#Heavy-duty burlap bags

[charleslee-valentine]

For The Texas Chainsaw Massacre Fan Event Day 2: The Family House

Ship(s): None

Word Count: ~2,800

Warnings: Child abuse, miscarriage mention, spousal abuse, injury, trauma.

@texas-chainsaw-fanworks

_____

5+1 Things- Five times the Sawyer Family wasn’t happy. Plus the one time they were.

#5

Mama’s six months pregnant when she can’t go to work anymore.

It’s not her first baby since Drayton, but this little one will be the first to make it this long. Every night before bed, nine year old Drayton Sawyer kneels at the side of his bed, and prays and prays that his little sibling will be okay. Not that he’d stop getting hit. Not that they’d get more money. Just that that baby will be okay.

The part Drayton really doesn’t like is that they have to move to get mama help. Without working and all, she can’t afford the little place they’ve been staying in, so she decided to take up some space with grandpa.

Once they arrive, any anguish Drayton had, it triples on the spot.

The house is huge. He’s already the one who cleans it all up, Mama’s too busy to do it all. No he’ll be forced to do the impossible task of keeping a giant farm house clean and cared for, all by himself.

He asks her, “Are you sure we hafta stay here?”

But it’s ignored, brushed off. He’s forced to shake hands with his grandpa and run upstairs with all the bags they’d brought.

Might as well do a little exploring.

He hopes he can have the bedroom at the back. It’s empty, save for a desk by the window, but the room is tucked way off in the corner by itself. He’d finally have his own space.

He leaves his bag in there and ventures off to disappointment. The rooms by the bathroom on the other side of the hall are bigger, but he doesn’t want to share a room with Mama no more, she snores too loud when she’s been drinking and passes out.

It doesn’t happen much now that there’s gonna be a baby.

Drayton wonders where baby will go. Maybe downstairs somewhere? But oh how he doesn’t want to go back down there. Drayton wants to curl up and hide somewhere forever. He isn’t ready to be given a work list already, so soon after traveling half the state to get here.

The boy sits on the very top step at the landing, and looks about, noticing cobwebs and dirt just about everywhere, even in the fur of the trophy pelts hanging on the wall. Of course he’ll be the one cleaning that later. He rolls his eyes and sighs as quietly as he can.

From here, looking down at the first floor of the house, he feels like nobody can tell him what to do.

~~~~

#4

Daddy’s back.

He wants rights to his daughter, little Sissy Sunshine they call her.

Hair the color of angel dust and sunflowers. Not like Drayton’s ugly, dark features according to Mama.

Drayton takes the baby outside when he can, or off to another room to play with blocks or something. So long as he lives, daddy ain’t coming nowhere close to the one and a half year old girl.

He puts a little teeny sunhat on her and carries her with him, in a hand fashioned carrier for the girl. It’s just a burlap sack with a string woven through and an old bag strap sewn on, but it works better than letting her roam while he works outside. She has to stay away when it comes to the heavy duty stuff, she can stay in her little bouncer toy then, but today’s just poking around in the front garden and trying to get the bushes and flowers to cooperate.

A little smudge of dirt on her pretty pale cheek won’t hurt nothing. ‘Sides, she’ll be helping Drayton run this place one day. Not like the adults around are goin’ to do a damn thing.

Baby Sissy stares up at him and smiles with her tiny, gappy teeth. He focuses intently on burying the roots of the gardenias and acts like he doesn’t notice.

Until. The sound of glass shattering in the house. Profane screaming. Anguish and hatred pouring out every gap in the house, under doors and through windows and boiling out of the chimney.

Who coulda guessed that the man that pointed a gun to mama’s head ain’t the right choice to open her legs for again. Drayton hates them both.

Sometimes he wishes they’d just kill each other and get it over with.

The baby starts to sniffle like she can read those thoughts. Like she knows Drayton is every bit the monster the scary grown ups are. He feels guilty.

Grimacing, he wrenches out of the firepoke gloves he was pretending were for gardening, tossing them aside and cradling the back of her fragile blonde head.

“Hush, now. Just.. Just quiet on down.”

He’s just barely a teenager. How the hell is he supposed to know how to calm a crying baby? It doesn’t work and she starts hollering her little head off.

Drayton glares at the front door of the house, waiting for it to open. He knows they can hear the baby crying. He knows they won’t come and help. He holds her a little tighter, feeling every wail and hiccup and sob that tears through the baby’s tiny body.

“Come on, little one. Gotta.. Just calm down.”

~~~~~

#3

The babies keep coming. Different guy this time, different promises. Only consistent is that Drayton’s the one shouldering all the weight.

There’s two of them, tiny and sick little things. Right now, they’re going through a phase of colic, crying and crying and got-damn crying non-stop.

Drayton swears the hairs at his temples are going gray. Might not be all that unrealistic at twenty something.

He’s trying to act his age, meet someone at a bar, settle down, forget babysitting for his low life mother. But that’s never gonna happen.

Sissy’s only about eleven now and not nearly mature enough to deal with giving the twin boys their breathing treatments and shots and changing diapers and blending up the solid foods they should be eating by now.

On the plus side, Drayton’s becomin’ a fine cook, providing for his siblings, but that’s not his place now is it?

Mama and grandpa preach the same story, gotta marry young and provide for the woman, so she’ll provide to the family name. To hell with that.

Got no interest in it. Why should he want brats of his own with three siblings running around now?

The farm work don’t magically disappear either. Mama don’t lift a finger, grandpas halfway to death's door, and sissy’s afraid of the machinery. Same old story.

One baby on his front, the other on his back, both of ‘em crying their eyes out. No sense in wasting the breath on trying to calm them. Might save his hearing, if it worked, but it doesn’t, so he ignores it. Grits his teeth and hauls ass to get the crop planted in time.

Hell it’s not like he’s ‘bout to let these kids starve just ‘cause this ain’t the life he wants. Even he’s not that cruel.

Has he considered running off and letting them deal with it? Of course he damn has.

Has he decided he’ll step up and make sure they’re at least living comfortable, if not well? Regrettably, yes.

