#And I think I got some new escaping abnormalities recently that I’m forgetting right now

[say-the-name-sebongie]

Princely Problems

Synopsis: Where a princess-love-story-unbeliever meets a prince-like gentleman named Joshua

Pairing: Joshua x fem!reader

Genre: tiny bit angst, fluff somewhere at the end

Warnings: drinking, harassment, violence

Word Count: 3k words

Fairytales were fictional. _____ had already had that down. Princes that saved princesses from abnormally high towers or mad dragons didn’t exist and love stories weren’t what Disney had made them to be. Those fictional movies just made little girls hope for something that could never exist: a perfect love story

Out of all the relationships she had been in, not one of them proved to have a Disney-like fairytale happy ending. In fact, none of them had happy endings. Men only pretended to be princes that would swoop in to save you when you needed it. But even that façade only lasted so long. Men only wanted you for a night, a month, or not at all.

This was why _____ wasn’t fazed (or as fazed as she would like to admit) when the epitome of gentle princely men knelt down beside her, asking if she was okay after her fall on the sidewalk from running too fast to catch a cab to work. He didn’t seem to care that some strands of his perfectly styled hair had fallen down over his eyes as he looked over her for any injuries.

“I’m fine, seriously.” She said as she got up while holding onto the lamppost beside her and pretending not to notice that the guy had held out his hand to help her, taking note that her left ankle was definitely sprained. The boy’s doe-like eyes looked into hers and it took all of _____’s willpower not to nervously swallow under his stare.

“My name’s Joshua and I don’t think you’re okay.” The boy— Joshua— said as he slipped an arm behind her and led her to one of the houses nearby.

“What the heck! Where are you taking me?” _____ panicked. Joshua just laughed, the sun shining on his glorious face as he threw his head back. “This is my house and no, I’m not going to do anything to you. I’ll leave the door unlocked and open if that makes you feel safer but that sprained leg needs to be iced.”

Needless to say, the boy made this “prince” thing look very natural.

Over the next few days, Joshua continued to keep up his princely façade. It was like he was actually born from royalty. The amount of grace and politeness that exuded from his form made _____ gag. He was almost too perfect. Everything he did was considered kind. Helping old ladies cross the street, holding the door open to let the pregnant lady into the shop, carrying groceries for that old man that lived at the end of the street, and basically any action kind and princely. He was just mortifyingly nice.

Not only that but he was mortifyingly nice even to _____ who turned down his many attempts to be of service to her. She didn’t let him open the door for her when they coincidentally went to the same café, grabbing the door handle along with him to open it herself. Nor did she let him help her change her car tire. _____ was fooled once, okay maybe more than once but she wasn’t going to be fooled again. Not by a guy who pretended to be nice. Not by some kind boy who lived a few houses over and made her heart do parkour routines in her chest every time they met. Not by Joshua, and that was final.

So far, Joshua hadn’t gotten tired of her refusals. He was still as nice as he was when they had first met. _____ pitied the girl who would fall for him. There weren’t a lot of people who wouldn’t believe that Joshua was just pretending.

“Joshua sure is one good actor,” she mumbled to herself as she walked.

“You should wear a jacket if you’re going out today.” Speak of the devil. _____ turned around and saw the embodiment of princely behavior graciously standing with a leaf blower in his hands, yard nearly rid of any leaves that had recently started falling. “It's autumn now so the nights are gonna be colder.”

She didn’t miss the way his eyes drifted to her legs, exposed by the short dress she was wearing, before coming back up to rest on her face. Typical men. They just can’t help themselves can they, _____ thought scoffed. The neighborhood prince’s face was contorted with worry as if he was afraid that she’d get cold. _____ gave a laugh in response. “I can take care of myself.” She told him before going her way.

-----

Getting drunk was part of the plan. _____ had agreed to go out with her friends from work to get her mind off the angelic creature that had been reaching out and offering his help bothering and pestering her all week. The bar was full of people, music, and alcohol. No princes and no Joshua. Just what she needed tonight.

Her friends immediately went to the dance floor, their eyes wide open and hunting for someone to take home for the night. _____ sat at the bar and watched them as she took shot after shot, drowning any thoughts of Joshua. One shot. Princes didn't exist. Another shot. His real personality would show itself sooner or later. Shot glasses gathered up in front of her as she drank alcohol as if it was water.

"That's enough alcohol for you sweetheart. Why don't I take you outside for some fresh air?" An unfamiliar man's voice said. _____ turned to her right and saw a man reaching for her thigh, his oily hair slicked back and his wild eyes peering over her form. Even in her dunked stupor she noticed that he wasn't looking at her face but at her chest and thighs.

Disgusted, she pushed him away and stumbled to the dance floor in search of her friends. The man followed her closely, his invasive eyes never leaving her body. People bumped and pushed against her, making it hard to make an escape from the man. Soon enough _____ found herself stuck in the middle of the dance floor with the man pressing his pelvis against her back.

"Go away! " she tried to shout at him, but the loud music and chatter drowned out her cry. The man smiled behind her as his hands went lower towards the hem of her dress. _____ pushed hard against him and bolted out of the bar.

She ran out of the exit and was met with the ice-cold air of the night. That apparently was not enough to make the man stop pursuing her because he was still hot on her trail. Desperate to get away from the man, _____ managed to stumble to the main road when suddenly her heel got caught on a stone and she twisted her ankle rather painfully. The girl let out a loud cry of pain.

"Get up, hurry." a new male's voice came as the speaker's warm hands softly gripped her forearms, pulling her up. In the light of the moon, _____ looked up at Joshua’s face. His usually warm eyes were now boiling with anger as he stared at something behind her.

"Josh, my ankle," _____ whined, the alcohol hitting her again and momentarily forgetting that she didn’t want anything to do with Joshua tonight. Light and shadow blended together. The boy sighed and removed his jacket, wrapping it around her legs before positioning his arms around and under her to lift her up.

This was the first time that she had seen Joshua up close. Of course, every time he tried to come near her, she just pushed him away. Her eyes focused on the lines of his face as if it were a camera. He was so annoyingly nice and attractive that her heart started beating faster.

"Come in girlie, let's have some fun at my place." the man said as he came running towards _____. Joshua stood up protectively in front of her. If a fight broke out between him and the man, it was obvious Joshua would win. But the man was too blinded by his desire for pleasure to think straight. He barreled towards _____, reaching down to touch her when Joshua grabbed his arm, pulled him to eye level, and stared him down.

"Leave. Her. Alone." he threw the man to the ground and kicked him for good measure. It was surprising to see this side of Joshua. The warm man who seemed like he couldn't even hurt a fly was now inflamed with anger and beating up a stranger. The fire in his eyes didn’t subside even as he kicked the man over and over.

"Joshua, stop," _____ said as she reached up to tug on his shirt, letting out a yelp as she accidentally moved her ankle. Joshua looked back at her, his wide, warm, worrying eyes meeting hers as he came to her aid. "Don't beat him up, it's not worth it."

"Sorry, it's just that guys like him disgust me," he said as he scooped _____ up and headed off. She heard a car beep before he laid her in the passenger seat of his car. He then went to the driver's seat and started the car.

"You followed me?" _____ asked him, earning a smile from the man beside her. "I figured something would happen to you, especially in that dress." his warm, gentle voice washed over her. He looked up at her and winked. The girl rolled her eyes and looked out the window. Joshua was too attractive for her own good. _____ really had to get him out of her head or she might end up falling for a prince again.

-----

_____ woke up with the worst headache she had ever had in her life. She was still in the dress from last night, her foot bandaged and Joshua's jacket draped over her.

Joshua's jacket?

That woke her up. Clearly, she was in her house and sitting on her couch which meant that Joshua had come into her house but had the decency not to go into her room. The fact that she was still in her clothes from last night meant he hadn't tried to undress her.

Why did he have to be such a natural gentleman?

Getting up off the couch, _____ made her way to the kitchen where she found a post-it note sticking on the refrigerator door.

I put some of the hangover soup my mom made in here. Heat it up and eat that when you wake up. Call me if you need anything. - Shua

Below the last sentence was a series of numbers. _____ smiled and saved the number into her contacts. As much as she didn’t want to have anything to do with Joshua anymore, she would have to thank him sooner or later. She had to admit, he was really thoughtful to have done all this. The familiar warm bubbling in her chest from last night came back. _____ shook her head.

It's not real, _____. Don’t start falling for him now.

A knock on her door shook her out of her thoughts. The face of the prince greeted her when she opened it. His kind eyes immediately looked down at her injured foot before the scolding started.

"Why are you already walking around? You're injured, for goodness' sake." He demanded, grabbing her arms and pushing her back into the house.

"Joshua I- Wait-"

He dragged her inside and sat her back down on the couch. Joshua placed down the paper bag he was holding and went straight to the kitchen and brought out the hangover soup. _____ felt like her chest was about to burst. She knew this feeling and this was something she promised herself never to feel again.

He’s not a prince. He’s not a prince. He’s not a prince. He’s not a prince.

"Aren't you tired of pretending to be nice Joshua?" _____ huffed as she crossed her arms over her chest. The girl couldn't wait for Joshua to snap, to prove her wrong so she could go back to believing that Disney stories were plain fiction. With that, she would have enough reason to not like him and go back to her normal life.

"What do you mean pretending? This is how I always am though?" Joshua said, his head peeking out of the kitchen. When he saw that _____ wasn't convinced, he walked over to her and looked her in the eyes.

"Did I do something to make you uncomfortable?”

Feeling guilty, _____ looked down at the floor. To be perfectly honest, there was nothing Joshua had done that would ever even make her question his kindness. He has been nothing but kind to her and to everyone around him. However, her belief still stands.

“You should probably stop being so nice and princely to me. I don’t believe in those Disney movies that say men will sweep you off your feet and carry you to happily ever after. I’ve been through enough to know what men are truly like. I know you’re not Prince Charming and you can’t make me think otherwise.” _____ hissed before pulling him to the door.

“Thank you for bringing me home last night and for bringing me the soup but I’m not going to fall for another nice guy like you, Joshua.” And with that, she closed the door leaving a stunned Joshua staring at her peephole.

For the next few days, Joshua left _____ alone. No greeting when they passed each other on the street. Heck, it was like they didn’t even know each other. The boy continued to be of help and service to the other people in their neighborhood but he had cut all contact with _____.

The change made _____ happy. Her feelings for Joshua had faded away and she was able to go about her life without that fake prince tempting her with his sweet words and actions. Or so she would like to think.

