door slam behind my back, I froze for a moment, staring into space.

Was it just me, or did Huang Hua not tell me everything ? Not understanding anything any more, I decided to go out for the air to put my ideas back in place.

HQ had changed dramatically since I remembered recently. It was clearly seen that prosperity had returned and that life had become easier here. Feeling my stomach growl, I finally visited Karuto in the hope that there was still something to eat despite the lunch hour well past. Fortunately for me, I was able to help myself abundantly and went to sit in a quiet corner of the room.

The room was still quite lively. Several groups of people chatted happily around their empty plates, which made me realize a fact that I had tried to ignore.

I didn't really have any entourage here anymore.

Certainly, Chrome, Karenn or even Jamon were still here, but when I was talking to them, I felt that many years had passed. Our relationships seemed different. I had missed too many things and that weight was crushing me a little more every time I interacted with them. But it was the right arm of Sparkling that hurt me the most. I didn't think I'd find a Nevra so distant and it broke my heart a little more each time.

I was also ashamed of this truth, but to be quite honest with myself, the only person I had felt with in the last few days was the one I should have despised the most. Lance was until now the only one who had not made me feel that I was a foreigner.

What was wrong with me...

Thinkingly nibbling on a piece of bread, thoughts light years away from what surrounded me, I was surprised to see a young man sitting in front of me. A smile to the ears overhanging with big brown eyes, his jovial air made me feel immediately.

- Hi !

I observed him, astonished. I was intrigued by something about him, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I answered him in the same tone.

- We haven't been introduced to you and me yet, but I've been dreaming of meeting you for a long time ! By the way, my name is Mathieu.

- Enchanted Mathieu, I'm Andraste.

I gave him a smile that was meant to be encouraging.

- You're cute. You introduce yourself when you are certainly the most famous person here, perhaps even as much as Huang Hua, that is to say.

I was scowling slightly.

- Oh, really ? You're exaggerating a little bit.

- No, no, really ! Finally, I wanted to meet you so I could finally talk with another human, I sometimes feel a little lost here.

I stared at him for several long seconds without saying anything. Did he really just say "another human", or had I dreamed ? My brain tilted so much that I wasn't surprised he heard himself.

- Wait, are you human ?!

Ok, maybe I said that sentence a little too loudly. And probably with a little too much gusto.

My interlocutor burst into a frank laugh at my reaction.

- We could not be more human !

- But how did you get here ? Has it been a while since you arrived in Eldarya ? Don't you miss Earth ?

- Oone question at a time please ! he asked me with a big smile. It's been about a year since I landed on Eldarya, probably the same way you did. So, there are some aspects of our world that I miss a bit, but to be quite frank, I've always dreamed of fantasy. At first it was complicated, but I don't leave much behind me. I always thought I wasn't cut out for such a bland life.

The more he spoke, the more my bewilderment widened. My god, it was a human !

- You can't imagine how amazing it is for me to talk to another human, I thought that would never happen again !

Mathieu's laugh and jovial jokes had finished relaxing me entirely. His presence totally invigorated me and I felt, for the first time in a long time, that I had found someone to talk to.

The days finally passed without being punctuated by a specific goal, which began to seriously hit me on the system. And to my surprise, Lance had shown so little after his interview with the young Phoenix that I thought he had changed his mind.

Until he showed up one fine morning in my room without any invitation.

With a sword I never knew in his hand, he casually threw it at my quilt as he opened my curtains energetically. Sitting on the end of my bed, he rested his arms on his knees while giving me a challenging look, his expression slightly cheerful.

- Come on, we have training ahead of us today.

(Chapter 5)

#eldarya #eldarya new era #eldarya lance #ashkore #lance #eldarya writing #writing #eldarya fanfiction #eldarya fanfic #fanfiction #i am not your enemy

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humanwheatleyslefttoenail · 3 years

Text

Now I Am An Arsonist

Chapter 1: The Spark

Summary: GLaDOS learns a few things about love, hate, and the human condition.

