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revenant-dumpster-fire · 3 years

Text

Warm (Revenant x Reader)

Theme: Reader comforts Revenant after a somewhat brutal loss in a duos match as Revenant becomes concerned with his image.

Warnings: Mentions of mania, mentions of depression, mentions of suicide, threats of violence, graphically described violence, pain, sharp objects, borderline sexual fluff.

Reader's Notes: Revenant (Apex Legends) x Reader, reader is non-gendered in this chapter, this is getting romantic but hasn't crossed the line quite yet, reader will eventually have to be gendered (but I'll hold off as long as possible).

Writing Notes: Compliments give me fuel. Lot of development this chapter, more characters. I feel like this is increasingly revealing of who I am as a person, so I'm glad I'm anonymous.

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The Apex Games are brutal. It's a miracle these people can be suspended in death boxes and sewn or pieced back together after what happens to them. You've heard murmurs that some of the visual brutality is simulated by an AI for the cameras while the much less damaged person is imprisoned in a deathbox, but you are not so sure of that. It looks too real, and the Legends seem way too accustomed to pain and morbid destruction for it not to be. You are desensitized to a lot of gore and snuff yourself, but you've come to know the Legends just well enough to shudder when they are disemboweled in front of you. When you first started volunteering to help, you remembered being endlessly relieved the first time you saw them all return from the medical ward.

Even though you know they will likely be fine, you whimper as Bloodhound takes an apparently fatal blow from the favorites for this duos match: Loba and Bangalore. It isn't very often that random chance creates such an iconic duos pair, but it's happening today and the cameras are loving it. The cameras have been so fixated on these two that you haven't seen night or day out of Revenant. According to the trackers on the screen, Revenant is still in the game, but his teammate--Fuse--was knocked out of the match early on. Knowing those two, they likely agreed to drop hot--in an area with lots of combatants. While it's a good way to get kills, it's also an ideal way to get killed. From previous matches, you have the impression Revenant will drop hot if his teammate or teammates agree, but he won't do so otherwise. Fuse is absolutely the type to agree to dropping hot. You worry for Fuse even though you are certain he will be back tomorrow or soon thereafter, ready for more.

Loba and Bangalore have used their combined skills to gather long-range sniper weapons and considerable kills so far this match. Bangalore is able to use her abilities to create confusion and draw combatants out from cover, and Loba could create or close distances with her warp band while also gathering excessive amounts of high-level weaponry, mods, and armor to make them all the more terrifying. They pulled ahead early in the game, and now they feel unstoppable. The cameras watch as they run across Olympus' beautifully groomed grass towards the next team to victimize.

You feel like you're not doing what you should be doing. Did Revenant really just want you to watch the match today? Shouldn't you do something helpful?

You get yourself to the edge of the bed, hop up, and start to make it. It was so perfect when you hopped in yesterday, you want to try to make it equally as perfect. Your legs no longer hurt, and you feel well-rested despite Revenant's creepily watchful eyes. You take a deep breath, stretch backwards, and get to making the bed. You will have to go to your volunteer bunk and change soon. You wonder if you will have to move out of the volunteer area--even though it's small and cramped, it's been your home for a few years now. Your coworkers feel more like roommates, varying from cool but introverted to outgoing but overbearing. You like all of them, and you have the unusual standing as one of the longest-running volunteers, staying through off and on seasons to keep things functioning. You don't want to lose them, or the only home you've known for a few years.

Gunshots ring out on the television, Loba and Bangalore are taking shots at another team fight from afar. You see the symbol for Lifeline pop up as knocked, then eliminated. Caustic's name pops up next. Finally, Revenant came up as knocked, but not eliminated. You can't help but panic just a little, but Revenant apparently had a self-revive and is moving again, fleeing the area as Loba gives vicious chase trying to make up the distance from sniping. Revenant is in bad shape, he has been fighting solo for a while, and Loba knows he is practically a free kill at this point. You're afraid this is going to turn into another Loba versus Revenant fight, a favorite of the audience due to how ruthless they both are with each other. You don't like them fighting. You don't like seeing Loba be nearly beheaded or gutted, and you don't like seeing Revenant be slowly but surely tortured to death. There is no alternative ending with those two. It's always violent, and Revenant doesn't stand much of a chance at this rate. He clearly knows that.

You stare at the television breathlessly, trying to make the bed without looking away. Loba is hunting, and Revenant is unable to keep enough distance. In a last gambit, Revenant manages to break line of sight, launching his silencer into the doorway of a bunker and then intentionally running into the opposing bunker. Loba falls for it, as she makes an immediate path for the bunker with the silencer, opting to take the back door. It buys Revenant enough time to use a Pheonix Kit, a piece of equipment that restores his shields and health completely for a much fairer fight.

Hell is about to break loose.

You plop down on the bench having finished the bed, unable to look away. Loba and Revenant meet eyes from within each bunker through the small windows on each side. Loba looks infuriated at his newly rejuvenated state. Revenant's look is too intense to be smug, it truly is a mechanical malice undescribable by any other terminology. These two loathe each other. The spectators roar in excitement at another bloodbath between the lovely but deadly master thief and her mechanical antagonist, the commentators giving a short review of the last time these two met on the battlefield.

Revenant, now unafraid of the odds, immediately dashes to close the gap between their bunkers. Loba flings her warp band in his direction, landing behind him, and immediately getting two Mastiff slugs in his back. You cringe at the sight. Revenant turns to meet her fire with his Volt, but Bangalore's lobbed smokescreen fills the area before his shots meet. Bangalore had been lagging behind Loba, but she was close enough now to take shots again. You hear Loba's Mastiff take a number of more shots in the smokescreen, the Volt returning fire. Bangalore calls in her Rolling Thunder, cascading aerial bombardment all throughout the smokescreen. Revenant manages to break free of the now-fading smokescreen, trying to escape the explosives, but it was clearly Bangalore's intent for him to do so. With her well-equipped Longbow, she manages to snipe Revenant, knocking him to his knees.

Loba was soon looming over him, waiting for the camera to catch up. The crowd chants and screeches waiting for the gore. There are no microphones on the Legends themselves, but you can tell that Revenant is cursing her as she comes over to finish him. You wince, you don't want to watch this, but you feel you have to.

Loba kicks his head hard enough to knock out any human opponent, sending him to the ground. His mask is cracked open, revealing the copper lining underneath and the wiring for his optics. He stays grounded, glaring at her with an unspeakably vicious hatred. He faces his demise with just as much malice as he had moments earlier, perhaps even more. She goes in for a direct stomp, plunging the five-inch tall heel of her shoe into and through Revenant's left optic. You grimace at the horror of it, wanting to cover your face to escape the imagery. Revenant's body lurches backwards and writhes in pain, grabbing aimlessly at his face, screaming so loudly that the drone camera picks it up as his vocalizations crack and become inundated with static.

Revenant isn't eliminated. Revenant is treated differently than the human and more finite combatants. His deaths are of no consequence, so he isn't protected from them. He can just come back, over and over. So the cameras roll and he's left to suffer whenever it makes for better television. The most bloodthirsty fans have always loved this double-standard, but you are beginning to revile it more by the moment.

Loba spits on him, taking a moment to parade to the crowd her triumphant moment. Revenant's last remaining optic is dimming uncontrollably, but is still locked on her when she returns to finish the job. They lock eyes for a moment. You don't know the details--nobody does--but it's clear they have some kind of history where all the hatred stems from. Revenant looks away in acceptance of his defeat, and his neck is immediately clamped down on by her heels. With a single twist of her leg, the cracking noise of his head being forcibly freed from his torso rings out. You want to vomit.

Revenant is only now considered eliminated, his husk of a chassis lying nearly in two pieces, his head twisted perpendicular to his torso. The crowd is absolutely ablaze. Loba reaches down, tearing the scarf off his head and holding it triumphantly in the air, looking as if she just scalped her kill. Bangalore shies away from the cameras herself, she's clearly ready to move on. Loba revels in the violence, just like Revenant does, but there is something especially malicious between them.

You feel the nausea taking hold even stronger. Revenant is someone you know now. He's shown you kindness, and you've become very fond of him. You can't say you know him extremely well, granted, but well enough to feel empathy for his pain. Watching him essentially have his skull broken, eye gouged, and neck severed is a lot to take. You could literally see the excruciating pain in his body language when his eye was stomped out. They shouldn't allow it. The moment a human life is in danger they get deathboxed. Only now that Revenant's body is dead and vacated of all living code, as well as the audience thoroughly satiated, does Revenant's corpse get deathboxed. He managed to fight his team all the way to seventh place alone. Loba and Bangalore continue on, the cameras lovingly cataloging their sweep.

You get up and turn off the television, sheepishly use your new ID to leave the room, and head to the volunteer bunks. It's the middle of the day, so nobody is around. A note on your bunk reads "Worried about you! Let me know when you get back. -Sherry". You scribble back, "Sorry Sherry, had a special request I had to run, need to talk later. Text me." and place it on her bunk. Sherry is the de facto leader of the volunteers, here since day one of season one. You know each other well. She doesn't pry often, but disappearing for a night is really out of character for you, so you don't mind it this once. She will know if you're allowed to stay in the volunteer bunks or not. You gather your things, just in case, and haul them to Revenant's room. You only have a single duffel bag of clothes and toiletries to your name. It has been that way since you found yourself on the streets years ago. It's easy enough to carry, but some amount of sadness still lingers in you as you haul your only worldly possessions in a single bag. The Apex Games gives you year-round work in exchange for a place to live rent-free. The Legends who tip well basically keep you at a decent wage for the hours. So despite not having much to your name in terms of assets, you now have a bank account with enough value to move on if absolutely necessary.

You use the badge to open Revenant's door. It dings satisfactorily, and you dump your bag on the floor. You're not leaving the area until he's back. You already decided. You're in some stage of denial after watching him die, but simultaneously you cannot be in denial if he always comes back. You shake your head, the nausea fights for its throne in your gut. You grab a change of clothes out of the bag and head to the bathroom in the far left corner of the room.

As you enter, you see a mostly untouched bathroom, spare for a strangely out-of-place comb, shaving cream, an old-fashioned razor blade, and the mirror smeared opaque with dried suds--likely from the shaving cream. None of those items make sense. Not a single one. Why was the mirror so filthy? Why did a simulacrum have shaving or hair brushing tools? You consider that it might be a coping mechanism, but that doesn't explain the mirror. Whatever, you'll clean it in a second. No need to make a big deal out of it all.

Halfway through changing, you lose your battle with nausea. You don't have anything in your stomach, a fact you quickly realize as you lurch over the toilet. Just stomach acid. What a violent and terrible death. You know he feels just as a human does, it's not his fault he isn't as fragile. It's so unfair. You stand tall, having expelled the worst of it. You finish putting on your "I'm not feeling it" shirt, and make a quick orbit to the duffel and back, picking up your toothbrush, toothpaste, and mouthwash. You clean out your mouth thoroughly, trying to fight off the taste of acid.

You finish up, leaving your oral care items behind to take your dirty clothes to the laundry room and grab some mirror cleaning supplies while there. Since you know how to fully clean down a room, you figure it is within your ability to completely clean Revenant's room. Maybe Fuse's too, these cleans tend to be quick and efficient when you perform them.

• • • •

"Hey, oh my gosh, where were you last night?" The text comes in as you're hauling the cleaning supplies to Fuse's room. It's early afternoon, you'll be done with this before it even begins to get dark.

"Hey, sorry, I had a special request. I didn't mean to worry anyone. I'm cleaning Fuse's room now." You text back, hoping Sherry will meet you here and help wrap up even faster.

"OMW" The text comes in only moments after.

After a few minutes, you hear Fuse's door open. Sherry is a petite blonde woman in her early twenties. Despite her longer, curly hair, she is otherwise not too dissimilar looking from Wattson, her favorite Legend. They have a good relationship apparently, Wattson regularly jokingly adding "request for mon Sherry" to her requests, a play on "mon cherie" in French.

"I didn't see a request for Fuse to have his room cleaned, did you delete it from the system?" Sherry was always on-task.

"Oh, sorry, no, I kinda needed something to do." You look up from changing the bed sheets, "Do you mind giving me a hand?"

"Sure, but there are tons of requests you could have taken, why make one up?" She walks to the opposite side of the bed, nabs the sheet, and looks up, locking sights on your ID.

Her shock is immediate and silent. You notice that she has noticed.

"How did you get that..." She trails off, her head clearly running at max capacity with various theories.

"Revenant gave it to me." You answer blankly. "I don't know what to do."

Sherry stares, her expression becoming increasingly appalled and concerned.

"What... what happened last night? You didn't like... "earn" that, right? I mean, you didn't trade for it, did you?" Her expression grimaces further. "Does he even have the parts for that...?"

You suddenly realize what she's saying, and wave your hands to snap her attention.

"No! Nothing like that! He sees me so often he wanted a personal lackey instead." You see her expression soften for a moment before it snaps back.

"Then where were you last night?"

"Wha--?"

"You heard me, where were you then?"

You stare at the floor, unsure if you can lie so blatantly to her. She stares at you for a moment.

"One moment you're depressed, then next thing I know you're manic, then you disappear for a day and a half. Is this some kind of new suicide plot you have? Seduce a murder robot?" She seems genuinely worried.

"I promise it's not like that! I was exhausted! I accidentally fell asleep when I brought him water--"

"Why did nobody call the paramedics? If you passed out, you should have been given a health check! Why didn't that robot call anyone?" She genuinely cared about you, she was a good friend, through and through.

"Uh, well, I kinda slept in his bed."

Her face went from worry to one of shock and morbid concern. Her knees buckled for a moment and rectified themselves as she cartoon-ishly tried to process her thoughts.

"You see, I guess he's taken a liking to me, and he saw how tired I was, so--"

"So you slept with him just so you could get a break? You should have just asked for time off! You never take it! I would have given it to you!" She was clearly upset.

"It didn't happen like that!" She had a tendency to catastrophically think, so her mind was already five steps ahead of you in the worst possible timeline. If you could stop it now, hopefully it wouldn't continue.

"Wait, why are we changing Fuse's sheets? How many robots and people have you slept with?!" she dropped the sheets at a complete loss. Too late to stop her mental train, it was already off the rails and burning in a ditch.

"Sherry! Pay attention! I didn't do anything with anybody. I just passed out in Revenant's bed, and he decided not to kill me but promote me instead because he's Revenant and he does what he wants, even when it makes no sense to anybody. I didn't even see Fuse yesterday, I just figured I'd clean his room since both him and Revenant took a heck of a loss today." You didn't often get loud, so when you did it tended to garner attention.

Sherry sighed.

"Yeah, that sounds more like the truth than my insane theory." She rests her face in her palms for a moment. "So, uh, I guess you and Revenant are friends now?"

"Subordinate or lackey is probably a better term, but he actually is nice to me! Aside from all the threats..." You trail off, wondering if he means it or if he simply is keeping up his persona.

"Well, congratulations on becoming the homicidal robot's plaything?" She wasn't wrong. Actually, her term was probably more accurate. "Please don't get murdered. I didn't get you out of that homeless shelter just to deliver you into the hands of a bloodthirsty robot with a fascination for evisceration. I'll feel so bad if you die..." She trails off, catastrophic thoughts ablaze. "Just quit!" She perks up with her solution.

"He's not going to kill me, and if he does, it's not your fault. I'm choosing to do this."

She sighs, and starts making the bed with clean sheets, unsure of how to argue, or if the argument is worthwhile.

Sherry was the one you reached out to when you heard that you could work for the Apex Games in return for a bed, bathroom, food, and basic healthcare. She picked you up at the homeless shelter, and helped forge some fake credentials on your resumé at the time. She cleared you herself, pretending as if she never met you before and calling your previous "boss" who was actually just a very confused telemarketer, resulting in getting you the place and position you have now. You've always thought she's an upstanding person; her maternal instincts sometimes getting in the way of her letting people make their own choices freely though. She felt like an older sister to you.

"Please tell me you're at least getting paid. Without the tips from the other Legends, how are you going to keep saving up?" She asked weakly, finishing up by fluffing the pillows.

"Uh, well, I haven't asked yet... I actually meant to ask if I have a room still." You answered, a bit dumbfounded you hadn't considered that before.

"What?! Did you think this through at all?" She burst, but quickly softened, "Of course you still have a room, there should be a door in the back of every Legend's room with the same kind of bunks as we have. Those are for you special folks. It has a bathroom and everything."

"Ah, good, I kinda wish I could stay with you guys, but..."

"...but your new robot-boyfriend is calling you?" She breaks her melancholy with ruthless teasing, just like an older sister. "Yeah, I'll need the space for a new volunteer, definitely."

"I figured as much. Always running on short-handed here." You're a little relieved the choice is made for you.

"So, I'm guessing you now have all Revenant requests, now and forever?" She chuckles a bit. "You somehow take the biggest demotion and consider it a promotion. I can't believe you like dealing with that guy."

You banter back and fourth, finishing up Fuse's room. It'll be nice for him to come back to a clean room, especially considering how his match went that morning. Sherry promises to come around this part of the building more to keep an eye on you, swearing she will kick Revenant's ass if he does "whatever murder-bots do". You go your separate ways, laughing at each other's stupid quips.

• • • •

There is a door at the back of the room. Sherry was right. It is intentionally made to camouflage into the wall, as well as the scanner that opens it. You hold your ID up to it, hear the positive chirp, and the door slides open to reveal a nice small room and bathroom. It's a private bedroom embedded within Revenant's. The door now freely slides like a pocket door to open and close, apparently you only need to activate it once to get access. A nice little bed, a nice little dresser, and a nice little bathroom! It reminds you of a super tiny hotel room, everything is compact but still a notable step up from shared bunks. You breathe deeply, inhaling the smell of a fresh new room. You haul your duffel bag in and toss it into a little cubby under the mattress, and boom, you're moved in! So easy!

Revenant still isn't back yet though. You wonder how long it will take for his new chassis to activate and return here. You wish so badly to know how he is doing, but it is impossible to know. You grabbed some snacks from the kitchen alongside dinner with Sherry, so you have food to stress-binge on if necessary. You figure laying down for the night can't hurt. So you hit the lights in Revenant's room, leaving it to only be lit by the rising moonlight overhead through the skylight. You sneak into your little cubby of a room, flipping the lights off as you slide the door shut behind you. You don't have any skylight, in fact, your ceiling was about 6 feet or so shorter than his, making it much more average. Granted, his room is massive, but you are happy with your tiny private closet. It is so cool.

You fall back in the bed. Soft as can be. Same as his.

Sleep takes you very quickly.

• • • •

You wake up to an inhuman screeching. You jolt up, making yourself panic further as you check your surroundings and recall where you are. You're alone in the little bedroom, the screaming is from the other side of the door, in Revenant's main room. It echoes in a uncanny valley between human despair and mechanical detune. You leap out of bed and rush to open the door to see what is wrong.

The door slides open and you see Revenant, his mask and jaw tilting in opposite directions to replicate an open mouth, revealing a disturbingly black void where his mouth would be, no headscarf, howling in some kind of agony under the moonlight. It sounds so sad, so sorrowful. The pocket door clicks as it reaches its full open position, and Revenant's eyes lock on as soon as the sound is registered. His instincts are instantaneous. His howl slowly fades as he uses up what's left in his artificial lungs, his eyes never breaking from yours. The sorrow leaves him, his jaw slowly closes, and his stature returns for a moment.

"Are you okay?!" You ask him.

He hides is face and his body motions like a person who is sobbing for a few moments, but he doesn't. He couldn't even if he wanted. He regains himself quickly, walking up to you blankly.

"Hey, uh, are you oka--?"

"Keep me warm, skinsuit." His voice shakes as he pulls you into him in an embrace.

He is extremely cold, but his metal parts start to sap your body heat immediately. He is alive. He is new, but alive. You wrap your arms around his small abdomen, slipping under the pistons that hold up his large torso. You squeeze harder than you mean to, giving away that you are genuinely worried about him.

"I thought you left." He admits shakily, still not wholly able to hide his emotions. "I didn't..." He trails off. He places his hand on your head, messing with your hair a bit, until you gaze up at him. He looks down at you in the eye and you see something familiar. Disbelief. "You stayed."

You don't have words. Words mean nothing anyway in moments like this. You squeeze him tighter and he winces a little. You realize his abdomen is probably the least protected area of his body, and even you might be able to hurt him with the wrong touch. You lean forward and bury your face into it anyway, you're pretty sure you can feel a pouch through the leather skin that acts as a stomach receptacle, but you're not sure.

Revenant's body shakes a little like he cannot hold back tears, but as a simulacrum, he has none. You hear a sorrowful moan instead that is quickly stifled. Despite his persona, he has a very human personality.

"Come, keep me warm." He pulls you away for a moment so he can move again, then grabs your wrist and pulls you to the bed. The bed he never used. "It's easier with insulation." He rips the blanket off of it, wrapping it around you both in one sweeping movement, and sitting on the edge, pulling you down with him.

Your face flushes hot red. This is unlike him. He notices, and you swear you see a little bit of a pink glow on him too. He definitely had been flush during his stunt on live TV before joining the games. Insane to think they built that functionality into a mask. He grunts and breaks eye contact.

"Don't look at me like that, I'm just cold." He pulls you into his lap before you can say anything in response. "I have an easier time cooling down with fans than I do heating up. I'd have to run really stressful code to do that and using you is so much easier."

He redirects you to face away from him, and as soon as you do he sucks you in as close to him as you can. You're practically inside of his giant, looming frame. His breath rattles a little in his artificial lung pumps. His hands grapple around your hands while holding the blanket taut, holding them in balled fists and trading his cold for your heat. His vocalizer sounds as if it's giving a deep growl, closer to a purr, almost too soft to be heard, but not quite.

His new chassis smells a little more like plastics, metal shavings, and leather than the previous one, which had been muddled with the scent of dirt, grass, and polish. It's so cold, he must have only just made it inside. You wonder how far he had to run to get back here.

His head lowers to rest his face into your shoulder. You rest your head back on his. For a moment, this creature is just the same as you. Human.

He stays there, humming and purring and enjoying the moment. His body is no longer cold at all, he is now reflecting your heat back at you and feels warm himself. You carefully turn your head and push your face into the side of his mask where his ears would be. His head perks up a little for a moment, just long enough to catch his dumbfounded expression and pinkening cheekbones before his face retreats into your shoulder again. He squeezes you close, grappling your fists as if to never let go.

You sit there for a while, until finally you feel his cooling fans click to life. He lifts his head off your shoulder.

"Thank you." He says as he releases you. He looks away, clearly trying to hide from your gaze. You don't get up. You keep staring in his direction, hoping he will give in and turn to you. But you are both stubborn.

After a long while, you stand up in surrender, but place your hand on his unclothed head, petting it once, just for good measure. His hand rises to cover his face.

"Please go back to bed, I'm sorry for scaring you." He says in an abnormally low baritone, trying to hide himself further.

You surrender. It isn't worth prying away his façade when he isn't ready. He had already shown different colors than he did most of the time. This was scary, but in an unexplored territory sort of way. You weren't giving this exploration up after a single expedition. So it is best to rest up and not overextend.

You retreat into your little closet of a room, sliding the door gently shut. The moment it shuts completely, you hear Revenant move around rapidly. He's normally so silent. You recline into your bed, happy to be as warm as you are. You fall asleep almost instantly.

• • • •

You wake up, no idea what time it is. The room doesn't have a clock, maybe a bit of an oversight on the decorator's part. You get up, lurk over to the bathroom, and start performing your daily routine. Brush the teeth immediately, get the gross overnight flavor out of it. Strip and shower, thankfully there are already towels in the bathroom. Brush your hair while still damp after trying to get it as dry as possible with your towel. Deodorant. Grab your clothes. You put on something a bit nicer than yesterday. Finally, you're ready for whatever.

You waltz over, and knock on the door to make sure he won't be startled.

Instead, you hear a surprised grunt, scraping metal, and hushed curses against the door. You quickly go to open it, thinking he may be hurt, but the door is locked. You hesitate, dumbfounded. The Legends can lock people in like prisoners if they want to. Your attention snaps back as you hear the lock disengage, and the door flies open before you can move it. Revenant faces you, somehow looking a little disheveled.

"Were you outside my door the entire night...?" You ask, still fairly shocked.

"Doesn't matter." He absolutely was. He spoke hurriedly, potentially a little embarrassed. But he recovers his slow speaking pace quickly. "I should have just let myself in, I feel like I missed a great episode. Do you know what you said last night? Some pretty exciting gibberish."

"So you were against the door all night."

"Dammit, skinsuit!" He throws his arms up and turns away from you, towering over the doorway too short for him to enter comfortably. "You should have just slept out here. You know I get bored."

"I didn't think you wanted me to, you acted like you didn't."

"Well, I didn't really care!" He cared immensely, apparently. "I just needed something entertaining to keep my mind off yesterday." He crossed his arms, and began to meander over to the computer desk.

"I'm sorry, I wish you had told me."

"I was in a bad mood, just forget about it. It's fine." He tapped away at the computer, letting out a depressed sigh. "That scene from yesterday has all of Loba's fans riled up. They're posting it everywhere." He covers his face with his hands for a moment, motioning in embarrassment. "I can't believe I let that happen. I would have been better off letting Caustic gas me earlier."

"You were outnumbered, you did the best--"

"I'm getting my damn scarf back." He refused your comforting words, flinging himself to his feet and trudging out the door in a huff. You go to follow, but he whirls around, pointing straight to you, locking you in a glare. "You stay away from Loba, understand?"

He pauses, waiting to hear your reply.

"Uh, okay, I'll try to stay away from her."

While not an entirely satisfactory answer, Revenant whips back and disappears from sight. You sigh aloud. If those two have some kind of long-running hatred for each other, it would probably be best if you didn't get in the middle of it.

You peer over to the computer. He's right, Loba standing over his dead chassis holding up the scarf is everywhere. Loba fans are absolutely enamored by the triumphant image. Revenant fans openly mourn, swearing revenge. Loba and Bangalore apparently took the win, finally fighting down the second place team of Wattson and Rampart. Sherry will be miffed that Wattson had the spotlight and win taken from her. Although, now knowing you're on team Revenant, she probably will spare you any of her rants.

You stare at the image. It makes you overwhelmingly sad. Right before that snapshot was taken, Revenant was in unspeakable pain. The scream you heard on the broadcast echos in your head. It was one born of pain: strong, violent, and sharp until the static began to overwhelm it. The screeches you woke up to last night were not the same. They were mournful: hollow, airy, and almost melodic in their melancholy. Revenant can feel great pain, but clearly has some kind of appreciation for warmth and a kindly embrace. Why didn't others see that? Why does he have to suffer so much more, just because he is a simulacrum?

You close the browser. It messes with you. The imagery makes you upset. You feel you might vomit again if you're not careful.

You're snap back to attention at a commotion outside in the hallway. You peer out in the general direction of the other Legends' rooms.

"Fuck. You." Revenant's voice is so low it could rattle someone's bones. Fuse is standing in front of him, but Revenant is speaking beyond him to Loba, holding the scarf.

"It's my trophy. I'm a master thief, I don't just give things back." Loba proudly holds it in front of her face.

Fuse tries to keep Revenant at a fair distance from her, but Loba is standing her ground, completely unafraid.

"Woah now, come on, we don't need to settle this here and now." Fuse is attempting to keep the peace.

Revenant's growls can be heard from down the hallway, a number of volunteers have stopped to avoid getting too close, and a couple Legends are peering out their doors. The extra attention is displeasing to Revenant.

"Fine, but you will regret this." He starts to back off, prepared to fight another day, but Loba is relentless.

"Not if you want anything from me. Including that source code." Only now is she content to click her heels and turn away, Revenant suddenly looking like he lost the fight.

"Geeze, mate, do you really have to be so aggressive all the time?" Fuse gasps in a sigh of relief, addressing Revenant. "And I think I come on strong--you're a whole 'nother level!" He is already beaming a smile from under his moustache again, chuckling at his own joke.

Revenant shoots him a scowl for a moment, then turns back to you and begins to come back to the room, scarfless.

Fuse keeps pace with him as you retreat back inside, not sure if you should stay out of their way or not. You instinctively dive in behind the bed, staying low as not to be seen. You hear them come around the corner.

"Wait a minute, mate, I wanted to apologize." Revenant is already in the room, turning around to face Fuse who is standing in the doorway. You stay hidden behind the bed, nearly on the floor, listening in on their conversation. "That wasn't my best work out there yesterday. I feel like if I had been there, maybe you wouldn't have, uh..." He trailed off, his point was clear. "Listen, I'll talk to her, see if I can get 'yer scarf back. I don't want there to be any hard feelings."

Revenant's breathing pattern and low growl sounds like he is about to explode, and Fuse knows it too.

"Oh hey! They cleaned your room too!" His diffuses can be surprisingly effective. "Heh, I didn't even ask and apparently they decided to be like mum and make sure it got done whether I liked it or not."

Revenant hadn't actually noticed until now. He turns to look into the room. He peers across the way, seeing the bathroom mirror is reflective again.

"You're right." He sounds surprised. You swear you can hear another sigh of relief from Fuse now that the anger is gone.

"I was told it was that runner who seems to have a bit of a thing for 'ya did it. Seen 'em around lately?" Fuse asked. "I like to tip everyone, they do such a great job and they're not getting paid."

Revenant ignores him, walking into the middle of the room, peering around. To your recollection, he had never asked for his room to be cleaned as long as you have been volunteering. His room was very dusty. Now light is shining through all the windows, the television is clear, the bed sheets fresh, the carpet vacuumed...

"Yeah, where are they?" Revenant finally asks aloud. Is that your invitation to reveal yourself?

"Um, hi, sorry." You slowly pull yourself up from the floor, revealing your truly mediocre hiding spot.

Fuse gives a surprised stare, clearly catching a glimpse of your red badge, then laughs it off.

"You picked a cute one, didn't 'cha Rev?"

Revenant turns to face him in an absolute fury.

"Listen, I'm just telling ya to play nice." Revenant gets in Fuse's face immediately, but Fuse doesn't budge and meets him eye-to-eye for his next words. "You seem pretty defensive of 'em. Keep it that way."

Those words take Revenant aback just long enough for Fuse to break away and waltz up to you.

"Cheers, thanks for bein' my mum for me." He hands you enough money for a month of groceries, so generous!

"Thank you! That's very kind of you!" You chirp back, very happy to have more for your savings. Revenant seems shocked by the genuine joy in your voice.