After kicking Joshua out of her house, he invaded every second of her time. She couldn’t think of anything but him. _____ couldn’t admit it, but she missed having someone greet her in the morning on the way to work. She missed him coming over to her house once in a while to give her some mashed potatoes because he had made too much. The girl lay in bed at night haunted by the warmth of a person she had pushed out of her life. Though _____ wouldn’t admit it to anyone, she missed Joshua.

Christmas time came around and the snow had started piling up in her yard. Shoveling snow was the only thing she could do without thinking of the boy that lived a few houses over so she did it every time she could. _____ shoved piles of ice out of her yard banning all thoughts of princes and boys. It was just her, the shovel, and the ice. Right now, nothing matters, she thought to herself. Her shovel got stuck on a rather large chunk of ice. She pushed with all her might but the ice stubbornly stood its ground.

The sound of footsteps on the snow made her look up to see the very face she had been avoiding to see. Joshua was standing at the edge of her yard with a shovel in his hands. “Do you need help?”

His offer took _____ aback. This was the same guy she kicked out of her house a few weeks ago, right? The guy who she had called a fake. And here he was, offering his help to the girl who had done all that to him.

“It’s fine. I don’t want to bother you.” She gave a forced smile and hoped he would leave her alone after that.

I don’t want to have to kick you out of my life again.

The boy shrugged his shoulders. “You could never bother me _____. If it makes you feel better, you can help me shovel my yard too.”

Seeing that he was adamant about helping her, _____ gave in. The two worked side by side in silence. After finishing Joshua’s yard, he offered her some hot chocolate to which _____ only agreed to because her teeth were already chattering.

As she sat in his living room, looking around at the Christmas decorations already put up. A fire was roaring in the fireplace. She could hear the tinkling of the teaspoon hitting the mugs as Joshua mixed the hot chocolate.

“Don’t you hate me, Joshua?” _____ asked him, nervously fiddling with her hands on her lap.

The boy’s laugh rang in her ears, making her cheeks turn red. Weeks of trying to forget him went to waste as her feeling came back to the surface. “Why would I hate you?”

“Didn’t you get offended that I kicked you out of my house after you were only trying to be nice to me?”

“Of course, not. You had a perfectly good reason to be suspicious of me and I figured that you just needed time to sort your feelings out.” He handed _____ a glass of hot chocolate.

“Feelings?” Did she accidentally tell him something? _____ didn’t remember ever telling anyone, even her own friends, about how she felt for Joshua.

“You probably don’t remember but you’re kinda talkative when you’re drunk. Plus, you called me a prince that one time so it was safe to assume that you probably saw me that way.” _____ turned to the side to hide her blush. Curse the drinking habit she had to have.

“And for your information, I like you too,” he said, turning her head towards him and forcing _____ to meet his glittering eyes as the girl nervously swallowed. There was no turning back now, their feelings were out in the open. All that was needed was their decision on what to do with them.

“Give me a chance to prove you wrong, princess.”

[lilhawkeye3]

Find Your Way Back Home- Ch 3

Riyo Chuchi x Commander Wolffe, Riyo Chuchi x Commander Fox

Rating: T |||| Word Count: 1.9k |||| Set Post Order 66 |||| AO3 Link

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Riyo gripped the kitchen countertop tighter than anything in her whole life. The loud pounding of her heartbeat in her ears threatened to drown out the pounding of her heart as she sought a tether point in her whirlwind of emotions.

She couldn’t do this.

How could she do this? The ghosts she’d left on Coruscant were now seeking shelter in her bedroom.

She’d looked at Wolffe laid out on her bed, and some sick part of her expected him to be Fox. She used to bandage her lover’s wounds on their bed in her old apartment. What had she done to deserve this cosmic taunt?

“Riyo?”

Riyo’s hands flew to her mouth to hold in her startled shriek at Ahsoka’s appearance just to her left. Her friend’s lips twisted into an apologetic smile, and she patiently waited for Riyo to come down from her sudden rush of adrenaline. Her rusty hand cupped Riyo’s elbow to help ground her.

“I’m so sorry,” Riyo murmured, blinking rapidly to hide her brimming tears before she met Ahsoka’s gaze.

The Togruta’s eyes were sad as she searched for the right words, despite them both knowing nothing would ease Riyo’s pain. “You see him.”

Riyo tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a gasp for air after so long underwater. “How can I not?” Her tears stubbornly refused to fall now, despite clamoring at the floodgates only moments ago. “I can’t… I can’t focus on this right now.”

“You can’t go back in there right now either,” Ahsoka calmly pointed out. “Wolffe needs to heal.”

And so grew her guilt. “I know.” She needed to do something to keep her hands and mind busy. “I’ll get some more juvan ready so I can make a cold pack and show Rex what to do. You’ll both need to know how for when you go back.” She tried to ignore the predatory way Ahsoka’s eyes followed her around the kitchen as she gathered supplies.

“I find that talking helps sometimes,” Ahsoka quietly suggested, once Riyo stood back at the sink with her items gathered around.

“I’m not sure I remember how to do that after so long on my own,” Riyo muttered, grabbing a bundle of leaves from a jar more harshly than they deserved.

“No time better than the present.”

Riyo paused to stare calculatingly at her friend. She wasn’t lying about not knowing if she’d be able to speak of her nightmares after so long bottling it all in. “I propose a trade.”

One of Ahsoka’s painted brows rose in interest. “A trade.”

“I will tell you if you update me on your… situation.” She’d tiptoed around the circumstances of her guests’ arrival– and unlikely survival– for the past few days.

“Alright, deal.”

Riyo’s hands hovered uncertainly as she tries to steady her breathing before she begins. Where to even start? She’d tried so hard to forget that night six months ago. Now she had to relive it in full.

“I… I was home for the night.” Riyo doesn’t even recognize her voice with how vacant it sounds. “Everything was normal, even when I got a call from Co– Thire.” She didn’t want to relegate them to their titles. Those men– her friends– were worth much more than that. “He’d call sometimes if Fox was too busy to come home.”

Breathe in, one, two, three, breathe out.

“There’s– there was a code phrase Fox had me agree to. Dusk is falling soon. If one of us used it in a communication, we knew it was from the other.” Her hands began to shake as she ground the juvan up. “Thire said it to me that night. He said I had to flee Coruscant while I still could, before I was marked as a traitor by the Chancellor. That Fox needed to know I was safe, because… because he didn’t think he was coming home.”

“Oh, Riyo…”

Riyo tried to laugh but she choked on her voice. “No, no it’s fine. Please don’t feel sorry for me, not after–”

Not after what you’ve lost. It hangs in the air like a shadow, chilling the two women to the bone.

She could feel Ahsoka’s eyes on her for a long moment before she conceded. “Alright. So you fled Coruscant?”

Riyo nodded. “Yes. I waited for him, but… then I gathered those I could and had a trusted pilot shuttle us off. It wasn’t just those from my office, though. There were several other members from Pantora’s allies that we also safely evacuated. It was beneficial in the long run, since the number of hyperspace jumps we needed to make ensured that we weren’t followed.”

“That was wise of you,” Ahsoka confirmed. “You most likely had been tailed. The Empire has been interrogating anyone they view even as having a potential to be rebellious.”

Riyo dipped her head in a gentle nod. “And I never was one of the Cha– Emperor’s greedy followers,” she added.

Her friend’s lips quirked up in a humorless smile. “No, you weren’t.”

“Anyways, I timed my resignation to autosend sometime during our flight, and I contacted Bail, who gave us directions to follow. That’s all there really is to tell,” Riyo sheepishly shrugged, relieved to be finished and able to turn her attention back to the juvan leaves she’d laid out. They needed to be diced and then ground with water into a paste that could be either frozen and saved, or wrapped in a damp cloth and held to the wound.

“So, my turn then?” Ahsoka asked, faux-cheer evident in her voice but appreciated.

Riyo nodded, thankful for something else to focus on. She beckoned her over though, waiting until the Togruta was looking over her shoulder. “Just make sure to watch how I do it, so you’ll be able to on your own. The leaves have to be separated carefully, or you’ll negate the medicinal qualities.”

Ahsoka observed quietly as Riyo worked, nodding along to each specific task that Riyo pointed out. It was quite simple, but an untrained eye would still mess it up. It was nice to have someone at her side. She’d been so used to being alone.

“We agreed on a trade?” Ahsoka prompted, once Riyo stepped aside and handed the knife over for her to try. “Would you still like to hear what we’ve seen?”

Riyo bit the inside of her cheek to try and keep herself afloat in the surge of stress that threatens to sweep her away. “Yes, please.”

Ahsoka nodded sharply, and then the knife made its first clean slice. “We were on our way back from Mandalore after apprehending Darth Maul– the Sith Zabrak,” she elaborated for Riyo’s sake. “And an order went out to all the clone troopers, everywhere in the galaxy: execute Order 66, to kill the Jedi.” Her fingers clenched around the knife handle to the point that Riyo thought it’d snap. “Somehow Rex… he fought it long enough to warn me to find a file about Fives, an ARC trooper that–”

Riyo could feel the blood drain from her face at the mention of that name, one she’d long forgotten. “I remember. Fox… he shot him, to protect the Emperor.” It felt like lifetimes ago.

In a twisted sense, it was. It’d been during Fox’s lifetime, when he still came home to her every night.

Ahsoka hummed in agreement. “Right. Well, Fives had told Rex that the clones all had control chips in their heads, and that a damaged chip had caused another trooper to shoot a Jedi. No one believed him.” Her shoulders drooped. “I was able to capture Rex and take the chip out of his head, and he was back to normal. I… I let Maul out of his cell though as a distraction, and he damaged the ship so it crashed into a moon. We lost the whole battalion,” she finished in a whisper, head bowed.

“Oh, Ahsoka,” Riyo gasped. She wasn’t sure how a hug would be received, so she placed a comforting hand on her friend’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

Ahsoka’s eyes were teary when she looked up. “Thank you, but please don’t be for me. I took a risk, and it was Rex’s brothers that paid the consequences.” She shrugged half-heartedly. “I’m glad we found Wolffe. There have been other clones that escaped, but Wolffe was always one of his closest brothers.”

A small smile slipped onto her face unbidden. “I’m glad for the both of them as well. How did you find Com– Wolffe, though? You all barely made it here,” she pointed out.

The Togruta sighed. “You know Bail’s been coordinating a lot recently. We were sent out on a mission to try and contact a defector from the Empire. They’re a medic, and they’ve been treating several troopers sent to them for abnormal behavior. We arrived to get them out, and Wolffe was their latest patient, but they were being watched.” She stopped talking to peer at her work cautiously. “Is this correct?”

