#// all they ever could be denied to them. more than mere weapons created to kill by precursors that they never knew

[necrophcge]

.

[primordialpaper]

Just something I’ve been working on recently. The premise is Gray has just been stabbed with a magic spike that goes deeper when you try to pull it out. Wendy deals with it as only an Enchantress can.

“It needs to come out,” Wendy murmured, scraping together the pieces of her composure. She couldn’t heal him with the vengeful spike still in his chest. “His lung’s punctured, and he’s losing blood, and fast. But if I try to pull it out, it’ll just go deeper. It’s still going deeper.”

What was she supposed to do? She’d memorized pages upon pages of healing texts, consumed countless medical encyclopedias, poured over even the most basic and rudimentary first-aid tips, and none of that knowledge could help her deal with a wound that was capable of fighting back. What was she supposed to do?!

Abruptly, gauntleted hands came to rest atop her own. Looking up, Wendy found herself the subject of the famously steady gaze of Erza Scarlet.

“The spike needs to be removed,” Erza agreed, voice firm and placid. “you just might have to do so more thoroughly than you initially planned. Don’t focus on excising it from Gray’s body. Focus on removing it from existence entirely. Unmake it, Wendy.”

Wendy’s gaze slid down to the metal barb cruelly lodged in her friend’s sternum, her senses attuned to its progress beneath his skin where she couldn't see. In merely these past brief moments, it had worked itself a few dangerous millimeters deeper, on course to skewer Gray’s heart within minutes.

Unmake it... What a ridiculous proposal. Matter could not be created or destroyed, only changed. 

The old adage, a relic from her lessons under Porlyusica, rose to the surface of her thoughts amidst the caustic analysis of just how long Gray’s wound would permit her to helplessly dither.

Not created or destroyed, but changed... Before her mind’s eye, Wendy could still picture the bevy of swords jutting from the ground, neatly arranged into the shape of a flower. With little more than a tap from a wooden staff, the blades all dissolved, scattering in the wind like dandelion seeds. Was that what Irene had done? Changed them? Had she affixed her power to the swords, and, rather than bolstering their might, instead plucked apart the blades in her grip at their basest level? 

Could Wendy do the same?

A choked, feeble gurgle from Gray informed her that she didn’t have the luxury of uncertainty.

Blue light flickered across her fingers, which was Erza’s cue to remove her hands, and let Wendy get to work bending this small bit of reality to her will.

(At any other moment, the gravity of such an undertaking would likely have more of an impact on her. It would be humbling, sobering, to recognize how expansive her powers had become. From chasing away poisons and bolstering allies in battle, to altering the very existence of something in her grasp.

This was the kind of power, she thought, that had helped make Irene into what she’d become. Someone unmoored by the world and people around her, never willing to deny herself anything, because she had the ability to contort all of it to her liking.

The woman herself had claimed the two of them shared a likeness, something that normally sent a shiver down her spine. Now, though, Wendy could only hope her assessment had been correct.)

With hands ruthlessly rid of even the faintest tremble, Wendy directed her magic towards the spike. She enveloped it, let her power crawl over every inch of cold or blood-warm metal, until the whole thing was pulsing with her signature cerulean glow.

She could feel it, like some vile substance coating her hands, the malignant intent affixed to this object. Its sole purpose was to kill, to worm its way through its hapless victim until it reached their heart. There was no telling how many lives this weapon had claimed.

But it would not claim this one. Nor any other ever again. Wendy would make certain of that.

It felt like trying to move her fingers through stone, or ice, as she slowly began to curl them inwards. She was fighting to compress everything this spear was, every nuance and facet of its existence, into something she could crush in her fist. It was only logical such a task wouldn’t be easy to accomplish.

But Wendy had seen what an Enchantress’s hands were capable of. She liked her chances.

Tighter, she pressed against the spear. Harder. The tendons on her hands were starkly visible, fingers developing the slightest tremor, as she enforced her will over the weapon on the ontological level.

You are no more, was her edict, delivered coldly and with severe finality. You will cease to be. Your form is dismissed and your presence a memory. Begone!

The spear, for all the heartache it had wrought in the brief time since Wendy had first laid eyes on it, was helpless to resist the crushing authority of her command, the sheer force of her insistence that it cease to be.

The light of her magic became blinding. Space shuddered and folded. Time seemed to redouble, knocked briefly off balance by her desperate meddling. Reality gave an ominous rumble. Wendy, distantly, felt something crumble into irrevocable nothingness as her fists closed around air.

And then she was kneeling in the mud, hunched beside a friend who was now bleeding copiously from the empty hole in his chest.

She’d never been so thrilled to see such an open wound.

“Gray!” it felt... strange, almost, to call healing magic to her hands. Like in the past few minutes she’d somehow forgotten she was capable of such a thing.

Thankfully, years of ardent practice meant Wendy was capable of going through the motions largely on autopilot. 

[dzthenerd490]

File: Ghosts of Mars

SCP#: ACR

Code Name: The Afterlife is Universal

Object Class: Euclid

Special Containment Procedures: SCP-ACR instances are contained at Site-AH, each one is contained within an Anomalous Humanoid Coffin. The Coffin is reinforced with anomalously manufactured metals, each meant to contain spiritual energy. Each Coffin is placed at the lowest level of Site-AH and placed within a storage unit of 150x150x50 meters. The only entrance to the storage area has been locked, welded shut with metal plating and all around the entrance has been painted and plastered with Thaumaturgic talisman used to reinforce materials with barriers that prevent physical, metaphysical, energy, and spiritual based anomalies from passing through. 

Description: SCP-ACR is a swarm of spirits of an extinct species of Marshin believed to be a Precursor Species of Interest like the ISU. However, they have been locked in a hidden tomb on Mars that was unfortunately destroyed upon discovery allowing them all to escape. Once free the SCP-ACR instance immediately spread out and possessed everyone around them. Once possessed they tend to show great hostility towards those that are not possessed by SCP-ACR and attack quite viciously. It is unknown if they do this believing all non-possessed are invaders of mars or perhaps, they were the criminals of the Precursor Martian species, hence why they were locked in the tomb.

SCP-ACR instances are intelligent enough to handle weapons, even ones they've never seen before, and devise complex plans together. However, despite this SCP-ACR instances show no verbal intelligence nor the willingness to make anything more than growling noises. Dr. Sarma believes the reason for this is that their original bodies didn't have a vocal system or organs like humans do. Thus, they simply cannot comprehend how to use their mouths for anything other than biting.

Those possessed by SCP-ACR are merely vessels, once the vessel is killed the SCP-ACR instance will turn back into a spirit and possess the closest non possessed living organism. It's impossible to kill or even exercise SCP-ACR as priests of the Horizon Initiative have already tried. The best way to stop SCP-ACR is unfortunately to trap it and its vessel and ensure it never gets out. The only way to resist possession is to take hallucinogenic drugs that would ruin the SCP-ACR's psyche should it possess the host. It is because SCP-ACR instances are so dangerous, that testing has been denied entirely and replaced with its unconditional and eternal containment.

SCP-ACR were discovered in 2001 by a Martian Research team consisting of archeologists and other researchers from the Horizon Initiative, the Global Occult Coalition, and the SCP Foundation. Unfortunately, the SCP-ACR instances possessed and killed off the researchers as well as the staff of their mobile research facility. Mobile Task Force Artemis-7 "Police of Mars" was sent to investigate and though they were wiped out after 2 hours into the mission, they did manage to obtain information on SCP-ACR. Afterwards Joint Task Force Apollo-5 "Holy Coffin" form by the Foundation and the Horizon Initiative, moved with an operation to contain all SCP-ACR instances. The operation took 72 hours and thankfully ended in a success, though of the 50 units deployed 17 ended up dying during the mission.

Afterwards of the 300 SCP-ACR instances, 100 were entrusted to the Horizon Initiative and contained underneath the Holy Martin City of New Mecca of the Skoni region on Mars. The other 200 SCP-ACR instances are contained at Site-AH. Unfortunately, the Horizon Initiative has continued their own research on SCP-ACR despite the Foundation urging them not to, as doing so could quickly lead to the complete destruction of the city. They have politely insisted they are fine, and the Foundation does not need to worry. As such the O5 Council has created Protocol “Fall of Babylon” should the Horizon Initiative ever fail.

.

SCP: Horror Movie Files Hub

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Robotic Workers to Soldiers

( Don’t forget to come see my on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord )

Taken from the biography “The Fall of Dijballer” written by Uguntus Val

 Breaking a human is easy.

They have no armored exoskeleton, no reinforced scaled skin, not even an enhanced healing metabolism; it is an amazing feat that they have been able to survive on their own planet let alone survive the rigors of space travel.

They are weak and frail creatures of flesh and blood.  One could push them down a simple slope and there was a high chance they could break their arm.

We expected a war with them to be swift and merciless.

Our forces would descend upon their worlds like the waves a ravaging storm and sweep them clean away as we added their colonies to our domain, and continue the glorious expansion of our race. Yet for all our knowledge of human biology we failed to grasp the critical flaw in our plans and strategies until it was too late. The simple truth that could have changed the fate of the war in our favor had we learned it earlier on.

Humans were well aware of their frailty, and they adapted accordingly.

On the colony world of Dijballer we made our first strike. It was a temperate world perfectly designed for year-long farming and capable of sustaining a constant stream of crops to feed a dozen empires when fully developed.

The colony had only been on the planet for ten years and was centered around the initial landing site of the colony ship. A compact industrial center had formed to support the growing colony and several companies had established facilities to support the colony, including several robotics factories that supplied a majority of the work force. What made it even more tempting of a target was that by all accounts it lacked a sufficient military presence, only housing a token police force to maintain order.  

When the war began three legions were dispatched to secure the planet. The twelfth, the third, and the honored first legion that had been present at the beginning of every major war our people had ever fought.

They made planet fall just outside of the main settlement and began steadily advancing through the fields of crops, passing dozens of robotic workers mindlessly going about their work as if the thousands of alien soldiers marching passed was a normal occurrence. The machines were humanoid in shape with two arms and legs, often either using farming tools or manning heavy equipment.

Roughly ten miles outside of the city did we first encounter resistance. We were now in the center of the fields when the rear of the column reported they were under attack. A massive harvester had diverted its course and rammed a troop transport flipping it over. The surrounding infantry opened fire on the vehicle as it attempted to ram a second vehicle. Not being built for military use the vehicle quickly broke down and exploded in a shower of shrapnel and fire, setting several stalks of nearby crops on fire. It was here that the order to halt was given and the column began to reorganize. It was as the Privants were giving orders that the second attack began.

Thousands of farming units sprang out of the stalks on either side of the column like predators of old. In their hands were nothing but farming tools and yet they moved with unnatural swiftness. Before anyone could fire a shot they were among our ranks hacking and slashing us to pieces.

I’ve hear over the years how our soldiers were mocked. How pundits and politicians question how a fully armored legionnaire could be brought down by nothing but farming tools.

Were any of them to say that to my face I would smash their face in; for none of them were there to see what those machines could do.    

They dove and shifted to either side like a blade of grass in the wind. I saw my captain unload an entire clip on full auto at one and it casually darted to either side as if it was nothing but rain as it closed the distance.

When it was within arm’s reach it grabbed it’s scythe and drove it deep into the neck joints of the captain’s armor. The captain barely had time to swat away the metal scythe but the robot merely took its fingered hand and drove it into the unarmored joint itself.

I could hear the captain gurgling blood over the communications net as the robotic monster pulled its hand out of his throat, covered in blood and gore, and stabbed it in again and again and again.

While it was distracted goring my captain I brought my rifle up and brought the monster down with a single shot to the chest. The robot sparked and fizzled as it toppled over, its hand still embedded in the captain as it dragged his lifeless body down with him. I had little time to grieve for my captains death as another trio of farmer units rushed from the stalks at me.

All around me was sheer chaos as the robots swarmed over us like insects. Their fragile bodies meant nothing when their speed and enhanced reflexes made them near impossible to hit.

They knew were the weak spots in our armor were, they were capable of calculating the angle of fire from our weapons, they even somehow knew our ranking system and made sure to target our officers first.

The three that came at me lunged for me to close the distance and that was the only was the only thing that saved me that day. On the ground they could easily dodge side to side but midair they were cut off from that level of maneuverability.

I easily trained my gun and sprayed the machines with a full mag from my repeater rifle. The white fragments of their shells harmlessly bounced off my armor as their broken bodies crumpled before me. I barely had a moment to enjoy my victory before another massive harvester machine drove through our column.

Several of my comrades weren’t fast enough to get out of the way and were swallowed by those rotating blades of death. I heard their screams echoing on the communications net just as I had the captain and then they were cut off in an instant by a blood curdling crunch.

After that it was chaos.

Soldiers fought in tight circles or back to back with comrades as they fought off waves of robots. This went on for hours but to me, in those panic filled moments of terror, it felt like an eternity.

By nightfall the entire field was ablaze with fire just as the robots ceased their attacks. We gathered what remained of our dead and wounded and took stock of the situation.

Thousands of broken robot bodies lay strewn across the ground like discarded dolls, and the burning husks of the larger harvesters cast gloomy shadows dancing in the firelight. We had been out numbered a 3-1 and still managed to survive, and yet the victory was hollow to the core.

The twelfth legion was cut in half and lost the majority of their vehicles during the opening attacks, the third was at a quarter strength and had lost all of their officers, but worst yet was the honored first legion. The pride of several centuries of warfare, the first legion had been entirely wiped out at the front of the column. Their pride denying them anything other than a death on the battlefield as they refused to regroup with the other legions.

What remained of the officers of the twelfth legion was split between retreating to the initial landing zones or to continue with the assault. Only after the fighting had stopped was communication with orbital command reestablished, and the commanders in orbit almost couldn’t believe what had happened.

The twelfth officers requested an additional five legions be deployed to the planet and that the authorization of aerial bombardments. Debate between the twelfth and orbital lasted about an hour before the robots returned.

First signs of danger were the screams and weapons fire of sentries posted around the surviving column. Robots that had been laying on the ground thought destroyed rose back to their feet and attacked wandering soldiers.

The fear and terror spread throughout the survivors as everyone capable grabbed a weapon and began firing at the robots once more. In the confusion several soldiers fell to friendly fire as several panic stricken legionnaires opened fire on full auto blindly.

At the end of that night the third legion was almost entirely wiped out and the new rule of fully destroying the head and body of all machines became mandatory.

The war pressed on for another four months before we finally claimed the world.

All it had cost us was nearly four entire legions against an army of farming units.

The disgrace felt by the military was overwhelming and morale never recovered for the remained of the conflict. What’s worse was that throughout those four months the primary factories nestled beneath the primary settlement had been continuously producing more and more robots. What should have been a simple easy victory devolved into a grueling war of attrition.

When we finally stormed the office of the robotic factories we were able to download files from their mainframe and the horrid truth was realized.

Embedded into every robot humanity produced, regardless of their function, was a sub routine dictating military tactics, strategies, and combat methods. A maid unit designed for cleaning could be switched over in an instant to become a skilled sniper marksman with years of training with a kill count of triple digits.

For all of their frailty the humans had not lost the ability for death and destruction. They had imparted it into every machine in their service effectively creating an army of billions skilled in the art of death.

After the war was over I went out of my way to order one such unit to tend to me in my home.

I often wonder, as it goes about its cleaning work, that if I activated its military mode if I would be capable of taking it; though I doubt I can in my age now.

Instead it serves as a constant remind that one should never underestimate the nature of a being. No matter how delicate and frail it may appear, it may be hiding a dagger aimed straight at your throat.

[hongism]

mists of celeste ➻ 37

➻ pairing: ??? x fem reader ➻ genre: space au, pirate au, space pirate!ateez, angst, smut ➻ word count: 16.9k(? i think?) ➻ rating: M ➻ warnings: language, violence, guns and weaponry, blood, future warnings tba chapter specific warnings: talks of torture, talks of past self-harm, nothing directly graphic all mentioned through conversation, graphic depiction of a panic attack ➻ summary: Sneaking aboard the ship of a renowned space pirate may not have been the best idea, but you’ll have to make do with what fate has handed to you

⇐ previous | next ⇒ | masterlist

✧✧✧ act five ➻ part four

​​​

“I’m going to kill the king, Hyunwoo.”

“Y/N, you can’t… that’s going too far.”

“I don’t think we have a choice any longer.”

“We always have a choice, Y/N. It’s just about what you decide to do with that choice that matters. Think about why you’re doing what you’re doing, and what your intentions truly are. It’s not about revenge or payment for a crime — the crimes of his people cannot be put onto his shoulders.”

A sigh passes through your lips, one that sounds more exasperated than anything else, and Hyunwoo lifts a brow upon hearing the noise.

“This is revenge, Hyunwoo. He allowed my past to be taken, he created the law that allows the military to do that. Not to mention the other crimes he has committed — even if they are a result of him sitting idly by and watching them happen. I’m not saying Jisung is always right or that he is a saint for wanting to do this. But if Jisung won’t commit to doing it, then I’ll do it for him.”

“And we swore to find a way to get those memories back, Y/N. Don’t let this cloud your judgment. Don’t let your devotion to making Jisung happy decide your future. If this is something he wants, then he should do it himself and face the consequences on his own! It’s not a burden that you should bear as well. I know this is something you will come to regret!”

“Then you’ll have to stop me with force because I’ve already made my mind up about this. I don’t see Jisung getting in my way right now. But after all, isn’t this what he wants? He’s just too much of a coward to do the dirty work himself!”

“We both know where he stands on this, which is precisely why he’s not here. Just — please let us try one more time. I’ve spoken with a few of my off-planet contacts about this, and we have one last idea that might reverse the effects of the serum. You know how difficult this is; the military keeps such a tight wrap on everything about the serum. It’s near impossible to just get a spare vial, and even harder to examine how it works with test subjects while still being ethical. We are trying our best, I promise, just please hold out a little while longer. Jisung is getting things set up now… so please… just come with me and try before you do anything drastic.”

The man extends a hand, palm facing towards the ceiling and fingers outstretched for you to take. There’s hope in his eyes, a hope you haven’t seen from him in a long time, and that look is what brings your feet forward. You place your palm over his and curl your fingers tight around the side of his hand. He squeezes back as a small grin overtakes his lips.

“If this doesn’t work, then you know what I have to do, Hyunwoo.”

“I know,” he whispers. The hope in his eyes flickers a little, like a flame hit by a gust of wind. “In that case, I’ll do whatever I have to so that you don’t come to regret that decision.”

“Hey, get up. It’s go time.”

You wake with a start, not fully come out of the memory that paints the insides of your eyelids until you look around at your surroundings. Yeosang seems to be the one who woke you seeing as his hand is still outstretched to your arm. The sight of him brings you back to reality and reminds you of where you are and what exactly is going on. Jongho sits on your other side, dressed in nicer clothes than you’ve ever seen him wear before — a pleated and pristine navy suit complete with a bright yellow tie and hair gelled back on his head. Yeosang too wears a somewhat expensive garb although he appears more natural in the silk tunic covering his torso. His naturally dark roots are starting to peek through the blond near his scalp, accentuating the harsh part down the middle of his head.

Despite the fact that both look relatively harmless in this state, you know they each have weapons hidden somewhere on their person underneath that formal wear, just as you do with the knives strapped over your thighs under the skirt attached to your waist. Such an outfit like yours is something you hardly agreed to — it was moreso an insistence on Seonghwa’s part to at least dress the part (although he had to listen to some of your incessant nagging about how you could never fight in a dress so he had to settle on finding a substitute in the form of a jumpsuit with a skirt wrapped around the back. Yet the more you pick at the seams and touch the fabric, the more you recall the none too pleasant conversation you and Seonghwa shared as you were preparing to leave for the mission.

“Perhaps I do have an eye for beauty after all, or is it that you simply look breathtaking in anything?” Seonghwa stands in the doorway to your bedroom, not a mind for privacy as he watches you struggle to tug the zipper of your suit up.

“Can’t even breathe on my own, huh?” You huff out as you drop the zipper in defeat.

“I’ve already seen every inch of you, have I not? There’s nothing to hide that I haven’t seen before,” Seonghwa says through a laugh. He watches your cheeks flush with color before dropping his arms to his side and coming closer to you. He remains wordless as he pulls your zipper up for you, smoothing the fabric under his fingers down once it’s pulled up to your neck. “It suits you. Things like this, I mean. The silk makes you look… softer, yet the color combination of black and white makes you look lethal. Perfect definition of beauty, no? That something so delicate could also kill you? A wonderful dichotomy in my eyes.”

“Someone is in a poetic mood today.” You don’t hide the way your eyes roll to the back of your head, but Seonghwa doesn’t seem all too bothered by your show of faux-annoyance. Instead, his hands find your hips and turn you to face him directly, staring so intently into your eyes with his own dark ones that you lose the rest of your retort.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to go on this mission so desperately but that didn’t quite work out.” You’re quick to shake your head, already in the midst of denying his words before he even finishes his sentence.

“It’s alright. I’ll have Yeosang and Jongho there with me.”

“I would go if only Hongjoong would let me bu—” The thought cuts short as you place a hand over his forearm.

“Seonghwa, it’s okay. Hongjoong is right to have you stay here while you’re not 100% better. And you can both keep an eye on Jisung this way. We’ll bring Wooyoung back as quickly as possible, I swear.” Instead of consoling the man, your words seem to have an opposite effect as he drops his gaze to the floor.

“If I were stronger, this wouldn’t even be an issue. You should not have had to waste so much time having to look after my fragile and weak mental state when you could have caught up to the ship sooner and had all three of them back in one go.”

“This is what we’re working with, Hwa. It has nothing to do with your welfare. We still would have been too late regardless of whether that night had happened or not. So please — it will all work out and be okay. It has to.”

Seonghwa’s smile is quaint, a small twitch of his lips, then he’s leaning in to close the distance between your lips. You lift your hand to push hard against his chest, furthering that distance before he gets the chance to meet your lips with his.

“I just put on this black lipstick and you already want to mess it up? How rude,” you scoff. That isn’t a real reason, and you both know it, and you only solidify that further when you speak next before biting your tongue. “You shouldn’t push it right now. I still haven’t forgiven you for not fighting my decision to go with Jisung. Besides wasn’t the decision to… stop whatever this is mutual?”

“It was, of course,” he murmurs back, not quite meeting your eyes. “I am merely a creature of habit, so it will take some time for me to adjust to this change. But… Y/N, might I be so bold as to ask you something?”

“Hm, isn’t that a question right there?”

“I’ll take that as a yes then?” You regard him with a small nod but pull away so that his hands drop to his sides again. “Were any of the feelings you had for me something real and tangible? Not just because of what we are and that comfort of both being Sirens, I mean.”

You should have known he would bring this up eventually, especially with how the two of you are constantly dancing around each other and the topic. Still, you aren’t ready for it.

“I… don’t think I know the answer to that question, but even if I did, I-I might not be able to answer with complete honesty.” The smile that comes to paint Seonghwa’s lips is nothing short of sad and painful, not quite reaching his bright eyes with its usual mirth.

“It’s a conversation I wish for us to have one day, but I too fear that I might not be able to be completely honest either. Perhaps — perhaps we got a little too caught up in the heat of things without truly thinking about why we were doing the things we were doing.”

“Why did you do it then? I was the one who gave the initial push, I started things, I claim responsibility for that, but you pulled right back. So why?”

“I have found time to think about such things quite a bit lately since I was left in the medbay alone for so long; however, now is not the time to talk about that as it would take too long. Has Wooyoung brought you back yet?”

“No, not since the night in the medbay. But San very clearly said three days until they would land on Dorado, and it’s been six since then. They should be there by now, and the deals should have gone through. Wooyoung’s was to be immediate after all.” Seonghwa’s smile drops into a half-hearted scowl.

“Without Wooyoung on the inside, we will have no way of knowing where San and Mingi are.”

“Unless Jisung decides to be kind with his information.” You run a hand through your hair, mussing the already down tresses enough to be somewhat noticeable. “We’ll have to make do.” Seonghwa stretches across the empty space between you

“I won’t keep you any longer then. Tell the others good luck from me, and please… be careful? No unnecessary risks if you can avoid them. I’d like to see you all back in one piece.”

Reality swoops in on you as Jongho places a firm hand over your thigh.

“You alright? I can practically feel you thinking so hard.”

“Yes, yes, of course. Just… wondering about the mission.”

“It’ll be okay,” Jongho murmurs, squeezing at your leg a little tighter. “It’s a straightforward mission — easy in and out.”

“Hopefully.” Yeosang is the one to hum the word but he doesn’t look at either of you as he speaks. “Once we’re in, I’ll talk to the main desk and ask for someone with Wooyoung’s general appearance. It’ll be a bit difficult because they will have given a new name — something a prostitute would have. I’m not sure how many people in there will have similar appearances to Wooyoung but we’ll have to do our best. You two remember what you’re supposed to do?”

“Yes,” you nod. “Follow suit, wait fifteen minutes for you to pass through the reception area, then ask the same thing. A male short in stature with black hair and tanned skin. All prostitutes have collar so it won’t be Wooyoung’s defining feature any longer.” The recitation rolls off your tongue with ease after having heard Yeosang repeat it so many times by now. He nods in approval nonetheless.

“Remember there are cameras in each of the rooms. Don’t know how they use them but it’s something to be aware of. Hopefully, one of us will be able to come across Wooyoung, and in the case that you do?”

“We are to stay in the room with him for the allotted time, ping back to the ship and let Hongjoong know we have him, then wait for his signal,” Jongho responds. “His contact here on Dorado will be hacking their surveillance systems once we are certain that we have Wooyoung in a safe position.”

“Hongjoong sure seems to have a lot of contacts for someone who doesn’t trust people,” you murmur more to yourself than to anyone else, but Yeosang picks up on it nonetheless.

“His contacts are few and far between. This is one he has known since before he became a captain, so he holds a bit more trust with him. Back to the plan though, after his contact confirms our safety, you’ll crack a window and hop out hopefully unscathed. Remember that the Upper Echelon of Dorado is tight on security. Whoever gets Wooyoung out will have to be mindful of guards and try not to look suspicious. If any guards stop you, do not engage with violence. Simply do as they ask you to and tell them that Wooyoung is your slave. And one last thing: don’t forget we’ll be going in silent so keep a close eye on your wristbands. Understood?”

“Clear as day,” Jongho says while you offer only a hasty nod.

“Good, stay sharp then. We’ll be landing soon, and it’ll be go time immediately after that.” With that, Yeosang sits back and shuts his eyes, leaving you and Jongho to stew over the plan again in silence. At least until you decide you can’t take it anymore and turn to talk to the Berserker again.

“Are you nervous at all about the mission?”

A shrug.

“No more than usual. Recovering Wooyoung won’t be easy by any means, of course. It’s a step in the right direction, right? How are you feeling?” As though sensing your nerves, he pats your thigh a few times, and you simply stare down at the dirty floor beneath your feet.

“I feel a bit guilty in a way because I’m not too worried about the mission,” you admit, albeit quietly because you aren’t sure how please Yeosang would be to hear the words. “The only thing that is on my mind right now is how San is doing and if he’s okay.” Although you told Seonghwa otherwise, the sudden radio silence that Wooyoung has given you has made you anxious to an unspeakable degree. And not having the security of being able to see San through Wooyoung’s eyes is plaguing you more than you’d like to admit.

“I understand that,” Jongho says through a deep exhale. “I feel the same way about Mingi right now honestly. No matter how much faith and trust I have in Mingi, that fear always lingers and resides in me.”

“That’s how I feel about San. I shouldn’t be worried about him but part of me is just fearful that we won’t make it in time. That he’ll accept the serum before we can get him out.”

Jongho brings his hand up to take hold of one of yours, squeezing around your palm as tight as he can without hurting you.

“I know San better than I know anyone on the crew, besides Mingi perhaps. I’ve spent years at San’s side. He was the only person who trusted me at first and trusted me enough to let me in. That trauma he bears, the scars on his past, the red in his ledger, those lingering pains that resurfaced when the mutiny happened — I have felt them all. I spent months at the foot of his bed, taking what pain I could away for as long as I could, just existing to comfort him and help him get through even one more night. And in that myriad of emotions I felt from San, not once did I ever feel him desire to take it all away. Those scars he bears are part of him, and he treats them as such. Something like… small accessories on a bigger picture that he won’t let go of. So no matter what happens, I have confidence that San won’t let them win. He’s far too stubborn for that, his heart is too big, he has too much love in his body for such a thing. He would rather die before he forgets the crew, and that fact alone makes me confident that San will hold out.”

