#Anyway i fear i will be splitting this next chapter into 2

[decentishoutsidersthoughts]

Born to write fanfiction, forced to memorize shakesphere

[corazondebeskar-reads]

live to rise - chapter one

live to rise series

one: they'll find you, burn you

series masterlist | next chapter

gladiator!Din Djarin x f!reader

word count: 3.7k

summary: The Last of the Mandalorians have fallen; their Mand'alor captured. Stripped of his armor, his weapons, his people. Din rises to fight another day, grasping onto the hope that his son still lives.

No fighter has won their freedom from the Empire's arena before. With the help of a servant girl, can he hope to break free?

warnings: dark, dead dove do not eat, captivity, forced proximity, canon-typical violence, genre-typical violence, prisoner of war, indentured servitude, fight to the death, au where the empire wins, discussions of genocide, discussions of war, graphic descriptions of violence, graphic descriptions of injuries, gore, brutality, religious themes, fictional religion, mand'alor!Din Djarin, major character deaths, many minor character deaths, Din has hearing loss, angst by the bucket, Din Djarin takes the helmet off (kind of)

Please heed the warnings. There will be major & minor character deaths in almost every chapter. This is not a happy story, but I hope you find it worthwhile anyway.

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

It’s morning when the news breaks.

By lunch, datapads are discarded in favor of gossip. It’s as useless as the Imperial rags parading as official broadcasts—all speculation and slander.

While the details of the Mandalorians’ final stand for their homeworld circulate above, the stiff air of the lower complex is thick with the question: to whose barracks will the fallen king be assigned?

You know the answer. Your datapad had pinged early, much before your day should have begun. Much before the news went live across the galaxy.

Cell C-5 had been scrubbed clean on your perennially bruised knees the day before when Dup, a young Gungan whose face was bruised as if he’d already gone a round, had failed to return from the arena.

He had been brought in late the previous night, shaking and weeping and not speaking a lick of Basic. Those were the hardest. There was no comfort, no preparation, no honor you could give them.

He didn’t return after his first battle.

It was the way of things. Many never saw a second sunrise.

As caretaker for Barrack Cresh, whether your fighters eat, drink, bathe, get medical attention and fresh clothing, or, well, anything, falls on you.

So you stocked C-5 with the basics, but the Mandalorian King’s file is barren when your clearance arrives. You bristle at the lack of biodata. How are you supposed to provide proper clothing or order his dinner?

It becomes obvious when he arrives that evening.

You’re not.

It’s past curfew when they bring him in, and normally, you’d be in bed. But one of yours had come back a few minutes earlier from the medbay and you know the state they usually return in, so you’re in C-2 with the door shut.

The ex-Rebel pilot, Gino, doesn’t argue as you dab the shallow cuts on his face with an alcohol swab, but he does flinch when you tug the split skin on his calf together like a stubborn bedsheet to apply suture tape. They had used just enough bacta for his serious injuries and left the rest to bleed.

“Sorry,” you hiss, but it’s lost in the pneumatics of the door.

Gino is on his feet immediately, shushing you with a finger to his lips. You can’t risk being seen through the little window, so he minds your space as you flatten to the ground and peek through the delivery slot.

At first, all you can see are boots. So many boots. And among the shiny black rubber is the oddest pair of worn brown leather. It’s been so long since you saw anyone in shoes but the guards; your stomach churns with fear.

Gino taps at your head, and you let him help you up to peek once they’re past the cell.

It’s the Mandalorian. There are five of the Moff’s personal guards in their black kits restraining him, and they still have to jab him with an electrostave in order to shut the cell door fast enough.

He’s snarling, the modulator of his helmet warping and crackling the terrible cacophony. He’s also huge, and the strip of lights shines off his dark armor like someone took a handful of the night sky and smudged it across the wall of the cell.

You brush away the errant question of how much of his bulk is the armor and how much he comes by naturally. You’ll find out tomorrow, like everyone else.

The hype alone ensures a sold-out arena. The officers and their simpering spouses and sycophants are salivating for the battle—or at least for the profits.

The headlines fill seats to a swarming mass, everyone vying to see the latest and shiniest trophy.

He won’t be shiny for long.

Not after they strip away the beskar that protects one of—if not the last of—the “galaxy’s greatest warriors” and see if he’s worth anything underneath.

They don’t expect him to survive. They don’t want him to, really. They want to crush the will of any who would still defy the Empire. A very public, humiliating execution is the Moff’s wet dream.

The Mandalorian is gone before your morning rounds, dragged up to the arena’s cage to watch his fate play out on the faces of others. Either end is the same, really.

And if he survives, it won’t matter. Sure, prisoners can earn their freedom through a percentage of the money they bring in from wagers, or they can die trying.

But no fighter has made it out alive. Not even close.

You’re close, though. Not that you’re in an arena contract. But you’re nearing the end of the third year in a five-year indentured servitude sentence, and it carries a lower fatality rate.

Which isn’t saying much, really. It would be hard to have a higher fatality rate than the fighters.

There are twelve of you and ten barracks, not counting the fluctuating number of sponsored champions who have private accommodations.

Sixty standard fighters, never more or less as the sun rises.

Sometimes, you return to six empty cells.

Only once have you found your flock all home. You fell to your knees and cried right then, bringing acrid dread to a boil as you knew it would never, ever happen again.

Just three days ago, Din Djarin had stood in the grand hall at Keldabe, knowing it would be the last time.

It was still. Silent. Not yet in the chaos of war, but just on the edge, as when rainfall is a distant specter and the uneasiness cloisters in your lungs.

He takes in the art behind the throne with quiet reverence, eyes following the sharp lines and bold colors, the stories of their ancestors dutifully and beautifully eternalized.

The shame creeps up his neck again, but he shrugs it off. It will work. He’s known for his tight and effective strategy, and his advisors had agreed to the plan.

He only hoped the Ka’ra would accept his soul into the Manda all the same. That the blood of his brethren wouldn’t deny him the peace that he ached for.

He thinks once more of Grogu, breathes through the pain, and then clears his mind.

Turning from the throne, he strides to the grand windows—to Paz. With hands clasped behind his back, he follows his general’s focus to the TIE fighters breaking through the atmosphere.

Troopers are within the walls. The Destroyers won’t be long, now.

“Vod,” Din begins, angling toward Paz.

“Do not deal me the insult of an out,” Paz snaps.

“I would never,” Din says, throat cinching around the words. “It’s an honor to have you at my side.”

Paz dips his head. “It’s been an honor to serve with you, ner Mand’alor.”

Din knows he speaks true. Though they may not have always gotten along, they were still vod. Still loyal, until death.

Death they now stood on the brink of.

Outside, the fleet falls fast. Din grimaces as their ships careen to the surface and crush the city into crumbs. Fire spreads, and he has to pretend the homes are empty. That everyone got out in time.

The Empire assumes each Kom’rk-class fighter is full of Mandalorians waiting to drop into battle. They target them with glee, thinking they’ve devastated the sky and ground teams in one fell swoop.

But each ship has only a pilot. A pilot who climbed into the cockpit knowing they would certainly die. Willing to take the place of their vod.

Mando’ad draar digu. They will live on in him until he draws his last. More importantly, they will live on in their families, who—if he’s done anything right—will live far beyond him.

“Par Manda’yaim,” Din says.

“Par Manda’yaim,” Paz echoes.

They are to be the last words spoken to one another.

Inside the palace, the fight leaves no breath for such things. Not that they need it; their movements are fluid and equal.

It takes half the platoon to take Paz down and the other to take Din.

Unlike his vod, they do not grant him a warrior’s death.

In the arena, they’ve left him in the armor as he paces the cage. Every moment with it spurns the barb deeper in his gut, the terror turning terrifying as his rage becomes a tsunami.

The fights are nothing. The Imps who thought he’d be intimidated by them have clearly never seen an average Mandalorian brawl. These ended with a little more finality and a little less bickering over the winner, but the actual fighting? Mostly pathetic.

He doesn’t look upon them with scorn, though. These are beings stripped of all dignity, underfed, and devoid of hope. The Empire has ground them into the dirt beneath their glossy boots, and he expects that for many, death is a kindness.

In the end, he lets them take the beskar’gam from his bound body. They hold him, scanners at the ready, the whole of the galaxy waiting to witness his final defeat in real time. The giddy grins tell him what he already knows—they are certain this will break him.

He holds eye contact with Gideon just to see the shock that strikes him at Din’s defiance. He aches to smirk or snarl or sink his teeth into the man, but he won’t give him the satisfaction.

They don’t give them weapons for this fight. At least they’re being honest about their intentions.

Hand-to-hand combat with a Wookie should be a death sentence. Should be, for a lesser being. But the Mand’alor is far sharper than their blades could ever hope to be, and he wields his mind and body as expertly as he would a blaster.

Din doesn’t speak Shyriiwook. He wishes he did, for when he asks his opponent for their name, he fails to capture the response. It slips from his grasp, slick as his hands are from the Wookie’s blood.

Bare hands that have rarely dealt such tangible death. Dust stirred up from the struggle sticks to the thick, hot carnage. He’ll feel the give of the Wookie’s eyeballs under his thumbnails for days. The crack of his skull under Din’s knee, driven like a wedge into the soft cartilage, is at least slightly more familiar.

It’s not a long fight. After all, Din has something of which his opponent has long been deprived: something to live for.

The Mandalorian isn’t back by dinner drop-off, but your captain sent the cart loaded with a tray for him, so you dutifully set it on his cot atop the folded blanket.

There’s been no clean-up call, and the roster is empty. But you don’t have to wonder over his whereabouts for long.

In the servants' barracks—which are actually barracks and not a soft word for cellblocks—the reports are already underway.

Some of the attendants get to watch the fights. Or, rather, they have to, bound as they are to a single combatant. The mandated proximity is unforgiving, and no one likes to watch.

After all, there’s very little difference between you and the fighters. Instead, the attendants take on the solemn duty of letting the rest of you know how your residents fared or fell.

“He was a berserker,” Hali says in hushed whispers. “They took all that armor off, and he just looked like a man. A pretty man, but… just a man. But when it started, he moved so fast. It was over in, like, two minutes.”

“Shut up,” says Eli, your bunkmate. “He did not take down a Wookie in two minutes.”

“No, he really kriffing did,” hissed one of the new attendants whose name you hadn’t caught. “It was brutal. The whole arena went quiet. And he just stood there, covered in blood, looking at the crowd.”

“Okay, whose block is he in?” Eli demands. “Someone needs to spill now.”

“Mine,” you say quietly.

“You haven’t said a kriffing word this whole time? What’s he like?”

“I don’t know,” you confess. “I only saw when they brought him in last night. He was still armored. And terrifying.”

“I saw him,” Hali says. “He was in the lounge.”

“They took him to the lounge after his first fight?” you say, jaw hanging open. The after-party was a grotesque performance, with sponsored fighters forced to smile pretty and play nice with their benefactors after a victory.

“No,” Hali’s face is grave. “They displayed him. They’ve chained him up next to his armor.”

You cover your mouth to stem the nausea. “No,” you hiss through your fingers. The disrespect hurts, raking through like a nexu claw to the chest, and you don’t even know the man.

Eli sets a hand on your knee from where he sits cross-legged beside you on the bottom bunk. “There’s nothing you can do.”

“I know,” you say. But he knows you, sees it written between your brows, and hears it in the crack of your voice.

It’s a weakness; you know it. It had been a strength back home. Every single being that passes through your barrack doesn’t have long. The small hall of cells is a port, and you are the ferryman. Knowing each of them for the last scant moments has only made you love harder and faster.

To try and ease a soul’s journey is a burden you have always chosen to bear.

Come morning, sure as the stars, your cells are full. The Mandalorian is not the only new face—there’s a humanoid woman in C-1, too. The Klatoonian had been gone before the noon bell prior, and his cell cleaned by your hands within the hour after. Ovesu had survived four battles over ten days, but no trace of him remains now.

You start with her, Reen Sala of Drall. She’s on the roster for early afternoon, and you want to make sure she’s got food in her.

You tell her as much.

“Today? Already?” She wraps her fingers around the window bars, peering at you.

“Yes,” you say solemnly, sliding the tray through the slit at the bottom of the door. “Eat quickly. They’ll be coming to get you any minute. They’re going to take you up and prepare you and make you watch the day’s first battles.”

She has a steadiness to her eyes and stock to her build, just enough to have a chance. When she begins to eat, her hands only shake slightly.

“Are you a farmer?” you ask, watching her broken, stubby fingernails wrap around the metal cup of water.

She nods, gulping down quickly to add, “Mostly grains. Eggs. Basics.”

You give her a wan smile, the image of her in a sun-soaked field behind your eyes. It would have to be enough. If she held on, maybe she could fill in the picture.

“Thought so. Me too. My parents have a grove on Hetzal,” you say.

You chat for a few minutes, exchanging tales of her chasing tipyip and you sneaking honeyfruit and shuula during harvest.

“Good luck,” you murmur when you finally step away.

You don’t linger with Disdraa, the Twi’lek in C-3. She took a nasty blow to the head yesterday, so you slide her tray in as quietly as possible, hoping she’ll steal some extra rest.

Which brings you to the Mandalorian. He has no other name in your database. A mistake, you wonder, or an erasure?

When you knock on his door, you keep your eyes downcast. The decision you made in the lift was impulsive, but clear. He will have this respect here, if nowhere else.

“Good morning,” you say.

It’s silent.

You slide the tray under the door. “Do you need anything?”

Nothing.

“Okay, I’ll be back this evening if you think of something.”

Din rolls his eyes in the dark room. Does the quiet, simpering little act really work on the other prisoners? He vaguely considers rejecting the tray just to irritate you.

But he’s a Mandalorian. He doesn’t give in to petty spite when survival is on the line. He has battles to win and to do so, he must eat.

The food is bland but nutritionally complex, so if he keeps up a routine, he should be able to maintain his strength. He’s already run through and decided the optimal calisthenics and body weight routines he can do in the confines of his quarters.

He’s not stupid enough to think all the fights will be so quick or easy. The only benefit, and he’s unwilling to call it that, of not having his armor is that he’s so much faster.

He’ll get out.

He has a promise to keep.

When the Death Star fell three years ago, it took nearly the entire Rebel Alliance with it. The rest were scattered in the ash. And when the Empire barely flinched, the Mandalorians knew their time was running out.

With one loss notched on their belt already, they would have to strike swift and sure.

And so Din’s life as the rebel liaison began.

When he went to Gideon’s cruiser, he had no backup. Technically, no one even knew where he was. But espionage and false diplomacy took too long, purged time they did not have. And he wasn’t going to get another chance to try.

He lost the intel in the skirmish but gained a sword he knew not how to wield, a title he knew not how to bear, and a son he knew not how to raise.

The guards come for Reen, forcing you to finish your deliveries in a tense, silent two minutes.

She doesn’t come back. You paint her picture that night while her soft face and sun-streaked sangria widow’s peak are still fresh in your mind. It, as with most of your books, is stained with errant tears.

Eli had convinced you to keep the ones you ruined with grief, when you first began, desperate not to forget.

“It’s just more proof they were alive if they were also mourned,” he said, flipping reverently through the pages.

It goes against the practice, but it’s not even the most egregious way you’ve had to compromise, so you let it go. This is not the Hall. You have no easels, no canvas, no priestess.

You wonder who’s taken over your space, who they plucked from the apprentices to take over the memorials.

The pictures are small, stacked across the page like a quilt. Most of them have a name, maybe an age, maybe a planet, inked into the corners.

It's certainly not the scale you’re accustomed to, and your colors are limited to the pigments you can press from your dinner, unblessed and unpurified, but you make do.

You never paint them while they still live, not wanting to tether their souls to the pages while they have a chance. But they are yours, and so you will take the burden of remembering from their souls.

“Tray, please,” you say after knocking on the Mandalorian’s door that evening. He’s slow to respond, but you don’t mind. It’ll be a bit before he gets accustomed to the routine, if he makes it that long.

Most don’t.

It grates against the floor when he kicks it out, and you exchange it for the full tray of dinner.

“Do you need anything?”

Silence.

“Okay, have a good night.”

You don’t have hurt feelings. It’s the way of things. Some of the beings who come through never speak a word to you. It doesn’t change your loyalty or your duties.

Din is determined to puzzle you out. Why the farce? Everyone else he’s encountered is open in their disgust and amusement. He’s a novelty, a prize, a disgrace. What purpose does your feigned care serve?

“—dining with us tonight?” calls the inmate to his right in C-3.

You make a show of rolling your eyes, taking the last two trays from the cart. You slide one to the Twi’lek who had spoken.

“Depends. Are you going to behave?” you say.

“I always behave,” the fighter lies.

You seem to laugh, just a silent huff of amusement, and sit down with your back against the wall between the two cells.

He can’t see you from here, but he can hear snippets of you making light conversation between bites.

Something you say gets a lighthearted rise from the Devaronian in C-4 across the hall.

“Old? You want to talk about being old?” he booms.

C-3 groans. “Don’t get him started, come on.”

You laugh. “—else to bitch about. I’m saving— trouble.”

“…that I should suffer your disrespect,” C-4 is trying to say over you.

“Yeah, yeah, Vrar, you’re a terrifying grumpy—,” you tease.

A pause. A murky mumble from C-2.

“—you, Mandalorian? How old—?” You ask, tearing a chunk off your bread roll and popping it in your mouth.

He doesn’t answer.

After you leave, it grows quiet. A few moments pass, as if he was just waiting for you to get out of hearing range, before Vrar speaks up.

“Mando. You holding up? Any injuries?”

Din sits silently on his cot, leaning against the wall.

“Alright, I get it. You don’t have to talk to me. But can you be more respectful to the girl?”

If it’s bait, it works. “I don’t make a habit of being respectful to my captors.”

To his surprise, Vrar barks a hearty laugh. “Is that what you think? She’s a slave, Mando, same as the rest of us.”

Din feels hot guilt rise in his throat. “My mistake. I’ll do better.”

Vrar grunts his approval, and that’s that.

The next morning, when you ask if he needs anything, he tells you, “No, thank you,” in a soft but sure tone.

You straighten a little abruptly and try not to look shocked. “Okay. Good luck today,” you say, and move on. You’re pretty sure if you draw attention to it, he’ll never speak again.

You aren’t privy to the way things operate up top. All you know is that they take your fighters randomly, with at least one day between as a rest. Sometimes, it’s longer between fights.

But not for Mando. For the next two weeks, it’s every other day like clockwork. They’re capitalizing on his novelty, you think, but also hoping to wear him down.

Rumors tell you he’s become a quick crowd favorite. It should mean he has a shot at earning his freedom, but rumors also tell you he has the highest price on record.

They don’t want him free, and they don’t want someone to buy him.

No, they want him to die in the arena.

next chapter

thank you so much for reading! i live for your feedback, and i'm not above begging so if you have any thoughts pls let me know

*title from "Get Out Alive" by Three Days Grace

[entertext]

HGSN 24-2

Chapter (Japanese)

(Please hit the green thumbs up at the end of the chapter to show support)

Rough translation by me

P1

Yoshiki: It's pitch black, I can't see a thing

Yoshiki: 'Hikaru', the flashlight

Hikaru: Oh, yeah

(sfx: light turns on)

P2

Yoshiki: Uwah!

Yoshiki: What the...! Human heads!?

P3

Hikaru: No...If you look closer, these are carved out of wood.

Yoshiki: You're t-touching-?!

(sfx: smooth and dry)

Hikaru: Why...is something like this...

Hikaru: Ngh...it...

Hikaru: hurts...

(sfx: ears ringing)

Hikaru: Pa, what're these faces?

Hikaru: There's so many of them

P4

Kouhei: Scared?

Hikaru: Naw, I'm not scared at all. I'm already in the upper years* at elementary school!

Kouhei: They're all "heads" that have been offered up to Unuki-sama.

Kouhei: From a long time ago, this land has often suffered from misfortune

Kouhei: 'cause of that, life here has been especially poor and difficult

* refers to 5th to 6th grade at elementary school. So this flashback would probably be a year or less before Kouhei dies.

P5

Kouhei: So we have offered heads to Unuki-sama and asked for many different things

Kouhei: For an abundant harvest or for an end to a plague...

Kouhei: The offered head disappears on the spot

Kouhei: That's why we have carved replacement heads in order to hold funeral services for them in this hall

Hikaru: Then all of these heads are dead people?

Kouhei: That's right

Kouhei: We're the family that's managed this "hall" (dou) for generations so that's why we're the "Indou" family

Hikaru: Huh...

P6

Kouhei: The other parts of the body have to be buried as far away as possible

Kouhei: In order to do that more easily, the village was split into five parts.

Kouhei: 'cause of that, it just so happens to look like a human

Kouhei: Weird, right?

Hikaru:  Why? That's creepy...

Kouhei: Beats me...in the first place, why the parts needed to be buried so far away

Kouhei: isn't something well understood nowadays

P7

Hikaru: So whose heads are those heads anyway?

Kouhei: ...

Kouhei: Many of them were...people like the terminally ill and the elderly...who volunteered to become heads themselves...

Kouhei: But...

Kouhei: There's a small hokora at the outskirts of the village right?

Kouhei: When a traveling monk was forcibly made into a head, it was built out of fear that the monk would curse us in revenge

P8

Hikaru: ...So you mean they've been murdering people

Kouhei: ...that's right. It wasn't only that monk. Many others were killed and made into heads. Innocent people, when they wouldn't be noticed

Kouhei: Hikaru, this is the karma of this village

Kouhei: It must never be forgotten...

Kouhei: And the sin of the Indou family too...

P9

Hikaru: ...

(sfx: step)

Hikaru: As I thought, it's not here...

Hikaru: This is where "Hichi-san" was.

Yoshiki: ...Did you...

Yoshiki: remember something?

Hikaru: ...yeah.

==

Next chapter: 2024/02/06

Twitter Extra (link):

Hikaru's Father

Indou Kouhei

Yoshiki took to him more than his own father

He was the type to thoroughly join in on the kids playing tag, and if you were caught by him, he would stick his boogers on you, so Yoshiki and Hikaru ran away desperately.

==

T/N: the meaning of Indou

忌 - to abhor, taboo, but can also refer to mourning or death

堂 - hall (as in a building where lots of people gather) or temple/shrine (as in a building where a deity is worshipped)

[jasntodds]

Petrichor [14]

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!Powered!Reader (little bit of fwb)

Words: 15,441

Chapter Warnings: Swearing, angst, fluff, mentions of abuse, description of withdrawal, mentions of scars, jason's self-hatred, hurt/comfort, a little blood

Summary: ❝Pylades: I’ll take care of you. Orestes: It’s rotten work. Pylades: Not to me. Not if it’s you.❞

Gotham is home, not just for Jason but for you, too. And now that you’re both finally back home, together, you’re ready to see where this next chapter brings the two of you. He’s your best friend and you’re his. And you both might want a little something more with being back home, the place you both feel most comfortable. Surely, nothing could possibly go wrong now.

A/N: Because I decided to start fixing things last chapter, I had to rewrite this entire chapter lmao so I'm sorry it's late!! I also split this chapter into 2 parts because it was over 30k words please help lol You can add yourself to the tag list below, ask me to be tagged, or you can follow my library blog @jasntoddslibrary  and turn on notifications if you prefer that!! I love feedback, I swear it keeps me posting on a weekly basis 😭

series masterlist | masterlist | tag list

The next morning, Jason shoots awake from a nightmare but outside of the initial panic and rumbling heartbeat he almost feels too accustomed to, he’s confused. His eyes are on the dresser on the opposite wall and it takes him a minute to process how he even got here. The last clear thing he remembers is choking and not being able to breathe because Crane drugged him. Jason sucks in a few breaths, brows pulling together as he shakes the nightmare away and tries to piece together details from last night.

It’s all a little foggy and jumbled but he remembers being duct taped and Crane saying something about destroying the Titans and then you. Then he remembers the pump station, being tied up there. Then, he remembers you completely suited up and your hands on his cheeks, panic in your eyes.

Jason’s heart thunders again, realizing it was you that brought him back here.

You came to find him.

His head feels like it’s going to explode. A migraine is kicking in his skull as if it’s armed with a battering ram. The more he tries to remember details, the more his head hurts but he tries away. And he looks down, realizing he’s not in the Red Hood gear anymore but he has no memory of changing. Something about missing large pieces of time is scary and frustrating. So much could have happened and he just has no memory of it. And he’s thinking something went wrong, maybe he did or said something because you aren’t here and he knows what happened with you two. But, if you showed up to save him, you wouldn’t just leave unless you had a good reason. You’d always stay to make sure he were okay and then you’d probably tell him off and leave. But, you're not here.

What did he do now?

He puts his head in his hands, groaning loudly. His head starts to spin and his stomach cramps into knots. It twists and turns sending him into a nauseous spin. His bones feel wrong, like they want to vibrate out of his own skin and he feels sweaty but he’s cold. He’s frustrated and alone and devastated and going through withdrawal and everything sucks. He really had to go fuck it all up. Nothing was really all that bad, not compared to how it is now and he’d do anything to go back there. At this point, he might even take the paralyzing fear and panic attacks.

Jason sucks in a breath, lifting his head before he looks to the side of the mattress to try to will himself to get up but that’s when he sees a piece of paper. He plucks it up, unfolding it.

“Kidnappers: 0 You and me: 4              - Y/n <3”

Jason’s chest feels warm as a small smile starts to tug at his lips. Of all the things you could write in a note, it would be that. His eyes stay on the note and maybe you did have to go for another reason. If you were that mad at him, you wouldn’t leave him a note, not this note anyway. So, Jason folds it into a small square and puts it into the pocket of his sweatpants before he wills himself to get up.

