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radioactivepeasant · 4 months ago

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Free Day Friday: Trespasser

(From the poll: "In Which the Demolition Duo made it to the Wastelands without being banished because They Are Trespassing)

Damas was not, by and large, a religious man. He didn't worship Precursors -- there were some who insisted that his ousting from Haven was divine punishment for his arrogance -- nor spirits. If spirits could be killed, so could Precursors. That made them oracles, elders to be respected for unique perspectives on time, but not gods in Damas’s opinion.

Which made it an oddity to find him in the temple.

He sat on the shallow steps, staring up at the six carved heads meant to represent Precursors. More insectoid than Oracles, or perhaps just more elaborate. They seemed to wear headdresses over their bizarre masks.

"If you, by action or inaction, let Mar die, then at least have the decency to tell me," he whispered into the empty air.

"You always foretold a future moment of need that my House would answer. Has that need passed unnoticed that you stay silent while my bloodline ends? Or does my son live?"

The masks were silent, of course. Carved stone could neither hear nor speak.

Ungrateful wretches. Damas had a fleeting thought that perhaps they'd allowed -- or even orchestrated -- the abduction of his little son because he wasn't servile and "pious" enough for their tastes.

Damas wondered if spirits could harm Precursors. If perhaps the "Good Grandmother"*, She-Who-Hears-Them-Cry, might take an interest if something in this temple had been directly involved in bringing Mar to harm.

Má took her payment even from the hides of fellow spirits, after all.

"Even if you were capable of bringing him back unharmed, I very much doubt you would," Damas whispered harshly to the open air. His throat bobbed with a painful, bitter anger.

"But if you took him, you owe blood-debt to my House, old ones. So grant closure or sit in your realm knowing that I will seek answers among others as old as you."

Was it wise to threaten the Precursors? Damas neither knew nor cared anymore. Two years he'd barely survived having his heart metaphorically ripped out of his chest.

What more could they do to him? Really, what could they possibly do that could be worse than not knowing?

No answer arrived, not that it surprised him. Damas sighed and braced his elbows against his knees, head in his hands.

Stone grated against stone and metal to his left, and he turned his head swiftly.

There was a door there, one heavily fortified with traps. A hovering Sentinel eye kept watch for movement, designed to activate a spike trap if anyone tried to enter the lower levels without permission. And if someone managed to somehow get past that, the door would still be sealed. Whether by an enterprising ancestor of his or by meddling Precursors, that door could not be opened without an Heir of Mar. Damas was the only one who had ever been beyond it.

It should not have opened even an inch.

And yet Damas was witnessing the two mighty halves forcing themselves apart with a tortured groan born of idleness.

He was on his feet in an instant, ready for a fight. There was no chance that this heralded anything good.

"Whoa!"

That was a hu'men voice.

Damas’s hand hovered over his sidearm, ready to draw the moment he saw a face.

"And I thought this place was huge before!"

It was a young voice. High and a little squeaky.

"It just keeps going, doesn't it?" laughed a second voice, deeper, but just as young.

And then the doors were open wide enough to see the silhouette in between them.

And more importantly, to see the object glowing faintly in his outstretched fist.

Damas’s mouth was dry as he fumbled for the pouch between belt and leather armor where he kept his own amulet of Mar. He knew the shape by heart: twin comets orbiting each other, over stylized hands.

Thief-!

Pure, outraged, fury burned through his veins for a moment. Who had this scrawny figure stolen that amulet from? Heaven forbid it be Mar's amulet, lest Damas murder this boy before his very next step.

"Identify yourself!" Damas shouted, raising his gun.

The figure stepped into view. He was small, so thin his clothes hung loosely on scrawny limbs, but he held himself like a warrior.

"People!"

The animal curled around his shoulders sat upright and spoke.

"Jak! There's real people in here! We're saved!"

Odd reaction to a man pointing a gun at them.

The boy eased a step forward, hands raised as if soothing a frightened animal. He still held the incriminating amulet in his hand.

"Whoa, okay, put the gun down. I don't want to hurt anybody-"

He took a step too far and the sentinel flashed. The spikes shot up out of the floor with a faint shunk!

With a yelp, the boy leapt back -- he was surprisingly light on his feet for someone wearing boots two sizes too big. Then, as if the nearly fatal encounter was no more than a slight inconvenience, he backed up, got a running start, and launched.