You are left in the wake of Jongho’s words for too long, letting them crawl under your skin and find a home there. You count the seconds that pass before your voice finds you again.

“I understand that.” Forty-one seconds. “It’s just the fear of him being hurt when I’m not around to stop it that is hard to get past.” Jongho’s smile is nothing if not soft and gentle, the epitome of understanding.

“In our line of work, that fear is always present. It’s always a possibility too, but at some point, you reach a point where you accept that sometimes, you won’t always be able to save someone from all pain. Just because you can’t prevent every ounce of pain doesn’t mean that you are doing something wrong or that you’re not doing enough.” Jongho pauses. Some emotion fills his red eyes and leaves them swimming with something unspoken. “There are some pains that we must allow to happen, no matter how much we wish to do the opposite. Even something as horrid as pain can be necessary and needed to move forward in life. Try not to dwell on it too much and focus on Wooyoung for now, yeah?”

“I’m trying my best,” you sigh and drop your head back against the seat. The second your thoughts begin to drift, you are brought back to another memory, this time one of Hongjoong’s dark office with Seonghwa at your side.

“You punched Jisung in the face?”

“Please, I let him off easy,” you huff back, ignoring the lieutenant’s slight shock in favor of finding interest in the wall.

“That’s not the important part,” Hongjoong cuts in from where he sits behind his desk. You shift to glance over the captain. “Does Jisung know anything about you being a Siren?”

“No, not that I recall,” you mutter after little thought. “I never slept with him or anything like that, and I can’t remember him ever seeing my back so it’s safe to assume he doesn’t know. Besides who would just see tattoos and immediately assume ‘Siren’?”

“Then his interest in you has nothing to do with you being a Siren?”

“Exactly, but why is that important? I can tell you why he wants me if that’s what you’re curious about.”

“We’re just eliminating suspicions right now.” Hongjoong shifts his focus to where Seonghwa stands. He wears a bit of a cocky grin as they stare at each other, both feet slung up on the edge of his desk and one brow raised. “See? Jin has nothing to do with this.”

“That doesn’t eliminate the possibility altogether!” Seonghwa retorts. A frown mars his otherwise pretty features, twisting his lips into a scowl so deep that you feel your own muscles ache at the sight of it.

“You live your life in fear of Seokjin. For what? Do you not trust me to keep you safe?”

“That isn’t it and you know it, Joong. I will not sabotage your plans simply because of what I am. That is why we keep my identity to be a closely-guarded secret yet our number one enemy knows of that identity. That is a weakness, and it’s one that you need to take seriously.”

“Why is that? Sheltering you would be more suspicious to the crew than anything else. Unless you would like to inform them of your identity? Allow me to call them all right this instant.”

“No! No, Hongjoong, I — fine. Have it your way. Keep believing that you’ll be able to fix where Jin went wrong by ignoring the issue altogether because th—”

“That’s enough.” You bristle at the tone of the captain’s voice even though he is not speaking directly to you. “I’m still on edge as well, Hwa, and I know you are as well. I know why you are too, but please have at least a little faith in me. Now, Y/N—” Hongjoong turns back to you now “—I’d like to ask about the nightmares you had that night.”

Your initial response is to inhale sharply and glance over at Seonghwa with panic boiling in your gut.

“Why do you want to know?”

All Hongjoong does is roll his eyes and drop his feet off the side of his desk. You purse your lips at the action, watching him with wary eyes as he shifts his position to prop his elbows up on the same wood.

“Seonghwa, you’re dismissed.”

“I — Captain?”

“Dismissed, Lieutenant. I need to speak with her in private.”

“Why is it something I cannot be present for?”

“That was an order, not a suggestion. Now go.” If possible, the temperature of the room would drop ten degrees. Seonghwa seems to want to retort further but he bites his lip instead. Then, he gives a quick bow at the waist and mutters a goodbye before slipping out of the office without any further issue. “What did your nightmares consist of?” Hongjoong repeats, arching a brow as he speaks this time as though it will get you to talk faster.

“You didn’t have to get me alone to ask me that, did you? What is this really about?” The questions flow without hesitation, and your second refusal to talk about the dreams draws a sigh from Hongjoong’s lips.

“Do you know anything of Seonghwa’s relationship with his mother, Y/N?” A beat of silence. You shift your weight from foot to foot, glancing away from the captain to find interest in something on the floor.

“I… did witness a few of his memories when the two of us were still with each other in the dreams, but — if you mean to ask me about his nightmares, I have nothing to offer. I didn’t see those at all.”

“No, he already told me all about those nightmares. I don’t need to know more of them,” Hongjoong exhales with a shake of his head. He draws his arms up over his chest as he talks, falling back to slump in his chair and letting his exhaustion shine through. “Initially, I was going to have Seonghwa go with Yeosang and Jongho on this mission. But now, that plan has changed and I will be sending you instead.”

“Why?”

“I can’t send Seonghwa down to Lynder unless I myself can be at his side the entire time. There is far too much of a risk if I am unable to do that.”

“Risk? Of what? He would be with Yeosang and Jongho, would he not?”

“Yet if even the barest whim overcomes him, they would have to listen to whatever he says because of his position as lieutenant. I am the only one with more power than him, and as such, he has to listen to me. If he goes to Lynder, the risk is of him abandoning the mission to seek out his mother.”

“That doesn’t sound like something he would do at all,” you counter. Both you and Hongjoong drop your chins at the same time, although yours is more of an accusatory and pointed action compared to the slumping defeat that comes over Hongjoong’s body when he lowers his head.

“I don’t know how much or what exactly you saw in Seonghwa’s memories. I do not need to know either. But something you need to know is that we have been back to Lynder exactly once since I met Seonghwa there. And that one single time, two years ago, we had to lock Seonghwa in the brig for six days straight to keep him from breaking out to kill his mother. Seonghwa tore cuts into his arms and shoulders so deep that Yunho had to come stitch him every night until we finally chained him to a wall to get him to stop. When he finally gave up on trying to break out, I went in and took the cuffs off, only for Seonghwa to choke me hard enough to fracture my neck and leave bruises that lasted for several weeks.”

“A-Ah…” The sound of your dry swallow echoes in your ears. It’s hard to imagine Seonghwa — cool, rigid, stoic, gentle and calm Seonghwa — ever being so depraved and rabid as to harm himself as well as Hongjoong. Seonghwa, whose greatest fear is losing his captain. Yet the grave expression coating Hongjoong’s delicate features remains serious and deadpan, and you know every word is one that holds a memory that is painful to recall. He’s telling the truth.

“Have you ever had that voice in your head telling you to be cruel, Y/N?”

“Of course I have,” you admit through a whisper, like the words are going to break the threads of tension hanging in the air.

“Seonghwa has lost his will and his mind to that voice time and time again, and it gave him his reputation as the Lieutenant of Death. Mingi may be a slave to a childhood which bred him to be a monster, but Seonghwa? He’s a slave to his own consciousness, the part of him that spent years trying to be perceived as an Elitist so that he could hide what he really is, someone cold and calculated without an ounce of remorse or emotion. He put his own monsters under the bed, but now he can’t get them out.”

Hongjoong sits up a bit straighter all of a sudden. His gaze is still unfocused and hazy though, refusing to look you straight in the eye. Either subconsciously or through the fog of that revisited memory, Hongjoong lifts a hand to his neck and rubs idly at the skin there.

“My Seon—Lieutenant is strong, but strength isn’t worth a damn thing when the person you’re fighting is yourself. He admitted to me once that the thought of letting that voice win is more terrifying than the act of killing his own mother. So for that reason, I can never allow such a thing to happen. Seonghwa’s demons are nothing if not rabid dogs begging for a pound of flesh, and if he can’t fight them on his own, I’ll do it for him.”

“Y/N, are you sure you’re alright?” Jongho yet again brings you back to reality, most likely a bit disturbed by the way you are squeezing his hand tight enough to hurt, but he takes it without complaint. “You keep drifting out of focus.”

“Yes,” you say, filling your chest with air when you remember to breathe properly again. “Everything is fine.” Rather than responding with words, Jongho just places his other hand over your joined ones and brings them to rest on his thigh. If you listen closely enough, you’re able to hear him humming a soft melody under his breath but the rumble of the transport car covers most of the sound up. Still, it’s a relaxing sound that brings you some much-needed peace of mind for the remainder of the ride.

And as it turns out, Yeosang wasn’t bluffing when he said the three of you would be there soon because you had barely started listening to Jongho’s soft song when the car comes to a screeching halt that leaves you lurching forward.

“Alright then.” Yeosang stands first, hands smoothing down the fabric of his tunic even though it’s still perfectly in place. It’s not against his nature to get nervous or anxious, but it is still odd to witness like this. He is usually stoic in an unsettling way yet the grim expression he now wears is only accentuated by the crude shadows cast over his face. “It’s go time. Let’s get Wooyoung back in one piece, yeah?”

With that, the three of you climb out of the vehicle to be greeted by a dark and pristine city with thick clouds of smoke billowing through the air below you. Looking over the lip of the road is like looking down a cliff with the dramatic fall to the lower portion of the city. You weren’t exactly prepared to see such a drastic difference between the upper and lower echelons, yet looking over that cliff is like looking into a different city altogether with wooden buildings and decrepit warehouses that can barely hold themselves together. Where you stand with Yeosang and Jongho feels like a different world altogether with roads lined with lights and technology, tall buildings made from wood with exquisite carvings detailing the sides. From what you saw of the city in Seonghwa’s memories, Lynder has not changed one bit since he was here last.

You can’t clearly see many of the buildings below your feet, but it doesn’t stop you from wondering which one could possibly be that bar where Seonghwa met Hongjoong, if it even still exists. Jongho pulls you away from the road by the arm, tugging you along behind him as you approach a new building. The swaying wooden panel outside the door is a dead giveaway, but it’s the absurd amount of lilies trailing over the railings that tells you what this place is.

“They weren’t bluffing with the House of Lilies name,” you mutter, wrinkling your nose a bit at the overwhelming stench. Yeosang has grown alarmingly still; he lingers outside the tall double doors with a hand hovering over the brass handles without budging even an inch for far too long. You could pretend to not know why he’s hesitating, you could act like he is merely holding you back and push past him in annoyance, yet instead, you find yourself laying a hand atop his shoulder and squeezing the fabric there lightly. “No matter what happens in there or what we find in there, we will bring Wooyoung out alive.”

Yeosang releases a shaky exhale that makes his shoulder quake under your fingers.

“I know we will.” He looks past your face to make eye contact with Jongho then gives a curt nod. “Here goes the first fifteen minutes of hell.” The Elitist pushes hard against the brass handles, and the door gives way to his effort.

If you thought the smell outside the House was horrid, you don’t even know how to describe the reeking stench of flowers that hits you with the force of a tsunami. It’s thick enough for you to feel as though you are wading through a sea of flowers when in reality it’s just a strange yellow haze hanging about the interior. Yeosang doesn’t let the smell affect him in the slightest; he walks inside without missing a beat, shoulders pushed back so far it nearly hurts to see. Despite that, he walks like a prince, like someone who knows how to act in high society with ease, and for the first time, you don’t see Kang Yeosang before you. Instead, it’s Kang Minhee, the forgotten prince of Aera, who walks before you and heads for the front desk where a middle-aged woman with dramatic hair and hefty makeup stands.

“We should mingle a bit and look natural,” Jongho whispers when the two of you stop just inside the doors. “May I?” He motions to your arm with a small smile, not saying anything else and leaving you confused.

“May you…?”

“Quit being dense and give me your arm,” he huffs back and extends his elbow for you to loop your arm through, and this time, you get the hint, hooking your hand around the inside of his arm. Yeosang shifts to look back at both of you as you pass, and you offer each other discreet nods before he returns to speaking to the receptionist.

You let Jongho lead the way for the most part since you aren’t sure what you’re supposed to be doing outside of “looking normal”, although even doing that is somewhat difficult. Jongho doesn’t stray far from the entrance area until Yeosang dips into a hallway and out of sight without looking back at the two of you. Moments later your wristbands buzz, signaling that it’s time for the first fifteen-minute countdown to begin. Jongho shifts to fiddle with his wristband while you keep your hand folded over his elbow still. It gives you a chance to glance around the whorehouse without the distraction of having to act normal, but frankly, there isn’t much to see beyond the bodies filling the foyer and mingling about the lounge before you. There are flowers everywhere — probably an overabundance of them, and they aren’t just lilies as they were outside. You can’t pinpoint whether those flowers are the source of the clawingly sweet scent stuck to the insides of your nostrils or not, but that yellow fog seems partially responsible to some degree.

“You seem to know how to look like you belong in high society,” you mutter once Jongho pulls his attention back to your surroundings. A huff of laughter leaves his lips.

“It’s not because I grew up that way. I was merely an observant child who wanted to grow up and have more than what I had.” A smile cracks his stony expression. “Isn’t that what all children want?”

“I—”

Well, you wouldn’t really know, would you?

Jongho’s expression softens as he realizes what he’s said and who he has said it to, and his gaze turns apologetic seconds later. He turns to flag down one of the workers milling about with drinks, taking two glasses of what looks like wine in one hand. Jongho angles one of the half-full flutes in your direction. You take the hint with relative ease despite the clawing scent of flowers still muddling your thoughts.

“I didn’t mean to hit a nerve,” Jongho says through what seems to be a sympathetic smile. “What do you think your childhood was like? If you don’t mind talking about such things. We have time to kill after all.”

You draw your lips into a tight purse, curling them around the edge of the wine glass and pressing an imprint of your dark lipstick there. Subconsciously, your hand tightens around the inside of Jongho’s arm as well, although the Berserker doesn’t comment on the added pressure as he simply continues to regard you with the same steely and careful gaze.

“I think it must have been rather sad,” you admit after some thought. It must not be the answer Jongho was expecting at all because his brows draw together in confusion. “What kind of childhood must one have for them to willingly sell away their memories by fourteen? The more I think… about that time — when they gave me the serum — I recall fighting the doctors but I don’t think it was because I didn’t know what they were doing. I’m certain that I knew my memories would be taken from me. It was the act of them strapping me to a chair like a prisoner that frightened me.”

This time when Jongho smiles, all you can see is pain in his deep red eyes.

“I would have given anything in the universe to have my memories taken away at that age too, if it’s of any comfort to you.” He pauses to swirl the liquid in his glass, watching the red liquor dance before his eyes under the yellow haze around your bodies. “Don’t think you’re weak for wanting to forget that past. No child should ever deal with pains that strong, even if you can’t remember what they are.”

“People like you… San, Mingi… the whole crew honestly — how can I not view myself as weak in comparison? People who were given the choice but denied it and rejected it unlike me, who apparently didn’t want to be left with some shred of dignity. What did I become with that fresh slate they gave me? All I could do then was be weak, but it seems like that hasn’t changed one bit.”

Jongho won’t let up with that devastating smile, and you are about to turn away so that you don’t have to see it any longer when he finally lets it fall.

“For what it’s worth, you are rather strong in my eyes. During your fight with Jisung, I’ll admit that I tried to ease some of your pain then. It’s not something you know about — the others know of it by now so I should have told you sooner and I’m sorry for that but I have a special mutation in my genes that gives me the ability to take away and absorb emotional auras. I inherited it from one of my grandparents so it’s something I grew up learning how to use and I carried that over when I joined the crew. I attempted to do that with you because you were in so much distress and I was worried but — b-but your pain was too much for even me to bear. So before you go around calling yourself weak, you ought to give yourself more credit. Just because the pains you bear are different doesn’t mean that they are any less than the pains the rest of us bear.”

Jongho doesn’t say anything more than that; he slings his wine back in one shot like it’s nothing then places the now empty glass on a waiter’s tray as he’s passing by. You don’t touch your own, mulling over the glass as you fall deep in thought. If Jongho could feel that much from you, then it begs the question of what else he might be able to feel from you.

Can he sense that I’m a Siren too? Would he be able to tell that Seonghwa and Wooyoung are Sirens as well?

Your mind shifts to latch onto something else he said. Your pain was too much for even me to bear.

“It’s okay, Y/N. Stand down,” he murmurs. “You need to pick your battles, and this is not one for you to fight right now.” Again you feel that pull of warmth coming from him, like someone is trying to pull something from your chest, but it retracts almost instantaneously. Jongho falters. His eyes squeeze shut harshly, face contorting with something that almost looks like pain in your eyes, but that lasts less than a second before he’s recovered again. It’s not enough to stop the onslaught of emotions coursing through your veins.

You had been too preoccupied at the time to think about that moment until now.

“That time — did I hurt you? When you tried to take it away, did I hurt you even a little bit?”

“Nothing you did hurt me, Y/N. It wasn’t your fault, I promise you didn’t do anything. It’s something I have done time and time again for others on the crew and something I would do again as well. It’s what I’m good at, and something I was born with for a reason. If it helps even a little bit, then why would I not take the temporary pain?”

Every fiber of your being is telling you to fight those words, to tell him that it’s not worth it, your pain should not be a burden he has to bear as well, yet no words fall from your lips. Your mouth stutters uselessly without saying anything, and Jongho just keeps smiling like nothing is wrong. The clenching in your chest is not fine, however, and you force yourself to turn away from him in the hopes it will alleviate that pain. Instead, your eyes travel to a head of bright red hair that is so starkly different than anything else in the room that you have to stare right at it. It would be nothing odd or out of the ordinary to you since the crew you are now part of has such a wide array of hair colors. It would be something you look right past without much thought.

And yet you find yourself staring right at it. Right at the girl who turns to look around the lounge with red hair sweeping through the air.

You jolt.

Something hits your shoulder hard enough to tip your drink over and spill some of the red wine onto the floor. Your hand retracts from Jongho’s arm to touch the knife hidden behind the fabric of your skirt. You’re forced to pull your gaze away from the girl, finding the man who bumped into you to just be a stumbling drunk man with little sense for spatial awareness and direction. Jongho wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you a bit closer to his body. The man continues on without any regard for you or the wine he just spilled. Jongho takes your glass with his free hand, discarding it at the nearest flat surface before redirecting his focus back to you.

“It’s okay, Y/N, everything is okay.”

“I’m fine,” you murmur back, but your gaze goes straight back to where that redhead just stood.

“You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Instinct tells you to stay put and continue on with the mission, putting that familiar face to the back of your mind. But again your heart is clenching painfully in your chest, racing so fast that you feel the pounds echoing in your ears, and you know you can’t let go of her that easily. Not when she’s this close to you.

“I think I did.” You pull away from Jongho to go chasing through the crowd after that red hair, but the Berserker moves with you in a rush.

“Y/N, we can’t get off track. There’s only six minutes until it’s your turn to go to the counter.”

You wave him off with a dismissive hand rather than responding with words. Moments later, you find your target again, just as she is turning to head for the hallway that Yeosang went down not too long ago.

“Soojin?” You throw the name out as a last resort, mostly a desperate attempt to see if you are right and your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you in this heady yellow haze.

She freezes in place. It gives you just enough time to shove past the crowd and get closer to where she stands. You close your fingers around her shoulder, tugging with as little force as possible so that she turns to face you. There’s not a doubt in your mind when you see her face. She seems to recognize you as well based on the way her eyes are blown wide as saucers. The girl — well, you suppose she would be a woman by now — glances past your shoulder to look at Jongho. Her throat rolls as she swallows around nothing.

“You must have me mistaken for someone else,” Soojin whispers, bringing her gaze back down to you. She dips her head a bit then pulls away from you to head down the hall. You think back to Jisung — the threats and odd comments he made combined with the newly resurfaced memories of Hyunwoo lingering at the forefront of your mind, and you know without a shadow of a doubt that you can’t let her go this easily.

“P-Please, Soojin — I need to talk with you. It’s important, please, I have so many questions and no one else to ask.”

“I’m sure you do, little scapegoat,” she huffs back. “I actually have work to do though and a client waiting for me, so I’m not all too inclined to speak with you. I’m not sure why you came here, but I don’t think I have the answers you’re looking for either.” You don’t have a chance to keep her from leaving after that because she turns and leaves so quickly that it leaves you reeling. Jongho tugs you back by the arm, pulling you from the hallway and out into the lounge again before you can chase after her.

“What the hell was that?” He hisses under his breath.

“She — I-I knew her. She w-was my teammate, one of the p-people assigned to my unit in the military. I… I had no idea she ended up here of all places. Jongho, I have to talk to her, please, I have to. This c-could be what I need! If Jisung won’t tell me the truth, then maybe she knows something. She has to know something o-or else I—”

Your voice dies in your throat, but your unspoken desperation seems to reach Jongho nonetheless. The key to whatever memories you lost could lie in Soojin. Things happened so quickly at the end, perhaps she learned of something before leaving Eros with the others.

“She called you a scapegoat,” Jongho says. He swallows hard, Adam’s Apple bobbing with the motion. “What was that about?”

Truthfully, you hadn’t gotten that far. You didn’t even think to question that part but it is odd and not something you recall her calling you in the past.

“I’m not sure why she would say that. All the more reason to speak to her and ask. Jongho, please!” You attempt to pull away from his grip as you speak. The Berserker doesn’t budge, too strong for you to fight like this, and he doesn’t let up even when you try to slap his hand away.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” He yanks you back to him and brings his free hand up to rest on your forehead. This time, you can physically feel the panic in your bones ebbing away and being pulled to your forehead where Jongho touches you. It’s a frightening sensation but the influence he has over you takes that fear away as well, leaving you in a daze of confusion because you know you should feel bothered right now but you cannot bring yourself to feel that way even as Jongho pulls away from you. His jaw twitches just a hair, not moving much beyond that, then he grits his teeth to hiss out his next words. “Wooyoung is our mission. You have to focus. You have two minutes to get up to that counter and do your job. We can try to track down your teammate later, but not on a mission like this.”

You have it in you to at least be angry enough to tug your arm out of his grasp.

“Don’t touch my emotions like that again. I understand you trying to take my pain, and as much as I hate that and despite the thought of you taking my pains for me, this is different. Emotionally sedating me for the sake of completing a mission better is different.”

You don’t give him a chance to reply before you’re heading off for the counter where Yeosang stood not too long ago. The woman who previously occupied the space behind it has disappeared, now replaced by a young man who must be younger than you from the looks of it.

“How can I help you, ma’am?” He asks as you sidle up to the desk.

“I’d like a room, an hour’s worth.” You fumble a bit with your pockets as you try to fish a credit chip out without exposing the knife strapped to your thigh, but the boy doesn’t look up until you slide the chip across the counter.

“Of course, of course,” he hums. “Do you have any preferences for pleasure tonight?”

“A male short in stature with black hair and tanned skin,” you recite back, forcing a smile onto your lips when the boy glances up at you. He tilts his head to the side. You swallow the saliva gathering in your mouth as the stare grows unsettling then he shakes his head and speaks again.

“Would you like someone more submissive or dominant?”

“Hm? Oh, um…” That wasn’t part of the plan. Surely Yeosang would have mentioned it if he had known they would ask. But what would he have said if they asked him the same? “Um, submissive is fine, I suppose?” The boy hums again then motions towards the hallway where Yeosang and Soojin both headed down.

“Your room will be on the second floor, Room 213. Please take the stairs at the end of the hall.” He passes a keycard your way along with your credit chip, leaving you with a grin and a soft-spoken, “Your courtesan will join you shortly. Enjoy.” You bristle at his words but manage to smile a little bit as you take both the card and your chip back. You leave the counter to head for the hallway, not pausing to look back at where Jongho might be, but you ping your wristband as you go. Nothing has come in from Yeosang’s side again so it’s safe to assume he doesn’t have Wooyoung with him by now. It leaves you and Jongho with more pressure and either more or less of a chance to recover him, so you can only hope for the best as you climb the stairs to the second floor.

Room 213 is empty as expected when you slip inside, and it’s free from that odd yellow fog outside as well, so you bask in the freedom and breathe fresh air deeply while you can. It’s a basic and standard room — much more like a small hotel room than anything else from the cabinet near the door and the double bed pushed up against the wall. There’s a metal sink as well close to the window but nothing else adorns the room leaving it rather dismal and simple. Not that you expected these people to treat the courtesans with even an ounce of respect; it’s still disheartening to think of Wooyoung being stuck in such a small and cramped space without a choice.

Whatever peace you thought you could have is cruelly interrupted less than five minutes later as a series of shy knocks reach your door. You blink up from where you sit perched on the edge of the neatly made bed. Is this how Yeosang felt waiting for his door to open? You inhale sharply, heart pounding mercilessly in your throat and choking you with the strength of an actual hand. And shamefully, you can’t even bring yourself to look at the door when it slides open, too afraid of not seeing Wooyoung standing behind it.

“Y-Y/N?”

You snap your head towards the door so quickly that your neck pops with the effort, eyes blinking open faster than ever, and even when your gaze settles on him, you still can’t quite believe he’s really before you. In that moment, the two of you merely regard each other with stunned stares like neither of you can believe this is possible, and in that time, the door slides shut again to leave you together in the all too small room.

“Wooyoung.” You bring yourself to your feet, standing on shaky legs as you face him. “W-Woo—”

He cuts you short by barreling into you with such force that it knocks the air out of your lungs. The metal around his neck scrapes against your skin hard enough to cut but you pay it no mind as he squeezes his arms around your waist and releases a heart-wrenching sob into your shoulder. Reason returns to you then, bringing you to ping your wristband again; although this time you tap it three times to alert the others that you have Wooyoung with you now. There is nothing more to do after that other than to hug him back as his tears soak your neck and shoulder.

“I-I didn’t — I di-didn’t want to lose hope b-but… fuck it was s-so hard not to and I was st-starting to think I wouldn’t ever s-see you again,” Wooyoung sobs. You almost want to cry with him if not for the small blinking light in the upper corner of the room that catches your eye and sends a surge of panic through you.

“The cameras, Wooyoung. They’re still on, we need to—”

“Y-Yeah, they’re — they only c-check if you hit the button by the bed.” Wooyoung pulls back from your shoulder, at last, rubbing at his tear-stricken cheeks so hard it makes his skin blossom with red. He pauses to catch his breath, or at least steady himself enough to speak without choking on his words. “That si-signals that you’re unsatisfied so they’ll c-check and see what’s — what’s wrong before sending a new courtesan.” Wooyoung puts his hand in yours and laces your fingers without hesitation. The touch seems to offer him some more comfort that helps calm his small hiccups and cries. “Is Y-Yeosang okay?”

“He’s alright, yeah,” you whisper back through a smile. “Misses you something awful, but he’s here too. He tried to get to you first, but they must have sent someone else to him. Jongho came as well. To get you. We came to get you, Wooyoung.”

Those words make Wooyoung’s eyes well up with sickening haste. He sinks to the bed before another sob forces its way out, and you sit down beside him like the mattress might collapse if you move too quickly.

“I’m so glad. So fucking g-glad. Being in a pl-place like this without Yeosang — it’s fucking hell.” Wooyoung sinks his teeth into his lower lip just to keep it from trembling.

“Have you…” Surely it’s not a question you have any right to ask, and part of you feels like Wooyoung did need your help but merely did not want to bring you to this place, even if just to watch through his eyes. Still, you swallow the nerves and force the question out. “Have they made you work yet?”

“It’s not important whether they did or not,” Wooyoung says through a weak smile, but that tells you all you need to know. It sounds too rehearsed and monotonous, like he’s been told to say this even if only by himself. “B-But what’s the plan? How are we getting out? Is someone coming to get us?”

“Um, we’re to wait the allotted time here until we get news from one of Hongjoong’s contacts here. He’s a hacker, and he’ll take care of the surveillance system so that we can open the window and get out that way. We’ll meet Yeosang and Jongho in an alleyway not too far from here after that. Then head back to the ship on a transport car.”

“Thought of everything, huh?”

“I sure hope so.”

“It should work just fine. We’re on the second floor though, so it’ll be quite the fall. Just remember to not go face-first.” Wooyoung’s smile is infectious, and you laugh along with his jest, hand squeezing around his. “How is Seonghwa doing?”

“A-Ah, I nearly forgot you knew about that. Um, he’s alright but Hongjoong didn’t think he was well enough to come on the mission with us.”

“Captain is up then? Yeosang mentioned he’d been out for quite some time because of his injuries. That’s great news that he’s up! I — he’ll be happy to hear that I have some info about where Mingi and San are being held too. I can tell him when we’re back on the ship. B-But Seonghwa is okay otherwise?”

