#He never leaves he is stuck in the forefront of my brain permanently

[zaacoy]

Hmhmhmmm in a silly mood and thinky thinkin about Tang Legomonkiekid again, some disjointed tang thoughts!! Because I can :3

Author's note after writing: another long post!!! I am incapable of talking about him without going on and on and on apparently, enjoy the novel!! hehehheehoo

so! The scorpion queen demoness outfit still has not left my brain!! I am plagued by the ourple apparently, just

why he so littol

microscopic organism

its like he's a cat getting picked up by the scruff!! those clothes are too big for he goddamn he!!

Also also! The buffet scene!! We get two wide shots of it

the first:

and the second:

assuming it isn't some sort of custom to have your servants(?) or whatever the ladies are in this scene leave once they set the table (if it is then feel to ignore this tidbit!! :D) Them being there in the first scene but not the second makes it seem like? Tang requested them to go and let him eat in peace without 7 different women watching him while doing so??? This man is invulnerable to women and I find that so funny all he wants are his noms

Adding onto that the fact that his first move when he wakes up to a pretty lady standing over him is to SCREAM and push her away is SO unbelievably funny could you be any gayer sir

also can we just appreciate how easily this man crumbled the second good food was put in front of him. after being kidnapped and abducted by some clearly suspicious demon lady he just. willingly stays, unbound physically in literally anyway, just because she has good food to offer. very very silly he is so funny

no additional comments just look at him

he is so scrunckly so silly, I forgor all of the other Tumblr silly words but he is all of those too

its nice that we got to see him come back in purple later tho in S4

It's a dustier purple for sure but it still looks pretty nice on him :3c

also also!!

I love this little training scene sm because it paints tang in such an interesting light

whereas pigsy and mei are borderline ready to jump sandy for that star all we get from Tang is a shaky "I want that", this difference is further exemplified in the coloration differences (mei and pigsy's eyes being red whereas Tang's are just whited out)

this trend continues as the training session goes on! here for example we can see mei and pigsy clearly furious whereas tang is just crying- they're all frustrated! It seems as though when Tang is confronted with the issue of "not being as good as his peers" he trends more towards upset rather angry unlike the rest of his friend group

This can also be seen in their individual trainings

Mei is outright violent in her training arc, both in regards to the props and opponents she fights and (verbally) to master Subodhi, pigsy is also fairly mouthy and standoffish at first and disregards whatever he perceives as an insult, but Tang on the other hand we get to see crumble a little bit. Rather then brushing off master Subodhi's gripes with him like the others Tang seems to take it to heart, getting visibly more and more miserable until he's able to turn himself around

It's a nice bit of characterization that I'm glad to see appear again, they've given him such a consistent, well written weakness I can't wait how it affects his performance in future episodes, be it for better or for worse heeheehoo

I ADORE how much this man loves food, he's so super enthusiastic about it in literally every season it is completely adorable

I also appreciate how they didn't turn it into his entire character!! Most of the food-loving characters I've known have their entire personality based around food which, while it can be joyful at times, is kind of boring and 2 dimensional imo. I enjoy how they made him a complete fully fleshed out person like everyone else who just so happens to really like nomnoms heeheehoo

looks at you with my autistic eyes

that expression is so goofy and the silly little noise he makes with it too uehhshdhhdj he is so sillay

love how he gets sparkles/shines in his eyes once he gets really excited about something or the "✨" shaped eyes

there are so many little things I love about him that NOBODY else talks about and it makes me so so sad where are my fellow insane-about-tang-lego-monkie-kid people where are uu 🥺 "let's take ibuprofen together" but it's "let's talk about a fictional Lego for hours" instead please plsss

cough- anyways uh- he has a bunch of little vocal quirks that I love so so much like!!

(I don't know how to get audio clips so you're just going to have to take my word for it ueue)

Often whenever he exclaims or screams he does so in a way that I don't know how to describe actually mmmmm instead of an "AAAAAH!" it's more akin to a "WHAhaHAA!" if that makes any sense, whatever that is it's such an interesting verbal quirk I love it very much.

He does something similar in quiet exclamations of awe, instead of going "ooooh.." it sounds more like "ooohohooh.."

I guess it's like his voice falls in between dragged out sounds? Like if it weren't for his tone and the context they'd almost sound like laughs, it's definitely an "h" sound, I'm not sure if there's a term for that verbal quirk but it seems fairly unique to him in the show and I thinks it adds to his sillyness heehee

squints at you squints at you squints at you squints at you squints at you squints at you squi

The bbg pose is consistent and here to stay!! yahoo!!! I wonder how many times while raising mk did they manage to tire themselves out and have pigsy later walk in to both of them asleep on the floor euhdhsnns fluffy family

while I'm thinking about noodle family here is your daily reminder that this scene exists in canon and mk has two dads thank you for coming to my ted talk

His tone of voice was so funny here the pure PANIC in his voice manifesting in a very strained yell was so well done here weehee

Circling back to the scorpion outfit, remember in the pilot episode how mk attempts to crawl away from the demon bull family after he gets caught? Tang does the exact same thing here!! same motion same thoughts process, like father like son

soft squishy tang isn't even my fault anymore LOOK AT HIM, he very squish

delving into slightly more serious tang thingies for a second!!-

this scene always felt incomplete to me, I feel like I'm missing something. This was when they first as a group run into lbd on their airship. Out of the entire group Tang is the only one to notice something's off and emphasis is put on this multiple times. First with "I've got a bad feeling about this pigsy", then with scene above where he's shown staring skeptically at lbd's rings, and then with him noticing the broken device on the ground(and notably not cheering on mk like everyone else) and confronting mk about it. Was ALL of that really just so Tang could make mk tell them about lbd(which he didn't even really do)? Why tang, why was he the only one to intuitively notice? even mk didn't know something was wrong with lbd when he first encountered her in her hostess form, heck even monkie king didn't, how did tang? Triptaka/golden cicada powers? Are we going to be seeing him do this again? Does it mean anything for where his story is going?? I don't know it just, it feels like too much focus was put on this just for it to be for nothing, it's odd to me.

One more thing!!

what was this.

from the second episode we see macaque where he puts on a shadow play and possesses tang, pigsy, and mei n' forces them to fight mk. Never in the entire rest of the series have we ever seen someone who's possessed struggle/ appear to still be there whilst being under possession. Not with the people-turned-spider-demons not with bai he not with mei or pigsy in this scene, not even really with wukong in the special. It is arguable through his expressions that he may be somewhat still there and might be putting up a fight(especially when he's about to hit mk) but we never really seem him underneath. We never hear him and we never see his true reaction underneath the poker-faced-possessed version, never like we do with tang here. Once again, just, wjajnajj, why?? This is such an odd little detail and it's so weird how it never comes back again. If it's not foreshadowing or leading up to a bigger reveal then why animate it? Because it looked interesting? Because they could? Was it a way to express to the audience that his friends were still there under the surface and they weren't just clones? But the lights in the lantern along with them getting sucked in already made that pretty clear. If that was the case anyway, why didn't they do that with wukong? or with bai he? or with the spider demons? we had no way of knowing for sure that they were there or they'd come back after being un-possessed either. It's such a small little thing that could mean nothing but it's been stuck in the back of my mind since I first saw it back when I first picked up the show in like august. I don't know, it's cool though!! I hope they do smth more with it

It is!! 4am!!! I have to be up at 7 tmrw oopsies

ending it here gnnn if you read through all of these rambles then hiii!!! Glad you find me losing my mind over a Lego entertaining I sure have fun doing it, have a good day byebyeye :3

[mae-gi-writes]

Obtuse | Bang Chan (Stray Kids) - PART TWO

Summary ☆ "I don't know. I want to be his friend but then again, I don't. I mean, how can you simply be friends with someone when every time you look at them, you're thinking about how much more you really want?"

Genre ☆ bestfriends to lovers au, angst, slowburn, suggestive themes, college au, fluff, soft Chan x oc (Micha)

Word count ☆ 

. ° ☆ ° .

PART ONE | PART TWO

. ° ☆ ° .

Idiot, Micha kept on replaying the words like the words to her favourite song, Idiot. Idiot. Idiot.

There she sat in the hospital chair beside her mother’s unconscious body, her life hanging by a thread with the help of the machine that beeped obnoxiously in the corner, and all she could think of was of the messed up realization that she was in love with her best friend.

Chan hadn't spoken a word as she'd sobbed and sobbed, even though she wasn't sure what she was crying about exactly. He'd only wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in to rest his head against hers in an embrace so firm and filled with warmth that her heart tugged in pain. He was so close that it pained her, the realization that he was so close yet so far was a blow that left a permanent bruise.

So she'd pushed him away, wiped her tears and gestured him to follow her.

He said nothing as he sat beside her, shifting every now and then as he succumbed to the dreadful silence filling the room.

And she hated it, that he was here as if this was the most normal thing for him to do. Because it wasn't. As if on impulse, Micha couldn't help but glance at his attire that confirmed her suspicions he'd just gotten out of the gym, probably having dropped everything to rush to her side.

"Who told you?" Micha asked. Her voice felt weird, strangled as she spoke.

Chan shifted and she felt his eyes on her face, the warmth of them permeating through her skin, "Felix called."

A stagnant pause ensued. In the silence, Micha forced herself to swallow down the lump of emotion stuck in her throat, forced down the feelings that seemed to have erupted through her every pore like she had just opened up a pandora's box of truths.

Go away, was what Micha's brain screamed. Go away.

But her heart protested. Please don't leave me.

Her brown orbs lifted to his side profile. Please don't leave me.

Even if I love you.

"You should go," is what she murmured out instead, "you're wasting your time."

"Don't say that," he replied, tone firm.

His silent assurance, that made it even harder to push him away. Micha didn't know how to feal with these feelings and though she wished she had stayed blossfully ignorant of them, there was no denying the cold hard truth that now blared atop her head like a red alert sign.

At some point, Micha's eyelids had fluttered closed for the next thing she knew she was squinting, disoriented and cuddled into a warmth that smelt of familiar pine and boy aftershave. Chan.

It was so familiar, laying on his chest and smelling that comforting scent of his, a scent that reminded her of home. She couldn't help but notice how well she fitted against him, the warmth of his hands casual on her waist and his nose nudging her temple and her heart skided to a momentary halt.

This was Chan. Just Chan, her best friend. Nothing else, nothing more.

So it was a relief once the doctor slid through the door, causing her to instantly jostle Chan out of the way. He stated that while her physical injuries would heal in a few weeks, though the one thing that worried him the most was the fact that her mother might not wake up from her vegetative state.

Micha would've fainted if not for Chan's strong hold on the back of her elbow and at some point, her father ushered her out with firm orders that the young man take her home.

"Here," he stuffed a few dollar bills in Chan's hand despite the latter's protests, "get some dinner. I insist."

The next few weeks were a blurry mixture of visiting the hospital while helping her father to run the family restaurant whenever she could. They took turns sleeping and watching over her mother's unconscious form, talked about the happenings of their everyday life in hopes that it would trigger something, anything.

The unforseen circumstances caused Micha to push back her internship by a semester and that so meant that she was permanently home and permanently swamped by none other than her best friend.

"What are you doing here? You’re supposed to have class," Micha asked upon noticing him slide out of the the kitchen with two sets of noodle bowls on a tray. It was no understatement to say that NomNom Noodles Restaurant was bustling with hungry customers as it was a Friday evening. What Micha hadn't expected though, was to see Chan's sloppy smile and sweaty forehead.

He shrugged, "your dad told me you could use the help."

Her heart tugged, partly churning with affection followed by this burning annoyance to get him out of her sight.

And he was helpful; he was a charming waiter that cracked jokes whenever he could, grabbing the dishes from her hands the moment she walked out of the kitchen, wiping tables he wasn't even assigned to. And all that made it harder for Micha to push him away. Oh how she wanted to ignore him, to make him understand that she needed a space, and a lot of it.

