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[dastardly-imbecile]

Not the Dungeons Pt. 4

He has not been so content as the warden of this place to never look towards the sky, reach a hand out towards the lushness of the forest and try to snatch a leaf from the tree, a tuft of fur from a roaming wolf, hold it in his good hand and never let go. --- Interesting conversation. More interesting dreams.

---

Introspection, exploration, more introspection.

Wordcount: ~2700

Pt. 1, 2, 3

---

“We can leave,” the person upon the bed says, so delightfully naive that, for a moment, he wonders how they have survived so far. Of course, he saw—or, rather, felt—it all happening, but still, he must look down at himself and back up in disbelief. Down, at the thick wooden club sprouting from a shoulder, at the chest scarred from a thousand battles, at the beak always in this vision, crosseyed with the effort of capturing it. 

And up. Up at them, still sprawled out, leg wrapped as well as his clumsy hands were able, flickering between a thousand forms at a time. He is unsure whether they are male, female, neither, both—it’s hard to tell both from the merit of a dirt-smudged face, bulky armor, nondescript hair, and from the twist of his eyes. Unused to evaluating anything besides how many hits it would take to kill someone. Still—that doesn’t matter, not much. Same sentiment either way. Same falsehood. 

Slowly, he shakes his head, and they tilt their head, mouth—mouth, lips, not beak, so soft, so pliable—curving downwards. “You want to leave.”

Nod.

“We can leave.”

Shake of the head. A flicker of fear, deep in the eyes—he’s not sure why he registers this, and not gender. Perhaps he’s seen it so many times that picking it out has become second nature. “...We aren’t leaving?”

This one takes longer to consider. Eventually, he shakes his head again. It’s the we that’s the problem here. They can leave. He cannot. Tied to this dungeon, tied to the swollen guards, tied to the things that scream and things that crawl and things that do worse than that.  

It seems that the explorer understands as well, because finally, they say it. “I can leave?”

One final nod. To imagine it is to blaspheme in some way over the ephemeral things that rule this dungeon, but he can’t help it sometimes. Sky a shade so blue that it scorches the eyes, air clear and sharp with dew and flowers, a palace too far away and a man within that. 

…A man?

A knight. A… he stops in place, though he was not moving much in any case, and tries to think. A wall. He remembered this, he knows this, but already the memory is a tattered flock of crows soaring away, dropping a trail of feathers down upon the ground to follow. He picks one up, and then another, but by the time he reaches the third, the wind has already blown the trail all askew. 

Someone important, in any case. He cannot spare much more thought for this—there are two things that he must know, right now. You are not the dungeons. 

And, connected-

Keep the person safe. 

If he loses one, he might lose the other. At the moment it is…. Unsure why this is quite so important, but if he doesn’t remember now, then he did at one point—and, hopefully, he will again. For now, hang onto two points, and solely that. 

“Why not?” They ask, and then shake their head, forbidding his answer. “I apologize. Yes or no. Rudimer. Rudimer?”

Nod. The name hurts, burns, sparks some hidden, dried-out husk of kindling deep within his heart, but that is good. That is the same feeling he got when he studied this person, back before all this, when he knelt over their bed and counted the space between breaths. The burning, the purpose. 

“I… heard of you,” they say, “vaguely. Before I entered, people talked—whispered, more like. About the dungeons’ danger. Said it had taken you and many others. Trortur, Isayah. More, unimportant.” 

He knows them, if not by those names, then by a cobble-together of memory and personal experience. The man who inspires odd irritation in him, and who he took delight in beating down during their singular fight. The one with a mask and a hand disfigured—kindred?—who talks, in his sleep, of maps. And the rabble—the ones clothed in yellow, who follow the bodyless man, the dark-robed rats who crawl into corners with piles of books and glut themselves on blood. 

He is still thinking, recalling, when they finish their sentence in a whisper. “...Le’Garde too, I suppose.”

Blonde man—at least at first. Favorite of the priestess. Victim of the irritating one. His companion’s… whatever he is. 

Jerkily, he nods, unsure of what else to do. It’s true. The man is dead. Another life taken by the dungeons—another one in a line of deaths, one-by-one-by-one. Well- perhaps the others are not dead, including him, but he’s sure that this is worse somehow.

A moment of silence. He certainly cannot break it, not unless he wants to screech incomprehensive words to the heavens—or the hells—so it is upon the only one with a functioning tongue. “I can leave. You’re saying, yes. You… the dungeons? Are they keeping you? Rudimer?”

A part of them seems to delight in saying his name, and he cannot say that he minds completely. Perhaps it reminds them that he was human once, that he is not all hulking brute painted in scars and blood. Which is, of course, what he is, but humanity is comforting in ways that he cannot describe. 

Response—what to respond? He deliberates for a long moment, turning the question about in his mind. It is not… well, he cannot say that it is not a physical bond, because it is, in a way. He has not been so content as the warden of this place to never look towards the sky, reach a hand out towards the lushness of the forest and try to snatch a leaf from the tree, a tuft of fur from a roaming wolf, hold it in his good hand and never let go. 

Always, however, always, there is something that stills him, catches his foot before it crosses the threshold back out. Chirps and chittering behind his eyes, improbably throbbing in the wood of his arm, phantom pains from flesh that no longer exists. 

The memory of… something. Someone? The man in the palace? He is dead now, he must be dead, or he must be something worse than that, but just as he thinks this, it occurs to him that he has never lingered on his presence beyond this moment. 

For, always, he’s been simple vermin, been one of the many pests that come in and do not come out again. If he crosses paths with one of them, he will fight, as is his duty—duty from whom? From what?—but, usually, he puts little effort into seeking them out. 

But it is not impossible to find. In his mind, floating somewhat suspended in a mire of half-eaten memories, is a vague awareness of the dungeon. Crude at the best of times—he is not able to pick out a stone from thousands, to track the lumbering patrol of a single guard—but it guides him when he wanders through the labyrinth, alerts him when trouble comes. 

There are guards in the hallway outside. Above and below, for many floors. The deeper he goes, the larger they get, the darker their presence in his mind, until they’re indistinguishable from tarry feathers and subtly-shifting wings. There is nothing of note on the upper floors—a few of the quieter denizens such as the Pocketcat, casting his own sort of shadow, but outside of that, the only humans present are unremarkable and small. Even Le’Garde, infirm as he was, had a stronger presence. 

So deeper. Blackness in his mind, and the chirping grows louder, and the beaks stronger, first cartilage and now bone, scraping scraping scraping. 

So deeper. Even the crows shy away, now, and he has never attempted to extend his dominion so low—even in the days when he was not this god-touched creation, he’s sure he never ventured down here, never laid eyes on whatever rests in the depths—but he goes, keeps going, and still has not reached the edge. If he attempts to extend too high above, into the uncursed world, then he will scarcely get a touch of brightness before the crows start up a racket and begin smashing their heads upon the walls of his skull. But below, below, they are quiet—almost as if even they are afraid of drawing attention. 

So deeper. He realizes somewhere, dully, that someone is calling Rudimer, but he’s unsure if it’s happening below or above. Maybe both. Maybe neither. There are monsters down here, scuttling in the darkness, away from his reach, but he does not know them as he knows his guards, even tremulously. Other things too, things near-indescribable, darker than the Pocketcat and brighter than Le’Garde both, and if he focuses upon them for too long, then he feels them begin to focus on him—so he does not do that. 

So deeper. Finally, he feels something that is neither of those two. Small—not human, but not completely beast either. Familiar in a way that he barely remembers, in a way that floats just out of reach. It’s what he is looking for. He’s what he is looking for. 

And then, he withdraws himself from those dark places whip-fast, and the idle movements of brutes and monsters in the lighted world is almost a relief compared to whatever roams down there. 

As is the face before his, wide-eyed. In that first moment of return, confronted with the visage of a human, his mauler twitches and he half stands, but with a vicious wrench of his mind, he quells the motion completely. 

You are not the dungeons.

He is not. 

“Rudimer,” they say, and the thought resurfaces that perhaps it was them calling a name. His name. “Are you…” 

He blinks. Is he? 

Still, they have not flinched back, even with his initial early movement. Impressive, he’d say, except maybe it’s foolhardy instead. 

“The dungeons,” they repeat. He remembers the question—still unsure how to answer it though. Eventually, he settles on a tilt of his head, neither a nod nor a shake, and they sit back. 

“You do not know? Do… do this if you do not know.” They make a motion like the rolling of one’s shoulders, up-and-down, and he copies them, feeling the energy within those corded muscles, eager to bash. Not here. Not now. Soon? Perhaps. If he wishes to go down…

“The dungeons,” they say once again, “stopping you?”

He does the motion. Slowly, they nod, taking the information in. 

“How?” They look down, searching for chains, maybe for evidence of some sort of pact. He almost laughs. If it was a voluntary contract that led to this, he would have learned how to break it long ago. 

Not a question answerable by yes, no, or shoulders, but there’s another motion he can make. 

He points-

Down. 

To where all things go eventually. Always, he has been too wary of it to go fully, but he supposes that this prophecy must come true eventually as well. 

Down he goes. 

“That’s where…” they say, and then stop, shaking their head. “What’s down there?”

Roll of the shoulders again. Quite the useful motion. Struck by inspiration again, he raises his hand and points at his head, shakes it, rolls the shoulders, and points down again. I have impressions, but I do not know much. 

To their credit, they seem to get it almost immediately. “So that is what keeps you here.”

Nod. 

