#*flails and collapses on the floor like a pile of pick up sticks*

[amtrak12]

Staring at Twitter while the people there go about their day, waiting to see if anyone else is as feral as I am about the idea of Chloe having a soulmark that changes with Lucifer’s wings

[crystalessenceswrites]

Shadows- Chapter Five

Shadows

A modern monster AU Pairings: Din Djarin x fem!reader Rating: T (at the moment- subject to change) Warnings: Swearing Summary: Crypto- concealed; secret. You have always lived your life in the shadows; after all, you’re one of the creatures who go bump in the night. He has sworn his life to a creed that aims to protect the world from monsters like you.

[Masterlist] [Chapter Four] [Chapter Five] [Chapter Six] Cross-posted to AO3

Din’s head is spinning and he’s certain it’s not from the blow Qin landed earlier. Half-bloods? Cryptos? Slayers who hunt them? How had his people not stumbled upon this before now? Generations of Mandalorian warriors had fought and given their lives to protect humans from the monsters lurking in dark corners, yet there was a whole system they had missed. A whole kind of people they had not known were possible.

That would explain why he had such trouble determining what (Y/N) was. If she was a half-blood it would make sense she appeared more human than the typical monster masquerading as such. That did not make her human though. She was still one of them. Din could not let himself forget that.

Silently he watches her finish up with the burning body. It seems routine to her. She’s also well prepared, the thistles and the gas, not to mention armed to the teeth. Following their previous encounters, the last thing Din was expecting her to be carrying was a firearm. Yet she’d managed to stun a vampire with one shot. She knew what she was doing. If there were more slayers half as skilled as her how had they gone under the radar all this time?

And why hadn’t she tried to kill him?

It kept playing over and over again in his mind. That night at the dive bar her companion was more than hostile. She had sounded more than willing to get rid of him. But (Y/N) defused it. Both opportunities she’d had to kill him, she’d ignored. Instead, she had explained herself, given him insight into what she was. She wanted him to understand her. More than once she had compared what they both did- claimed they were both protecting humans. Could he believe that? Could he believe her? Believe someone who wasn’t human?

She looks up at him, eyes soft despite the fact she has a vampire’s body burning to ash at her feet. Deadly and yet she looks so normal in that moment. “Do you…uh, need any of him to take back?”

The confusion must be plain as day on his face as the corner of her lips quirk up.

“We have to bring something back as proof of death,” she explains, “I take it you guys don’t need that?”

“No.”

That explains all her supplies then. It also goes to show how organized this group is, tracking their kills, bounties, and all under the radar of his people. Din tries to ignore how impressed he is by it all.

The innate weakness vampires hold to fire means their bodies breakdown to ash considerably quicker and at lower temperature than a human body. It’s not long till Qin is just a pile of dust on the warehouse floor. He watches in mild curiosity as the slayer collects some of the ashes into a spare jar before scattering the rest with her boot. The bloodsucker would not be bothering anyone again.

(Y/N) shifts from foot to foot, watching him closely. “So…all good?”

They shouldn’t be. He should not be letting her leave a third time- it went against every bit of training they’d drilled into him- but she stepped in to help him. He couldn’t kill her after she’d done that. Or after all she had told him. That would make him just as much a monster.

Her shoulders relax as he nods. For a moment it looks like there’s another question hanging on the tip of her tongue, but she decides against it. She shoots him a small smile as she walks away, disappearing back into the darkness of the warehouse.

Din wonders what the fuck he’s doing as he lets her go.

.

Even after a quick stop at the covert infirmary on his way back Din still finds himself plagued by the events of the day. He kicks himself for letting her walk away, but the thought of killing her is almost revolting. Was it because he knew that some part, no matter how small, of her was human? Because she had helped him? Or because it was her?

Excited squeals pull him from his spiraling thoughts the moment he opens the front door. In seconds the wide-eyed ball of four-year-old energy has barreled up to him, chubby hands clinging to his pant leg for dear life.

“Hey, kid. Good to see you too.”

Din gets a toothy smile in return before he runs back off again to return to what looks like coloring at the dining table with Kuiil.

“He has grown very attached to you, these last few months.”

Din cannot disagree with Kuiil, the kid was quick to latch onto him when he returned home from his hunts and often would not go to bed at night unless he was there to say goodnight.

“Will you take him as your foundling?” The old man has been asking him that since the day he brought the young child back to the covert.

“We’re still looking for his family. There must be people out there who miss him.”

Kuiil continues to watch the child, a soft hum falling from underneath his thick beard. Din can see the wheels turning in the old man’s mind. He always had an air of wisdom about him, an air that led one to believe that deep down Kuiil did hold all the answers, if only he could uncover them. Even Armorer came to the man for advice. While he was not a Mandalorian, he was a friend of the covert and had been with them for several years now. He often helped look after the kid when Din was out hunting, and he wasn’t in class in the other foundlings.

“Maybe so, but he is here now, in your care. You have a choice to make, now or in the future. But you still must make one.”

Din agrees with a sigh, collapsing into the seat next to the kid, watching his grubby hands drag crayons across his coloring book.

“How was the hunt?”

“It was a success.”

“But?” Not only wise, but he was a perceptive old man.

“The slayer appeared again.”

“And I take it she left this encounter alive again?”

Din nods, his face solemn as Kuiil continues to help the child with his coloring.

“Did you learn anything new?”

He had almost learned more than he wanted to. “She claims to be a half-blood.”

“Half-human? Is that why you could not harm her?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“She has shaken you- you don’t know what to do with this new information.” The old man speaks as if it is an already known fact. Din would be remiss to say he was wrong. Knowing this now, he sees her both as a monster and a human, both someone he is sworn to destroy and sworn to protect by his creed.

“You don’t seem surprised.”

“That she is half-human or that you are conflicted?”

Din scoffs, “both.”

“They have existed here as long as we have, among us in the most cases. It should not be a surprise that we have crossed paths before,” Kuiil shrugs, “the situation of her birth probably gives her advantages in her work.”

If she could blend in with both sides it would allow her to keep a lower profile. He could not even determine what species she was, that was proof enough she did not struggle to blend in with humans. She wore her mask well.

“As for your creed… that is another decision you’ll have to make for yourself.”

Kuiil’s wise words rattle around in his skull as he watches the kid totter around in the garden, arms outstretched as he chases another frog around. If their running track record meant anything he would run into her again, and he would have to make a choice. He just wished the right answer would make itself known before then.

“Ba!”

Din cannot help but smile at the proud kid as he runs up, the frog in his hold out on display. He was a quick little bugger, that was for sure. “Well look at that, little hunter in training.”

“Ya!” The little one waves his hands around happily, grin spread across his chubby cheeks.

It amazes him how quickly the kid had bounced back after everything he had been through. There were days it did not even cross Din’s mind that he’d rescued the child from the monsters who kidnapped him. He was happy, got along with all the other children in the covert and did well in his classes, even with his limited verbal skills. Well adjusted, is what the doctor had said.

“Ba!” The kid reaches up, grabby hands flailing.

“Alright, alright,” Din hoists the boy up, “should we get something to eat? Besides frogs?”

“Patu!”

.

“And here I thought you hated vampire jobs.”

Kannan looks almost smug as he watches you finish up exchanging paperwork for the reward on your most recent kill. Rolling your eyes, you stuff the check into your bag, “wasn’t like I had much of a choice with the lists today.”

“True.”

“So, did you need something, or did you just stick around to tease me?”

Kannan scoffs, “well I was gonna ask if you wanted to catch up over food but if that’s the attitude you’re going to take…”

“Where’s your apprentice today?” The teen was attached to Kannan’s hip these days, eager to get out in the field.

“He’s got his studies today, why?”

“Then food sounds like a great idea.” It had been sometime since you’d had a real chance to catch up with your old friend. He took his roles as Ezra’s mentor seriously, so he was rather booked up these days.

Kannan shoots you a satisfied grin, “the diner on 4th?”

Your stomach nearly growls at the thought. “Please.”

.

“I have to agree with Kira. You are a magnet for Mandalorians- or at least this one.”

You sigh, scrubbing a hand down your face. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this.”

Kannan chuckles, “since when has the universe needed a reason to screw us over?”

“You’ve got a point… I just can’t get over the odds. Three times in completely unrelated spots.” It was a large city and of all the people in the world you had to keep running into.

“There hasn’t been anyone else in the office who’s run into him. Are you sure he’s not tracking you?”

“This time I stumbled onto him, there’s no way he could have orchestrated that when I picked up the job this morning.” He obviously had not been planning on your arrival. You’d spooked him good.

Kannan shakes his head, “well you are simultaneously the unluckiest and luckiest person I know. You’ve gotten away three times now.”

You preferred to think it was due more to your skills and sharp tongue than luck, but the luck certainly was not hurting.

“It still worries me he knows your face. Even if he hasn’t been tracking you up till now it doesn’t mean he won’t try in the future.”

He had a point, but nothing about your interactions with Mando up till now would you lead you to believe he would. “I’m keeping my eye out for anything suspicious. If he does try, I’ll know. Hopefully, the fact that I know what he looks like deters him from trying.”

“We can hope.”

“I also think I figured out why we haven’t been able to find his local source in the community.”

Kannan’s eyebrows shoot up, “and how did you figure that out?”

“He asked me why I hadn’t killed him yet. Mentioned something about how my job was to deal with nuisances, so therefore I must have to kill him to get him out of the way,” you explain, “there’s no way he’s working with a crypto if that’s what he thinks slayers do. After the Fett debacle everyone around here knows we can’t do a damn thing about the Mandalorians.”

“That does sound like he’s either got old, secondhand information or his informant is messing with him. But I can’t imagine if he managed to get a full blood to help him, they’d yank him around like that,” Kannan strokes his goatee, face drawn together, “yet he’s been spot on with all his kills. He tracked down someone you pulled the bounty for before you’d even gotten there.”

“Could he be working with another hunter or have another Mandalorian partner? Someone who manages surveillance while he does the hunting?”

“It would seem the only other likely answer. Have you told Boss all this yet?”

You shake your head, “no, I don’t want to get ahead of myself… and I’m not sure what kind of reaction I’ll get once he knows I’ve crossed paths with the Mando again…”

“You haven’t told him?” Kannan goes wide-eyed, “Miss. By-The-Book not reporting a run in with a hunter?”

“Sue me for being worried about the perception of it all!”

“Chill, I’m not going to rat you out, (Y/N). I just want you to make sure you’re going to be okay. That you’re thinking this through.”

“I am thinking it through, Kannan. And if something important comes from it I’ll report it to Boss, but for now I’d rather keep this to myself.”

Kannan nods, “I trust your judgement. My lips are sealed.”

“Okay, enough about me and my drama! Tell me how things have been going for you and Hera lately!”

[inclementweather]

Give that man a hand!

Engie looked at the piece of barbed wire he’d kicked loose from the dirt.  It was coated in red dust, dull and rusty, the barbs eaten by rust until they were delicate crumbles of metal, looking as though they would fall apart at a touch.  Until his boot caught on the raised twist of wire, it had been a great day for a battle.  Now, not so much.  He closed his eyes, trying to shake the memories he’d dug up with the length of wire but unable to.  Engie groaned and picked the piece of wire up, flinging it as far away from him and his nest as possible.  Walking back to his sentry, he sat in the meager shade provided by a rock and leaned his head back, deliberately slowing his breathing, concentrating on the cool stone against the back of his head.

Closing his eyes, he drifted off, lulled by the warm sun, the familiar scents of dust and gunpowder.   He let his mind wander and quickly found himself back in the rundown old barn on his dad’s ranch in Texas.  He was young, not even tall enough to see over the stall doors yet, but he could hear the occasional rustle of mice in the stalls as he walked.  He climbed up the ladder into the hayloft, hiding from his chores for a moment of uninterrupted play, something that didn’t come often on the busy ranch.  

Settling down into the soft layer of hay that covered the loft, he reached into his jeans pocket and pulled out the toy soldiers he’d brought along, lining them up on a spot he’d cleared on the floor.  He sneezed, ignoring the dust motes dancing in the golden rays of sunlight that came through cracks in the walls.  He turned his head, listening for a moment as his Pa called him in the distance.  He could pretend he didn’t hear, he decided.  He might get a whipping later for shirking his chores, but it would be worth it.  Mind made up, he turned back to his toys.  

He’d been playing for about a half hour when he heard the meow. Moving into a crouch, he listened carefully.  He could hear them, kittens nearby.  Trying to be silent, he began moving toward the sound.  He loved the barn cats that lurked on the farm, half feral and skittish as hell, but they would occasionally let him run fingers through their soft fur, purring loudly until their pride overtook them and they darted off, watching him from a distance.  

He moved down the ladder, following the soft meows, hoping that he could find the kitten and maybe catch it, tame it down, and make it a friend.  He grinned as he caught a glimpse of grey fur moving through the shadows.  He darted after the movement, rewarded when the kitten wandered into the open area behind the barn.  He crouched beside the door as it batted at a leaf, making him smile with it’s antics.  The kitten looked up then and froze, back arching as it saw him.  

“Here, kitty, kitty.” He kept his voice soft and low, not wanting to startle it any more than he already had.  The kitten moved away from him, fur glowing blue grey under the warm Texas sun.  He moved toward it in a crouch, fingers wiggling on the ground by his feet.  He continued to make soft noises deep in his throat, imagining how the fur would feel on his fingers.  

The kitten looked tempted for a moment, then backed away, edging toward the manure pit behind the barn.  He followed, nose wrinkling at the thick odor of decaying manure, but not wanting to give up on the kitten just yet.  He edged closer, the kitten slowly retreating.  He was almost within reach, nearly able to feel that soft fur on his fingers.  The pit loomed behind the kitten, dark and malevolent, edges going nearly straight down. His pa had warned him about the pit, that it was deep and not a place for boys to play, though he couldn’t imagine why anyone would willingly get too close to that big pile of nasty.  He understood the need for it, he was a farm kid and knew that manure was the best fertilizer around, not to mention cheap and easy to come by on a ranch, but still, when the wind shifted in the evenings and blew the smell toward the house, even his mama, the most proper woman he’d ever met, would utter a curse word or two.  

He watched the kitten edge closer to the pit, then jump up on one of the fence posts that supported the barbed wire that kept unwitting cattle from wandering into the pit.  With a grin, he straightened and walked over to it, reaching out for the kitten.  His fingers just brushed the soft fur when the ground he was standing on began to crumble. He yelled and staggered back but his shirt sleeve snagged on the barbed wire and he couldn’t get it free as the ground collapsed beneath him.  

He screamed as he fell, the scream abruptly cut off as his head was submerged beneath the horrid, partly liquid surface of the pit.  He could feel the burning sting of cuts as the barbed wire raked up his arm, a coil of it slipping around his wrist and catching him, preventing him from sinking all the way beneath the dark surface.  His head broke the top of the pit, he dragged in great gasps of foul air as he tried to make his way to the bank.  He couldn’t move, his arm snagged under the surface of the pit, the cruel stricture of barbed wire sinking deeper into his wrist, pulling him further down and then, something grabbed his leg, holding him tightly.  

The boy panicked then, kicking and flailing against whatever was holding him, feeling it tighten around his leg, hard barbs sinking deeper into his flesh, pulling at him.  He tired quickly, one hand wrapped in the coils that stretched down from above, one leg held under the surface, his foot balanced precariously on the wood of the fence post as he panted and heaved in his terror, eyes fixed on the edge of the pit.  

He whimpered as he tilted his head back, chin just above the viscous surface of the muck filling the pit and coughed, a gout of black fluid coming out of his throat and spewing back to land on his filth covered cheeks.  Out of the corner of his eye he caught movement, turning his head a bit he looked at the tarry black surface of the pit.  White worms were crawling in the muck, their slight weight not allowing them to sink.  He clamped his mouth shut as his brain identified them, maggots, swarming in the mire, growing and eating, flies buzzing above the surface as the maggots transformed, ate more, then laid eggs in the effluvia, an endless circle of death and grotesqueness.  He gagged through his clenched lips, swallowing down the bile that rose in his throat.  

Above him, the strand of barbed wire ensnaring his wrist twanged at the tension on it and he briefly wondered what would happen if it broke.  He’d seen a guitar string break once, leaving a bleeding welt across his uncle’s cheek.  He tried to focus on his hand, the fingers turning purple as the wire tightened even more, cutting off the flow of blood to his fingers, leaving them thick  purple sausages sticking straight up.  He grimaced as flies landed on them, covering them in a moving black glove, hiding the color, if not the distended shape of them.  

Moving slightly, he shifted his weight, wincing at the sting in his leg as whatever had hold of him tightened below the surface.  To his left, a bubble rose to the surface and popped, the flatulent sound drawing his eyes.  He rolled them and watched as more bubbles rose, then something big, moving toward the surface, breaching like a whale and rolling over.  He bit back a scream as he stared into empty eye sockets, the cow’s skull seeming to stare at him for a moment, streaks of glistening foulness creating rivulets like black tears as they poured from the empty sockets.  The skull settled, watching him as it slowly sank back below the surface.  He screamed, knowing what was wrapped around his leg now, it had to be a tentacle.  

He’d watched enough Twilight Zone to know about vengeful ghosts and their hatred of the living, read his cousin’s Tales From The Crypt comics, knew what had happened.  The cow had died in here, drowning slowly and with no one to help and now the soul was trapped and sucking down anyone wary enough to fall in.  He could feel his mind teetering on the edge of sheer panic at the thought, the ghostly barbs of the Death Cow digging deeper into his leg, wanting to watch him go under, wanting to suck his soul out the way he sucked on a juicy slice of watermelon, devouring it hungrily.  It was too much.  He gave in to the screams.  

He wasn’t aware of the barbed wire wrapping ever tighter around his wrist, the trapped blood causing the ends of his fingers to explode, bright red fountaining out and spraying the pit’s dark surface, wasn’t aware of the fence post slipping under his foot as he slid off his precarious perch.  He was only aware that he was sinking, the Death Cow tightening it’s grip around his leg, dragging him down into the murky depths where he would lay unfound forever.  His screams turned to choking sobs, fetid liquid oozing into his mouth, down his throat.  He couldn’t breathe, lungs filling as his head went under.  

He didn’t know when the big hand wrapped around his, grasping the blood and muck covered slickness, dragging him back to the surface, and then heaving him to the shore, was unaware that his leg was shredded as the weight of the fencepost tightened the barbed wire wrapping his thigh and dragged it down, slicing as it went.  He wasn’t aware of the panic as his Pa and his Uncles carried him up to the house, unconscious, barely breathing, dripping blood and black water with every step.  He was aware of nothing until he woke up, two weeks later, in a pristine white bed in a sterile white hospital room, his hand missing, amputated after gangrene set into the damaged and shredded appendage.  

After he was out, they told him how the bank had been eaten under where he stood, causing it to collapse, how the barbed wire from the fence post had entangled him, simultaneously damning and saving him.  Even after they told him, he couldn’t look at barbed wire without a nameless dread filling his chest, the ghost of the foulness he drowned in filling his lungs, making it impossible to breathe. 

Engie’s eyes jerked open and he sprang up with a start, his beer bottle tipping over and pale golden fluid wetting the dry earth.  He sighed, righted the bottle with his mechanical hand, gaze lingering on it for a moment.  

“Hey man, you alright?”  a voice asked from behind him and he turned to look at the Scout standing there, bat over his shoulder, eying the mess askance. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”  He hoped the boy didn’t hear the slight tremble in his voice.  “Just thinking about when I was a kid.  Why don’t you get out there and do something ‘stead of hanging around here and scaring old men while they nap?”  He let the aggressive tone cover the tremble, narrowing his eyes behind the goggles.  “Go on, boy, war ain’t gonna win itself.”  

“Jeez, man, whatever.” The boy turned and stalked off, and Engie watched him go.  When he was out of sight, he glanced down at his metal hand one more time. 

 “Fuck barbed wire.” he muttered, then turned back to his work. 

[wistfulcynic]

The Eternal and Unseen (2 of 3)

(there is additional chapter art from the amazing @carpedzem​ further down, I just wanted to use this one again because I love it so ❤️❤️❤️❤️)

SUMMARY: Misthaven University is an ancient place, and as all ancient places do it guards some secrets. Secrets such as Emma Swan and Killian Jones, a fae princess and her royal guardian, whose true identities are well concealed behind the guise of average college students—if not quite well enough to foil the plot their enemies have hatched against them. Now their friends will have to come together, putting their own differences aside to battle an enemy that threatens them all—fae and vampire and werewolf together… plus one very baffled human named David.

For @cssns​

a/n: This chapter fought me every step of the way, and it’s a beast at nearly 9k. Settle in, and I hope it doesn’t disappoint. All manner of love and adulation to @thisonesatellite​ for being the rock she is, and to @ohmightydevviepuu​ and @katie-dub​ for their brilliance and encouragement. And @spartanguard​ and @optomisticgirl​ for the prompts that this monster of a fic now barely resembles, but hey what can you do? 

Finally, please everyone flail like mad at @carpedzem​ and her perfect eye for detail and characterisation in the art for this chapter: 

(WHAT’S IN THE BEAKER, YOU ASK? LET’S FIND OUT)

AO3 | Tumblr part one 

-

CHAPTER TWO: 

The sunlight shone through the window and right on his face, bright and warm, though not enough of either to wake him up. It was Harriet who managed to rouse him, finally, after several minutes spent stroking his forehead with her fronds and patting his cheek with her leaf. When this produced no effect aside from some incoherent muttering and limp attempts to push her leaf away, the plant rustled with a botanical sigh and gave him a sharp smack upside the head. With her thorns out. 

“Ow!” cried Killian, jerking into abrupt and painful consciousness. “What the bloody hell—Harriet! Lass, I thought we were friends.” 

Harriet smacked him again. 

“Oi, seriously! What—” He broke off as Harriet unfolded her larger leaves from where they had been wrapped around him, cradling his body protectively, and Killian realised he was lying sprawled on the floor of Emma’s dorm room and that his head ached like a son of a bitch. 

“What happened?” he groaned. Harriet’s leaf brushed his face again and then caressed the back of his head and Killian followed its path tentatively with his fingers. They encountered a tender, painful lump at the base of his skull and a nasty gash in his scalp, coated in a springy, jelly-like substance that he recognised by its texture and aroma as Harriet’s sap. 

“Harriet... did you heal me?” he asked her. She inclined her leaf in a gracious nod, and Killian felt a lump rise in his throat that could almost rival the one on his head. “Thank you, lass,” he said, stroking the edge of her frond with his fingertip as Emma had taught him. “I’m very grateful. But why did you need to? What happened here?” 

Harriet tapped him on his temple, gently but with a clear rebuke. “Aye, I’m trying to remember,” he replied wryly. “But cut a man a bit of slack, would you, when he’s been thoroughly coshed and spent the night on a cold stone floor.” 

Harriet shrugged and Killian pressed his fingers to his eyes, willing his brain to kick into some kind of gear. “I remember going to the pub last night with Emma,” he said slowly. “We had a few drinks and we wanted food, but the pub kitchen had closed so we came back here... we were going to order pizza but then there was a knock on the door... I went to answer it, and she joked that maybe the pizza place had read our minds… I turned to look at her as I opened the door, and then… then… oh, bloody hell.” 

His eyes had been scanning the room as he spoke, taking in the upended chair and the books fallen from their shelves, the overturned plant pots and shattered glass vials. But this chaos, though alarming, was not what caught his attention. 

Beside the door, half-buried beneath spilled soil and shards of glass, lay an object. A small, purple object, roughly round and attached to a long and slender strip of leather. An object that Killian had last seen glowing faintly against Emma’s pale skin as he’d trailed kisses down her belly. 

With a choking cry he scrambled on his hands and knees across the room and picked it up. The power within it hummed through him, and agonising terror sank its claws deep into his chest. 

“Bloody hell, Emma,” he whispered. 

~

David was lingering over his coffee with a gentle smile on his face, listening to the bright sound of Snow and Ruby’s voices as they chatted over breakfast. Snow’s voice in particular with its sweet tones soothed him as much as it did her birds. If he could start every day like this, David thought, watching as the bird on her shoulder hopped down her arm to peck at the pile of seeds she’d left next to her plate—with good coffee and Snow’s voice and the occasional trill of birdsong... well, he wouldn’t hate it.  

That thought had barely even crept into his mind when the door to the dining hall burst open and Killian appeared, one hand pressed against his head and the other clenched in a tight fist. He took two steps forward then stumbled, groaning, swaying precariously on feet that seemed reluctant to hold him up. Coffee sloshed over David’s hand as he moved to stand but Ruby and Graham were far quicker, darting forward with inhuman speed and managing, barely, to catch Killian before he collapsed to the floor. 

“What happened to you?” cried Ruby, as she and Graham took Killian by the arms and helped him into a chair. 

“Emma,” Killian gasped. “Emma.”

“She’s not here—” Ruby began, but Killian shook his head. 

“Gone,” he whispered. 

“What?” 

Killian closed his eyes and appeared to marshal his strength, and when he opened them again they were frantic. “Emma’s gone,” he said, in a far stronger voice. “Taken.” 

The room went utterly still and utterly, utterly silent.

That vague sense of unease, of foreboding, that had been simmering in David’s gut for weeks flared now into a full and rolling boil. He set his coffee cup down on the table with a thunk and glared at Killian. “What do you mean she’s been taken?” he demanded. 