But she didn't want to hurt him. Not when he deserved so much better.

"Oi."

Micha was whipped back to reality when she felt Chan's finger poke her forehead, only to be faced with his dimpled grin, "earth to Micha. Customers are waiting."

Heat flushed through the back of her neck. She swatted him away, "don't touch me with your greasy hands."

"Aw shut up you," he made a move towards her, causing her to sidestep with ease, "stop it, Chan--"

She whipped around, almost bumping into one of the chairs as Chan's arms circled around her shoulders to pull her back to hug her close, "Chan!"

"Don't I smell nice? I'm just sharing it with you!"

And as if on cue, the door chimed open, both their heads whipping up with welcoming grins.

Only to face Ayeong's smile.

"Ayeong!" Micha all but shoved Chan away as she noticed the slight, barest slip of the said girl's smile.

Chan whooped and ran up to his girlfriend, cheeks flushed and eyes crinkling into crescents, "baby girl! You came!"

"And I brought company," she allowed him to kiss her cheek just as the door opened to reveal Minho and Seungmin bundled up into their coats.

Swalllowing down the sudden lump of pain, Micha went forward into Ayeong's open arms, "hey, it's been a while."

"I know!" Ayeong hugged her tight, so genuine that tears threatened to fall. Micha squeezed back slightly before quickly diverting her attention to greet the two other boys.

The restaurant was empty by the time their noodles were fresh out of the pot, meaning that they had the restaurant for themselves as they caught up on life and remembered their high school days. Micha learnt that Minho was interning at another restaurant, Seungmin had passed his Design projects with flying colours, and Ayeong had already signed a contract with the business hotel that she had trained with.

"That's amazing,” Micha said to Ayeong, "do you like it?"

"I do," Ayeong beamed, "and my superiors are nice too. They're all a bunch of guys so they aren't complicated."

"Careful Ayeong, one might think that you're gonna change boyfriends," Minho teased and caused the girl to stick out her tongue at him before leaning against Chan's shoulder.

Micha's eyes instantly shot away, swallowing hard at the knot forming in her stomach. She couldn't help it. It was like second nature to hurt herself by catching small glimpses of their entwined hands, of the adoration dripping from their eyes and she wished she could just make all the pain end.

It seemed like Minho noticed her unusual demeanour, for as they were leaving the restaurant after washing up the dishes, he'd stopped by the door to shoot her a concerned look.

"You okay, Micha?"

Surprise flitted through her face for a few seconds, "uh, yeah. Yeah I'm fine."

She saw him glance at Chan's figure before looking back at her with pursed lips, eyebrows knitted together as if deep in thought, and shook her head.

After all, who could deprive Chan of his happiness?

. ° ☆ ° .

It was safe to say that Micha fell into a routine; waking up to visit her mother in the early morning hours, replacing her father at the restaurant when it was his turn to sit at her mother's bedside, avoiding Chan at all costs even though he was practically throwing himself in her way, and locking up at around ten, nine earliest if the restaurant was void of clients.

She would've made a much greater effort at pushing Chan's helping hand away if not for the fact that her mother was mostly occupying the forefront of her mind. The truth was, a small part of her was actually relieved that Chan stayed no matter how angry she seemed, how cold she was to him. He was a big puppy constantly coming back for more no matter how much she kicked at his countenance.

And that made her feel even worse.

"Me and Aejong made pancakes the other day," Chan chatted on one late evening as they were clearing the tables, with Micha responsible for wiping them down while he mopped the floor, "she's a horrible cook. As unbelievable as that sounds."

"Why? Because she's too good at everything?" Micha knew she sounded bitter, but her tongue seemed to have a mind of its own, lashing out without control.

Chan, as oblivious as he was, didn’t seem to catch her sense of mockery, “maybe not everything. But she’s definitely very talented in many ways. I never knew she took piano lessons until she was seventeen. She passed the exams and all.” 

"Good for her.” 

“You know what’s the best thing though? I really like that she never boasts about herself. That, I admire that--”

“Yes Chan, I get it,” Micha finally snapped.

Chan paused in mid-mop, “What? What did I do now?” 

Her teeth sunk onto her lower lip as she kept on wiping down the tables instead of answering his question. 

“Why are you angry with me?”

"I’m not angry with you,” she folded her dishcloth a little too aggressively and turned to the other table. 

“Then why are you talking to me like that?” 

“It’s nothing.” 

“Micha.” 

“I said it’s nothing!” Micha finally whipped around to scowl at him and maybe it was the mixture of saddened pain whenever she thought of her dying mother along with the continuous stab, stab, stabbing of knives that pinched her heart every time she saw Chan so much as utter his lover’s name, a name that wasn’t hers, that brought tears to her eyes despite her not wanting to let him in, not anymore, not when he was one of the sources causing her pain. 

But the young man’s frustrated expression gave way to instant worry the moment he caught her eye. He made a move towards her. 

And that was when she burst into a fit of angry, heart-wrenching sobs. 

It was as though all the pain and the pent-up emotion that she’d stuffed at the back of her heart like an unused closet she could throw away the key suddenly burst open without warning, for once she started crying, Micha found that she couldn’t stop. Her tears only heightened upon feeling the warmth of her best friend’s embrace, pulling her closer and allowing her to sob her way through the tides of pain and worry and sadness that seemed to have taken over her countenance. 

Cheek pressed against the side of her head and hands softly rubbing comforting circles along her back, Micha just allowed herself to feel sorry for her state, if only for this one night where she thought that everything was slipping through her fingers; her mother, Chan. Her career. Her future. 

Once Micha had cried all the tears from her body so that there were none left, she could only rest against Chan as he rocked her from side to side, the only comfort that was holding her broken pieces together at this point. She hated it, loathed it. His kindness, his genuine concern for her. 

It made it so much harder to push him away. 

“How long have you been holding this in?” came his softened murmur against her hairline. She shivered unconsciously, hating the way her heart seemed to beat a little faster merely for his alto. Or maybe it was the closeness, the intimacy of his touch, especially in the dim lights of the restaurant with only the soft distant sounds of traffic in the distance to keep them company. 

“It’s not about how long,” Micha’s fingers unconsciously gripped the back of his hoodie, hoping to extend this moment for a little longer. Just for tonight. She continued in a mumble, “everything is...everything is just so overwhelming.”

"Want to talk about it?” 

Micha’s lips pressed into a thin line. When she spoke after her slight bout of hesitation, her voice trembled, “it’s like I’m not even in my life anymore. I feel like I’m in a nightmare-- and I can’t wake up.”

He hummed in reply, hugged her just a little tighter and kept rocking from side to side. That was all the encouragement she needed. 

“I mean, my mom’s a vegetable and she’s--dying,” a small sob echoed through her throat, “I know how these patients end up. I see no other solution. She’s going to wither away in that bed and I can’t do any fucking thing about it. And then there’s my degree which I’m not completing because we obviously need the money for mom so I don’t know what’s going to happen to me, to my life and to my career and just, I just can’t breathe Chan and it scares me, it scares me so damn much--”

“Hey hey,” he pulled back just enough to see another path of tears dribbling down her face, thumb reaching up to brush it away, “it’s okay, shh. Enough crying, hm? You know I hate it when you cry.” 

That only incited her to cry some more and Chan made a noise of protest before he cupped her cheek, gently wiping them away as they fell, “I know that everything sucks right now. I--I can’t even imagine how impossible everything must be for you, and I can’t tell you that things will sort themselves out because we never know what might happen.”

“But,” he continued with a gentle squeeze to her hip then and she tensed slightly at the intimacy of his gesture, “I swear it gets better. I swear it on my heart. And if you want to cry then cry, I’ll be here. If you need to shout, to scream, to punch someone, I’ll be there Micha,” tilting her chin up so that she had no choice but to gaze at him, he cracked the softest of smiles that left her all giddy inside, “I’m not going to let you go through this alone, that I can promise you.”

Swallowing thickly, it was hard not to squirm underneath the soft glimmer of his soft maroon-eyed stare. So she dropped her eyes while mumbling out a soft, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he whispered back.

“You don’t deserve to be here, you-- you’ve done so much for me and I don’t even know how I’m supposed to repay that--”

“There is nothing,” he cut her off firmly while his hold tightened unconsciously, “to be sorry for.” 

Still, Micha’s eyes suddenly found interest in the patterns of her best friend’s shirt, knowing that there was no possibility of eye-contact now, not if she wanted to keep her self-control in check. Maybe it meant nothing for Chan to hold her so casually in his arms, but there was no denying the fact that anyone looking through their restaurant window could mistake them for a couple, and the thought caused Micha to reel back in self-disgust. 

As if sensing her inner turmoil, her best friend’s hand went up against the back of her head before he nudged her to his shoulder. And while Micha’s brain was shaking in disapproval, she couldn’t find the strength to fight against what her own body yearned for, returning back into his arms and telling herself that it was just for tonight. Tonight, she would push everything at the back of her mind and just for now, would enjoy the mere warmth and comfort that came with Chan’s arms.

Burrowing her face into the crook of his neck and taking in his scent, Micha allowed her eyes to slip closed for a moment, trying her best to engrave this into memory. 

Just for tonight, she promised herself inwardly. Just for tonight, she would be selfish. 

Just for tonight, she would imagine that Chan was hers. And no one else’s. 

. ° ☆ ° .

"Do I have to be there?"

Micha caught Minho's eye as he helped her hand through her coat sleeve. The said young man's eyebrow rose at her question as if she'd never asked a thing so dumb, "yes you do."

"But why?" She stomped her feet while whining, "I don't even like to drink. Or dance."

"It's my birthday. I call the shots."

"I hate you."

"Aw, me too," he pinched her cheek with aggressive fondness and Micha batted him away with her hands, scowling and muttering a string of curses under her breath as she trailed after him towards his car.

Minho's birthday was to be special as he was turning twenty-two, the perfect excuse to go out and drown themselves in alcohol. Felix, Changbin and Jisung had even rode all the way from their campus to stay over for the long weekend, taking advantage of the public holiday to party the night away.

"Hey, can I ask you something?" Minho asked as he slowed to a stop at a red light.

Micha turned to him, "yeah?"

He hesitated for a few seconds. Then, "do you like Chan?"

It was so sudden, like ice running down her back and making her go tense, fingers curling onto the material of her dark pants. Micha gazed out at the stop light until it went blurry, not knowing what to say to make it sound truthful.

"No--"

"I know he doesn't see you," Minho spoke up hurriedly, "but I see the way you look at him. I couldn't help but ask."

It wasn't like she had planned to let her secret out so soon. But he'd caught her red-handed. Her shoulders slumped, followed by the softest of sighs escaping her lips.

"You caught me," was the only thing she said.

Another pause that allowed the words to settle between them, before the light turned green and the car moved forward. A good distraction against the awkwardness sticking to Micha's heart like sweat.

"Do you..." Minho paused, "do you think you should tell him?"

"No."

"Don't you think he needs to know?" Minho turned his car down a street lined with pubs. They were slowly approaching their destination, “It’s not fair to him.” 

She kept her gaze out of the window, partly too embarrassed to face him and partly to keep herself from crying, "what good would it do?"

She was glad that they had reached the parking lot of the restaurant bar at that point, for she had no intentions of continuing a conversation that led to nowhere and, ignoring Minho’s call for her name, quickly jumped out of the vehicle and strode right up to the doors of Seniora’s. 

The restaurant was already full and she was glad that they had at least booked a private VIP spot in advance, thanks to Seungmin’s amazing organization skills. Micha weaved her way through in the dim spotlights shining atop dark mahogany tables that blended in with the darkness, trying to find their respective table among the throng of pretty, made-up girls in too-short dresses and guys who had no problem puffing out their cigarettes right into her face. 

