#000 / ( file : out of character . )

[jscariot]

.

[justhereforsomethingnice]

Is there a fic where Danny is an absolute sweetheart for like 50 000 words or something, and after that, something happens that makes him go feral eldritch cosmic horror on some poor sap.

And with sweetheart I mean of course harmless chaos goblin pulling pranks on which ever dc character the stories with. Painting halls light switches yellow so he can’t use his ring for that. Putting kryptonite on the bathroom door so Superman can only glare at him and wait for Lois to take away the glowy rock. Renaming all Questions files with silly related fandom references so he has to learn fandom memes if he ever wants to get to his files again. Have a silent agreement with the house of mysteries to annoy John Constantine as much as possible and switch rooms for him and him only so it takes an hour to find the kitchen. Icing a small part of the kitchen floor so the flash slips over it when trying to get a quick snack in. Painting the underside of Batman’s cape a deep glittery purple so he will only find out when he’s jumping dramatically at thugs.

Just 50 000 words of this and then something bad happens and this small kid (bonus points if he’s even younger and thus less threatening looking) goes mental. Suddenly you have this incomprehensible monster before you that slashes up reality with every swipe of its claws, the thousands of eyes that suddenly replaced the heavens glaring down at you together with the eyes on this creature. Screaming with a sound penetrating something deeper than your very soul. Slashing the threat to shreds, before…

He returns to this kid you’ve known for months. The innocent kid that fanboyed over Martian manhunter, geeked with the atom, trained playfully with Wonder Woman. Just the wait and then the bomb. The realization your in the presence of a god or a god like being.

[irradiatedsnakes]

hey! here's the rip of all of dialtown's text!

hiiiii it's finally here! i cleaned it up! every line of dialogue in the game ripped out (over 300k words, it's a chunky game!) and laid out in plain text for your easy reference. includes both the basegame and roger dlc!

HOW THIS WORKS:

there's a couple versions of the 000 ALL THE TEXT IN THE GAME CLEAN file. this is the entire game in one file, for easy crtl+f'ing. it's also the cleanest version, without any code/font specification/color specification present. this file is included in both .txt and .docx versions. i don't recommend opening this file with google docs, the length makes it sad. it works just fine for me opening in MS word and notepad for searching up dialogue. this is what it looks like!

there is also the 000 RAW ALL THE TEXT IN THE GAME file. this is the un-cleaned-up version, as the text ripper spit it back out at me. it has no paragraph breaks. it looks like this.

lastly is all the rest of the files in the drive, ALL THE INDIVIDUAL MAP FILES. in these, dialogue is split up by each individual map (generally, every scene is its own map). these are ordered and named according to the ingame data. these also include code bits- font changes, text colors, pauses in speaking, text size, and so on. it looks like this!

enjoy! i hope you find it useful. (and tysm to dogman for permission to post this!)

HOW TO READ THESE:

so, there's a couple quirks with these. firstly, nested choices don't really display in a very comprehensible format: they're more just in order. so, for example, this exchange:

what i've highlighted here first are gingi's 3 dialogue options. you can see each option denoted by a -. so like:

Gingi: -"Option 1." -"Option 2." -"Option 3."

the corresponding start of peter's dialogue is highlighted in the same color. in cases like this, you mostly have to use context to figure out what's responding to what.

you'll also see repeated lines when someone uses a gendered term to refer to gingi- all versions of the line (for whether you're playing as a man/woman/neither) will be in a row, like so.

one kink i wasn't able to iron out is the narrator's dialogue in the all-the-text-in-the-game file. while the paragraph breaks in the individual map files make it clear (because the narrator's the only one with no name and font tags), the all-the-text file just has narrator's dialogue immediately follow whoever spoke previously, almost always gingi. use context clues, or check up on the individual map file

all-the-text:

individual map:

use context clues, or check up on the individual map file to be absolutely sure. if you want to know which map file you're at, scroll up til you get to something that looks like this:

so, you can see that this convo with madame mediocre happens in map 31, "randmug". this one!

you may also notice the blank space or \n[#] where gingi's pronouns would go. that's just a byproduct of the pronoun system. imagine whichever gingi-noun you wish

laaastly, a little guide to the individual map files' code bits, or at least the most common ones:

\fn changes font. usually present at the start of someone's dialogue

\. indicates a 1/4 second pause in dialogue

\c[#] changes the font color

\{ and \} text within these brackets is bigger

\m[Name] a shorthand macro used for a few characters to call their font and color.

\fi makes text italic. most of the text in the game is in italics, so a lot of dialogue starts with this.

i think that's all the notes i've got..let me know if i've missed anything egregious. have fun!

[shanamahtopoeia]

Porting from Dragon Age: Inquisition to Dragon Age: Origins and Dragon Age 2

Part 1 - Out of DAI

Tools needed: Frosty Editor Blender 2.79a for DA2, or any 2.7+ version of Blender for DAO

Install Frosty Editor, open it up, and show it where to find your installation of DAI.

Once DAI is open, use the search field to narrow it down to just the asset type you want.

To find all meshes and textures, for instance, input 'type:skinnedmeshasset OR type:rigidmeshasset OR type:textureasset' To narrow by name, use 'contains:something'. The search also recognizes AND and NOT. 'skinnedmeshasset' = models that bend/move, like armors, clothing, and bows 'rigidmeshasset' = static models, like most weapons and props 'textureasset' = textures, as you can probably guess. ;) Textures will export as PNG by default (although this can be changed), and most have alpha channels. Many also have gamma correction. You can turn off alpha and gamma for viewing, which also prevents those channels from exporting.

If you're familiar with how assets are arranged in the DAO Toolset, finding what you want may be a bit annoying.

Things exclusive to one character can be found under DA3/Actors. This is also where you'll find Charactor Creation assets like hairs, beards, and bodies. Companions' outfits will be split into legs/arms/torso/cloth, and must be exported separately. 000* = legs 00*0 = arms 0*00 = torso The flowy cloth bits are usually in a separate 'cloth' folder for some reason. Most other armors & clothing can be found in DA3/Factions, and weapons in DA3/Equipment. Some models may be found in the DLC folders instead. DLC Blue = Trespasser DLC Red = Descent DLC 1 = Jaws of Hakkon Generally, textures will be in a textures folder right next to the corresponding mesh folder, but if they aren't, you can find them by opening up your mesh in the main viewport, clicking the 'Variations' tab in the upper right, then expanding MaterialCollection/Materials. You'll then see numbered drop-down fields. For multi-part models, 0 is usually the body/skin, 1 the main mesh, 2 is accessories. Expand what you want, then TextureParameters. There'll be 3-4 fields here, for diffuse, normal, specular, and tint (sometimes there's no tint). Either use the data explorer window to follow that filepath, or simply click the 3 dots and pick 'open asset'.

Open up what you want to export, then click on 'Export' near the top left. (right-clicking on the file in explorer window doesn't usually export the right format)

Models: I'm going to assume you're using Blender, because that's what I know. ;p (if you're planning on using 3ds max or gmax, I'd like to direct you to sapphim's tutorial) If you're porting to DA2, you'll need to select the correct skeleton under Animation/Humanoid. If exporting a HF mesh, make sure to pick the HF skeleton, NOT HFD. That's for the large-skirted fancy dresses only, and I suspect it wouldn't work in DA2. If you're porting to DAO, the skeleton doesn't matter since we're going to delete it anyway. Either check the 'Blender export' option OR 'export single LOD'. The latter will only export the LOD0, and the former will make sure the submeshes are named to easily distinguish the different LOD levels (if you want to use LOD1 or lower, since LOD0 can be pretty big). I don't think the FBX version matters too much as long as it's binary (which I'm pretty sure they all are now). Mine is set to FBX 2012. The scale should default to meters, which is what we want. Textures: Simply pick your preferred format, depending on your graphics editor (I'll be using Paint.net in later parts of this tutorial). I usually export as PNG, and have the alpha channel ON and the gamma correction OFF (since DAO and DA2 are both darker than Inquisition anyway). If you plan on retexturing, you might want to leave the gamma on to make small details easier to see.

Blender 2.49b is needed for both the DA2 and DAO export scripts, so the next step is getting the DAI mesh ready for that version of Blender.

To open FBX files, you need a newer version of Blender. For DA2, you need Blender 2.79a, which can both import FBX files and save .blend files as 'legacy' to be usable in Blender 2.49b. For DAO (or for any static mesh), you can simply import the FBX with any 2.7+ version of Blender, and then export as an OBJ, since 2.49b can import OBJs. However, if your mesh has multiple parts with different textures, you'll need to delete all but one, export that, undo the deletion, delete all but a different part, export, etc, for each submesh. This is because, annoyingly, Blender's obj exporter combines all the meshes together, even if they're not selected, or have been hidden. -_-

Part 2 will cover converting models from DAI-style to DA2 and DAO in Blender, and exporting them in DA2/DAO format.

[chickengamesofficial]

[DevLog - #000]

First ever devlog is a little recap of what I have done so far!

The intro section of the game is fully coded and only requires puttin in images and backgrounds. The script file is now 365 lines of code! And it's without images code!

First backgrounds and sprites for the intro section are being worked on! And the main gui of the game is mostly done for a beta version of the game (meaning that it may be changed later!)

I have all the 10 romance interests planned out! All the code for the affection levels is done, and scripts of the first chapter of the first route is in writing process! There's 5 planned out routes for you to choose from! All with unique locations, unique characters and unique lore.

That's all for now! I will have more devlogs as I work on the game, so stay tuned!

[nhaneh]

Having a weird Illustrator issue at work where one particular step of the map conversion process sometimes fails - not always, only like once every 10th or 20th run or so?

I know where in the process it happens - thanks to some solid error logging I even know precisely which line of code is causing it, so I know what is going on when the error occurs: basically it's trying to open a file so it can copy over some graphics from it, as due to the nature of that file they can't just be imported as PlacedArt. For whatever reason, every now and then Illustrator will fail to open the file, instead returning error code 271.

What actually causes the error however is proving a rather tough nut to crack.

For one, error 271 is undocumented - or at least I've found no official source for what it actually means; it doesn't even resemble any of the error codes listed in the SDK which are all four-character strings converted into unsigned 32-bit integers - for example the error No Such Entry is defined as 'EnNS', giving an error code of 1164856915. By comparison, 271 does not translate to anything intelligible in this way, suggesting the error might be a much lower level one.

Secondly, it's not the function call itself that's the problem - I put together a quick python script that basically just consisted of an infinite loop that calls the plugin to run the operation, then executes an Undo, and then just repeats those two commands until cancelled, and after having had that run overnight, I ran through over 20 000 loops worth without a single instance of error 271, so whatever the cause is, it's a lot more complex than just the specific line where the error sometimes triggers.