“More importantly,” said Snow, her voice barely audible and her eyes wide with fear. “Who took her?”

Killian’s expression darkened and his closed fist clenched tighter. “I don’t know,” he said. “I never saw their face.” 

The eerie silence shattered as everyone began to talk at once. 

“But that’s impossi—” 

“No one could just—” 

“—even with magic!”

“How could someone just take her?” Graham’s voice rose over the din. “How did they get past you?” 

As quickly as they rose up the voices fell silent again, awaiting Killian’s reply. 

Killian’s expression went, impossibly thought David, darker still. “They coshed me,” he snarled. 

“They what?” David demanded.

“Hit me on the head with something hard, a stick or a bat or—hell, it could have been a frying pan, I don’t bloody know.” 

The silence in the room took on a baffled quality as Killian’s glare was met with a wall of blank and uncomprehending stares. 

“And that… worked?” ventured Ruby. 

“Of course it worked!” Killian snapped. “I’m immune to magic, not blunt objects.”

Victor’s face wore an expression that David recognised as one he often had himself, whenever he tried to do math in his head. “But they just—” he gave his hand a vague wave. “Hit you?” 

Killian shot him a mocking look. “Yes, they ‘just hit me,’” he sneered. “It was a more than adequate measure, I assure you.” 

Snow placed a steaming cup of tea in front of him and Killian’s sneer faded to pained gratitude. “Thanks, love,” he murmured, and took a long sip before turning back to Victor. “It’s a human strategy, yes, but you have to admit an elegantly simple one. You lot would have tied yourselves in knots trying to work out a way to defeat me by magic, they just whacked me upside the head. I’d admire it if it weren’t so bloody painful.” 

“Emma gave me a jar of headache powder a while back, let me go get you some,” said Ruby sympathetically and Killian once again nodded his gratitude. 

“Thank you, lass, I’d appreciate it.” 

As Ruby hurried out the door Graham looked at David, his brow furrowed. David was by this point mightily confused and so full of questions they tumbled over each other in his brain. Before he could even begin to sort through them, Graham spoke.

“So whoever took Emma was human,” he mused. David frowned, surprised to hear his friend wasting time with such a remark. Of course they were human. What else would they be?

He fully expected to hear another mocking reply, but Killian simply nodded. “Aye,” he said. “One of them, at least.” 

Graham’s expression sharpened. “There were more than one?” 

“There had to have been.” Killian’s clenched fist trembled as he pressed it against the tabletop, his knuckles stark white. “No single human could have taken Emma, not alone. Not from her own bloody room. There are distinct signs of a struggle—it’s pretty clear both she and the plants fought back.” His mouth pressed into a grim line. “I don’t know what we’re dealing with here but it’s big,” he said hoarsely. “And what’s more, Emma knew it was big.” 

“How do you know that?” asked Graham.

“She left this.” 

Killian wrenched his fist open to reveal a stone, a deep purple stone with a shimmering glow that seemed to hover over his palm. It was roughly round, as though carved hastily by hand, with a small hole hewn through it slightly off-centre, threaded with a leather cord. It looked to David’s eyes thoroughly unremarkable aside from that unsettling glow, the sort of pendant you find on a three-for-one sale in a shop that also sells patchouli candles and things woven out of hemp.  

“What is it?” he asked, but his words were drowned out by the collective gasp from the others.

“Is that what I think it is?” Victor’s voice held genuine fear. 

“So Emma has it,” Snow breathed in awe. 

“She did,” Killian replied grimly. “She wore it around her neck. She never took it off, and I mean never, not for anything. Until now.” 

“But what does that mean?” Victor’s whispered question was drowned out by the sound of the door opening. Ruby strode through it, trailed by a rumpled and sleepy August. 

“Hey guys. I woke August up and filled him in,” Ruby said casually, as though August wasn’t the one person in the dorm she actively avoided and never spoke to except in anger. She strolled over to Killian and held out a small paper packet. “Here’s your powde—fuck me sideways.” Her eyes went wide and the packet fell from her nerveless fingers. “Is that—” 

“Aye,” said Killian, “it is.” He picked up the packet and tore it open, tipped the contents onto his tongue and chased it with a swallow of tea. 

It’s what, damn it? David’s brain screamed, but his mouth refused to form the words. 

“So Emma has it,” August echoed Snow’s words but in a very different tone of voice, his expression now sharp and alert. “I should have guessed. Sky tribe, of fucking course.” 

“And just what is that supposed to mean?” Ruby snapped, rounding on August with her teeth bared. 

“Ruby, now is not the time,” said Snow sharply, as Graham leapt to his feet and took Ruby’s arm. 

“It’s not the time,” Killian agreed. He stood as well and fixed them all with a steady gaze. The haze of pain had cleared from his eyes, David noted, and he seemed much steadier on his feet.

“You all know what this is,” he said, holding up the purple stone. “You know its significance and the vital importance of keeping it safe. And yet Emma, the woman tasked by her birthright with its protection, deliberately left it behind.” He paused to let his words sink in. Even David could feel the solemn weight of them settling into his bones. “She would not do such a thing,” Killian continued, “unless she thought that leaving it behind was safer than risking it falling into the hands of whoever took her. She would not do such a thing unless she trusted us to keep it safe. She did it because she knew it was the one thing guaranteed to make us understand that the danger she’s in is serious.” 

The air in the room felt heavy as lead, holding them still and silent within the moment. It pressed on David’s shoulders on his chest, holding him frozen until after an interminable moment Snow spoke. “So�� what are we going to do?”

A smile spread across Killian’s face, a sharp and dangerous one. His eyebrow quirked. “We’re going to rescue her, of course.”

“Oh, well,” mocked Victor, “of course.” 

Killian’s smile faded. “Listen to me, all of you,” he said firmly. “I know that we have our differences and I know how deep they run. But you all understand the enormity of this and how it affects every single one of us. We have have no choice but to act, and act now. Fast and united, before it’s too late.”  

He scanned their faces, making eye contact with each in turn. “Are you with me?” he asked.  

His answer came from the last source any of them expected. “You can,” said August, and I think I speak for all of us when I say that.” Snow, Ruby, and Graham all nodded in agreement then turned expectantly to Victor, who rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh. 

“Fine,” he said. “What do you need us to do?”

~

“They’ll take her to the forest,” said Snow.

“Do you think so?” Ruby frowned. “That’s seriously risky.” 

“So is hauling her across the campus,” Graham pointed out. “Even if they managed to restrain her, there’s no way to move a body without looking suspicious.” 

Graham sounded like he was speaking from experience, which was surely impossible—or so David would have said half an hour ago. His definition of ‘impossible’ had shifted pretty dramatically since then and he was no longer certain anything could be ruled out.

“I agree with Snow, they’d go to the forest,” Graham continued. “Remember we’re dealing with at least one human, they might not know what the forest is to Emma.” 

“Hmm, that’s a point,” Ruby agreed. She looked turned to Killian. “Okay, we three will go to the forest and see what we can find there. Can you give us an hour?” 

Killian nodded. “That should be enough. Keep your phones on. And be careful.” 

Ruby’s smile flashed. “Always am.” 

“Killian,” David croaked, finding his voice with effort as he watched Snow follow the Ruby and Graham from the room, bluebirds hovering worriedly around her head. His mind was still churning and he stumbled over his words. “What—what exactly is—what are they—why are you—why are you all talking about humans like you aren’t… one?”

Killian regarded him with a curious blend of exasperation and empathy. “Because we’re not,” he said bluntly. “Well, they’re not.” He waved his hand at Victor and at August, who gave David a small bow. “I am, more or less.” 

“Is this some kind of joke?” David asked faintly. Victor snorted and Killian sighed, running a hand over his face. 

“David, look, mate, we tried our best to ease you into this and let you figure things out on your own,” he said, “but honestly I’ve never seen anyone fail to pick up on hints as comprehensively as you can.” 

“What—” David rubbed his throbbing temples. “What does that mean?” 

Killian turned to Victor. “We’re going to need something to open his mind,” he said. “There must be some magic that’s keeping it closed, I have a hard time believing even he can be this clueless. Have you got some sort of potion or something that might work to soften him up a bit?”

Victor scowled. “I don’t do potions.” 

“What the bloody hell do you always have on those damned burners, then, or are you just making the whole floor smell terrible for your own entertainment?” 

“Those are experiments.”

“And you can’t experiment with potion making?”

“I do sometimes, but Emma’s really the potion expert. If I need one I usually just get it from her.” 

“Well, Emma’s not bloody here, is she?” Killian hissed through gritted teeth. “What have you got?” 

“Um, well, I mean, not much for opening minds,” stuttered Victor, recoiling from Killian’s glare. “Heads I can open. Minds are trickier.” 

“I’ll open your head in a minute—”

“I can do it.” 

Killian and Victor turned in unison to stare at August, who was lounging against the door frame, casual and nonchalant. “Influence him, I mean,” he drawled, in a careless tone that sent a shiver up David’s spine, like tiny spiders dancing down the back of his neck.

“Um,” said Victor, with a frantic glance at Killian.

“Not too much, of course,” continued August, soothingly. “Just crack him open a bit, you know, make him… receptive to your input.” 

Killian looked at David, with a look that sent the spiders scattering all across his skin. “That…that could work, actually.”

“Seriously, Jones?” cried Victor.

“Look, we can only use the resources we’ve got and if you can’t produce a potion we have to come up with something else,” Killian snapped. “Can you produce a potion?” 

“I already said no!” 

“Well then. These are the resources we’ve got.” 

“And just how are you going to give him this ‘input’ once he is ‘made receptive’ to it?” Victor sneered. 

“If I’m right about him I won’t need to,” said Killian. “It’s already there. All I need to do is trigger it.” His expression turned calculating and David's skin-spiders grew claws. 

“Do I get a say in—” he began, but Killian cut him off. 

“No you don’t,” he said shortly. “We haven’t got the time. Victor, do you suppose you might be able to locate a basic solvent, one able to emulsify plant sap and willow powder? Can you do that, at least?” 

Victor nodded. “That I can do.” 

“Do it, then. And August, you make whatever preparations you need. I’m going to go grab some things from Emma’s room, we’ll meet back here in ten.” 

“Killian,” David tried again, “I’m really not comfortable—”

Killian rounded on him with a glare, dark and intent and terrifying. “Emma is in danger,” he said, spitting every syllable. “Serious, life threatening danger. I know you can understand that, David, if you understand nothing else, and I know you can’t ignore it. I know you’ve come to care about her.” 

“Of course I have—” 

“Then help me save her.” Killian’s voice broke. “Please.” 

The look in his eyes—raw vulnerability and soul-deep terror bolstered by a core of iron David would never have dreamed he possessed—struck a chord somewhere deep within him and resonated there. For the first time he felt that he was seeing Killian as he truly was, and there in that brief flash of kinship David understood, as surely as he’d ever understood anything, that Killian loved Emma, that he would do anything for her, and that he was deathly afraid his anything would not be enough. 

“All right,” said David, clasping Killian’s shoulder and giving it a squeeze. “Just tell me what you need me to do.” 

~

Ten minutes later David was waiting anxiously in the common room with August sitting in the chair across from him, legs crossed, watching him with a cool stare that did nothing to calm the energetic gyrations of the skin-spiders. When the door opened to admit Killian and Victor he leapt to his feet, desperate for any excuse to escape that unwavering gaze.

“Did you get what you needed?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice steady and disguise his nerves. “I’m ready for... er, whatever.” 

Killian was carrying another paper packet similar to the one Ruby had given him and a small, grey-green leaf. These he set on a table as Victor produced a beaker half-full of a milky substance. Killian tore open the paper packet and tipped its contents—a few ounces of dusty grey powder—into the beaker. He then took the leaf and squeezed it until it began to express thick, clear sap, then dropped that in as well. The liquid in the beaker began to make a faint popping noise and Killian looked satisfied as he picked it up by its narrow neck and held it up to the light. He swirled the liquid in a deliberate manner, first clockwise then counter, then clockwise again, counting under his breath, until it turned a dark, swirling purple and began to smoke—rather ominously, David thought. 

Killian turned to him with a slight smirk and a raised eyebrow. “I hope you mean that whatever,” he said, holding out the beaker. “Because the first thing I’m going to need you to do is drink this.” 

“Er—” said David. 

“Then look deep into August’s eyes.” 

“Um—” 

David jumped as he realised August was now standing directly behind him, grinning widely, the tip of his fang catching a shaft of bright morning sunlight with a distinctly mocking gleam. He ran the tip of his tongue along it as his eyes flashed red and at least three impossible ideas began to coalesce in David’s brain, coming together to form a conclusion that within his new definition of ‘impossible’ was in fact anything but. 

“How—” David cleared his throat, still unable to quite believe he was entertaining any of this. “How are you out in the sunlight?” he asked. “Aren’t you—doesn’t it—burn you?”

Killian and Victor chuckled and August’s grin widened. “That’s a myth, I’m afraid,” he drawled. “Sunlight doesn’t harm us, we’re just not morning people.” 

“It might be best if you operate from the assumption that everything you think you know is wrong,” said Killian. “Start with a clean slate, so to speak.” 

“My mind is a clean slate,” David echoed faintly.

“Exactly.” Killian smirked at him. “So are you ready?” 

David hesitated. “You’re sure this is necessary to help Emma?” 

“It’s the only way.” 

“All right,” David sighed. “Give me the damned potion.” 

~

The purple of the potion rises up, engulfs him, dark as smoke, only the red of August’s eyes as shining beacons to guide him. He follows them through the swirls and eddies of the smoke until abruptly it is gone and he is standing in a forest of tall trees reaching straight up to a cloudless sky. 

He hears a noise behind him and turns to see a woman, beautiful and terrifying, wreathed in smiles and swathed in darkness. As he watches she waves a wand of blackened wood and a substance, viscous and dark as tar, begins to bubble up from the ground and ooze from the trees, to drip from the very air itself. It twines around her in glistening ropes, hissing its displeasure, a slave to her whims, and she throws back her head in peals of triumphant laughter. 

“The Black Fairy,” says Killian’s voice in his ear. David spins around but no one is there, and the dark woman takes no notice of him. “I’m not actually there,” says Killian, an edge of impatience now in his tone. “And neither are you. Remember that. What you’re seeing is long in the past, shadows of your history. You can’t touch or change it. Just watch.”  

As the dark substance swirls about her the woman draws it, slowly, into herself, absorbs it. Her eyes turn black, and her hair and her gown; the colour drains from her skin until she is pale as a moonbeam in the night. Her lips curve into a satisfied smile and David, though he is not within his body, shivers. 

The image fades away, replaced by another. A village in flames, the agonised shrieks of  people—yes, people, David sees and knows them to be humans like himself—as they try in vain to flee. The cackle of the Black Fairy, appearing in their midst. 

“Surrender,” she hisses. “And your lives will be spared.” 

“At what cost?” spits a woman, glaring contempt as her children huddle in her skirts. “Our freedom?” 

“You will give your lives in service to the fae,” says the Black Fairy. “Or you will give them to the flames.” 

“Burn us then,” says the woman, her chin raised in defiance. “For we will never serve you.” 

The scene blurs again and resolves into another forest, lush and green. Tall trees surround a large, flat rock in the shape of a circle, around which many beings are gathered. Some have the appearance of humans, others anything but, and still others combine human-like forms with horns or feathers or fur or leathery skin. Some have wings, others tails, all are angry. And scared. 

“We must act!” cries one, slapping the rock with his tail to punctuate his point. “The humans no longer believe she does not speak for all of us! If we do nothing she will wipe them from existence in our names!”  

“Perhaps we should let her,” retorts another. “These humans breed quickly and their numbers are ever growing. Their settlements already threaten our lands.” 

“Not threaten,” says a third. “We can live peacefully alongside them, as we have done for centuries.” 

“Oh yes indeed, when they were but few.”

“Their numbers are beside the point!”  

“Enough!” shouts the first, banging his tail on the rock again. “The qualities of the humans as a species are not germane. We simply cannot allow her to wipe out an entire race of beings. It is unconscionable and a breach of the ancient covenants!” 

A chorus of agreement rustles through the assembled crowd. The second speaker observes her fellows in silence for a moment, then gives a shrug. “I will stand with you, Elisedd, in accordance with the covenants and for the moral strength of your argument,” she says. “But I wish for my warning to be noted: The human race will be the end of us, if we allow it.” 

“Your objection is so noted, Eigyr,” says Elisedd with a nod. “Now let it hereby be known that we the Fae Council stand in agreement, and shall act with due haste and taking all necessary measures to stop the Black Fairy in her slaughter of the humans...” 

The image blurs again and David finds himself in the midst of a raging battlefield. Human warriors stand shoulder-to-shoulder with fae, against the Black Fairy and the army of demons her dark magic called into being. He feels a hum of energy in the air to his left and turns to see a woman who he thinks at first is Emma—the same golden hair with a life of its own, the same deep green eyes. But this woman’s nose and chin are pointed, as are her ears, and her fingernails when she raises her hand in the air are long and sharp as talons. She holds up her hands to the sky and sings out, a haunting tune and words in the language Emma uses when she sings to her plants. She stands at the centre of a circle of her kind, blonde and green eyed, pale-skinned and sharp-featured, themselves encircled by the battling warriors. They chant a rhythmic beat as she sings, and though the Black Fairy is far away David can see her face clearly as alarm flares in her eyes, as slowly the thick, black substance begins to ooze from her, hissing as it goes, swirling and twisting into a single thick and oily strand. 

“No,” she whispers, then her voice rises to a shriek.“No, it can’t be! It’s impossible! Nooooooo!” 

She clutches frantically at the magic but it slips from her grasp and when she gropes at her belt for her wand she finds it gone.

“I don’t imagine you’ll have much further use for this, milady,” says a voice, and both David and the Black Fairy turn to see a human warrior with bright blue eyes brandishing the wand in a mocking salute. 

“Insolent cur!” she snarls, and the human laughs. 

“Would you believe that’s not even the worst thing I’ve been called?” he asks, and darts away into the heaving battlefield. 

The Black Fairy lets out a scream of rage, turning back to look up at the sky and the coiling rope of magic as it sails over the heads of the warriors and towards the circle where Emma’s ancestor stands, calling it to her with her song. It heeds her call with typical ill humour, hovering malevolently and obediently above the circle as the fae woman holds up a small, purple stone. 

The darkness shrieks as it is pulled into the stone, writhing and twisting in concert with the impotent howls of the Black Fairy, but Emma’s ancestor neither flinches nor wavers. She pulls in every particle of the darkness and when the last traces have been absorbed she waves her hand over the stone with a few final, whispered words and then collapses, stumbling forward into the arms of her kin. 

“It is done,” she breathes. “It is done.” 

The scene fades once more and when it resolves David is back at the circular stone in the forest, this time surrounded by humans and fae alike. 

“Then we have an accord,” says the human man who captured the Black Fairy’s wand, placing his prize upon the circle. 

“Yes,” replies Elisedd. “The human race agrees to relinquish all claim to magic. The fae peoples agree to keep the Black Fairy’s darkness bound for eternity, held in the tywyll stone and guarded by the Awyr people. Fae magic and cures shall remain available to any humans who seek them and no human shall encroach on lands the fae hold sacred. We are in agreement on these points?” 

The human nods. “We are.” 

“Then let it be done.” 

“Not yet, Elisedd, if you please,” says a third voice. “There is one more thing.” 

These words are spoken by another blond and green-eyed fae, this one male. “My people, the llwyth awyr, agree to guard the tywyll stone” he says, “but this task is a heavy burden upon us. My wi—” his voice breaks as pain flashes across his delicate features. “My wife, Arianrhod, chosen by the moon herself to lead our people, has given her life to contain the darkness,” he continues gruffly. “And now my daughter Morcanta must carry the weight both of her legacy and the stone. Though we accept to bear these burdens gladly, we respectfully request not to bear them alone. We would ask that a human representative agree to take up at least a part of the weight alongside us, for the sake of our people and of the covenants, and for the sake of all our descendants.” 

“That seems fair,” says Elisedd. “Cynbel oCymric? What say ye?”

The human man nods. “We agree,” he says. “A similar thought had occurred to us as well. But humans are far more vulnerable to magic than the fae, and so in shouldering this burden we will require some protection.” 

“Nynniaw? Is this condition acceptable to the Awyr people?” 

Emma’s ancestor nods. “We can place a shielding spell upon you,” he replies. “One that shall fuse with your blood and pass on to your descendants, removing your susceptibility to any magic. And in order that the location of the tywyll stone not be made too plain to see, we propose that such shielded human guardians should be paired with each fae tribe, to further protect the stone and ensure the covenants are kept.” 

The crowd hums with murmurs of agreement. “These are fair terms,” says Cynbel, “which we gladly accept.”

Smoke swirls up again and David is yanked from the vision. He gasped and stumbled and nearly fell, reaching out blindly for something to hold on to. 

“Steady on, there, mate,” said Killian, catching him by his arm, but David’s head throbbed and the room begin to spin around him, and the sound of Killian’s voice grew fainter as his eyes rolled back in his head and he tumbled into unconsciousness. 

~

When he opened his eyes again the first sight to meet them was Killian, dressed as usual in his black leather jacket and black t-shirt bearing the faded image of a skull, belting a long sword around his waist.

“That’s—” David gasped, blinking hard and giving his head a firm shake. The images from his vision were still swirling in his mind, and though he did feel he now had a firmer understanding of just what, precisely, the fuck, some things he suspected would still require some getting used to. “That’s a sword,” he sputtered.  

“Naturally,” said Killian, pulling the blade from its scabbard with a flourish and examining its edge. “You didn’t think I’d be going in armed with nothing but my good looks?” 

“Well, no, but—” 

“Speaking of which, you’ll be needing one too. Belle!” 

The air next to him shimmered and Belle resolved into it, a large, leather-bound book in her hand and a bright smile on her face. “Hey, David,” she said. “Killian tells me you’ve been having a bit of an adventure.” 

“Uh, yeah, I guess that’s one way to put it.” 

“Oh I’d love to go back and see the ancient times,” said Belle dreamily. “I don’t suppose you’d let me have a sip of that potion?”

“I’m pretty sure it only works on the living, love,” said Killian, and David barely resisted the urge to smack himself in the forehead. She haunts the library. Duh. 

“Typical,” pouted Belle. “I haven’t had any fun in nearly five hundred years. But I have” —she held out the book, open to a brightly illustrated page— “acquired some serious research skills in that time, and I’m pretty sure I’ve found it.” 

Killian peered at the book. “Where the devil is that supposed to be?” 

“It’s one of the old classroom towers. When I was alive we used to learn magical defence there.” 

“Well that would at least make some sense. Victor, mate, do you suppose you might rustle up something capable of dissolving a mystical lock or two? I mean, I know it’s a potion and all, but this one does seem to be rather more in your wheelhouse.” 

Victor ignored the sarcasm. “On it,” he said.

Killian turned back to David. “Ready then, mate?” 

“I—” David wished mightily that he could say yes, of course he was. “I genuinely have no idea.” 

Killian laughed. “That seems reasonable, given what you’ve just been through.” 

“It might help if I actually knew what we were doing now.” 

“Oh that’s quite simple.” Killian gave him a wide grin and the worst wink David had ever seen. “We’re going to fetch your sword.” 

~

Emma regained consciousness then promptly wished she hadn’t, as nausea roiled in her stomach and some unseen force attempted to drive an ice pick through her skull.

Instinctively, she knew not to move or groan or do anything that might alert her abductors that she was no longer unconscious. Anyone powerful enough to incapacitate her in this way was an enemy to be reckoned with, and despite feeling like how she’d always heard hangovers described Emma was determined to find out who the hell these people were and what they thought they were going to do with her.

She could feel the forest around her, the soft, peaty ground beneath her cheek and the rustling of the leaves in the wind, the power of her connection to the land and all the things that grew from it. She sank her fingers deep into the dirt and prepared.

“Mother, we don’t even know what we’re looking for!” a voice exclaimed, with a note of petulance and an underlying quaver of fear that caught Emma’s attention.

“We’ll find it,” replied a second voice, flat and coldly confident.

“How?” pressed the first one. “How will we find something we have only the vaguest ideas about?”

“She’ll tell us what we need to know.”

“Mother, you don’t understand! We only managed to capture her because we took her by surprise! We have no means of getting her to talk, and her Guardian—”

“I took care of him.”

“You hit him on the head, he’ll survive,” the first voice retorted. “If you had actually read the tribal histories you’d know that it takes more than a big stick to eliminate a fae Guardian!”

“She’s right, Mother,” said a third voice, dry and wicked. “You should have killed him.”

“Perhaps,” drawled the second, “but there wasn’t time. If he is as and what you say he is, Regina, he’ll come for her. And we will be ready for him.”

“Ready for...” The first voice, Regina, trailed off in exasperation. “How will we be ready? In case you forgot, we don’t even know what we’re looking for!”

Emma knew, though. She knew exactly what the histories of the fae tribes hinted at, just enough hints to catch the attention of the clever and the ambitious, not nearly enough to give them what they would need to know. These three were hardly the first to come in search of it and they would not be the last. She’d recognised them last night for what they were and though she doubted they would actually recognise the thing they sought, Emma hadn’t hesitated for a moment to leave the tywyll stone behind, trusting that Killian would find it and understand the message that she sent by leaving it in his care. 