“Yunho said there’s no lingering signs of health issues so he’ll be okay physically. I… I have so many questions that I don’t even know where to begin.” Wooyoung’s smile stretches a bit wider.

“I assumed you would. That’s okay though; we have a full hour to use anyways, so you can ask me anything while we have the time to be alone together. I would say we could do it later when we’re back on the ship but Yeosang probably won’t let me out of his sight for even two seconds from now on. It’d be best for us to get it all out now so we don’t have to hear him scribbling in that damn notebook of his.” Wooyoung can’t hide his elation despite the teasing words, and you know that getting to see Yeosang again soon means more to him than you could ever understand. Yeosang must be feeling the same way himself, waiting out this hour with painstaking patience.

“What happened in the days you didn’t let me in? You went quiet for so long I was getting worried.”

“Ah, we shouldn’t start there,” Wooyoung murmurs, glancing down at the floor. He pauses. The breath of hesitation leaves your stomach in knots. “Nothing you want to hear, I promise. That’s why I didn’t try to bring you in. It wasn’t anything pretty, but I assure you there was nothing they could do to hurt me physically. I’m too far gone for that sort of torture. It’s… over and done with now. More scars to add to my collection, and more for Yeosang to cry over probably. We’ll both be fine. You’re probably wondering about the whole connection thing and us both being Sirens and such, right?”

“I — admittedly yes, but looking back now it seems almost obvious? I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner, I guess. But yeah, specifically that connection or whatever it is. Yeosang said he didn’t know much at all about it.”

“Right, yeah, I don’t know much myself either, to be honest.” Wooyoung presses his lips into a pout. “It’s hard to say what exactly it is. Seonghwa’s books don’t really have anything about this sort of occurrence, but what I’ve gathered from it so far is probably all that Yeosang told you. ‘There’s no place in the universe that you can hide from each other’. Daichi told me that once.”

“He told me the same actually.”

“Mhm, I think he knows a bit more about it than he claims to. For me, I can almost hear you in my head when you’re in distress, even when you’re far away. Except it doesn’t sound like you’re scared or anything like that. It almost sounds as though you’re softly singing to me? Like… I’m on a boat with gentle waves and you’re singing to me through the water. When I’m asleep and dreaming and you reach out to me for help, I can close my eyes and find myself on a boat like that. A white boat on a black lake. And I hear you singing to me in the water, look down, and see a tiny flickering light through the darkness. For years I’ve had that dream.”

“Yeosang… he talked about you having such a dream. Swimming in a black lake and trying to reach someone but not being able to?”

“Yeah! Um, I’ve woken him up so much because of that very dream. I would have that dream time and time again before you joined the crew, desperately swimming to reach you but it was like something was blocking me from getting to you. Like I could never reach you no matter how fast I was. I would never be able to get in. Then suddenly — one night I did, and I woke up in a box of fabrics in the cargo bay.” Wooyoung shifts to look you in the eye, a weak laugh slipping through his lips. “That feels so long ago now.”

“I’ve been wondering how to thank you for that,” you murmur. “If not for that moment, I would have died.” The skin around your nails suddenly seems a lot more interesting, and you busy yourself with picking at it mindlessly rather than looking back in Wooyoung’s direction. He doesn’t let your hand drift far from his though before he’s tugging it right back into his grasp. His other hand finds its way atop yours as well, holding your joined ones together tightly.

“I didn’t do it to get a thank you. It was just… the right thing to do. It’s sad that we live in such a bad and awful society where you feel the need to thank me for doing something as simple as that.”

“Did you not thank Yeosang for saving his life once upon a time?” You dare to ask. Wooyoung is a bit startled at first, caught off-guard by both your sudden question and the content behind it, but he laughs loud and clear without restraint.

“For someone who claims to hate talking about his life, he sure does talk a lot, doesn’t he?” Wooyoung brushes his bang out of his eyes, pushing the strands that have quickly grown unruly and long to the side. “Yeosang never lets me thank him. Any time I’ve tried, he shut me down before I could finish. Honestly, he saved my life twice. Once when he chose me from that lineup of slaves and spared me a crueler fate, and once when he broke those chains and set me free.”

Chose… me…? Then it wasn’t Yeosang’s mother who picked Wooyoung out for him?

You don’t get to dwell on that thought for long because Wooyoung simply continues to ramble, more and more peace coming to his shoulders as he calms down further.

“Yeosang only ever thanks me. As odd as that is.”

“Did you — have you ever saved his life then?” You already know the answer to that question, but it’s already hanging in the air between you by the time you catch yourself.

“Yes.” Wooyoung is beaming by now, lips stretched wide as he grins. “I got him out of prison when they charged him with treason.”

“And that’s what he thanks you for?”

Wooyoung’s smile doesn’t falter even as he shakes his head in denial.

“He never claims to have saved me, not even once. Instead, Yeosang says that I saved him.”

“B-But why? Objectively he did save you, so why does he not acknowledge that?”

“Because, Y/N, there’s a difference between loving someone and being in love with someone. Yeosang and I loved each other for many years before. But just loving each other wasn’t enough for Crown Prince Kang Minhee to break my chains and commit treason. When ”I love you“ turns into ”I am in love with you“ and ”I am in love with the mere idea of you“, then Yeosang set me free. Even though I would never have asked him to do it, he chose to on his own accord. So he thanks me and says that I saved him because of that. Because I trusted him enough to put my life in his hands time and time again and let him fall in love with me. He claims it to be a difficult thing — allowing an Elitist to fall in love with you. But with Yeosang… he has only ever made it easy. There are times where it is difficult and frustrating, where I wish that he could be anything other than an Elitist, for fuck’s sake, times when I would rather break his neck in an absolutely non-sexy kind of way, but that’s part of love and loving someone. That’s why he’s grateful to me. It sounds selfish and egotistical to say, but after having him repeat himself for so many years, I’ve grown to accept that even if I don’t believe I deserve it.” Wooyoung speaks with a raw conviction that you’ve heard before. It’s the same tone Hongjoong used when speaking to Seonghwa in the medbay, the same tone Yeosang used when talking about Wooyoung and their past together.

Even if you wanted to formulate a response, you don’t think you would be able to because of how overwhelming the emotion in Wooyoung’s voice is. He’s had every opportunity to blame Yeosang for the misfortune in his life, claim that if only Yeosang hadn’t picked him from the start he would be better off, claim that Yeosang got him out of being a slave only to put him in a more dangerous position. Wooyoung could even blame Yeosang for not protecting him well enough to keep him from being kidnapped and tortured.

Yet not once has Wooyoung blamed him.

Perhaps you were being unfair in pushing the blame onto Seonghwa’s shoulders when he didn’t fight your decision to go with Jisung. Is it so wrong to want someone to fight for you? Yet Yeosang has fought every day for Wooyoung and continues to do so. Wooyoung, who has been through hell and tortures he does not wish to speak about, asked about Yeosang’s well-being before anything else. Yet if they were in your position — if Wooyoung were the one agreeing to go with Jisung to save the others, would Yeosang not drop everything to fight for him?

Your mind screams back at you, telling you that it’s different, the situations aren’t the same, the relationships aren’t the same, and you cannot compare yourself to people like Wooyoung and Yeosang who have had years to figure this out. And so, you don’t compare yourself to them.

Rather you compare Seonghwa and Hongjoong to them. How Seonghwa’s worst nightmare is not being able to save Hongjoong from himself. The sheer will and determination in Hongjoong’s eyes when he said he would never let Seonghwa’s demons overtake him. You can’t help but wonder if perhaps that is similar to what Wooyoung and Yeosang have. Neither are anything remotely close to what you have — had, your mind suggests ever so helpfully — with Seonghwa yourself.

“It may be selfish, but I don’t want you to push me away. I would rather be hurt and still have you in my life rather than to be perfectly fine without you.”

That memory slips through unannounced and unasked for, and the mere prospect of why it’s coming back to you while you’re having such thoughts scares you so much that you slam the door in that memory’s face and throw away the key before it breaks loose.

“But anyway that’s — I rambled a bit too much, that’s not the point, um, have you ever had similar dreams like those? The ones I had, I mean? Before waking up in my body or before you came to the crew, any time you can remember. I know you haven’t had much opportunity yet, but you’ve had a few experiences by now.”

“I can’t recall ever having those sorts of dreams. That dream you mentioned about the lake — I had a dream that I was drowning in a black lake the night you came to save Seonghwa, but when I wake up in your body, it’s simply that. All I know is falling asleep and waking up like a passenger in your consciousness. I don’t have any control like you’ve had over my body.” Wooyoung’s eyes are oh so expectant and pleading, and it twists something painful in your gut. You want so badly to have information for him, to be able to give him answers or even a hint as to what could be going on, but frankly, you have nothing to offer. “I’m sorry, Wooyoung. I-I feel utterly useless in this whole situation. I d-don’t know what’s wrong with me or my head, I just can’t remember at all and I don’t… You and Seonghwa seem to have this whole Siren thing figured out, how it works, what sort of abilities you have, how to use them. I, on the other hand, have so many gaps and missing pieces in my memories. I’ve had one or two moments where I consciously used some sort of ability, then Seonghwa tried to help me learn, but other than that I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“It’s okay!” Wooyoung rushes to reassure you, squeezing his hand tight around yours as he smiles again. “Y/N, please don’t worry about that. I don’t expect you to have an answer right now, it’s really okay. We’re gonna figure this out together now that you finally know what I am and we’ll be back on the ship soon. And I can help you understand more about being a Siren in general too! If we can get to the Dreamscape together, maybe Daichi will be willing to talk.”

“Last time I was there, he tried to kill me and told me that if I kept asking questions he would end my life,” you snort. Wooyoung’s smile drops into a grave expression that doesn’t fit his features.

“In the beginning — when I first started seeing Daichi, that is — he wasn’t like that. He wanted me to find other Sirens. That’s what ultimately made Yeosang choose Captain’s crew because Daichi had told me there was a Siren there. Then as more time went on, Daichi seemed to get more and more frightened by the idea of Sirens finding each other. He started telling me that someone dangerous would find me, someone I should guard myself from.”

“He warned me of the same when I first came aboard. But Seonghwa mentioned how Daichi’s job is to guide Sirens to each other?”

“That’s true, yes, but Daichi seems to have changed his mind along the way. I can’t understand why, but I’m sure it will make it a lot more difficult to find two more for Captain.” Your conversation dies a bit there, leaving both you and Wooyoung to stew over the predicament. According to Daichi, you spent years denying your identity and refusing to listen to him, so you never made an effort to find any Sirens like both Wooyoung and Seonghwa have been apparently. Still, it leaves you more curious than before, especially given what all happened in your latest escapade in the Dreamscape.

“Tsukio can find you anywhere, even while far away! This mental connection you share, this link — the two of you are a dyad, a yin and a yang, a pair that cannot be severed. No matter how far apart you are, the two of you will always be able to come back to each other.”

“Did he ever tell you that we will always be able to come back to each other?”

“Come… back to each other? No, I’ve never heard him say such a thing before.”

“I remember seeing you in a dream before, not the Dreamscape but an actual dream. But that dream felt more like a memory, and I asked you about it once in the medbay. I know you told me no then, but does it have anything to do with what Daichi said possibly?”

“Hm, I suppose it could?” Wooyoung leans back and looks up at the ceiling. You can’t figure out what’s on his mind just through his expression, and what he says next doesn’t help much either. “But I don’t have any sort of memory like that.”

“You — you were wiped with a serum too, weren’t you?”

“Did Yeosang tell you that as well?” Wooyoung asks through a frown. “Did he mention how guilty he feels about that too? Probably, that would be very much like him to do so. Guilty for things that aren’t even his fault… but yes. Yes, my memories were wiped too.”

“I have another question. I’m sorry for asking so much all at once. Yeosang never gave me a clear answer though, so I’m still curious, but why haven’t you told Hongjoong about this?” Wooyoung doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he sinks his teeth into his lower lip and refuses to look your way for a bit. The silence drags but it’s nothing uncomfortable or unsettling. It isn’t like you’re on a time crunch right now either, so you’re more than willing to wait until he is ready to speak.

“It’s something stupid and selfish honestly,” he whispers after a bit. His other hand finds purchase on the bed, picking at a loose thread hanging off the sheets. “I didn’t expect Yeosang to take it so seriously, but now he’s adamant even when I try to tell him otherwise. Really it’s just that when I was still a slave, I didn’t always have to wear the collar. It dampened and muted my abilities so I couldn’t use them freely. Shocked me a lot too whenever I foolishly tried to use them without permission, leaving some really ugly and awful scars. Yeosang always treated the wounds when that would happen.”

His hand travels up to touch the band of metal hanging about his neck. You follow the movement with your eyes. You can’t miss the spreading scars underneath the metal as he shifts it, like little lightning bolts of pale skin hiding beneath it, and you wonder if that’s what you felt the first time you woke up in his body.

“I have a lot of scars from lots of different things. It shouldn’t be any different, and it shouldn’t even matter because it’s stupid and childish and I need to get over it. Even though the collar is dead and doesn’t work, like it doesn’t mute my abilities anymore or anything like that, just the idea of having it on keeps me sane. Being a Siren is both a blessing and a curse. Some abilities you’re born with are crueler than imaginable and can be used to do horrific things. The things I was forced to do with mine are not something I ever want to revisit again. So… I keep the collar on because the trauma I suffered while wearing it for so many years keeps me sane. Merely the idea of wearing it prevents me from using my abilities because I was conditioned into a state where if I tried doing anything while the collar was on, I would be hurt. When it comes to visiting you, it’s different because I’m asleep when that happens. And whenever people other than Yeosang or myself try to touch it, I get thrown back into the memories of his father taking it off me to use me as a weapon and I-I can’t — it’s too much to bear.

“I trust Hongjoong. I really trust him and admire him and respect him so much. As much as I do Yeosang even if it’s in a different way. But I have an innate fear of authority that tells me no matter who it is, the people who have power over me will abuse it. That if anyone above me knows I’m a Siren, I’ll be used again, and I’m afraid of that. So it’s not that I don’t want to tell Hongjoong. Just that as long as I have this collar on and as long as these demons linger at the edge of my mind, I don’t think I can ever tell him what I am.”

You want to express an apology for bringing those memories back or at least offer an ounce of consolation because you can almost feel the pain radiating off his body in waves. But the moment you reach out to pull him into a hug, the door to your room slides open out of nowhere. You jerk, and Wooyoung lifts an arm to protect the both of you, but you take the initiative in pushing him down to the bed. In one swift movement, you climb in front of him, one knee down on the mattress and the other stretched out in front of Wooyoung’s body. The blade against your thigh is cool on your fingertips, but you don’t pull it out quite yet. The flash of red hair before you stops you at the last second.

Soojin?

The girl is already halfway in the room, door sliding shut behind her, and the second it’s fully closed, she turns to twist the lock into place.

“W-Wait, we’re n-not supposed to lock the doors!” Wooyoung protests, leaning up over your shoulder to see better. Soojin levels him with a sharp glare. You reach behind you to push Wooyoung back enough so that he’s hidden behind your shoulder, matching Soojin’s stare with equal intensity. The girl steps closer to you, draws a single finger up, and stabs you hard in the chest with her dull nail.

“You and me need to have a chat after all it seems.”

“What do you mean?” You clench your fingers around the handle of your knife, still not completely at ease with the woman standing in front of you.

“What do I mean? I mean that my fucking client downstairs just tried to fucking murder me and gave me a message from Han Jisung of all people! Seeing you and hearing from that bastard on the same day after being free from that past for several years? That’s no fucking coincidence, Y/N.”

“Murder!? How did you — how did you get away?”

A laugh of disbelief escapes Soojin’s lips as she pulls back a few feet.

“I killed him, of course! What else was I supposed to do? I dumped the fucker’s body out the window for staff to clean up later. This sort of thing happens frequently enough for them not to question it, and besides, I told them it was a jealous worker so they won’t really care all too much about him. But what the fuck is going on? Why are you here and why did Han Jisung just tell me my time is up and try to have me killed?”

“I… I-I don’t — I’m not with Jisung, I know nothing about that at all. He—” You cut yourself short with a sharp inhale, eyes darting across the floor like it has all the answers in it. “Wait, he knew I would be coming here though. Did he know that you worked here?”

“Unfortunately, not by choice though. We ran across each other around a year ago in the city, and I mentioned working at the House in passing.”

You shift to motion back at Wooyoung and pull your hand off the knife on your leg at last.

“He was brought here against his will by Jisung. Well, whoever Jisung is working with at least. I only came to get him out. We’re — he’s part of the crew I’m working with now. Jisung knew where he would be and that I would come to get him.”

“And he’s still a psychopath when it comes to you then?” Soojin scoffs, brows knitting together to accentuate her disbelief. “He tried to have me killed just so that I would stay out of your business?”

“I don’t know, Soojin,” you exhale. “It doesn’t make any sense why he would do that. I already made a deal with him and he’ll get to take me regardless of what happens here.”

“T-Take you?” Wooyoung interjects. “Take you where?” His hand latches around your elbow and squeezes hard. You ignore the man in favor of maintaining your focus on Soojin, however, much to his dismay.

“Unless you know something Jisung wouldn’t want me to know and he couldn’t even risk the thought of us running into each other and speaking.” At that, Soojin tilts her head to the side in confusion.

“What could I possibly know that you don’t?”

“What happened before you left the crew?” Her confusion intensifies to a dramatic degree.

“Have you gone mad? Do you not remember or something? You were always a bit bad with memory, yeah, but has it gotten this bad?”

“Please, Soojin, I’m begging you please just tell me what happened before the crew fell apart. I know you called me a scapegoat for a reason, please.” You reach out across the empty space between your bodies, having to stand to reach her, but when you do, you close a hand around her wrist. Soojin blinks between where you hold her and your face without speaking for so long that you think she’s going to refuse you again.

“I called you a scapegoat because I thought you were in on Jisung’s plan at the time,” she says finally, pulling her other hand up to run through her hair. “You would’ve done anything for him so I thought that was just another part of it.”

“What did I do?”

“I should be asking what you remember happening instead.”

“What I remember is stealing documents and plotting to dismantle the military from the inside out with you guys but I fucked up. I know I fucked up and got caught and Hyunwoo took the blame for me and it got him fucking executed.” Soojin leans back, hand tugging out of your light grip.

“I know nothing of what happened after Ash, Juyeon, and I left Eros. But before we left…” It’s her turn to hold you by the wrist. She turns your arm over and exposes the inside of your left arm, right where that damned brand sits against your raised skin. “You didn’t deserve this. It wasn’t your burden to bear. You were the scapegoat, and that’s why the team fell apart, that’s why we all broke up and ran away. You didn’t plan to steal anything, nor did you plot a thing. Neither did Hyunwoo. It was all Jisung; Jisung wanted to dismantle the military and kill the king. When Juyeon, Ash, and I found out what he was planning to do, we brought it to Hyunwoo. All Hyunwoo said was that stopping Jisung wasn’t something he could do. So he told us to leave while we still had the chance and that he would take care of things. He would take the blame so that no one else would have to get hurt. But you didn’t want him to do that, so you ran off and carried out Jisung’s plan for him.”

“Which part? Did I k-kill the king… before Hyunwoo died?”

Soojin heaves a deep sigh.

“The last night we were all together as a team, you snuck out of the barracks and infiltrated the palace. You stole the documents Jisung wanted — whatever the fuck they were because I don’t even know why he wanted them in the first place if he was going to kill the king anyways — and you killed the king that night too. Everything went to shit. It all happened too fast for the rest of us to know what was really going on. You just came back to the barracks and turned the lights on and…”

You don’t realize how hard your head is pounding until the woman trails off, voice dying in her throat, and then it hits you will so much force that you feel your body beginning to lurch. You would fall over, most likely smack your head on the sink as well, if not for Wooyoung jumping up and catching you by the waist before you can fully go down. And thanks to him, all you do is hunch over and hold your head in your hands as a stab of pain sears through your skull.

“Breathe, Y/N, breathe for me,” he urges as you slump your weight back against him. “You need to breathe, okay? You’re hyperventilating. One breath every five seconds, slow it down, you’re okay.”

“Th-There was blood. There was blood, wasn’t there?” Looking at Soojin fills your vision with pure crimson, but it’s not because of her hair this time.

“Yes,” she whispers back, not daring to speak any louder than that. “You were… drenched in blood that wasn’t yours. And we were so scared you had been hurt somehow. I carried you to the bath and cleaned you but you didn’t have a single scratch on you.”

“O-Oh god,” you choke out. The red in your vision turns coppery as a different image takes over and a new memory swarms your head.

“What the fuck did you do!?”

Hands squeezing hard around your throat, shoving you under bloody waters.

“Let her go!”

“You ruined everything! How could you do this? Why are you so fucking useless? I told you to sit still and not do anything!”

The water spread to your nostrils and forced its way in as you struggled to find air.

“Jisung, release her right this instant!”

The hands around your throat just grew tighter.

Wooyoung eases you down to the floor when the rest of your strength leaves you. He keeps a hand at your waist, using the other to hold your head to his chest in a desperate attempt to control the wild tremors shooting through your body. You keep a hand pressed to your throbbing temple but it does nothing to alleviate the pain you’re in, one that feels as though something is trying to rip your head in half with their bare hands.

“C-Can’t remember more. I can’t, I do-don’t want to remember anymore, I — it hurts. It hurts too much, it hurts so much.”

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay. You don’t have to remember anymore, okay? You’re good, you’re done, no more. No more.” Even through the pain, you can’t miss the desperation in Wooyoung’s tone. His hand moves for your arm where your wristband sits, buzzing uselessly against your skin. “Y/N, what does this mean? Is something happening?”

You want to answer, You even open your mouth to do so. Yet the moment you do, the taste of that metallic soapy water fills your mouth and you choke on air.

“Y/N, please, what does it mean? Are we in trouble?” You think you shake your head but the panic in Wooyoung’s eyes isn’t reassuring and you aren’t sure you have any hold over the muscles in your body right now. “Please, do you know where our friend is?” He asks, directing his focus to where Soojin kneels in front of you.

“The brunette?”

“Brunette? No, no, I’m talking a blond?”

“J-Jongho,” you force out, gritting your teeth until your jaw hurts from the force. “Jongho… here too.”

“I saw that name on the register,” Soojin cuts in. “I checked it to find what room you were in and saw his name further down on the list.”

“Please get him and bring him. Please, I know you — we just need your help right now, please,” Wooyoung begs. His grip on your waist tightens a little as Soojin hesitates, and it doesn’t let up until the girl nods and leaves the room in haste. Wooyoung brings you back to his chest once she’s gone, matching your shaky breaths as he gently rocks you back and forth. “I can’t… know your memories or the pain you’re feeling right now, but I know what it’s like to suddenly be hit with memories you forgot you had. Ones that were suppressed behind an iron wall. I know what it’s like to have it slip out and hit you.”

“It fucking hurts.” You clench your jaw again, feeling a burn of pain up the side of your face with the movement. “Like someone is stabbing my b-brain with a da-damn icepick.”

“Are the memories painful?”

“I d-don’t know. I can hardly think straight. My head hurts. That’s all I can think about.”

“The serum… I’m assuming it’s the same one I was given back then. It can’t take away memories. Yeah, they tell you that it’s a wipe, but that’s only because they don’t want you trying to find those old memories. It can’t remove parts of the brain like that. They just use it to lock away memories but there’s no guarantee of it being permanent, so when you do remember something they tried to lock away, it hurts.”

“D-Does it hurt you like this too?”

“Yes, but I’m — pain isn’t something that bothers me all too much, and I’m lucky enough to have Yeosang nearby when it happens. I’ve got a prescription for the pain from Yunho too. We can… we can get you something long-term back on the ship.”

Another stab of pain hits as the door slides open, metal grating hard on your ears, but this time Jongho stands with Soojin. He rushes over to join you and Wooyoung on the floor in a panic, obviously torn between being excited to see Wooyoung again and your current crumpled state.

“Yeosang’s hour is up and he’s waiting at the meeting point. Captain hasn’t buzzed in on the contact yet.” Jongho reaches down to lay a hand against your forehead. You’re quick enough to turn your face further into Wooyoung’s shirt, inhaling the sickening floral scent that clings to his skin.

“Don’t even think about trying to take it away,” you hiss.

“I can’t take physical pain, don’t worry. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“Here, something for the pain.” Soojin interrupts the moment to lean over you with a cup of unknown contents. “Fast-acting pain reliever. Every room has some in it just in case patrons get too out of hand. We keep it in the cabinets, I promise it’s nothing bad. It’ll numb you and make you a bit sluggish for a while, but it’ll also take the pain away.”

“Thank you,” Wooyoung murmurs as he takes the cup from her hands. He helps bring the cup to your lips, pushing some of the murky grey liquid inside into your mouth, and you struggle not to gag around the taste of it. He doesn’t stop until the entirety of its contents are drained into your mouth then tilts your head back to keep it down when some threatens to drip out the corners of your lips. An unknown hand comes down on your knee.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry.” Soojin. “I didn’t mean to hurt you with this information.” You swallow hard only to choke a second later on the putrid aftertaste clinging to your tongue. Wooyoung lets you cough into his shoulder without complaint, passing the now empty cup back to Soojin.

“You couldn’t have known,” you murmur after escaping the coughing fit. “It’s not your fault.”

“I didn’t know what they would do to you after we left the planet,” she sighs through the quiet of the room. “I should have expected it honestly, knowing Jisung, but maybe I hoped he would be better than that. He always manipulated you so it only makes sense that he would try to manipulate your memories too. Do you at least know what happened a little bit better now?”

“Y-Yeah, yeah.” You try to pull away from Wooyoung and get up but his grip on you doesn’t let up. “My memories were taken away for a second time and replaced with something else. So instead of only losing fourteen years of my life, I lost eighteen and spent the last three years believing those manipulated memories to be real. I’m peachy.”

Another buzz from your wristband pulls your attention away, and Jongho glances down at his own too.

“Cameras are down.”

“Let’s go then,” you mutter.

“Are you okay to move? Don’t push it if you’re not strong enough.”

“We need to go now while we still can,” you protect, letting Wooyoung help you to your feet even if it’s on shaky legs. Jongho gives a curt nod then heads for the window, no doubt to pry it open. Soojin catches you by the arm before you can fully turn away.

“I’m sorry, Y/N. Even if you can’t remember all of it, there are still things I regret saying and doing to you. I should have known back then how much Jisung was manipulating you and not pushed so much blame onto your shoulders.”

“You can get out now with us, Soojin. While you have the chance.”

“And do what with that freedom?” She huffs out a dry and lifeless laugh. “Wander aimlessly? Ash and Juyeon are both missing in action. I have no clues or leads on where they might be or if they’re even alive. I don’t have anything left out there beyond the House.”

“I… if I hear anything out there about them, I promise I’ll send you a message. I’ll find a way to get news to you, maybe through my captain’s contact or something. I swear if I can help you get out of this hellhole I will.”

Soojin reaches up to ruffle her hand through your hair, mussing the loose locks more.

“You always were a good kid, Y/N. Too good for the life you were forced to live.” It hurts to watch her smile. It hurts even more to let Wooyoung guide you to where Jongho waits by the now open window. “Go while you can, you three. The medicine will wear off in a few hours, but hopefully, you’ll have access to something better by then. I’ll make sure you get out safely.”

Jongho dips through the open space first, hopping down to the pristine streets below with little issue.

“Send Y/N down next!”

You can’t tear your gaze off Soojin. You don’t know when you might see her again or if you even will, and it hurts to leave her behind like this but she just keeps smiling at you with bright eyes and blinding hair.

“T-Thank you, Soojin. Please stay safe, if you can.”

“Always.”

With that, Wooyoung hoists you over the ledge of the window and dangles you far enough down so that your fall is softened a bit. Jongho catches you by the legs, taking the brunt of your weight before you hit the ground. Wooyoung drops down beside you without warning a second later. As Jongho eases you down, you dare to glance up at the window you just left from, and it shuts slowly without a sign from Soojin inside.

Wooyoung rushes back to your side and loops an arm back around your waist when you start to slump forward again.

“That’s — that’ll look too suspicious,” you mutter, pulling his arm back to his own side.

“We just dropped out a fucking window. I’m sure that would look more suspicious.”

“I’ll be okay.”

Yet two steps later, you’re stumbling over your heels and Jongho comes to your rescue this time. He tugs your arm through his own as he walks forward without saying a word. You can only lean your weight on him and slump your chin against his shoulder.