Does that patience get tested even more when the baby on his front- little Nubbins he calls him since he’s so tiny and mama can’t be bothered to call them anything- hiccups from all the crying and spits up right on his shirt? Well, that would be another yes.

~~~~~

#2

Mama dies when the fifth baby is born. Grandpa’s been dead for two years by then.

She never knew who this baby’s daddy was, to leave somebody for Drayton to beg for help.

So they’re all alone.

Everyone his age is settled by now, yet here he is. Bottle-feeding the little shit that never even got a proper name. Watching the boys and their almost grown sister playing around. Like a hawk.

It’s not a gentle gaze. He’s angry today. Waiting for one of them to slip up so he can take it out on them.

They know it too. Robert tugs on Sissy’s sleeve and asks her a question, whispered in her ear. He thinks he’d get in trouble if Drayton heard his stutter out loud. The way things are going, he just might.

The baby had a cleft in his lip. It’s stitched up now, but he won’t ever just feed even with the bottle right in front of him. This shit was easier with the twins just eating through tubes in their bellies.

The glass and thus the milk has gone cold by now, not warm like it should be, but he can’t be assed to fix it. If only shouting at a five month old worked half as well as it did on the boys. He’d shake the baby and scream at him, “Just eat what you’re given goddamit! Little brat, suck it up!”

Well then he’d sound like Grandpa.

Maybe he already does.

Drayton closes his eyes and forgets about the conspiring between the two siblings in the yard. Almost, almost gets a goddamn moment of peace while the baby at least tries to get his deformed and scarred little lips around the bottle, but that never lasts.

Sissy interrupts. “Can I see the baby?”

Drayton doesn’t even open his eyes to look at her. “No. He’s eatin’.”

“Mhm. Sure.” How he’d love to slap that attitude off her face. It’s just dripping from her tone. He can just imagine her hands on her hips, a puckered expression on her impatient face.

His fingers twitch. He suppresses that for the sake of not dropping the infant in his arms. Yeah. That’s the reason.

“Go bother the boys.”

“It’s the boys wanna see him.”

He scoffs. Shakes his head. “Hell no. He ain’t their doll.”

Sunshine’s glow seems to be covered by angry clouds today, her tone the exact opposite of her name, “They wanna name ‘im, Drayton. Is it a crime now that they actually love their brother?”

Something funny clutches at his heart. Something like guilt maybe. Sissy’s already storming off but he stops her. Puts the still full bottle down and raises the little baby up.

“Here. I’m tired of this anyway.”

~~~~~

#1

The letter come in November of 1971.

They were drafting Robert. His birthday’d been drawn out of a lottery. He was among the first few groups of the year. Some grand prize.

The boy’d cried harder when they had to shave his head than the day he finally left. The same couldn’t be said for his brothers.

Drayton stayed stiff but the younger two.. Well, not even their sister leaving a few years before could've prepared them for the idea of war. Of their Bobby being shot at.

It’s Draytons fault. None of them should’ve qualified. That damned idiot can’t even spell his own name, can’t reason like the grown adult he’s s’pose’n to be.

Too much pressuring them to act right. To act normal. He’d faked it til he made it, except this wasn’t no academic test they give him. It was a competency test, and now he’d be gone. For a year at least.

The house is quiet.

Bubba hides from the world, the scary world he thinks is gonna eat up his brother. Spends all day in his room with the lights off. Tinkering with what he’s got

Nubbins is the opposite. He wanders outside. Too far past the property line. Gets in random cars. Asks if they could take him straight to his brother and gets mad when they don’t. Can’t.

Drayton would keep him on a tighter leash if he wasn’t working his days away at the station. The checks from the boys’ ailments started running thin. Mama's life insurance run out long ago, never making a dent in the debt she left. He had no choice to but to work.

Everything’s broken. Wrong.

Family come first. It always had. Never got to spend a day of his adult life doing anything other than taking care of those brothers of his.

And yet.

Now that he doesn’t have to-

Now that Robert is gone-

Drayton hurts. Mourns. Regrets. Wishes things might’ve been different.

He wishes the kids didn’t hate him. Taste of his own medicine, maybe. The bastard raised them spiteful. Should’ve known it’d be like this.

They don’t even look at him most days. Just float around the same house. The one of their childhood.