He would be on his way now, she knew that too. Her Guardian would die to protect her as he was duty bound by the covenants and his heritage to do, but even beyond that Emma knew that Killian Jones would never not fight for her. 

She cracked her eyelid open just far enough that she could see the women attached to the voices. Only the three, she was relieved to note, and apparently without backup. Two younger and one older, a mother and her daughters, the mother with a haughty expression and brown hair beginning to show streaks of grey. Her daughters did not much resemble each other; one had a tawny complexion and dark hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders, while the other’s hair was red and wildly curling around her pale, sharp face. Half-sisters, at a guess, thought Emma, and unless she was gravely mistaken both half-fae. A human woman with two half-fae daughters whose fathers were of different tribes. That was very interesting.

Also interesting were the piles of scrolls she could see poking out of an old trunk behind them, scrolls she recognised as library copies of the more well-known tribal histories. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, she’d once read, and it appeared these women had a very little knowledge indeed. And were all the more dangerous for it.

She closed her eyes again then pretended to wake, letting out a long groan as she sank her fingers further still into the soft soil and felt the forest stir around her.

“Ah,” said the mother. “She’s awake.”

“Where—where am I?” groaned Emma. “What happened?”

“What happened is that you are now our prisoner princess,” cooed the mother’s voice, and despite herself Emma felt icy fear twist around her heart. “And you are going to tell us where the Black Fairy’s magic is kept.”

“I—” Emma groaned, cracking open her eyes again to see all three women watching her expectantly. Regina’s expression was apprehensive, her red-haired sister’s triumphant. And their mother… her face wore an expression of naked greed that made Emma’s skin crawl. This human woman had no magic but her daughters did, and she, oh, she wanted what they had.

“I—” she said again, and the women leaned forward, their attention so captivated by Emma that they failed to notice the tree branches bending and closing in around them, or the grey-green roots of the forest plants breaking through the ground, rising up and curling around their trunk full of scrolls and crumbling the fragile parchment into dust.

“I don’t think I will,” said Emma.

~

The old classroom towers, David had been firmly informed by the assistant director of the university’s Office of Residency Affairs, were closed. Had been closed, she told him, for some centuries now, at least since the Hall had been renamed. Andersen students were to attend their classes in the academic buildings and that was all there was to it. David had shrugged and agreed and signed the form she gave him, not entirely clear on what made her so extraordinarily adamant on the point. 

Now, as he trailed up a spiral staircase made of stone, with dips worn into the centre of each step by the feet of many generations of students long past, he thought he might have some inkling as to why. This place was dangerous, and not just because the steps were worn. There were whispers in its very walls, centuries of magic infused into each minute mote of dust, and that dust and those walls and every other thing in and around them was not best pleased by the appearance of interlopers. 

Despite this he pressed on, for Emma and because he doubted that Killian, his hand gripping the pommel of his sword and his jaw set, would allow anything to deter him from his goal. Victor followed at Killian’s heels, carrying another steaming beaker, with August behind David bringing up the rear and Belle, glowing with an otherworldly light, serving as their beacon through the shifting shadows. 

Around and around they climbed, through the darkness and the whispers until David’s head was spinning and he’d lost all sense of time, then quite suddenly a door appeared in front of them. Belle pushed it open and led the way into the room beyond, and David followed eagerly, glad to be out of that interminable stairwell. 

The room was large and circular, quite as you would expect a tower room to be. It had four tall and pointed windows with four columns spaced evenly between them. There were no desks, but smallish wooden tables arranged in a circle and one larger one in front of the largest window, upon a raised dais. 

Killian began to move around the room in what David could only describe as a prowl, muttering to himself as he went. He appeared to be measuring the size of the stones in the floor, the distance from window to window, and the position of the stairs they had just ascended. 

“If this is what I think it is,” he said to Belle, “it’ll be aligned to the eastern point.” 

Belle nodded. “That seems likely. But how will we know where to look? None of us has the right kind of magic to detect it.” 

“That might not be entirely true.” Killian looked at David and Belle followed his gaze. 

David had to suppress a flinch. What now?  

“How are you holding up, mate?” Killian asked kindly. 

“Fine,” replied David. “So far, at least.” 

Killian grinned. “I’m glad you’re catching on.”   

David sighed. “So what do I have to do?”

“Just be yourself.” 

“And what is that supposed to mean?

“Close your eyes,” Killian instructed, “and tell me what you feel.”

David let his eyes fall shut, shivering as the spiders tangoed across the nape of his neck. “Like something’s watching me,” he said frankly. 

“Like it’s calling to you?” Killian’s voice was sharp. 

The whispers in the walls grew louder. “Yeah,” said David. “I can hear... something.”  

“Can you tell where it’s coming from?” 

“From all around.” 

“Are you sure? Concentrate.” 

David focused on the loudest whispers. “From… below us? Somehow?” 

“Good.” Killian sounded satisfied. “Can you follow it?” 

David frowned, concentrating hard. He felt an odd tug just behind his bellybutton, urging him to move, which he did, opening his eyes to see that he was being led towards the largest window and the raised table. He followed the pull until it stopped, abruptly, replaced by an overwhelming urge to go down. “There,” he said, pointing at the large, square stone beneath his feet. “It’s coming from there.” 

Everyone gathered around, peering at the stone he indicated. 

“Victor,” said Killian. “Do your thing.” 

David stepped back to make way as Victor took his steaming beaker and dripped its contents carefully onto the mortar that held the stone in place. Nothing happened, to David’s eyes, but the others waited tensely and with bated breath until all the mortar was covered. When the last drop dripped from the beaker a faint click sounded in the air and they all exhaled.

Killian unsheathed his sword and placed the tip just in the centre of the stone. Closing his eyes, he murmured a few words David couldn’t quite make out, then gave the sword a sharp 90-degree twist. The stone made a groaning noise and shifted, shimmered, then faded away to reveal a set of steep stone stairs leading downwards to—

“Where do they go?” David demanded. 

Killian caught his eye. “Below,” he replied. 

~

The stairs were pitch black and endless. David kept his eyes trained as best he could on Belle, but even her glow began to fade the deeper they descended into… wherever this was. He wished he knew where they were going, if only so that this strange and powerful pull he felt would have some destination, some explanation of just what the hell it was.

After a small eternity the stairs ended, so abruptly that Killian stumbled, and David had to grab at the wall to avoid crashing into him. “Ugh,” Killian groaned, leaning his own hand against the wall to get his balance and bearings. “I guess this is it.” 

As he spoke a faint glow appeared, a small flicker in a vague distance, and with his jaw set grimly Killian began to walk towards it, the others on his heels. The glow grew stronger the closer they came, and then with a flare as bright as daylight it encompassed them. They blinked for a moment and when their eyes adjusted they found themselves in what was by all appearances a forest clearing. A very familiar forest clearing, David realised, with tall trees that reached up to the sky and a large, round stone at its centre. 

Belle gasped. “Is this…”

“Aye,” said Killian. “The chamber of the Fae Council. If the sword is anywhere, it’s here.” He turned to David. “Mate?”

David nodded. He had no idea how he knew what to do, only that he did. The knowledge came from somewhere deep within him, the same place as the images he’d seen after drinking the purple potion. He knew that if he laid his hand on the stone just so, if he then pressed against it gently, that the shielding spell would fall away and his sword would appear. He knew this, and yet he still couldn’t quite believe his eyes. 

The sword was breathtaking. Longer than he would have imagined and viciously sharp, with an ornate hilt and symbols carved into the blade… symbols his brain wanted to understand, insisted that it should understand, but which hovered stubbornly just beyond his comprehension. 

“Take it,” said Killian, nodding at the sword. “It’s yours.” 

How is it mine, David wanted to ask. How is this, any of this, even possible? 

The moment his fingers gripped its hilt, the symbols on the sword began to glow, as though molten metal were flowing through them. As David lifted it from the table he felt a weight around his waist, and looked down to see a sword belt much like Killian’s appear around his hips. 

He turned to meet Killian’s eyes. “How?” he whispered. “I know we don’t have time for explanations, but please, just tell me—how?”

“You’re a Guardian,” said Killian, with a small smile. “Like me.”

~

The trip back from the council chamber to the classroom tower and then out of the Hall and into the forest felt as though it took no time at all. Or more likely, David thought, he was just too preoccupied to take notice of it passing.

Killian’s words kept echoing in his ears. You’re a Guardian.

David had no idea what that meant, but he couldn’t deny how deeply he knew that it was true.

They entered the forest just as Snow, Graham, and Ruby were leaving it, looking shaken and anxious.

“What did you find?” Killian asked them.

“There are very clear tracks,” Snow replied. “Clumsy ones. Whoever took Emma doesn’t know this forest at all. They must just have chosen it thinking it would make a good hideout.”

"We followed them as far as we could, but there was no sign of them ending," Graham added.

"All right,” said Killian, removing the purple amulet from his pocket and holding it up. “Lead the way.”

David wasn't sure whether he was addressing Snow or the amulet, or possibly both, but it didn’t seem to matter as they pressed deeper and deeper into the forest, further than he had ever dared venture before. With each step Killian’s face grew more grim. He gripped the amulet tightly by its leather strap as it began to glow and hum, an endless, atonal hum. It hung from Killian’s hand at a sharp and unnatural angle, seeming to pull him along behind it as they grew closer to wherever Emma was.

Snow shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. “Where did they take her?” she whispered. “How did they even get so deep into the forest?”

“I don’t know,” said Killian. “Everyone, stay on your toes.”

Without warning the ground beneath their feet began to rumble and shift, the thick, damp soil cracking open as the roots beneath it moved, slithering like snakes beneath the surface and heading in the very direction they themselves were following.

“Emma,” muttered Killian, as he broke into a run. “Bloody hell, woman!”

The others ran after him, leaping over the roots and the shifting soil with a nimble speed that David was hopeless to match. He tripped and stumbled and barely managed to keep his feet under him until Graham and Ruby appeared at his sides, each catching one of his arms and propping him between them as they ran.

The forest before them was a blur of movement, twisting roots and waving branches, magic spitting and hissing through the air, and David was just about to cry out in protest—there was no way they could enter that melee and come out alive—when a figure emerged from the chaos, golden hair whipped to a frenzy by the wind and red cloak swirling around her.

Killian raced to her and caught her in his arms, lifting her feet off the ground and burying his face in her hair. “Bloody hell, Swan,” he whispered. Emma clung to him, her fists tight in the back of his jacket, as the rest of the group gathered around them.

Killian set Emma on her feet and loosened his hold on her, stepping back just enough to give her a glare that even David could see held no heat. “What the devil do you think you’re doing, love?” he grumbled. “Depriving me of a dashing rescue.”

“I told you,” retorted Emma. “The only one who saves me is me.” She smiled softly and caressed his face, fingertips brushing his cheekbone. “But I’m glad you came, Killian.”

“I’ll always come for you, darling,” he said with a smirk. “In all senses of the word.”

She snorted and gave the back of his head a feeble smack, but didn’t protest when his arms tightened around her again and his hand tangled in her hair.  

“Well this is adorable,” said Victor. “If a bit sickening. But would you mind telling us just what exactly you've been up to here?”

The movement in the forest had ceased the moment Emma and Killian embraced but the space behind them was still in chaos, with unearthed roots and tree branches bent at unnatural angles, forming a very effective-looking cage.

“I’ve bound them,” said Emma. “In magic it will take them some time to break.”

“They?” demanded Killian.

“Yeah, three of them. A human woman and her half-fae daughters. I can’t keep them trapped forever but we should have enough time to figure out what to do with them.”

“You can’t just kill them?” asked August.

“No!” said Emma and Killian in unison, as Graham punched August’s shoulder.

“Hey, just putting it on the table,” August protested.

“We’re not going to kill them,” said Emma firmly. “There’s something about them... something that I can't quite put my finger on, but honestly it troubles me. I need to know more before we decide how to act. Let’s get back to the dorm.”

“The dorm?” asked David. Emma turned to him and her eyes lit with amusement.

“Well, you must have had a rough few hours,” she said, nodding at the sword he held.

David grinned a bit sheepishly. “You could say that.”

“Welcome to the team,” said Emma, smiling warmly. “And yes, back to the dorm. I need my plants, my books, a scrying mirror, and a cup of tea, not necessarily in that order. Let’s go.”

___

[bearstarseraphffxi]

Anxiety

Also available at https://archiveofourown.org/works/28257798

The blasts shaking the palace had servants and soldiers running, some even jumping out of windows.

General Nappa was grabbing people in the panicking horde.

“Have you seen Prince Vegeta?” “Have you seen Little Geta?” “Has anyone seen Prince Vegeta?!”

~~***~~

Prince Vegeta was ducking in and out of doors. Many adults had tried to grab him, but he forced himself out each time.

Vegeta turned into a servant’s hallway to cut through one of the kitchens. There was another boom and plaster from the ceiling dropped.

“It’s coming from the throne room,” he thought. “What is Papa doing?”

He had tried hiding Tarble from his father and succeeded for a month before he was captured. He knew the palace inside and out.

Vegeta jumped in the dumbwaiter.

~~***~~

Vegeta opened the door and found it blocked by a large block of stone. He quickly kicked it out of the way and climbed out.

The throne room was a pile of rubble. Vegeta’s eyes darted around the broken columns and shattered marble. He made his way towards his father’s throne as more stone tumbled and crashed. He went to cross the room when he discovered a feasting table full of food, now covered in dust.

“Can your miserable little brain comprehend why I’m so angry, Saiyan King?”

Vegeta saw his father on his hands and knees with a purple cat-like man stepping on his head.

“Forgive me because I promised to fulfill your mission in the time you gave me, Lord Beerus, but it took longer than I thought it would.”

“Wrong!” Beerus said.

“Father’s being humiliated. How can he take that?” he said softly.

“I consider myself a rather flexible deity. I know you mortals have your limitations but there is one thing I cannot tolerate. The callous arrogance of those who do not pay the respect a Destroyer is due.”

Beerus then shoved his head deep into the floor.

“I ordered you to find the most comfortable pillow in the universe and I know for a fact you obtained it. Your tenacity was impressive, although your methods a bit severe.”

The man pulled his father up by his hair. “I bet you don’t even know how many creatures you killed in that raid. Of course, being what I am I could have accepted all that if you’d actually given me the best pillow, instead of keeping it for yourself and try to fool me with the second best.”

He then began to beat King Vegeta.

“Papa!” Vegeta charged forward.

Beerus glanced over his shoulder and Vegeta felt a pulse go through him.

He instantly collapsed.

King Vegeta turned his head to look at his son on the ground.

Beerus dropped the king back on the ground and stood. “Well, that little stunt almost makes up for the utter waste of time this was. Whis, let’s go.”

“Yes, Lord Beerus,” Whis said walking towards him.

Then he stopped walking and looked down at the prince’s body.

“Oh!” Whis laughed into his palm. “Lord Beerus, you are so merciful. You surprise me.”

Beerus looked over his shoulder. “What are you talking about?”

“The little prince is still alive.”

Beerus spun around. “What?! That would have dropped Frieza. That’s impossible.”

He saw Vegeta begin to get his limbs under him.

“Are you trying to stand?!” Beerus stomped over as Vegeta got on his hands and knees. Beerus kicked him sending him flying.

Vegeta landed on the throne. It tilted backwards before coming to rest.

King Vegeta looked behind him. His son was still moving.

“Consider this my greatest mercy,” Beerus said.

King Vegeta turned back to him and saw Beerus raise his hand with his fingers touching his thumb.

“That you get to see your son die on the throne.” Beerus snapped his fingers.

King Vegeta spun around hearing his son scream.

The prince was almost bent in half backward. His legs were straight, arms twisted, wrists reared back and his fingers clawed the air. The screaming stopped but his body did not relax.

King Vegeta heard an explosion behind him. He looked and saw Beerus had blasted a hole in the ceiling to the outside. He turned his head and smirked as Whis cast his bubble and they vanished.

The king got off his knees and ran to his throne. Vegeta was stiff as a board, unseeing eyes wide with his tongue sticking out of blue lips.

King Vegeta cupped his son's face in his hands. “Gods no… Please no… Please…” Then his face hardened. “No. No gods. This is their fault.” He pulled his son’s face to his. “Listen to me Vegeta! You are stronger than this! You are the Saiyan of legend! Greater than every Saiyan to come before you! Greater than Frieza! Greater than all the damn gods! But you need to breathe! BREATHE! Fight it, Vegeta! Fight it! Don’t give up! Breathe! BREATHE! BREATHE! BREA—”

Vegeta’s head suddenly jerked as he gasped.

“Yes, Vegeta! Keep fighting! Keep breathing!”

Vegeta’s head jerked again in the opposite direction as he gasped again. The tips of his fingers started to twitch.

King Vegeta picked up his son. “You can do Vegeta! Keep at it! You can beat this!” He ran. “Keep breathing!”

 ~~***~~

King Vegeta sat in the elite hospital. After almost an hour, Prince Vegeta was still randomly twisting and jerking in the fluid. Suddenly, Vegeta unbent and went completely limp in the fluid. The doctors scrambled as the rhythm of the machines suddenly changed.

“What’s happening?!” King Vegeta demanded.

“Checking!” a doctor shouted.

King Vegeta watched his son hang in the liquid. He saw his son’s right hand weakly paw at the fluid.

“Sire!” the doctor turned around. He smiled. “He’s stabilizing.”

King Vegeta walked over and put his hand on the glass.

Prince Vegeta seemed to respond and tried but failed to lift his arm.

The beeping on one machine quickened.

“King Vegeta, please,” a doctor put his hand on his chest. “Please step back.”

He stepped out of the way and Vegeta’s arm lowered.

The beeping slowed.

“Ok… Ok, his heartbeat is stabilizing again.”

“King Vegeta,” the doctor asked again. “If you could wait in the side room. We’ll call you if there are any changes.”

King Vegeta took one last look at his son. “…Alright…”

~~***~~

After another half hour, there was an explosion. Then he heard Vegeta scream.

King Vegeta burst through the door just in time to get the remains of a doctor splashed across his face.

The room was destroyed, with one wall collapsed into the next med bay. Body parts covered the floor and equipment.

And his son was screaming, attacking everything that moved. Prince Vegeta lunged at his father.

King Vegeta struggled for his life against his son. The prince was born over twice his power level, and the gap had only grown. But he was crazed, wild like an Ozaru on a moonlit night.

The king got behind him and locked him in a bear hug. He could feel his leg bones cracking from his repeated kicking as he struggled to dodge the flailing headbutts. Suddenly, a doctor climbed the rubble and jammed a needle into the boy’s arm. After a few minutes, he stopped flailing and began to moan.

King Vegeta looked up at the ceiling, took a deep breath and sighed.

~~***~~

The king stepped out of the medical shower stall and found new royal robes waiting for him on a table guarded by Nappa. King Vegeta relaxed at the sight of the one man he considered a confidant. They were raised together. Destined battle partners, the supreme general had become a second set of arms to his brain.

Publicly, the prince’s power was so overwhelming he would not be able to have a proper partner. In reality, the king had no intention of keeping the tradition. No one would share his son’s glory.

“How is he?” King Vegeta asked, dropping his towel. He reached for his clothes.

“Tranquilized.”

“How many did we lose?”

“Nine doctors. Five were technically employed by Lord Frieza… their commander has contacted him. Frieza has ordered the best doctors the PTO have to offer to take care of him and to keep him updated.”

King Vegeta facepalmed. “Perfect… so much for keeping this quiet…” He lowered his arm. “When will they arrive?”

“About 40 minutes.”

The king grabbed his clothes, “Then let’s get ready to greet them.”

~~***~~

“Oh! Lord Beerus, you are so merciful. You surprise me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The little prince is still alive.”

“What?! That would have dropped Frieza. That’s impossible.”

“So, this is the video our spy collected?” Frieza asked, glaring at the screen.

Zarbon bowed, “Yes sire. Straight from the security cameras of the throne room itself.”

“Consider this my greatest mercy… that you get to see your son die on the throne.”

Frieza listened to Vegeta scream. “So… you’re telling me a child survived two attempts by Lord Beerus?”

“Apparently, sire,” Zarbon said. “But our doctor’s review of the data suggests the strong possibility of brain damage. He said it is impossible that something he called a “status epilepticus” of that severity didn’t do something to his brain.”

Frieza moved his gaze from the screen down to a tablet. “Seems his heart has been struggling as well.” He scrolled through it. “His file also lists a near fatal dose of adrenalin and other hormones.”

“Lord Beerus sure picked an odd way to kill him,” Dodoria said.

Frieza smirked and handed an aide back the tablet. “Actually, it’s quite simple Dodoria,” he chuckled dismissively. “Fear. Lord Beerus tried to kill him with fear.”

Frieza looked back up at the video as King Vegeta was screaming at his son to breathe.

“This monkey survived two attacks that would have killed me,” he thought. “Either Lord Beerus underestimated my power,” he glared at screen. “Or this child will be trouble.”

“Make a public announcement that Vegeta has caught an unknown virus from clearing a primitive world, and is in isolation and receiving the best care we have to offer. That planet will be destroyed as a safety measure, as this is clearly dangerous to sicken Saiyans, who have the best immune system in the galaxy.”

~~***~~

A few months later…

King Vegeta stormed into the care team’s office.

“You’ve been tranquilizing my son at night! Why?! Why wasn’t I told?!”

A reptilian doctor turned to confront him. “Because you have been interfering with your son’s treatment time and again, so I went over your head! It’s because of you his healing has stagnated!”

“My son does not need tranquilizers!”

“He’s barely slept in five months! Whatever mask he has been wearing to stroke your ego evaporates when he sleeps!”

“My son is fine! He has never been stronger and more ruthless! What happened to him was a blessing in disguise.”

“The prince’s brain chemistry has never recovered! If anything, it’s more unbalanced than before. He’s overcompensating trying to hide his symptoms. And you and your people’s view towards emotions are only making things worse!”

“Saiyan elite do not feel emotions! We are not weak! Watch your words defaming the Saiyan Prince!”

“Your son has brain damage! And his brain chemistry shows he’s in constant anxiety and fear.” He waved the tablet in his hand. “You can’t argue with science! The stress of  the shame you are forcing on him is only exacerbating the problem! If you ever want your son to actually heal, you need to relieve that stress before his brain completely scars over! If you don’t, you might as well toss him in the trash like your last child and find a new wife! Isn’t there a law about a couple producing two defective children? Because fuck it, my child should be able to survive two murder attempts by the fucking God of Destruction without a scratch!”

The king grabbed him by the arm and threw him out of the room. “Get off my planet! All of you! Off! Off! Off!”

King Vegeta chased the entire group into the hallway. “Out! Out! Out! Out!”

“King Vegeta!”

“What?!” he spun around and saw Nappa. He relaxed. “What is it?” he said calmly.

Nappa only extended a piece of paper.

King Vegeta thought he felt his heart stop in his chest as he read it.

“KING VEGETA 3,

IT HAS COME TO MY ATTENTION THAT I HAVE BROKEN MULTIPLE SACRED LAWS OF HONOR. COMPLETE FAILURE CAN ONLY BE DEALT WITH BY DEATH OR EXILE. I SURRENDER ALL TITLE AND HONOR AND GO INTO EXILE BY MY OWN POWER.

LONG LIVE THE KING AND HIS UNBORN HEIR.”

“How many have seen this?”

“Just me,” Nappa answered.

King Vegeta burned it to ash with his energy.

Nappa stood at attention. “Orders, sire?”

King Vegeta formed his fist as the ash fell from his hand. “We find him and bring him back.”

~~***~~

A few weeks later, the two men landed in the middle of a blizzard.

“Holy fucking shit,” Nappa said jumping up and down and rubbing his arms. “It’s fucking cold.”

“I told you the signal was in the northern latitudes,” King Vegeta said, dressed in royal furs.

“But this planet is listed as tropical!”

“Low priority worlds are only surveyed every few million years. And this planet had obvious markings of recent glaciation even then, if you read the description.”

“What type of fucking planet swings from tropical to glaciers every few million years?!”

King Vegeta touched his scouter, then pulled it away from his ear.

“Damn it,” he began to play with the settings. “A local transmission is messing with the scouter communication link.”

Nappa turned his scouter on. “Oh, music… Catchy. Flees Navy Dad. Flees Navy Dad. Something anus Flees knee dad.”

“Nappa… Just stop…”

“You sure? The lyrics just switched to partial Uni.”

King Vegeta put the scouter back on. The numbers began to roll across the eyepiece. “Yes… I’m positive.” He looked left after its final beep. “There he his.”

They made their way through the blowing snow and discovered a small dwelling with smoke coming from a chimney.

“Scouter says only one person in there,” Nappa said.

“He better have killed the previous occupant, at least,” King Vegeta growled.

~~***~~

King Vegeta kicked down the fragile plant-derivative door. “Vegeta the Fourth!”

He saw a small form scurry on an upper platform.

King Vegeta grabbed his son and held him off the floor. “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING HERE?!” he shouted millimeters from his face.

The king then saw something he never thought was possible. His son started to whimper and cry.

“WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!” King Vegeta wound him up and threw him through the wall, causing the structure to partially collapse.