“We will set out tomorrow, then,” they decide, and he hesitates. Again, the most important of all those words is we—both of them? Slowly, he points at them, and then up. Out. Freedom. They asked him whether he wanted to leave, is that not an implicit indication of their own desires?

“No,” they say, “or not now, perhaps.”

He tilts his head. Inquisitive—it comes naturally. Perhaps it is the influence of the crows. 

“I came down here for Le’Garde. He is…” they hesitate, shake their head, “he is no more. He wanted to find what lays below. Thus…”

He draws back, regards them, all of them—disheveled and dirty, armor the slightest bit ill-fitting. Fought through seven levels of creatures, survived here where few do, at least in the open. 

They are not naive nor foolhardy, he realized, but insane. As all the living in here are. It should have been obvious, but he has not analyzed the mind of anybody in a long time, not unless ‘mind’ counts gray matter splattered against the wall. 

Slowly, hesitantly, unsure whether it is the right thing to do-

He nods. 

***

The last part of the day is uneventful, all things considered. Not after the mental foray into the darkness, not after the plans sketched out to travel below. Painstakingly as well—in the end, all that could really be confirmed between them was kill all monsters and keep each other alive. 

Good enough. More than anything he’s had in years. 

They sleep. He doesn’t. Not to keep guard—the monsters don’t breach this safe zone, not besides him, but because he doesn’t sleep. 

And perhaps because he likes watching. 

Force of habit. They fall asleep as they always do—slowly and with fluttering eyelids, a leisurely relaxation of their body, so out of place here. Soon, come the dreams, the faint twitching of limbs, the movement of their eyes behind the lids, flicking back and forth. He is used to it all, able to recite the steps in his own sleep, if he both slept and had a voice. 

Tonight, though, something changes. They roll over completely, unusual—they are not an animated sleeper, not usually—and then, the movement behind the eyes grows quicker, grows frantic. 

Moments later, the first sound. A cry, quiet, like a hurt creature, the noise that all things make when they die, monster or human or something else entirely. Momentarily, there is a brief flicker of excitement—is this the moment that it happens? The moment that the crows have found them? He watches, waiting for the beak, for the feathers and the transformation of limb to weapon, but it doesn’t come. 

Only more sounds. Struggling sounds, hurt sounds. Thrashing—enough to throw the thin sheet thrown across their body off, onto the ground. 

Eventually, the excitement fades, enough that he’s sure that tonight is not the night for them to become one like him. Perhaps, then, they will be able to talk, caw and croak in a language only the two of them understand, and the parts below will shake as both descend upon them, swinging and killing in tandem-

But, again, it is not the night. 

Something else… he leans closer, looms, watches. There is another feeling in his chest beside that of excitement. Should he muffle them, in case this does attract some wandering creature? Not by force, surely, that feels counterintuitive, but…

He reaches out a hand. Draws it back. Extends both, and then brings the mauler down so quickly that he scratches himself. Not that. Only one good hand anymore—remember that. 

One hand, carefully, so uncertain of the strength needed, upon their arm. That is all—he does not dare to squeeze, for fear that it will be the strength he uses to crush skulls. 

The sensation is unfamiliar. Cold metal against colder skin. He cannot remember if he’s done this before—not touch metal, but touch a person with such calculated softness. 

Perhaps he has. Not since the dungeons took him. 

The thrashing stops, but the sounds continue—quieter though, at further intervals apart. He can’t help but feel it’s because of him. Is this pride? It’s the same bubbling feeling as when he communicated his words with nothing but pointing and jerks of his head, the same feeling he got when he bashed his mauler into Trortur’s head and sent the man stumbling away. 

Must be. For however long it is, he’s content to sit there and watch, wait with a single hand upon their arm. 

All the sounds thus far have been incomprehensible, simple noises of surprise—wordless exclamations. 

Right before they awake, however—as he can feel the beginning of sunlight barely warming the dungeon stone in the highest level—there is a word. Or at least an amalgamation of letters that sounds more like a word than anything else. They jerk harder than they have since he put a hand upon their arm, and from their mouth comes an exclamation of, “Ma’habre!”

[dastardly-imbecile]

Not the Dungeon pt. 3

I've accepted i'm continuing this.

---

His gaze snaps to the person in front of him, still laid out upon the bed. For a moment, they are a thin white creature marveling over a stone cube, and then they are a dark priest trying to comprehend the speech of crows, and finally the flicker of a knight, eyes wide, forgotten words spilling frantically from his lips. 

---

Flashback episode?

Wordcount: ~2500

---

Rudimer is standing in the grand hallway of a palace. Around him, marble columns do the work of giants, holding up a ceiling splashed in vivid murals, old saints and prophets conjoining and copulating in cracked glory. 

“Rudimer!” Calls a voice from behind, jovial and perhaps touched by too much wine. Tonight is the night of his promotion, of a sort—no longer is he a mere knight, one cog in the wheel of thousands, but instead he is a Captain. 

Of the Dungeons of Fear and Hunger no less, an ominous name if he’s ever heard it. He turns, already knowing who he will see—Seril, brother, who throws a heavy arm around his shoulders. “What are you doing away from the party? We’re all celebrating you.”

“I don’t know,” he admits, placing a hand upon his brother’s. “Is it not all an elaborate excuse to drink?”

“Yes,” he admits, but surges ahead, “and that applies to you as well.”

“I cannot afford it. I’m setting out tomorrow.”

More than that, his true goal was to make it to the library. Find out what this dungeon truly is—for the sixth sense inside him, honed from years or battle, says that it is not all of what it seems. 

“We will miss both you and the stick up your arse,” Seril remarks fondly, and Rudimer musts a half-smile. 

“Me as well.”

Tomorrow, he will leave, and after that, he will see what these dungeons truly contain.

***

Rudimer is sitting in the darkness of his office, watching the snow fall in gentle flurries outside. It is a stark contrast to the rust on his blackened walls—he tried his best to clean this room out when he arrived, but he swears that every morning they have redirtied themselves. 

Briefly, he remembers chucking snowballs with Seril as young boys, or running through the wilds around the palace, all carpeted in plush white, and there is the urge to stand and take a moment in the snow—but that is quickly quashed. 

Too many things to do, too many things he cannot afford to lose. If he catches a chill, then there is little medicine to help him fight his way through, if he ruins a bit of his armor, it will not be until spring that he can request a new shipment. 

A flurry of papers on his desk. All unread, but for the letter sitting apart from the rest. Seril’s. Inquiring of his health, of the dungeon’s health, whether it has loosened him up a bit—he has half-written a dozen replies, but nothing he pens down feels right. Can he really say that when he sleeps, the space behind his eyelids feels darker than it used to? Tell him that when he ventures into the deeper cells, the prisoners press against their bars and tell him how his great-great-grandchildren will die?

That two days ago, a man crucified himself, spilled his intestines into the shape of something he does not know, but couldn’t bear to look at for too long. That priests file in with two black-robed children and come out with only one, and yet he never finds a body. 

But he cannot sit agonizing over this forever, not when there is so much to do. So, once again, he grabs a quill and a blank sheet of parchment and scrawls something out. 

All is well, Seril. Life is more difficult than anticipated, but I believe I can do something here. I miss you and the palace as well. 

After a brief hesitation, he puts the quill down. It is short, but it has to do. He has not the time for anything else. Not with a dungeonful of strangeness to manage. 

***

Rudimer is stalking through dark corridors with a sword in his hand, hunting. Lately, strange creatures have been coming up from the depths—little chittering things with many teeth and many eyes and many limbs. He doesn’t know where they come from, but he doesn’t care to find out either. 

Days ago, a request came through to transfer the mercenary captain deeper. The blonde man who does not seem to have succumbed to the quick insanity that takes most prisoners—despite the violence that Trotur seems to revel in inflicting. He could barely walk when Rudimer ushered him out of his cell, passed him to two other guards to take deep, deep down. 

Mostly because he was too scared to go himself. 

For good reason too, he’s sure, because only one of those guards returned. When he asked about the fate of the other one, all he received was a vague shrug, one scarred arm pointing towards the ground below. 

Everything goes that way eventually. There is a strange gravity inside these dungeons that pulls all things intangibly downwards instead of physically, whether that be sanity, health, or strength of mind. 

He has done his best to stay strong, but in his lowest moments—when he finally allows himself to succumb to sleep—he has been hearing the soft sounds of clicking, of pattering, of movement in the dark. Small creatures, many of them, beady little eyes blinking-blinking-blinking. 

If he looks at the walls for too long, then he can almost see them again. 

He thinks they are birds, maybe. 

***

He is walking into the center of a town he cannot imagine existing, surrounded by creatures small as children and thin as winter, watching him with wide saucer eyes. In his hands, watched ardently and eagerly, is a small gray cube, disproportionately heavy for how small it is. 

The guards are dying of starvation and suicide alike, but even then, there has not been enough supplies. He has stopped rationing food for the prisoners—but they simply grow thinner and thinner instead of dying. 

This deep, he can almost hear the cawing of crows, the flutter of a thousand wings echoing behind every step. It makes him jumpy, but he stills the hand upon his sword—he’s well aware that the only reason he is allowed down here at all is the cube in his hands, and he was lucky enough to have been able to strike a bargain furthermore. 

Two sacks of unidentifiable rations. Told to him in broken speech, barely understandable, to be food, weapons, clothes. The food, these creatures grow themselves, but the rest is what they’ve taken from the dead that decorate their village. 