Jason makes his way down the large staircase as his head feels like it’s wobbling. He knows withdrawal is tortuous. He knows that but he really didn’t expect it to feel like this. As much as he tries to not think about it, the only thing he wants is the drug. It’s the only thought that’s coming through clear as day, taunting about how much better he’ll feel if he just takes it. His head won’t feel like it’s exploding and he won’t want to peal his skin off of his bones. The cramps will vanish and he won’t feel the shaking in his hands anymore, just like old times. The back cramp will go away and his leg won’t be in pain. Jason knows it’s a bad idea, based on last night, but it’s growing more and more tempting with every step he takes down the stairs.

“Wow, you look like shit.”

Jason jumps as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, eyes shooting up to the bench in front of the end of the staircase. You're lying there, your phone above your face and your knees are bent, feet planted on the bench.

You didn’t leave?

“Fuck you.” Jason mutters, brows knitting together as he tries to figure out what the fuck is going on.

Why didn’t you leave?

You glance back to him from the corner of your eyes and he does look terrible. The dark circles are back, more prominent than they were the other night. The light in his eyes is gone and he’s really pale. He looks like he might actually be sick and you think his cheeks look a little more hollowed than they did before. His hair doesn’t even have the same volume that it normally does and it breaks your heart.

He’s going through it now and this time there actually might be nothing you can even offer to do to help. At least before, you could just offer to listen and be there for him. That was always something but this is different. He’s just going to have to ride it out and you feel horrible for it.

You grin softly to yourself, typing away at your screen before you sit up, planting your feet on the floor. “It’s true.” You shrug your shoulders. You bend down, sliding a white box out from under the bench before you pick it up. “Got donuts, picked up a few of your favorites.” You hold out the box for Jason but his stomach just twists at the thought of food.

“Not hungry.” He nearly grimaces as he looks to his own shoes.

You nod, rolling your eyes. “Yeah, it’s called withdrawal. You should eat anyway. You need some sugar, hence donut. Plus, dough is filling. It might help.” You extend your arms further. “Eat.”

Jason hesitates, looking to the right before he hangs his head, letting out a sigh and then walks over to you. You're one of the most persistent and persuasive people Jason has ever met and he is under no condition or mood to try and even argue with that. You’ll win anyway. You always win in some way. He sits beside you while you open the box, giving him one of the four donuts that are left. Jason raises a brow, wondering if you've eaten.

“Here.” You grab a bottle of water from the side of the bench and hand that to him. “You also need some water.”

Jason takes it from you slowly as he grows more and more confused. What the ever-living-fuck happened last night that he does not remember? The last thing he knew, you two were not speaking. You might have rescued him but this is weird, even for you. You're sturdy in your beliefs and sturdy in your own words. You're being awfully nice and it’s freaking Jason out. He’s starting to think he might be running a fever and maybe this is all just a very vivid dream. You have no reason to be this nice to him at the moment.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You question, your brows furrowing together as Jason just looks at you as if you're some sort of math problem he can’t figure out.

“What the fuck is going on?” Jason finally asks, looking at the donuts and then back to you.

Your heart skips a beat and you knew he’d be confused. That’s a little bit of why you're doing it. A little bit of payback for the hell he’s been putting you through. But, if you wanted to be brutally honest, the guilt of saying you were giving up him is eating at you from the inside out. It is one of the only things you think about because it doesn’t matter that you didn’t mean it because Jason thinks you do. Why wouldn’t he? You literally said it out loud. And then he got kidnapped and drugged. You don’t want to abandon him, drug or not. And last night you got to see a part of the old Jason you thought maybe didn’t come back when he came back to life. You thought maybe, the pit kept a part of his soul. But, last night, he was him. Drugged and high, but him. The Jason you know and love. So, you're here, being nice and making sure he’s eating and getting water because he should have someone in his corner anyway.

Last night, Dick said you and Gar did a good job and you suddenly understood Jason’s entire motive. The weight of the world was placed on his shoulders by Bruce and made worse by being a replacement to Dick. That wasn’t Dick’s fault, but he could have done more. And it was never about having someone to help him lift the weight, it was always about Jason needing to find his own footing outside of the approval of who he looked up to most. That’s just…a lot easier said than done. He needed the one person who gave him everything, not to abandon him but he did anyway. You understand his motive and you're thinking, abandonment is the worst possible option for him. It always was. And you should have known, because it was always the worst option for you, too.

You offer a cheeky smile, faking it entirely. “Is it freaking you out?”

“Yeah, kind of.” Jason snips.

He’s thinking he’s either running a fever, he’s hallucinating, he died again, or he’s in some type of coma thanks to the drug Crane gave him. This whole thing just feels weird and the you he knows would be telling him off and calling him a shithead for getting himself into this mess and then immediately saying it wasn’t actually his fault. Jason knows it is. But, you always tell him it’s not. This time though, you're just offering him food as if nothing happened the last few days. He would love if you two could just move on as if nothing happened, but the reality is that it did happen. Last night and the night before happened. You aren’t nearly as forgiving as he is.

You let out a laugh, leaning your head back. “Good.”

You do not want him to know how worried you are about him or about your own guilt. He’s already going to have a rough few days getting the drug out of his system and you don’t want to make it any worse. At this point, the only thing you want is for things to go back to some type of normal. You know you have to talk and sort it out but you want to feel normal, without all the weight, for just a few minutes even. You want a break from everything. And Jason was always your safe haven when things got too heavy and too loud. He was always good at carrying the weight that didn’t belong to him and blocking out the noise.

Jason's face drops but a smile slowly creeps onto his face. “Are you fucking with me?”

You snicker softly. “I mean, you do need food and water, but yeah.” You nod your head. “I’m always fucking with you.” You say softly as you roll your shoulders.

Jason’s entire chest starts to swarm with a vibrating warmth. “Fuck you.” Jason quips, a gentle smile on his lips before he picks up a donut, eyeing it softly. The last thing he wants right now is food.

“Just eat it, Jay. It’ll help.” You say softly, seeing the hesitation on his face.

Jason shakes his head and he needs to do anything else and not eat, or at least try to distract himself to eat. He can’t concentrate on much but he’s curious enough as to why you're still here. You're fucking with him as usual, but he does not deserve your kindness or you trying to take care of him. He should be doing it on his own, after everything he did. To all of you. This isn’t right. Yet, you're still somehow here.

“Have you been here the whole time?” Jason asks.

“No.” You answer simply, swinging your feet slightly. “Gar came to bring me clothes so we went to get some food down the street real quick and got extra for you. Came right back though just in case you woke up.” You explain, looking back to him with a soft smile.

You didn’t want to go far. You didn’t want Jason to think you would just up and leave again. It has to be different this time. Jason was an apologizing mess last night and being held captive is traumatic. You were never going to leave without making sure he was okay and seeing if he did want to have that conversation for real. It might be heavy but maybe it’ll make things kind of, sort of, normal again. But, Gar insisted on breakfast and you weren’t going to disappoint him again.

“Why the fuck did you come anyway?” Jason asks before he finally gets the courage to take a bite of the donut. “You said not to contact you and shit.”

He doesn’t say it out of spite this time. He says it because it’s true and as mad and as hurt as he was, he also gets it. Now that he’s sober, he doesn’t even blame you. He thinks you should have done that from the start, even if it’s killing him on the inside. The last good thing about him was you and he destroyed every part of that. You don’t deserve that but you're here anyway. Offering him food and acting normal. One of the things he always really liked about you is that he could never really figure you out.

You turn your full attention to him, your heart sinking with any hope of having that conversation today. If he doesn’t remember anything, he doesn’t remember what you said or you seeing his scars or helping him or him asking you to stay. It’s not that you want him to remember any of it. In your opinion, he’s lucky not to remember most of it. Maybe he won’t see it that way, but you do. Even if it doesn’t quite work out for you.

“You don’t remember much of last night, do you?” You ask and Jason shakes his head shamefully. “I’ll always come find you.” You say casually but your voice is just above a whisper. “You’d do it for me.” You shrug easily and your words make Jason look to your neck where he can see the silver peaking out from under your hoodie. “You, uh, you said to bring you here so I did. You asked me to stay so I did. You, uh, you….you were apologizing a lot so I said we could talk later if you still wanted to.” You tug your sleeves over your hands.

Jason nods his head, slowly making his way through his food with a few sips of water. That explains a lot actually. He isn’t sure exactly what he was like last night, but he’s imagining it wasn’t too pretty if he had to ask you to stay. And maybe having a conversation is why you stayed, a sense of hope, maybe. If you're willing, he’d love to talk about it for once but his head also hurts and his spine feels like it wants to crack out of his back. The withdrawal is making it hard enough to even have this conversation with you. He thinks if you’ll talk, it should be when he can actually participate properly. You deserve that much.

“Thanks for staying.” Jason says quietly. “Don’t fucking deserve.” Jason lets out a scoff as he shakes his head.

You furrow your brows as you turn to face him, pulling your knee on the bench so the bottom of your shoe rests against your other leg off the bench. “You know, you should know by now that I think you deserve the world, Jay.”

“Why?” Jason huffs and a part of him is getting pissed that you even think that. Do you not understand the gravity of the things he’s done? “Look at what I’ve become!”

“It’s not really you.” You say softly. “And I know you know that.” You nod your head quickly. “But you never thought you deserved better. I know shit gets bad for you and always has been. But, that shit never mattered to me. You did.” You say and Jason thinks he just swallowed his own heart. Did? “Do.” You state firmly. “You do. Anti-fear drug you isn’t the real you.”

Maybe the anti-fear drug version of him isn't really him but Robin wasn't either. Living in a fancy mansion with money and everything he could have wanted. Following directly behind Bruce and Dick, trying to fill their shoes when their viewpoints are so wildly different. Bruce can try all he wants but Batman was born from vengeance. He got to go home to a cave underneath his fancy mansion with all of his tech Jason couldn't even dream of touching before. Bruce was raised by a fucking butler that was still on Bruce's payroll. Batman was born because Bruce's rich parents were killed in cold blood. And Bruce had all of the means to make Batman happen. That's great, Jason fully believes that's great, but it's different.

Bruce didn't see the dealers or sex workers or the pimps or addicts or traffickers in the flesh. Bruce didn't see that some of those people "breaking the law" were just doing what they had to do to survive because the system was never meant to help them. Jason might have some resentment towards his dad for everything, but he also knows his dad was trying because job after job didn't work out like it should have. He was down and out, but he tried. He was an asshole and he was abusive, but maybe some of how he ended up like that was circumstances. It doesn't make it right, but maybe that's part of it. Jason understands his dad was trying to provide in some way and it turned him into an abusive prick and then it got him killed.

Jason knows his mom's addiction didn't help and it didn't make her the best mom. But, he also knows that that was her way of trying to provide because she used to use to function and the addiction set in. She took them to survive in her own way. His uncle drank to survive. That's how it is sometimes. And that's what he saw, everyday, and not just from his own family. It's what he knew and he also grew up knowing, no one is going to help them. Not even Batman. They are on their own.

Jason grew up knowing sometimes people do "bad" things in order to survive and provide, but Bruce never saw that first hand so his morals on Batman are entirely skewed and bias for the sake of upholding the law and putting "bad people" away. But, Jason's views were always landing in a grey area that not all "bad people" are actually bad and deserve to be thrown away. Robin gave him magic but he also had to give up some of his own morals and beliefs in order to wear the cape and mask.

Robin was never really him, either.

“Robin wasn't the real me either.” Jason scoffs.

Your eyes narrow softly at him because it's such an odd comment coming from him. Robin was everything to him before and maybe you do get it. It got him killed, it's different now. There's a lot of bad blood stained over Robin but...you don't entirely think that's true.

“That’s not true. The whole, mansion shit, yeah.” You laugh softly. “But, wanting to be the voice for people who get left behind? Yeah, that’s still you, Jay.” You shrug your shoulders. “You always liked kicking ass, people who deserve it because they did something wrong. Not because you like to fight. I mean, you’re argumentative as fuck, but physically violent, not so much. It’s a misconception that you play into because it’s easier than letting people see the real you or whatever. Robin let you be this hero and you had to roll with Batman and shit, but…you got to help people.” You shake your head. “Like me.” You clear your throat. "That's you." You offer a soft nod at him, chewing the inside of your cheek.

As far as Jason can see, he's never really helped you. Not really. He thinks he's only made everything worse. Between getting kidnapped and making you lose sleep and dying and now everything else. He's pretty sure you were always better off without him. How the hell do you think he actually helped you?

“How the fuck do you figure I helped you?” Jason shakes his head and he definitely is not well enough to be having this conversation.

You think of every way Jason has saved your life, some of the times a little too dark to share with him at the moment. But, you think about them and you think about all the other times where he's helped you, even with small stuff like getting something down from a cabinet. You've never told him but you think one of the reasons you are who you are today is because of him.

You pull the sleeves of your hoodie over your hands. "I felt like maybe the stuff with Jerry was my fault. Spent a lot of time thinking that but...one of the first things you told me was that he was a piece of shit and I didn't deserve it. You didn't even know me. But, it helped and you never made me feel like what happened to me was ever my fault. And uh, you trained me so I wouldn't be scared to leave the tower. Maybe the knives is a thing...or maybe it's because you trained me. Sparred with Gar the other day, I still won. Because you trained me." You suck in a shaky breath, pausing softly. "Um...and I just...I'm alive today because of you." You nod at him once, seeing Jason's face wanting to twist to question it. "So, maybe Robin wasn’t completely the real you, but Robin was enough of the real you. You put yourself into Robin. And you can put yourself into Red Hood. Without Bruce. Without Batman.” You rush your words, making sure Jason can't get a word in. “So, I guess, I’m just saying that you always deserve better, even if you don’t believe me. And I just hope you understand that one day, Jay.”

“Why didn't you ever tell me any of that before?" Jason asks, turning to match your position as his right shin touches yours.

Truthfully, it all seemed too honest. A little too scary to tell him what kind of impact he had on you. It’s more than that, there’s more you haven’t told him as a way to protect yourself and maybe even him. You always felt if you told him those things, maybe it’d change. Maybe it would change how he viewed you and maybe it would change how you felt he viewed you. Maybe he’d feel some sort of obligation and you hate when people feel obligated to you for something. You should know Jason never does something for someone strictly out of obligation, but you feared it anyway. And if you told him, what happens when he doesn’t come home?

Saying everything out loud makes it real. And he didn’t come home anyway.

You shrug your shoulders. “I don’t know.” You keep your thoughts to yourself, knowing if you think too much about everything, the tears will start again. “Uh…I’ll always stay if you ask me to.” You nod your head softly.

Jason watches you carefully and he could always tell when there was more on your mind but it looks like it is physically paining you to even talk about it. The guilt starts to take over and Jason wants you to not be in pain anymore. He'll take it if that's what he has to do, he doesn't care anymore.

“You really shouldn’t.” Jason nearly mutters the words.

You know him better than anyone and that was always what he feared. You know him better than anyone which means he’s more susceptible to getting hurt. He’s already hurt himself enough for the both of you but then everything with Excellent Gotham happened and now you're the one torn between him and everyone else. He’s hurt because you're hurt and that’s all this is turning into.

Maybe a small part of him regrets the two of you, as thankful as he is you're here. As much as he appreciates your company and your kindness, he has crossed the line and maybe had you never gotten together, you wouldn’t be the one in pain. Maybe had you not gotten together, this whole thing would be easier for him. He wouldn’t feel like he let another person down and pushed them to their very brink of existence. He wouldn’t feel like he exposed himself too much to the elements. He’d still feel safe in his bubble of self-destruction and self-hatred. It wouldn’t hurt you.

You're too good anyway.

So, he pushes out of some painful mix of self-preservation and self-destruction.

“You know, uh, I think about that…night with Deathstroke.” You swallow thickly. “Not…not the kidnapping so much anymore but…after.” You stress, looking to your leg and picking at the hem of your pants. “In the bathroom and I don’t know. You pushed and gave me every reason to, uh, to run like I usually do and I know���we did do what we do best in the end but…not…ya know?” You shake your head, looking back at him. “You pushed and I stood there anyway and told you that you matter to me. And it was like…the first time I ever felt like I could stay…if you’d have me.”

Jason’s heart starts to ache from inside of his chest like he’s just been stabbed. Did he make you feel unwanted? That was never it. He was just scared and pushing always seemed easier and you never put up a fight about it. He thought you were on the same page of pushing and running. You both did it until you couldn’t. The risk of everything you both ever feared didn’t seem to matter anymore so you both decided to stay and Jason can’t decide if that was for better or worse. But, he’s looking at the distant look in your eyes and he’s thinking maybe it was for the worse for you. You always made him better.

“Even as a friend. Like I said, I agreed with you and we did what we do best.” You shake your head. “And you did.” You nod your head. “You showed up to my room the next night and I just…” You suck in a deep breath, looking up to the ceiling and back to him. “I knew I could stay. I didn’t have to run from you.” You tug your sleeves over your hands. “So, um…I know you want to,” You nod your head with understanding but your heart is breaking with every second that passes. “But, can…can you please not push me away this time? Please, Jay.” You offer him a sad and weak smile as the lump in your throat starts to grow. “I know things are complicated right now but you’re my best friend and I really miss you.” Your voice cracks as water starts to brim your eyes.

Even after everything, you have a way of getting him to cave. Pushing has always been his best defense mechanism. It has always worked and it has always been easy. It has always hurt him, which was fine because at least it was self-inflicted. But, you make the whole thing hard because it doesn’t just hurt him. It hurts you, too. And Jason knows how badly it hurt when you left. Maybe part of making amends is letting go of bad coping mechanisms. Maybe it’s doing things that hurt and are scary. He does love you and he does miss you, too. He’s tired of being alone and he’s tired of being in pain. And he's tired of putting you through pain. So, he nods.

“I miss you, too." Jason's voice is rough and low but honest and sincere, earning him an almost relieved sigh from you. "I just fucked everything up this time.” Jason says quietly. “Really fucked it up.” Jason nods. “With you and the Titans. How the fuck do I come back from that?”

“You apologize and get clean.” You shrug. “I mean, I’m the only one who really understands it so you just…have to try.”

“That’s it? I try and they welcome me back with open arms?” Jason scoffs at the thought. It’s never that easy. “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

"I mean, I'm still welcome to be a Titan and I'm killing people. All of you almost killed Gar." You nod your head quickly. "So, they have to welcome you back because otherwise they're just hypocrites." You offer him a cheeky smile. "You just have to try, Jay. And if that doesn't work, then fuck em." You shrug your shoulders sarcastically. "You still got me and you got Gar." A genuine smile comes to your lips as you rest your hand on top of his.

Jason thinks the simple act alone just lit his entire body on fire so he smiles back, subtle but there. "Yeah, alright." Jason manages a soft chuckle as he shakes his head. “When are you going back?” Jason asks softly, not really wanting you to leave.

“Oh…uh, well, you were just drugged so I thought…I’d hang around if that’s okay.” You chew the inside of your cheek as you pull your hand back into your lap.

Liar.

“What the fuck is going on with you?” Jason asks bluntly. “Don’t pull that bullshit about how you’re just worried about me or whatever. Something’s going on.” Jason can always tell when you're lying and he swears part of that is because you almost never do.

You chew the inside of your cheek and he’s right, something in going on. You've been thinking a lot about how you finally understand it. The whole Bruce and Dick thing. You finally get it and you actually hate it. Of course, understanding Jason is always nice but you hate that you feel that way. Every day since you've watched Jason deteriorate over Robin, you swore you would never be like him or Dick and yet here you are. In the same damn position. And you won’t let that happen. And the more you sit and the more you think about it, the more you wonder if the reason you threw in the towel over Jason is because of your obligation to the Titans.

You have a bigger obligation to Jason and yourself but maybe that played a little bit of a hand. Maybe your loyalty runs a little deeper than you thought because Dick saved your life and brought you into this world. But, you don’t want that. Something has to fucking give and you're not sacrificing your views or your morals anymore. Maybe it’ll be for the better and maybe it’ll be for the worse, but at least you know you're doing something you can live with. At least you're doing it because it’s what you believe in.

You're also still a little mad that Dick was willing to sacrifice Jason if last night wasn't a trap and Crane went off the deep end. There is still that.

“I am, uh, mad at Dick. Shocker, I know.” You crunch your nose before rolling your eyes. “But, um…he said we did a good job last night and I just…felt so validated and I hated that. Because it was more than just being validated, it was being validated by him. And he said it could have been a trap and he's right but he didn't fucking stop me from going. It could have been a trap and I could have been killed, blah blah blah, right? Well, he let me fucking go alone. He didn’t pressure Gar for information. So, I just…I don’t wanna go there. It doesn’t even feel like home anymore fucking anyway. So…yeah.” You rush your words, trying to play it off because you don't particularly want to talk about it.

“So…you’re mad at Dick so you’re just...switching sides?” Jason questions, not really sure he understands why you would do that. "And what the hell would you have done if it were a trap? Hate fucking saying it, but he's kind of right." Jason nearly grimaces at the thought of agreeing with Dick, but it could have been a trap for the Titans. You had no way of knowing otherwise.

“Was I ever really not on your side?” You quip. “No, it’s…” You suck in a breath and you shrug your shoulders. “I know that if you stay off of the drug then you’re you again. That’s where I want to stand and I want to be here when you are clean. You’re where I always want to be.” You nearly whisper. "And, if it were a trap, I knew that if I showed up, you'd do everything in your power to get me out of there. It would never be a trap for me, just the Titans. So, I wasn't worried. I know Excellent Gotham was an accident. Shit happens, but I'm almost always safe with you and I know that." You offer a soft but closed smile. "You and me."

Jason pauses and he thinks back to the day he walked onto the roof. He thinks he’s starting to feel that way again. Worthless, useless, damaged, broken, unloved, unworthy, filled of poison. Everything comes back to him. But, he’s sitting next to you and he also remembers you that day.

You were the only one that stood up for him and you were the only one who came out to the roof to try to talk him down. You're always the only one, if he has no one else, he has you. And he remembers you literally telling him that if you're alive, he’ll never have to be alone. You broke up with him and he’s still not alone. Maybe you're crazy for it but Jason knows in order for you to still be with him, in any context, you're having to sacrifice a lot. In order to make sure you keep that promise to him, you're the one sacrificing yourself and your friends. For some reason, you believe in him so maybe it’s time Jason takes a step back and starts sacrificing, too and believing in himself. If you can, he owes it to you to try, too. It’s supposed to be him and you.

"I'm still really sorry for that." Jason lets out a breath. "But, next time, can you bring someone with you in case it is a trap?" Jason lets out a soft laugh. "I'd never let some shit happen to you but, just in case." Jason nods head quickly, the white streak flopping around slightly.

You let out a laugh as you look down and then back to him. "Yeah, okay because you asked so nicely." You say sarcastically.

Jason shakes his head but his chest is starting to feel a little better. “I’m gonna make it up to you, alright?” Jason says sternly. “Don’t know how yet, but I’m going to. I fucking owe you.”

You offer a soft smile. “I expect a lot of homecooked meals and for you to drive me around.” You nod as a cheeky smile starts to come to your face.

Jason lets out a soft laugh, tilting his head down before he looks back you. “I’m not your personal fucking chef or your chauffeur.”

“Could be so fun, Jay.” Your eyes widen as you shake your head teasingly at him. “Um…” Your brows furrow. “Withdrawal sucks and I know you know that. So, um…if you want to go to Crane and try to get one or two inhalers so you can ween yourself off instead of cold turkey, I get it.” You nod your head. “Um…I mean, I can help if you want.”

Jason nearly does a double-take. “This whole time you’ve been telling me to get off of it and now you’re telling me you’ll help me take it?”

“I also don’t want you miserable.” You state. “I can like hide the inhalers for you and monitor when you get more.”

Jason pauses for a second and maybe it’s a bad idea. The drug makes him a skeleton of who he really is but this is torture, just sitting here. He’s not really sure how he’s supposed to deal with feeling like this for days or maybe weeks. He doesn’t know how long this withdrawal is going to last. All he knows is that it is fucking exhausting and painful. But, maybe if you can help, he won’t fall back into Crane’s hands. If you're willing to stay, he can try.

“Yeah, then I'll be fucking done with his psycho ass.” Jason clears his throat. “Feel like fucking shit.” Jason scoffs. “Meet back here then?”

You nod your head softly. “Yeah, I gotta get back and let Gar know what’s going on, I guess deal with Dick. Blah blah blah.” You laugh softly. “Just…text me if something happens.” You get to your feet. “Don’t do anything fucking stupid until I get back.”

“Don’t do anything fucking stupid while you’re gone.” Jason quips. “Ya know, like using the R blades to kill some fuck.”

You gain a cheeky smile. “Hey, you’re still wearing a bat symbol.” You point at him. “I’m just being an asshole, just like you. Learned from the best, bAbE.” You snark right back at him as you watch him gain that half-cocked, toothy smirk that always made you feel alive. “I’ll be back and try not to take it until I get back.” You nod once at him, keeping your own smirk before you turn on your heels and head for the exit.

You head back to the manor, knowing Dick and Kory will want to know where Jason and Crane are. If you were being honest, you're surprised Gar has been able to keep it a secret. You know it’s a very big ask for him not to tell Dick where or the password into the tablet which you had Gar bring you when he came by just to be sure Dick didn’t get into it while Gar was gone. Letting them know where Crane is, is all fine and well, the issue comes to Jason.

While you appreciate that Dick thinks you and Gar did a good job, there is still a bitterness hugging your chest about the whole thing. It shouldn’t have been up to you. You said you were done and you should have been able to be done but not when no one else is going to do something. You know you never would have taken a backseat anyway, not with Jason being kidnapped and held hostage, but it should have been an option. Jason was in trouble and it was Dick’s responsibility to do something about it. You don’t know where Dick’s head is with Jason now so the last thing you want is for him to know where Jason is hiding out and where Crane is. The last thing you want to do is even work side-by-side with him anymore and if you were a worse person, you’d just kill Crane now and get it all over with. Dick could deal with the cleanup if there is any to be had.

You stop right into your room as soon as you get to the manor. If you're going to help Jason and you're going to stand beside him, you want to be physically there. If you're ditching the Titans, then staying here isn’t really an option. So, you pack a bag with clothes and a charger for your phone before stopping by Jason’s room and picking a few of his favorite pieces of clothes and books. Once you have everything you need, you make your way to the Batcave to grab the case for your suit and extra knives and blades.