The fact that it only happens occasionally despite running the exact same code with the exact same parameters makes it all the harder to diagnose because there's no easy way to tell what's different between instances where it fails and instances where it doesn't.

My best idea at the moment is basically just log the absolute shit out of the place I know it happens and then just look into what happens immediately before that step and see if there's anything there that can explain things somehow.

This would all be a lot easier if Adobe actually had some kind of reference for what error code 271 actually means, but I mean... that'd require them not being kinda shit.

[kiri-instinct]

I am happily and proudly a Warhammer 40:000 "tourist," by the way.

I refuse to buy models, waste money on paints and brushes, and then give Games Workshop ad revenue by watching their painting tutorials. Furthermore, I will not buy any of the Black Library books, codexes or any other supplementary material -- instead, I will pirate all these things, whether through someone else scanning them for me or a legend online allowing me to nab a .pdf file. Oh? It's an audiobook? I'll find an .mp3 file online, or just make an account on Audible to download it. My tabletop is fuckin' TTS, and nothing else.

I'll play any Warhammer 40:000 game that looks good to me, and only do background checks on the staff for said games if I feel like the game is maybe a bit too praise-y towards The Imperium of Man. The author of a story being a woman or queer matters little to me, and the same goes for if a character in the story is queer, a woman, or a person of color. I am happy that diversity is shown in a galaxy where human infighting based on shit like natural skin colors or queerness would probably cease when face-to-face with greater threats like xenos or mutants.

Furthermore, I'll prioritize trusting Lexicanum above all else unless I read otherwise in an official book (which I will pirate). I literally do not give a shit if you are a "lore expert," I'll need to see it with my own god damn eyes to believe it. So, no, your precious übermensch Black Templars aren't incorruptible, you just assumed so cause 1d4chan said so years ago, and your toy soldiers being "based" gave you an ego boost. And I am more than happy to puff out my chest and admit to it. Why? Because people who base their entire personality off of a parody of Fascism in the vain idea that those must be the good guys simply because of in-universe propaganda are all losers, and not supporting a giant business who'll survive just fine without my money makes them incredibly mad, for some reason. I like seeing some far-right chud whose only purpose in life is to yell slurs at 14 year old Eldar players positively seethe and get triggered at the idea of not supporting big businesses. One of my favorite thrills, actually!

[the-firebird69]

Your idea was met with great praise and from us and hers and it's the parade and it will boost the cosplay and they're going ahead and doing it. All over the place they've got huge floats built and some of them are just about the genre and it's like the control room they've got a whole bunch of ships that are floats and a whole bunch of shifts that look like shifts that are floats and then there are real ones ultimately the real ones will take over and it won't be a pleasant thing except for smaller towns and they'll probably just to file by the floats and they'll get involved and it's kind of how it goes it's going to take a little bit but not long. The idea went out there several ideas on how to reach these ships and they're going to build Armada that go with them to motivate people and to do it it is going to be intense you can see it in the cinematrix previews and the video game and how they're doing it and they know how to do it old enough this kind of work has saved lives and there's a lot of people getting medals it's working now. And we have our stuff and it's magnificent there is almost nothing I've ever seen quite like it and there's so many people happy with it that they're trying to get your stuff and you can feel it yesterday already and beforehand although yesterday I thought it went up last night and no that was the other one so you're right yesterday it was happening and he's pleased and she is too she's really happy she could not be happier she found out about that and was ecstatic and she could not believe it and things went flying around after you start talking about it too and this is going to be something on this genre is intense it's full of characters from the past and staring like the Spanish colonies and that's what they call themselves it's going to be more intense than you think it really is and with the shocker is the same that you invented it kind of and Tommy f is the one that took it and they were left in the lurch and you thought that they were doing it and they're going to try and be kinder and it is going to start showing but he is a hard ass and they're going to notice it when they're trying and they're also going to try and go over instead of running around just telling me people what they're doing they're trying to go covert and it makes it more pleasant for people stuck and work for us more attractive to get agents in there and it is working now. We have a lot of jobs there's a lot of products coming in there's a lot of buildings going up already we're still taking over areas and we're still taking over construction projects and we're still taking houses in apartments and businesses and the max are too lots of them. But this is going to be a hell of a day they're getting a new attitude they say. And they think they get the one in the midwest which is very huge and they're trying for the one in Canada that's where they're from if they miss that one they're going to be very motivated so we shall see how this goes

Thor Freya

We also figured out a thing or two about the timing of your trip to utah. It has to do with Canada and the ship and the ship in the Midwest and we think Canada goes up tonight and they miss it and they get pissed off and they start working feverishly on the Midwest not knowing when and they're trying to figure out the status eventually they get the staff and the date roughly and then start working because they have something some time frame and it looks like they managed to get one and now it's huge and it's from their area it's like $5, 000 miles wide and now it's more than 2,000 but it's really $35,000 miles long and it's about 1,500 or 2,000 the other way it's very big it's biggest Canada and do not disappointed and they have seen it on scans they're going to try for these things if they miss Canada if they're going to be actually motivated and it's going to be hell but they are going to give it a try and we do see that it succeeds we think they're prepping in the video for you to arrive and Tommy f is going to say things and they're not nice and he's got all this dumb things he's going to do and there's a bunch of other people who are studying to be decent and practicing and Jason's one of them it's going to be a roll because there's people out there who will be doing things for you to your mom and she got sick and she passed away though they're going to say and your other mom is going to try and obstruct it and she will be brought kind of low and they're going to get pissed off and she's going to be pissed off even at you and start hitting instead of bothering you and the clams will start getting attacked again and they'll look for the ones that are entombed because we'll see her stuff and it's very regrettable. But it is going to be a bit of a break and yeah Mom's attacks are fierce and annoying and by the time you go out there it looks like he is outlawed and the rest too. And they also see that the clones are kind of surrounding d and off and on but they are and it starts it off the trip out there starts it off in the trip back and the trip out and so far we think they went out there once and back and do it a few more times they shouldn't do it like five times. Totally different vehicles it's going to be quite interesting and it's going to be a lot sooner than people think. They've been working on a whole bunch of chips and they're still working on the Midwest and it is harder than hell it's way too hot and they're trying to find another place to work but they don't think people will let them into the roots so they're going to be in caverns and they're in a cabin in the Midwest that's where they're going to be building the parts and it's going to be tough and it's coming up we think probably in 4 or 5 days and start hearing about it so good luck and keep your head down and I know what you're saying it's going to be a nervous flight or drive and yeah you're going to be fine and it's going to be very nerve-wracking everybody is going to have to clear themselves out so we're moving out and getting ready for it now

Thor Freya

I'm very excited for you this is going to be intense and I'm excited for hours I'm waiting for this for a long time there's a lot of people who are already going to be going to voyage and the rest shortly we are going to have a decent time there this is going to be intense and I thank you so much for your help and forth and Fred what a dream and to have heroes is a good thing

Hera

I'm putting my nose to the grindstone lately and it works and I didn't do it for 15 or even 20 years and it was doing some things and some of it was large I must admit but there was not as much I'm done and a lot of large stuff happened recently so I just want to bring that up and you're welcome

Zues

It's a good thing to bring out because they're talking about submerging you putting you to sleep and satiating

Hera

We're going to go round and round now talking about getting the money and it's talking about satiating him and how it's work is better so

Mac

We're honest we understand it and we're moving in to make it work our way this time

Olympus

[liarecursive-blog]

okay so here’s a starter call.

if you don’t wanna pick a muse, that’s totally fine, i’ll pick one that i think is compatible.  if you want someone in particular, let know.  i will not be writing king because i resent him rn and his drafts are on hold.

here’s my muses.

[one-boring-person]

Could I request a first kiss scenerio with Austin/t-000

I hope you like this!😊💛

I Now Understand Why.

Austin/T-1000 x reader

Warnings: mention of sex, sexual themes implied

Masterlist

Nights like this don't come often in this particular household. Nights where the house itself is quiet and calm, very little activity taking place, the only inhabitants for the night simply enjoying this peace together for once.  It's relaxing, being able to sit in the living room without Sarah or John coming in to tell me they need help with something, or without Bob and Austin having one of their near-hostile conversations about subjects the humans of the house will never hope to understand, the idle nature of this time prompting a lazy smile to play across my features as I sit back on the sofa and gaze at the television.

A James Bond movie plays on the screen, the action flick being the only thing vaguely watchable for the night, in my opinion, anyway - Austin had no real input, by his own choice. The terminator had simply told me he wanted to partake in what his files tell him is a normal "human activity", and so had let me choose what we watch. His eyes remain locked on the screen, body rigid, posture not quite natural, his figure looking for all intents and purposes as if he's in shock, his perpetual scowl not helping his case. 

John, Sarah and Bob had all rushed out a few hours ago, leaving Austin and I together for a few days, none of them feeling the need to tell is why they had to leave, though it means little to me; I'd much rather stay at home and relax than chase some lead on a possible branch of Cyberdyne. Naturally, Sarah and John still don't trust the T-1000, and so left him in my care, much to my chagrin, knowing that my relationship with the terminator has become closer than I would like. Even now, as he remains seated across from me, I can't help my eyes wandering over him every now and then, finding the lithe build of his body, as well as the sharp cast of his features attractive after so long of being stuck with him. He and I have grown close, finding solace in each other's preference for quiet study and relaxation, the terminator speaking more openly to me than the others.

"Is something wrong?" The smooth voice suddenly interrupts my train of thought, snapping me back to reality with a jolt.

Blinking, I blush and look away, not sure when he noticed my gaze but embarrassed as hell that did, despite the inevitability of it. Thankfully, another thing I'd noticed about his programming is his slight naivety concerning romance and human emotion in that sense, meaning I'm able to explain myself much more easily.

"Huh? Oh, no, nothing's wrong. Why?" I stammer, scratching lightly at my arm, a nervous habit I picked up somewhere along the way.

"You have made visual contact with me exactly four times in the elapsed five minutes since I first noticed. Generally, this indicates that there is a problem." He informs me, blue eyes fixed on me as I internally cringe, flushing deeper.

"Have I? I hadn't noticed." I laugh off, a little shakily, "Nothing is wrong."

Austin doesn't reply, regarding me for a further minute or so, before he looks back at the television, right in time for the usual sex scene to come on. My cheeks go hot as I watch with him, my thoughts swiftly turning inappropriate, much to my dismay, somehow unable to stop myself from thinking things I shouldn't. Unconsciously, I clench my jaw, adjusting myself in my seat.

"What is the reason for that action?" Austin suddenly speaks up again, pointing at Bond and whichever girl he's with this time as they kiss, the camera panning in for a close-up.

"What, kissing?" I frown, glancing over at him - I know his files are limited concerning romantic actions, but surely he knows what kissing is?!

"The name of this activity is unknown to me. I am referring to their lips joining. Like that." He points again, eyes fixed on the two characters making out.