The one that was supposed to keep them safe.

~~~~~

+1

It takes Bobby getting injured.

How pathetic that the only thing that could bond the family is more suffering?

Somehow it works.

Maybe it’s having to clean up the bloody messes of his bandages when his stitches split. Or having to help him navigate the house without being able to see it.

The head wound cut out his vision, like a light switch he described it. He’d thought it was blood in his eyes, but the lights never quite turned back on.

So it’s up to the rest of them to be his eyes.

In some ways, to be his protectors again.

Nubbins is always flying up to help him if he needs so much as a sip of water. But sometimes Nubbins can’t be there. Sometimes he’s out of commission with his own troubles, and god knows Bubba’s too afraid to touch Bobby ever since he got hurt. Scared he might break him.

That leaves one.

When Bobby gets stranded up the stairs one day, he calls for him. “C-Cook. Cooooook. Y-You gonna help me o-or what?”

“Or what.” Drayton grumbles in response.

“A-As if.” Bobby laughs at first, a wheezy, nasally thing, but then a dead serious look crosses on his face, turning into a bitter scowl, a hint of fear, “Y-You’re not really gonna-“

“Hell no.”

Drayton heaves his old ass up there to help Bobby down, guiding him to the railing and giving him one arm to steady. It’s clumsy, two grown men don’t fit side by side on these steps, but they get him to the ground so it works fine enough.

Robert blindly reaches for his brother, patting him across the face appreciatively. It would piss Drayton off if the boy could help it. A wound as bad as he got, there’s not much feeling in them hands anymore either. They say you lose your eyes and get guided by touch, but he don’t got much of that either. Like he’s lost.

Drayton’ll accept the gesture for what it was meant to be.

Nubbins saw. His skinny ass was hiding behind the doorframe of the sitting room

“Come here, get your brother boy. ‘Fore I get tired of him.”

The mystery gets Bobby riled up, “Who-Who’s it gonna be? Is it B-Bubba?”

His head darts back and forth, the little bit of hair he’s got growing back so far flying around like mad.

Grabbing him by the frail shoulders, Drayton turns Bobby towards his twin, “No, you nitwit. Listen.”

The sound of their gait is different. Bubba's favorite boots click on the wood floors for one thing, but he’s also much bigger. Boards creak under every movement of that boy. It’s obvious the one approaching now isn’t him. And well.

“Nubbins!! Hi Nubbins!!” Robert greets excitedly.

Nubbins ushers him away into the next room, glaring daggers at Drayton until he can’t see him anymore, “Was he mean?”

“N-No way! H-He got me down!” Bobby points in the direction he thinks the stairs are and makes a clumsy little walking man with his fingers. But of course he can’t stop there. A devilish giggle, “I-I think big brother’s g-goin’ softie on us.”

The anger melts away from Nubbins’ face like an ice cube, replaced with his own bastard smile, “Y-Yeh, he-he even let.. let Bubba put makeup o-on him.”

It’s true. Drayton couldn’t argue with the kid. He was crying his eyes out and tugging at his hair and throwing a whole fit. This was back when they first got Bobby home from the hospital, and he’d been bleeding all over the place still.

Hell, it only seemed right. You get so old, get so tired of being angry, you can’t hold the same grudges. Let the kid play. Though he did cut him off at the lipstick.

Nubbins won’t share that detail though. The thought is enough.

It certainly shocks Robert, who gasps like it’s his first day breathing air, or even like he hadn’t already heard this before, “No!”

“Y-Yeah!” Nubbins nods his head, even though his brother can’t see it.

The two of them laugh like anything’s even funny. Like they did when they were young. Sometimes it seemed like they were functioning on one brain, having conversations nobody else but the walls of this house would ever hear. Maybe they were.

Drayton doesn’t want to imagine what it was like when Robert’s heart give out twice on the surgery table. What was going on in his twin brother's head. It was hell enough on him and Bubba.

Maybe he is easing the iron fist he’s kept on this house. Who can blame him for that?

Let them have their moment.

Drayton grumbles under his breath, but it’s a comment really quite fond, “Little shits.”

[mahira9global]

Keep Your Cargo Safe with Durable Heavy-Duty PP Jumbo Bags

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[shoppingbagss1]

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[biodegradable-jute]

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[ananxiousman]

Prompt: Write about what you aren’t looking at, or cannot see in a given setting.

Not Looking

I am not looking at the bushels of people about me with feet that move in unique fashion, each cadence their own.

Dishes din and ding in the background, the sound of being cleaned, scraped, steamed, poured, ground. I still imagine the sound of their feet. The feet I perceive but do not see directly, as if all other sound fell away like a curtain. I feel their song of life and mood.

Some plodding with the heaviness of another waking day. Some light with the pep of fresh air, pure thoughts and caffeine. Others intentional, paced and in a hurry. Those that feel akin to me, amble aimlessly, yet full of intention, with half-worn heels that tell the tale of how one walks, scuffing and creaking across the wooden slats of a Parisian Style Coffeehouse floor. Mine are perched, half-heels high and knees bent chest-nigh. Toes pedaling and heels clicking, like Dorothy on a paddleboat homeward bound. Between my thoughts I feel shoulders and voices bristling against each other in morning air, slowly heated by the rising sun. Warmed by the idea of running into someone.

I sense the emotion of a man in my peripheral. Awaiting his warm cup of life, his neck cocked like a resting crane, shoulders hunched like a sack of dirty laundry, hands folded like an old newspaper never again to be read. He sounds happy, but he feels defeated. Pressed flat like dough beneath a rolling pin, he feels to me to be hunkered by the protection of passivity. He knows the Baristo by name and greets him with a smiling voice, comments on the weekday, knowing it’s the dutiful worker’s Friday, they share a moment of knowing with each other. No other purpose to it than to say, ‘I see you. I am seen.’ It is a beautiful and selfless scene. One I felt, but I did not see.

I wasn’t looking as another cluster of colors and shapes appeared to replace the man with shoulders that slouched like a half-full burlap sack. These sensations felt familiar, only a stool away - I could feel the bright reflection of sun from their moon-like visage turned to face the broadside of mine.

‘Good morning, Orion’

The voice spoke with a tenor so smooth it exuded the kind of confidence one gets from a plethora of education, the likes of which only extensive travel and dedication to the task of growth may afford. You could hear her wrinkle-smoothing smile through the bite of joy in her pitch. No eyes needed to paint the picture.

My eyes peel from the page like a piece of gum from a passing shoe. Feeling the invitation of warmth and familiarity, I peel-on and take in the sight of a friend.

‘Sherry!’ I greet in exchange

‘So lovely to see you here again, back for your morning cup before work?’

‘Yes’ she affirms with a closed smile, the corners of her eyes uplifted with the joy of meeting a friendly face. ‘I’m here for my ritual breakfast before work, a coffee and galette’

‘Oh how wonderful!’ Never missing a chance for tastefully poor grammar and playfully obtuse rhymes -

‘What kind did you get?’ I probe.

Unfurling a brown paper bag crimped shut with care, she mouses out a delicate raft of puff pastry adorned with berries and other glazed fruits.

‘I believe it’s pear and some other kind of berry. I’m not sure!’ She confided

They appear to be blackberries, fresh from the invasive army of himalayans that adorn the rolling hill and dale of Arcata in all her fruiting glory. They grow among indigenous species, choking them out of water and overcrowding the sun. Blotting out local life and giving tasty, purple stained smiles to some.

Not looking at the droves of cuing feet filing in and out and in again, Sherry and I continue to chat. We exchange small talk and pleasantries, speaking of family heritage and Sherry’s ‘ancestral’ ties to Ferndale. A quaint village of generational occupants some 45 minutes south of where we sit and sip.