Dick, Kory, and Gar are all in the Batcave when you make your way down there. They’re surrounded by the Batcomputer, coming as no surprise to you. But, then they all turn around, eyes landing on you and you tug your backpack harder over your shoulder.

“Yes?” You ask softly.

“How is he?” Gar asks, hope in his eyes as he spins in his chair and gets to his feet.

“Going through withdrawal, looks like shit.” You huff before sucking in a breath. “Got him to eat a little bit though.” You offer a soft smile.

“Does that mean he’s done?” Dick questions.

“Done with the drug, Crane, or Red Hood? Because I’m thinking those are three different answers.” You quip, holding a bit of snark in your voice.”

“All three.” Dick’s voice grows defensive and you were fine last night. Suddenly, you hang out with Jason for one night and you have an attitude again? Seriously?

“No, yes, and probably not. Didn’t talk about Red Hood.”

“Wait, he’s gonna keep taking it?!” Gar practically yells in confusion.

“No.” You answer simply, shaking your head. “He’s just getting a few more inhalers so he can ween off it instead of cold turkey. Withdrawal is bad enough.” You look to Dick who looks like he’s about to have a stroke. “It was my idea if that helps.”

“What?!” Kory and Gar yell at the same time.

“Why would you encourage him to keep taking it?” Dick grabs the bridge of his nose and he's thinking you should have come with migraine medication when he found you in the alley.

“Because quitting some drugs cold turkey can kill you and I don’t know if Crane’s drug falls into that category or not and neither does he. I’d rather we not find out the hard way.” You answer simply, rolling your shoulders.

Gar finally notices the backpack and his heart starts to sink. He’s really hoping you're just bringing Jason some of his stuff and you're not leaving. They’ve already lost so many people, he doesn’t want someone else walking out on them. He knows it has to be really hard for you, but it’s hard for everyone.

“Why do you have a backpack?” Gar asks cautiously.

You tug it over your shoulder a bit more. “Um…I’m gonna stay with Jason for a bit.” You chew the inside of your cheek. “I promise, I was not leaving without telling you. I’m just trying to make sure he’s gonna be alright.” You roll your shoulders and a part of you almost offers to let him come with.

It could be just the three of you again but you would never put Gar in a position where he feels like he has to choose between you and Jason and the Titans. Inviting him, feels like it would put him in that position. And you have no idea what Jason would think of it anyway so you bite it back.

“Are you sure?” Gar asks.

You nod your head softly and you don’t want Gar in the middle of your annoyance with Dick. You know you’ll get over it eventually anyway. “Yeah, maybe I can get something out of him anyway, about if Crane is planning something big and if so, what.” You play it off, realizing this does give you that opportunity.

Dick nods once. “You could just tell us where he’s hiding out and where Crane is.” Dick states simply.

“No.” You shake your head as you start walking over towards the display case where your suit is still in the suitcase beside it.

Dick turns to face you, annoyance written on his face.”Excuse me?”

“I said no.” You say simply. “If you want to argue about it, argue with yourself cause I'm not anymore.” You shrug your shoulders.

Dick sucks in a breath and he can’t believe you’re really doing this again. “Fine, can we speak privately?” Dick asks.

“Come on, Gar.” Kory walks up to Gar, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s go find Conner and Blackfire.” Kory offers a soft smile before they walk off.

You grab the suitcase, walking back towards Dick and then past him. You're ready to get out of here and you know this is going to cause more problems than it’s maybe worth. But, at the end of the day, you swore you’d protect Jason at all costs. Too many people left him exposed to the elements, and you're not going to do that. Dick had his chance to help, too and he left the both of you in the pouring rain and wonders why you’re feeling abandoned.

“I thought you were on our side.” Dick shakes his head. “What’s going on? Did something happen?” Dick asks, this time his voice sounding a little bit more concerned and you almost feel guilty.

“Dude, come on.” You scoff. “I’m on whatever side gets Jason home and safe. You should know that. Nothing happened I just….” You shake your head. “You could have fucking helped last night and you didn’t. For all we knew, Crane could have lost his shit and was gonna kill him.”

“But that didn’t happen.” Dick states. “You said last night he was just tied to a chair and you got him out of there. You and Gar worked together and you both did a good job last night. You didn’t need help.”

“It’s not about if I needed it!” You yell in desperation. “I fucking found his body! Do you really think I’m just fucking fine with that now that he’s alive? Do you really think I want to find him like that again? On my fucking own? That’s what you set me up to do last night. Yeah, he was 'just' tied to a chair, but I also know that fucks with your head, too. He’s your brother who needs fucking help but the only people who are willing at all costs are Gar and me. So, no.” You shake your head. “I’m not gonna tell you until I know he’s safe. You can figure it out and I’ll talk to him anyway. But, I’m not telling you.” You look to the right and then back to Dick. "Did you ever think that he just needs you to show up for him and not out of obligation? Bruce isn't here and this wasn't your fault like Deathstroke. Jason Todd is not hard to figure out."

Dick hangs his head for a second, realizing maybe you make a good point. You shouldn't have had to be the one to go alone. But, Dick didn't even think of the possibility that Jason could have been in real danger. He didn't think of what would happen if he was and you were the one to find him again. Dick's realizing maybe, just maybe, Crane might have had a point a few days ago. Maybe he did abandon Jason.

“I’m sorry.” Dick admits, catching you off-guard. “You’re right. It shouldn’t have been up to and I didn’t think about that.” Dick looks to the ground and back to you. “We’ve all been under a lot of stress lately and we’ve all been through a lot. This is hard for you. We all just want this to be over. I should have gone with you.”

"Thank...you?" You question, a little confused where this version of Dick is coming from. "Look, I think any risk is worth saving him. Last night, though, you made me think that isn't the case for you. So, I can't tell you in order to protect him. But, I'll try to get information about Crane anyway and tell you." You nod your head, swallowing your own pride. "I still want Crane dead and you want him brought in, so we're on the same side there." You start to walk towards the stairs. "Anything else or...can I go?" You ask, feeling, for some reason, obligated to.

"You can go." Dick lets out a sigh. "At least keep up with Gar, he's worried about the two of you." Dick warns, having to suck up his pride, too and put some trust into you this time. You offer him a closed-mouth smile before giving him a thumbs up and heading back upstairs.

Jason is making his way to the pump station where Crane is setting up for their next steps and his teeth grind while his heart races. He swears he has to be running a fever with his head feeling warm, heavy, and cloudy. He isn’t sweating but something about his skin feels like it’s almost been dunked into a pit of oil and it makes his skin crawl. There’s an ache in his back that isn’t painful but isn’t uncomfortable like it’s on the verge of a paralyzing cramp that just won’t come. His hands are starting to shake and the only thing he wants is the damn drug.

There’s a bit of worry in thinking about the drug though. He can’t be who he has been over the last week. He cannot go back to that but he is desperate and scared. Everything is in agony and the guilt is starting to weigh his feet down. The regret feels like cinderblocks resting on his heart. He’s scared he won’t be able to stop and he’s scared if he goes right back to the drug, Crane will get him right back under his wing. He finds himself thinking maybe that’s why you offered to help anyway. So, Crane couldn’t manipulate him anymore. If the only person he’s talking to is you while he’s high, then he doesn’t have too much to worry about. You're not going to manipulate him into killing innocent people. That’s all Crane. So, he sucks up his fear and walks right in, ready to nearly demand the drug from Crane.

Crane has a jackhammer in hand, trying to get through the concrete on the floor. Jason watches him with more aggravation starting to flood into his system. Jason walked in with a mission, sights set on getting one or two inhalers and that’s it. But, he’s standing here and all he wants to do is scream. The anger side of withdrawal is peaking through and he’s thinking he’s going to finally snap if Crane doesn’t hand over an inhaler. The jackhammer is making the headache worse and the shaking starts to intensify. He doesn’t really care about anything else as desperation starts to take over.

“I need more!” Jason yells over the sound of the jackhammer. He thinks his head might explode if Crane doesn’t knock it off.

Crane stops and rests the jackhammer on the ground before looking up to Jason. He gains a delighted smile as he walks closer to Jason, stretching his arms out to his sides.

“You’re back.” Crane says before gesturing his arms inward. “Come on, bring it in.”

The last thing Jason wants to do is hug him. This insane psychopath kidnapped him, drugged, and held him hostage. Jason’s ex-girlfriend had to rescue him. And Crane thinks Jason wants to not only be around him but hug him? He’s lost his fucking mind.

“I need another inhaler, Crane.” Jason demands, keeping his footing a few feet away from Crane.

“Well,” Crane starts as he plops his arms back to his sides. “You’re gonna have to cook it yourself. I’m fresh out.” Crane states as he goes to turn around.

Jason's heart plummets and he’s desperate for more. Crane just can’t be out. He’s the one that’s been having cooks make it. How the fuck is he out? He can’t just be out. So, Jason starts walking closer, spotting a large drum barrel.

“What about that?” Jason points to it.

“That…is too concentrated.” Crane states. “Deadly in its uncut form.”

Jason can feel himself growing more and more aggravated and panicked. It’s more than just the fear creeping in but instead, it’s the fear of withdrawal and the idea of never having the drug again. That’s what he’s starting to panic about. He knows he’s getting off of it. He has to if he wants to get some part of his life back. Crane isn’t stable and while he’s helped him this far, last night happened. Jason needs to get off the drug but he really doesn’t want to do it cold turkey. This is literal hell right now.

“This is a fuck show.” Jason lets out an annoyed sigh as he starts walking closer to Crane to pass by him and leave.

“Jay.” Crane states but it’s more in a warning tone. Jason wants to combust, the nickname sending the anger from the withdrawal into a spin. No one calls him that. “Jaydog.” Crane lifts his voice this time as Jason turns around to face him. “Take heart, my friend. We are just a few swift strokes away from the sweetest comeback the world has ever seen.” Crane leans over on the jackhammer, a menacing look in his eye. “I mean, they’re gonna make a biopic about us. How we met, our ups, our downs…”

“How the Titans wiped us out?” Jason cuts him off knowing the Titans are coming after them and Crane doesn’t seem to be much help.

You can say whatever you want but right now, he’s still being targeted by the Titans because he’s spent the last week targeting them. Jason doesn’t think for a second he can come back from that. That’s why you're suddenly with him through this. A barrier against the Titans.

“Do you remember why we’re here?” Crane asks.

“The details are hazy, Crane. You zombified me, remember that?” Jason quips back and that part is biting at the back of his head.

Crane didn’t have to do it but he did it anyway. He drugged him, held him hostage, then kidnapped him and brought him here. He didn’t even offer a good explanation. But, Jason falls back on him stealing the inhalers from Crane and maybe he deserved some part of it.

“I do remember.” Crane states simply as he furrows his brows. “Well, um, quick refresher course. So, this pump station is perched directly above Courtland Valve station, which controls all of the water supply for all of Gotham. I take my little friends there and I dump it into the water supply and…” Crane states as he fires up the jackhammer again but as he does, he loses control and it goes sputtering to the floor.

Jason bursts out laughing, enjoying the look of shock on Crane’s face but his laughter starts to die down when Crane also starts laughing. Something about the look he gives Jason and the way he laughs, it almost reminds of him Dr. Light when Jason had him pinned. When Deathstroke held a sword to your face. And suddenly, he’s worried again.

“You think that’s funny?” Crane asks through his laughter. “Just wait until you see what we’re gonna do to Gotham when we’re done here.” Crane says as he circles around Jason, standing behind him and wrapping an arm around his neck as he chuckles. “Gotham is going to destroy itself.” Crane boasts as he walks back over to his place by the jackhammer. “House by house, family by family.” Crane laughs and Jason doesn’t want that.

It was never supposed to be about destroying Gotham. It was about protecting Gotham. Doing the things Bruce would never do and couldn’t do and refused to do. It was about actually taking care of the people in the city who aren’t on Bruce’s radar, the people who get left behind by the GCPD. It was supposed to be about them, not this. This isn’t what Jason wanted to do.

“This plan is a fucking joke, Crane.” Jason states. “And so are you.”

“Me?” Crane questions and Jason thinks he might sound a little hurt. “But I reached over to the other side, dragged you back to the living…” Crane states and you were the one who said Crane was using him. Maybe you're right.

Up until this moment, Jason thought that couldn’t be true. Why would Crane use him? Crane’s been telling him this whole time he cares about him and he wants to help him in the way Bruce and Dick refused to help and couldn’t help. They could be a team, better than Batman. But, if Crane wasn’t really using him, why would he bring up bringing him back from the dead? Which Jason never fucking asked for anyway.

“So you could use me.” Jason states a sort of venom in his voice.

“Yes, so I could use you.” Crane answers nonchalantly as if Jason should have known the answer.

And Jason’s heart sinks further. It was never about helping him. It was about helping Crane help himself. You were the one who was right this time. Crane has been using him this whole time. Jason’s been a pawn in his game and it stings. It’s the same story over and over. Jason gives him all to someone and something and it all ends up backfiring, they use him and throw him away like he’s trash. Just like this.

“Life is transactional, my dear boy.” Crane states. “Well, I gave you life. You gave me secrets about Batman and Dick Grayson and the girlfriend, er, ex-girlfriend? And uh, what was his name? Hank?”

Jason has had it. Today is not the day to mess with him and Crane bringing up him betraying everyone for him is setting him off. It never should have had to be transactional. Yes, Jason should have known better. He knew the exchange was secrets for the formula. It was the drug and then they’d work together. Jason knew that part of it but he didn’t think his life was a part of that transaction. He doesn’t want his damn life to be transactional. He doesn’t want to sell himself for a drug and secrets and the destruction of Gotham and the Titans. That’s not who he is and that’s not who he wants to be. On top of that, Jason’s sick and tired of Crane thinking he can just bring up his one line and get off. You were always supposed to be off limits anyway and everything is sending Jason right over the edge.

Jason grabs Crane by the collar and spins them around, slamming Crane’s back against a few boxes as he holds him there. He’s done working with Crane and letting Crane think he’s the one running the show. Jason is not going to be his pawn anymore. If he wants to take down Gotham, that’s on him. Not Jason.

“I’m done telling secrets!” Jason yells, jaw clenched and knuckles turning white. “Done being fucking used!” Jason yells as he punches Crane in the face twice and then lets him go.

Crane looks up at him, something menacing and bored in his eyes. “You done?” He asks as he spits blood onto the ground.

“Almost.” Jason states plainly. “Bring her up again and I’ll fucking kill you.” Jason says harshly, his jaw squaring and a burning hatred washing over his usually bright eyes. Crane opens his mouth to say something but Jason moves forward and uses most of his strength to take another hit to Crane’s face, this time the hit is enough to knock him unconscious. “Now, I’m done.” Jason says as he leaves Crane on the ground and heads out, desperate to find something that’s going to take the edge off of everything that’s clouding him right now.

He’s supposed to meet back up with you, but at this point, he’s not sure he can stomach it. In the moment, it seemed fine. It was nice not to be alone and to not feel so alone. But, right now, it’s as if he swears it’s the only thing he really deserves with the withdrawal kicking in full force. You will try to make it all better and he knows for a fact he doesn’t deserve for it to be better again. He needs to figure out what he’s going to do and how. How he’s going to come back from everything. You just said he had to try but he doesn’t know how to try. What he’s become goes against everything that’s been engrained into him over the last few years.

Bruce swore killing was wrong and using excessive force was wrong. But, now Jason is the one with guns killing people and decapitating them just for extra threatening measure. Maybe he didn’t always agree with Bruce’s point of view but that’s what a hero, a vigilante, Robin was supposed to do. Not kill. Not use excessive force. There was one way and one way only. Jason was murdered anyway and he thinks maybe, this isn’t all wrong because it is for the greater good of Gotham. But, it haunts him anyway because of how he got here, what led him here. He was murdered and Bruce couldn’t kill the Joker for him and his death was preventable. His death was preventable in every way but he died anyway. He’s the one left with those physical and mental scars, not Bruce.

Jason thinks it’s different when death happens to you. But, Jason didn’t go after Two-Face. He didn’t go after Mr. Freeze or Penguin or Bane or the Riddler. Jason went after the drug side because of Crane. Maybe he would have done it anyway, but it was because of Crane so Crane could run his own drugs without them getting in the way. It wasn’t about protecting people. It was about distribution. So, he thinks about his younger self. The younger self that took care of his mom and didn’t entirely hate his dad for everything. And he wonders how much his younger self would hate who he’s become.

His younger self would hate the killing and the drugs and the betrayal. He’d hate turning from a hero to a villain and he’d hate how he went and fucked up such a good thing with so many people. Sure, the Titans weren’t always nice or understanding, but they had smoothed things out. And things did feel okay with them. And he was safe and warm and healthy and he had someone, he had people, who cared about him and tried their best to take care of him, something his younger self would have loved to have even if he never admitted it. Jason could have had it all but it just wasn’t enough. He was selfish and entitled and impatient, just like Dick and Bruce said. He was hard-headed and stubborn. It got him killed and it got him put in this position and he thinks his younger self might think he were better off staying dead.

Maybe he would be.

So, he digs out of his phone and sends a quick text to you. And then he waits.

An hour later, Jason sees you walking towards him as snow starts to fall from the gloomy sky. He swallows the lump in his throat as you get closer. You offer him a soft smile, hands dug deep into your pocket once you close the distance between you.

“You know it’s freezing, right?” You quip, seeing your breath in the space between you.

He didn't say much in the text. It was just that he didn't want to sit around the hideout and he needed to be out. He followed that text asking if you'd want to walk with him for a while.

“Yeah, and I’m still fucking sweating.” Jason rolls his shoulders, shaking his head.

“Ew.” You laugh softly. Jason’s eyes narrow at you as you shrug, a gentle smile on your lips. “Thanks for texting me.” You nod your head once.

If you were being honest, you're surprised he did. A very large part of you expected him to not come back to his hideout and avoid you. You really would understand if he did at this point. It has to be really difficult for him, especially coming down from both the anti-fear drug and whatever Crane gave him last night. But, you're really glad he texted anyway.

Jason lets out a breath, a cloud leaving his lips from the cold air. “Thanks for coming.” Jason nods.

“What’d Crane say?” You ask hesitantly, seeing the brown paper bag in his right hand.

“That he’s fresh out.” Jason scoffs. “Load of shit, obviously.”

“What a piece of shit.” You scoff right back. “He fucking sucks.” You roll your eyes, split between worried something bad is going to come from cold turkey withdrawal and relieved the risk of him falling back into Crane's hands is gone.

“Yeah.” Jason nods his head in agreement before the two of you start walking with no destination in mind.

“He say anything else?” You ask.

Jason bites back the pain in his chest and the burning of his eyes with your words. It’s a harsh reminder that he was never brought back because he was wanted. He wasn’t brought back because he was loved and cared about. He was brought back to be used and it was all always conditional. There were conditions to his life. His own breath was traded for secrets and death and betrayal. How can he live knowing his life is now tainted with innocent blood?

“Yeah.” Jason gets a distant look in his eyes as he brings the covered bottle to his lips and takes a drink.

“Which was…?” You ask softly, almost afraid of what Crane could have said.

“That he was using me the whole time.” Jason spits the words out and you swear you can see his eyes start to water against the city streetlights. “You were right.”

“For the record, I really wish I weren’t.” You scoff. “What? He just he was using you…just like that?” You question and you know Crane is a prick and he uses people. But, Jason really believed in him and that's the part that hurts.

“Pretty much.” Jason shakes his head, sucking in a deep breath as if the cold air biting his vocal cords will make it easier to talk. “Bringing me back was transactional.” Jason’s voice goes quiet and you think you heard his heart break.

You knew before, but this is further confirmation that Jonathan Crane is a monster. You're looking at Jason Todd who always just wanted to be enough and just wanted to be loved and Crane weaponized that just like Bruce. But worse. You knew Crane didn’t bring Jason back from the dead out of the kindness of his own heart but you're furious and devastated to be right. You're pissed that he would even tell Jason that.

“I’m gonna fucking kill him.” You mutter, looking forward which earns you an immediate glance from Jason.

“Why? He didn’t do anything.” Jason nearly mocks the very idea.

“Because he just told you that the reason you’re alive is because he needed something from you.” You bite back, a venom and fury in your voice as you look at Jason. “That’s fucked up. I don’t care if it’s true. You don’t tell someone that. And I wanna kill him anyway for everything he’s done to you. But, that’s a good enough reason to me.” The anger in your voice actually surprises Jason. Of course, he's hurt by the ordeal, but he's watching you grow more and more angry over it. He's never had someone be like over something someone else did to him.

“I don’t know why it even fucking matters anymore. I did all of this shit for him.” Jason huffs taking another drink. “How it always is anyway, right?” Jason lets out a hollowed chuckle. “Like I told you, people always want something in exchange for something else.” Jason mutters and he thinks Crane has a point. Life is transactional, he just wishes his literal life wasn’t.

You stop walking, Jason walking a few feet in front of you. You hadn’t thought about that conversation in months. It was the first time you ever promised him something. You promised you’d never make a promise to him you couldn’t keep and you’d never make one just to get something from him. Then he promised he wouldn’t tell anyone about the boot print bruise on your back. Things did not seem so simple then, but they sure as shit do now. And your heart starts to break even more, realizing that he really, truly trusted Crane. You have no idea why but he did. That’s not for you to judge but he trusted him and Crane only brought him back because he needed something from him. He is just another person that has made Jason Todd feel like there is some sort of condition to his love. And that’s just not fair.

“What?” Jason asks, turning around to look at you.

“You know I love you still, right?” You ask quietly.

Jason shakes his head in confusion, eyes darting up the sky and then back to you. He isn’t sure exactly how to respond to the question. You told him you do. That’s not the same as him believing you though. It’s hard for him to feel like anyone actually loves him right about now. He doesn’t even like himself right now. And with everything Crane just said to him, he’s thinking that maybe you're just saying it so Jason doesn’t walk onto a roof.

“Jay?” You ask quietly. “You know that, right?” Your eyes scan over his face but you don’t see any sign of him acknowledging the question. “Okay, well, I still love you.” You nod your head with confidence. “And if I would have known how to bring you back, I would have done it. Because I love you and I care about you and you deserve to live.” You close the distance between you. "And...you don't owe me shit for it, either. I don't expect anything from you. It's not conditional or transactional for me, okay?"

The last thing you want is for Jason to feel like he's unloved. It's messy as fuck right now and he has a lot to make up for but he's loved anyway. Crane loves to manipulate people and make them feel like they're alone. You can't imagine what the fuck telling Jason he wasn't even wanted back would do but you have to believe Crane had a fucking purpose. So, it doesn't matter where you and Jason stand or what's left of you. You will stand here in the freezing cold all night with him and tell him you love him. Because on days when you felt unloved and unlovable, you had Jason who always countered those thoughts without ever knowing. So, you will always do the same. He deserves it.

Jason’s breath starts to shake as he looks down at you and his chest hurts. He thinks someone might as well be reaching through his ribs and squeezing his own heart until it explodes. You're the only one that has ever made him feel wanted and loved without conditions.

“After everything?” Jason almost scoffs but he can’t quite bring himself to. You look desperate. “Fucking why?” The question almost comes out as a plea.

“Because loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” You nod your head once and this is different than the first time you said it. 

The first time was on accident and you were very clearly terrified. It was something you never intended to ever tell him but it slipped out in a fit of desperation so he’d stop beating himself up. This time though, it is said with confidence and reassurance as if the words were almost meant to leave your lips for only him. And it starts to defrost Jason’s heart, the pain easing in his chest because he knows you mean it.

Jason rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closing and it’s like it's easier to breathe again. He wants to kiss you again. It’s never easy for him to say what he thinks or what he feels but he’s always been able to show it with you. This time though, that is no longer his place. It doesn’t matter that you love him because you are broken up. He can’t overstep that line even if he wants to. The most he can do is rest his forehead against yours and that’s always been just enough.

A smile pulls at your lips before you wrap your arms around his shoulders, moving your head to rest in the crook of his neck. Jason’s hands come to your hips and suddenly, it’s like the first day of spring. The air isn’t suffocating or painful. It is fresh and clean, smooth and soft. It’s easy to breathe again and the suffocating coldness lifts from your chests. All it is is warm and welcoming. Just like home.

“Thank you for coming.” Jason mutters into your neck.

“You and me.” You mutter right back, Jason’s hands squeezing around you just a little tighter.

You pull away first, a loving smile on your lips and for just a second as you rest your hand on his cheek, you almost forget you ended things. This, right now, feels like it did before he died. And you almost forget and you almost kiss him to make it all not so heavy. But, it’s just a second and then you remember which means that isn’t your place anymore and you don’t know if it ever will be. So, you drop your hand, the smile falling slightly. You look to your left, sucking a breath but then your brows furrow.

“Is that Dick?” You question, bursting the bubble between the two of you.

Jason turns, following your stare. “Fuck.” Jason groans just as Dick seems to spot the two of you, too because he lifts the face shield of his helmet.

“We should get out of here.” You reach down for Jason’s free hand, interlocking your fingers with his.

“Yeah, fuck that.” Jason nods quickly in agreement as the two of you start to walk away but before you could get far, Dick tries to run the red light after you only to get hit by a car going through the green.

You and Jason look between each other before you both let out a breath and start your walk over to Dick to see if he’s okay. You both walk over as Dick rolls over to face you. You roll your eyes and grab your phone from your pocket to call an ambulance while Jason looks down at him. He finds the whole thing a little ironic. Dick is on the ground, clearly out of it and hurt and he could kill him right now. He’s been trying for a week to kill Dick and now is the perfect opportunity but the only reason he’s even thinking about it is because of the irony. He doesn’t even really want Dick dead. Not when he’s clean.

You kneel down, putting a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “Ambulance is on the way, I texted Kory and Gar to let them know. You’re an idiot.” You nod at him.

