embcrspark

[embcrspark]

Stiles  didn’t  know  what  had  led  the  stranger  to  help  him.  If  their  roles  were  reversed,  he  wasn’t  sure  he  would’ve  done  the  same.  Years  of  survival  had  hardened  him—not  to  the  point  of  indifference,  but  enough  to  have  his  priorities  in  order.  His  own  survival  came  second  only  to  the  one  thing  that  had  driven  him  since  the  world  fell  apart:  To  find  what  he’d  lost  at  the  height  of  chaos.

That  godforsaken  day  was  forever  etched  into  his  memory.  Even  now,  Stiles  could  recall  every  moment  with  a  sense  of  clarity  that  weighed  on  him  like  a  curse.  Forgetting  would  be  a  mercy,  but  mercy  had  never  been  his  to  claim. In  the  weeks  leading  up  to  it,  he  had  hardly  paid  attention  to  the  reports  transmitted  via  radio  and  TV.  Even  as  they  piled  up.  He’d  been  too  caught  up  in  work—investigating  some  case  that  had  kept  him  up  night  after  night.  It  was  laughable  now,  to  think  about  how  invested  he’d  been.  Everything  from  that  far-away  life  before  this  felt  utterly  insignificant  now.  And  yet,  Stiles  longed  for  the  days  when  his  biggest  concern  had  been  extracting  a  confession  from  a  particularly  stubborn  murder  suspect.  Even  when  frustrated,  he’d  been  in  control  back  then.  Sure  of  himself,  of  his  capabilities.  Of  his  place  in  the  world. Then  it  had  all  been  ripped  away  in  an  instant.

For  something  that  had  stood  for  millennia,  society  had  crumbled  with  terrifying  ease.  When  the  chaos  first  erupted,  he’d  been  standing  by  the  window  of  the  FBI  field  office  right  on  Federal  Plaza,  staring  down  at  the  streets  below,  brows  furrowed  in  confusion. People  were  running.  Sprinting  in  all  directions,  crashing  into  each  other,  shoving  aside  anyone  in  their  way.  Some  abandoned  the  sidewalks  entirely,  darting  into  traffic.  Taxis  and  Ubers  screeched  to  a  halt,  drivers  and  passengers  alike  poking  their  heads  out  of  rolled  down  windows  to  see  what  was  going  on. Stiles  had  watched,  frozen,  heart  hammering  in  his  chest.  And  then,  for  reasons  he  still  couldn’t  explain,  he  had  stepped  back  from  the  window  and  made  his  way  out  into  the  street.  Maybe  he’d  thought  he  could  help.  Maybe  he’d  been  a  fool. 

As  if  he,  of  all  people,  could’ve  stopped  what  happened  next.

Finding  someone  willing  to  help  now—someone  not  just  willing,  but  capable  of  it—was  nothing  short  of  a  miracle.  Not  only  did  it  fill  Stiles  with  reluctant  gratitude,  but  it  sparked  something  else,  too.  Awe.  The  stranger  in  front  of  him  moved  with  effortless  precision,  navigating  the  overgrown  ruins  as  if  he  belonged  to  them.  As  if  the  nature  reclaiming  the  city  whispered  its  secrets  to  him.

Stiles  wasn’t  used  to  letting  himself  be  led.  It  meant  extending  something  to  the  stranger—not  trust,  never  trust,  but  at  least  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  His  instincts  had  always  been  sharp,  and  years  of  survival  had  honed  them  into  something  razor-edged.  So  far,  the  man’s  willingness  to  help,  the  teasing  smirk,  the  ease  with  which  he  spoke—it  all  seemed  genuine.  But  doubt  was  never  far  from  Stiles’  mind.  Paranoia  flared  at  the  slightest  shift  in  tone,  a  glance  gone  awry,  an  ill-chosen  word.  He  was  a  hair-trigger  at  the  best  of  times,  pent-up  tension  buried  under  torrents  of  words  but  never  truly  hidden. Even  now,  standing  on  opposite  sides  of  the  highway,  a  yawning  gap  between  them,  unease  flickered  at  the  edges  of  Stiles’  thoughts.  What  if  the  stranger  wasn’t  leading  him  back  to  town,  but  luring  him  into  a  trap?

He’d  heard  stories  about  people  who  roamed  the  wastelands  between  independent  settlements  and  quarantine  zones,  each  more  terrifying  than  the  last.  Not  surprising,  but  still  terrifying. Stiles  had  nearly  been  killed  before,  stumbling  onto  the  wrong  patch  of  land  during  a  scouting  mission,  unknowingly  treading  into  enemy  territory.  That  day,  Stiles  had  learned  that  hostile  survivor  groups  stopped  at  nothing  to  guard  their  self-proclaimed  territory.  He’d  escaped  by  the  skin  of  his  teeth,  bullets  whizzing  past  him,  heart  pounding,  breath  ragged. And  then  there  were  the  rumors. Cannibalistic  groups.  Settlements  that  weren’t  settlements  at  all,  but  hunting  grounds  for  the  desperate  and  depraved.  One  was  rumored  to  be  near  Silver  Lake,  Colorado—or  so  Jasper,  one  of  the  smugglers  Stiles  routinely  dealt  with,  claimed.  But  Jasper  loved  hearing  himself  talk.  On  a  good  day,  his  elaborate  stories  held  about  seventy  percent  of  truth,  so  that’s  what  Stiles  chalked  the  cannibalism-story  up  to.  Just  another  one  of  Jasper’s  grossly  exaggerated  tales. The  stranger  didn’t  seem  like  the  type,  neither  striking  Stiles  as  hostile  nor  particularly  cannibalistic.  But  what  if  that  was  the  point?  Maybe  this  was  his  role—an  unsuspicious  face,  placed  as  bait  along  high-traffic  areas  to  lure  in  unsuspecting  loners,  leading  them  straight  to  their  doom. At  the  peak  of  his  paranoia,  Stiles  reminded  himself  that  the  stranger’s  first  instinct  had  been  to  run,  not  lure  him  anywhere.  He  hadn’t  exactly  volunteered  to  help.  If  anything,  Stiles  had  talked  him  into  it.  And  if  it  came  down  to  it,  Stiles  wasn’t  exactly  helpless.  Out  of  his  depth,  sure—this  wasn’t  his  territory—but  there  had  never  been  a  situation  he  couldn’t  claw  his  way  out  of.  He  couldn’t  say  the  same  for  those  who  crossed  him.