"Er, yeah, that's called kissing." I chuckle, watching him closely, "People do it when they love each other, or if they want to show their affection for someone. Most people do it in a romantic relationship, though it can also be used to show a romantic interest if they are not already together."

The terminator nods, taking in all the information I give him, a ripple going over him as he processes the data in whatever database he has, his eyes flicking over to meet with mine. After a moment, he cocks his head, apparently following a thread of data.

Suddenly, he stands and sits closer to me on the sofa, body twisted awkwardly to face me, despite the fact he could easily morph himself to fit more comfortably. Confused, I lift an eyebrow and watch him, unsure of where this is going.

"I require a demonstration to properly retain the information." He states, though he doesn't sound sure of himself, as if that isn't the only reason he's requesting this.

I'm too shocked to process it properly, my eyes widening, my mouth falling open as my pulse jumps, a sharp spark of excitement flaring up in me.

"A...demonstration?" Is all I can manage, my hand moving back to scratch my arm again.

"Affirmative. I request your consent for this." 

Austin continues to stare at me, observing my reaction as I struggle to formulate an appropriate response. My body is screaming at me to agree, but my mind is telling me I shouldn't, because I'll just get too attached. It takes me a moment, but eventually I just give in, unable to resist the slight terminator.

"You have it." I reply, somewhat unsure of what's going to happen until he nods and lifts a hand to cup my face.

His skin is somewhat cool against mine, his fingers splaying over my cheek as he uses his tactile sensors to collect what I can only assume is positive input from the touch as he leans in, eyes remaining fixed on mine. Mimicking my breathing pattern (unnecessarily), he leans in further, lips inches from mine, brushing against me with each gentle movement, until he carefully closes the gap.

I have to fight the urge to groan in satisfaction, relaxing as he kisses me, our lips moving tentatively at first, trying to find a suitable rhythm as my hands move to clutch at the slightly unnatural-feeling cloth of his shirt, pulling him close. In response, the terminator moves both hands to my hips, pulling me into him as my eyes fall closed, my body relaxing into his curious touch. Moving in sync now, we continue to kiss, his tongue lightly flicking over my lip as he pushes a hand up the back of my shirt, pressing for more sensory input. 

I can only give in to him, moaning as his tongue slips into my mouth, exploring everywhere it can reach, his grip on me tightening slightly, pulling me tighter against his hard body. For a moment longer, we remain there, Austin caressing every inch of my mouth with his tongue whilst his hands roam any available skin until I feel my air finally run out, at which point I go to pull away. 

He pulls back, looking at me curiously, until he seemingly remembers that I have to breathe. Waiting for me, he soothingly runs his hands up my back, regarding me closely as I lean into his touch, enjoying this far too much for my own good. 

"I understand why humans kiss now." He states, a smile pushing at the corner of his lips.

"Y-Yeah?" I pant, a little breathless.

"Affirmative." He confirms, before he leans back in, holding me tightly against him.

[dreamywriterinthedark]

Losing you: pt 1

Pairing: Spencer x fem!reader

Resume: the team wants you to lure the unsub to get him into their trap. Spencer gets upset because he doesn’t want to lose you.

Category: angst.

Trigger warnings: mention of death.

A/N: okay so I know this is short but it’s to introduce a series I’ve been working on. I hope you like it. 

Update: I switched characters; Linda Barnes instead of Hotch because it wasn’t accurate and I hate Linda lol.

It was Monday, you were still stuck on the same case. It made you regret ever complaining about paperwork because at least there was an end to it. You’ve all been exhausting yourselves to find any lead to stop the unsub but nothing came out of it. To say it was frustrating was being optimistic. Sometimes you wanted to rip your hair out of your scalp, you wanted to set on fire your file, throw the remote at the tv, slap a god or two for being dumb enough to let killers be a thing. You were highly displeased by seeing such atrocious things taking place but isn’t that what your job is about ? You were on the jet discussing the case, nothing out of the ordinary until the victimology came up. The victims had a profile incredibly similar to yours. Anyone who saw you next to one of those victims would’ve thought you were related if not siblings especially with the socioeconomic factors. Everyone turned to look at you, “I’m fine, guys,” you said to make them look elsewhere hoping this is what they were searching for in your face. “It’s not about that…” JJ said.

“Then what is it about ?” you asked. You were still somehow new to the team so you could not exactly communicate with glares just like they all did.

“Oh no don’t tell me you’re actually considering that.” warned Spencer.

“This is our only way, we hardly know anything about him and we can’t just arrest anyone without proof or without the killer’s profile.” JJ reasoned.

“JJ’s right, Reid. This might be our best shot.” added Linda.

“There’s no way! She’s too inexperienced and it’s far too dangerous!” Retorted Reid. Your head started to hurt at all the eyes bounce you had to make. Each time you tried to speak you were getting interrupted.

“Hey!” You shouted. They all turned their heads to you. “This is me you’re talking about! So could someone please tell me whatever this is ?”

“We think you could help us catch the unsub by luring him.” said Tara. “Of course you don’t have to do it if you don’t feel like it.”

“Is this our only way ?” you asked.

“Y/n” Spencer pleaded bring his hands up to you which you ignored.

“Right now? yes it is.” Tara answered.

“Fine. I’ll do it.” you said giving in feeling the need to prove yourself more than ever; this was the opportunity you’ve been wishing for. You felt no fear as you looked straight in the eyes of danger.

“Y/n, you’re not being serious…”

“Oh but I am. I’m ready to take this bastard down.”

Spencer nodded his head in disagreement throwing his hands up mid air in defeat leaving to the back of the jet on a single seat shuffling around in it. He opened up one of his old books, you watched him from afar. He stayed on the same page for at least three minutes which was highly unlike him since he could read up to 20 000 words per minute. You sat across from him, he ignored you. You reached for his hand, he avoided it by retreating his own on his lap.

“Spencer.” you called his name with a voice full of hurt. He looked up from his book clenching his jaw sighing still angry. His feature slightly softened by the look of your eyes that expressed vulnerability, your soul was naked. “I’m sorry, can we talk ?”

“What is there to say ? You’re putting yourself in danger”

“And what else do you want us to do ?”

“There are other ways...”

“There aren’t. He has already killed so many people, somebody has to put an end to this. We need to protect all these women and their families.”

“I know, I just don’t want you to get hurt.” he admitted.

“What’s a scratch going to do ? I have the best team of investigators by my side. What could go wrong, agent 187 ?” he laughed, his voice vibrating in unison with yours.

“Coffee?” you asked.

“I’d love one!”

You joined JJ at the coffee station. “What’s your dress size?” she asked. You proceeded to look back at her in confusion.

“It’s so I can get you something to wear for the undercover operation. The unsub likes to hunt for his preys in specific places so he can get his victims’ profile in the most accurate way possible. So you’ll have to dress up, we’re taking you to a bar and no you can’t order peach wine.”

“That’s so unfair.” you pouted pouring an avalanche of sugar in Reid’s coffee. JJ laughed as she walked away with her bag of cheetos.

[blackbird-brewster]

B:  What was the first fandom you read fic in?  Which was the first you wrote fic for?

E: What character do you identify with most?  Is there a certain fic of yours that captures these qualities particularly well?

R: Which writers (fanfic or otherwise) do you consider the biggest influence on you and your writing?

V: Are there certain comments you’ve received on your stories that have stuck with you?

Hi! Thanks for the ask!!

B: My first fandom I read fic for was X-Files when I was a tween! Live Journal was still in beta and I found fandom community for the first time. It helped me see there were more people out there like me (nerdy and queer), which was a lifeline when I was growing up a small rural town in the US south.

My first fandom I wrote for was ‘Bones’! It was during the writers’ strike in 2007, I decided that while shows were on hiatus, I’d write my own stories. The fic is an extremely smutty Brennan/Angela fic and I recently re-read it and let me tell you — it’s so clear I wrote it when I was 18.

E: My always forever character is Emily Prentiss (Criminal Minds). I think I’ve always felt a connection to her because she was forced to grow up too quickly and her trauma has guided her decisions a lot. She also is infamous for compartmentalising instead of talking about her feelings, which is just a mood.

I have a lot of fics that really delve into her character but some of my faves off the top of my head

[The Valhalla Arc] - Character Study

[Ashes and Wine]

[If You Ask Me To]

[Is There Somewhere]

R: My hugest inspiration that pushed me into writing Jemily is [MJ Duncan]. I also couldn’t do all I do without the help and support and screaming texts from my bff [Phoenix_Falls]

My biggest non-fic author insp is actually Shonda Rhymes! When I write angst I always use the tag ‘Write Like Shonda Kill Everyone You Love’ — that says a lot about me, I think.

V: My fave comments are usually just keyboard smash comments, tbrh. But the entire reason I came out a 7 year retirement was because someone left a comment on the 2007 Bones fic and it was an awakening to realise all the stuff I had written is STILL getting read. The comment led to me going back and reading my old fics which made me go ‘I miss writing….’ And now I’ve written over 150k words (19 works!) since mid-July lol

Here are some other comments that I loved:

“Heartbreaking really isnt the right word. Gut wrenching and soul destroying work well but the pure ANGST of this is incredible. 10 000 kudos 2 u.” [She Used to Be Mine]

“This was so cute and delightful that my depression was cured for five minutes” [Lucky Mistake]

“I just want to say that you did not have to hurt us like that😭That ending did not make me feel good and I'm going to go be hurt elsewhere now because this has brought about emotional instability. Brilliant, but painful.” [All You Never Say]

Thanks so much for the ask!!

[sserpente]

20 000 FOLLOWERS SPECIAL!

Guys. This is an insane milestone. It’s so hard to believe that as of right now, more than 20 000 people are reading my work. I could have never imagined in my wildest dreams that this would happen when I posted my first Imagine back in 2016. And yet here we are now! Fangirling and thirsting together, I couldn’t be happier about how this blog took off.

Writing is my biggest passion—you guys know that. I cannot possibly put into words how much your support means to me. I’ve also promised some sort of special for this huge milestone. So here we are.

20k Followers Special

I decided to do something different—so I am going to “give away” a custom story. Like a request… but more. What does that mean? The Reader will have whatever name, appearance, gender and sexuality and backstory you like and I will write whatever prompt you have always wanted to read—only for you, personalised, regardless of my regular request rules*. The story will be uploaded on my blog but the winner will also receive the story as a PDF file.

Keep reading for details! ♥

Are there rules?

Not many. I won’t allow multiple entries though. If you are the winner, I will contact you via private messages here on Tumblr. You then have 24 hours to respond or I will pick someone else.

If you win, you can submit whatever prompt you like for one of the characters on my writing list (Loki, Kylo Ren, Eric, Adam, James Conrad, Thomas Sharpe, Jonathan Pine, Newt Scamander, Harley Quinn, Captain Boomerang, Jack Sparrow, Geralt of Rivia) to me. So, for example, this is probably your chance for some sub!Loki or your personal Reader-Character having children with your favourite character.