“Vegeta, what the hell?” Nappa shouted, digging himself out as it caught fire. He followed the path of broken trees and discovered King Vegeta on the ground clutching his stomach.

“Did you really think screaming at a kid that was strong enough to kill you as a newborn was a good idea?”

King Vegeta coughed as he struggled to sit up, “He’s -cough- never acted this way before.”

Nappa crouched down. “As if these past 6 months have been anything but normal. Here, let ol’ Uncle Nappa work his charms. Kids love me.”

“Fine…”

Nappa stood and flew off.

Vegeta laid on his back. “It’s because you’re such a freaking moron. You’re just a bad joke without me…”

~~***~~

Nappa followed his scouter and it led him to one of the many trees with needle leaves, its bottom buried in snow. He stood next to the tree.

“Hey Vegeta!” Nappa shouted. “Where are you?!” “Oh…” he said loudly. “I hope the little prince is all right. I’m REALLY SCARED something bad happened to him.”

The tree shivered, knocking snow from it. Nappa turned his back knowing Prince Vegeta was peeking through the branches. “The king was SO TERRIFIED when little Geta got sick. I never saw him SO SCARED. He even CARRIED and HELD him IN HIS ARMS. He could have CAUGHT IT TOO, but HE DIDN’T CARE. All he cared about was his SON OVER HIS DUTY and HONOR.”

“Nappa…” he heard a soft voice behind him. “Is that true?”

Nappa looked over his shoulder, “Of course. You should know better than anyone I’m a terrible liar.”

The tree shook again.

“Come in,” he heard louder.

Nappa circled the tree and a hole had been dug in the snow bank. He crawled through and found the prince had cut down the branches to make a cave. Even then, it was a tight fit for the giant.

“Wow, it’s actually warm in here. Nice job, my prince.”

He smiled at him and the child’s face hardened into a miniature of his father’s scowl.

“I order you to tell me the truth,” he said. “Tell me everything.”

“Vegeta, even elite Saiyans feel fear. It’s rare, but it’s true. Our strength means very little challenges us, but,” he leaned in, “We are not Super Saiyans. There are races stronger than us.”

“But that’s temporary!” Vegeta protested. “Saiyans grow and evolve! We will surpass all and rule the galaxy!”

“That’s very true,” Nappa said. “But we are not there yet. Vegeta listen, the sickness you got is very rare and very deadly. In fact, you are the only known survivor in millions of years. It even wrecked your body so badly you even got a huge zenkai. Your power nearly doubled.” Nappa held his finger in front of his face, “That is how close you came to dying. And you are actually still in recovery.”

Vegeta looked up at him, shocked.

Nappa nodded, “I’ve overheard your father screaming at the doctors constantly. They say you’re still in recovery, but your father hasn’t taken them seriously.” Nappa tapped his head, “Because it’s in here. The fever left you wild and uncontrolled like a third-class Ozaru; you were sedated for weeks. Then you were confused which left you crying and screaming, so your father drugged you again.”

Vegeta began to tremble. “Is father going to sedate me again?” he asked, burying his face in his knees. “So I can’t move?”

“Wait, you remember that?” Napa asked, shocked.

Vegeta nodded.

“Your brain scans said you were completely unconscious.”

Vegeta lifted his head. “Well, I wasn’t!” he shouted before burying his face again. “It was no different than looking at the moon, but I couldn’t get my body to obey me.”

Nappa’s eyes widened. “You don’t just remember your nights, but can control your form?”

Vegeta nodded.

Nappa looked forward. “Well, fuck…”

“But it was harder last time, I almost blacked out transforming. I… I was afraid. I was afraid of myself. And I almost lost my grip. I don’t think I was fully in control. I couldn’t play.”

“You shouldn’t waste time on the battlefield,” Nappa scolded.

“I just like practicing making noises. I want to be able to talk.”

“But why?”

“I… think it would be scarier… if I could talk. Ozarus are supposed to be mindless beasts. What if during battle one actually talked and fought intelligently? An Ozaru can still be wounded because it’s nothing but an animal, and can be outsmarted like any animal by a skilled hunter.” Vegeta peeked above his knees and Nappa saw his signature smirk. “I want to turn the hunters into the hunted and watch their faces when they realize everything they planned was useless. How powerless they are.”

Vegeta buried his face again, “But now I’m the powerless one…” He started to shake. “Please just go. Father can do so much better than me. I’m broken now. I’m scared,” his voice cracked, “I’m always scared. I’m scared of everything!”

“Vegeta, you’re young. You’re barely four years old. You have a century of battle ahead of you. This will heal. It will get better. Let’s go home and talk with your doctors. Figure out how to make this heal. But that can’t happen if you keep lying that everything is alright.”

“But what about Papa?”

“You mean the man you left rolling in the snow after a single punch?” Nappa held his palm out, “Vegeta, you’re now the strongest Saiyan in modern times.” He formed his fist. “You can take anything you want. Even the throne, if you wanted.”

“But no one will follow a weak king. I feel fear. What if my guards strike me while asleep?”

“Wow… you’ve really thought this through, huh?”

“Papa told me what guards are for…” he answered. “But what’s stopping them from turning?”

“Wow… you are so paranoid right now.” Nappa shifted. “Vegeta… I don’t know if I’m saying this right… but… Stop being afraid of your own fear. …A warrior can still dominate the battlefield without an eye or even an arm. The only thing stopping a warrior from doing that is their fear of that injury and being unable to see past it because of that fear. These emotions you can’t control at the moment are from a head injury. But even if it leaves a scar that never fully goes away, you can embrace it and alter yourself around it to make yourself a better warrior.” He patted Vegeta on the back, “But hey!” he chuckled, “If you have the patience and determination to conquer the impossible feat of becoming a talking Ozaru, then you can become the strongest Super Saiyan that’s ever lived, even if you feel a little bit of fear inside.”

Nappa put his arm down. “And you’re already well on your way. You really blindsided your father and I with that letter, which was burnt to ash before anyone else saw it. No one knows you abdicated. All this can be forgotten.”

Vegeta’s voice cracked again, “I just didn’t want to disappoint Papa. I thought everything would get better if I toughed it out, but it never did.”

“Which is why you need to be honest with the doctors now. If your head isn’t healing on its own, you are going to need help fixing it. Which is why we need to go back and tell the doctors everything you just told me, my prince.”

Vegeta nodded.

Nappa leaned in smiling, “Does that mean you’re ready to go home and get fixed up?”

Vegeta nodded.

Nappa stood up breaking the tree into splinters. “All right! Let’s get moving!”

Vegeta looked out over the snow bank. “Papa?”

Nappa turned around and saw the king.

“So… how long have you been there?” Nappa asked nervously.

“Long enough,” he answered. King Vegeta walked over and stared down into the hole in the snow.

Prince Vegeta squared his shoulders and looked up at him at attention. “I will agree to return to take my place as heir.” He then pointed at his father. “On the condition you no longer interfere with my recovery so I may become the heir required of a Saiyan Prince!”  

King Vegeta looked down at his son’s hardened, determined face.

“Agreed.”

~~***~~

King Vegeta unburied his son’s pod, programmed some coordinates, then sent him off.

“Man, I can’t wait to get back home and get warmed up,” Nappa said.

“Oh, we’re not going home just yet,” King Vegeta smirked and he began programming Nappa’s ship.

“What? Why?”

“We need an excuse for being missing these few months. There’s a desert planet nearby with a breathable atmosphere. The story will be we took Prince Vegeta for special training in a place where there could be no collateral damage.”

He stood up and put his hand on Nappa’s shoulder. “And I think for the crime of plotting a coup with my child,” he gave a sickly smile, “spending a couple days in a healing pod upon our return is quite merciful.”

Nappa chuckled awkwardly.

~~***~~

A month earlier…

Frieza smiled down at his tablet. “So this is the final composite rendering of that note King Vegeta burned?”

“Yes, sire,” a technician bowed. “We used every camera angle that caught a glimpse of the paper.”

“Thank you, you may leave.”

After the door closed, Frieza began laughing.

“Sire?” Zarbon asked nervously, “May I ask what you find so funny?”

Frieza passed him the tablet to him and Dodoria looked over his shoulder.

“Prince Vegeta has abdicated his throne?!” Dodoria exclaimed.

Frieza continued to laugh, “Poor little Vegeta is so tormented with anxiety and fear he’s run away from home! Oh! What lovely blackmail for when the king brings him back!”

~~***~~

A couple weeks later, the three ships land back on Planet Vegeta. Prince Vegeta ran to the crews before the door even fully opened. “Help!”

The crew stopped, shocked at the mangled state of his clothes and armor.

“Prince Vegeta? What’s happened?”

“I hit Papa too hard! We were training,” he dropped to his knees. “I hit Papa too hard.”

“Hey! General Nappa needs attention too!” the crew that recovered his pod shouted.

A Saiyan knelt down to the crying child. “Don’t worry my prince, I promise the king will be fine.”

Vegeta followed the medical teams into the elite hospital at the palace. He grabbed onto the coat of a passing staff.

He looked down, “Yes, Prince Vegeta?”

“Can I please see my doctors?” Vegeta asked softly.

He nodded, “Yes. Of course. Let me tell them.” He hurried off.

~~***~~

Vegeta waited on a bench swinging his feet in the air.

The lizard doctor walked quickly down the hall. “Young prince. It is good to see you again. If you could follow me into an empty room, we can go over your father’s and the general’s conditions.”

Vegeta followed him into an exam room. He climbed on the table as the doctor opened his tablet.

“You will be happy to hear that they will both make a full recovery,” he said sitting down on a spinning stool. “They won’t need more than three hours in the chamber, then they will be good as new.”

“Actually, doctor,” Vegeta looked up at him with a stern face. “I want to talk about me.”

“Oh… I see. What is it you want to talk about?”

“General Nappa has told me I am actually still in recovery, but my father has been ignoring your advice on my treatment.”

“…Yes…” he hesitated. “That is the case.”

“General Nappa has convinced my father to no longer interfere. You can confirm once they wake up.”

The doctor gave a sigh of relief, “That is good to hear. Lord Frieza was growing quite impatient with the stall of your recovery. Now we can finally work. And I promise we will heal you.”

“General Nappa compared my…” Vegeta hesitated. “my… my… my fear…” he stuttered. “To a warrior losing an eye. And I need to adapt as a warrior and overcome. But to do that, I need to tell you everything.”

The doctor smiled, “The fact you were able to say the word fear is a great start, Prince Vegeta. And I promise that word will never leave my team. I know how hard that word is for a Saiyan to say. But if it is easier, the special type of fear you have is called anxiety.”

“An-xi-ety,” Vegeta said slowly. “I will need to ask my father who I am allowed to say that word around.”

The doctor nodded. “So, what else did you want to tell me?”

“The machines lied to you. I was awake the whole time I was sedated. I just could not move.”

“What?!” the doctor stood. “How?!”

“It felt no different than being an Ozaru, that’s why.”

“Wait, I thought Saiyans were unconscious during the transformation?”

“Almost everyone is, and only a handful remember anything, like Papa. But I not only remember. I am in full control. I’ve even been working on trying to learn to speak if we finish before the moon sets.”

The doctor set down with a plop. “That… that is incredible. I don’t even know where to begin. Would you be willing to undergo testing in that state? The change in brainwaves would go far in understanding what’s going on in your brain.”

Vegeta nodded. “I’ve been having trouble the past couple months. It’s safer to confirm I’m awake before weaklings like you approach me.”

“Yes. Yes.” he nodded looking at his tablet. “Oh, I’m writing this in the wrong file. Darn it, give me a moment, Prince Vegeta, before we continue.”

Prince Vegeta chuckled as the frantic doctor swiped and poked his screen.

~~***~~

That night, Vegeta was sitting up in his bed drinking a small glass of water.

“Did your pill go down smoothly?” the nurse asked.

Vegeta held up the empty glass, “Yes.”

The nurse took it.

“If everyone is finished,” King Vegeta said, “I would like a moment alone with my son.”

Everyone bowed, and the nurse and guards exited the room.

After the door closed, King Vegeta sighed. Then he looked down sternly at his son.

“Papa?” he asked nervously.

“I’m told you gave quite the performance when we landed. Why? You knew our injuries.”

“You destroyed your honor when you carried and held me when I was sick. Now we are even in the public mind.”

“I see. Politically astute for a small child. You have a sharp mind.” He took a deep breath.

“I’m told you can fully control your Ozaru… and have been practicing speaking?”

“Yes, Papa,” he nodded.

King Vegeta smiled. “Prince Vegeta the Fourth,” he paused. “I am in awe of you. I am proud, that you are my son.”

Vegeta’s jaw dropped as he gave a tiny gasp.

King Vegeta chuckled. Then he put his hand on top of his son’s head. “And since this is private, don’t feel the need to even the playing field. I already know.”

“Yes, Papa,” Vegeta said softly.

King Vegeta turned and walked away. He opened the door to discover Nappa with a cup.

King Vegeta bristled. “Nappa!”

“Worth it!” Nappa shouted as he ran away.

Prince Vegeta laughed as his father quickly disappeared from view.

~~***~~

One year later…

“Sire,” Zarbon bowed. “Prince Vegeta’s quarterly medical report has just finished being reviewed by your private physician and is ready to present.”

“Show him in,” Frieza said, not turning his back.

The doctor entered. “Sire,” he bowed.

“So, how is our dear little monkey doing?”

He pulled out his tablet and synced it to the screen. “Quite well. The prince has seen rapid improvement since the start of his specialized cognitive therapy after his Ozaru study.” He scrolled to a new page. “But there does seem to be permanent damage that will most likely leave him emotionally unstable the rest of his life. He’s currently on a mild antidepressant that was specially developed for him to overcome Saiyan livers.”

“What do you mean unstable?”

“Well, he is still exhibiting behaviors not seen in Saiyans, like showing unusually strong emotional attachments and being quite clinging to his father in particular. This neurodivergence seems to be permanent and will most likely cause continuing issues functioning in Saiyan society.”

“So, he has a soft underbelly,” Frieza said. “What are his improvements?”

“He is now able to enter the throne room without experiencing distress. He is now cleaning and organizing to the same extent he was prior, according to staff, but the doctors feel it is quite excessive and may be a sign of preexisting control issues or OCD. His nightmares are still present, but he is no longer experiencing waking terrors. He hasn’t wet his bed in 47 days of this report. His sleeping tranquilizers have been discontinued accordingly.”

“What is this section on his power level?” Frieza asked, reading the screen.

“Apparently the nursing staff informally used a sudden drop in power level to predict an oncoming panic attack or other sudden issues, and reviewing records they discovered a steady depressive state of between 10 to 15% that only began correcting recently. His precision and speed have picked back up in training but his awareness of his surroundings has dropped, but that can be interpreted as a drop in anxiety and the resulting hypervigilance.”

“So, what you’re saying is that under stress Prince Vegeta’s power drops and his fighting ability suffers?”

“Um, yes. Fear and anxiety causing a drop of energy is quite common in other species but this is the first time it has been documented in a Saiyan.”

“I see,” Frieza said. “You may go now. I’ll read the rest of the report on my own time.”

“Yes, sire,” he said surprised. He bowed and left the room.

Frieza smiled.

“May I ask what you are thinking, sire?” Zarbon asked.

“I’m thinking I may have a use for the little monkey after all.” He turned his floating chair around, “Dodoria, call ahead and tell King Vegeta I’ve decided to bring his son into the main army, but this is not the announcement I have ordered his people to gather for. Tell him not to worry for his health. Any continuing treatment will be handled by my own private physicians and he will be in constant communication. I will pick him up personally after my official visit, so have him ready to depart.”

“Sire, won’t that complicate matters?”

“Did I give you permission to question my orders?”

“No, Sire! Right away, sire!”

“Zarbon,” Frieza said as Dodoria ran from the room. “I want you to remove mentions of his medication from Prince Vegeta’s medical file. The doctors and chemists will take care of themselves. And also,” he smiled. “Make sure the men know they will have free reign with young Vegeta. As long as they do not hurt him. We can’t have him getting stronger, can we?”

“Yes, sire,” Zarbon bowed while Frieza laughed.

~~***~~

On planet Vegeta, the King was reading the decoded message in the radio room.

“Your Majesty,” a guard said. “You’re not going to let him take the prince, will you?”

King Vegeta crumpled the paper in his hand. “No. Of course not.”

~~***~~

…

It was almost two weeks since Bulma’s birthday, and her shoulders and back were sore. She had been going to bed early to avoid the coming conversation, but tonight was not to be.

She opened her bedroom door, only to discover Vegeta already sitting on the side of the bed. He was slumped over with his elbows on his knees. He gripped the first three fingers in his left hand so hard his knuckles were white. It was rare for him to use this technique because it was so obvious. Physical pain helped clear his head when everything else failed, but this meant something was wrong even the GR couldn’t handle.

“You’ve been going to bed and waking up early,” Vegeta said.

Bulma put her hand behind her head, “Well, after our cruise so much work built up so—”

Vegeta lifted his head slightly and side-eyed her. “Don’t lie to me woman,” he hissed. “I know I injured you.”

Bulma sighed and sat next to him on the bed. She put her hand across his back and held his wrist with the other. “Don’t worry about it,” she said leaning into his ear. “It hurts no worse than going to the chiropractor. I don’t even have a mark.” She ran her hand up and down his lower arm. “Are you ready to talk or was this just about me?”

Vegeta let go of his fingers, and Bulma knew he’d be wearing his gloves the next few days to hide the bruise forming.

“You know…” he began breathing hard, “after that allergic reaction… How the therapist thought the holes in my memory were most likely from a traumatic event even I couldn’t handle, based on some random medication the doctors found in the medical files we got from the dragon?”

Bulma tightened her hug, already knowing the answer.

“The time you met Lord Beerus he mentioned?”

Vegeta began shivering, just like he had been doing every night since her birthday.

“Don’t force yourself, just tell me when you’re ready.”

“Promise me you’ll never attack Beerus again,” he said breathlessly, “and I’ll do it now.”

[yourdeepestfathoms]

The Postmortem Interval

[definitely an AU]

TW: Blood and violence, discussion and details of putrefaction

——————

With a final moan, the hulking green behemoth collapsed into the snow covering the castle pavilion. Its spiked mace clattered beside its corpse as it breathed its last breath and then went still. Beneath it, the organs that had been oozing out from the punctures and slices to its belly squished loudly, blood so dark it almost looked black pooling out around it.

Nobody moved for a long time, waiting for the beast to move again, to swing its mighty flail once more and kill dozens of others, to let loose its deafening, bloodcurdling roar.

But it didn’t.

“How many did we lose?” Was the first thing Henry asked, his voice gruff, like the howl of wind in between icy glaciers.

“Seven, sir,” The head of the guard- Brutus- answered. “Eleven wounded.”

Henry sighed heavily and pressed his fingers to his forehead. He muttered something Brutus couldn’t hear before raising his head, glaring at the monster as if he were hoping it would come back to life so he could eviscerate it himself.

“What do you want us to do with it?” Brutus asked.

“Dispose of it.” Henry snapped, clearly finding the question very stupid, “We don’t need any travelers or advisors visiting the city to see this!”

“Of course, sir.” Brutus bobbed his head before turning away to rally his troops to (somehow) get rid of the huge monster corpse.

Henry whirled around, his cloak whooshing in the air as he strode back into the castle and down one of the long, elegant halls. He mounted that wing’s staircase and headed up, walking until he came to a certain doorway. With a light knock on the frame, he entered, smiling gently at the woman sitting in a cushioned chair inside.

“Is it dead?” Asked the teenager beside the queen. Katherine’s eyes were wide, bright despite the horror out in the courtyard, yet fearful at the same time. The ward had always been like that- ever since she was taken under Jane’s wing three years ago when she was just thirteen.

Jane tipped her head up to her husband, silently asking the same thing.

“Yes,” Henry answered. “Are you all alright? My love, are you uninured? Is Edward-?”

Jane stood and gently placed her hands atop Henry’s much larger ones. At her touch, the large, bear-like, supposedly-unstoppable king silenced instantly.

“We’re fine,” Jane whispered. She raised one hand to cup his cheek. “Edward was a little spooked, but he’s calm, now. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“There’s everything to worry about.” Henry grumbled. He thumped heavily past his wife and moved over to the bed, where his six-year-old son was sitting quietly. The young boy was staring out the window, but craned his head around when his father approached and extended his arms to be picked up. Henry obliged, lifting him immediately, as if he thought holding his heir would protect him from any monster or demon or abomination from the darkest reaches of Hell. “You saw the beast, did you not? They’re getting bigger. Stronger. They’re killing more soldiers. They’re going to get to you eventually.”

He noticed Katherine grimace out of the corner of his eye. Jane purses her lips in thought.

“That won’t happen,” Jane finally said, but even she didn’t miss how she hesitated. “We can make more alliances. We can get more defenses.”

Henry actually laughed, which jostled Edward slightly against his chest. The little boy clung tightly to his tunic, eyes wide.

“Your optimism is one of many reasons why I fell in love with you,” Henry said. However, his expression and tone both quickly darken. “You believe a human can topple one of those creatures? You think too good of our knights. Not even they can bring down a beast as big as this castle.”

“They get that big?” Katherine whispered, bug-eyed.

“They can,” Henry nodded.

“Surely there is someone who can slay the monsters.” Jane said, desperation leaking into her voice.

“I’m afraid there is-”

Henry stopped himself mid-sentence. For a moment, his mouth hung agape, eyes slowly getting wider. Edward looks up at him curiously. Jane and Katherine exchange anxious glances, with Jane taking a worried step towards her husband.

“Henry? My love?”

“There is.”

Jane tilted her head.

“Excuse me?”

“There is someone who can slay the beasts.” Henry repeated, his expression significantly brighter. He presses a kiss to Edward’s head and then sets him down on the bed. He takes Jane’s hands in his own, squeezing tightly. “You will be safe, my love. I won’t let anything happen to you. Ever.”

Jane had no idea what he was talking about until the next day. The only hints she got was loud bickering from the courtroom and anxious advisors, and the pieces didn’t click any better when Henry lead her to the dungeons. Instead of going down to the cells, however, they took a narrow, dim hallway that was just off the side of prison staircase. At the end of the mysterious corridor was a rusty door as old as time itself that took an equally-ancient key to open.

Instantly, a wave of foul-smelling air rolled out. The single guard that was taken along gagged and shielded his nose with his hand, nearly setting his hair ablaze in the process when the torch he was holding waved haphazardly with the motion. Jane grimaced and swallows thickly to keep her lunch down, but Henry didn’t even flinch. He took the torch from the guard and descended the stairs.

“What is this?” Jane asked quietly, stricken by this secret passageway. When she glanced back at the guard, she realized that he, too, had been unknown to this place.

“Quarantine.” Henry simply said.

At the bottom of the staircase was a wide, long, dimly lit hallway lined with cells. At first glances, it looked just like a regular dungeon, but there was something very wrong about this prison.

“What...what is that thing...?!” The guard whispered fearfully, staring with wide eyes at what exactly was being kept down there.

Swaying in the middle of the nearest cell was...a person? It looked like a person, in shape and physique at least, but its skin...its skin was shades of pink, like muscle. In fact, it looked as if it had been completely skinned and left alive with everything else exposed.

The thing didn’t react to the presence of the king and queen and guard. It just stood there, rocking back and forth on its creaky legs without a care in the world.

“Henry,” Jane breathed, struggling to look away from the horrid presence in the cell.

“They’re Undead.” Henry finally began to explain. “Carcasses cursed with life.”

“So they’re dead?” Asked the guard in morbid curiosity. “H-how? How is that possible?”

Henry shrugged in an unkingly way.

“Beyond me. Some think it’s a curse from God, others a blessing. Whatever it may be, the outcomes are fascinating.”

He began to walk again, waving the torch around to light up the cells. Remnants of flickering embers were lit in metal tins hanging from the ceiling, swinging lightly in the putrid, stale air.

In the second cell, two Undead were held, both asleep in piles of rags. Across from their room, an Undead with skin the color of burned bread was stretched out on its stomach, limbs extended like how a dog would lay, staring blankly at the wall. This one actually glanced over at the new arrivals and maintained its gaze for a moment, before huffing and looking back at the wall, seemingly uninterested.

“Edwin has been researching them for awhile now,” Henry went on. Hearing that the court physician was interested in these things wasn’t very surprising. “He said some of them look different because of the stages of decomposition. How incredible is that? Subspecies of Undead.”

From behind them, one of the Undead were waking up. It stretches its arms out as it awakens and trips over the other Undead when it’s padding across the cell, causing the second to wake up and start squeaking and keening loudly. The first spun around and stomped its feet like it was cold, returning the noises with some of its own. After a moment, the second Undead grumbled and then flopped back down.

“Can they speak?” The guard asked.

“Not that I’ve heard.” Henry answered.

They continue on, passing by an Undead bloated beyond recognition laying on the floor and reaching a stiff arm out of its cell door and another- this one grey with speckles of rotting black and green on its face and hands- facing the wall in silence.

“Hey!” Henry suddenly snapped. He charged forward at an Undead that was tinkering with the locking mechanism on its cell door. It leapt backwards with a screech and, suddenly, the prison was a cacophony of shrieking and screaming.