“Are  you  coming  with  me,  or  are  you  going  to  wet  your  pants?” Across  the  divide  between  them,  Stiles  rolled  his  eyes.  “Ha,  ha,”  He  shot  back,  voice  dripping  with  sarcasm.  Squinting,  he  realized  he  didn’t  even  know  the  guy’s  name.  “I  figured  I’d  stay  over  here,  you  know,”  he  added  dryly.  “Take  my  chances  with  the  runners.  Give  them  a  little  nibble  if  they  fancy  it.  Seemed  like  a  fun  way  to  spend  the  afternoon.” And  for  a  moment—for  just  a  breath—it  felt  almost  normal.  Bantering  like  this.  A  reminder  of  a  time  when  laughter  had  come  easily,  when  surviving  in  a  world  committed  to  seeing  him  dead  wasn’t  his  sole  purpose  in  life.  Having  someone  to  counter  his  quick  remarks  felt  almost  exhilarating.

The  people  back  at  the  settlement…  well,  they  weren’t  this. Everyone  was  either  older  than  Stiles  or  significantly  younger,  with  ages  ranging  anywhere  from  eight  to  fifteen.  But  no  one  in  their  early  twenties.  No  one  but  him.  Stiles  had  never  felt  like  they  quite  got  him  either,  which  had  less  to  do  with  age  and  more  to  do  with  their  differing  outlooks  on  life. Existence,  more  like. His  people  were  content  where  they  were—cooped  up  behind  their  makeshift  walls,  straying  outside  their  territory  only  when  absolutely  necessary.  And  since  Stiles’  arrival,  it  hadn’t  been  necessary.  He’d  gladly  volunteered  to  go  on  regular  tours  outside  the  settlement  to  the  nearby  city  in  search  of  supplies,  food,  weapons.  Anything  he  could  get  his  hands  on.  In  return,  they  turned  a  blind  eye  to  what  he  did  after  nightfall.

Stiles  spent  most  of  his  nights  slumped  in  his  creaky  chair,  hunched  over  the  tiny  wooden  desk  Brenda  had  built  for  him.  One  of  its  legs  was  slightly  shorter  than  the  other  three,  so  it  wobbled  whenever  Stiles  leaned  on  the  tabletop.  He’d  lost  count  of  how  many  stamps  he’d  accidentally  ruined  by  putting  too  much  weight  on  the  table  just  as  he  was  finishing  the  final  touches  on  his  delicate  project.  The  slight  shift  beneath  him  would  send  his  fingers  slipping,  rendering  the  forgery  useless.  Stiles  was  good  at  what  he  did,  so  even  when  he  slipped  up  the  ink  smudges  remained  minimal.  To  an  untrained  eye,  they  probably  would’ve  gone  unnoticed,  and  yet  he  discarded  the  ruined  stamps  immediately,  racking  up  stacks  of  small  pieces  of  paper  to  be  burned  the  next  morning.  Because  the  people  who  would  inevitably  handle  his  forgeries  were  anything  but  untrained  in  spotting  fakes.

And  if  he  were  ever  found  out,  Stiles’  life  would  be  over.

It  was  a  calculated  risk—one  he’d  been  more  than  willing  to  take.  But  by  operating  out  of  the  settlement  that  had  taken  him  in,  he  had  made  them  co-conspirators.  They  didn’t  actively  help,  but  it  would  be  hard  to  argue  that  they  hadn’t  known.  And  FEDRA  wasn’t  exactly  known  for  giving  traitors—or  those  they  perceived  as  such,  however  wrongfully—  the  benefit  of  the  doubt.  And  yet,  Stiles  and  the  others  had  come  to  an  unspoken  understanding.  He  kept  them  fed,  and  they  pretended  like  they  didn’t  know  about  any  of  it—the  forgeries,  the  smugglers  turning  up  at  their  gates  looking  for  Stiles,  the  detours  he  took  to  meet  with  Adam  just  outside  the  quarantine  zone.

But  this  stranger  didn’t  know  any  of  that.  Their  connection—or  whatever  Stiles  would  call  it—wasn’t  forged  by  the  weight  of  a  shared  secret.  It  made  everything  easier  somehow—almost  like  he  was  free  to  be  anyone,  anything  else,  other  than  who  he  was.  Or  at  least  pretend  to  be  anyone  else. Just  as  he  was  about  to  step  back,  trying  to  gain  enough  momentum  to  jump  the  gap,  Stiles  paused,  thinking  better  of  it.  He  shrugged  off  his  backpack,  immediately  feeling  lighter  once  he  bundled  it  up  in  his  arms.  “Hey!”  His  shout  commanded  the  other’s  attention,  and  their  eyes  met  right  as  Stiles  added,  an  unmistakable  hint  of  humor  to  his  voice,  “Think  fast!”  And  with  that,  he  hurled  the  backpack  across  the  gap,  sending  it  flying  gracelessly  in  the  overall  direction  of  the  other  man. Whether  or  not  he  actually  caught  it,  Stiles  wouldn’t  know.  As  soon  as  he’d  rid  himself  of  the  backpack,  he  shuffled  backwards  on  his  heels  and  jumped,  spurred  by  an  odd  sense  of  freedom  amidst  the  danger  they  still  found  themselves  in.