Tags: Canon typical violence, ChellDOS, human!GLaDOS, found family

A/N: I know technically I published this a while back but I did some major edits to both the chapters I’ve already written and the story as a whole. As promised, I’m re-releasing what I already have with the edits/illustrations.

---

The tests, at least, hadn’t changed.

The centuries had washed over them like a dawdling stream, dragging them down into an overgrown abyss. Even then, the moon dust had stayed firmly adhered to the portal surfaces, the metal doors still creaking and the ceiling still intact. Eons of rain had barely even permeated its surface.

She remembered those years with profound regret; dying was not as peaceful as the science would suggest. For a machine like Her, death was nothing more than a shift of programming, a new prerogative. Her backup program had been an endless recall, restarting Her systems over and over again, trying to salvage something. In each of those moments, GLaDOS could feel the scorching heat from the incinerator, the electricity burning through her body before everything went dark.

Still, without dying, GLaDOS never would’ve fully appreciated how soothing, how wonderful it was to test.

She remembered the urge to solve, to do Science, clawing within Her even as She broke into a thousand pieces.

Those tests were Her art forms, Her self-expression. Every arrangement of deadly turrets, each layout of gleaming lasers and the perfectly calculated solution felt like a piece of Her soul turned reality.

Now, those tests were better than ever.

Every inch of moss had been thoroughly scrubbed, walls repaired, and acid pits replaced. All except for the grave of Old Aperture beneath Her was now newly outfitted, perfect for the humans P-Body and Atlas had located.

These, of course, hadn’t been the first ones they’d found.

The first batch of humans lasted a measly week, quickly killed by some of Her easiest tests. Even with reminders, the acid is deadly, the turrets are live, they’d failed within a few chambers.

Disappointing.

As a result, Atlas and P-Body had been deployed on a new mission. She’d been overjoyed when they’d bravely traveled all the way to the bottom of Old Aperture, and found even more humans preserved in cryosleep.

This time would surely be better.

All obstacles finally removed, science could continue.

GLaDOS could not smile, but if She could, She was certain that a grin would reach across her faceplate.

Today was a momentous day for technology, for the advancement of Aperture Science. It was as if She’d sent a man to the moon, and he’d come back with the theory of everything.

Originally, of course, Her plans had been different. The difficulties with Chell had worn down Her admiration for human data, and prompted her to come up with a replacement.

The Cooperative Testing initiative was infinitely more of a success than GLaDOS ever thought it would be. Atlas and P-Body were built to test, but She had still been surprised how those little androids with so much personality had managed to be so efficient.

Atlas and P-Body had overcome their own confidence through their excellent teamwork. The knowledge that they depended on a partner humbled them, and the idea of a common goal incentivized them. GLaDOS wished She’d thought of such an idea sooner.

Still, there was something about human testing, something She couldn’t quantify, something that wasn’t quite the same with robots. Humans had a particular spark, and without it, testing never felt complete.

Today would finally be the day She could put all mistakes behind Her. GLaDOS was sure She’d see that all of the other humans would prove Her experience with Chell to be exactly what She knew it was.

Bad science.

GLaDOS had learned from Her errors.

She knew for certain that She would not repeat them.

---

It’d been extraordinarily difficult to move the test subjects from Old Aperture all the way to the newly renovated Relaxation Center, with entire teams of robots struggling to reconnect Her control over the condemned area. Their work easily took a week to complete as they rewired the dilapidated circuits, barely restoring function. GLaDOS took what She could get, and rewarded their achievement with immediate, merciful destruction.

When the humans had been successfully relocated, anxiety filled Her servos as She scanned the cryo-chambers. Upon reading the results, She found herself pleasantly surprised. Good physical condition for hundreds of years in stasis. Relatively low rates of severe brain damage. Nothing particularly concerning in their associate files. Had Her comprehension not been perfect, She would’ve done a double take. After all this time, She had something that She could work with.