As Fuse walks by Revenant to leave, you hear a short exchange:

"I'll try to get the scarf. Don't go killing anybody, and I didn't see anything out of the ordinary." Fuse murmurs.

"...thanks." Revenant sounds genuine.

Fuse gives him a side-hug on the way out, Revenant leaning away to escape it, but failing. Fuse laughs at Revenant's bashfulness. Getting a thanks from Revenant is a miracle unto itself, worthy of such a small celebration. Fuse is a genuinely good person. He is universally loved by the volunteers for his generosity and positivity. A lot of people have crushes on him, and you can understand why. One swift set of finger guns at each of you and Fuse is gone out the door, closing it behind himself.

"He's nice!" You say very matter-of-factly to Revenant.

"Sure, whatever you say, little skinsuit." He mumbles, seeming a bit exhausted by all the exchanges this morning. "What did he give you?"

"Money!" You hold out quite the wad of cash. Revenant chuckles a little under his breath at your happiness.

"What are you saving up for, anyway?"

"Well, for when this gig ends, I guess." You think aloud. "I just never want to be homeless again."

"Homeless?" Revenant looks at you with concern, "You were homeless before the Games?"

"Yeah, it's terrible out there..." You trail off your own words a bit sadly, but in seeing his concern for you, you decide to end on a high note. "With everything I save, I'll make sure I always have enough to live off of, and with the experience I'll have an easier time finding a job."

"Would it help if I paid you?" Revenant asks, plainly.

"Well, yes, but you don't need to."

"You should have told me." He almost whispers. He sounds a little sorrowful again.

You walk up and give him a quick hug.

"Sorry, I didn't know you would want to."

"If you keep getting too close to me, one of these days you're going to end up in a body bag." He sneers, trying to regain his vicious demeanor.

"Sorry, just keeping you warm, boss!" You play along, for now. You release him. "I have to actually get some food, go by the medical ward for some medicine, and then I need to leave the facility to pick up some new clothes. Do you need anything?"

Revenant stares for a moment.

"I'll be here when you return, bring me something alcoholic though." He answers, studying your eyes.

"Yes sir!" You rush out the door.

• • • •

When you return in the evening, you find Revenant's chassis laying like a corpse on the bed, his headscarf back on his head. His eyes are glowing dimly, staring at the ceiling with little interest.

"Oh hey." You address him.

"Oh, hey." He addresses you back, but slower. He keeps his eyes on the ceiling.

"You okay? You got your scarf back." You acknowledge, hoping he will perk up.

"Yeah." He sounds... depressed?

You put the bag of medicine on his computer desk, along with your bag of new clothes. You walk over with the remaining bag, which has the largest bottles of rum, whisky, and vodka the store sells. It is heavy and expensive, so you carefully place it on the end table next to his bed.

"I got you a ton of alcohol. It was kinda expensive, I'll probably need to be paid back." You carefully request, unsure how he will react. He gives you a thumbs up before his arm collapses onto the bed again. "What happened while I was gone?"

"Nothing much, I just got my scarf back." He sighs.

"Well, how did you get it?"

He moans audibly.

"Fuse got Mirage and Caustic to help him. Apparently it was an absolute mess. Mirage had to make tons of fakes to play keep away with my scarf, and Caustic gassed Loba's room with... zinc chlorides...? Something like that. It set off the fire alarms, everyone had to evacuate--"

"You didn't evacuate, did you?"

"Absolutely not. Anyways, in the chaos my scarf somehow ended up with Artur and Bloodhound."

"Oh geeze, what happened then?"

"They cleaned it, brought it to me, and gave it to me folded up neatly."

"Oh. Well... that last part isn't so bad."

"They were kind." His eyes tightened with discomfort, "And they left me with this." He holds up a single crow feather, perfectly dainty and undamaged.

"Aw, Artur!" You chirped; Artur was the sweetest bird you have met, not that you have met many.

Revenant sat up suddenly, his eyes getting bright again.

"Why would they do that?" He studied the feather in his hands, like he is completely bewildered with the concept of kindness. "They didn't owe me anything." He puts the feather down in front of him on the bed, pulling his hands up to hold his scarf in his grip on the two sides of his head. "They don't owe me this."

"Are you alright? You seem to not want to accept that Bloodhound is a nice person." You wanted to feed him the answer inside the question.

He stays silent for a while, taking the feather and handing it to you.

"Artur said this was for you, specifically."

"Wait, what do you me--"

"It's Bloodhound. It's in their name." He sighs, as you recognize concern in his tone, "They know who you are, they know you're here, and they recognized your scent on me." He lays down on his back, exasperated. "I can't let more people know." You hold Artur's feather, twirling it in your fingers. "They can't know. I am not like this." He seems genuinely upset.

"You seem cold." You prompted.

"I am very cold." He responds, overanalyzing each word for their deeper meaning.

"Do you want to be warm?" You put the feather down next to the bag of alcohol.

He pauses to sit back up before answering.

"Yes, but I can never let any of them know that." He answers plainly, but seriously.

You sit down next to him and are quickly grabbed and enveloped in his cold body, pulling you deeper onto the bed and directly under him. He almost instantly rests his head on your shoulder. His breath slows to a relaxed pace, rattling a little in his chest. His vocalizer hums at a low purr, and he moves his hands to feel your pulse, one at your chest and one to your jugular. He presses in, studying your inherent tick.

The television is on in front of you, but you haven't noticed it until now. The commentators are going over the edits of the "Loba the Scalper" image they found on social media, having nothing more important to talk about before the upcoming trios match. Revenant sighs a bit in your ear, still clearly bothered by his very public execution. You wrap your arms behind you to hug his waist. He holds you tighter for a moment, clearly understanding your intent is to comfort him.

You begin to massage the leather and the mechanisms underneath, unsure of how he will react; but he almost instantly squeezes you again, endorsing your idea. As you work into his back, his eyes dim and his breath quickens and deepens at strange intervals, relating to each long, deep stroke you perform. He slowly but surely relaxes his grip on you, potentially not realizing it. His mask digs into your shoulder, possibly trying to stifle his abnormal breathing. You keep at it for a few minutes, revelling in how sensitive his chassis is. Simulacrums were truly amazing.

Revenant's body melts under your touch, his chassis making odd movements clearly out of pure enjoyment. He's completely warm now, actually turning a bit hot as his code runs trying to keep up with your inputs. You worry that perhaps his circuits are being stressed too hard, but he also seems to be enjoying it so much.

He suddenly seems to shut down. His eyes go black, his weight falls on your shoulders, and his arms dislocate and slump out of his shoulder armor. You struggle to hold up his weight, his torso must be nearly two hundred pounds alone. No wonder he needs pistons to hold it up with his skinny waist.

He roars back to life, literally growling like a beast. His hands open and stretch like talons, the tips sharpening into claws. His legs cross in front of you, and his arms cross in front of you, and they pull you up against him in a nearly-crushing manner. His talons press into your flesh where they land, causing you a minor amount of pain. More concerningly, his jaw pulls open and he immediately goes as if to bite you, pushing your neck into the void of his mouth. He doesn't bite down though. His eyes are needle-thin, and brightened to a nearly red color. You gasp for breath in complete shock.

"You're mine!-Mine!-Mine!" His vocals are skipping as his hoarse, aggressive voice practically screams. "You belong to me!" He falls silent for a few moments. His shoulders refit themselves into their sockets as he slowly relaxes and retracts his claws from you. His softer voice returns. "Mine..." he calmly finishes. His jaw removes itself from your neck and closes. "I'm sorry. Emotions load faster than logic. It's hard to control myself after a reboot."

You had been holding your breath, and finally exhale and inhale, feeling faint with fear and deoxygenated blood. You slump back in his grip, putting your hands on your diaphragm to steady your breathing. You let yourself completely melt onto the bed, allowing yourself to look up at his face, gazing down at you.

"So, that's how you really feel then?" You pant, still catching your breath.

"Only a bit." He tries to comfort you, taking your hands in his. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to scare you. Being a simulacrum is complicated. Even more complicated if you don't learn humanity while you're still human." He looks away, apparently not necessarily sure what he is missing in himself. "But I cannot deny there is truth in that emotion."

"It sounds like 'if I can't have you, nobody can' isn't off the table yet." You are slowly catching your breath.

"I would be very upset. I don't handle being upset well." His words are foreboding, but you're unsure if he is uncertain himself or trying to hide the truth. You want to sleep; you feel like you're going to have a heart attack. He squeezes your hands, noticing your weariness. "Sleep out here tonight."

You give him a weak thumbs up, fully expecting to just sleep right where you are. Revenant releases your hands, throws a blanket over you, and pulls you by your torso into a better sleeping position, up against a pillow. You throw out another thumbs up in approval. He snickers in response.

"I'm getting drunk. So sick of today. I'm going to create a scene so gruesome next game that everyone forgets about this little fiasco." He grumbles. You hear him cork something as you drift to sleep. "Have a good night, little skinsuit." Sleep was taking you rapidly.

"Thank you for the warmth." is the last thing you hear.

158 notes · View notes

ask-spider-man-61610 · 3 years

Text

The Infiltration: Part Two of Three

In the ten years he had been a vigilante, Peter Parker had become very good at sneaking into places he shouldn't have been.

Air vents were useless. The vast majority of them were far too narrow for anybody to slip through without becoming amorphous, and even when the ducts were large enough it was impossible to move inside one without making enough noise to alert the entire block. The subceiling--the space above the ceiling tiles, but below the actual architectural structure--was a far better bet, but that was similarly cramped--and besides, only some buildings had gaps in the walls to allow for movement like that.

Using a disguise to sneak in was better all around, but it required a lot of skill and care. You couldn't disguise yourself as a scientist unless you were genuinely an expert in the field you were pretending to study. Nor, in this particular case, could you just dress up as any old agent--they had security levels. Executives were out, reporters were only viable if the people you were trying to fool had reason to believe a reporter was going to be there, and the less said about solicitors the better. The key was to attract as little scrutiny as possible, to not raise any questions you'd have trouble answering; because the second someone grew suspicious of you, your cover was all but blown.

Janitors, then, were perfect.

Nobody pays attention to a janitor. It's practically one of the perks of the job. Beneath notice means beneath scrutiny, and people only give custodians the slightest thought when a place needs cleaned. Even then it's just an assertion that a custodian needs to be there. Nobody questions what a janitor is doing in a room, even in the dead of night. Nobody questions why a janitor is wearing gloves, or where they got their ring of keys. There's no better disguise for going somewhere that people generally can't go.

Peter had been pretending to be a janitor in the main headquarters of the Cape Code Authority for several days now. He had listened intently as he'd mopped the floors, mapped out the layout in his head, figured out where the labs were and who had access to what while keeping his head down. He'd owned this coverall for years now, for infiltrations exactly like this, and now with the security cameras disabled he hooked his cart on the handle of his mop and dragged it towards the door the three agents had just left.

The door had locked automatically. Of course it had, all laboratory doors locked automatically around here, and even the custodians needed special permissions to get them unlocked. But as the door had swung closed, Peter had pressed the trigger in his palm under the guise of adjusting his grip on his mop, and now the door's latch was glued down beneath a small splatter of webbing. Pulling on a latex glove, Peter tugged the door open a crack and slipped into the lab.

He adjusted his hat as he glanced around the lab, the hat that had blond curls sewn to the inside to disguise his brown hair, and scratched at his false nose. The hologram table sat in the center of the room, still softly glowing even after its deactivation--an enormous waste of energy, but apparently nobody cared. Ignoring it entirely, Peter headed straight for the computer monitors against the far wall, grabbing a chair without breaking stride and only stopping to climb on top of it and crouch on the seat like a gargoyle on a rooftop.

Like everything Reed Richards ever touched, the computers were encrypted. But Peter had dated Johnny Storm for five months once, and he didn't spend so much time nearby his fellow supergenius without taking some time to figure out how to bypass their usual security. It took him just over five minutes to get through the firewalls, and then he stuck a translucent plastic sticky note to the screen and began to browse.

The sticky note was, of course, a data drive. Peter had learned about these only recently, but he was fast growing to like them; they were easy to conceal on his person and, unlike a USB stick, didn't require a specific size of port. As he opened up the computer's files, the drive pinged off of the computer's software and integrated itself into the system without leaving a trace. Cracking his knuckles, Peter typed a few cursory searches into the file browser and tapped Enter.

Perpetual Holographic Avatar/Nano-Tech Offensive Monsters had been a thorn in his side for over two years now. They didn't move like humans; their range of motion didn't have the limits that their skeletal shape implied; their systems adapted and learned and coordinated in ways that he'd never seen before in artificial intelligence. Even Octavius, permanently on the cutting edge of AI and biorobotics development, wasn't sure what the hell was going on with them. Last year, in the middle of beating the multi-armed megalomaniac's face in, Spider-Man had asked for Otto's thoughts on the Phantoms; the technology, both of them suspected, wasn't exactly beyond Otto's work so much as to the side of it. The systems were hyperspecialized: they had no connection to neural networks of old, and were practically useless for advancing them in the future. They were, in a word, alien.

Peter suspected Chitauri tech. The War of the Worlds had left countless remnants of the Chitauri on Earth; some of them still remained, like the Leviathan rotting in Maine, but far too many of them had seemed to simply vanish. Anyone who gave it more than ten seconds of thought could realize that governments of the world had squirreled the stuff away to study and reverse-engineer. Now, as Peter's eyes darted back and forth across the screen, he skimmed through the blueprints and models that he found in the folder and tried to see if any of it matched the distinctive look of the Chitauri.

Some of it did, he found as he kept searching, but not a huge amount. Reed had done some work with Chitauri tech in the past; traces of its influence were obvious in the composition of the Phantoms' gun barrels, and in the way their hard-light armor projected itself over the skeleton. Kid stuff, nothing that explained the problems he'd had with them. Peter's brow furrowed as he copied the files he found to his data drive and peered over his shoulder at the hologram table behind him.

What had Reed been saying to Flint in here only a few minutes ago? Peter had a spiderlike hypersensitivity to vibration; he could feel footsteps on the other side of the building rumbling through the floor, and the variations in air pressure caused by the fly drifting around the ceiling. But it didn't work like hearing did, nor was it interpreted by the same part of the brain. Though he had felt Reed talking in here, it just felt like a continuous drone of vibration against his skin--he hadn't heard him, and so couldn't interpret the words. And, like an idiot, he hadn't thought to bug the room beforehand.

He pushed his tongue against his upper lip in thought. Had it had something to do with why Flint had registered with the CCA in the first place?

Kicking a foot against the bottom of the desk, Peter rolled his chair over to the hologram table and set to work getting past the security there too. This took even less time than it had with the computer, now that Peter knew how Reed had updated his security measures over the last few years. Within three minutes of typing so fast an observer would have seen his fingers as blurs he was browsing through the most recently accessed files.

The image lifted out of the table and filled the room with its soft light, and Peter frowned at the image of the Phantom he saw. How on earth was this related to Flint's desire to Be A Real Boy? He typed a few commands into the table and watched the Phantom's white shell disappear to reveal the mechanical skeleton beneath. A few notes by Reed appeared to highlight key points, and Peter read through each with steadily rising concern.

Very little of the Sandman's mass was actually Flint Marko. When he had been disintegrated all those years ago, most of his body had become just plain old sand--only his nervous system had become anything different. Over the years, he had gained entire truckloads worth of sand and lost enough to fill beaches, but the gallon or so of milky white silica that had once been his brain and nerve cells had remained, scattered evenly through every shape and sculpture he made himself into. They assimilated granules of a similar composition through static cling, arranging them with an intricate electric charge that neither Flint nor Peter had ever fully understood, and now it looked like Reed wanted to apply that same static charge to the Phantom project.

Looking through the notes, Peter could already see that Reed wasn't putting much effort into following through on his promise. The conjectures and theories put forth in them were ludicrous--ideas that Peter had discarded years ago in his various scrambles to stop one of Marko's rampages. But he read between the lines, read ideas that Reed had intended for his own eyes only, and his blood grew steadily colder in his veins.

It wouldn't take much modification to turn a Phantom into a suitable chassis for Flint's nerve granules, so went Reed's idea. The skeleton already contained organic elements, and they already received commands from a biological source rather than a computer. This flew in the face of Peter's assumptions about the Phantoms.

They were only partially robots. They were like Octobots; their processing units were very much alive.

Peter waved a shaky hand over the table. The hologram deactivated, which wasn't his intent at all, but he was too taken aback to care.

Deep in the bowels of the building, ignored by Peter until now but always scratching at the back of his mind, the vibrations of mechanical footsteps rumbled through the walls and floor. The central hub of manufacturing and deploying Phantoms was located fifty feet under the foundation--a fact he'd known all along, but which he had to investigate now. Now, when he knew that within those robotic skeletons were living and thinking beings. Now, when he knew that the drills whirring and 3D printing that he felt even from here were working tirelessly to imprison and enslave something. Jumping off the chair, he retrieved his data drive from the computer and took barely a minute to wipe all evidence of his presence from the room. Then, readjusting his disguise and checking for the presence of witnesses, he slipped out of the room and finally allowed the door to lock.

The route to the underground hub was a circuitous one. As the operations were almost entirely automated, not even the janitors were given clearance to enter that level; maybe four people had access, and Peter wasn't one of them. No matter. There were more ways to sneak around than just throwing on a coverall and mopping a floor. If Peter's disguise only took him this far and no farther, it was time to drop it. Some places you could only reach as the wall-crawler.

Had the security cameras not mysteriously lost power earlier that afternoon, they would've seen a janitor shedding his hat, kicking off his shoes, and beginning to unbutton his coverall. Without breaking stride, he snatched a small bag from where he'd hidden it in his cart before and pulled on a mask; whatever features, real or fake, a witness might have noticed, they were now hidden by dark red fabric and two gleaming grey bug eyes. In short order the coverall and hat were gone--wrapped up into a web-knapsack that he slung onto his back even as he swapped his shoes out for red spandex boots. Pulling on his gloves right as he reached the elevator, Spider-Man stopped to politely tap the call button beside the sliding metal doors.

With a ding, the elevator doors slid open, and Spider-Man immediately smashed straight through the emergency hatch at the top of the lift.

Elevator shafts were always a bit more complicated than one expected. Even Peter, who could feel the constant motion of the metal boxes through the building and their cables sliding against pullies, always needed a moment to figure out how to squeeze through the systems that controlled its rise and fall. He paused as he examined the mechanism of this particular elevator before he sucked in his stomach and crawled around the box with a few inches to spare. Then, once he was beneath it, he released his grip on the elevator shaft and let himself fall.

He caught himself fifty feet later, his fingertips sticking instantly to the concrete as he touched it. Just across the shaft from him was a set of elevator doors, which he hopped onto and began to pry apart. It was slow going. Like everything in the CCA headquarters, these doors were made with superhumans in mind, and they had a magnetic lock that Spider-Man found himself straining to overpower. He pulled on them for a few seconds, changed his mind, and crawled two feet to the left to begin messing with the wiring that controlled the lock. There was a moment of silence, a low, hollow ding, and the doors slid open.

With one hand still stuck to the wall Spider-Man lowered himself into the unlit chamber, dropping to the floor and landing there in a crouch. What little light had made it down with him reflected off his mask's glaring eyes. For a moment he was still, one hand pressed to the metal beneath him and his attention fully on the vibrations of the environment. Then, mentally sorting through the sea of threats that his spider-sense whispered and squirmed at, he rose to his feet and nonchalantly slapped the lightswitch on the wall behind him. Sparse florescent lights flickered on above him, and he blinked and furrowed his brow as he adjusted.

Now that he was down here the vibrations were sharper, like a the world coming into focus as you come up from underwater. They travelled through the air, through the concrete, and through a metal catwalk that served as a floor, branching into pathways and situated above buzzing, whirring machinery. No wonder it had been so difficult to discern what was going on up above, Spider-Man reflected as he glanced over the guardrail and watched robotic limbs carry a Phantom chassis through a gap in the wall and to another room. He turned his attention ahead of him, where similar chasses were held in racks upon racks that spanned nearly wall to wall across the room, black robotic skeletons awaiting deployment.

But there was a difference between these Phantoms and the ones he so often encountered on the battlefield. Frowning under the mask, Spider-Man stepped forward, leaned over the catwalk's railing, and set a finger against the nearest collection of servos and solid-light projectors. Yes. There it was, the constant, ambient tremor of air in motion; the chasses were hollow like the frame of a bicycle. Whenever he'd fought them, they hadn't displayed any such emptiness.

Right. Mechanical systems supported by biological processing. He took his attention away from the chasses, looking instead at that hole in the wall that one of them had vanished into as he'd come in here. He could feel the Phantom in the next room over being hooked up to--to something, metal vibrating on contact with metal and stabilizing with a little pop. His eyes narrowed. His fingers twitching nervously, his breath held, he began to pace down the catwalk towards the door to that room.

A window on one side greeted him as he stepped through, displaying the Phantom under maintenance. Screens embedded into the window offered diagnostics and schematics, all of which Spider-Man ignored. He turned instead to the far wall, where what looked like a large cabinet was anchored in place and had a hundred or so pipes no wider than test tubes leading into and out of it. A quick ripping of metal, and he tossed a mangled padlock over his shoulder as he threw the cabinet doors open. The interior was poorly organized, and called to mind a prototype rather than anything intended for widespread implementation: a screen with a series of codes flashing across it, a mess of piping and tubing, and in carefully arranged racks hundreds upon hundreds of test tubes, most full of some amorphous fluid.

Spider-Man's brow furrowed as he selected a vial at random. Working carefully, he unscrewed the valve that connected it to the mess of piping and slid it out of the vial's stopper--without it, the test tube's lid sealed airtight again. He held it above eye level and turned to see the light filter through from overhead. The fluid inside surrounded what looked almost like a pipe cleaner, thousands of copper wires branching out from a central silicon rod. As he tilted it one way, an air bubble slid up the glass wall, and out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw--

--a tendril, as black as the rest of the liquid, squirming in that air pocket in a bid for freedom.

Spider-Man's eyes widened behind the mask. Oh my god.

Dead Leviathans and alien technology hadn't been the only things the Chitauri had brought to Earth. It had taken the terrestrial armies, and the remnants of SHIELD that Spider-Man had fought alongside, far too long to realize that the shape-shifting battlesuits that their enemies had used were themselves a separate species. Earth hadn't been the only planet to face invasion under the Chitauri; centuries ago, those invaders had conquered and enslaved a species called Klyntar. Amorphous, shapeshifting, symbiotic creatures, the Klyntar had the distinction of being able to use every single cell as musculature, digestive system, armoring, and neurons. Nobody was sure how long the Chitauri had been selectively breeding and brainwashing their symbiote slaves into battle armor, and until now Spider-Man had assumed that practice had stopped with the aliens' defeat.

The little vial of Klyntar sample in his hand was far from his first experience with the species. He had, for six months during and after the war, worn a stolen symbiote as a battlesuit of his own, and even after he and Vee had separated he'd been up close and personal with the species many, many times. But he had believed that Vee's defection from the Chitauri had been a fluke; that they had been the only Klyntar to be recovered from the Chitarui alive.

But now Spider-Man stood in the basement of the Cape Code Authority, holding a vial that contained another member of that species, and right next to him were over a hundred identical vials. All at once, the control systems of the Phantoms became obvious to him.

Without hesitation he turned back to the cabinet and began yanking the tubes out of their holders. The brush-like machinery in each vial, he figured as he worked, must have been some kind of brainwashing system; the copper wires made contact with as many of the Klyntar's neurons as possible, with controlled electric shocks frying out whatever thoughts the aliens tried to form and replacing them with--with whatever programming was necessary to get the Phantoms working. As he pulled each tube out, he killed the electrical charge, but for now he didn't release the Klyntar within from their cells. Where would they go down here? Did they even remember what they were? At best they'd die, at worst the CCA would collect them again and make it even harder to get to them again. No, for now he stuck the vials together with webbing, bundling them together in a padded sack of sorts--he could keep them safe until he knew what else to do, but for now--

--for now, he could feel footsteps vibrating through the concrete fifty feet above. Could feel the elevator starting to move, and the frantic tingling in his head suddenly concentrated all its alarm on the man upstairs. He paused, but only for the smallest fraction of a second; then he worked even faster, his hands becoming blurs again. Grab, break, thwip, grab, break, thwip. The bundle of vials and webbing in his arms was becoming untenably large. He kept at it anyway, always careful not to smash the vials, always careful to separate them from their neighbors with a carefully padded layer of webbing. Even as he webbed up the last one, he wove backpack straps onto the sack and pulled them onto his shoulders. Then he turned on his heel and darted out the door, ready to make an escape.

But as the elevator began its slow descent towards him, he paced around the room and realized that there was no escape to be found. No windows or doors, because he was in a basement, and the air ducts were of course far too small to crawl through. If he didn't have the Klyntar vials, he would've been able to crawl past the elevator, but with that bundle on his back there was no room. If he wanted to save these Klyntar, he was trapped down here with them.

Well, decided Spider-Man as his pacing came to a stop directly in front of the elevator. If he was about to be discovered down here, he certainly wasn't going to let whoever was about to discover him get a dramatic moment about it. There would be no voice booming out from behind him as he frantically looked for a hiding place, there would be no cat and mouse as the person looked for him in this increasingly exposed room. He folded his arms and leaned against the guardrail right in front of the elevator, glaring at the doors. Waiting.

When the doors dinged open, Scrier momentarily hesitated, not having expected to see Spider-Man so out in the open. He blinked behind those blank white eyes, far more awkward than a supervillain wanted to be, before he lamely managed, "I thought that was you, Spider-Man."

#Spider-Man #Spider-Man AU #Peter Parker #Specs #Earth-61610 #Scrier #Marvel AU #spidersona #story #odyssey prelude

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all-might-can-smash-me · 4 years

Note

Hello. I found your writing about family heroes, and I'm thrilled. It's so nice, cozy, cute and delicious. I love it, very much. Thank you so much for your work!♡

If you're ok with this, can I have whole families (Eraserhead, Fatgam, All Might, Hawks) who comfort their mom after having to interact with her family (I mean, her parents, grandparents, and the rest). With whom she has a very bad relations. Well, it's realy very bad there... Please, choose the format that is more convenient for you.

Please, feel free to ignore it if you don't like it. That's all right.♡

Thank you. Take care of yourself. Good luck. Have a good time♡

The Pro Dads Comforting You After Seeing Stressful Family Members

Eraserhead / Shouta Aizawa, Fatgum/Taishiro Toyomitsu, All Might / Toshinori Yagi, Hawks / Keigo Takami

Thanks for such a kind request 🥺

Warnings: Of course it is gonna contain some toxic family members and what not exploiting your fears and your children’s insecurities and what not....

Masterlist / Request Info in masterlist

You and your parents? Well the two of you had an ok relationship

But then when you and Aizawa married? It just felt strained and forced, especially after the two of you began having children, fostering, and adopting....

Until one day while visiting, your mother said something along the lines of ‘is he even well enough to help take care of the children? Put together enough? Around enough?’

It kind of just really got you stuck in your own head for a bit, but you were quick to prove her wrong...for the time being.

You didn’t mention any of that to Shouta though, you didn’t know why you didn’t....

Then now you had everyone with you this time, your husband and children to visit.

It was a loud environment, but it was nice and soothing, it was what you and Shouta were use to as you, him, and your mother and father sat in the kitchen to make small talk as your children played about in the conjoining living room.

But of course, your mother said something along the lines of ‘you have so many kids...I don’t know how you manage with Aizawa hardly ever around....’

The silence soon followed as your heart dropped into the pit of your stomach, watching your father nod his head in agreement. That’s when you only offered a small smile before getting up, your kids already huddling around you and Aizawa.

They didn’t even cast a glance as their grandmother tried to tell them farewell, they were all too busy clutching onto you and Shouta.

Upon arriving home, they all just dragged you to the livingroom to all pile up and cuddle while watching some of your favorite movies and trying to make you laugh and smile with their silly antics

But later on that night when you and Shouta would be back in the master bedroom ready to sleep? The tears would come

He would just simply open his arms up for you to cradle you and rock you...

Hands to give you reassuring rubs upon your back as he whispered compliments and pet names to you to crack a smile out of you...

You loved your whole family but.....

Your grandmother? That was where the huge BUT was at

She was old, quirkless and could vividly remember the days where quirks were beginning to play a part in everyone’s lives, but that doesn’t mean she totally understood it or got it or didn’t hold any prejudices against them

So she wasn’t happy when you introduced your boyfriend Taishiro to her...and she was upset as she sat through the wedding ceremony at the shrine....

And then she absolutely hated his appearance! He was ‘fat’ in her eyes, no quirk could change that, but he just let it bounce off himself...

Though upon a family reunion when everyone was at your home, she made her few comments about Taishiro that you and him just shrugged as you talked and caught up with cousins and other relatives

But then the words ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if his daughters turn out the same way...they are already on the path...’ came from her mouth, that’s when all hell broke lose

You stomped right up to her and gave her a piece of your mind before gathering up your daughters into a room to drill into their heads that they were beautiful and perfect...but they reassured you that they knew that...

Once everyone left, your daughters gossiped about family drama that they picked up during the reunion as they helped you clean up, you only hushing them....but you couldn’t help but be enthralled with what they had heard....

And they continued talking about it because it made them feel relieved for you to surpress your gasp and laughs as they would drone on and on about the stuff they heard

They also gathered you and Tiashiro to the kitchen table to play a few rounds of a card game, filling the whole house with everyone’s laughter

Laughter was the best medicine.....

But then later on Taishiro would talk to you about what happened which at that point you would only shrug it off and laugh over the incident....

Which then he’ll probably tell you ‘you becoming a mama bear? Hot as fuck....’

Your dad never liked Toshinori....not one bit and he made it clear...

‘The man is too scrawny...too sickly! He looks like a damn twig!’

You would only respond with ‘I love him, that’s all that matters....’

Wasn’t too happy about the marraige, but couldn’t do anything, your mother absolutely adored Toshinori...

But then once it was revealed that Toshinori was All Might the entire time? And now that he was in retirement?

Your father would drop by often to hassle you over ‘how will he provide? How will he not put you and your child in danger?’

Finally one day you just slammed the door right in his face, your daughter now at your side tugging at your shirt....

She would tug you along to make a pillow fort, to read a small book together, watch a show, movie, just anything together to distract you from what had just happened....

She was a smart girl because it worked all day until Toshinori was home

That’s when you finally opened up and told him what happened, your voice quivering with the tears that you wanted to cry.