She stepped out of the way so Riyo could observe her work. “This is very good for anyone’s first try,” Riyo praised her. “Now we just need to grind it with some water to get a thick enough paste.”

Ahsoka waited for Riyo to set up the next step before continuing. “We had the freed men escort the medic onto our waiting ship, but we couldn’t take Wolffe back to base because of his chip. I followed their instructions to try and deactivate it, but we had to leave in a hurry. It took us a few days and several firefights before we lost them well enough to get here.”

“Had no idea you’d gotten that good with a blaster, either.”

Riyo bit back a shriek as Rex’s voice piped up from behind them. Good thing she’d been using the mortar and not a knife, otherwise she might’ve cut herself. At least he had the decency to send her an apologetic smile once she whirled around to face him.

“Gee thanks, Rex,” Ahsoka huffed, reaching out to playfully slap his chest. The two of them shared a grin, and Riyo decided to study the wooden floor beneath her feet until they snapped out of it. She wouldn’t dare disrupt their small moment of joy.

“I came out to let you know Wolffe is asleep again,” Rex finally explained his presence after he shook himself free of their little bubble. “We spoke some, but he tired quickly.”

That was good. He clearly was suffering from some form of head injury, so any amount of time Wolffe was able to be awake and coherent was a step in the right direction.

“Alright, that’s wonderful news. We should be able to apply this compress despite that.” Riyo picked up the bowl of ground javun and gestured at a clean cloth folded on the counter top. “Would you grab that and come with me? I’ll show you what to do, so you know how in the future.”

A quiet grief crept up her spine with each step she took back towards Wolffe’s room. He needed her help. She could pull herself together for him.

Riyo entered the room alone and took the seat beside Wolffe’s still form. Rex would be along in a minute.

Until then, she studied the still man’s face, finding and cataloguing each unique feature of him and hoping it wouldn’t come back to haunt her like before.

[pretty-thoughts-and-a-pen]

Dark Feathered, (1)

A boy, a demon and a mystery box left on his doorstep with a cool surface and an aura of mystery. Such is how the stories of Cyan Archer begin.

Demons were majestic, alluring creatures that appeared in your living room at the call of a symbol and finished off your plate of cookies. As Cyan watched the darkness spread and thicken under the flickering lights of the room, he was reminded once again of how he did not ask for any of this.

An inky black cloud hovered over the red circle painted on the floor, with two lines slashed through it making a cross. No, it was not blood, simply red paint. Cyan didn't know why he bothered. It was impossible to scrub off afterwards, and it wasn't like demons demanded the summoning symbol look like it was drawn in blood - they could make do with chalk, no problem. But Cyan could be whimsical that way, and whatever little things he could take pleasure in from time to time, he wasn't going to give up so very easily.

A shape started to form in the mystical cloud that was only getting more and more compressed. A vaguely humanoid figure could soon be discerned, and when the lights stopped flickering, the sound of two feet gently tapping onto the floor followed the image. Cyan blinked and rubbed his eyes. It was easy to get caught up and disoriented during the summoning. Nevertheless, he quickly clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head, training his gaze onto the pointed, black shoes that stood on the edge of the circle.

He kept his tone low and respectful. "I, Cyan Archer, welcome you into this home-"

The shoes were gone.

Cyan's head snapped up. Against the backdrop of his white ceiling, two large, feathered wings, black and shining as if they were a piece of the midnight itself, fluttered away in the direction of the kitchen. A moment later, a crashing sound indicated the box on the counter had been knocked off. Cyan's body relaxed then, and a suffering sigh ripped from his throat. It wasn't one of the higher ups then - the more dangerous ones that required Cyan's full submission. No, it was HIM.

Good news...mostly.

He jogged over to the kitchen and there he was. Lounging on the counter with his back against the wall, the young man could've been mistaken for a normal teenager, if not for the wings that protruded from his inhumanely pale skin, so intensely dark they seemed to absorb the brightness around them. The rest of him - small, brown eyes, hair that was just a slightly darker shade of brown, and a fit, tall stature- was incongruently ordinary when put together with demon wings. Even the symbols and words that adorned his neck, chest, and arms in swirling, dizzying patterns, could've been mistaken for tattoos by someone who didn't know better.

But Cyan was not fazed by the abnormal, and instead focused on the fresh batch of cookies he had left out, which were being devoured. He had seen it coming; he had known Alistair Shade long enough to not be surprised. And annoying as that was, he would take one of the friendliest of the demons he knew over the other, less amiable, members of his species any day.

"Ally." He strode forward and tried to hop onto the counter across from him. Alistair, however, quickly stretched his legs out over the whole thing and flippantly kicked him off. "Hey, what the hell?"

The demon smirked. "No space on my throne for people who call me 'Ally'."

He took several seconds, then, to chew two cookies at once. Cyan huffed. Filling up the time, though, he bent over and picked up the box from the floor. The rectangular-shaped piece of polished wood was no bigger than his average school textbook, and no heavier either. As he dusted it off, a familiar prickling feeling arose in the back of his neck. He could've sworn the wood got colder under his fingertips the longer he held them there. Its gleaming surface reflected his face, but not correctly. Distortedly. Cyan knew a thing or two about having his worldview turned upside down, bent and distorted beyond belief, and it had made him forget who he was before his mother and sister had decided to change everything. He did not appreciate a bent image of him staring up from a box that probably contained nightmares inside.

He decided he hated it.

So, naturally, he plopped it onto Alistair's legs.

"Rude." Alistair put the plate away and ran his appraising gaze over the object. "Certainly very pretty, Cy. What's inside?"

"I'm not entirely sure I want to know." Cyan pursed his lips, and settled for glaring at the lid, so that it would come off on its own and save him the trouble. It didn't. "Kind of why I was summoning one of you guys. I thought I could get some information, or someone would just confiscate the thing. Stolen demon property, sir." He made sure to make his voice thick and ridiculous, for the impression of a certain demon named Viktor he wasn't particularly fond of.

Alistair just stared at him for a long time, his stoic expression revealing nothing. He couldve just been contemplating. And then...

"Fallen angels."

He said it matter-of-factly. Cyan just waved his hands around. "Oh, come on! Everyone says 'demons' when they see black wings, and creepy symbols, and-"

Alistair leaned forward and wrapped a hand around his mouth to shut him up. "And you're not everyone. No 'demons'. No 'Ally'. Now," he lightly tossed the box in the air and rattled it, revealing a clinking sound that indicated numerous tiny objects bumping around inside, "are you going to open this? Preferably while we're still young, please."

So Cyan took his sweet time. He pinched the bridge of his nose under his glasses, wiped off his sweat multiple times, paced the kitchen a little, and shoved Alistair every time he laughed, or shook the box pointedly, or snapped his fingers and dyed Cyan's light blonde hair a horrendous shade of red. The two of them only stopped when it became clear that the box was, in fact, getting colder with every passing second.

"Is it just me," Alistair wondered, blinking, "or were those icicles not there under the lid before?"

"Not there." Cyan marched over and took the cursed thing, firmly putting it down on the counter after Alistair vacated it. The demon stood nearby, still and steady, and Cyan found himself hiding halfway behind his outstretched wings, while leaning as far away as he could from the box whose lid he was prying open.

Finally, he flicked the lid aside. Quickly, he jumped completely behind Alistair and ducked behind his back, settling for peaking over one broad shoulder. The boys waited with bated breath - for smoke, hellfire, booming laughter. Nothing.

Cyan leaned over, holding onto Alistair's shoulders for support. He looked into the box to see...

...coins?

No ordinary coins, either. The wooden hollow was brimming with intricately carved, golden coins that shone with an unearthly light. Against all expectations, that didn't seem dangerous. They were very clearly beautiful and valuable.

Cyan stepped out of hiding and reached out to take one. "Well, this isn't so bad."

Alistair grabbed his hand in mid air.

The demon's face was always pale, but now it looked sickly and etched with fear. He pushed both of Cyan's hands down and away, then, slowly and carefully, plucked something out of the box with the very tip of his fingers. Not a coin, but a note, which had been buried amidst the gold. He smoothed it out on the counter, and Cyan couldn't help but note how much distance he had suddenly put between himself and the box, where previously he had been standing directly in front of it and been the human's shield.

Only three words on the paper, written in block letter. HIDE IT, CY.

Cyan grabbed Alistair's arm as support. "Ally, what's wrong?"

Alistair threw his head back and breathed in deeply. "Those coins, with purple carvings instead of black? And creating ice out of thin air? I'm pretty sure they belong to...an Elder. And not just any one." He fixed his eyes on Cyan's face, and his usual cool and calm expression mostly returned, except for his irises getting darker and darker progressively, which ruined the image. "He is famous for conjuring ice for his work, and to enchant his property and protect it from intruders. I think," he turned to look at the dreadful treasure once more, "those belong to Lord Julius."

If there was one thing Cyan did not want to face, it was an Elder. There were demons that were considered young, who had died and turned recently, and these could be reasonable. One of these was Alistair, and he was an outlier case altogether. Cyan even knew that these young ones were called Saplings, as a result of some inside joke that had apparently lasted millennia.

A testament to how chill they could be.

But then, on the other hand, there were the Elder demons. These had been around since the dawn of time, and they were everything Cyan feared. Powerful, ill-tempered, and full of pride that you had better not wound, and on top of that these came with a variety of unique flavors of powers. Ever since his mother, Rose, and his sister, Bethany, had decided to dabble in the occult, one of the most unfortunate consequences had been this - their family's entanglement with Elder demons.

Cyan tried very hard to keep the tremble out of his voice. "So," he pretended his hand wasn't shaking as much as it was, "I'm assuming Julius didn't mail these as a nice gift, did he?"

"No." Alistair was too grim for Cyan's comfort. If he would just make another snide comment, or do something silly, the teen's world would turn slightly more right. "We might have a big problem here. Rose and Bethany..."

Seeing no escape from this predicament, Cyan chose to bury his face in Alistair's shoulder. Casting a weary look at that dreadful treasure again, he nodded.

"...they stole an Elder's gold."

[marvelxfam]

Every Little Voice✨

Part Three

Bucky x Reader

requested by: @thunderstormsandsugar

summary: you are a test subject for HYDRA. After being sent on a mission as nothing more than a murderer, a certain someone shows you the light.

WARNINGS: cursing, mentions of death and killing, sadness:(

Your eyes fluttered open, a wave of nausea and dizziness rolling in. It took a while for the room to stop spinning, and your vision found its focus when the bright lights and one way mirror showed your wrecked, tired state.