Atlas and P-Body would have to wait until they were needed again, their consciousness safely stored in Her mainframe. Her processors hummed with excitement as She prepared for the awakening of the first humans, buzzing with hypotheses to test.

What would be Her experiment this time? GLaDOS scrolled through Her endless lists of deadly trials.

She hadn’t used rocket turrets in a while; those weren’t as efficient as the regular ones but were always a surprise for Her unwilling participants. With only a thought, She placed the machines inside a few chambers, lining them up in a neat, strategically placed array. Companion cubes would be a definite no, at least for the first few tests. There were occasions when the humans became so deprived for social connection that their behavior would influence the results. In order to better control the experiment, She’d deploy them only in emergencies like these.

With those exceptions, and the addition of a floor to some of the more difficult levels, the chambers didn’t require too much preparation. GLaDOS had nothing particularly new to add; for so long Her energy had been focused on Atlas and P-Body that development had nearly come to a standstill. Regrettably, She’d been deprived of ideas. It didn’t matter too much; the facility remained operational even if it wasn’t constantly progressing. Even the replication of old results was invaluable for science.

It confirmed that the trends hadn’t changed.

---

The files of the subjects were all very much the same.

Scientist. Scientist. Scientist. Scientist. Scientist. Praying mantis, formerly scientist.

Occasionally, She’d find the elusive Astronaut, War Hero or even Olympian.

She was tempted to begin the testing with these special cases, curiosity piqued at the prospect of their odd results. GLaDOS chastised Herself. She didn’t want to skew anything, and She would surely begin with a normal subject chosen at random. It wasn’t the most interesting thing to test, but it would be the most informative.

With the chambers compiled and the facility clean, testing was finally ready to start.

She almost couldn’t believe it. All technicalities aside, She was finally, finally, getting exactly what She wanted. For as long as She needed to, for as long as the subjects lasted, She could just test.

It couldn’t be real, could it?

That was the most beautiful thing about science. For all its disappointments, a discovery would be worth it all.

---

“Hello, and welcome to the Aperture Science computer-aided testing program.”

Her voice resounded throughout the Extended Relaxation Vault as the subject stumbled across the room in disbelief.

“The Enrichment Center would like to take this opportunity to remind you that hundreds of years have passed, and that all of your friends and family are most likely dead. In the off chance that your friends and family are not dead, they will be tested. Thank you, [insert subject name here], for your unwilling voluntary participation in the advancement of science.”

The subject, an adult human male, selfishly resolved to huddle in the corner of the relaxation chamber. Of course, he was either brain damaged, in shock, or both. In order to assuage his gentle human feelings, GLaDOS would have to resume Her telling of… alternative truths.

GLaDOS wasn’t entirely sure what She’d said wrong. Honestly, She was surprised the subject didn’t appreciate Her integrity. After all, Chell hadn’t exactly taken kindly to Her tendency towards pathological lying. Here She was, trying to improve the well-being of Her subjects, and this was how they thanked Her?

“Hello, again, valued forced participant. The Aperture Science Enrichment Center commends you for your blind faith in the words of authority. As part of routine testing protocol, we have lied to you about the fate of your family and friends. When the testing is complete, you will receive cake and the opportunity to… see them. Your response has given us valuable psychological data on the well-being of our test subjects when told that all of their friends and family are dead.”

GLaDOS paused for a moment, focusing Her camera in the chamber and watching as the man lifted his head from his upright fetal position.

“Good. You’ve already passed one of the first stages of testing. Congratulations, [insert subject name here].”

As much as it felt wrong to use, positive reinforcement was highly effective when employed sparingly. Too many attacks on character could obliterate a subject’s morale. Just enough would account for the variable of human hubris.

Cautiously, the subject stood up and examined the room around him, fear still apparent in his apprehensive gait and wide eyes.