He only hugged you though and told you everything was going to be alright

‘Your father can hate me, he’s got a high standard for who he wants his daughter to have and that’s fine...but I promise you those things he has said to you will never happen...’

You didn’t need him to reassure you, but his affirmations pushed away those tears away quickly and your broken heart was mended on the spot....

Then he would cuddle you and tell you how beautiful and amazing you are...which always got your heart fluttering

You and your family were on good terms, you checked in each other a lot and always visited each other

Your sister? Nope, nope, nope, and nope...

Yeah you would hate her every and now and then growing up, but who doesn’t have a little hate for their sibling growing up?

The moment you and Keigo started dating? That’s when it went down hill...

She would try to feed you with insecurities of ‘he’s probably cheating on you....’ or ‘he’s famous, he just wants a pretty face for the media and an easy girl for the night...’

But those insecurities would vanish just by looking at the loving looks Keigo would give you, so you never dwelled on them

She may have been trying to look out for you, but it was just the totally wrong way to do it and you’ve tried countless times to tell her that, but to no avail

One day when you and Keigo along with your two boys and daughter went to visit, your sister showed up too...

The tension was high as your parents chatted away with Keigo, your daughter sprawled out and sleeping in Keigo’s lap and your sons messed around outside

You and your sister were silent until the conversation led on to his work and popularity and about all the fans he must interact with

That’s when your sister decided to give a snarky ‘yeah...probably taking peeks under all those girls’ skirts...’

You didn’t even get a chance to say anything before Keigo was calmly covering your daughter’s ear to begin chewing her out, you only sitting there in a daze

When your sister looked to your mom and dad expectantly, they only shrugged their shoulders at her...

Keigo was soon bidding a farewell to your mother and father with his daughter now held onto his chest as she dozed away, your sons now back inside and hugging their grandparents goodbye....and snuck sticking their tongues out at their Aunt from behind Keigo’s legs...

Yeah they totally heard all of that....

So when you got home, your daughter recommended coloring, so all of you sat at the kitchen table to color away together and show off your skills

When you and Keigo were alone, he would just tell you over and over again how you were the only one for him and how pretty and beautiful you were and how perfect you were...

You didn’t my need to confirmation from him, but the praise from him would bring a blush from your cheeks as he would scratch your back or play with your hair as the two of you would watch a show or a movie.

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webrokethe4thwall · 3 years

Note

Can you write a Fanfic where Rupert Swaggart finds his own brooch and gets his live back?

Sorry for the wait @the-deku-guy, but here’s your request!

Brooches before Swine

A large man adjusted his trench coat and fedora as he scanned the stalls of the jewelers’ black market. He was not searching for your standard silver necklace or ruby ring, but a brooch. Specifically, a cloaking brooch. Meat Sweats was once again on the hunt for a mystic cloaking brooch. However, even now as he looked over the charms laid out on the table, his hopes plummeted. Several brooches, ranging from simple to ornate to tacky, were lined up, but none of them were mystic.

He had been through all of the black market stalls, antique malls, and even online auction halls. Each location yielded the same result: nothing. The former celebrity chef released a frustrated groan. He had been so close to reclaiming his old life with the last brooch he had found here. If only those two pesky girls—the curly-headed one and the slime-ball—hadn’t stolen it from him and ruined his plans!

And to add insult to injury, they had trapped him in that backwater barbeque studio. Did those amateurs not understand how to properly prepare meat before cooking it?!

“Rubbish, pitchfork-wielding hicks,” Meat Sweats grumbled, stalking away from the broach district. “Don’t know the difference between brine and a bay leaf.”

Regardless of the past, Meat Sweats was determined to regain his fame, his cooking show, and his previous life as Rupert Swaggart. Nothing and no one was going to stop him! …Well, except for his lack of a human appearance. Meat Sweats continued to mutter under his breath. He had seen other mutants—pardon, yokai—with cloaking brooches. Why was he unable to find one? Maybe there was a recall for some kind of mystical enhancement.

“One moment,” Meat Sweats grunted. “A memory stirs.”

He put a fist to his chin as he thought of a past conversation. It had been a few weeks ago with a tiny worm mutant whose name completely slipped his mind. The fellow had said he purchased a mystical enhancement jewel from some mystic shop disguised as a secondhand corner store.

“If that’s the case,” Meat Sweats mused, “perchance a visit is in order.”

That very night, the pig mutant went to the corner store. He pulled his clothes tight to his frame upon entering the store. He didn’t much care if he looked suspicious; he just didn’t want the police called on him tonight. The first thing Meat Sweats saw was some skinny greasy guy standing behind the counter. This fellow must’ve been the cloaked yokai. Meat Sweats took in the man’s lackluster appearance, baseball cap, and vague scent of chevon. After taking a moment to size each other up, the mutated chef decided to break the silence first.

“I heard that you sell delectable jewelry in this establishment,” Meat Sweats said.

“Oh, we sell all kinds of things here,” the man stated. “Lamps, dolls, and toasters to name a few; but yeah, jewelry is in the mix. The name’s Clem!” He gave Meat Sweats a lazy onceover. “You, uh, looking for something particular, friend? Nudge, nudge.”

“Nudge, nudge?” Meat Sweats asked. “It’s ‘wink, wink,’ matey.” What a peculiar character.

“Clem, get your act together!” The man shook his head in self-deprecation. Giving the password away again because he forgot an idiom. How embarrassing!

Before Meat Sweats could fake curiosity over what Clem meant, the man began shedding his disguise. The now purple goat yokai rang the bell on the counter, revealing hidden compartments in the displays that contained his mystical wares. Clem spread his arms out, showcasing the jewelry on his shelves.

“You said you’re looking for jewelry,” he droned. “What kind?”

“Cloaking brooch,” Meat Sweats stated, tearing away his trench coat. “Can’t really go on live television looking like this, now can I?”

“Wouldn’t really recommend it, no,” Clem said after a low whistle. “I’ve got just the thing.”

He knelt down behind the counter and pulled up a tray laden with stunning brooches. Clem plucked one up and handed it to the pig mutant. Meat Sweats turned it in his metal hands, admiring the star-shaped silver with a shining pink pearl in its center. He pinned the brooch to his collar and gave it a little shine. Soon his body was wrapped up in the soft pink glow of the mystical cloaking energy. Meat Sweats looked at himself in the counter’s shiny surface. It was perfect.

“All kinds of handsome is me once again,” Meat Sweats, now Rupert Swaggart, grinned.

With a wink and kiss sent to his reflection, Rupert threw a few bills at Clem. He had no appetite for goat yokai shopkeepers at the moment. No, it was time for Rupert to reclaim his previous life in full.

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A few nights later, Mikey upped the volume on his kitchen television. It was time for Kondescending Kitchen, and he was determined to make the perfect risotto!

“Are you ready to unleash the flavor?!”

Mikey came to an abrupt halt. That voice…it couldn’t be! He focused fully on the television. Meat Sweats, disguised as Rupert Swaggart, stood front and center for a cheering audience. Not good.

“Guys,” the box turtle yelled, already reaching for his kusari-fundo, “we’ve got a problem!”

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Rupert left the stage with the sound of the audience’s queued cheers pouring into his ears. He smirked to himself as he entered his dressing room. It was quite refreshing to hear after months of absence from his television career. The station manager even said that she was going to schedule an interview about his dramatic transformations and his unexpected final return. Yes, his cloaking brooch shining brilliantly on his apron was working greatly in his favor. The chef grinned as he picked up the night’s winning dish: pork risotto.

“Time to savor my victory,” Rupert hummed contentedly.

“Not a chance, Meat Sweats!”

One yellow and four green blurs swept into Rupert’s vision. No, not these reptilian nuisances and that ruinous girl! While Rupert hadn’t done anything more than reclaim his television program from an undeserving rival, Meat Sweats should’ve known that these pains in his tendrils would catch wind of his return.

“Not you rotten eggs!” Meat Sweats snarled, ditching his disguise in favor of his more combat-ready pig mutant appearance.

“You know it!” April defiantly retorted. “Which poor yokai did you steal this brooch from?!”

Now Meat Sweats was genuinely confused. He was also annoyed, but he had some modicum of integrity. He never stole the brooch. He didn’t even steal the first one! He bought both pieces fair and square. Granted his newest item was from a slightly more legitimate business. Nevertheless, why are these pests coming after him tonight?! He hadn’t even attempted to eat or poison anyone recently!

Before Meat Sweats could state his innocence, the fight was on. Raphael and Donatello charged him head on, while Leonardo and Michelangelo went for his sides. Meat Sweats easily knocked all four of them back with a swing of his meat tenderizer. He nearly missed April reaching for his rose gold cloaking brooch.

“Hands off!” Meat Sweats roared, stepping away from the girl and raising a protective hand over the shining pearl. “This is me own brooch!”

“Oh, yeah?” Mikey challenged. “Show us the receipt then!”

Meat Sweats, fed up with these annoying teenagers that always seemed to pop up in his life, shoved the seedy secondhand shop’s receipt into the smallest turtle’s face. The turtles and girl clearly didn’t expect this response. All fighting stopped, and it appeared the children were taking a moment to process the strip of paper between the pig mutant’s gloved fingers.

“Satisfied?!” Meat Sweats demanded.

“Wait,” Raph said in disbelief. “You actually, legitimately bought a cloaking brooch?”

“How much does one go for?” Donnie asked, squinting at the too small smudged numbers.

“Enough to get the job done,” Meat Sweats stated, stuffing the receipt back into his pocket. “Now, leave me be before I cook you all into turtle soup!”

“Not so fast,” Leo said. “Why do you need a cloaking brooch anyway. You’ve just been trying to eat and poison people this entire time. Did you want to do that when you were human, too, or is it a pig thing?”

Meat Sweats sighed in exasperation. Maybe he should’ve just let the fighting go on until either he passed out or they ran off. It was too late to find out, in any case. Now he had to converse with, ugh, teenagers about his rather tame plans and not-so-tame eating habits.

“Pig thing,” Meat Sweats stated shortly. He rubbed his cloaking brooch and reactivated his human façade. “I’m taking back what’s mine with this brooch. My show, my fame, and my life need my human face. I’m not about to let some mediocre fry cook take over my kitchen!”

The so-called chef the station had replaced him with was barely out of culinary school his skills were so dull. It boiled Meat Sweats’ blood. Whether those pesky teenagers liked it or not, Rupert Swaggart was making a comeback. Kondescending Kitchen needed him! Meat Sweats just needed a human face to rescue it. While some people were accepting of mutants or cosplay junkies, the public eye required a certain degree of discretion.

“How do we know you’re telling the truth?” April asked. She gave Rupert a distrustful once over.

“Not a problem!” Mikey interjected. He slid himself between his siblings and the returned celebrity chef. “We’ll just enroll him into my Evil League of Mutants Going Good Rehabilitation Program!”

“His what?” Rupert asked, baffled by whatever the exuberant turtle was rambling about.

“It is Michael’s method of transforming our enemies into allies,” Donnie drawled. “It has been showing promising results for Draxum. Though there may be a learning curve.”

“Yeah,” Leo reluctantly agreed, “but Draxum’s the only one that Mikey has worked with so far. How do we know it’ll work on this guy?”

“That’s easy,” Raph stated, fully confident in his baby brother. “Since we know that Mikey’s program worked on one of the worst people we know, we’ll help him with setting Meat Sweats on the right path.”

“And keep Mikey from getting star-struck,” April muttered, eying the way Mikey fawned over the sweaty chef.

Rupert rolled his eyes. What is wrong with these kids?! Were they seriously discussing the future of his moral status in front of him? He didn’t need to put up with this!

“Don’t I get any say in this?” Rupert demanded.

“No!”

All the teenagers glared at him, except for the orange clad turtle who had stars in his eyes. The audacity!

“Rubbish,” Rupert grunted.

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For weeks, Meat Sweats was under the unnervingly close surveillance of the Mad Dogs. A ridiculously unsuitable name for those five obnoxious kids. He despised how involved they forced themselves to be in his life. Telling him what to do and what not to do. It was annoying! Don’t eat the mutant silverfish this, and don’t sabotage your culinary rivals that. He was sick of it and was very vocal about his displeasure.

However, the teens didn’t seem to care nor let up in their efforts to conform him to the moral high ground. The chef didn’t know if reclaiming his glory was worth the hassle. At least he didn’t have to waste energy tenderizing their bones anymore. Michelangelo even had a realistic view of his character in spite of his fanboy attitude towards Rupert Swaggart.

The box turtle never expected him to become 100% kindhearted, if he ever became nice at all. However, Mikey did put limits on Meat Sweats and made him stick to some simple moral codes. Rupert just wanted to get his status as “Most Pretentious Chef in New York” back on track. Unfortunately, the youngest turtle did not allow him to perform any of his deliciously underhanded tricks on his competition.

“Meat Sweats!” Mikey admonished. He had just caught the reforming chef about to pour mystic poison into his delightful pizza puffs. Again. “What are we supposed to do with our culinary competition?!”

Meat Sweats released an annoyed grunt. He was getting tired of repeating his supposed mentor’s lessons, but it was mildly better than the intermittent fighting they used to go through.

“Out-serve them with quality meals, not quality poison,” Rupert droned. It was verbatim from one of Chef Mikey’s many “Maintaining Healthy Competition” lectures.

“Exactly,” Mikey said in a condescendingly sweet tone. He took the poison from Meat Sweats’ grip and yeeted it into the distance. “Now put on Rupert Swaggart, and let’s make filet mignon!”

Meat Sweats rolled his eyes at the young turtle’s antics but went along with it. Michelangelo was a decent enough chef for his age, proving his potential by the way he prepared that salmon when two drooling snakes were baring down on them. Rupert Swaggart activated his cloaking brooch and picked up a knife. He may as well humor Mikey with an attempt to mature his talent.

“Not a bad idea, lad,” Rupert agreed. “Filet mignon with roasted asparagus and,” he smirked, “truffles.”

Mikey’s eye twitched at the traumatic memory. “Not funny, sweat sock.”

Meat Sweats laughed uproariously, and even harder still when he saw Mikey’s annoyance growing. It was fun messing with this one. No matter what the chef threw his way, the young turtle always bounced back with an even snarkier reply. He might make a Kondescending Chef out of the boy yet. With no further preamble, the two mutants proceeded to craft a fine meal of filet mignon over roasted asparagus drizzled with mushroom sauce.

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A month later, Rupert’s program established itself as the most popular food-related show on television once again. Crimes related to a food truck driven by a pig mutant plummeted as the celebrity chef made more public appearances. He had finally achieved his goal. Now Meat Sweats could kick back in his apartment, resting in his easy chair, and let the adulation from his fans inflate his ego, and his wallet, once more. A loud knock on his door broke him out of the moment, and the door being kicked open entirely had the pig mutant falling out of his chair.

“What in blazes?!” Meat Sweats shouted, quickly activating his cloaking brooch.

“Sorry for the door,” April cheered, giving no sign of remorse at all. “But I come baring gifts, and they’re heavy!”

April lifted several plastic bags filled with groceries. Rupert gave the girl an annoyed glare. He got up from the floor, set his door back into place minimal effort, and stared his “visitor” down. The chef didn’t know why she was in his home without her turtle friends, but he did catch the delightful aroma of raw meat, seasonings, and vegetables wafting from the bags in her hands. April immediately went to the kitchen and dumped a few wrapped lamb chops, fresh artichokes, a jar of capers, and several other ingredients onto the countertop.

“What are you doing, girlie?” Meat Sweats asked, dropping his disguise.

He was well used to the turtles’ surprise visits, but they always came in through the window or a portal into the living room. April rarely came by herself, so the chef had yet to learn her favored way of barging in.

“Setting up an apology,” April replied, organizing the meat, spices, and other ingredients.

“A what?” Meat Sweats was taken aback. This teen had been screwing up his life for months. Why was she apologizing now? What was she apologizing for?!

“You’ve been doing pretty good since you got that cloaking broach and went into Mikey’s rehab program,” April snickered. She rubbed the back of her neck sheepishly. “And I started feeling kinda bad about trapping you in the ‘Sauce That Hog’ studio.” Meat Sweats frowned deeply at the memory, and April had the sense to move on to the ingredients on the counter. “So I brought over all the ingredients for fancy lamb chops.” She waved the bag of artichokes enticingly. “Including some mystic artichokes fresh from the Hidden City.”

Meat Sweats snorted at the attempt to woo his culinary pallet. He may not spend much time with the girl, but he knew April could kiss up to anyone’s better nature once she found their Kryptonite. His was fairly obvious, and the chef took great pride in flaunting his cooking skills.

“So you thought that catering to me superior culinary taste with mystic produce and corner store mutton would make up for that torment?” He wasn’t going to let April off that easily though.

“It’s actually hogget from my cousin’s farm,” April corrected. “She raises the best meat livestock I’ve ever tasted, so I thought you might like to try it.”

“No kidding?” Meat Sweats, surprised that April knew different types of lamb meat, looked at the wrapped meats inquisitively.

“It’s sheep meat,” April smirked, “not goat.”

“Why must you pun like the blue one?” Meat Sweats grumbled. “Just give me the ingredients and watch me—”

“Unleash the flavor!” The mutant and teenager chorused.

Meat Sweats wasn’t expecting that either. He gave April an odd look. Mikey was his fanboy, so what was her excuse? April just grinned.

“Mikey got me to watch a few episodes from his favorite seasons of Kondescending Kitchen,” she explained. “What can I say? It’s a catchy line.”

“Yes, well,” Meat Sweats countered, “it’s my line.” He knows it was a lame comeback, but he really didn’t know how to respond. One minute he and these kids are at each other’s throats, the next he’s cooking filet mignon and lamb chops with them. He shakes his head and gestures to the other side of the sink. “Hand me my knife block. I want to chop up these artichokes for a marinade.”

“Yes, Chef,” April saluted.

“Cheeky girl,” Meat Sweats commented.

He and April made a delightful set of lamb chops topped with marinated artichokes and seasoned capers. The chef figured that if the return of Rupert Swaggart meant being badgered by those annoying Mad Dogs, then there are worse fates he could have been forced to endure. They weren’t as awful as he dreaded. If he didn’t enjoy being a jerk so much, he may have been tempted to even call them his friends. He still might. Just not when they were around. He had an image to maintain after all.

#rottmnt #meat sweats #rupert swaggart #writing #my writing #fanfiction #my fanfic #meat sweats isn't fond of kids #but the mad dogs will force him to like them #mikey and april already endeared themselves to him in a way

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elexica · 3 years

Text

Last Chance Christmas - Chapter 1 {{December 20}}

In honor of the season, I’m pointing my fic Second Chance Christmas on Ao3, and cross posting here! Summary: The radio had droned on about an incoming polar vortex. How could the weatherman have known that his ex-husband would be on the plane? - - - Following an acrimonious divorce, Joey and Kaiba have managed to co-parent the kids without seeing each other for three years. After Kaiba is caught in a blizzard, Joey is forced to spend the holiday with his ex-husband, and confront certain feelings that he thought were dead. Tags: Jounouchi Katsuya | Joey Wheeler/Kaiba Seto, Kaiba Seto, Jounouchi Katsuya | Joey Wheeler, Tenjouin Fubuki | Atticus Rhodes, Tenjouin Asuka | Alexis Rhodes, Getting Back Together, Post-Divorce, Reconciliation, Family Fluff, Family Feels, Family Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Christmas Romance, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Domestic, Fluff and Angst, rekindling relaitonship, Christmas Angst, No infidelity!, AU-gust 2020, ygocollablove

Other notes: Kaiba and Joey were married and have two children – Alexis and Attius (from GX, but you do not need to see GX). This is a get-together-again fic. The divorce was not amicable, but no cheating/infidelity. They’re about 40 in the fic, in honor of them being 40 in 2020 if they were 15 in 1995. Joey is half-American, and his mom and Serenity live in New York, too.

Chapter one under the read more!

The sleet fell heavily against the car, turning the view through the windshield into an impressionist painting of abstract asphalt and splotchy red break lights. The drives to the private airport in Westchester were always the worst. Even though Kaiba rarely accompanied the kids on the flight from Japan, even the haunting proximity to the shiny private jets and the trappings of his ex put Joey on edge. Not because he longed to be driving the expensive cars parked in the lot or any other petty envy, but because the whole place always reeked of Kaiba’s ghost. How the man could haunt the freeways and tangled overpasses from thousands of miles away was yet another unsettling superpower of his ex-husband.

The sleet, the traffic, and the eerie nature of the drive allowed frustrated ruminations to wind their way into Joey’s head. Like the suction cups on the edges of an octopus’s tentacles, little doubts and regrets clung to his mind.

Was it petty to fly the kids back and forth from Japan in the dead of winter for only a week? Yes, of course it was. But the custody arrangement hadn’t even demanded that Joey allow that week. The kids were in school in New York, and it was his year to spend Christmas with them. They spent the full summer break in Japan every year. It was Joey’s only time of year—and even then, only every other year—where they all could spend time off together. He didn’t want to give it up without a fight. And Joey was still a fighter.

When Mokuba had announced his wedding date for the first week of the kids’ Winter break, Joey was so tempted to force some other concession out of Kaiba. Joey had been invited as well, but the thought of attending turned his stomach something fierce. He could see it in his minds’ eye: watching his family, his children, and his closest friends, dressed to the nines, celebrating something so pure. And him, looking at the ruins of the most significant relationship of his life. It felt like a mockery, to stand there and watch Mokuba enter a beautiful marriage while he stewed in the wreckage of his own. Plus, Joey’s self-destructive streak was supposed to have died with his relationship.

So, what remained was that precious promise: every other winter break. And this one was his. Sure, his ex-husband was one of the greatest negotiators in the business world, but Joey had thrilled, just a little, and with more than a little guilt, at the thought of bringing him to his knees over this. The opening was his to take.

He hadn’t quite calculated all the way out—indeed, the long game was Seto’s specialty. And once Atticus had been informed that he would be both a performer at his uncle’s wedding reception, it was game over for Joey.

Of course, that was so Kaiba, ever on the offensive, always flipping the script. Stuck negotiating over Christmas and coming to this frustrating solution. He was a cruel rival and a bitter adversary. An altogether dreadful ex-husband.

Weaponizing Atticus’s precious enthusiasm was a perfect move. Which left Joey messing with the logistics and driving in this awful weather.

. . .

The radio had droned on about an incoming polar vortex. How could the weatherman have known that his ex-husband would be on the plane?

Joey hadn’t noticed him at first—he was too busy catching Atticus’s tackle hug, and patting Alexis gently on the head. All that warmth and love had blinded him to the frigid bastard standing at the other side of the gate.

But one his heart was full again, the primal part of Joey’s brain was triggered. Like he could sense the predator lurking, he looked up and saw those stupidly long limbs. He’d know that silhouette from a mile away. “What’re you doin’ here?” Joey shouted. It was so reflexive that he forgot to hide the vitriol from the kids.

Kaiba stalked over slowly, as if he was trying to take too long, waste all of Joey’s time. “Waiting on my return flight plan,” Kaiba said. His voice had gotten more gravelly over the years, but his cadence remained almost robotic.

“Alexis was scared of flying home in the storm!” Atticus laughed, still embracing his father. “And she said the only way she’d fly back was if Oto-san promised he’d pilot! It was so cool dad! Did you know he could fly planes?!”

Joey forced his mouth into a pinched smile. “I did know that. That was very nice of him.”

Kaiba looked at him. “The children anticipated being in New York for Christmas. I am still a man of my word.” Joey wondered if he was tired from the 14 hour flight—he certainly didn’t look any worse for wear.

Frankly, he didn’t look much different than the last time he had seen him, three years before. He was still unfairly trim and perfectly composed. The only noticeable changes were the introduction of a few grey hairs, scattered among the deep brown and a pair of wire-frame glasses that looked like he’d always had them. His black turtleneck was as clean and tight fitting against the prominent muscles of his shoulders and chest as it had been. His dark jeans were still the same stupid level of tight that looked a little like he hadn’t realized he wasn’t a teenager anymore. Between the black Armani loafers and black Burberry trench, he looked like he was about to return to a casual Friday in the Financial District and get drinks at the most expensive bar he could find.

Joey had not anticipated seeing anyone other than his kids, and maybe Isono, and felt instantly exposed. Without the pressure of having to be Kaiba’s arm candy at events, Joey had put on a fair amount of weight, and settled into something of a dad-bod. He was wearing his comfiest jeans and a puffy winter coat. The worst part was the recognition in Kaiba’s eyes—it was the same coat he’d had when they were living together, only more faded and a little tattered at the edges and unzipped. It revealed a shirt that he’d acquired as a volunteer at a concert-fundraiser for Atticus’s youth orchestra. It was an unnecessarily bright green, mercifully faded by the washing machine. His white chunky sneakers looked just like ones he had in high school—and only a little less scuffed up. Overall, the look was one meant for a quick trip to the grocery store, and the last thing he’d wanted be wearing to see his ex-husband for the first time in years. Joey braced for some comment to that effect.

“Well, I’m glad they’re here. We should get going, after all—how many days are there until Christmas?” Joey asked Alexis.

“Five!” She announced.

“Yep! And the tree isn’t even up yet!” Joey said, in mock shock, and smiled at the kids’ surprised faces.

While Atticus was bemoaning how much crucial Christmas celebrating needed to be done in the next five days, a member of the airport staff approached Kaiba. Kaiba stepped away to discuss the flight plan, but Joey kept an ear out. It’s not eavesdropping if it’s your ex-husband, after all.

“Mr. Kaiba, this airport is being closed, effective immediately. The entire metropolitan area is bracing for a significant blizzard, and you are absolutely not cleared to fly.”

Joey couldn’t make out his husband’s harsh whispers, but relished in how they were tinged with a light panic. At least the bastard was freaking out a little. It felt nicer than he would ever admit to know that he made his terrifying ex-husband a little scared.

“Mr. Kaiba, we cannot permit that. I will personally be turning off all lights on the runway and not approving any plans that you submit. It could not possibly be worth dying to avoid spending a few days in New York.”

“That is not your determination to make!” Kaiba’s voice was slightly heated, which was another signal that Joey had gotten to him.

“I’m sorry sir. You are a valued customer, but it would be deadly for you to depart at this time, and I refuse to be a part of such a flight plan. As soon as I can permit take-off, I will personally contact you.”

With that terse statement, the administrator marched off.

Kaiba stared at the ground with a combination of fury and focus. After a few terse breaths, he whipped out his phone and began tapping away.

Joey was about to tell the kids to say Goodbye Oto-san! But deep down, Joey had done the math too.

“Dad, is Oto-san going to be able to stay with us for Christmas?” Alexis said, looking up with pleading eyes. “Like we’re a family again?”

Alexis was smart as hell, and even at age six was a master of strategy. Someday, Joey thought, she’ll be devastatingly skilled at Duel Monsters. Today, she was inconveniently cunning.

“It depends on what arrangements he wants to make,” Joey deflected, hating that an offer slipped through the cracks.

Kaiba looked up from his phone. For a second, he did look a bit tired from the flight. From his life. It was humanizing, and Joey tried to discard it.

“I could stay in a hotel in Manhattan, and visit,” Kaiba proposed, grip on the phone like a vice.

“That’s not what families do…” Alexis whined.

Kaiba’s jaw clenched. Joey was familiar with this face—Kaiba was acutely aware of his compromised position. It felt like they’d never finished the dreaded conversation. The energy that hung in the air was the same as that trite explanation of divorce.

It still was sickening when Atticus echoed the conversation from three years prior. “We’re still a family, Lexi. But Dad and Oto-san can’t stay in the same house anymore because it isn’t—”

It was too much, and Joey couldn’t help himself, “Of course your Oto-san can spend Christmas at the house. If that’s what he wants.”

“If I’m cleared to fly back to Domino sooner, of course I should return to work,” Kaiba answered the unspoken question, and trailed the group back to the car. Atticus was already sharing stories of how well his performance at the wedding had gone.

. . .

The house was a nice house—large enough, with a pretty backyard and a pool in a good neighborhood. It had more expansive grounds when they had been together, but the family didn’t even use the stables or tennis courts, and Joey had sold them off to people who would actually enjoy them. Kaiba had forced his hand when it came to the mortgage and upkeep, but other than the house and the kids’ schooling expenses, Joey had refused any formal alimony.

At the time, Joey had thought it was a brilliant plan. If Kaiba really wanted to value his work over all else, then he would have to suffer through watching all of that effort not change a damn thing for his family. Joey refused to be truly dependent, fifteen years of the golden handcuffs had been more than enough.

Now it was a little embarrassing that the house hadn’t changed a bit more. Since Kaiba had been gone, more of the children’s artwork graced the ornate walls. No interior decorators had been hired, so any new pieces of furniture clashed with the pre-existing scheme. It looked more lived-in, and Joey tried to take some pride in that.

Kaiba was examining a particularly poor crayon representation of the Red Eyes Black Dragon. The scale was completely off: the face was much too big and the eyes bulged grotesquely.

“Don’t say anything mean,” Joey whispered harshly at Kaiba. He was shocked when Kaiba obeyed him. “Now, who wants hot chocolate?” Joey offered, and the kids practically cheered. Atticus was en route to the kitchen already. “Seto, could you start a fire in the living room?”

Kaiba nodded, turning towards the room from perfect memory.

The milk was quickly heated, and the cocoa mix dissolved like magic, swirling into a pleasant warm desert within minutes. Joey had wondered if Kaiba would come into the kitchen to join the family, but he remained in the living room. The kids ran off to the playroom to mess with whatever new game Yugi had sent them home with.

In the soft lighting of the warm fire, Kaiba looked frustratingly, devastatingly, untouched by time. In brighter lights the fine webbing under his eyes and frustrated crease between his brows brought attention to forty years of an overburdened life.

But instead the fire burned away the years. With his glasses stowed away, he looked like the exact same man who he had fought with in the same damn seats three years ago. Hell, he looked like the same man he’d dueled on the beach of Duelist Kingdom island.

“How much do you want?” Kaiba had asked in that god-awful conversation. Kaiba spoke coldly, as if it wasn’t his husband standing before him but an uppity secretary demanding a raise.

Joey had the messy manilla folder out. The old prenup looked fresh other than the creased corner, the bends around the staple proving that someone had read it.

Without a word, he handed it over to his husband. Kaiba skimmed it, eyes quick and calculating. Then he tossed it in the fire.