*Needless to say, I will draw the line at extreme gore, detailed suicide and self-harm or themes like underage etc. If you are one of the winners but you are unsure about a certain theme you would like to request, just talk to me and we’ll figure something out.

How do I enter?

All you need to do to enter is to reblog this post and add if you have a favourite Imagine that I’ve written (don’t mind me, I’m just curious and that way your reblog won’t be empty and weird, haha!). The winner will be selected randomly to make it as fair as possible, so your comments will have no impact on your chance to win.

If you win: Please be aware that while I can keep your username anonymous if you prefer so, your requested story will be posted publically on my blog. You should also be comfortable with giving me an e-mail address of yours for me to send you the PDF file. Make sure to remain active on Tumblr as I might contact you to ask for more details regarding your request.

The giveaway will end on the 20th of February 2021 (you can enter until midnight on the 20th) and the winner will be announced on the 21st of February. Once I have received the request from the winner, give me approximately a month to write the story (I’m in the middle of moving, so there’s so much to be done off-Tumblr!).

Good luck to everyone who would like to enter and thank you so much for your support, your likes and your lovely comments! This blog wouldn’t be what it is without you all! ♥

[lucyintheskywithxanax]

What Fun! The Apocalypse (PART 6)

Pairing: Wilhemina Venable x Fem Reader

A/N: my already poor health has been particularly bad and I lost a few thousands brain cells so probably this part could have been better. But I kind of like it as it is. I could, too, have been less cruel to Wilhemina, but I hate stories that are like, “it took exactly 2 seconds and a half for this character to overcome their trauma welcome to rainbow land”. This part may be the last part, or I may write more, idk yet. Thank you for your kind feeback and thank your for reading, lovelies. x

PART 1 // PART 2 // PART 3 // PART 4  // PART 5

Word count: ~ 7 000

Warnings: physical violence, self-harm (kind of?), ongoing battle btw me and English prepositions

You awoke, opened your eyes, and remembered. Today was the Apocalypse.

Everyone from Kineros Robotics who had been chosen to survive gathered in the lunch room at 8am, and waited there to board their respective planes. Most of the outposts were a long flight from California, so you and Wilhemina were to leave the place last. You had packed a small suitcase with a few of your belongings, objects you could not get rid of. You ignored the disapproving glare from Wilhemina. She was flying with nothing but her cane and a stock of painkillers for her back.

Wilhemina scanned the faces in the room. Everyone here was a longtime employee at Kineros, deemed worthy and clever enough to build and rule a new world. Pathetic, all of them. Wilhemina tapped her cane threateningly on the floor as a tall woman walked past her too close for comfort; the woman turned her head at the sound, slowly ran her eyes down and up Wilhemina’s figure, and smiled condescendingly.

Eyes were Wilhemina’s least favourite part of the human face. They were dull, and only reflected the stupidity of the brain. Eyes had stared at her and sneered and derided. Eyes had crinkled with mocking laughter and narrowed with disgust or judgment. They pried and pitied and wondered as they wonder at rare, exotic zoo animals. Other people’s eyes were only acceptable (safe) when lowered in fear or respect.  

But your eyes were different. Your eyes were kind. They were loving and caring. She could get lost in them and know she was safe.

The plane to Outpost 4 departed at 10am. The one to Outpost 2 departed at 10:30. By noon, Wilhemina and you were the only one left in the room. The mysterious Ms Mead had driven to Outpost 3 the day before, to make sure everything was ready. Wilhemina had met her and decided she was trustworthy. A robot. Her mind programmed to obey her. Her heart had jumped with excitement at the thought.

The plane to Outpost 3 was to leave at exactly 2:40pm, five minutes before a ballistic missile would hit the nearest city. At 2:20 you jumped down from the table you were sitting on and ran to the nearest bathroom. An employee, who was to stay and die and did not even have the slightest idea of what was about to happen, walked past the lunch room and shot Wilhemina a curious glance. She gave him her coldest, most condescending smile in return. Another man walked past, quickly and with his shoulders bent. Wilhemina caught a glimpse of his face. Her heart did something weird in her chest.

Now, that was simply impossible, her brain told her. His plane had left hours ago. Her eyes had tricked her mind, excitement and anticipation made her see things that were not real.

You hurried back into the room, your hands fidgeting anxiously, completely unable to stand still. “Let’s go,” you said quickly, “let’s go board our plane.”

“Wait,” Wilhemina said without thinking.

You stopped in front of her.

“Wilhemina it’s 2:25 we have to –“

Here it was again, the impossible shape, hovering on one side of the door. Something in Wilhemina’s mind whispered a warning. Her eyes shifted to your face. Protect her, urged the whisper.  

“I forgot an important file on my desk,” Wilhemina lied in a very calm voice.

“Are you kidding me?!” you exclaimed.

The shape moved and disappeared.

“It has all the names and information on the people who will stay with us at the outpost,” Wilhemina went on. “Go and get it. You walk faster than I do.”

“For God’s sake you must be kidding me,” you growled.  

“Go,” she ordered you. “You’re wasting time.”

You scowled at her, but stormed out of the room. She listened as your footsteps faded away. Then she straightened up, pulling her shoulders back, and her right hand clenched around the knob of her cane.

“Hello, hunchback.

Rory leaned against the door, his arms folded across his chest, a stupid smirk plastered on his face. Anger rose in Wilhemina’s throat.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she snapped.

Rory’s smirk widened and he started walking towards her.

“Thought I should come and say hi. Long time no see. Honestly, I’m surprised you remember me. You didn’t seem to care much about my person last time we talked.”  He stopped a few inches away from Wilhemina, looking down on her, his eyes full of a triumphant, predatory light. “Last time we talked,” he repeated slowly in his drawling voice, “and you so rudely fired me. Now, I think that surely you have regrets. I think that surely you regret treating me so badly.” He raised a hand to caress her cheek, but she slapped it away.

“Don’t you dare touch me,” Wilhemina hissed.

He was too close, so close she could feel the heat emanating from his body, but she would be damned before she took a step back.

“Now, that’s not how one expresses regret,” Rory said.

Without warning, he kicked her cane over and sent it rolling on the floor and under a table. Wilhemina stumbled, regained her balance with a wince.

Rory grabbed her arm and leaned in. “Tell me,” he whispered in her ear, “can you bend low enough to blow me or will I have to break your back?”

“Go to Hell,” Wilhemina hissed, and spat on his face.

Rory’s knee came up and slammed into her stomach. Wilhemina crumpled to the floor, winded, and let out a cry as Rory kicked her side.

“Good news, hunchback!” he cried excitedly. “It’s the fucking Apocalypse! D’you know what it means?” Another kick. “It means –“ another kick, “there’ll be no police –“ another kick, “which means I can do whatever the fuck –“  another kick, ”I want to you.”

Wilhemina let him hit her. She had no way of fighting back, and even if she had, she wasn’t sure she would have. Every kick awakened the sneering voice in her head that reminded her just how monstrous her body was. How it was only fair she should hurt. How she deserved the pain he was causing her, and so much more of it. The pain she was feeling was the pain she had wanted to inflict on herself for so long, a punishment for being such a hideous, such a deformed monstrosity and now she could feel joy, there was joy in her heart and she was laughing –

“What the hell?!” came a voice, loud and angry and threatening like the growl of a storm. Rory’s kicking stopped and Wilhemina almost raised her head to beg him to continue, not to stop until he’d broken every single rotten bone.

“What. The. Fucking hell Rory!” you roared, flinging yourself at him and slapping him violently in the face. “How dare you, you fucking fuck!”

Rory stumbled away from you, his hand covering his cheek where you had hit him, too stunned to speak. His back touched the wall.

“Get out!” you roared. “Get out or I swear to God I’ll kill you.”

You watched him scurry away, then you ran to where Wilhemina lay curled up on the floor.

Laughing. She was laughing. Loud, painful laughs that shook her chest and tore their way out of her throat like shards of glass.

“Wilhemina? Oh God.” Your hands were shaking. “Oh God. Wilhemina, can you hear me?”

You grabbed her hand, but she jerked it free and moved it to cover her face. Her laughter still came out through her palm.

You stared at her, at a loss for what to do. Your heart was hammering in your ears but couldn’t drown out the terrible sound of her laughter. And above it all, like a red blaring light, rose a terrifying sense of urgency.

“Wilhemina,” you called, as bitter tears pooled in your eyes. This was all your fault. You had ignored Muff’s warning and put Wilhemina in danger because of your goddamn pride. You had thought you knew better than everyone else. Thought people were books, thought you could predict exactly how everyone would behave - thought that nothing harmful could come in the way of two people in love.

“Wilhemina, baby,” you pleaded through your tears, ”please, can you hear me?”

Hurry, hurry, hurry, blared the light in your head.

Something in your voice must have gotten to Wilhemina, for her laughter slowly died out. She nodded. You reached out for the hand that was covering her face, tentatively slipping your fingers between hers.

“Wilhemina, tell me where he hurt you? Can you stand up? Baby, I’m so sorry, we have to move, we have to catch that plane, we have to –“

Your voice broke. You dropped your head, sobbing out an “Oh God” as Wilhemina’s fingers tightened around yours.

She was already trying to sit up, wincing in pain and coughing out blood, so brave, so strong in the face of it all. You wrapped your arms around her waist and lifted her to her feet, and she cried out in pain.

“I’m so sorry baby,” you cried, over and over again, “I’m so sorry, we have to go, we have to catch that plane.”

She pointed to her cane and you hastily grabbed it, pressed it into her hand, slipped your arm higher up her waist to support her as you hobbled out of the lunch room and oh God, Wilhemina coughed out blood again. Tears and sweat rolled down her face as she pushed on, hurrying as fast as she could along too many corridors, the place endless, it was spreading endlessly everywhere and expanding by the second and you would never make it.  

Wilhemina’s knees buckled. She collapsed on the ground with a cry.

“Go,” she croaked between her teeth. “Just go.”

“Don’t be stupid,” you growled. You heaved her to her feet. “Lean on me, sweetie, just lean on me. I know you can do it.” You pressed a quick kiss on her cheek. “I’m not leaving you, you fool.”

A tiny part of you screamed in rebellion. Death terrified you. Run, screamed a frantic voice in your head, just run for your life, who cares about her you will both die. You shook your head violently, tightened your grip around Wilhemina. Uttered words of encouragement to her. Shut the fuck up, you barked at the voice in your head. The voice roared. You roared louder.

There was a loud, distant explosion. The walls shook all around you, and the lights flickered. Wilhemina groaned, but did not stop.  