“What…?” Dick asks, looking from you to Jason and then back to you. Dick knows he has a concussion but he’s lost on why Jason is just standing in front of him and why you don’t even seem mildly concerned about what’s going on. What the hell is going on? “Jason?”

You look behind you and Jason’s heart sinks. “Yeah?” You question, looking back to Dick. “You ran into oncoming traffic.” You state sternly as you hear sirens starting to approach. You can see the lights just down the street. “Don’t do anything drastic like die on the way to hospital.” You say softly before you get back to your feet and walk back to Jason. “Let’s go.”

“What? You’re gonna leave him like that?” Jason asks with surprise, that’s unlike you.

“The ambulance is right there.” You point to the flashing lights. “He’ll be fine.” You nod your head once, reaching down for Jason’s hand once more, this time Jason takes it carefully before the two of you head off in the opposite direction.

The two of you get back to Jason's hideout, not having said much to each other on the cold walk over. You both convince yourselves it was all out of self-preservation rather than self-destruction. You follow Jason to the room he led you to last night where he plops down on the mattress still laid out on the floor.

Something about it feels weird because feelings are out in the open unlike before. They were said last time and something came from it but this time, they're words hanging in the air, following them back. Jason doesn't know what to say anymore and you think you've exposed yourself too much again. Nothing can happen between you now, not with everything going on and even if you both want something happen, is that for the best?

It's like something should be happening in the space between you but nothing does because it's all been said and done before. Neither of you quite know where you should stand or where you should lay your hearts to rest. So, it feels weird and it's quiet, both of which are things neither of you like very much between each other.

You shift on your heels, looking around the room. "I, uh, I brought you some more clothes and...stuff." You say softly, nodding towards your backpack near the dresser. You had dropped it off earlier when you were supposed to meet back here.

"Oh, uh, yeah no thank you." Jason nods his head at you and the awkwardness makes him want to chew his own arm off.

"You're welcome." You suck in a breath, looking around the room some more. "Not quite Wayne Manor, huh?" You ask, looking back to Jason.

"It's a roof." Jason shrugs a shoulder casually.

He should have said it back and he knows he should have. But, the words stick to the back of his throat, holding his vocal cords captive. While he gets it, he is still hurt by you leaving him. He knows he deserves it and you had every right to. You should still be gone. He gets it. But, he can still hear the heartbroken laugh you let out echoing in his head and the words that followed and it fucking hurts. He's forgiven you already but...the pain is there anyway. Jason knows he'll get over it but he isn't there yet so the words choke his vocal chords and the air is stiff and awkward between you.

"Yeah." You nod your head before you look back at him. You cannot take this anymore. It has almost never been awkward between you and you can't stand it. The whole thing would be easier if it were easier to just talk about everything. But, that seems too heavy right about now. So, you walk over to your backpack, plucking it from the ground. You walk in front of Jason and crouch down, unzipping your backpack before you pull out a book. "I thought it might help." You hand it over, your hands shaking slightly.

A soft smile starts to pull at Jason's lips as he takes the book from you. "Raided my whole room, huh?"

You grin, mostly to yourself. "Yeah, kind of." You laugh softly. "Brought these, too." You smile widely, pulling out a few more books and handing them over.

Jason looks over his favorite books, you picking up Pride and Prejudice and Frankenstein for him of course, but the pick of The Fellowship of the Ring does not go unnoticed. Jason really likes it, sure, but there are other books he's read more around you. He almost laughs at you grabbing this one. And something about the whole thing, makes him feel loved again.

He looks back to you and your eyes are bright just as they always were around him and your smile is turning into something cheeky, as if you know you've just won something Jason isn't aware of. You say loving him is easy and he always finds it so hard to believe, especially right now. But, he looks over the cover of the books and then back to you, and it really is just that easy to you. And while you may need to talk eventually and this whole thing is fucked up and messy, maybe some sort of feeling of how it used to be, would be nice.

He always felt loving you was the easiest thing he'd ever done, too.

So, he smirks back at you.

"You don't have to try so damn hard." Jason quips. "Fucking try-hard."

Your jaw drops as you let out a laugh. "Fuck you! Look who's talking! You're the biggest fucking try-hard I ever met!"

"Bullshit!" Jason laughs. "You were the one who told me with Deathstroke that I wasn't trying hard enough!" Jason fires right back, hoping he can get you to keep laughing. He's really missed your laugh.

You burst into a fit of laughter, almost forgetting about that comment he made. You told him he was the one that needed to get laid and he told you he'd been trying. The comment was never brought up again. Partially because Jason was dropped fifteen stories and partially because it wasn't worth the risk of bringing up if it was a serious comment or not. But, you find the whole thing funny now.

"Well, it was true!" You bite back. "You were an asshole half the damn time!" You know, asshole or not, all Jason had to do was ask and you would have gotten right into bed with him without a second thought. Not that you will ever give him the satisfaction of knowing that though.

"Playing the long game, babe." Jason defends his stance, a smirk dancing over his face as he gestures his hand out to the side.

"I'd fucking say!" You let out a chortle.

"Worked for a while, didn't it?" Jason says and it almost grows sour on his tongue but that's not how he meant the comment. "I mean, had you practically begging a few times." The smirk switches into something sinister and teasing. The confidence radiates off him just like it always did before and you think you could go back and forth like this all night and maybe it would fix everything.

You feel heat start to rise to your cheeks. "Okay listen."

Jason bursts into a fit of laughter and you think it's still the most beautiful sound you've ever heard. "Uh-huh. I'm listening, babe. All fucking ears." Jason nods his head quickly, knitting his brows together but the smirk is practically glued to his face as if he knows he's just won.

"Fuck you." You nod your head quickly, shrugging your shoulders. "I fucking won! Remember that? I do so everything else, bullshit. I won." You cross your arms over your chest.

Jason's smile starts to soft and tender as he nods his head. "Yeah, guess you did." He says softly.

This feels normal. It feels like it did before, just joking. Sure, being together was better because you could joke and know something else was on the other end of it. The joking as friends was always just fun and that's how this feels again. Fun. And warm. It doesn't feel so heavy at the moment and neither of you feel so alone and you can see it in the way he looks back to the books. You can hear it between the lines of his words because Jason Todd doesn't take losing lightly. You don't particularly want this moment to end. Instead, you want to push it a little bit. Letting him know silently that if even a small part of him is willing, maybe there's hope to get back to how you were before.

"Exactly." You match the softness of his voice. "And you know what, I bet I could get you to cave again." You hold your head with confidence.

Jason pauses for a second, narrowing his eyes at you, unsure if this is a trick. "You really sure about that?" Jason challenges, taking the bait as he leans forward towards you slightly. He, for one, is not going to risk this getting heavy again and you always had a habit of backing out when he actually challenged you.

It's not just you who's been craving this. He has, too. Your game always made him feel wanted and loved and cared for, even before he realized it. That's part of what made it fun for him. And maybe it's too soon to jump into it and maybe you have other things you need to sort out first, but that's not a tonight problem. Tonight's problem is finding a way to deal with the withdrawal and self-hatred burying itself into his bones. Tonight is just about existing with each other for the first time since he's been brought back.

You meet Jason right in the middle, closing most of the distance between you. "Positive." You nod just once.

Jason glances to your lips and then back to you. "I'll take that bet."

You shake your head as a soft laugh escapes your lips. "Alright, Jay. Bet's a bet." You roll your eyes, sticking out your hand and Jason shakes it. "I will never let you win because you will be surely insufferable."

Jason lets out a booming laugh. "Absolutely. I'll never let you live it down. Glad you understand that."

"Shut the fuck up." You lean back on your hands as you roll your eyes. You pause, watching him take a drink from the bottle he's been nursing. He doesn't look too uncomfortable now and the awkwardness has evaporated into ease and comfort. "Hey, Jay?" Sam calls softly.

"You told me to shut the fuck up." Jason quips, not missing a single beat.

"Insufferable." You repeat casually as you nod your head quickly.

"What?" Jason asks softly.

"Wanna read to me?" You ask as hesitance starts to take over your voice. Jason's smile turns soft as he looks to the bottle in his hand and then back to you. He knows he will always read to you whenever you ask. "I mean, if you're up for it. I know you said you feel like shit. I can...try to read to you instead, if you want."

Jason almost forgot he felt like shit. You have always known exactly what to do to distract him from everything horrible going on. It makes him feel even worse over the whole ordeal because while a distraction isn't always the best coping mechanism, it would have been better than everything else he ever did. You always knew how to make the world not feel so heavy and you do it even now and Jason doesn't even think you realize you do it. You just do as if it's in your nature. And he feels better. Somehow.

"Come on." Jason jerks his head towards the bed as he puts the bottle off to the side before grabbing one of the books. He slides himself back until his back hits the cool wall.

"Really?" You ask with hope in your eyes.

"I owe you, yeah. I can read to you." Jason nods his head once before he opens the book, trying to play off how fast his heart is starting to race.

You smile widely before you climb onto the bed with him, sitting right next to him on your knees. You hesitate for a second because it's not like it was before. Before, you were friends. You were at least friends. And maybe you're friends now, but you're also exes and that feels like it makes it complicated. Last night, Jason was high and devasted. That was different than this. This suddenly feels personal and vulnerable again and you aren't sure you're supposed to be here like this. Not when you broke him.

"You gonna just sit like that or?" Jason questions, a tint of hope in his words because he wants you closer, he's just not sure if that's too invasive now. So, he plays it off just as he's always done as if that's a signal to you that it's okay because you always understood that part of him. "Not gonna fucking bite you." Jason quips, a tint of sarcasm in his voice. "That's your thing."

You shake your head, doing a double take. "Um, last time I checked, you were into it." You blink at him just as Jason looks back to you. He gains a shit-eating grin, shrugging his shoulder slightly. "Yeah, exactly. And you fucking branded me once, remember that?" You point out the time Jason littered you in hickies.

Jason's head hits the wall behind him as he lets out a booming laugh, the sound reverberating off the walls. His nose scrunches and you think he's never looked more at peace right now. It's as if he is so proud of himself.

"Yeah, and you were into it, too." Jason lets out a scoff and you want to both kiss and bite the smirk off his face.

Jason looks back to you and you're sitting close, faces just inches from each other. You're looking at with him the fake scowl you always did when you knew you wouldn't have any type of comeback and you'd have to cave and tell him to go fuck himself. But, then Jason sees the corner of your mouth twitch into something cheeky and taunting. And he swears he has never been so captivated by someone before.

"Yeah, I was." You nod your head, throwing Jason the bone as you laugh.

"Fucking exactly." Jason's voice is low this time, brows pulling together.

You glance to his lips and you almost just bite the damn bullet. But, that might ruin what you're doing right now, so you roll your eyes. "Fuck you." Sam scoffs as Jason gains his signature triumphant grin.

"Time and place, babe." Jason beams right back at you.

"Insufferable." You repeat as a warm smile replaces the smirk. "Okay," You suck in a breath. "So, we lay like we always did before?" You ask, chewing the inside of your cheek as your eyes widen slightly with hope.

It hurts a little bit that you're hesitant and Jason knows that's on him. You've never been hesitant in showing him physical affection. Even the first night he read to you, the only reason you stood there is because you were confused as to what Jason was doing. But, the second he asked you to sit, sarcastically with a  bite in his voice, you went right to him and cuddled into his side. It has always been that easy and that simple. It should be that way, still. Regardless of everything that's happening. You both can keep that part of you and him.

So, he extends his arm.

"You don't have to ask." Jason states simply and casually because it should always be that simple.

"I just don't want to overstep." You mutter softly, dodging his eyes.

"You can't overstep." Jason almost whispers right back, no sarcasm or bite or snark in his tone.

Things might be hard and Jason might want to push and run and scream and break. He might feel far too exposed again and scared of getting hurt again and scared of everything, but you're the one person who can never overstep. You can do whatever you want and say whatever you want and ask whatever you want.

You give him this genuine and joyful smile as your face softens. "You can't either." You nod your head softly. You scoot down so you can rest your head on his shoulder, placing your arm over his stomach and you feel him relax right under you. He still feels warm and safe, just as he did before.

Once you're comfortable against him, Jason swears this is the safest he has felt since coming back. It is the most comfortable he has felt. He doesn't remember what it was like last night but tonight, he knows he can just exist with you. There are no obligations to anyone or anything. And relief fills his blood, his entire body falling into a state of relaxation and he hadn't even realized he hasn't relaxed at all since coming back. Maybe this is what you both really need. Just one night of normalcy for you both and comfort and safety. Just him and you.

"Thanks again for coming." Jason whispers above your head.

"Always." You whisper right back, running your thumb along the fabric of his hoodie covering his torso. Jason sucks in a breath, running his hand along your hoodie-covered shoulder before Jason's voice about Bilbo's birthday starts to fill the room.

prev. chapter | next chapter

series masterlist | masterlist | tag list

Tag list: @fairyofshampoo // @italiana-20 // @jasontoddsmentaldisorders // @purplerose291 // @lovelessamai  // @makaelaseresin // @lenidaslenchen // @mayfieldss  // @ghostkingblake // @im-done-with-this-im-out // @velvetskies // @lilylovelyxo // @cryinghotmess // @yesimwriting // @vivian-555 // @stainedstardom // @baebeepeach // @legend-o-zelda // @harleycao // @somehow-lovable-trash  // @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx // @deyja-the-duck // @jasontoddslover //  @captainmarvels-blog // @totallynotkaibiased // @scarlovesyou // @whydoyoucare866 // @littlemeowmeow1000 // @ginger24880 // @septixtrash // @kplatzman // @urmomsgayforme5 // @killxz

[the-one-who-lambs]

My next one-shot is edited and done, and it's part of a collaboration with @z00lea who's doing art for it-- we decided upon a theme together and we split the writing (me) + digital art (Zoo) of the scenes. However since she has some commission work to do and I don't want to publish my part of the collab before she's done I'm already getting started on detailing the bulletpoints of chapter 11 to plot it out.

Anyway I can't decide which direction one of the plot points of this chapter should go so y'all are gonna help me. Unless I decide one option is definitely better narratively than the other, I'll just kinda use these poll results to help inform my decision

First option: More of a focus on the friendship between Narinder and Thenana. The skull necklace, along with Narinder's wish to extend Thenana's life, are truly from him. It would be particularly meaningful if it came from Narinder directly because he's grappling with the fact that he's going to eventually lose her. (He doesn't fear losing her, does he? Oh shit, when did this mortal go from "interesting individual Narinder wants to study like a bug" to "friend he actually cares about"?)

Second option: Adds another (small) complication to the relationship between Narinder and Lambert, because Lambert wanted him to keep it as a gift and they feel like he didn't appreciate the gesture. Cue rejection sensitivity dysphoria from Lambert. Narinder sees their gift for its practical value and wants to put it to use -- he absolutely appreciates it (not that he'll say it outright, ofc) but in a much different way that Lambert expects.

Either way, the character development intrinsic to both scenes is going to happen, I just don't know which one to include in the next chapter and which to include in the 1-2 chapters after that

[this-strange-obsession]

OHHHH MY GOD I HAVE BEEN AWOKEN I’VE FELT LIKE SHIT THIS WHOLE WEEK BUT THE UPDATE IS MORE FUCKING IMPORTANT

Long conspiracy theories ahead whoops

First of all, light-hearted appreciation for these sexy mfs

Jekyll looks curvy asf in the first panel and I am LIVING for it. Also simping for the back and shoulder blades. Been living for those and Lanyon’s shoulder freckles—

AND WHY DOES JEKYLL LOOK CUTE IN THESE THREE PANELS WTF. I WANNA PINCH HIS CHUBBY CHEEKS. (Ugh my lonely ass needs to find a partner to have fluffy moments with..)

He literally looks 20 years younger than the previous chapters for obvious reasons. Lanyon’s right, I’ve never seen him so goddamn content either.

ANYWAY-

I personally don’t believe Lanyon fucked Hyde. Not just because I refuse to accept it if it were true, but because he would’ve DEFINITELY noticed while they were getting down and dirty. He’s the type to want a lotta eye contact, so I think this really was a split-second merging.

And yes- merging. I believe Jekyll would’ve also noticed Hyde seizing control in this moment. But he doesn’t have any reaction at all, even to Lanyon’s fearful expression.

I think Jekyll was blissfully basking in the moment after and was consequently oblivious to reading facial cues.

They merged for a tiny bit because Jekyll is accepting ALL of himself when he’s with Lanyon. (Aww how sweet..)

HOWEVER that’s not to say Hyde didn’t have any part to play in this merging.

Hyde typically takes advantage of Jekyll’s emotional vulnerability quickly because the previous scenes were “flashes in the pan” and Hyde could’ve missed them if he didn’t pounce. But this instance was more stable and drawn out. Jekyll was more.. sure of himself.

I think that those feelings bled through the separation. Hyde also got a little carried away by his own emotions and spiraled. He subconsciously took half the wheel after feeling such strong longing for Lanyon.

All that to say, I have three theories on how Sage is going to begin the next chapter:

1. Lanyon wakes up and tries to casually ask about Jekyll’s eyes while they’re having a domestic moment like making tea for each other or something. Jekyll freaks tf out obviously and acts really suspicious. He gives a bunch of excuses and dodges the question. Lanyon eventually drops the subject, but it overall strains their relationship.

2. (not likely) Lanyon wakes up and rolls over. He notices Henry has been replaced by a sleeping Edward Hyde. I can’t imagine where it would go from there since we still have an entire ACT to go through. I imagine Sage is saving the full reveal for half-way through or near the end. I just can vividly picture how the page would look idk.

3. Instead of Lanyon, Hyde wakes up first. A red-eyed Hyde wakes up first. He’s loosing his shit while fumbling to pull his pants back on. The two halves are partially merged and neither knows what in hell to do. In a kinda dick move, Hyde leaves and returns to the Society. This strains the relationship because Lanyon wakes up and is like wtf. He goes looking for Jekyll there but it seems both him and Hyde are avoiding him.

[capevans3000]

Broken Vows - Chapter 2

Previous

One of the best things about mornings is the first few moments of calm and serenity that you feel when your brain first wakes up. That split moment where your brain is still working on catching up with the rest of your body, your mind is clear and blank. You can feel the oxygen filling your lungs so deeply, so satisfyingly. That is until your brain’s engine is caught up, and anxiety hits you again. The memory of last night rushes through your mind and you quite literally choked on your own breath. You try taking deep breaths to fill your lungs, but the air gets stopped in your throat. You can’t breathe.

On top of that, your head is pounding from the effects of hangover. You groan in fear as you reach for your phone. You know that is mentally unhealthy, going through your phone after what happened last night, but you couldn’t help yourself. You find your phone next to bed, where you had toss it last night, but it is out of juice. Just as you are reaching for your charger, you hear a sound coming from your kitchen. You almost forgot Matthew stayed over on your couch last night.

You get out of bed quickly to wash up before stepping out to meet him in your kitchen. “Hey, you’re up. Have this.” Matthew greets you warmly and hands you a glass of water and aspirins. You take it from him gratefully and downs the pills in a second.

“Thank you,” You smile gratefully. “You’re a lifesaver, Goobs.”

“How did you sleep?” Matthew asks, as he reach out for a mug to pour you some hot tea.

“Surprisingly… well? The wine helped.” The mere effort to laugh wakes the hangover dragon in your head. You groan and wince at the pain.

“Oh no,” Matthew furrows his brows in concern and walks to you. He puts his hands on your shoulder and guides you towards your bathroom. “Go take a warm and relaxing shower first. And when you’re done, breakfast will be served, okay?”

You didn’t need to be told twice. Turning the shower knob towards the hotter end, you expect a rush of comforting warm water to hit your body. To your surprise, icy cool water gushes out, waking every cell of your body like someone hitting the gong so loudly and dramatically in your body that all your senses are awoken in an instant. You scream in shock while attempting to switch off the shower. In your blind panic however, you broke the knob, rendering your attempt futile. You run out of the shower room to grab your towel to wrap it around your body. When you step out of the bathroom, you see Matthew running towards you in panic.

“Are you okay?” Matthew asks frantically.

“I can’t switch off the shower!” You cried. Matthew dashes into the shower room to assess the situation. The knob is definitely broken, so he switches off the main water outlet for the shower room instead.

“All done! Are you okay?” Matthew comes out of the shower, dripping wet from head to toe.

“I am fine. Sorry about that,” you answer, biting back an apologetic giggle at the sight. “Here, dry yourself up.” You hand him a dry towel.

“Thanks,” taking the towel from you and blotting it on his hair to absorb the water. “Does this happen often?”

“From time to time, yes. But this is the first time I broke the knob.” You laugh. “Thank you for saving my life – again.”

“I could use with a cold shower anyway, it’s all good.” Matthew laughs, this time towelling his arms.

You feel bad that you are the only one in the room with dry clothes to wear while Matthew stands in front of you, his clothes sticking completely to his skin. You try not to give too much attention to his nether region, which is so obvious, the way his pants are sticking to his body too. It must be freezing cold for him. Instinctively, you reach into your wardrobe to grab one of Chris’ clothes to hand to Matthew. Chris keeps several of his belongings, including clothes in your apartment for when he stays over.

“Change into this. Don’t catch a cold because of me.” You leave your room, leaving Matthew inside to continue drying his hair and body and to change into fresh clothes.

While waiting for Matthew, you take over the duty of making breakfast instead. He has done more than enough for you and making him breakfast is the least you can do for him. You whip up a simple plate of scrambled eggs and sausages and sets it on the table, just as Matthew steps out from your room.

You look up at him and pauses for a moment. Your breath chokes again in your throat when you see him in Chris’ clothes. You didn’t know even seeing Chris’ clothes on someone who isn’t Chris himself can evoke such strong emotions. Thoughts of the fight with Chris last night comes rushing into your mind again, like a breached floodgate where there is no way of stopping the wave. You begin to feel dizzy, so you look away, willing for your senses to come back to you.

A knock on the door breaks you out from your reverie. You steady yourself on the counter table and smiles weakly at Matthew, hoping that your attempt to appear okay will work on him, although knowing full well it will not.

You are not expecting any guests at this time of day, but you gratefully take the chance to step away from Matthew for a moment. You don’t even care who it is at the door, that is until you open it.

Standing in full view of you, in the flesh, at your door, is Chris.

[badwritinghabit]

Chef's Kiss | Carmy x fem!OC x Luca | Chapter 2

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter | Masterlist | Ao3

Warnings: grief, yelling, language, disordered eating, cancer diagnosis, smoking

Word Count: 3,110

Summary: Sophie helps Marcus and Carmy at The Beef. Carmy and Sophie have a heart to heart.

Sophie found herself in Carmy’s kitchen not long after her first time at The Beef. He had called her and said he’d get his chef, Marcus, to prepare his chocolate cake for her to try. She had been looking forward to it. Most of her time in Chicago had been split between either helping watch her nieces or attending doctor’s appointments with her sister. She had spent very little time doing anything else.

Her one week run as guest chef at Ever had been a good break, allowing her to have space to focus on something physical and immediate. She had been having trouble with that lately. Her sister’s cancer diagnosis had thrown her for such a loop that she was still figuring out how to sit with herself and not panic. ‘Every Second Counts’. Chef Terry’s philosophy had stuck with her. It was pressure and relief at the same time. She wanted to take the chance to spend as much time as she could with her sister. While her sister’s prognosis was good, there was still the fear that something would go wrong. She was in Chicago for a reason. But she knew she needed to get a grip on the time she spent away from her sister too. Every second counts and she didn’t want to let time pass with nothing to show for it.

“Good morning,” Sophie said with a smile as she walked into the kitchen at the Beef. Carmy was already waiting for her, next to a tall man with a bright smile and a beanie.

“Good morning, chef. This is Marcus.” Carmy gestured to her. “Sophie.”

“Hello, chef,” Marcus greeted her warmly, holding a hand out to shake. She shook his hand with a grin. “Thank you for offering to help. This is my first try at desserts,” he said eagerly.

“First try?” she asked, looking to Carmy in surprise. He nodded and she became even more curious.

“I am excited to try your cake,” Sophie responded directly to Marcus. Marcus brought out a plated slice and slid it over to her. Then handed her a fork.

“It certainly looks good.” She took a bite. “Holy camoley,” she gasped. Carmy chuckled at her word choice. But she was staring wide eyed at Marcus. “This is your first dessert? Really?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, smiling timidly.

“You didn’t ask me here to give a critique at all, did you? You just wanted to flex that you hired a talented pâtissier.” She narrowed her eyes at Carmy before taking another careful bite.

He grinned at her enthusiasm. “I brought you here to support an up and coming talent.”

Marcus was smiling still, cheeks redder as she kept complimenting him.

“OK let’s talk about what you like and don’t like about it,” she started as she set the fork down. “I’m assuming you hope to make more desserts as well? We can talk about those too.”

“Yes, we’re open to adding other desserts,” Carmy chimed in when Marcus hesitated.

“Great. I’ll work with Marcus, you can shoo,” she said to Carmy who shook his head but walked off anyway.

“I usually work in this room.” Marcus directed her towards his workspace. She looked around at all of the pictures he had on the wall until her eyes landed on one of hers.

“Is that–?” she asked, gesturing towards a picture of the raspberry chocolate cake she had served at Ivy Green in San Diego. She was surprised to see it there.

“Yeah, actually, Chef pointed it out to me. Told me that it was yours when he said you would be coming to help me. I just thought it was beautiful. And the recipe was simple. Not in a bad way. But in a way that made me want to try it myself.”

She smiled at him. “Well thank you.” She was touched. She had never quite gotten used to being recognized and it took her by surprise. The compliment being from someone who worked with Carmy may have made it mean more too, if she spent time thinking about it.

“I have some ideas for your cake. But I’d like to hear what you think. Is there anything you want to change or anything you would like to test out with the recipe?” she asked, getting down to business.

“I want to add something bright. Fruit. Your raspberry ganache is so good, I want to make something like that for my cake.”