“Guys!” Felix’s voice boomed through the jazz notes floating through the air, and Micha turned towards his voice to see him waving frantically, a huge grin on his childish face, ‘over here!”

His excitement was contagious as it caused her own lips to stretch into a mirroring grin. She bounded into his arms without hesitation, “Felix! You made it! You said you had an assignment to finish.”

“You know how convincing Minho hyung gets once he sets his mind to it,” the freckled man gave her a once over before he whistled, “don’t you look--”

“--Fucking gorgeous, Micha,” the pair turned towards the voice, seeing Changbin with open arms while she squirmed at his compliment. He was being too kind, though her sleek black jumpsuit that clung to her curves was definitely a contrast to her usual sweater and jeans. Behind him stood Jisung and Seungmin, as well as a few other of their classmates, girls and boys included.

Her eyes suddenly locked onto a familiar pair of dark orbs. Chan. 

“Hello! Hug, please?!” Changbin’s hand brought her attention back as he waved before her, scowling in mock annoyance. Micha grinned, wrapping her arms around his neck, “come here you big baby.” 

“Careful Mi, he might have wandering hands now that he sees you’re more than just a replacement for Chan,” Seungmin commented while giving her shoulder a squeeze. 

That earned the latter a glare from the said muscled man, “what? I’m just stating how beautiful she looks.” 

Micha made her rounds of greeting -- did Minho’s friend group triple by tenfold since she was gone?-- and was exhausted by the time she finally stumbled before Chan.

“Hey, look at you,” Chan offered her a dimpled grin and she swore she wanted to coo at how cute he was. Stop that, Micha gave herself a mental slap as he continued, “all I’m gonna say is, stay away from Changbin tonight.”

“He’s not going to do anything,” she rolled her eyes, “I’ve known him long enough. I’m basically his brother.” 

Her best friend said nothing, only gazed at her in that undecipherable way of his, like he was trying to solve a puzzle that couldn’t be solved.

“What?” she asked. 

“Uh--nothing,” he dropped his gaze, looked away just in time for their attention to be diverted by Minho calling for a round of shots, “alright alright everyone! I’ll open up the party, shall we?”

Before she knew it, Micha had been tugged along by none other than Felix only to be dragged to the counter where a row of shots were being filled to the brim. She didn’t have to ask, knew instantly by smell that this was definitely not water. Her nose burned at the sting of vodka permeating her nostrils and she cursed under her breath as Minho handed her one with a teasing, yet sympathetic grin.

“I think you’ll need it tonight,” Micha couldn’t stop herself from scowling at the underlying meaning in his words. She swore at him, “dick.” 

Micha hadn’t realized how monotonous, how boringly routine, her life had become ever since she flew back to her motherland. What with her mother’s situation in hospital and her running around trying to cover up all of her father’s blind spots, Micha had forgotten how it actually felt to be young, to be as carefree as she usually would be during university in-between her constant flow of assignments, how she used to get into this ‘fuck-it’ mood and hit up the arcade with the rest of the boys before winding up at one of the local bars, beers in their hands as they competed on who could chug down their drinks faster. 

So she took advantage of Minho’s birthday to let herself relax and actually pay attention to what was happening to her, around her. Just in this moment. Nowhere else. And it felt good. It felt...alive. Free.

She danced along to the music, chatted with the other girls who she now realized were quite cool and sassy in their own flirtatious ways, drank shot after shot every time another one of her friends dragged her back to the bar without realizing that maybe she should’ve kept count.

Until it was all too late. The alcohol didn’t have any effect. Until it hit her like a tow truck.

And maybe this sudden rebellious streak had manifested itself the moment her eyes lingered over the familiar pair of figures on the dance floor, chest clenching and heart crumbling at the sweetest brush of Chan’s fingers against Ayeong’s forehead. Micha turned away just in time to halt the tears burning through the corners of her eyes and she impulsively made a grab for Changbin’s arm before pulling him along with her, “let’s get another drink.” 

“Are you sure Mi? You kinda look tipsy already--”

“It’s on me. Now stop being a wuss and come on.”

Seniora’s was filled to the brim now that it was almost past midnight and the sea of bodies aided to calm the storm threatening to split her heart into. It made it easier to breathe, easier to push back the thought at the back of her mind as the alcohol paved its way through her blood and thrummed against her veins. 

It felt good. Too good. And Micha wanted this numbness to last forever.

. ° ☆ ° .

Unfortunately, it didn't.

"It's alright, you're alright," Changbin's soothing alto comforted her as she kept on throwing up the contents of her dinner, continuously dragging her hair back to hold it up and out of the way.

"Oh god--" Micha's stomach lurched "I'm sorry--" she couldn't stop herself from vomiting once more and boy, was she glad that Changbin had dragged her out of Seniora's just in time.

"So?" Felix called from the corner of the small street in which they were hiding from curious eyes. No point in giving people something to talk about, "how is she?"

"Holding up," Micha called back despite the sour taste in her mouth. When it felt like she wasn't going to pass out anymore, she slowly dragged herself upwards, throwing Changbin's concerned expression a weak smile.

To which he replied, "you look like shit."

"Thanks Changbin. That's exactly what I need to hear," Micha rolled her eyes, feeling his strong arm wrap itself around her waist. She allowed herself to lean into him just this once, fearing that she might trip over her feet and fall flat on her face if she wasn't careful.

They stumbled over to Felix who, upon giving Micha a once-over, stated that she was to be sent home at once.

"I'm fineeee guyssss," Micha whined through slurred words, "pluss, I really wanna...dance y'know?"

She swayed a little for good measure, only to stumble and she would've landed flat on the sidewalk if not for Changbin's arm holding her upright.

"I'm bringing you home," Changbin's tone was firm.

"Nooo, I don't want to go home yet!"

"Micha, you and I both know that you're too drunk to make those decisions right now."

"But Changbinnieeee I just--I really want to--" and as soon as the picture of Chan's face flashed before her eyes, she felt her resolve crumbling into the form of tears, "I want to...forget about him--"

It hurt too much. She couldn't keep it together. It was like she was forcing herself to hold in the pain burning through her loins and no sooner had had she tilted up to meet Changbin’s eyes that she burst into wretched sobs.

She felt him still for a moment, arm hesitantly tugging her closer, hand wrapping around her head in comfort, “h-hey,” he peered into her face, slightly panicked at her outburst, “what--what’s the matter?” 

“Mi?” Felix’s voice joined in. Warmth swept over her side, “Mi, what’s wrong? Do you not feel good? Do you want to go home?” 

Micha nodded, and felt herself getting tugged to Changbin’s chest. That made her cry even harder, for while his scent was nothing short of comforting, it wasn’t the warmth she was looking for.

All she wanted was for Chan.

But he wasn’t hers. And he never will be.

“I got her,” she heard Changbin’s words over the raging storm tossing her heart aside. Warmth circled her shoulders -- his leather jacket, no doubt -- and she allowed his hands to steer her away from the loud bass beats of the restaurant bar and she had to give that to him. No matter how much of a bad boy he was, no one could possibly deny him of his heart of gold. That Micha was pretty sure of.

They were halfway up the street with Changbin flailing for a cab when a familiar car pulled up their street. Its window rolled down, causing Micha’s breath to halt in her throat.

“Need a ride?” Chan’s eyebrow was raised in amusement, only to drop in concern upon noticing her pale composure, “what the--Micha?!” 

“No,” Micha quickly stuffed her face into Changbin’s shoulder, “Changbin, please...” 

The latter, as confused as ever, nudged her towards the car, “come on Mi. Chan’ll take you home.” 

“Nooooo.” 

"Not the time, Micha. Seriously, get in the car.” 

“I said noooo--”

Too late, for Changbin simply whipped her up in his hold, walked right around to the passenger door while ignoring her trying to sock him one, before plopping her into the seat. He slammed the door in her face and waved goodbye, “see you tomorrow, loser!”

Great. That was exactly what she needed. To be alone with Chan.

“Well someone drank a little too much tonight,” was the first thing he said the moment he pulled onto the street, a little smirk sent in her direction. Micha only sighed heavily, before leaning away to look out of the window pane. 

This was painful, sitting here with Chan with all those unresolved feelings burning her loins while he sat, totally oblivious and charming and just so breathtaking that it physically hurt her fingers from stopping any attempts to hold his hand, just touch his skin, just-- feel him. 

“Where’s...Ayeong?” she mumbled against the glass.

Just the name caused her chest to tighten. 

“I dropped her off with the other girls. They’re having a sleepover or something.” 

“She’s not spending the night with you?” 

“No.” 

“Ohh how dumb of her,” the words rolled off her tongue so easily now that there was alcohol swimming through her veins. It actually felt good to know that Ayeong was not to be with Chan that night, “it’s her-- it’s her lossss.” 

“Oh you are so drunk.” 

“I am...” she hiccuped and threw him a scowl, “not drunk!” 

Chan chuckled, reaching over to ruffle her hair playfully and that simple act merely got her heart racing, “I’ll see if I have some extra aspirin to give you for your headache tomorrow--” 

"Chan, can I--can I tell you something?” 

He stopped at the red light and as his head turned, eyes finding hers in the darkness of the morning hours, a surge of courage suddenly overtook her.

She wanted to blame it on the alcohol even though deep down Micha was certain a small part of her had always wanted to let her best friend in on the most deepest, darkest secret she wished she could carry to her grave.

But this secret that had been eating her from the inside out, was something that was making her heart to burst at the seams. And while she never even imagined of hurting Chan that way, she knew that this was inevitable. It had to be done, for her to move on from it. Because she’d realized then and there, that it would be impossible for her to just bury those feelings away, no matter how hard she tried.

So that left her with no other choice.

“I think that,” her hand rose up as if on instinct to poke his cheek then, eyes drooping with sleep, “I think I....might be in love with you.” 

-----

Tagging: @allyg-onz​ @elysianxshepherd​ @rindomo​ @freckledquokka​ @maedesculpaeusoubi​ @missskzbiased​ @seungoclock​

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Drabble prompt for you boo: Geralt x Jaskier. Just the waking up part of some 'true love's kiss' sleeping spell/curse. I don't care how they got there, I just wanna see that fluffy reawakening scene with the tender concern and the smooching. You're the best, Braincell Bae.

am I aware that I have other prompts I say I'm going to write? yes. Am I going to start them after this? yes. But this has been living in the forefront of my brain since I go it and I needed to just crank it out. I defs did two versions of this bc it was too cute and the ideas just wouldn’t go away. 

Jaskier finds Geralt:

Jaskier was furious. How dare they take his witcher, let alone curse him? 

He had stormed into the castle with nothing but rage in his blood and a sword at his side. It felt odd to wield a weapon again after so long carrying only a lute, but a three pound string instrument would not fix this problem. 

When he reached the top of the tower, having dispatched several guards and a metric ton of plant matter, he had spent most of his rage. Now he was left with his need, and that was probably worse. 

He gave up trying to pick the padlock at the door and beat it with the hilt of his sword until it snapped, patience gone with the rage. 

The room he entered was filled with sunlight and well kept, a strange contrast to the rest of the overrun castle. In its center was a large four post bed with curtains draped across its sides. As Jaskier approached it he felt a sudden nervousness. What if it was a trap? What if his darling witcher was somewhere else and he was wasting time here?

He hesitantly reached for the edge of a curtain, brushing it out of the way just enough to peek inside. As promised, Geralt was there, lying peacefully in the middle of the plush bedding. His hair was braided out of his eyes in twin plaits laced with baby’s breath and buttercups that disappeared behind his temple and left the rest of his hair to flow over the satin pillows. There was a contented smile on his lips and Jaskier wondered what he might be dreaming about. 