You shot up from your chair and were immediately pushed backward, eyeing the metal restraints around your wrists and forearms. You resisted, pulling with all of your strength to be free, but it did not avail as your breath became short. You were tired of being locked up, caged to machinery like an animal in a zoo. You wanted to walk without guards surrounding you or the constant examination from scientists who claimed you were the future.

You wanted to be free.

But you were so, so tired of it all.

You couldn’t tell how much time had passed as you sat there, staring off into space, hearing the low hum of air conditioning while the lights continued to burn your eyes. All you wanted to do was rub them and provide some relief to your sores and splitting headache.

Memories flooded into your mind. Some from your most recent mission against the Avengers in Budapest, but also some abnormal, foreign memories that seemed to belong to someone else, except with each memory, as your reflection stared back, it was your body. Your voice that seemed so far gone. Who was the person that laughed and drank strange drinks and walked freely along coastlines? How had this person taken your body and done everything you wanted and couldn’t imagine?

Who were they?

Who were you?

You swallowed the terror in your throat, shutting your eyes tightly to keep the fear from engulfing your body. Why did these memories seem so familiar, yet foggy and distant at the same time? You were angry with yourself. How could you not remember anything about your life? How could you not remember even the basic parts-like your name?

Y/N, you thought to yourself. The way that man paused before knocking you out, a mixture of disbelief and heartache covering his features. He had said, “Y/N?” Was that your name? It must’ve been if he called you it.

The slow creaking of the door opening sounded someone’s arrival. You glanced up, hoping it would be the man who had called you that strange name earlier, wondering if you could get any information from him.

Instead, it was another man with blonde hair, tall and broad shouldered. His face was grim but held a softness as he crossed over to where you were restrained. He had opened his mouth multiple times but no words escaped, wondering how to start his sentences.

“I’m sorry.” You croaked, the sound of your voice without water and unused for as long as you could remember was evident. You had never apologized before, but your chest felt heavy with burdens kept there for what seemed like years. You couldn’t bear to look at the man, keeping your eyes on the mirror, hoping the other girl you had traumatized, the one with powers like yours was standing on the opposite side of that mirror. You hoped your apology could wipe away even a quarter of the pain you had caused.

“I’m Steve. Steve Rogers,” the man said as he pulled up a chair in front of you, taking a seat just a few inches away. You refused to look at him, knowing he would just have the face of all the other victims you had taken from. They all looked the same after a while.

“You know they’re going to come for me, right?” Your voice remained hoarse as tears welled up in your eyes, knowing that these people were the ones you were sent to kill. You had failed the mission. The nervousness in your stomach was a testament that you knew what happened when a soldier failed a mission. Especially when you failed HYDRA.

Steve’s heartstrings couldn’t help but be pulled at the obvious panic in your tone, knowing because of Bucky what you were so scared of going back to.

“Let me go in. I know her and I actually understand the hell HYDRA’s putting her through. I should be the one in there,” Bucky pleaded, his hands pressed against the glass as he yearned to get closer to you. All this time, he thought he had lost you. He thought you were gone and he regretted his choice everyday leaving you with HYDRA when he was able to start a new life. In the rare moments when the two of you could actually remember your lives, you had talked quietly and reminisced, knowing you at least had each other through all of the torture.

And then he left, and you were alone.

Bucky hated himself for that and so much more.

“Barnes, Steve’s got it. We can bring you in when we know she’s stable,” Natasha reasoned, pushing Bucky back as he headed towards the door. The guards stood tall and Bucky backed down, clenching his jaw as he watched you break down in the room.

Tears were now spilling one after the other as Steve talked to you softly. Tears for the people who no longer had lives, tears for their families who would never be the same, and you hated yourself for them, but, tears for yourself, for not understanding any part of who you were.

“HYDRA installed a tracker in you, but we were able to take it out. You’re safe now, Y/N.”

“Don’t call me that,” your voice wobbled. You didn’t want to be called that name if you weren’t a person. You were nothing more than a weapon, and you knew that HYDRA had a grasp on you. When you were involved with HYDRA, you were never really free from them.

Bucky shoved his way past the guards and teared open the door, rushing in. Steve got up and talked to Bucky in a quiet voice, asking him to leave. Bucky refused to listen as he pushed Steve away, walking over to you.

As the man came over to you, more memories surged into your mind, ones with his face in them. You remembered the quiet, rare laughter and the sparkle of his eyes when you had gotten him to talk about long ago. The few times when the guards weren’t looking and the two of you reached into each other’s prison cells, taking in the surprise softness of the others palm and intertwining fingers for brief moments before the guards turned back around. Another memory where you were shocked from your sleep as more guards yanked Bucky from his prison cell, the look of dread as he desperately searched for you before crossing into the darkness of the hallway.

He was Bucky.

“Bucky?” You whispered, choking back the tears as you looked into the man’s face, knowing him. Remembering him and his name. Bucky slowly nodded, trying to fight tears of his own as kneeled in front of you, reaching out to hold your face in joy, thanking God that even if you didn’t remember your own life, you remembered him.

The happy moment was cut short when you recoiled from his touch apologetically. The only touches the past few years had been from HYDRA doctors and leaders, either to cause more harm or snap you out of a daydream. Bucky’s hands drew back to his thighs, also knowing how strange another person’s touch was when the only touches you could remember were ones of hostility.

The two of you sat in each other’s presence, shooting glances and sending small smiles in attempts to connect. You had all the memories but now that the both of you were back together, no prison bars or exhausted, broken bodies, it was a condition neither of you knew how to act in.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky’s voice broke. His bottom lip quivered as he spoke. “I’m sorry for leaving you with those bastards when I ran away. I can’t believe I left you there to suffer like that,” he shook, fighting back the tears that made their way down his cheeks slowly.

He was sorry? Him? You were the one that was a murderer. That had just threatened thousands of people’s safety.

That was sent to kill the Avengers.

A memory bubbled, remembering the feeling of how lonely you were when Bucky didn’t come back that day, or the day after that, or the week following. Grief sunk in when you realized you had lost the one person who got you through the day, who gave you just a small bit of hope in that evil place.

“I thought I had lost you,” you admitted, your face twisting in sadness. “I thought they had...”

You didn’t need to finish the sentence to get your message across.

“Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore.” Bucky attempted to give you a kind smile, trying to provide peace when he knew life didn’t work that way. It never worked out that way for people like the two of you.

“I heard what Steve was saying. We’re going to try to get you back. It’s not easy-I know-but this is your second chance at life. None of that, all the killings and bombs and every other bad deed, none of it is your fault. You can’t sit here and think of every person because I know it doesn’t help. We may not be able to forget about them, but we can try to move on.” Bucky wanted so badly to convince you, seeing how upset you were with your involuntary actions.

“Something tells me you don’t believe any of that yourself.” You noted. Bucky scoffed, nodding his head.

“You’re right. Everyone tells me that it wasn’t my fault, that I was brainwashed and had no control, but I always had the small, minuscule voice inside of me, begging me to stop. I just didn’t know how. And look how many people we lost because I couldn’t control myself.” Bucky knew he was going to be scarred, and so were you. He had been through so much to get to this point in his life, and he wasn’t going to allow you to wither away. You were going to grow with him.

“It’s not easy. At all. There are many people on the team that still don’t like me. I can sometimes feel the fear when I do something. Maybe that will never go away. But you’re here now. For a reason. You may not remember your life or much of it, so I’ll be here. Because I didn’t have anyone that knew the hell we endured, but now, we both have someone.”

Bucky reached for your hand, and this time, you didn’t shrink away. His touch was just how you remembered it, his palm soft yet with calloused fingertips. He gazed softly at you after you found the courage to look up, finally giving into the glimmer of hope you had tossed away for so long. You nodded, a shy smile spreading across your face.

“Okay,” you breathed, holding on to Bucky’s hand. His smile grew wider with relief, overjoyed at the fact that you were now back in his life.

Even if you didn’t remember yourself, you still had him.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

taglist:

@darkphoenixrisingwrites

@nerdypisces160 @s-trawberryv-eins

@littlepsychos-world

@bruisedfaye

@crybbysarahjane

[storysick]

Rust Along the Horizon (Short Story)

Rust Along the Horizon

Warnings: Contains graphic violence and angsty gay cowgirls.

______________________________________________________________

‘No matter how far a person can go the horizon is still way beyond you.’

- Zora Neale Hurston

______________________________________________________________

She pressed the back of her hand, sticky-warm and flaking rust, to her mouth and breathed sharp and quick. It didn’t do much for the rising nausea clawing up her throat, boiling in her gut like black-sin tar. The body was flat on the ground and if she imagined real hard with her eyes squeezed shut, like she had done often back at the Pink Pearl, she could almost imagine he was sleeping. 

She cracked an eye open; his chest didn’t rise in calm slumber, his skin was pale and greying, lips blue and bloated. Right between glossy, un-seeing eyes was a  neat hole leaking red surrounded by split skin, ivory flecks of his skull lodged in stringy hair and painting the wall behind him. She lurched to the side, retching by still, worn boots. 

She had never killed someone before. A shock, considering the world she’s lived in, the places she’d worked. Sure, she wasn’t a stranger to death, knew it would come for her and those she knew somewhere down the line. She had seen the mutts and horses in the Saint Denis slum’s alleys, emaciated with flies and strays picking on the diseased cadaver. She had cleaned the whorehouse linens, boiled them for newcomers to drive away the sickness that had killed the previous owner (she remembered that girl, sweet and young, miserable like a sunflower locked in a basement. She had fed Balisse the good bits of her dinner, smiled at her as she passed. She was decent. She died from consumption on her 17th birthday.) 

Balisse sniffed, swallowed back another bout of nausea from the stifling stench of a settling body. She wiped a hand across her mouth, blinked hard the prickling in her eyes and the shaking fear trembling against her ribs. She had to get out, leave the scene of her crime for some other schmuck to find; by then, her and Lettie would be far from this shack and picking up the bounty down in Rhodes. She hung the repeater from her shoulder by it’s strap, stumbling to the door and across the threshold, as clumsy as a newborn foal. 

 Lettie was there, her dark eyes were fathomless but Balisse knew every part of her from the top of her braided head to the tips of her steel-toed boots. She could see the scrap of concern in those eyes, the sympathy in the downturn of her lips. “You finished, Liz?” Balisse nodded, sharp and jerking. Lettie sighed, stony face softening as she stepped close, thumb brushing the top of Balisse’s right cheek to smooth down over pink scar tissue. “It’ll get easier. I’m sorry I had you do this… but I don’t regret it,” Lettie was firm, hand falling from her face to squeeze the red-head’s shoulder. “This is how things are done out here, and this ain’t gonna be the last time you kill a man. Not with the jobs we got now." 