The guard covered his ears, not caring about how cowardly or weak it seemed. He nearly fled the dungeon when the Undead across from the mischievous one crashed into its cell door, causing it to rattle loudly and seemingly shake the entire wall, despite it being made out of stone. It grabs the bars and starts shrilling at the one in the room opposite it, almost like it was berating it. The troublesome Undead returns with growls and cries of its own until an Undead further down the hall sticks its head out of the bars and howls at them both, silencing everything.

With a huff, the wannabe escapee pads away and disappears into one of the corners to mope. The one in the cell across from it doesn’t move for a moment, instead taking time to analyze the new arrivals. Once it was done scanning the trio, it turns around and shuffled back to its sleeping area.

“Why are we here?” Jane asked, thoroughly freaked out.

“To get one.” Henry said, “What is better to slay a monster than another monster? These things are fierce. Plus, they can’t die, so they can fight in place of our troops for as long as needed.” He smiled, proud of his plan. “One of these Undead is going to be your bodyguard.”

Jane stared at Henry for a long time, waiting for him to laugh and say it was just a joke, but he didn’t. She swallowed hard and slowly began advancing down the hall, peering into each cell and trying to find the least creepy-looking creature.

There was one with hair still on its head, clumps of brown strewn everywhere, bangs dangling down in front of the sunken in eyes, but its guts were hanging out of a gash across its stomach and it was entertaining itself by twirling the end of its small intestines in the air, so she passed on that one.

Another had its entire chest cavity exposed and some of its ribs were chipped off. In fact, right it front of her, it snapped off one of the bones on the right side and tossed it to the Undead across the hall, who keened gratefully and began gnawing hungrily.

Further down the hall, a clothed Undead was on its hands and knees, biting at the tunic it was wearing, shaking its head wildly like a dog when it got some fabric in between its teeth. It seemed to have forgotten about its fingers.

There was an Undead that was almost completely skeleton, practically wearing any remaining droopy skin like clothes, and beside it was an Undead that hissed and growled at Jane when she came near. It backed itself up into a far corner and crouched low over a pile of rags like it was actually a collection of jewels. Jane quickly moved on before it could get even more angry.

Jane stopped in front of the next cell and peeked inside. The Undead was in the corner, one arm slung across its knees and face buried against the inside of the elbow. This one has hair- long, matted stands of blonde hanging loosely from its bowed head, scattered all over its back, shoulders, and legs. Its skin is very grey, especially on the face, which is leached of any other color, even on the lips. Puckering cuts and gashes can be seen from holes and slices in its ruined clothing. It didn’t react to Jane’s presence at all.

“What about this one?” Jane said, pointing through the bars slightly.

Henry peered at the Undead and hummed thoughtfully.

“Edwin said that one was new,” Henry said, “Only been here two years.”

Jane winced slightly. Two years down here must be like two hundred centuries.

Henry cleared his throat and Jane looks up at him, but she realizes he wasn’t trying to get her attention, rather the Undead’s. However, unlike it, it did not move.

Henry pressed his tongue against the inside of his lip and then took the dagger clipped onto his belt and ran it along the bars of the door, causing it to clank and rattle. That rouses the Undead, along with a few others, who keen and bleat in annoyance. The one in the room doesn’t make a sound, though, just raises its head. Bright eyes glow in the darkness.

“Come here, beast.” Henry commands.

The Undead creaked open its jaw slightly and hissed lowly between its teeth. It sounded like the winter wind.

Then, before Henry could speak again, it placed a palm flat against the dirty floor and pushed itself up. Its bare feet slap loudly against the stone ground as it stepped into the circle of light the torch was creating.

The first thing Jane noticed were the eyes. God the eyes... It looked as if someone had poured snow or milk or glaze onto the eyes and stained them white. They were so clouded that the thing looked blind. Remnants of the color they used to be- grey-green it seemed- could just faintly be seen beneath the pale gloss.

The second thing was that this Undead was a girl. A young girl. She couldn’t be any older than Katherine, maybe even younger.

“This one.” Jane decided right then.

Henry nodded, then turned his full attention the Undead.

“Are you listening to me?”

It bobs its head.

“Good. You are going to stand by my wife- your queen- and protect her, no matter what. She is your master- you are her sword and shield. Whatever or whoever may cause her harm or wish her to be hurt, you are to eliminate them. Do you understand me?”

The Undead nods again.

“Very good.”

Without warning, Henry grabs Jane’s hand and carves an X across her right palm with the dagger. The pain is sharp and makes the air rush from Jane’s lungs in shock, but she does not struggle. She heard Henry murmur an apology and he presses a soft kiss to the crown of her head before making the same marking on the Undead’s hand. Then, he coats two fingers in Jane’s blood and smears it across and inside the X on the thing’s mark.

From the mixture of the blood, the Undead’s eyes widen and blue flowed through the veins in its- her- arms. She stared down at her hands, ignoring the dark red flowing from the palm wound, and watches in silenced awe as some of her humanity is restored. Then, she lowers herself down to one knee and bows before Jane.

———

Fangs are growing in over the teeth that are already there, flat teeth, human teeth. Those have to go. 

Her joints ache from kneeling on the cold stone of the prison, even the thin cloth laid over it does not dispel the chill.

The feathers don’t come in right, growing into her skin, itching and scratching. She rakes her long, hooked nails over her ribs until she draws blood and pus.

Scales bristle beneath her flesh, as itchy as the feathers.

Handprint bruises on her wrists and wasted biceps, purple and yellow. No fault of anybody- her skin is so delicate, even the gentlest hand leaves a mark.

Fever chills, seizures, blood from her bitten tongue, staining the sleeping rags and drying crusted on her face.

Hardship purifies the soul, they say. Be ascetic in all that you do. 

It has only been a day since the restore of some humanity, but she is already so weak. Her heart, so used to not having to tire itself by beating, aches as it thumps within her chest. She can feel every pump and flow of blood, every contraction in her throat, every wriggle in her gut as her organs start to work again- as her small intestines start to writhe like eels.

She is drawn to the bright tower that is the torch left for her, the flames licking thirstily at the air. A poor substitute for proper body heat. She wants to lay her hand upon the soft cinders.

In the chilly quarantined prison, every breath drawn into her raw lungs is a knife in her chest.

“Living feel like what?” Creaks the Undead across from her cell. He’s reclining against the bars, glazed eyes glowing in the darkness of his room.

“Hurt.” She responded.

He nodded very slowly, as if she had just spoken the words of God. His swollen, dried out tongue clicks against the roof of his mouth, then he raises a peeling hand and points to the cluster of feathers growing out of her shoulder.

“Monster?”

“Aye.”

She took the feathers in her hands and pulled them out. She takes one and reaches out of the bars of her cell, handing it to the Undead who had spoken to her. He takes it with a grateful coo.

“Treasure.” He whispered, running his fingertips over the discolored fringes.

She hummed and started pulling out the feathers and then scales- it seemed as if her body couldn’t remember that she was not an animal. Or, perhaps, it was trying to strengthen her by mixing her human and Undead blood with a monster’s. Right now, she couldn’t quite tell.

She drags herself over to her corner and flops down, wincing when hitting the ground. Her frail bones throbbed in disagreement at the action- careful! careful! They screamed. be more careful!

The floor was as uncomfortable as usual, but she just kept telling herself that this was her last night down there. By morning, she would be retrieved and brought up to the surface.

Once more, she would be kissed by the light, by the warmth, by the dawn.

———

Because nobody liked the smell of cadaverine or putrescine, the chosen Undead was washed at the queen’s command. The servants who were ordered to do this were less than thrilled. The Undead, however, seemed perfectly content with the bath. The water was warm and all the grit and grime from the prison was scrubbed away. At times, she would arch her spine into the hands cleaning her back, much to the servant’s discomfort.

After an hour, the Undead dragged her waterlogged body out of the bathing pool and shook herself like a wet animal. She dresses herself in leather armor with steel plates, which had been given to her from the armory, along with a sword and shield. She almost looked like a regular knight, if it weren’t for the growing fangs and claws and grey skin and blind-but-not-really eyes. She fooled Edward and Katherine, who were brought in with Jane after the new guard was cleaned. They quickly realized, however, that she was anything but natural.

“Mum,” Katherine said slowly, “Who is that?”

“That’s- well, I don’t really know her name, but she’s my new bodyguard. Remember? I told you about her last night.” Jane said.

“Yeah, but you didn’t say she looked...like that.” Katherine waved a hand at the Undead, who is glaring daggers. “What’s wrong with her eyes? Is she blind or something?”

“She is not blind,” Jane said. She took a step towards the Undead, causing Edward to fidget nervously. She held out a hand and the creature gets down on one knee, bowing her head low. With a flick of the queen’s wrist, she’s on her feet. “These are Edward, my son, and Katherine, my ward.”

The Undead nodded slowly, very slowly, still analyzing the two new arrivals. She was looking for a threat, Jane realized.

“You can trust them.” The queen said, setting a hand on her guard’s shoulder.

“But can you just it?” Katherine piped back up, “She’s an Undead isn’t she?”

“How do you know what that is?” Jane asked.

“I like to read Mister Edwin’s books,” Katherine shrugged, but quickly went back to being pointed. “They have magic, you know? Dangerous magic. Witchcraft! That goes against God’s words!”

“When did you get so adamant about religion?” Jane raised an eyebrow, making Katherine very miffed and annoyed.

“Mum, I’m just- I’m trying-” The teenager stammered, causing the Undead to laugh. “They’re dangerous! The witchcraft!”

A smile twitched on the Undead’s lips and, as if to prove Katherine’s claim, plucked up a towel she had used and stared hard at it. Before the ward could make a comment, the towel floated into the air and began doing somersaults and flips and other various tricks. The Undead flashed a sly smirk at Katherine, rubbing her talent into the magicless ward.

“Woah,” Edward murmured softly in awe.

Katherine was definitely grinding her teeth, which amused the Undead. She shot her glare.

“How amazing,” Jane said, watching the towel move around effortlessly. “You were right, sweetie.” She smiled at Katherine, who eased up a little at the use of the pet name.

The Undead sniffed and swiped the towel out of the air, whatever magic that had been flowing through its seams and threads dissipating at her touch. She held it tightly, sizing Katherine up before deciding that the ward wasn’t worth the effort.

At the moment, at least.

“Now, you,” Jane turned to her guard, who quickly straightened up. “Can you tell me your name?”

The Undead nodded and jabbed one of her claws into the barely-scabbed-over X on her right palm. With the talon coated in blood, she began to scrawl on the wall.

J

O

A

N

———

The castle and courtyard was lit up from end-to-end, firelight swathing the palace walls in hues of gold and orange and red. People bustled and chatted like birds, crunching loudly through the layer of snow that had fallen a few hours earlier. A light icy mist was still sprinkling, bathing everyone in shimmering and sparkling droplets as if the stars had showered over them and attached themselves to their clothes.

Standing amongst the crowd outside on the pavilion was Katherine and her cousin, Anne, and friend, Cathy. Katherine was deep in a humorous explanation about how many parties Henry threw.

“Oh, how terrible,” Anne said, “I bet it’s just so awful to live in the palace and have tea with the queen and be burdened by all these pretty dresses!”

The three of them erupted into giggles, however Katherine shut up when a certain someone passed by her.

“There,” She pointed, “That’s the one I wrote to you about.”

“Woah,” Anne said, “Is she blind?”

“No,” Katherine shook her head. “She’s Undead.”

Joan was not oblivious to the conversation going on about her. She tipped her head in that direction, watching Katherine and her friend’s gazes snap away. She stared for a long time, unblinking, then faced forward again and sidled closer to Jane.

“You can relax, you know,” Jane said with a light chuckle. “Go have fun, sweetheart.”

Joan just looked at her, head tilted slightly.

“Go on,” Jane nudges her gently. “I’ll be fine, honey.”

Joan looked around and then walked up to one of the stands giving out candles, causing the man running the booth to duck his head.

“Hello there,” He quavered, simultaneously annoyed and scared by her presence.

Joan pointed down at the candles and tilted her head. Her moon-like eyes stared deep into the booth owner’s soul.

“They’re incenses. We light them for fun. People like the smell.” The man explained.

Joan nodded, as if she were saying, “Ah. Okay.” She reaches for her coin purse, but the man shoves a wax stick into her hands before she could even get the money out. She takes this as a sign to leave, but gets distracted when she was grabbing a match. A shady-looking man was peering out from an alleyway.

Instincts flaring, Joan tucked away the candle and walked around the building the alleyway was situated in the middle of. When she got close enough, she ducked behind a few barrels and listened.

“How much do you think it’ll go for?”

“Thousands, probably.”

“I hope so. It’s going to be a pain to get with all the guards.”

“Stick the plan and that won’t be a problem.”

Joan saw the flash of iron in torchlight. The men, there were three of them, were armed.

They were threats.

“Let’s get out there and do this already. It’s cold.”

“But Ursa isn’t back yet.”

“He knows where the meeting spot is. He can catch up. It’ll be easy without him.”

The three men started to walk to the other end of the alleyway, where Joan had seen one of them peek out. They were going out into the party, she realized, and she attempted to follow them, to stop them, but a hand covers her mouth.

She’s shoved roughly against the wall by a large, bulky man. Yellow teeth smirk at her.

“Well, aren’t you a strange sight.”

A hand glides up her leg, spending too much time between her inner thighs. Joan makes a muffled yowl as the touch moves to her chest, rubbing and groping. The scabs across her bosom are kneaded roughly.

“I think I can show up a little late. I’ll be able to say I shagged a freak of nature.”

Adrenaline pumped through Joan’s veins. The man leans closer to her and is breath is hot against her collarbone, smelling like ale and meat. She doesn’t even think to use her magic, instead clamping her sharp teeth down on the man’s ear and jerked her head to the side. Blood squirts onto her face and a metallic taste filled her mouth while the man screams. She spits out the ripped off ear and strikes the attacker with a nearby levitated barrel, which was enough to knock him unconscious.

Joan could have killed him, she was going to, actually, but then she heard screaming coming from the courtyard and she took off in that direction.

Jane. Jane had a knife to her throat. Jane was going to die.

Joan thrusted a hand outward and a jagged purple bolt of lightning shot out from her palm. It missed, blowing into one of the walls, and heads swiveled around to face her because of it.

“Who is that?” One of the men asked.

“I don’t know!”

“Kill her!”

A brown haired man was the one who charged into Joan with enough force to make her topple backwards. Joan hit the wall hard and then jerked around, narrowing dodging the end of a flail. When she moved, she heard a tearing sound and pain exploded in her side.

She savors the agony.

Joan shot a beam of freezing darkness out of her palm, managing to hit a man with beard in the shoulder. Before she can strike again, however, something hard connects with the back of her head; Joan is on the ground. She lands on her side and the brunette man is over her instantly, a snarl on his face. He reaches for her throat and Joan bites his hand.

“You little brat.” He growled.

Joan clicks in warning, but the man doesn’t take it. She inhales a hissing breath and then exhaled a beam of black ice, shooting the man down the throat. He wheezes and stumbles backwards, pawing tentatively at his neck. Then, he shivers.

The bandit is unable to scream as his insides freeze together. His olive skin starts to whiten while his body gets colder and colder. When he falls, his body is stiff, eyes and mouth wide open.

The bearded man stared in horror at the frozen body of his friend, which was the perfect moment for Joan to rip pillars of stone out of the ground and nail him in the stomach. She stalks up to him while he’s on his knees and shoves the candle from earlier down his throat. With just a flick of her wrist, the wick flares and the man starts to shriek.

Smoke billows out of the bandit’s lips as the flame burns powerfully in his neck. Oozing, bubbling wax bleeds out of his nose, mouth, and even eyes like molten lava. It’s so hot his eyes start to blacken and shrivel up in their sockets. At the same time, his throat starts to burn open, charred, goopy flesh stretching wide as the fire blazes within him.

His screams fade, eventually, but the candle still burns.

Joan turned around and stalked toward the remaining man, who is horrified, despite holding the queen at knifepoint. He seems to forget about his main goal and targets the thing that just killed his friends. He took the spear strapped to his back and lanced Joan through the stomach.

She doesn’t fall, though.

Instead, she reaches her own hands out and grabs onto the spear. She pulls hard, eventually yanking it from the man’s grasp and causing it to go in deeper through her, but if it hurts her, she doesn’t show it. Slowly, she pulls it out of the fresh hole in her stomach, a torrent of dark red blood spilling free upon removal.

“What...what are you?” The man whispered fearfully. He gets no answer from the moon-eyed creature, as she mutely jabs the spearhead directly through his throat.

Everyone else in the pavilion was still and silent. They all realized that the most powerful person to ever grace London was currently living among them.

And she was the queen’s bodyguard.

[thedistantstorm]

Day 15: “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Fandom: Destiny

Pairing: Amanda Holliday/Sloane

Warnings: None (Clumsy Shipwrights & Amused Deputy-Commanders, Amanda’s drawlin’ and ridiculous names for things/people)

-/

"There's gotta be somethin' useful in here," The Shipwright says to herself, rubbing the back of her hand over her brow. The sound of scrap clanking against the damp deckplates and the tinkling of bits and bolts at the bottom of the supply crate drown out the sound of rain for once.

Sloane enters the long-abandoned storeroom to a comical sight: Amanda, rear in the air, on her tiptoes, bent over a railing, digging through a crate, things being tossed over her shoulder haphazardly. There were apparently piles based on… something, the Deputy Commander was sure, because one hunk of metal went left, and then something that looked like a beacon went straight back, rolling across the metallic floor to collide harmlessly with her boot.

She crosses her arms. Amanda carries on grumbling and grouching about Golden Age garbage, using her arms and completely abandoning her feet to lean over to the next crate in the stack. 

When it goes on for another few minutes, Sloane intervenes, not having the Commander's infinite patience.

"Holliday?" She ventures.

Clearly the other woman didn't know she was there, because something falls in what is not the direction of one of the Shipwright's messy piles, and Amanda goes flailing over the railing and into the crate, unleashing a plume of dust, bolts, and assorted circuitry flying out around the edges of the now overfilled container.

Amanda sighs. It's muffled, considering she did land on her head, but her exasperation is evident. Considering she'd taken off her jacket, and she could feel the sting of copper wires poking her arm, she'll probably be asking for a tetanus shot from triage later.

Some very displeased rustling later, Amanda hollers sharply, "Deputy Commander, ain't nobody ever tell you not to sneak up on a girl when she's tinkerin'?"

More articles go bouncing out of the crate as Amanda tries to swing herself out of it. What manages to happen is that she tips it - and herself - backwards onto the floor with a great clattering thud.

Rushing to vault over the railing, a very concerned Sloane is looming over her in seconds. "Are you-"

Green eyes look up at her, irritated, a pink flush stretched across the freckled expanse of her nose and cheeks. "Yeah," She grumbles. "Help me up, wouldya?"

Sloane offers her a hand, and Amanda extends hers. There's a cord wrapped around it that's somehow also tangled in her hair, little bits of wire sticking up and tangled in blonde. She closes her mouth and purses her lips, but a sputtering sound comes out.

"Aww, c'mon, it can't be that bad-"

Amanda reaches for her head to remove the offending wire and three bolts find their way out of the bandana tied around her arm, one of which bounces off her cheek before rolling off into the abyss.

Sloane giggles, not girlishly, but just as unbidden, unburdened for just a moment of their current state. It's like something sweet, like milk chocolate or hot fudge. Something thick and beautiful. Amanda watches her mouth, for what feels like just a moment.

Apparently it isn't, because Sloane's concerned look is back, and the bulkier woman crouches in front of her, untangling some of the materials clinging to the rest of her. "Did you hit your head?"

"Nah," Amanda says. She did, but not hard enough to do damage. Too many wires and what not in the way. "Jus' thinkin' about your laugh," She admits, unashamedly honest.

Sloane's eyebrows furrow, pulling together, but her gaze is bright, crisp and sparkling, "Oh?" She asks, not sure how to feel.

Amanda nods twice. "Yeah," And then tilts her head to the side. She'd like to get her ailing tuchus off these cold deckplates before they have what is a heart-to-heart they're not going to be able to finish. Zavala hasn't heard from them in at least thirty. He'll be clomping through halls in a tizzy if both of them don't check in soon. "It's cute," She finishes, with a cheeky smile.

Sensing the shift to something safer, Sloane shakes her head ruefully. Flirtation is safe. It doesn't scream 'confession time because this might be the end of us,' like a heartfelt conversation would. There'll be time for that. They have to believe it. They have to hope.

"That's not something you hear everyday."

"What?"

"Cute." The Deputy Commander gestures down to herself. "What part of this screams cute?"

Amanda reaches up and Sloane's hand shoots out, larger palm swallowing Amanda's and yet thick, strong fingers still wrap around her wrist. She barely comes up to the Titan's nose, her eyes level with Sloane's lips. Even so, she lifts a hand up to the other woman's cheek, patting the wind-weathered skin there and letting her thumb graze the corner of her mouth.

“Your laugh.” She smirks. “Makes me think of flyin’ and sundaes an’-”

“Flyin’?” Sloane slurs back, confused.

“Bein’ happy.” Amanda shrugs, lessening it (but not really, considering how pensive Sloane’s become) by dusting off her shoulders and letting more bits and baubles of ages past bounce away. “But it’s cute. Y’look cute doin’ it.”

“That’s not a word…” She trails off, looking strangely conflicted. “People don’t use that word to describe me.”

“I’m not ‘people,’” Amanda reminds her, with a curl of dexterous fingers. “I’m just… I dunno, me?”

“Yeah.” There’s something breathless to the way Sloane says it, like as if she’s trying to see herself in reverse, however Amanda sees her and it’s just struck her harder than a thundering fist ever could. She recovers from her stupor quickly. “Damn straight you are,” She says, every bit the in-control second-in-command she’s supposed to be. Amanda grins back. 

Their moment’s broken just in time, when both their radios go off in a tinny, synced echo. “Sloane. Holliday. Report.”

“All clear, Sir,” Amanda drawls in that way of hers. The way that’s all child telling their parent to calm down, not to make a mountain of a molehill, everything is just fine. At this point, Zavala would burst if she said as much, but the tone seems to soothe. There’s comfort in old and familiar, in these trying times. Sloane busies herself with something, looking down at the pile of junk just out of Amanda’s reach and picking up things she doesn’t understand before setting them aside. It’s a focus tactic of her own. Zavala will likely want to talk to her next. “Jus’ lost track of time looking for the- hey, wait.”

There’s a sharp inhale from Zavala, cross-comms, but Amanda bowls right over whatever he’s about to bark about a suspected threat. He thinks everything is a threat these days - and it is, but Amanda’s got bigger fish to fry at this very second.

“Sloane, you magnificent monolith, gimme that thing in your hand.” There’s a pause as she hands it over. “Been lookin’ for this thing for hours. Those dang Golden Age techies are as bad as maintainin’ inventory as we are. That was not the right bin according to their records, by a long shot.”

“You got into their encryption?” Zavala asks, impressed.

“A’course, I did, Zavala,” Amanda rolls her eyes, and she’s certain he can see it, in his mind’s eye for her tone. “Deputy Commander, gimme my jacket.”

Zavala clears his throat.

“Don’t gimme that, Sir, I ain’t one’a your military folk, an’ you ain’t gonna get me talkin’ like one now.” Sloane hands her the beaten bomber, hands gentle on the well-worn canvas.

The Shipwright pulls out a software chip of some kind from a breast pocket, drops onto a crate, and begins to fiddle with it. The sound of errant clicking and murmurs - Amanda has a knack for talking to her work, as if encouragement will coax it into functionality - and suddenly there’s a little beep, and a resounding echo down the hall.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” She whoops, hopping to her feet. “Zavala, me ‘n yer Deputy will see you in five.” Rambling as much to herself as to the rest of them, she continues, “This baby’s gonna help me get at least some’a these systems back online.”

“What is it?” Zavala queries through static. 

Sloane leans over Amanda’s shoulder, her hand warm on the Shipwright’s arm. Amanda looks up into that dark gaze and grins. “It’s an inventory scanner. Guessin’ most of ‘em dropped into the sea during the collapse. But this baby seems to know where everything is, an’ I bet there’s some mapping software I can get from it. At least we’ll know where to try for supplies rather than runnin’ all over through baddies.”

“Excellent work, Holliday,” The Commander intones, sounding a bit happier than when they’d left on this impromptu equipment expedition. “Make your way back.”

“Roger that,” Sloane chirps, looking down at Amanda all sorts of impressed. “You’re gonna win this thing for us, Holliday.”

“Damn sure gonna try,” She quips back, lifting up on her tiptoes-

“Amanda-”

-to peck Sloane on the lips. “Good find, cutie.”

The eyeroll Amanda gets in response is extraordinary. “Alright, that’s where I draw the line,” Sloane says evenly, even though she’s licking her lips like she’s savoring the taste. “I liked ‘magnificent monolith.’”

“Thought you might,” Amanda supposes, eyes sparking, playfully. “Got one better for ya: How about ‘kiss me again?’”

Sloane wraps her arms around her. “I think that’s the best one yet.”

[coruscantexpat]

Bonds Unbroken - Chapter 5: Into the Depths

The further Meetra descended toward the mining tunnels, the more accurate Atton's warning about the heat became. A long ladder connected the escape hatch to - presumably, as she still couldn't see it - the floor of the mining tunnels, and even halfway down, the temperature had risen to a level that registered as uncomfortable even through the thin undergarment.  She paused to rest for a moment, the air beginning to burn nearly as much as her muscles were. Between the fights with the droids and the long climb, her body was beginning to feel the decade's dearth of upkeep.