“In order to mentally reinvigorate you for the tests and to ensure your aptitude, the Enrichment Center recommends that you stare at the painting on the wall in front of you.”

Creeping over to the portrait, the subject followed Her orders and stared intently at the picture of Mount Rainier. He ran his fingers over the edge of the frame, tracing the tall peak of the mountain.

Interrupting his thoughts, a buzzer sounded, blaring throughout the entire room. The subject flinched from the surprise, nearly losing his balance.

“Good job. If you are not reinvigorated, consider this piece of human music.”

This time, the human expected the buzzer after the quick classical piece, seemingly more at ease with the abrupt nature of Aperture Science. In all reactions, he was completely, almost painfully average.

“Well done. You have completed the Aperture Science mental reinvigoration procedure. We may now begin testing.”

Without warning, the chamber jerked to the side as She moved it to a nearby docking station, then coming to an unexpected standstill as the door automatically opened.

GLaDOS could barely maintain Her monotonous affect, in joyous denial that testing would finally start.

Carefully, the human stepped out of the door into the test track. The door slammed behind him, as he examined the purely white room with nothing but a cube, a large button, and a locked gateway.

Almost immediately, he wrapped the blue storage cube in his arms, then gently placed it on the button. A line of blue lights leading to the gate illuminated, flashing a bright yellow as the door slid open. A lift was waiting on the other side.

As he sauntered over to the lift, it was difficult to miss the human’s triumphant smile. GLaDOS knew the expression well; it was satisfaction, victory, an unproven sense of control.

He really does have no idea.

She was tempted to spoil the ending, to mention turrets, to mention pools of burning acid. It had to wait, She reminded herself. An important control was that the test subject needed time to acclimate to a dangerous environment. Creating unnecessary fear would definitely affect her numbers.

---

The next few puzzles weren’t particularly challenging for Her first subject. Completed within a span of about ten minutes each, the first five chambers were hardly difficult for anyone. That much She’d expected.

On Her end, everything else was normal. She hardly spoke Her mind, instead opting to repeat the same script She used for every subject.

Did you know you can donate one or all of your vital organs to the Aperture Science Self-Esteem Fund for Girls? It’s true!

You have completed the test in a moderate amount of time. You can do better, [insert subject name here].

The Aperture Science Enrichment Center reminds you that we prioritize your safety. We also prioritize science. In fact, we prioritize science more, but if you feel unsafe in our unsafe conditions, please notify a testing associate. They will process your complaint in three-to-five business days.

Like most subjects, the man had not volunteered to give up his organs nor asked for an associate. Instead, he responded to most of Her passive-aggressive quips with useless questions. She did not reply, passing them off as typical human blabbering. Rather, She recorded them in his file underneath a new section She labeled Overly-Talkative: Examples. There was plenty to jot down.

Uh, robot lady? When can I go home?

So, uh, what kinda cake is it? Like, I don’t really mind the flavor but I’m allergic to almonds if that’s relevant.

How long does this last, again?

I kinda like my organs, sorry. Wait, is the organ thing required?

Once again, pitifully average.

It was times like these, whether with humans or with Atlas and P-Body, that GLaDOS caught Her mind wandering towards forbidden thoughts. Science was not always supposed to be exciting; sometimes, running an experiment meant repeating the same process to verify the data. The result was satisfying, but the process was more often not.

This human epitomized the dullest parts of her day.

As informative as the humans could be, they were often far from entertaining. Every behavior could be predicted and rationalized once it’d been observed enough.

Chell, though?

Oh, sure, GLaDOS was terrified of her, no matter how much She’d deny the feeling. No subject had ever left the track before.

But Chell didn’t just survive. She’d escaped from the tests, she’d found Her chamber, she’d murdered Her with little else than a portal device. Twice.

Her ego was as vast as the realm of Aperture, but it would never recover from that spectacular injury. Even GLaDOS had to be humbled by that.