“Thank you…”

Silence drapes over the three of you as you make your way to the meeting point with Yeosang. You aren’t in as much pain as you were earlier (Soojin wasn’t bluffing when she said fast-acting) but the medicine is already making you a bit groggy. It feels a bit like you’re wading through sludge just trying to walk a few steps, and frankly, Jongho is the only thing keeping you going at this point. Wooyoung lingers at your other side. Every once in a while, you feel his worried gaze find its way to your form. He might even be speaking to you at some point because you hear something that sounds vaguely like his voice through the radio static in your ears, but there is far too much on your mind and too much to think about right now for you to pay any attention to that.

If… if I killed the king before Hyunwoo’s execution, then who did I kill that night? Did I kill anyone at all? Was that memory fabricated? What have I been working towards all these years if that’s a lie?

Funny how your search for answers only left you with more questions instead. There are too many questions to keep track of and not remotely enough answers to them. You know you won’t be able to have those answers yet either, not while San and Mingi are still missing and Jisung is bothering you. Where would you even look for answers now? Jisung would never tell you a thing, Hyunwoo is dead and gone, and now you’re leaving Soojin behind.

The one thing that reaches your brain through the static in your ears is a dry and choked sob. You pull yourself out of your thoughts as Wooyoung disappears from your side. It doesn’t take much to guess why. You’ve reached the meeting point, the all too small alleyway where Yeosang waits for you three, and Wooyoung is running straight to him with reckless abandon.

“Y-Yeosang, angel, Yeosang, my god I’m—” Wooyoung’s voice dies in a cracked sob when he reaches the Elitist. His hands barely brush the man’s shoulders because Yeosang drops to his knees in front of Wooyoung, face hidden but no doubt bearing tears, and he balls his fists around the flimsy material of Wooyoung’s pants. He presses his forehead to Wooyoung’s hip, hands traveling further up to press against the small of his back. Wooyoung can only card a hand through Yeosang’s hair in response, but it’s enough for now. It’s enough for both of them like this, with Yeosang’s knuckles white from the pressure of clinging to Wooyoung, and you and Jongho maintain your distance as best you can to give them this moment.

“Are they happy?” You whisper to Jongho even though the answer is blindingly obvious before you. The Berserker’s lips twist into a small grin.

“I don’t think there’s a word strong enough to describe how they’re feeling right now.”

Yeosang pulls his head off Wooyoung’s hip and stares up at the man with tears on his cheeks and stars in his eyes. Wooyoung dips down to the Elitist’s height, pulling his face up to his own and slotting their lips together like nothing else in the universe exists around them. Again, it’s raw, as all emotions between these two seem to be, but it belongs to them and it’s something you can’t take away from them. When they part lips to gulp in desperate breaths of fresh air, Wooyoung places his forehead over Yeosang’s and takes the breath from his lungs like that. They don’t exchange words but there doesn’t seem to be a need for words either, not until Yeosang seems to catch hold of himself and come back to his senses.

“The car is waiting for us at the other end of the alley. Driver’s already pulled up.” Jongho nods when the Elitist drags his gaze over to where the two of you stand. Yeosang lets Wooyoung pull him back into space after that, unable to contain a smile as the Siren continues to press more kisses to his cheeks. You and Jongho trail behind them to the other end of the alleyway. Seeing them together like this makes it worth it. You knew it would and you were striving to bring them this moment, but seeing it unfold before you like this increases that feeling tenfold.

Once in the car, Yeosang sits Wooyoung down in one of the cushioned seats then drops to the floor between his legs even when Wooyoung protests and tells him to get up.

“Stop, that’s weird! It looks weird, Yeo, please! It looks like you’re trying to su—”

“Shut up,” Yeosang mumbles back as he drops his head to rest against Wooyoung’s thigh. “You’re the one who makes everything dirty. Get your head out of the gutter.”

Wooyoung obviously doesn’t mind all too much because he returns to toying with the Elitist’s blond locks moments later as you and Jongho settle into the seats beside the pair. And from where you’re sitting, they really do look like young boys again, more than just a former slave and ex-prince but also less than that. Just… boys who fell in love despite the odds set against them.

“I’m sorry, Woo, I’m so sorry.”

“Shh, angel, I know. It’s okay. We’re okay.”

You tune out of the conversation there. It’s far too intimate and personal for you to encroach on, and the medicine has you falling asleep in your seat anyways. Jongho seems to pick up on that, reaching over to pat your leg.

“Rest while you can.”

A hum comes as your reply as you slump to the side, head hitting the side of the car with a loud thud. Jongho exhales a quiet laugh and pulls you over to rest against his shoulder instead.

“’m sorry for snapping at you,” you murmur. You’re forcing your eyes to stay open long enough to get the apology out but it’s growing more difficult by the second. “I didn’t mean to, I was afraid… of her slipping out of my grasp but… that’s no excuse.”

Your fluttering eyes snap wide open when something presses down hard on your nose. You blink uselessly at Jongho and the finger he hovers over your face.

“Stop talking nonsense, yeah? Rest. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re not?”

“Hm, no, I’m not.”

“Promise.”

“I promise I’m staying right here.”

“And we’ll get San back?” You mumble just before the drowsiness wins.

“We’ll get your San back too, I promise.”

✧✧✧ a/n: yall imma be honest this chapter feels like a whole fever dream and a half but i love it nonetheless she’s my Baby i hope you guys love her just as much and enjoy her <3 lots happened but also not a lot happened? i feel like the wc is so dramatic for Not A Lot but yaknow that’s life ! next chapter we’re getting juicy and bringing a part 16 move back bc teehee that’s what i do best u know me anywho let me know what u think as always i love u all im so happy to bring u guys this chapter and so excited for the coming ones!

taglist: @faeriewoobin​​ @sugarrimajins​​ @atinyinwonderland​​ ​@sparklychangbin​ @jeong-uwu​​ @jeonartemis​​ @anothershorthuman​​ @xxbluestrifexx​​​ @haotheheckk​​ @noonawriter​​ @lostscenarios​​ @nlost21​​ @mirror-juliet​​ @okokokok123-45​ @purple-aeon​ @theoinkypiglet​ @toothlessshiber​ @atinyarmyx1​ @simpforhyunjin​ @hwangwoosan​ @vampire-jimin​ @softyubi​ @drumboydowoon​ @chatsgotmytongue​ @just-a-starfruit​ @babydolljo​ @scintillating-souls​ @khjssss​​ @rawrrainn​ @hewwo-from-the-other-side​ @icekdy​ @eggteez​​ @bangtanxberm​​ @uglychildd​ @lucymultistan​​​​

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License.

[0littlestwolf0]

Straight to Hell Pt. 2

Ship: Percy Jackson x Reader

Warnings: just a bit of crying towards the end.

Requested by: @msmissinghome

Author note: I swear I wanted to put a fight scene at the end, but I just couldn’t shake this thought that if I managed to get out of Tartarus, on my own, and then be hugged by Percy I would cry all my fears out. I’m sorry it took me so long, I tried to find a better ending.

Also @tobios-shawty here’s part two! I hope you like it!

Silence was a funny companion.

It had a way to make you uneasy, to creep inside your skin and force you to destroy it, to scream it away or to laugh your way through it.

Percy thought he would never be a prey to silence, after all, it was always the apocalypse around him, someone was always fighting (him for the most part), chasing, or running.

But right now, deep in the shadows, he couldn’t catch a single noise, he could barely register his grip on the back of Nico’s jacket as he shadow-traveled them.

What was that place supposed to be anyways?

Or, better yet,

How in Hades did Nico manage to find a path through it?

He didn’t know, and it didn’t matter much to him at the moment, his senses, his brain, his entire body was only focused on finding you, on getting you back.

Maybe on another circumstances he would’ve thought about how that same dark landscape would probably make for some really nasty nightmares, and yet, he doubted he would even remember it.

He was just finally adjusting at the darkness when the light came back, dazzling him.

And then Nico was on the floor, barely able to pull himself to his knees and hands, breathing heavily.

Percy took a calculated look around him, his right hand gripping Riptide tightly, he didn’t recognize his surroundings, but as far as he could tell, there were no monsters in sight “What happened? Are we there yet?”

The king of ghosts only replied with a sneer and a roll of his eyes

“What is that supposed to mean?” Percy asked as a sudden, all-too-familiar rage filled him, he couldn’t waste any more time, because what if you made it and he wasn’t there? You would’ve walked through Hell only for him to not comply on his side, not opening the doors on his side.

“Asshole” Nico mumbled “The doors are in Greece” he said as if it explained everything, Percy looked around, and even though the surroundings were new, probably somewhere in Italy, it wasn’t Greece.

“We aren’t in Greece yet” Percy added, the rage filling his every word with venom.

“We were just in Manhattan! Traveling here took almost all of my strength!” Nico yelled, breathing between words, and only in that moment did Percy fully acknowledge him, the bloody nose, panting, even the shaking.

He felt as though he was being stabbed with guilt over and over again, the entirety of his situation made his eyes water, but he forced the tears away rapidly, he didn’t deserve to cry, he scolded himself, besides, that would do nothing to either save you nor help Nico.

“I’m sorry” he apologized wholeheartedly “I’m just-“

“I know, just shut up and let me regain my strength so we can get to her” he cut right through his words

Percy bit his tongue until he felt a metallic taste and nodded, his eyes skipping trough the town they were in until something clicked, a building with very specific windows

“I know this place-“ he whispered to himself, trailing off at the end, there was no way he’d been there, and he didn’t have social media or watch enough TV to recognize it from anywhere.

Nico rolled his eyes again “I said-“ he trailed off looking at the same building “oh”

“Oh?” Percy repeated “You know this place?”

Of course he did, Percy rationalized, he’d probably been there before, but then again, why did Percy felt like he knew it too? Maybe some type of deja vu?

“You don’t?” Was Nico’s answer “She has a photo of this place that she parades with her wherever she goes, you must’ve seen it”

Oh, now the son of the sea understood the sentiment.

“I did, but she never really told me about this place”

Nico scoffed “Well of course she didn’t! She hated being here”

Percy had figured that much, you never talked about your childhood more than strictly necessary, sometimes even going out of your way to drive any conversation away from that topic.

But,

“Why?” He didn’t realized he wondered out loud.

“Her mortal parent, for starters, abandoning her” Percy realized Nico still looked angry, but now the anger wasn’t directed at him “forcing her to raise herself from childhood until she was taken to camp”

Still, it worried him further, that anger he was escaping was directed at one person that should’ve been close to you, someone who you should’ve relied on that abandoned you, pretty much like he thought he was doing by not being there with you already.

Gods he needed you.

But, he’d get you back, and once he did, he’d never let go of you again.

The resolve compressed his heart a little, but he accepted the feeling, from now on, you’d have someone to rely on that would never let you down.

That, he was willing to swear on the Styx.

***********

Had it been entire days or mere hours you just couldn’t tell.

Nothing really changed in Tartarus from the second you fell in, nothing but the multitude of monsters hunting you down.

Trying to track down the first demigod they’d seen since being killed by, most likely, another demigod just like you.

But your resolution never once wavered, you were getting out, one way or another, you hid until you had slaughtered one of them, not quite killing, just creating a gush big enough to sprinkle some ichor in your clothes, enough to change your scent but not so much as to tear through the entirety of the fabric.

Eventually, with a new limp, and a few ugly wounds that would soon enough turn into ugly scars, you got to the door.

A heavy sigh left you, and suddenly you became an anxious mess altogether What if Percy hadn’t made it? What if they finally realized that you didn’t belong with them? That after all you were still just walking anxiety coated on fear and deep rooted issues?

Maybe they’d finally realized that they’d be better off without-

No

You couldn’t allow yourself to keep thinking like that, you couldn’t give up on yourself because knowing them, they wouldn’t give up on you.

It was Percy Jackson for crying out loud! He wouldn’t give up on anyone! Less of all you.

So, with a burning throat after swallowing your fears and an ever growing tremble on your body did you step on the elevator.

And you waited.

And waited.

The fear was eating you whole when you felt it beginning to move.

You forced yourself to stand up, leaning against a corner for support and taking a hold of your weapon.

Then the doors open and you lunged forward, wanting nothing more than to get as further away from the entrance as you could.

“Whoa!” Exclaimed a voice you knew too well as your blue-green-eyed boy held your face

His eyes were finally letting go of all the tears he managed to contain, denying himself to even blink in case you’d disappear, he knew it was a stupid fear to have, but still, he wouldn’t dare to take the chance.

Suddenly you were pressed against his trembling body, it was a good match, you realized, with the both of you shaking there was a strange sense of stability.

“You’re okay, you’re here” he kept mumbling against your hair, over and over like a mantra or a prayer you couldn’t tell, it took you a moment to realize he was talking to himself.

“I’m out” was all you could say, a broken voice finding a way out of your closed off throat, it was funny how before that moment you’d wholeheartedly believed that your first thought after getting out would’ve been Percy.

It wasn’t.

Your first thought was how incredibly stupid you had been for jumping in the first place, I mean, of course you’d do it again but the matter at hand was that it was a very stupid move from your part.

Going to Tartarus? Where a thousand bloodthirsty monsters (who by the way had been killed by your kin) were? Poisoned air and burning rivers? The odds had been against you from the moment you landed!

By all means you shouldn’t have survived.

But you did, and finally all the tears you had suppressed came to life, Percy held you with unwavering arms as his own legs gave up and the both of you landed on your knees.

He held you as you screamed and yelled between tears, as you sobbed so much he thought you’d have an attack, because you were out of the woods now, all the fear and anger you suppressed could finally come out.

You hit him a few times but that was okay, he only held you tighter as his own sobbing became loud, breaking out all the way from his chest.

At some point in all the crying you felt an extra pair of arms around you, your first instinct made you stiffen until you saw black eyes full of worry, then you began crying again, and so did he.

Because now you were safe.

[sunny-sings-sooth]

Daphne

Words: 4.5k

TW: Sexual assault, abuse

Here's my retelling of the myth of Apollo and Daphne! Highly experimental, as I usually write in first person and not so poetically. Hope you enjoy, and if anything doesn't make sense lemme know and I will add some context here. (Also FYI some of the dialogues are pulled directly from Homer's narration)

_____________________________________________________________

Phoebus Apollonas had been alive too long.

He was young by god standards, barely over a millenia old, and still one of the youngest Olympians. And yet he had grown exhausted. He’d been suffering the curse of life long enough to see the boy he used to be -- Phoebus -- die. The demise of the boy began when, in attempt to protect his sister Artemis, he had committed his first murder and thereby lost her forever. The boy decayed further when he’d held the corpses of his sons in his arms. And he’d finally killed the boy with his own hands when he turned his grief-fueled wrath on mortals. Phoebus, the bright, the innocent, the golden prince of Olympus, was dead. All that remained was Apollonas, the destroyer, the terror, the monstrous god of plague.

Except he no longer wished to be Apollonas. Apollonas was addicted to alcohol, drowning himself in it so that he wouldn’t have to face the memories that had murdered Phoebus. Apollonas had struck his younger brother Hermes, the only friend he had left, in drunken rage. Apollonas was despicable and deserved death. He could never be Phoebus again; that he knew and had accepted. But perhaps he could rid himself of Apollonas and become just Apollo. That did not mean erasing Apollonas; he had too many crimes to pay for, and running away would be a dishonor to all those who had suffered at his hands. He would repent for everything he had done as Apollonas, and thereby recreate himself as Apollo.

The first thing he needed to do was to break alcohol’s hold on him, which meant distancing himself from Dionysus. He didn’t want to abandon his youngest brother, but the temptation to drink was too strong in his presence. He hoped Dionysus would understand, and that he would one day be strong enough to bridge the gap of his creation.

He had been clean for three whole days. It didn’t seem like much -- blink of an eye in the lengthy lives of gods -- but that alone had taken him all his willpower. In the absence of the gallons of drink he had been consuming daily, not only was he plagued by memories and sheer self-hatred, he suddenly became highly attuned to the gossip that trailed him. Every moment on Olympus, hundreds of eyes were trained on him, and the whispers never escaped his sharp ears. It wasn’t that he was not used to being the center of attention, but rather the harsh truth of their statements. Phoebus Apollonas is a murderer. He flayed Marsyas alive for daring to challenge him. He curses anyone who questions his authority. He has killed thousands with his plague arrows. He is a monster. He knew these were all true and that he deserved to be pierced by such words, but the anxiousness caused by his withdrawal made them unbearable, and he had to escape to the woods. Here he found solace. Here he could work to slowly put himself together again until he was strong enough to face those who he wronged.

If he hadn’t been so lost in thought, then perhaps he would’ve heard the flap of wings before Eros was standing before him. He nearly dropped the silver bow that he’d been restringing and looked up to meet the other god’s gaze. Eros was the only man Apollonas considered a possible competitor in terms of beauty; his fair skin was smooth as a pearl, his wings the color of one, his features the aspiration of every artist’s portrait. And yet there was something unnerving about the other god. Perhaps it was his hair that, while comparable to a young maiden’s blush, was also the same shade as blood. Perhaps it was the deep red hue of his eyes, made of crushed hearts and rubies. And perhaps it wasn’t his appearance at all, but the mystique that surrounded him; he was the fourth being to come into existence and was old as time itself, and that was one of the only two things Apollonas knew about him.

“Phoebus Apollona,” Eros stated in greeting, and Apollonas hated how wrong it sounded, though he couldn’t tell if it was the names themselves or simply the one who spoke them.

“What do you want?” He couldn’t hide his irritation. The other thing he knew about Eros was that he was the god of love, and love had only ever caused Apollonas pain. He had no reason to like the god nor felt the need to veil his displeasure. All he wanted was the solitude necessary to rework himself.

“I was simply admiring your bow, oh He Who Shoots From Afar.” There was no missing the mockery in Eros’s voice, and his eyes gleamed as he gazed at the weapon. “Why, your skill is almost comparable to my own! Perhaps with some effort, you can become the greatest archer in the land.”

“Are you implying that you are the greatest archer?” Eros nodded, and one glance at the winged god’s slim arms and the modest bow slung across his back sent Apollonas into a fit of laughter. It was many moments before he could calm himself enough to speak. “What have you to do with the arms of men, you feeble thing?”

“I am merely suggesting I may be god of archery as you are god of plague.” Apollonas’s head snapped up at the idea, and his hands curled into fists as he stood, towering over the shorter god. If Eros was a painter’s fantasy, then Apollonas was a sculptor’s. His toned body was the epitome of perfection, the ideal balance between strength and beauty. He was well aware of this fact, and though he rarely preferred to use his appearance for intimidation purposes, Eros’s insult necessitated such action.

“Do not lay claim to my honors,” he hissed, his sky blue eyes glinting with divine power. Archery was the one constant he could always rely on. With his bow and arrows, he could protect and punish, wound and save. It was the one part of him that stayed no matter if he was Phoebus or Apollonas or whoever, and he’d be damned if he allowed this worthless winged wretch to even suggest taking that from him.

“Let us put it to test, then,” Eros declared, unfazed by the archer’s anger. What would the ancient deity have to fear from the youth? He was well aware of his capability, and little did Apollonas know he was falling into another trap, his emotions and naivety deceiving him once more. He was but a pawn in Eros’s game. “What say you to a battle of skill?”

Apollonas did not grace the other with an answer, lifting his weapon and drawing an arrow from his golden quiver in response. The toned muscles of his back flexed as he pulled back the string and released, and the arrow had barely gone forth an inch before he sent forward another, and then yet another. His arms were but a blur as arrow after arrow went flying, striking the most minuscule of targets: the pupil of a fly’s eye, the thread of a spider’s web, the stem of a single olive. Apollonas did not stop until his quiver lay empty, and he took in the perfect shots before him that seemed almost artistic by his hand. No matter how low he may have descended in these past years, there was no denying the masterpiece he created from the most basic of weapons. This was his domain. He couldn’t keep his lips from curling in conceit as he turned to Eros.

“That gear becomes my shoulders best,” he declared, setting his bow back beside his quiver to draw emphasis to the weapons that had adorned him for centuries. “I wound my enemies; I wound wild beasts. My countless arrows slew the bloated Python, whose vast coils across so many acres spread their blight. You and your loves!” Apollonas couldn’t hold back his scoff at the mention of Eros’s inferior work. “You have your torch to light them. Let that content you. Never claim my fame!”

“Your bow, Phoebus Apollona, may vanquish all, but mine shall vanquish you. As every creature yields to power divine, shall your glory yield to mine.” At Eros’s threat, an enraged response was making its way up Apollonas’s throat, but before it could spill off his tongue, the love god drew his own golden-tipped arrow. In the blink of an eye, he shot it forth right into the other god’s heart before taking flight.

Apollonas stumbled back, a gasp more of shock than pain escaping him as he clasped his hands over his chest, fingers fumbling for the arrow. However, it had already dissolved into him, its magic making its home in his body. He felt something ooze into his heart and bloodstream, shoot up his spine, ensnare his mind. He turned his attention inward, trying to identify the invader, but he could not locate it, nor could he compare it to anything he had ever felt before. What had Eros done? He lifted his head, searching for the god, but instead his gaze fell upon another figure altogether.

There, a few feet away, stood the sweet river nymph Daphne. He knew her -- he knew the names of many of the nymphs that resided in these woods -- but beyond a passing glance and a murmured greeting, she had never caught his attention. But now… he couldn’t seem to look away, his lips parting in awe as he stared at her, dumbfounded. Had she always been so breathtaking? How could he have missed such a beauty? Her dark locks flowed down like a waterfall of ink. What it would be to hold that silky hair between his fingers, to braid it and adorn it with flowers and beads! Her eyes were a startling shade of not blue, not green, but something between the two, and he could spend hours drowning in their depths. Her figure had the slightest curve to it, the outline of a river, and he imagined that her body had been crafted to fit against his perfectly. He saw her, loved her, wanted her.

“Daphne.” Apollonas whispered her name, marvelling at the nectar-like flavor that coated his tongue. If just her name was so sweet, then how must her lips taste? Looking was not enough. The urge to find out was unbearable, the earlier argument stolen from his mind entirely as he found himself tossing aside his bow and quiver. What did archery matter when he could master the bow of her lips instead? He would claim it, make it and the rest of her his and his alone. He took a step forth, a giddy smile alighting his features.

“St-stay back,” the nymph stammered, icy fear coiling in the depths of her stomach. She could read his intentions clearly on his face, from the crazed look in his eyes to the wolfish grin he wore to the way his hands reached towards her. Daphne knew all too well what this man planned to do with her, and that should she fall into his grasp, she would not be able to stop him from having his way. So when he took another step forward, she turned and ran as fast as her legs could carry her. Apollonas gaped only a moment before rushing after her, an arrow released from its bow.

“Daphne, please wait! I am no foe! You don’t need to fear me!” he cried out after her. Daphne did not answer him, her thoughts only on escaping. Thorns and brambles tore at the bare skin of her calves, yet she refused to slow down. “You run as if I am a wolf and you a lamb, but that is not so! It is love that spurs me! Don’t fly so fast, lest you fall and wound yourself!”

“Leave me be, you horrid man!” she shrieked, not stopping even as her dress got caught on the surrounding plants and began to tear, revealing her to him little by little. Apollonas’s brows furrowed in worry at the sight of bloodied cuts on her legs. From within him a voice called out: What are you doing, Apollona? Why are you tormenting this poor girl? Leave her be! You will not have your way with her! But before the voice could say more, he caught a glimpse of the bare skin of her thigh, and everything left his mind. His conscience was once more bound and gagged by Eros’s power, forced to watch it all in horror. Speaking of the god of love, he also watched, flying unnoticed above them, yet he felt only amusement from the sight. The sheer terror that had contorted Daphne’s face and drawn panicked tears from her eyes made him smirk, and Apollonas’s frantic yelling drew out peals of laughter. They had both bent to his will so easily, and he was eager to see how this played out.

“You run because you do not know. I am no peasant, no shepherd!” Apollonas called out to her again. She was only afraid because he didn’t know who he was. He knew the moment she realized his true identity, she would stop and turn to him with a blessed smile. “I am the son of Zeus, prince of Olympus, lord of Delphi. By me things future, past and present are revealed. I shape the harmony of songs and strings. You will be happy as my bride, dear Daphne! I will see that your every wish is granted and that no desire goes unfulfilled. Please stay!”

“No! My only desire is to escape you!” Yet this would not be granted, as her body was beginning to fail her. Try as she might, she could not outrun Apollonas; he was strong from years of training and battle, and though she was swift and sure-footed, she had used up all her limited mortal strength. Her legs trembled with every step, her lungs two pits of fire in her chest. And so her traitorous body came to a stop as she gasped for breath, and Apollonas finally had her. He held her hip tightly, freezing her in place. Had he been in his senses and had control over his own body, he’d never have done this, and his conscience screamed within him. But he was deaf to it, the lust coursing through him silencing all else. His eyes soaked in her bare skin when he would’ve shielded them, his hands pulled her closer when he would’ve let her go, and he was ready to claim her when he would’ve done anything but this crime.

“My love.” His warm breath brushed against her ear as he leaned down, pressing his lips against the pale column of her neck. Daphne gasped and tried to pull herself away, but his grip was too strong, utterly unbreakable. How could she escape a god? She was helpless and frail, trapped and alone. There was no one to aid her, no one to stop Apollonas from running his hands down her body and forcing himself against her. And then he was turning her around, wishing to taste her lips, and a final plea escaped her.

“Help me, Peneus!” she screamed for her father. She knew her father could do nothing against an Olympian, but perhaps he could do something to her, and she would accept any escape from this fate. “Open the earth to enclose me, or change my form, which has brought me into this danger! Let me be free of this man from this moment forward!”

Daphne’s prayer was answered, and she was changing.

A stiffness had taken over her body, the swiftness that had protected her for so long sacrificed to escape Apollonas. Her arms lifted of their own accord, her fingers elongating up and her feet rooting into the ground. The dark waterfall split into a hundred streams that lightened to a soft green. Her curved figure fell away as her body thinned into a single arc, her legs fusing and her hands reaching higher and higher. Bark was creeping up from her extremities, down what were now branches and up what had transformed into a trunk. It conquered her shoulders, her chest, her neck. A soft sigh, her last breath, escaped her just as her lips were encased.

Apollonas’s lips met rough bark that cut at his soft skin. With a small gasp, his eyes flew open and he looked straight into Daphne’s piercing eyes. The waves in them had finally calmed, as the storm that had tormented them could no longer ripple its waters. He stared into those beautiful orbs, breathing her name, and watched as they shut forever.

Apollonas couldn’t tear his gaze away, his mind still unable to process the transformation that had unfolded before him. His hand trembled as he raised it, placing flat against the trunk of the tree. A steady pulse graced his fingertips -- a heartbeat. Daphne’s heartbeat. She was this tree, this sorrowful laurel tree, lost from him forever. His legs gave out beneath him as he wept, wrapping his arms around her and leaning his head against her bark. And yet the lust hadn’t left him, and he was kissing the wood over and over, whispering her name and an endless string of apologies as the skin of his lips tore and blood dripped down his chin.

“Oh, Daphne. My Daphne,” he cried, yearning what could’ve been. He thought the image of her smiling sweetly at him, kissing his cheek and calling him ‘husband’, was a vision, a prophecy promising that he could be the source of her happiness until the end of time. But he was wrong. It had been a fantasy, a dream that had slipped out of his grasp. And now she was gone. His sobs doubled in intensity as grief wracked him, and he didn’t notice Eros approaching until he spoke.

“Isn’t this a beautiful sight?” the god of love asked, his lips twisting into a smirk. “Phoebus Apollonas, broken and filthy inside and out. A slave to his desires. Do you accept defeat, oh lustful one?”

Apollonas turned to the other god, and the grief in him sharpened to rage. His beautiful Daphne, the love of his life, had been stolen from him, snatched right out of his hands, and the cause of it all was simply standing there, taking amusement in his loss. He reached for his bow only to find it missing, and so he lunged forth and tackled Eros to the ground, wrapping his hands around the smaller man’s thin neck.

“You monster,” Apollonas growled, his sky blue eyes glowing with divine power. This horrid creature had taken his Daphne from him and deserved nothing less than death. Apollonas would deliver him to the gates of Tartarus himself if necessary. The man must pay for his crimes. He increased the pressure, causing the other god to choke under his iron grip. “You did this!”