You turned a corner, slammed your shoulder into a door and stumbled outside. There was something wrong with the light, a sick quality to it, it was too orange and too misty, but you barely paid attention to it, your eyes falling on the beautiful, shining small plane waiting for you just a few feet away. The pilot was standing in the narrow door, waving his arms at you and calling out.

“Come on, baby, almost there,” you growled, your heart beating madly in your chest.  Wilhemina’s arm spasmed. You gripped onto her tighter.

And then your brain took over. On auto-pilot you hobbled the short distance to the plane, half carried Wilhemina up the airstair, past the man as he hurriedly closed the door and shut out the light that was too orange, too misty, the light that was so hideously sick. You collapsed on the floor with Wilhemina in your arms, crying and laughing, and peppered her face with wet kisses. When you finally pulled away for air her face was very pale, blood drying on her lower lip and chin, but she offered you a small smile.

“You made it, honeybunch,” you panted, and burst into a laugh.  

**

The plane took off. You made Wilhemina lie down on a row of seats, then ran to the bathroom and dampened a hand towel. Your hands were shaking, your breathing was quick and shallow. Now that the exhilaration of victory and the rush of adrenaline were subsiding, something dark was settling in your chest like lead. You shook your head, scowled at your reflection in the mirror. Get a grip, you ordered yourself. Your eyes in the mirror were wide with fear and guilt.

Wilhemina had sat up while you were gone, but you made her lie down again and gently wiped the blood off her face with the wet towel. She was way too pale, her body too rigid, her jaw clenched tight against the pain. Your fault. Your goddamn fault for being such a fucking brag who thought she had some sort of superpower and could guess everything about everyone. You shook your head again, gulped back tears, and focused on Wilhemina.

“I don’t need this, Y/N,” Wilhemina said as you gently swiped the towel across her forehead - her voice was low and gravelly and her diction was weird, every word perfectly enunciated but coming out thick and heavy. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” you retorted, your voice breaking. “Wilhemina, let me – you’ve just been beaten up let me take care of –“

Your hand gently caressed her cheek; Wilhemina flinched, her neck tensing and curving away from you.

“I’m sorry,” you said, immediately withdrawing your hand. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” she answered, almost a snap. It wasn’t fear that was vibrating through her, she wasn’t afraid of your touch, - it was something entirely different you couldn’t quite understand yet. She was glaring at the ceiling, her body incredibly tense, her eyes glassy and angry.

“Can I touch you?” you asked softly.

Wilhemina’s eyes briefly shifted to you, then back to the ceiling. One of her arms wrapped around her stomach and squeezed, hard.

“I need to make sure you’re not bleeding anywhere,” you explained.

“I’m not bleeding.”

“Where does it hurt the most? Wilhemina if there’s any wound we need to make sure and clean it bef –“

“There’s no wound,” she snapped. “A few bruises at worst.”

You paused, swallowing down your fear.

“Alright,” you said, raising both hands in the air – they were visibly shaking, so you quickly lowered them -, “alright. Just let me get you some water.”

She was still glaring at the ceiling when you came back, but you weren’t sure she was seeing it. Her eyes were burning with a kind of anger that had something terribly sad about it, something that made your heart ache for her. You unscrewed the bottle of water and offered it to her.

She took exactly one sip and handed the bottle back to you.

“Stop being so stubborn,” you said. “Drink some more –“

“I am being stubborn? Stop acting so stupid.“

“I’m not stupid, I’m worried about you.“

Automatically your hand landed on her ankle and your thumb stroked her skin. Again, she flinched, and her leg gave a kick.

“Stop it!” she snapped, her voice too high, her eyes meeting yours, desperate and angry, as her arm squeezed harder still around her stomach, her elbow digging into her ribs. “Leave me alone! I don’t deserve –”

She cut herself off, her jaw twitching once, her face hard and cold, that terrible, terrible feeling in her eyes expanding and expanding until it submerged her whole body. Her head fell back on the seat and her nails dug into her arm.

“You don’t deserve what, Mina?” you asked. Your throat closed up.

She had been laughing, when you had found her. Rory was kicking her with a crazed look on his face and she had been laughing.

“Talk to me,” you pleaded, your voice too thin.

“Why would I want to talk to you?” she snapped contemptuously, her voice laced with poison, but you could see right through her act.

This was an attempt to make you leave, because she could not stand tenderness and care right now. Every fiber in her body was rebelling against love and crying out for pain. She needed to open the gates and let the self-loathing engulf her, for she couldn’t win against it - as one has to dive headfirst into a wave that is so high and so terrifying and cannot be avoided. Sometimes, the only way out is through.    

“Alright,” your voice wavered, “alright, I’ll just sit here next to you, ok? I’m here if you need me.”

It was torture. Staying still as she hurt, and hurt herself, as you waited for her to come back to you, as the whole plane filled up with her pain and anger and it was a miracle it could still fly. You made small talk with her, anything to try and distract her. Your voice wavered again, three, four times. You had lowered the blind on the window nearest you to block out the sick orange light. Wilhemina kept glaring unseeingly at the ceiling. You talked, and talked, and talked, trying to drown out the sound of her loathing that you could hear like the scraping of stormy waves on a shingle beach. And on top of it all was that gnawing feeling of guilt. For you had caused this. Stupid, stupid you, blinded by your own pride.

Slowly, Wilhemina’s body started to relax. Her nails withdrew from her arm. You tentatively offered her the bottle of water again. She scowled at you, but she took the bottle and drank half of it.

The pilot’s voice came out through the intercom, telling you to prepare for landing.

Wilhemina sat up with a wince and fastened her seatbelt. She smoothed her hair and her clothes. You glanced at her, blinking back tears, your mouth too dry.

“Are you ok?” you asked. It was a stupid question, but it flew out of your mouth desperate and urgent before you could stop it.

Her eyes met yours, dark and completely unreadable.

“Of course,” she said.

A tear rolled down your cheek. You wiped it with the back of your hand, nodded.

“I want to address everyone at the Outpost as soon as we arrive,” Wilhemina went on.

You sniffed, offered her a broken smile.

“Ok.”

“They need to be perfectly apprised of the house rules.”

“Alright, you’re right.”

Another tear rolled down your cheek, which you quickly swiped away.

“Please don’t cry,” came Wilhemina’s voice.

“I - sorry,” you said quickly, wiping yet another tear. “I don’t know why I’m crying.”

As if your heart wasn’t breaking for her, as if you could ever forget the look in her eyes as she lay still with her nails digging deep into her skin.

There was a short pause, and then Wilhemina took your hand.

“I love you,” she said, as one says ‘it’s okay, I’ll be okay’.

You tried to offer her a smile, but it looked like a grimace, your mouth twisting as if it were full of shards of glass. You squeezed her hand, then raised it to your lips and pressed a long kiss on one of her knuckles.

“I love you, too,” you said, your voice shaking. You breathed in to add “I’m so sorry”, but breathed out wordlessly.

You squeezed Wilhemina’s hand again, swallowing down your guilt. You couldn’t bother her with it now that she was about to take on responsibility for the survival of the human race; you had to be a strong rock she could lean on, not a burden.

You sat on the seat next to Wilhemina’s and fastened your seat belt. Wilhemina raised the blind to peer outside. You turned your head away.

The plane landed, and the pilot came out of the cockpit. He was a tall, stout man with a kind face. You reached out to help Wilhemina get up her seat but she refused your help, shooting you a glance of warning. She stood up straight and proud without so much as a wince of pain, and walked up to the pilot.

He gave Wilhemina a smile and extended his right hand as if to shake to hers. He wore a thin, gold ring on his middle finger that looked very expensive.

“You’ll have to take that off,” Wilhemina said sternly. “Greys are not allowed to wear jewelry.”

“What are Greys?” you and the pilot asked at the exact same time. Wilhemina had not told you anything about the rules at Oupost 3. You had asked, more than once, but she had never answered you, and pretended not to hear you after the third or fourth time.

Wilhemina winked at you. “Our worker hands. “ She glared at the pilot, nodding in your direction. “Your job will be to serve her and the rest of the elite.”

The kindness faded from the pilot’s face.

“I’m not sure I like that,” he muttered.

Wilhemina’s cane tapped on the floor.

“Are you stupid?” she said, in a very slow, threatening voice. “You’re alive. Look around you. The world is no longer. Tell me, what exactly have you done to deserve surviving it?”

“I flew you here, lady,” the pilot grumbled. “You’d be dead without me.”

Wilhemina’s cane tapped on the floor again, louder.

“I’m making the rules here. You can either know your place and follow them, or take your chances, alone, in the nuclear winter.”

The pilot glanced desperately at you. You almost defended him. Part of you wasn’t sure this whole Grey thing was fair. But you could hardly imagine the devastating consequences of your challenging Wilhemina now, when she was finally in a position of power, when she trusted you to back her up. You had hurt her enough for the day.

“You better listen to her,” you said, forcing your voice to sound commanding. The colour drained from the man’s face.

You followed Wilhemina out of the plane – a thick fog was slowly swallowing the world, replacing the sick orange light with a pale grey that looked sicker somehow – and into the outpost. The place was no longer lit by electrical light but by hundreds of candles and every fireplace was alive with huge, crackling fires. You kept your eyes on Wilhemina, alert for signs of pain. There wasn’t any. As you passed a fireplace, the warmth from the fire briefly engulfed you, an unhoped-for comfort, a temporary balm to your heart.

Wilhemina turned left, and suddenly stopped. A small, stout woman with cropped black hair stood in the corridor, her hands crossed in front of her, her eyes two piercing lights ringed with black make-up. She bowed her head respectfully as she saw Wilhemina. Unconsciously you straightened your shoulders. A feeling, not exactly of authority, but of ruthless order oozed out from this woman. If you had to invent her a past, you would say quite confidently that she had spent years in the army as a high-ranked commanding officer.

Wilhemina introduced her as Ms Mead. The woman’s eyes slid to your face and she bowed her head to you, too, a quick, mechanical bending of the neck. She informed Wilhemina everything had been made ready as requested.

“It is so refreshing to work with someone who knows how to take orders and how to be efficient,” Wilhemina told her with an appreciative smile. She gestured towards the nearest door, a bathroom. “I’ll be a minute.”

Tap, tap, tap, went her cane, a cold, sharp sound; in the candlelight her hair was a deep red.

The bathroom door closed behind her. You counted five seconds before you turned to Ms Mead.

“Where’s the doctor?” you whispered urgently. You knew a doctor had been sent to every outpost, to make sure the survivors stayed safe and healthy.

Ms Mead shot you a glance that expressed absolutely nothing.

“Not here,” she answered in a robotic, toneless voice.

“What do you mean, not here?” you insisted, tiny sparks of fear flying up into your chest. Your throat tightened.

“He was supposed to arrive at 3, but he never did.” Ms Mead shrugged. “I guess we’ll have to do without him.”

More sparks, too many sparks. You almost screamed at her.