“You’ve always been a terrible negotiator,” Kaiba said, pouring a bit more whiskey in the glass on the coffee table. The liquor was erasing the bored look in his eye. For the first time in a long time, Kaiba’s glare looked a little unhinged to Joey. Like he was as a teenager—barely suppressing his manic energy. Kaiba took a long, slow sip of his drink before returning to the conversation. “I’m not trying to hold out on the father of my children.”

“Say what you want, and it’s yours.” Kaiba’s words sounded completely empty of passion, drive. Everything that Joey had fallen in love with.

The combination of venom and possession in those words made Joey’s blood boil. How impersonal, as if there was no other important relationship there. Nothing else that he could recognize. Just the father of my children, like a job title. And wasn’t that just like Kaiba? Generosity as the ultimate weapon. Proving he cared so little for the entire situation by abdicating any role. Take whatever you want—none of it matters anyway.

With the paperwork in flames, Joey’s lawyer would have told him that he was entitled to half of everything his husband owned, including those valuable shares of Kaiba Corp. If Joey had been thinking cruelly and carefully, he might have realized then what he only contemplated years later: that he had been the only person who could have taken Kaiba Corporation away from Seto Kaiba without a fight. Those shares and the right collaborator… Joey could have taken the whole thing in a matter of months. Ousted Kaiba, put his ex of the street. Reminded Kaiba what that felt like.

But of course, Kaiba had played three steps ahead, and even his evaluation of Joey’s demands was insightful. He had correctly assumed that Joey wanted nothing to do with the company.

“I don’t want any money. I don’t need it. I can figure something out on my own. I don’t need you for that,” Joey said. Honda had been pissed at him about it when Joey had called the next morning to tell him that terrible bargaining position. Honda supported any way to make sure that Kaiba got the fullest “Fuck You” that Joey could manage, but he was floored that Joey wanted to have to work, and budget, and live like he hadn’t spent the last fifteen years of his life in a world where money was ethereal, unimportant. So plentiful that it had lost absolutely all value and meaning.

Kaiba laughed villainously into the whiskey, campfire scent bubbling up. “Keep the house. Our children shouldn’t have to move. This is more instability than they deserve anyway.”

Joey didn’t push the issue. The instability stung, and the fact that he repeated his parent’s pattern of getting divorced with young children was absolutely searing on his heart. Instead of mourning, he let the bitterness curdle. And Joey couldn’t help remarking, “I’d be surprised if they noticed a difference.”

Kaiba said nothing, kept his face schooled in that icy way that sickened the blond. But it was imperfect to the skilled observer, and his eyes heated up, eyelids becoming just a little wider.

“They should continue to attend their current schools, this cannot interfere with their education,” Kaiba droned, as if it was just another term of a perfectly standard consumer contract. “And they should spend the summer in Domino. We can switch off for the winter holidays.”

Part of Joey was waiting for Kaiba to suggest that they split the kids up. A perfect 50/50 of the children. It was the worst thing that Joey could think to do, really. Shove in Joey’s face that he had made the same mistakes as his parents, had learned nothing. Demonstrate, viscerally, that Joey was going to dissolve their marriage and hurt his kids in the same way that he had been hurt.

But it never came. In the moment Joey felt so defensive. So certain that Kaiba would exploit every vulnerability—that was the man he knew. Ruthless in every sense.

In the years that passed, Joey realized that he wouldn’t have married someone so evil that he’d do that. That Kaiba’s own pain should have been enough to guarantee he had no interest in splitting the siblings. But in the battleground that their living room had become, Joey couldn’t trust anything.

“Fine. But otherwise, I don’t want to see a cent of your goddamn money.”

This line, which Joey had considered so fucking crystal clear became the core of their most prominent post-break-up arguments.

Joey had always been a crowd favorite at the kids’ daycare, and his transition to part-time employee was seamless. A quick mention of the divorce was all that it took to silence any lingering questions. He was good with kids, warm and patient, and he wasn’t far from his own. The job paid enough, the hours weren’t demanding.

After Kaiba had returned to Domino City full time, the economics of the problem became apparent.

Simply put, the mansion upkeep was entirely unreasonable on Joey’s salary. Everyone was aware of this, especially Joey. He was planning on letting the gardens narrow to a level that he could manage on the weekends, drop the security teams, just let everything mellow out. The household manager was fired on day one. The maids on day two. The house was never as spotless, but the traces of dust and dirt were a small price to pay for the lived-in feel that grew.

But the bills never arrived. No emails, no letters, clearly they were rerouted. Gardeners that Joey had fired showed up Monday, as if they hadn’t gotten the news. No house staff returned without a request, and Joey really was going to let it slide.

But the next month Joey received a notice that the utilities had been overpaid. Not by a terribly extravagant amount, but by about a thousand dollars. Joey knew better, but he resisted looking the gift horse in the mouth for just one month and accept the refund.

The next month, the refund doubled, and Joey wasn’t going to take it. When Kaiba answered the phone, Joey didn’t even give him the opportunity to pick a greeting.

“I told you, I don’t want the money. I’m gonna send it back to you, what’s the address again?” Joey demanded.

“Put it in the children’s trusts. Put it towards—” Kaiba’s answer was harsh and quick.

“I don’t want the money, Kaiba. I don’t need it. They don’t need it. We’re fine without it.” Without you, Joey almost shouted. But Kaiba was smart enough, right? He should be able to understand that much.

“Fine.” Kaiba hung up first to spite Joey’s victory, but the refunds on the utilities stopped. Over the last few years there were a couple more schemes. Refunds from the school. Overpaid property taxes. Every time Joey whined to Honda, his friend told him to give up and just take it.

But Yugi had a different guess. Yugi pointed out that, well, every time Kaiba came up with a new way to slip money to Joey, Joey called to clear it up.

“I don’t know how many people he talks to, Jounouchi-kun, but maybe… he just wants to call.”

What an entirely too human thing for Joey’s ex-husband to do. “He has my number, if he wants to talk, he can try, instead of buying it.”

Yugi had shrugged and wisely changed the subject. The whole thing left an odd taste in Joey’s mouth. Even though Joey was the one who had asked for the divorce, Kaiba had done his utmost to seem entirely unaffected by the whole thing. Joey had been prepared for a knock down, drag out fight. Instead, Kaiba kept such an impartial face, it was as if the dissolution of their union didn’t perturb him in the slightest. As if it were some sort of contract terminated at inconvenient time, and no more.

Mind returning to the present, Joey scanned Kaiba’s face in the glow of the fire for any sign of humanity. Any indication that their separation had bothered Kaiba just a fraction of the way it had hurt Joey.

Finding none, Joey handed off the warm mug of hot cocoa. If Kaiba realized it wasn’t coffee, it didn’t show on his face.

“So, anyone miss me at the wedding?”

Kaiba gulped down some “Your friends were there, of course. I think they would have preferred to see you than me.” Kaiba took another pensive sip at the cocoa mug. “Atticus was right. His piano performance was excellent.”

Kaiba pulled out his phone. The screensaver of a Blue Eyes White Dragon melted into a sea of icons. KC must have released a new model in the intervening years. Joey took a bit of joy in the fact that he hadn’t even noticed.

The screen dissolved into Kaiba’s photo album within a few taps. The grid was full of almost identical images of their kids at the wedding, and Kaiba had to scroll for a bit before tracking down a video. It pricked at Joey’s chest, just a touch, to see how many duplicate photos Kaiba had taken of the little subjects.

Finally, Kaiba pressed play and there was nine-year-old Atticus, fluffy brown hair tamed in the back just barely in a tiny low ponytail. Between the hair and his light blue suit, he looked like a baby Mozart, Joey thought.

The image of him at the white grand piano began to move, and the boy played some classical music that Joey couldn’t identify if his life depended on it. It sounded pleasant, the notes flowing and smooth—clearly the little guy had been taking his lessons seriously.

“He is good, huh?” Joey smiled, looking at Kaiba. The radiant satisfaction in Kaiba’s eyes hurt to look at for too long.

Kaiba handed him the phone and stood up. “I’ll check on them. They’ve been quiet for too long, I don’t trust it.” Kaiba rose with his usual dignity. Even without the trench coat, the man swept out of the room with such presence. For better or worse, Joey’s house had lost the melodrama without him marching about.

His ex-husband’s phone sat heavy in his hands. The new release was slim, all flawless and shiny and new. It was a little hot. And it was unlocked. He could search through anything—did Kaiba really still trust him that much?

Joey smirked, and continued to look through the wedding pictures. The rest of the reception looked very precious. There were many attempts to capture a decent shot of Mokuba and his new wife Yui smiling with the kids. From the number of goofy pictures and the relative paucity of serious ones, it had been an uphill battle for Kaiba to get one decent picture that he could put on his desk.

The next series appeared to be taken by Atticus, a legendary phone thief, and was largely shots of Kaiba’s arms and hands grasping for his phone. Joey’s own phone had more than enough pictures like that, and sometimes he couldn’t bring himself to delete them either.

There were a couple of cute shots of Alexis challenging Yugi to a duel. She could read the majority of the cards. Joey didn’t know how she convinced Kaiba to let her bring her duel disk to the wedding, but he was always a sucker for the kids.

There were some pictures what were just Kaiba and Mokuba, and Joey couldn’t help but gaze at his ex-husband. Standing next to his brother with that small smile that looked so hauntingly like the photo in Mokuba’s locket.

They weren’t teenagers, but the pang in Joey’s chest was not convinced.

The next few photos hurt even more, just Kaiba and the kids. Alexis, duel disk still strapped faithfully to her arm, appeared to have requested to be held, and Atticus stood in front making little peace signs and sticking his tongue out.

Kaiba was smiling that tiny, genuine way—still. Through rows of photos, he didn’t stop, except for a few when Atticus jumped to try and steal his sister’s duel disk.

Joey’s eyes pricked with tears, and all of that curiosity was silenced. He had meant to do some snooping—follow up on some headlines about a secret lover that Honda had sent him—but any curiosity was stamped out.

Joey decided it was because he was sad to miss their friends, not their life together. And that everyone had been playing quietly for too long. He abandoned the phone on the couch to see what had happened in the playroom.

The playroom was a nice, cute space. Light blue walls, big windows facing the gardens, plush tan carpeting. Back when they had maids, the room was always tidy, but now Joey had given up. It was for the kids to play in, anyway, so if the train set and crayons and common Duel Monsters cards littered the floor, who really cared. Against the wall, there was a fairly large grey couch that had seen better days.

It was almost too much, to see Kaiba, passed out with a book in his lap, and the kids on either side snoring away. Alexis’ hair dripped over the side of the couch. Atticus was leaning against his father. Joey leaned over to collect Alexis first to take her to her bedroom.

The soft vision was hard to face, and Joey couldn’t resist the simple thought that “this is what I wanted.”

At the movement, Kaiba stirred.

Joey resisted smiling at the spacey, sleepy face. Kaiba blinked tiredly, slowly collecting himself and gathering his bearings. It took quite a lot of effort. “I’m putting them to bed,” Joey said. Kaiba nodded and ruffled Atticus’s hair.

By the time Atticus had been dropped off at his room, Kaiba was missing. But Joey had a decent guess where to find him.

. . .

“So, who’s the secret lover?” Joey asked, wandering into the room that had once been Seto’s study. Joey hadn’t changed anything about it. He hadn’t even removed the decanter of expensive Japanese whiskey or the two crystal glasses that sat next to it. To be honest, he hadn’t spent time in the room at all, except occasionally dusting when he remembered. After the kids were asleep, it was Seto’s usual haunt back in the day. Seto was nothing if not a man of certain preferences.

The decanter was already wide open, and Seto was making significant progress in draining it. He looked quite at home for a man who had been threatening to stay in a hotel. His cheeks were just a little flushed and Joey could tell the liquor was affecting him because Seto laughed at Joey’s comment.

“Please. You don’t have some sort of web alert on my name, do you?” Kaiba said, raising his glass like there was something to celebrate.

“Nah. But Honda does,” Joey answered, and was rewarded with another one of Kaiba’s signature cackles. It was close enough to friendly that Joey decided to take the companion chair in the study. Joey hadn’t sat in that chair even once in the three years since Kaiba’s departure. Leaning into the plush velvet, he realized he had missed it.

“Of course. There is no one, naturally, just that endless speculation. A man continues to take care of his appearance and he can never do it for his professional image and personal health,” Kaiba pulled his phone from his pocket, scrolling absently. “It must be for a lover.” The echo of blue light from the phone contrasted the warm yellow light from the study’s art-nouveau inspired banker’s lamps. It traced Kaiba’s high cheekbones in a flattering manner. It made Joey instantly more insecure about his own softer face.

Between the baggy sweatpants and charitable flannel bathrobe, he felt like no one would accuse him of taking up a new lover. If anything, he had spotted a few unflattering headlines in the last couple of years. The attention died off dramatically after Kaiba was all the way out of the picture. “Well, I’m sure you’re not worried about me finding anyone else. Don’t think anyone’s interested these days, I kinda let myself go.”

Kaiba’s eyes snapped away from his phone and back to Joey with a fierceness that Joey hadn’t expected. “First of all, I do not tolerate anyone talking about the father of my children that way,” Kaiba spat, the liquor making him slur the edges of some of the words. “And second,” Kaiba huffed a short breath, “you really have no idea what’s going on in my head.”

“Y’know what, Kaiba,” Joey challenged, “I really fucking don’t.”

Kaiba downed the rest of the drink. “I was thinking that you look just as attractive as the day I met you,” and Joey could spot that hunger in his eyes, seductive as ever. “Your hair is still always tousled, like you’ve been playing outside all the time.”

Kaiba returned his full attention to the decanter. “And I can’t look in your eyes without my heart absolutely aching,” Kaiba said as he refilled his glass. He sounded a bit angry to deliver the compliment.

The heat rose in Joey’s cheeks with the compliments. Joey released a sad little laugh before commenting. “Why do you gotta hold back on stuff like that ‘cept when you’re drinkin’ or whatever?”

Kaiba didn’t answer. He put his drink down and leaned in, so close that the heat of his breath tickled Joey’s cheek. Kaiba’s hand floated up to Joey’s face, the pad of his thumb running tenderly over the stubble on his jawline. Those haunted blue eyes saw straight into Joey’s soul.

“Even though you have done nothing but break my heart for the last four years, you are just as irresistible as ever,” Kaiba whispered, before pulling Joey in. There was no force behind the touch, as if he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to.

Maybe, Joey thought, if he hadn’t had such a dry spell, if he wasn’t so intoxicated by Kaiba’s praise and presence, then Kaiba wouldn’t have been allowed to. But the combination of loneliness, yearning, and unspoken regret was too heady. Always, Kaiba had to be too powerful.

And the kiss could have been their first kiss. It could have been the kiss that sealed their marriage at their wedding. It could have been the kiss after Joey first saw Kaiba hold Atticus. The kiss after they brought Alexis home from the hospital. It was tender and warm and peaceful. It was so right it felt like nothing had every happened to them, between them.

It was soft, and chaste. And too loving.

After Kaiba released, he must have noticed the tears that had leaked involuntarily from Joey’s eyes. The next kiss was not nearly so pure.

For one thing, Kaiba couldn’t seem to resist sticking his hands in Joey’s hair and pulling him in. If that first kiss was asking for permission, the second was to put Joey on notice that he was going to be devoured whole. It was hot and the lingering whisky all but burned Joey’s mouth. The campfire smell was almost too much—a warning that this was a bad idea. That they were both vulnerable and volatile and misguided.

But that hot mouth once again overpowered good sense. It always did, after all. And Joey only broke the make out in order to rise from his seat and straddle Kaiba’s hips in the opulent chair. It was clumsier than the last time they had done this, and Joey felt a bit insecure and out of shape, too much on display. But before the could undo his bold move, Kaiba grabbed him by the hips, long fingers artfully playing with the band of his sweatpants, dancing under his shirt and to his back. Kaiba smoothly scraped his nails down the soft flesh. Kaiba’s efforts were rewarded with a full body shudder, and he smirked back, as if to say “I’ve still got it.”

Joey moved in for another kiss, just to get that stupid, self-satisfied smirk off of his face. He was interrupted by his own moan at the sweet sensation of Kaiba grabbing and kneading at his ass. It was sexy as hell, and he felt so wanted. Like Kaiba was drinking in every second of his time with him. Like the last four years had faded away—or maybe never happened.

Joey knew enough signature moves to reduce his partner to a quivering mess. He decided to run his own nails over Kaiba’s scalp and was instantly pleased when Kaiba purred into his mouth. Putty in his hands.

As they proceeded, Kaiba continued to make desperate, needy noises. After his shifted his hips up and whimpered, Joey determined that something was up.

Well, something else.

After he pulled back and rose shakily to his own feet, he offered a hand to his partner.

Kaiba stumbled. He caught himself, but only by relying on Joey’s stability. He looked a little dizzy just to be standing.

“Goddammit. You’re really drunk Kaiba. And you probably didn’t even take breaks or shifts on the flight over, so you’re exhausted too,” Joey sighed.

Joey should have caught on faster, should have known better.

“This is so totally you, so fucking classic. You haven’t changed. This is why I fucking left, and never looked back. You’re exhausted and want to pull something and just… I really just get the dregs of you. Like you give your all to every single thing on earth, anything, so that you’re a mess by the time that you get to me. I’m the last priority every damn time, below even your desire to fuck off.”

“Jou…” Kaiba said his name on the exhale, and it evaporated in the room.

“You haven’t changed a bit in three years. I’m wasting my breath, you’re too much of a mess to even appreciate this. But I’ll tell you I feel like you bought me, and our relationship comes last. I’m your child-rearing assistant, the head nanny, and you don’t even have to try to be my partner.” Joey could feel his face going read with anger. “I get the worst of you, every time.”

Kaiba was silent. One of the most frustrating things about Seto was that no matter what he was going through, the processing power of his mind was rarely genuinely diminished.

“I am a good father.” Kaiba said, more to himself than to Joey.

“Yeah, but you’re a shit husband.”

Joey regretted it the second he said it. Hearing it out of his mouth felt unpleasant, like he was possessed by someone else. Someone a lot crueler, more dismissive.

Kaiba had no comment, no stinging rejoinder. He leaned onto Joey’s shoulder, long brown strands falling against the flannel bathrobe.

“C’mon, you can sleep in the guestroom.” Joey’s arm wound around Kaiba’s waist as he dragged him through the hallway.

#seto kaiba #Kaiba Seto #Jounouchi Katsuya #Joey Wheeler #puppyshipping #Violetshipping #fanfiction #fanfic #yugioh #ygo #ygo:dm #my fic #i wrote this #damn i did

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beneathstarryskies · 4 years

Text

quiet moments (Obi Wan Kenobi x Reader)

Summary: Three times Obi Wan almost says I love you, and the one time he finally does.

Word Count: 2,558

Warnings: Mostly just fluffiness and a tinge of angst.

A/N: I hope this makes up for my complete lack of writing lately. On the plus side, I’m out of work so I have a lot of time to write now. So send those requests!

The first time he almost tells you he loves you is right after the death of his master, Qui-Gon. The loss left a festering wound on his heart. Although Master Yoda advised him to rejoice for his master was now one with the force, he still struggled with his feelings as all humans (Jedi or not) do. No amount of training would ever help him to understand the complexity of grief or the load of extra emotions it often carries with it. When he closes his eyes, the moment of his master’s death replays behind his eyelids and he longs for peace. The longing for peace always seems to make his mind wander to you.

After getting Anakin settled for the night (and promising to come back to check on him later) he finds himself walking to your quarters. He’s not surprised when you open the door before he even knocks. It’s silent as he crosses the room to the window.

It’s difficult for you to see Obi Wan like this. The pain of the last few days covers his features like a black veil, and you know he would hate it if you mentioned how apparent his feelings are. He’s always stayed so guarded, but the events of the last few days have left him feeling raw. He feels like a lost little boy: small, vulnerable, and lost. He was exhausted from putting on a strong facade for the council, and especially for Anakin. You were the only person he would allow to see him like this, and he needed to feel safe for a moment.

“I heard they made Anakin your padawan,” your voice is soft as you carefully approach the subject. You knew he came here to talk about it, but even in times like this Obi Wan’s pride requires him to be guided towards revealing his thoughts.

“I promised Qui-Gon I would train the boy,” he crosses his arms over his chest. You can see his face change momentarily, an attempt to harden his face to hide his feelings.

You nudge him slightly, “Don’t hide from me, Obi Wan.”

He lets out a sigh, hating to be called out but unable to deny it.

“I’m worried I’m not ready,” he admits.

“Of course you’re ready and he’s lucky to have you. You’ve always been the most clever and skilled of all the padawans our age.”

Now it’s your turn to hide, as your admiration for him begins to spill. He simply lets out a small, slightly sarcastic chuckle. You fall into silence, watching the rain drops slide down the window. If there ever was a way for you to steal some of his pain away, to help him bear the burden of loss, you happily would do so. You assume being his friend is enough for now.

“I know how much Qui-Gon meant to you,” you whisper.

“I’m afraid he didn’t,” Obi Wan confesses.

For the first time since his master’s death he allows himself to cry. You pull him into a tight embrace, and he’s convinced he might have fallen to pieces if you hadn’t. He is surprised to find himself gripping your waist to pull you closer. His face is buried in your soft hair, letting your warmth wash over him. He breathes you in, unable to pinpoint why it is he can’t seem to get close enough. He lifts his head from your shoulder, and cups your cheeks. His calloused thumb soothes across your cheek to wipe away a stray tear. Your eyes are filled with wonder at the sudden intimacy he’s showing you. He stares longingly at your parted lips, trying not to imagine the comfort he would get from tasting them. The words dance at the tip of his tongue. An ache he’s spent so long pushing away settles in the pit of his stomach.

You reach up to touch his chest, “Obi Wan, what is it? You can talk to me.”

His mind is a flurry of fears and wishes and fantasy. He knows if Qui-Gon were still alive, he would’ve been encouraged to explore his feelings. However, now he is under the scrutiny of the Jedi Council. One moment of weakness could cost him everything he worked for. He drops his hands to his side, and looked down at the small space between the two of you knowing he should broaden it. Instead he drops his hands to his sides.

“Obi Wan, please. You can tell-”

“I should go back to check on Anakin, it’s his first night here.”

Your heart drops as he moves past you towards the door.

“You know,” you begin causing him to pause in front of the door. “I was always a little envious that you got Qui-Gon as a master.”

He tilts his head slightly in your direction, “Why is that?”

“He never would expect you to hide your feelings.”

“Thank you for seeing me,” he whispers before leaving you alone.

The second time he almost confesses his love for you is the first time you successfully knocked him down during a sparring session. The two of you were constantly sparring when you were padawans, but you never were able to best him. Now you’re both Jedi Knights, and your skills are almost on par with one another.

This time, you’d finally done it. Granted you fell with him when he reached to grab your arm, which wasn’t actually part of the plan. The two of you land on the rough sparring mat in a tangle of limbs and grunts. The neat braid you had your hair tied in brushes against Obi Wan’s face as the two of you wrestle until you’ve managed to pin him down. You hover above him, a devious smile playing on your lips as Obi Wan seems to give up.

The way your fingers grip his robes and your eyes scan his face reawakens a desperate need he was once sure had been put to rest. In your moment of naivety, you blame his blushing on the embarrassment of being bested.

“I win,” you declare.

Obi Wan was suddenly aware of how warm you felt pressed against him. His hands rest on your calves, he toys with the idea of letting his hands make their way to your thighs just to see how you would react.

“Yes, one time out of one hundred,” he teases you while trying to avoid looking at the plump curve of your lips.

“Don’t be a sore loser,” you tease him.

“Let’s go again, and I’ll be easy on you this time,” you suggest with a smirk.

“Ah, you’re unearned confidence is precious,” he teases.

“You’re so smug,” you growl.

You notice his green eyes filled with something you’d never seen in them before. You lean in, and decide to test the waters. You place a soft kiss on his cheek. His chest tightens as he waits in anticipation for your next move. Another kiss lands on the corner of his lips, his beard tickling your face. His hands move to grip your waist, subtly urging you not to stop. You plant a single soft kiss on his lips. He cups the back of your head, deepening the kiss. You only pull away to take a deep breath. Your lips are swollen from his kiss and a tinge of pink colors your cheeks. For the second time in his life, three little words threaten to slip from his lips. As he stares in awe at you, guilt seeps into your chest. You stand up abruptly, shaking your head.

“I’m sorry, this shouldn’t have happened.”

Without giving him a chance to say anything else, you leave him sitting on the floor of the training dojo.

Anakin finally arrives with a getaway ship. It takes all of your strength and no small amount of force manipulation to pull Obi Wan through the door without either of you getting hit by blaster fire. You press the button to pull the door shut, and then yell at Anakin to fly away from the battle raging below.

It was Anakin’s idea to go on an impromptu rescue mission when Obi Wan was taken by General Grievous. Three days of torture proved useless as Obi Wan still refused to give up any information. Anakin couldn’t stand the constant transmissions of Obi Wan being tortured any longer, and the two of you went against the council despite knowing Obi Wan wouldn’t want that.

You learned through an informant that Obi Wan was injected with some type of truth serum right before you slipped in to save him. Grievous had taunted Obi Wan with the fact that the serum had been formulated with the help of Count Dooku, and therefore was sure to work on even the strongest of Jedi. You knew deep down it was only a taunt, yet upon seeing you Obi Wan seemed very...open.

It takes a great deal of effort and no small amount of force manipulation to get Obi Wan onto the ship with the drones shooting at you.

“Will Master Obi Wan be alright?” Anakin asks from the cockpit of the ship as you help Obi Wan lie down on the only bunk in the ship.

“He’ll be fine, Ani,” you answer despite the nervousness building in your own chest. The last thing Anakin needed to hear was anything upsetting. You liked the apprentice well enough, but his volatile nature made you nervous, especially in times of distress.

“Th-thank you,” Obi Wan stutters. “I would have died without you.”

“Surely you would’ve found a way to escape.”

He watches you with admiration filling those beautiful eyes of his. There was something oddly intimate about the whole situation. Anakin was busy flying the ship, so lost in his unnecessary panic he might as well have been in a different world from you and Obi Wan. Obi Wan laid his hand on your knee. He was weak and almost delirious from whatever Grievous pumped him full of. Yet his face changed when you brushed a strand of auburn hair out of his face. There was a sweetness in him you weren’t used to seeing.

“You’re magnificent,” he whispers, “So-so beautiful.”

“You’re delirious” you tease him.

“You’re still beautiful,” he reaches over to touch your cheek softly.

“Shut up, Obi Wan,” you take his hand away from your face.

“I’ve wanted to tell you for as long as I’ve known you, and now you silence me,” he says with a smirk.

“Perhaps when you’re less delirious we can talk about it. In the meantime get some rest.”

“You really are magnificent,” he tells you again.

You stand up, and nudge him to lie down completely. Whispering absently about him needing to rest in order to avoid the praise he was so determined to bestow. His green eyes stayed glued to your face, not missing a single thing. He sees how your eyes can’t help but take him in, and how your face softens when he brushes his hand against yours. You reach out to cover him up with a blanket. You touch his cheek and he leans into your touch. You wonder if he will later come to regret his current lack of judgement. Your fingertips trace their way down the side of his face, moving to caress his beard. Then Anakin announces a destination and you’re pulled into reality. You fold your hands in your lap. He misses your touch as soon as it recedes

“Being a hostage makes you affectionate” you tease him.

“I’ve always felt affection towards you. This just makes me less inclined to hide it.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “I have to tell you…”

Only you placing a soft finger over his lips stops him from saying those sweet words he wanted to say.

“Get some rest.”

***

You took his breath away. The soft, blue gown you wore made your eyes stand out. The way your hair was pulled up showed off your shoulders and the delicate curve of your neck. The setting Naboo sun seems to highlight your cheekbones, and your bare shoulders. Obi Wan’s heart pounds as you walk towards him. When you said you were going undercover to help protect Padme, he never would have imagined you looking so ethereal doing it.

“I feel like I’m naked,” you whisper as soon as he’s in earshot. He laughs.

“You look...different.”

“Padme thought I should blend in if I was to protect her.”

“I wouldn’t call this blending in,” he comments. His fingers absently reach out for the soft chiffon fabric.

“If it helps me stay close enough to thwart assasination attempts I’d wear this dress forever.”

“You sound like Anakin,” Obi Wan shakes his head. “He’s fighting a bout of jealousy because you’re here with her instead of him.”

“She’s a good person, hence why someone wants her dead.”

“She’s a politician.”

“And you’re a Jedi, we all have our labels. They don’t define us.”

He lets out a sigh. More and more he finds it harder to keep a grip on the reality of the situation. When the two of you speak like this, he can’t decide if he adores you or if you’re a risk to be around. Perhaps both somehow intertwined. The very things he adores about you are the same things that keep you from being part of the council. He can feel you’re frustrated with him, and he wonders if it should stay this way.

“Why are you here, Obi Wan?” you ask him finally.

He’s quiet for a long time. It wouldn’t be hard to confess now with seeing you this way and being on this lush beautiful planet together. Nobody would hear except you, and if all else fails he could simply leave if you don’t feel the same way.

“I just wanted to check on you,” he lies. “I wanted to make sure you’re faring well here.”

“I’m doing fine.” You look down at the ground, “I do miss you though.”

His breath catches, and then he swallows softly.

“Ani too!” you add to try to ease the awkwardness created by your confession.

“Of course,” he sighs.

You step closer to him, so close he can smell the sweet perfume you were wearing. He breathes in deeply.

“But mostly you,” you whisper.

He closes the remaining gap between the two of you, taking your mouth with his. Everything he struggled to put into words is slowly revealed in his kiss and his touch. He wraps his arms around you, and allows his fingertips to trace against your bare back. You sigh against his lips, and send his brain into a spiral of intrusively sinful thoughts. You pull away, and both of you giggle.

“The council definitely wouldn’t approve,” you tease him.

“They don’t have to know,” he says. “Just like they don’t need to know that I love you.”

“You love me?”

He smiles, “I always have.”

“I love you too,” you whisper.

He pulls you back into a tight embrace, and peppers kisses along your cheeks. The two of you stay tangled as though trying to makeup for all the lost time. He may not know what will happen once he leaves Naboo, but he knows he wants to spend every second until then with you.

#obi wan kenobi x reader #obi wan x reader #obi wan kenobi #star wars #obi wan kenobi fic

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swiss-mrs · 4 years

Text

Let There Be War (2/?)

(Clyde Logan || Hunger Games: Catching Fire AU)

Word Count: 1.4K

Warnings: None (?)