She nodded. “What are you thinking so far?” She watched as he brought out his notes.

“Orange? I love chocolate oranges.”

“I really like that idea. You could try adding some orange zest. It brings out the bright citrus taste,” she added excitedly. She went over his recipe with him and made a few suggestions, things he might want to try to play with the texture and flavor.

The two spent a while talking over Marcus’s next dream project, donuts. She warned him they would be tricky but he was skilled and she was certain he would be up to the task.

Time flew by and suddenly Carmy strolled in again. “Sorry to rush you but it is almost time to get started on prep for the day.” He was in chef mode, no more fun and games. He walked out after nodding to Sophie.

“It was lovely meeting you, Marcus. I’ll be in Chicago for a while so if you need a taste tester or any other advice, please reach out,” she gave him her number.

“Thank you so much. I’ll definitely do that.” He smiled. “Also,” he started and stopped and then started again. “Just thought you should know, Carmy doesn’t usually act like that. Laugh like that, I mean.”

She tilted her head.

Marcus shrugged. “Just an observation,” he said with a little grin.

She jumped when Carmy’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Sophie, could I talk to you for a second?” he asked her, sounding urgent.

“Yeah of course.” She followed him out of the room and over to his office. They passed a few people and she smiled at them, nodding as she walked through, trying to make sure she stayed out of their way as they passed.

“One of my chefs called out, last minute emergency. We're already down one. And with Tina out." His hand went to his hair and he grimaced. "I promised a friend of Richie's we'd do catering for a party this afternoon. So we're fucked." Carmy was looking at her again.

"You need help?" she asked. When he nodded grimly she smiled, trying not to show her own lack of confidence. "Of course. I can jump in today."

“Fuck, thank you,” he exhaled a sound of relief.

“Where do you want me?”

“Start prepping the sauce. I’ll show you where we have the recipes.” He led her to the kitchen, grabbing her an apron on the way.

She wrapped it around herself, tying the knot quickly. Something about the routine of putting on an apron brought her right back to New York. She remembered a chef that she and Carmy worked with who had a whole routine he’d do every time he stepped up to his station. She did one of his stretches, smirking to herself.

“Ready chef?” Carmy asked, the tension in his shoulders seemed to have lessened just a little. He was in on the joke.

“Born ready,” she said, adapting the boastful voice of their old colleague. He shook his head at her, an almost imperceptible twitch of his mouth. Things hadn’t changed completely between them.

---

Things were going smoothly until they weren’t. Sophie still had the muscle memory from the thousands of hours she’d spent in the kitchen. She found she got along very well with Sydney. Carmy’s chef was extremely talented and surprisingly kind. She was quick to help her figure out what needed to be done and where to find anything she needed.

Syd, Carmy, and she got into a good rhythm for a while and Sophie felt fairly at ease with the group, even with the tension of working in an understaffed and busy kitchen. But then they ran out of bread.

And Carmy was furious.

The tension had been building, but she hadn’t expected it when he finally burst. He slammed a tray down onto the table and yelled at Marcus to start more. Of course, that wouldn’t be a quick fix.

“Should we go buy bread somewhere?” Sophie asked.

Carmy turned his glare to her and she felt her shoulders straighten in defiance, recognizing his anger immediately. He had been the chef de cuisine at Eleven Madison Park and while she didn’t remember him as being particularly angry– he was nowhere near as abusive as some of the chefs she had worked for– he slipped into it sometimes.

“What the fuck are you thinking? We can’t buy bread! We’ve always used– Are you listening to me?" he yelled, leaning forward towards her. She had been lost in thought, thinking of the bakery she had stopped at nearby and the delicious cookie she had gotten from them. She tried to remember what sorts of bread they had. She was fairly certain she had seen some crusty rolls, hoagie rolls, and longer softer sub rolls.

His yelling usually didn’t faze her. But she felt a little off her game, palms sweaty and heart pounding. She wanted to help, not make things worse. “I am listening, chef. We either ask the catering job to accept food late or we go get more bread. There’s a bakery not too far, I could go see if they have bread,” she offered, trying to keep her voice calm and strong.

“It’s a good idea. We talked about sourcing the bread soon anyway,” Syd chimed in quietly, still cooking.

“Fuck it. Fine. Call Richie though. Check with him.” Carmy shoved the tray away from him, causing it to slide and clamber against the wall making Sophie flinch. Syd reached over and squeezed her arm, looking concerned.

“I’ll call Richie.. Do you have his number?” Sophie asked. She ended up getting Richie’s number from Fak and she quickly walked to an out of the way corner and called him.

“Wisconsin Sophie? How the fuck did you get this number?” Richie laughed through the phone. His demeanor instantly calmed her nerves.

“I know a guy,” she joked. “Look, this catering job. How do you think they’d feel about some rolls being replaced from the bakery down the street?” she asked tentatively.

“You out of bread?” Richie asked.

“Yeah. Carmen isn’t thrilled with the idea of buying it but he said I could check with you.”

“Carmen got angry? Sorry Sophie. Ever since Mike’s been gone, Carm has been having a hard time.” He paused and Sophie considered asking about Mikey but decided against it. Her heart sank thinking about what Carmy must be feeling, having the restaurant he so desperately wanted without his brother.

He continued, “Yeah I think it’d be fine. A couple of these guys go crazy for the crusty rolls at Frank’s down the road. That where you were thinking?”

“Yes exactly.”

“Yeah that works. It’s just bread.”

“Yeah. Thanks Richie. I’m gonna go handle that.” Sophie tore off her apron and ran out the door, wallet in hand. Two blocks down, she burst through the door of Frank’s Bakery and looked around, breathing heavily.

“I need some rolls,” she said, realizing she was being dramatic. She slowed down. “Sorry, there’s a party and our bread order isn’t filled. I’m in a rush.”

“Come in, come in.” A kindly older woman said. “I can help. What are you looking for?”

“Some crusty rolls or hoagie rolls if you have them.”

She pulled out three options and set them on top of a sheet of wax paper ontop of the glass case. She gestured to Sophie to try them and Sophie did, pulling a piece of each and quickly trying them.

“This is perfect how many of these do you have?” she asked, gesturing to the first and third option presented to her.

“We have three dozen left of these and two dozen of this one. Sorry, usually we don’t make huge portions since we are a smaller bakery.”

“No that is perfect, could I take all of them?” she asked. She ended up popping another piece of bread in her mouth as she waited, it really was good.

“Did you want me to cut them open for you?” the woman asked. She was already walking quite slowly and Sophie could only imagine how long it would take for her to cut them all.

“No thank you!” she replied quickly. “Thanks so much for this. Sorry for taking all of your supply.”

“No problem at all dear.” Sophie paid and ran out of the store, three large bags of bread in her arms. She booked it, running as fast as she could back to the restaurant.

Syd met her at the door and the two of them got to slicing, cutting open the rolls for sandwiches and then packaging them.

“What time is it?” Sophie asked, before looking over at the clock. “Five minutes left,” she groaned, picking up the pace.

Carmen walked over and joined them with his own knife, quickly slicing and then packaging them as well.

After everything was packed, Syd carried the bags to the front with Ebra. Sophie looked to Carmen, awkwardly. She took the small remaining paper bag and shoved it towards Carmen. “She gave me a few to try and I picked two out. I promise they are good,” she said, not meeting his eyes.

Carmen grabbed the bag and pulled out the bread, trying each. “You made the right call,” he said eventually. The two hadn’t made eye contact.

“More bread will be ready in 15 minutes, chefs!” Marcus called out, making Sophie sigh.

“Nothing’s wrong.” She finally met Carmy’s eyes and mustered a small smile. He took a breath.

“Thanks, Chef.” He nodded and stepped back to his station to finish cooking. Syd and Marcus returned from the front after delivering the order to Richie up front. Syd walked over and nudged her happily.

“Good job, Sophie.” The two shared a smile before getting back to work.

---

Sophie snuck off when Carmy was serving family. She wanted to check her phone to see if her sister needed anything. And she wanted to get a quick breath on her own. She felt exhausted and it had only been a few hours in the kitchen.

She was sitting on a crate, scrolling on her phone when Carmy walked out and sat next to her, silently. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it up. She heard him hold it out for her and she grabbed it without looking, placing it between her lips and leaning back.

“Just like old times,” she said as she handed it back. She exhaled the smoke in front of her.

He hummed in agreement. “You gonna eat?” he asked, kicking the toe of his shoe against the ground.

“Yeah I just needed to check to see if Mallary texted.” She showed him her phone. He nodded, taking another drag off his cigarette.

It hit her suddenly, what he was doing. He was still looking out for her. In New York, she had been grateful for his help but had never really considered how much work it must have been. To keep her afloat while he was trying to do the same for himself.

She remembered those days like they were behind a glass screen. Foggy and far away. She was lost in grief. Her father had died three years prior and she had never really recovered. She made her way through two years of culinary school through pure force of will. She climbed the ladder quickly with her skills and a few lucky connections and ended up in the same restaurant as Carmy in New York City. She had been on fire up till that point. Had taken the beating all chefs do starting out. But had learned and grown and had enough energy to make it that far. But she had started to burn out. And Carmy saw it. He was the one bright spot in that time of her life.

“Thank you for everything you did when we were in New York. I was in a really bad place. And I wouldn’t have gotten through it without you,” she said quietly, too intense for their normal style. She could feel him tense beside her. “I am doing better now. You don’t need to worry about me anymore. I know you have enough going on.” She paused. She knew she had to just get it out.

“Richie mentioned Mikey,” she said, knowing she couldn’t keep it from him. “I’m really sorry. I know how close you were.”

“Yeah.”

“I guess I just want to say I owe you. Still. So if you need anything, please ask. I’m around. And have very little to do nowadays,” she added, trying to lighten the tension a bit.

“Thanks, Soph. I’ll keep that in mind.”

They sat for a bit longer, Sophie trying to get up the nerve to say something else. Comfort him somehow. She wasn’t sure how to do that.

“How long are you in Chicago for? You said you’re here for your sister?” Carmy asked.

Sophie hummed and held out her hand for the cigarette again. Carmy handed it over. After a drag she nodded to herself. “I’m staying for a while. A year at least, maybe longer. It’s– I’m here because Mallary has cancer,” she admitted, quietly. “She’s getting chemotherapy. Doing pretty well, all things considered.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah. But she’s gonna pull through,” Sophie said, feigning confidence.

Sophie felt Carm’s eyes on her but she didn’t look at him, wondering if she had made the right choice sharing it. She handed the cigarette back without looking over. She didn’t want to make this about her. She had always been better at talking out her feelings than Carmy was, and that wasn’t saying a whole lot. But it was their way. Say all of the shit and then move along, feeling slightly less alone with it.

Carmy had relaxed, she felt him lean against the wall behind them.

She stood and stretched and then turned to look at Carmy. “Family?” she asked, holding out a hand to help him up. He accepted the hand up and let her pull him to his feet. She squeezed his hand gently before letting go and walking into the restaurant ahead of him.

[rainykthebroken]

Update #2 Chapter 16

Hi!!! I hope you are all doing well.

It's with pleasure that I can announce that Chapter 16 is doing well. It's currently sitting at well over 8k words! However, there's once again the same threat looming over this chapter...

I still haven't write the heart of this chapter! And this part is likely to be quite long, which would mean that the chapter will be over 15,000 words long. I might potentially split Chapter 16 in half, but I will work on it. This chapter is supposed to be the longest in the fanfic anyway.

What I call the "heart of this chapter" is the part I'm the most anxious to present to you. It has to be very good, and I won't limit myself for fear of making the chapter too long. Worst case scenario: I will split the chapter in two like I said earlier.

Chapter 16 is so important because it will the key for the keyhole of something I left hovering over the whole story for quite a long time. It was one of the first idea I had for the fanfic, and I tried to put clues here and there for the more discerning reader. Now, the real question is if I did a good job with this concept...

In any case, I hope to release the next chapter at the end of next week, or maybe at the beginning of the one after. Take care of yourself!

[mazegays]

could've followed my fears all the way down

Chapter 17

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 18

The first few days are easy. Familiar. They’ve gone out scouting this far before, and there are little paths worn in from use. The weather is kind to them, but they’ve got plastic sheets for when it starts to rain; their sunny days won’t hold forever.

 Sonya points out the different plants they’ve tried in the greenhouse, to see if they’re edible at all.

Most of them aren’t, which sucks, because they could really use more easily-accessible food sources.

Thankfully, none of the ‘testers’ (mostly just Sonya, and whoever else she can get to try it.) have died from any of the plants. They collect what they can and eat most of it themselves.

Thomas’s food pack has to last a lot longer than theirs. 

“What do you think you’ll find, Thomas?”

“More plants, hopefully. I’m thinking if we’ve scared off any deer around here, but maybe if it’s just me, I’ll see some. I wonder if Frypan knows how to make jerky.”

“I don’t think there’s anything he’s not willing to try making, at least.”

“Good that.” Thomas laughs. “We’ll split tomorrow morning, then. Are you going right back?” They’d made better time than he’d planned for. 

“No, we’ve got a few things around here to take a look at first. I haven’t been out this far before. Have you, Aris?”

“This is the first time I’ve been in here for more than a few minutes. I wanted a change from fishing every morning.” He explains. Thomas hadn’t even realized that Aris was fishing every morning; it explains why he hasn’t seen much of him at dinner. He’s pretty sure that Aris has to be up, like, stupid early for fishing.

“When will you get back, Thomas? I know Aris and I plan on being back in three or four days. How much food do you have?”

“I’ve got enough for three days out here and the trip back. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got a good handle on running in the woods now, too. If it comes to that I’ll run back. I’ll be maybe a week behind you.”

“What do I tell Minho and Gally about why you’re not with us?” She challenges.

He’d really hoped she wouldn’t say that.

“That you lost me? No, don’t tell them that. They’ll flip out. Tell them I was an idiot who went off on his own. They’ll believe that.”

“You can’t avoid them forever, Thomas.”

“I don’t want to. But it’s better if I do.” 

“How long should we wait?” Aris asks. “If you don’t come back?”

“I’ll come back.”

“Will you want to?”

“Yes, Aris, I’ll come back. I was never planning on not coming back— ” Not this time, anyway, “— but this will be easier with just me. We won’t have enough food for all three of us, or even two of us.”

“You planned it that way, Thomas, don’t try and fool us.” Sonya sighs, tugging him over so he’s sitting next to her. “I don’t know why you’re trying to run away from them, from yourself, but it’s not going to work long-term. You’re going to crash and burn eventually, or one of them will. You can come back with us. I don’t think Jorge really expects you to stay out here alone that long.”

“I’ll be okay, Sonya. I’m not running, I promise. I just need to think.”

“And you can’t do that around everyone else?”

No, he can’t trust himself not to tell them everything.

He doesn’t even know what ‘everything’ entails yet. It’s not worth saying something and then finding out he actually felt the opposite.

He doesn’t want to do that to them.

And, he reminds himself, there’s the matter of Rosa— who won’t believe him when he says he’s not being abused, which he hasn’t told anyone about.

She had, however, led him to realize how much happier they were when he wasn’t around.

It was better this way. Minho and Gally could sort things out without him in the way, and he could get over himself alone, with no one else having to deal with his issues.

With him.

Sonya stares at him, hard, like she can read his thoughts.

She’d probably knock him out and drag him back if she could.

continue reading or finish on ao3

The shadows of the canopy are barely there when he leaves the next morning. This deep in, he can hardly see the sky, but he knows Sonya and Aris won’t be up until sunrise at least.

He’s not going to risk the chance of them convincing him not to go on. He’ll have to move more slowly at first, and watch his step very carefully, but by the time they wake they won’t be able to follow him.

He’s so focused on going as far as he can, getting away from everything, that he nearly forgets to stop and eat.

His body doesn’t allow that for long, so he finds a good spot— near berries that look edible but aren’t ones he’s seen before.

He wraps a handful up in cloth and tucks them away. Someone might recognize them when he gets back.

Thomas moves more slowly in the afternoon, taking in everything around him; different plants, more than one he knows is edible—he digs a couple of each up carefully and wraps the roots.

More food sources are never a bad thing.

Still, he doesn’t find much else that day; no animals other than birds or squirrels.

It’s lonelier than he thought it would be, out here.

Yeah, it’s kind of nice, peaceful, but… the solitude is itching at him already.

The white-walled room, the treadmill, the inconsistent meals

He can’t think about that now.

He’ll just keep a routine. He’ll leave shortly after sunrise each morning, eat lunch when the sun is highest, and then settle in right when dusk starts to fall.

That will help.

Minho tries running on his own, but even though he’s allowed to now, it just feels wrong. He’s used to having Thomas by his side, used to finding his balance with a hand on Thomas’s shoulder or back when he stumbles, used to Thomas doing the same on him.

He can’t do it.

It’s… it’s not the same. And it’s not as if he could run with Gally, because Gally’s still hurt, and would probably laugh at him if he suggested it in the first place.

Minho would ask Harriet or Sonya, but Sonya’s still on the scouting trip with Thomas and Aris and Harriet’s got enough on her hands.

So he doesn’t run. He can take a few days off, he reasons, just until Thomas gets back.

“Stop acting weird, shank.” Gally throws a pillow at his head. “So you don’t want to run. Have you considered walking? A nice stroll, perhaps?”

“Shut up, asshole.” That’s one of Minho’s favorite new words. Sometimes the adults get all huffy about it if he uses it around them, though. Why’d they teach it to them if they didn’t expect them to use it? Seems dumb.

“Min, seriously, you’re driving me crazy with all of your pacing around. You need to go and do something, man.”

He doesn’t want to leave Gally alone, though. He knows that Gally would be okay without him, but the ache in his chest when he thinks about Thomas (he knows it shouldn’t be so strong; it’s only been a few days, but he wants to see Thomas again. And talk to him, and take naps together, and tease Gally together, and eat together.) is only lessened when he’s with Gally.

Minho’s not going to read into that too much right now. All he knows is that he doesn’t want to leave Gally alone, but he can’t settle down, either.

“You know what I would suggest if we were back in the Glade?” Gally’s smirking when he looks at him.

“Yeah,  I think I do.” Of course, he’d be doing all the work, Gally can’t do anything right now.

“I mean, if you want to…” 

He does want to. Kind of. He and Gally never did this sort of thing together, but they’ve both heard things about each other.

“What if we get caught?”

“That never bothered you before, from what I know.”

“It was different, in the Glade. It was only boys our age.” When Chuck had come up in the box, those of them who were typically louder (Alby and Newt) and more likely to fool around in easily-accessible places either quieted down or moved somewhere else. If Chuck hadn’t been so damn curious and wanting to get into everything, it wouldn’t have been a problem. At least, not as much of a problem as it was. But the kid would sneak up on you no matter what he thought you were doing, and privacy was almost a foreign concept to him at first.

“So?”

“So I don’t want Anya or Harriet to walk in on me sucking your dick, Gally.”

“Oh, is that what you wanted to do?” Gally motions for him to come closer to the bed. “I was mostly joking. I don’t think I’d be up for much of that anyway. You could take a nap, though. You haven’t been sleeping at night.”

“Yeah, I know.” Both of them have been having bad nightmares since Thomas left. All of the things they try not to worry about during the day only come back to haunt them in the middle of the night.

When Minho wakes up again, he’s back on the Burg. He can tell because even after days, twisting his back in certain ways burns.

He can tell because Newt’s here, and Teresa, and a group of girls in the corner.

He can tell because Thomas isn’t. Which means that…

It means that WCKD has killed him.

He’s going to have to live without Thomas.

Minho doesn’t know why that loss hits him so much harder than the others he’s faced recently. He hasn’t even known Thomas that long. A month, at most.

But he already knows he doesn’t want to live without him.

He tells the others what he’s thinking, what he thinks WCKD did, but it almost feels like it’s not him.

And then Ratman brings out Thomas’ body.

‘Something’s not right. This isn’t how it goes.’

He ignores the thought, because Thomas is dead and Minho’s decisions killed him. Minho killed him.

Not in the same way he killed Gally, not directly, but he killed him. And he’s going to have to live with that.

He doesn’t want to live with that.

‘This is wrong.’

Yes, it is wrong, because Thomas isn’t here. Thomas should be here. Minho should have picked someone else, he should have chosen.

But he couldn’t do that, could he? He couldn’t pick another of his friends to die. At least this way, he didn’t name anyone.

‘Minho, wake up!’

He is awake. He just really wishes he wasn’t. If he weren’t awake, then he wouldn’t have to face the fact that Thomas is dead. His body’s right there, Minho could go and touch it if he wanted to.

He doesn’t want to.

Doesn’t want to think about Thomas like he’s dead.

He wonders if the others will leave him here, if he asks. 

(He already knows they won’t.)

Minho sits on the floor, facing away from the evidence of what he’s done, and waits for WCKD’s next move.

It’s all he can do now, anyway.

‘MINHO, WAKE UP!’

This time, he listens.

“Minho!” Minho flings an arm out to let Gally know he’s awake. “What was that about?”

“Mmmm, give me a minute.” It hadn’t felt like a nightmare, but apparently he had been reacting like it was one.

“You were, like, crying in your sleep, Min. I’ve never seen you do that before.”

“It was after the Scorch.” Minho sits up, wiping at his face. He doesn’t think he’s cried during nightmares before; Thomas hasn’t said anything if he has. “They separated us and had us all do these different trials. Mine was picking someone for them to kill. I refused, but when they brought me back to the main room, Thomas wasn’t there. He was gone longer than anyone else, and I thought--we all thought--that they’d killed him. They hadn’t, clearly, but in the nightmare they had. Ratman even brought us his body.

“It didn’t feel like a nightmare, though. It felt like I was still there. Like that’s where I was supposed to be. There was something telling me that it was wrong, but I didn’t listen because of course it felt wrong, they’d killed Thomas and it was my fault.”

“That’s… that’s a rough one, Minho.” Gally says. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

“That’s okay. I don’t know what to say after nightmares, either. Especially when it’s something like that.”

“Would it be better if Thomas was here?”

“Yeah, but he’s off on his little mission. Why do you think he keeps leaving us behind?” Minho knows Thomas trusts them. He knows Thomas likes them, but he can’t figure out why Thomas keeps running away from them.

“I don’t know. It’s frustrating, though. If he just stayed put, we could talk things out, and we’d be okay.” Gally takes his hand, and Minho moves to lie at the top of the bed with him without more urging. 

“Good luck with that. I don’t think Thomas knows how to stop. I don’t think he even knows how to slow down.” Not that Minho’s much better at it. It’s been really hard, forcing himself to remember that he’s not in constant danger these days. He doesn’t have anything to solve, nothing to be looking out for. 

“If anyone can out-stubborn him, it’s us.” Gally points out. “He’s our boy, alright? And we’ll take care of him.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I like the sound of that.”

It might just take some time before they can convince Thomas that he doesn’t have to be trying to fix everything all the time.

Shuck, they’ll have to learn together.

&lt;- 16 18 ->

[melanie-ohara]

My Heart Was Wired in Thorns - Chapter 2

Whumpuary2024, Day 04 - Prompt: Choking

This one is a little spicy, but not like super explicit. Lae'zel and the Dark Urge exchange relationship advice. It goes... poorly.

AO3 here

Sithla left the others setting up camp and walked to the mouth of the cave, looking out over the Underdark stretching into the gloom ahead of them. Somewhere across the water was the route to Moonrise Towers, and she was no longer sure if she wanted to get there or not. There were answers there, she was sure - both to the tadpole problem and… other things. Did she even want to know? Was there a way to be rid of her compulsions otherwise? Or, the thing she truly feared: would answers even help? Out in the dark, mushrooms glowed. Sithla took a few steps out of the cave mouth and, when nobody called out to stop her, turned the corner until the entrance was out of sight. Wyll hadn't exactly tightened her leash since the incident in the woods, but she had noticed him trying to stay close to her. He kept her in sight when they travelled, and Sithla was sure he had asked Shadowheart to watch her when Mellephora split them up. In camp, she caught him glancing her way long before it was time to turn in for the night. She had expected to find it tiresome but something about him made her feel safe, though she wasn't nearly naive enough to think anything had changed. 

"Shirking your duties?" a voice called from behind her and Sithla jumped. She had been so wrapped up in herself that she hadn't noticed Lae'zel of all people approaching from behind her. 

"It's Emily's turn to cook," she pointed out without facing her. "Just needed some air."

"I see," Lae'zel said. This time Sithla did hear her step closer and turned around. She had already stripped off her armour and was wearing just her strappy leather bra and comfortable trousers, her strange slightly ridged green skin exposed to the close and sticky air of the Underdark. She sauntered towards her, looking a lot more relaxed than any of the others did when they were alone with her. 

"You followed me." It wasn't a question, but she was looking for an answer.

"Yes," Lae'zel said, stepping closer. 

Sithla stood her ground. She had three knives in her coat that she hadn't told Wyll about yet and Lae'zel never carried anything shorter than a hunting dagger. There was nowhere to hide something like that in her current outfit, but Sithla was wary anyway.

"You are on your guard," she observed. "As you should be."

"Why's that?" Sithla shifted her stance very slightly, just in case. 

Lae'zel pressed her chin out with her head slightly cocked. "I am a very dangerous woman."

Sithla didn't blink. "So am I."

Lae'zel's strange lizard eyes darkened, which Sithla was starting to recognise as some kind of satisfied smile. "Our coupling will be legendary," she said, and Sithla nearly choked on her next breath.

"Pardon?"

"Are you so surprised?" Lae'zel said, taking another step closer. She was well within striking distance now, but Sithla was too stunned to even move. "Your prowess. Your bloodlust. You do not shrink from a challenge or question the need for violence." 

The bloodshed Sithla left in her wake should be off-putting. At least, she thought it should. After the Nautiloid crash that had thrown them all together, Sithla had found herself struggling to understand the others. She could fit in, that part was disturbingly easy, but actually connecting with them was another matter entirely and even before the murder most of them had found her off-putting. For Lae'zel to approach her like this was a strange feeling. She wasn't sure it was unwelcome yet, though.