Does not matter. He hands the cube to the largest, strongest monster, taking the supplies swiftly in the same breath. It takes his left hand a moment to close—recently, it has been growing numb, stiff and hard to control.

For a split second, he is on high alert, gauging whether they will turn on him after all, but none even spare him a glance anymore. All are surrounding their leader, clamoring eagerly for the cube, thin fingers reaching like a child’s for fruit upon a tree too tall. 

Quickly, he leaves, not willing to overstay his welcome. The guards he passes are near-catatonic, staring blankly into empty space. Most have grown larger in this time, despite lack of food, for it’s not the organic blossoming of muscle or fat—but instead the swelling of their limbs, strange tumorous growths sprouting from hard flesh. 

The prisoners are worse, purely because they are all too aware, and he must dodge the thin hands that snake through their bars and attempt to gouge out his eyes, try to rip the armor off his body. They speak in tongues as well, and though he can’t understand a single thing, he somehow knows that they refer to Gods and rituals and deities floating in the primordial mire beyond reality. 

As he is depositing the scant supplies earned from this foray, he catches sight of a window. Strange. Somehow, despite the presumed abundance of windows, he cannot remember the last time he saw morning light. 

For a split second, he considers going outside. Taking a walk—distancing himself from the dungeons, at least for a while. 

The notion vanishes just as quickly. Too much left in here to leave. If he walks out, he will never return—he will keep going until his legs give out, or the wolves get him, or somehow, miraculously, he makes it back to some semblance of civilization. 

He cannot go. Not until he has finished whatever job he was sent here, originally, to do. 

He cannot remember exactly what it is. 

He will remember. 

But he cannot. 

He cannot. 

He cannot. 

***

He is crouched upon his cot, knees pressed up to his chest, trying to silence the flurry inside his head. There are whispers, and there is birdsong, and there are strong beaks scraping the last of his brain from the crevices of his skull. 

When he closes his eyes, it does not help. When he drives his fingers into his skin, bites his tongue so hard that it feels like it might bleed, it does not help. He cannot remember what he has been doing. He cannot remember the last time he ate, drank, stood. 

Upon his desk, the glint of an inkwell catches his attention. There is something important there—and then, as he forces himself to rise, he finally sees the paper set neatly to the side. Seril’s. That of weeks ago, perhaps months—they wrote regularly in the beginning, he’s sure, but the spaces between have grown larger and larger. 

With dirty hands—when was the last time he washed them?—he grabs the paper, scans it fervently. Nothing important. Seril has found a nice woman, she is with child, all is well, all is fine, he is not stuck here in this cursed dungeon, he cannot fathom a single iota of his experience. 

There is a scrap of dirtied paper upon the ground, but it is the only one he can find, so it will have to do. When he grabs at the quill, his hand—so rough, so uncoordinated, it is as if he cannot move his fingers individually anymore, but the entire arm is instead an odd, stiff mass—knocks the inkwell off the desk. Now, limited to one dip of ink, but there are only a few words he needs to say. 

seril i require help these dungeons are full of crows plea

The quill runs out of ink before he finishes, but it is all the words he needed to say. 

Except, there’s something missing. It takes a long moment of staring at the paper to realize. 

It is missing a signature. 

Well. He has no ink left to write it, and besides, when he imagines penning it down, he realizes that he does not exactly remember what it looks like. What name he would use. 

He finds her lower in the dungeons, drawing out a sigil in what’s probably blood. A dark priest, skin and hair both sickly white, clad in the robes that are customary for her kind. He does not know when she entered, but somehow, he knew where to find her—the only person who could deliver his message. The only person in this entire dungeon who is any modicum of sane. 

Besides him, of course. 

She looks up at him when he approaches, lip curling in confusion. 

“...Captain?” she guesses, putting a hand into her pocket and grasping some hidden weapon inside. He smiles, to try and placate her, but it doesn’t seem to work, so instead he launches into instructions. 

She cocks her head, brow lowering. Does she not understand? They are simple words, or at least he thinks they are, but when he attempts to concentrate on what he is saying, all he hears are the guttural rumbles and screeches of something that cannot conceive human speech. 

Sharply, he shuts his mouth, and simply shoves the paper into her hand, points towards an approximation of the entrance. 

Finally, she gets it. Looks down. “...Seril?”

He opens his mouth to speak, but settles on nodding a moment later. The memory of how to mold his tongue around comprehension seems to have somewhat, somehow, escaped him. 

“Deliver this?”

Another nod. 

“I know of him,” she says shortly, and then returns to drawing out her ritual, which he takes as a confirmation of the task. 

Seril will come, he’s sure of it. He will come, and he will stand inside the dungeon and find patterns in the blood and hear the chirping of crows and neither of them will be alone anymore. 

***

He is standing behind a thick stone wall, listening to the footsteps on the other side. How he found himself here is not entirely clear in his mind, nor is the wooden apparatus where a left arm should be, nor is the strange heft of his head. 

“...happened,” comes a thread of muffled conversation, “I cannot imagine. Do you think he is dead?”

“He cannot be dead.” This voice is sharp, impassioned. Familiar?

Is it familiar?

“Of course,” comes the other, now softer, placating. 

The crows chatter and caw and talk amongst themselves. It is a long moment before they come to a conclusion. 

Forward. Bludgeon. Intruders. 

Intruders. He raises an arm and slams it against the wall, even as he remembers a single name. 

Seril. 

It must have been his own, back when names still mattered. Nothing that has use to think of now. 

He wonders, briefly, why it is only now that it’s come back to him, and it doesn’t feel exactly right as his former moniker, but then it slips away in the lieu of blood. 

***

He is all that, and he is none of that, and he is a man-no-longer that tries to catch memories in his hands like water. 

“Rudimer?” 

His gaze snaps to the person in front of him, still laid out upon the bed. For a moment, they are a thin white creature marveling over a stone cube, and then they are a dark priest trying to comprehend the speech of crows, and finally the flicker of a knight, eyes wide, forgotten words spilling frantically from his lips. 

Slowly, hesitantly, he nods. 

“What happened?” they breathe, looking at him in what he cannot tell is marvel or pity. For a moment, all that he has newly remembered attempts to push its way out of his heavy beak, but it will not be in any understandable configuration. “Do you… have you been here, all this time?”

Nod. 

“Can you leave?”

Now, he hesitates. No, logic dictates, but he has never actually tried. Still, though, he does not think he’s the sort of creature that could survive in the world, not without the dungeon’s lifeblood coursing through his veins.

At his nonanswer, there is another question.

“...Do you want to?”

His beak is dipping down, and at first it is because of the weight of gravity, but then he is lifting up, dropping again. 

Nod, one more time.

[dastardly-imbecile]

Not the Dungeon pt. 2

Didn't think I'd be making a sequel, but here we are. Part 1

---

For a moment, the tableau is all too familiar—here he is again, looming over their still body, and wondering what he is going to do with the opportunity. Nothing that he once would’ve done with a human, no imaginings of bloodied mauler and snapping beak.

---

What does this human know about him? What does he know?

Word Count: 1525

---

Safe places here are few and far between. Still, he hurries, checking only periodically that the human follows. They limp, and with each stride of his, lag further behind. It pains him to stop—screams against every instinct that’s been ground into him—but he does, nevertheless. 

Finally, he has a destination in mind. There is a small room in the third-floor basement, in which a bed and cooking fire sits. Creatures patrol the area, but the creature he guides has killed most already. Impressive, again, he has to admit. It would be easy enough to do, but then again, the dungeon has granted him far more capabilities. 

They’ve caught up now. When they look at him, their gaze is still tinged with wariness. He’s the least of anything that wanders these depths, but he supposes that they do not know that. The fact remains that the deep guard’s viscera still coats his mauler and is dried upon the rough skin of his chest. Maybe that’s enough to remind them that he is their savior. Or make them remember that he could do the same to their own soft body.  

He wouldn’t, but still. 

Perhaps he should offer them some help. It’s not a weapon of the elite guard’s that has hurt them—they wouldn’t have a leg at all, had that been so—but something makes them limp nevertheless. A lesser injury from a lesser creature, but infection can be just as deadly as iron teeth and metal bludgeons. 

Hopefully that is not the case. Wounds can be bandaged—though it’s been a long time since he’s done that as well—but the herbs and potions needed for infection are sadly lacking. He cannot remember the last time he got injured. Must’ve been before. In those times that muddle his memories. 

“Where are we going?” The human asks. They’ve drawn in close to themself, hand hovering above the sword strapped to their waist, the other clutched to their chestplate. “Who are you?”

He opens his mouth. Feels the weight of a beak, the lack of lips and teeth and tongue. Closes it again and tries to nod towards the upper floors. 

“Can you talk?”

Shake of his head. 

“But you can understand.”

Nod. It’s almost a relief to hear speech, to be able to understand it. Nothing but the company of his own thoughts, he’d started wondering if he was thinking in any sort of legible language at all. Or more a scramble or letters and images, more meaning than script. 

The hand has moved away from the sword. Maybe the knowledge that he’s not simply some base, savage beast has soothed the human. Sentience cannot be trusted either—can be trusted even less—but he’s in no mind to teach them that lesson. 

Up, again, nodding his beak towards the ceiling. Strange to think that he’d almost managed to forget its existence. Impossible, now that he has to direct its unwieldy weight. 

“My leg,” the human says plainly. “Do you have anything to heal?”

Stupid question. Unless he’s managed to shove it up into his tunic, there are no places where he could’ve hidden such a thing. He shakes his head anyway. 