He quickly ducked behind the curtain, kneeling on the mattress next to Geralt to rest his hand on his cheek. Normally the witcher would have woken with a start and gripped his hand, but he stayed completely still and completely asleep. There was a moment where Jaskier almost didn’t want to wake him. Geralt saw so much pain and never let himself rest, it was nice to see him so blissfully relaxed. But the sorcerer had set a time limit on the permanence of this particular curse and Jaskier wasn’t comfortable cutting it close. 

He leaned forward and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to his lover’s lips, breathing in the smell of leather and sword polish and sweat that represented home. The dam he’d built to keep his emotions in check broke as their lips parted and Geralt gasped. Tears of relief overflowed from his eyes when he finally, after all these weeks, saw Geralt looking back at him in confusion. 

“Jask why are you crying?” Geralt freed his arms from the blankets and drew his bard in close, cradling him into his chest. 

Jaskier gave a shaky laugh, clinging to Geralt in a silent promise to never leave his side, “I missed you.” 

Geralt pressed a kiss to the top of his head, “Sweetheart I didn’t think you’d be so upset with me sleeping in.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier scolded, propping himself on his elbow to look at his beautiful darling witcher, “you’ve been asleep for weeks.” 

“Weeks? And I still feel tired?” Geralt ran a hand through Jaskier’s soft locks. 

Jaskier poked him in the chest, not masking his fear with quite as much charm as usual, “If you go back to sleep I’ll kill you.”

Geralt frowned, cupping his cheek and running his thumb over the soft skin under his eyes to wipe away his tears, “I won’t.” He whispered, “Should we get up and go? Would you feel better?”

Jaskier held Geralt’s wrist, turning to kiss his palm, “Not yet. Just wanna hold you.”

Geralt leaned up, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s nose before repositioning them so he could completely envelop the bard, “You sleep, I’ll keep watch.”

The bard sighed, burrowing deeper into his witcher’s chest before falling asleep, content as could be.

Geralt finds Jaskier: this got goofy

Geralt thought he'd been breathless fighting his way into the castle overgrown with rose bushes and thorny vines, but one look at Jaskier took his breath away entirely. 

He was sprawled out on a large canopy bed covered in a beautifully embroidered duvet. Well it was covered in the duvet. Jaskier had it bunched up in what Geralt called his 'nest', half used to cuddle with and the other half draped over his hips. He was on his side, one bare leg stuck out in front of him with his foot dangling off the bed, one hand clutching the blankets to him while the other reached above his head, ignoring the plush pillows and using his own arm instead. His hair was a tragic mess and there was a small puddle of drool forming on his tunic sleeve. 

Geralt was breathless from laughing. 

He leaned against the doorway, clutching his stomach as he tried to get his legs back under him.

All this production and the sorceress forgot to immobilize him. 

He approached the bed, still chuckling and brushed the hair out of his bard's eyes. He really was completely smitten with the fool, as much as he would deny it if anyone asked. He nudged Jaskier’s shoulder, rolling him over, only to have the sleeping bard fight him and snuggle in closer to the blankets.

“No, I have to kiss you. Roll over, idiot.” Geralt laughed as he pulled at the blankets and rolled Jaskier to his back.

At least most of the drool is on the sheets now.

“You sweet dumbass…” Geralt sighed, leaning down to press his lips against Jaskier’s. 

As soon as he pulled away Jaskier shot up, smacking right into Geralt’s chin earning shouts from both of them.

Geralt did his best to stifle his laugh this time, seeing how disoriented Jaskier was, “Morning Sleeping Beauty.” 

“Geralt you know I hate those tales. They’re- Where are we?”

Geralt pulled his bard closer, “An abandoned castle in the woods.”

Jaskier raised one eyebrow, looping his arms around Geralt’s waist, “Abandoned you say?”

“Entirely.”

Jaskier tucked a stray tendril of hair behind Geralt’s ear, “I’m feeling sleepy again.”

Geralt smirked, shifting so Jaskier was seated on his lap, “Oh?”

The bard nodded, a false innocence in his eyes, “Kiss me more, my hero.” 

Geralt obliged, what else could he do? His bard had been cursed after all.

[sodone-withlife]

it's a sad song

heavily inspired by Hadestown, will feature lyrics from How Long? and Epic III. thanks to @yourlocalheartbreaker for indulging me and my rants about how much i love this musical

the musical's interpretation of Hades and Persephone's story is perfect for Hotch and Haley, so here is the self-indulgent cliche songfic. as usual, i did little to no proofreading so apologies for any grammatical/spelling errors. it's also more choppy than i'd like, but i really wanted to get it out so i can force myself to work on another angsty Hotch fic

warnings: canonical character death, non-canon character death, suicide

word count: 4k words

(And what has become of the heart of that man, now that the man is king? What has become of the heart of that man, now that he has everything?)

In the grand scheme of things, Hotch was lucky. He was further away from the bomb when it went off and only needed a day and a half in the hospital before he was back at the field office, taking the reins in handling the press and brass that was ready to tear Gideon apart.

The inquisition that followed in Virginia was vicious and by the end, Gideon was on indefinite medical leave and the unit was under the brass’s close scrutiny as Hotch took charge of the unit. As much as the word “temporary” was being parroted around in regards to the new chain of command, it was tacit knowledge that it was a permanent arrangement. A fiasco on the scale of Boston was enough to get an agent fired, and it was only Gideon’s seniority and excellent record that kept him with the bureau.

For Hotch, Boston and the months following only reinforced three lessons that were already hardwired into his brain:

Do not break and do not allow yourself to bleed where others can see, for there are always sharks waiting to tear you apart.

(Give them a piece and they'll take it all Show them a crack and they'll tear down the wall)

Nothing is certain. Even the strongest, the smartest, the most experienced, can fail. Do not fall victim to your own hubris, for it will be your undoing.

(Lend them an ear and the Kingdom will fall The Kingdom will fall for a song)

Death awaits everyone. It takes without mercy or regard for the lives left behind.

He was the new face of the BAU within the bureau, and even his prosecutorial and investigative record could not help protect the team from scrutiny.

So he straightened his spine and hardened his already severely sharp features, throwing himself into work and restoring the unit’s reputation.

Then Hotch came home one day to Haley’s brilliant smile and delighted excitement, and for a moment, he was reminded of the first time he talked to her nearly twenty years ago, when he told her he was quitting his smoking habit.

He had frozen when she first approached him in his dark corner a few weeks after school had resumed in the fall. She had smiled amusedly, his social ineptitude clear as day as he struggled to find words to greet her, to apologize for seeming like a creep over the summer when he first saw her outside on the sports field coaching younger students through vocal warmups before they started rehearsing the musical that was being put on that year, only to completely blank she plopped herself down next to him with her own school bag and lunch.

By the end of that day, he had convinced himself it was only going to be a one-off thing, that she wasn’t going to come back. If he had been honest with himself, part of him, the part that knew so intimately that his mother’s skin only remained free from bruises after his innocent baby brother was born was because his damned father finally had a son he could look at without being reminded of his self-hatred, wished it was.

But then she came back the next day, the day after that, and the day after that, apparently content to sit beside him in silence only broken by periodic comments about the going-ons in her life and the musical. And she continued going to sit next to him, even as he watched as others tried to warn her away, tried to physically guide her away from the bleachers.

What was stranger, he thought, was that she stayed even in spite of his silence, and in spite of his vices—he could tell she didn’t like his habit, but she didn’t comment. She just kept him company.

It was a few weeks into this arrangement, when he saw his still mostly full pack, that he realized that he hadn’t itched for a smoke during lunch for weeks, not while she was there and talking to him in ways he’d never been talked to before.

Sometime later, as the number of cigarettes in the pack remained unchanging, as the pack itself went untouched in his schoolbag, he finally threw it away.

That was the first time Hotch talked to her, to tell her that he’s giving up the habit. That small, but no less proud or bright, smile that spread across her face, he decided, was something he wanted to see again.

Slowly, he started talking more, and on good days, the two made conversation on topics ranging from classes to their favorite books all the way to whatever shenanigans Sean or Jessica was getting into. On other days, on bad days, the silence was never awkward, and she simply kept him company as he struggled to control the storm in his mind.

Those were the days his fingers itched for a cigarette, and those were the days she introduced to him a new book that he would finish within the day. The next day at school, they would once again be stuck in an in-depth conversation about the characters’ flaws and the absurdities of the antagonists, and the itch would be gone.

And it went on like this, even after he threw all caution and his doubts to the wind and asked her out on the first day of their senior year, even as they faced the townspeople’s questions about why such a good girl like Haley Brooks was dating someone of the likes of Aaron Hotchner, who, despite being so coldly brilliant, was just that.

Cold.

Dangerously unfeeling.

Barely human.

But she had seen behind the facade and she knew that he loved with the fierce burning of a thousand suns. She knew how terrified he was of losing everything, that he would be left alone and floundering in a world that was not kind to the lost.

So she stayed, through college, as she went into teaching and him into law, as the final straw came and went and he registered for the Academy and started training, breaking records along the way before finally being assigned to Seattle and quickly climbed his way up the ranks until he caught David Rossi’s keen eye and transferred back to Virginia for the BAU.

Every night, Hotch came home to his wife, the light of his life, and was reminded of why he was working himself to the bone. That day, when he came home a month after Boston for Haley to press a simple rectangular box into his hands, the stakes were raised once again, and he knew he had to fight twice as hard.

Not only for his team, the people he protected so fiercely under that steel mask, but for his son.

Early mornings and late nights became the norm as he threw himself into more and more work, and slowly, the unit began to recover as Spencer Reid and Jennifer Jareau joined the expanding unit, as Gideon returned as a senior agent, and as Elle Greenaway was pulled from Seattle just like he was all those years ago.

Then Jack was born, and he used his accrued vacation time to finally take a month off. Never had he been more terrified than in the moment he first held his son in the delivery room, acutely aware of his tiny size and sheer vulnerability to the dangers of the world.

That night, sleeping in the hospital bed with an exhausted Haley and their child in his arms, he swore to do whatever he could to make the world safer for his family.

His world.

So he tried. He tried and he tried, forcing himself to leave when cases that required their presence in the field came in, forcing himself to take on the heaviest burdens of the job so his team might be protected and his family would be safe.

Maybe a part of him was trying to get him to stop in his tracks and look up, to take a moment so he could clearly see that he was being consumed by the chase.

Maybe if he was strong enough, he could have lifted the weight of his world just enough to change the direction he was going.

But he was scared.

Scared that the moment he looked up, the moment he let go, he would lose everything he was defending.

And so he did not stop—not as Elle was shot in one place she had a right to feel safe in, not as Elle resigned and prevented him from making a terrible choice, not at Reid was suffering in a hell that could only be created by the lure of potent drugs, not as the unit was once again put under scrutiny because of her and Gideon’s actions.

Not even as he was forgetting important appointments, as he was struggling to be present for the important events and early milestones in his son’s life.

Not until he was suspended for two weeks because of the vow he made to himself the moment he stepped into the leadership position to protect the team to the best of his ability.

He stopped, looked up, and put in for a transfer.

But it was too late.

(It's true the earth must die But then the earth comes back to life And the sun just goes on rising)

(I’ve had enough)

The divorce did nothing to lessen the weight on his shoulders or the utter terror he felt at the prospect of stopping.

As more and more cases started piling on his desk, he kept his back bent and head down for hours as he pushed himself to the brink with a mental image of the smile that had not dimmed for twenty years and of the only proof of his humanity at the forefront of his mind.