A burst of white noise in her ear nearly startled her off the ladder before it gradually resolved into Atton's voice. "Can you read me?" The transmission was tinny and shot through with static.

Meetra wrapped an arm around the rung in front of her, freeing a hand to touch the commlink in her ear. "Barely - there's a lot of interference."

"Probably caused by that explosion." A brief pause accompanied by the faint clicking of keys. "Looks like there's a route down to the fuel depot. Well, if the passages haven't collapsed. That explosion knocked out most of the sensors."

"Oh, good. I was thinking this wouldn't be a challenge."

"What would the fun be in that?" Atton chuckled. "There should be an emergency crate near the bottom of the shaft; you might be able to find something useful in there. And watch yourself. There's a lot of droid broadcasts in that area, but I can't pin them down."

Meetra glanced down, squinting in the low lighting. She could just make out the faint blip of the beacon at the top of her staff, presumably lying on solid ground. She'd tossed it from the top of the shaft earlier, both to test the distance and out of an inability to carry it with her. There didn't appear to be anything else down there with it. "Thanks for the warning. If you detect anything, signal me."

"Will do - and be careful down there." The static cut off sharply, leaving behind an echoing silence. Meetra continued to climb down, forcing herself to ignore both the rising temperature and her screaming muscles. Several long, almost agonizing minutes later, the ladder rungs ended and her feet found the floor of the shaft. With her eyes fully adjusted to the darkness, she scanned her surroundings, but for the moment, she appeared to be alone. Scooping up her staff, she moved forward until she reached a door, cycled it, and stepped through.

For a moment, everything was white, her vision blinded by the change in lighting. Meetra dropped into a defensive crouch, staff held protectively in front of her, but she neither heard or sensed anything nearby. Gradually, her sight returned, revealing a room similar to the ones she had passed through previously: sterile chrome and ceramic with little aesthetic design. In the corner stood a lone crate; no doubt the emergency supplies Atton had mentioned. She opened it, pulling out more medpacs, a headband and harness of some sort, a few energy shields, two handheld mining blasters, and an actual vibroblade. Setting these aside, she dug deeper in the canister, coming up with a swath of blue and gold fabric.

The commlink crackled to life. "Find the supplies?"

"Right where you said," Meetra replied, unzipping and stepping into the mining uniform. It wasn't quite her size - it hung loosely on her frame and the sleeves fell past her wrists - but it provided a welcome layer of protection... and decency. "I found some weapons and mining equipment. A uniform, too."

"Dammit." Meetra paused in the act of zipping up the suit, mouth curving up into a half-smile of bemusement at Atton's exhalation. He began to backpedal, as if only just realizing what he had said. "Uh... I mean, good - good to hear it. No sense in you running around half-naked, it's distracting.... you know, for the droids." She smothered her laughter and didn't reply, choosing instead to let him wallow in the faux pas. "A-anyway, what kind of gear did you find?"

"There's a harness; looks like it goes around my waist and shoulders." As she spoke, Meetra pulled it on over the mining uniform. "I also found some kind of headband. There's sensors on either side."

"Survey gear," he replied. "It's designed to spot and protect you against sonic mines. The safety harness will be helpful if you try to disarm them. Not that I'd advise it." Meetra filed the information away. She had experience disarming mines during the Mandalorian Wars, but she kept silent. She didn't want to make Atton any more distrustful of her than he already was, or give him a reason to become a threat. She slipped the headband on, allowing it to rest just above her ears. The sensors projected an overlay in front of her, though nothing registered at the moment. "Did you find any mining shields?"

"A few. Are they different from regular energy shields?"

"Not much. They're designed to protect the miners against lasers and heat. Should work against the droids. You still want to be careful, though. They're not as durable, and they won't last more than a few hits."

Meetra strapped one of the shields over her left wrist, slipping the others into one of the pouches on the safety harness, along with the handful of medkits. "Understood. Anything else?"

"Uh, just one more thing." The was uneasiness in Atton's voice. "I've narrowed down some of the ID signals. If the numbers are right... you're sharing those tunnels with a battalion of mining droids." Meetra groaned inwardly, muscles twinging at just the thought of more fighting. "They rely on thermal sensors to get around, and that explosion down there kicked up so much heat and steam that it may blind them a bit.. but not much. You could try to sneak past them, but it'll be risky."

"And if they do spot me?"

"That's why you took the big stick." It was easy to hear the smirk in his words and she smiled despite herself. Crass and full of himself Atton might be, but when he showed confidence, it was infectious. "Actually, there's got to be some central controller down there. Look for a terminal by the main access shaft; that'd be the governing intelligence. If you can reach that, you may be able to shut the droids down, or at least get them back on their original programming."

"I'll keep an eye out. Let me know if anything changes." Meetra tapped the commlink, cutting the broadcast. As much as Atton's chattering put her at ease, it would be harder to focus with him talking in her ear. She unbuckled the harness briefly and slid the mining blasters onto one of the straps, triple checking the safeties for her own peace of mind. The vibroblade she attached to the uniform's belt. Retrieving her staff, she headed out into the tunnels, the steam and heat causing a sheen of sweat to form instantly on her brow.

Before long, the metal hallways gave way to proper stone tunnels, fissures of steam bursting out of cracks in the rocks. Just ahead, Meetra could make out a few droids milling about. They hadn't spotted her yet, and she hugged the tunnel wall as she passed them, hiding her body heat in the steam. Further in, the corridor opened up into a wide room, effectively making it impossible for her to sneak past. Three droids patrolled the area, spidery legs creating an unholy cacophony against the stone floor. Meetra crouched at the entrance to the room, scanning their movements. When the nearest droid turned toward her, she lunged forward, making a sweeping motion with her hand as she ran. The Force answered as readily as it had before, and the droid flew forward, smashing into the rock wall. She was upon it before it could recover, bringing the staff down in a sharp strike and caving in the droid's faceplate. It twitched, spindly legs flailing, and she struck it again, the time with the spike.

The droid went still, but the commotion had attracted the other two. They clattered forward, raising their blasters, and Meetra slapped the energy shield on her wrist before rolling to the side. The shield hummed to life, a barrier rising around her. One of the droid's bolts struck it, fizzling out against the opposing energy. Though she was unharmed, the impact still sent Meetra stumbling, forcing her to plant her staff against the ground to steady herself. Another bolt glanced off the shield, causing it to flicker. Footing regained, she darted forward underneath the nearer droid's guard and levered her staff beneath it, flipping it onto its side between her and the remaining droid. Spinning the beacon, she stabbed its point into the prone droid, putting it out of commission before it could right itself.

The last droid scuttled from side to side, trying to get a clear shot around her makeshift cover. Keeping low, Meetra focused on a pile of rubble, reaching out with the Force. It still weak and small, nothing compared to the torrent it had been over a decade ago. It felt different, as well; before, the Force had flowed through her, a natural extension of her will. Now, it felt like it was echoing, ricocheting and distorting within her. Part of her was too relieved that she could use the Force again to care, while another part was terrified it meant that her returning control was only temporary. She managed to lift one of the bigger rocks, sending it slamming into the droid and crushing two of its legs. It struggled to pull itself free and Meetra leaped over the broken droid, slamming her staff into its trapped compatriot. She brought her staff down twice more before it stopped moving.

Leaving the droid massacre behind, she continued forward, coming to a sharp halt when a translucent dome appeared on her survey gear's overlay. As if on cue, a crackle of static preceded Atton's voice on the commlink. "Watch your step - I'm picking up a lot of sonic mines down there. Don't run unless you have to. Makes them harder to spot."

"You have impeccable timing; I'm looking at one now." She glanced down the hallway, frowning when more signals appeared. "Make that several. Why are there so many mines down here?"

"The droids," Atton explained. "They're designed to set and arm charges for mining. If they set the charges after they went rogue, they may have used them to try and kill the miners..." There was a long pause, and Meetra could guess his next words. "Probably might try to use them to kill you, too. Some of the droids, the excavators mainly, may try to use any undeployed charges as projectiles, so... yeah.” He cleared his throat, as if delivering bad news physically pained him. “Also, the super-heated steam I mentioned earlier? I’m reading pockets with temperatures ahead of you high enough to cook the skin off your bones.”

Meetra grimaced. “Thank you for that image.”

“Hey, would you rather me be honest or pleasant?”

”Point taken.”

Full chapter available on AO3 and FFN.

[distinctivelibrarians]

3: jazekiel

I am so sorry this took so long! It definitely wasn’t intended, and thank you for being patient! I really like how this one came out, and I hope you do too!

3. a Tired Kiss (ao3)

Honestly? Honestly, Jacob just wanted to sleep.

He wasn’t exhausted, not yet, could still go and go and go. He’d certainly gone on less before. If he needed to be, he’d be fine.

As it was, the only thing keeping him up was him. But, he had somewhere to be, and, dammit, he was getting there.

Of course, all things considered, he had been asleep. In a warm…well, okay, no, if he was gonna whine, he was gonna be honest, even in his own head. He had fallen asleep at the desk that had taken over the kitchen in his apartment. Hell, if he’d stayed asleep there much longer, he would’ve woken up with a crick in his neck bad enough to set him back most of the day, barring apocalyptic adrenaline shots.

The road beyond his car was running past in that blurred, faintly unreal way most backroads had at night, when the moon was thin and street lamps out this way were a laughable fever dream of some bored city-planner—the road under the yellow light of his headlamps constantly moving but never really changing; the curb and grass alongside just enough out of the light to muddle and blend and give the illusion of a wider road, up until a tire clunked over the edge and ate gravel and roughed up asphalt before he corrected it.

He should be home. Asleep. Not driving down the backroads to the other side of Portland in the middle of the night.

(Or at least somewhere with street lamps. But, habit had pulled him out of the way, and out of the way he stayed.)

His phone buzzed, where he’d tossed it in the passenger seat, a couple times in a row, the screen just bright enough to throw a faint light across the cab with the alerts. He didn’t pick it up—sure, he was coordinated enough, trusted that no one was out this way this time of night, and knew this route like the back of his hand, but…well, he had a pretty good idea who they were from and what they said.

Besides. If it was Eve, and it was important, she’d call, not text. And Cassandra didn’t stay up this late if she could help it, and if something was wrong, she tended to call Eve first, who then called everyone else. Jenkins had texted him a grand total of once in the time they’d known each other, and Flynn never had. So, process of elimination, he probably had a certain thief yelling at him. And since he’d be seeing said thief in about…five minutes, looking at the texts was kind of a moot point.

Sure enough, when he pulled up to the complex parking lot a couple minutes later and stopped to grab his phone, there were three new messages from Ezekiel.

ignore that

cowboy, you better not be coming over

you’re coming over aren’t you

Jacob rolled his eyes. Of course he was.

He hadn’t been sure what had woken him up, originally. He’d just ended up blinking a couple times, trying to figure out what beneath his cheek was hard, and why he was feeling a twinge in his back. Which, of course, led to him realizing he was slumped over his desk in a way he was bound to regret, and that something had woken him up. It had taken a few moments, honestly, before he’d even thought to check his phone, where it was on the desk beside him.

The message hadn’t even been a complete sentence, likely accidentally sent in the middle of being deleted.

could you come ov

And he’d been out the door two minutes later.

Sure, he was worried. Wanted to make sure Ezekiel was okay. But he also wasn’t going to just barge in. So, he stayed in his truck long enough to send a message in return.

Of course I am. But I can still turn around, if ya want, see ya in the morning instead.

He could. Ignore all of this. Wouldn’t be the first time. Probably wouldn’t be the last. Sometimes Ezekiel wanted him around, sometimes he couldn’t stand to share his space with anyone. Jacob got it, well as he could. Hell, sometimes he couldn’t stand to be around other people either—noises grating too loud, or rubbing up weird on his nerves, or even smaller things he couldn’t put a name too (or had plenty of names, but didn’t want to deal with right then). It wasn’t the same, but still. It was enough. If Ezekiel wanted space, he’d give it to him. Maybe check in, in the morning. And be just as ready to drop by the next time.

It took a long moment—the only sounds around him the faint shrill of a siren in the distance (going silent a second later anyway), his own breathing, and the occasional rustle and clang that just came from a living neighborhood—before his phone buzzed in his hand.

get up here already

And maybe his grin was a little stupid and his eye-roll unnecessary, but whatever. No one was around to see anyway.

So, out of the truck (locked up behind him), punching in the code to the front door, up the elevator to the top floor, out in the hall, and knocking on the door at the end in record time. He’s pretty sure Ezekiel made him wait a minute there before the door swung open, and while normally he’d get huffy, play it up a bit, honestly, all that told him was that Ezekiel was in a good enough mood to screw with him.

And this time he didn’t have the excuse of no one being around for his definitely stupid grin. If he had to, he could say he was tired.

But, since Ezekiel just looked at him with a little smile of his own—tired, but not pinched, not forced—Jacob didn’t really spare a thought to defending himself. Overall, Ezekiel looked okay, and that did so much more to take most of the tension Jacob hadn’t even realized he was carrying since he got the first text. Sure, a little muzzy around the edges, clothes clearly having been slept in, and hair a flyaway mess—but his eyes were clear, and the look he was giving Jacob was pure fond exasperation.

“You’re ridiculous, you know that, right?” Ezekiel asks, stepping back to let him in. Jacob just shrugged—they’d covered this months ago, when all of this started—whatever this was, in the long run—and Ezekiel hadn’t complained yet, so he was willing to bet it was one of the things actually working in his favor honestly.

The apartment around them was dark, the only light coming from the tv on the wall—paused on some movie he couldn’t immediately identify—but what he could see didn’t raise any alarm bells. Sure, the kitchen table was a mess (but not the floor around it), and the couch was piled high with blankets and pillows (but not overturned), and the counters in what he could see of the kitchen were clear (and he was willing to bet the floor was clear of shattered glass and ceramic).

Really, if Ezekiel hadn’t accidentally sent him that text, and if Jacob couldn’t see the slump to his shoulders, everything pointed to just being a normal night.

As it was, Ezekiel collapsed back on the couch, sending a couple pillows and one of the blankets to the floor, but not really seeming all that interested in correcting them. Jacob rolled his eyes, grabbing one of the pillows to gently toss at Ezekiel’s chest, grinning when he huffed at him.

“Wanna talk about it?” He asked, voice low because it fit the dark, not soft because Ezekiel hated that, eyeing the couch to figure out where he could sit that would dislodge the fewest number of pillows (and not Ezekiel, in case he did want to say something, because being under a microscope was the quickest way to make him rabbit).

But, to his relief, Ezekiel just snorted, reaching up to grab his arm and haul him down on the couch next to him. It wasn’t a graceful landing, but it was effective. “Nothing to talk about. Woke up, couldn’t go back to sleep. Same thing as last night.” And Jacob hums in response, because he trusted Ezekiel—if he said there’s nothing to talk about, nothing that Jacob can help with by talking through, that he can only help by sticking around, then there’s nothing to talk about.

That Ezekiel was willing to let him this close as it was, when Jacob knew he’d dealt with nightmares (and anxiety and paranoia and panic attacks) all on his own for months even after they’d started this, was a gift he wasn’t going to question.

Just be there.

He could do that.

So, he lightly shoved Ezekiel’s shoulder because that landing had put them both in a weird spot that wasn’t comfortable for either of them, and Ezekiel laughed at him, and he took a moment to resituate himself.

“What’re we watching?” Like it was that easy (because it was). He ended up leaning against the corner of the couch, one arm stretched across the back in an obvious play that Ezekiel would normally roll his eyes at and purposefully avoid, but was apparently tired enough, mellow enough, to just curl up under for now, pressing heavy and warm against his side. (Jacob knew he wouldn’t stay there, not for long. Even almost passed out on his feet, Ezekiel didn’t stay still for long. That was okay though.)

“Sharknado 3,” is the murmured response, and Jacob snorts.

“Sounds great.” He says, maybe a tad sarcastic (just a bit), flinching slightly when Ezekiel pokes him in the ribs and glances up with a grin, eyes bright with what Jacob figures is too little sleep and too much energy.

“Like it’s any more ridiculous than what we saw last week.” And maybe Jacob shudders with an exaggerated grimace because come on, that chimera was not right, but it gets the laugh he was looking for. Rather than answering (because Ezekiel’s right and there’s no need to say it), he leans over enough to press a soft kiss to a still smiling mouth, warm and lazy, a slow slide that lasts little longer than a breath before he’s leaning back with a sigh, settling in for awhile.

Ezekiel blinks at him, smile turned soft, before he shakes his head, flailing around for the remote for a moment to start the movie up again, and settles back down against Jacob’s side.

(Both men were knocked out and sleeping soundly within half an hour, and, despite Ezekiel’s many later attempts, Jacob could still proudly claim he’d never seen the ending of Sharknado 3.)

[celestialvoid-fanfiction]

FRIGHT NIGHT - Erica

“He’s going to be okay, right?” Erica asked, looking back over her shoulder down the track to where they had last seen Stiles; the masked man chasing after him.

“He’ll be okay,” Boyd said, reassuring himself more than Erica. “Let’s just find somewhere to hide.”

They followed the path, walking slowly and cautiously through the eerily quiet darkness until they found a clearing. They crossed the open space and made their way around the front of the long cabin.

Boyd ushered the girls inside, his eyes focused on the shifting shadows among the tree line. HIs heart spiked as the rolling wind rustled the trees making everything move. He hurried inside, slid the lock into place with a loud click and pulled the barricading bar down into place.

He turned around and saw Cora hurrying down the long hall to the other door. She slid the bar into place across the door and began to search the far rooms.

Erica was searching through the small cabinets and desks that were pushed back against the walls.

Boyd followed suit, searching the large bookshelf nearby.

He picked up an old iron wrench and tightened his hand around it, testing the weight as it rested in the palm of his hand.

“Boyd,” Erica whispered.

His heart skipped a beat when he heard the tension in her voice. He turned around and saw her standing by the window, her eyes wide as she stared out into the darkness.

Boyd swallowed hard and forced himself to ask, “What is it?”

“He’s here.”

The blood ran cold in his veins.

“Get away from the window,” Boyd instructed, stepping forward and reaching out for her. He turned and looked down the hallway. “Cora,” he called out to her. “Hide.”

There was a loud crack.

Boyd spun around to look at the door.

The blood-soaked blade of an axe splintered the wood, staining the gain as it began to fracture.

Boyd ushered Erica behind himself, using a body as a shield as he watched the man swing again.

Chunks of the door broke away, the blade digging into the barricade.

“Boyd,” Erica whimpered, unable to hide the fear that flooded her body.

“It’s okay,” Boyd lied, his voice a broken whisper as he tried to reassure her. He tightened his grip on the rusty wrench. “We’re going to be okay. Just stay behind me.”

The door shattered, the light from the porch illuminating the figure of the man who stood in the doorway.

The masked man sauntered inside.

Boyd lunged forward and swung the wrench, the heavy iron slamming into the side of the man’s head.

The masked man froze, his head knocked aside by the force. He slowly turned, his cold glare focused on Boyd.

He threw his axe down, the blade wedging itself in the wooden floor.

He took a step forward and slammed his hand into Boyd’s throat, hoisting the teen off his feet.

Boyd dropped his wrench. He flailed about, his jagged claws scratching at the man’s arms as he kicked at the masked man’s gut, but the man didn’t flinch.

Boyd choked on his breath.

The man tightened his grip on Boyd and swung his arm, hurling the boy across the room.

Boyd’s body hit the wall with a gut-wrenching crack, falling to the floor; limp and unmoving,

“Boyd!” Erica cried, running to his side.

He was out cold, blood streaming across his forehead and his chest moving with frail breaths.

Erica heard the man’s heavy footsteps hit the floor, drawing closer and closer. She heard him pull the axe free of the floor, dragging the tip of the blade across the wooden boards like nails down a chalk board.

She froze, her eyes fixed on Boyd’s still body as the hairs on the back of her neck began to rise. She felt him drawing closer and closer.

She saw the shadows shift around her, a blanket of cold washing over her. Icy shivers clawed at her spine as she watched the shadows morph into the shape of the man, his hand raised and his axe ready.

“Stop!”

The piercing scream shattered her frozen body. Erica spun around and saw Cora standing by the corner of the hallway.

The masked man froze. He turned to look at her, his eyes wide with a strange sense of recognition. He began to move towards her.

“No,” Erica rasped.

Her limbs felt like lead caught in sludge as she struggled to rise to her feet.

Cora was frozen in fear as the masked man reached out, gently brushing the fingers of his gloves across her cheek.

“Leave her alone,” Erica growled, staggering to her feet and charging at the man.

The masked man swung around, the back of his hand colliding with Erica’s cheek and flinging her across the room.

She hit the wall with a painful thump, the air knocked from her lungs.

Bursts of light and colours filled her vision as she dropped down to the floor.

Among the blinding light, she saw the silhouette of the man stalk towards her, his axe tight in his hold.

“No!” Cora screamed.

The man froze. He turned to look at her.

Erica’s eyes felt heavy, her head pounding as the world began to spin. Darkness crept in around the fringe of her vision.

“No,” she rasped, fighting back unconsciousness as she watched the man walk over to Cora’s side.

She saw him grab her arm, pulling her towards the door.

Cora didn’t fight; she stumbled behind him, casting a frantic gaze at Erica.

“No,” Erica whimpered.

She couldn’t fight it.

The darkness consumed her and she collapsed to the floor.

  Erica slowly blinked her eyes open, her vision focusing on the rough grooves embedded in the wooden floorboards.

She rose onto her hands and knees, her head pounding and her vision failing her slightly as she crawled over to Boyd’s side.

She gently shook him, but he didn’t stir.

She dug into her back pocket and pulled out the walkie-talkie she had scavenged earlier. She pushed down on the button and weakly said, “Hello? Please… Someone answer.”

After a second, she got a reply; a familiar voice.

“Erica?” Stiles answered. “Are you alright?”

She tried to stifle her sob as she dragged herself upright and slouched back against the wall, her eyes focused on the open doorway. “The psycho found us. Boyd got hit; he’s not waking up.”

“Erica, where are you?” Stiles asked.

Erica tried to think back to the wooden sign they had passed when they ran down the trail. She strung together the fragmented memory of the carved letters until they made a name.

“Camp Hillbrook,” Erica rasped.

There was another beat of silence.

She felt her head sag forward, darkness filling her vision.

“Okay, Erica, I need you to find something to defend yourself with,” she heard Stiles say, his voice drawing her back to reality. “I’m on my way.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” Stiles said reassuringly. “I’m on my way.”

“He took her…” Erica rasped.

There was a beat of silence.

Erica drew in a deep breath.

“He took her,” Erica repeated. “He took Cora.”

She didn’t hear what they said next; her head lulled to the side and the world slipped away from her.

  “Erica?”

She struggled to blink her eyes open.

“Erica? Can you hear me?”

She looked up into a pair of dark brown eyes, full of worry as they looked down at her.

She let out a weak moan.

“Erica?”

“My head hurts,” she whispered.

“Probably because you have one hell of a concussion,” Stiles said softly. He turned to look at Derek. “She can’t walk, not like this.”

“I can’t carry both of them,” Derek replied. “And you need to keep your hands free to defend us if he comes back.”

“We can’t leave her here,” stiles objected. “And if he’s on his way back, we won’t have the time to make two trips.”

“I’ll carry Boyd.” The voice came from down the hall.

Derek and Stiles spun around.

Peter staggered around the corner, his chest clod in blood-soaked bandages and his face composed.

“You’re hurt,” Derek pointed out.

“I’m fine,” Peter said dismissively, waving a hand. “Now stop fussing.” Under his breath, he added, “You’re just like your mother.”

Peter made his way over to Boyd’s side, pulling his limp arms over his shoulder.

Derek helped him lift Boyd onto his back before turning his attention to Erica. He cradled Erica’s head into his shoulder and slid one arm around her shoulders, the other hand under her legs. He lifted her into his arms.

She struggled to keep her eyes open as he carried her out into the cool air of the night.

They made their way down the snaking path that wove its way through the trees.

The toe of Stiles’ boot struck a thick tree root stuck out from the ground. He fell forward, hitting the ground with a painful thud as he landed among the cushion of damp autumn leaves, piles of rotting detritus which littered the forest floor.

He winched, his head aching as he lifted his gaze and looked about the darkness, slimy, wet leaves sticking to his cheek as he turned his eyes towards the darkness.

The usual autumn tones of brown, gold and red were darkened by the night, now a dreary mix of greys and heavy black shadows. Dense foliage hung overhead, enclosing the space, shutting out the sky and filtering moonlight. Streams of silver light surrounded him, not enough to see but just enough to distinguish shapes from shadows.

Among the darkness he could make out the fluorescent bleached skeletons of the birch trees, their slender trunks lining the shadows as eye-like rings watched him from all angles.

He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

Something was wrong.

He braced his hands against the ground, sharp sticks prodding his palms. Twigs and leaves rustled and broke beneath him as he lifted his weight to his wobbling legs. He slowly turned in circles, surveying his surroundings. Fallen branches snagged at his bare ankles, scratching at the pale skin and drawing small droplets of blood. The extended limbs reached for him like the hands of the damned, ready to drag him down into the inky black abyss.