The  jump  was  easy  enough.  It  was  the  landing  that  proved  troublesome. Stiles  had  always  been  clumsy.  He  could  blame  it  on  a  whole  number  of  things—his  ADHD  topping  the  list—and  even  though  he  had  long  grown  into  his  body,  somewhat  gaining  control  over  his  limbs,  the  clumsiness  was  something  he  had  never  quite  been  able  to  shake. Upon  landing,  Stiles’  left  foot  slipped  on  a  small  pebble,  tipping  him  off  balance  as  his  footing  wiped  out  from  underneath  him.  Before  his  brain  could  even  comprehend  what  was  happening,  he  was  already  falling.  And  if  not  for  a  last-second  instinct  bringing  his  hands  up  to  brace  himself,  he  would’ve  face-planted  right  onto  the  concrete. The  pain  that  blossomed  across  Stiles’  scraped  palms  and  his  right  knee,  which  took  the  brunt  of  his  fall,  was  sharp  and  unexpected—but  still  didn’t  cut  as  deep  as  the  sting  of  embarrassment. This  was  going  exceptionally  well.

Suddenly,  the  thought  of  letting  the  Runners  have  their  way  with  his  body  didn’t  seem  like  such  a  bad  idea  anymore.

A  dog  had  done  better  than  him.  A  freaking  dog.  And  said  dog  he  seemed  to  know  it,  too,  if  the  wagging  tail  and  curiously  perked  ears  in  Stiles’  direction  were  anything  to  go  by. A  muttered  curse  slipped  from  Stiles’  lips,  burning  palms  pressed  against  the  concrete  to  push  himself  upright  again. 

When  his  gaze  skirted  up,  he  found  a  hand  extended  towards  him,  waiting,  like  an  invitation.  From  the  upward-turned  palm,  Stiles’  eyes  traveled  further  until  they  met  what  could  only  be  described  as  the  world’s  most  smug  expression.  “I  told  you  to  be  careful,  didn’t  I?”

The  corners  of  Stiles’  mouth  twitched  treacherously,  nearly  revealing  his  amusement.  With  an  exaggerated  roll  of  his  eyes,  as  if  accepting  the  help  offered  to  him  was  somewhat  of  a  straining  task,  he  grabbed  the  stranger’s  hand  with  aching  fingers  and  let  himself  be  pulled  to  his  feet.   “Actually,”  he  quipped  once  he  found  himself  upright  again,  brushing  dirt  from  his  jeans  with  the  back  of  his  hand,  “You  didn’t  say  to  be  careful.  Maybe  if  you  had,  I  wouldn’t  have  fallen.  So  if  you  think  about  it  it’s  totally  your  fault  that  I  did.  Warn  a  guy  next  time.” 

Shrugging,  he  leaned  down  and  gathered  his  discarded  backpack  from  the  ground.  Once  swung  back  over  his  shoulder,  Stiles  glanced  back  at  the  other  man.  Any  second  now,  they’d  have  to  start  running  again.  Or  climbing.  Possibly  jumping  again,  too.  He  figured  it  would  be  nice  to  not  be  strangers  anymore  when  they  did.  “Hey,  I’m  Stiles,  by  the  way,”  He  offered.  “Just…  realized  I  don’t  even  know  your  name,  so,  you  know.  That’s  mine.” A  lot  of  people  out  here  went  by  fake  names,  so  he’d  heard,  out  of  fear  of  having  their  true  identities  revealed  to  FEDRA  or  any  of  the  violent  survivor  groups.  As  if  giving  an  alias  could  ever  provide  sufficient  cover.  His  name  was  one  of  the  last  things  Stiles  had  that  were  truly  his—not  borrowed,  or  handed  down  to  him  by  someone  from  his  settlement.  Not  something  he  stole  or  forged  but  something  that  had  always  belonged  to  him  since  birth.  One  last  remnant  that  tied  him  to  his  former  life.  Denying  it,  even  to  protect  himself,  would  feel  like  cutting  all  ties  to  who  he  was.  Who  he  had  been. The  man  across  from  him  hesitated,  seeming  more  reluctant  to  disclose  his  own  name  than  Stiles  had  been.  Stiles  couldn’t  blame  him.  After  all,  he  knew  close  to  nothing  about  the  other  man.  For  all  Stiles  knew,  any  number  of  people  could  be  after  him  and  even  if  they  weren’t,  at  the  very  least  he  surely  shared  the  same  paranoia—the  same  inherent  distrust  of  others—as  anyone  else  trying  to  survive  in  this  world. But  then,  after  another  beat  of  silence,  the  man  spoke.  “I’m  Dipper.” Stiles  hadn’t  laughed  in  so  long  that  the  sudden  sound  of  it—somewhat  hoarse  as  it  scraped  against  his  throat—caught  him  off  guard. “That’s—wait,  you’re  joking,  right?  That’s  not  your  actual  name.”  When  Dipper  didn’t  so  much  as  crack  a  smile,  the  brightness  of  Stiles’  grin  quickly  dimmed,  fading  into  an  awkward  press  of  lips.  “Oh  my  God,  you’re  serious.  Not  joking,  all  right.  Got  it.”  Again,  this  was  just  going  tremendously  well.  Stiles  shook  his  head  in  disbelief  and  ran  a  hand  through  his  unkempt  hair.  “No,  no,  that’s  cool  though,”  he  tried  to  play  it  off,  clearing  his  throat.  “At  least  I’m  no  longer  the  guy  with  the  weirdest  name  around  here!  They  actually  gave  me  a  crown,  but…  I  left  that  at  home  today.  Otherwise  I  would’ve,  you  know,  passed  on  the  torch.”

Paranoia was a friend and yet an enemy. It kept Dipper alive, but perhaps destroyed so many chances for companionship. Or something else. It was better to be alone than in the company of cruel people he couldn't stand. Company that didn't fit into his image of life. He had lost good people to cruel people who thought there was no other chance but to be cruel themselves. Paranoia prepared him for what the world had to offer. Paranoia and conspiracy theories. 