Her ‘ancestry’ in the area only dates back about a generation. But they were welcomed like a founding family on account of her father being the town pastor. For $800 a month, he preached salvation and knit-1-pearl-2’d a community together with a doctrine of love and unity.

At 21, the town bar held a celebration of her coming of age. They celebrated more-so over the fact that they didn’t have to kick her out after the first drink any longer. And so, as she tells it, she drank. And drank, and drank. As nearly all newly-legal-year-olds do.

Sometime around then, she’d had all that she’d ever been given and it was all her own. Making $800 a month, same as her father did to support a full family, she decided it was time to give back. To let go of all she had and move on.

This thought brought her to Italy. More specifically to an orphanage that her Mother’s employer had donated to at least once before.

Without a lick of Italian under her belt, or so much as a friendly face in the area, Sherry chose to fill her sails and faithfully relocate.

Her letter requesting employment was adorned with little animals all about the southern border, a whimsical sight to the eyes of an Orphanage Director I’m sure. Whimsy being of no apparent hindrance, she was offered a position to fill about as quickly as she could manage to fill it.

3 years on and she speaks fluent Italian, has children who’s primary language is Italian, and is working for an organization affiliated with the military as a translator.

Fast-forward some few decades and you’ll find the moment we met - the night she chose to join a local Hatchet Throwing Club I happened to be officiating. Some few decades my elder, we became fast friends and have shared little stories here and there.

From it all I gathered the notion she hadn’t a clue of how she’d bring her story to where it is today, or how she’d keep smiling.

Not looking at the Baristo crafting flawless beverages while fending off snide remarks about the ratio of portion-to-price for a mimosa, with a smile that can be heard and not seen, I see the life of Sherry paint across my minds eye - on that ever expanding canvas of void that echoes behind our shuttered lids.

The image is a composite of uncertainty, exploration, self-worth. Of trial and tribulation. The scenery of her illustrious life unfurls like the details of an Italian countryside - wrapped around the shoulders of a once great muse, The Mona Lisa herself.

As if made by a master of pointillism, each memory a point in time combined to paint a greater picture. Close up, each memory has its value.

Step back and that value is expanded to take on new meaning.

Remove oneself further, and you’ll find each individual truth of experience combines to create an even greater image. One memory to the next, combining to add context, create new meaning and take on new shapes.

One cannot see what has not been done, as one cannot feel a victory as yet un-won.

In this realm it is purely imaginary. Caught in the ever changing meta-verse of flux and infinite choices. They are the un-plotted points of the discerning pointillist. Choices abstained from craft the picture as clearly as the points obtained.

Think of life now as a work of poetry

One plays with

Space

And teases Time

A poem

is as much

the structure

as it is

the rhyme

Each word

A choice

Each space

An equal point

Each plays their role

And holds their space in time

Not all doing is to be done

Not all dreams are to be won

For we are finite

In the gaps of our imperfections

Is where the infinite

Abides

[doublegoblin]

Until death.

Down in her lab she was intrigued by the gentle knocks on her heavy oaken door. She shot a glance to her familiar; a bloated thing that oozed with each undulation of its lower segment. With a dutiful gurgle it slithered away. Awaiting its return she washed the viscera from her hands and dried them upon the thick burlap apron that guarded her front from any unfortunate spasms and releases. Her familiar returned empty-handed and motioned for her to follow. Her curiosity further peaked she obliged the detestable creature, being sure to not sully her boots in his maligned bile

The most curious thing awaited her on the other side of that door. A corpse. Standing and swaying with eyes white as pearls. The skin of this cadaver was free of any blemish. She reached out a hand and opened its maw. Tendons snapping and ligaments tearing at her inspection. All teeth perfectly white and uniform. She pushed a hand through the hair that still fell in strands and not clumps. A fine specimen to be sure; but this is not one she had conjured or sewn together. The creature moaned softly and tore at the flesh upon its chest. Peeling away layer after layer of waxy skin and glistening red muscle. Nestled inside the abdomen of this grisly ghoul was a small red bag where the heart had once pumped the life blood through it. With squelching and cracking of bones it reached inside the cavity and held out the bag for her to take. With an eyebrow raised she gingerly accepted the offering. The bag leaving the monsters grip it all at once felt the ravages of time and decayed away to ash. A gentle wind cleaned her doorstep as she closed the door and headed to her study.

Setting down in a leather bound chair she inspected the bag carefully. A golden drawstring held it shut. Pulling upon the rope the bag fell open and she held in her palm two objects. A vial that glowed with some arcane secret and wailed softly as she eyed it. The other a note sealed with corpse wax and an insignia she vaguely recognized. Cracking the seal she read the contents.

“Dearest Olivia,

For too long have I gazed upon this empty parchment searching in vain for the words for which to best describe to you the feelings I have held secret. Time and fortune do not favor the meek so I now call upon a muse to write in passing words that I can hope will capture your radiance if only in fraction. Your beauty is like that of a freshly buried corpse. Your auburn hair more entrancing than that of the most supple muscle. Your emerald eyes have captured my soul Olivia. In your hand will be a small part of that soul Olivia. I dare not sign my name to this letter in fear of tarnishing our friendship. But, if by some chance, you dane to know the foolish writer of this confession you need only break the vial upon the ground and I will be summoned to you in that instant. Please do not think of me any less for keeping my feelings secret nor my identity. If your feelings do not align with mine then I am comforted by the fact that our platonic relationship can stand. Olivia, greatest necromancer of any generation, I await your untimely summon. 

Utterly Enraptured,

Secret Admirer.”

Olivia’s skin flushed and her heart pounded with each word. It was then she recalled the insignia's owner. Pensively her eyes fell on the soul-filled vial. A lump caught in her chest as her mind raced. She too had been afraid. She banished her familiar from the room and locked the door. Clutching the vial she cast it upon the ground as a thick smog filled the room. As it cleared a figure cloaked in purple robes and holding a gnarled scepter stood in the center of the study softly lit by the fireplace. Olivia rushed over and embraced the figure as a gentle laugh escaped the pair. Pushing back the hood Olivia looked deeply into her periwinkle eyes and brushed back a loose strand of midnight black hair. 

“Happy anniversary Olivia.” The robe figure spoke.

“Happy anniversary Beatrice.” She responded as the light of the fire died away “Where did you even find that old thing?”

“Do you want me to explain time magic?”

“Only because it’s a special occasion.”

Beatrice’s eyes lit up and the two spent the rest of the evening in the warm glow of the embers.

[l-sincline]

Cybernetics - Cyberpunk!Sonic AU - Chapter 2

Amy Rose has been working tirelessly at her broken down booth for as long as she can imagine. Ever since Tails left their work to join forces with the revered hero of Mobius, ‘The Blue Blur’, she’s grown lonely and desperate to make her life exciting. A strange customer comes in one day asking her to fix his cyborg arm, what she didn’t know was that he would be the catalyst for a brand new life.

AO3 Tags:

Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Amy Rose/Shadow the Hedgehog, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Amy Rose (Sonic the Hedgehog), Shadow the Hedgehog, Sonic the Hedgehog, Miles “Tails” Prower, Dr. Eggman | Dr. Robotnik, Rouge the Bat, Whisper the Wolf, Cream the Rabbit, Knuckles the Echidna, Badnik (Sonic the Hedgehog), E-123 Omega, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, Angst, Slow Burn, Partners in Crime