“That’s… a shame.”

Something in the distance rumbles, and a corresponding twinge in his mind sounds. Not urgent yet, but this long standing still, other things have begun to sense their presence. Have sensed it long ago, and are only now trying to nudge their way into his proximity. He’s unsure of how much the creatures here are aware of his nature—do they know that he senses them? Are they aware of his sentience? But none have ever tried to attack him before. 

So he supposes that they know he’s one of them. Which makes this situation problematic. No other action, he scoops the human up, and begins to move. They’re disciplined enough not to scream, but he feels the heave of their chest as they yelp in surprise and wince in pain. It’s impossible to adjust their position with only one hand, at least not with a few unwanted piercings, so they remain clutched halfway to his chest. 

Skin on skin. So long since that skin has been alive and not the stiffness of corpses, since it’s breathed. Since he’s held it for any other reason than the stealing of a soul. 

There’s a staircase that descends from the third floor and onto the one they rush through now. He finds it in quick order, though he’s never used it before. Again, he knows. Everything, everywhere, where the dungeons end and something deeper begins. They’re edging perilously close to it, but not enough to worry. 

He was scared of it once, in those muddled places. 

Still is, maybe. 

***

And then, they are in the safe room. That twitching in his mind has retreated. Whatever it was knows they’re gone. Or maybe knows that he’s there—maybe it’s not so much that they recognize him as one of them, but that they know him as something so other that he’s insurmountable. An authority. 

The idea feels familiar as well. 

He lowers the human onto the bed as carefully as he is able. They’ve been both limp and quiet. Admirable qualities in an escape, but he knows that they’ve capable of so much more. Has watched them fell monsters with the grace of an acrobat, rummage elbow-deep in their corpses for whatever use they can scrape out. Also admirable in its own way. 

“I remember this place,” they say, pushing themself up. “I slept here.”

He knows. Watched them, wondered what they were dreaming of. He cannot articulate that, nor does he particularly want to, so he simply nods. 

“Looted it already, though.” They allow themself to fall all the way back onto the bed, a surprisingly vulnerable move—but then again, they are already prone and weak, so vulnerability is relative as far as that goes. “He’s dead…”

By he, they must surely mean the warrior dead in his cell below. No particular remorse bubbles up from his gut, so he wonders why the human seems so distraught. Was he a friend? Family? Commander? Lover?

The last one does make something surge in his chest, but he’s not sure what exactly it is. No further elaboration from the human themself, and after a moment, he realizes it is because they have fallen asleep. 

Not dead, he’s sure. He can hear their breaths. 

For a moment, the tableau is all too familiar—here he is again, looming over their still body, and wondering what he is going to do with the opportunity. Nothing that he once would’ve done with a human, no imaginings of bloodied mauler and snapping beak. 

Instead, he simply… watches. 

And then, he remembers their leg, and turns to regard it. The image of latches and buckles swims before his eyes, but the minute he lays a hand upon the warm metal, some sort of inherent memory floods back. Taking it off is easier than could be expected. 

He used to do this often. Not since he shed the need for armor, but he feels that little of anything from that past life has crossed over. 

The leg is not as bad as he could’ve feared. Simple a large gash cutting through the skin and revealing the flesh and bone within. None of the angry, inflamed signs of infection, nor creamy pus. Really, the ideal wound, and he is just reaching a hand out to it—to do what, he’s not sure—when the human awakes with a gasp and immediately rolls away. 

The sword is half-way out and by the time that they’ve facing him and doesn’t go back into the scabbard. “What..?”

He points at the leg. The wound. 

Suspicion in their eyes. Without the aid of speech, convincing them of anything different is going to be difficult. He tries to mime the wrapping of bandages, then realizes that he has nothing of the sort. 

So what would he admit if he did have the liberty of vocalization? That he’d peeled off that leg guard without any further plans than looking at their bare flesh and seeing if that inspired any bloodlust, any indication of why this human was different from all others? 

“My wound,” they say flatly, “you were trying to help?” 

He nods. 

Unexpectedly, they laugh, and slide the sword back down. “Sure. If you wanted to kill me, I’d be dead, right?”

He hesitates, unsure whether that’s a question that a nod would really help. The stillness is answer enough for them, and they relax again, clambering back into their prone position. “Well then. Do what you will. You’re not like the guards, are you?”

Shake of his head. He looks around for suitable fabric—his own garments certainly won’t do, filthy as they are—and spots an abandoned pack against the far wall. Straightening to his full height, he turns to retrieve it-

“You’re the one that went missing. That the knights tried to retrieve. Captain Rudimer?”

He freezes. That name- it strikes some chord deep within, and the blurry patches in his memory begin to clear, and the weight of his beak is suddenly heavier than ever. 

[dastardly-imbecile]

Your Crow Mauler piece watered my crops, cleared my skin, cured my depression and- …Thank you.

Thank you!! He does tend to have that effect on people. I'm glad you enjoyed my little ramblings!

[dastardly-imbecile]

Not the Dungeon

He’s gotten braver. Creeps up to their bed in the night, looming above. So fragile. Would be easy enough to crush any bone in that body, to peel back that skin and see the deformities within. Perhaps the dungeons have decided to go inside-out, and one day, feathers will burst through their skin and they will choke on the beak that pierces through their throat. 

---

Feelings? What are these? Not things that a crow should have, but-

---

All is dark down here in this cursed place. It’s been so long since he saw any light but the dim glow of torches, since he smelled anything other than rot and mold. He can hardly remember what it was like up there—up where the sun shone and cool wind tangled through the trees. 

You are not the dungeons. 

There’s an old mantra. Not exactly sure what it means anymore, but it still cycles through his mind, back-forth, bouncing off the walls of his skull. They don’t define him, though they do surround, though he knows their walls better than he knows his flesh. 

Far better, in fact. Given that one of his arms is not even his flesh and that his head is not human anymore. The crows have taken him and lifted his soul into something that he never really wanted in the first place. Somewhere that intertwines his being intrinsically with every stone of the dungeon.

That’s what lets him sense the intrusion. 

You are not the dungeon. 

Something other than guards. Other than soldiers, even. Knights, pesky knights. He felt them ages back but did not chase. Something stopped him—maybe a buried instinct from those days that he can not quite remember. They must be deep by now, deep or dead, both of those places that he doesn’t dare to go yet. 

This person, however. Something about their aura does not scream knight nor warrior. Desperate, maybe, or seeker. 

The guards will get them soon enough. If not them, then any number of others that dwell in the depths. Hunchbacked humanoids that crawl through the lower caves, gargantuan wolves with eyes like dominoes, shriveled bodies risen again from the throes of death. He knows all of them intimately. If not willingly. 

The labyrinth of corridors used to puzzle him. When he stares at the walls, panic still rises up his throat, even though he could navigate the place blind. It says that there was a time before. When he had a name. Maybe even a purpose. When the prospect of being wandering through the halls was an unimaginable horror instead of a daily occurrence. 

He starved here, once. Dreamed here. Felt blankets of crows settling over his head and tearing his skin to shreds. 

Still, he pushes the panic down and navigates as he knows that he is able. Light spills in from the entrance to the dungeon—enticing, yet. There’s fear in that brightness, and duty as well. Despite the temptation, he cannot leave just yet. There is still business to attend to.

Past the cells, until he is barely outside of the light’s reach. The ones this close to the entrance lay empty—sometimes the wolves are brave enough to venture in and snatch someone from the broken cages. The only ones left are lost deep within, in cells whose keys have been lost, forgotten, or purposefully tossed away. 

Despite their obscurity, despite the time, he still knows every prisoner here—such as the knightly man; the pitiable form; with ragged blonde hair and a home in the deeper places. There is a warrior, a scion of his race, and if he could not thrive here then this new seeker most certainly will not. 

Perhaps they are one of the vermin. Parasites. Ones who were not trapped by the darkness, but chose to enter on their own. 

It’s another human. Nondescript, carrying nothing but a pack. So easy to dispose of as well. In the back of his mind, he can hear the flapping of crows—hear the sounds of clicking beaks and small, pattering feet. They want it, he wants it, wants the blood that rushes beneath. 

You are not the dungeons. 

The guards will get the human. Or perhaps the ghouls, or maybe another prisoner altogether. It doesn’t matter—he is not the keeper of Hell. 

Or at least, not anymore. 

***

The guards do not prevail. He feels where they fall. What a strange little creature that manages to kill monsters such as these—what motivates them so? It cannot just be their search. Not bloodlust either, nor even knowledge. All he can sense is the desire to find.

At times they sleep, as all humans do, and sometimes he watches as they rest. 

Wonders if they dream like him. Wonders how the dungeons will take their flesh; and if it will mold it into something greater. 

Deeper they go. More vermin enter, but he hardly pays any mind to them. The other creatures defeat these with ease, or else insanity and starvation whisks them away, or else they skuttle into far corners that he has no mind to stalk. 

Not right now, in any case. 

He’s gotten braver. Creeps up to their bed in the night, looming above. So fragile. Would be easy enough to crush any bone in that body, to peel back that skin and see the deformities within. Perhaps the dungeons have decided to go inside-out, and one day, feathers will burst through their skin and they will choke on the beak that pierces through their throat. 

As their journey progresses, they pass the other beings. Ones that aren’t as mindless and base as the others. He’s wary when they approach the Pocketcat, but he takes no special interest in them. They’re wise enough to run from the yellow mages and wary enough to avoid their disembodied master. All other beings in the dungeon that possess at least a sliver of sentience are far enough that their paths do not cross. 