“My best guess is,” Ms Mead went on, entirely unaware of the frantic storm rising in you, “he decided to stay behind with his family. To die a useless death among his loved ones instead of taking on the honorable duty of caring for the survivors.”

“Some people are incredibly selfish,” came Wilhemina’s voice.

You jumped, turning around sharply as Wilhemina’s proud figure loomed up on your left side. “Ms Mead, gather everyone in the music room,” she ordered. “We’ll join them shortly.”

Ms Mead nodded and walked off. You glanced up nervously at Wilhemina.

“For the hundredth time, Y/N, I’m fine,” Wilhemina scolded.

You glanced up at her, scanned her face for any trace of pain, but it was completely blank. You glanced down at her hands. They rested on top of each other on the knob of her cane.

You glanced up at her face again. You figured she had no broken ribs, since she could move, and she was breathing just fine so probably nothing had damaged or punctured her lungs, but what if she were hemorrhaging, or what if she had broken something and was being very good at hiding it? That seemed to you very likely.

“Y/N?”

“What?” Your voice shot out too nervous, too aggressive.

Wilhemina’s face hardened. Tap, threatened her cane.

“We have no doctor,” you started. Your throat was so tight with fear it was a miracle your voice could get through.

“So I heard.”

“Wilhemina, someone needs to make sure you’re okay. And what will we do without a doctor? Oh God, Mina, and what about your back and what if –“

“None of that,” Wilhemina cut you off sharply. “Y/N, you need to calm down. I am fine.” She paused. When she spoke again, her voice was softer. “We survived the Apocalypse, Y/N. Now I need you to calm down, get a grip on yourself, and go and join the others in the music room. “

You closed your eyes, forced yourself to take a few deep breaths. I’m sorry, said your heart to hers, praying, praying it would hear, I’m so sorry.  

You walked into the music room in a haze, barely registering the hum of worried voices and the few “Hello”s that were thrown your way. You collapsed on an armchair in a corner and buried your face in your hands. Tried to focus on your breathing. Images and sounds flashed in your mind; Wilhemina’s laugh as Rory kicked her, that terrible look in her eyes, her nails digging into her skin. Your eyes flew open as one wakes from a nightmare.

A young, fashionable man wearing sunglasses with purple-tinted lenses was staring at you. He didn’t look particularly worried, just interested.

“Are you alright, dear?” he asked in a mellow voice.

“Never better,” you growled.

“Aw,” the man said, “I know how it feels. I was supposed to fucking die in L.A.. It’s a stroke of luck I’m here, a stroke of luck. That, and my friend Coco’s crocodile wallet.” The man sat down on a chair next to you. His musky, minty perfume tickled your nose – it was so out-of-place, this smell, reminded you of lavishness and exuberance and self-confidence. If Outpost 3 had a smell, it would be that of the smoke of a candle that has just fizzled out.

The man, who introduced himself as a hairdresser, kept on talking, but you stopped listening. Your eyes scanned the people in the room, one face after the other, features blurring into each other, your brain unable to register details and to make observations. Your hands were sweaty. Your eyes fell on the familiar face of the pilot. Before you knew it you had abruptly stood up and walked to him, the hairdresser’s mouth falling open in consternation, his eyes glaring at your back through his purple-tinted sunglasses.

“Hey,” you said to the pilot. He had watched you approach with weary eyes, his lips a thin, tight, angry line. He acknowledged your presence with a stiff nod. “I wanted to thank you,” you went on, forcing your mouth into a smile. “For waiting for us. You didn’t have to.”

The pilot pursed his lips. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have,” he grumbled, but there was no hostility in his voice. His fingers started playing with a loose thread on his coat. “I guess I’m just too kind for my own good.”

“Um,” you pretended to consider his words. “I think the world would have fared better if there had been more kind people in it. You know, people who take the trouble to wait those extra five minutes to help others, instead of running for their lives.” You tried for another smile, and this time it came more easily.

The pilot glanced up at you suspiciously, but the kindness was returning to his face. “What’s going to happen, now?” he asked after a pause.

“I don’t really know.”

“The man who boarded the plane just before you did said such improper, rude things about the redhead, and even though she didn’t give me any reason to like her, I don’t think folks should –“

“Excuse me,” you cut the pilot off, your heart suddenly freezing in your chest, “what man?”

“Young fellow, the one sitting over there. He appeared out of nowhere saying he’d missed his transportation to Outpost 2 and he begged me to let him in, I couldn’t just leave him to his death.”

There was not a single drop of blood left in your veins. Your heart was steadily pumping ice, biting, burning ice that froze every thought and every emotion in your brain except anger – and the anger spread. It spread everywhere, sprang from your body and crashed against the ceiling and the walls where it crystallized into sharp, fang-like icicles.

Rory had not seen you yet. He was comforting a crying young woman when you reached him, grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and half jerked him up on his feet. His eyes met yours in surprise as you growled into his face, “Boarding this plane was the worst mistake you ever made.” Rory tried to draw away but you tightened your grip on him and leaned in closer still, your breath ghosting his lips. “I swear to God, Rory, I’m going to turn your pathetic life into a nightmare and there will be blood.”

A loud tap cut you off. Both Rory and you jumped. Wilhemina had just entered the room, standing proud and dominating, her complexion warm in the candlelight, her eyes very dark. She had changed into a black Victorian-esque dress that brushed regally over the floor, with a high collar of intricate white lacework hugging her graceful, long neck. Her hair no longer was in her signature high ponytail but wrapped up into a perfectly centered, sophisticated bun. She looked so strong, so imposing, so perfectly in control of everything down to the dust that danced in the candlelight, that your fingers loosened their grip on Rory’s collar. You stepped away from him. Not in fear, not in defeat, but rather as a young predator respectfully makes way for the alpha that silently crawls through the grass towards the defenseless prey grazing in the shade.

Wilhemina’s gaze fell on Rory. Her eyes were as bottomless and terrifying as the inside of a cave sunlight never reaches. For Rory it meant there would be no peace, no warmth,   no salvation. Another tap of her cane, and Rory flinched. Actually took a step towards you for protection.

Wilhemina walked up to him, her upper body gracefully swaying from side to side as it always did, her gait as nonchalant and powerful as a big cat’s. She stopped a few inches away from Rory and rested both hands on the knob of her cane.

“Welcome,” she breathed in his face, “to Outpost 3.”

You grinned. In the dark building with devastation outside the doors and despair within you grinned, warmth like that of a fire in a cold winter night spreading down your body and wrapping soothingly around your heart. Wilhemina’s eyes briefly shifted to yours. Oh, she would be alright. You lowered your head, staring down at the ugly floor to hide the pride and relief that painted themselves all across your face and twinkled in your eyes. Caught in the eye of a tornado this woman would be alright and with the flick of her fingers bend the howling winds to her command.

Rory’s body looked like it had lost several inches and pounds. Probably part of him had fled in fear. He gulped, tried to maintain eye contact with Wilhemina, failed, stared down at his feet as heat flooded his face.

“Unless I’m mistaken, you’re not on my list,” Wilhemina went on. Her voice was melodic, as if she were about to break into a song. “Take him to the cell,” she ordered a giant of a woman who stood in the doorway. The woman grabbed Rory and dragged him out of the room. His eyes shot a frightened look your way before he disappeared, the darkness swallowing his pale and quivering form.

A hush had fallen upon the room. Everyone stood rigid with their eyes lowered respectfully or inspecting a piece of furniture or the ceiling or their own fingers. You saw the hairdresser glance up at Wilhemina, curious and intimidated, his gaze lingering no more than a second on her face before focusing back on the cuff of his right sleeve.

Wilhemina tapped her cane on the floor and briefly introduced herself in a firm, authoritative voice. Her eyes coldly scanned the room as she talked, explaining what the Cooperative was, how hard they had worked to save the human race, how grateful the survivors should be, how humbled. Before explaining the house rules she reminded everyone that survival required order and strict obedience. She would be ruthless, she assured them sternly. Anyone who broke the rules would be kicked out of the building or immediately shot.

You frowned at that. Death seemed too extreme a punishment. Just as the thought crossed your mind, an old woman voiced it in consternation. Wilhemina’s gaze fell on her and a cold, condescending smile grazed her lips.

“It would be too extreme in the world we used to know,” she said very slowly. “But here, we are the last vestige of the human race. Error and insubordination simply cannot be tolerated, not when they could result in the complete eradication of our species.”

Hierarchy is the key, Wilhemina went on. In Outpost 3, everyone would know their place. Here she paused to unfold a piece of paper and slowly read out the names of “the Elite” and of “those who would serve them”, the Purples and the Greys respectively. You nervously shifted your weight from one foot to the other. Hushed whispers were exchanged before another sharp tap of Wilhemina’s cane commanded silence.

There would be no leaving the building. Greys and Purples alike would be on a strict timetable. Each Purple would be attributed a Grey to serve and obey them. Here a few voices rose in protest, but quickly died down. Good manners and proper dressing should be observed, for appearances did wonders on one’s morale. There should be no indulging in improper activities, and no unauthorized copulation.

Your jaw dropped open at that.

“Excuse me?” the hairdresser exclaimed, his voice louder and clearer than all the others which chimed in angry protest. “It’s already Hell down here, no need to make it worse!“

“Now that’s bullshit,” you heard yourself growl.

Wilhemina’s eyes met yours. “I said,” she enunciated, “no unauthorized copulation.”

Oh. Your shoulders relaxed. You bit down on a smirk. You swore, Wilhemina’s mouth twitched just so, as if she, too, were holding back a smug smile.

After that, Ms Mead was ordered to show everyone to their rooms. You lingered behind as the others crowded to the door, voices grumbling and shoulders bending in defeat, like a pack of children gathering for class after recess. Wilhemina watched them leave, and then she turned on her heel and disappeared in the corridor.

You followed her, assuming a nonchalant expression, sticking your hands into your pockets. Wilhemina walked into the bedroom she had chosen for herself and you on your first visit of the Outpost. You glanced right and left, then followed her inside.

As soon as you closed the door, Wilhemina sat heavily on the bed, her shoulders sagging, and closed her eyes. You kneeled in front of her, peering up worriedly at her.

“Are you okay? Are you hurting? Wilhemina, are you okay?” you inquired urgently, your hands coming up to cup her face.

A soft smile slowly spread over her lips, and her eyes fluttered open. “I’m fine, Y/N,” she answered, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

You scrambled up to your feet and sat on the bed next to her, pressing your shoulder to hers, reaching for her hand.

“You should lie down,” you urged, ”have some rest. You did so much, Mina you did so good.”

She closed her eyes again, and shook her head.

“I don’t have time to rest, Y/N. I need to make sure everyone is settling in properly.”

“Let me do it,” you offered, pushing your palm to hers and lacing your fingers together. “I can do it. You lie down and I’ll see to everything.”