AO3 Link

Previous/Next

The night had been spent tossing and turning in bed for Amy, she’d been too focused on trying to think of ways to get around the technology difference in the arm to get much sleep. She doubted she got the recommended hours, but she picked up an energy drink from a battered vending machine- that had cost way too much, by the way, she figured that she’d be better off scavenging for one at the reclaimed food place on the street she worked on- and been on her way. The back alley was pretty sparse save for the other shop and booth keepers walking to and from their work as well as talking to each other, she saw a few people that she assumed to be just normal city dwellers that simply had lived here long enough to know about the alley, but other than that it was mostly empty. When she had finally made it to the backside of her booth and pushed the burlap flaps aside she set her bag down by her stool and cracked open the energy drink, taking a sip out of it before setting it down on her work table. It tasted of warm strawberries, but it still fizzed, so it couldn’t have been in the machine too long. Amy walked over to the front of her booth and pushed the screen up, opening her booth to the busy morning street. Most customers she got in the morning would give her projects they expected to be done when they got off from work in the late evening, but she wouldn’t be taking any of those today due to the arm. She wouldn’t deny fixing a ProjScreen or a radio though- both tended to be simple fixes and easy money. Besides, it might be nice to have a break from the thing that had frustrated her all night. Amy felt slightly refreshed as she sat down at her work desk and took another sip of the drink, her shower last night had returned her rose pink fur to her, and even though it would return to its dusty purple hue by the end of the day, she appreciated it while it lasted. 

Finally, she looked down at the arm and popped the front panel off again with the flathead before moving on to the next parts that seemed the most easy to remove, the black rubber around all the joints. Sure enough, with a little prying the glue away from the metal and some convincing, the rubber was popping away to reveal more black metal hinges and structures, black wires, and Thuluhide veins. She put the rubber aside and leaned in to look closer at the newly exposed wires and structures. In the area where she had removed the panel, the inner structure had also taken some heavy damage from whatever had kicked him, though it didn’t seem to be the source of his problem, it would be best to straighten out the metal and reinforce it. She got to work on it with her screwdriver and occasionally wrench to tear the dented metal reinforcements free so they could be welded back into shape, and after that she moved on to the elbow where she would hopefully find the source of the problem. Sure enough, one wire was completely frayed, and others were pretty obviously weak. Well, there was her solution. Amy sat back in her stool, but was interrupted as her ProjScreen alerted her to an incoming call. She pulled it out of her pocket excitedly to find Tails’ caller image glowing on her screen. She threw it down to the table and watched as the projection of Tails came to life, knowing that hers did too on his end. 

“Hi Tails!” She exclaimed with a smile. 

“Hey Amy- sorry I didn’t answer last night, I hope I’m not too late to help.” He replied excitedly. Her smile became more sheepish in response. 

“You’re just moments too late, I was able to figure it out after a night of semi sleeping on it.” 

“That’s too bad.” He shrugged. 

“It’s really quiet here without you.” She spoke quickly, eager to keep the conversation going. 

“Oh it’s always busy around here, I almost wish I had some peace and quiet.” Tails’ smile faltered as he looked at something off projection confusedly. 

“Is something-“

“I gotta go Amy, duty calls!” He gave her a quick smile as his eyes darted back to the screen. He hung up before she even got the chance to say goodbye. 

Amy slumped forward, leaning her elbows on the table with a sigh. It seemed like everyone was too busy for her nowadays. Running the booth was starting to wear down on her with a lack of social interaction outside of customers who tended to be either rude or untalkative. Recently she had been talking to Whisper, who ran the weapons shop next door, they became acquainted when Amy had asked to use her wall as supports for her cloth roof and for a lamp, and since then they had continued to have small talk, but she wouldn’t call them friends. Amy didn’t remember much about the shopkeeper on the other side, just that it was a bakery owned by a woman much older than her with a daughter, they had only talked the one time to confirm it was okay for Amy to hang her roof and lamp from their walls. With a resigned sigh, she sat back up again and took another sip of her strawberry energy drink before stretching and promptly getting back to work on the arm. 

-

As the sun set on the city to bring another day to its end, Amy had finally finished repainting and sealing the arm panel and was popping it back onto the arm. She’d been interrupted a few times, sometimes turning people away while telling them to come back tomorrow, other times taking a moment to fix whatever knick knack they’d brought her for a fee of around twenty units. The arm had taken the majority of her time as she had needed to learn how it worked while fixing it, and by the end, she felt smarter for it. She’d heated the inner bent metal structure she’d taken out and bent it back in place before reinforcing it with two thin, but strong, pieces of metal on either side of the initial bend. Then she’d repainted it black and sealed the paint so from a distance it looked as if it hadn’t been tampered with at all. The frayed wire she’d completely replaced, though she also painted it black and sealed the paint again to keep the theme. The other wires that had seemed to have weakened got strengthened with some more black rubber around their weakest points, which seemed to be the points at which they bent the most. Then she’d pushed out the dents on the front arm panel, buffed any edges that stuck out, and repainted the entire thing white. As soon as the panel clicked into place Amy sat back to admire her work, tossing his flat head onto the desk, which just barely missed her long empty energy drink can. She looked out the front of the booth to see it had finally grown completely dark, and with any luck the mystery customer would be coming around soon. She’d have a bit more work to do, as she’d discovered that the arm seemed to have been torn from its port, the wires at the top were all broken and snapped. 

A quick rapping of a metal knuckle on her booth’s front table brought her attention back to the real world. There stood her mystery customer, just as hidden by his massive cloak as yesterday, but seemingly less ashamed of letting her see his other arm, as it’s hand poked out from behind the cloak and rested on the table, fist closed. 

“Oh! Come on in and sit down here-“ she hopped up from her stool and brushed it off before heading over to the front of the booth to shut the screen. “-I’ll shut the booth down and then I can connect your arm again in peace.”

He nodded wordlessly and brushed past the booth in the small entry space left between the left side of the booth and the building to step into her work place.  She shut the screen gently and turned to see him looking down at the arm, clearly forming an opinion on her handy work. 

“You did well.” He spoke finally, turning to sit down on the stool with a dramatic ‘fwump’ of his cloak. 

“Thank you.” She smiled slightly, making her way over. “It was quite difficult to figure out, but I got it eventually. I hope it works just as well as you remember it.” Amy reached towards the back of her table and grabbed the mini torch. “I’ll have to solder the wires back together- did you tear the arm off on your own? That must not have felt good.” She asked as she crouched down and got to work. 

“Not really...” 

“So... was it whoever kicked the shit out of your arm then?”

He stiffened. 

“How’d you know about that?”

“The dents on the front forearm panel were a dead giveaway, you come to recognize kick dents when people seem to think kicking something to take their anger out on it won’t break it.” She shrugged as she continued to reconnect the wires. 