“Stiles?” Derek asked softly.

Stiles held up his hand, silencing Derek.

There was a rustle in the bushes in front of him. Clumps of leaves and low hanging branches crackling, shaking and bowing as a big black shadow slinked into the open, broad feet thumping the ground.

“Derek,” Stiles whispered, fear flooding his veins as a cold rush of adrenaline bled into his veins. His eyes were focused on the dark figure as he breathed, “Run.”

Derek took a step back and Stiles tightened his hold on the baseball bat.

Peter and Derek lingered by the edge of the tack, glancing from Stiles to the darkness of the woods.

The masked man drew nearer.

Stiles choked up on the bat and swung, the solid oak slamming into the side of the man’s face.

Stiles looked over his shoulder and shouted, “Run!”

Derek and Peter sprinted into the shadows, leaving Stiles to face the masked man.

Stiles turned and ran in the other direction, vaulting over a fallen log and sprinting into the dense woods.

He sprinted through the labyrinth of thick tree trunks. He sprung over the fallen trees, large rocks, broken branches and thick shrubs, his legs wheeling about beneath him as he struggled not to trip on the thick undergrowth.

He ran until his legs burnt and his heartbeat thundered in his ears.

He slowed, turning around to look back the way he had come.

There was no sign of the man.

He heaved in deep breaths, keeping his eyes focused on the shadows as he began to walk backwards.

The ground gave way beneath his feet and his fell.

[~AO3~]   [~Support Me Through PayPal~]

[dunmerofskyrim]

27

A great cavern of atrium, sides trenched like the kernelpit of a peach. In red and lambent violet we saw what tunnels led off it. Veins and arteries off from an old stiff heart; roots from the bulb of some tuber’s slow growing. We didn’t venture far. There was no need. Miner-baskets lay in piles against one strange-grooved wall, each heaped into the one beneath it so they stacked in fives and threes, sixes and eights. Tiers of coiled roughshod wicker.

“Think they found this wild?” I asked as we worked. “The kwama just set into the city when it emptied of people?”  Sweat on my arms and in the spine-furrow that cleaves my back. In the heat of the mine, I forgot that the world above was all winter. “Or did people set in and plant all this, for food? How’s it work? Is an egg-mine something you seed or something you stumble on?”

“Ask the farmer,” Medis said.

And we gathered what eggs we could. What eggs we could mattock and trowel out from the lodgings where they grew bubonic against the wall-grooves and floor, and hung stalactite from the ceiling. The egg-lodgings disgusted me worse than the eggs, the kwama, the tight and blood-warm darkness of the mine itself. Not quite meat nor quite earth, they raised like proudflesh, like scar-tissue, in growths and beds from the dirt of the place. Tooling free the eggs from it felt more like surgery, butchery, than mining.

Kwama milled about us, in all the seeming aimlessness of intense and focused labour.

The come and go of foragers, long and shorting the plates of their shells to writhe forward. Not like snakes who tacks towards progress, sideways, then sidewards, then sideways again. More like some nameless muscle, moving in throbs and contractions as they left off down the side-tunnels.

And the hunchbacked workers, four-footed and sturdy, with their chins like ploughshares and their hollow tunnel-faces. Their two pairs of petty arms beneath the great lob of their heads. Blind jade eyes down the length of their plate-jagged bodies. Around us they dug, and scaled along the grooved walls, and daubed the cavern’s sides with black secretions that shone in our magelights and set hard as lacquer.

But we filled our baskets. One each, with leather-shelled eggs some big as melons, others small enough to hold in one hand. Pushing them ahead, we stooped and crawled back down the tunnel. Up the tunnel. Around the tunnel as it screwed to the surface.

I feel the air first. The cold of the real world, where winter still reigns, outside the mine’s strange dream. It breezes against my face and I think the wind-chime chimes again.

The light that breaks across my eyes is little light at all. The sun’s begun to sink already. Ablaze, my first sight of sky. The tunnel spits us out and onto the temple wreckage, and above the night spreads like a bruise while orange clings to the west. Long shadows stripe the ruin floor, lean and smooth as ink over all the rubble-roughness.

“Believe you were more’n two hours,” says Shurfa, leaning out from one of the shadows. “We waited anyways.”

“Goes deep,” I say by way of explanation, if not apology.

“Thank you,” says Medis.

“Fucking tunnels,” I say. “Worth it though for what we found. It’s a fucking egg-mine down there. Tamed. Look!” Our two baskets are fuller of eggs than any one person could carry without aching, rest-stopping, sweating through their clothes even in winter. “Shunted them all the way back up.”

“Not a bad harvest for two cityfolk,” says Shurfa.

“Think it’ll do for the rest? How many meals in a kwama egg, anycase?”

“How long’s a rope. How tall’s a tree. But biggest you got there, well I’d say as it’s a sixty-cell egg.”

“So that’s a yes then. Least until we make the mainland.”

“If we’re chary.”

“Reckon we’ll have to be.”

“I don’t understand,” says Balambal. He’s been chewing something over in his head, maybe since before we came back. His words come like a worry he can’t keep in anymore. “This place would feed six families well. Here, that’s more valuable than anything. Why is it not guarded?”

“It’s hidden,” I shrug, but take his point. “Did you see anyone up here? Anything?”

“Silence and the moving sky.”

“Maybe they’re gone. Something happened to them.”

“What they deserve,” tuts Shurfa, “egg-mining a temple of the old Tribunal. What we deserve too, like as not.”

“Admissions and atonements will feature in my prayers tonight,” says Medis. “But for now we’d best not ling—”

The air breaks with a thupp. A stout wooden something stands out from Medis’ neck and the tunnel-ragged front of his pilgrim’s robes are coming in black. A growing stain like a lengthening shadow. He paws and presses at the crossbow quarrel, an agony of surprise in his searching hands, and on his blank sudden face. Tries to pull it out. No telling if the raw suck of sound that comes is the voice of the wound or him trying to speak.

His magelight blinks out. He slumps forward. The world’s lit only in red now.

Curse and clamour, we split off from each other in panic, exploding towards what cover we can find. Shurfa to the temple’s one standing wall. Balambal to the gloom of the tunnelmouth.

I bound up the wreckage-slope that leads towards the spire. Try to remember Medis’ facing, the bolt’s angle. Coming up almost empty, I trust myself to a half-guess and corner round the spire’s nightward side.

“No flights!” Balambal’s voice calls from below. “No flights on the quarrel! It came from close!”

My light’s come with me, leaving the temple-floor in half-darkness and me haloed round like a beacon. “Fuck…” I close the spell in my mind and stand obscure, against the towerside and against the purpling sky. I pull my sword and hold it ready.

In the shadows a steamlike hissing comes running through the black. Closing it starts like a harsh whistle, many-mouthed, to the sound of scurrying feet. Not a dog, but knowing nothing of nix, I default to the same fear.

“They’ve got nix!” I shout. My second trust to guesswork of the night.

“Simra!” I hear Shurfa bellow. Hear the sound of bodies shuffle-struggling against stone. “Light! Unkill the light, blight it!”

I turn towards the scurry as it gains on me. Third guess. I bark a calling word. Flames glare out from my left hand. The shape of something many-legged and lean scuttled on itself sears into my eyes after the flare’s gone out. Half-blind, I still see sparks clinging to something moving. I strike for it, Hlaalu blade singing long through the air as it clacks against hardshell, softshell, sharp but not heavy enough for the work.

Limned in sparks, the shape writhes round, awful and catlike, streaming and shedding glints scraps of itself as it turns. It pounces through my second gout of fire and chokes off the calling into a yelp.

Panic.

I fall back into the towerside and crumple flailing onto the ground. Fall down the slope, fighting limbs, not knowing if they’re mine. Hear screams, and don’t know if they’re mine. The darkness, the reek of smoke, the reek of bad sour candles, as tight around me now as the tunnel was below.

I scramble onto my feet. I’ve lost my sword; lost the hound-shaped thing that jumped me. A senseless scream leaps out my mouth as I spin a circle and trace a wake of sparks and scalding air around me. Fend off. Everything that might be, could be — I won’t let it touch me. But I’m wasting my reserves; spending more than I ought to. The fear puts an excess in me. I lose my measure.

Spinning again, body low in an animal crouch, I catch sight of my flames catching something. The same nix-shape as before, or another — no matter which, for it writhes back, air shrieking hot from its shell. I remember the wolves of the Rift, the pack’s closing circle and my widening circle of fire in the night. I wish there was more here to burn.

But as things are, the sprays of flame bright the night into frozen pictures.

Shurfa caves in the side of a nix-hound with her longclub. Sends it flying to crack against the facade wall. The sound of her roar outlives the image blazed into my mind.

Balambal bursts from the tunnelmouth like a heron up from the reeds that hid it. Flashing curve of sabre takes one shadow in the shoulder.

No peace in my mind to call light with. Only fire to shriek out at the dark. What comes at me next has a cudgel raised. No, something between pick and sickle — a farmer’s tool against my empty hands. They yell for courage. I scream for fear and fury, and half-leap backwards. A scything arc of my arms as I go – one savage move of a dance I scarcely know – and flames thrust, crest, and curl like a breaker at sea towards the coming figure. Golden edged with a foam of copper sparks and spitting as it shatters, the wave of flame has a red heart and a black manshape inside it.

I land bad and blind though from the hap and hazard of my dodge. A sharp pain as my ankle threatens to twist. Rather than let it, I fall into its angle, tumble along the ground. Maybe I try to roll. Maybe the rubble and wreckage stops me, grabbing and bruising, objecting hard on my elbows, shoulders, sides and thighs. My scalp is sharp and bloodwet. My ankle throbs too hot.

But the temple-ruins are painted now, in a glaze of orange light and brown shadow. At its center, a figure thrashes, ragged clothes gone all to flame. Its arms rise up and it shrieks, like a celebrant, eaten up in an oil-reeking ecstasy of fire. It goes to ground, rolling against the blunt-tooth scree and wreckage. Torch one moment and bonfire the next as it collapses. Wailing thin one moment, then sounding like spitted meat; airless, voiceless, crackling.

The burning body gave out enough light to show how Balambal died

A bolt stuns him, sticking smug into the side of his ribs. It hammers the air from his lungs. The attacker whose shoulder’s grit wet round Balambal’s blade fights him to the ground as I try to struggle up. A long straight knife sinks into Balambal’s belly, hooks up; breaks into his thigh as he raises a leg, an arm, anything to fight off the other mer. Blood pools round them link an inkblot, livid-black on the stones. Their struggle sounds like the gurgling of two drowning men.

I saw Balambal die and know how death met him, but Shurfa died in the dark that came after. I don’t know which is worse.

[flowerfan2]

Tangerine Trees

Stucky, 2350 words, A03

Steve and Bucky have a bad trip, but they come out okay.  No thanks to Thor.

TW:  drug use, imagined blood/injury.

*****

Bucky waves his hands above his head, watching the orange and red swirls that trail from his fingertips. Soon there are two more hands waving, twisting around his own, blue and purple joining and creating a rainbow of shining color.

There’s a laugh, sunshine yellow, and Bucky turns to see Steve gazing at him. Steve is shining, glowing golden and pure.  Bucky laughs too, letting the sound flow over his body.

He feels good, he realizes, light.  There’s no pain in his shoulder or his chest.  No ache behind his eyes.  He tells Steve how good he feels, and then he has to show him, standing up and stretching to touch the sky.  

Steve follows, running his hands down Bucky’s body, up again along his arms.  They’re pressed together, dancing in the rainbow, sparks flying between them.  Steve grabs him by his metal hand and spins him, not noticing the difference between his metal hand and his flesh one, not pausing to ask if it’s okay, and it’s good, it’s perfect.  Bucky leans in to kiss him, heat exploding where their lips touch, and Steve grins wide, then spins him out again.

Bucky’s full of energy, electricity sparking through him.  He wants to move, wants to soar.  “I want to fly, Steve.”  Steve picks him up, hoists him over his shoulder and launches him across the room.

 It’s amazing.  He’s a bird, weightless and free, and then he lands with a crash into the couch, bouncing and rolling on to the floor. He’s up in a flash.  “Again!”

 Steve does it again, propelling him to the other side of the room, and it’s just as fantastic.  But the next time his landing isn’t as soft, the couch isn’t there.  He’s climbing up from under a broken pile of… something… and then there’s a bad sound, a keening, terrible sound.

 “Bucky, Bucky no…” he hears.

 Steve is hunched over, arms out, reaching for something.  His eyes are wild.

 Bucky tries to get to him, but he can’t move quickly enough.  His legs are heavy.  The ground is soft, sucking his feet down with every step.  Mud, quicksand, holding him in place.

 “Bucky, don’t fall, grab my hand,” Steve moans.  “Don’t fall, please, Bucky, no…”

 The world is gray and black, now, and Bucky hurts, hurts all over, and he can’t get to Steve.  He wants to yell out to him, tell him he’s coming, but he can’t make a sound.  Steve keeps calling for him, and Bucky concentrates on moving his feet, moving his legs, until suddenly there’s a bridge and he runs across it, finding Steve on the other side.

 “Steve, I’m here, I’m here,” Bucky says.  He cups his hands around Steve’s face and tries to get him to see him, but Steve flails away.  Bucky tackles him to the floor, knees on either side of his chest, arms pinned, but Steve twists and shoves Bucky off.

 Bucky leaps and grabs Steve again.  Then they’re rolling, slamming against furniture and walls and Steve is still crying out for Bucky, as if he wasn’t there at all.  

 Bucky slams Steve back down on to the floor and flips him over, and Steve’s face is covered in blood. Bucky flinches back, horrified, and wraps his arms around himself.  His own arms are bleeding, there’s blood everywhere, it’s soaked through his shirt and pooling on the floor.   Steve crawls towards him, his face a broken mess.  Bucky curls in on himself in shame.

 *****

 “Don’t go in there, they’re high as supersoldier kites.  They don’t know what they’re doing.  They’ll smash you like a tiny, tiny spider – pun intended.”

 “They must have taken that crap Thor brought last night.  We’ve got to do something.”

 “I’m aware.  JARVIS, get Banner, he’s in the lab.  Fast.”

 *****

 Steve is crawling closer, reaching out to pull Bucky’s hands away from his face.  Bucky tries to get away, but there’s a wall at his back and suddenly Steve is there, arms wrapped around him, holding him tight.  Bucky shivers and shakes but he lets Steve hold him. If he’s dying, if he’s going to bleed out and die right now, at least Steve is here.  

 Steve is petting his head and he can hear him speaking, now, words of comfort and assurance, and Bucky’s shaking calms.  He looks down, expecting to see the blood over them both, but it’s gone.  All gone.  

 Bucky slides away from Steve and rips at his clothes, revealing his metal arm, and his flesh one, both unharmed.  “Steve, what the hell is going on?”  he breathes out, blinking hard as the blood disappears from Steve’s face as well.  “I thought…”

 Steve looks confused, but runs his hand down Bucky’s arms, shaking his head.  “Your metal arm can’t bleed,” Steve says, as if he was reading Bucky’s mind.  Maybe he is. Maybe this is all a dream.  Or maybe he’s finally lost his mind, gone completely insane.  Maybe he’s back in cryo, mind-wiped and blank and alone-

 “No, Bucky, no.” Steve has him by the arms, shaking him. “You’re here with me.  Not in cryo.  With me.  This isn’t a dream.  This is real.”

 “Then what the fuck is going on?”

 “I don’t know, I-” Steve lets go of Bucky, spinning around. There’s someone else in the room now, a figure coming towards them.  Steve shifts to put himself between Bucky and the intruder.  He’s tall, with tentacles waving from his back, and a terrifying mouth full of sharp teeth.  He’s also carrying a spear.  

 Bucky surges with adrenalin and he flies towards the monster, knocking the weapon out of his hands.

 The monster stays down and Steve grabs Bucky, pulls him into a small, enclosed space.  It’s a bunker, dark and damp and lined with concrete. “HYDRA,” Steve breathes out. “We’ll be safe here.”

 The bunker is lined with clothes, but they shove them out of the way and put their backs to the door and brace themselves for the inevitable explosion.  HYDRA likes to blow things up.  

 “It’s okay, Stevie,” Bucky mumbles, grabbing Steve’s hand as they ready for impact.  “We can take it.  We’ll face it together.  ‘Til the end of the line.”

 *****

 “Nice try, Banner.” Tony takes the syringe from Bruce and hands him an ice pack for his face.  “Good job not hulking out, though.  A plus for effort.”

 “Told you this wouldn’t work.  They’re not going to let someone stick needles in them.”  Natasha paces around the conference room they’ve gathered in while they unsuccessfully try to figure out how to help Steve and Bucky.

 “Told you I should have gone in with the suit,” Tony says.

 “They’d just get hurt fighting you.  Plus, I don’t think they’d react all that well to Iron Man confronting them again,” Bruce says, collapsing into a chair and pressing the ice pack to his lip.

 “Yeah, no, probably not.” Tony admits.  “What if we just try talking to them?  JARVIS could sing them a lullaby, or something.  Hum a happy tune.  Turn their trip around.”

 “Right now they’re hiding in a closet.  They think HYDRA is after them.  I don’t think a sing-along is going to help.”

 Bruce looks up. “They’re in a closet?”  He opens up a screen in front of them and starts paging through diagrams.  “JARVIS, show me the air vents in their apartment.  I’ve got an idea.”

 *****

Bucky wakes up with a heavy weight on his chest, and panics only for a moment before he realizes it’s just Steve.  Steve, who has apparently decided that the most comfortable way to sleep off whatever the hell just happened to them is by starfishing himself over Bucky’s entire body.

 He turns his head as much as he can and looks around.  They’re still in their bedroom closet, which apparently seemed to be a bunker at some point during the night.  Clothes have been pulled off hangers, boxes opened and dumped out, as if someone decided to ransack the place.  But the closet door is now open, and there’s an envelope on the floor just out of his reach.

 “Steve, wake up.”  Bucky pushes weakly at Steve’s broad shoulder. “You weigh a ton, buddy.  Budge over.”

 Steve groans and digs his pointy chin into Bucky’s chest.  “Don’t wanna.”

 “Steve, come on,” Bucky says softly, running his metal fingers through Steve’s hair.  He smells awful – they both do – in fact, the whole room smells like a locker room which has been cleaned with toxic chemicals.

 “Bucky…” Steve lifts his head and blinks his blue eyes at him.  “What happened?”

 Bucky can’t shrug with Steve still laying on him.  “Not sure.”

 Steve sighs out a long, sour breath, and slides off Bucky, still keeping his arm draped over Bucky’s bare chest.  “I feel like crap.”

 “Me too.”

 They lie there in silence for a few minutes, and then Steve raises up on an elbow, frowning.  “Wait, do you remember-”

 “I really don’t feel like playing that game right now,” Bucky says, and Steve pokes him with a finger.

 “Not like that, jerk. Do you remember the party last night? Clint was making cocktails for everyone?”

 Bucky thinks back through the haze.  “He was making them in colors to match our superhero costumes, uh, uniforms.”

 “And you were sad because yours was black.”

 Bucky laughs, although it comes out more like a croak given how dry his throat is.  “I was sad because it wasn’t going to get me drunk, not because it was black.”

 Steve’s concerned face relaxes.  “Oh, that’s good.”  

 “But it couldn’t have been the cocktails.  You didn’t even drink yours.”

 Steve’s eyes widen, as if he’s just coming back to the story.  “No, it wasn’t the cocktails.  It was Thor. Remember?  He said he had something that would make us happy, even if Midgardian alcohol wouldn’t do the trick.”

 “Fuck, he did.”  Bucky pushes himself upright, ignoring for now the pounding in his head.  “Were we actually stupid enough to take drugs from a stranger?”

 “Thor’s not a stranger, he’s-”

 “Yeah I know, it’s a saying, it’s still stupid.”

 Steve huffs and sits up too, leaning his shoulder against Bucky’s.  “Guess you didn’t take all the stupid with you.  Must have left some for me.”  Steve sees the envelope on the floor, and stretches out his leg to pull it closer with a bare toe.

 “What’s this?”

 “Don’t know.”

 Steve opens it, and pulls out a note.  “Dear Steve and Bucky,” he reads.  “Sorry we had to flood your suite with the antidote.  The smell should clear out in a few hours.  JARVIS says to drink some water and get some rest.  Brunch is at noon and your attendance is required. Natasha promises not to play any videos of your shenanigans until you get there.”

 Steve looks at Bucky, face drawn.  “I actually doubt that any videos of us from last night would be very entertaining,” he says quietly.  “It really wasn’t a good time, was it?”

 “No, it really wasn’t.” Bucky stands up, groaning a little, and holds a hand out to Steve.  “Come on, let’s go get some rest.  In our bed.”

 They hobble over to the bed, stripping down to their boxers and climbing under the covers.

 “I think we may have broken some of the furniture,” Steve says.

 “Furniture can be replaced,” Bucky says.  He presses a soft kiss to Steve’s lips, and then tucks himself tightly against Steve’s side.  “We’re okay, right?”

 Steve rubs a hand up and down Bucky’s back, and shuffles them even closer together.  “’Course we’re okay.  It wasn’t real.”

 “It felt real,” Bucky says softly.  “It felt awful.”

 Steve nods against his forehead.  “Yeah.” He tugs the blanket over them both, then goes back to stroking Bucky’s back.  “Hey, did I throw you across the room?”

 Bucky chuckles.  “You did.  Multiple times.  It was actually really fun.”

 “Bet we could get Tony to build some kind of net in the gym, and do it again.  Or he could make you wings, like Sam’s.”

 “Maybe just to try out. Wouldn’t want to step on Sam’s toes.”

 “Fair enough.”  

 Bucky closes his eyes and tries to sleep, but he keeps seeing images from his hallucinations the night before – Steve’s bloody face, the monster with the spear.  From the way Steve keeps resettling himself underneath him, he thinks he’s having the same problem.

 “Hey, Steve?”

 “Hmm?”

 “I think we smell too bad to fall asleep.”

 Steve pushes back from Bucky, his eyes alight with amusement.  “I couldn’t agree more.  Shower?”

 Bucky whips the blankets off of them and holds out his hand to Steve.  “Shower.”

 Later, after they’ve let hot water clean away the remains of their nightmares, and Bucky’s favorite coconut lime body wash has been liberally applied, they climb into the fresh sheets of the bed in their second, hardly used bedroom.  They’re wearing clean pajama pants, soft and comfortable, and Bucky’s got on one of Steve’s stretched out t-shirts.  He buries his face in the crook of Steve’s neck and lets himself relax.

 “I know you said you’d follow me anywhere,” Steve says, brushing a wet strand of hair off Bucky’s cheek and tucking it behind his ear.  “But next time, maybe we should ask where we’re going first.”

 Bucky laughs.  “Good advice.”  Wherever it might be, though, Bucky knows he’ll be safe as long as he’s with Steve, bad trip or not.  He inches closer, inhales the smell of him, and suddenly isn’t very sleepy anymore.

 Deliberately, Bucky drags his lips up Steve’s jawline, then presses a firm kiss to his lips.  

 Steve kisses him back, mouth falling open, and Bucky can tell he’s trying to decide whether these are particularly nice about-to-go-sleep-kisses or the start of something more involved. Bucky slides his fingertips under the waistband of Steve’s pajama pants and pauses.  Steve hums in approval, and turns to press a leg between Bucky’s thighs.

 “I’m pretty sure I know where this is going,” Bucky whispers in Steve’s ear, just before he nips at his earlobe, earning a low whine from Steve.  “And I like it a lot.”

 “Me too, Buck.  Me too.”

 *****

End note:  Title from the Beatles’ Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.

[writingismyhappytime]

Here's a peak at what you're missing!

So you know I'm posting on Patreon, all original content. Here's a sneak peak at what I'm posting on there! I took the zombie comment to heart. 

These days, you took what you could get, no matter the consequences. It didn't matter who it was from --- a family, a child, some dead, half eaten guy on the side of the road.

You just... you had to do what you had to do to survive.

I intended on surviving.

The world had collapsed a few years ago, some virus I guess you could call it.

I just know that one day everything was fine, and then a week later the world was in flames.

People turned on each other instead of standing together, they stole, pillaged, rioted --- basically we destroyed ourselves faster then any virus ever could.

When times get hard, it's everyone out for themselves apparently.

Me, I took that to heart.

My family died pretty quick, within the first few days. I'd come home from baseball practice one night to find my mother eating what was left of my father, his stomach split open, some organs I didn't even know the name of sprawled across our kitchen floor.

She'd been sick for a day or two, said some random homeless person had attacked and bit her. My dad wanted her to go to the hospital, but she refused, said she'd be okay.

I mean, it wasn't like stuff like that was unheard of. A few years ago some crazy guy in Florida high off bath salts was found eating a person, and there were some cultures still that were cannibals.

I'd watched enough zombie movies, I should have seen the signs. I'd pretended it would blow over, that the world just had another flu epidemic or something, that it would be okay.

I hadn't expected... well, for it to be real.

I'd never forget seeing my parents that way, seeing my mother look up at me with blood all over her face. She'd looked perfectly normal, just pale, her normally bright eyes glassy. Her dress had been ripped, probably in the struggle, but it was her teeth that made everything wrong.