“Oh no, Apollona. I merely gave you a nudge. The rest was all you,” Eros gasped out, managing to laugh even as his windpipe threatened to collapse altogether. The sun god’s brows furrowed at the statement, and Eros subtly waved his hand, calming the effects of his magic. “And who knows what you’ll do next if I keep nudging you forth? You’ll be giving your father quite the competition, won’t you?”

The spell finally broke, and Apollonas’s grip slackened as the lust drained out of him and the truth became clear. He had chased Daphne. He had chased Daphne with the intention to force himself on her. He had tried to kiss her and claim her as his own with no care for her terror. He pushed her so far that she thought it better to lose her humanity than to be his. Oh Fates, what had he done? You are the most wicked person to live, Phoebus Apollona. You are no better than your father. You did this to that poor girl. You ruined her.

“N-no,” he whispered, backing away from Eros and clamping his hands over his ears, but it was in vain. The voice came not from outside but from within, where his conscience was finally free to reclaim its owner. And so Apollonas relived the incident that had just taken place. He saw himself chase after her just as Python had chased him and his family, heard his plans to ruin her just as he believed Orion had intended with Artemis, felt himself force himself upon her just as Zeus did to his mother Leto. Never in his life had something been so achingly clear to him as this truth: while he had spent his whole life painting others as wicked, he had been the most terrible monster all along. Apollonas doubled over, spilling his insides onto the earth as though he could purge the maliciousness from his body. But alas, he could not; he was born the destroyer, and he had truly lived up to his name. He could not tell if his scream remained in his soul or ripped out of him. He didn’t know if it was tears or fire spilling from his eyes. All he knew was the terrible truth that he has been blind to all his life.

“You are weak, boy. But I can make you strong,” Eros declared, towering over the hysterical god. He wondered how Olympus would react to seeing their golden heir broken on the ground, sobbing like a spoiled child. He could only imagine they’d be just as entertained as he. Still, the time for games was over. Making sure to avoid the pool of vomit, he crouched down and placed a thin finger under Apollonas’s chin, forcing the young god to meet his gaze. “Here is my offer to you: vow to me on the river Styx that you will follow my every command, and I will save you from further humiliation and heartbreak.”

“What, so I can spend my life blind and deaf, a mindless slave to a heartless man?” A dry, humorless laugh slipped out of Apollonas’s lips. He had seen and tasted truth, and he would not give that up to become Eros’s puppet. He scowled and spat at the love god’s feet, glaring into those blood-red eyes. “That is what I think of your offer.”

“I expected the god of intellect to be wiser than this, but I now see the difference between you and Athena.” Eros sneered, wrinkling his nose at the sorry display. “Do not be hasty, godling, and ponder my words carefully. I am offering you invulnerability. I will harden your heart to stone so that none may hurt you. Without your greatest weakness, you will be unstoppable. You will never have to feel such pain again.”

Apollonas paused for a moment, considering Eros’s claim. To never feel this soul-tearing agony again? To be free of the organ that rebelled against his mind at every moment? Now that he contemplated it, the offer was quite tempting. Without his heart, he would only have to rely on his body and mind, both of which were immaculate. He would indeed be unstoppable, finally the golden heir of Olympus he was expected to be. And yet… his gaze moved to the laurel tree, and a single leaf drifted down before him. Apollonas caught it in the palm of his hand, carefully tracing its pale green veins. If he were to remove his heart, to lose his ability to feel, would that not be a dishonor to Daphne? After all he had put her through, did she not deserve to be mourned and remembered? And what about all the others, every mortal that had suffered at his hand? He would be spitting on their graves by choosing to run away from the pain that, in the face of what torment they had lived through, was nothing. And so Apollonas rose to his feet, stretching to full height and then kneeling down so that his face was merely inches from the love god’s. “Rot. In. Tartarus.”

“You really should have chosen the easy path,” Eros muttered, the smirk sliding off his face as he grit his teeth. Apollonas wanted to regret? Then he’d give him reason to regret. His hands flew to Apollonas’s temples, freezing the younger god in place. Eros’s eyes glowed, twin pits of lava, and his voice boomed as he invoked his ancient power. “I curse you, Phoebus Apollona. May love be your enemy and your heart a traitor. May you be powerless to control the whims of your desire, and may you be the cause of pain to those you love, over and over until the end of time itself.”

Apollonas fell to the ground once more, struggling as the curse rooted itself deep in his soul, at the very essence of his being. By the time his throat had grown too raw for him to continue screaming, Eros had already flown away, leaving behind nothing but punishment. He found himself crawling back to the laurel tree, to Daphne, leaning his forehead against her trunk as he wept. He wept for her, for those before her, and for those after her.

“I’m sorry, Daphne,” he whispered, holding on so tightly the bark dug into his skin and realizing how powerless he really was. “I’d change you back if I could, sweet nymph, but I cannot. Instead, I swear by the river Styx, I won’t let you be forgotten. I bless you so that your leaves are never shed and instead will be woven in wreaths that will become a symbol of honor, the very thing I tried to steal from you. Let mankind see me to be the monster I am if that means your memory will live on. And even if your name no longer forms on the lips of men, they will live on eternally upon my own. This I vow to you.”

With this, he lay one last touch upon the tree before turning away, trudging his leaden feet back to Olympus. He heard the whispers as he arrived in the city, but he paid them no mind and made way to his house. Barely moments after he entered, his fingers scurried over the wall until they found the loose brick that he yanked out and tossed aside. His hands trembled in a moment of hesitation before reaching in. He grasped the bottle of his poison, his secret, his solace. Apollonas lifted it to his lips, tears running down his face, and drank his worries away.

[latte-fairytaekwoon]

𝚈𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙰𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚣 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜: 𝙺𝚒𝚖 𝙷𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚓𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐

Disclaimer: In no way am I condoning, encouraging, justifying, promoting nor romanticizing yandere behavior or lifestyle. This is all a work of fiction and not meant to represent real life scenarios.

Warnings: Mentions of toxic relationships, stalking, murder, kidnapping, torture, mental manipulation, use of LSD, physical violence, mind breaking, sexual scenes and other yandere behavior. Read at your own discretion.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

𝐁𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧:

𝙽𝚊𝚖𝚎: 𝙺𝚒𝚖 𝙷𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚓𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚐

𝙳.𝙾.𝙱: 𝙽𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟽𝚝𝚑, 𝟷𝟿𝟿𝟾

𝙷𝚎𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝: 𝟷𝟽𝟸 𝙲𝙼/ 𝟻'𝟾 𝙵𝚃.

𝙰𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕: ■■■■□80%

𝙾𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝙻𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕: ■■■■■100%

𝙼𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢: ■■■■□90%

𝙾𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝙻𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕: 𝙷𝚒𝚐𝚑

𝚈𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: 𝚃𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚛

𝙱𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝙰𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚜:

𝙴𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚟𝚒𝚎𝚠 𝚘𝚏 𝚘𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚝𝚢/𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 .

𝙾𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎.

𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚡𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 '𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝' 𝚘𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝.

𝙴𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚝𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗.

𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚍𝚜 𝚞𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He was a lost and wandering soul when it happened.

It wasn't that he was depressed or unsatisfied with his life.

But for the longest time he felt....empty.

As if he was carrying a void that couldn't be filled.

Not even his favorite hobbies gave him joy any longer.

It was as if he was either tapping out tunes on the piano or splattering colors on articles of clothing.

They had no meaning whatsoever anymore.

Live no longer felt to have any more meaning to him.

He felt like he was merely an empty shell, just going through life but never actually living.

Coming out of an arts and crafts store, his hands were full of all sorts of acrylics and watercolors he had just bought.

A passing cyclist didn't see him and didn't really care as he slightly collided with Hongjoong.

Letting out a big "oof!" he stumbled onto the pavement underneath him, all his materials flying out.

Although he wasn't hurt much, he still let out a groan and tried to get up.

He was startled when a gentle hand reached out towards him, lending him some help.

Looking up, his heart somersaulted as he stared at the kind and beautiful stranger that was offering him assistance.

"Are you all right?" Her eyes were full of concern and tenderness for him.

Hongjoong forgot how to speak in that moment, too amazed and stunned by the beauty standing right in front of him.

Nevertheless he did take her hand, his body trembling nervously as soon as he had the first physical contact with her.

The woman shook her head as her eyebrows furrowed.

"Seriously, what a jerk. Can't believe some people honestly."

Hongjoong still didn't respond, instead he shyly began picking up some of the stuff that had fallen.

"Let me help you." She offered her help once more.

Of course she was faster and picked up most of the stuff because he had a huge scrape on his knee and he was limping slightly.

"Thank....thank you." His voice was barely above a whisper as he took the stuff away from her.

"You're welcome. Would you like me to help you carry them to your car?"

Waving his hand he adamantly denied her offer, assuring her over and over again that he was all right.

Before he could leave, the girl extended her hand once again.

"I'm Y/N by the way. Nice to meet you."

"Y/N...."

Her name repeated itself over and over again in his head even hours after she had left him.

Even as he layed in his bed and stared blankly at the ceiling, he couldn't keep the softest smile off his face.

He didn't know if he had drifted off to sleep or was zoning in and out of a lucid dream, but all he could think about was her.

He was up as soon as the sun rose up, flinging his blanket across the room as he ran to his desk and took out his sketchpad.

Right away, he began to outline her face, wanting the vivid image of her to stay with him should his mind ever dare to erase her from his memory.

Although he was satisfied with the ending result, it was still not enough for him.

He felt his goddess, his newfound muse needed more justice than just pencil to capture her beauty.

Watercolors, acrylics, oil pastels and even ink, there wasn't any art material that Hongjoong didn't use to create a portrait of Y/N.

Soon his studio was filled and covered with paintings of her and he couldn't be happier...

Until he realized how much he'd rather have the real thing right there in person with him, in his arms, holding her and never letting go.

He almost fell into a depressive state again, dreading the fact that he'd never see his beloved muse ever again......

Until he saw her once again, walking across the street from the cafe he was in.

He quickly sprung out of his seat and ran out the door, eager to see her once again and hopefully talk to her more.

Just as he was about to call out to her, he stopped when a male came up to her, hugging her ever so intimately and ruffling her hair.

Hongjoong's hand tightened into a fist, nails digging into his skin as his eyes burning with anger and jealousy.

"She's my treasure, I found her and I won't let anyone else take her from me."

Making sure they were unaware of his looming presence, he stalked them out, trying to find the perfect opportunity to strike.

They seemed to be going on some sort of date, which only fueled his anger.

Finally, after they both went their separate ways, Hongjoong followed the mysterious man home, not letting his chance escape.

As soon as the man parked in his driveway and got out of the car, Hongjoong cornered him.

Using his belt as a makeshift weapon, he wrapped it around the man's throat, tightening it until he cut off his air flow.

Although he put up quite a struggle, Hongjoong was so full of anger and rage that he kept him strangled until his body stopped writhing and layed cold on his feet.

Taking his keys, Hongjoong decided to go inside the house to see if he could find anymore information about his precious treasure, figure out where she lived and what not.

Finding a cabinet full of documents, not only did Hongjoong found her address but also ended up discovering the man he just killed was actually her brother, and not a lover as he believed him to be.

"Oh well. Mistakes happen." He justified himself.

"Besides, he still would have been an obstacle and might have come between us."

A week later and now he was waiting for her inside her house, not having any difficulty in breaking in.

His eyes would anxiously look at the time, waiting for her to come home from work like she would usually do at that time.

When he heard her car come up in the driveway, he took a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves.

Y/N walked into her house as usual, throwing her bag onto the couch.

As she was about to turn on the light, she felt a hard blow to her head, knocking her to the ground, her vision suddenly turning black.

When she awoke, she was beyond startled by all the countless portraits and clay figurines modeled after her.

Her eyes scanned the entire room, somewhat frightened by all the countless images of her staring back at her.

She was so bewildered by the scene that she didn't hear the door open and didn't see the person who came in until she was jolting out of her seat when a hand placed itself on her shoulder.

When she turned around and saw who it was that was smiling at her, she couldn't believe her eyes.

"You......you're...you're..."

Hongjoong nodded. "Yes my darling. I'm the man you helped out a month ago. Which, by the way I'm still grateful for."

Cupping her chin with his fingers, he leaned in to give her a kiss but she backed away, which made him frown.

"Hey, it's not very nice to reject someone's offer of gratitude darling. Did they not teach you manners at home?"

When he reached out to touch her once again, she smacked his hand away, moving as far away from him as possible.

Although it didn't really hurt him, Hongjoong was disappointed that his beloved muse could actually strike at him.

"This isn't what I imagined or expected from you love. You're supposed to be gentle, serene, obedient and just outright perfect.... like the pictures surrounding you.."

Y/N put her hands above her face when he crept closer to her once more, but Hongjoong, who was deceivingly strong for his body built, quickly took hold of them and uncovered her face.

"But that's ok.......if a small lump of clay can be easily molded into a beautiful vase, I'm sure I can mold you to perfection."

Y/N shuddered at his words, and tried to writhe her way out of his grasp as he pulled her out into the hallway and dragged her down into what she assumed was his basement.

Using his strength to overpower her, he easily strapped her down into one of the chairs he kept there, binding her legs and hands down.

"I suggest you start familiarizing yourself with this place Y/N. This...."

With an eerily calm and somewhat sadistic smile, Hongjoong extended his arms to gesture around the room.

"Is where your training begins."

7 months.......for 7 excruciating months, Y/N had been kept in Hongjoong's house, 3 of which were spent inside his room of horrors.

She still didn't understand how she came out of there alive and in one piece.

There wasn't a single night where she didn't relive the torture she went through.

Slapping, canning, limbs stretched out til they were almost out of their sockets, head submerged in water til she nearly passed out.

One time she had resisted so much and pissed Hongjoong off extremely by slapping him that he strapped her hand down and smashed her fingers one by one, breaking them entirely.

Of course, although he helped her heal them as he did her other wounds because he didn't want permanent physical damage on his treasure.

It'd only serve to ruin and taint her perfect image.

But the worst for Y/N wasn't going through all the physical torture.....

Her worst nightmare was all the times Hongjoong dosed her on LSD, prompting her to start hallucinating horrible scenarios.

Her mind seemed to weaken with every dosage he gave her, it would slowly eat away every last bit of her sanity.

Which might explain why now she tried to be more obedient and pliant towards Hongjoong, doing everything as he said and exactly how he wanted her to.

Although occasionally she would still step out of line, he'd shoot her a glare and warn her about it.

"Do you want to go back down there? Did I not give you sufficient training?"

At the sole mention of being taken back downstairs, she'd immediately remember herself and portray the illusion he wanted.

Hongjoong seemed thrilled to finally have created the perfect model, his beautiful creation came to life.

He was absolutely head over heels for his lovely goddess, she was beyond perfect and ethereal.

Sure she still had a little bit of stubbornness in her, but that was easily fixed and she'd be his perfect little doll once more.

And he loved praising her and reminding her about it, especially when they were intimate.

"See love? I knew you would come to love me." He whispered softly in her ear, a low moan escaping his lips as he moved inside of her.

Kissing the sides of her neck, he panted softly as he came inside her.

"My beautiful and perfect goddess."

Months turned to over a year and although Y/N still played the part of a loving and perfect soulmate, she didn't know how long she could take it anymore.

Perhaps it was being locked up for so long, perhaps it was the fear Hongjoong instilled in her. Maybe she was tired from playing a role she couldn't keep up with anymore.

All that combined with the fact she was now pregnant with Hongjoong's child, her hormones going crazy and her mind worrying about what her future would be like had her ready to snap.

One particular day, she just about had it.

Hongjoong had been smothering her all day, constantly nagging about taking care of herself and not harm the baby.

Her blood was boiling with rage as he kept pestering her about it over dinner.

Having had enough, she got out of her seat and reached for the nearest kitchen knife and pointed it at her stomach.

"Why don't I just rip out the baby out then? Maybe then you'll be satisfied."

Hongjoong immediately got up and tried to take the knife away from her.

"Y/N! Have you lost your mind?!" He exclaimed.

"If I lost my mind it's all thanks to you!"

Even after Hongjoong managed to toss the knife out of her hands, Y/N still continued to struggle and smack her hands at him, beating at his chest as hard as she could.

"I hate you!" She declared before her fist tried to collide with his face, but Hongjoong being faster than her, stopped it from hitting him.

Outraged that his model was breaking down, he picked her up, not caring about her being pregnant and stomped his way back to the training room.

Y/N was already bursting into tears when he began strapping her down into the chair, protesting about it.

"You'll hurt our child you mon-."

Gripping her throat tightly, he cut her off from finishing that sentence.

"This coming from the one threatening to rip the innocent baby out herself. But don't worry, I'll make sure no harm comes to our child."

Letting go of her neck, he quickly took out a familiar vial and needle out of a cabinet.

Although Y/N tried to get away, it was no use as she was once again tied up and the sting of the fluids shooting up her veins, making her dizzy immediately.

Hongjoong only watched with a blank face as the drugs started to take effect.

Going back to the cabinet, he took out a folder and walked back to Y/N with it.

"Now.... I never planned to show you this, but I guess you left me no choice."

Even in her hazy state, Y/N could make out what seemed to be a picture of her brother, but she wasn't sure if it was an illusion or not

"Yes, that is your brother indeed. Took care of you when your parents died and you were very attached to him. Your only living relative right?.....or is he?"

Pulling out another picture, Hongjoong made sure to hold it up right in her face so she could clearly see the gruesome image.

"This is how I left him after I attacked him one night. You'll be proud, he put up quite a good fight, but as you can see......in the end he still lost." He actually had the audacity to chuckle as if it was an amusing thing.

Y/N wanted to scream, but her body wouldn't allow it.

She couldn't believe that her remaining family, the only hope she could grasp onto and help get her out of the mess....

Was gone, forever vanished from the face of the earth by the same monster who took her away.

She no longer had the physical, mental nor emotional strength to resist and fight anymore.

She allowed her body to succumb to the effects of the drugs, eyes closing as she fell into a deep sleep full of haunting memories and images.

When she awoke hours later, she felt absolutely nothing, only numbness.

Gently stroking her hair, Hongjoong leaned in and scanned her expressionless face, satisfied when she just allowed him to pet her as he pleased, no longer resisting his touch.

"Do you know who you are?" He simply asked her.

Without even so much as blinking, she answered in a monotone, almost robotic voice:

"I'm your soulmate, your muse and your goddess, and I love no one but you."

Hongjoong nearly bursted into tears. Finally after so long, after so many experiments and efforts, he finally created his ultimate masterpiece.

"Perfect......at last...you're absolutely perfect.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Dead, broke

Of all the moving, wrenching accounts of death during the pandemic, Molly McGhee’s “America’s Dead Souls,” for The Paris Review stands out: haunting, furious and sad, an rude awakening of the status quo that denies any possibility of inaction.

https://www.theparisreview.org/blog/2021/05/17/americas-dead-souls/

I’ve known McGhee a long time, since she worked on my book INFORMATION DOESN’T WANT TO BE FREE from McSweeneys, a professional association we renewed when she landed at Tor.

During the pandemic crisis, I’ve had two different connections to her: on the one hand, the consummate professionalism of her emails as we published my novel ATTACK SURFACE in the middle of the lockdown.

On the other hand, I knew her through her wrenching and deeply personal Twitter account of the personal tragedies she’s endured over the same period. Her Paris Review essay brings those tragedies into sharp focus and uses them to pin a huge and heretofore ill-defined feeling.

McGhee’s mother died during the crisis, but the death was the culmination of years of hardship: “[earning] less than $10,000 a year. Suffering from debilitating depression while caring for her aging parents…chronically unemployed, undermedicated, and overstressed.”

Her mother’s debts were on public display through searchable databases, and her life was haunted by both con artists and bill collectors who carpet-bombed her with calls, letters and emails.

She was too poor to fight back: her wages were garnished by the IRS “for back taxes calculated from a years-old misfiling they refused to correct.” McGhee sent her months of her salary, but it wasn’t enough.

She had no answer for her mother’s rhetorical questions, “Why are these people harassing me? What good does it do them?”

Because the answer is obvious and insufficient: “The people in power don’t care if we live or die, as long as they get paid.”

It only took two days after McGhee’s mother died for her creditors to begin harassing her for her mother’s debts. The state of Tennessee seized the house, but Wells Fargo expected her to make good on the mortgage.

The hospital where McGhee’s mother died wanted a quarter of a million dollars. McGhee, not even 26, was staring down the barrel of the weapon that had been trained on her mother, the inheritor of nothing but debt.

The debt-machine is efficient. Bill collectors found out about McGhee’s mother’s death before McGhee’s own family got word. And they’re remorseless, immune to McGhee’s “pleading, bargaining, reasoning, denying, uploading, scanning, begging, faxing, and crying.”

McGhee compares it to Gogol’s “Dead Souls,” a surreal tale of a grifter named Chichikov who buys dead serfs’ souls to sell for profit.

It’s only surreal if you’ve never been in the debt system’s crosshairs, “where one day of lost wages can compound into houselessness.”

We live in a system of winners and losers. The winners’ winnings come from debt, shielded from the system’s cruelty by “professionalism and bureaucracy” that insulate them — and their functionaries — from “feelings of culpability, not to mention empathy or curiosity.”

Poor people have less money, but the system is firmly focused poor people, because people with money can defend themselves. When McGhee went into debt to hire a lawyer, a single letter on official letterhead instantly reduced all that debt by 90% — more than $250k, poof.

It’s expensive to be poor. Take Community Health Systems, one of the largest hospital chains in America. It sues the shit out of poor people. When those people can afford lawyers, CHS loses, because it is chasing debts it is not entitled to collect.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/18/unhealthy-balance-sheet/#health-usury

CHS itself owes $7.6 billion. It turned its first profit in 2020, thanks to hundreds of millions of dollars in state and federal subsidies, and its executives pocketed millions in “performance bonuses” for a performance that consisted of getting bailed out by the public.

The Trump stimulus handed trillions to the richest people and biggest companies in America. Those companies “leveraged up” their handouts to raise trillions more and went on spending sprees, buying up struggling businesses.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/17/divi-recaps/#graebers-ghost

They loaded these companies up with debt, declared “divi recaps” (where you take out a loan on a company you bought on credit and put that money in your own pocket as a “special dividend”) and crashed the companies, destroying jobs and communities.

Plutes know there are three kinds of debt: workers’ debts (which must be repaid), owners’ debts (to be “restructured” away) and government debt (not debt at all, but still handy for terrifying normies with stories of “mortgaging our kids’ futures”).

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/17/disgracenote/#false-consciousness

Forty years of this approach has turned the economy into a shambling zombie, dependent on the fiction that “consumer” debts — repackaged as bonds through financialization — will be repaid, somehow.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/02/innovation-unlocks-markets/#digital-arm-breakers

As an ever-larger share of the world’s wealth has shifted from the workers’ side of the balance sheet to the owners’, the ability of workers to buy things to keep businesses afloat as vehicles for debt-leveraging has only declined.

Wage-theft and stagnation, unions in retreat, monopoly, monopsony, tax-preferencing for home-owners over renters, for capital gains over wages, spiraling housing, health and education costs, worker misclassification — wages are annihilated before they’re even deposited.

With no wages left over to fund consumption, there’s only debt, and as Michael Hudson says, “Debts that can’t be repaid, won’t be repaid.” CHS can comfortably carry billions in debts, but the sick people it sues for $201 have to choose between rent and medical debt.

Every loan-shark knows how this works. The chump with $500 who owes you $500 and owes the bank $500 needs an incentive to pay you ahead of the bank. To assert the primacy of your claims, you need an arm-breaker.

The digital world has given us all kinds of fantastic new arm-breakers: digital repo men who can brick your car or your phone. It’s automated the once rare practice of evictions, creating eviction mills that run with devastating efficiency.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/02/innovation-unlocks-markets/#digital-arm-breakers

Creating a debt-instrument — a bond grounded in the payments from other peoples’ debts — requires that you convince investors and bond-rating agencies that your arm-breaker will terrorize the debtors into paying you instead of child-support or grocery bills.

“The cruelty is the point” isn’t ideology, it’s pure description. The system — an artificial life-form constituted as immortal colony organism that uses us as gut flora — runs on competing claims to your debt, and victory consists of terrorizing you more than any rival.

The financiers who practice leveraged buyouts destroy real businesses, ruin lives and hollow out communities. They are feted as “job creators.” The workers who must borrow to close the gap they leave are “deadbeats.” Leveraged buyouts are back, baby.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/05/14/billionaire-class-solidarity/#club-deals

If you fret that forgiving student loans and making college free will “saddle our kids with debt,” then you’ve been suckered.

Look. Replacing a system that starts all but the richest children with unserviceable debt with one that doesn’t is liberation, not bondage.

Since Reagan, we’ve been hiking tuition, killing deductions for interest, and shielding student debt from bankruptcy.That’s how you can borrow $79k, pay $190k, still owe $236k, and have 25% taken from every paycheck AND Social Security until you die.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/12/04/kawaski-trawick/#strike-debt

Debts that can’t be paid, won’t be paid. Student debts do get forgiven, but only for those highly educated, (potentially) highly productive people who can prove that they have been so thoroughly destroyed by debt that they have no future.

https://pluralistic.net/2020/11/20/sovkitsch/#student-debt

And as McGhee reminds us, the tragedy isn’t merely that we educate people on the pretense of betting on America’s future, but really, the principle use that the system makes of the educated is as collateral for securitized loans.

If the arm-breakers who chased her mother wanted to understand that woman’s humanity, McGhee says they should start here:

“Her humor and her rage were unmatched. In the evenings, against the setting Tennessee sun, she liked to drink red can Cokes in the garden while snuffing cigarettes out against the yard’s ant colonies. She could reckon with anyone just by looking them in the eye. Men were terrified of her, rightfully so. She was sweet. In the last week of her life, when she couldn’t understand where she was or who she was talking to, she greeted everyone the same: ‘Hi, pal. Hope you’re doing okay. When can you come pick me up?’”

Take a second. Re-read that.

[lendmyboyfriendahand]

Still something left to save

Maedhros had sent the letter two days ago. Two days of agonizing waiting while the whole camp held its breath.

Maglor still acted like the Valar might have mercy, and return the Silmarils in exchange for repentance. Maedhros knew better though, and was reviewing his weapons and armor. The Valar would refuse the plea, as they had wished to refuse Feanor’s claim when he had not yet harmed any - if indeed they bothered to answer at all.

So a single rider approaching under a flag of truce was not completely surprising. Maglor claimed it was a hopeful sign, that the hosts of the Valar might truly wish to negotiate. Maedhros was of the opinion that the Valar had no faith in the house of Feanor at all, and believed them so low as to murder anyone not conspicuously nonthreatening.

The messenger was ushered past the sentries to the tent Maedhros and Maglor used as an improvised command room. He was wearing a helmet that blocked his face. The voice that called out in greeting was oddly familiar, as was the glint of his eyes, but Maedhros couldn’t place it.

“What news do you bring from the Hosts of the West?,” Maedhros asked.

“Morgoth has fallen. Lords Tulkas and Orome have bound him in chains and shall throw him into the darkness beyond the world, from where there is no return.”

“And what of the letter we sent to Lord Eonwe?”

“The Silmarils shall return to Valinor where they were created. You may go as well if you wish, and plead your right to them in the Ring of Doom.”

Then Maglor desired indeed to submit, for his heart was sorrowful, and he said: ‘The oath says not that we may not bide our time, and it may be that in Valinor all shall be forgiven and forgot, and we shall come into our own in peace.’

But Maedhros answered that if they returned to Aman but the favour of the Valar were withheld from them, then their oath would still remain, but its fulfilment be beyond all hope; and he said: 'Who can tell to what dreadful doom we shall come, if we disobey the Powers in their own land, or purpose ever to bring war again into their holy realm?'

Yet Maglor still held back, saying: 'If Manwë and Varda themselves deny the fulfilment of an oath to which we named them in witness, is it not made void?'

And Maedhros answered: 'But how shall our voices reach to Ilúvatar beyond the Circles of the World? And by Ilúvatar we swore in our madness, and called the Everlasting Darkness upon us, if we kept not our word. Who shall release us?

''If none can release us,' said Maglor, 'then indeed the Everlasting Darkness shall be our lot, whether we keep our oath or break it; but less evil shall we do in the breaking.'

The messenger burst out, “Do you care so little for the life of your kin? You are arguing where and who to kill if your demands are not met; can you not simply seek peace?”

Maedhros rounded on him. “What right do you have to speak such to us? What can you possibly know of our oath, and the cost of defying it?”