“Well... he loosened it. My arm wasn’t working to well after that and eventually I just got fed up with it and took it off myself.” He relaxed a bit, as if he’d been relieved with her answer. 

“How long did you walk around with it loose?” 

“A few months.”

Amy stopped to look up at him incredulously. 

“A few months? You walked around with your arm half broken for a few months?”

“It’s hard to find a trustable mechanic.” He responded as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. She shook her head and got back to work. 

“Why’d you come all the way out to the outer ring then? You clearly had money to drop on some custom arms, why not go to someone with more rep?” 

“Do you really want an honest answer?” 

Amy shrugged and nodded her head yes. 

“It’s because you have no rep.” 

She scrunched her face up as she kept working. What kind of answer was that? It made sense if he was some sort of criminal... which also made a lot more sense with the not showing the face thing... but she pushed it aside. A customer was a customer, and he hadn’t killed her or anything, and no law enforcement had come trampling down her booth, so maybe he was just a thief or something that the government couldn’t care less about. That made sense. Amy stood back up as she finished the last wire, supporting the arm in one hand as she put the mini torch down. She put both hands on the bicep of the arm and gently lifted it to the connection point, quickly pushing the wires into their own pocket so they wouldn’t get in the way of the arm plugging all the way in before finally shoving it into the socket with a click. She stood back as the arm powered on, the red stripes lighting up in a gradient as the Thuluhide began flowing once more. 

“Alright, try it out.” 

Slowly, as if he was testing it out for the first time, he bent it at the elbow before flexing his fingers and curling them into a fist. 

“It’s-“

“Rose!” A sudden, hushed voice came from the back entry way between the burlap flaps. 

“Whisper- what’s up?” Amy dragged her attention away from the arm as he also turned slowly to look at the wolf that had arrived. 

“I wanted to see if you were free to come check out the prototype I finished for you and maybe get some dinner at the reclaimed food place afterwards.” She asked.

Amy thought about it for a moment, getting dinner sounded great, she hadn’t eaten all day and going out with someone sounded great, but at the moment she quite frankly didn’t feel like eating week old reclaimed food that would leave her feeling sick before bed, and her brain was too fried from working on the arm all day to even consider looking at the prototype she’d asked for. 

“I’ll come by and look at the prototype tomorrow morning, maybe we can get lunch instead?” She offered. Whisper shrugged. 

“Sure, I can’t promise the lunch but I’ll check my schedule and tell you tomorrow.” She waved a quick goodbye before backing out the makeshift door. Amy sighed slightly and brought her attention back to the mystery customer. 

“How much?” He asked. 

“Hmm...” she thought for a moment before responding. “One hundred units should do it, minus the twenty from the down payment for course so it’ll come to eighty.” He seemed shocked. 

“Only one hundred? You figured out a different mechanics work, reinforced a major structure and all the wires, repainted any parts you messed with and finished them and connected the arm yourself and you only want one hundred units for it?”

“Well, it’s technically one hundred and forty since you wanted it expedited.” She replied with a shrug. 

“I’ll give you four hundred units.” He offered. She grimaced at the thought of taking so much for something she wouldn’t normally charge that much for. 

“Really... one hundred and forty is fine.”

“Two hundred plus a meal that isn’t week old dumpster food.” He pressed onwards. 

Amy bit her lip as she thought about it. Two hundred wasn’t too much more than her original price, and a meal that wasn’t at least half reclaimed would be nice...

“Fine.” She gave in with a small smile of defeat. 

“Good.” He responded, taking her hand in his and giving her a firm handshake. “Let’s get going then. Won’t be long before every decent place to eat is filled with loud drunk people.” 

Amy nodded as she grabbed her bag and hung it over her shoulder, following him out onto the busy street. With any luck, she hadn’t just made a mistake by letting a mysterious- possibly a criminal- customer buy her dinner. 

[ilovereadingandilovebreathing]

Lights Will Guide You Home (Ch. 1)

Story: AU in which Peter Parker, 16, is a homeless vigilante just trying to do his thing in Queens. Tony Stark is a rich superhero who flies onto the scene. Eventual IronDad will ensue.

A/N: Title from Coldplay’s “Fix You.” Sorry if this AU has been done like 10,000 times and if that song has been used like 15,000. Here’s another.

WARNINGS: Guns, gun violence, robbery, cussing, verbally abusive language

- - - - - - - - - - 

It’s only midnight, but Peter’s already feeling the weight of exhaustion creeping into his bones. He stands on the Queens rooftop looking out over the city; the fading yellow streetlights give him a strange kind of warmth in his stomach, a stark contrast to the burn of hunger that usually lingers there. He sighs and leans his head against the post next to him; he pulls up his red ski mask above his nose and inhales deeply, allowing his eyes to slide closed, allowing his ears to absorb the familiar sounds of the city, unhindered as he just exists for a moment.

For a moment he feels like a normal person. Not a vigilante. Not a homeless teenager. Not a crime fighter. Not even a superhero, if he were to be so bold with such a title. For a moment he is just a human being, and that is all he could ask for after four straight nights packed full of activity. Nobody needs saving. Nobody’s chasing him down. Nobody’s crying, “Spider-Man! Help me!” For once Peter Parker can just exist, and for once that’s enough. It doesn’t feel like he has to earn his existence, like he owes the universe anything for allowing him to live when everything he loves has been stolen away from him.

But the moment doesn’t last. It never does.

Peter opens his eyes, blinking once before pulling his mask over his face. He crouches, carefully moving toward the edge of the building, and quiets his breathing as much as is possible, listening intently for what would follow the sound that he thinks is the tell-tale clicking of a lock-pick's handiwork. 

There it is. The rattle of a doorknob, the shuffle of feet. 

A break-in in his typical territory. These guys are getting bold.

Peter positions himself at the edge of the building, peering over but staying as inconspicuous as possible; they’re just a few buildings over in a store Peter has frequented. Had frequented with his Uncle Ben. Their last visit was a little over a year ago...before-

Peter snaps to attention when he hears the cash register shaking, the intruders trying to break it open with brute force. He can’t see them anymore from this building, so he tiptoes over the back edge and scales the back wall as quickly and quietly as he can. He comes around the left corner and listens, hearing nothing, and he comes out to the side, keeping to the shadows just in case. His tinted swim goggles, red ski mask and fingerless gloves, and blue sweatshirt and sweatpants aren’t exactly stealth material.

He can see the robbers more clearly now; one is carefully extracting something from what must be his back pocket, not paying attention to the other who has pulled a gun and is aiming at the cash register. A boom sounds through the open doorway, muted by the windows, and blinding emergency lights snap on. A screeching alarm blares throughout the shop and leaks out into the street.  

“Are you shitting me?!” A rough voice cuts through the din. “We pick the lock and creep around with no detection, and you just had to-”

“I’m...I’m sorry, Man-...uh, maaan.” The second voice is deeper than the first but timid, and Peter can hear two pairs of lungs breathing: one deep and heavy, the other shallow and short. “I just-You were struggling with the drawer, so I thought-”

“To shoot the fucking thing? With your piece of shit gun? Are you serious? You don’t have a silencer!” The owner of the first voice opens what Peter now sees is a tan bag and begins to shovel in money from the register. 

“Wh-what are you doing?! Shouldn’t we go?”

“We might as well get what we can and scram. The cops’ll take a few minutes anyway.”

“I was-Are you sure you could’ve gotten it open?”