It… relieves him. Perhaps he did think that they would meet an early death in the beginning, but now… but now. Not a topic fit for delving further, even as he follows. 

***

One day, they find an enemy that they can not best. He feels it in his bones, as he feels everything—but this is a stranger sensation. Not grief, but almost worry. 

It’s on the seventh level. Vaguely, he remembers its significance. That’s where the special prisoner resides—the one whom the priestess had bade to transfer below. He does not wander down in those parts often. The dungeon goes deep enough even to inspire uneasiness in him sometimes. 

The deeper guards are more dangerous. Something in the shadows twists them monstrously, contorts their flesh as it’s contorted him, turns skin to leather, warps bone into amalgamations. 

A flicker of wings and then he is landing softly upon the seventh floor. Up, around the corner—there are noises, the sound of heavy panting and scrape of metal. 

This, something tells him, this is not his nature. He is a being of the dungeons and the human is not—what is he doing? He should finish them off. A moment passes, tight with sensation—calloused hand drawing into a fist, the click of his beak as he considers. 

You are not the dungeons. 

That old, old mantra. 

He steps around the corner. 

The guard has its back to him. Its pebbly expanse of flesh is scarred and lumpy, bulging with barely-sheathed muscle. Still attacking—about to lunge. He can telegraph its movement in the twitches of its shoulders and twist of its hips. Real combat has not been a problem for him in years, not with the tools that the dungeon bestowed on him, but there once existed a time in which he needed to strategize. 

Perhaps that’s what the human is lacking. Maybe this is what they need. 

In one fell swoop, he swings his mauler against the creature’s head, and it falls monstrous to the floor. Gore spatters against the wall and viscera coats the metal of his bat. There’s some on him, but no matter. 

Strangely, the human does not run. They look just as he remembers, though he’s only seen their face when in peaceful sleep. Albeit right now, it’s a bit filthier and stained with blood. 

They are here for the man in the cell. He knows that much. Along with that knowledge comes that the man is dead. Quite recently—perhaps he could’ve been saved if not for the guard. 

The human looks towards the cell, then back at him. Scared, it’s clear enough, and if he were not what he was, he would be too. He knows intimately what rests within every corner of this place, but the fear of the unknown must be even stronger. 

He could lead them to safety. If they followed. If they were wise enough to leave the man to his death. 

One step backwards. He beckons with his free hand and kicks the limp body of the guard to the side. A long moment passes in which he is sure that they will turn to run into the cage or even back down the hallway-

But, instead, with a wince of pain, they follow. 

[dastardly-imbecile]

And He Came Down Upon Wings of Snow

Part four of 'written for a friend'. 1, 2, 3.

You’re sure that something is watching you. More than sure, actually—it’s not anything so small as a hunch or a feeling. No, it’s a bone-deep fear. This is what the antelope feels when it sees the flickering cheetah in the grass, this is that swooping feeling in your stomach when you trip while holding something valuable. Impending doom coming from above like some hawk on wide wings against a small, shivering rabbit.

And the worst part is: you know that you cannot do a single thing about it. --- In which there is a you, a presence, and an angel.

---

Wordcount: 1823

This has literally nothing to do with the outer Mandela Catalogue universe—only Gabriel.

TW: Vague allusion to suicide? It's one line near the end, and not stated outright.

You’re sure that something is watching you. More than sure, actually—it’s not anything so small as a hunch or a feeling. No, it’s a bone-deep fear. This is what the antelope feels when it sees the flickering cheetah in the grass, this is that swooping feeling in your stomach when you trip while holding something valuable. Impending doom coming from above like some hawk on wide wings against a small, shivering rabbit. 

And the worst part is: you know that you cannot do a single thing about it. 

Running won’t help. You’re sitting on the edge of your bed at the moment, and the silence makes the presence ever stronger, but it follows. Followed you on the road, to your friends’ house, to work. You’ve tried to lose it, dove into crowds of people, taken winding roads at breakneck speed. Nothing helps. It’s almost like this creature is perched upon your shoulder, hands clenched on your head, and wherever you go, it’s attached as a parasite. Some twisted version of a guardian angel—always following, never benevolent. 

You’ve tried fighting it—swiping the air around your body with knives, searching for invisible foes with their gleaming tips. Used your hands when those didn’t work—perhaps bare flesh would reveal something that cold metal could not. 

Nothing. 

And, eventually, you tried to speak to it. Threats, pleads, sugary-sweet flattering. This, maybe, has had the most tangible effect. Tangible in that once, after you broke into tears, you felt the cold brush of wind. Not something remarkable but for the fact that you were standing in your windowless bathroom. 

Caressing across your cheek, lingering under your chin. Soft.

It did nothing but bring a fresh wave of tears. 

***

Lately, it’s been appearing in the corners of your vision. Flickering away as you turn your head, there once and gone again. 

It’s been so long that the violation is almost commonplace now. Still the feeling of being stalked, the feeling that something could grab you—grab you, skin you, break your bones into shards—but it’s nearly an empty threat. You’ve taken to narrating your actions aloud to it, treating it like some vaguely-annoying imaginary friend. Now, I’m going to go cook dinner. I don’t suppose you want a serving. Or, Sometimes, I wish you’d just do it. I’m bound to die of high blood pressure at this point. 

But this? This is new. 

Something white. So white that it may even be glowing, but the glimpses are too spare to tell. There’s the vague impression of something that flows, that swings in the air—fabric. Robes or scarves of dresses, the actual nature of it is a mystery. Every time it flashes, your head still jolts instinctively. 

The habit of talking has once again nestled back into a cranny of your mind. Until you can ascertain that this isn’t a sign of immediate death, you’re too wary to be so blasé about it again. The fact that an incorporeal force, harmlessly frightening at most, has graduated to being physical scares you. 

And maybe it likes that. 

***

More flashes. Slower, too. They’re definitely some sort of dress or robes, you’re sure, stark white. Not glowing—or at least not glowing any more than a freshly fallen sheet of snow does. Any luminescence that it holds can be attributed to the sheen of sunlight being reflected back again. 

There’s a larger presence behind those robes too. These are blinding, and if the robes are the snow, then this is the sun. You can make out the vague shape of something large and looming, angular shapes and folds upon folds, layered into stacks of dozens. 

It’s come to become a pattern, written out into three events. Every time you feel like you’re safe, like the advancements have finally stopped, it starts again. And the starting kicks out a new tsunami of fear. 

You hope that now you’ve come to anticipate it, it won’t be able to sneak up on you again. 

It’s a cruel, false hope. 

***

Maybe you’re insane. Are you insane? You scheduled a doctor’s appointment two days ago and told them that you were seeing things, feeling things. Desperately, you wished for it to be some rendering of schizophrenia, some odd amalgamation of hormones and chemicals and the folds of your brain. 

The doctor was an old, kind man. He smiled at you when you entered and tried to make jokes, make you comfortable. He could probably feel the tautness in your arms, hear the soft heaves of your breath. 

You didn’t hear too many of those jokes. No, your eyes were locked on the cut of his long, white coat. Stiff and starched, the hospital’s logo emblazoned over his chest—but it hung low and glowed pale in the fluorescent lights and it brought your heart to a pounding rhythm. 

In the end, he patted you on the back and told you to get more sleep, drink more water. Was there anything stressful happening at work; in your home life? You were a healthy young thing, nothing wrong internally, so perhaps try to deal with your external problems first. 

External problems. If only. 

Not an hour later, you were stepping into the small shop. Curtains hung heavy over the windows, casting the room into darkness. Beads clattered against each other as you pushed the door open, feet sinking into plush carpets. 

From the hospital to the psychic. The wonders of the modern world. 

The woman who greeted you wasn’t dressed in white, but around her neck hung a cross necklace. An odd choice for someone that churches might denounce—but you were in no place to judge. 

You weren’t judging, either. Just staring. The cross—so small, so delicate. Something about it sent shivers of familiarity running through you—you knew crosses, knew crosses more than you’d ever known anything before. 

The unfortunate side effect of this was that she believed you were quite ardently drawn in by her cleavage—perhaps why she treated you so coldly throughout the meeting. No crystal balls or tea leaves. No, she simply told you to close your eyes and let your mind float away while she ran gentle fingers over your head, shoulders, back. 

You’re stressed, she’d told you, and you had to bite back a no shit Sherlock. The doctor had told you just about as much and you weren’t at this backalley shop for anything that doctors could do. 

Something large hangs around you. The weight of something from your past. You need to bare yourself to it. Stop running. 

You’re unsure if she actually did anything beyond spout off fortune-cookie lyrics, but perhaps there’s some sort of merit in it. 

***

Nighttime. Your dreams from the past few nights have been painted in eyes and smiles—bad smiles, stretched smiles. A mashup of the Cheshire Cat and Jack the Ripper, with a dash of Cthulhu mixed in. Enough to make you descend into smushing pop culture references together. 

Most everything else from the dreams escapes you, but you wake in tangled sheets nevertheless. Perhaps it’s best that you don’t know. You turn the thermostat up, but the house is cold. When you lay on the bed and contemplate your latest nightmare, heart still beating jackrabbit quick, it brings gooseflesh rising onto your skin. 

Meditation. The best approximation of what the medium told you, but nothing. Truth be told, you’re often too distracted. When your eyes close, impossible colors swirl behind them, and you can almost feel cold breath on your neck. 