He kicked off the wall, seeming to find handholds in the tiniest of crevices as he bypassed the spikes entirely.

Once on the ground again, the boy dusted himself off.

"You okay, Dax?"

"Just peachy, considering you almost dropped me!"

"Did not!" the hu'men boy protested in annoyance.

He really was small.

The general gangly sprawl of his limbs suggested he would gain an impressive height, but for now he just looked..small.

And entirely too excited.

"Who....do you- Where did you come from?" Damas demanded.

The boy pointed back down at the steps and shrugged before scratching his head.

"Exploring?"

Oh that green hair hurt to look at. It was filthy, and matted, like it hadn't been correctly washed in years. He couldn't even determine the age of the trespasser, what with the layers of grime embedded into every crevice of his face. The clothes were just as stained with sweat, dirt, and what looked to be bloodstains. From traps?

"Exploring."

Damas repeated the stranger's explanation incredulously. "How did you even get in here?"

The boy and the orange animal looked at each other for a curiously long moment. They seemed to be having a conversation merely by narrowing and widening their eyes in turn. Then, seeming to come to an agreement, they shrugged and turned back to face Damas.

The boy pointed down a barely visible flight of rough-hewn stone steps, lit by torches.

"We came up through the catacombs."

There were catacombs? He hadn't seen anything like that down there, and Damas liked to think he'd made it pretty far! He examined the stranger more closely, avoiding his eyes -- they're not familiar, you're just projecting your grief -- and avoiding looking at the talking weasel thing. He saw sunken cheeks drawn tightly against sharp cheekbones. A pale, barely visible scar across the bridge of his nose. Deep, deep shadows beneath his eyes. How large was the temple, altogether? Were there more people living below their feet?

"How...long were you down there?" he asked after a few seconds.

"Trust me pal," the weasel-rabbit said, "he smelled like this before we got in that zoomer."

"Hey!"

"What zoomer?!" Damas asked, feeling more confused than before.

"The one we took through the lava tube to the catacombs."

Damas was beginning to wonder if he'd somehow inhaled the monks' incense by accident.

The trespasser cringed as if only just noticing the bewildered and only barely softened hostility on Damas’s face. He shoved his amulet -- not his, it can't be his, there aren't any more of us left!*-- into his pocket and waved his hands placatingly.

Was there another Heir all this time? Is that why I was given no chance to protect Mar? Were my child and I expendable?

"Didn't mean to bother you," the kid apologized, "We'll just uh- huh. Actually, where are we?"

And then he looked to the door rather than Damas.

"Hey Oracle!" he shouted, and Damas was glad no monks were present to hear this and faint at the impertinance.

"Where the rot are we?"

Alright. This was now officially more of a problem than he'd first thought. Not even the monks were supposed to have found that Oracle down there.

One of the past Heirs who never inherited the throne had sealed it up the moment he discovered it long ago. After all, the discovery of light and dark eco being opposite poles of one energy might have thrown society into chaos and they didn't want to deal with the fallout. Even Damas was leery of reintroducing that knowledge outside of the Arena yet. Apparently this trespasser had no such thoughts.

He spoke to Oracles -- or pretended he did.

He held and used an amulet.

The boy was a mystery. And Damas hated not having the answers.

"You," Damas decided, wearing anger like a shield, "are coming with me. You have questions to answer."

The boy balked.

"No!"

He dodged before Damas could seize his arm, stumbling back amidst the columns.

"Uh-uh, I'm not falling for that."

"Falling for what?"

Damas was genuinely confused, and more than a little irritated.

The boy continued to back away.

"No, no I know how this goes. You're gonna take me back to the Haven Council, aren't you!"

"Haven?!" Damas sputtered, "Why the bleeding rot would I want to go there?! I'm taking you to my city!"

That didn't reassure the kid, who apparently was not fond of the leaders of Haven City.

Well, that was at least a bare minimum of common ground.

"You ain't takin us to no secondary location!" the orange one declared, pointing a skinny digit at Damas.

"The last time I got transported to a new place, I got kidnapped and experimented on for two years," his friend agreed.

Embleer Frith.

Damas stared at the boy. He squinted, as if that would give him insight into the unsettling response, then shook his head.