“If can pick a fucking door lock, I sure as hell can pick a damn cash register lock!” 

“I just-I didn’t think-”

“You’re right, you didn’t think!”

“Well, I mean it didn’t seem like his security was that good.”

“This is at least a semi-successful sandwich shop, idiot. Of course he has decent security, especially when you go around shooting shit. Why the hell do you think I’ve been staking the place out for months?”

“I’m-”

“Don’t say you’re sorry. Don’t you fucking dare.” The leader has finished stuffing his burlap sack, and he throws it at the obvious younger of the pair. “I swear to god, if we get caught-”

“What? You’ll pee your pants?” Peter winced. Come on, Parker, are you five? 

“S-Spider-”

“Ah, yes, the Spider-Man.” The leader steps toward Peter with carefully measured steps, eyes gleaming beneath his own black ski mask. “The local superhero, here to save the-” He suddenly tries to bolt out the door, but Peter’s enhanced reflexes are too quick, and he easily stops him with a firm arm to the stomach. 

“You’re not goin’ anywhere. You didn’t even finish your-”

“Stop!” The younger voice is quivering, and Peter turns toward it, absorbing the gun barrel pointed in his direction. “Just-uh, just stand down, Spider-Man. Let us go, and you get to live!”

“My god, you idiot; you don’t announce you’re gonna shoot a guy! You just do it!”

“But that’s unsporting-”

“This isn’t a sport, asscrack! This is life or death, here! Shoot him!”

Peter’s hands are spread, palms facing each of the individuals in turn as he breathes, trying to sort out the best scenario for this situation. The one who has to be a teenager is too far for him to disarm without risking getting shot, and he can’t let the man on the floor get away either- 

“Hands where I can see them.”

Peter glances down, and his blood runs cold. The leader has taken advantage of Peter’s predicament and drawn his own weapon, aiming at Peter’s head with a wicked gleam in his eye.

“You’re surrounded, Spider-Man. No hope of escape.” The man on the floor lets out a rough chuckle just the first pitches of police sirens peel through the air outside.

“Shit. You really kept us going this long, didn’t you? What a sneaky trick, but now-”

“Freeze!-” A plainclosthesman is in the doorway, his gun drawn. “Drop your weapons-”

“NO, YOU DROP YOUR WEAPON, OR SPIDER-MAN GETS IT!” The leader screams from his spot on the floor, shaking his gun in Peter’s direction. “WHERE WILL YOU PIGS BE WITHOUT YOUR SUPER-POWERED DOG TO DO YOUR WORK FOR YOU?”

“PUT IT DOWN, YOU PIECE OF SHIT-”

The cop and the robber go back and forth, spewing insults and threats as the sirens grow louder, but Peter tunes them out, facing the one chance he has left.

“Hey, dude. You don’t want to do this.” Peter inches forward, but freezes when the kid tightens his hold on the gun. “Please. I....I know what it’s like to struggle, okay? I’ve been there.”

“You have no idea what my life is like. Don’t try to relate to me.” The kid grinds out, his jaw quaking to match his shimmering eyes. 

“Okay, you’re right. I don’t know your life. But I know mine.” Peter takes a steadying breath. “I know what it’s like to to be homeless. To pack up with whoever you can to up your chances of survival.” Peter nods his head toward the ground. “I use tape to hold my shoes together.” Peter gestures down to his bare feet. “Well, when I’m wearing shoes. Glad you found something thick that you could sew into it. That’s impressive. Did you know how to sew, or did they teach you?”

“Quit chatting!” The leader interrupts from the floor, eyeing the cop with the gun trained on him. “This isn’t a social gathering! Fly, stupid butterfly!”

The kid suddenly spins on his heel and takes off toward the other side of the store, vaulting over the counter and disappearing into the rooms behind. Peter shakes his head and sighs, turning back to the man sprawled on the floor. 

“What are you laughing at, shithead? We got what we came for.”

“He’s gonna have a hard time navigating back there; Delmar keeps this place fully stocked, so much that it’s like a maze to get through to the back alley.”

“I know that, you idiot; I drew him a map of the place and made him memorize it.”

“A map? But how-”

Another boom sounds, and the masked man drops his gun, screaming in agony as blood pools around and out of the bullet now lodged in his upper arm. 

Peter finally registers that a police vehicle has arrived. The driver enters first, shoving past the plainclothes cop toward the attempted thief. The cop yanks the ski mask off of the man’s head, and Peter holds back a gasp.

He, too, had been watching Delmar’s for a while now, and he really shouldn’t have been surprised to see that it was a recent hire under the mask. Likely in his 40s, the red-headed man is familiar to Peter; Delmar rarely took in people outside of his family, but the man has a soft spot for people who are down on their luck. He must have spun some kind of sob story to get Delmar to take him in.

“Huh, well I’ll be damned.” The plainclothesman speaks up first. “Manny the deli guy.”

The cop pulls the man to his feet and pushes him against the counter to book him, shaking his head as Manny continues to yell and the plainclothesman shakes his head. “Makes a damn good sandwich, too, Sucks ass for Delmar to lose this guy.”

The cops each take an arm and escort Manny to the cop car, somehow chatting casually amidst the animalistic howls emitting from their charge. 

“What about the kid? Did Lenox find him?”

“Nah. Back door’s open, so the kid’s probably long gone with the money.”

“Shit. Hate to have to break it to Delmar.”

“We got it from here, Spider-Man.” An officer Peter hadn’t noticed before, a woman with blonde hair and soft brown eyes was taping off the outside of the shop. “Thanks for your help, as always.”

“Oh, no-” Peter clears his throat. “No problem, ma’am. Happy to do my duty.” 

She nods and sets about her work.

It takes everything Peter has not to jerk toward the shuffling his ears pick up from the back of the store. “Uh-Delmar has a, uh, a cat, so I better make sure he’s okay.”

“Oh, sure.” The lady cop gestures over her shoulder. “Make it quick, though. The other guys have to come in here soon to check the place over.”

“Right, yeah, of course, thanks!” 

Peter hurdles himself over the counter and slips into the back rooms, ears peeled for the scuffle of plastic soles on linoleum. What he hears, instead, is heavy breathing, and he follows the sound to the walk-in refrigerator. Clenching his jaw, Peter carefully opens the door-

“Shit.” The kid is huddled on the ground, arms clinging to the bag desperately with his eyes closed, as if he’s bracing to be shot, too.

Peter puts his hands up in a show of peace. “Don’t shoot and neither will I.”

“You don’t have a gun.”

“It looks like you don’t either.”

The kid scoffs. “Dropped it when I was trying to get through this damn labyrinth of a backroom.” 

Peter looks around quickly, and then slips through the opening and into the freezer, pulling it shut behind him and leaving them in darkness. “Look, the cops are still here scoping out the place. They saw the back door, so they think you’re long gone. They’re about to actually search the place, so you might want to get outta here like yesterday.”

“What the fuck? Why’re you helping me? Aren’t you like the police’s dog or something?”

It’s Peter’s turn to scoff. “No. I work by myself and for myself; they just kind of come with the territory.”

“Still. Why help me?”

“....I know you can hear my voice as much as I can hear yours.” Peter’s tone is soft, imploring. “I was in a spot like you for a little while, but it wasn’t worth it. I got out, and so can you.”

“...How’d you leave?”

“A raid I was thankfully absent for. No one turned me over, amazingly.”

“Pack loyalty.”

“Probably. Probably hoped I’d revive the group, too.”

“Yeah. Anyway, this is a nice pow-wow and all,” Peter can hear the other boy shifting. “But I gotta bounce.” The kid stands and carefully opens the freezer door. 

“They’re all out front.” Peter quickly reassures him. He stares for a second then smiles when he takes in the face of his hiding place buddy. “Hiding in plain sight?”

“Exactly. Ski mask makes you stick out. Especially if you’re a black kid when there’s cops around.” 

Peter nods. “Sorry I can’t return the favor.”

“It’s cool. Vigilante status and all that.” The kid pauses. “Here.” He reaches into the bag and hands Peter a handful of bills, 20s from what Peter can see. 

Peter stares for a moment, and the kid shakes it toward him. 

“Street kids gotta look out for each other, you feel? This was a small bust, anyway. A practice.”