Balisse couldn’t un-stick her tongue from the roof of her mouth, so she just nodded, blinking away the image of the man’s surprise; his snarl and the burst of bright red his head became after. 

She nodded, and Lettie smiled. 

______________________________________________________________

"I love you, you know that right?” Lettie’s smile was feral and wild, free and dangerous and it sent a singing thrill down Balisse’s spine. There was blood smeared across the bridge of her crooked nose, her smile bright and toothy, at odds with the black gleam in those untamed eyes of hers. That smile, that question- all of it could’ve made Balisse forget that she was in the middle of a gunfight with a group of Del Lobos. 

“‘Course I do! Can we get back to the matter at hand?!” Balisse ducked, round whistling over her head, displacing the air above her. Lettie laughed like a gunshot, loud and sudden; right at home in the moment. She aimed her revolver, catching the gleam of the lowering sun along the nickel plated piece. She breathed, held a twitching finger over the trigger. 

The boulder she had been aiming at revealed the peeking head of a Lobo. 

She squeezed. 

* +-*-+ *

There were bodies scattered about, eight in total, all dressed in brown and black, but painted with red. Lettie breathed, licking the cut on her bottom lip (from a member that had gotten too close, whipped her with his pistol before he had his head blown off by her partner,) and she turned to Balisse with eyes that sparkled brighter than her knife’s blackened steel. “We make quite the pair,” she smiled like one of them sharks in the paper, the ones that spoke of exotic islands and beaches, and pressed close enough that Balisse could smell copper, see where scar turned to new skin on the hollow of her throat. “That we do…” Was all Balisse could breathe before that storm of a woman lunged. 

Lettie kissed like a punch. 

And Balisse was never one to turn down a fight. 

______________________________________________________________

Payment after a job well done was always a celebratory time for the duo; they would get to the nearest saloon and drink down at least a quarter of their paycheck each. They only did quarter 'cause anymore and Lettie might wind up killing the next man that had too smart a mouth (it was an experience in Rhodes that was not to be repeated.) 

This time though, Balisse had something special in mind, even if it wouldn’t be as pricey or as lively as how they usually celebrated. It had been two years since she’d escaped the brothel in Saint Denis, two years she’d been running with Lettie Davis. Maybe it was naive and foolish, too much so for a woman that’s lived a life like she, but Balisse could see herself running with Lettie for as long as the woman would have her- and she had a feeling that that would be quite a while indeed. 

Annesburg smelled of coal dust and misery. Balisse never enjoyed the stops here that Lettie would always call for (family maybe? A fence? Lettie was always mum about it when Balisse asked.) But she did enjoy the land that surrounded the mining town; while Lettie rode off towards the mines with a blasé “Meet back at the general store once you’re ready to get a move on,” Balisse made for the forest above Annesburg. Before her father had kicked the bucket, the trips they’d take to try and connect (which always fell flat before they began,) would be to the surrounding wilderness. That’s where Balisse learned to hold a gun, to steady her aim and squeeze, not jerk, the trigger. 

She was surprisingly good at hunting- in another life she could’ve made a living off of it. But this wasn’t another life, and instead she made bank by killing whoever she was paid to think needed killing and stealing from folk more decent than her. It was a strange existence, but it wasn’t one she minded some days, not when Lettie was there existing with her. 

The light seemed to have a physical presence as it filtered, soft and diluted, through mist around the green-brown stretch of the surrounding trees. Rabbits and squirrels skittered in front of the great hooves of her Belgian roan, squealing as they narrowly missed the beating of his steady canter. She stopped at a clearing, thick tall trees placed apart near the river that ran near Annesburg, squirrels scuttling in the underbrush and up the towering trees. She could hear the call of turkey nearby, the low wail of a deer herd and chirping bark of fox. This was prime hunting country, and Balisse felt the previously hidden knots of stress release as she slid from her saddle, strapping on her varmint and bolt action, tucking away various types of bait into the pockets of her leather coat. She paused in the moment, letting the heavy sunlight lay soft against her cheeks, warm the strands of her loose hair. 

Patting her hefty mount on his flank and leading him towards the river, she let him drink his fill as she scouted the surroundings. There were deer tracks leading deeper into the wood, no doubt from the herd she could hear in the distance. She smiled and pulled her rifle into her hands. 

She found them grazing on a hill, green grass and a smattering of flowers. It was ideal, so Balisse settled close as she dared and took aim. There was a moment she always experienced as she raised the sights of a gun to her eye, felt the cool metal of the trigger under a steady finger; control, the ability to take a life with the twitch of her hand. It was something both frightening and awe-inspiring. 

She breathed, held it, and squeezed. 

The gun bucked into her shoulder, the bull elk she had been aiming at, a large one with an even larger rack, crumpled as the doe and fawn around him wailed and sprung away. Balisse rose from her crouch, reaching the warm body of the buck she had downed with her hunting knife drawn. 

It was a clean kill, straight through the eye. She set to skinning him, huffing as she harvested meat and antlers, wrapping the lot of it in the thick pelt. She hefted it onto her shoulder and made her way back to her horse. The sun was beginning to lower, bright light giving way to low amber and dusky skies. The trees were intimidating in a beautiful way against this light, black-green leviathans that watched over the forest, groaning with the gales. 

The leaf-litter on the ground was damp and gave under her boots and were she any less steady on her feet, she could’ve slipped. But she had learned the value of a sure foot and good eye through the years and kept a good pace. 

She couldn’t have expected the pit trap. 

If she had been, she would’ve realized the litter before her was too dry to be normal. But she hadn’t, and when her sure foot landed on that abnormal stretch of leaves, it truly gave beneath her. Like the elk she had recently shot, she crumpled, falling for a while before she hit the ground with a snap, her load falling atop her with a thump and clatter. 

A scream bubbled up her throat, but she clenched her jaw shut with a groan. It wouldn’t do to attract predators when she was this ripe for the pickings. Breaths ragged, she sat herself up, pushing off the bundle from her legs. She hissed when she saw her ankle; black and blue and bloated, it was definitely broken. “Why are you such a goddamn fool, McCarthy?!” Balisse pressed her palms to her eyes, grinding them into the sockets until stars burst behind her lids. 

She could die here, and Lettie would be left to wonder if she had finally bolted.  

That thought was what dragged her from the ever-spiraling fears that had taken a hold of her in that moment, at the bottom of some pit trap in the middle of a darkening forest with a broken ankle and a long climb. Balisse had to get out, she refused to rot away in a grave she had fallen into. 

They came as she righted herself, putting pressure on the knot of needles and hellfire her ankle had turned into. She could only breathe shallowly through it, whimper in her throat like a dog with a mangled leg (she remembered, suddenly, one mutt that had always hung behind the Pink Pearl, skinny as a twig with as many bald patches as it had fur. It’s leg were so eaten up with disease and infection, it hardly looked like a leg. She had named him Patches and fed him the leftover chicken bones and bacon grease from the kitchens. It stopped coming around after a few months and she later found it’s corpse in the trash heaps near the Saint Denis bridge. She wondered if that would end up her fate as well if she couldn’t get out, rotting in some shallow grave, decomposing alongside fallen leaves.) 

“Lookie what little mouse found our trap, Travis!” Balisse snapped her head up, glaring at the faces she could barely see against the back drop of the dark sky. She could smell them though, like wet dog and unwashed skin, trash piles and age-old blood. She was about to reach for her varmint rifle when the click of a cocked gun caught her attention. “Nuh-uh-uh, not so fast lil’ missy. Move a muscle and I’ll blow your head off so goddam’ fast you won’t have no time to beg for mercy,” she didn’t move. 

She heard a voice on her left, the one that must be Travis, chuckle and shift closer to the rim of the pit, chunks of dirt and tree nettles tumbling onto her head. Her heartbeat picked up, an old fear sending her pulse to dance. She was outgunned and injured to boot; at the mercy of two deranged individuals that were no doubt apart of the infamous Murfree Brood. 

She had seen what they’d done to women. 

“Get on down there Travis, take her guns and make sure she ain’t got nothin’ to stick us with.” The figure named Travis edged towards the pit, lowering bare feet and long legs into it to drop down beside her. He had a revolver in hand and a cruel, insane quality to his eyes. Balisse didn’t like it- not one bit. 

She decided that if she were to die, she would want to go down fighting to her last breath. 

She waited for Travis to get near, lower the revolver as he laughed at her faux meek exterior. He grabbed her harsh around the arm, yanked her to him to paw at her stomach. She waited long enough to apologize to Lettie for her own stupidity, before she struck. 

Travis doubled over when her knee met his stomach, his breath rushing out of him with a retching sound. She grit her teeth, rushing to pull out her hunting knife as her other hand held tight to his bird thin shoulder. Travis recovered faster than she expected. His face was a snarl and he hauled back easily, Balisse stumbling on her broken ankle with a cry before his fist met her cheek. A burst of pain, taste of copper sharp on her tongue before her back met packed dirt. Travis was skinny as a rail but he made up for his size with inhuman ferocity, roaring as he slammed her repeatedly against the ground by the lapels of her coat. She was dazed, head thick with a pained haze. 

“Move you damn idiot so I can shoot the bitch!" 

"I got her, I’m gonna teach her a lesson myself.” Travis’ grin was mottled black and yellow, mean as a poked bear but cruel as a killer. His hands were tight as a steel vice around her throat and Balisse kicked, swallowing down what air she could. A gleam caught her eye: there, by the patched knee of Travis’ pants was her knife, sitting there pretty as a prayer waiting to be used. 

She stretched, choking as blood rushed to her head, and her fingers scrambled for the knife. The hilt was warm and comforting in her hand. 

Travis’ blood was warmer and slicked her palm as she rammed the knife into his throat. It caught bone, slid through muscle and vein and emerged from the other side. The Murfree had a comically surprised look on his face, slack as blood ran sluggish from the holes in his throat. He tilted and fell forward atop her. Balisse could barely recover the air he had squeezed from her before there was howling above, at the mouth of the pit. 

“How could you?! That was my brother! I’ll make you pay, whore!" 

Shots rung out in quick succession, each one finding their mark with wet squelches. Balisse huddled under the body above her, her shaking hands finding the rusted revolver near the dead man’s belt. The body jerked, back blown open by the rounds in his body. None made it through the muscle and tissue, but it wouldn’t be long before they did. 

The revolver held tacky to her bloodied palm, but she didnt shake when she pulled back the hammer. She waited for the break in the fire, when the crazed Brood would have to pause and reload. It came soon enough and she rolled from under the corpse to take aim. 