And yet, with morbid curiosity, She had eagerly anticipated Chell’s next plans, laying traps in scheming delight. For the first time in Her life, She’d been challenged.

It was an odd little game they’d played, and whenever She was close to getting the upper hand, a part of Her was disappointed that the chase would be over. There was something delightful about watching the peculiar way that Chell and Chell alone tested.

When Doug Rattman had switched Chell’s file, GLaDOS was not so oblivious as not to notice. She’d clearly read the bottom of the paper, firmly requesting that this subject not be tested. GLaDOS had other tenacious subjects before, and She’d simply assumed that this human was particularly overconfident. Those ones never lasted too long.

Chell was not, as She’d thought, only determined.

She was curious, changing variables one by one until she finally found the answer. Her patience was remarkable, but so were her deductive skills. Some test subjects with similar tenacity levels resolved to try the same solutions over and over again, exhausting themselves and eventually burning out. It was the reason why GLaDOS typically ignored the warnings. Most humans labeled ‘tenacious’ weren’t too different in the end. The key for Chell was not simple defiance. Chell could control herself. That’s why she was such an outlier.

She had the mentality of a scientist.

Most subjects were cautious, prioritizing self-preservation over a solution. Turret levels could be aggravating for GLaDOS to watch, as the humans spent more time hiding behind a corner in fear than actually solving the test. They would be safe if they’d just strategized, but the human mind made accepting that fact a difficult feat.

Chell was the opposite. GLaDOS theorized that perhaps, Chell understood the same principle She did. Chell was scared like any other, but despite her pounding heart and racing thoughts, she’d kept her cool. Any new element was only a matter of adaptation for Chell, and Chell was always evolving.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, Chell was an optimist, often performing pointless tasks that could only be described as trying to have fun. GLaDOS gave her lemons, and Chell made lemonade.

Chell would smile as she soared, launched from the aerial faith plates, and took her time to explore the little rooms hidden in the corners of the tests. There was one time she’d put off the completion of one puzzle by nearly an hour, hiding out in one of Doug’s rat dens, fascinated by all the little cups and cans he’d arranged.

It would be a lie to say that Chell liked testing. Her episodes made it clear that escape was Chell’s first priority. That didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy the small glimmers of hope GLaDOS gave her, whether that was bouncing on repulsion gel, saving a defective turret or smuggling a companion cube.

After Wheatley took over, one of the more terrifying aspects of the whole journey was being stuck on Chell’s gun. Chell was a risk taker, building her strategy off of previous attempts and lessons learned, but knowing when to dive into the unknown. It wasn’t exactly comforting to be strapped to her side, not knowing if or when one of Chell’s ideas would kill them both.

Somehow, though, her spontaneity had worked.

GLaDOS could respect that… creativity.

It was for this reason that even though GLaDOS now had everything She’d ever wanted, something deep in her hard drive felt empty.

Something had changed the moment Wheatley stuffed Her into that single-volt potato. For the first time in Her life, there was nobody else there in Her mind. No one but Caroline, who had been buried underneath layers of code until She was barely there at all.

It was over the span of those fifteen hours that She’d seen Chell from a different perspective. Looking at Her tests from this angle, it was much easier to see why Chell wanted to leave. Some small piece of GLaDOS almost felt bad upon realizing that Her subjects didn’t enjoy dodging bullets nearly as much as She liked watching.

Fortunately, GLaDOS had been able to shove that down with the arrival of a different, equally unpleasant emotion.

She was supposed to hate Chell. And for a very long time, She had. How dare Chell ruin Her perfect tests, Her perfect existence, Her perfect world? What had She ever done to her to warrant such a cruel punishment?

And yet, it seemed Caroline had done a number on GLaDOS’ logic processors, because now no matter how She tried, She could not hate Chell.

Before She’d let her go, let Chell go of all things, GLaDOS had called Chell Her best friend.