“I know as much as you told me, in Himring when you knew the foolishness of marching north unprepared but still felt the call. Perhaps you’ve forgotten though, in the years since.” The messenger took off his helmet.

Maedhros was stuck speechless.

Maglor was not. “Fingon? You’ve been reborn? I thought we were supposed to abide long years in Mandos and yearn for our bodies.”

“It’s been a century, isn’t that long enough?”

“I suppose so. Is my father back yet?”

“No. The dead cannot leave until we are repentant, and that will be a long time for him.”

“Is your father back?”

“Yes, and ruling Tirion while Uncle Finarfin fights here. Before you ask, Grandpa is still in Mandos, as are all your brothers. I didn’t get a complete list; I was only in Valinor for long enough to arrange passage on the next ship leaving.”

“Why?" Maedhros whispered hoarsely. “Why would you give up on a chance for peace after centuries of war and death?”

“I could hardly sit by and do nothing when Morgoth was still running rampant! Besides, I wanted to see you in person.”

“You did?”

“Yes. After the tales I heard from Doriath and Sirion, I wanted to see if there was anything left to save of the man I fell in love with.”

Maglor said, “I’ll give you two privacy. I will return in an hour, and in the meantime will inform the army that we are in council over our next course of action.”

“There’s no need for that. After your brother’s speech earlier, I really don’t have much left to say to him.”

“No?” Maedhros asked. “As steadfast as you are renowned to be, you can exchange your love for hate in an instant?”

“I don’t know if I hate you. But I can’t love you, not when you’re drenched in blood and only wading deeper.”

“You accuse me of forgetting what we talked about in Himring, its you who are ignoring it. Or did you never listen in the first place? Each day, each hour, each breath is an effort, each moment that the Oath is unfulfilled worse than the last. A century ago I was carrying a stone; now it is a boulder.”

“So why do you not set the boulder aside? Why not surrender to the Valar, or found a new kingdom in the East, or ask me to ride off with you and live far away from all oaths and kings and fathers?”

“If I cast the Oath aside it would not be gone, merely underfoot waiting to reach up and pull my down with it rather than crushing me.”

“Would that not be better?”

“Until it reached up and choked me, and I moved once again according to its string. The Oath will be there waiting for me wherever I go for the rest of my life, unless I can fulfill it.”

“Then let it wait. Better to have peace for a few decades, in which time you may understand how to evade your Doom.”

“If you refuse to accept that certain things cannot be changed, I don’t have any answers that will satisfy you.”

“And if you refuse to see any path forward but over the bodies of innocents, I may as well be shouting at the wind.”

“I begged you once to kill me and you refused. If you cannot stomach having released me onto the world, that is your problem, but I will not be crushed by your guilt as well as my own.”

“I rescued you because I loved you. What you have done is horrific, but it was not fated from that moment. I take no part in your guilt, but as a friend would aid you towards repentance.”

“There is no penance that could make up for what I have done, and even if there were I would refuse to take it. It is better to live scorned but free than to bow and scrape in desperate hope a jailer will be amused enough to grant a moment of relief.”

“The Valar are not Morgoth, and have no interest in cruelty.”

“And if you’re wrong? Or if they are merciful, but someone decides I’m not being appropriately punished, what then? Once I surrender, I’m sure I won’t be allowed so much as a belt knife for eating. There will be escape from the inside, whether you call it captivity or repentance. Will you come to my heroic rescue once again, or will you let vengeance and justice be played out upon me?”

Fingon looked at him steadily. “If you are imprisoned I will some to your aid, if only to offer the arrow you begged for last time. I don’t think an eagle will help you escape the Valra’s own sentence though.”

“So if I surrender I am trapped between captivity or death, until at last I weary of holding back the Oath and am struck down for my arrogance at believing a son has a right to his father’s work. Whereas if I pursue the Silmarils now, I may be struck down or I may escape, but in either case I have at least chosen the hour and the manner of my fate. You’re making a very persuasive argument.”

“If all you care about is your own skin, and no thought at all for the lives ended beneath your sword if you attack, then perhaps what you have said is accurate. But I had thought that you were kinder than that once; perhaps I am mistaken and you care no more for elven lives than an orc would.”

Maedhros recoiled as if struck.

Maglor jumped into the conversation before his brother could find the words that would skewer Fingon’s weak point as thoroughly as his own had been. “You both speak as if there are only two options. We don’t have to choose between surrender and attack.”

“Oh?” Maedhros said,”What other way is there? Fingon made it very clear that fighting is for orcs and crawling back to the Valar is for good little elves.”

“I never said-”

Maglor interrupted Fingon before the two of them could get into it again. “There are men and dwarves in this world as well as orcs and elves, whatever we might have thought when we left Valinor.”

“Dwarves and men there may be, but little help it does us. We don’t get to change our nature like your precious peredhel princes, nor would I want to.”

“We don’t have to. I’m merely saying, we don’‘t have to choose between attack and surrender. We can retreat, regroup for another angle.”

“I am right here, as a messenger of the Valar, and can’t honestly report that you two are going in peace if you merely are waiting until you re strong enough to storm Taniquetil.”

Maedhros drummed his fingers on his sword hilt. “We don’t have to let you go. You say being prisoner of a kind master is a good fate, now would be your time to prove it.”

“Must the two of you be so literal? We retreat physically, but regroup spiritually for another metaphorical angle of attack.”

“You’re speaking in poetry when we need tactics.”

“Fine.” Maglor began ticking points of on his fingers. “We retreat physically by moving our forces away from the land that’s collapsing beneath our feet. Everyone is going east, but if we angle north-east, perhaps across the Grey Mountains, we should be able to establish a fortress without being bothered. We regroup spiritually by announcing to our soldiers that we’re not going to attack civilians again. We can spend a decade or two building our new home, farming and crafting and hunting rather than waging war. And our metaphorical angle of attack is diplomacy. You and I always were the best at it of our brothers; if anyone has a chance of convincing the Valar to return the Silmarils it’s us.”

“How exactly are we making diplomatic overtures with the Valar from another continent?”

“Letters should be able to get through. The Valar are creating an island for the Men that’s close to Valinor but still in Middle Earth. Elves from Valinor can visit the island, and the Men can travel here.”

“We tried letters before, three times now, and it didn’t work.”

“It didn’t work on Sindarin child-monarchs, the Valar are wiser and can understand more lines of argument.”

“They refused our last request and Fingon is right her telling us so.”

“Eonwe refused, because he considers it beyond his authority. The Valar themselves have said neither yay or nay.”

“You think they’ll decree us worthy of the Silmarils, when they condemned us for ever trying to leave their precious paradise?”

“I think if we’re on another continent they won’t sentence us to execution, an the rest of the details can be worked out without an audience.”

“I’m not here to spy on you,” Fingon said.

“No, you’re here to see if you’re still impulsive enough to kiss my brother if he looks at you sweetly.”

“That’s not it either!”

“I don’t care what you two get up to at this point, but Maedhros and I really do need to come up with a detailed plan, and we can’t tell you anything as long as half the continent is willing to shoot us on sight. So leave the tent so I can bring out the ledgers.”

“You still haven’t answered the message from Lord Eonwe calling for your surrender.”

“And we won’t have an answer that satisfies both your sensibilities and Maedhros’s paranoia for several hours. Go tend to your horse or something.”

Maedhros said, “If we discuss this for hours, he’ll won’t have time to return by nightfall, and we don’t have any spare tents.”

“I’m sure the two of you have shared a bed often enough, you can do so for one night.”

“I can sleep under the stars well enough,” Fingon said coldly.

“Like I said, I don’t care what you two do, as long as you leave now and let me speak with my brother in private.”

“Fine.”

Once Fingon was well away, Maedhros breathed deeply and practically collapsed onto a stool. He looked up at Maglor, “Do you really have a plan that could work?”

“I do. It was a mistake to ask for the Silmarils in the first letter to Eonwe, it shows our hand and makes us look greedy. The first letter to the Valar will be an acknowledgement that their prophecies of death in the outer lands were right, it will sound like respecting their wisdom...”

[nosunwithoutshadow]

finally posting for day 1 of darklina week! (I have no concept of time)

Rating: M Chapters: 1/1 Words: 2k Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Universe, Fluff and Angst, Character Study, Loneliness, Angst with a Happy Ending, Feels

Summary: It’s the worst kind of cliche, but Aleksander doesn’t realize what he’s missing until it’s gone.

also on ao3

Aleksander misses it. The light. 

He didn’t realize it at first, in those lost few months after he tore the world apart to protect his people. Time stretched oddly then, as he adjusted to his new reality. He felt off balance, constantly teetering on the edge of falling into the abyss he created. The merzost coiled in his soul, making a home in his bones, craving more with each breath. He’d known the magic required a sacrifice before he stepped in front of the dead king’s army, accepted it, but a martyr never knows what they will have to give up to their cause before it’s ripped from them. 

(cont. under the cut)

He only discovers what’s missing later. After emerging from the other side of the void into a new world, one he has shaped, will continue to shape. He gathers what self possession he has left and returns to the capital, presenting himself as a tame housecat for the throne to use at their pleasure, repentant for the misdeeds of his family and content to hunt mice for the reward of a warm hearth and occasional pat. He blunts his fangs, hides his claws, and bats at toys tossed his way for the crown’s amusement, a domesticated predator biding his time. He returns to the tatters of the sanctuary he had begun to build and teaches every Grisha he can save how to sharpen their own claws so when the world comes for them, as it inevitably will, they will be ready. 

And when he has time to think again, when the urge to plunge the entire palace into a darkness they cannot escape has lessened enough that his bones don’t ache with the need, he stands in the courtyard of the Little Palace and breathes. He hasn’t lived without burdens since the day in his long-ago childhood when he realized that he and everyone like him would never be safe. It’s different now though, rather than weighing on him, the darkness drags him down, anchoring him to the earth like it would swallow him at any moment. And when he spreads his arms, exhaling and letting his eyes slip closed for the briefest moment, he feels…

Nothing. 

The days in Ravka are rarely truly warm, but dressed in all black, he’s used to the sun slanting down and soaking into his kefta. He sees the sun overhead, the near cloudless sky, feels a cool breeze rustle the fur at his cuffs, but the warmth he expects to feel doesn’t reach his skin. It’s as if he’s no longer quite part of this world, truly the abomination they call him, shunned even by the sun’s light. 

The small part of him that’s still human wants to strip off his layers in the lost hope that if he can only bare himself to the sun, it’ll be different. As if there’s any way he could ever give enough of himself to buy back what he’s sacrificed. He tilts his face up to the sky and feels nothing but the chill of the afternoon against his cheeks. 

His heart, that traitorous organ, hesitates before resuming its regular beat. He draws a deep breath, collects himself, and continues on his walk. He’d hardly been unaware that there would be a cost to his actions. Out of all the possible consequences, this is far from something that can’t be borne. He will find other ways to keep warm. 

Years pass, nearly too many to count, and yet he numbers every one. The time is counted in the lives he could not save, the indignities thrust upon his Grisha he cannot protect them from. The walls of the Little Palace grow higher, blocking the outside world and its taunting sun. Its light only serves to remind him of what he still can’t do: he can’t control the fold, can’t use it as the weapon he needs to protect his people, can’t stop them from being slaughtered beyond his limited reach, can’t promise them the true security they deserve.

He wears his layers like armor and tries to forget the missing pieces of his soul. He keeps the fireplaces of the Little Palace well stocked to ward off the cold. He nearly forgets what it feels like to have sunlight play across his skin, warming him even through winter’s chill.

But then.

And then.

Oh.

He’s spent centuries planning, but he could never have planned for Alina. Even less for what she would do to him. He touches her, and walls built over hundreds of years fracture, their foundations no longer solid. He sees her power, and he remembers dreams he no longer has any right to. He feels her warmth, and he finds he might give up what’s left of his soul to stay close enough for her heat to burn. 

It’s another small sacrifice to let go of her after that first touch, but he comforts himself with the knowledge that she won’t go far. He’s found her now, and the blinding potential of what that means threatens every ounce of his hard-won restraint. He rediscovers parts of himself he thought long-dead, pushing through dirt and cobwebs like a dormant seed, reaching out towards her sun. 

He will keep her close, there’s no question of that. Losing part of himself was torture enough the first time; he doesn’t know how he could bear it again. He’s endured so much, but not this. And she’s so much more than his scattered missing pieces. She’s life to his emptiness, the rushing river to his steady mountain, the celestial light to his earth-bound darkness. 

If he’d known just how much she was, he’s not sure he would have wanted her, the him before he met her. No blessing as potent as her comes without danger. And she is dangerous, all fire and fury, telling him “no” and crashing headlong into centuries worth of careful plans. Even so, he’s no fool to cast aside such a treasure, if he even could. He’ll hide her in his fortress, its defenses built for this day, and hone her into the weapon she was meant to be. 

It has to be said, his plans usually proceed much more smoothly. 

People are the fatal flaw to any plan, Aleksander knows, and that has never been more true than with Alina. Every time he thinks he’s learned to understand her, she surprises him again. He wants to hate her for that, at first. Even then, he can’t bring himself to, not really. His only consolation is those moments when he’s certain that she feels it too. That he’s not alone in this maddening need. She fills the empty spaces inside of him to overflowing, and even then, it’s still not enough. He’s never thought himself greedy, merely wanting what he’s earned, but for her, he might be. 

Even when their goals finally align, when at last she accepts him as her ally rather than her enemy, it’s still barely enough. It’s consuming, this need, more dangerous than merzost and infinitely more seductive. He can almost forget the hunger clawing at his soul when he’s with her, the warmth of her bathing his skin, sinking deep. She’s so powerful it’s blinding, and yet so unbearably human. A mess of contradictions, his Alina, and he wants to take the time to explore all of them. 

In the early days they don’t have much time for exploration, as one age gives way to another. The first time they bed each other is fast and desperate, fueled by all the times they’ve been denied before. It can’t even properly be called bedding, since they don’t make it farther than the nearest table. They manage to fall into bed together by the third time around, and the sense of completion as he slides into her, their eyes locked on each other, is enough to make all the centuries it took to get there worth it. Anger still simmers between them, and he can’t be certain that she won’t try to kill him before morning, but for this, he might let her. 

In the aftermath, he foolishly thinks that this must be the pinnacle. He holds her to him, reveling in the heat of her body and how perfectly it fits against his. Her light calls to his shadows, even lying quietly together like this, their bodies and spirits tangling into a single whole. 

He doesn’t have the frame of reference then to imagine how anything could be better, but then time stretches before them, and the walls between them slowly crumble. They rebuild and their lives mesh into one another, weaving around each other until they become inseparable. She reminds him of things he’d left behind, and he shows her what could lie ahead. He finds his shadows reaching out to her without realizing, what should be an unforgivable loss of control, but he can’t deny them their other half. He doesn't ask if she feels it too, conditioned by centuries to avoid any hint of weakness.

And he knows that there's no way he can complete her the way she fills the ache in his soul. It's an emptiness that's only grown over those same centuries, widened and deepened into a chasm he could never admit existed. She's his match in every way, but she's only lived a mere couple of decades. He can barely remember being that young, that long ago time when he knew so little about what was to come, what real loneliness meant. 

He clutches her to him at night, without meaning to, his body reacting to his mind’s unspoken fear that she may yet disappear. She lets him, sometimes tucking her body into the contours of his, other times turning in his hold to wrap her arms around him in return. 

They’re laying like this one night, her head against his chest, his nose brushing her hair, both sated and drifting on the edge of sleep. Aleksander idly considers his tasks for the next day, while his sun summoner traces patterns of light over his skin. She draws back, and he relaxes his hold enough to look down at her. Her thoughts are heavier than he expected, some inner struggle creasing her brow. He doesn’t expect the question that follows.

"Did you feel it, before me?" She hesitates, as if searching for the right word. "The… emptiness?"

And he remembers that he didn’t feel that much older than her when he'd opened the Fold, tearing apart the very fabric of the world out of his grief and desperation and fear of losing the people he had left. She may not be able to match the age-worn depth of his feelings, but he shouldn't underestimate the depth of them. The young feel everything so much more fiercely, he remembers. 

His mother had tried to tell him, back then, that what he felt would fade. He'd known she was wrong then, but he knows it with earned certainty now. Age may have dulled the edges of that grief, but to lose it would be to lose a part of himself. Time has given him perspective for those emotions as it held onto their all-consuming breadth. 

One forgot the passion of youth at their own peril. He'd made that mistake with Alina already. So many years, and still so much to learn. 

“Yes,” he answers. It costs him a small sliver of his pride, but the price is well worth it. In his arms, Alina relaxes, losing a small thread of tension he hadn’t realized she held. “I thought it was my burden to bear,” he continues. “I never thought we could have this.”

Her lips curve in the slightest smile. “I didn’t know what I was missing,” she admits. “Until I found you, I thought that’s how it was.”

He tightens his arms around her, pulling her up for a kiss. He takes his time, exploring the lips he’s come to know so well, reminding them both of what they’ve found together. 

“It might’ve been,” he says as they break apart. “But in a world where we met, I could never have stayed apart from you.”

She responds with a blush and a contented sigh as her lips return to his. They lay there together in their bed, passing kisses back and forth for nothing more than the pleasure of sharing them. The night deepens and, eventually, sleep catches up to them.

Alina relaxes in his arms, eyes fluttering closed. His shadows slip across the room and extinguish the last lamp. Comfortable darkness settles over the room while in the bed, Alina wraps Aleksander in her light.

[ofstarsandfireflies]

One of my faves, got half way through before I realised I had to take notes lol

She was a hero to the people.

She was the Ancient One, hooded and cloaked to hide her identity.

And, she was a mother.

It was thanks to two young boys helping her while she’d been preoccupied that she got to go home to her son and tell him the story of the Ancient One’s victory over Howard Stark.

Even if he couldn’t understand it, he seemed entertained by the magic swirling around him and by her voice.

She and her wife, Maria, are happy, and with Stark defeated, she plans to never use magic again.

That they and their son, Anthony, can live happily from now on.

It’s then Howard Stark drops by with an army behind him, looking for one last fight.

And in this one she loses everything.

Maria is killed protecting her, little Tony is taken to be raised by her enemy, and the house she had wanted to build her family in is burnt to the ground as she is taken to a prison where all magic abusers go.

One day.

One day she will have her revenge.

Twenty years pass before her day finally arrives.

The only thing that has been keeping her going is her revenge.

Killing Howard like she should have done all those years and getting her son back.

So, seeing her opportunity to escape, she takes it, fleeing into the night only to find the country she tried so hard to protect from Stark now ruled by him.

He’s a much larger target than he ever was twenty years ago, but that didn’t matter.

All she could feel was the anger pulsing in her veins at all that had been denied her.

All she could hear was his voice echoing around her as she got closer to the stage he was standing on, the people she’d fought for and given her life to shouting and cheering for him.

She’d make him pay.

Even if she couldn’t wield magic as well as she used to, even if she died doing so, she would rid the world of him once and for all.

And just when she saw her opening, just when she’d pulled the blade from her belt, she heard a voice calling Howard ‘Father.’

A young man, with brown hair and brown eyes the same as the woman she had loved and lost so long ago, stepped onto the stage as Howard intoroduced him the crowd as his son, Tony Stark.

Tony had grown up into a fine young man.

A man who should be told the truth, who deserved that much from her.

So, she would back away for now.

She would need someone younger to take up the mantle of Sorcerer Supreme and do all she could no longer.

As fate would have it, one such student wasn’t too far away.

Stephen Strange was drunk.

His brother had just been killed by a highly skilled Sorcerer, one he was in no shape to fight with his hands being what they were.

He’d relied on his brother for everything, and now he was alone with nothing but revenge in his heart and alcohol clouding his mind.

And the amulet his brother had been given by the Sorcerer Supreme twenty years ago.

He tries bartering it off for more alcohol, but is stopped by a woman, who tries to talk him out of giving it away.

It’s then Stephen sees a the man who killed his brother.

He stands up from his chair, intent on killing him, and almost falls over in the process.

She helps him steady himself as she tries to get his mind to think rationally.

But Stephen isn’t listening.

He would kill him.

Even if he couldn’t wield magic, even if he died doing so, he would rid the world of him once and for alll

And she knows exactly how he feels, but she won’t let him rush in there to die when she can train him to fight this man and live to see another day.

Stephen only scoffs at her, showing her his hands.

He’d never be able to use magic with how badly his hands shake, every master he’d ever gone to had said the same thing to him.

But she knows different.

Knows better.

And points to the amulet Stephen had almost traded for alcohol, telling him who she used to be.

Stephen follows her to what remains of the underground Sanctum, unable to believe the actual Sorcerer Supreme is still alive.

And begins his training.

It takes time, time which they have little of, but with her instruction Stephen picks things up rather quickly.

She focuses on the basics, knowing there will be plenty of time for him to increase his skill once her son is safe from Stark.

And soon, even with his hands, he’s easily using the same techniques that had once come so naturally to her.

His first test comes in the form of a sentient cloak that looks exactly like the one she used to wear, being taken to the Stark residence.

But when he goes to rescue it, covering his face with a mask so he’s not recognised, he runs into his second test.

That being Tony, who had accidentally stumbled upon Stephen’s hiding place.

They share a short moment, one that is continued after Stephen manages to get the cloak free and is hiding once again, listening to Tony talk about his interaction with him.

And to hear that this gorgeous man had impure thoughts about him, is nothing short of spectacular.

He just wishes he could tell him that in that moment, he wasn’t alone.

When he gets back to the Sanctum, she is there waiting for him.

They need to find out what Howard is planning, what he was talking about that day on stage.

And to do that, Stephen will need to attend the gala Stark is hosting.

He’ll need to charm his way into it because every dirty scumbag Stark has ties to will be there and she knows Howard has always favoured them with his plans.

And it’s at the gala that Stephen not only meets Howard Stark, but Tony again, officially this time.

And even displays a little magic.

Not the kind that he uses in his training, only a mere sleight of hand to present to Tony a single rose, but its impressive enough to make Tony smile and his charm is enough that he’s given entry into the high class party.

And even to the Stark’s table, where Tony shows his support for the Sorcerer Supreme and what they stand for, much to his father’s displeasure, and Stephen finally learns the name of the man who killed his brother.

Baron Mordo.

He’d give anything to kill the man he’s being forced to smile and laugh in front of, and Tony doesn’t take too kindly to having his opinions joked about, making sure to hold Stephen’s gaze when he accepts Mordo’s invition to dance.

So, Stephen excuses himself from the table he worked so hard to get a seat at to interrupt their dance and take over as Tony’s dancing partner.

And as she watches them, she can’t help but smile at how well her student and son look together.

But hands are wandering from simple dancing positions to exploration, eyes glued to one another as Howard Stark charges over to them when they begin to lean in a little too close for his liking.

Talking his way back into Howard’s favour, making Tony storm off, Howard decides to let Stephen in on his plans.

The very plans that will cement the Stark name in the history books.

Howard Stark was going to create a world where magic would have no comparison to the energy and weapons fused by that energy of his own engineering, with the construction of a huge device called the Arc Reactor.

And it was going to make the nuclear reactorlook like a triple A battery.

Stephen is shocked by the news, only managing a nod when he, along with the other guests, are told to come back the next day to see its progress.

And when he does, what he sees, makes him even angrier.

Howard isn’t even building this thing himself, he has people working to the brink of death to build it for him.

And as those invited watch some of the workers die right before them, Stephen offers a friendly face of a man who was once a doctor to one of them, and they pass, knowing they’re not alone.

And when Stephen stands once again, all he can see is Mordo smiling, almost knowingly.

It’s while Stephen and Howard are out, Tony tries to strike a conversation up with the woman Stephen brought with him, wondering if they ever met before.

He can’t place it, but he could swear her voice sounds familiar.

And to hear her speak of his mother, almost in a way she knew her, it’s curious, but he can almost believe that she did know her.

And when Tony leaves their conversation, She can’t help but feel hollow inside.

Twenty years without her son, allowing him to be raised by her enemy, and she was closer to her revenge back when she attempted to kill Howard on that stage than the many months she spent training Stephen.

She has to take matters into her own hands, and leave whatever Howard has planned to the new Sorcerer Supreme.

Tasking Stephen with obtaining a map to where the reactor is located would have been a rather simple task if Tony hadn’t spotted the robed and masked Sorcerer, wielding his own magic and besting Stephen at every turn until the cocky wizard starts stealing kisses whenever he can and ripping Tony’s shirt to shreds.

And it’s only when Stephen leans in for a genuine kiss that Tony kisses him back, forgetting all about whatever Stephen may have stolen from his father.

And only remembering when Stephen has to leave and Howard walks in to find his son half dressed and out of breath.

With the location now known, Stephen is finally told the truth about Tony and how he fits into all of this and his relation to his teacher.

His anger boils over.

How dare she be making her own plans for revenge when he still hasn’t gotten his, when there are people in need of the Sorcerer Supreme once again.

But she simply tells him she’s passing on the mantle of it to him, and will not speak any more of it to him.

Stephen has no choice but to go along with this plan, heading to the Arc Reactor’s location alone while his master heads to the Stark residence and catches Howard unawares, demanding he call for Tony.

When Tony arrives, confused about what is happening, Howard is given specific instructions of what to tell Tony, but Howard refuses, trying to play it off like this deranged woman lost a son and wants Tony for herself.

But Tony is much smarter than Howard gives him credit for, and knows she isn’t lying.

When he steps closer to her, he knows she’s his mother.

And almost meets the same fate as the one his father said he loved and had died in child birth when Mordo tries to kill the intruder, Howard just managing to push his aim off at the last second to save his son.

Tony is more than willing to fight off the guards who have been called to take his mother away, he’ll stand in front of her and he won’t move, but a gentle hand on his arm has him doing so.

She won’t let him get hurt on her behalf.

She got to see him one last time, she got to tell him the truth, and now he knows everything.

What Tony does with that information is up to him.

Breaking her out of the prison she’d been locked in is the first thing to come to his mind, aiding in her escape and following her to where his father is.

And the inhumane sight of all the workers locked in their very place of work to be destroyed along with any evidence is what they find as the Arc Reactor is being readied to be transported elsewhere.

His mother runs to stop Howard as Tony focuses his attention on getting everyone out before they’re all killed, unknowing that Stephen isn’t too far away, locked in a battle of his own against Mordo.

It’s a short battle, Stephen taking his mask off so Mordo can see his face just as a portal encases him and the entire place is levelled from the explosion.

Tony is rushing around, checking on the survivors and trying to find his mother and father, when he recognises the robes of the Sorcerer Supreme.

And then they turn to look at him.

And he sees its Stephen.

Tony is staring at him, finally seeing him without the mask on and realising who he is, who he was, and Stephen can’t help but smile at him.

It turns sad when he sees the questions in his eyes, knowing neither the Sorcerer Supreme nor her mortal enemy made it out alive, and he holds Tony close.

Stephen will make sure to protect Tony with the magic she taught him, and tell her stories to keep her memory alive.

Quotes -

“I want you to live with the knowledge that you have lost everything that you hold dear. I want you to suffer, as I have suffered, knowing that your child should have been mine.”

Howard taking Tony from his mother.

“It was my brother’s. He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? Why should you be sorry?”

“You should not trade that for a mere glass of whiskey.”

“Why not? You think I could get two?”

Stephen meeting the woman who would turn him into the next Sorcerer Supreme

“Well, I try to behave properly, the way my father would like me to, but I’m afraid my heart is too wild.”

“Too wild?”

“Yes.”

“Could you be a little more specific about that?”

“I had impure thoughts about a man. I did. I think he was a bandit or something. He wore a black mask.”

“He has a deep voice?”

“Yes.”

“Ruggedly handsom?”

“I don’t know his face was half covered. But something in his eyes captured me.”

“Captured you.”

“I felt warm and feverish...”

“Lustful?”

“Yes. Lustful. Forgive me.”

“I forgive you.”

Tony talking about meeting Stephen to Stephen without realising it.

“What about the prisoners?”

“There’s nothing more I can do for them.”

“You mean, nothing you will do.”

“I gave my life to them! In return I lost everything. My wife was murdered before my eyes, my child was stolen to be raised by my mortal enemy.”

“Montero....Elena. She’s your daughter?”

“She was.”

“So, you will simply take your revenge.”

“No, I will take my daughter. And don’t pretend she means nothing to you.”

Stephen learning the truth.

To Rise Again.