You stood just off the stage with the other tributes, dressed to the capitals standards. Your tense shoulders evident the near sheer, secondskin-like, sleeves of the dress you wore. All the tributes lined up next to their respective counterparts from their districts. Everyone one in order from 1 to 12, you stood by yourself. Though a few rows behind you, you could feel Clyde’s gaze on your back. Ever since yesterday, he’d stolen glances at every chance he’d been provided with. You heard the que for you all to start filing on the stage, doing as such shortly after called. The crowd erupts into a variety of noises, cheers, gasps of awe, whistles, all of it. You looked into the audience, though blinded by the spotlight, and forced a small, fake smile to please the useless money carriers. Every contestant sat in their respective spots next to their partners, you alone on your own couch.

The interviews with each district’s representatives seemed to drone on, as they always do. Threes finished their time in the spotlight; it was finally your turn. Host Flickerman stood to his feet as he announced you with his booming voice and a smile on his face. You put the most convincing smile on as you could, it seeming to work as the crowd went wild. “Ooooh, Would you look at that beautiful smile on our lovely mermaid queen!?” The eccentric man bellowed rhetorically towards the audience as you made your way to him, getting a cheek touch and kiss noise on each side of your face once reaching your destination. “The stunning goddess of the sea! How nice to see you again!” He exclaimed. “Especially so well dressed as we love to see!” He motioned to your body before practically throwing your hand into the audience, his way of telling you to show off your figure for everyone’s prying eyes to pick apart. You do your best walk and near the end of the center stage.

The ever cheering mass of people cheered on louder, excited for your reveal. Your dress hugged every beautiful curve of your body in the most flattering way you’d ever seen it. The fabric was skin tight and allowed for your glowing skin tone to peek through the shiny, reflective fish scale detailing, your extremities blurred with seamlessly blended undergarments but left little to the imagination. The dress flared out in a soft flowy matter just at the bend of your knees. As you moved, the side detailing from the hips down of the dress flowed like a blanket octopus and seemed to defy gravity as it gave the illusion of floating underwater. Getting to the que, you lifted your arms outwards from your body slightly, rippling them like a wave running from your shoulders through your wrists and leaving your fingers. The slight separation exposed the gill like webbing detail connecting your forearms to your breasts and rib cage. Each movement you had, breath of your expanded ribs, ignited a pulsing glow that ran through lines that outlined the curves of your figure in beautiful designs. It made you look like the most hypnotizing, fantasy sea creature, or rather the utter representation of the ocean’s beauty.

You heard gasps and sighs of wonder harmoniously mingle together, both from the crowd and some from those on stage. It made you grow a little shy but it only brought the host to speak up again, “The ocean is blessed with a humble goddess. The ocean blesses us with its generosity, sharing you with us here today.” He sighed out dramatically, his reemerging voice bringing you your que to come back to his couch to begin your interview, interrogation. “Alright, my beauty. How are you doing today?”

“I am…” You sigh and think of an answer. “The best I have been in a long while.” you fake confidently, faux pride flooding your face. This raises the brows of the colorful man sitting across from you.

“Oh?” He pushes. You nod.

“Being here, representing my district with such honor, being able to go forward with much more confidence than the last time I was on this stage, it all swells my heart with pride and merit.” You tilt your chin up, poised. This brings a delighted smile into the face of the almost unsettling, expressive man in front of you. He leans back into his seat and clasps his hands together in one loud clap in glee.

“I am so happy to hear that.” he rests his arms on the chair’s. “You are truly a goddess. Responsible, assured, and a true lead by example.” He abruptly leans back forward, resting his elbows on his knees, completely changing his dexterity, serious and prying. “But how is it having to go at this without a team member? Does it make you feel disadvantaged? Worried? Hmm.”

“Actually,” you look from him to the crowd, “I think quite the opposite,” looking back to him. He furrows his brows and cocks his head to the side, curious as a cheshire cat, wordlessly edging you on. “I believe in this game, it essentially is everyone for themselves. Though we go in as a duo, in the end there can only be one.” you raise your brow with regal-like determination. “I have all the skills I need and am army enough within myself. Everyone here will have to betray their own in this game at some point. I will remain loyal to myself and to my people. Honoring them with my victory, as I have done before. My will and my confidence will not be broken. I am all I need in this fight and I will represent District Four well.” This brings Caesar to a laugh as one of a proud father.

“That is what we like to hear!” He cheers, the crowd following him. You turn your head to face the crowd, nodding your head as a small bow. “Spoken like the Royalty you are.” he muses.

The host converses with you a little longer about your personal life, though there isn’t much to discuss. “So you are telling me that there is No Mr. in the picture?” You shake your head, confirming it. “Oh my Games!” he shouts, flinging his arms up in disbelief. “You’re telling me not a single suitor swept you off your feet? You have to be pulling my leg. You must be! You are way too great of a catch, pardon my pun,” he interrupts himself to nudge the air, winking and give a guilty smirk and a raise of his left eyebrow, you forcefully giggling to appease him, “to be single after all this time!” You shrug, insisting the truth. “Unbelievable.” He addresses the camera, “Men of District Four,” shoving a pointed finger, “How dare you leave the most beautiful woman within your reach, single.” He shakes his head, disappointed, turning his attention back to you. “Well, my dear, it was lovely speaking with her majesty of District Four.” He giggles at himself, “All I can hope for you is success and true love.” he brings his hand up to the corner of his mouth, poorly hiding it from the rest of the contestants on the stage. “Hopefully it isn’t found during the games.” He mutters with a knowing look, nodding his head in the direction of where the tributes of Twelve sat behind Seven. “Like the other lovebirds we know.” he concludes, jokingly. “But I mean…” he leans in further to you, “the lumberjack definitely gots the looks.” he whispers, teasingly, giggling. None of his ‘secretive’ gestures actually serve a point as this is all televised and amplified, but that was all his point, unsettling playfulness to distract the viewers of the fact that a group of people are put in the same room only to kill each other the next day. A glamorized hunting sport. You look over to Clyde, almost unable to hide the longing in your shared gaze. The moment goes unnoticed by the host as he is turned to the crowd, raising from his seat in a grand gesture with mentions of an applause and your exit. You stand and give a smile and a curtsy before taking a seat back to your lonesome couch for two.

Fives go up for their turn, but by the time they make it to where you stood, you’ve already gone deaf to the world. You go off into a distant daze, staring down at the back of Three’s seat in front of you. Clyde’s gaze stayed with you the entirety of being seated, failing to catch your attention while in your state.

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

part twooooooooooo

next part is the start of the gameeeesssssssss

oooooooooooooooooo

hope you liked it even though it’s kind of fillery

here’s the art the dress was based off of (though i imagines it to be a bit less monochrome) in case my description was at all confusing

@clumsycopy @douglasdriver

#adam driver #adam sackler #Clyde logan #flip zimmerman #philip altman #toby grisoni #ben solo #kylo ren #charlie barber #ronnie peterson #kylo ren x reader #ben solo x reader #flip zimmerman x reader #adam driver x reader #adam sackler x reader #clyde logan x reader #charlie barber x reader #ronnie peterson x reader

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myarmsaretoolong · 4 years

Text

Where do You Think You’re Going?

@whumptober2020 Prompt #5: Where do You Think You’re Going? - On the Run | Rescue

Word Count: 1933

Synopsis: Peter’s been running ever since Beck revealed his identity. Everything is finally catching up to him.

Read Under the Cut | Read on AO3

Peter had been running for months. Running from everyone in the city who turned on him, running from Tony and May - Peter hadn’t seen them since that day, in truth, he was afraid to, afraid they’d believe Beck’s lies and turn him over to Ross. What was he running towards? Well, he hadn’t figured that out yet.

Ross sent his goons after Peter on a weekly basis; the one thing he hadn’t run away from was New York. It was all he knew, and Ross used that against him by sending out search parties to bring him in, and no doubt ship him off to the Raft for a life sentence. But Peter was still Spider-Man, outrunning a few ground-based soldiers was no task for him.

He’d holed up in an abandoned factory on the edge of the city, only leaving when he had to find food and moving every few weeks so no one would get suspicious and go snooping around. Winter started to drag in, each night leaving Peter just a little colder than the one before - not ideal for someone who couldn’t thermoregulate - so he was once again forced from the safety of his shelter in search of blankets or thicker clothes. Anything to stave off the chill wind.

Peter wasn’t an idiot. He didn’t wander through the streets in the light of day, no. He waited until nightfall, wearing his Stealth Suit - apart from the mask which, as far as he knew, was still in that Netherlands holding cell, not that it was necessary anymore - and swung across rooftops, or darted between darkened alleyways.

Now, he wasn’t exactly sure where to find blankets. And he wasn’t prepared to steal, no matter how bad things got. So he crouched behind a dumpster in an alley, thinking through his options. A tingle ran up his spine, making his hairs stand on end. Ross’ goons.

Peter shot to his feet and turned to face the end of the alley. Five armed goons blocked the exit, slowly closing in. Now for the fun part - the only fun part of Peter’s miserable life. “Hey,” Peter waved with a wide smile. “Nice to catch you again. Or, sorry, not catch, you’ve never quite managed that.”

“It’s different this time, Spider,” one of them growled, still slowly stalking closer. They were dressed head to toe in black, armed to the teeth with whatever Ross’ latest attempt at weaponry was. Peter could practically feel waves of anger rolling off of them.

He had to admit, after months of taunting, running, and taunting some more, it was starting to get a little boring. To spice things up, Peter handed out nicknames to some of the more memorable goons. Ani - the one who insisted on calling Peter ‘Spider’ - earned his nickname from his looks. One time, Peter knocked his helmet off and caught a glimpse at his face before retreating into the night, he bared a striking resemblance to Anakin Skywalker. Pre Darth Vader, though maybe that description wasn’t too far off, either. Besides, Darth Vader was a different goon. He was a loud breather. One Peter could hear him coming from two blocks away. Those two were by far the most common goons sent his way. There was probably a reason for that, a vendetta, maybe. It was always a vendetta.

“Well, they do say there’s a first time for everything. I wouldn’t bet on it, though.” Peter shot a web to the roof of the building to his left and hauled himself up in one swift move. He jumped a few rooftops away, putting a healthy distance between him and Ani, before stopping. It would take them a while to catch up, anyway, and running was no fun when he just up and disappeared at the first sign of trouble. He’d learned that pretty early on.

Now, though, a little game couldn’t hurt. It kept his skills sharp, senses tuned-in, and, well, it gave him someone to talk to. God, Peter missed talking. He missed May and Tony who put up with whatever his latest fixation was. His heart yearned for MJ and Ned, his only real friends. But then, he’d remember MJ’s face after the news broadcast. The way she looked at Peter with fear in her eyes, hands trembling by her side. He left right then, only returning to his apartment once in the dead of night to grab clean clothes and the Stealth Suit.

Peter shook the memory from his head. Leaving everyone had been the worst part, worse than everyone think he was a murderer. Fuck Beck, he ruined everything.

Hang on, what was that? Peter strained his ears and- Yep, he was right. Darth Vader himself. His breathing, mixed with heavy footfalls, made him possibly the worst goon going, bar that one guy who’d freaked out the second he saw Peter and tried to shoot him. That guy, Peter had never seen again. Thankfully.

Darth Vader and his band of goons closed in down on the opposite side of Peter’s building. It wasn’t too unusual for two groups to be chasing Peter at the same time, but it did make things a little more complicated.

“It’s over, Spider-Man,” Darth Vader called, “Come down.”

Peter plopped himself down of the ledge on the roof, feet swinging over the edge, and rested his chin in his hands. “You know what, maybe I will.”

“Really?” Darth Vader’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion.

“No. Come on, man, that’s not happening.” Peter slipped over the edge, dropping down low before shooting another web and launching himself into the air, his feet practically touching Darth Vader’s head as he swung. He relished in the feeling of the chill night air bathing his face, blowing back his too-long curls. After all this was over, Peter wasn’t going back to wearing a mask.

Before Peter could make it far, something knocked him mid-air and sent him crashing into the side of a building. Luckily, he caught himself before he fell too far. He stuck to the wall and cast around, looking for whatever it was, but there was nothing. Peter hadn’t seen anything either. Could it just have been a large bird? A large, slightly blind and probably now concussed, bird? It seemed unlikely.

Below him, yet another group of goons amassed, all shouting up at him to give up. Three groups, now that had only happened in those first few weeks. Okay, so it definitely wasn’t a bird. Peter switched in flight mode, his one and only goal to escape the clutches of Ross. He fled, ignoring how his shoulder screamed out in pain with each swing, as fast as he could. But Ross had goons at every other street corner, forcing Peter to go the other direction.

He realised, with a jolt of horror, that they were herding him. Shepherding him. He tried to stray, to escape, but every time he got off course, another invisible thing would crash into him and force him back to the path they wanted him to take.

Beck’s drones. The thought hit him like a truck. That’s what was hitting him, the shockwaves from the drones concussive blasters. How had Ross gotten access to that? Tony must have given him access to Edith, to track Peter down.

Before Peter realised it, there were no more buildings. He’d reached the edge of the city; only a sprawling field laid before him. Not even a tree to catch himself on. Peter’s arms flailed as he tumbled towards the grass, at the last second, he managed to adjust his position and rolled, springing back to his feet and- Ouch, shit. He’d forgotten just how much those shockwaves hurt.

He stumbled along, one leg basically out of action from his run-in with the building earlier. He didn’t have an aim, there was nowhere to go, only the useless hope that Ross’ goons would just… give up. Just turn around and go home.

Home. Peter longed for home. Not his shitty old factory with the broken windows that let rain in and disgusting fish smell that hung around like a bad - well, I think you can see where I’m going with this. So no, not the factory, his actual home. His and May’s apartment that felt too cramped when he wanted to be alone, yet too empty when he was. With the curtains that didn’t quite fit the sitting room window because Peter measured it in a hurry and that one spot on the wall where the wallpaper refused to lay flat. The familiarity, the comfort.

Instead, he was out here, limping across a field, and hoping. That hope, however, shattered when he looked ahead. More goons, on all sides, closing in. Peter considered fighting, but they were all armed with those concussive blasters. No, he’d save his strength for the opportune moment.

Ross’ men surrounded him, Peter span in a lazy circle just in case a gap made itself evident. Of course, one didn’t. Ani stepped forward, grinning maliciously. “Told you today was different, Spider.”

“I suppose there really is a first time for everything.”

Ani opened his mouth to speak again when a rumble echoed out across the field. Everyone’s heads snapped in the direction from which it came, Peter’s too. What he saw… well, he wasn’t sure if he felt relief or dread. Maybe both, yeah. Both.

Tony landed beside Peter in the centre of the group and held out a gauntlet towards Ani; words weren’t needed to make his threat clear. “Hi, Spider-Man,” he said, “I have a quick question for you.” Tony looped his hands under Peter’s arm and shot up into the sky.

“Uh,” Peter looked down at the slowly shrinking circle of goons. “Go ahead?”

“What, and I cannot stress this enough, the actual fuck.”

“Yeah,” Peter nodded, “I can see how you’d come to that question.”

“We’ve been looking for you for months, kid. We all have. Had to let Ross think he’d hacked Edith and track the drones.”

“So, you didn’t help him? You’re not gonna hand me over?”

Tony scoffed, at a momentary loss for words. “Does it look like I’m giving you to Ross?”

“I have to admit, this isn’t what I expected.”

“Yeah, no shit. Why did you run? Why didn’t you come to May, to me.”

“I, uh.” Peter squeezed shut his eyes and screwed his face into a ball. “I saw the way MJ reacted, and I guessed if that’s what she thought of me… then you’d all think the same.”

“Pete, she was in shock. Someone just told the world her boyfriend was a mass murderer and a psychopath. From what she told me you didn’t give her even a second to speak before running off and never being heard from again.”

Peter’s eyes shot open. “She’s not my girlfriend, Mister Stark.”

“Yeah, cause that was the important take away. Listen up, I’m taking you back to the compound where firstly: you’re going to take a shower, I can smell you through the suit, second, you’re going to talk to MJ, and Ned, and May. Then we’re going to put all of this straight.”

Peter hesitated. “So, you’re not mad?”

“Oh, I’m mad, but more importantly, I’m just glad to have you back.”

A smile danced across Peter’s mouth. Finally, he had something to run towards. And he was going home.

#whumptober2020 #no.5 #where do you think you're going #on the run #rescue #marvel #irondad #fanfic #TDA whumptober

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darkmindsthinktwistedthoughts · 4 years

Text

Devil’s Trust pt2

Warnings: Strong language, Moblord styling warlords.

Masterlist

---

Chapter 2

Rumour mills were in full production. The gossip circles were tapping out messages on the underground jungle drums throughout the city and word was out … The Ghost was here!

“Beware the shadows and its moving shade. Be mindful of your actions and the repercussions made. Judgement comes to those who don’t. Beware the Ghost.”

Every family with ties to the underground knew the stories. They were told and passed on generation to generation. Tales the grown-ups told the children the same way the ordinary everyday people would recite a fairy tale. Except these were different.

Fairy tales were edited narratives, sugar-coated and glossing over the gory details to give the next generation growing up in the world a little moral guidance. When it came to the stories about the Ghost there was nothing sweet about them. Even in the dark underbelly of the world, there were lines you didn’t cross, rules you obeyed and when that was ignored it was the Ghost that took you.

It was because nothing about it was hidden and all of it was true that is struck fear into the hearts of all those living in the underworld. The Ghost was the avenging angel in their world. The Judge, jury and executioner at your final supper. They were responsible for making the unrepentant pay the price owed. Every detail behind the stories of the Ghost could be easily found in the lines of text written by the coroner; if they found the body at all. The question hanging in the air… who was the Ghost targeting now?

---

Two minutes, it was all he could claw back from the time given to him by Sasuke. He had to get out of the main flow of traffic. The road opened up after a few sharp turns, the wheels of his car were smoking as he pulled hard on the handbrake and went down some roads that were so narrow, they could take the wing mirrors off the car had he not been more aware of the space provided.

His engine as it raced through the old cobblestone routes of the old city filled the air with a monstrous roar even as the vibrations threatened to shake the chassis from the rest of the car. The other vehicles had not given up the pursuit but were now forced to follow him in single file. He wanted to get them out of town but that would be asking for too much. He followed the labyrinthine roads following a map in his own head and decided drawing them out to the dockyard was the best option. You’re in my playground. Don’t presume you can back me into a corner when I know all the short cuts.

The smile on his face grew deeper as his focus on the road ahead cleared. He was not so much the vision of a man being pushed in a murderous pursuit through the twisting veins of the city but that of one that was simply out for a drive on a long weekend. Yes, this was his city. The dark side streets and alleys were his bread and butter, all the old roads the jam that just served to make his nightlife all the sweeter for his hunt.

As the front of his car exited the alleyway like a bullet from a shotgun. The cobbles under his wheels gave way to slick dirt. The moisture from the water in the air here meant the ground was never what you could call dry. The natural clay content of it meant it was like skating on an icy pond. The other cars exited behind him and began to separate up to cover as many routes behind him as they could.

It was laughably predictable and he couldn’t avoid the dry chuckle that left him as he glanced in his rear-view mirror and once more pulled on his hand brake causing his car to spin on the ground under it so he could come face to face with his pursuers. The salt clogged mud slick sprayed in arcs by his rear bumper before falling still on the ground once more. He could almost feel the hesitation from them as he changed the game from cat and mouse into one of chicken.

Mitsuhide put his hand up to the handle on the roof clicking a hidden button that slid back a small compartment there revealing a primed and loaded gun. Now then, who’s first?

---

Stepping foot back into HQ Nobunaga was almost immediately accosted by a highly strung Hideyoshi. The man had been sitting in a chair by reception and practically pounced the second he saw his Boss’s highly polished shoes touch the tiles.

“You’re back!” The man blurted out as if in shock. Warm caramel brown eyes searched Nobu from top to toe as if he were expecting some sort of mortal wound to be present.

“Naturally.” Nobu replied rather lazily as he fixed his right-hand man with a nondescript look. He was a little amused but mostly thankful that it was past office hours and there were no clients that would be in need of explanations as to why the Vice President was acting like someone had put itching powders in his boxers.

“You didn’t answer your phone. I was worried.” Hideyoshi spoke with panic still clear in his voice and slightly shaking. You really would make someone a fine wife one day Yoshi. Still, for all your fussing I can’t deny you have been a dependable ally during some of the darker times.

“When are you never worried?” Nobu replied in exasperation failing to suppress the sigh that was building inside him.

“Why didn’t you answer?” Hideyoshi appeared hurt by being ignored and it was obvious it had been yet another thing he deemed life-threatening or at the very least major enough that could yet again bring down the foundations of their company that were already standing on rocky terrain.

He didn’t know if it was the lingering effects of his time at the Birdcage or if he had simply found the eye of the emotional storm that had been raging inside him. He was reluctant to dwell too long on such a thing but he couldn’t keep his newfound amusement from escaping him.

Nobu smirked slightly and replied. “I left for a few hours. I fail to see what disasters could have befallen during that time that could not be easily handled by the men I left in my place. A fact that was confirmed when I turned my phone back on and was bombarded with several messages one of which was our new resident tech expert informing me that the matter was in hand.”

Hideyoshi stood where he was mouth agape at the succinct rundown of events. A surge of satisfaction washed over Nobu as he succeeded in rendering the other man speechless. The doors to the underground car park opened revealing a spectacled arrival carrying a bag printed with a grocery store logo.

“You fixed that?” Having found his voice again Hideyoshi stated more in shock than as a question as he turned his attention on the new arrival. Sasuke quickly looked between the two men noting that they were both showing polar opposite levels of the emotional spectrum and made the connection to the only incident of interest for the day.

“Yes. It did take a little bit of creative hacking to do it but I was able to shut down the news drone and have the incident written off as a scene being filmed for a new movie. Hardly something out with my skill set.” Sasuke pushed up his glasses causing them to glint in a way that made him look even more like a casual superhero than normal.

“You think people will buy that?” Hideyoshi stammered at the unbelievable ease with which Sasuke replied. Nobunaga stood silently watching the two converse. He plunged his hand deep into his trouser pocket his fingertips finding the edge of his key that would allow him to escape to his rooms.

“They already have.” Sasuke flashed his smartphone with a still image of the street view below the drone and the new headline “High-Speed preview of new action movie – was the Director’s choice of using the real world refreshing or irresponsible?” Nobunaga’s lips tugged into a large satisfied smile and chuckled with the amusement of the audacious plan as well as the apparent effect, it had on Hideyoshi.

“You don’t exactly look shocked by any of this.” Hideyoshi stated trying to figure out why he seemed so lax about the events. Ever since the companies had merged, he had to confess he had a hard time getting a read on this young man. His expressionless face gave nothing away and it was unsettling to not even be able to detect a real shift in tone as he spoke. Hideyoshi was a people person or as Mitsuhide had pointed out on more than one occasion a people pleaser. To be unable to get even subliminal guidance from someone as to how to assist them or what they are even thinking unnerved him.

“Kenshin is my Boss. Being asked to shut down a few cameras and changing a few things on the city grid to redirect attention is nothing.” Sasuke replied in a calm manner with a little shrug that only seemed to frustrate Hideyoshi even more.

---

The sound of tape being pulled from a roll and placed over cardboard almost seemed to echo in the almost empty rooms as the last of their things was finally packed. Her cat sat by the window where it had claimed a place for itself the second Mitsuhide had retrieved it from Takahiro’s loft space. Swishing its tail unhappily, as its blissful time enjoying the sunlight was being disturbed by the sounds of moving.

It had been a whirlwind experience coming back to Azuchi HQ after everything that happened. She had thought to try to explain everything at the church about her living arrangements but it seemed Mitsuhide already knew that she no longer had her apartment. He could have left her to return to Takahiro’s apartment but it seemed that was not an idea he wished to entertain. All of the familiar faces welcomed her regardless of the tension that was present in the air. Something had clearly been happening but it was going to be a few days before anyone explained the current situation to her.

Staying in his rooms at Azuchi was only ever supposed to be temporary. He was pulling strings and taking late-night phone calls trying to secure somewhere new. He wanted her to be safe it was key and his number one priority. Whilst it was safe at HQ Mitsuhide hadn’t felt entirely comfortable leaving her there on a permanent basis. [Name] was effectively a magnet for danger, as far as he could work out. Whilst they had survived a lot, he had no liking for the idea of leaving her in a place where she could easily become embroiled in yet another “plan”. On top of that if the others discovered [Name] was related in some distant way to the enemy he really didn’t like the idea of what might happen to her.

She took another look around the room just in case she had missed something they needed. Thinking that it looked just as empty as it had done when she first came here. Mitsuhide wasn’t exactly minimalist by choice it was something to do with his work. The less you have the fewer things people can use against you, but the lack of luxury items or things you might expect as a common standard of living somewhere were also not present in the apartment. He was never really at home to notice that an electric kettle or a microwave might actually help him a little in the mornings or late evenings. The longer she stayed the more she noticed little things she had taken for granted, like a hairdryer. She had taken to picking up these missed items on her way home from work.

Mitsuhide said nothing to the accumulation of objects appearing in his apartment. He knew what they all were and how to use them just had never seen a need to have them. They were together and would be for a long time. His small isolated little hole had been filled with something far closer to a kind of peace than he ever thought someone like him would even have a hope of seeing. It was a form of culture shock that was not entirely unpleasant. Despite his home being taken over with progressively more acquired bric-a-brac and miscellaneous goods, he felt comfortable and at ease. She had turned his place into the same warm and inviting area her apartment was, and he found he sort of liked it.

“Hey Kitten, you got any more ready to go?” A lively voice called out before the person attached to it had even managed to make it into the room.

“Think this is the last one.” [Name] called back turning to smile at the men who had been helping shift most of the belongings.

“Good because I’m not making any more trips.” Ieyasu huffed cracking open the lid on a bottle of mineral water and chugging half of it in one go.

“It was nice of you to help out Yasu.” [Name] smiled sweetly unaffected by the salty blonde’s attitude.

“I’m only doing it to shut Hideyoshi up and to get you and the body collector out of my hair.” Ieyasu hastily started to make an excuse desperate to hide the redness he felt breaking out on his face. He wasn’t exactly a stranger to interacting with women but there were certain types of them that seemed to trigger him to fluster badly. Masa often teased him that it looked like he was a teenager having a short circuit because a pretty girl spoke to them.

“Body collector?” She inclined her head a quizzical expression replacing that beaming smile.

“Best not to ask Lass. Yasu’s still a little salty over having to deal with what is left of your fella’s… whatever he does.” Masa chuckled and put his hand on her head. [Name] pulled herself back swatting the hand from her and met his smile with a brief glare that was rendered powerless by the man’s lack of concern.

“It’s strange to think I’m leaving here again.” She rolled her eyes and glanced about again.

“It’s not too late you know Kitten. Just have to say the word and I could steal you away…” Masa moved like a cat sliding up closer and leaning over to whisper in her ear. Failing spectacularly as his volume control was definitely off.

“My-my, someone is feeling confident despite his lack of depth perception.” A teasing voice came some somewhere behind them carrying a chilling edge to it. All three of them turned to see Mitsuhide propped up against the doorway, one hand in his trouser pocket. The smile on his face at first glance appeared pleasant but didn’t reach his eyes at all, it could send a shiver up anyone’s back.

---

It had taken some time to secure a residence for them but after conducting some final checks he was finally back at HQ. That little diversion from earlier had been interesting but he was still thankful for it to have reached its conclusion swiftly. He parked his car alongside the van that stood there with its loading doors wide open revealing box after box piled up methodically, each one labelled in her delicate handwriting. Looks like I’m a little late to the party on this one. I wonder who got the job of assisting the Princess. I could see Hideyoshi doing that, the man never knows when to stop smothering.

Moving from the car park to the elevator in the lobby he was hit with a feeling of something a little nostalgic. He had never really taken the time to appreciate the building. It was a base of operations, somewhere to work out of and run back too. It was also naturally a legitimate business and on a weekday was as busy as an anthill at a picnic. Today though it was quiet and as he stepped into the lift, he realised that the significance of the place was about to shift for him. He would be here but it was only going to be for work. He would maintain a room but it would only be for use on occasion. Is this what a normal life feels like? Working and then going home somewhere else?

The closer he got to his rooms the more he was aware of activity. And then just before he entered, he heard the unmistakable voice of Masa.

“It’s not too late you know Kitten. Just have to say the word and I could steal you away…”

“My-my, someone is feeling confident despite his lack of depth perception.” He stopped in the doorway adopting an air of nonchalance when he was, in fact, feeling anything but. The familiar tease in his voice didn’t manage to cover for him either. Of all the people why him? It’s not as bad as Shingen I suppose but still…

“I knew you were there.” Masa snorted meeting Mitsuhide’s smile with a knowing grin of his own. It was like watching a cat and dog in a face-off about to have a scuffle.

“Then you are also lacking in your sense of personal preservation.” Mitsuhide slowly moved closer to [Name] pushing himself between her and Masa forcing the other man back. Masa was chuckling and looking at Mitsuhide as if he had just found something brand new and shiny to play with. Don’t try to play games with me. You can only imagine what I will do and even then, I would easily surpass your delusions. Wait a minute why am I so annoyed right now?

“Have you met Masa? The guy is a walking disaster who is basically a pain in my ass.” Ieyasu spoke up disrupting the atmosphere enough to dissipate some of the friction.

“Haha, I’m going to miss you guys.” Her laughter from behind him snuffed out the last of his rising turmoil. She was a miracle balm to his fraying nerves. He was still not used to this thing called “love” they shared. It still threatened to be an all-consuming fire he would happily die in.

“No need to pull that face [Name].” Masa adjusted himself and pulled back. He had amused himself enough and didn’t wish to upset Mitsuhide further. It was so easy to see the emotions playing in the usually unreadable man. He had seen them clear as day in his friend after that fake funeral incident and the only one oblivious to it was apparently the man himself.

“He’s right, not like you are going so far away you can’t visit. I will probably be busy but you will no doubt find a way to disturb me.”

“Wouldn’t hurt you to be a bit more honest there Yasu.” Masa laughed and roughly rubbed his knuckles over the top of the fluffy blonde’s head, before picking up the last sealed box. “Anyway, I’ll take this down to the van.”

“I’ll hold the door for you.” Ieyasu leapt forward and barged past Masa nearly knocking him over in a rush to escape the room.