"You what?!"

What was he talking about? Experimented on?! That would explain the sudden shift from curiosity to distrust. But why-?

Damas knew. Deep down, he thought he knew.

If the boy was an Heir -- and he didn't even want to entertain the thought, but it had to be acknowledged as a possibility -- then that alone would be motive for someone like Praxis to torture even a young man -- or young boy?

If he was still obsessed with creating the ultimate war-sage, then an unclaimed and unattended Heir of Mar would be invaluable.

But if Praxis had been so focused on an older Heir, then perhaps it at least meant that he'd never gotten his hands on Mar.

That there was a stab of shame to follow that whisper of relief was an unsettling proof that he had not successfully hardened his heart as much as he'd thought.

"You came here from Haven?" he asked.

"Yeah?"

Thoughts of a breach in their defenses sickened him.

"And others will follow in pursuit of you?"

This time both trespassers scoffed.

"Only if they feel like sharpening their reaction time enough for a volcanic subrail," the hu'men said. He almost smiled.

The orange one nodded. "Jak here's the best driver there is! Also the most demolition-happy, but nobody's perfect."

Jak?

Now that was a name his spies had been mentioning a lot in their reports. An alleged juggernaut who had turned the Baron's own secret project against him and -- rumor had it -- even destroyed the metalhead nest.

Damas had been expecting someone a little...older.

* the "Good Grandmother" Damas is referencing is a spirit I made up for the Wasteland called Má Crocadeer. Fairly grisly figure with a crocadeer skull wreathed in flowers for a head, and a crocadeer's legs and tail. Her purpose is to punish those who deliberately cause or inflict harm on children. There's a lot of people in Haven who should avoid the desert for this reason.

#fic prompts #writing prompts #jak and daxter #dadmas #king damas #jak and daxter au #trespasser au #Jak got his first light eco power early so he's in a really good mood. Damas meanwhile is having a crisis again #he's going to order a dna test but those don't give you results overnight so until then he's just got this guy loose in Spargus #Jak pulled an Elsa via Frozen 2 and followed a mysterious 'call' down the eco mine to the subrail #he doesn't want to leave until he knows what that call is. the Haven crew aren't happy about it but they literally can't reach him so...#Jak 100% sneaks into the Arena because he heard if he got an amulet he could stay in the city #Damas is so stressed because he can't get answers if this kid goes and gets himself killed #free day friday

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shirohige-pirates · 8 months ago

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Hey Doll

CisFem Reader x Thatch

CW: toxic parents, manipulation, The Plan™, smut, mdni, I'll add as we go I'm kind of fly by the seat of my pants on this one.

Summary: For as long as you can remember, there has always been The Plan™. Every part of your life is controlled by it, and you do your best to fill the role set upon your shoulders. When you finally receive your Matchbook, and your parents' joy, you feel relief.

But as The Plan™ continues, you struggle with staying the perfect little doll.

Note: This story takes place in the same AU as Some Direction, where the new world government has implemented a match program in response to declining marriage and birth rates.

Chapter 1: Dolled Up

There was nothing.

No, that was wrong, there was everything. The world moved around you, and you moved within it, but there wasn’t a connection. You stood a part from the world around you, comprehending it as a separate space, and reacting to it only when moved to do so.

Maybe it was more correct to say the world moved you. A prompt from your mother, a word from your father, a smile from a stranger. The world carried variables along the lines of time and place and when those items collided with you, you’d react.

You were. Weren’t. No, even less than that.

You were nothing.

No, that was wrong too. You were everything, at least as far as The Plan was concerned. You were the primary piece of it. The keystone in a manner of speaking. No matter how well everything else was done, if you didn’t play your part flawlessly it would all crumble to dust.

Your only struggle, brief and weak and worthless as it was, was whether or not you wanted The Plan to fail. Sometimes you felt you did. If The Plan failed you would be free from it. Free from it, but would you be free?

An unanswerable question. By fate or will, you lacked the knowledge to figure that part out. Would you be free in jail? You’d be free of your parents, free of your part to play in The Plan, certainly, but you wouldn’t be free to live as you pleased.

How did you please to live?