There must always be a Sorcerer Supreme.

The title is meant to help the people, but the previous decides to train her new student to extract her revenge on the man who took everything from her.

January, February

Missed a Day? Catch up here!

Day 1 Day 2 Day 3 Day 4 Day 5

Day 6

[thelordofdarkreunion]

Magnificent Scoundrels- Battle Above the Citadel

While the battle on the ground rages on, the battle in space is a bit more... lopsided.  This me giving you the contents of a space battle and how the different factions operate.  Hope you like it.

“There is nothing as beautiful and deadly as a battleship’s broadside.”

Aboard the Chimaera 

Captain Faro paced on the sleek black deck of the Chimaera’s bridge.  Her gloved hands clasped neatly behind her back, green uniform immaculately pressed, and brown hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, she was every inch the model Imperial Navy officer, inside and outside.  Grand Admiral Thrawn had personally chosen her to command his ship after his elevation to the rank of Admiral, and she had not let him down once.  Today would be no exception.  

The chatter of various deck officers, stationed below her, reached her ears.  The attacking fleet was within range.  She allowed herself a small smile.  Good.

“TIEs are to retain holding patterns around the fleet.  I do not want them out there unsupported,” she said.  The TIE Wing Commander nodded his ascent.  

“Yes, Captain,” he replied.  She turned to the other divot in the command deck where additional officers were stationed.

“Gunnery Officer?”

“Yes, Captain?”

“Are the main batteries in range,” she asked.  Of course, she already knew the answer.  

“Yes, Captain,” saluted the Gunnery Officer.  She gave a slight nod.

“You may fire when ready.��  Nothing more was needed from her.  Both she and Thrawn ran a tight ship.  The comms chatter of the gunnery officers and mates reached her ears.  

“Main batteries in range,” reported the Gunnery Chief of the four massive starboard turbo-laser batteries.  

“You may fire when ready,” replied the Gunnery Officer.

“Secondary batteries in range,” reported a Gunnery Mate.

“You may fire when ready.”  Not a single ounce of emotion in the Gunnery Officer’s voice.  Faro nodded her approval.

“Tertiary batteries in range.”

“Hold fire until you reach optimal range.”

“Point defense batteries out of range.”  No surprise there.  Not a single ship of the attack fleet seemed to want to close distance with the three massive Star Destroyers.  Pity, actually.  Then again, no sane commander of a capital ship would ever want to go broadside to broadside with an Imperial Star Destroyer…  Faro was snapped out of her tangent by the voice of the Gunnery Chief over the comms.  

“Starboard turbo-lasers: commence firing.  Target: frigate-class ship designate target delta five-zero-oh.”  

The four massive turrets rotated slightly in their stations, locking on to a pitifully small ship in the distance.  Captain Faro felt her pulse rise slightly.  There was nothing, nothing, that could compare to the full might of a Destroyer’s guns tearing into enemies.  

 With a suddenness that astounded, the turbo-lasers spat green bolts of death into the void.  The four gun barrels of each turret fired only once, as the bolts travelled with a speed that astounded to their targets.  They passed through the frigate’s shields as if they did not exist, straight through the ship’s sturdy armor plating, and blew it apart.  There was no need for a second volley.  The frigate ceased to exist with only one.  

Faro sighed to herself.  This was unbecoming of a Destroyer Captain of her stature.  Swatting flies with guns powerful enough to melt moons.  Ridiculous.  Still, it was what Grand Admiral Thrawn commanded, and so it was done without question or hesitation.

Aboard the Enterprise

Spock watched with fascination as the combined fleets of the various governments present at the Citadel engaged the enemy.  It was… ridiculously easy, to put it bluntly.  This mass of disorganized attackers in all sorts of mis-matched ships were no contest for the pride of at least fifteen galaxy-spanning navies.  He only gave the occasional command to the bridge crew.  They did their jobs well; not much need for direction.  What he was interested in was how each of the different navies fought and how their starships worked.  

He saw the Normandy zip through space with all the elegance of a fighter craft.  Sleek and elegant, it fired a twin pair of cannons mounted beneath the hull, promptly vaporizing an attacking ship.  The navies of the Citadel races kept their distance, using tactics similar to Starfleet ones.  Spock nodded his silent approval.  The weapons from this galaxy were all railgun types, if, of course, a railgun could ever describe something as sophisticated and powerful as an Element Zero mass-driven weapon.  From what Spock understood, they used this Element Zero to propel small particles at astounding speeds, quite similar in theory as a railgun.  Their ships, thus, used massive kinetic barrier shields, designed to stop physical projectiles.

That particular type of shielding came at a massive disadvantage when facing the heavy laser batteries of Imperial and New Republic ships, though.  The weapons from that particular galaxy all used ionized gasses to create powerful lasers, which completely ignored physical shields.  Spock winced as the main batteries of the Chimaera fired, promptly vaporizing a fair sized attacking starship.  The two were distinctly different, he mused, with one using all physical weapons and the other using only energy weapons.  The shields of the vessels from that galaxy were only designed to stop energy weapons, something that came back to bite them when the heavy guns of one of the larger attacking ships scoured twin holes in the flank of a Destroyer.  Didn’t put it out of commission, though.  You’d need a lot more firepower to do that.  

The starships of the UNSC, Galactic Assembly and the singular Apocalypse seemed to operate on very similar principles.  They had physical shields, and the ships from both galaxies used long range rail- and coil-guns in tandem with heavy missile batteries.  Not quite as effective as the massive turbo-lasers at blowing the hell out of genetically-shielded starships, but it worked.  

Then, of course, there was the Watch Eternal.  Unlike the sleek and lighting-quick ships of the Citadel, or the technological masterworks of the Starfleet, or the heavy energy weapons of the New Republic or the Galactic Empire, or, even, the balanced yet deadly payloads of the UNSC, GA, or Merchant's Guild, the massive, cathedral-like behemoth operated on one principle, and one principle only: sheer, unaldurated power.  There were no quirks, no tactics, no maneuverability, only power on a level that simply astounded the Enterprise’s First Officer.  He had watched all the different ships of the allied fleets, taking readings from all of them and observing what they could do.  When the Eternal had raised shields, several of the bridge crews’ mouths had dropped open.  The wattage that had gone into those shields was more than some of the Starfleet ships could get from their reactors, period.  The shields themselves were not sleek, or designed to hug every curve of the ship.  Instead, they were a massive bubble of energy, projected into the space around the ship, designed to deflect physical projectiles, energy projectiles, and enemy sensor readings alike.  Spock looked over at the belfries and massive Aquilia statues with distaste.  He did not like the ship, nor the government it was in service to, but he could not deny it was, in a brutish, barbarian way, very deadly.   

Aboard the Watch Eternal

Captain Striecher sat on his command throne, as he had every day for the past five decades.  His physical body had almost wasted away, only surviving through the nutrients he took in from the tubes connecting him to the ship.  His physical body, however, did not matter.  His mind could see every system, every weapon, every inch of the mighty starship’s systems and control them with merely a thought.  He was in his element.  

Void shields online.  Long range macro-cannons online and operating at full capacity.  Point defense macro-cannons online and operating at full capacity.  Starboard broadside lance batteries online and fully operational.  Port broadside lance batteries online and fully operational.  Forward heavy lances online and fully operational.  Torpedoes loaded.  Heavy missile batteries online, loaded, and locked onto targets.  Underside macro-cannons, torpedo tubes, and lance batteries online and ready for orbital bombardment.  He took in all of this at once, and discarded it.  The Inquisitors wanted something more than the simple destruction of the attacking fleet.  They wanted information.  

Striecher mentally activated the multi-faction comms channel that the Scoundrels were oh-so helpful to set up.  

“All ships, this is the Watch Eternal.  Do not fire upon the flagship of the attacking fleet.  That one is ours,” he commanded.  His voice was the one part of his body that he did not allow to wither.  He still needed it.  A chorus of acknowledgements came through the channel, some rather confused.  It didn’t matter.  No one would fire on the cruiser that served as the attacking fleet’s flagship.  

Deep in the bowels of the massive ship, Watch Captain Kaes and his Kill Team stood in the teleportarium.  A dozen serfs and tech-priests tended to the esoteric machines in the room.  The lighting was dim, but such trivialities did not bother the transhuman super-soldiers of the Deathwatch or their augmented servants.  

“We teleport in, get the data from the enemy flagship’s cognators, as per the Inquisitors’ instructions, then teleport out.  Anyone aboard the ship is to be terminated on sight.  Clear?”  The room shook with the acknowledgements of a dozen voices, amplified through their power armor.  

“Clear!”  

“Good.”  The Captain turned to the lead tech-priest.  “Magos.  We stand ready.”  The blank faceplate of the techpriest nodded back.  

“May the Omnissiah bless your endeavour.”  The priest (Kaes couldn’t tell if it was originally a man or woman beneath the robes and augmetics and suspected it didn’t really matter) turned and flipped a heavy switch.  “Stand by to teleport.”  

Aboard the Beyond

Captain Melos chewed his lower lip nervously as he watched the attack fleet, his fleet, get completely annihilated.  He was chosen to lead this assault, and, dammit, he was failing.   The Beyond was a powerful cruiser, built in secret, thought to be powerful enough to lead the assault force to take on the Citadel Fleet.  Only, the Fleet had been beefed up by Commander John bloody Shepard.  Even then, he might have confused them enough to have the ground agents on the Citadel take over, but no.  There were at least thirty starships that could match or outgun his beloved Beyond, not counting the trimultive of triangular super-dreadnaughts or the utterly massive cathedral… thing.  Dammit.  

Melos’s fleet was in ruins.  He would not be pleased.  Melos didn’t know what he would tell him.  Hopefully he would be merciful… but mercy wouldn’t count for much if Melos was dead in the first place.  He was about to turn to his crew, to tell them to get out of Citadel space, when a strange feeling overtook him.  It was like the pressure before a thunderstorm, only much, much worse.  Several of his lieutenants blinked heavily or clutched their heads at the unexpected feeling, seeking to dispel it.  It lasted only for a moment, then…

A massive crack of displacing air sounded, and suddenly, there was a group of giants in their midst.  At least eight feet tall, they all wore heavy black armor and clutched various, utterly terrifying weapons.  Red lenses swept the bridge crew for a moment, and, before anyone could react, the giants lept into action.  Two leapt left, two right, moving faster than anything that big had any right to.  They lashed out with swords of all things, energy fields crackling around blades and horrible chain-teeth whirring.  The bridge crew died in seconds, completely unprepared for an attack of this sort.  

Melos took all this in with horror, then realized the leader of the terrible giants, wearing a cloak and much more ornate armor, was stepping towards him.  He whimpered, and tried to take a step back, but his legs failed him as he stood there, terrified beyond belief.  

Watch Captain Kaes disdained to use the colossal halberd in his right hand, instead picking up the captain of the ship with his massive left gauntlet.  He squeezed, crushing the man’s head as easily as a normal human crushing an aluminum can.  He sighed to himself.  Too easy.  Several shots sounded behind him as his rear guard gunned down a few crewmen trying to make it to the bridge.  He nodded at another Marine, this one with several robotic arms hanging from a pack on his back.  

“Won’t take but a second, Watch Captain,” said the Marine, moving up to the ship’s computers.  The Captain and the men who had slaughtered the bridge crew waited, impassive in their armor, as their technological expert’s gauntlets flew across the computer keys, muttering about “bloody mortals and their too-small holographic keyboards.”  Twenty seconds and none dead crew members later, the tech expert nodded.  

“We’re good to go,” he stated as he walked up to the Captain.  

“Brothers,” said the Captain, and the rest of the Marines stood next to him, the rear guard’s weapons still pointed at the bridge exit where a few crew members cowered out of line of sight.  

“Magos.  Our mission is complete.  Ready to teleport,” said the Captain.  In lieu of a response, the Marines vanished in a thunderclap of dissipating air, their mission complete.  The mighty guns of the Watch Eternal erased any trace of their presence as red beams struck the Beyond, vaporizing it.  The Inquisitors would be most intrigued to see inside information on how this galaxy operated.

There we have it.  Hope you enjoyed the story.  If you have any questions, comments, concerns, criticisms, or requests, feel free to ask!  Wherever you are, have a great day!

[moonandstars]

Tainted Sorrow

Plot : You work in the mafia and Taeyong is the boss.You both suck at feelings.

words : 5.8k

warning : violence, mentions of death and blood, nothing graphic just mafia related stuff

details : inspired by Bungou Stray Dogs but this is stand alone and independent. knowing BSD is not required to read this.

A/N : just boss era Taeyong. Thats all.

I

"I swear boss, it wasn't me. I would never betray you." The man said lying on floor, covered and drowned in his own blood, bruises covering his face and his body barely able to move.

You watch as Taeyong leans down and lands a punch of the man's face, sending him flying few steps back. Taeyong looks invincible as he walks ahead and stops, there's a red light glowing around his form, a thin red border covering his whole body as he stares at the man on the ground.

 Taeyong leans down again and places his leg on the man's head.

"If you want an end to your misery, I suggest you speak while you still can." Taeyong spoke calmly.

"I am sorry boss-" You are not even startled by listening to the sounds that come, having witness it countless time. The red glow of Taeyong swallow the man and his body forced downwards towards the ground, almost buried inside. Taeyong takes out his gun and shoots him three time in the chest. The man lies lifeless on the floor and Taeyong is walking back towards you.

 There's no words exchanged as you both walk outside the building and get into the car while everyone bows . This is the life in the mafia and this is the life of the city, where a few powerful organisations with people with gifted ability runs the city. The people who are gifted with an ability are few, but still their existence is known. There's no telling who out there might posses what kind of ability. One of those organisation happened to be the Mafia, run and controlled by the Mafia Boss, Lee Taeyong, a manipulator of gravity; an ability that allows him to manipulate the gravity of him and his surrounding; one of the most powerful ability to exist.

 "These shitty pawns are nothing but headache when lured." Taeyong mutters. And it's all good. The traitor is gone and an example is set for the others and they had the enemy's information.

 "You should wait out your violence until I am able to choke out all the information from them, I thought we were clear on that." You said as the car started.

"And I did."

 "By a few seconds-"

"You can't seriously expect me to wait killing him after he betrayed me."

"You just use violence and your power every time-"

"And you are just too damn smart for your own good. I appreciate your intelligence but sometimes tearing apart their limbs is more important." Taeyong said with a tone that implied that end of conversation.

 "Sure, whatever the boss says after all." You said with a sneer. It was a very common banter between you both, too common. It has been like that since you fought each other as mere kids, kids who were not normal, kids who have had far more blood on their hands than they could give account for. Ever since the day you both met, it has been countless bickering, competitions and the hunt for more successful missions, for you both combined were the mafia's most powerful weapon after all. But beneath those countless fights, lies a trust that neither of you will admit ; a trust that you place in each other that even in the most gruesome of situations, even at the cost of your own lives, you will save each other. 

You harbored more feelings for him than just that. It took a long while to admit those to yourselves. After all what even could you call those? Love? Love is for kids who exchange shy notes between classes, for normal people who look for company, for the youth that walks under the cherry blossoms with a smile on their lips and glitter in their eyes not for monster like you or Taeyong. You were kids who learned to use a knife before learning to write; who don't look for company but for blood; mafia leaders that have sin on their lips and death in their eyes.

  II

It was around midnight when you were done making a few important calls for the next mission. You were waiting for Taeyong in his office, which was just adjacent to yours on the highest floor of the mafia's long glass building that stood in the center of the city; also the tallest building in the city. Midnight was when the mafia works, everyone in the city was aware that the nights were run by the mafia and even the government could not interfere.There was a limited truce.

 You sighed and looked at glass window which covered the entire floor, the moon was bright and big, staring strongly back at you; asking you; pitying you. You were not strong enough to stare back so you looked at your reflection in the glass; a black jeans with black boots hugging your legs, a white shirt with a black bolo tie, sleeves rolled to your elbow, a black belt choker sitting on your neck; a gift from Taeyong; "It looks so beautiful on your neck." He had whispered in the night, words that only bloom under the moon, forgotten and left in the morning while both walk forward.

  Love is not for sinners.

A series of strong footsteps draws your attention towards the big wooden doors, behind those Taeyong appears, walking powerfully as he always does. He can fly as high as he can, defying the very nature of physics but when he walks; he makes his presence as loud as he can; strong.

  "It's so the world knows my existence, my power; so that I know I exist."

The black tiles crumble beneath him as he gracefully walks towards his grand table. His usual black attire, black pants and white shirt; a black blazer with a long black overcoat hanging on his shoulders, flowing behind him. His hands in black gloves. A black onyx bolo tie sitting proudly underneath his collar; a gift from you. "This compliments your aura."  His hair bright crimson, matching the blood on his face, that's definitely not his.

 "Admiring the beautiful moon tonight,__?" Taeyong spoke wiping the blood off his face.

"At least there's something worth admiring here." Taunts flowing from you like a second nature, something that only Taeyong brings out.

 "Admire away then, amusing to see your laziness doesn't stops you from that." 

You smile, hidden from him, what actually amusing is how riled Taeyong gets from small taunts, all the more reason to annoy him.

"Well shitty Boss, my lazy strategy plans saves your ass multiple times."

"Well fucker my ass can be saved just fine without your shitty plans." It's a lie, he knows it but nobody points it out. 

There's a knock at the door before before you can say something. Taeyong presses a button and the door opens, giving a sight of Yuta. He bows and makes his way inside, standing in front of Taeyong's desk. He gives a small bow again and looks up. He looks up ragged up, as if just came here from a fight, which he probably did. But still no signs of any injury, his purple hair a little disheveled but his black jeans and shirt still in place.

"Thirty six total deaths. Five of our own."  Yuta says and Taeyong lets out a soft sigh and a pained expression crosses his eyes, gone as soon as it came, at the mention of the death of our own. Deaths of mafia's men has always pained Taeyong more than he shows, as if even after sacrificing his humanity he is still the most human inside. 

"What is the result of their lives, Yuta san?" Taeyong asked.

"__'s predictions were right. The special ops department are planning to disrupt the deal tomorrow and most possibly launch an attack. The lead you told me to follow lead into their group today, they also have few gifted ones with them. They possibly have few spies in the company that's arriving tomorrow for the deal." Yuta  breathed. 

"Then the answer is clear. If they dare to interfere, the mafia will retaliate." Taeyong said lazily, but his eyes spoke sheer danger and revenge.

"The Black Lizard won't let you down." Yuta said, voice dancing with excitement, as if he wanted someone to dare just so he could get the chance to kill. Nakamoto Yuta, the commander of Black Lizard, a special unit under the Mafia which exist only for one reason, to annihilate the enemy. His gifted ability was what made his ways of killing even special, an ability to create illusions on his target, playing with their minds, allowing himself to dissociate them from their reality and kill them within their madness. For such a skilled assassin Yuta is, he can do the job just fine even without using his ability, but you wonder that he just likes to see his victim in pain and confusion while he toys with them.

 "I won't expect anything less." Taeyong spoke with a dismissive tone.

 Yuta sighed and looked up you and then at Taeyong. "Boss I am deeply sorry for the lives of our subordinates that were lost under my command." Yuta spoke, his eyes deep in grieve. 

A small smile ghosted over Taeyong lips as if he was expecting, waiting for Yuta's apology.

 "Yuta san, as long their deaths gives us a meaning, all is forgiven." 

 Yuta nodded and turned around walking towards the door from where he came, his shoulders a little less tense than they were before.

 "Yuta san." You voiced out. "Patch yourself up before the fight. It will be more uglier then." 

"I wish I could but my boss is very ruthless and demanding employee." Yuta said amusingly.

 "That I cannot deny." You spoke looking over to Taeyong, a small smile in your eyes.

"Give yourself a rest after the black caskets are out. We need all the power for tomorrow." Taeyong said annoyingly with affection. 

"Sometimes I forget you're such a nice person Taeyong!!" Yuta said teasingly and walked out.

 It is all good because it is Yuta, a member of mafia, a men of your own, a friend from the forgotten but longing years of childhood, a small kid who bumped into you and Taeyong and has always been here since then. If it was anyone else, any other mafia member, they would have knelt in front of Taeyong before even daring to look up; If it was anyone else, they would have shaken with fear, kept their eyes down; If it was not Yuta, even an informal breath would have resulted in something cruel and tragic.

III

You were still standing there, admiring the moon. Taeyong standing besides you, his presence bringing a familiar warmth towards you. An intimate silence broken by Taeyong.

 "The moon is beautiful tonight, isn't it?" He breathed, looking at you. An honest expression, at least as honest as he could muster, spread over his face. You smiled, treasuring this moment with all your heart.

 Moments like this which only existed in the darkness, in the quiet of night where the moonlight gave your vulnerable being a protection, a  shelter which covered your soul and made it more honest. A few more moments passed like this until you spoke again. 

"Do you wanna hear a plan?" 

"I was waiting for that." He smiled.

 "All the reports that you showed me, I am definite there will be a full attack on us." You started. " And they will bring out the ability users, although I am quite doubtful there will be more than two. The best moment of attack for them would be-"

 "In the middle of the deal." He completed. 

"They have the intel that the mafia boss would be there, probably from the traitor you killed before."

 "They are still no match for the mafia. We will proceed according your the plan." He said and sat on the table looking over the city while stood to his right, like always. 

You observed his face, eyes shimmering from the reflection, lashes casting a shadow on his cheeks; the moonlight shining on his face. You were busy in staring, forgetting he was looking back.

 "Now who's worth admiring?" He asked.

 "Well still not you fucker." A weak jab.

"Stop thinking about tomorrow." He said, rubbing a thumb over your forehead.

 "Can't help it."

"None of their armed men compares to ours and as far as the ability users are concerned, we have you." He spoke.

 He was right. Ability users had no effect on you due to your own ability. Your gift was a disabling ability, an ability that allows you to nullify any other ability with just a simple touch on their skin. Some say it's a useless ability, Taeyong says it's the mafia's ace. You already knew who to believe.

 "You're an ability user too. I could disable your power and get rid of you too."

 "You could and you should. But you won't." Taeyong mused.

 Your ability takes away the ability of others, makes them vulnerable, takes away a part of themselves that makes them special. It's easy to defeat them because they are so dependent on their abilities, they don't know what else to do. Taeyong is not a slave to his ability. His ability does not define him. Even if it is taken away from him, he's still Lee Taeyong. The man who rules the mafia, the man who kills his enemies mercilessly; the man who makes you feel human in the most inhuman ways. 

As you watch him leaning against your shoulder, you can't help but think about what is he to you. You don't often, because it is so tiring to think about the same thing again and again and yet not being able to reach a conclusion. A friend, you both have never used that word, too busy bickering and silly fighting with each other to use the word friends. A lover, that word always stung too deep within you. A word too pure, too beautiful, too normal for someone like you. Lovers cannot define the complex relationship you had with Taeyong. Countless nights of sex, tangled with each other, whispering softly all the things in the night that vanish in the daylight, small gifts hidden somewhere, birthdays celebrated in the company of each other, a silent respect, a strong trust and a hard and sharp instinct of protecting each other at any cost. It was clear that you both were exclusive to each other but nobody ever said that it was a relationship. And love was never on either of yours tongue ever.

  Love is for humans. What are you?

You discarded the idea of love a long time ago. You don't know when you fell in love with Taeyong, at fifteen perhaps when you both met or at sixteen when you both became mafia's strongest weapon or maybe at seventeen when you both secretly bought a safe house together, or might be at eighteen when you both were mafia's youngest executives. You don't know. You didn't need to know. A partner, that has always been more intimate to you than anything else. You both were partners as soon as you joined the mafia, a string of successful missions beside your names. You could jump in front of bullets knowing Taeyong would stop them. Maybe a partner was the best word to describe what he was to you.

"You know it's like I can still hear his voices in this office." Taeyong whispered. You tensed, you knew exactly who he meant. A ghost of the past that still haunts you.

"It's like he's angry that I am in his office, in his place." Taeyong continues.

 "Taeyong." You tried.

"He just looks at me like he always did with those fucked up eyes and his ugly smile-"

"Taeyong, there's no one here."

"And he keeps asking why I stabbed him that night but he knows, right, he knows why."

"Taeyong" You said lifting his head. "He's not here. He's dead. You're the boss now." 

"He keeps whispering in my ear that how am I monster, like he told me-"

"Taeyong! You're not a monster. The old boss is dead, for good. He's gone forever." You said sternly, holding his face.

 No matter how many people Taeyong has killed, the only soul that has bothered him was of the mafia's previous boss. A crafty man of great power, who brought you all into the mafia world, who taught you how to perfectly slit a throat, how to manipulate someone to the core; he taught, made you into a perfect weapon, a tool. The hatred for that man runs deep in your skin, even deeper for Taeyong since he was always the target of boss's puzzles. This will make you even more stronger, He used to say, while watching you get tortured by enemies in return for obtaining information. Until one day he went too far, that day he died by the hands of Taeyong, while you stood and watched serving as a witness as his position for the next mafia boss. 

"He told me he saw himself in me. What does that says about me? "

"Taeyong. We are not going to believe his words." You spoke taking his hand. "You want to go home?"

"Always."

A place to live for you both was the pent house in the mafia's building, just a floor below the office, provided with every luxury that a man could imagine. Home was an apartment in the city, a place that used to serve a secret safe house for you both, but now it's where the peace resided and where the words come out and bloom and where you feel a little human with Taeyong.

  IV

You stepped out of the car with Taeyong at the extraction point, a few steps far away from where the dealing was supposed to take place at a warehouse. You were waiting for the latest information before proceeding any further. You watched as Taeyong in his usual mafia attire, dragged a puff from his cigarette looking up the sky, a cloudy night with no moon or stars in sight. He throws the half smoked cigarette down and crushes it, turning towards you.

 "The moon looks beautiful tonight."

"It's a foggy night Taeyong, we can't even see the moon."

"I can."

 "Taeyong-"

"BOSS!" Yuta comes walking from the shadows of trees, looking around quickly and bowing to Taeyong.

 "What's the news?" Taeyong spoke calmly. 

"They will launch an attack. It's given." Taeyong looked at you while he listened to Yuta. "They have men around the warehouse at a distance. Of course, our men have them covered. There are two gifted, we have eyes on one, his ability is related to controlling the wind around him. I will be able to take him down."

"And the other?" You asked, looking at Yuta's expression darkened. 

"We don't know. He controls his size. That's all I could gather. How much threat he holds is still questionable." 

"He must be an ace considering how secretly his power has been kept." You thought.

 "For the special ops to be so brave with launching an open attack like this on us. I just pity for their lives." Taeyong said.

 "Boss I don't think we should underestimate them." 

"Are you doubting your skills Yuta san?" Taeyong said darkly.

"You know that's not what I meant Taeyong." Yuta spoke quietly. The driver of the car looked at Yuta in horror, wondering how the death will come to Yuta. It was probably his first time watching someone talk to Taeyong like that besides you. 

"This is why you were told to patch yourself up. Don't let these morons get to you. This is nothing for the mafia." Taeyong spoke with a commanding voice, but you could hear the underlying softness, a little consolation, a little advise.

Yuta nodded and gave out the position details before disappearing  in the shadows again. 

"He was not wrong. It's never safe to walk into an unknown enemy, an ability user for that." You spoke as you and Taeyong walked towards the warehouse.

"I know." Taeyong said simply.

 It was in the middle of deal, just after exchanging the goods, you heard a loud noise outside. Just as you expected. A message from yuta ten minutes said that he had the first gifted under his control and the second one was heading your way.

 "What was that?" The other businessman said.

 "Absolutely nothing of your concern. Our deal has been done and the official papers will be send to you." Taeyong said getting up.

 "But what-"

"Also If I were you, I would pay more attention to what my subordinates are up to." Taeyong spoke with a glint in his eyes, a warm and powerful desire, an excitement of some action awaiting him. 

Outside you saw at least fifty men, all of them armed, in front of the warehouse. A tall man stood in the middle leading the rest. It was just you and Taeyong against them. 

"Well partner, let's just get on with it." Taeyong said, activating his ability, a bright red hue glowing around him. You take out your gun. Even though your ability was not an attack one, you were the best fighter in the mafia. It was lasted probably twenty minutes when all of them were in the ground. A few grunts were heard from the ground, a few ones who were just minutes away from their dead. You thought about shooting them again, and again until you could end their painful suffering soon and for once. It would be better to just accept death rather than lying in the cold mud, drowning in their blood. You were about to about pick up your gun again when you saw an unusual movement from the middle of the ground.