That feeling came to her like it always did, the control and the racing of her pulse. The sight was to her eye and finger over the trigger.  

She squeezed. 

  * +-*-+ *

She left the pelt behind when she finally crawled from the pit, her whole body aching worse than even the beltings back at the brothel had left her. It had taken a while to climb from the pit and a lot of painful struggling, by the time she had, the night was a black stretch across the sky, only the tiny glitter of millions of stars pressed into the expanse to light her way. Her horse was, surprisingly, still milling about the clearing she had left him in. He whinnied when she approached, eyes widening as he pawed at the ground. 

She hushed him, grabbing up his reigns and dragging herself into the saddle with a breathless groan. She was so, so tired- if it weren’t for Lettie waiting back in Annesburg, Balisse questioned whether she would’ve ever made it out of that hole in the ground. With only a nudge of her heels and jerk of her reigns, her Belgian was off, back onto the path to the mining town, back to Lettie. 

She faded in and out for most of the ride, the blackness at the edges of her vision made by exhaustion was only inspired further by the sharp throb of her ankle and glass in her throat. The rocking of her horse’s gait lulled the blackness closer and eventually, it settled like a veil across her eyes. She slumped against the strong neck of her steed. 

  * +-*-+ *

She didn’t awake until much later, the sun golden as it streamed through the window and suffused the dust motes with its bright light. She was very clearly not on her horse, and very clearly not in the woods, in that damned pit. The hair on the back of her neck prickled and she sat up, wariness worn into her bones. It was a neat room, as neat as an Annesburg home could be; the quaint robin’s egg blue walls were streaked with the soot that covered the town like a curse, chipped at the corners. There was sparse furniture, what there was obviously second-hand, cracks on the doors of the armoire, chips in the spindly legs of the nightstand with worn rings on the top of it. 

She looked down at the blankets that covered her, they were scratchy and thin but looked clean enough. What unnerved her though, was her lack of protective layers; just clad in the thin men’s shirt and long johns that made up her underclothes. Her anxiety cooled some when she saw the wooden chair by the door, her clothes clean and folded on the top of it, gun belt wrapped up neat atop the bundle. She stood, gasping between clenched teeth at the sharp shock that tingled up her leg when she, foolishly, applied pressure to her ankle. It was splinted and wrapped, and a part of her not itching to make her escape wondered who she should thank for this treatment. 

She dressed as quickly as she could with a plum bruised back and injured ankle. As soon as her belt was buckled around her hips, the door creaked open a well dressed man with a shiny tin star on his breast strolling in. He stopped short when he saw Balisse, surprise shifting across his mustached face before he smiled. He had a dimple at the top of his left cheek. 

"Good to see you awake Miss McCarthy, Lettie was threatenin’ to shoot up the whole town if you didn’t,” he chuckled as if that wasn’t a viable cause for concern, hooking his thumbs into the belt on his hips. Balisse tried not to let her surprise show, or the fondness she could feel soften the constant downturn of her brows- she tried, but it was obvious she failed by the smug smile that grew on the lawman’s face. “Now, normally I’d have you stay a day or two longer, whoever accosted you did quite the number,” he paused, shifting his booted feet with an audible scuff and ring of spurs, “But I know how Lettie is, and since you ride with her, I can take a gander as to how you are, too.  I won’t keep you, your partner’s just out in the parlor." 

He held out his hand, that smile softening into something warmer, almost paternal as he stared down at Balisse. "Me and that girl out there go way back, so if y'all ever ride back in, know you always got a place with Marshall Doc Keaton.” Balisse clasped his palm, shaking firm as she smiled back, “We will. Thank you, Marshall.” He held tight even as she was ready to pull back, leaning in with a serious look in his gunmetal eyes, “Take care of that girl, a'right? She’s as wild as the west but loyal. I’ve seen how she is when it comes to you, she’d kill and die all in your name. Keep that in mind,” he patted her on the shoulder, mindful of the bruises that colored her back and turned and left Balisse to the silence. 

For some reason, those words hung in the sunlit air like a bad omen. 

______________________________________________________________

“We really gotta escort these fools? How much money are we missing out on if we leave ‘em to themselves?” Lettie snorted beside Balisse, swatting her playfully on her shoulder as she gave her a lazy side-look. The crown of her braids that gave way to her mane of curls was tucked into the collar of her coat, a halo of fluffed black and brown. Balisse had to catch herself from staring too long; in the company of these gruff hired guns, too longing of a look could bring unwanted comments. The younger woman didn’t want Lettie maiming anyone after only a few days into their escort job. “Play nice, Liz- you know how much money these stuffed-shirt folk are willing to give out for some slingin’ expertise,” Lettie’s words were serious but her smile was not, this job danced on her nerves just as much as it did Balisse’s. She sighed still, just for the theatrics she knew Lettie secretly found amusing, and spurred her horse on further, to eavesdrop on the men riding ahead. 

They had taken the job down in Rhodes (after paying off the bounty from that drunken incident,) to escort a wagon to Riggs Station. They weren’t briefed on what the wagon held, only that a few gangs through their path would try seizing it. It had to be valuable, depending on the number of hired firepower alone. Balisse wasn’t interested, but Lettie had been quick to accept it and, of course, the two were joined at the hip. 

They settled for camp in the Heartlands, near the crossroads to Flatneck Station. The campfire was surrounded by sour-faced mercs, cleaning guns and smoking together. Lettie stood a ways from them, brushing down her buckskin mare and pausing every other stroke to squint up at the sky. Balisse stood by the wagon, gun cradled in her hands as she kept first watch. She had to fight for the position, funnily enough, a few boys kicking up a fuss about a genteel young lady watching over them as they slept. 

A few nice threats helped shut their mouths, but it might make their sleep a little harder to come. It was worth the ugly looks, especially when Lettie smiled as wide as she had then. 

“You’re lookin’ as pinched face as them old men over there, what’s on your mind?” The woman that kept her thoughts spoke up behind Balisse, the sheep skin and fur-lined coat she wore tucked tight around her against the nip in the air. Balisse turned slightly, enough for her partner to see the soft, implied curve of a smile on her mouth. It fell quickly when a collective roar of laughter came from the campfire, dashed away like embers kicked up into the wind. It brought back to mind the damn job, and a statement told to her by a Marshall-Doctor a year ago. 

“I got a bad feeling ’s all, with how little we know bout our cargo. With the danger we could be facing,” Balisse pointedly emphasized the last sentence, even when Lettie shook her head almost exasperatedly from the corner of her eye. “It’s just a boring ol’ wagon job- not much trouble except from stubborn, stupid bandits. We’ve faced worse by ourselves, but now we got more men in on the job,” Lettie grimaced slightly at that, no doubt thinking about the cut profits, “This’ll be a breeze, Liz.” Lettie moved closer, but not too much- not with the group of men just a stone’s throw away, she didn’t rest her hand against the small of Balisse’s back, press herself along her side and rib her about that worrisome mind of hers. Not like she wanted to. 

Balisse sighed, shoulders slumping just-so. She shrugged, “I suppose…” She turned to Lettie, held her gaze for far longer than appropriate with a look too fond (almost loving, if the word weren’t so corrupted in the mouth of this woman,) to be just friendly. “But, if things do go sideways and I can’t be saved-” Lettie shook her head, scowl etched deep on her face with a furious glint that sparked in her black eyes. Balisse stopped her, setting aside her repeater and dragging her closer to the wagon so as to keep away from wandering eyes. “Listen to me, please. For once, listen to me,” Lettie kept her mouth shut, pressed tight as her brows were knitted. Balisse could tell she was practically vibrating with anger as she shrugged off her hand from her arm. She continued, 

“If the time comes, I want you to run. That’s all I want Lettie." 

It was silent, the tension between them tight as a taut bowstring. Until Lettie sighed, the air halting as it passed her lips. Balisse had hope that Lettie understood, that she would comprehend and obey that one wish, until she turned those dark eyes back onto her and Balisse saw that ember of anger, of refusal buried deep in the dark. "How dare you ask that of me, Balisse McCarthy, how dare you. I have always listened to you. Always."  She paused, letting the burn of her glare smolder enough to make Balisse’s skin prickle. “But I won’t when it comes to this." 

   * +-*-+ *

That night, the women slept apart, something ripped raw between them. In the morning, they rode side by side in silence. Balisse felt… torn; she didn’t feel the need to apologize, not for a wish like that, she couldn’t regret asking. But neither did she enjoy the intense quiet between them, not when that bad feeling lingered and anything could happen on this shady of a job. She didn’t want to face her possible death with a rift between her and the woman she-… with her closest companion. 

They reached Bard’s Crossing, the bridge looming high above them and casting long shadows across their entourage. That’s when Balisse approached her. Lettie was at the back of the wagon, riding as rearguard and she rose a brow when she saw her partner approaching, slowing her horse’s gait enough to let Balisse settle beside her. They rode like that for a while, quiet as they approached the Dakota Crossing until Balisse coughed. "I know what you’re gonna say, and it’s alright,” Lettie smiled, not that lethal, wild one but the one she saved for the soft sweetness of their time together. The one she gave her on the road out of Saint Denis, when she was 18 and Balisse was 17, when freedom was new and theirs to explore. 

“I’d expect the same from you, this ain’t just some special condition that applies to just me, McCarthy.” Balisse smiled, “Whatever you say, Miss Davis, whatever you say.” It was as close to an agreement as Lettie would get and she knew it. 

“I mean it, Liz. I want a promise- promise me you wont try and save me if there ain’t no savin’ to be done.” Balisse sighed, their horses reaching the river bank and beginning the wade through the shallow water, the wagon was already halfway across, the point guard on the other side of the bank. 

“I pro-" 

”Up ahead! Watch up ahea-!“ The shots rung down upon them, as hot and bright as hellfire. 

And to Balisse, it surely had to be Hell that they happened upon that day. 

______________________________________________________________

Gunsmoke and sweat stung at her eyes but her aim was true even still. She lost count of how many bandits she had put down; all she knew was that the sand was now tinted red and bodies drained into the coloring river water.  The wagon had stopped moving, the horse shot from their harnesses; the point guard had all been gunned down or scattered into the chaos. It was a mess of lathering horses and ricocheting bullets, screaming cowpokes and hollering outlaws. 

Balisse didn’t care about the pack of bandits trying to pry at the reinforced wagon door, she just knew that she had to find a buckskin mare and the woman that rode it. She fired into the twisted face of a pockmarked scavenger, blowing wide his cheek and knocking his head to the side. Her ears strained for the sound of Lettie’s howls. 

She found them. 