If you couldn’t sort that much out, then there was no reason to fight against the external wills that compelled you. Moved you. Motioned for you. The will of your mother and father who sought to thread you effortlessly through the steps of their decades long plan.

The Plan.

The two words trickled more emotion through your face than anything else, and the slight twitch in your features was unnoticed by those around you. Your mother spoke to you and you smiled, catching up on the conversation and responding with all the words she approved of. Your father called you over and you spoke well-practiced verses and emotions to the people around him about your hopes and dreams.

Your face moved into the smiles you knew they liked, the ones that left everyone at ease, even if there was no easiness in your own heart.

Everything was for The Plan. Your hobbies, your grades, your manners, your clothes. The way your hair was cut and styled, the kind of makeup you applied in the morning, it was all decided by someone else. Ever under the pretense of wanting to make sure you were paired with the best possible match when the time came.

Years ago the world changed. The details didn’t matter to you, it was irrelevant to The Plan. The important part was that the world needed more people in it, and to that end the World Government had enacted the Match Program.

The Match Program was a comprehensive review of the populace and citizens, on an island by island, and sea by sea basis. Not only was it meant to help recover the population, but it was intended to do so as kindly as possible for everyone involved. Matches were based on a staggering number of criteria, and then Match Books were hand delivered to people who had been matched by the program and its overseers.

There were other aspects to the program, like the Early Match Program, and Rematching in certain cases. The overall success rate was surprisingly high, and Rematches were rare, both in how often they were requested, and how often they were approved.

It hadn’t taken long for the population to adjust to the entire concept, with some people finding relief in the process. What fear or worry was there to be had in being provided the love of your life? How much easier was the very concept of marriage and family when there was a comprehensive and objectively successful process already in place?

At one point in your life you had wondered if you would’ve been raised differently if not for the Match Program.

You don’t doubt that you would’ve been pulled into some role or another based on your parents whims, but maybe more of who you were would’ve survived. Or at least dared to exist in the first place. Would you have enjoyed dancing if you had learned it differently? Would you find solace in art if your strokes and paints hadn’t been decided for you?

Maybe you would know more than just what you enjoyed. Maybe you would know how to start a conversation, instead of simply being invited into one. Maybe you would know how to speak about yourself because you’d know the parts of you that were important to you.

Maybe you would know how to smile your own smile.

How to choose your own clothes.

The pastel colors matched perfectly, the hues shifting and accenting based on the most popular trends. There was lace, but not so much as to seem over stated, there was silk, or the shift of it. No expense was spared in curating the smallest detail of your outfits, even how the folds would settle against your legs when you sat down.

You never wondered what to do with your hands, because their location was as predetermined and controlled as anything else about you. Folded neatly, holding your clutch when needed, by your sides with your elbows bent just so, or shyly behind your hips, just a little. Not enough to push your chest into the forefront, at least not too much.

You must be a sight to see, and not unsightly.

Everything on the proper side of civility and femininity. Not a grain of coarseness in your voice, a laugh made of notes and bells, but nothing loud or out of control. Your voice must be much the same, clear and firm but not commanding or demanding. You are to be pleasant and deferential. Debate is not for a good and proper young lady.

You are a trophy to be awarded. A great gift to be won. A flawless saint upon which any good - read, wealthy - man would be completely delighted by.

Knowledge and skills enough to be engaging and useful, but opinions muted enough to not ruffle the feathers of your suitors, and suitors you had.

The World Government Match program was not fully and completely objective. There were certain tiers of quality within the program itself. Whether they existed in truth, or were simply avenues of manipulation available to your parents, you couldn’t honestly say, but unlike most ladies your age, you did indeed have suitors.

Not that your mother or father intended to see you hand in hand with any of them. Well enough to do to be worth the time and kindness of your family, but not in a position to satisfy their desires and hopes for you.

That was where your father’s friend came into play. You knew nothing about him, save his importance in The Plan. So long as you played your part well, he could play his part to greater effect. If you were good enough, flawless enough, gentle and kind and wise and demure and malleable enough - if there was nothing left of whoever you were meant to be, then it would be a success.

You played your part so well that when your Match Book showed up, the man delivering it handed it to your father.

#x reader #reader insert #thatch one piece #modern au #Hey Doll #mdni #happy early birthday to Thatch #hopefully I can get chapter 2 up for his actual birthday day

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