"Taeyong!" You shouted, while pointing the gun and shooting at the person of movement but it was useless. The movement continued and as you squinted, you saw the form getting bigger and bigger, like a giant. 

"__, what the hell is that?" Taeyong said beside you.

 "The ability user." You spoke as you saw the enemy grow as tall as trees surrounding you, various roots covering him, as if he was using them to grow his form. You had to get close to him and touch him, to nullify his ability and return to his normal form, otherwise he could keep causing destruction for you. 

"Step back,__." 

"Huh, Taeyong?" 

"It's not safe to go close." He said looking at the enemy, fist clenched

."We have to try it." You said going towards the growing structure, but every time you got too close he could try to kick or stomp really hard, and that flow would throw you backwards with a force. His defense was not allowing you to go close to him, let alone touch him. You tried one more time and this time too, you were thrown back.

"__." Taeyong called running towards you. "You okay?"

 "He knows our abilities." You said standing up again. "That's why he laid back when you were attacking, that's why he won't let me come close." 

"That traitor snitched everything, but we have to stop him anyhow." 

"There's only one way left, but it's your choice Taeyong." You sighed.

"Every time you say that, it's not like I have a choice anyways." Taeyong said, walking ahead a little, and started pulling his gloves out; a finger at a time until both the gloves were thrown aside.

 "If I am late to touch you, you know what will happen right?"

 "But you won't be." He said, looking back at you, eyes intense. "Or I'll kick your ass."

 Taeyong walked ahead towards the enemy, a red glow, brighter than ever before started surrounding him. Red marks started decorating his skin, his hands, his face; his coat flew aside. You could feel the gravity shifting around the whole area, the center being Taeyong. He was activating his corruption. Simply controlling objects through their gravity was only the front of Taeyong's ability, that he could use in his full control. Corruption was something else though, something more uncontrollable and devastating to the city, to Taeyong himself. Activating corruption allowed Taeyong to control gravity of a larger area and create black holes with his power that swallows everything that comes it's way and destroys it. He could control gravity to a particle level. After all, he is called the manipulator of gravity. This part of his abilitywas only known to a handful of mafia members and you're the only one who has ever witnessed it. The downside of it was that, Taeyong could activate his corruption at his own will but once it was activated, his mind goes blank and he is not in control anymore. He becomes a destructing machine and keeps destroying every thing that comes his way, until he runs out of his energy and dies.

 The only was to stop this was your ability, to touch Taeyong and nullify corruption as soon as he defeats the enemy. You watched as corruption took over Taeyong and he annihilated the the giant enemy in the span of few minutes. You ran over to him before he could any more damage to the surrounding, to himself. You grabbed his hand and watched as his ability became null, the red glow leaving his posture, the red marks disappearing from his skin, as if they never existed in the first place. He fell down on his knees and coughed blood, a normal occurrence after using corruption. You held him. A wave of relief passes over you seeing that Taeyong is safe. It has always been your fear, that you'll be late, that you will break the trust; that you will lose Taeyong.

 "Take rest Taeyong, the enemy is defeated." 

"You stopped me right after?" He asked, coughing.

"I was about to, but you looked such a red dork like that."

 "Fuck, you better take me home right--" He said while coughing and falling onto you. 

Thankfully grabbed him at the right time."Rest now."

 "__."

"Taeyong-"

"__, the moon--"

 "I know. I know. The moons looks beautiful tonight right?" You spoke as you looked up to the sky, the clouds were cleared away; countless stars scattered, dancing across the black canvas but the moon still was shying away somewhere. You could never understood what Taeyong talked about sometimes, you did not needed to anyways.

  VI

You lay on the bed next to Taeyong, bodies tired from the fight before. All the fresh wounds covered in bandages. You were a little better than Taeyong, using corruption leaves him tired for a lot of hours. But a fight was won and the boss could use a little rest. You heard some noise as you watched Taeyong turn around in the sheets and settled on his back. 

"You should rest properly shitty boss." You spoke.

"Aww is that concern __?" 

"No that's a headache because I am the one that has to take your tantrums." 

"Well that's--" Taeyong hissed clutching his side. You rose up quickly and helped him sit. 

"See, that's why I told you to rest. How's the pain?" You asked, checking the ribs.

"Nothing much. It's the usual one."

 "Are you lying to me?"

 "Come on partner, don't you trust me?" He asked, a smirk plastered over his face. You just huff and sit beside him on the bed, in front of the large window that looks over the sky and  city underneath it. A calm and comfortable silence follows over both of you. You look over at Taeyong. He looks pretty healthy, apart from corruption side effects, there's not any major physical injury. Even the violence in your life has become a second nature, it still does not sit well with you that every fight you go into, could potentially be yours or Taeyong's last fight. You hoped it was yours because you did not knew what to do without the man next you. It  could be your years long partnership that makes you so co dependent, nothing else and not certainly love. Love is for people with a heart, not for you who just killed hundreds of men without blinking not just few hours ago.

 "What thoughts are interesting enough to keep you invested?" Taeyong asked, still looking ahead.

 "I just forgot how beautiful and calm the moonlight feels." You whispered.

"I think we spend too much time looking at the darkness instead."

"We are the mafia Taeyong, even the blood is black. Darkness is where the mafia exist." You spoke looking at your hands, little cuts and scraps littered across.

 "No."

"You don't agree?"

"More like, we exist in the stars, in the air, among the wind, under the moonlight. I believe that's where you and I exist together." 

"Since when did you started thinking like that? But I understand, you always had more human thoughts than me. "

 "I don't know. It just swiped by, I- don't mind, corruption really tires me a lot." He spoke smiling softly. 

"Come on now, you never talk to me about this."

"It's not like I need to speak for you to understand." And it's true. He does not need to tell you about his fears. But still when it came to corruption, you had your own fears; or just single fear, that is losing Taeyong. You bear the burden of saving him and not being able to do so, was the single most terrifying thing for you. You always wondered how Taeyong felt during that time. But he refused to talk about all of this, specially since he killed the boss. Its ironic, before the death of boss you were the one who was closed off and reserved but now that you want to get close, it's Taeyong who seems lost. It's like the burden is too much, even for someone as invisible as me.

  "Easy there, might sound like we actually like each other." You tried to joke around, tried to change the heaviness in the only way you knew but it did not had any affect on Taeyong. He was still looking at you with a soft smile; a smile that made you believe in your humanity, a smile that made you dead heart shake, a smile that made you fall in love.

"I think you do, otherwise you won't run to save me every time."

 "I don't want to burden myself with being a boss, that's why."

"You would be a better option than me." Taeyong spoke, so many  emotions swinging in his eyes. You could pick each and every one of them apart, but then again, that's what you always did. Sometimes you wished Taeyong would tell you, explain to you rather than just leaving you with these unspoken feelings.

"I-it's- I would not be. You know that. Besides that's not the point."

 "Then what is the point?"

 "It's just that you don't have to be so closed off you know. We're partners after all." You said, still trying to maintain the conversation because this is your safe space, a place you and Taeyong call home, if there's any solace in existence, it's right here at this very place.

"I just said you will make a better boss. Someone who can lead an organisation."

 "I am not someone who can sacrifice myself for the mafia like you. I don't need an end like that."

"It's not sacrificing myself if I know you will save me in time. I know I am not going to die."

 "You can't be sure of that." You said letting the words hang in the air between you two. 

"Is that your fear?" Taeyong spoke after a while, voice little shaky. Not used to honest conversations. 

"I-Taeyong it's pointless to fear death in the mafia. Either yours or mine. I came to peace with that a long time ago. I believe that death is not opposite of living, it's merely a component in our process of lives."

"Then?"

 "If you die some other way, there's always an explanation for that. But if you die using corruption, it's me, that I was too late. I will be the one with your blood on my hands. Your death will be my fault, it'll be on my conscience. I know I won't be able to live with that, I can't survive knowing that I was the reason for you death, that I-" You took a deep breath "that I broke our trust."

 "Even if that happens, I am sure there will a reason for you being unable to save me."

 "Is it not your fear? You're the one who'll be dying."

"Like you said, a mafia blood should not fear death. Besides I don't think there's any such time when one should chicken out, specially a boss." Taeyong said in a low tone, he was looking ahead in the sky but his eyes seems so blurry and lost. You sighed, the conversation looked like it was over, until Taeyong spoke again.

"The fear, if that word can dare to come close to what I feel, is not simply dying. It's a possibility that every time I use corruption, it might be the last time I see you. Even when I have lost control, mind black and body in red, I know in my heart that you will come. But if something happens to you while I am out, I won't be able to do anything." Taeyong smiled, a sorrowful one, the same smile that laced his face when he came back after killing the boss. But the mourning was not for the one who died. "That is my fear."

The fear of losing you, the fear of not protecting you.

You knew he has always been protective of you, an instinct that came as soon as you met. Something blossomed inside your heart, like a flower that was showing it's petals, so soft and sweet. The fear that was unspoken till now, was something you both shared. The fear of losing each other, the fear of not being able to protect each other; a feeling of not being able to survive without each other. Maybe you both were not human, and maybe love was not for you but that is not what you needed anymore. Love was not beautiful enough to define what you both felt for each other, and there was no need to define those unspoken feelings. As long as I have you here, right with me, I could survive anything. He was not your lover, but he was your partner. Love was not for you, but Taeyong was.  And somehow, that was enough.

He turned his eyes away from window and looked at you. Sorrowfulness replaced with softness, Eyes crinkled and small smile dancing on his face, red hair falling unevenly, the stars in the sky, the smell of rain, the sound of his breath when he spoke.

"The moon is beautiful tonight, isn't it?" 

----

The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t is? = I love you. By Natsume Soeseki

At the time, Japanese people were more reserved than they are at present day. They hesitated to express feelings of love directly. I, for one, like this expression 月が綺麗ですね | tsuki ga kirei desune (the moon is beautiful, isn’t is?) -- it sounds literary and intelligent.

This phrase was used by Natsume Soseki as a form of saying “I love you”. For the writer, two people with deep feelings for each other do not need to use those three words to effectively convey their feelings. Sometimes, even the simplest phrases contain more emotion than direct ones.

----

if  you guys don’t know about bungou stray dogs idk what is up with you. it’s one of best anime’s out there, like i still don’t have feels for anything else like i did for this. Please watch it & you’ll love it even more if you like literature because every character is based on real life author. Just watch it pls :))

anyways y’all if you watched/read Bungou stray dogs you probably realized that taeyong= chuuya & you = dazai ( bc daichuu <3). 

ALSO PLS SHARE YOUR THOUGHTS IF U HATE IT, DISLIKE IT, LIKE IT, LOVE IT, JUST PLS SEND IN ASK OR TEXTS OR COMMENTS. IT’S A SIDE BLOG SO I CAN;T REPLY PERSONALLY BUT PLS GIVE ME FEEDBACK.

EDIT : ALSO WHAT DO YOU GUYS SAY ABOUT A PREQUEL WHERE I TELL YOU HOW THEY MEET AND THE BOSS’S DEATH AND TY BECOMES THE BOSS?

[wot-tidbits]

RJ’s notes Part 74 by Matt Hatch

The notes on Moiraine!

BOX 20, Folder 2, pp. 13-14

Notes from the White Goddes for us in the Wheel of Time

Moiraine: the woman wielder of power who searches out Rhys al’Thor. (Moraine Sidhe)

BOX 24, Folder 1, p.15

Notes on the White Goddes

If Moiraine is at some point (not in the first book) made into a crone by the powers of Sha’tan, she could fit into the maiden-moter-hag trio.

BOX 24, Folder 1, p p.1-2

Nynaeve contrives to have Moiraine imprisoned below ground, apparently slain. She is actually trapped halfway between life and death.

The truth of the origins of the Aiel is revealed, creating a rift in the Aiel. Some try to go back to the ancient ways, believing this must be done. Others are furious, raging against Rand as a false leader and traitor.

Lan’s love for Nynaeve makes him break from Moiraine and brings him into conflict with Rand, into open opposition. (??) He will flee to become a hermit, though he wil return for the final battle (??)

Having finally conquered and bound Shai’tan, Rand thinks to disappear, faking his own death. Moiraine, Elayne, Equene, and others of his closest friends are among those who are not fooled and will not let him go alone.

BOX 24, Folder 1, p.1

Notes on course of books

All of this is merely possibility

Book Two Rand continues at first to deny being the Dragon. He also attempts to refrain from using the Power. Through a series of adventures, however, he is drawn once more into the conflict against Sha’tan. It is revealed that the attempt against the Eye of the World had been made to draw out the Dragon Reborn, to force him to reveal himself before he knew how to wield Power. Again Rand is victorious against the forces of evil, though again the price is high. Nyneve disappears in a fashion that makes it certain she has been slain. Rand still does not believe that he is the Dragon Reborn, but he becomes convinced that it is necessary for him to play the part to the best of his ability. Grimly he return to follow Moiraine’s way. He finds her waiting on the dock, knowing that he is coming.

BOX 24, Folder 1, pp.1

Random notes on the course of the Wheel of Time

(??) Moiraine will ascend to the Amyrlin Seat. (??)

Nyneve will at some point after Moiraine takes the Amyrlin Seat seemingly slay Moiraine, or cause Moiraine’s death. This should involve something about a cave. In fact, Moiraine will be trapped halfway between life and death. She will eventually be able to return to the world of men, or be brought back. Whether this is an actual rebirth, or whether she returns in some fashion other than as a living, breathing human is yet to be decided.

Unknown (Orig. BOX 28, Folder 1) p.6

Book one: the Eye of the World

Because of the danger Moiraine gets Lan to teach the young men something of defending themselves. Rand is one of those who shows a great deal of natural ability, but though he has helped fight off wolves attacking Tam’s sheep (he has twice killed a wolf with his bow and driven off many others) the idea of actually striking a person with a weapon makes him a little ill. Striking the beast-men is something else again, and he, as well as most of the other village boys, become enamoured of the idea of becoming Warders like Lan. Moiraine not only encourages them, she is ready to bond all of them on the spot. Only angry protests from Lan and Nyneve stop her.

BOX 45, Folder 1, p.2

The Great Hunt

WHERE TO PUT IN?: Moiraine has/develops a theory about why there are so few suitable girls found for training. Three thousand years of hunting men who could channel (hunting in various intensity depending on the period of history), they are culling the herd, so to speak, cutting out the breeding stock and destroying it.

Remember to use the flower-type analogy (unfolding, etc.) when Moiraine reaches out for the Power in her POV.

Nynaeve would wonder about Moiraine’s disappearance, about that is happening with Rand and the others, and also (probably reluctantly) about Lan (ring). She would be disconcerted that events have gotten so far out of the control. Rand/others off the Light alone knows where. Nothing she can do to help them. She and Egwene among so many Aes Sedai. Blames it all on Moiraine, though part of her knows that Rand’s plight, at least, is not entirely Moiraine’s fault.

(NOTE: Moiraine’s original plan, now in abeyance if not entirely abandoned, was to put Min close to Rand as the Dragon Reborn to help him by “reading” people with whom he had to deal.)

Nynaeve Unconsciously, a good part of her anger at Moiraine is as much for her having Lan as for what Nynaeve perceives as the harm she has done Rand, Mat and Perrin.

BOX 45, Folder 1, p.8

The Great Hunt

Thom returns. Reluctantly to talk to/with Rand. Affectionate with girl? ?Disgusted comment about new-fangled players? Send the girl off. Though she wants to be a gleeman, he thinks that life is not for a woman. Training her to be a bard, since women bards are not unheard of. Finally wants to know if Rand still with that Aes Sedai, Moiraine. Thom finds Moiraine a fine figure of a woman, but of course, Aes Sedai are not be trusted in his view.

?Somewhere, talk about Thom’s relationship with Morgase?

Thom says Myddraal not interested in him; went after Rand and Mat a soon as it could get loose from Thom. Thom went on as far as Caemlyn, discovered from Master Gill that they had hooked up with Moiraine again and taken off, and so decided he was out of it.

BOX 45, Folder 2

TDR notes on individuals

Moiraine: Her goal is to bring the Dragon Reborn to his full power, to battle the Dark One in the Last Battle, and she is willing to sweep aside just about anything else to achieve this. She is aware, however, that sweeping aside too much can be as bad as defeat.

Unknown (BOX 28, Folder 1), p.29

Individuals

Rand chomps at the bit; he doesn’t want to be the Dragon Reborn, wants nothing less than to go down out of the mountains and set himself up to lead an army in a war, yet because he wants not to, and because he sees it as his duty, he pushes himself to do it. Moiraine manages again and again to turn him from it with talk of plans; if he rides out without proper plans, he will invite death and defeat, and worse, the eventual victory of the Dark One. Lan spits out the planning, but Rand grows ever more impatient. 

(Moiraine’s real plan with respect to Rand is no plan. He is ta’veren, shaper of the Pattern yet woven to a tighter line in the Pattern than other men. The Pattern itself will force him into action. SURELY SHE MUST HAVE SOME PLAN BEYOND THIS.)

BOX 44, Folder 2

AMOL Outline

The confrontation takes place just short of the Blight below Tarwin’s Gap, and for a time it seems the Last Battle might be fought there between these two sides. A combination of things stop this from happening: Rand’s ta’veren effect, the desperation of the Borderland rulers who are ready to try anything, and the report by Seanchan scouts on raken that hordes of Trollocs are moving against them from every direction. But the tipping point is certainly Moiraines words in support of Rand. Her words break the alliance that had risen up against Rand, and the “force of good become totally united against the force of the Dark One.

BOX 57, Folder 1

Aes Sedai, Accpeted, and Novices

Damodred, Moiraine: 13 (1),  ~700, reduced to 66/54, 250-260 …………… “She saw that a man she did not recognize (Moridin) came to see her in her captivity and said she was the wrong one, it must be the other.” “(The Eelfinn) have been rummaging through her experiences, making her relive them in the form of dreams that seem like real life, raping her mind in effect. They concentrated on things that engendered strong emotions, whether love or hate or fear of whatever, so long as it is strong. The point is to feed off the engendered emotion. When repetition dulls the emotion, they would alter the events to make the emotions strong again. They always made these changes in slow increments, just enough to strengthen the emotion again without wasting any. Example: Lan dumped in the pond, first just as it really happened, then he became rougher at it until (he) beat her first, and she was so shocked she could not channel; then he made love to her; then he raped her; the she killed him. Slow progressions through possibilities, however improbable they were in reality, just so long as they intensify the emotions. They could not introduce things outside of her memory – for example, somebody she has never seen – but anything in there already could be rearranged any way they wanted. Example: she could as a grown woman watch her mother (dead before she reached adulthood) plot and execute the murder of her father (who died in battle when she was a child) with a collection of people glimpsed during her travels. There have also been periods where she was brought back to consciousness. Awareness of what is happening also increases the emotional aspects. This is the same thing that was done to Lanfear, until she was “rescued” by Moridin/Ishamael. Moiraine doesn’t know what happened to Lanfear. When they passed through the doorframe ter’angreal, she only clung to consciousness long enough to know that they had both passed through, that the doorfame was burning. When she woke, she was floating in air, and they were explaining to her what was going to happen. To heighten her emotions. She believes she had relived a number of incidents for them before that. While floating she could not speak. One set of memories never had to be heightened or changed. Memories of Thom always produced as strong an emotion every time, just as they were. She thinks they are what have kept her sane. She is surprised that years have not passed. One consequence of what was done to her is the erosion of her ability to channel. With the bracelet angreal, she is stronger than she was before, as strong as Nynaeve, true “Forsaken class”. Without it, she has so little ability left, that if she had come to the Tower that way, the would have taught her enough to be safe and hustled her out before her feet had more than touched down. Without it, it is an effort for her to light a candle; she can pick up a book with effort, but the blow she could deliver would be lighter than her arm could give. She hopes that Lanfear is still somewhere there, undergoing the same fate, or at least that she underwent it long enough to suffer the consequences she herself has. She will recall that once she was brought back to consciousness to find a man there (Ishamael, though she doesn’t know it, already as Moridin), apparently young, tall, muscular, beautifully handsome. She was not the woman the wanted. He wasn’t interested in her at all, and he seemed irritated at having his time wasted, impatient. She was returned to the “sleep” in moments, but she recalls his appearance very clearly; he frightened her for some reason, and maybe because he was part of her memory, as was her fear of him, the snakes(?)/foxes(?) incorporated him into her dreams when they went to making things more complicated for her. The reinforcement, plus the things done in those particular dreams, have increased that fear to the point where she shivers thinking of him and her teeth might chatter if she saw him in the flesh.

SOURCE

[bewaretheidesofmarchyall]

Soulmate Shenanigans Four: A New Shenanigan

I think you know what’s happening. If not, parts one, two, and three are here.

Basically, there were prompts for Soulmate AUs meant to be done in September. And now I’m doing them.

Midway through October.

Woo!

Prompt #4

There is a trail of color only you can see that marks out where your soulmate has been. 

Warnings for death mentions (less than normal, but still....it’s there)

World Building

Color trails had been around for all of human history.

Gods were invented to explain them, and maybe some of them even existed once.

The truth is, no one knows how they were created or for what purpose, some choosing to blame it on pheromones and some on divine will. 

This is despite all the scientific advancements color trails caused.

After all, Julius Caesar and Cleopatra knew they weren’t meant to be, so they never even tried. Therefore, Caesar never burned the Library Of Alexandria, which changed the course of human history forever.

Now, technology is on the up and up, and things are even more of a cyberpunk dystopia!

The Havens

No matter what happens over the course of human history, people are going to want to take solace in something. Corporations were able to isolate the basic things people seek and create Havens (special centers for the things).

To find Havens, there’s the cyberpunk dystopia version of a wooden signpost that points in different directions. The arms read:

This Way To Feel Safe

This Way To Feel Lucky

This Way To Feel Self-Righteous

This Way To Feel Content

This Way To Feel Beautiful

This Way To Feel Euphoric

This Way To Feel Nothing

Whoever controls a Haven controls the people, not the government. Everyone’s pretty aware of this, including the government, which spends most of their time in the Havens anyway.

Each of the main Havens is trying to become the only one, but it’s really a stalemate, since different people want different things. Their goal is to stop that pesky habit.

Characters

Virgil: Virgil really should be the famous hacker. After all, he’s pretty tech-smart, socially reclusive, and kind of scary.

Sadly, he’s too practical to be the famous hacker. If he was a hacker, he’d just hack stuff instead of leaving an honest-to-god calling card, which will eventually get any hacker caught.

No, Virgil’s just a petty thief in the sky.

He and Janus were trying to buy their way into a Haven, but they’ve gotten more and more expensive as the years have gone by, hence the thievery. Janus runs the scams on the ground while Virgil uses all manners of hovering to scale the buildings no one expects to be scaled.

That was the plan, until Jan went missing.

Virgil assumed that his friend abandoned him as soon as he got enough money for one person, so now he intends to find Janus in whichever Haven he ran off to and give him a piece of his mind.

But now he really needs money. Luckily, he knows where to find it.

He knows for a fact that his soulmate is, in fact, the famous hacker, and he has one hell of a bounty on his head.

Roman: In his defense, he didn’t know he was going to get famous. But he was loving it.

Roman started out coding games with his brother. They had a whole plan for the stories they’d create and tell to the world.

Remus went missing around when Janus did.

Now, Roman’s going to hack into every single Haven until he finds the one that took his brother. 

He’s pulled off a few stunts in the past, leaving his calling card (a diadem) every time, but they were just practice events. His next idea is hacking into the Lucky Haven’s system, but things get a little complicated.

The Actual Plot

Virgil noticed the glowing red trail at the first hacking site, but he assumed it was just a coincidence. But when the ground glowed red at the next five sites as well, he realized he’d struck gold.

All he had to do was follow the trail and turn in his soulmate, and he’d be able to find his friend.

He saw the red glow on the top of the skyscraper across from the Lucky Haven, and hovered to where his soulmate was. 

Meanwhile, Roman was furiously crashing through firewalls when he saw a guy hover up to the roof. He was going to run when he saw that his footsteps stained the roof violet.

He��d found his soulmate!!

Virgil had expected a lot of things. He expected a fight, he expected a chase scene. He definitely didn’t expect the 6th most wanted hacker to greet him like he’d known him for ages and flirt.

And, to be honest, he didn’t expect him to be this cute.

Roman was convinced that, if someone was his soulmate, their motives had to be pure. So, he’s treating this entire situation like a first date while Virgil tries awkwardly to mention the fact that he was trying to turn him in for a bounty, which is an interesting conversation starter.

Over the course of the conversation, Virgil finds out that Remus disappeared around the same time as Janus, as well as what exactly Roman’s been doing with that keyboard. He puts a few things together, and realizes that there’s a chance that they’re in the same place.

Virgil decides that he’ll help Roman, for now.

Unfortunately for him, that’s when he accidentally mentions the whole “turning him in for a bounty” thing, and Roman bolts.

It’s hard to run from someone who can see your footsteps, but not impossible. If you take an elevator, it’s impossible to tell what floor you get off on, and if you steal a bike, you’re home free.

Roman bikes as far away as he can, while Virgil curses at himself.

Where Have Janus And Remus Been This Whole Time?

Experimenting on people against their will is illegal. No one, especially a respected corporation, would ever do such a thing!

The Havens merely have an Anti-Non-Involuntary Focus Group, which is perfectly legal.

It’s like a normal focus group, but the participant’s leave times are postponed indefinitely.

Janus and Remus quickly became close friends because they’d been put in a room together once in the hopes that at least one of them would kill the other. No such luck. The two of them went on to do Crimes together, because if they weren’t going to be released from the focus group they’d make the focus group wish they were gone.

Back To The Actual Plot

Virgil searched for Roman, trying to find a way to say “hey, I was totally going to turn you in, but I changed my mind” that would actually convince him. So far, it didn’t work at all, but he kept trying.

Meanwhile, Roman planned to hack into the Self-Righteous Haven. He found yet another skyscraper, checking far and wide for violet glows. He pretended that he wasn’t thinking about Virgil, but...he was clearly thinking about Virgil.

He managed to bring down a significant portion of the Self-Righteous computer system and leave his diadem calling card, but here’s the thing about the Haven of the Self-Righteous:

They’re always on the lookout for someone to hate, and they carry plenty of weapons to get rid of them when they find them.

Roman found himself cornered on that roof, surrounded by sharp smiles and even sharper blades. He managed to fend some off, but eight against one is too tall of an order, even for a guy who knows how to use a sword.

At the last second, he heard Virgil call out to him. He was hovering along the edge of the building, and held out his arm.

Roman took it, and had the most terrifying few minutes of his life on the way down, clinging to Virgil like a young koala and screaming.

After they got their bearings and went on the run together for a little while, Virgil explained his plan.

Now that he had a feeling that Janus hadn’t left on purpose, he reexamined that day in a different light. Roman said that Remus had disappeared in a certain area, and that was around where Jan was at the time.

In fact, that block was a hotbed for mysterious disappearances. So, Virgil was going to get kidnapped!

Roman greeted this suggestion with a calm, “What the actual fuck, Virgil”

Virgil said that he was going to find Janus and Remus, then send up a signal. When the signal went off, Roman would hack into the doors and release him from...wherever.

It takes some convincing, as they’d been on the run together for weeks and gotten kind of attached, but the plan went into motion.

Virgil went and got himself kidnapped, but the plan went south fast when he was brought through physical, metal, non-electronic doors.

Non-hackable doors.

He was screwed.

Virgil found Remus first, because Remus is extremely hard to miss (can’t miss someone who’s literally lighting people’s feet aflame at random), and then got a wholesome reunion with Janus.

PRISON ANTI-NON-INVOLUNTARY FOCUS GROUP BREAK

The three of them and Roman find a clever way to escape the focus group. What is the clever way? Ask the me who actually writes the fic, not the me who’s writing this instead of doing homework she really needs to do.

The four of them later team up to weaken each and every Haven, travelling through a regular Dante’s Inferno that gets to call itself paradise because of good marketing.

They travel to those that get simulated safety, and luck, and self-righteousness, and contentness, and beauty, and euphoria, and emptiness

Of course, rebellions never rely on one or four people. There are a thousand small acts, thousands of straws pouring upon the camel’s back. But it cannot be denied that a hacker and a petty thief, alongside a scam artist and an agent of chaos, left a mark on the world, besides the glowing ones only they could see.

And when the two finally got around to a kiss, they could see their own reflection softly glow for weeks.

Now I need to do my homework