But for now, Paranoia had the knife held high. Without a tremor, ready to strike. If necessary. Although it wasn't necessary. Not yet. The man simply stood before him. Confronted him with words that were more of a conversation than he'd had in the last... what? Weeks? Months? Years? But that didn't make him put the knife down. Terbium's growling did the rest. There was a time when Dipper could trust the dog blindly. Where Terbium showed him who he could trust, but the dog was just a dog. Guided and raised in a cruel world. No one could blame him for growling at a man he didn't know. And yet it was a sign for Dipper not to put the knife down.

“I'm not infected. Otherwise you wouldn't be talking to me.” Dipper snorted harshly at the waterfall of words the other man let out of his mouth. A lot could be said about Dipper, but if he was ever bitten or otherwise infected, he wouldn't hesitate to put an end to it. Anything that came after this life was better than what this world had in store for him. Was talking to him a good reason to attack this stranger? Not at all. Sadly. The only one Dipper talked to was his dog, and now being confronted with something like a conversation was too much for him. He was torn between the human need for contact with other humans and the learned behavior of stabbing the guy or just running away. Dipper opened his mouth to say something sharp again. But he closed it because he didn't know what. The stranger made no move to attack him. He was out of breath. Either because he had run up to Dipper, or -

Ahh.  The reason for his heavy breathing. Runners.

Dipper dared a quick glance behind the stranger. He hadn't seen any Runners when he'd spotted him from the truck, but you never knew. Maybe they were closer than they seemed at the moment. But there was nothing behind the man. Just the desolation of the apocalypse. 

His gaze flitted back to him as he walked on. Dipper studied his face closely. He had fallen into a similar trap once before and was actually about to leave the stranger alone with his unspoken question. But there was something in his face that Dipper couldn't immediately place. He hadn't seen it in people's faces for far too long. Honesty. Pure, unvarnished honesty. And if it hadn't been the honesty, it might have been the words that had flowed from his lips like a waterfall. It was sympathetic in a way. Just like Dipper had been a long time ago. The knife sank. Slowly, ready to snap back up, but Dipper believed him when he said he just wanted to know how the hell he was going to get home.

He would help him.

The thought arose even before the first Runners appeared from the direction the stranger had come from.

“God damn it.” He tucked the knife back into the sheath on his belt. “Terry.” The dog had taken a few steps. He was no longer focused on the stranger, but on the Runners, who were getting closer and closer. The dog lost his gaze and looked back at Dipper. It was just a movement of his head, a little tick and the dog was back at his side. “I know how to get rid of them.” His gaze moved back to the stranger and a smirk appeared on his lips. “I hope you can keep up.” It was a strange feeling, smirking. When was the last time he had smirked at someone? Had he smirked at his dog? Not that he remembered. 

But there was a time for thoughts and a time to take to his heels and run for his life. At that moment, it was time to run. 

Dipper took another second to look around. The Runners were only coming from one side, so he turned around and followed the plan he had had when he had registered the stranger. Get away from here and take a few shortcuts to lose the pursuers. Shaking off the Runners was a little more difficult. But in a world where entire buildings stood empty nothing was impossible.

One good thing about the apocalypse? It kept you fit. It didn't take Dipper long to find an efficient and fast rhythm as he snaked his way down the highway. It was a daring maneuver. Maybe there were other Runners waiting between the cars, but the horde the stranger had brought with him were the first Runners he'd seen since yesterday morning, so he didn't think too much of it. There were only a few, which was why he kept an eye on his surroundings. Climbing was out of the question. Terry would stay behind, because it would take a long time to carry him. Their pursuers were approaching too fast for that and Dipper would never leave him behind. Not for the stranger and not for his own life. So they had to follow the highway until they reached the other side and a road that led back into town. 

After they had put some distance between themselves and the Infected, Dipper took a short break. But only to get an overview. The section they had to negotiate to get off the highway consisted almost entirely of rubble. Terry had found a safe way down here once before, only Dipper had struggled a little with the concrete blocks and cracks. They would need some time. The fact that the stranger had made it this far gave them hope that they would both make it. The infected would just run over the hurdle and not worry about getting hurt. However, an injury could be problematic for them both. “We need to get down here and then to the houses over there. We can lose them there.” Dipper, who was a little out of breath himself by now, pointed to a row of houses. More ruin than anything else, but the only way out to catch their breath and shake off the Infected. 

So Dipper took a few steps and then jumped over the first obstacle. A gap that revealed what waited below them until they had climbed all the way down the destroyed road. He landed on a concrete slab that was held to the highway only by iron and steel, but didn't even tremble under his weight. Terry jumped forward too, as if to prove to the two of them how easy it was to get over this hurdle. Dipper glanced back at the stranger. “Are you coming with me, or are you going to wet your pants?”

[embcrspark]

beautiful women will be like “i baked a cake” and you will say “oh ? what flavour is it” and they say well its a honey rosewater apricot pistachio cardamom vanilla fig jam earl grey poppyseed orange blossom extra virgin olive oil chiffon sponge soaked in raspberry elderflower champagne lipgloss pomegranate matcha ginger blueberry cherry blossom magnolia petal almond passionfruit persimmon syrup with whipped amalfi lemon limoncello ricotta goats cheese honeycomb black pepper bergamot lemon thyme lemon balm rosemary chantilly whipped cream cream cheese feta cheese italian meringue frosting . like ok. i want to spend the rest of my afternoons walking around inside your beautiful mind like a garden

[embcrspark]

[embcrspark]

📸

Send a 📸 to see 3-5 pictures that my muse has/has taken of your muse(s)

Boy is annoying Stiles , always snapping the most random pictures of him and shoving them in his face after with comments like ❝ Look how stupid you look here ❞ but he also keeps the pictures of him in his pocket :`)

[embcrspark]

❝  the  puppet  masters  ❞  :  starter  for  @killquest. 