Wheeling her workhorse about, she carved a path back, through the thick of their ambushers. There, buried beneath the screaming body of her horse, was Lettie and a bandit poised like a vulture over her proudly raised head. He raised his gun. Balisse spurred her horse on. The hammer cocked back. Lettie grit her teeth and snarled. A man jumped in front of Balisse’s roan, leveling a shotgun to her stomach, she twisted the reins around her hands but it was too late. 

She saw Lettie’s eyes as her horse stumbled beneath her; they were wide and black, as expansive as the night sky. There were stars that sparkled in the depths, welled up to catch on the thick drape of her lashes. The tears fell and Balisse heard herself scream. 

Two gunshots rang out. 

It was a blur of pain and impact, the shotgun was close and strong enough to blow her from her saddle, flaying open and mulching the skin beneath her layers. She was knocked windless once, a second time as she hit the muddied waters. 

She gasped wetly, tasted flecks of blood at the back of her throat. She moaned, warmth and itchiness harsh in her eyes. She sobbed, clasped her chest, clasped the buckshot riddled wound in her side. It was like a physical equivalent to the buckshot that tore through the tissue of her heart. The bitterness that fell from her eyes, ran rivers deep down her cheeks to mingle with the reddening waters beneath her body. 

She watched the sky, turned her head to feel cool river sing into her ear and lick into her mouth. It tasted like copper, like iron and life. Like how Lettie kissed her with a split lip. She knew it was her own blood; she was probably dying. 

 She blinked, one eye close to the lapping crimson of the disturbed waters; like this, the setting sun looked more red than the old sins that stained the cracks of her hands. 

Balisse watched the rusted-sin sky melt behind the mountains and cast it’s red shadow into the scattered clouds above. It looked like the spray of her first kill, it looked like Lettie’s one dress. 

 She watched, until she couldn’t anymore. 

She should’ve told her… 

She should’ve… 

 (I love you, too) 

[adversaryproject-blog]

Flightless Birds - Chapter One

Summary: There was a man in the Trench today. His presence has stirred up confusion in the whole camp, including inside Clancy and his partner, Porter. Will they be able to discover the true nature behind the purpose of Dema and the Trench? Do they want to? East is up.

Warnings: This story will contain content of a serious nature. Including the following: deep personal fears, torture, and heavy emotions.

Want More? Try here: @yviegordon @marieporter @lillylincoln

Author’s Note: I had begun conceptualizing and writing this story before the most recent Clancy letter surfaced on dmaorg.info on 7/18, so please bear that in mind when reading this. I’m neck deep into this story and don’t have the emotional energy needed to alter it.

Word Count: 2,807

Enjoy!

Chapter One - I Am Cold

He stood on the edge of the cliff looking down at the body lying in the river. The rocky ledge hung out over the deep rift cut into the land like a long healed battle wound. The rich green of the forest stood in stark contrast to the crimson-robed bishop who turned his head and attention towards him. Even with his face covered, he felt a fathomless fear grip him tight. The same fear he had felt when he first arrived in the Trench and he would look to Dema in the distance. He knew the bishop couldn’t see his face and wouldn’t know who he was, but that deeply ingrained fear never really leaves.

He knew the man wouldn’t make it. As soon as the bishop was within sight and the man didn’t move, he was doomed. It takes drive to get away from Dema. You have to want to leave with every last bit of who you are. Even as they threw the petals over the side of the Trench offing a distraction as a last resort to save the man from the bishop’s grasp he had hesitated. It wasn’t until the end that the man had really fought, but it was too late.

So why? Why couldn’t he look away from him? What was it about him?

“Clancy,” her voice was barely above a whisper, “Clancy, we need to go.”

What was it about the man in the Trench that had called to Clancy? Everyone else had left. Why couldn’t he?

“Clancy, please.” She was being a good partner. She wouldn’t leave him behind and head to safety without him. But the waver in her voice gave away her fear.

“Sorry,” he muttered turning away from the ravine, “you’re right, we need to go.”

Her face was obscured by her hood, but the bright yellow tape on her shoulders and down her arms marked her identity for him. He followed her back into the tree line, out of sight of the edge of the Trench and away from the threat the lone bishop posed.

“I don’t understand,” she slowed her pace so he could catch up, “why didn’t he run? It seems like so many of them get caught because they don’t run.”

“I think,” he sighed and pulled his mask down around his neck. “Sometimes they don’t want to enough. Some people the bishops have such a hold on that they stop running. It’s all in their heads and they can’t escape their own minds, but sometimes to stay alive you’ve gotta kill your mind.”

“Makes sense,” she nodded. “I suppose we got lucky coming from Keons’ district.”

“It definitely made it easier,” he offered a small smile. “That and the fact that we left as a group.”

They continued onward, the trees grow denser as they traveled deeper into the forest. The only sound was their footfalls and the dead foliage crunching beneath their feet. The trees were so compact here that any light that managed to filtered down through the leaves became a soft green. He loved the green. It was everything Dema wasn’t. Alive, full of energy and movement. The only splattering of color in the tomb-like city was the crimson of the bishops and the punishments they served to deserving citizens.

His mind wandered back to the heavy cloaked bishop and the man he was standing over. Like many of the people from the Nico district, the man had failed to escape. Clancy had been out for almost a year and he had only met one person who had made it out of Nico’s control, Gordon. Something, besides the huge gash on her head, had been different about her escape, but she refused to talk about it. Her silence on her flight from her district wasn’t abnormal, many of their new group refused to talk about life before making it out, opting instead for codenames and a fresh start at being alive. Even his partner, Porter, had been reluctant to share her past with him despite their growing friendship. He found himself doing the same with those around him. It was an unspoken idea.

The less you know, the less you can give away if you are caught.

It seemed as though even out here, the Bishops held sway over their lives.

It wasn’t long before the smell of the fire burning in the center of their camp filled their senses. The burning metal frame from some unknown thing had become the focal point around which their tents had been built. It provided warmth during the cold evenings, a place to cook their food, and a beacon to those who got lost in the forest. There had been talk of leaving it as it could potentially call unwanted attention to the area, but ultimately they settled on staying as long as they could.

Porter’s pace slowed as she came to the edge of camp. She pulled her hood back, letting her shoulder-length auburn hair see the sunlight. Clancy adored her hair and often found himself staring at it when she wasn’t looking. It reflected the warmth of the forest around them and caused the feelings of home he had developed to flare in his chest. He loved it best at sunset.

“Based on everyone’s glum looks that whoever was in the Trench was smeared,” Sheridan’s voice jerked Clancy away from staring at his partner’s back.

“Yeah, uh,” he closed his eyes and shook his head, “Nico got him.”

“Ah,” Sheridan nodded in realization.

Sheridan, along with his partner Birch, had been liberated from Dema the longest out of their group. For three years the two of them lived in the forest near the Trench before anyone else joined them. After the group gained a few more members they moved away from the edge of the Trench, towards the ever burning metal frame. The pair was from the Lisden district, the district of mask-wearing - of hiding one’s true self, so it was only natural that they set the precedent for hiding your past once you left Dema. They had proven themselves capable leaders and did their best to care for newcomers. However, they seemed complacent in their place in the forest, uninterested in progression. This bothered Clancy.

Sheridan broke away from the pair, no doubt seeking out Birch to share the news.

Clancy turned back to where Porter had been to see her standing further away with two other women, Lincoln and Gordon. The partnered girls had been assigned to the tent next to Clancy and Porter, leading to a strong connection between the four.

“Clancy,” Porter’s brown eyes turned to meet his, “we’re all off duty tomorrow and Gordon suggested that we should go swimming.”

“Yeah,” his spirits lifted. It would be good to have a day to relax. “That sounds good.”

“I’m going to go help with cleaning dishes before the evening meal,” Porter smiled, “let me know if you decide to leave camp.” She made a fist and pressed it into his shoulder. “Stay alive.”

He nodded before she turned and walked away.

“What does she think you are going to do?” Gordon chuckled lightly, her hazel eyes flashing with the same amusement as her smile. “She’s always telling you that.”

“Oh,” he rubbed the back of his neck, “it’s from when we first got here.”

“Now you have to tell us,” Lincoln smiled and threw her hands up.

Clancy sighed. “About a week after we arrived I went for a walk outside of camp on my own,” he pointed just beyond their tent, “everything was just so overwhelming and I wanted to clear my thoughts.”

“Yeah?” Gordon laughed, “don’t tell me… you’re the reason we can’t leave camp alone.”

“No, no,” he shook his head, “that was a rule already, but I ignored it and headed into the forest on my own.”

“Something must have happened,” Lincoln put her hands on her hips, “there’s no way she would say something like that to you if nothing happened.”

“I twisted my ankle,” he laughed, “it took her almost two hours to find me.”

“Clancy!” Gordon’s mouth hung open, “a twisted ankle out in the forest alone is all it would take, man!”

“I know, I know,” he held his hands up, “she reminds me all the time not to leave alone.”

“Remind me how long you two have been partners,” Lincoln rubbed her nose, “I forget.”

“A year,” he shoved his hands into his pockets, “we were assigned to each other when we arrived.”

“I was in their tent with them until you got here and we were given our own,” Gordon smiled. “It was nice, but it was crowded with three people.”

“I imagine so,” Lincoln’s eyes were wide, “and you’ve been out… seven months total, right?”

“Yup, so I’ve been with you almost as long as I was with them,” she hugged her partner.

“And you’ve managed to keep your sanity somehow,” Lincoln laughed.

Clancy smiled. They were different from anyone he had ever met. He was surprised by how heavily a given district could impact a person’s personality. Like Porter, he had come from the Keon district and as such, they were both somewhat reserved and religious when it came to their duties and commitments. Lincoln had come from the Andre district and was quick to withdraw like the others from there. Gordon was the outlier. As the only person in the group from the Nico district, there were no others to compare her personality to. She was happy and bubbly most of the time, but quick to turn, it didn’t take much for her to shut down and push people away. But still, he enjoyed them. They were becoming part of his family, and he wouldn’t have them any other way.

“I’m going to go try to rest for a bit,” he motioned towards their tent, “if Porter asks, that’s where I’ll be.”

“Yeah man, rest up,” Lincoln waved as he walked away.

Clancy pushed back the canvas panel that acted as the door to their tented living space. There were two small bunks, one pushed to the left and one to the right, the gap between them no more than three feet wide. They were each provided with a crude shelving unit that sat against the foot of their respective bunks and they shared the trunk that rested between the heads.