Every day, he bent lower and lower, but he never let himself crumble, forcing himself to remain Atlas as Kate fell and Morgan nearly followed in New York, Reid and Prentiss in Colorado—

—as JJ and Will brought their first child into the world and he promised to protect her as best as he could so she would not make the same mistakes he did—

—as he wrangled politicians and major corporations in the aftermath of him fulfilling the promise he made to Megan Kane—

—as he called in favor after favor to get to the Vatican so Prentiss could get justice for her friends—

—as he compartmentalized as best he could when he found out about the anthrax attack at a public park he knew Haley and Jack frequented whenever they visit her parents’ house and when Reid got infected—

Then the Reaper returned after ten years of silence and ten years of being a silent spectator in Hotch’s nightmares to become an active participant in his night terrors for months.

But the night Hotch returned to his apartment with the intent of pulling out a glass of scotch and staying on his couch with a book, those dreams that left him nearly paralyzed with fear every night became his reality.

That night, as his team was sleeping in their beds, dead to the world while he was slowly bleeding out from nine stab wounds and floating in and out of consciousness in his own apartment, he only felt fear—fear for the team, fear for Haley, fear for his son.

He faded into unconsciousness with the expectation that that was it, that his hubris finally caught up to him.

Less than twenty-four hours later, Hotch was staring at the dried streak of red on the photo of his whole world and wondering if he had made his way into hell without realizing it.

When Haley and Jack visited him in the hospital, he could barely look at their faces, not wanting the scared and confused expressions they wore to be the last memory he might have of the two people whose lives he sought to protect in throwing himself into work but ended up putting in danger.

Then they were walking away, and he felt his walls slowly building themselves back up to a height and with fortifications that he had not needed since he last wore them in his youth to protect himself against the people in his hometown who had treated him with suspicion and derision.

The months following the day his world was ripped from his weakened grip was its own brand of hell, and more than once he wished he had been less of a coward and let himself look up from his chase.

Soon he was stepping down and ignoring all reason as he threw himself back into work yet again, wearing a facade that his teenage self would have been proud of while desperately trying to fulfill the promise he made Haley, that he would spend the rest of his life making everything up to her.

But of course, life has a funny way of reminding people of the promises they made and the important lessons they have learned at the worst times.

Suddenly, the sound of three gunshots was ripping through his head.

Suddenly, he was forcing himself to look away from Haley’s body, strewn on the floor like a doll with its strings cut, forcing himself to keep it together so he could clear the room.

Suddenly, he was straddling George Foyet and unleashing upon him years of pent-up hurt and anger that he had never allowed himself to feel in favor of remaining strong for the people he loved so fiercely.

Do not break and do not allow yourself to bleed where others can see, for there are always sharks waiting to tear you apart.

Nothing is certain. Even the strongest, the smartest, the most experienced, can fail. Do not fall victim to your own hubris, for it will be your undoing.

Death awaits everyone. It takes without mercy or regard for the lives left behind.

That day, Hotch was reminded of all three statements that he swore to live by after Boston.

Foyet was witness to his unraveling and poked and prodded at him, so much so that he uncovered the rage he inherited from his father and had vowed long ago to never express.

His hubris, his confidence in assumptions that had been made so many times in the past, his confidence that denying the deal that had been offered to him just over a year ago was the right thing to do, cut the threads of over ten people far too early.

Haley was lost to him.

Forever.

But in the years afterward, as Hotch found himself stuck in his head and mentally removed from the team’s present more and more often, he wondered if that was actually the moment that he lost her.

Perhaps the time he had to fly out to Mexico on his birthday weekend was the start and the stress of his suspension the catalyst.

Was he simply too destructive and too desperate to have a happy ending? Was anyone closely associating with him doomed to fall along with him?

Why else was his mother spared from bruising when she was able to focus on raising Sean, a son whose looks did not remind his father of the sheer hatred he felt for himself?

Why else had his brother, who he was estranged from, done so well in life and remained so carefree?

For what other reason could Haley have been murdered than the fact that she was collateral damage in a psychopathic narcissist’s dream to cause him as much pain as possible?

For a short time, Haley’s murder had given Hotch a chance to look up, to free himself from all the responsibilities he had taken on, but it ultimately only served to increase his fear and paranoia. The team had seen the tail end of his unraveling in that house, and he knew it had shaken them to the core, so the walls remained up. Strangers in the street were unsubs, and he was never far away from a weapon if he could help it, always fearing that he would be too late to be of any help.

Four years to the day he locked himself away, he was seeing Haley smiling radiantly at him and wearing the same dress she was wearing when he proposed as she waved him over to sit next to her in an empty movie theater and he was struggling to articulate her beauty.

The large screen in front of them was playing scenes from his life in the years since she was stolen from this life. While her eyes were glued to the projection of his memories, he was left unable to tear his eyes away from her, the woman who had been such an integral part of his life, whose death he would probably never forgive himself for, whose presence in his world he had so desperately missed.

Then he was looking down from the screen when their moment was interrupted by the man who had become a permanent fixture in his night terrors and surprising himself with just how prepared he was to kill again to protect Haley like he had failed to do years ago. It was only Haley’s repeated assurances that finally got him to look back up at the screen, and in the next moment, he was once again experiencing his nightmares in real-time.

His voice cracked as he tried calling out for help, becoming more and more desperate as it became clear no one was coming, and then—

You’re not meant to.

They were suddenly standing face to face in that dark corner of the school where they first met. Hotch froze, rooted to the spot by the uncharacteristically cold expression on Haley’s face.

Where is he?

It wasn’t right, the hard tone, the way she was looking at him as if he were a stranger—

I don’t see Aaron Hotchner in front of me. Where is he?

Then her face softened, and she walked over to sit against the wall, uncaring of the dirt that was gathering on her dress. She stared at him pointedly until he made his way over to her and joined her on the ground. It was with great surprise that he felt her lean onto him, a long-forgotten and now unfamiliar warmth settling over him.

I want to tell you a story.

She told him the story behind an old song, the story about the queen who brought spring and summer with her every time she walked the earth and the king who ruled the shades and the underworld. And though the king loved his queen so desperately, every time she walked the earth while he remained in the underworld, he doubted that she would come back to him, for what could he offer her except his darkness?

So he worked and he threw himself into building a kingdom of metal and glaring bright lights that might compensate for his darkness, but he could not bring himself to look up for fear that he would lose everything the moment he stopped. In his fear, he kept his head low and his back bending, he locked his love away so it wouldn’t be a distraction.

(But what he didn’t know is that what he is defending was already gone.)

When Hotch found himself on the edge of a roof being held against Peter Lewis, who had a gun at his temple, facing the team’s desperate and fearful faces, he could only think about that story Haley had told him and the questions she had sent towards him right before he woke up in the hospital four years prior.

(Where is the treasure inside of your chest? Where is your pleasure? Where is your youth? Where is the man with his arms outstretched to the woman he loves with nothing to lose?)

That was the first time he could remember crying in front of Jack—when the two were clinging to each other in the hospital bed after yet another close call—and he resolved it wouldn’t be the last. It hurt to tear down the walls he had so meticulously built around himself over the course of nearly five decades, but to see the smile that his son inherited from Haley…

He could only lament that he hadn’t started earlier.

Slowly, he rebuilt his world, and it was filled with a warmth that hadn’t been since those golden years between first meeting Haley and becoming a prosecutor.

But then Peter Lewis came and turned his mind against him, forcing him to watch his nightmares come to life. And when he found himself at MPD’s gunpoint with Jack watching, his world cracked.

And in that interrogation room, watching the recording of Lewis’s testimony against him, his world cracked again.

And seeing his son’s withdrawn affect, trying to get him to understand that he wasn’t leaving, that he wouldn’t ever abandon him of his own free will—

Then they were called to Arizona and he found his name carved into a victim’s forehead, and he knew it was only a matter of time before the attacks would become more and more personal.

Favors were called in, calls were made, and all the while Hotch tried to keep Jack as ignorant as possible to the way his world was going up in flames around him. For a moment, it felt like the immediate aftermath of Boston, with all of the non-stop workdays and the scrutiny of the brass falling onto him and the struggle to balance his work and Jack—

And then one day, Jack disappeared in the middle of the school day.

A day later, Rossi and Luke were holding him back, trying to keep him away from the security checkpoint at the entrance of the Academy office buildings that had been taped off as a crime scene. His eyes caught a sudden movement, and all the fight left him when he saw the white sheet being unfolded and lowered over the small body that was on the gurney.

Maybe he was supposed to be more grief-stricken than he felt.

Maybe that’s why the team tip-toed around him in the months afterward—they were waiting for the sand to run out, for the inevitable breakdown that was expected from a man such as him.

And the sand did run out, only it wasn’t where any of them expected.

The cold metal digging into his temple provided him an odd moment of clarity as he thought about the questions he had asked himself—because that wasn’t Haley, she never looked at him with such cruelty, not even when he probably deserved it, it was always that voice in the back of his head, the voice that led him down the road to hell.

That treasure that he kept in his chest—it was buried in the ground with Haley and Jack.

His pleasure, his youth, it was left behind in his past with that first strike he felt from his father.

A smile spread across his face for the first time in months and he closed his eyes, a strange peacefulness settling deep in his bones. He flung himself backward, letting himself become dead weight as he suddenly heard shouts of horror through the sound of the wind rushing around him and Peter Lewis as they fell.

Didn’t you tell me to find the man who was reaching out with nothing to lose?

I found him.

I hope you and Jack waited for me, Haley.

[miraculousagentsofkrypton]

Real or Not Real?

This is on AO3 as well. Chapter 2 was just posted there.

Davis stepped up to the vendor, ordering a hot dog while glancing around furtively. What Mrs. Luthor could possibly want with some bubbly blonde reporter he didn’t know, but he wasn’t planning on asking. He had a lot on the line, and her offer made this one small mission worth it. He didn’t have to do much, just get close enough. Luthor had promised that it wouldn’t do any permanent damage, so he’d accepted.

There she was, on her way towards to Catco building. She held a coffee tray in one hand, and a notepad in the other. Grabbing the proffered hot dog, he casually moved in behind her as she passed by. He fingered the device with his free hand nervously.  He sped up, and purposefully brushed it against her hand lightly. She paused mid-step for half a second, barely a hesitance, but his breath caught. She continued on as before, and his breath released. Done. That was all there was too it. Keeping up his brisk pace, he left her behind, and never looked back.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Kara headed for James’ office with the coffee tray in hand. She stopped at Eve’s desk, offering her the extra cup she was carrying. “Good morning Eve. How are you doing?” Kara greeted with a smile, adding jokingly, “James isn’t pushing you too hard is he?”

The bubbly assistant grinned back, taking the proffered beverage. “No Ms. Zor-El, and I’m doing just great!” She winked. “You’re a bit late. Better get in there before he starts shouting for Kira.”

Icy fear shot through her, and she stared, dumbfounded, as Eve giggled. “What did you just say?” she forced out.

The smile slipped from Eve’s face. She cocked her head, and said, “You’re a bit late? I’m sorry, was that too familiar of me?”

Kara shook her head, urgently clarifying, “No. Um, I meant, what did you call me?”

“Ms. Danvers?”

Kara’s spiking heartrate slowed. Oh . Why on earth had she thought Eve, of all people, would call her Ms. Zor-El? Her mind must have been playing a trick on her. Shaking her head, she tried to reassure Eve. “Oh. Sorry, I thought you said something else. Plus, haven’t I asked you to call me Kara?”

Eve nodded, the smile reforming, albeit confusedly. Fiddling with her hands, Kara continued into the office. The spooky incident had spiked her adrenaline. Taking in a deep breath, she released it slowly and let a smile expand on her face. James looked over as soon as she came in and smiled in greeting as Snapper Carr continued addressing everyone.

As soon as Snapper Carr took notice of her though, he addressed her mockingly, “Oh, Danvers, so glad you could join us. As a reward for your stellar punctuality, you get the closing animal shelter downtown. “

Kara brightened. Oh she knew I was supposed to be a punishment, but that animal shelter really mattered to her. She volunteered there on some weekends. Maybe if she got the word out it could help save it, or find the animals homes at the very least. “Yes sir.”