“Oh,  you’ve  got  to  be  fucking  kidding  me.” 

Stiles  stood  in  the  doorway,  muscles  coiled,  disbelieving.  Of  all  the  places  to  run,  all  the  shadows  to  slip  into,  all  the  people  left  standing—of  course  it  had  to  be  him. 

The  man  staring  back  at  him  looked  just  as  surprised.  Just  as  dangerous.  Just  as  exhausted. 

Stiles’  right  hand  twitched,  fingers  inching  toward  the  blade  tucked  against  his  side.  But  his  every  movement  was  tracked  by  a  vigilant  pair  of  eyes.  They  had  watched  Stiles  draw  his  knife  too  many  times  before  not  to  anticipate  the  move.  Stiles’  hand  stilled,  fingers  lingering  inches  away  from  the  handle.  For  a  long  moment,  neither  of  them  spoke.  The  silence  was  thick,  weighted  with  history—with  the  battles  they  fought  not  side  by  side,  but  against  each  other.  The  pale  face  peering  back  at  him  had  haunted  Stiles’  dreams,  twisting  them  into  nightmares.  Most  of  the  scars  riddling  Stiles’  body  were  his  doing. 

Sometimes,  he  overheard  the  guards’  whispering,  calling  him  “Boy”  in  hushed  voices.  They  were  never  supposed  to  say  their  names,  only  refer  to  them  by  the  numbers  tattooed  on  the  inside  of  their  left  wrists.  The  black  ink  had  paled  over  the  years  so  what  remained  of  the  once  prominent  24  on  Stiles’  wrist  was  now  merely  a  faded  shadow. 

He  wished  time  would  dull  his  memory  the  same  way,  but  so  far  it  hadn’t.  Maybe  it  never  would. 

Stiles  estimated  that  it  had  been  three  days,  maybe  four,  since  he  had  made  it  out.  The  memories  of  his  escape  were  hazy  at  best,  surfacing  in  fragments.  They  had  taken  him  back  from  the  arena—the  dusty  fight  pit  the  guards  sent  him  to  daily,  forcing  him  to  face  whatever  opponent  was  chosen.  When  transferring  him  from  his  cell  to  the  arena,  they  always  had  two  guards  on  him.  Big,  muscular  guys,  faces  covered  by  black  masks.  But  that  day,  Stiles  remembered  hearing  noise  from  another  hallway.  He  hadn’t  been  able  to  place  it  then,  and  still  wasn’t  now,  but  the  commotion  had  led  one  guard  to  check  it  out.  Fatal  mistake.  Maybe  they’d  let  themselves  be  fooled  into  believing  he’d  be  good,  obedient,  too  beaten  down  by  the  system  they’d  trapped  him  in  to  fight  back  when  given  the  chance.  They  couldn’t  have  been  more  wrong.  Something  inside  of  Stiles  had  shifted.  Came  alive.  Something  that  he  had  long  believed  to  have  lost:  Hope. 

And,  it  turns  out,  Stiles  was  at  his  most  dangerous  when  hopeful.  He  hadn’t  hesitated.  However  slim  he’d  deemed  his  chances  of  actually  making  it  out,  he’d  known  he  had  to  take  it.  Or  die  trying.

There  had  been  blood.  So  much  of  it  that  its  fine  mist  coated  Stiles’  fragmented  memory,  blurring  it  into  near  incoherence.  What  he  remembered  more  than  anything  was  running.  Running  faster  and  further  than  he  ever  had  in  his  life,  past  the  facility,  through  the  thick  underbrush  of  the  surrounding  woods,  running  with  no  goal  in  mind  but  to  get  away.  As  fast  and  as  far  as  possible,  driven  by  the  thought  of  them  on  his  heels,  chasing  him  down.  Eventually  his  legs  had  tired  and  he  had  stopped  running,  but  hadn’t  stopped  moving  until  nightfall  forced  him  to.  Even  with  the  full  moon  above  he  had  barely  been  able  to  see  past  his  own  feet  so  Stiles  took  a  break,  sitting  with  his  back  against  a  giant  tree  stump,  knife  clutched  tight  in  his  hand.  Ready  to  snap  at  the  first  sign  of  danger.  He  didn’t  sleep  that  first  night,  too  wired  by  adrenaline  and  the  undercurrent  of  fear  laced  into  his  every  thought.  At  dawn,  he  forced  himself  onto  aching  legs  and  kept  wandering  through  the  endless  woods. 

By  day  three  he  was  convinced  that  he  would  never  make  it  out. 

But  today,  finally,  he  stumbled  across  what  little  remained  of  an  old,  wooden  hut.  It  was  worn  down  by  the  harsh  weather  conditions—half  of  the  roof  missing,  the  chimney  caved  in,  vines  of  wild  ivy  reclaiming  the  pale  wooden  planks.  It  wasn’t  much,  and  it  would  surely  be  the  first  place  that  they’d  come  looking  for  him,  but  at  least  it  gave  him  a  place  to  rest.  Even  if  just  for  a  few  minutes. 

Or  so  he  thought. 

Instead,  the  moment  he  stepped  inside,  his  eyes  widened  in  surprise,  mouth  dropping  open  for  a  split  second  before  instinct  kicked  in—sharpened  by  years  of  training.  Training  designed  specifically  to  fight  the  man  in  front  of  him.  In  the  turmoil  after  his  escape,  not  once  had  Stiles  stopped  to  consider  that  anyone  else  might  have  gotten  out  with  him.  The  rush  of  freedom  had  been  so  all-consuming,  so  overwhelming,  that  he  had  spared  the  facility  he  left  behind  no  thought—let  alone  the  people  still  trapped  inside.  And  now,  out  of  everyone,  it  was  Boy  who  had  followed  him  out  here.  Of  course.  How  could  it  ever  have  been  anyone  else? 