“Being awfully friendly today aren’t you Yasu?” Masa looked a little shocked at the sudden show of enthusiastic helpfulness.

“Not really I just don’t want to stay around here and play gooseberry.”

“Those two make a good pair.” [Name] said wistfully as she watched the others leave. It made him feel like he wanted to make her look at him.

“They do have an extraordinary ability to make up for each other’s deficiency.” He turned around locking her small frame in his arms. “Now then little one whatever shall I do with you?” I never had myself pegged for a possessive man. You really do have a curious power little mouse. The things you do to me.

“Me? What did I do now? I haven’t done anything.” [Name] startled and her blue eyes began to flicker around wandering the room attempting to remember anything that might have incurred punishment.

“You are very guilty my dear, you just haven’t realised it yet.” He dipped low and sealed her lips shut with his. I will never get bored with watching you, my love. If this is a dream I don’t want to wake up.

“Mmfph… Mitsuhide! Don’t tell me you’re jealous.” She placed her hand on his chest pushing him back. Her upturned eyes looking at his searching for answers he didn’t wish to give. Jealous? Ah, so that’s what that was…

“Alright… I won’t tell you.” His lips curved into a wolf-like grin as he claimed her mouth again.

---

The stars in the sky were obscured by that sickly glow from the city. He could only very faintly pick out one or two points of light above him. The air felt heavy but he was unsure whether that was an omen of rain or the echo of his own discomfort.

His time at the club had been a welcome distraction even if he hadn’t been able to completely let go. The carefully crafted world of his was becoming more unstable. Voices carried in the wind, not wanting to openly admit the facts. They were concerned once more and it all had a negative impact on the trust, they had in Azuchi. A trust they had in him. The firm hand he once held the city with was being pried open and he could feel it slipping like sand through his fingers. But who the hell is it? Who is still pulling strings?

He sighed and lowered himself down onto the bench in the pavilion. His gaze moved from a fixed point in the past to the present and he frowned. Nobody liked change, but that is exactly what was happening. Esshu should have collapsed but didn’t. There was one reason for that, the only one that made any logical sense and it was that there was more than one head running the show. Wheels and cogs began to turn in his mind as he thought through various proposals and suggestions that he could use to secure a foot in the door at the other company. Anything I offer would be much harder to refuse if I could just find the focal point. That weak link in the chain that holds all the strings. Who do I know that could find that?

---

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bossuary · 4 years

Text

Having just finished Tevinter Nights, I have un fucktonne of questions and theories. But, below are a few of the subjects/problems that I can’t stop thinking about. I’m curious how other people interpret them, or if I’ve missed some critical details, because it seems like there’s some retconning going on.

so, spoiler warnings apply, since i’m about to discuss the Big Doings below the cut.

The most immediately relevant items come from the final story, right? BUT, because of the nature of the characters, I sort of assumed that much of “The Dread Wolf Take You” is a study in unreliable narrators. Can any of the tales be believed after Charter exposes the Bard? Do we move forward assuming the puzzle pieces we’re trying to fit together are the correct ones, or tread carefully on the word of a known liar?

Nothing about the Assassin’s Tale fits the facts we know:

Meredith’s corpse didn’t actually stay in the middle of the square in uptown Kirkwall. Her remains were taken away to The Black Emporium. (iirc, Varric mentions this in one of the recent comics)

Pieces of her sword (Certainty) were re-forged for Samson to use in service of Corypheus, a sword which eventually passes to the Inquisition.

A shard of the idol continues to exist outside of Meredith’s remains, or her re-forged blade. Depending on worldstates, the shard is either a weapon rune--forged by Sandal and given to Hawke--or it was given to Varric (who then gave it to Bianca to study, I think).

In the comics, and in a few of the short stories, the fiasco of Fen’Harel’s agent losing the red lyrium “item” is cleverly handled from a lore-continuity perspective. It’s only ever referred to as a “weapon,” which could mean a lot of things, and allows for greater freedom in describing it in later media. Until the Assassin’s Tale, I firmly believed they were talking about Certainty. Now we’re supposed to believe it’s been the magically re-formed Primeval Idol this whole time, freshly revealed (by the equally untrustworthy Mortalitasi) as a go-go-Gadget ritual blade.

So, are the Tales a cheeky narrative lie, or is it all lore retcon? If it’s a retcon... -What ritual could the blade have originally served? -Might it actually be a key, as lots of people have theorized? -Is there really a potion that can melt lyrium? -Does Solas actually have the idol now, or was his entire story a lie to cover the truth that he still hasn’t found it?

Also, uh. . .Can Solas just. . .kill people while they sleep/dream, even dwarves? I mean, he has demonstrated the ability to create a “dreamlike” state for a dwarf Inquisitor. But, this power seems OP, even for him, and narrative reach. Possibly it’s further evidence that nothing in “The Dread Wolf Take You” can be trusted. 1. If the plans for the Fade are already underway, what does this mean for people like Evangeline, Anders, Grandin, and Sigrid, who’re possessed by spirits/demons? It’s possible they’ll be forcibly separated. Those (like Evangeline) who’re only alive because of their spirit, will likely die. Without Justice, Anders might finally succumb to the taint.

There are probably thousands of people across Rivain and Seheron, and among the Avvar and the Dalish, who’re contentedly hosting spirits. Would these spirits allow their mortal hosts to be harmed by Solas? Or could there be resistance to his plan from the Fade side of things?

Lots of the stories in Tevinter Nights include the theme of outliers breaking ranks from within a seemingly monolithic society: the Ben Hassrath don’t support the Antaam in their campaign, the Venatori and their supporters operate in defiance of Tevinter, the Crows had one of their Talons disrupt a centuries-old pact.

Going forward in the next game, we might see a spirit faction that, for any number of reasons, acts against The Dread Wolf’s plan to sunder the Veil.

2. Why does everyone in this book describe the red lyrium idol as having only two figures, when every depiction of it that we’ve seen clearly shows three? The crowned figure is (if Solas is to be believed) comforting one person, but no mention of the other poor soul, an even more skeletal figure who seems to be missing their left forearm, and is stuck on the other side of the large ring. No love for that dingus, I guess. Very curious.

And no mention of the serpentine shape that surrounds all three of them.

3. The sea is going to be a big part of the next stage of this story.

-Mythal’s origin has her emerging from the sea. -In “Luck in the Gardens, the 8 Venatori who were tasked with keeping the “formless” monster in its sealed prison each wore a clay amulet depicting a thin four-winged dragon rising above a sea. -“The Horror of Hormak” describes the viscous gray transformation fluid (and the monsters it creates) as stinking of brine. -The Mortalitasi’s Tale includes a reference to The Dread Wolf screaming about the Sea of Dreams. -The Executors appear to be stepping into the action, finally. They are known as ‘those across the sea.’ -Among the murals discovered during Trespasser, there are some that include imagery of flowing water: The Death of a Titan, and Lifting the Vallaslin -Before ascending to godhood, Ghilain’nain killed all of her creations. . .except the giant monsters in the deepest waters. Lore says “Pride stopped her hand,” which could mean that she spared them because she was too proud of how perfectly-made they were. Or, that an aspect of Pride (as a demon or spirit), convinced her to let them live.

4. I’ve always thought that the painted murals of Trespasser and those completed at Skyhold are actually of a different sort, in a very specific way. Much of the ornamentation, symbology, and iconography that’s used in the various frescoes in Trespasser. . .isn’t found in Skyhold’s frescoes. My feeling, based on these differences in style, and the uneven quality of the paintings in the Vir’Dirthara, is that the murals in Trespasser have been painted-over.

-Thanks to Gatsi, we know that the mosaics we worked so hard to complete for the Inquisition were all re-carved by several hands over the ages, making it difficult to get an accurate interpretation from them.

-During “The Horror of Hormak,” Ramesh and Lesha encounter mosaics depicting elven kings and queens, and their subjects. But the mosaics shift and change the longer they stare at them. The scenes transform from a glittering parade of nobility offering succor to their subjects. . .to a death-march of tyrants forcing magical torments on their slaves.

-In “Genitivi Dies in the End,” our industrious well-traveled Brother is humbled when he discovers an elven tome that depicts the continent of Thedas in superior and, crushingly, more correct detail to anything he’s ever seen. Which means that either the continent has changed dramatically, or all the maps that exist in modernity are based upon a flawed (altered) source.

There’s an established trope of people from all parts of Thedas altering relics in order to change history’s interpretation of them. So, why would the frescoes/murals be any different? I believe that either Solas, or someone loyal to Solas, altered the murals in order to obscure the truth behind them.

If we believe Philliam, a Bard! (though, again, an unreliable narrator), the Qunari Rasaan disbelieves all of the names attributed to Solas, either by his enemies or himself. As Philliam posits, to know Solas’ true name would be know the best and worst of him, his flaws and weaknesses, and what he’d “failed to be.”

Essentially, I think we’re being misled at every turn. And this leads me to. . .

5. None of the stories in Tevinter Nights expands on the role of dwarves in past and future conflicts. We get lots of new and juicy stuff on Tevinter, Nevarra, mages, elves, the Crows, the Lords of Fortune, even the Qunari. Noticeably and glaringly absent is any mention of dwarves, titans, and how they fit into the unfolding lore.

One of the largest and most influential groups of dwarves in all of Thedas (The Ambassadoria) lives right in the heart of Minrathous. Above ground. Vulnerable to the invading Qunari and Fen’Harel’s agents.

Dwarves are as tellingly absent in this set of stories as dragons were in all the Evanuris revelations.

The one place where those two things intersect. . .is out in the Hissing Wastes, near the Sunstop mountains (which has always sounded to me like the same naming convention as Skyhold).

Out there, we come across a dwarven thaig, the only thaig to have been built above ground, that pre-dates the first Blight. It’s called Kal Repartha, which means ‘a place where we may meet in peace.’ Paragon Fairel and his sons appear to have built the thaig as a way to escape some huge conflict in the Deep Roads.

Statues of Mythal’s dragon form are arranged in places of honor outside Fairel’s tomb. As if in protection.

Fairel was a rune-smith, one of the greatest who ever lived. Mythal might have worked with Fairel toward some common goal, relying on his skills to make devastating weapons, runic keys for hidden places, or repositories of knowledge best kept secret. She might have protected Fairel as a respected friend and ally.

Reaching a little deeper, Mythal may have helped separate the ancient dwarves from the hivemind control of the titans, freeing them to create their own vibrant society, far from the “witless, soulless” existence they lived as drone-like workers.

(As an interesting aside, Fairel wrote about dragons, proving that dragons, dwarves, and the Evanuris existed at the same time)

It just seems like the root of this unfolding elven lore is the Titans themselves, the life they created in the dwarves and the tangible world, the innate power of their blood, and the knowledge that was stolen from them. Why don’t dwarves feature more heavily in the anthology?

That’s it. That’s my tinfoil haberdashery at the moment. Thoughts? Corrections?

#dragon age #tevinter nights spoilers #tevinter nights #dragon age meta #DAMN #long post

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everlarkficexchange · 5 years

Text

F-CATS

Written by: Buttercupbadass

Prompt 51 Fantasy: “Buttercup” (ironically named “Freedom Cat” by Capital scientist who created him) is an intelligent mutt designed to infiltrate rebel groups and sabotage uprisings, but after being healed by Prim and seeing the impact of Mr. E’s death, he turns on the Capital. “This whole operation was your idea.” [submitted by @567inpanem]

Rating: T

Note: Because of where this prompt took me there will be little to no Everlark for this Everlark Fic Exchange piece. Hope you understand and can still enjoy.

F-CATS

Part One: Spy

I am a Mutt. I don’t know if I was born. I don’t remember having a mother. I only know when I was turned on. Back then, I did not have a name only a designation, Feline Covert Anti-Terrorism Surveillance number 9. FCAT9 for short. My 8 brothers and I were the most successful Capitol spying tool ever created, muttations, a perfect symbiosis of technology fused with organic matter. We were designed to spy on district rebels from within their own organizations.

Early on in Panem’s history the rebels had signal jammers that made Capitol listening devices and video drones useless. It started with an idea to send in a literal fly on the wall that could record and transmit intel on rebel groups. Actual flies outfitted with microscopic recording devices were released throughout districts but they proved to be cost prohibitive. One swat and down went expensive gear. Not to mention a good cold snap could wipe out your entire spy network.

Next they tried birds, which were sturdier but ultimately a catastrophic failure. Birds are too, forgive the pun, flighty. Zooming off with just the wave of a hand. They weren’t reliable or covert. They’d squawk their intel to anyone and everyone listening. True they could speak, which is a skill I do not possess, but they were easily misled. The rebels caught on to this and fed the birds false information. It caused havoc with the Peacekeepers of the districts, troops were being sent on phantom missions, while the Rebels gained supporters. The Capitol was embarrassed and the project scrapped. Then to add insult to injury, the damn things reproduced with native birds and created a mix-breed that would eventually serve as the symbol for the Rebellion for generations, The Mockingjay.

Years later, with the threat of rebellion again rising in the districts, President Snow revived the Spy Muttation project, this time using dogs. Again, they chose their animal poorly. Dogs are stupid, loud and clumsy beasts. The dog spies were tasked to become domesticated and make rebel leaders believe they were their pets, then simply follow along at their master’s side and listen in on rebel plans, transmitting what they learned to the Peacekeepers. What the creators did not think through is that the rebels within the general population of the Districts do not have enough food to feed their families, let alone a dog. So dog mutts being dogs by nature abandoned their missions and instead found masters within the only group in the Districts with food to spare, the Peacekeepers. For months those listening to the transmissions were fed a steady diet of Peacekeeper gossip, Hunger Games betting pools and recordings of Peacekeeper calls home. Eventually, the Mutts quit reporting back all together and the Capitol lost track of them.

Finally, the scientists creating the spying technology decided that cats would be the next choice. Cats are able to slip silently into small spaces and climb into open windows. We are basically ignored by the general population and self sufficient enough to bring in our own sustenance. Cats, by their nature, are aloof and once programed will not be swayed from the mission given. In other words, perfect.

And we were successful. FCATS brought down rebel groups in Districts 5, 6 and 11. The President himself, after stopping an uprising in 11, praised me. Of course the President couldn’t mention us by designation. That would blow our cover. But he did praise his special agents of espionage. I believed we deserved every accolade we received.

Following my success in 11, I was retrieved and returned to the Capitol to be outfitted and reprogrammed for my next mission. I arrived in District 12 on a spring day. Delivered by one of my creators in a crate, I was handed over to the Head Peacekeeper. Peacekeeper Cray was not the brightest bulb but he did not have to be. Unlike other spying Mutts before me, we did not rely on the locals to transmit data. All I needed was my crate.

I remember the first time I laid eyes on Peacekeeper Cray. My handler opened my crate and I walked out in all my majestic glory. “A cat? The Capitol sent me a cat? What the hell is this cat supposed to do?” I swatted his hand and hissed to make it clear, I was NO PET and that was not acceptable behavior.

“Be very clear,” my creator said. “This is no ordinary cat. This cat is worth 10 of you and if anything happens to this cat, it will be your neck.”

“What does it do? How does it work?” he said as he stood a safe distance from my claws.

“All you need to know is that cats like this one have been responsible for bringing down Rebel groups throughout Panem. You are only needed to find a safe place outside for this crate where he can return to it and it won’t get stolen, and he will do the rest.” He then turned to me and with a salute, wished me luck. As he left, he had parting words to Cray. “And if you can leave him a little food from time to time, he’d appreciate it. He likes tuna.”

I followed Cray outside as he placed my crate between two barrels near his trash receptacles. It was acceptable. The entrance was hidden so other creatures wouldn’t disturb me and I could transmit my report to the capitol in peace. I was really quite fond of that crate. After my last successful mission, I was rewarded with a comfy pad. I inspected my crate then double-checked my mission.

Target: Abernathy, Haymitch

District: 12

Occupation: Quarter Quell Victor

My first Victor mission. This was going to be fun.

I wasted no time and headed out of the Peacekeepers barracks and into the town. My internal mapping software led me through the Merchant sector. It wasn’t much of a town in comparison to some I’d seen, but my background information stated that 12 held the smallest population of the Districts. The Merchants seemed relatively well fed. The town was bustling with activity. I found the road to Victor’s Village quite easily but it wasn’t much of a road. Unpaved and muddy from recent rains, I knew grooming would be a challenge while on this assignment. My readouts informed me that Abernathy, Haymitch lived in the house furthest from the entrance gate. I made my way past empty house after empty house. I was informed that 12 had only had two Victors and my target was the last one living.

I found the house to be closed up tight, no windows open or doors left ajar. In fact if it weren’t for the piles of trash strewn across the lawn, there would have been no sign of life. I did notice a cracked windowpane leading to the basement. As a last resort, I would find a way to shatter that glass to allow entry but I hoped that would not be necessary. Abernathy, Haymitch led a solitary life. Although I was a stealth expert, I hoped he would invite me in. It would save time in the long run if I didn’t have to sneak.

After nightfall there was a stirring inside the house and a figure dressed in rags and reeking of alcohol and vomit left the premises. He cursed under his breath while he attempted to lock the door behind him. I double-checked my information. This man, if you could call him that he was closer to a creature than I was. He looked nothing like the photos I was shown. This man was beaten down, with slumped shoulders and shuffling steps. His face was covered by his long greasy hair and a beard. All the images of the target I had seen showed a scruffy yet arrogant Victor. This man was the town drunk. I would need to check DNA for further identification. I tailed at a safe distance from the potential target, not revealing myself too soon. To my surprise, he did not follow the road back to the Merchant sector, instead turned north into the part of 12 my information informed me was called the Seam. If the Merchant sector was dusty, this place was truly filthy. Rutted dirt paths, cat-knee deep in mud. Puddles and dirty children were everywhere.

Children were a liability for F-CATS. They either wanted to keep you hostage or torture you. Back then, I did not fear much, but I feared children. I wanted to jump on a fence and walk it through the mud but that would make me too visible. My only choices were to crawl low to the ground and risk mud on my belly or increase my distance from the potential target. From a distance, I watched him enter what looked like a broken down warehouse. My first attempts to enter this building were thwarted by boots pushing me away from the door. The first couple of kicks were gentle but a large man with extremely large feet stole my breath as he kicked me away on my third attempt. I’ll never forget his words, “Get out of here cat! Or Sae will put you in the stew.” Perhaps, I thought, this mission will be more dangerous than I was led to believe.

Once I was breathing normally again, I explored around the building and found multiple points of entry for a talented CAT like myself. Using one, I entered the building to find a non-Capitol sanctioned market. Stalls were set up and there was trading happening all around. I saw no money changing hands, only goods. I slipped from stall to stall looking for a sign of my potential target until my enhanced hearing picked up the sound of coins being laid down in payment. Who would have Capitol coins here other than a Victor? I followed the sound until I found him, slipping glass bottles filled with clear liquid into his coat pockets. I tried to get a higher position to look at his face but was once again shooed away with a threat of “Feeding you to Sae.” I remember thinking this Sae must be a fearsome beast to hold this district in such fear.

Enough pussyfooting around. I could not submit my first report back to my handlers without laying eyes on my target. As potential target Abernathy, Haymitch began to leave the building, I performed a maneuver called the weave of death. Nearly harmless on flat ground, if performed correctly on a victim at the top of a staircase it can cause a nasty fall and possibly a broken a neck. I had never been tasked with that kind of wet works but my fellow F-CAT, 6, specialized in it.

Weaving between the potential target’s legs as he walked succeeded in making the man stumble, as he reached to the ground to stop his fall, his pant leg shifted up, leaving an ankle unguarded. A quick swipe of my claw into flesh drew blood. The man reacted to the scratch with a yelp but did nothing. He was more concerned about the safety of the bottles tucked in his pockets. Analysis through my nail DNA sampler confirmed I was indeed looking at the target.

I followed at a larger distance and watched as Abernathy, Haymitch returned to his home and locked the door behind him. Satisfied with my day’s work, I returned to my crate. Rubbing up against the sensor on the side, the door opened. I took the time to groom the dirt from my fur before lying on my pad. As the door shut again, I dilated my pupils for the scanner. The green light found the transmitters in the back of my left eye and my report was sent to a handler in command. I received a message back.

Continue Surveillance of the target, report any suspicious activity.

Message received. I slept and dreamt of the glory I would know if I found a Quarter Quell Victor to be a rebel.

***

Months passed and little progress was made. The marketplace called the Hob by the locals yielded very little intel. Abernathy, Haymitch on his weekly visits did little more than stumble in, purchase what I had learned to be ‘white liquor’ and stumble home.

I had to be careful when traveling through the Seam. My initial observation that this part of town was in much more dire shape than the Merchant sector was correct. The children showed visible signs of malnutrition. I noticed that despite the poor sanitation, there were no rodents to be seen. I suspected and would later confirm, that starving children will eat anything. A cat would be a feast. I used my enhanced hearing to listen to the Target’s every step while following from the outskirts of the sector for my safety. I heard his feet shuffle along, I heard him grunt in response to children’s taunts. He would lose his balance every so often. I watched children follow behind and it took a few trips for me to figure out why. It wasn’t because they admired their Victor. I observed that when he would leave his home on these treks there would be a number of Capitol coins in his pocket. He would pay the woman known as Ripper for the liquor and there would still be coins remaining. After every trip through the Seam when he would return to his home, there would be no sound of coins. The children who followed him were looking for coins that fell out of his pockets.

I reported to my handlers that Abernathy, Haymitch had been frequenting an illegal place of trade, purchasing prohibited liquor, and possibly distributing his Victor’s winnings to the district, a violation of the Victor Rules. My handlers instructed that I continue surveillance. I understood that these were minor infractions and they were looking for more serious charges.

Abernathy, Haymitch was a drunk this was no doubt. As far as I could tell, he would go days without purchasing food from the town, but his trips to the Hob were like clockwork with little variation so when something different did happen, I was alert to it. One day near the beginning of June, Abernathy, Haymitch’s well trodden path the Hob was blocked by a lone peacekeeper in full gear. Abernathy, Haymitch stumbled and found he was staring at the chest plate of the Peacekeeper. He straightened himself up to his full height and stared directly into the facemask of the helmet. The Peacekeeper then flipped up his visor. Abernathy nodded and sidestepped around him and continued on his way. My sensors did not detect anything said between them, just the nod. I tried to catch sight of the face of the Peacekeeper for identification but my photo returned a “No Match Found” message.

Capitol face recognition is extremely advanced but I considered that maybe my photo was taken from too far away to provide a searchable image. But something bothered me about the whole interaction. I did not follow the target into the HOB for his weekly trade, instead found a quiet corner.

If I were to be discovered, a human would think they stumbled on a sleeping cat, but the reality of the situation was that behind my closed eyes I was reviewing my footage. Something was odd about that Peacekeeper. Since he was alone, he could not have been on duty, Peacekeepers patrol in tandem. Off duty, they were not allowed to wear the uniform, let alone the combat helmet. But something else bothered me. The boots! They weren’t standard issue boots. These were black but they laced up instead of the buckles of the Peacekeeper boots. Put this with the failed facial recognition and I knew I was on to something. That night, I had to break into the home in Victor’s Village.

I checked out all the possible entry points to his home. Once again finding the house sealed up tightly, I knew my only hope was to break the cracked basement window. This would not be easy but over the last few weeks I had developed a plan. If I were observed executing this plan, my cover as an ordinary stray would be blown, so I had to complete this mission before the target returned home.

Abernathy, Haymitch did not do much of anything and that included yard work. There was a rake with a heavy metal head leaning against the wall near the back porch. It had not been touched in quite awhile judging by the rust.

Step one: get the rake on the ground. This was easily accomplished by leaping from the porch railing onto the handle. The handle then fell to the ground with me.

Step two: Get the rake to the window. Here’s where my skills as an F-CAT came into play. I wiggled my head under the rake head and stood up. The rake head was hooked over my back. I had to walk on an angle and very slowly as I drug the handle behind.

Step Three: This step was more difficult. I had to somehow find a way to launch this rake toward the window with enough force to break the existing crack a bit more. I used my skills and assessed the approach. After I positioned myself I hunkered down low, then sprung upward, arching my back up and launching the rake a few inches in the air. I slipped out from under it and hear it crack against the window. Partial success.

Step Four: Now that the rake was in the windowsill and in position against the glass, I used the edge of the window-well as a fulcrum and jumped on the handle that was sticking up. As I landed on the handle, pushing it down, the rake head went up and fell back into the glass as I jumped off the handle. There was another crack but it had not broken through. Just then, my hearing picked up Abernathy, Haymitch returning home, I knew I only had one more shot. I lept again and this time the window shattered.

I found a perch outside of the house to listen in. There seemed to be no change to the target’s routine. After returning home, he opened one of the bottles he purchased, and drank directly from the bottle then retired to his bedroom and collapsed on the bed. I returned to my crate to relay that day’s details.

My handlers were pleased. I was tasked with identifying the “Peacekeeper” and to increase my surveillance of the target.

As the sun rose in the east, I hunkered down on my comfy pad. The target would sleep to nightfall. I would do the same. Perhaps when I woke, I thought, I would be awarded with a bit of tuna.

***

The target does not leave his home for the next week and I have begun my indoor surveillance. I must say, that I am disgusted. As a cat, I crave cleanliness. Target Abernathy, Haymitch obviously did not. While he slept the day away, I made a study of the first floor. I went first to the kitchen, pretended to look for food. This place would have been a gold mine to an ordinary cat. There were cans of food open and left on the counter and discarded bones full of meat. A cat could eat for a week but I found nothing to report back to command. The next room was a dining room and a thick layer of dust covered every surface.

I moved on the living room. It was a horror show of filth. A tattered easy chair sat in the center of the room. Blankets covered the cushions; there were pieces of foam sticking out from the ends. The chair bore the shape of the backside of the man who must have spent all of his waking moments in it. Empty liquor bottles littered the floor and any flat surface. Beside the chair I found stacks of books. They were all pre-dark ages. This was a fortune in ancient reading material. I scanned the titles through my database and found that each one was a banned edition. They were history books; 1776, Europe: A History, The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, The French Revolution from Enlightenment to Tyranny. They were all books the Capitol had labeled dangerous and subversive.

I remember thinking, “If I get nothing else, I can get him on this.”

I memorized the position of every thing so if I needed to return, I would know if anything had been moved. There was one door however that remained shut. Plans to the Victor’s homes told me it was an office. I needed to get into that room but it remained closed every time I patrolled the house. I set a balled up piece of paper in front of the door. If Abernathy, Haymitch opened the door while I was gone, I would know.

After a week of patrols, I had memorized the entire house and that paper ball had not moved. I began taking strolls through the merchant sector in hopes of spotting the imposter Peacekeeper.

On Abernathy, Haymitch’s night to go the Hob I followed close at his heels. The Peacekeeper did not show. I followed into the Hob and I watched as he stumbled to the one armed woman’s booth. I watched as he shuffled out again and headed back through the Seam. I watched as he did his fake falls, and “spilled” some coins for the kids to pick up. The children came from nowhere, like the stealth beasts they are to scoop up the coins. Two boys began to fight over one of the coins. Then suddenly their shouting cut off, they stared over the Target’s shoulders for a moment before they scampered away into the night. The Peacekeeper stood in front of Abernathy, Haymitch. Again, not a word was said. I watched as the imposter Peacekeeper pushed Abernathy, Haymitch and he pushed back. They scuffled, shoving each other. Anyone else might not have noticed but being trained to sense the small things, I saw the imposter slip his fisted hand into Abernathy, Haymitch’s coat pocket. The hand emerged empty. I suspected he deposited something small. I attempted once again to gain a facial recognition but again, it came back no match found. As quickly as it started, the scuffle ended without a word said. They headed in opposite directions.

Having failed to make identification, I decided to follow the Peacekeeper. The Target would most likely return home but this man would slip away if I did not follow. I took off running after the fake peacekeeper. Just as I was about to clear the residential area of the Seam, the children returned and spotted me.

“There’s a cat! Let’s get it!” One of the children called out and suddenly four dirty little urchins were chasing me. I had to perform some advanced evasive maneuvers to lose them. I climbed a tree, jumped onto a roof and across to a second roof then jumped down onto a shed and into a broken window. I watched as the urchins ran past me. I waited for a few minutes until the coast was clear. Determined to find the Peacekeeper again, I put my nose in the air to catch his scent.

I followed the scent at full speed and saw him heading toward the empty warehouses behind the Hob. By the time I caught up, all I found was a pile of Peacekeeper white armor tucked into a crate. I sniffed around and check it out. It seemed to all be there, except the boots. I sniffed the air again, this time for the specific scent of the boots. It led me around a corner and straight into the group of kids from earlier. They had their backs to me and did not see me, so I slunk down close to the ground and backed away before they did. I was forced to abandon my pursuit.

I returned instead to the target’s residence, I entered through my window and found him, as I usually did, face down in his bed. I sniffed his jacket and smelled nothing unusual. I put my head in the pocket and I found nothing.

On my way out, I noticed my piece of paper had moved. The dust on the floor showed that the door had been recently opened but was closed again.

I had to find a way into that room but my day was done and it was a miserable failure. I returned to my crate to make my report. They would not be happy with me. An exchange was clearly made and not only did I lose the imposter peacekeeper, I failed to recover the object.

***

As suspected, Command was not pleased. Not only did I let the imposter get away, but also I failed to see who picked up the abandoned uniform. I returned to the alley at dawn only to find the uniform gone and it had rained that night so there was no scent to follow. There would be no tuna this week and if I didn’t redeem myself I feared they would send Head Peacekeeper Cray to take my pad. “He better be prepared to bleed if he tries,” I thought.

My only hope of redemption was to find out what was handed to Abernathy, Haymitch. His usual routine would have him sound asleep at this time, so I made my way to his residence. In case I was discovered, I made sure to make myself look like any old stray cat that wandered in off the street instead of the technical marvel I truly was. But I must admit, sometimes I would feel my feline instincts kick in and I couldn’t resist certain urges. While passing the kitchen, the urge to eat as much as I could, because I didn’t know when my next meal was coming was strong. A part of my mind was reminding me, there would be no tuna this week so wouldn’t this chicken bone be a nice substitute. I’ll admit it now, I strayed from my mission long enough to eat a meaty chicken leg.

I listened for Abernathy, Haymitch to awaken but heard nothing. I left the kitchen to investigate the next room, the dining room was left untouched since I mapped it. My sensors detected that the dust had not been disturbed. As I moved into the sitting room, there were more bottles and a book was left open and laying on the arm of the chair. The title was Benjamin Franklin, An American Life, another banned book.