She let out a sigh and rested her head on your shoulder.

“I’m grateful for the offer, Y/N, but you have no idea how this place is to be run. Besides, it’s not your job.”

Her head was pressing more and more heavily on your shoulder. She looked so exhausted, so vulnerable in contrast to her earlier show of strength and power that you felt fear clench at your throat once more.

You wrapped one arm around her shoulders to support her and she let her body sag against your side. She buried her face in the crook of your neck and let out one shaky breath that tickled your skin.

“Where did he hurt you?” you asked in a whisper, nuzzling into her hair.

Something wet rolled down your neck. There was silence, broken by a sniffle and then Wilhemina’s voice, barely audible, “My stomach and ribs feel like they’re broken into pieces.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, breathed out angrily through your nose and gently stroked your thumb over her shoulder, back and forth.

“Let me have a look?” you tried softly.

She shook her head. “It’s not pretty.”

“I don’t care,” you retorted, the words leaving your mouth confident and strong.

Wilhemina pulled herself away from you as if she meant to stand, but she stayed on the bed, making no effort to straighten her shoulders. She sighed, lifted one hand to pinch the bridge of her nose.

“I really do have to go,” she said. She opened one eye to look at you. “You can play the doctor tonight when my day is done.”

You watched her as she stood up and scrutinized her reflection in the mirror, smoothing her left hand over her dress, tilting her head on one side then the other, tugging at her right sleeve that rode up her arm.

“I’m so sorry I wasn’t there,” you whispered, so low you thought she could not hear you, but her eyes met yours in the mirror. The next words left your mouth coated with such sadness and so heavy with guilt it was a miracle they made it all the way to Wilhemina. “I’m so sorry I didn’t take Mutt’s warning seriously. I was wrong about Rory, and I put you in danger, and I can’t -” Your voice trailed off. You closed your eyes, unable to hold Wilhemina’s gaze, and gulped back tears.

For a few, agonizingly long seconds, there was only silence. Stupid, you scolded yourself, not for the first time today. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You had sworn to yourself you would not burden Wilhemina with your useless feelings of guilt, sworn you would keep them to yourself. You kept putting her in uncomfortable, dangerous situations and you –

There was the sound of Wilhemina’s cane, the rustle of her dress, and then you felt warmth on your cheeks as her hands cupped your face.

“It wasn’t your fault, Y/N,” you heard her voice, soft and loving. You opened your eyes. Wilhemina’s brow was slightly pushed up, her eyes were big and very brown and God, how you loved her eyes. You leaned in, as if to dive into them. “Please don’t hold yourself responsible for anything that happened today.”

You were about to protest, but you closed your mouth at the last second and kept the words captive. No burdening her, you reminded yourself sharply. She already had so much to carry. So you gave her a smile instead, hoping it looked convincing; it must have, for Wilhemina let go of your face and drew away.  

You watched her walk slowly to the door, pressed your lips tightly closed as another apology violently slammed against them, desperate for a way out. No burdening her. Wilhemina stopped in front of the door, straightened her back and shoulders, and took a deep breath. She stood as regal and powerful as you had ever seen her, the candlelight dancing in awe on her hair.

She put one hand on the door handle, offered you a smile like a bouquet of flowers, opened the door, and walked off.

[vouxie-studio]

Happy Belated Birthday To

Me

For my birthday present to myself this year, I officially finished coding and writing Chapter Three of TIK! Yay!

The whole thing (including every individual route, which you will be able to lock in this chapter, keep that in mind) comes to a whopping 70 400 words rounded off to make room for small edits should I need to make them. Each branch comes out to around 13 000 words per character, again rounded off, which means the chapter is 30 000 words per playthrough, phew

Numbers and math aside, Chapter Three is without a doubt the longest chapter I've ever written, and probably the longest singular piece of work I've ever written too since my google doc glitched on me when I tried to piece all of the branches together into a single file

Anyway, look forward to that because if all goes well, the new chapter will go live on the 10th of March, at around 12 am MST, which means that most of you who don't live in Asia will actually get it on the 9th of March, lucky you

See you guys then!

[927roses-and-stuff]

Miracles in Gotham: Chapter 3: Unwelcome Discoveries (Part 1)

Hey, guys! This fic is inspired by @ozmav mav’s Maribat AU. Shoutout to @mystery-5-5  for brainstorming ideas with me for this fic. 

Midterms have got me acting up. Despite the quarantine, I literally wasn’t motivated to write until the moment I could use writing to procrastinate. Absolutely brilliant logic. Truly. Thank you guys so much for the wait and I hope you enjoy this chapter.  

If you want to see more, follow: #miraclesingotham or ask to be added to the tag list.

P.S. For the sake of continuity, I’m going to ignore the Heroes United thing because that episode was basically a fanfic of the fanfic and as much as I loved the animation and the new characters...I’ve seen better plots and explanations for a lot of the similar problems in the Maribat fandom. Also Sparrow is probably a reference to Batman, anyways. Also, canon has just gone out the window...I guess...whoops. 

P.P.S. Swearing tw, death tw. 

Please remember this is rated M for a reason. Also, it is my headcanon that not everyone who dies during the akuma attacks come back. Of course, it’s not mentioned in a children’s show, but I’ve always seen the Miraculous Cure as a cure for physical, non-living objects as they’re easier to fix, and lives take a lot more effort and energy from the user to revive. And since Marinette is a child, there’s not going to be a lot of energy to spare.

Tag list: @northernbluetongue @spicybelladonna @my-name-is-michell @legendaryneckjudgestudent @lokiifriggasonn @zerotosiki

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To the members of the Justice League…

I am writing to you as Chat Noir, superhero of Paris and holder of the Black Cat Miraculous of Destruction, and partner to Ladybug, the official Guardian and the holder of the Ladybug Miraculous of Creation. I come to you with a plea similar to ones that we have sent you a year ago. The magical terrorist, Hawkmoth, is still at large here in Paris, France. If you are not aware of who he is, Hawkmoth is a domestic terrorist in Paris who relies on the power of the Butterfly Miraculous to create a physical and amplified manifestation of a person’s negative emotions, using the victim as a host, using magical butterflies as his form of transmission. These are called akumas. The akuma allows Hakwmoth to essentially get inside the mind of  his victims and manipulate and amplify their emotions.  We have been fortunate enough to have a failsafe in Ladybug, who can repair any physical damages, and even bring back lives, from these attacks. However, both Ladybug and I have reached our wits’ ends with no lead to Hawkmoth’s true identity. The people of Paris are suffering both from emotional trauma and the physical trauma of being subjugated, manipulated, experiencing bouts of amnesia, and even resurrecting multiple times. Hawkmoth has even taken to exclusively targeting a middle-school class at College Francois-Dupont.

Ladybug and I are aware of the risks superhero presence may bring since we will not survive a fight if any more experienced superheroes such as yourselves are akumatized. However, I feel that we have no other choice. Our Master has recently been put out of commission and the rest of our comrades have had their identities compromised. Ladybug is now the Guardian of the rest of the Miraculous. And although she will not approve of my plea, even your  advice or insight will be of use to us.

Please consider our plight and contact us as soon as you can.

Chat Noir 

Bruce Wayne was not a perfect man, he will admit. However, he did pride himself on his sense of logic and adaptability to most situations, as long as they stayed within the mortal realms of believability that is. Magic, however, or anything pertaining to the supernatural was out of his forte; in fact, he often liked to pretend it did not exist despite having acquaintances and enemies whose entire lives revolved around it. There was a reason he did not tolerate the  prolonged presence of meta-humans in Gotham, after all. 

He re-read through the email once, twice, again and again, desperately wishing that it had not been his shift to look through the messages that the Justice League received on a daily basis. Why couldn’t it have been Superman or Wonder Woman? Or better yet, Dr. Fate or Zatanna, never mind the fact that the latter was technically retired. Any of them would’ve made sense of this gibberish that was laid out in front of him. 

Initially, he thought it had been a coded message. It made perfect sense, in his opinion. The only concrete fact he could dissect out of this nonsense was the presence of a domestic terrorist and how they were targeting some middle school students for whatever reason. His mind recalled  the recent conversation he had with André Bourgeois yesterday. Even he had mentioned a domestic terrorist going after his daughter’s class, which was why he reached out to Bruce, since Bruce would be the most fitted to protect them with his resources, despite Gotham being the crime capital of the world. He nodded to himself; the facts were consistent then. There was a terrorist and middle school students were the targets. 

On one of the other screen monitors, he had pulled up records of College Francois Dupont School for a background check using a VPN to connect to French service networks. Both the email from this Chat Noir (Selina would get a kick out of that) and André failed to mention the terrorist’s intentions with these kids. However, looking through the different classes, there had been a special note besides Mme. Bustier’s class that stated:

“High vulnerability to akumas.”

This was where Bruce was once again stumped. Of course, he really couldn’t deny the existence of magic, but accepting that meant accepting that the terrorist used magical butterflies as his form of attack. Bruce wasn’t a qualified psychologist or any sort of specialist, but surely magical butterflies could not give you emotional trauma, mind-control, or even as Chat Noir had implied, a means to murder. 

Bruce scanned through Mme. Bustier’s class to look for anything that might be different from other classes. If he recalled correctly, this was the same class that André’s kid was in. He took note of the name, Chloé Bourgeois, and other notable names such as Adrien Agreste (who’s father was a fashion mogul and a model in his own right), Lila Rossi (a diplomat’s daughter), Max Kanté (a genius, and he noted to himself to see if that held true when the class was under his supervision), Marinette Dupain-Cheng (the class president and the designer of a recent rock album according to Jason who had obsessed over the cover for a few weeks before Alfred confiscated it), and Alya Césaire (an aspiring journalist who ran a blog called the Ladyblog). 

Okay, he rationalized. While not all of these kids were significant, some, like the Mayor’s own daughter, would be prime targets for a terrorist, so that made some sort of sense in Bruce’s mind. 

He sighed again, wishing that he had a cup of coffee or an energy drink with him at the moment. Unfortunately, Tim’s recent addiction meant no one could have it. Bruce scoffed underneath his breath. Alfred had really weird rules when it came to show “family support.” Tim was a grown man who should suffer his own consequences. Alas, no one argues with Alfred lest they risked his wrath. 

Bruce hovered over the link under Mlle. Césaire’s file, the Ladyblog. Perhaps it would give him some answers. 

As a bright ladybug designed website popped up, Bruce realized he might have been so wrong. 

He scrolled through the website thoroughly from the latest posts to the earliest. He noticed a concerning trend where the later blog posts centered more around one of Césaire’s classmates, Lila Rossi, and shaky videos of a red and black spotted figurem and a black cat figure fleeing the scene, or fighting some sort of abomination that Bruce did not even attempt to understand. In one video it was the two heroes against a flock of pigeons, or a gigantic baby, or whatever else. Bruce had half a mind to dismiss the entire blog as based on falsities, however one of the videos caught his eye. 