The  sound  of  his  own  laugh  caught  Stiles  off  guard.  It  was  sharp,  void  of  any  real  joy—just  a  bitter  thing  lodged  in  his  throat  for  a  second  before  it  dissolved  into  the  air,  thick  with  tension.  He’d  been  a  fool  to  think  he  could  ever  get  away.  Maybe  from  the  facility.  Maybe  from  the  guards,  and  whoever  pulled  the  strings  behind  the  scenes.  But  not  from  Boy.  “All  right  then,”  Stiles  muttered,  a  familiar  tightness  around  his  hazel  eyes  as  he  drew  his  knife.  God,  he  was  so  tired  of  this.  “Let’s  end  this.  Once  and  for  all.”  It  was  a  fitting  end  to  all  of  it—the  years  of  captivity,  the  bloodshed,  the  senselessness  of  it  all,  Stiles’  fleeting  moment  of  false  hope.

For  it  to  be  them—fighting,  the  way  they  always  did. 

The  only  thing  they  were  ever  good  at.  

[embcrspark]

📸

❝   I   see   the   dead.   ʏᴏᴜ   try   to   outrun   them.   maybe   we’re   both   just   bad   at   letting   go …   ❞

[embcrspark]

[embcrspark]

you call it ‘a heinous violation of legal and ethical rules;’ i call it ‘creative problem-solving’

[embcrspark]

plotted  starter  for  @heiliqe.

The  hood  was  lifted  from  his  head,  releasing  Stiles  from  the  darkness  he’d  been  plunged  into.  However,  the  lighting  around  him  remained  dim,  pupils  barely  constricting  as  he  let  his  gaze  wander,  taking  in  his  new  surroundings. They  had  forced  him  into  a  chair—Stiles  remembered  the  pressure  on  his  shoulders  when  he  didn’t  comply  fast  enough.  Even  with  the  hands  on  him  gone,  the  tension  of  the  moment  still  lingered.  The  air  was  thick  with  it,  circumstances  made  worse  by  the  fact  that  the  room  Stiles  found  himself  in  was  windowless.  Dangling  above  the  table,  a  single  lightbulb  struggled  to  combat  the  consequential  lack  of  natural  light,  casting  a  flickering  glow  across  the  room.  Stiles’  inquisitive  gaze  skittered  along  the  bleak  walls,  eyes  straining  as  he  struggled  to  make  out  what  material  they  were  made  of.  Stone,  maybe?  It  was  hard  to  tell. “So,  what  is  this  place?  Some  kind  of  bunker?”  Neither  of  the  two  men  guarding  the  door  stirred  at  Stiles’  question.  He  might  just  as  well  not  have  spoken  at  all.  Taking  in  their  faces,  Stiles  found  they  didn’t  look  unkind,  despite  their  refusal  to  acknowledge  him.  The  man  to  his  left  still  gripped  the  hood  that  he’d  removed  from  Stiles’  head  in  both  hands,  and  though  he  was  staring  blankly  ahead,  Stiles  thought  to  recognize  a  kindness  to  his  eyes,  their  corners  slightly  wrinkled.  Like  he’d  spent  many  years  laughing  freely.  His  equally  mute  counterpart—a  tall,  broad-shouldered  blonde  with  a  hand  resting  lightly  on  his  gun—looked  hardened  in  comparison,  his  features  dulled  by  years  of  survival.  Yet,  neither  struck  Stiles  as  cruel.  He  knew  cruelty  when  he  saw  it. “Oh-kay,”  he  drawled,  clicking  his  tongue.  “Tough  crowd,  I  see.”  In  the  silence  that  followed,  Stiles’  fingers  started  drumming  a  nervous  rhythm  against  the  tabletop,  appreciating  its  smooth  surface  underneath  his  calloused  fingertips.

That  morning,  when  Jasper  poked  his  head  of  messy  black  hair  into  his  room,  Stiles’  attention  barely  strayed  from  his  current  project.

Ration  cards  were  among  the  easiest  to  forge  but  also  carried  the  highest  risk  of  exposure.  Stiles  wasn’t  picky  when  it  came  to  the  people  he  worked  with.  Free  choice  of  customers  was  a  luxury  he’d  never  been  able  to  afford.  He  mostly  dealt  with  smugglers,  but  his  clientele  ranged  anywhere  from  other  survivors  to  a  mere  few  corrupt  FEDRA  soldiers.  Over  the  years,  Stiles  had  come  to  know  his  clientele  well.  At  least  well  enough  to  know  that  a  shockingly  high  number  of  them  would  not  hold  up  well  under  pressure,  and  should  they  ever  be  caught  with  one  of  his  forgeries  there  was  no  doubt  in  his  mind  that  they’d  rat  him  out,  no  questions  asked,  if  it  meant  saving  themselves.  How  could  he  blame  them?  All  was  fair  in  war  and  survival.  At  the  end  of  the  day,  his  clients  didn’t  owe  him  anything.  They  were  barely  more  than  strangers  after  all,  bound  together  solely  by  the  weight  of  their  shared  secret.  So  all  Stiles  could  do  to  minimize  the  risk  of  being  found  out  was  make  sure  that  his  forgeries  were  immaculate.