"I thought," Sithla started, and then paused to moisten her suddenly dry lips. "You and Emily…"

"Tchk!" Lae'zel spat, turning her eyes away from Sithla for a moment. "If the cleric wishes to make me hers then she must pursue me herself," she said. Her tone sounded hard, but there was something in her eyes that looked a lot like want to Sithla. She'd seen it in some of the others too, when they looked at each other. Such a complex web of relationships stretched across their little camp, and so finely balanced. 

"And in the meantime?" Sithla asked. She hadn't realised she was doing it, but suddenly she was standing a lot closer to the githyanki warrior. She could smell the strange, bitter herbs she chewed to clean her teeth, and see the gleam of polished leather gleaming in the Underdark's soft light.

"I will bed who I please," Lae'zel whispered, tilting her head and parting her lips. An invitation. 

"Like Astarion?" Sithla asked softly. It was hardly a secret - everyone in camp had heard them.

Lae'zel's teeth snapped shut with a click. "He was adequate, but performative. I trust you have no such - "

Before Lae'zel could finish, Sithla's hand shot out and closed around her throat. She turned and shoved her hard against the rock face beside them, keeping her grip tight but not painful. Not yet.

" - Inadequacies," Lae'zel finished, her voice strained by the choke but still purring with satisfaction. 

Despite herself, Sithla felt a deeply familiar thrill as she pinned Lae'zel to the wall. It was the thrill she felt when a blade pierced flesh, or skin burned, or a neck snapped - the thrill of causing pain and taking life. Of spilling blood. 

Emily had cried for hours the night Astarion had followed Lae'zel down to the river. Sithla remembered the illicit joy that spilled down her spine at the sound of it, muffled and desperate. Her fingers twitched involuntarily at the memory and Lae'zel let out a soft moan that forced Sithla to concentrate. 

"You have the wrong idea, gith," she hissed. She moved her hand a little, shifting the pressure from the blood vessels in the sides of Lae'zel's neck to the airway at the front. Lae'zel's eyes widened very slightly, and Sithla nodded. "Good. Move at all and I'll crush your throat in a heartbeat," she promised. She realised she was smiling, the sharp over-extended smile that only came out when she was doing something she wished she wasn't capable of - but now it was useful, she let it stay.

"What do you want, istik?" Lae'zel hissed. 

"I don't remember a lot," Sithla said softly, leaning in close to Lae'zel so she could speak directly into her strange sharp ear while keeping both of her hands in sight. "But I know I've been used before. Maybe I am still." Her lips touched Lae'zel's skin and she had the sudden gleeful desire to bite down and rip until the whole ear came off in her teeth. It took her a moment to get the heady idea of gith blood spraying across her lips out of her mind before she could speak again. "I don't like it. Don't try it again." 

Lae'zel opened her mouth to deny it, but Sithla knocked the back of her head against the rock hard enough to change her mind. Still, her stare was defiant. Sithla realised that if she kissed her now, Lae'zel would still fuck her. The urge rose. Not to kill, no - there was a sweeter, more complex flavour of cruelty to inflict. She could have Lae'zel here and now, loud and aggressive and unresevered, everything Emily wasn't, and in the morning she could look the cleric in the eye and tell her what she'd done so she could watch that little light of affection die forever. The poor girl would be distraught, and Lae'zel would lose her for good, all in a misguided attempt to make the poor, sad, pathetic creature jealous. 

Her lips had nearly met Lae'zel's when she stopped. Blood pounded in her head. The delicious fantasy of hurting all three of them with one night of ecstasy crackled through her like a lightning spell, making her vision swim and her knees tremble with desire. She pressed her eyes closed against it and made herself concentrate on Lae'zel's breathing: shallow, regulated, even. They both wanted it, and it would be so easy…

"I would bloody your nose if it were just a little bigger," she whispered. And then she let Lae'zel go. She didn't immediately gulp for air, but with her training and discipline Sithla wasn't surprised. 

"And I would cut your throat for your impudence, kainyank," Lae'zel growled.

"But?" Sithla prompted as she rested her hand, ostensibly casually, near the opening of her coat. 

"Do you know?" Lae'zel said, tilting her head. "I cannot think of a reason." For a moment Sithla was sure she was about to lunge for her, but then the githyanki shook her head. "G'lyk, the people of this plane have a strange attitude to sex. I may never comprehend it."

Sithla smiled. They understod each other, that was enough for her to know Lae'zel meant her no harm. Her hands shook from the adrenaline, of the confrontation and of denying the urge, and she clenched and unclenched her fists a few times as she started back to the cave. 

"Except - " Lae'zel darted forwards and before Sithla could even turn to face her again she had wrapped her own hand around Sithla's throat. This wasn't the violent hold Sithla had used, though: her grip was possessive and focused, carefully limiting the blood that flowed to Sithla's brain. She couldn't hold back the indecent gasp that slipped her lips. 

"Except?" she whispered, before she could stop herself. 

"I know what you crave, half-elf." Lae'zel's words slithered down her neck and she shuddered, feeling her other hand grip her hip hard enough that she could feel her fingernails through three layers of cloth and leather. "I have seen you look at Wyll. I can offer you release."

Lae'zel's talons dug in and Sithla's mind filled with images - memories she thought lost. Another set of nails digging into bare skin deep enough to draw blood, a tighter hand on her throat that choked like it was trying to kill, a cock that filled her from behind, orgasm after orgasm after - 

"No," Sithla breathed. Lae'zel moved away so fast it felt like she vanished out of existence to leave Sithla alone in the dark. Her sudden absence struck Sithla like a blow and she fell to her knees, gasping like she needed air when Lae'zel hadn't taken any from her. What - who - was that? There was a name, and a past attached to it, that flickered just out of reach but she knew she'd heard it before. A former lover, she was sure of that. Despite the violence, she was beyond any doubt it was what she had wanted. Demanded. Begged for. Sithla wanted to throw up.

"Very well," Lae'zel said, smoothing imaginary creases in her trousers. "But you will look back on this moment and wish you had made a different choice."

Sithla barely glanced up as she walked past her, headed back to camp.

Who the fuck was that?

[sleepydross]

Chapter 2, Route_A: Ascent

A Chapter of the 'SEER' or 'Spontaneous Edifice Emergence / Reification' Storyline. This is Route_A. For Route_B, and previous chapters, see my previous posts. CW: Gore, Disturbing Content, Body Horror, Mutation, MURICA (Mocking it tho), General Horror and Surreal Content

Song Title: Jim's Favorite Sweets (I am not fucking kidding)

Lyrics: Started off kind of slow and annoying, like 'Oh Jim was a good lad, but he loved himself some sweets, and he'd do damn near anything to get himself some treats.' Not a joke, that was the opening lyric. It was like, country western sounding, sort of, but sterile and super… poppy, you know? Like shit designed by a fuckin' algorithm. Also, there were… like jingle bells? Like, it was country-western, but like, country western Christmas music.

Anyway, the lyrics went on to describe Jim's love of sweet shit some more, but gradually it took on a darker cast when Jim discovered 'sweet meat.' It wasn't really immediately clear what this meat was, but it was revealed in the next verse that this meat was first found on a kid named 'Jamie.' It was… the meat was Jamie. Jim ate him for days, apparently, slowly, and it went into really… extreme detail on how he kept him alive, and it compared him to a cow, like Jim was farming it, feeding him to make the meat sweeter.

It was… really fucking gross. Finally, Jim was too big???? And he had to eat a lot more. There was a ton of detail about all of it, about him finding more… meat, and like, raising all of it and stuff, it was. I don't know. It sounded, it kept comparing it to, it was… fuck. It was like factory farms, it sounded like.

The last line was about how Jim was like, going to expand, how he'd found his calling, selling the sweetest meat to other meat eaters.

I don't know. This place is already fucking getting to me.

J woke with a start as a rhythmic pounding rattled the doors. It took some time for xim to get xis head on straight, to get a handle on where xe even was. Ultimart, but in the nightmare that somehow was actual real life. Xis neck hurt, for starters, and sitting up sent a few packs of cigarettes tumbling off of the cig wall and-

"Right. Great," xe muttered. Xe was still there indeed, still at the store, and the horrible throbbing from xis left hand told xim that none of it had been a nightmare, despite that all of it had felt like one.

Sighing, xe stood up slowly and rolled xis head, neck cracking enough times to be medically concerning. Tiredly, xe looked to the door, and saw that someone was standing there, pounding repeatedly on the glass - headbutting it, actually.

Piled up around the feet of this 'person' were dozens of other 'people' who looked to have bashed their heads on the doors until their skulls split open and their brains all spilled out, grotesque and gray and smashed under feet into a thick sort of paste splattered low down on the doors.

Sighing, xe stood up and looked around the store. There wasn't much different, really, except that it was-

"Oh, great," xe muttered, stepping slowly out from behind the counters. The isles used to run a good twelve feet back, with at least ten feet between them and the main counter. This open space was broken up by the presence of the island in the middle, coffee makers present on it, alongside creamer dispensers and the various accouterments used by tired construction workers.

They always looked around, furtively, as they put pumps of sweet flavored syrup, or ice, or sugar and cream or all of the above in their cups. J was used to meeting those gazes with a patient smile, one that xe tried to make sure gave off 'I'm not going to judge you for wanting a coffee flavored milkshake, dude' energy. After all, xe didn't give a shit what they wanted or didn't want, but masculinity amongst the red of neck was fragile and they seemed to fear little more than people seeing them not take their coffee black as ink.

J was of the opinion people should just get the fuck over it and drink their sweet tasty coffee. Xe sold it with a smile and not an ounce of comment. There was a fragile, tenuous trust between early morning patrons and the night worker, one J already missed in this fucking nightmare.

Walking, slowly, xe made xis way towards the back, past two brand new coffee islands largely similar to the first but with significant variation in coffee flavors and syrup varieties.

At the third island, xe stopped and stared at one of the flavors, trying to process the fact that the space between main counter and isles was now at least fifty feet.

Blonde roast, dark chocolate… and the creamers…

Sighing, xe set to work making a cup. Breakfast needed to happen. While the coffee brewed, xe walked into the overlong isles, glancing at the 'pastry' section. It used to occupy only two shelves, albeit with them stocked absolutely full to the gills.

Now, it stretched on for ten feet, with products, flavors and variations that xe had never seen stocked before. Bizarrely, some of the packaging had a smudged, unnatural sort of look that made the brand names, product names or other information unreadable.

Curious, J tugged a package off the shelf that was about a foot wide, three inches tall, and four inches deep. It was all brown cardboard, unadorned and with no wrapping to speak of. One word was emblazoned on it, in filigreed script.

Breakfast.

Uncertain, xe sat down crosslegged and opened the box gingerly, in case it bit. Instead of biting, the inside surfaces of the cardboard were coated in a white plastic without seams, as if the box had been built around it. The entire thing was divided into compartments, one full of yellow business labelled as eggs, another with small pancakes, another with hashbrowns, and a final one, bizarrely, with a small piece of chocolate cake - small, as if a tiny cake had been made, and then sliced.

With a sigh, xe took the breakfast into the back room, and shoved it in the microwave, following the instructions and removing the tiny cake slice first. In a mere few minutes, xe was sitting at the chair set up near the storage room's desk, wondering if the internet still worked on the training computer.

It did not, so xe just ate passable eggs and adequate pancakes in silence, staring at the screensaver. It made xim feel marginally more human to be fed, and a few snagged-on-the-way sports drinks took care of hydration. All told, it had been thoroughly acceptable.

The cake, however, xe had to admit, was the unquestionable star of the show - soft, moist, rich and with high quality frosting and little crunchy bits between the layers of cake. Tiny though it was, it was ridiculously filling.

Satisfied, xe returned to the main store, wandering the isles in vague confusion before stopping by the coffee bar and making another cup. Xe sipped it slowly, trying to decide what to do.

The answer was obvious.

"So, I have to get out of here," J murmured, quietly, to no one in particular, glancing to the doors. The glass was vibrating with each impact of the customer's head, and as xe watched, two more stumbled up. These newcomers were distorted, disquieting people-shaped shitshows. The one on the left had a brow ridge so overgrown and intense that there were no eyes beneath it just lumpy, blistered flesh.

The other one just ended at the neck, in terms of meat, the rest of its upper body being entirely fused bone. All told, it looked like a half-melted candle in the shape of a neck and skull. When they started bashing their heads against the door, the slams were hard and clacky. It only took a few impacts for J to be certain this sanctuary was safe no more.

Worse yet, beyond them, sluggishly stumbling past the gas pumps, were more deformed, distorted… 'customers.'

"Fuck," xe muttered, dropping the bottle of water. Leaving via the front was not an option, and leaving at all seemed really fucking bad. The dreamlike state brought on by what xe assumed was a mixture of trauma and sleeping sitting against a fucking wall of cigarettes was absolutely gone. Adrenaline and a bit of brekkie really was a hell of a drug. "Okay. Okay, supplies."

With the store extended, and strange shit all over, xe set to work. The first thing recovered was from the extended housewares isle. Past the usual flour and salt, sugar, pepper and salt, there was… merchandise. This section had, for an inexplicable reason, extended further than the others, all the way to the very back where the coolers took an architecturally unnerving right angle instead of remaining a flat wall of glass doors - it was as if someone had built the store just to accommodate this one impossible set of shelves.

All that mattered was the heavy duty backpacks, all heavily branded and ugly as fucking sin, but beggers couldn't be choosers and J wasn't in the mood to go slow with a fucking caveman with no eyes and Mr. Bonehead at the entry.

Bag in hand, xe took a left, feeling deeply unwilling to venture into the corridor of coolers forcibly (presumably) created by the hyperextension of the merchandise and housewares. This annoyance of a nonsensical floorplan meant that, at the far end of the store from the counter, xe was cut off totally from the front of the store to the right of xim, but…

That freaky old lady had brought a fully barcoded, priced knife to the register, and a knife sounded pretty damned...

Useful...

"What the shit?" xe asked, softly. Apparently, the store had extended front to back when xe wasn't looking, but only in the isles area. Previously, front to back, there had been four isles. Now, it was six, and the remaining sections had strange labels.

J started in the one labelled 'Knives and Survival Gear.'

Yeah, the store had a life bait cooler and some deer attractant and predator repellent, a bit of fishing shit, but… this…

Ten minutes of stuffing shit into the backpack later, J rushed to the end of the isle and watched the Bonehead slam its cranium into the glass again. A crack appeared. Those doors were old, and heavy, but they weren't going to hold much longer.

"Shit, shit, shit," xe muttered, a renewed sense of urgency leading xim down the isle marked 'America, Y'all' which was… out of place, to say the least, even if it was in the utterly unoffensive, completely plain font that the rest of the clear, high contrast signs in the damned place were. This isle didn't travel straight, but instead curved back and forth in shallow waves, every single product emblazoned with an American flag, or some heinous cartoonish depiction of a dead president, or Uncle Sam.

First, there were fireworks, which actually made a lot of sense, and then all manner of hot sauces, barbecue sauces, several sauces that insisted (in loud fonts, right on their front labels) that they were largely made of butter and corn syrup, and then several unrefrigerated bottles of 'Patriot Punch,' whose ingredients list-

"Really?" xe asked, staring. All one ingredient was, as far as the bottle said, pure red dye number three.

The cancer one.

Red dye number three, J was pretty sure, was the seriously dangerous cancer one.

Amused and not, at once, xe rushed onward down the wavy isle until reaching a section covered in weapons, all emblazoned in flags and expected bullshit. This section ended just past the crossbows in heavy stacks of bone extending from the ends, looking an awful lot like spinal columns. Meat grew from the ragged, jagged metal edges, twitching and slick, fibrous and shiny white in places with tendon and ligament.

J slipped trying to take a step, and landed in thick, sticky white liquid. For a moment, xe just laid there, trying very hard not to think about what, precisely, that thick liquid could be.

It also made some very uncomfortable suggestions about the wavy isle - and upon looking back, J noted that it curved the other direction, as if it had shifted smoothly and silently.

"Yeah, no, fuck this," xe muttered, returning to the crossbows and grabbing a garish sort of thing, a terrifically ugly flag pattern crossbow that looked pretty sturdy and modern, a quiver that had an actual cartoon George Washington on it, which didn't make any fucking sense.

What made even LESS sense was stupid American flag suit he wore. It wasn't even the CORRECT damned flag for when George 'Brutal Racist' Washington was fucking president.

It didn't matter. The telltale sound of glass cracking told xim that it was time to go. The isle ending in flesh, blood and spines was, at a glance, undulating fast enough for it to be visible now, and in a distinctly… crushing and mashing pattern, bringing the isle to narrow points and wider points that flowed from the counter side of the store to the drink coolers. The word 'intestinal' rose bizarrely to mind.

It'd turn xim to paste, digestive style, and that was not J's idea of a good time.

So, xe ran, sprinting down the farthest isle and past the open dairy cooler before-

Xe stopped, turning to stare at the open, cold shelves and the jugs of milk and water, the cans of cold coffee, and the various familiar human heads set up in neat rows beneath plastic cloches. Coworkers.

They were all coworkers.

And each one of the coworker heads were represented multiple times, stacked back on an extra shelf that was forced in between the bottom one where the milk sat and the shelf above that where the packaged sandwiches still sat, pristine and overpriced. Smoothly, the sandwich shelf had been pushed upwards, stretching the entire open case right up to the drop-ceiling tiles.

A crash, the doors breaking, made xim pause, glancing that way. Bonehead staggered in. Flakes of oss drifted off of its jaw as it opened a mouth that had, previously, been fused shut.

"I WANT… SODA!" it howled, in a 'woodchipper being fed sheet metal and nearing total mechanical failure' sort of voice.

"Nah," xe muttered, rushing to the back door and finding it had been replaced with a solid brick wall.

Sparing ximself the second to mutter 'oh fuck,' xe silently turned and pushed into the back room, taking note of nothing save for the fact that xe couldn't see the wall to the right, which upon entering that room, would have previously been two feet away, roughly.

Grunting with the effort, xe dragged the nearest shelving unit in front of the door and then turned, facing the then distant far wall. Baffled, but panic-fuelled and unwilling to be pulled apart by freak fucking zombies…

Xe unplugged the standing freezer and dragged it out from the wall, watching the shelf covered in bottles of chemicals and drain cleaner tablets shudder under the impact of the 'customers' beyond. Thankfully, the standing freezer was on decent wheels, and it drifted smoothly ahead, until its enormous bulk was pressed against the chemical shelf. A few wheel-locks later, and at minimum, J had a few minutes to take stock.

There, xe found ximself walking behind the rolling racks of backstock, staring up into the darkness overhead. Every single shelf vanished into that black obscurity, some things far above in the black glowing softly in oddly organic patches…

And then, xe saw down the length of the shelves...

A potential route out of that hellhole.

Thump after thump set the impression of a timer in xis head, so xe ran to salvation and started climbing the red painted rungs of a roof access ladder that xe had never fucking seen before. All of the rolling racks were far away, far enough away that xe was able to, at very least, largely ignore the implications of shifting grub-like things nestled bio-luminescently alongside the stocking boxes.

Xe just had to hope Bonehad and Caveman, and their mutant compatriots, couldn't fucking climb.

[shamera]

NaNo day 17 part 2

...I was tempted to leave this for tomorrow and say 'hey look how much i wrote!' but this is meant to be a marathon and i'm supposed to be honest about these things anyway.

so warning for injuries and a canon character death. and, uh, bugs. this is all shaping up to something, i promise. all of this and like the next two days' writing is like chapter 1 in my head. also names and actions are liable to be changed in edit for continuity and flow, but this is nano so i'm just speedwriting and not looking back.

Stopping here because I'm tired, need sleep, and this weekend is going to be really busy. To be continued!

Everything happened quickly. 

Wangfu was scouting ahead and coming back with a relieved expression when the floor (solid stone!) gave away underneath him unexpectedly, and he shouted in fear and confusion as he fell. Fang Duobing was after him immediately, falling to his knees to reach into the hole, attempting to grab him before he could slip away, but was too late to do so. 

“Wangfu!” He shouted alongside Li’er’s panicked scream, but the young man disappeared before his eyes into the darkness, prompting Fang Duobing to fumble his phone as he shone the light down into the hole, seeing rocks and darkness all the way down. “Wangfu!”

A cool hand rested against his wrist, and he glanced to see Li Lianhua’s bloodied sleeve as the man knelt next to him. 

“It’s not a direct drop.” He observed calmly, and pointed to the slant in the stone. “There’s a high chance he’ll be fine, but startled. We can go after him, although it would be the world’s worst slide. But with an already injured person…”

Fang Duobing bit the inside of his mouth in frustration. If they wanted to help Wangfu, then they’d have to split the party. If they didn’t split the party, then Wangfu would be left alone. 

“We have to go get him!” Li’er insisted from where she was also on her knees next to the hole, her own phone shining a weak light into the darkness. “Wangfu! Are you alright? Answer us!”

“I’ll go.” Fang Duobing insisted, already struggling to take off his suit jacket and searching for an anchor point. There was no point in going if he couldn’t bring Wangfu back with him, and that meant finding a way back up as well. He was going to take care of all of them, and that meant he had to get them all back in one group. He glanced over to his aunt. “Your jacket. Everyone’s, if you can spare it. If we can use it as a rope…”

He Xiaofeng was already slipping off her blazer, having the same thought. “It won’t be very long. I should go down.”

“Your arm is injured.” Fang Duobing rejected the idea. “If he needs help, how will you carry him up?”

“I’ll go,” Li Lianhua volunteered, but once more Fang Duobing rejected the idea, this time with a firm grip on his wrist before he could do anything. 

“I need you to help pull us up.” He looked at the others. “Everyone here who can do that will help. We can’t stay in one place for too long. If you hear something in the distance, just leave without us. I’ll catch up to everyone.”

“This is a stupid plan, Xiaobao,” His aunt told him, tone dark. She was pale under the dim light of the phones, the red of her lipstick unnaturally dark. “You can’t just—”

“It’s okay,” he insisted brightly. “I trained for this, remember? This is the kind of thing I need to be able to do if I want to join Baichuan Court.”

The others were also taking off their work blazers, but just as his aunt said, once the arms were tied together, the length of their makeshift rope wasn’t very long at all. Next to him, Li Lianhua had also pulled his sweater over his head, the pale knit a stark contrast to the rest of the clothes, the warm yarn frailer than the thick weave, and Fang Duobing found himself reluctant to take it, although he used it to tie around a rock, hoping it might receive the least amount of damage that way. 

“Climb down,” Li Lianhua told him, and Fang Duobing realised he had ever seen the man without his thick sweaters, the thin long-sleeved shirt looking strange to his eyes. “If it goes even lower than that, then just come back up. Don’t be stupid about this, Fang Duobing.”

“I won’t.” He promised, and heard his aunt huff behind him. He turned to her. “Nothing will happen.”

“It better not,” she grumbled back, although there was tremor to her shoulders and a tension that belied her nonchalance. Her eyes were just a tad too wide, a trait Fang Duobing recognised in himself when he was overwhelmingly anxious. “What am I going to tell my sister if you disappear?”

Fang Duobing didn’t know how to respond, so instead he took a hold of their makeshift rope, and jumped down into the hole. 

His feet hit stones almost immediately, and then his hip, and then it was just as Li Lianhua stated: the world’s worst slide. He lost a hold of the blazer sleeve he grabbed almost immediately, but the fall wasn’t as far as he feared. Even with the slant, he felt he had fallen perhaps five to seven meters, and was a great distance but not as bad as feared, even with the inevitable bruises all along his side from the jump. 

He wheezed as the ground evened out again, and then called out, “I’m okay!” 

A moment in the pitch blackness, and Fang Duobing pulled out his phone for a light again, frowning at the crack along his screen. At least it was still working properly. 

Examining where he ended up, he found that the walls here were smooth unlike in the upper area, and there wasn’t enough space for him to stand, the space circular in its design, with the ground underneath him giving way slightly with each step. It wasn’t stone, he realised. He rested a hand against the ceiling, and then slid it down alongside the wall, frowning at the texture. 

It felt like.. Clay. Smooth and malleable, although dry and firm. 

“Wangfu?” He called out cautiously, phone pointed in one direction and then the next. There were only two directions to go, since he had fallen from above into this tunnel, and looking at it now, it looked like the tunnel was dug previously and then covered over before it could be used much. 

Where he was standing, Fang Duobing realised with a shiver, was well worn. Used. 

This was definitely a path taken by the monsters in this dungeon. 

There was a skittering noise at the edge of his senses, and Fang Duobing whirled around to point the light in the direction of the sound, grabbing along the wall to brace himself. There was nothing in the light, and he turned again. 

There was no Wangfu, either. 

There were, however, indentations in the clay under him, where someone might have been dragged, and Fang Duobing followed it cautiously, heart rising to his throat as he pulled out a small wooden dagger from the back of his belt. It wasn’t a real weapon, but it was better than the nothing he had on him. The light from his phone was barely illuminating the darkness ahead of him, just far enough to see his hand through a thick fog, but the sounds of skittering were now growing closer than ever. 

“Wangfu?” He called out again, although this time quieter. 

There was no response, and no change in the sounds. 

A turn in the path of the tunnel, and Fang Duobing shone his light around the bend to see— 

Dozens. 

Dozens of black forms, armoured, like pill bugs the size of cats if they had hundreds of legs like needles moving along the ground and with glowing eyes painted across their carapaces. Crawling over each other, over the walls, over the ceiling, atop each other like crowded rats, and

Atop a still form that was Wangfu, dripping blood and still twitching as one of the monsters carefully made itself at home within his torso, crawling right through— 

Fang Duobing doesn’t remember his yelling, doesn’t remembering charging in with only a wooden dagger, but there was sharp needle-like points of pain on his legs as the monsters turned from their prey to swarm toward him instead, even as he stabbed them as well as he could between the ridges of their carapaces, as he would take down one and then another and another, but they would each be replaced two to three more each time. His legs felt like fire with a sea of pinpricks, and they were starting to drop down onto his head as well, and he was— 

Yanked back violently by his shirt, and then a storm of fire blazed past him, singeing the edge of his ponytail as he was dragged backward amidst the deafening shrieks of the monsters as they burned. They burned, but Wangfu would burn with them, and Fang Duobing struggled against the grip, blood running down his legs from the needle holes in his pants, but the grip was stronger than he was. 