Tonight, though. On your bed for the lack of a better place to sit. It’s the culmination of a week of sleepless nights, a month of vague hallucinations, six of that everpresent fear. It’s do this or find some other way to end it, and the other way might be a fair bit more brutal. 

Deep breaths. 

In. 

Out. 

In. 

Out. 

The temperature is dropping. Down, down, down. 

***

How much time has it been?

How long, sitting like this?

Something is watching. 

Waiting. 

Eyes. Mouth. Teeth. 

Robes. Wings. Hair. 

Skin. Blood. Bone. 

And then, it all comes together. 

***

It coalesces from the darkness and from the spare images in your mind—as if it pulls straight from those recollections of robes, those dreams of teeth, drawing them out like a tailor draws thread through cloth. 

A man. Tall. Long strands of blonde hair hanging curled around his face. And that face—angular, sharp feathers, cheeks sunken, eyes dark. Wings stretch behind him and they do not care for the bounds of your house. No longer do they glow, for they are dark as shadows. 

Not a man. 

An angel. 

His lips are curled into some sort of smile. Mouth not open. Good. You aren’t quite ready to see his teeth. 

“So you come,” he tells you, “you call.”

A quiet voice. Slightly raspy. Not the high soprano of an angelic chorus, but then, he isn’t too angelic himself. 

“Why?” Is all you can ask. 

“Little lamb,” he tells you, voice deepening. A pale hand reaches from the depths of his robe. His fingers settle under your chin, thumb brushing gently against your cheekbone, and he tilts your head up to look at him. “So scared. I can hear your heart. Feel your blood.”

“Am I?” You breathe.

He nods once. Still smiling. “Be not afraid, for your shepherd has arisen, and he shall guide you to the promised land.”

Everything is darkening. Where is your house? Where is your bed? Memories of the life past flicker through your mind. Your work- oh, you realize, you haven’t been going in lately. Haven’t even left the house since that visit to the psychic’s. 

What would she say now? What would that doctor? Your thoughts drift. 

They’re brought back by a sharp jerk of your head. He’s leaning closer now, no longer smiling, brows creased. 

“Do not stray from your path. I will have none of your puny, mortal past.”

“I’m… sorry,” you manage. “I won’t… I-”

“Do not worry.”

All at once, he is beatific again. His wings have taken on a soft glow, flickering faintly like candlelight. His eyes are black, but the shapes of his face are so beautiful that you cannot care. 

He moves the arm that doesn’t hold you still, drawing it out to his side. An invitation to embrace. 

“Come, little lamb. Eden awaits.”

You rise stiffly. It’s so, very cold, and he is warm and he is light and if the corners of his smile stretch a bit too wide, then you can avert your eyes. He seems to like the action—the sign of deference. 

In a swift movement, you’re bundled into his embrace. He is glowing, but his skin is no warmer than the surroundings. His head tilts to look down at you. White teeth glint down at you—teeth so bright, so long, pearls in the snow.

Eden. Paradise. 

Arm still around you, wings curled up behind your backs, he leads you into the dark. 

[dastardly-imbecile]

Almost Human

Part 3 of the 'fandoms i know nothing about but wrote for a friend'. 1, 2

“Detective?”

That voice. He’d know it anywhere, of course, soft and slow and infuriating. Why was he here? Why did he have to be bothering Gavin now, of all possible times?

He looks up. His neck protests at the sudden movement—it’s settled well enough into the hunched, cramped position. 

Bet the android doesn’t have to deal with this. 

Unnatural freaks. 

“Detective,” it says again, and he realizes that he still hasn’t responded. Gods only know why it’s bothering him—where’s Hank? Shouldn’t he be keeping this thing on a tight leash?

He almost snorts. Old man’s always been far too soft. It’ll no doubt bite him in the back someday. 

Or shoot him, as things seem to go more often in this line of work. 

Not his concern at the moment. 

“Android,” he finally says back. It’s always aggravated him how the android is taller than him. It feels like some sort of silent inferiority; another example of how they’re trying to make the robots faster, bigger, better. He used to think that there was no chance of that happening. 

At the progress they’re going, perhaps the real future is creeping up on him alarmingly fast. 

“Do you require assistance?” 

And the thing just stands there, straight-backed and suited. Acting like it’s a real human- like it’s clawed its way into this station like he has. How much has he given for his career? Any semblance of having a social life, for one. He’s bit back all the words that bubble up when the idiots above him make their horrible decisions. All those sacrifices, and yet the robot just waltzes in like it owns the place.

Like it’s better than him. 

He lurches to his feet. More bones, more joints, protesting at the sudden movement. Whatever. Shorter though he may be, he doesn’t want to sit there looking up at the android, seeing his broad frame looming up above him. 

At this height, he’s an image of brown eyes, dark hair. Shaved clean, smiling politely. His face isn’t any better than his chest but at least Gavin’s not looking up anymore. 

“Shouldn’t you be on duty, android?” The words come out slanted with annoyance, which is truly the least of his emotions at the moment. “Not wandering the place like a mutt.”

“Hank let me out,” he says. “You looked like you needed help.” 

Gavin opens his mouth, prepared to spit some sort of rebuke—what is this thing implying? That he’s some sort of helpless thing? That any problems he has can be solved by him?

He closes it again. No use, really, spending his hard-earned free time on arguing with this thing. “Go… ah, I dunno. Get me a coffee.”

At least this will get rid of him. 

….Except it doesn’t. The thing, the android, simply stands there. Looking over Gavin with its gaze. He’d dearly love to say that his eyes are dead and blank, glazed dark like fish-eyes, but no, they’ve somehow managed to program some sort of life and expression behind them. Like there’s more than a sea of blue goop and biomechs behind that synthetic skin. 

It weirds him out. 

“Well?”

“Are you alright?” The android tilts his head. “Your posture-”

“Is that what I told you to do, huh?” 

It’s an almost disproportionate anger that he feels. First it asks him for help, and then it tries to… what? Psychoanalyze him? 

“I am not obligated to follow your orders.” The android nods once. Throat bobbing up and down. It’s a small movement; but for whatever reason, it captivates him. Maybe because of how realistic it is—make them blink, make them twitch, hell, give them the ability to disobey orders.

But this? There’s no reason for it to exist besides the fact that they want to make them realistic. A punch in the gut; that’s what it is, another reminder that maybe one day, he’ll be walking down some city street and be unable to tell what’s human and what’s not. 

It makes him want to lash out. To hit something, break something, slam a fist on a wall—or into a convenient subject standing right before him. His fingers twitch. Clenching. 

The android stares. He—he?—steps away. 

“...nevertheless, I will do you a favor.”

With that, he turns on his heel and walks away, leaving Gavin with an anger that he can’t quite deal with. Really, though, as he looks at the android’s retreating back, he can’t help but think that he wouldn’t have. Something about staring into those eyes, dark and liquid-brown. About the twitch of his adam’s apple. 

He can’t be letting him become… anything further than a bot. No matter how human he seems; no matter whatever shaved-face they’ve plastered into a facade. 

He’s coming back. A small plastic cup, almost dwarfed by his hand. There’s a jump in his eyebrows as he walks closer. Like he hasn’t been expecting Gavin to still be standing there dumbly, hands by his sides, waiting. 

Hadn’t that been his original plan? To walk away while the bot was busy?

Wordlessly, he proffers the cup. Gavin takes it, despite himself. The transfer from hand-to-hand is awkward, and the android’s fingers fumble against his for a split second. 

Fingers. Warm, soft. Human. It’s another shock out of a thousand. Another way that they’re bending technology into humanity, mixing the two until they’ll be indistinguishable from one another. If it was dark, if he didn’t know, if Gavin grabbed an arm or a hand or laid his palm on a forehead, he wouldn’t be able to tell. 

A vague notion of it runs through his mind—dark room, warm skin. Not the android’s; simply a stranger—not that he’s had the time to spend time with many strangers in dark rooms. 

He doesn’t thank the android. It doesn’t ask for one either. Simply regards him with those dark, shining eyes, head tilted slightly, like he���s looking through Gavin’s head and out the back. Gavin stares back. Words bubbling in his throat; shouted ones, what’re you looking at or get away.

“Connor!”

Hank’s voice. It breaks him out of his reverie; does the same for the bot. Connor, right. What he calls himself. What Hank calls him too. 

Soft.

He turns and ambles away. Leaving Gavin with his small cup and his thoughts and the memory of that gaze, that skin, that throat. 

Human. So close. Almost there, a hair’s breadth away. 

Connor. 

[dastardly-imbecile]

Warmth

Wrote this for a friend, do not know a single iota of anything Hannibal-related, which is probably abundantly clear.

The chair is made of plush red velvet; so dark that it’s nearly black. Soft under you in the way that you know you could fall asleep if given ten minutes. 

Around you, the house is dark and silent. All but for the crackling of the fireplace - such a cliche term, but cozy nonetheless. Too dark to read a physical book, but you don’t particularly feel like pulling out something electronic. It would ruin the illusion that you’ve so carefully crafted in this atmosphere - the idea that you’re in some fantasy world, relaxing in your mountainside chalet, nothing more than the fire and the chair and the dark, dark walls. 

“Y/N?”

Well, something had to break the immersion eventually. Not that you’re really mad about that - not when it’s Hannibal. You can practically feel his approach behind you, feel it past the sound of his footsteps and the scent of the tea he’s carrying. It’s the feeling you’ve always had, ever since seeing him for the first time all that time ago - an internal fire; a warmth that starts in your chest and spreads. 