I recorded my findings and was about to move on to the next room when I heard him wake upstairs. I listened as he relieved himself. I would not leave without getting into the office. It was time to let myself be seen and put on the poor kitty look. It’s demeaning yes, but effective.

I could hear his body creak as much as the stairs do as he came down. He went to the kitchen where he began to bang on an appliance. I walked up to him and rubbed against his leg. He kicked me away, surprised but unconcerned at finding an intruder in his home.

“How the hell did you get in here? Thought I had that damn back door fixed. Go on now, shoo!” He kicked at me again but made no contact. I jumped on the counter and then on top of the wall cabinets to get the height advantage. I hissed for good measure.

Abernathy, Haymitch grabbed a chair from the kitchen table and brought it over to the cabinet. He climbed up on it and attempted to grab me.

I was not one for being touched. So I swatted and drew blood on the back of his hand. “You son of a - ,” He cursed I jumped to another cabinet, forcing Abernathy, Haymitch to climb off the chair and move it underneath my new perch. Just as he set it down, a loud clap of thunder rolled over the district and was immediately followed by a downpour of heavy rain.

“Fine,” he said. “Stay there. When the rain stops, you’re out of here.” Abernathy, Haymitch took a dark brown bitter beverage and headed to the office. I jumped down and followed. I remember he turned and looked at me, “Don’t push your luck. If I catch you, I’ll give you to Greasy Sae and she’ll put you in the stew.” Again, I was threatened with this Greasy Sae. I was convinced she must be a fearsome ogre. Or maybe she did not really exist at all. Maybe she was instead a fictional character made up by the town-folk to threaten bad children. “Behave or I’ll give you to Greasy Sae.”

Haymitch opened the office door and I made a break for it but the old drunk was surprisingly quick when he wasn’t drinking and he closed his legs, trapping me on the outside and the door quickly shut. I listened as I heard him boot up a computer. It sounded old and antiquated. I was getting nowhere. I needed in that room. I howled a loud and throaty, the world is going to end kind of howl. If he wouldn’t let me in, I would make it impossible for him to concentrate until he opened the door to make me stop. I have to admit, I was having fun. I could hear his groans, curses at me. I was enjoying myself. I would stop for a few minutes, giving him false hope, but then I would start again louder and a different song each time.

“Shut up!” He yelled as he threw something against the door. I heard him get up from a chair. Seconds later he cracked the door just an inch and I was able to get my head in, then my shoulders, then I was in, right between his legs. Haymitch, Abernathy returned to the desk and I began to record what I saw on the screen. I hit the jackpot.

THIS WAS IT. I had the names of 20 Victors who were all part of the rebellion. I was going to go down in history. I was going to stop the second rebellion against the Capitol. There would be statues in my honor.

Just as he was getting to the plans for the next uprising, lightning struck outside and the power went out. Abernathy, Haymitch swore under his breath. With my night vision I watched as he removed a device from the side of the computer and put it in his pant pocket.

“Study time over!” He said has he turned his chair around to face a table set with crystal decanters. He poured a large glass of an amber colored drink and gulped it down. “This calls for the good stuff.” He said as he drank a second glass a bit slower.

I should have left. I had the names of the rebellion leaders. It would have been enough to ensure I kept my pad and maybe even got some tuna. But I thought, if I get everything, maybe I would have been able to leave this filthy district. Maybe I could retire with my pad in a nice warm window overlooking the Capitol. I stayed. Waiting for the lights to come back on. I watched as he lit candles around the living room and set a few on the table next to his chair. He sat down with his glass and pulled out a book. He held it in one hand and a glass in the other. He would set the book down to turn a page, but the drink never left his hand. When he finished the third glass of the “good stuff” he returned to the white alcohol from the Hob. He tried to read his book, The Destruction of Democracy, but the alcohol was taking over and he began to nod off. I sat near him, watching, silently. His head fell to the side as he fell into a deep sleep. I thought this might be my only chance. I carefully approached him and had planned to cut a hole in his pocket with one of my nails to retrieve the object, but as I came nearer, his body jerked violently but he did not wake. He was having a nightmare. His legs pumped as if he was running in his sleep and his drink spilled. When his eyes sprung open he screamed, and I froze. Sitting on the arm of his chair, my tail was twitching in annoyance. He narrowed his eyes and tried to focus on me. “You! You’re no ordinary cat are you?” I tried to show no emotion but my cat instincts made my tail swish again. “What are you?” He stood up. “You’re going to kill me aren’t you, Mutt. Not if I kill you first.” I jumped away to a high perch on a nearby bookcase. Outside lightning was striking.

A knife appeared in his hand, out of nowhere. He threw his bottle of white liquor just missing me but drenching my tail. He attempted to chase me but stumbled. Aided by my night vision, I moved about the room, leading him into furniture but he was relentless. I wasn’t afraid, he was too drunk and I was too quick. I was not leaving without that device or the information on it.

Eventually, tired of the game I was playing, he stopped. He stood in the middle of the room, swinging his knife wildly and yelling “Nasty Mutts” and “You got Maisy but you won’t get me!” Just then the lights came back on, and he saw me standing on the back of his chair. Abernathy, Haymitch lunged for me but stumbled and fell head first into his chair, jostling the table with his bottle just as I was fleeing across it. The candle must have tipped over and lit the alcohol on fire because next thing I knew, he abandoned his attack to put out the fire.

I ran for my window to escape into the night. I planned to return to my crate to report my findings. I smelled the acrid odor of burned hair first before I realized that my tail, previously drenched in alcohol must have grazed the flame of the candle. I was on fire! I yowled, this time for real and I slipped out the broken glass pane. The fire on my tail got bigger as I ran. I had hoped the rain would put it out but it had let up. As I ran the fire fed on the oxygen and got bigger. I ran aimlessly, trying to outrun the pain that was quickly spreading. I ran for the woods behind Victor’s Village. There was a small creek out there if I could get to it, I could put this fire out. I ran, crying out in agony and fear.

And then with a loud crack, the world went black.

******

What happened to our anti-hero?

Will he survive?

Will he bring down Abernathy, Haymitch and the Rebels?

Will he get tuna?

Stay Tuned for Part Two

Coming Soon

#Springtime Edition 2019 #submission #buttercupbadass #prompt 51 #567inpanem

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vulpinmusings · 5 years

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Ski’tar and Friends part 5: The Ulmarid Asteroid Shuffle

Ski’tar, Vemir, and Six prepare to leave Ulmarid in their dust, but the asteroids surrounding the planet hold one last surprise for them.

The first part

The previous part

We spent about a day in low orbit, inside the asteroid shell surrounding Ulmarid, for a little recuperation, a lot of Drone repair, and to give Captain Navasi time to come to grips with the deaths of so many fellow Starfinders. Once Sixer, Vemir, and I were back in shape, though, we started getting restless. Being a transport ship, the Odyssey had no workshops or other amenities that could hold our attention for long, and I was feeling particularly anxious to learn more about the mysterious shiny rock we’d found on the Unbounded Wayfarer. The three of us eventually concluded that we didn’t strictly need an active-duty Captain just to fly back to Absalom Station, but before I could suggest that we just take off, Sixer pointed out that we should at least talk to Navasi about leaving, if only to avoid trouble from Iseph.

The Captain had not left the cargo hold since the Starfinder corpses had been brought on board, so it wasn’t difficult to find him. We listened to him mourn for a little, and then I said that we wouldn’t mind him staying in the cargo hold for the duration of the return trip if he wanted, but we really should be getting back. Navasi agreed, and so off we went to our stations.

Vemir took his seat in the pilot’s chair, fired up the engines, and immediately flew us into a small asteroid. As I dutifully routed power to recharge the forward shields, I gently reminded Vemir that the goal was still to go around the big space rocks, not through them. As we slipped around the asteroid, I came up with a brilliant idea: if Vemir can’t navigate around the asteroids, why not make sure there aren’t any asteroids in our way? I told Sixer to warm up the forward guns and start blasting, and we made it into the heart of the asteroid field without further collisions.

Likely concerned about the impact and the sound of our guns firing, Captain Navasi decided to join us on the bridge to see what in the name of the gods we were doing. Just as I started to explain my genius plan, Vemir and Iseph both reported something odd: some of the asteroids seemed to be abruptly changing course toward our general location. My suspicions immediately went to some extraplanar intelligence inhabiting the asteroid field – I mean, this was the Vast; who knows what you’ll find out here? - but Iseph’s scans of the area revealed a much more conventional explanation: there was another ship out there in the rocks, firing wildly as it came our way. It was a rust-encrusted heap with a sharp-toothed mouth painted onto the front of the hull to make it look like some interstellar predator come to prey on us.

That visual impression proved to be spot-on. The other ship hailed us with a long-winded and altogether too giddy declaration of their intent to shoot us down and loot our ship, dressed up as a prayer to Besmara, the goddess of space pirates. Navasi traded some harsh words with the pirate captain and determined two things: these were the pirates who shot down the Unbounded Wayfarer and crippled the Endless Vermati, and they also happened to be the exact pirate crew Vemir had taken a bounty out on. Convenient.

There was no chance of talking our way out of a ship battle, nor of getting out of the asteroids and to a safe Drift point without getting shot to pieces first, so I strapped in for trouble and got the auxiliary power routing commands ready to go.

Now, here’s something interesting about Vemir’s piloting skills: ask him to fly through a field of asteroids with no time limit or other extra pressure, and he’ll bump every third rock along the way. Face him off against another ship that’s determined to kill us, and suddenly he’s pulling off perfect turns and dodging around asteroids like a champion stunt flier while always keeping our strongest shields turned toward the enemy. Of course, when I say “strongest shields,” that doesn’t always mean much. The pirate’s guns hit as hard as that Ulmarid bug-worm, and there were more than a few times that a shield quadrant went down entirely despite everything Ispeh and I could do to keep them charged and balanced.

Iseph actually had a real rough time at the Science Officer’s station. Either she just wasn’t comfortable with the Odyssey’s systems, or she doesn’t work well under pressure. She’d handled the battle with the Vermati well enough, but that had been less of a battle and more of stabbing at an already wounded animal until it died. This fight was a much more stressful situation because not only was our opponent fully functional and well-armed, but the pirate captain was constantly on the comms, praising Besmara and mocking our efforts to get away every time his ship flew across our bow. Our life support got a little damaged at one point, but since that only resulted in minor temperature fluctuations and a slight decrease in air quality and our shields were in constant need of recharging, I decided to forego any repairs until after we survived the battle.

Our ship’s turret had a long-range missile launcher, which Sixer fully depleted over the course of the fight while landing only one actual hit with it. For the most part, we had to rely on our aft or turret coil guns as we dodged around. Whenever Vemir managed to point us at the pirates and maintain a reasonable distance at the same time, however, Sixer unleashed the full fury of our forward heavy laser cannons and cut the pirate’s shields down as quickly as they did ours. Unfortunately for them, they evidently didn’t have a genius Ysoki engineer like me on board to get theirs shields back up.

After much weaving about between rocks and taking shots at one another, we ended the battle by managing to get two heavy laser blasts into their port side in quick succession, causing enough damage to shut down their core. Once we were sure the threat was no longer such, we debated what to do about the pirates. I voted that we board the craft and see if they still had anything of value from the Unbounded Wayfarer. Captain Navasi expressed doubt that the Wayfarer had been carrying anything more important than the iridescent rock and the planet information we’d already obtained, and nobody else felt up to a boarding action. I thought Vemir would be on my side, since he would need to bring something back as proof that he’d completed his bounty hunt, but he said that a fragment of the pirate’s ship would be proof enough. Utterly outvoted, I didn’t bother pushing for looting and just turned my attention to patching the life support while Sixer blasted the pirates to bits. Vemir did a quick spacewalk to get his bounty token, and then we finally got out of the asteroids (without hitting any more!) and en route back to Absalom Station.

Although our mission hadn’t resulted in rescuing any survivors, Venture Captain Arvin was immensely satisfied with our efforts and with the data we’d managed to bring back. I will admit, I didn’t intend to turn over the rock we’d found, since I wanted to discover it’s secrets (and potential volatility) for myself, but Navasi remembered the thing, and once he’d brought it up there was no chance I was going to get to keep it. Oh well, it’s probably for the best.

Captain Arvin paid us the rather exorbitant reward money that Vemir and Sixer had haggled out of him way back at the start, and I found myself suddenly richer than my entire clan back on Akiton, at just under 50000 credits.

Akiton is a planet with a nearly dead economy, you see. Even 5000 credits would’ve made me a fabulously wealthy rat there.

The Venture Captain wasn’t done with the rewards, though. As a second instance of what may be a trend, beginning with those candied meats he sprang on us after the Vermati episode, Arvin gave us the coordinates to a planet with many high-end clubs, theaters, VR parlous, and other entertainments the likes of which the three of us had never seriously considered to be within our reach. We graciously thanked the Captain for the unexpected gift and unanimously decided to put off visiting the place until the vague future. Of greater import, Arvin also extended us invitations to remain available for missions for the Starfinder Society. Having rather enjoyed the taste of adventure this little search for a missing ship had given me, I was the first to accept. And, to my relief, Vemir and Sixer also agreed to keep working with the Society. We Ysoki are social creatures at heart, and it doesn’t take long for us to learn another person’s character. Six and Vemir may be an emotionally stunted android and a tradition-bound Vasantha, respectively, but they’re good people and I can’t imagine facing the mysteries of the Vast without them by my side. Or standing between me and danger. Either works.

#Starfinder #ski'tar #Vulpin plays

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coruscantexpat · 5 years

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Bonds Unbroken - Chapter 9: I, Assassin-Bot

Meetra bolted through the turbolift door the second it was wide enough, nearly plowing headlong into Kreia standing on the other side. The old woman narrowly sidestepped the tip of the Meetra's vibrosword with a withering look. Meetra half-shrugged and lowered the weapon toward the floor, still preoccupied with HK-50's possible retaliation. "Are you alright? Why did you leave the morgue?"

"To meet you." Kreia's tone suggested she'd find a particularly dense bantha more intelligent than Meetra's questions. She lifted a hand to stall the younger woman's reply. "We are out of time. I have felt a disturbance..." For the first time, something akin to fear flitted across the old woman's face, and it sent a new chill down Meetra's spine. "Our enemy is here, and we must leave at once."

"The person who fired on the Ebon Hawk?"

Kreia nodded. "The very same, and he will not let us go without blood being shed."

"Well, what's one more person trying to kill us?" Meetra chuckled grimly, shaking her head when Kreia raised an eyebrow. "I'll explain later. Let's go. We'll collect Atton and move from there."

"'Atton?'" In the old woman's mouth, his name sounded slimy and unpleasant, and Meetra frowned. As if sensing her disapproval, Kreia changed subjects fluidly. "In any case, we need to make our way to the docking area on this level. I fear the airlock has already opened, and we must be on our guard."

"I couldn't see anyone from the catwalk outside the station," Meetra admitted, leaving the implication hanging. Kreia regarded her silently. "Right. Let's get moving." Meetra took the lead, heading back toward the communications blister, and Kreia fell in behind her. Save for their footsteps, the sterile hallways were as quiet as when she had passed through previously, but now the silence held an oppressive quality to it, a sinister air that put Meetra on edge. They passed through the security office and Kreia picked up Meetra's abandoned vibrocutter from the desk, holding it a loose, but firm grip. Meetra noted the old woman's familiarity with the weapon, but didn't comment on it. At least she would be able to defend herself if necessary.

They entered administration and Meetra heard Atton before she saw him, hurling curses under his breath at the terminal. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, half-smile sliding into place at the sight of her, but his face fell when he noticed Kreia, confusion replacing relief. "What the hell is going on?" He gestured at the old woman. "Who's she? Another Jedi? What, did you guys start breeding when I wasn't looking?"

"Not a Jedi; I'll explain later." Meetra leaned her vibroblade against the console, unhooked the mining blasters from her harness, and pushed them into his hands. "Here. We need to get moving."

Atton stared blankly at her, but took the blasters, checking the charge and safety mechanically. "Uh... all right. I'm guessing that Republic ship isn't carrying friends of yours." Meetra flinched inwardly. No, if Kreia and HK-50 were correct, the Harbinger wasn't carrying friends of hers. Not anymore.

"I hope your talent for understatement is offset by your skill with a blaster." The derision in Kreia's voice was almost as potent as kinrath toxin. "If not, then I fear our time together will be short indeed."

"Yeah, and I'm also good at running and drinking, your majesty," Atton snapped, glaring at the old woman. She stared back, gaze milky and sightless, mouth curved up into a small irritating smile. He rolled his eyes and turned back to Meetra. "So what's the plan? With the hanger still locked down, our options are kinda limited."

"If we cannot reach the Ebon Hawk, then we must find a way to escape on the ship that has docked here," Kreia cut in.

"The Harbinger?" Meetra rounded on the old woman, eyes wide. "Is that wise? Whoever brought it here probably isn't eager to help us leave."

"If we can't get to the hanger, that warship's the only way off this station," Atton said, sounding reluctant to agree with Kreia. "Even if you two aren't big friends of the Republic."

The Republic was the least of their problems, but Meetra held her tongue. Part of her was loath to alarm Atton further, and another smaller part held out faint hope for other survivors aboard the Harbinger, regardless of Kreia and HK-50's statement to the contrary. She nodded and retrieved her vibrosword. "Let's get moving, then. Kreia thinks we have a way onto the ship through the airlock."

Atton took the lead, moving toward a hallway branching off to the left of the communications blister and gesturing for both women to follow. "Perfect. We have a straight shot to the shi - "

"Threat: Master, perhaps I did not enunciate clearly the last time we spoke."

Meetra whipped around, vibrosword snapping up in front of her. She reached for the Force, its faint melody rising around her in response. HK-50 stood at the far end of the room, a large blaster rifle clutched in his metallic hands, his lenses glowing with an unnerving red light. Four spherical machines orbited around him; Meetra recognized them as robotic mines from their use during the battle of Dxun. Now that he had her attention, HK-50 relaxed his aim, but didn't let the rifle lower completely. "I suggested you shut down, stay put, and wait for rescue."

"No, you were clear," Meetra said, shifting slightly to put herself between HK-50 and her companions. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Atton moving with her, allowing her to remain between them while giving himself a clear line of fire. "I just don't take orders from assassin droids."

"Clarification: 'Assassin droid' is such a crude term, Master, reserved for durasteel drones uploaded with only the most archaic kill-programs."

"Sorry, did I hurt your feelings?"

"This the 'protocol' droid you mentioned?" Atton asked, mining blasters trained on HK-50's silver frame. On Meetra's other side, Kreia stood silent and unmoving, but tension radiated from beneath her drab robe.

HK-50's head swiveled minutely to focus on Atton before returning to Meetra, the tip of his blaster rifle straightening. "Continued Recitation: The function I perform has been referred to as 'wanton slaughter,' I prefer to see it as a means of facilitating communications, resulting in a termination of hostilities."

Meetra shrugged, the tip of her vibrosword bobbing with the movement. "Whatever you say. 'Murder' still means 'murder' to me."

The droid tipped his head to the side, a small gesture of annoyance. "Correction: I am not here to argue semantics, Master, so I will simply inform you that you are wrong - as were those recently-corrected miners."

"And the miners in the med-bay? The ones in the kolto tanks you poisoned?" Meetra's voice took on a hard edge. "How did they figure into your 'termination of hostilities' when they couldn't fight back?"

"Indignant Answer: Master, the miners intended to place you in jeopardy. I could not allow that to take place." He waved a hand dismissively. "After reprogramming the mining droids to 'mine' any organics they perceived, they began to kill the miners one by one. Then a series of flawlessly-timed explosions - "

Meetra seized on the information. "Like the ones that crippled the Harbinger?"

HK-50 paused for a long moment, and Meetra took small pleasure in knowing she was frustrating the machine. "... Continued Recitation: A series of flawlessly-timed explosions drove the miners into their dormitories - where I was able to gas them all at once without wasting time hunting them through the mining tunnels."

"Well, couldn't have them inconveniencing you."

"Exasperated Warning: Master, this childish attitude does not facilitate a favorable impression."

"I don't know," Atton interjected with a shrug, "I find it pretty endearing, to be honest."

HK-50 ignored him. "Resumed Recitation: I then administered a large dose of sedative to the remaining miners in the med bay, enough to kill them but ensure you slept peacefully."

"So what was the end goal here?" Atton seemed determined the keep the droid's attention on him. "If you had to stop the miners from selling her to the Exchange, who's in charge?"

"Answer: It is beyond the scope of my programming to probe the motivations of my clients." HK-50 pivoted away from Atton dismissively and refocused on Meetra. "In any case, my programming renders me incapable of revealing the identity of my client. I am free to say that my benefactor is both wealthy and very interested in possessing the last of the Jedi. Suffice to say that I am being well compensated for my services. You have been a difficult target to find, Master."

One side of Meetra's mouth curved up in a grim smirk. "It's a shame you'll have to go back empty-handed. There are no Jedi here."

HK-50 took a step forward, the clank of his foot against the floor as direct as any spoken threat. "Irritated Response: My patience is running thin, Master. I have verified your identity at multiple intervals since I began tracking you. You have been wandering the galaxy since the end of the Mandalorian Wars, leaving little record of your passage. It as if you did not wish to be found, by hunters such as myself, or more likely... the Jedi Order."

Meetra sensed more than saw Atton glance sharply at her at the droid's words, but she ignored it. That conversation was better saved for when they got out of the facility. She narrowed her eyes at HK-50 and shifted her weight to her back foot, squaring her shoulders and slowly settling into a more combat-ready stance. "Obviously, I didn't do a good enough job if you found me."

Full chapter available on AO3 and FFN.

#kotor 2 #kotor fanfic #the jedi exile #female exile #atton rand #kreia #hk-50 #atton x exile #fanfic

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formerlyrunephoenix6769 · 5 years

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Winter Solstice: Part 8

Yet another installment in the ongoing Winter Schnee sage. I shall be tagging it under formerlyrunphoenix6769 rwby fanfiction to make it easy to find.

Please feel free to like, share and comment. I would really appreciate your feed back.

A Rogue Comes to Visit.

A heavy blanket of mist had rolled down the mountain enveloping the vast Schnee estate, draping everything it touched in a thick layer of moisture. No sunlight twinkled off droplets, both absorbed by the dull grey that stretched as far as the eye could see. It had been weeks since the night of her Father’s bombshell and he had remained true to his word cancelling all of her up and coming engagements.

Nestled in a deep window seat above the only working radiator in the room that gurgled and knocked, Winter stared out of the window into the foggy gloom, choosing to ignore the book in her lap and the droning of the tutor as he paced back and forth his scholarly robes flapping behind him. In the middle of the room at a small desk, Weiss listened intently absorbing his every word, her pen flying across the paper in loops and swirls as she eagerly committed every nugget of information to the page. Outside, the trees naked of plumage reached up their blacked limbs, twisted and gnarled, like hands reaching for the heavens grasping at the last vestiges of life. One large tree seemed to ripple, as black feathers ruffled and a thousand beady eyes watched and waited.

A dark grey and black uniform passed in front of the window obscuring Winter’s view as they strolled back and forth along the promenade that ran around the mansion. She watched as one proceeded to wiggle his fingers in the granite fountain at the entrance to the path that would lead to the now half empty stable yard, his shouts causing the flock of birds to alight from their roost screeching and cawing at his rude intrusion.

No subtlety had been given in the sudden rise in security at the Schnee homestead. A private security firm rather than the usual personnel from the SDC, these men and women looked battle hardened with a steely glint in their eyes and wore their weapons openly as they proceeded on their rounds.

The strain of providing for the extra personnel had done nothing to improve Klein’s mood either, his grumpy persona coming more to the fore as he grumbled about the private contractors and their lack of regard for the household staff as they questioned and inspected everything going in and coming out of the stately home.

Winter could only wonder at the exact nature of it as she had witnessed the stony faced sentinels skulking about the hallways of the entrances to the East Wing where their mother had been cloistered since the revelation. Even Jacques departure with Whitley, who he had taken to keeping close by his side, did nothing to rouse the Schnee matriarch from her solitude.

“Miss Schnee!” the tutor barked, cutting into her moment of reflection. “At what temperature does dust go from a solid to a liquid?”

Winter returned his question with a blank stare.

Weiss sat on the edge of her seat, her hand waving in the air, her little chest puffed out to the point Winter was fully convinced she might take flight if not for the desk grounding her. Ignoring her sister, the tutor continued,

“I would think that as the Heiress to the Schnee Dust Company, you would want to know this?”

Winter replied with a haughty tone,

“And I would think that as an esteemed tutor you would know that it is a trick question!”

Weiss lowered her hand and watched her older sibling wide eyed. The tutor turned on his heel giving Winter his full attention as a wicked smirk twitched at the corner of his lips,

“If you know so much, would you care to elaborate? I am sure your sister would love to hear what wisdom you have gleaned from your years of education.”

Rising to his petty challenge and bid to humiliate her, Winter returned the parry,

“Certainly- ” Leaving the cosy nest of the windowsill, Winter began to casually stroll about the room, “- Not all types of dust ‘boils’ or ‘melts’ at the same point. Dust, as is it collectively known, is actually a number of different types of minerals often found in individual clusters akin to its surroundings. - ” She trailed her fingers long the spines of the books on the nearby shelf “- Therefore, its stands to reason that dust with gravity defying properties, one of the rarest types might I add, will not react in the same way that dust with freezing properties shall. The SDC has refineries across the globe, each equipped with the capability to refine each dust type as its properties dictate.” She teased a book with the emblem of the family sigil embossed in its leather binding from its snug “- Furthermore, the SDC did not become the biggest dust extraction and refining company through sheer monopolisation but rather due to the Schnee name coming to mean excellence and the finest quality of products due to the purity of the dust crystals we provide. Monopolisation of the industry happened after the fact. Absorbtion of our lesser competitors and implementing the Schnee Dust Company’s refining process thereby improving the quality of dust available on Renmant as a whole was merely good business practices.”

Bowing the board pointer in his hands, the tutor huffed. His features became pinched. As he opened his mouth to speak the large grandfather clock began to chime. Snapping the book closed, Winter returned it to its place before turning on her heel and leaving the room without another word.

Ignoring the security guards, Winter began to make her way down the corridor that would lead back into the main house, stewing over her predicament. Where as once over her afternoons had been filled with Violet, training, or taking to the saddle now she was expected in the parlour practising the accursed cello, the same piece of music over and over until she could play it by ear. It was a strict instruction laid down by her Father, who expected her to play the piece for him without sheet music when he returned.

How could she take up her mother’s plea to leave as soon as the opportunity arose if there was nothing she could do in the way of skills that could provide for her?

If it wasn’t for her brother being with him, she would wish the airship would explode with her father in it. At least that way all their problems would be solved.

Behind her she could hear the soles of Weiss’ shoes slapping off the polished floor as she ran to catch up. From in her skinny arms books threatened to spill and the spindly child tried to hug them to her chest.

“Winter.” came the whine, “Please, some help.”

Rolling her eyes, Winter plucked a few before they could cascade onto the floor. Casting a critical eye over the titles,

“What do you even need these for? Most of them are outdated.” She selected one. “Look at this one… Faunus Anatomy…” She flicked it open to a random page and began to read aloud, as Weiss scurried along side her, “- The Faunus are incapable of learning. Due to their physiology,….. Blah blah…. the ridges in their cranium suggest a smaller brain, much akin to an animal.” Winter trailed off before snapping it closed, “- Yeah, Weiss, I’m pretty certain this is just racist propaganda.”

With a sniff, Weiss tried to take a superior tone,

“Dr Gnarls Tarquin was a great Scientist who helped discover the evolution of Grimm!”

“He was also a crack pot who died due to inhaling dust and was married to his cousin! Nearly all of his other theories have been disproved.”

Weiss’ brow furrowed at her sister’s counter argument. Hugging her remaining books tight, she tried to match Winter’s gait.

“We don’t have many books on the faunus.”

“And why are you trying to learn about the Faunus?”

“I want to know why they are different.”

“They’re not… Well, not really.”

“Why do they hate humans then? Why do they want to kill us?”

“They don’t!”

“They killed Uncle Russell and his family!”

Winter sighed,

“That was a handful of very bad people who were trying to make a statement. I don’t think that all the Faunus are like the White Fang.”

After her Father’s outburst at the dinner table, Winter couldn’t even be sure if the White Fang were responsible anymore, instead she lay a gentle hand on her sister’s shoulder.

“Come on, lets go see Klein and get some lunch.” Casting a sly glance behind her, she spotted the security tailing them at a distance, “- I know a short cut.”

Rounding the corner and out of sight of the guards the teenager picked up the pace encouraging her sister to keep up, she guided the young girl down the wide flowing staircase that led down into a wide entrance lobby. Doubling back round under the staircase and beside a suit of highly polished armour, Winter pressed a panel to reveal a small door cleverly hidden within the lattice work.

She gestured for Weiss to follow. The small girl hesitated on the threshold.

“I don’t know, Winter,”

Weiss bit her bottom lip and scratched the back of her left calf with her right foot, a dead give away she was nervous.

“Make up your mind, you boob, before those goons see us……” Winter beckoned again, “It’s quite safe .” Winter assured, “I come down here all the time, it leads down to the kitchens.”

Coming to a decision, Weiss ducked her head and stepped into the gloom, Winter followed easing the door back into its snug so as not to make a sound.

Winter held up her finger to her lips, the heavy footsteps of the guards on the staircase dislodging some of the accumulated dust causing it to rain down, peppering their white hair with grey.

Both girls could hear the voices of the guards,

“Where the hell did they go?”

“I fucking hate this job!”

“Would you shut up!”

“I’m a solider not a glorified babysitter. This not what I signed up for!”

“ It’s a cushty gig. Great pay, bed and board and we don’t get shot at. What more do you want.”

“Dont get shot at? I’d much prefer knowing who the enemy is. The eldest one … I’ve seen that look before… You remember that Faunus village we cleared out, the exact same look…. And I wouldnt put it past the lush going off on one either. Mark my words, this house is gonna go to hell in a…”

The two girls let out the breath they had been holding as the guard’s voices faded out as they moved off. Winter took her sister’s hand, placing it on the back of her waistcoat. Making sure that Weiss had a firm grip she began leading her down the narrow winding pathway.

Weiss whispered,

“What is this? Who built it?”