“Stop.” Li Lianhua’s voice broke him out of the haze of rage. “Use your brain a little, Fang Duobing!”

The tunnel wasn’t big enough for two people, yet Li Lianhua, who would normally hoist his own groceries on Fang Duobing to make him carry it, was pulling him back strongly enough to keep them both out of the spreading fire. As the smoke and heat spread, Fang Duobing realised it was starting to get hard to breathe. 

The haze through his mind broke entirely at that, and he turned against Li Lianahu’s surprising grip, this time dragging the other man along with him and he raced half hunched toward the hole they dropped down from, pushing him forward ahead of him to get him up, to safety away from the monsters and away from the spreading fire and smoke. 

Li Lianhua stumbled a moment, but followed Fang Duobing’s urging as they struggled back upward in the slide down, catching themselves against the sides and on rocks before they could slip downward again, all the way until Li Lianhua managed to catch the end of the rope of blazers, and pull himself up with Fang Duobing following along behind him. 

When they reached the main cavern again, the heat behind them was starting to get unbearable, and it was Li’er and Man’er’s young man who pulled them out by the arms, dragging them away from the hole as they coughed. 

“What happened?” He Xiaofeng demanded, but was interrupted as Li’er tearfully asked, “Where’s Wangfu?”

Fang Duobing could only look at her sadly once he regained his breath, and then shook his head slowly. 

Li Lianhua, collapsed next to him, was still coughing, although his coughs were luckily enough dry ones, even as Fang Duobing’s aunt knelt next to him in concern, a hand on his back as he tried to get his breathing under control. It was only after when He Xiaofeng stared over at her nephew and startled. 

“Xiaobao,” she breathed out and reached out to him. “You’re bleeding!”

He shook his head in response, the pain in his legs growing to a sharp throb that echoed his heartbeat. 

“A mild,” Li Lianhua said between coughs, “paralytic poison. He’ll— he’ll be fine after some time. He’s a Hunter.”

The unsaid part, Fang Duobing heard, was that Wangfu as a civilian never stood a chance. 

“But how was there a fire?” Man’er asked weakly from where she had been settled against a wall, her leg resting in front of her. “What poison? How did you get those wounds?”

“There were monsters down there.” Fang Duobing said, and then pushed himself into a sitting position. His legs ached with the movement, and he hissed. “A lot of them. Wangfu didn’t—”

“He’s down there?” Li’er asked tearfully. “But… he’ll burn!”

“He was already gone,” Li Lianhua told her. 

She shook her head, hands tight around the rope of blazers. Li’er dipped her head, and then cried quietly, shuddering sobs that shook her shoulders each second as the shadows from her hair hid her face from their view. 

Fang Duobing ducked his head, tears filling his own eyes upon the realisation of just how badly he messed up. He hadn’t managed to save Wangfu at all. He just injured himself when he needed to protect everyone, and now…

His aunt’s hand tightened his arm, and he looked up to see her determined gaze. 

“You tried,” she said quietly. “And that’s what mattered. You did your best, Xiaobao. You got Physician Li out of there as well. I’ll take care of the fights.”

He untensed his shoulders, and gave a slow nod. Then he slid his hand across the stone floor and tucked the wooden dagger back into his belt where the familiar weight of it brought comfort. He would think about all of this later, when they were safe again. 

Except Li Lianhua was still coughing, at a lesser rate now but still hunched over trying to catch his breath, and Fang Duobing reached out in alarm as the man curled up into his coughs. 

“I’m fine,” Li Lianhua tried to wave him off, but his voice was a wheeze. 

“Then can we get the crystals from the monsters below us?” The young man who carried Man’er asked hesitantly. “They’re… they’re dead, right? In the fire?”

There were indeed dozens of monsters from what Fang Duobing had seen, but the idea of going back into the burning tunnel was…

“You’re free to go into the fire,” his aunt snapped. “See if you can bring those crystals back!”

The man paled. “I didn’t mean…”

“Then don’t suggest that!” She said tersely. 

Li Lianhua raised a hand from where he was still curled over on the ground, revealing his singed sleeve and reddened skin. He gave another cough into his shirt, and then opened the hand to reveal a shine on his palm. He Xiaofeng gasped and reached for his hand immediately. 

“It’s not enough for everyone,” Li Lianhua rasped, but even Fang Duobing was moving over in amazement. Four tiny, purple shards of crystal no bigger than a tiny pearl each lay within his hands. “That’s how many I could grab before… well.”

Fang Duobing despaired at not doing the same himself, at being so focused on killing the monsters that he hadn’t reached into the flesh to grab at their means to escape. 

“Four,” his aunt marvelled and then stared hard at the group who was looking over with hope in their eyes. “One for Man’er. And Li’er, and Xiaobao and Physician Li. I’ll stay behind with…?”

The young man looked ready to protest, his face running a gamut of emotions before collapsing entirely in despair. “...Bei Yun.”

“I’ll stay with Yun’er.” He Xiaofeng declared. “We’ll be along right behind you.”

“No,” Fang Duobing insisted to his aunt. “I’ll stay. The others should go, they can’t fight.”

There was a nagging thought in his mind, and he stared over at each of the people in the darkness. 

“And just what do you think you’re going to do, injured like that?” His aunt demanded. “Look at yourself! Xiaobao, you look like you’ve been mauled!”

His legs certainly felt like they’d been mauled, but were also getting more numb by the second. If the pain faded, then he could certainly use his legs again. 

Li Lianhua pursed his lips, looking like he needed to stay something, yet ultimately stayed quiet. Instead, he handed the shards to a surprised He Xiaofeng with a smile, and then moved carefully closer to Fang Duobing, who had most of his weight supported on his arms despite already sitting down, bloodied legs in front of him. 

“You need to patch your wounds up,” Li Lianhua told him. “Even if the poison doesn’t affect you, you’ll bleed out if you just leave this.”

“It’s fine,” Fang Duobing tried to brush off lightly. “None of them are deep!”

“You don’t need deep cuts to bleed out,” Li Lianhua responded drily. “The others will figure out what to do with the return crystals. Hunters aren’t immune to blood loss.”

That was true. Hunters gifted with any sort of healing abilities were incredibly rare, and most could only heal themselves. Only the top sects in the world could afford to have a healer waiting at their base. Fang Duobing heard of two in Korea, one in Russia, and three more in the west. 

This meant that casualty rates for Hunters were high enough that his family refused to allow him to become one on paper. 

“We need to get the injured people out and move,” Bei Yun was saying nervously. “If I have to stay…”

“Just a minute,” Li Lianhua interrupted without looking back at the man. “There’s no guarantee that you’ll be safe immediately when you get out. Just because there will be no more monsters after you doesn’t mean you won’t land back in a collapsing building, or have panicked people trampling over you. Injuries need to be taken care of now where it’s safe. We have the crystals, you can leave any moment. If we’re hunted down, then you can escape even at the last second.”

To Fang Duobing, he said, “Your pants are a lost cause.”

Fang Duobing grimaced, flushing in embarrassment, but agreed. With dozens upon dozens of holes and nearly soaked in blood, there was definitely nothing that could be done with those pants anymore. “It doesn’t matter. We don’t have bandages anyway. Can’t I just… tie it up or something?”

“Just who do you take me for?” Li Lianhua asked and then shifted to reveal the shoulder bag he carried with him. “Am I a physician or not?”

With that, he rummaged through the canvas bag and pulled out two rolls of gauze, as well as a tiny bottle of antiseptic that Fang Duobing hadn’t realised he had with him. 

“I don’t know if I’ll have enough,” Li Lianhua admitted. “This wasn’t the type of situation I prepared for.”

“You didn’t reveal that with Man’er?” Fang Duobing asked with round eyes. 

“You already had the fabric. Why waste this when you already made bandages? If her injury ended up being the only thing that happens here, then we’d have been blessed by the gods.”

Thankfully, his bespoke leather shoes were enough to prevent most injuries, although his suit pants had to be ripped under the knee, much to Fang Duobing’s dismay and embarrassment. He stammered questions that Li Lianhua answered with amusement and looked away, his face so warm he felt he must have a fever. Even the spray of antiseptic was barely felt over the numbness below his skin, and the way Li Lianhua worked deftly to wrap his wounds up tightly. 

It barely took a minute or so, and Fang Duobing was able to stand once again afterward, albeit with a limp as his legs were a tingle of sensation that didn’t feel real. He frowned down at the white gauze over his skin, tempted to hit his own legs to see if he could feel it. 

“Don’t overdo it,” Li Lianhua told him, holding on to his elbow. “You have a natural immunity to things in dungeons, but that doesn’t mean they can’t debilitate you. 

Fang Duobing tapped his foot lightly against the ground and felt it was good enough to walk on. Now to see if the others made any progress on who was going to stay and who was leaving. 

Scanning the rest of the group over, it was easy to see that had come to no decision at all. 

Man’er sat against a wall with a crystal fragment in her hand, clutching it tightly as she stared at the others, while He Xiaofeng held the remaining three fragments, arguing with both Li’er and Bei Yun over something entirely insignificant. 

“We could all be home by now!” Li’er exclaimed, the tear tracks on her face clear of the grime that accumulated from the smoke earlier. She looked miserable and scared, with her torn dress and wrapped wrist, her normally professionally pinned braids around her head having dropped so now she looked like a young girl with pigtails playing at being an adult. 

“All?” He Xiaofeng argued back. “Who is this ‘all’ you’re referring to? You would really leave my nephew and Physician Li behind? Are you that kind of person?”

“Yes!” Li’er burst out in a sob. She raised her hands to cover her eyes miserably. “I’m not brave and I don’t know how to fight! If I stay, I’ll only get in people’s way! If I go, I can tell the sects where you are, describe this area…”

“And what are you going to say?” He Xiaofeng yelled. “They’re somewhere dark? A cave? Big, blank space in the middle of nowhere, perhaps? That will surely help them find us!”

At that, Li’er burst out into tears again, crying Wangfu’s name between her sobs and even He Xiaofeng looked startled and a little regretful of her words. Fang Duobing couldn’t help but feel terrible looking at her. He knew that she and Wangfu had joined the company together, worked as interns together and both celebrated when they got permanent positions at Tianji Hall. They chose to work in the same department, and he saw them daily. They were both happy, bright people whose personalities complimented each other. For Li’er, she just lost her best friend. 

If he had been— faster, more decisive, if he hadn’t waited for to tie their clothes together as a rope and just jumped down after him— 

Wangfu might have made it out alive. 

There was a moment of awkward silence between them before Li Lianhua interjected gently, “She’s right. It’s best for her to leave first. Dungeons are difficult at the best of times, and for people with years of training. Li’er has done her best, and pushing her more would only be detrimental. I can stay longer, I’m good at running away and hiding if something comes near.”

At those words, Fang Duobing gripped onto his wrist tightly, above the burnt skin where Li Lianhua snatched the crystals out from the fire, the burns which Li Lianhua hadn’t treated at all despite treating Fang Duobing’s wounds. 

“Physician Li…” Li’er wilted under the words, shoulders slumping into a miserable curve in the dim lighting. “I’m sorry.”

“No need to apologise,” Li Lianhua said even as he shook off Fang Duobing’s grip without looking in his direction. “I volunteered.”

He Xiaofeng’s previous anger faded to concern, her pout clearly visible even in the low light of the phones, and the slant of her mouth turned downward to a reluctant acceptance. She wrung her hands together and said, “Don’t worry, Physician Li. I’ll keep you safe.”

Fang Duobing had to interject at this point, “No, I’m staying. I’m a Hunter, and you and Li Lianhua are both injured—”

His speech was interrupted by pitched screeching echoing around them, creatures drawn to the noise of their argument and the scent of blood that followed them. The walls seemed to shake with the sounds, prompting both Li’er and Man’er to cover their ears and tuck their head down, the light of their phones shining wildly at the movement. 

He Xiaofeng moved immediately, tucking a shard of crystal into Li’er’s palm and urging her, “Take Man’er and go, now! We’ll figure the rest out later, but you go and keep her safe!”

Li’er gave her a grateful look and then raced over to Man’er, skidding down painfully on her knees before grabbing onto Man’er’s arm and then they were both gone in an instant as if they had never been there at all. 

Bei Yun stood stunned, spurred into action only when Li Lianhua grabbed at Fang Duobing’s elbow to urge him, “Go! Now!”

They ran aimlessly, and Bei Yun gasped out between steps, “If you’re all volunteering to stay, please let me go! I’m like Miss Li and I can’t be of any help, I’m no good at running or hiding either, if I stay, I’d just die! Please!” He reached forward to pull at He Xiaofeng’s shoulder, prompting her to give a painful gasp as the movement jerked on her injured arm and had her crashing down mid-step while running.

[alphascorpiixx]

Phantom Touch - Chapter 3

Zelink Week Day 2: Forbidden

Chapter 1, Chapter 2

@zelinkcommunity​

---

The Spirit Train glided along the tracks. The Lost Woods loomed in the distance. To Zelda’s eyes the forest was one continuous body of tree limbs and leaves. How could a train possibly navigate such a place? But Link carried on their course without any hesitation. As they drew closer to the woods, Zelda saw the tracks followed a gap in the trees just wide enough for the rails to fit.

They entered the Lost Woods, and the world grew dark.

“Remember what the villagers told us,” she reminded Link, though it was more for her confidence than his.

The forest will tell you which way to go. Just pay attention to the tree branches. Listen to the trees, but not the fourth tree.

The train chugged down its path. There was no split in the tracks yet. Zelda’s eyes strained to see through the shadows. The trees were all one shapeless mass. How were they supposed to follow the branches if they couldn’t see any?

“I feel like this forest doesn’t want us here,” Zelda whispered.

“It’ll be okay. The spirits will guide us through,” Link said. His words and his smile were the best assurance he could give her. Zelda nodded and exhaled, trying to allow those words to calm herself down. She let him focus on the controls and tried not to let her anxiety show. She had rarely been so far from home, nor in a place so impossible to navigate.

You can fly, though. You could rise above the trees and go home.

But the thought didn’t ease her worries. She would never leave Link behind. So Zelda settled herself in the locomotive beside Link and let him guide them through. The track split appeared, and Link’s eyes somehow found the right tree branch that showed them the way. Or she hoped he had.

One split down. From what the villagers had told them, there were at least four total. Zelda should’ve had Link ask for more specific instructions. But they were beyond that point now. If worse came to worst, they’d be returned to the forest entrance to try again.

Zelda looked out at the trees. Her eyes had somewhat adjusted now, and the dark shapes appeared to be trees flashing by. Zelda frowned.

“Link, the train’s getting faster.”

“I know.”

And they both knew Link hadn’t touched the speed lever. The next turn appeared sooner than the last one. Link chose a turn, and Zelda hoped the spirits really were guiding them.

The tracks continued straight. They were still inside the woods, so Zelda supposed they were on the right path. But the train had picked up speed again. Trees whizzed past, some branches dangerously close to hitting the engine.

“I think we’re almost there!” Link said. His optimism was infectious, and Zelda’s hopes soared.

Something flickered in front of the train. Zelda looked out and saw—

“Aaaahh!”

She screamed at a skulltula swinging on a web directly in the train’s path. Link grabbed the whistle cord. The sound of the train’s horn split the forest’s deathly still air. The skulltula shrieked and waved its many legs, but it climbed up the spiderweb and out of sight.

“It’s gone, Zelda, don’t worry,” Link said.

Zelda sighed in relief and moved away from where she had pressed up against him. Or had tried to anyway. In her moment of fear, Zelda forgot she didn’t have her body and had instinctively reached for Link. She leaned out the side of the locomotive and hoped he hadn’t noticed her reaction.

There were no more skulltulas on the path, and something else caught her eye. “There’s the branch!” she called out.

A barren tree stood beside the split in the tracks, its one limb pointed left. Link flipped the switch before they took the wrong turn. The train hurtled along, and in another moment, the last turn was upon them.

“The fourth tree has no sense of direction,” Zelda repeated the villagers’ guidance. She and Link both saw this tree at the same time, and he kept their course so that the train headed they opposite way its branch pointed.

The Spirit Train emerged from the forest into daylight. Zelda closed her eyes at the brightness. Link slowed the train at the Forest Sanctuary station.

“We made it, Link!” Zelda burst into a giggle now that the ordeal was over. She’d been so scared, but it all seemed funny now that they’d arrived.

Link laughed with her. He’d never judged her for her fear. Zelda wished she could take his hand. But his presence was comforting enough.

[thrythlind]

Procedural Generated Urban Fantasy Game

So, the appearance of Wildermyth on the market has opened up the idea that proceduraly generated stories can actually be done. Granted that Wildermyth's generated stories aren't the deepest and while the pre-written campaigns with their story events can hit some very moving notes, those are still pre-written campaigns. But within the tight confines of a short campaign stretched out over many generations, Wildermyth is amazingly successful.

So, this gameplay genre can definitely be applied to other narrative genres and I have actually two variations of this idea in mind. Once again, I lack either the skills or resources to make this happen, but it's fun to put you out into the open in case someone picks it up.

As a note, some people have encouraged me to build a pitch to put forth to a company, but I'm doubtful since I'm sure they always get tons of suggestions. Then again, if I don't put it forth then I'm just self-ruling out. Something to think about between projects.

Anyway. Let's go to the ideas

The Generational Horror Game

This one cuts closer to Wildermyth in style, so we'll start here.

In this case, we'd start with a story somewhere in the past. 17th or so century.

Now, let's get this out of the way.

Tilesets

One of the strengths of Wildermyth is that it's range of stories allows it to focus on a mostly unchanging world so that technologies, villages, and architecture remain unchanged, allowing them to use the same pool of maps and map elements for their procedurally generated combat maps.

But having a game that goes between 17th century style to 21st century is going to involve the world map and map styles changing from one chapter to the next, which does mean requiring a much larger collection of maps and tilesets.

Also, if I'm honest, I'd look to employ world designers to build architectural styles borrowing from various influences, not ruling out euro-inspired, but not necessarily focusing on that either. Something uniquely and alt-universe that blends cultural bits for a unique feel.

In any case, assuming a 3-chapter or 5-chapter build style, we'd need tilesets and backdrops for:

cities of varying time periods

small towns of varying time periods

various businesses (farms, factories, cubicle farms, etc)

rural settlements of varying time periods

ancient ruins

possible cultural variations on all the above

Which does get into some of the exoticism and orientalism of a lot of Horror stories from the past of fear coming out of interacting with the other, and to be honest, I don't REALLY trust a procedural generation to not do something really in poor taste that the developers didn't foresee, but we're talking ideals here.

Generational split

Wildermyth splits time between chapters of between 1 and 12 years. With the generic stories tending to be between 9 and 12 years and the shorter pauses being limited to the pre-written games. For Horror, I think a longer split is probably possible.

Perhaps have a downtime of 20-50 years between chapters.

In this case, the first run of heroes will mostly not survive to be involved in the next adventures. So part of each chapter will probably include someway to pass on warnings to the next generation. Keeping a journal for instance, or passing on knowledge to a family member.

So, next generations might be able to get further ahead than those that came before them through these sources.

This could be a procedural thing actually. When Chapter 2 pulls up it could be a list of possible carry ons such as:

wizened member of chapter 1 survivors helps new heroes out of a jam

chapter 2 survivors find a journal that helps them out of a jam

chapter 2 survivors include a descendant of the chapter 1 survivors

This would be along the lines of such horror stories where the heroes find that other people have dealt with the same threat. The issue being those past heroes aren't usually ones you saw until a prequel comes out.

It would create a less connected thread than the way Wildermyth follows the same team with retiring being rare.

Transformations and Artifacts

Okay, one of the major facets of Wildermyth are the transformations and artifacts that players can acquire over the course of the game and these are also a key element of horror and urban fantasy.

The transformations in Wildermyth are already fairly horror adjacent and some are legitimate nightmare fuel, but would like to see some things like a traditional vampire or a shapeshifting werewolf like figure as well as figures touched by eldritch weirdness.

But then again, one of the strengths of Wildermyth is that it doesn't exactly map to real world myths. So a way to do a vampire, demon, angel, cthulhu, or other such aesthetic while still being weirdly unique is something to look into.

One thing to note in the comparison of Horror vs Fantasy though is in focusing on the isolation and alienation of developing transformations as well as the potentially dangerous aspects of magical artifacts.

As a personal flavor, I'm not in favor of moving evil from a matter of choice to a matter of circumstance, but this doesn't mean that you can't have an artifact that is powered by something that calls for a heavy price... and presenting the option to pay that price in a way that passes it on to someone else, whether they want to or not. For example, spells that require a lot of energy and either you can build up that energy slowly and methodically... or you can do a human sacrifice to do it right away. In this case, to option to do evil is there, but it's not something you have to do.

Likewise, I'm not in favor of vampirism=evil outright. D&D true vampires are evil because they made a deal to get to that state of being. Vampire spawn are predominately victims and mind controlled, so whether they're truly evil or not is clouded. WoD vampires, by contrast, are not innately evil. They are cursed and have a shit existence, and their powers make it easier for them to give into their worst impulses without worry of immediate consequences, but the choice to do evil is there own and most of them are vampires due to things out of their control.

So, anyway, horrible, monstrous transformations and dangerous artifacts feel like appropriate elements of the genre but Wildermyth already does this fairly well.

But something I'd like to note is the idea of some transformations allowing a particular hero to stop aging so they can potentially appear in all the following chapters.

This feels like an option that should be sparingly used or accessible, however.

Legacy Characters

Here's where we have another problem with the game splitting over a period where the world changes swiftly from a bit past medieval... or even medieval if we decided to have stories go back even further in time and stretch out the time between generations even further... is that you can't just plug a hero generated from a modern period into a medieval period.

So, the procedurally generated backgrounds for different characters would have to be designed such that it fits all the time periods. Wildermyth has eventually implemented ways for you to look at multiple versions of different characters, so this could similarly be a thing for the backgrounds. Where if you look at a Legacy character you might see different time-appropriate backgrounds for different characters.

Alternately, you might have Legacy characters tied to particular time periods.

Betrayal

One thing that is more common in Horror type stories is the concept of former heroes joining the side of darkness. This can be done such that they are more victims, such as the victim of a vampire becoming a thrall.

In general, I think the way Wildermyth handled this with the Thrixl campaign and the Unresting Ones is the best option. Where the player controlled heroes were never in danger of becoming such thralls, but they did face the corruption of people they cared about or were trying to save. But I suppose we can't rule out the idea of a hero from a previous chapter coming out as a villain in a subsequent chapter.

Classes

As with Wildermyth, three classes seem best.

Hunter

Expert

Scholar

It's basically warrior, hunter, mystic renamed... people coming from Wildermyth might be a bit confused at Warrior > Hunter, but it still feels that "Hunter" is a more appropriate title for horror style fighters.

Then again we can take the Monster of the Week track and replace "Hero" with "Hunter" so all the player controlled characters are "Hunters" and then use the following.

Soldier

Expert

Scholar

In this case, the scholar might not have much innate magic per se the way a Wildermyth mystic does, but instead rather knows methods to leverage enemy weaknesses and simple warding methods.

In this case being a warlock or witch would be a transformation.

Another alternate way to do this is to skip classes entirely and just have a pool of skills. However, this becomes harder to find a good enjoyable experience since such freedom in a TTRPG benefits heavily from GM involvement that will be lacking in a CRPG environment.

Enemy Forces

As with Wildermyth, five seems a good number here. Wildermyth had the following:

Cults and human corruption in the Deepists

Ancient beings from forgotten days in the Gorgons

Hordes and dragons in the Drauven

Transhumanism and necromancy in the Morthagi

Eldritch aliens from outside in the Thrixl

Similarly, a horror themed procedurally generated set of enemy forces should hit horror tropes.

Human Cults

Demonic and Angelic beings

Undead entities

Eldritch abominations

Consequences of human greed and arrogance

To be honest, a lot of the base level of enemy forces would be corrupted humans and animals. Slashers, cultists, zombies, etc. With deeper and more eldrtich entities further on, so each of the above would be more stages than factions.

So

Tier 1 basic enemies, indoctrinated humans and animals that are ... off

Tier 2 enemies, first clearly inhuman and transformed monsters

Tier 3 enemies, pure forms of the eldritch line

Tier 4 enemies, further variations of the tier 3, revealing tier 3 are the common sorts of the lot

Tier 5 enemies, bosses and sources

In this case I think the enemy sorts would be:

Religious entities

Death

Alien entities

Human hubris

Natural forces

Scale is a connected matter and this is already a bit well handled by Wildermyth... however...

A lot of modern horror, the scale is intensely personal. Isolation is a heavy part of the horror experience and modern settings of horror often work to keep the protagonists isolated in a crowd.

While zombie and similar apocalypses are legitimate horror environments and should be a potential story thread in a game of procedural horror, there's a lot of other cases where the battle against an eldritch force that has been going on for generations starts out far more public than it ends.

So a horror where the final chapter has the disbelief and interference of the common populace becoming a factor is definitely something that could happen in some story arcs.

It's the difference between, say Call of Cthulhu and Dawn of the Dead. One is a hidden ongoing situation that spans the world unknown to most of the populace and the other has killed most of the populace and is a very public PROBLEM. Both have their own flavor of horror.

Anyway, I'll wrap up on this idea here.

[rensynaes]

[<< previous]

Chapter 2

Two days had passed since my funereal awakening; two endless days stuck whining in larval stage, somehow even more helpless than a stillborn child. Having failed to reach the living or make my voice heard in any meaningful way, I begrudgingly resigned myself to explore this new spectral condition of mine.