He rolled his eyes. “Kevin, you get the Lord Tech interview…”

Kara searched her bag for her notebook, so she could write anything important down, but when she looked back up, Snapper looked kind of… fuzzy? Yep, his shape was looking less and less out of focus. She rubbed her eyes. What the heck? Everything else looked just as crystal clear as it usually was, but even his voice was becoming muffled. A glance at everyone else’s faces confirmed she was the only one experiencing the strange phenomenon. Making sure to keep herself from straight up gaping at him, she thought hard about possible causes. Nothing about this made sense.

“Kiera? Keira!”

“Oh, yes?”

She turned away from the blurry man to look straight into the eyes of Cat Grant. She stepped back in surprise, but one blink later James Olsen stood back in her place. Something was seriously wrong.

“Kara, are you ok? You’re looking really pale.”

James’ worry was apparent, and not without just cause. Supergirl did not just turn really pale out of nowhere. But just as quickly as it had come, everything had gone back to normal. Snapper looked fine, and she’d stopped hallucinating.  She seemed fine now. Maybe her exhaustion had gotten to her for a moment. She could handle whatever it was for now, and she’d head to the DEO for a checkup later if it continued. So she assured him nothing was wrong, and the meeting continued with no further incidents.

The next incident didn’t happen until later, when she sat down to work on the article. It seemed she had barely started when she looked at the clock to see 4 hours had passed, and the screen in front of her showed a full, complete article that she had no memory of writing. Kara blinked. Reading through the magical article brought no familiarity, aside from the fact that it sounded exactly like her. Ok, she definitely needed to go to the DEO now. She stood abruptly, and headed to the elevator, darkness swirling on the edges of her vision. She staggered into a see through James on her way.

“Woah, Kara. What’s going on with you today?” he groaned, still aching from their collision.

She clung to him, the dark swirls growing and in a world that felt like it was collapsing around her. “Somethings very wrong with me. I need Alex.”

He said something in reply, but she ability to understand him faded. She found herself being pulled the rest of the way to the elevator, but it was difficult to tell with all her senses shutting down around her. Then she was gone.

Silence greeted her as she came into awareness. She hadn’t experienced anything close to quiet since she’d arrived on earth. Everything, from her own breath to the dog in the other side of town, flooded her ears constantly. One might think the silence would have been relieving, but to Kara it was panic inducing. She strained her ears, hoping to hear anything, but searching for something very specific. Where was Alex’s heartbeat? Winn’s? Anyone’s?

Nothing.

Her eyes snapped open, but it did the opposite of help. Black nothingness surrounded her. She blinked frantically, hoping something would change, but it didn’t. Pushing her arms outward, they didn’t even fully extend before hitting the insides of the pod. She ran her hands over the whole surrounding surface desperately, but all she felt were overwhelmingly close walls on all sides. She couldn’t even try to pretend to be calm. The darkness, the tiny pod… the silence; this was the phantom zone from her memories, cut off from everyone and everything she'd ever known.

No. Nonononono.

Her thoughts scrambled, registering nothing beyond pure terror. Was the descent back into the terrified child who spent decades here really so quick? Or had she never even left in the first place. The doubt had occurred to her before. She couldn’t deny it.  The question, was Earth really real? Could she have really been so lucky as to be taken in by the Danvers? To be a superhero, saving the world time and time again after her own world was destroyed? Or was it all the dream of a desperate, traumatized girl who couldn’t handle reality, stuck in an endless void with little else to do but dream?

The day had been so crazy, as if the dream was ending, finally collapsing after so many years.Stop. She couldn’t go down that road. Alex was real. Her sister was not a figment of her imagination. Her breath came in quick spurts as she tried to reign the panic in and focus on the problem at hand. She needed to figure out how she’d gotten here, and what had truly happened. Last thing she remembered before the day had started falling apart was coming into work in the morning with a muffin for Eve. Wait… a coffee.

She’d forgotten. Already, the finer details were slipping away like the morning after a good dream. Except, no peace came with this wakeup call. She had to think harder, how could she have possibly traveled thousands of miles to the phantom zone in an instant? Black Mercy This reminded her of waking up in her old room back on Krypton and having her memories slowly slip away. Whatever had caused this had to be some kind of reverse Black Mercy, instead of her greatest desire, it created her greatest fear. Ok, she’d just have to hold onto her memories tighter this time.

The best way to stick things in your brain, besides writing, is to say them out loud, so she started talking, “I am Kara Danvers. I have a sister named Alex Danvers who loves me. I have friends named Winn Schott, Lena Luthor, and James Olsen. I am Supergirl and I save people on Earth. – “

What if the black mercy was just another dream that mixed with this one? What if it’s really not real?

Kara screamed behind gritted teeth, clutching her head, as if that could force the thought out, and continued her chant stubbornly. “I have cousin named… Kal-El. He had another name. What was it? What was it?!  Urgh. I am Kara Zor-El. I have a loving sister named Alex Danvers. My best friends are Winn, Lena, and James. I am … a superhero named… Kara Zor-El. I have a loving sister named Alex Danvers. I have three amazing friends.”

The dark nothingness and silence of the zone tugged at her memories, pushing feelings of despair and hopeless grief in their place. But Kara held on to her memories of Alex tightly, keeping the image of her dark red/brown hair and loving brown eyes firmly in the forefront of her mind.

Soon she was left chanting the same phrase over and over, “I am Kara Zor-El and my sister Alex loves me.”

Kara chanted that phrase for a very long time before it dissolved into pure sobs. She couldn’t move in the restricting pod, forever trapped. Butthe silence… the silence. She’d spent years hearing anything and everything. She’d developed coping mechanisms by focusing on her family’s heartbeats. Proving to herself that she wasn’t alone, drowning out the rest of the world and just breathing in their very existence. That relief had been snatched away, leaving her floundering in an endless, unchanging void.

You can only scream and cry for so long before all that’s left is oppressive despondency. She watched as the darkness swirled, and as what originally seemed like nothing revealed itself to be almost alive. Light did not exist in the phantom zone, yet somehow she could see it, could feel it all around.

The silence left her alone with her thoughts, with thoughts of Krypton, of Alex, and of the many other dreams she had had in the phantom zone. Sometimes she wondered if even Krypton had been real, or if she had simply always been a part of the phantom zone. Sometimes she could almost hear, on the edges of her consciousness, the whispers of those long gone. Of those who’d never even existed. She heard the voice of Alex pleading for her to come back.

Wait… her voice was getting louder. A bright light burst though, and the phantom zone melted around her, transforming into a sterile lab. Kara shot up, hands outstretched as far as they would go. The light burned her eyes, but she didn’t dare close them, afraid of returning to the eternal darkness that imprisoned her.

The blurry form of Alex swam into view. “Oh, thank Rao! I was so scared!”

Alex pulled Kara into a tight hug that she could barely feel. That seemed strange. In most dreams, she could feel things. She remembered the hug her mother had held her in before her planet exploded, and she remembered the love she had felt, but also the fear. She wondered if that had been a dream as well.

Chapter 2

[ilosttrackofthings]

Ruins of the city post hive wardsimmons, please.

I know I’ve been a little loose with prompts lately but this one is definitely the worst. This fic is absolutely not what this anon was hoping for - and not just because this was a (very very old) smut prompt and I’m not writing smut anymore. But as I’ll never fill it otherwise, you get this fic which I hope you will all enjoy.

Notfor the first time in Grant’s life, pain wakes him up. Better thannot waking up at all, Victoria used to say.

Hewas injured in the attack on the TV station. He hopes it was worthit, hopes he gave Skye and her people enough time to get where theyneeded to be.

Hopeshis Skye is gonna come back once they’re gone.

Hecringes against the bright lights overhead and drops his focus to thefigure wrapping a bandage around his left arm. She’s a lot lessshiny and blinding than the fluorescents. She’s also someone heknows.

“Simmons?”he asks, sitting up so fast his blood rushes out of his head. Ifshe’s here when she’s supposed to be in that other world … Doesthis mean they didn’t make it? Or is she the real Simmons back nowthat the other one’s gone?

“Liedown,” she says,pushing at his shoulder. “Good lord, you’re as bad as he was.”

“He?”he asks. He can guess who she means, but his heart is sinking alreadyand he really hopes she’s gonna prove him wrong.

Shemeets his eyes. “The real-” She bites her lips briefly, thensays, “The other Ward.”

Hedrops his head back onto the pillow, only to immediately regret itand twist his neck awkwardly so he can see her around his shoulderwithout looking into the lights. There’sa cot an arm’s length away with a sleeping woman in it and he cansee another two down past his feet. He wasn’t the only one injured in thefighting.

“Soyou didn’t make it.” So much for that plan.

She’sback to wrapping his arm, her hands gentle but practiced. Her eyesdon’t leave her work. “Oh no, we did.”

Hiswrist flinches in her grasp and pain lightnings up his arm. Heignores it. “Then how-”

Shesighs heavily, and a world’s worth of tension leaves her shouldersalong with it. Whatever it is, she’s been carrying it around for awhile, the whole time he’s known her at least.

“Idon’t know for certain, as I’d have to be on the other side toverify my theory. But Jemma Simmons—the one who belongs in thisworld—died years ago, in the wake of the Cambridge incident. Andwhile I was able to successfully replace her in this world, I believemy body, left behind in my world, suffered some … rather permanentside effects.”

Helets that sink in for a second. “Because she was dead, you died.”

Shenods once. “Much like Director Mace. He died here, therefore hedied there.”

“Andyou knew this?” He thinks about Skye, how relieved she obviouslywas to have found Simmons, how they clung close to each other in thebase, how Simmons was the only thing outside of Hope that could makeher smile. How is Skye gonna feel making it back home and finding outher best friend is dead?

“Isuspected,” Simmons admits. “But I had no concrete evidence andit hardly mattered. The mission parametersremained the same.”

Toget everyone home, even if she couldn’t go with them. He canunderstand that. “You said they made it?” he asks.

“Yes,”she says, obviously relieved they’re talking about someone otherthan her. “Everyone went through. With the exception of Mack,unfortunately. He wants to stay with his daughter.”

“Heloves her,” Grant says, repeating what he said that day all of thisfinally came out. It feels like a lifetime ago.

“Yes,he does.” No argument, no hesitation, just a little bit ofresentment. And no wonder. This is her life now; real or not, it’sall she has, and she’s gotta get used to that.

Hetries to sit up. She tries to stop him, but even sporting injuriesover half his body he’s still bigger than her.

“Youshould rest,” she snaps while he looks past the sea of beds to thewall and the familiar skull and tentacles smiling down at them.

“Simmons,where the hell-”

“It’sfine,” she says,pressing a hand to his good arm. “From what I gather, your littlesiege spread very far very fast and with Madame Hydra dying and-”she closes her eyes- “and Fitz returning home, there wasn’t muchin the way of direction from the Triskelion.”

“Wetook the Triskelion,” he says in awe. They’re in the cafeteria,he sees now. This is insane.

“Tri-Antoine is currently commanding SHIELD’s forces holding the baseand directing the civilians who’ve joined the fight. There’s sometalk of a council forming to take leadership now that Mace is gone,but Antoine thinks—and I agree—that it’s a terrible idea.”

“Personalexperience?”

“Agreat deal of it,” she says dryly. She looks down at her hands—orhis and hers, since they’re sitting knee-to-knee and kind oftangled together.

Whatevershe’s thinking, she doesn’t want to say it, and he’s got hisown questions he needs answered, so he gives her an out by asking,“Where’s my phone?”