Porter’s shelves were filled with odds and ends. Things she had collected from the Trench and the surrounding forest over the year they had been here. A rock shaped like a bird, a leaf that had stayed a beautiful burgundy color, and the dried remains of a flower he had given her to commemorate the year they had been free from Dema. The bottom shelf held her spare boots and jacket.

His shelves sat mostly bare save his extra jacket and a drawing Porter had done of him while sitting near the center fire. They were indicative of his time here. Porter tried to connect with people, to create a home for them while he had spent his time writing in his journal and trying to ignore the nagging feeling that something was missing.

His bunk creaked as he sat down on the side, the wooden frame giving slightly under his weight. He reached under the thin mattress and pulled out his beat-up journal and pencil. He turned to a blank page and began to writhe.

Today there was a man in the Trench…

He had tried to sleep. He really had, but thoughts of the man’s body lying in the stream at the bottom of the Trench wouldn’t let him. So he stared at the canvas roof and kept asking himself the same question, ‘who was the man in the Trench?’

The sudden opening of the tent’s flap startled him from his thoughts.

“It’s time for the evening gathering,” Porter pulled on the toe of his boot. “I’ll hold a spot for ya.”

The sun had finished dipping below the horizon, leaving the forest wrapped in a blanket of darkness. But still, the center fire burned. Its flames stretched high into the sky throwing sparks towards the stars.

“Today many of you witnessed the smearing of a fellow Bandito,” Sheridan’s voice was raised so all those sitting around the fire could hear him. “While we did not know him, or his name, we mourn his penance and the loss at his return to Dema.”

Clancy found his seat next to Porter who handed him a plate with the dinner he had missed.

“We offer up a moment of exaltation for him and his failed escape,” Sheridan pressed his lips together and began to hum softly. The single, extended note was joined by the hums of everyone else around the fire. Clancy joined. He reveled in the feeling of the vibrations that seemed to fill his being. Whenever the group offered a moment of exaltation for a lost member it seemed to fill the circle they sat in with the same life that the forest hummed with. It was an offering of life in the honor of one who had lost theirs.

The hum ended and after a short pause, Sheridan began again.

“We would like to take this moment to remind you all to stay with your partners when leaving the camp,” he was walking around the fire, trying to make eye contact with everyone he could. “With the runners getting further into the Trench, the Bishops are coming out further and further from Dema, and we don’t want anything to happen to any of you. Stay safe, stay alive.”

“Stay safe,” the group echoed the mantra, “stay alive.”

“Sleep well everyone,” Sheridan returned to sitting next to Birch.

Clancy finished his dinner and returned the plate to the mess area. Porter was already laying in her bunk when he got back to their tent. Her pants were folded neatly on top of her shelves and her boots tucked under her bed.

“You’ve been awfully quiet today,” he sat on the edge of his bunk and pulled off his shoes, “everything okay?”

“I can still hear him calling to us,” she mumbled, “he used words that only members of our group should know.”

Jumpsuit! Jumpsuit! Cover me!

The memory of the words sent a shiver down Clancy’s spine. There had been something deeply unnerving about the events in the Trench.

“He called to us and all we did was stand there and watch,” she rolled onto her side so she was facing his bunk. “Now he’s back in the Nico district, alone.”

Clancy dropped his pants unceremoniously on the floor by his boots. “I didn’t realize today bothered you so much.”

“It’s not that today bothered me,” her voice hitched in her throat.

“Then what is it?” he laid down under his covers, facing her. He could barely make out her features in the dark, the space between them beginning to feel like a cavern. “You can tell me anything, Porter. You know that.”

“I hate the idea of being alone,” she finally breathed, “when we lived in Keons I had a roommate. When I left Dema, I did so in the group. Since we have been assigned as partners…”

“We’ve never really been apart,” he realized. Aside from the one time he had ventured into the forest alone, she had always been around. Only in camp did she allow herself to stray from his side, and even then she was always with someone else.

“I fear isolation,” he could hear her struggling to hide her anxiety, “what if that had been you in the Trench?” Her voice was beginning to rise in pitch as she struggled to fight back the emotions that had been building all day. “What if you were gone and I was alone?”

“Hey, hey,” he stretched out an arm from under his covers, “take my hand.”

She sniffed and slowly began to reach towards him. As soon as her fingertips brushed his he grabbed her hand, holding in firmly wrapped in his.

“You’re not alone,” he gave her hand a squeeze, “you will never be alone. I am right here, and I will always be right here.”

“But-” she began.

He squeezed her hand again, “no buts, I will always be here. Okay?”

“Okay,” she nodded from under the pulled up covers.

“Now go to sleep,” she tried to withdraw her hand from his but he wouldn’t let her. “I’m keeping this for awhile, so you know I’m serious.”

She gave his hand a squeeze in return. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, it’s what I’m here for,” he ran his thumb over the back of her hand.

“Good night, Clancy,” she smiled softly.

“Night, Porter,” he returned her smile.

More to come! Stay street, stay alive!

[themansionwrites]

The Lycaon

The woods silently whisper the news about those new creatures that are about to start living there, isn't like this woods haven't see something like them before, but is not like they are the usual kind either, monster, humans and in between, beings that master the elements, even creatures from heaven and hell, how that could even be possible?, no one was sure, not even the creator of that mess.

Most of the animals and creatures that already live there decide just look from a safe distance, they don't want to risk it in a fools way and become a victim like any other living being that dare to cross this realm.

Some gentle steps suddenly disturb the whispers, one of those creatures is coming this way, and of course, the woods know who is it, that abnormal height, the characteristic long red hair, and those hypnotizing eyes, the promised son is nearby.

All of them know that Jason won't hurt them, unless they attack first, and any of them have that kind of death wish, a slow painful death by his hands wasn't exactly the most honorable or better way to go, and his playfulness when he is chasing the chosen victim is a scary sight.

Jason can hear their new whispers where he go, he knows too well they are just observing with full curiosity, usually he could try to gain their trust or getting them out of his way but right now he is just a creature with a mission, and he doesn't want to waste time.

Is not the first time he has to do this kind of visit, and it won't be the last one, he just decide to start with the one he knew is going to be already there in his place, and the last one probably will be his favorite one, after all bother the poor doctor all the time was one of his favorite hobbies.

But for now he needs to visit the less talkative of them all, and in difference of the poor Valamir who doesn't have a way to talk any more, this man doesn't talk because he doesn't see the use of it, and every time his mouth open only daggers and swords leave his mouth.

Nive is a man of action and not of words, a pointy tool united with different broken pieces, he lost everything he had for fighting a war that was never mean to be, but instead of let the shadows of his past mistakes consume him, he is using them to give some balance to survive in a world where you get killed or live enough to be the killer.

- Get out get out where ever you are~

He make it sounds as if he was playing one of his games with a victim, but Jason is just to silenced the whispers, of course it works, as any kind of animal they know not to bother a hunter who is after his prey, and speaking of that, an unfortunate human running that way.

Without looking where they are going in that hurry they just crash with Jason, but only they fall on the floor, looking up they see Jason and desperately they try to make him help them, between babbling and breathing out some poor explanation they think Jason will help them, until they see how his smile isn't one of comfort.

- My My~ Is he really letting this one go?~ What exactly did you do?~

The victim don't know how to react, is he another monster too? He knows the one they are trying to get away from? Why is he so calm about all of that? The victim try to forget all the questions that are forming in their mind and try just to concentrate in one thing, escape, now.

- Oww~ going away so soon?~ you didn't even answer my questions~

And just as Jason finish that sentence, the victim is shoot from behind, one single bullet go through their skull.

- Headshoot~

A growl is hear not that far from him, is not as if Nive hates Jason, he just cannot get with his antics, or from anyone for that matter.

- Don't get mad mountain doll~ I actually make them slow down enough for you~

A big man emerge from the bushes, he was more far away than Jason originally thought, did he really growled that loud just for Jason little joke?

- So Mountain doll~ who was it this time?~

Even Nive knows, if someone sew Jason mouth he could find a way to talk with everyone around, but for all the topics he finally choose one that Nive would want to talk about.

- Human on their 16's ..... All of them were too near to the area...

- Aaaaaaaaaaand?~

- ... ... ... they were trying to find this slender monster on this woods

A sigh is the only answer Jason can give, how far this humans can go for this ridiculous kind of search. Besides, they were really going that far on the woods searching that they end up in no man land?

Ignoring the distressful face the red head was making, Nive approach the body of his recent victim, the real reason behind everything is always how annoy he feels with a cause, and in this case he wouldn't let this annoying teenagers do something as stupid, they just disturb this place with their non-sense.

- There went here to be kill anyway

- Not by your bullet~ But you are right Mountain doll~

Any of them could denied, since that nonsense of some universes with the haunt or love this kind of creatures is too easy to find victim from different places and ages all hanging lost around the portals in these lands, different dimension colliding between the woods, making it easy for the predator and difficult for the prey.

- And that's why are you here after all~ Be the first border line between them and us~

A guard dog, one of the reasons they need him there, he is part of this "family" but has to guard that anything just go in or go out.

Of his left boot Nive get out his fixed blade knife and cut the lock of hair he was choosing while Jason was talking, is dyed blond and he knows where it can be use, then he just proceed to pick up the body.

- Hmmm~ I'm guessing you will be feeding the birds and the fishes~

- I don't need anything else from them ... and we can't stop the cycle of life

- Oh my~ Was that a little joke?~ Nice first try~

- ... You came all the way here to check on me?

- Just a little good check to know if you like where you are living now~ I'm guessing that you are~

He won't deny it, an eternal war zone, no man land is the perfect place for a war dog like him, and it didn't bother him a bit, why deny it, he knows why he is like this and what he become, and he like it all the same. A great warrior as himself just needed a new objective and a good way to keep doing his favorite "hobby".

- The others are just exploring for now ... But I can't wait for my collection to get bigger

- Oh believe me Mountain doll~ you aren't the only one~

No doubt, all of them will like it there, many victims to get their hands on and the difficult of become prey, and there is no way any of them could have a boring day.

- Well since I see you are more than good~ I'm taking my leave~

- ... Guess I am not the only one you have to check

- True~ But don't worry we will still keep an eye out for you~

Jason wink while he throw a little bag to Nive and he nods in silence, the game of hunter and pray is about to get bigger, even if is more secure being in those woods, that doesn't mean that their hunters will stop searching for them, and a fight to still being the predator will be their every day now.

- Usually I would like to talk more with you~ Maybe find more dolls~ But lucky for you~ I've got places to go~ things to fix~ People to visit~ Tada~

And just like that Jason disappear walking behind a tree, and Nive is again leave alone in the woods with his last victim, and with the excitement of this new hunting space, his new personal playground.