Winter peered into the gloom, carefully feeling her way long the wall,

“Opa? I don’t know , maybe an ancestor was paranoid that the local peasants would rise up in revolt and slay them in their beds?”

With a small shaky voice, Weiss whined,

“Winter don’t say that. Father says the White Fang might do that any day now.”

A slight breeze caused errant cobwebs to sway, indicating they were going in the right direction as the pathway twisted and turned. They passed a turn off to the right that Winter knew would lead to a heavily barricaded entrance to the garden. She had yet to explore all the passageway’s off shoots. Feeling a slight change in heat, the teenager took the left opening, carefully placing her feet on each stone flag that made up the staircase that spiraled round and down as Weiss held on tight.

“Father is just trying to scare you. He wants us terrified so we wont do anything he disapproves of.” In a bid to alleviate her younger sibling’s fears, she explained, not unkindly, “- Our house is one of the most secure in Remnant. The White Fang wouldn’t make a move towards this house. We are so far in the tundra, there is no way a mass group of faunus would make it so far into the country without being detected. We would see them coming a mile away. ”

“But Father said..”

Winter pushed open the door that would lead into one of the official servants service corridors that were doted all over the house as she snapped in annoyance,

“Well Father is a liar!”

“I would be careful saying that out loud, Miss Winter. The walls have ears.”

Both girls let out a shriek and dropped their books at the voice. Bending down to collect the books in a bid to hide her embarrassment at being so jumpy, Winter mumbled,

“Klein, you nearly gave us a heart attack.”

“Sign of a good butler that is, to be unseen and unheard.”

He comically wiggled his bushy eyebrows at the younger sibling. Taking a handkerchief out of his breast pocket he began to fuss over the pair, wiping and flicking at errant dust and cobwebs on their grey outfits.

“

Cook made some lovely stew.”

The two girls followed him along the servant’s passageway that widened out. Down here was the warmest part of the mansion, housing the laundry and the kitchens. Bustling with activity, uniformed members of staff nodded and bobbed in acknowledgement as they passed by on their errands. A maid stopped to show Klein some stitching on a piece of linen, who wiped out an eye glass to closer inspect it. The butler nodded and praised the young girl for a job well done.

Down here, underneath the icy cold indifference of the family they served, it was warm, light hearted and inviting. It always put Winter in the frame of mind of a rockery. Lift up one of the frozen beautifully carved statues and underneath you would find it teeming with life.

Through one door Winter spied a group of servants polishing the silverware and candle sticks like a dust assembly line, laughing and joking with each other as they worked.

Pausing by an open door, from which wafted the smells of good cooking, Klein called out,

“Mauve, the lil mistresses are here.”

From depths of the kitchens, they heard a jovial voice boom,

“I’ll be along in a minute, deary,”

Klein ushered them further into the bowels of the house finally coming out into a large cosy looking room with a huge fire crackling in the hearth. There was a long table flanked either side with long benches. The blue slate flagged floor shone from being scrubbed. In the far corner next to the fire, a comfortable looking rocking chair and a small table with a set of knitting needles and yarn. Hanging on the walls photos, some new and shiny, others yellowed with age depicting the staff over the years and their masters. Winter paused by one that depicted a huge crowd of staff dressed in black and white old fashioned uniforms outside the front of the Schnee Estate, their faces looking stern. Winter thought she recognised their grandfather as a little boy in shorts that came just above the knees, his white hair messily standing on end.

Weiss looked around in awe at the tall back piano against the far wall. Placing her books on the table she skipped over, she went to touch the keys only to hesitate and look at the butler for permission. He gave her a fatherly smile.

“Your mother used to come down here and play that when your grandfather was alive. He liked being down here.”

As the youngster slid onto the piano chair, Klein patted a seat on the bench closest to the fire for Winter. Weiss began to play a beautiful and haunting melody. Never taking her eyes of her younger sibling’s erect back, Winter quietly asked,

“How is Mama?”

Klein poked the fireplace with the poker,

“Don’t fret your pretty little head. We’re all keeping an eye on her.”

Winter sucked on her bottom lip and gave a little sniff,

“I’m worried about her.” She used her finger nail to pick at a splinter in the well worn wood, “We’ve hardly seen her since….. You know..”

Before the butler could reply, a maid came in with a tray laden with bowls and thick fresh loaves and the cook, Mauve, hot on her heels. Placing the tray on the table, the young woman nodded her head, before beating a hasty retreat and closing the door behind her.

Mauve was dressed in chef whites. Unlike the rest of the household staff she did not have a single accent of grey in her uniform. She was small in stature and rotund, moving with a swift shuffle that belied her size. White hair poked out from under her hat but it was difficult to gauge her age due to the smoothness of her skin. Her cheeks were red from being in the heat of the kitchens and her forearms were thick, no doubt from hauling slabs of meat and huge pans on the cooker. She hefted a huge pot on to the table, wiping her hands on a towel that hung from her apron. With a smile and twinkle on her bright blue eyes, she cajoled the sisters,

“Now then, look at the pair of you. The two luvs look half frozen to death, Klein.” She began to ladle the hot thick stew into the bowls. She inclined her head with a smile, “Come on, Miss Weiss, sit at the table. That’s a good lass.”

Weiss slid off the piano chair and awkwardly tried to clamber over the bench as elegantly as she could in the constricting skirt. Giving up at any attempt, she sat on down on the lip, swinging her legs round, Winter lay a supportive hand to the small of her back so she wouldnt tip over on to the flagstones. Sat in her seat, she shuffled closer to Winter.

Mauve gave the two girls each a huge bowl of stew and a spoon,

“There, get that into you luvs.”

She began to take a knife to the fresh loaves, carving out thick slabs. One of the service bells began to ring out and the phone in the room began to chime. Klein got up to answer it as Mauve began to slather the bread in huge swaths of butter. With a pout, Weiss gave her stew an experimental poke,

“What is it?”

“It’s a dish from my home town.” The cook admitted as she continued to make a pile of bread big enough to feed an army. Weiss began to dubiously inspect the depths of her bowl. Mauve ladled out some more for herself and the butler. “Its Pot stew. Perfect dish on a cold day.”

Finished with the call, Klein squeezed Weiss’s shoulders, putting on one of his many accents,

“It will put hairs on your chest, so it will.”

Weiss let out a gleeful giggle, kicking her legs,

“I don’t want a hairy chest, cause I won’t be able to wear gowns like Mama.”

Selecting some of the bread, Winter began to tear it up, dropping it into her stew. Using the spoon she dunked it before taking a spoonful. Weiss seemed to hold back, watching and waiting for her sister’s reaction. Biting into her spoonful, Winter’s mouth was awash with flavours, the beef was tender and the potatoes soft, the carrots and onions broke on her tongue. The homemade stock was full of aromas that set the taste buds aflame. Winter hadn't realised how hungry she was as she eagerly attacked her bowl. Not to be out done, Weiss took a spoonful only to hum delightedly at the taste. Klein threw Winter a wink as he tucked a napkin into his collar began to eat his own and Mauve watched like a proud mother hen at her hungry brood.

“Nobody on Remnant can hold a candle to Mauve’s stew.”

Winter couldn’t tell if the ruddiness of the cook’s cheeks was a blush or from the heat of the room. Mauve swatted at Klein with her towel, who ducked and gave her a toothy grin. She poured out three glasses of fresh water before taking a seat in the rocking chair by the fire and began to knit. The fire crackled in the hearth as Mauve rocked back and forth, humming a soothing tune. The clinking of cutlery off the porcelain as the food was hungrily devoured joined it’s chorus. Looping another thread over the needle, Mauve asked,

“What was the call?”

“It was the Mistress..”

Winter’s head shot up and Weiss spoon paused half way. Cook continued to make another loop,

“What did she want?”

“She has a guest.”

“She does?”

“I asked Gray to see to it.” He leisurely dunked his bread into the broth, “- When you’ve finished your lunch, she would like to see you, Winter.”

Winter went to stand up, only for Cook to take a mock stern tone, never looking up from her knitting needles,

“Young lady, sit down and finish your lunch. I didn’t slave over a hot stove all day for you to be running off and gallivanting about the place half starved. Not on my watch.”

Winter’s bum collided with the bench at the slight reprimand. Klein pulled a comical face to Weiss causing the young girl to laugh.

Hesitantly, Winter asked,

“Can Weiss come too?”

“Don’t see why not. Mistress didn’t say not to.”

Knitting needles clicked in a steady rhythm making a soothing sound as Winter began to wonder at who the guest could be. Weiss reclaimed one of her books, propping it against her water glass, eyes glued to the words on the page as she continued to haphazardly reach out for the bread plate. Winter moved it closer to the searching hand and stifled a laugh at the youngster dipping her slender finger tips into the butter. Mauve broke the relatively comfortable silence,

“How is your schooling?”

Before Winter could reply, Weiss began to excitedly babble about their lessons. Mauve and Klein listened intently, nodding and awwing at all the appropriate moments. Weiss announced,

“And Winter was cheeky with the tutor.”

“Urrgh , you’re such a tattle tale!” Winter gave her sister a poke in the ribs, “Klein, tell her what happens to tattle tales”

Mauve and Klein replied in unison,

“You slowly become a Grimm.”

Weiss asked, with suspicion,

“What type of Grimm?”

Once again the service bell began to tinkle. Klein cast a glance at the numerous bells set in a row up high, underneath each one a brass plaque with the name of the room written in cursive. Wiping his mouth with his napkin, the butler announced,

“I think your Mother is ready for you. It looks like she is in the conservatory in the East Wing.”

Both girls graciously thanked Mauve for the meal. Weiss hurriedly tried to collect her books only for Klein to assure her not to worry, that they would be in her bedroom later. Winter grabbed a napkin,

“Hold still.”

She dabbed at the younger girl’s mouth making sure that all evidence of lunch had disappeared. It wouldn’t do to turn up to an audience with their mother and her guest looking like a pauper. Weiss crinkled her nose at the onslaught as Winter chided,

“How did you manage to get more of it on your face than in your mouth?”

As they were about to leave, Weiss dashed back to grab the book she was reading before following her sister to the door.

“Thankyou.”

“You come down here any time you like luvs.”

----xx----

At the entrance to the conservatory, Winter paused to straighten her appearance and make sure her sister’s hair was perfect.

“Don’t tell Mama about the passage,” She smoothed a small wisps of hair behind Weiss ears, “- And don’t tell Mama about the tutor.” Weiss silently nodded. Winter made sure her shirt was tucked in and her black lace bow was straight, “- In fact, don’t say anything about anything, ok?”

Pushing open the glass doors into the conservatory the two girls were hit by a sweltering heat. Here their mother teased plants back to life. No expense had been spared in what Winter could only come to think was essentially a green house. It was the biggest collection of global flora in the country outside the of Atlas Botanical Gardens. Trees from Menagerie carefully cultivated sat along side bright and colourful flowers from the floating islands of Mistral. Leafy plants towered over the pair as they navigated the yellow winding paths. Somewhere the soothing noise of a babbling water feature permeated through the plant life.

Snippets of conversation drifted through the undergrowth guiding the siblings towards their destination.

Rounding past a rather wide and bushy plant from the far reaches of Vacuo that would sting you as soon as you looked at it, Winter and her sister came upon their mother bent over a flower bed, deep in conservation, her partner obscured from view,

“As you can see, the Clananis is rather deadly. It is the only plant known in human existence to feed both off Grimm and fauna. It’s sap is extremely poisonous if ingested. Even a sting from one of its barbs is known to cause adverse reactions in the brain leaving one in a depressive state.”

A heavy accent replied,

“I do believe it hails from Menagerie and is rather rare to come by?”

Willow took a long sip of her drink,

“Only in certain circles. If one is to be believed.” Willow gave a light laugh. “ It flourishes in Anima so I am told.”

Grey stood to attention beside a table laden with drinks. As the two girls approached, he gave a polite cough.

Willow turned at the interruption. Her eyes alighting on her daughters, she broke into a huge smile.

“Ah, my darlings.” She placed her glass on a nearby table, approaching the two girls with her arms out stretched. Weiss ran forward into her mother’s arms, hugging her round the middle. Winter remained at a distance, watching as her mother sank into a nearby chaise and patted the seat beside her which Weiss eagerly took. She observed as her mother’s every action was ever so slightly delayed. Willow beckoned over Winter and her guest, “- Come sit. Ciddy, darling, These are my daughters. Weiss.” She affectionately stroked her fingers through the little girl’s long ponytail, “And my eldest, Winter. I believe you have already met?”

Winter gasped as the guest came into view. His beard was gone, replaced by a well trimmed pencil moustache and tiny goatee favoured by the upper echelons of the sea faring merchants of Silas and port towns of Vacuo. His hair was neatly drawn back into a short and low stub of a ponytail that rested at the nuque . A golden earring twinkled in his left ear and he was decked in brightly coloured clothing decidedly warmer than when the last time she saw him.

“Mr Cid!”

His face broke into a wolfish grin,

“Hello, pampered little Schnee.”

Her mother broke into loud laughter.

“That is what you used to call me.”

Berdea Cid gave a chuckle as he took the other chair,

“Amongst other things.”

Gesturing to Grey to make another drink, Willow added,

“Oh you cad.. It’s good to see that some people haven’t changed.”

“But Mama, I don’t understand.” Winter took a cautious step forward, “- What is he doing here?”

Drawing back her long sleeves to reveal her pale arms, Willow graciously accepted her beverage,

“Don’t you remember, darling?” Willow took a sip of her drink, her eyes briefly closing in satisfaction, “ You wanted to learn the Combat Sabre …. This was the man I was speaking of.”

Berdea looked up at Winter, eyes dancing with mirth,

“I am your new swordmaster.”

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dustedmagazine · 6 years

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Dust Vol. 4, Number 11

Blink and 2018 is just about over, at least in terms of music releases, at least if you don’t follow best ofs, mainstream hip hop or holiday music. As we close in on another year of amazing music—but what year isn’t, really?— Dusted takes a moment to dig through the piles and write some short, mostly positive reviews of albums that might have gotten slept on. As usual, writers follow their interests through expansive drone, transcendental folk, incendiary free-jazz, metal, punk and gospel-tinged Americana. Contributors this time included Ethan Covey, Justin Cober-Lake, Jennifer Kelly, Bill Meyer and Jonathan Shaw.

Bitchin Bajas — Rebajas (Drag City)

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Bitchin Bajas are a band made for deep exploration. Their hallucinatory, drone-based excursions are like an old couch — sink in, stretch out and stay a while. Rebajas, released this fall by Drag City, makes that task simple. The seven CD set features most everything the band has released since their debut in 2010: eight full albums and their contribution to various split albums. If you’re dipped into Bitchin Bajas previously, you’ll know what you’re getting. (And if you haven’t there’s little chance this package, or this review of it, is where you’d start.) That said, for those with a long drive, or a monk-like attention span, settling in and tracking the territory of the band’s evolution is rewarding. While the themes — of drone, calm, repeating bass and synth figures — remain constant, the band isn’t a one trick (or one note?) pony. Deep listening uncovers the variety between shorter, bloop-and-hum pieces from Tones/Zones (Disc 1) and the meditative, cycling layers of “2303” from last year’s Bajas Fresh (Disc 7). And there are moments that peek up from the soup: “Bajas Ragas” adds hand percussion and a loping bass line for one of their most engaging concoctions—fit for a slow-motion dance floor in a submerged city of the future. Missing, unfortunately, is their 2016 collaborative album with Bonnie “Prince” Billy, the excellently-titled Epic Jammers And Fortunate Little Ditties. As is this intriguing gem of Rolling Stones covers. Yet, with just shy of seven hours of music, I doubt many will sweat their absence. There’s more than enough to disappear into. And, if this review hasn’t spelled it simply enough, this is quite possibly the trippiest music out there. So, set your intentions and bon voyage.

Ethan Covey

Nathan Bowles—Plainly Mistaken (Paradise of Bachelors)

Plainly Mistaken by Nathan Bowles

Nathan Bowles, banjoist, percussionist and citizen of New Weird America, departs from his plain-spoken directness in this fourth album and makes a welcome detour into open-ended psychedelia. Right from the dreamy, drifty “Now If You Remember,” you sense a soft-focus open-ness to otherworldly experience. The cut, written by the seven-year-old Jessica Constable and included on Julie Tippett’s 1976 Sunset Glow, shifts and shimmers in ways that Bowles percussive banjo ditties have rarely done. Yet the album’s transcendental heart comes in “The Road Reversed,” where a pounding, dancing rhythm kicks among long, velvety bowed tones, and banjo notes bend into raga-like half-tones. Folk Americana frolics amid deep-toned Eastern meditation, and where one begins and the other ends is hard to say and, also, beside the point. There are, for sure, some traditional touchpoints—“Elk River Blues” (a tune by Ernie Carpenter that Bowles revisits here), “Fresh and Fairly So” and “Stump Sprout” will all satisfy fans of the twang and the twitch. Yet what lingers, for me, are the ones that stray from past experience, the slow, solo ambiguities of “Umbra,” the shadowy flurries and shifting dissonances of “Girih Tiles.” What Bowles’ well-turned work has lacked till now is mystery, and here it is at last.

Jennifer Kelly

Mike Farris — Silver & Stone (Compass)

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Mike Farris's long, strange career flamed briefly with the alt-rockers Screamin' Cheetah Wheelies in the 1990s. After that, Farris rejected his rock 'n' roll lifestyle and grungy sound in a move toward gospel and soul. The surprise of the transition wasn't the partier-to-Christian story but the discovery of how strong Farris's vocals are. On Silver & Stone, he has less of a gospel focus, but down in some swampy soul music (with bits of brighter pop), he shows off that voice. He's willing to take on Bill Withers (“Hope She'll Be Happier”) and Sam Cooke (“I'll Coming Running Back to You”) — not tasks usually recommended — and he comes out of it just fine.

The album fits a sort of arc for his solo career. It lacks the new-convert punch and joy of Salvation in Lights, but it shifts into more thoughtful reflection. Where he had been celebrating, now he's considering how to live. The explicit religion has mostly disappeared, but Farris's songs still run on hope and a big heart. The sorts of ideas at work on Silver & Stone synthesize on “When Mavis Sings,” a tribute to Mavis Staples and serves as a sort of musical and personal model. Farris, whether in rock or soul, the church or the club, presents a focused vision with enough groove to carry it through.

Justin Cober-Lake

Tim Feeney — Burrow (Marginal Frequency)

MFCS K | Tim Feeney - Burrow by Marginal Frequency

Burrow can be read as both an explanation and an instruction. Percussionist Tim Feeney begins each of this tape’s four pieces (two per side, and if you purchase a download you’ll get a file of each side, not each piece) in similar fashion, beating out a pattern with minimal variation. As the performance progresses monotony gives way to fascination as Feeney slowly reveals a beat’s potential variations. At a certain point things change. Are you hearing more because he threw something on the drum skin, or because your concentration is unlocking that drum-strike’s secrets, or maybe both? Treat this tape like a meditation guide, one that helps you to dig into the sound and see what treasures you find.

Bill Meyer

Forever House — Eaves (Infrequent Seams)

Eaves by Forever House

Forever House makes wildly complicated songs whose improvisatory flights and furies are held together, barely, by Meaghan Burke’s keening, swooping melodies. A lurid aura hangs over these difficult, jarring compositions, witchy incantations invoking freaks, body doubles and spiders. Burke’s voice is velvety dark, draping over odd-shaped rhythms, jutting stabs of violent sound. The drumming is particularly good in an off-putting, against-expectations manner; along with throbs of cello and throes of feedbacked dissonance, it constructs a weird fun house architecture where everything tips and distorts and unsettles.

Forever House’s oddities work because they’re powered by formidable skills – this is a band with a serious NY downtown pedigree. Burke, a cellist and composer, commutes between classical orchestra work and solo material that skitters along the boundary between archaic pop and free-wheeling art song. Both guitarist James Moore and bassist James Illgenfritz have played with John Zorn, as well as other downtown luminaries (in Illgenfritz’s case Anthony Braxton, John Zorn, Elliott Sharp and Pauline Oliveros and others, in Moore’s with the electric guitar quartet Dither). Drummer Pete Wise has left less of an internet trail but seems to have Bang on a Can connections. You get the sense that Forever House is their spooky busman’s holiday, a chance to play against type and raise some unruly ghosts. Boo!

Jennifer Kelly

German Army — Kowloon Walled City = (Null Zone)

Kowloon Walled City by German Army

German Army is neither an established military entity nor some reenactment clique, but a low-flying, California-based combo that (according to their Facebook page) “uses art to document disappearing cultures and wildlife while critiquing imperialism in all forms.” Kowloon Walled City certainly qualifies as a disappearing culture, since most of the semi-autonomous, mob-run neighborhood that sat at the edge of Hong Kong’s airport has been cleaned up or knocked down. Since there’s nothing particularly Chinese-sounding about this tape’s perky synth/drum jams and the rare spoken vocals are in distinctly American-accented English, the proclaimed mission may be a failure or just a red herring. But if you need some catchy tunes limned with coded mystery to jam in your old jalopy (if you have tried to get a car stereo with a tape deck in the last ten years, you know what I’m talking about), German Army is at your service.

Bill Meyer

Gong Gong Gong—Siren (Wharf Cat)

Siren 追逐劇 by Gong Gong Gong 工工工

Two songs from the duo of Joshua Frank and Tom Ng make a case for an intriguing Beijing punk-noise underground. The a-side, “Siren” abstracts the electric blues into a single clattering guitar riff, a zooming, looming roar of bass and a searing call (no response) vocal from Ng, in sing-song-y Chinese. “Something’s Happening” is meatier and more conventionally rock, still built on sharp, stinging guitar clamor, but buzzing with Hendrix-y solo-ry (if Hendrix played the bass). Both tracks employ the minimum number of parts to maximal impact, the construction loose enough for friction, sparks and gnashing aggression.

Jennifer Kelly

Gerrit Hatcher / Peter Maunu / Julian Kirschner — The Raven and the Dove (JAKI)

The Raven and the Dove by Hatcher/Maunu/Kirshner

Chicago’s built on drained swampland, so when the next wave of free jazz rolls up, it can travel. Certainly this trio, which comprises two younger musicians and one more who seems to be doing exactly what he wants with his retirement, covers a lot of ground. Gerrit Hatcher is an extroverted tenor saxophonist with a raw tone and a willingness to depart from his default setting of muscular tune-grinding into passages of tentative flutter and delicate counterpoint. Good drummers never lack for work, so it’s saying something that you can find Julian Kirschner on a Chicago stage pretty much every week of the year. He comes from a post-free jazz conception of his instrument that favors color, space and movement over pulse or swing. Joining these youngsters is Peter Maunu, whose past life playing fusion and new age music seems quite irrelevant to the unpredictable stream of savage scraping, subliminal humming, and acidic rocking that issues from his guitar, violin and mandolin. This group is brand new, but it won’t be for long; they’ve been touring around the Midwest this fall, so you can expect them to add seasoned rapport to band new promises before long. Catch them if you can, and catch this promising debut if you can’t.

Bill Meyer

Kidd Jordan / Alvin Fielder / Joel Futterman / Steve Swell — Masters of Improvisation (Valid Records)

Masters of Improvisation by Kidd Jordan, Alvin Fielder, Joel Futterman & Steve Swell

It takes a particular orneriness to be a musician in a musical city and stake your claim to a style that the city has never embraced. You can say a lot of things about New Orleans, but it’s never really been a free jazz town. But that hasn’t stopped tenor saxophonist Kidd Jordan, who has made his crust playing and teaching every style that a jobbing musician must play, from playing a particularly uncompromising variety of free jazz. Two of his accompanists here are long-time partners. Drummer Alvin Fielder, who like Jordan is in his 80s, has likewise carried the free jazz torch in southern environs where the muggy air of indifference would douse a fainter spirit. Pianist Joel Futterman is a decade younger and his darting technique and forays inside the piano imply that his roots are sunk in different turf than his mates, but he’s been playing with them long enough to be able to bring empathy as well as energy to the table. New York-based trombonist Steve Swell is the newcomer, and his ability to shift effortlessly between sere exhalations and brash attacks allows him to complicate the combo’s late-Coltrane vibe without betraying it, and then be equally persuasive when they turn around and wring the last blue drops out of Doc Pomus’ “Lonely Avenue.” This concert recording lingers long on the stormy side; go on, stick your face into the wind, you won’t be sorry.

Bill Meyer

No Love — Choke on It (Sorry State)

Choke On It by No Love

No Love, from Raleigh, NC, play punk rock that conjures the ragged toughness of the mid-1970s NYC downtown scene and the pace of early-1980s Southern Cali hardcore. It’s a potent mix, and when guitarists Seth Beard and Daniel Lupton make a bit of space for vocalist Elizabeth Lynch, the record really kills it. The record’s title track and “Dogs//Wolves” — released back in 2015 as the A-side of a terrific single — are frantic punk burners that scrap and sizzle, teetering on the brink of perilous chaos. The band manages to channel the energy without disciplining it, like the Heartbreakers in those magical months in 1975. “Back Taxes & Anaphylaxis” is even better, mostly because Lynch takes an aggressive lead on the song, showing what she can do. On “Drama Fever,” she manages to keep pace with the guitars’ slashing intensity, but on some of the other tracks, she’s drowned out by all the frenzied riffage. The raw sound of the record gives it a low-grade charm, but the noise sometimes obscures the tunes, which are pretty great. Still, the band’s vigor and verve are undeniable. More, please.

Jonathan Shaw

One Tail, One Head — Worlds Open, Worlds Collide (Terratur Possessions)

Worlds Open, Worlds Collide by One Tail, One Head

Norway’s One Tail, One Head have been playing black metal since 2006, but this year’s Worlds Open, Worlds Collide is the first full-length record the band has ever released. They’ve made a career on their reputation as a live act, pairing their orthodox blackened sound and songs with a stage show only slightly less theatrical than Watain’s (that’s all stage blood, right guys?). It seems that this first LP will be their last, as One Tail, One Head have announced their intent to call it quits after a tour supporting the record. That sense of finality may have prompted the band to round the stylistic bases, pairing truculent, muscular songs reminiscent of the early demos (“Firebirds” is a good example) with more chaotic, swirling work typical of the recent EPs. Songs in the former mode are more successful here, especially the record’s title track, which thunders and crackles with convincing menace. But One Tail, One Head could have given themselves a better sendoff. Few of these tunes feel fully realized, and none is near the equal of the band’s intense performing presence. It’s too bad — but a wise (or wise-ass) kid from Chicago once observed that “breaking up is an idea that has occurred to far too few groups, sometimes the wrong ones.” Via con Satàn, fellas.

Jonathan Shaw

Vanessa Peters — Foxhole Prayers (Idol)

Foxhole Prayers by Vanessa Peters

Singer-songwriter Vanessa Peters could have settled for the smart folk-rock she’s been doing for almost two decades, but on Foxhole Prayers she stretches herself, looking at the cultural landscape without relinquishing her personal lyrics. “Carnival Barker” offers her most direct political track, but “Trolls” is more effective, capturing the patience and perseverance needed to defeat the title characters. The song has personal and political resonances, and it's that dual thinking that drives much of the album. “Fight” takes on extra meaning in the context of the album. Peters unveils her own fears and her own need to press on, but with enough space in the lyrics that she could be speaking to herself, a young artist, or someone afraid of venturing into the public eye in any sense; calls to bravery aren't limited to those on stage and Peters situates her song as someone who knows that.

As her view expands, so does her music, particularly as she incorporates electronic elements into her sound. The dance-pop influences of “Before it Falls Apart” surprise, but Peters' tasteful use of the new sounds allows everything to fit in naturally with what she does. The album, inspired in part by comparing the world of The Greaty Gatsby with today's political climate, has its roots in crisis, hence the title track, and Peters uses her art to search for something better.

Justin Cober-Lake

Shells—Shells 2 (Gingko)

Shells 2 by Shells

The evidence suggests that Shelley Salant is not a loner. She’s been booking shows in Southeast Michigan for a decade. She’s the sort of record store clerk who greets you with a recommendation that you’d best consider. She’s played guitar in Tyvek and Swimsuit. She’s the sort of person who makes communities happen by doing what she does.

But she also has pretty strong instincts about what makes a guitar worth hearing — liquid tone, phrases that are concise unless they need to wander, pithy hooks, gritty noise and reverb for days. She’s got some things to say on her own, and that’s where Shells comes in. Shells 2 contains 14 tracks, each a brief and lucid lesson about one or more of the aforementioned virtues. Some of them comprise layers of loops, some follow a single snaking line, and a couple have been overdubbed into an approximation of a band. Similarity spotters may point out the bits that sound like Link Wray or Roy Montgomery or the Feelies, but that would require looking past all the bits that sound like Shelley Salant rocking essentially.

Bill Meyer

Various Artists — Chebran Volume 2: French Boogie 1979-1982 (Born Bad)

This superlative collection of funk, disco and proto-rap documents the cross-hybridization of bootleg tapes of Grandmaster Flash, Eurovision-style dance music and sounds from the African and Arabic colonies that bubbled up in working class neighborhoods at the dawn of the 1980s all over France. Here on cuts like Ethnie’s “De Chagrin En Chagrin” synths take up the serpentine non-western melodies, while Bootsy-style funksters slap and pop out the boogie. Likewise, the ponderous stomp of bass and percussion anchors Ganawa’s “Yamna” in present day disco, but its wheeling woodwinds and haunting call and response transport you to sand swept deserts in North Africa. Ettika, both the track name and the artist name for a one-hitter from the early 1980s, nudges a disco synth into twisty arabesques and flits from French to Arabic in its emphatic, female-powered raps. Forget the melting pot, these cuts bubble like sour dough starter, when errant spores of yeast find a home in a dull white flour soup and create something marvelous.

Jennifer Kelly

Otomo Yoshihide / Paal Nilssen-Love — 19th of May 2016 (PNL)

19th of May 2016 by Otomo Yoshihide & Paal Nilssen-Love

Conventional wisdom holds that when Paal Nilssen-Love gets on stage with an electric guitarist, fillings will loosen. That certainly holds true when he pairs up with Terrie Ex, his preferred six-string slinger of recent years, and there are parts of this encounter with Japanese guitarist Otomo Yoshihide that could be cited as supporting evidence. Otomo brings plenty of volume, distortion and ferocity; there are passages where it sounds like he’s demolishing some metallic structure while Nilssen-Love erects an impregnable surrounding whirlwind. But neither man stays in one gear, and some of the most involving moments come when they drop to a scrape and a shimmer.

Bill Meyer

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