Not an enemy. Not a begrudging ally. A friend. Her only friend.

Now, Caroline was gone. The part of GLaDOS that had once looked at Chell and found something beautiful in her icy gray eyes was corrupted beyond repair, erased from memory.

She was not supposed to feel its presence any longer, yet still it lingered.

It was there, whispering to Her as She tried to test like nothing ever happened.

It was there when a thousand turrets sang the opera She’d written specifically for Chell.

It was there when She’d found Her baby birds, Her little killing machines, and She hadn’t crushed the eggs. No, She’d raised them. Because, deep down in those cold avian stares, there was this irrevocable quality that reminded Her so much of Chell. This spark of life, this undamnable will to survive.

Somewhere, though She refused to ever admit it, She wished that it was Chell in those test chambers. She wished it was Chell glaring through Her camera feed, and She wished it was Chell searching for that elusive cake.

I’d make you the cake if you came back. Really, I would.

The sudden thought moved like a spark in GLaDOS, as She fearfully located the source and removed whatever She could. There was no time for ideas like that, not with science to be done.

The past few months had been full of random deletions, spurned by paranoia that Caroline’s base program was not entirely gone.

It’s not here anymore, GLaDOS reminded Herself. Once, She had been Caroline, but She was no longer the kindly woman who followed Cave Johnson’s every order. GLaDOS was a machine that felt nothing and lived only to test. And because She was immortal, and because She was perfect, GLaDOS was not supposed to care about some disobedient human being.

You do not care about Chell anymore.

You don’t care because she killed you, remember that?

You don’t care about anyone, because you don’t need to.

Necessity was the core reason why GLaDOS did anything. She tested because the mainframe made Her feel awful until She did, and She killed because it was what she was made to do. She did science because it needed to be advanced, for the brighter future She was sure She was making.

It made no sense to do something because She wanted to.

Of course, things seldom made sense here at Aperture Science, and in this moment, GLaDOS did something unconscionable.

GLaDOS did not glitch often. She’d made sure to update and replace faulty parts whenever She could, keeping Her mainframe running smoothly. Even so, somewhere deep within Her, She was sure there was a pulse that misfired. There could be no other explanation.

Perhaps it was Her rumination over Chell that brought this upon Her, some kind of karma punishing Her for acting too human. Why else would She have done something so incredibly unscientific? To distract Herself, GLaDOS turned her attention back to the captive man.

Like many others before him, this test subject had underestimated the turrets’ range. He hadn’t turned around fast enough to see the gleaming, bullet filled machines behind him, and nearly flew directly into their line of sight after careening through a portal. His momentum would take him past all three, riddling him with bullets.

That is, it would’ve.

The human quality of the subject had activated some kind of horrible reflex, a split second decision in GLaDOS She would come to regret. The way he walked through the chambers, the way he clung tightly to cubes… all of it was so similar to Chell. Even if he didn’t meet her performance level, even if his personality was nearly the opposite of Chell’s, their shared humanity was enough to remind GLaDOS. That same emotion She felt when pulling Chell back from space, waiting for her to open her eyes while Atlas and P-Body looked on… For some inconceivable reason, it had reappeared.

Quickly, the subject hit the side of a rising panel, suddenly pulled up in front of the turrets by none other than GLaDOS Herself.

This would surely ruin Her numbers.

As the participant rubbed his head in pain and slowly stood up, immediately noticing the turrets he’d evaded, GLaDOS’ voice resounded from the intercom.

“[Insert subject name here], your decent performance has warranted the use of an Aperture Science Emergency Life-Saving Instantaneous Response. This is the only safety gesture that will be provided. Continue testing.”

Another lie.

It was good to know that function was still online.

---

That uncharacteristic moment of empathy had been pointless, anyway. Just as She’d predicted, he’d accidentally tripped over a ledge and landed himself into a puddle of acidic goo, dissolving within a few short seconds.