Different from the external warmth of the fire. Strange to think about, to attempt to articulate to anyone - but you don’t really need to. All you need is to feel it yourself. 

His presence moves around the chair to stand beside you. He’s tall, somewhere in the realm of the upper-fives lower-sixes. Enough to tower over you sitting here. “Are you okay?”

“Perfectly fine.” 

He pats the armrest next to you. “May I?”

You nod. There’s the sound of shifting above, and he settled next to you. Perched delicately - an anathema to that looming height, he wields it like a dancer would. Makes you wonder where he learned. It lends to the quiet sound of his footfalls and the languid, easy way he moves. Not a care in the world - a skill you sometimes wish you could learn. 

Simply having him is enough for now. 

Just now.

He passes the cup and saucer down. Warmth, it’s what you’re surrounded by, the fire and his body and the cup, and it’s spreading inside of you, down past your stomach and up into your head. More as you take a sip - it’s pleasant enough to loosen your muscles. 

You shift to lean against him. He accepts it without comment, and your head lays just under his elbow. 

“Bad day?” He asks. You’re a veterinarian, and that’s part of what drew him to you in the first place - said he admired anyone who would try and help animals. It’s hard sometimes to put them down or to see the ones that have been mistreated. Not today, though. 

“Tired.”

At that, you yawn, and he laughs - softly, but you can still feel it jostle your head. Not an entirely unpleasant sensation when it comes from the person you love. 

His arm settles around your shoulders. “We should get you to bed then, shouldn’t we?”

Probably. You can’t quite get your arms to move, however. He divines that - as he always does, somehow - and stands. “Or do you need an incentive first?”

“Maybe.” You take another drink; he moves around behind you.

Strong hands settle on your shoulders. At the moment, there’s a layer of fabric separating skin from skin, but the phantom memory of that sensation still shivers through you. Yes, this is definitely doing wonders for your wakefulness. 

They start to knead - moving across your shoulders, gentle at first, but pressing deeper with every second. It sends your muscles tensing for a brief moment before they surrender to the feeling of being worked, molded into nothing but the feeling of release. 

“Better?” He asks. 

There’s nothing you can do but nod mutely. It’s as much as any words could’ve said.

It has to end, as all things do, but at least you’re comforted by the fact that there will be as many massages as you’d ever want. He helps you up from your chair, hand on your back. The touch of it sends residual tingles rushing through you. He can probably feel them. 

He walks with you until you enter your bedroom - lights dimmed to suit the rest of the house, bed made and ready for sleep. 

“I’ll turn the fire out,” He murmurs, voice soft and dark as the velvet chair. “Sleep, Darling.”

You do. 

[dastardly-imbecile]

Pt 2 of the Dr. Livesey fanfic

refer to prior post for explanation

The sun beat down on your back and the top of your head, almost unbearable. The beach of bodies was far enough behind that if you looked back, the island would curve before you could see them, but you still couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling. 

A feeling not helped in the slightest by the presence of your companion. He swaggered along beside you, seemingly quite unbothered, just quick enough that you had to stumble to keep up. 

To your right lay the endless expanse of the sea, glimmering in the sunlight and barren of any type of rescue. You’d kept your eyes on the shoreline for any sign of a crash, but not a single plant of wood littered the sand. To the left, the beach slowly seceded to a forest. You may have been inclined to walk under the treeline for the shade, but something about it made you appreciate the open expanse of the beach more than you would otherwise. Who knew what lay inside of the tangle of trees?

Besides that terror, an all-more-pressing need slowly crept up on you. The stores of food and water that had been on the ship were - much like the ship - nowhere to be found, and under this heat, thirst was already creeping up your throat. 

Well, you had to break the silence sometime, didn’t you?

“Do you have water?” 

He paused and immediately reached into one of the pockets of his overcoat. A moment later, it came out holding a leather flask. “Ah, I keep it on me at all times. Better than rum, yes it is, no need for that…”

He grinned at you. The flask was warm, and so was the water inside, and it was all you had to only take one sip before handing it back. 

“Thank you.” It went back into his coat. 

Don’t stare at it longingly. When you’re thirsty again… when it runs out… what then…?

Maybe staring longingly would’ve been conducive after all, but by now, you were simply staring at the expanse of his chest and not anything you could drink. 

And so, the day dragged on under the weight of the sun, trudging through piles of sand. Eventually, it began to dip below the horizon, flaring the sky into a quilt of colors. 

“I think we’re alone.” Truly, you hadn’t ever really thought you’d find another ship. Maybe it was simply denial, but something about the island made you feel distinctly… isolated. 

“Maybe, maybe.” The man beside you looked out over the sea. There was a peculiar smile on his face as he regarded the sunset - a smile very out of place in this situation. Still, you looked towards it as well, suddenly unwilling to let the sun go, despite how much you’d been cursing it only an hour ago. Heat and light were infinitely better than the darkness. 

“What should we do now?” The logical course, in your opinion, was to set up a fire. A chill was already creeping into the air and under your clothes. But fire meant wood and wood meant entering the forest, and in this half-light it appeared as a smudge of black and gray. 

“Why, we sleep, of course. A very advantageous thing. We will need to be well-rested to make it around the island.”

“...Around? Are we still going?” There had been nothing to find but sand and sea and what there was to find, bodies with no ships, was less appealing than even that. 

“What else are we to do?” He let out a long laugh. It definitely didn’t fit the situation you were in. “How foolish.”

You didn’t respond, mostly because you couldn’t think of an adequate one. As a cold breeze rustled past the island, finding its way under your already-light clothes, you couldn’t help but shiver. 

Your companion’s brow furrowed in concern. “Ah, yes, the chill is coming. That won’t do. Cold begets illness, you know, so we must keep you warm…”

Whatever he was thinking was rather inscrutable - at least, until he began to shuck off of his overcoat. It was made of some thick, green fabric, clean and finely woven. Perhaps his ship was richer than usual, or it was just his own fortune. In any case, you shied away. 

“I can’t. What about you?”

He stepped forwards to thrust it upon you. “I would not be felled by some lowly cold.” Another laugh. It was starting to get vaguely unsettling. “I am in superb health, you know! My body is finely honed.”

With the coat off, his clothes underneath were much like yours - thin linen, vaguely white and unfitting. Yours were too large; his were on the other side of the spectrum. It creased where his arms, his chest, were too large to contain, the faint definition of muscles below. Finely honed indeed - if physical prowess was a contest, he would win. Strength of mind, on the other hand…

You grabbed the overcoat. It was rough, but not overtly uncomfortable, and smelled of herbs, something faintly bitter. Medicine, most likely, given his profession. 

Far too large for you, as could be expected. But warm, enough so that it felt almost like you were standing in the embrace of someone else. The shivers subsided quickly enough, and sure as he’d said, he showed no sign of vulnerability to the wind. 

“Thank you.”

“Nothing of it.”

Without anything more to do, you gingerly sat down on the beach. For a moment, he stood above you, a monolith stretching high beyond your comprehension- but then, he sat, and was once again reduced to a mortal. 

“What’s your name?” You asked, suddenly realizing that, over the course of the entire day, you’d never learned it. Strange. 

“You may call me Doctor,” He responded. As close as he sat - perhaps it was simply the lingering qualities of his coat, but you could almost feel the warmth of his body. “Doctor Livesey.” 

[dastardly-imbecile]

Trapped On An Island With Dr. Livesey

Wrote this for a friend and know next-to-nothing about the original work, so apologies for lack of canon-compliance.

Vaguely Dr. Livesey x GN reader?

You lay on the beach, utterly disoriented. Judging from the sun hanging bright above, it was sometime in the range of noon, not that that helped you much. The dully humid weight of the air around you only served to emphasize the utter discomfort of the position that you found yourself in. Groaning, you braced your arms against the sand and managed to push into a sitting position. 

Here, at least, you no longer had to stare straight up towards the brilliance of the bright blue sky, but your gaze was immediately arrested by the other sight - bodies lay piled around the shore in poses similar to the one you must have been sprawled in just moments earlier. Only, in this case, you couldn’t tell whether they were dead or not.

Where was your ship? Sunlight gleamed off of the ocean in undulating starbursts, moving with the crests of water. It was all quite pretty, but what really would have made the view would be a ship anchored in the sea, whole and seaworthy enough to take you far from here. 

Unfortunately, there was no such thing in sight. For now, it was only you, on this beach - you and the bodies and not exactly a stellar memory of how you’d gotten here. There had been… the ship, for sure, the rocking of the waves and wood beneath your feet. The crew… a sea of faces swam vaguely before your mind’s eye, but you couldn’t bring yourself to start scanning the bodies. What, exactly…?

A wreck would’ve taken care of the ship, but it wouldn’t leave bodies scattered this far from the water. Pirates could’ve made off with the ship and scattered the crew, but then why would you be alive - no wounds to be seen, even? 

Something jolted you out of your thoughts, some instinct honed by the lifestyle you led. There was someone behind you - maybe a pirate from the aforementioned theory, or perhaps this island wasn’t quite as uninhabited as the empty stretch of coast would make it seem at first-

You grasped at your side. Nothing. Then, down to your boots, where there should’ve been a dagger strapped to the side-

“No need for that.” 

Of course, who were you to listen? Your fingers fumbled with the leather strap for a brief, panic-stricken moment, and then it was in your hand, gleaming just as bright as the sun. 

You jumped up around to see a man, standing almost a head above you, standing a safe distance away - safe for him, at least, too far for you to easily reach with only a dagger. 