She'd always had a beautiful smile, white, perfect teeth just like my sister. Now I couldn't remember it without seeing the red smeared across them, the way she cared them at me with skin and guts between them.

She'd forgotten my dad when she saw me, lunging at me from the linoleum floor. I'd scrambled back, staggered and fell onto my backpack.

Admittedly, I'd shrieked in panic, flailing a little in panic when I'd tried to keep her off me. I'd yelled her name over and over, shoved her away and begged for my mother.

That thing in front of me hadn't been her anymore. It had her face and clothes, but it hadn't been my mother.

I wasn't sure what it was.

A monster.

I did what anyone else would have done; I ran.

I ran as quickly as I could, managing to get out the front door and slam it behind me. I'd fallen on my knees on the porch, gasping for breath, on the verge on a panic attack.

I could hear my mother yowling, throwing herself against the door as she tried to get to me, to kill me.

My own mother.

I'd stayed there for a while, aware of the drying blood on my clothing, aware that I couldn't keep sitting there.

I'd dropped my phone inside, I couldn't call my younger sister to warn her. We had neighbors, we were in a suburb, but I didn't think they'd believe me.

If they weren't like my mother already.

My father.

So I'd just stayed right there, on my front porch, waiting. My sister had ballet practice, she didn't get out for another hour. She was younger then me, she'd be expecting my parents to pick her up --- but they wouldn't be.

I couldn't just leave her there, I couldn't just... do nothing! My dad's truck sat in the driveway, full of his tools and work equipment. I knew where he kept the spare keys, and he'd taught me to drive a manual.

I knew my mom's keys were in the house, and I didn't dare go in there.

I was only fifteen at the time, I had my learners but that was it. I'd seen only two or three vehicles go down the street since I'd come home, all speeding, ignoring the signs that said Speed Limit 25.

Maybe they knew something I didn't.

I should have taken it as a sign.

Instead, I'd gone to my dad's truck, taken the spare keys hidden beneath the seat, and started it up. I'd backed out of the driveway, going too fast and  knocking down our mailbox, but I didn't think my parents would care at this point.

My sisters ballet studio was just down the highway from our suburb, a little building where they practiced twirling in their tutus and with their sticks or whatever they were called. It had taken my mother a month to convince my sister to get out of her first recital costume, to wear normal clothes again.

I'd thought nothing else but getting to my sister, I guess I was in shock.

You can't say finding your parents like that in your kitchen wouldn't do the same. My mother had always been been a peaceful woman, all she'd ever done was yell at us when we tore the curtains down once on accident.

My father had always been the one to ground us or put us in time out, not her. So to see my dad on the ground, his fingers still twitching as he laid halfway beneath the kitchen table in his own blood, my mother lifting his intestines to her mouth like spaghetti... I was surprised I'd even managed to get out the door without puking.

It had been hard just getting ten minutes down the highway, it was littered with people already. Car horns honking in panic, people running around carrying their belongings --- I'd seen one van on fire with figures still inside, others throwing themselves at it.

Funny how I seemed to be so good at blocking that out until later.

It was getting dark then, hard to see, but somehow I'd managed to fumble on the lights. I'd drove off the road and into the front of people's yards, bypassing most of the trouble. I didn't go too fast, but I didn't dare slow down where someone could get in the truck; I'd been smart enough to lock the doors, though.

You didn't live in the city and not lock your doors.

I'd finally made it to my sisters building. I'd parked the truck sideways, grabbing the keys so no one could steal it. I'd shoved them into my jacket pocket and made a break for the front doors.

I should have looked at the parking lot. I should have noticed it was mostly deserted despite I knew there would be more classes, at how one car had someone smacking against the window, how the glass was smeared red.

I should have known I was too late.

It's a strange site, walking into a darkened building yelling for your sister, but to find an entire pack of cannibalistic ballerinas instead.

I never actually saw my sister, I could only assume she was one of them. I managed four steps into the building before I saw the first one of them, dressed in a glittery leotard with some torn tights.

It's true what they say, glitter clings to you for days. I'd backtracked out that door before the glittery woman could get her claws into me, slamming it shut and holding it there.

It didn't help the entire front of the building was just glass windows. I'd waited there a minute, I'd scanned the interior over and over, searching for my thirteen year old sisters face, but I could never see her.

Maybe I'd been a coward for not going in for her guns blazing, maybe I should have tried again and looked harder.

But I didn't.

I was scared, so scared. My legs had been shaking, sweat made my palms slick --- I'd felt nauseous.

The puking was imminent.

I'd abandoned the door and took off for the truck again, slingshot ting myself inside as quick as I could. I locked the doors, frantically fumbling the keys out of my pocket and into the ignition.

I had a horde of tiny ballerinas after me, and you don't wait for them to catch up.

Breathing hard, I'd slung the truck around in the parking lot, flooring it and speeding off onto the highway.

I wasn't sure why, if it was automatic or not, but I went back home. It was black outside now, but there was fires starting everywhere --- or catching from the previous ones I'd seen.

I just wanted to go home.

I pulled back into the driveway, parking the truck where my dad always did. I'd sat there a few minutes, staring off into basically nothing.

I could hear the destruction everywhere, some screaming, the sound of glass breaking.

The electricity was still on then, so porch lights flooded the street, you could see into people's homes.

I'd already learned at that moment that I didn't want to look.

I finally shut the truck off, and I looked over, seeing my backpack, my baseball bat hooked onto the side of it.

I didn't think about my teammates then, how I'd left them all at the diamond a few hours earlier with a wave and a promise I'd be back to practice more tomorrow.

I never returned to that field.

They were probably all dead at that time anyway.

I remember reaching for my bat, curling my hand around the cold aluminium and drawing it to me. I had to get inside my house, I had to get past my mother.

I was fifteen, I didn't know what else to do.

I won't bore you with the details of how I'd opened my front door, how I'd yelled as I'd charged my mother and swung that bat as hard as I could at her head --- I knew my zombie trivia, and what else could she be?

It had only taken one swing, metal bats are pretty hard, before she'd collapsed.

Of course then I'd puked a nice pile in the corner, unable to help myself anymore. The smell was probably the worst back then, it got me a lot in the early days.

I'm numb to it now.

[shadowedgarden]

From the Hunters, Among the Hunted

Chapter 2: The Desolate City 

 Hi! Yes it's been a bit over a year, sorry about that, when I say I'm bad at updating I do not kid.  At all. On the plus side, chapter 2 and 3 are going up at the same time, as I didn't know where to split it when I was writing it. A thank you to @insanityisnotfun for his input and help, and anyone else that helped in the past year(sorry again, it's been awhile so my memory isn't that good for this). Isp: this comic. Feedback is always appreciated, hope you enjoy! 

Ch.1: Welcome, Please Try Not to Die ||  Ch.3: Let the Fun Begin!

 You stare at the contraption for what feels like an eternity before you dare touch a thing.  It's approximately the size of your hand, maybe a bit smaller, the exterior being made of some hard material.  Its shape is reminiscent of a box, and once you pry it open the thinner half starts to emit light, making the cracks over top of it look even weirder.  The thicker half is covered in a flexible material, shaped into a grid with each square covered in nearly worn off numbers and letters.  Some spots are obviously patched in some way.  When you finally manage to hesitantly poke it, it makes a beep that startles you enough to jump, and stalling progress for a few minutes until you regain enough curiosity or confidence to continue.  Eventually, you manage to press another button, and a soft ringing starts emanating from it.  Nearly instantaneously it's on the ground, though whether you placed it there or dropped it is impossible to tell, and you are behind a partially crumbled pillar.  The ringing stops and a voice, which sound similar to Toriel's, takes it place.  You will ask her about that later.  The voice stops, and you creep over and delicately put it into your backpack, then start off in the direction she left in. 

The next room has oddly large piles of red leaves everywhere, and there is another one of the gently pulsing yellow stars beside the pile nearest you.  You flop down on said pile, and the leaves crunch underneath your weight, those not directly underneath you whispering instead.  Your eyes widen, a grin breaking out across your face as you pick up your arm and flop it down again, resulting in another crunch that sets your childish heart soaring.  You turn around and tackle the leaves, becoming immersed as they fall on you.  Because an abandoned crumbling shell of a city just screams play to you, doesn't it.  Sitting up, you blow some especially friendly leaves, as well as a strand of your dark tangled hair, out of your face and dive back in.  Congratulations, you just completely defeated the purpose of that action.  Eventually, your hand touches the star, determination swirling into your happiness as you Save.  You lie back, giggling, and gaze up at the stars.   

After a minute of resting you stand up, your urge to play temporarily sated.  A shadowy archway covered in silvery cobwebs swiftly grabs your eye and snags your curiosity, drawing you in.  As luck would have it, there is a hole in the wall of webs low down near the ground, neat enough that it almost seems like it has been used as an entrance before.  Inside you find it is a stunningly intact room.  Fresh water runs through, sparkling in the moonlight, moss grows thickly along the corners in an inviting manner, and in the center of the room sits a bowl , slightly raised off the floor with the words "For those in need of healing" painted neatly on the side.  Vines encase the room and hold it together, the ceiling still mostly intact with only a single hole in it, which manages to half flood the room in moonlight.  Glittering cobwebs are draped around the upper corners of the room.  It's a perfect refuge.  Realizing how thirsty you are, you fill up your water-bottle at the stream, and grab a spider cider and a spider doughnut from the bowl.  You lie back on the moss for a rest.  After a minute or so of dozing, the spiders begin growing restless.  You will not be able to stay much longer.  After one last glance at this dream-like room, you leave, ignoring the leaf-piles.  

You are only a few strides out before the floor abruptly disappears from beneath you.  A cry forces its way up through your throat, arms flailing desperately for something to grab, some way to stop your fall, but it is too late and you fall into shadows.  A pile of leaves cushions your landing.  You spend the next few minutes attempting to calm your racing heart, control your shaky breathing, and blink back tears.  You decide you need to be more careful.  Much more careful.  Once you calm down and make sure nothing, particularly yourself or the phone, is broken, you look around.  The only notable thing is two decent sized holes built into the wall, as well as the skylight you made with your fall.  Upon closer examination you find that the holes in the wall are really tunnels.  Actually, shafts would probably describe them better, as they are vertical.  You test one of the shaft's strength then begin to climb, finding that there are plenty of handholds.  Your pack trails behind you, dangling from your foot so you can fit.  As you climb over the bend at the top, the bag catches a little, and you tug on it.  When that doesn't work you pull harder.  It comes free with only a split-second's warning and you tumble out, unprepared for the sudden give, falling right on top of an unsuspecting Whimsum.  Whimsums are flighty and nervous, always feeling guilty due to a complication in their past, and their ghost-like and twiggy appearance does little to convince anyone otherwise.  This one is gone the instant you open your mouth, even though you bring apologies and promises that you mean no harm.  You can do no more than stare after it.  Putting the encounter out of your mind the best you can, you realize you are on the other side of the falling tiles, and back on track.  On track to where, you have no idea, unless you count exploration as a location, but back on track none the less.  

The next room where you have to do something other then just pick your way cautiously around rocks and vines and the remains of unrecognizable things gains your attention by having a lack of said objects.  Instead the ground is made entirely of that scratched stone that you know from prior inspection is only supported by flimsy twigs.  It will break under your weight instantly.  Pity that you saw no other way around, and trying to go back would only lead to more.  Heart nagging you, you let out a sigh and step out, staying near the wall in the foolish hope that, despite your knowledge, it might not collapse and send you falling to the hard floor beneath.  You get no such luck, promptly having your world drop, your heart jump into your mouth, and your breathing hitch.  You are lucky enough to miss some of the worn, battered, and bent spikes that still managed to exist, and land instead on a pile of dust and leaves.  After a few shaky breaths and a cough or two, you see an oddly clear path that goes all the way to the end of the room.  You head over to the tunnel for this area, beginning to climb.  This one is a bit more smoothed than the first one and you nearly slip, but you manage to make it and slide out, and try again to cross, attempting to walk where the path was below.  Somehow, the sticks are strong enough to support you here, and while the stone tiles tip up a bit as you walk, you don't fall.  You carefully follow the path, however, your memory is not exactly perfect, and you fall and have to start again, earning yourself a small bruise.  

On your next try, your foot goes over the edge, but you manage to pull it back in time and correct yourself.  You relax as you exit, forgetting about the rocks that litter this place and tripping, your arm hitting something sharp, and making you wince.  Your blood drips on the ground.  It was an arrowhead.  You sit up, grimacing at the sting and quietly cursing lightly under your breath.  The room has some bigger boulders in it, as well as several more arrowheads, and some long dried blood.  The rocks were scratched in some places, and at the far end a brisk stream ran through, with nearly destroyed spikes half submerged in the centre.  You wonder why Toriel would ever watch over such a place.  You pick your way through carefully, not wanting to disturb anything.  You leave the room with a feeling of dread starting to form in your mind.  A mouse distracts you, and the "no matter what" part of your promise surfaces from your memories.  You touch the star, trying to ignore the nagging in your mind and letting determination wash over you.  Some hope returns to you.  If the mouse can make it here, so can you.  The ghost that disappears the instant you see each other, on the other hand, certainly doesn't help with your apprehension, or the haunted atmosphere.  You sigh, taking a few steps forward and kicking at a small pebble.  It skips through a doorway and is stopped by a spearhead embedded in the ground, causing you to look up and then out into the space beyond.  

The walls of that room and the next few beside it have been mostly destroyed and reduced to rubble.  Rocks cover the ground so thickly you can hardly see it.  The moon shines brightly, bathing the place in silver light and revealing everything.  Spears and swords and other weapons from your village are scattered across the landscape, all of them broken beyond repair.  There are a few spatters of blood, old and dried, and the larger rocks are scorched on occasion.  You have no idea how long any of it has been here.  A thin crust of dust coats most of what you can see, even with some patches being slowly eroded and carried off in little wisps by the wind, which sounds a fair amount like echoing screams and moans as it crescendos and diminuendos.  A chill runs through you, causing you to shudder.  It is hard to fathom why anyone would come or stay anywhere near this place.  You walk through the doorway on your left, pausing to take a sip of water, and are debating on whether you want to eat one of the spider doughnuts or something else when a muffled ringing interrupts you, originating from inside your pack.  Despite how quiet it is, it still sounds a bit too loud in this place.  The entire city is submerged in an eerie sort of silence, honestly, if you discount the wind crying in the background.  The phone rings for a bit while you figure out how to answer.  When you pick up, Toriel's voice comes through, sounding worn with a vaguely strained cheerfulness, the slightest bit more prominent then when you first met her, though it could easily be your imagination. 

 "Greetings, my child, this is Toriel.  I hope you have not encountered too much difficulty since we parted.  I still have one or two things I must attend to, so if you could head to the house at the base of the mountain I would greatly appreciate it.  Do you think you can manage that?  If you have any doubts at all I will come guide you." 

You tell her you can.  

"Excellent, I will meet you there.  Be good, will you?"  The phone beeps once, leaving you with a place to be.  

Ch. 3: Let the fun Begin!

[oneworldproductions]

Hangman Page vs Joey Janela- Pits of Pain Deathmatch

Before the bell rang, Hangman and Janela were both digging around underneath the ring, each man producing a kendo stick to start this match off! The bell rang, and Hangman and Joey charged right at each other, engaging in a sword fight with the kendo sticks! After awhile, they stopped trying to block each other’s attacks, and started whacking each other with the kendo sticks. The crowd cheered, as welts were already starting to appear on the body of both men from the cane shots! Hangman dropped his kendo stick, and turned his back to Joey, daring him to bring it. Joey then whacked Hangman has hard as he could with the stick, on Hangman’s bare back. Hangman gave a scream of pain, but grinned. Joey then tossed his kendo stick at Hangman, before removing his own shirt, daring Hangman to do it back to him. Hangman obliged, whacking Joey across the bare back as hard as he could, the crack of the kendo stick being heard all throughout the arena. Joey gave the same reaction as Hangman. Both men then looked at each other, and then looked outside of the ring. Both men rolled out of the ring, grabbed their garbage cans, tossing them and all of their contents into the ring. The men didn’t stop there. They began to dig under the ring for various items. Hangman grabbed out a few chairs and tossed them into the ring, Joey grabbed out a baseball bat and tossed it in. Joey tossed a few light tuned into the ring as well. Hangman found two barbed wire boards, leaving one on the outside of the ring, tossing one into the ring. The two men got back into the ring, and went at each other once again. Each men then went to the “Pit of Pain”, the pits this match was named for, and removed the plywood covering. In each pit, was a mix of Razor Wire, Broken Glass, and thumbtacks, all covered in a mixture of lemon juice and rubbing alcohol. Whoever landed in that was not in for a good time…

  They locked up, in a collar and elbow tie up. Hangman backed Joey into the corner, before hammering away with several right hands to Joey’s forehead, stunning him. Hangman then picked up his first choice of weapon, a stop sign. Hangman picked it up, and smacked it over the head of Joey Janela, causing Janela to slump over against the ropes in the corner, dropping down to a knee. Hangman did away with the sign and began to drive knees into the side of Janela’s head. Janela was starting to bleed from his forehead just a bit. Hangman went back to his selection of weapons, selecting a kendo stick again. Hangman went to whack Janela, but Janela caught Hangman with a low blow! Hangman backed out of the corner, holding his crotch. Janela took the kendo stick from Hangman, and placed it between Hangman’s legs, before lifting up, and then slamming down, dropping Hangman’s privates right onto the kendo stick! Hangman hopped around in pain for a few moments, before Janela dropped him with a short arm clothesline. Janela picked a chair from the pile of weapons that had assembled, and drove the point of the chair into Hangman’s sternum, over and over and over again, before resting Hangman’s head onto the chair. Janela grabbed another chair, and lined up his shot, before slamming the chair down on Hangman’s head, hitting him with a conchairto! Hangman was now bleeding from his forehead as well! Janela covered.

  1…2… Kickout! Hangman managed to kick out of that one. Janela went back to the pile of weapons, but Hangman got up before he could choose, and hit Janela’s knee with a chop block! Janela grasped at the back of his leg, and Hangman quickly grabbed him, and twisted his legs, turning him over into Hangman’s version of the Texas cloverleaf hold! Hangman was putting immense pressure on the lower back and legs of Janela, yelling for him to tap out. Hangman sat back, essentially trapping Joey in the hold. Hangman continued to crank back, but either realized Joey wasn’t going to tap, or got bored and wanted to do something else, and released the hold on Janela. Hangman began to pick through the weapons again, but didn’t like anything he saw. Hangman rolled out and went under the ring, to search for a new toy. He found one- a hand held electric bush trimmer. The crowd gasped at the sight of such a weapon, and Hangman got into the ring, powering up the tool. He pulled Janela into a sitting position, and brought the blade right to Janela’s forehead! Janela was cut right open! Janela jumped up from the pain and flailed around the ring like a fish, blood running down his face and dripping onto the mat. Hangman tossed the weapon out of the ring, and grabbed one of the barbed wire boards. He leaned it up against the corner of the ring, and guided Janela towards it. Hangman left Janela there, right infront of the board, before taking a few steps back, and charging right at Janela, looking to spear him through the board! But Janela moved! Hangman missed, and went through the board, getting tangled up in the barbed wire! Hangman was trapped in the barbed wire! Hangman trashed around, trying to escape, getting torn up even worse in the process. Blood came from his forehead, body and arms from the barbs that had ripped open his flesh! Joey got up and grabbed Hangman as he escaped the barbed wire, and tried to go for a piledriver, but Hangman blocked, and was able to kick Janela off of him, trying to create a bit of separation. Joey responded by grabbing the steel garbage can, and crashing it over the head of Hangman! There was a dent in the can, the size and shape of Hangman’s head, and Hangman dropped to the ground, clearly seeing stars, as more blood ran down from his forehead. Janela dragged Hangman into the corner, and placed the garbage can in front of his face. Joey then ran all the way across the ring, rebounding off the opposite corner, and hit a dropkick on the can, smashing it into Hangman’s face. Joey kicked the can out of the ring, and went for a cover on Hangman.

  1…2… Kickout!

Hangman managed to kick out again, and Janela went right back on the attack, hammering away with right hands, opening up Hangman even further than previously. Joey got up and searched for another weapon. He picked a chair, setting it up as if one were to sit in it. He then went back to grab Hangman, but Hangman surprised him with a glass light tube, smashing it over Joey’s head, in an explosion of shards of glass! Joey fell to the mat, dazed, and Hangman grabbed several more light tubes, setting them on the ground and stomping on them to smash them into a small pile of broken glass. He then grabbed Joey, and planted him with a facebuster right onto the pile of glass! Instead of going for the cover, Hangman locked Janela in the Texas cloverleaf!! Hangman really wrenched back on the hold, yelling for Janela to tap! When Janela refused, Hangman took Janela’s face, before slamming it down onto the glass pile, grinding his face into it! The crowd gasped at this, Joey’s face becoming covered in broken glass! Hangman pushed Janela’s face down as he got up. Hangman walked across the ring and grabbed the baseball bat, heading back over to Janela. Janela surprised him, however, and caught Hangman with another low blow! Hangman doubled over in pain, and Janela went behind him, hooking his arms. Joey lifted him up, and planted him with a double chicken wing facebuster, smashing Hangman’s head down onto the steel chair, collapsing the outstretched seat! Janela went for the cover!

  1…2… Kickout!

  The crowd was astonished that either of these two men were still going! Joey got up and started rummaging through the pile of weapons, until he found what he wanted. A bag. A bag of tacks to be exact. Joey opened the bag and poured the tacks out onto the mat, laughing as he did. He spread out the pile, before grabbing Hangman.

  “This is for the glass, you son of a bitch!” He went to lift up Hangman into a slam, but Hangman was able to block. Hangman pushed Janela away, and clotheslined him into the corner. Hangman hit with several more stiff clotheslines to stun Janela, before lifting him onto the top rope and starting to climb himself. Hangman repositioned Joey’s legs, and stood up, trying for a superplex, but Janela blocked it, holding onto the ropes. Janela began to fire away on Hangman with several hard headbuts, stunning the Bullet Club member. Janela then pushed him back, and Hangman fell off the top rope, falling back right onto the pile of tacks! Hundreds of tacks went right into Hangman’s back, legs, arms, everything. Hangman was shaking from the immense pain! Joey Janela stood up from his position, and dove down onto Hangman with an elbow drop, getting some of the tacks into himself as well! Janela got up and yelled for Hangman to do the same. When Hangman did, Janela kicked him in the gut, and hooked his arms for some sort of butterfly variation, but Hangman rolled away, got behind Janela, and caught him with a stiff shot to the back! The impact didn’t drop Janela, but instead sling shotted him right into the ropes! Hangman was ready for this, caught Janela on the rebound, lifted him up, and planted him with the Right of Passage!! Hangman covered!

  1…2… Kickout!

  Janela kicked out of Hangman’s finisher! The crowd, the ref, and Hangman, all couldn’t believe it! Joey Janela was determined to win this match! Hangman lifted Janela back up and grabbed a steel chair, cracking Janela in the head. Janela staggered back into the ropes, but rebounded before going through the ropes, before dropping Hangman with a rebound lariat! Hangman was knocked back to the ground in a daze. Janela rolled out of the ring and sat on the apron for a moment, gathering his breath. Joey then got down to the floor, starting to destroy the announce table. He got back into the ring and grabbed Hangman, tossing him over the top rope. Joey grabbed Hangman and led him to the announce table, before tossing Hangman onto it, and climbing up it himself. He lifted Hangman up, and hooked his arms, dropping Hangman with a piledriver on the table! But the table didn’t break! Hangman was laying there in a heap, Janela was mad the table didn’t break. He rolled off the table and dug under the ring, before stepping back, pulling out a ladder! Janela had a ladder!

Janela set the ladder up, right above the Pit of Pain, and grinned as he looked into the pit. Joey then went under the ring, however, and pulled out two more items. The first, was a bottle of lighter fluid, and the second was a box of matches. Joey smirked to himself and poured the entire bottle of lighter fluid into the Pit of Pain, before lighting a match, and then the entire box of matches, and throwing them into the pit, lighting it ablaze!

Janela grabbed Hangman into a Fireman’s Carry, and began to scale the ladder with Hangman on his shoulders. Janela looked down, looking to dump Hangman into the pit, but suddenly, Hangman came to life, and wiggled off Janela’s shoulders, catching himself on the ladder. Hangman grabbed Janela, and set him up for the Right of Passage, before jumping off the ladder, both men crashing down into the firey Pit of Pain below!

There was an actual scream from the crowd as they fell, and after they landed, the crowd quickly broke into chants of “Holy shit! Holy Shit! Holy Shit!” Fireman rushed to the pit with fire extinguishers to put out the fire, and both men were covered in razor wire, broken glass, thumb tacks, burns, and the irritants dumped in there to ensure it hurt as much as possible. Both men were pulled from the pit, and just barely moving.

Suddenly, from the crowd came a blonde haired beauty- Penelope Ford, Joey Janela’s girlfriend, who hopped the barricade and grabbed the comatose Page, tossing him into the ring, before grabbing her boyfriend, and dragging him on top of Page! Janela was gonna steal this one with the help of Ford!

1…2…3!

“Here is your winner, Joey Janela!”