“Got  something  for  you,”  Jasper  had  teased,  trying  to  garner  Stiles’  attention.  Who  had  even  let  him  in?  Usually,  Owen  hadn’t  allowed  the  smuggler  past  the  gate.  Their  leader,  much  like  the  rest  of  the  settlement,  wanted  nothing  to  do  with  Stiles’  business,  knowing  that  even  condoning  it  on  their  campgrounds  implicated  them  in  his  crimes. “Yeah?”  Still  refusing  to  look  up,  Stiles  had  humored  Jasper,  though  his  voice  remained  flat,  void  of  any  real  interest.  “What’s  that?” “One  of  my  contacts  claims  she’s  got  some  information  for  you.” Years  ago,  those  words  would  have  sent  Stiles  spinning  in  his  chair,  eyes  wide  with  hope—they  had,  in  fact,  done  so  more  times  than  he  could  count.  The  first  time  Jasper  had  returned  from  one  of  his  tours  to  the  nearest  quarantine  zone,  proclaiming  that  a  FEDRA  contact  had  extracted  a  location  from  travel  permits  of  people  being  moved  between  QZs,  Stiles  had  nearly  hugged  the  smuggler  in  a  burst  of  joy.  And  he’d  never  been  a  hugger. How  painfully  naive  he’d  been.  Whether  the  FEDRA  soldier  had  lied  or  he’d  simply  been  wrong  about  the  location,  Stiles  would  never  know.  But  the  tip  hadn’t  panned  out.  None  of  them  had.  And  each  failed  mission  had  chipped  away  at  him,  smothering  what  had  once  been  an  easily  ignited  flame  of  hope  until  only  dying  embers  remained. Still,  Stiles  had  finally  glanced  up  at  Jasper—worn  down  by  years  of  hoping  against  hope,  but  nevertheless  steadfast  in  his  resolution  not  to  give  up.  Not  yet.

“What  does  she  want  in  return?”  In  this  world,  every  interaction  was  a  transaction.  The  New  Haven  settlement  had  taken  Stiles  in  because  he’d  proven  useful  to  them,  volunteering  easily  when  it  came  to  scouting  missions  in  search  of  food,  medical  supplies,  essentially  anything  they  needed.  But  soon  after,  his  forgeries  had  strained  whatever  tentative  relationship  might  have  formed  between  Stiles  and  the  other  members,  and  he  was  acutely  aware  that  they  only  tolerated  his  persistent  presence  around  camp  because  they  needed  him.  He  and  Jasper  got  along  well  enough,  but  Stiles  wouldn’t  go  so  far  as  to  call  them  friends.  Allies,  maybe,  but  even  that  title  he  would  only  use  tentatively,  too  aware  that  Jasper,  too,  could  betray  him  at  every  turn.  Every  meaningful  relationship  Stiles  had  ever  known  had  crumbled  along  with  society’s  collapse.

Jasper  had  scratched  the  back  of  his  head  and  leaned  against  the  doorframe,  shrugging.  “Hell  if  I  know.  Lady  said  she  wouldn’t  talk  to  anyone  but  you  directly.” That,  finally,  piqued  Stiles’  interest.  It  was  highly  unusual  for  his  clients  to  request  dealing  with  him  directly,  which  is  why  he  relied  so  heavily  on  Jasper  to  distribute  the  forgeries  amongst  his  wide  network  of  contacts.  Stiles  usually  paid  him  in  forged  travel  permits,  allowing  Jasper  to  smuggle  goods—or  people—illegally  out  of  quarantine  zones  while  simultaneously  spreading  word  and  collecting  information  to  then  transport  back  to  Stiles.  For  Jasper’s  contact  to  be  willing  to  meet  with  Stiles  directly  had  intrigued  him  enough  to  agree  to  the  meeting,  despite  not  having  high  hopes  that  the  information  the  woman  claimed  to  have  would  be  anything  substantial.

So  Jasper  had  taken  him,  leading  with  confidence  as  they  departed  from  the  settlement  and  set  out  for  their  journey  that  had  led  them  a  couple  of  miles  north.  Stiles  had  spent  every  step  of  the  way  prodding  and  probing  Jasper  for  information  about  his  contact,  but  hadn’t  been  able  to  extract  much  beyond  a  name  from  him.  Lucrezia. Withholding  information  was  uncharacteristic  for  Jasper,  who—much  like  Stiles—could  talk  for  hours  just  to  hear  himself.  The  shift  unsettled  him,  a  tight  knot  forming  in  his  stomach  as  unanswered  questions  piled  up.  What  wasn’t  Jasper  telling  him?  Why  wasn’t  he  telling  him?  Because  he  didn’t  know  himself?  Or  because  there  was  something  else  at  play  here?

When  they’d  stopped  just  short  of  a  clearing  and  two  men  had  stepped  out  of  the  shadows  of  the  surrounding  low-hanging  branches,  one  with  a  black  hood  in  hand,  Stiles  had  had  enough.  Despite  Jasper’s  protests  that  he  knew  these  guys,  that  they  were  to  be  trusted—a  point  at  which  Stiles  had  straight  up  laughed  at  him,  head  shaking  in  utter  disbelief—Stiles  had  verbally  fought  tooth  and  nail  against  having  them  put  the  hood  over  his  head.  He  couldn’t  care  less  where  their  lair  was  located,  and  would  be  hard-pressed  to  find  anyone  to  reveal  the  location  to  even  if  he  wanted  to.  Stiles  may  be  many  things.  But  he  was  neither  a  traitor,  nor  was  he  a  rat.  “Whatever  you’ve  got  going  on,  whatever  shady  underground  bullshit  you’re  part  of,  you’re  not  putting  that  thing  on  me.  Over  my  dead  freaking  body.” In  the  end,  it  had  been  Jasper’s  unwavering  insistence  that  made  Stiles  cave.  He  might  not  trust  Jasper  completely,  but  Jasper  clearly  believed  in  Lucrezia’s  claim—and  that  was  enough  to  make  him  reconsider.  Even  if  they  weren’t—and  never  would  be—friends,  Jasper  was  the  closest  thing  to  a  confidant  Stiles  had.  So  for  Jasper  to  be  so  sure  of  Lucrezia’s  word…  it  had  to  count  for  something.  Begrudgingly,  Stiles  had  reined  in  his  strongly-worded  protest,  merely  sparing  Jasper  one  last  curse  muttered  under  his  breath  as  the  hood  was  pulled  over  his  tousled  hair.