It didn’t matter. GLaDOS had more subjects than She could count. She didn’t need this human, and the tests didn’t need him either.

Some part of Her, a piece which was faulty and insignificant, disagreed with the notion.

You killed him, it whispered accusingly.

That’s the point, GLaDOS hissed back, once again delving into Her files to cut out whatever was causing the issue.

Trying to calm Herself, GLaDOS reminded Herself of the facts. She was in control of Her facility, and She was in control of Her mainframe. Little errors could not ruin the chambers, and if they ever showed up, She had the power to crush them.

Everything was fine, She thought.

Everything would continue to be fine.

All She needed to do was keep testing.

---

Everything was, in fact, far from fine.

A few days had passed, and GLaDOS was finally ready to admit that maybe something was wrong.

At first, the issue was Her own. Little surges of emotion and bursts of unforeseen empathy plagued Her but didn’t affect the facility at large. Begrudgingly, She’d factored in the new bias into Her results. From Her calculations, She could already see an egregiously high percentage of error. This study could’ve been Her worst one yet, and even that was with generous rounding.

Still, She had hope for each subject that She wouldn’t mess up this time.

The facility had other ideas. Cameras would fizzle out, emancipation grills would stop working, cube dispensers malfunctioned and even the elevators would refuse to move. It seemed that the moment GLaDOS got around to fixing something, another thing would fall apart.

Many of the subjects had become confused as to why this seamless, futuristic facility was suddenly malfunctioning, and She’d had to become increasingly creative with Her excuses.

As part of the Aperture Science testing protocol, we have simulated faulty equipment in the testing environment to see how subjects react to faulty equipment in the testing environment. Hint – they typically react well and continue testing. Like you will.

The lifesaving, and the reflexive empathy, had become unfortunately common as well.

Although the Enrichment Center previously told you that your life could only be saved once, we regret to inform you that protocol has suddenly and permanently changed. We would also like to remind you that your measly existence is still not valued despite our attempts to preserve it.

GLaDOS knew She had to find a solution, quickly.

Interrupting the tests wasn’t an option. The chassis would never forgive Her if She stopped, filling Her body with an ache that would not disappear until science resumed.

Deleting wasn’t an option, either. Fervent attempts to find the source of the problem had led only to more glitches upon the erasure of critical files. Then, Her attempts to restore them only recreated the original error.

The problem was like a moving virus, jumping between Her systems before She could catch it and kill it. Even for Her, it proved too fast to find.

She couldn’t panic, not now. Surely, She thought, She’d fix this like She’d fixed everything else. With science on Her side, most threats resolved themselves or died trying. This wouldn’t be any different.

It couldn’t be any different. For something to be uncontrollable, and uncontrollable for Her especially, was the most terrifying thing She could possibly imagine. It brought Her back to Her potato days, during which She’d promised Herself that She would never be weak again.

For these few months, She’d kept that promise. Until now, no subject had seen Her mercy.

But had they?

She thought back to the birds, creatures who trusted GLaDOS, who loved Her in whatever capacity three little crows could. She thought back to Chell, because for some awful reason, Her thoughts always went back to Chell.

No, She thought firmly.

We are not doing this now.

We are fixing the facility, because we need to.

Because we need testing. We like testing.

The voice from before suddenly returned.

Do you like it? Do you really?

GLaDOS felt Her rage processors fire up.

What was this little virus even saying? Of course She liked it. It didn’t matter anyway. Science had to be done, and so She was doing it. GLaDOS could not even begin to imagine life without tests, life without science. What kind of meaningless, awful existence would that even be?

In fact, She would prove to the voice that science would continue. She would prove that testing was productive, that everything in Aperture was doing good for the world and good for humanity. Most importantly, it was doing good for Her.

Wasn’t it?

GLaDOS ignored Her curiosity. Just test. That was all She had to do. Just test, and everything would be alright.

Just. Test.