It was a video titled: “Syren: Paris Going Underwater!!” 

That was concerning, considering a flooded Paris would’ve featured on international news, not just on an amateur blog by a middle schooler. Fortunately for him, the video quality was clearer, allowing him to watch as the camera recorded the scene of that day. 

Bruce jolted awake and snapped to attention when he realized it was being filmed on a rooftop, and that the water levels were still rising as the video progressed. From what the camera captured, there were only a handful of people on each rooftop; not even making up a fifth of the Parisian population in total. 

What the fuck?

Then, as the video concluded, gigantic swarms of red and white bugs (ladybugs?) filled the camera’s frame and when it disappeared, everything was back to what he presumed was normal. The video then faded to black, posting statistics that chilled Bruce to the fucking bone. 

“Death count: 1.528 million Parisians

Resurrection count: 1.51 million Parisians

Injured count: 10 000 Parisians

Permanent death count: 18 000 Parisians

In honour of the Parisians who were not revived and were injured during the attack, the Ladyblog, offers our condolences, and will help in any way we can online and offline.  The akuma victim, as always, will remain anonymous for safety purposes.  Links to help organizations and donation funds to the peoples and families affected will be posted below. Additional links will be posted for available online mental health services.”

And, if Chat Noir was to be believed, some people had died multiple times. 

After making sure the video was not doctored in any way (though that would be cruel to assume about a kid’s blog), Bruce sent Chat Noir’s email (along with the earlier videos from both heroes and an email from Marinette Dupain-Cheng that he had found) and all of the links he had amassed to his own computer in the Bat Cave before closing all the tabs on the monitors. Swerving around, he stormed to the Batmobile, eyebrows furrowed in solemnity. 

Magic or not, whatever terrorist was plaguing Paris had a pretty damn high casualty count, and the only people that were stopping him were this Ladybug and Chat Noir people, who did not seem to be properly equipped (the Ladybug heroine was using a yoyo, for fuck’s sake) to deal with someone of this power. Not to mention, Bruce winced, their mentor  was “out of commission” whatever that meant, with their peers being compromised, so they probably had no outside help.

And it seems, Bruce’s features darkened into a scowl, his dear friend André Bourgeois had a lot of explaining to do. Police department has it handled, his ass. 

In the meantime, he was going to make damn sure the class under his care would have a relaxing reprieve even if he had to lock up every villain in Arkham Asylum himself. 

________________________________________________________________

Dear Diary, 

The talk with Chat was a bust. I know he thinks I don’t trust him, but I wish he knew how much I’m trying to, but it’s not as simple as he makes it out to be...right?  And of course I trust him with my life, but as the Guardian, I can’t just make impulsive decisions like going to other superheroes, especially when there’s no guarantee they would help us, or can even be trusted in the first place! And I can’t just reveal our identities to each other either. It would put Chat and the rest of the Miraculous at risk. And I really don’t want a repeat of Chat Blanc…

That future will never happen on my watch. I forbid it. 

Speaking of other superheroes, I think there might be someone though, who could help us, even a little bit. 

Marianne. 

She wasn’t a Guardian, but she was a Ladybug user for a while and was really close to Master Fu. She must know something. She’s in London so she might not be available but...

I’ll check up on her today after class! If she has any helpful advice, I’ll be sure to share it with Chat too. 

Gotta go!

Bisoux, 

Marinette

Scrambling to get ready, Marinette fumbled with her pigtails and shoulder bag simultaneously, trying to make sure that her pigtails were just right. Tikki zoomed around, helping her get ready by shoving stray pens and pencils into her pockets. When they were done, Marinette rushed downstairs, swiping one of the freshly-made quiche along the way. Just before she exited the store, she turned back to give her Maman and Papa a smooch. Hastily, she then left the bakery, the bakery’s bell ringing behind her as she sprinted to school. 

It was a mystery for most people, but despite living less than five minutes away from the school, Marinette was always late. Marinette liked to blame her Ladybug duties when Tikki asked, but she knew better. She had the habit of being late since before she knew the Miraculous existed. 

To be fair though, Marinette usually slept in because she was exhausted from schoolwork, designing,

and Ladybug duties. Was it her fault that Hawkmoth liked making 3 AM akumas? Was it her fault that coffee- for all the espresso and sugar she dumped into it, and despite all those hipster blogs saying otherwise- did nothing to help her stay awake? Of course not. If anything she was a victim here; a victim of late night akumas and faulty biology. 

Fortunately for her (and her quiche), she was actually earlier today than usual. She could see students milling around the courtyard behind the school. Some sat with their friend groups while others huddled to catch up on the homework from the night before. 

Unfortunately, one of those groups was Lila and her friends. Lila sat on one of the picnic tables, talking about whatever grand adventure she supposedly went on or whichever famous celebrity she supposedly saved from a rare type of cancer or something while her friends sat around her, captivated with every word. Marinette rolled her eyes. It was too early for this. 

She steered away from them towards the other side of the yard, where she could see Alya and Nino cuddling while finishing their homework. She glanced back at Lila, who waved at the couple before going back to whatever story she was regaling to her loving audience. It was probably because Alya and Nino hadn’t seen Lila greet them in the first place, but Marinette couldn’t help feeling a bit happy that they didn’t return her greeting. 

“Morning, guys!” She greeted as she approached their table, sitting on the other side. 

Alya looked up first. “Hey! You woke up early today,” she teased, giving her shoulder a friendly nudge.

“Heh, guess it’s my lucky day today,” she said. As she sat down, she began eating the quiche she had swiped earlier. “Well, almost, anyway.”

Alya rolled her eyes and smirked. “You live in front of the school. It’s your own damn fault at this point.” 

Nino, who had been pouring over a worksheet that was due today, finally looked up. Upon seeing Marinette, he smiled. “Hey, dude. You’re actually early!” 

At Marinette’s exasperated groan, both Alya and Nino fell into giggles, Marinette shortly following along. 

“Keep that up, and I’m not gonna let you guys eat at my place for lunch,” she teased, wagging a finger at them. 

Alya wagged her own finger, engaging in a finger sword fight. “As if your mom would ever let us starve!” 

Marinette laughed, as she wrapped her finger around Alya’s and lightly slammed it onto the table, declaring her victory. 

“Okay, okay, you got me.” Marinette went back to eating her quiche, devouring it before it got too cold. For once, she was in a pretty good mood. 

“Hey, Alya, Nino,”

And of course, she just had  to jinx it. 

Marinette didn’t even try to join in the conversation to acknowledge Lila’s presence. If Lila wanted to talk to her, she needed to stop lying about everything; and with her supposed “lying disease,” that wasn’t happening anytime soon. She only wished Adrien was here so someone could sympathize with her. 

“Oh, hey Lila,” Alya greeted, having gained her hand back and waved. “Ignore Nino here. He forgot about Mendeleiv’s worksheet due today.” 

“Oh, I see.” Lila said. “Well, you know, Nino. If you ever need help with science, one of my cousins actually won a Noble Peace Prize for his contributions in molecular chemistry.” 

Nino, to his credit, only muttered an “uh huh” before turning the worksheet over and frantically scribbling all over it. Marinette briefly wondered if Nino understood what he was writing down- or if he cared. 

Alya perked up. “Wow, that’s amazing Lila! What did your cousin do?”

Lila smiled bashfully, and looked away, waving her hand. “Oh, you know, it was the discovery of some man-made element.” Marinette had to give Lila credit- she knew how to fake her blushes really well. “I’m nowhere near as smart as my cousin, you know? All the scientific words get me so confused!” 

Marinette buried her head in her arms. Did she need to be here for this? She could just slip away? Glancing at Lila, who caught her eyes, she decided against it. Like hell she was letting Lila take away her time with her  friends. 

Alya laughed good-naturedly. “Oh, I understand completely. English is so much more of my forté, you know?” 

“Yeah I totally get what you mean.” Lila stopped laughing as her gaze landed on Marinette. Only she seemed to notice the glare she gave her.  “Oh, hi, Marinette. Glad to see you’re early today.” 

“Yeah,” she deadpanned. “Hi.” With a fake smile, she robotically waved at her. 

“Well, anyways I got to go. See you later Alya.”  Lila said, waving her fingers before finally walking away. Marinette exhaled. Thank kwami. She may have been less obnoxious today but that was probably because of Alya’s presence. 

Speaking of, the said girl turned towards her. “You could be nicer towards her.” 

“She almost got me expelled.” Marinette had had this conversation with Alya many times before. At this point, her responses came like clockwork. She contemplated telling Alya’s threat back in Lila’s first day, but she really wasn’t ready for the backlash if Alya accused her  of lying. 

“Well,” Alya stuttered. “It was because she has an illness that makes her lie uncontrollably.” 

Marinette was pretty sure there was no such illness but at this point, Lila had somehow convinced everyone it was an actual illness. That, or no one wanted to point out the obvious lie, including administration. Which would be pretty negligent of the school admin so she hoped not. 

“Alya, if it was just an illness that makes her tell lies, pray tell, who put the test answers in my bag and the necklace in my locker?” she asked. 

“Maybe, well,” Alya tried coming up with an answer but failed, thereby changing the subjects. “Look, both of you are my friends, and I don’t want to get in between the two of you.” 

Marinette sighed. “Yeah, yeah.” She picked up the discarded quiche container and her bag. “I gotta go to class and see if Mme. Bustier needs help.” 

Alya frowned. “Marinette, wait.” 

“It’s okay, really.” Marinette assured her, before walking away. When she was climbing up the steps to the entrance, she sighed heavily. She didn’t really understand Alya’s logic sometimes. If she knew about Lila’s supposed lying disease, why did she put Lila’s trash on the Ladyblog? If Alya knew Lila’s lies had led to Marinette’s initial expulsion, why still defend her? Marinette shook the thoughts away, not wanting to get into that impeding headache. Lila Rossi was never worth her time. 

When she reached the entrance, Lila was leaning against the doors, her arms crossed. Her olive green eyes were glaring right at her. 

“Dupain-Cheng.” 

“Rossi.” 

Lila strutted up to her, getting uncomfortably close to her face. “I told you what would happen if you didn’t play along.” 

Marinette stared back, unimpressed. She really had more pressing issues than this weird power play Lila wanted to play. Leaning back and stepping to the side, she said, “I already told you I’m not scared of you, Lila.” 

Marinette didn’t spare her another glance. In some ways, she pitied Lila. What kind of life did you have that you were so desperate for attention you lied about everything, and tried to get rid of anyone else who called you out? 

She really hoped Alya would soon see sense. Adrien had once told her to take the high road, and honestly? Sometimes, it felt good to not let Lila’s lies get under her skin. 

Then again, when did Lila ever go down so simply?