Following the severance of my spirit from my dead body, to which I was then bound, the phantom pains had subsided only to be replaced by a crushing wave of emptiness – the lack of something unutterable, something I dreaded to encounter. My soul was screaming, torn asunder by sharp teeth gnawing at its very essence for every second spent far away from my earthly yoke; I tried to resist, at first, but the agonizingly drawn-out limbo state that resulted – though barely longer than a single day on earth – made me learn the hard way that a spirit’s psychic energy is not only quite a limited resource, but should be used sparingly, lest we be cast out of this physical plane of existence for a while.

I eventually got weary of fighting against the current, and let it carry me willingly; salvation awaited downstream, or at least what I figured to be the source of my torment. Nothing could have prepared me, however, for the familiar creature I found instead, not even the ghostly woes that kept undermining my deeply cartesian mind.

Despite a moonless sky, I could see as if in broad daylight his dark figure lurking on the outskirts of a narrow street. He stood perfectly still; snow dusted his shoulders and jet black hair in thick, cloudy snowflakes. I wasn’t worried so much by his freshly dug-out cadaver look – quite the usual for him – as his aura; even though I had never seen such things during my time on earth, nor even suspected their existence, I could have sworn his would have been absolutely mediocre, like all these mortals I’ve since encountered wreathed in colorful, fluctuating lights – nothing like the vantablack halo that stood before me. Sharp, tortuous vines lined a voracious abyss, the absence of light in human form.

Thel.

A visceral apprehension took over the initial glee of meeting him again. Our everlasting bond was made evident by the turmoil raging within my core, though I dared not approach. What risk did I incur, anyway? Fear was irrational – after all, I was already dead –, but when confronted with the unknown, caution was still my safest bet. The circumstances surrounding my death remained a mystery, but I had little doubt about Thel’s involvement. I followed his unblinking stare across the street perpendicular to the one he was standing in.

A cramped window display flooded the icy sidewalk with a yellow glow. During the day, its sober charcoal grey front and the faded handwritten letters that used to spell out “Hellequin Gallery” – but had now more in common with hieroglyphs – made it virtually unnoticeable, unless someone were to get a closer look at the anxiety-inducing visions exhibited behind the glass; at night, it acted like a beacon of light at the heart of an otherwise dark street.

I saw no sign of life inside. It was already quite late yet the gallery looked open, which stood out to me as unusual; driven by a newfound curiosity, I passed through the wall, then through a discreet door which opened onto the main gallery’s annex only a few meters away from the entrance. The windowless room was bathed in crimson light; monochromatic photographs were set to dry on stretched wires, next to unrolled films weighed down by metal clips that were hanging above a table crowded with chemicals and an analog enlarger. In front of the three developing trays, Nathaniel was hard at work.

Partnering with the gallery owner, Neema – his metaphorical Siamese twin, much to her friends’ dismay –, ever since its inception and although he barely deigned to make an appearance most of the time, he informally took on the role of curator. His days were split between the darkroom and his photographic wanderings, which were entirely focused on macabre visuals, grisly to the point of obsession, a collection of still-life both human and animal during various stages of decomposition that stood somewhere between saturnine poetry and tasteless crime scenes; and were his models to still have a pulse, he manually altered the film to such an extent that the resulting portraits were nothing more than mangled chimeras, deprived of their identity.

Such thanatic monomania never failed to make an impression, whether positive or negative, as attested by his almost six-years-long friendship with my fiancé sealed by a shared vision of art and death, all the more so as they rivaled each other’s marginality. Unlike Thel, who flaunted it openly through a flamboyant style reminiscent of a magpie with an inclination for shiny silver trinkets, Nathaniel blended into the masses – or at least, he wished he could. Looking like a Leyendecker painted over the underdrawing of a Schiele, his lanky frame was hard to miss; as tall as he was thin, angular features underlined by dark circles which would be deemed attractive had he not been so emaciated, behind an elaborate façade of elegance lingered the impression of a man whose most reasonable idea of a hobby would be embalming.

I had taken advantage of their chance meeting and growing proximity in order to join Neema’s social circle and make a name for myself within the local art scene: critics were prompt to laud the “nightmares weaver” as their new darling. My work would have endured through centuries, I had envisioned myself to be invincible; but the higher the dream, the harder the fall. Yesterday I was a rising star – today, a mere disembodied soul, reaped before I could even aspire to the twenty-seven club.

I looked at the funeral bouquet of photographs drying on the wires, bitter, the irony of my situation spread out in all its cruelty.

The psychic fluctuations affecting my mood did not go unnoticed for long, however; the photographer had stopped working, hand frozen mid-air, his head slightly turned in my direction. He promptly looked away and put down the tweezers, which slid to the ground with a metallic tinkle. Holding on to the table’s edge, Nathaniel was deliberately avoiding looking at me. No matter how much I implored, he showed no sign of hearing, and even if he did see me – a protean entity still unaware of its own supernatural abilities –, this ethereal, cloud-like shape of mine I had yet to remodel gave no clue as to my identity. I could have been anyone; how many wandering souls were there seeking salvation at the present time, lost in this overcrowded capital, this plane of existence? The waters of Lethe lapped softly at the shores of my hazy mind.

“Fuck.” Nathaniel inhaled deeply then straightened up, his hands shaking slightly. With a pack of cigarettes tucked in his pocket, he exited the darkroom through the fully lit gallery and stopped dead in his tracks: pressed against the window front was the white oval of a face scanning the inside of the deserted building, wild-eyed. Opaque condensation misted the glass he was breathing on. Upon seeing the photographer, the intruder quickly backed away and ran towards the door; a light chime jingled as he barged in on us.

No Thel in sight; the stocky man dripping melted snow in the doorway turned out to be a complete stranger in his fifties, haggard yet resolute. I was as disconcerted as Nathaniel.

“May I help you?” His tone was polite, albeit cold; potential patron or not, this was a most inappropriate timing and he longed to turn him away. “The gallery is closed, sorry.”

“Blackwell?”

“Opening hours are listed near the entrance. If you come back tomorrow, my colleague will–”

“That’s you, right? Nathaniel Blackwell?”

“Yes, but–”

Click.

The semi-automatic Beretta 92 aimed at his face did not call for debate. Despite the gunman’s apparent need for destruction, I noticed his hesitation, the index finger resting on the gleaming barrel and away from the trigger; eyes set on said finger, Nathaniel took a step back before raising both hands in front of him, palms open in surrender. He was astonishingly calm.

“If this is money you’re after–”

“Shut the fuck up. That’s not what I came here for.”

Taking no heed of the robber’s injunction, Nathaniel set about reasoning with him instead. The sudden resurgence of his usually subdued American accent clashed with the serene demeanor he affected, giving away a very palpable nervousness. I watched as he fumbled for words, all the while cursing my helplessness:

“Listen, I… I, uh, you’re making a huge mistake. Do you have any family? Kids? Think of what you’d put them through, is that really the way to go? It’s not too late to back out.”

All he got in reply was an angry roar. The muzzle of the pistol oscillated before him, but did not stray. Unbridled rage colored the assailant’s lunar-shaped face an unsightly scarlet hue.

“Family? I can’t fucking believe it – after everything you’ve done, for you to have the gall to keep denying! To pretend that… that… it was him, wasn’t it? In the car.”

“What?”

“I’m not leaving until you’ve told me what happened.”

“You’re wrong, I have no idea what this is ab–”

“You know exactly what this is about. Confess, if you don’t want to eat lead.”

“I don’t know, truly – you’re mixing me up we up with someone else. Put the gun down. You do not want that weighing on your conscience, believe me.”

“Ha! Speaking from experience, I see?” The man’s acerbic tone held a greater pain than his shouting let on; the question was clearly rhetorical anyway, which only furthered my confusion. Nathaniel was a seasoned regular at the local mortuaries, as evidenced by his photographs, but the thought of killing even a small spider repelled him to the highest degree; I couldn’t picture him as a criminal, eccentricity notwithstanding. What was this guy accusing him of, really?

Growing weary of politeness, the photographer reacted with the vivacity of a praying mantis. He threw himself at the man who stumbled and fell over, astounded by the unexpected speed of his seemingly sickly target; his finger slipped on the trigger, shooting a triptych that Neema had put on display earlier this morning.

Nathaniel came through with a grazed cheekbone; only a few lucky centimeters saved the inside of his cranium from becoming the medium of a brand new dripping technique. This flirtation with death left him unfazed, however, as he pinned the breathless stranger’s rib cage under his knee before snatching the gun and removing the cartridge in a swift, expert move. He grasped at the man’s throat with one hand and brought the grip of the pistol down to his forehead with the other; but once the element of surprise had worn off, no other advantage was left for Nathaniel to fend off the sturdy mass of muscles thrashing from under him, and well determined to make sure the next trip to the morgue would be his very last. His bony wrist was caught before the gun could so much as brush against the intruder, then wrung mercilessly; a cry of pain echoed the audible snap of his ulna.

The man grabbed him by his shirt collar and threw him to the ground. A fist crashed against Nathaniel’s temple, initiating a beating whose unfortunate outcome I could already foresee, inexorable. What means did I have to intervene? Blows kept raining down on him whilst he struggled to parry, half chocking on the blood running down the back of his esophagus and trachea. He had finally switched his strategy from attack to full defense, favoring the well-tried method of a curled-up armadillo – a meager comfort when faced with the murderous rage of his assailant.

Focusing all the energy I could muster into a physical manifestation, I unleashed hell; filaments of pure spectral essence unfurled towards the object of my attention, then my vision became a blur, and darkened furthermore. The intense strain cost me, yet I desperately clung to this reality as not to reiterate my former stay in limbo at such a crucial time. The gun that had fallen away from them prior to the beating jolted on the floor; its owner could only watch in stupefaction as the cartridge slid back inside on its own, and the barrel slowly turned to face him while rising up into the air. Nathaniel followed his gaze, petrified.

But I wasn’t fast enough.

The roles got reversed when the forward momentum of a chaotic force dragged the tormentor away from his victim and sent him flying against a wall, knocking over a valuable sculpture in his fall. Nathaniel rolled to the side to avoid it, and sat up with great difficulty amongst the debris. In a daze, he lifted up his head to look at the point of impact; the scene playing before his very eyes was far from rational, though he did not seem surprised, aside from a convulsive retch. The intruder laid at the foot of the wall he had collided with, trapped under the weight of the nightmarish monster perched atop his chest. More beast than human, two membranous wings spread in its back and a thin tail kept whipping the air back and forth like that of a miffed feline. Enormous claws dug into flesh; the impromptu meal emitted faint gurgles of protestation as the creature fed on him.

Then, as suddenly as it had burst in, it threw its head back with a groan and let go of the man who passed out instantly, too weak to escape, his throat horribly mutilated. The creature began to crawl erratically towards the gaping door, leaning on the tips of its chiropteran wings. All hint of supernatural speed was gone: its entire being was shaking, spasmodic, and the wounded animal grunts coming out of its maw sounded more pathetic than menacing. In spite of its talons and sharp fangs, wildly arranged in a skeletal face resembling a monstrous death mask – which would have been reason enough for anyone else to take to their heels and run – Nathaniel stepped closer.

There was little doubt about his savior’s identity; I ran into his gloomy aura earlier outside. But I couldn’t make sense of Nathaniel’s outward calm. Not only did he seem unbothered by Thel’s beast-like metamorphosis apart from some restrained suspicion, but he also understood the source of his suffering before I could – and to my utter amazement, he invited the vampire to enter the gallery.

The effect was immediate.

As if an invisible load had been lifted off his shoulders, Thel relaxed, now in full control of his own body, and let himself fall over on his back following the slow retraction of his vampiric attributes. He remained lying there for a never-ending minute, motionless, a hand resting over the reddish layer of sweat oozing from his forehead. Nathaniel was keeping an eye on the newcomer from a safe distance; ally or not, he knew the vampire could still turn against him, whatever his motives may be, plus he didn’t trust his mutation. He nervously wiped the trail of blood trickling down from the corner of his mouth, still groggy and too focused on his protector’s lifeless form to pay attention to his own broken wrist.

It had to be noted that the romantic side of vampirism portrayed in the plethora of media I used to gravitate towards while I was still alive didn’t endure at all in Thel’s newfound affliction, despite his current human mimicry. Abnormally elongated and pointy ears poked through the wayward strands of a long black deathhawk, worn down and tangled in several rows of silver rings and stud; of the delicate, androgynous face I cherished so lingered but a pallid shadow with sunken features and the ashy marbled skin of a corpse, purplish and morbid, far away from the evanescent beauty I once fantasized. Kohl streaks ran down his cheeks, reminiscent of a drowning raccoon – as for the blood he was covered in and his tattered clothes, the same suit he was wearing on the morning of the tragedy, they conjured up the image of a dead crow on a busy road, both in look and smell. From his titanium-pierced nosed flowed a continuous, viscous stream of vermilion.

A brief spark of green shone in his catlike pupils as he turned to Nathaniel, down on his knees a few meters away. Thel stood up and flashed him a derisive grin; although his diastema granted him a certain imperfect charm during his mortal life, the now sharp pointed tips of his upper incisors framed by jagged rows of blood-coated fangs held an unfortunate likeness to count Orlock. Upon seeing the mess of red blades that stood in place of the vampire’s teeth, his friend briskly backed away; Thel frowned as if the reality of his appearance had just dawned on him – which it probably did, knowing him. He shifted his focus back to the intruder huddled up in a small heap against the shattered baseboard, and poked at him with the tip of his boot.

“Is he… dead?” Asked Nathaniel, cautiously joining Thel as he was feeling the man’s pockets.

“No, he’s still breathing. I might have gone a tiny bit overboard, but it’s not as bad as it seems.”

“His throat…”

“Would you rather I let him repaint the floor with your brains? A ‘thank you’ would be nice.” Thel turned around, brandishing the attacker’s wallet open to his driver’s license. “A friend of yours?”

Nathaniel ignored the vampire’s mocking tone and snatched the leather square out of his hands. If the license was to be believed, the man was a certain Mathieu Heller: the name didn’t ring a bell, and given Nathaniel’s perplexed look, he didn’t know him either. He nervously flipped through the contents of the wallet in search of a clue that may refresh his memory, any clue at all; just as he was taking out what looked like a folded newspaper cutting, the wallet slipped out of his hand and onto the ground, its insides sprawled at his feet and quickly scattered as he gave them a frustrated kick. Without uttering a single word, he clumsily pocketed the article.

“You should get this examined,” said Thel upon seeing Nathaniel clutch his broken wrist, “Let me s–”

“Don’t come any closer.” From cold, his inflection had turned hostile. He had retreated several steps back, and while still relatively calm, he wasn’t any less defensive.

Thel noticed the firearm at his friend’s feet – a strategic place of retreat – but took no offense. Instead, he nodded and crouched next to the intruder.

“Any idea what he was after?”

“No.”

“It seemed rather personal.”

Raising an inquisitive eyebrow, he turned to Nathaniel who was staring him down silently with freezing haughtiness; an iceberg would have been warmer. Through the cracks of his refined mask lured the shadow of a doubt, which he tried his best to conceal. Feigning indifference was still preferable to admitting a total loss of control. Thel seemed skeptical; Nathaniel held his gaze, unmoved.

“I have nothing to hide. He didn’t like the look of me, that’s all.”

“So he stormed in here just to beat you up for fun? Yeah, right. You can talk to me, I’m clearly not going to report you.”

“It’s not like you’re blameless either. Why did you come back?”

“You’re dodging the question.”

“Who cares. You’re a fucking vampire, Thel, I think that’s a more pressing issue than my private life.”

“Intriguing nonetheless, wouldn’t you say?”

“Right back at you. Stop wasting my time, what the hell are you doing here?”

“I needed to talk to you. I…” Suddenly serious, he cleared his throat. “I have no one else to turn to. No one who would believe me, but you.”

“Believing is not the issue, you should be more worried about holy water raining down on you once this gets out.” Then he understood, and grumbled. “Oh. You weren’t talking about your… your condition.”

Thel had fallen silent, frozen with an air of pure despair on his face. So Nathaniel was right; what did he know that I wasn’t aware of yet? His nonchalance puzzled me; it was obvious that he knew of his friend’s mutation way before their gory reunion. I shuddered in spite of myself, a negativity-filled, imperceptible indoor wind.

When Thel replied, his voice was on the verge of breaking: “I’m begging you.” He swallowed back a sob. “Help me.”

“How? I don’t understand what you’re expecting of–”

“She’s here, isn’t she? Since her d… since she d…” A painful pause; the word had died before it could reach his lips. Tears streaked his cheeks a ghastly grey as they flowed down, laden with make-up residues.

I wasn’t moved by his display of sadness; growing resentment filled me ever since my awakening. Far from endearing, I found Thel to be utterly pitiful.

Stuttering in between the hiccups he was trying to suppress, he continued: “I–I can feel her presence. Its’ very faint, but… it’s her, I’m sure of it. If there’s one person who can understand… Nath, I’m begging you. I must speak with her.”

“No way.”

“Please… use your gift, just this once.”

The photographer ran a hand over his forehead and sighed. Exhaustion seeped through his ashen face, made worse by his most recent injuries.

“I couldn’t do it even if I wanted to. That part of me is long gone.”

“You’re lying,” Thel snapped back.

This gift they were alluding to, I had heard of it from rumors, gossips gleaned amongst our inner circle: childish babbles about extra sensory perceptions, a spirit medium’s prerogative that would allow him to communicate with the beyond. I didn’t believe a single word of it, back then, and aside from Thel, neither did our peers, who disparaged said abilities as the shameful product of mental illness and a taste for spirits of an entirely different kind.

But there was no more doubt to be had: Nathaniel could actually see me.

In light of this intuition, I had to make myself known, and thus assemble the missing puzzle pieces of my memory as to put an end to the earthly roaming I had been unfairly condemned too; whether he was conscious of it or not, Thel was both my shackles and key, burden and deliverance. Eager to finally reach the living – if the moribund creature he had become could be described as such, that is – I projected my voice towards the alleged spirit medium, crystal clear.

However, the previous efforts to control the gun had seemingly drained me of energy; all I got in response was a shiver. He still hadn’t heard me.

Thel studied Nathaniel’s profile with a reproving frown. “Just once. One last time with her, nothing more.”

“Listen…”

“I saved your life. Is that really too much too ask?”

Gone was the composure he affected a moment ago; Nathaniel stared at the ground, elbow leaning upon the shattered sculpture’s pedestal. His apparent dignity was withering as steadily as the kohl on the vampire’s face, whom kept glaring at his hunched over figure, longing for a reply.

“You think I killed her,” Thel hissed, visibly hurt.

Nathaniel promptly lifted up his head. “Would you blame me? Look at yourself! Look at what you did to this guy!”

“He didn’t hold back either. What was I supposed to do, let him beat you to a pulp?”

“Of course not. But…” His gaze lingered on Heller, who was beginning to move slightly next to his vespertine attacker. The photographer breathed in sharply, straightened up and took a decision on the spot: “Fine. One last farewell to Lénore, and nothing more.”

“Then you’ll never see me again, promise.”

“No, I didn’t mean… running away won’t solve anything, Thel. You have to understand that my suspicions are in no way a reflection of my will; I want to believe in your innocence, I really do. But if I’m going to turn a blind eye to your wrongdoings, whatever they may be, it has to go both ways.”

Thel wasn’t willing to compromise the opportunity he had been dreaming of by digging up a past that had nothing to do with him; all he cared about was the blessed hope of seeing me again.

His fangs bared as he gave a crooked smile. “Deal.”

“You can’t stay here,” said Nathaniel. “The shot was probably heard all over the neighborhood. If anybody else sees you, we’re fucked.”

Hitherto indifferent to his surroundings, Thel glanced around the gallery; the sculpture crumbled into a myriad of pieces on the ground, the bullet lodged at the heart of the triptych, the gun, the bloodstained vinyl flooring underneath their feet – and the mauled stranger that was slowly starting to regain consciousness.

“Not to be a drag or anything, but aren’t we already? How are you going to explain any of this? I can take care of him,” he said, looking at a weak, blinking Heller, “but the rest–”

“If we let him leave, he might try again. Finish what you started.”

“Okay Dahmer, calm down.” He cut off Nathaniel’s harsh retort with an annoyed gesture, all the while ordering the intruder to keep still. Dazed and somewhat alarmed, the man didn’t need to be told twice; he was in no position to argue. “You’re kidding, right? That’s not like you. I’ve got an idea that doesn’t involve doing him in.”

“Self-defense,” Nathaniel retorted with disdain. He nodded at the semi-automatic. “He had a gun.”

“… which was dropped before I even got here. He’s completely unarmed, and too hurt to try anything.”

“Why are you defending him? Mind your own business and kick him the fuck out, so we can get this over with.” A thinly veiled aversion dripped from the cracks in his voice, hoarse from the attack and years of excessive smoking.

I could see glowing red geysers pulsating intermittently within the iridescent layers of his aura, like supernatural symptoms of his restlessness. A sudden coughing fit made him double up with pain; clinging to the edge of the pedestal as he was spitting out his lungs into the crook of his elbow, Nathaniel looked like he was on the verge of collapsing. Thel rushed to hold him up; but judging by the mountain goat leap that ensued, the light touch of the vampire’s hand over his friend’s arm might as well have been that of a white hot iron. Nathaniel bumped into the pedestal, which wobbled a bit without falling over.

He wiped the bloody spit off his mouth with the stained cuff of his shirt and glared at the vampire with overt animosity.

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

Thel muttered an apology; keeping his eyes on Nathaniel, he carefully backed away. The photographer wouldn’t risk lashing out on him with his injuries, and even though he had a gun within arm’s reach, it was no match for a vampire. Thel didn’t try to prove him wrong either, since his mistrust was absolutely justified; that Nathaniel would be willing to give him a chance was proof enough of their friendship, despite being touchier than an alley cat. As he didn’t flinch, Thel turned back to the intruder.

Backed up against the wall, Heller let out a feeble whimper when the creature grabbed him by the chin. Gone was the murderous urge that led him into the gallery; his anger had liquefied into a damp, odorous puddle permeating the leg of his trousers. But this angel of death, with its blood-soaked maw, was delaying his execution. Suave whispers flowed through his ears as he gazed into two celadon irises, slit pupils transfixed into his own, and felt slender fingers brush against his jaw. Their soft touch did not arouse any revulsion, nor did the firm grip suddenly grasping at the nape of his neck; its hold carried an unexpected gentleness, oddly comforting. Waves of tranquility unfurled over Heller, who drifted off into relaxation to the melodious voice that was so delicately caressing the innermost recesses of his brain.

When Thel finally let go of him, the man was as limp as a rag doll, eyes glazed over. Another whisper propelled him up to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, and a commanding nod incited his jelly-like legs to drag him out of the place, docile and hobbling. The bell chimed once more, then, as quickly as he came in, the intruder vanished into the darkness of a lifeless Parisian street. Deathlike silence fell upon the gallery.

Thel turned to Nathaniel with a triumphant smirk. Although his hostility seemed to have waned a bit, the photographer still refused to show the slightest hint of hesitation in front of such an unstable guest; he stiffened, expressionless and arms crossed, awaiting the explanation that was soon to come – if only the vampire could cease grinning like a hungry shark and get to the point – but patience had never been his strong suit.

“Hypnosis,” he said flatly before Thel could speak.

He concurred, expanding on Nathaniel’s intuition: “His memory has been reset. The assault, the gallery – it’s all been wiped out. He won’t remember you either,” Thel added. “I implanted false memories to account for his injuries – if everything goes according to plan, all he’ll remember is a dog attack.”

“How long until he decides to strike again?”

“Hard to say, really. The hypnosis could last for years, or just a few hours. I’ve never done this before, so it’s near impossible to predict. Sorry.”

Nathaniel nodded, visibly too exhausted to argue. “Thank you.” Then, as if these two syllables had drained him of all strength, he lowered his gaze and fell silent. Thel looked at his friend leaning against the pedestal, then at the gun still lying among the debris; Nathaniel nudged it towards the vampire with the tip of his shoe. “Throw it in the Seine. Or not, whatever, I just want it gone before anyone else gets here.”

“Do you have a plan?”

“I’ll call Neema,” Nathaniel sighed while running his fingers through sticky, bloodstained hair, “and make it look like a, uh… a robbery. The guy barged in, gun went off, he got scared and ran away. That’s it.” He looked up at Thel. “Leave. We’ll meet up at the manor.”

“At the… really? That’s okay with you?”

“Don’t look so surprised, you can hide there for as long as our deal still stands. I’d rather be swallowing razor blades, by the way – but there’s nowhere safer. You’re welcome. Now beat it.”

Impervious to sarcasm, Thel rejoiced. A glimmer of hope lit up his face; had Nathaniel not been so wary of him, the vampire would have already fallen on his neck, though he merely complied as not to upset his host. Now was not the time for emotional outbursts. He slipped away lightly upon the powdery white road; I followed in his trail, pulled away from the gallery by the inescapable bond that brought us together, away from Nathaniel.

The shattered screen of the phone he had just taken out of his back pocket displayed one unread text message.

“… Shit. I forgot about Shay,” Nathaniel grumbled as he was swallowing back his frustration. “Give me a fucking break–”

Phone still in hand, he pondered over the chaos around him while dreading his associate’s future questioning. Shay was bound to leave sooner or later, like so many before him; Nathaniel didn’t care much about losing his respect. Losing Neema’s, however – sweet, merciful Neema! – would be a catastrophe akin to the apocalypse. Recovering would be nigh impossible for him. She didn’t deserve to get dragged into his downward spiral; he would keep her safely out of it at all costs, even if it meant resorting to a means he excelled at in spite of himself: outright deception.

Amongst shards of clay stood out a small cardboard rectangle, covered in a layer of white dust. He picked it up and pulled out a single cigarette.

The flame flickered over his lighter as he slid down to the ground, his back to the pedestal, soothed by the acrid tobacco wafts that were slowly taking over the smell of cordite.

[next >>]