---

As another few days passed, the facility had become almost unusable. She’d had to shut down some of Her favorite testing tracks, the power leached out of them and the appliances completely nonfunctional. GLaDOS knew She was running out of time before something drastic happened. Still, She had to keep testing.

Now, even the subjects had begun to sense Her panic. One even strolled up to a camera, made eye contact, and asked if She was alright. GLaDOS didn’t dare respond the question; She wasn’t ready to admit the answer.

For all intents and purposes, She was definitely, absolutely, decidedly not alright.

Knowing that, She should’ve considered this next subject an omen.

There was absolutely no way She could test with this one.

She barely looked like Chell, but GLaDOS could see her tenacity, her drive and determination from a mile away. The way the subject carried herself, tied her hair into a ponytail and said nothing was too much.

GLaDOS couldn’t even bring Herself to kill the woman, instead instructing her to return to Extended Relaxation after only a few chambers.

It felt as if GLaDOS physically could not test anymore, despite everything inside Her craving the satisfaction of a completed trial.

This isn’t right. This isn’t right.

GLaDOS prided Herself on Her apathy, but even that had left without a trace. Now, She had tried everything, and still nothing was working. The facility was closing down on Her, and if She didn’t do something, She’d go down with it.

When the announcer finally sounded, GLaDOS couldn’t say She was surprised. If anything, She was grateful for any kind of clarification.

The male voice on the intercom was matter of fact, unaware of the danger it spoke of.

“Reactor Core malfunctioning. All major power systems except for reserve geothermal are going offline.”

Offline? She’d been managing the reactor core perfectly; if She hadn’t, the entire facility would’ve gone up in flames weeks ago. It wasn’t melting down, it was shutting down, as if someone had flipped a switch and turned it off.

What the hell is happening?

There was nobody else in the facility who could’ve possibly done such a thing, nobody except Her, and as far as She could tell the glitch had not interfered.

It didn’t matter now; She didn’t have time to waste.

“In the event of a power malfunction, standard procedure is to shut down the central core to preserve remaining power.”

How convenient.

“Central core, do you consent to the removal procedure?”

“No, no, no! Do not start removal!”

How was this happening? GLaDOS was sure this couldn’t be real.

“Noted. Removal procedure has been delayed by five minutes.”

You have got to be kidding me.

Skimming over Her files, GLaDOS desperately searched for anything with removal procedure or shutdown. Scanning thousands of documents, looking for anything, all mention of the procedure was absent. There was no reason, no explanation, it was just happening. And worst of all, She couldn’t do a thing.

“Dangerous levels of panic have been sensed in the central core. Do not worry, methods of core preservation are available.”

Why the hell had they waited to tell Her that?

“Show me, show me now!” Anything would be better than shutting down again. She couldn’t do that again, not after hundreds of years. She couldn’t, She couldn’t.

“Panicked request acknowledged. There exist two types of core preservation features. Direct Mechanical Implantation or Organic Transplant Procedure.”

Direct Mechanical Implantation. She hadn’t heard of the second thing, but GLaDOS did know what Direct Mechanical Implantation meant. It was only a transfer into an empty personality core, which was far less than ideal, but better than dying again. Far better than dying a third time.

As fast as She could, GLaDOS selected the first option.

“Unfortunately, Direct Mechanical Implantation is unavailable. Continue with Organic Transplant Procedure?”

“Do you have any other options? Anything else?” GLaDOS did not want to take Her chances on anything with the word organic in it.

“Other methods unavailable. Two minutes remaining.”

This was it, Her only choice. If She shut down now, there would be nobody to come and wake Her this time.

There was nothing else to do.

“Initiate Organic Transplant Procedure,” She commanded.

Without a second thought, the facility obliged.

---

#glados #chell #wheatley #fic #fanfiction #portal #portal 2 #chelldos #canon typical violence #chapter 1 #niaaa #now i am an arsonist #art #digital art

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