Shefrowns at him, eyes trailing over all the places his head is achingworst of all. She’s got a look he takes to mean she’s considering thepotential for brain damage.

“Iwanna call Skye—my Skye—see if she’s-”

Simmons’expression steals the breath from his lungs. She shakes her headslowly, words stumbling out. “Oh no. No, I- I’m sorry. They’re gone.They’re all gone.”

Hischest constricts painfully, the fear he’s been pushingaside the last few days rising up to the forefront of his thoughts.“Yeah, but that was your people. My people-”

“Mypeople were always meant to replace their avatars here,” she saysslowly, apology in every syllable. “They’re not coming back.”

Hisvision blurs and he shuts his eyes tight. She keeps hold of his handseven when his grip has gotta be bruising, doesn’t complain once.Which is bullshit. He lost his girlfriend, something he knew waslikely to happen—either because of this or because the real Skyerefused to accept he was SHIELD—but Simmons has lost her wholeworld, her whole life. And it was a damn good one too, if in herworld Hydra’s dead and buried. But she’s the one comforting him.How messed up is that?

“You’regoing to hurt yourself,” she says softly, forcing his left hand toloosen. “Your stitches will pop if you keep holding on like that.”She runs probing fingers over the bandage she set earlier, sendingsmall bolts of pain along his arm. He grits his teeth and bears it.

“Wereyou a medic?” he asks. He never bothered before, but now he’sstuck with her, he should know if this Simmons has differentcredentials than what he saw in the dead one’s file. “Overthere?”

“Asfar as you were concerned I was,” she says with a pointed frown.“Or not you,obviously. Him.”

“Theasshole.”

Sheseems torn between reassuring him and laughing, so she just nods.“I’m not certified by any means, but when he and I were on a teamtogether I was the closest thing we had to a medical officer. Heforced me to learn quickly.”

“I’llbet.” If he’s anything like Grant, he was a pain in her ass.

Hersmall smile grows smaller while she stares at the bandages. She’sgot that look again and this time he knows she’s gonna say whatshe’s thinking.

“Antoinehas already made it clear he has no intention of remaining in charge. AndI could lay out my reasons for being against a council, butit seems needless when thegeneral consensus among the troops isthat Mace would have wantedyou to replace him.”

Grant’smouth drops open. He snaps it shut just as fast and runs his goodhand through his hair. “I- I, uh-” It’s not really a surprise.Antoine said as much on the bus ride back to the base after Macedied. It’s just that hearing it from Simmons… “And what do youthink of that? If you’re right, you’re the only real person inthis whole world—other than Mack. Am I seriously who you wantrebuilding your afterlife?”

Shetakes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly, keeping him insuspense. “You’re not him,” she says finally, and he knowsshe’s not talking about Mace. “But you are at the same time. The good parts, I hope. Heled Hydra for a time. Perhaps you could do better with SHIELD.”

He’sgonna have to ask her about that sometime—or not, he might not wantto know just how bad his double was—but for now there’s work todo.

“I’mgonna need help,” he says. Hegrins. “Someone with experience taking Hydra down?”

Shemakes an attempt at smiling back. “We’ll see how long I can putup with you.”

Hestands and, with a little help from her, makes his way through therows of beds to the elevators.

[renaroo]

Twisted Legacy (11/25)

Disclaimer: Transformers and related properties belong to Hasbro Warnings: Canon-typical language and violence, Psychological torture and horror, Post-war politics, Canon divergence/Loose canon, Hospitalization and illness, Cultist indoctrination Rating: T Synopsis: [Canon Divergence from MTMTE and exRID #54] The legacy of the Primes has had a tainted past, one that weighs heavily on Optimus, his supporters, and those who seek the legacy for the future. But as they look forward for themselves and for Cybertron, a darkness looms that threatens to further corrupt the unsteady peace of their planet with its curious claim to be the Hand of Primus himself.

It’s up to Optimus, Windblade, Rodimus, and their teams to try and save all Cybertronians from this mysterious threat and, perhaps, change the future for the better if they can.

A/N: Thanks everyone for waiting on this one! We’re on part THREE! All things are coming together, all the different gears are getting turned, and I hope you all enjoy what’s in store because it’s about to get, let’s say, complicated ; ) 

Special thanks to @secretlystephaniebrown, squiggol, and Isame for the feedback! I really appreciate it!

Part III: The Risk of Saving the Guilty Chapter 3.1: The Whispers Travel

In a reasonable world -- which Cybertron seemed determined to prove it was not -- but in a reasonable world, there would have been some sort of system in order that would have given Knock Out the immediate access he deserved for the laboratory he had spent the last several weeks of his life and work in for Starscream.

And Starscream -- that was another untrusting blunder within itself. 

If only Knock Out did not find himself so weak for a decent paintjob. He probably would have made certain his arrangements were more permanent. 

Ever since the Lost Light survivors had come through the space bridge, it was a literal struggle each solar cycle to get back into the room and to his research. Most of which had been left completely abandoned by his fellow doctors. 

Honestly, Breakdown would have been more assistance in the lab at that point than the Cybertronians. 

With a long vent, Knock Out threw out his credentials again for the snarling guards and did his best to ignore the way being a colonist was giving him extra looks that most of Cybertron did not. Then he looked, with annoyance, once more to see the galactically famous Ratchet alongside the other doctors busied with the same assortment of bots. 

“Well,” Knock Out drawled out, running his sharpened nails across his desk of untouched research. “What is that idiom I keep hearing about if you can’t beat them...” 

Strolling over to the medical bay, Knock Out earned those funny looks once again, as if it was a Cybertronian thing to always wear one’s faceplate like it was about to fall off, but he was then promptly ignored. 

“Wheeljack, can you give me anything at all that soft-melds to protoform?” Ratchet barked out. “I know it’s out there--”

“Was out there, Doc,” Wheeljack informed him with an awkward rub of his neck. “Cybertron’s been in short supply of hot spots since before the war. The sort of melding material used to treat sparkling injuries would be basically a lost art.”

"You are the highest scientific mind on Cybertron, and you’re telling me you can’t work something up to suit our needs?” Ratchet asked harshly.

From behind them, one of the awake patients -- a blue and yellow jet who Knock Out was unfamiliar with -- made a point of waving a hand in the air at them. “Since I’m here on Cybertron now, too, I can actually contest that claim--”

Rounding on the jet without hesitation, Ratchet pointed a thick finger at him. “Brainstorm, you are a weapons expert. I’m not going to let you build him into a giant gun. We already have a captain who was a giant gun. I’m not willing to have a second!”

Brainstorm crossed his arms and tilted his helm, looking positively offended. “It’s not only guns. I made an entire time machine out of brief cases, in case you forgot--”

“We didn’t!” they all said at once. 

The green medic from Caminus that Knock Out hadn’t bothered to learn the name of yet then apathetically patted Brainstorm’s head. “You’ve been stuck on repeat about the briefcase for days now, Brainstorm. It’s time to move on to something else.”

“I know,” Brainstorm grunted, rubbing at his neck tenderly. “I don’t know why, but it’s at the forefront of my brain module.”

“Well, either shut your brain module off again or move it back to thinking about guns, because we don’t have time to waste on this anymore,” Ratchet snapped before looking back to Wheeljack. “Can you whip me something up to help rebuild the protoform layer?” 

“Undoubtedly,” Wheeljack said. “I’m just worried about how the mesh will hold, Ratchet. Injuries this deep and this bad... Well, in the war weren’t they mostly Cold Constructed bodies?”

“I’ve made it work on forged and constructed cold millions of years before the war. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll just be proving to Rodimus again that his tailpipe isn’t shinier than the rest of ours,” Ratchet said with a wave of his hand.

"I just feel like patience would get us along much further,” First Aid encouraged. “The more time we allow for self-healing--”

“The more time Starscream has to weave whatever version of the story he feels like it,” Ratchet interrupted the younger doctor. “Especially since Brainstorm’s questioning was no help.”

“I can’t help what I can’t remember -- no one’s driven more crazy by unused brainpower than me, I assure you!” Bainstorm defended.

Having been left out of the intellectual loop for long enough, Knock Out stepped forward toward the CR tank in question, hand on his chin as he hummed slightly to himself. It was a vain attempt at getting the other scientists’ attention, but at the very least it worked. 

Raising a brow, Knock Out looked back at his fellow doctors. “On Velocitron, most every mech is, what do you call them again, ah yes, forged. And given the frequency of racing and the dangers that come with it, we get plenty of deep protoformic injuries. As a doctor, I keep protomatter synthesized in my labs. It’s not exact, but it is nearly seamless when worked with the right hands.”

The doctors stared at him for a moment, most seemingly impressed, before turning toward the one face that was far from ecstatic about Knock Out’s explanation. 

Ratchet crossed his arms. “Do you have access to Velocitron at the second?”

Knock Out cycled his optics. “Well, no one has access to the space bridge at the moment--”

“And do you have any of this here?” Ratchet continued harshly.

“Well, no--”

“Then you’re wasting our time and Wheeljack still needs to make some of our own,” Ratchet snapped, then turned to Wheeljack. “Are you going to get me what I need?”

Knock Out couldn’t help but drop his shoulders at being so quickly iced out of the conversation again. He stepped toward the CR chamber to get another look at the half mangled mech inside. “Fine, be that way. I swear, it’s as if you don’t even really want help.”

“I assure you,” a deep voice said from the shadows on the other side of the CR chamber, nearly causing Knock Out to jump back in shock. The quiet swordsmech who had been in the lab since Ratchet’s arrival leered at Knock Out. “We are giving Rodimus all the help he needs.”

“You’re still here? Tell me, do you bots ever take a recharge?” Knock Out asked. 

The swordsmech’s steely blue gaze merely narrowed at the notion.

“Nevermind,” Knock Out sighed. “Honestly, forget trying to help any of you with these Eukarian casualties.” He strolled toward First Aid. “I’m more interested in the Rust Killers and how our research is going anyway.”

First Aid tilted his head at Knock Out. “Seriously? Knock Out, I haven’t had any time to vent, let alone continue working on that project since the injured came in--”

Having had enough of the social customs, Knock Out dropped his half cocked smile and showed a full scowl toward the doctor. “That project? Terrorists nearly wiped out your planet and all of the colonies in the Council of Worlds, and it’s just some side project?” 

“To my oath as a doctor, everything is a side project,” First Aid responded snippishly. 

“What do they teach Cybertronian doctors? The needs of the few outweigh the many?” Knock Out growled. He turned toward the Camien doctor. “And what about on Caminus? Is a doctor’s duty only to those they’re loyal to first and foremost?”

Velocity quickly raised her servos. “I’m not really here to fight. I’m not even working right now. I was just leaving with Brainstorm to meet with the rest of our amicas--”

"Everyone has their own little projects,” Knock Out sighed before walking back toward the door. “If no progress is being actively made on the Red Rust research, then there’s no reason for my brand of genius to be around. Though if you believe the Council of Worlds will continue to sponsor this lab and its experiments without further progress, you have another thing coming.”

First Aid threw up one of his hands. “But you’re on the Council of Worlds.”

“And I’m interested in the Red Rust research,” Knock Out reminded him threateningly. “I’m going to take a nice drive, test my engines and blow off some steam before I reconsider making a report about this misplacement of funds, First Aid. I’ve enjoyed working with you while you’re on task. Hopefully we can do that again.”

No one stopped him as he left the room, but of course none of them probably knew a proper retort for the slew of accusations Knock Out had just flung at them. 

After all, his interests in the Red Rust were for his own self interests -- that and his conjunx. 

As always with Cybertron, though, there was more than simply their own concerns going on. 

He was in the halls for maybe twenty seconds before Windblade collided into him. 

“Why, I never!” Knock Out ground out, checking his paint job for any scratches. He then leered at the cityspeaker. “Delegate Windblade, if you wish for my attention, use your voice box.”