Safe for you? Still up in the air. 

“Don’t come closer,” you warned. Here was the only standing person besides you, and as you were fairly sure that you weren’t the one to leave all the bodies, there was reasonable expectation that it was him. And by that logic, if it was, then you and a dagger couldn’t stop him in the slightest, but best not to think about that. 

“You look good, yes,” he said, eyes scanning over you. “No wounds visible. Heatstroke? Maybe.”

Completely ignoring your warning, he stepped closer. “Oh, but you’re alive and that’s a wonderful thing. Do you happen to have any idea what has landed us here?”

“Do you?” You ask. 

“Why, no. I’m asking you, am I not?” He sighed, brushing a hand down the front of his barrel-broad chest. “I suppose it’s forever a mystery.”

Warily, you put your dagger-hand down. “Is there anyone else?”

“All dead.” He swept his hand over the space behind him, a showman and his macabre display that would never be on any stage. “Quite strange. No wounds to be found. I could autopsy…” 

“Your ship?” You asked tentatively. He definitely wasn’t a part of yours, but the prospect that two boats had been… whatever this was chilled you. 

“Gone. I came from the other side of the island. Almost thought I’d walked all the way back around when I saw the bodies again, but for…”

“What do you remember?”

He tilted his head. “Ah, I was a medic on the Hispaniola. My men were scoundrels. Filth, the lot of them. Though they didn’t deserve this. I was treating a patient, yes, he drank too much, they all do… Oh, and then I was upon the beach.”

Before you could ask anything more, he brushed his hands together. “Well!” Almost incongruous to the mood only moments before, he grinned. “Perhaps there’s another one on the third slope of the island. Let us keep on.”

“What about… everyone?” Maybe it was time to bring the dagger back up again. Surviving something like this probably couldn’t be good for the mind, and that smile…

“What about them?” He looked around, swiveling his head almost comically. “There is nothing to be done. I cannot bring the dead back!” 

“But… Burial?”

“No, no, far too little time. Oh, oh, I know what it is you want. Of course, how could I not have thought of this before? Do you possess ill humors?”

“I’m fine,” you said. “I-”

“Nonsense. The patients never know themselves. Give me your arm.”

The clothes he wore were rich for a sailor, solidly woven and clean. There was no sign of a weapon concealed under them, nor one in the open, and if he really wanted to hurt you, you’d reckon it would happen anyways. With that in mind, you tentatively offered up your free hand. 

He peered down at it and traced a large hand from shoulder to wrist, applying a light pressure as he went. This close to you, he practically loomed above - for a medic, he was built rather large. It was…

Well, disconcerting, among other things. 

“You’re in well health,” he declared after a long moment. You stared at the single arm he examined.

“...Is that all?”

“Well, I shall need more time for the rest. Getting under the clothes requires more effort. But ah, if you’re gravely injured below, I suppose we’ll find out soon!” He chuckled at the comment. It was true, but you still found it profoundly unfunny. 

“Now, let us depart.”

He marched on ahead. Behind him, you could see the footsteps stretching through the sand from where he’d come - and his heavy step left more, swiftly proceeding past you. What choice did you have, besides following him? At least maybe knowing where he was would be better than him potentially having the ability to sneak up on you. 

So, with that in mind, you scrambled to follow.

[dastardly-imbecile]

p2 of the Atticus Finch fanfic

The Scenario: Atticus has had a hard day with hsi case, and finds comfort with you. Written with a friend.

Atticus FinchxGN reader

The door opened, causing you to look up from your book. You smiled, expecting to see Atticus search for you. Instead, you saw him with his head down low. His hands were shaking, his whole body was shaking. 

“Darling?” You questioned softly. Immediately putting the book away and getting up. 

He put his head in his hands and you begin to hear a quiet sobbing. You rush to his side and kneel down, embracing him in your arms. He leans into your touch, 

You didn’t say anything, knowing that the case he was appointed to was breaking him down. Instead you held him closer, his head was now in the crook of your neck. His arms were tight around you. “Please don’t leave me.” He said softly with his breaking voice. 

“What?” You exclaimed, shocked that he would even say that. “Why… would I ever…” You suddenly realize how loud your voice has been getting and hush yourself, focusing only on cradling him. 

“..Let’s get to the bedroom,” you say quietly, “Don’t want Scout or Jem walking in on this.”

He slowly stands, mostly with your help. 

You unknowingly held your breath when you passed by Jem and Scout’s rooms. Only when you were able to get Atticus in your shared room and on the bed were you able to breathe again. 

The door was closed, from you gently opening it and then kicking it closed. His cheeks had tears running down and his eyes were getting red. “My dove.” Slowly, you took off the suit jacket and then his vest..

In only his undershirt, he looks far more vulnerable and small than before, and that’s saying a lot. You push him down on the bed so he’s laying facing you, and lean over him, inspecting. “Do you need… water? Or food? Calpurnia put your plate in the-”

He shakes his head, and grabs your shoulder to pull you down. You rest next to him, barely touching, afraid to make any move.

“Just… keep me company. Please.”

You shift slightly closer, and close your eyes, breathing in his scent. “Always.”

His arms wrapped around you, bringing you even closer. You had gently taken off his glasses and put them on the small nightstand beside the bed. His eyes started to close, “I’ll always be with you.” You whispered. 

You forced your form to relax, only for him. The moon went high into the sky, causing the silver light to shine into the room. Atticus’s breathing had evened out throughout the time period of twenty minutes. 

You counted every minute. But then it turned into every other ten minutes. Soon enough, the clouds had covered the moon. Causing darkness to engulf the room. Your eyes darted around the room as if expecting something to come out of the shadows. 

The clouds started to fade away, allowing the moon to shine brightly once more. You shook off the feeling of eyes on you and rested your head on the bed. Listening to Atticus’s heartbeat, hopefully to calm your own racing one.

You felt his hand quietly settle upon your back, and you couldn’t tell if it was a conscious motion or not. Nevertheless, you allowed it to remain, and together, you both fell into sleep. 

The sun shone through the blinds, and when you groggily opened your eyes, you remained, for a moment, suspended in the feeling of peace. Atticus was still fast asleep, and a glance at the wall-mounted clock said that it was still somewhere within the range of 6 A.M. 

You gazed at his sleeping face, one of the few times you’ve ever seen him this peaceful. Tiredness gripped you tightly, although you ignored it. You’d very much rather spend this morning with Atticus. Maybe convince him to take a day off once this case was finally done. 

The sounds of small footsteps was the only thing you could hear besides Atticus’s soft breaths.

[dastardly-imbecile]

A friend and I wrote this and I regret it immensely.

Atticus Finch x GN reader

You sigh as you feel his fingers slowly working through the tangles and knots in your hair. The feeling of his hands softly stroking through it like heaven, and the soft sound of his voice lulls you into a half-sleep.

His deep voice was the only thing you heard. You had moved from sitting next to him to laying on the couch with your head in his lap, resting on his legs. The children had gone to sleep a few hours prior, Calpurnia had also left. But not before smiling at you and Atticus.

You had a feeling that she’d known what you two were gonna get up to later in the night. For now, though, it’s only the peaceful drone of his voice and the luxurious feeling of your all needs being taken care of by someone else. You suddenly realize that, for the past few minutes, you hadn’t been focusing on the story at all and had no idea what was happening. “...What’s going on?”

He smiles down at you and sets the book down on the arm of the chair. “I don’t know myself.”

You stared up into his eyes, slowly and carefully moving your position so you were now on your back. “Well, it’s nice.” You murmured.

Your hand slowly traced his jawline, and soon enough he had taken your hand in his.

“You are quite a stunning sight.” He said, causing you to freeze slightly from the sudden…compliment...

You still weren’t used to all these small gestures of kindness that were showered upon you. From these absent compliments, to bouquets of wildflowers left in your room, to a quiet kiss on the neck or hand around your shoulders when you were least expecting it. If this relationship somehow didn’t work out - and it would, you felt it - then you had a feeling that you’d never be able to find another one with all this outpouring love.

The first time he had done anything, you just stopped trying to talk after hiding your face in your hands and from the stuttering. The beautiful wildflowers had been vivid against the dark brown wood of the small table. Atticus had gone up behind you and wrapped his arms around you. Bringing you close to his chest and putting his head on your own. No words were exchanged, he took too much pride in your embarrassment.

Even now, it still brought pause whenever it happened. But you were slowly falling into the cradle of his love, and it was the most comfortable you’d ever been. Meanwhile, Atticus was looking down at you, a perplexed look on his face, a small smile still hanging there.

“Don’t be so surprised. Beauty practically- emanates from you.”

You blush harder, and try to bury your head in his clothes, face pressing against his stomach. He laughs softly and gently turns your face towards him. Lifting you up slightly, he plants a kiss upon your forehead. You remember the first time he had done this.

“You’re gonna make them blow a fuse, Mr. Finch!” Calpurnia said. Watching you slowly crumble into a small ball, hiding your face in your hands.

“At least you don’t go into hiding.” He said with a slight smirk on his face.

You flicked his shoulder. “Rude.”

“You, my darling, are something that even the divine powers can never get enough of. I have never felt luckier than to have you in my arms.”

You blushed harder, taking the book off the armrest and shoving it in his face to hide his view from you.

“So feisty.” He laughed quietly. His bigger hand took the book and placed it back on the armrest. He then gently moved your head to face his again. “Darling, there’s no need to be disappointed. I can always hold you better when we’re in bed.”