While  Stiles  had  been  lost  in  thought,  mentally  retracing  the  steps  that  had  led  him  here,  the  guards  by  the  door  had  taken  up  whispering  to  each  other—but  the  low  mumbling  of  voices  was  abruptly  interrupted  by  the  door  swinging  open,  hinges  creaking  audibly  with  the  effort. Immediately,  Stiles’  shoulders  tensed.  His  eyes  tracked  every  measured  step  as  Lucrezia  entered  the  room. It  wasn’t  the  dark  hair  or  her  striking  features  that  held  his  attention.  She  had  a  certain  aura  about  her—subtle,  quiet,  yet  unmistakable.  An  air  of  power  surrounded  her,  silencing  the  room  as  she  entered,  muffled  conversations  freezing  in  quiet  respect.  Stiles,  too,  stilled  when  Lucrezia  stepped  in  front  of  him,  though  less  in  awe.  The  power  she  wielded  unsettled  him—too  much  of  it  rested  in  her  hands,  and  not  nearly  enough  in  his.  But  he  reminded  himself  that  she  needed  something  from  him,  too—which  meant  he  wasn’t  entirely  powerless. Stiles  shifted  forward,  forearms  braced  on  the  table  as  he  met  Lucrezia’s  gaze.  “So.  Word  is,  you’ve  got  information  for  me?”

[embcrspark]

[embcrspark]

VULNERABLE CONFESSION PROMPTS *  assorted dialogue, adjust as necessary

it's been a long time since i did anything like this.

be honest with me.

i have something to tell you.

do you have a second to talk?

i've never said it outloud.

you shouldn't feel ashamed.

you are destined for greater things.

i don't remember anything about my parents.

i think i deserve the truth.

how long have you known?

i can't believe i trusted you.

you should have told me from the start.

i won't judge you, no matter what you say.

i'm not sure how to do this.

i owe you an explanation.

you don't have to hide this any longer.

when was the last time someone held you?

i've never been kissed.

i've been alone all my life.

this feels weird to me.

it will feel better if you tell me.

you are the only one who can save us.

you should know the truth.

i'm not ready to do this.

no one's ever really loved me.

i was kept in the dark all my life.

i don't know what love feels like.

tell me the truth. it's okay.

take your time with this. it must be very hard on you.

my parents died when i was very young.

i should tell you the truth.

there's no shame in this.

i can't believe i never knew.

i'm sorry, but i don't believe you.

i can't do this.

are you sitting down?

you are the chosen one.

it's safer if you never know the truth.

this never should have happened.

i regret everything.

i've never been with anyone before.

there's something i should have told you a long time ago.

i'm afraid of heights.

they thought you'd be better off not knowing.

you should have told me.

you were hiding this from me?

don't laugh when i tell you, all right? promise?

you've been kept in the dark for far too long.

you're the first person i've told.

so? what do you think?

maybe it was silly to hide that.

i didn't feel comfortable telling you.

they deserve to know.

what happens now?

you'll want to sit down for this.

you will save us from this evil.

i should have listened to you.

you'll have to teach me. i'm new to this.

i don't have much experience.

they didn't want you to know.

i never knew them.

i don't even know my own name.

everything you've been told is a lie.

i'm not ready for that.

will it always be like this?

i've been hiding this from you.

i didn't want you to know.

there are more pressing matters to attend to.

[embcrspark]

*covered in blood* I'm literally fine guys. im still funny. Would you like to hear a joke Im going to tell you a joke

[embcrspark]

[embcrspark]

"it's all in your head" correct! unfortunately I am also in there

[embcrspark]

those witty, sarcastic characters who hide their tragic backstories behind a perfect smirk (◕‿◕✿)

[embcrspark]

@geisterwelt sent  in  a  prompt.

“Check  this  out!”

At  Kami’s  words,  Stiles’  head  whipped  around.  They  stood  at  opposite  ends  of  the  room,  and  Kami  was  hunched  over  something  just  out  of  sight.  Curiosity  sparked,  Stiles  abandoned  the  tattered,  leather-bound  book  he’d  been  flipping  through,  its  yellowing  pages  etched  with  ancient  symbols.  Not  that  they  meant  much  to  him,  anyway.  He  crossed  the  distance  between  them,  a  sense  of  urgency  propelling  his  quick  steps  across  the  dusty  floor.

“Whatcha  got  there?”  Stepping  in  behind  her,  Stiles  peeked  over  Kami’s  shoulder,  eyes  widening.  “Whoa!”  Before  them,  propped  up  on  a  brick-carved  pillar,  sat  an  artifact—an  ancient  stone  tablet  inscribed  with  intricate  runes.  The  inscriptions  pulsed  with  a  faint,  otherworldly  glow,  the  symbols  shifting  across  its  surface  like  something  alive.  It  was  easily  the  coolest  thing  Stiles  had  ever  seen.  Instinctively,  he  shifted  closer,  squinting  at  the  pulsating  scripture  in  front  of  them.  “Looks  like  a  puzzle,”  He  muttered,  voice  awe-struck.

❝ Uh-oh. ❞  Kami  admitted.  ❝  I'm   terrible   at   puzzles.  ❞

Her  candor  lured  a  laugh  from  Stiles’  throat,  along  with  a  whole  number  of  questions  drifting  to  the  forefront  of  his  mind.  How  is  there  any  such  thing  as  being  terrible  at  puzzles?  It’s  puzzles.  Not  rocket  science.  Then  again  he’d  always  had  a  natural  knack  for  these  things:  Riddles,  puzzles,  equations,  anything  that  needed  solving.  He’d  even  go  as  far  as  to  lump  his  job  into  the  same  category,  treating  every  case  he  worked  like  a  puzzle  waiting  to  be  solved.  “Good  thing  you  have  me  then,  because—“

That’s  as  far  as  he  got  before  the  artifact  clicked—and  the  entire  room  around  them  began  to  shake.  Over  the  ominous  rumbling  of  the  stone,  Stiles  raised  his  voice,  panic  creeping  into  his  tone  as  he  turned  to  Kami:  “Dude,  what  the  hell  did  you  do?”