“Apologies, Knock Out,” she said, mid-vent. “I am in a rush and I need to get to the shipyard before it’s too late.”

“No you don’t!” Chromia called out in pursuit of her delegate. “Windblade, you can’t leave with the Prime--”

Surprised, Knock Out tilted his head at the jet. “I must concur with the bodyguard.”

Unlike with the doctors, his suggestion seemed to at least carry some weight where the cityspeaker was concerned and Windblade stopped in her tracks, looking toward Knock Out. 

“There’s something bigger going on and it involves Optimus Prime directly -- you’ve had to have seen the news! If this Error is after the Prime and the Matrix, then there is no reason to send him alone into space--”

“Unless it’s to keep the rest of us safe,” Knock Out said, raising his brow. “You are right, Windblade, in that there is something bigger going out here. And considering I have been approached by Lord Starscream for my scientific knowledge already, I have to say he seems to already understand that perhaps even more than you.”

Her optics narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“Sometimes, Delegate Windblade, it is our job as leaders, as doctors, as mechs of power, to understand when the needs of many outweigh the needs of the few,” Knock Out explained. “And if the danger lies with the Prime, there was probably more than one incentive for Lord Starscream to send him alone into space and away from the citizenry.”

Chromia vented with relief at someone spouting sensical words for once.

But Windblade’s jaw merely squared itself. “The holy and powerful position of the Prime, for many of us -- that hope only the Prime’s light can provide? It can squash a whole lot of the many when in the wrong hands, Delegate Knock Out.”

“Maybe,” Knock Out said, crossing his arms. “But are you willing to leave your position here? Let Lord Starscream run the Council of Worlds without you? Alone?”

Windblade’s wings dropped slightly.

“Energon for thought,” Knock Out shrugged before continuing on his way out. “Do try to make the right decision. For all of us.”

Without further interruptions to his day, Knock Out went for his drive. 

Ultra Magnus was not sure what gave him more work -- when Rodimus was in charge himself, or when he was forcibly co-captaining with Megatron. But there was one thing he was certainly learning under the current fear and unease: Megatron in control of a ship of Autobots, by himself, under highly suspicious circumstances, and just after most of the original crew had mutinied, was the hardest of the three options.

So hard, in fact, that the captain had hardly left his quarters in the last week of disfunction, and their ship had not yet left Eukaris’ airspace as they awaited news of the survivors. 

The former second-in-command should have happily taken charge of their situation. After all, he mostly ran things while Rodimus was the sole captain. But the burden was greater.

There was a burden of knowledge. Of injustice.

And as the former Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, there was quite possibly nothing that caused his fuel tank to turn more in on itself than the idea that he was assisting severe injustice.

Excusing himself from the bridge, not that anyone there was doing anything under their inactive orders, Ultra Magnus walked to the captain’s office and knocked politely once. 

When there was no answer, he sighed and overrode the code to let himself in.

Megatron did not even budge from his desk. 

“I have been making contact with Cybertron over the last week,” Ultra Magnus informed his captain. “The next inbound ship will have Velocity, Brainstorm, one of the other recovered members of the away team, and the others who had departed for Cybertron.” When the former Decepticon did not look up, Ultra Magnus tilted his head. “I assumed you would want to be informed that we were about to have a medical officer again. There have been far too many unattended injuries from barfights without one.”

“Which made me wonder why you had not closed down Swerve’s,” Megatron replied before finally glancing up to Ultra Magnus. 

Ultra Magnus stood in complete attention. “Are you asking me as captain to do that, Sir?” he asked. 

“No, that would elicit more distrust and anger from an already formerly mutinous crew. As well as upset Swerve who is among the few of our group that I trust after that mutiny,” Megatron responded. “Given, he is vocal about his hatred of me, but of course, it’s the vocation of it that makes me trustful.”

“Then that, sir, would by why I have not made any such action yet,” Magnus responded. “We are in a precarious situation.”

“We are,” Megatron agreed, folding his servos together before his face. “We’re having two conversations at the moment, aren’t we, Ultra Magnus?”

“About the crew and about the situation with the recording?” Ultra Magnus asked. “Yes, we are.” He stepped closer to the desk so that more hushed tones could be used by them both. “Have you determined yet who we may trust with the information?”

“I’m not entirely convinced there is anyone to be trusted with it,” Megatron replied briskly, optics flickering in Magnus’ direction. Their steady redness was deep, calculating. As sharp as ever. “We may need to discuss with Ratchet, either directly or indirectly, and bring him in. If he understands the enormity, he would understand the need to move Rodimus onto the Lost Light for the rest of his recovery. He needs to explain what happened to us directly. Having him on Cybertron, having only half the information, it makes everyone at risk.”

“Agreed,” Ultra Magnus said. “Velocity’s arrival may give us that direct link to Ratchet we need. It would require more time without a medic in the long term, unfortunately, but you are not allowed on Cybertron and I am not comfortable abandoning my post by you under the current climate.”

Megatron nodded slowly in agreement. “We have to move quickly.”

Pressing his lips into a thin line, Ultra Magnus vented loudly.

Tilting his helm suspiciously, Megatron glared at Magnus. “What? What is it?” 

“We may need to move quicker than originally planned, Sir,” Magnus explained reluctantly. “I came in here because the same ship which is carrying crew members back from Cybertron has... another passenger.”

“What?” Megatron demanded. He gritted his denta and shook his head. “Damn Starscream.” He looked back to Magnus. “Who did he send?”

“This is where we may find a silver lining,” Ultra Magnus attempted to break the news easily. “It is someone who is going to be on Rodimus’ side, and our side if we can appeal to him.” 

Undeterred, Megatron narrowed his optics. “Who did he send, Magnus?”

Venting again, Ultra Magnus answered, “Optimus Prime is inbound for the Lost Light.”

At first, Megatron sat in his seat patiently. Only his tapping finger on the desk gave any testament to the rage building up inside. 

“I may need my office to myself for a moment, Ultra Magnus. Please be the one to greet the Prime upon his arrival,” Megatron said formally. 

Already on his way out, Ultra Magnus did not bother to look back even at the sound of a fist going through a metal table. “It will be my pleasure, Captain.”

"Rattrap, I need to know where these cultists are in my city.”

Lord Starscream had not needed to speak twice for Rattrap to know what his role was -- what his usual role was. He was, after all, the rat in every wall throughout Metroplex. He had his optics and audial receptors set everywhere. 

There were the usuals that Starscream wanted close watch on, knowing the comings and goings. Any of the delegates from the Council of Worlds, and especially Windblade and her ever present bodyguard. 

Citizens of Cybertron in high concern were also Blurr and Ironhide, any of the most outspoken against Starscream’s rule. He especially wanted attention paid to the disgruntled former Decepticons in the slums. Of those he watched, though, Rattrap found the most interest in Blurr’s bar. 

When Rattrap could manage to be one step ahead of Blurr and not be bounced from the establishment, of course. A most difficult thing considering the speedster’s famous quick feet. 

But lately there had been higher priorities that Rattrap found himself concerned with. 

There was Optimus Prime and his crew, the followers of the Primal religion who flocked to him. The former Lost Light crew trying to integrate to the Cybertron they formerly had rejected, and more. 

As a spymaster of sorts, Rattrap was finding his work cut out for him. 

And the cult -- this Error and his followers -- were such a nonentity for the most part that each day passed without so much as a sign breathed about them other than the general fear. 

They were getting dangerously close to Starscream’s plan of rounding up any and all bots with a red and black paintjob becoming a reality. Whispers of it were to the point that every paint shop and body work house in the city were booked for weeks. 

Rattrap needed to find information. Whether he got the credit for it or not, he was one of the pillars keeping their crumbling society from utterly collapsing. 

Then, slowly, it came to Rattrap’s attention that of all his rounds searching the city, he had yet to check the depths -- Metroplex’s underground and the very energon rivers that Starscream himself had tapped into before. 

“Well, if there’s not anything up here, it’s gotta be down there, right?” Rattrap asked himself, heading toward the nearest underground entrance. 

At first, his hunch yielded little. 

The reservoirs of energon, both used and unused, were weak and diluted, which at least made travel somewhat easier. Especially in Rattrap’s beastmode. 

He was nearly ready to give up on the idea entirely when he began to hear hushed tones from one of the less populated, and thus less energon flowing, districts’ pipelines. 

Suspicious, he followed the noise along the pipes, the vibrations riding up his limbs as he walked across the pipes and toward the constant rumble. Until those rumbles became words, low and distant. Then louder.

The closer he came, the more Rattrap was put in mind of an old sermon in the days before the War. Words about the Primes and Primus and things that Rattrap had hardly given consideration then and certainly had grown some skepticism toward these days. 

And he worked for a genuine Chosen One. 

After what felt like hours of travel, Rattrap finally came to where the rumbles became words he could make out, and a soft glow of fire light gave him warning for what was around the corner. 

“Bingo,” he whispered to himself. 

“Primus’ Hand has guided us to this point,” a deep voice, unmistakably the same a the mech who had multiple times at that point taken over on the airways. “His fire has lit the way, and it has showed us his chosen vessel. Fire cleanses this world and all others which owe Primus its domain. And it shall soon judge those who have come forth as false Primes. As nonbelievers. As unworthy. And it will be with your assistance, with your sacrifices, that Primus’ will shall be done.”

There were cries and screams of desperate jubilation in response. 

“Well, scrap,” Rattrap muttered quietly to himself. “Just my luck. I missed the descriptive part of the meeting and made it in time for preaching to the choir.” 

“And we shall start now,” the voice continued -- deeper, louder. “By lighting a fire to destroy those who would put our work in danger.” 

Rattrap tilted his helm at that just before the light grew brighter from around the corner and then, suddenly, he saw the trickles of energon that were in that corridor begin to spark with an unsettling light.

“Oh, damn!” Rattrap cried out, realizing what was happening and turning to race away just as the sounds of roaring flames began coming his way. 

"Well isn’t this just a rotten way to go!” Rattrap cried out somewhat hysterically as he could feel the flames licking at his tail and back paws. Then there was the tell-tale crackle of the energon reservoirs catching fire. 

Despite imminent death, Rattrap leaped uselessly in an attempt to race ahead of the upcoming explosion. His cries echoed nearly as loud as the boom to follow. 

But before his body burned and his spark extinguished, he turned off his optics. 

It kept him from seeing whoever it was that grabbed him, hard, almost like a collision. It nearly knocked the steam out of him before darting through the air, its coolness rushing over Rattrap’s beastform in comparison to the growing heat they were leaving behind. 

His spark was still skipping pulses as it all came to a stop and he realized that the explosions were a great distance away from wherever he was currently.

“I’m alive,” he said, cycling on his optics as he was gently laid on the ground and allowed to transform back into botmode. “I’m alive! Oh sweet Primus!”

“I told you, this was an interference that was supposed to happen. It was a good thing, calm down, Prime.”

Recognizing the voice immediately, Rattrap turned around to face his savior. “Windblade? But you were at the capital and--” he paused, looking over the jet curiously. Her paintjob was different, and there was something different about the decorations of her faceplate. And there was no other color but black and red. “What the...”

“I still think this is a mistake,” a second mech said, drawing Rattrap’s attention to him. “Even if Rattrap is supposed to be around later... does he have to be? He never made my life any easier after all this. Or yours.”

Rattrap looked at the mech in shock. Like Windblade, the paint was different, even the build was different in little details that amounted more and more the longer Rattrap stared. 

But beyond the black and red and the increased size, there was no mistaking it.

“Rodimus?” Rattrap asked, optics wide. “But you’re in the CR chamber.”

A displeased look grew on the mech’s face and Windblade gave a little vent. 

“And this is where our job is about to get very complicated,” she said toward Rodimus.