Peter’s heart sinks at the implication but eyes the money, the empty pits of his stomach crying out from weeks of going with tiny portions compared to what he needs to eat.

“I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”

“Spend it all here, and it evens out, right?” The kid quirks a smile. “Don’t over think it.” He shoves the stack into Peter’s lap before looking around one last time and stepping outside of the chilly room. “Take care of yourself, Spider-Man. I’ll see you around.” And he’s gone.

Peter sits for a moment with the money in his lap, his mind spinning as he wrestles with the ethical implications of his actions. He needs to eat. He’s running himself ragged being Spider-Man with so little food to squelch his metabolism.  He used to shelter hop, staying at one place for a bit before switching to another for a decent flow of food, but after a while, he became a familiar, lonely face. They asked too many questions about him, his parents, and why his parents couldn’t ever come with him to stay. This would be his first real meal in weeks. The kid gave him the money, and if he doesn’t eat he can’t be Spider-Man...

Peter sighs, swallowing the guilt knotted in his throat before quickly organizing the bills and sliding them into his sweater for safe keeping.

He goes back through the front of the shop, waving to the cops out front before disappearing as is his M-O.

Peter decides to turn in early that night, thoroughly wiped now, so he carefully creeps up the side of a too familiar brick building. He finally makes it to the uppermost fire escape and pulls down the dufflebag he has stuffed there, removing the chemically produced webs he uses to hide his belongings where no one else can go. 

He really needs to sneak back into the school again soon; his supply is running low. He lives in anticipation of summer when he might be able to get away with making and taking more of the webs to use for fighting and not just storage and survival purposes. He has often daydreamed of what it would be like to use the webs to swing around town, hang upside down, or even make a giant web like real spiders. They would definitely up his superhero status.

Sighing at such fantasies, Peter throws the duffel over his shoulder and hauls himself up to the top of the apartment complex.

“Home sweet home.” Peter mutters under his breath as he crosses the roof for the final jump onto the top of what once was a garden shed. The tenants gave up on a roof garden years ago, so the shed usually sits empty save for cobwebs and gardening equipment long forgotten, a perfect storage place for the items Peter doesn’t want to expose to the rain. The roof of the shed is set at such a small angle that it is nearly flat and therefore not conducive to ridding itself of rainwater, but Peter loves to sleep under the stars, the honks and hums of the city akin to a lullaby, and he has managed to patch critical spots with some moldy tarps, some nails, and a hammer left in the shed. 

Now Peter sets his bag on the wearing shingles and stretches his back, his arms, his shoulders before pulling a warn fleece blanket out of his bag. He spreads the blanket and lays down, pulling off his mask and goggles which he stashes away before conceding to sleep in his Spider-Man costume just once. He’s too tired to change tonight, he decides as he allows himself to drift.

His heart stalls when he hears a low rumbling above his head, and his eyes snap open, searching the sky intently for something he knows he’ll never see. Every once in a while he’ll hear it. It’s never a stormy night, no clouds in the sky, no distant roar of thunder, no smell in the air, but he’ll hear a sound, a low rumbling akin to thunder but not quite the right timbre. Peter has never figured out what it is, but once he swore he saw a dark square floating in the sky on its own, like a ghostly apparition in the shape of a metal panel. 

No such sight appears tonight, but as Peter stares at the sky, his own words drift back to him: hiding in plain sight. Definitely a government conspiracy Ned would believe.

Peter sighs and rolls his eyes before turning onto his side and curling into himself, now fully allowing himself to fall into a well-earned sleep.

- - - - - - - - - - 

Tony Stark sits perched in the cockpit of his plane, gazing down at the city below him with little attachment or interest. 

“You really didn’t have to come with us, Tony.” Happy Hogan speaks up from his seat beside Tony. “I could’ve handled the shipment on my own.”

“Yeah, no thanks.” Tony quips with a scowl, absently fiddling with the Iron Man gauntlet engaged over his right hand. “I spent way too long customizing these arc reactors to have the recipients bitching and calling me as soon as they don’t know how to use them. Might as well go and write everything off as a business expense.”  

“Right, of course.” Happy rolls his eyes and turns his attention back in front of them. “I gotta say, though. I don’t think this plane needs any security from Iron Man himself.”

Tony throws him a look.

“The reflective plates are genius in their simplicity, Tony; no one even knows we’re up here.”

“Of course not, but I know about the plate incident from last year, Hogan.”

“Okay, we flew a little bit too low and bumped one of the panels on the new World Trade Center.”

“Hence why all of my planes are self-flying now.”

It’s Happy’s turn to dish out looks. “No one saw us or reported it. No harm; no foul.”

“Yeah because you left 5 hours late and no one was out to see you flying at 2am.”

“Hey, that delay was your-”

“Is that a kid?” 

“What? Come on, Tony, I know you hate to have your past blunders brought up, but-”

“No, look, down there.” Tony points through the window and down toward a building Happy cannot distinguish.

“Tony, how can you even tell?”

Tony taps on his glasses frames. “Elementary zoom function, My Dear Happy. But, yeah, there’s definitely a kid sleeping on a roof down there.”

“Probably just had a fight with his parents or something.”

“He has a bag next to him.”

Happy scoffed. “Obviously threatened to run away from home and only made it to the roof. I remember someone else pulled shit like that when he was a kid.”

“You have no proof.”

“Rhodey told me.”

“Rhodey wasn’t there. We didn’t meet until college.”

Happy just rolls his eyes again and settles back into his seat. “See anything else with those glasses.”

“Just a bunch of cop sirens.”

“I’m gonna take a nap. Wake me if something interesting happens.”  

“Gee, thanks, Forehead of Security. I feel so safe with you around.”

Happy just snorts, crosses his arms, and closes his eyes.

Tony rests an elbow on the window sill and puts his chin on his palm, languidly watching New York pass below, the lonely little figure soon left behind and forgotten for the moment.

[lessofthelego]

MURKY OF MIRKWOOD

[Part Two: Elven Steel]

“Let’s have these off you, Murky-me-lad!!” says a doughty guard removing the irons: he was back in the Walnut Cellar, his details finally processed. The dwarf gestures rightward to a blind-ended hallway, short and dark stained: “Second door down, get yourself washed; there’s nowhere to run, I’ve got the key… I’ll knock on when we‘re ready for you!”  

So-named ‘Murky’ finds himself in a curiously hot and dim booth with a curtain in front, the waxy tanned fabric feels strangely moist to his fingertips as he pulls it back. Immediately a wall of hot air encompasses him about and bright light blasts through. Beyond this lies a steam-filled bathing area; the sudden illumination shows no sign of any other present therein and at his right-hand side there is revealed a wooden chest nestled in the cubicle. He guesses rightly that the curtain and box are employed to save any clothing from excessive damp; therefore he disrobes and enters in, drawing the screen behind. Having passed through a swirling cloud of hot steam he fully discerns a sunken bath; a chunky square column stands to the left, atop which and set flush rests a wide silver font, almost filled with a brown substance like clotted mud. The mixture looks disgusting but the scent of it intrigues him; almost like the grasslands nigh to the Elven-gate of Greenwood in the days of his infancy. He dips in the tip of his left hand for a closer whiff as memories of his mother sat peaceably in a meadow light his mind’s eye. He undertakes to rub off the sticky matter on the back of his right hand but finds that it thins with friction and the more he wipes the further it spreads up his arm. Reaching toward the bath water to wash it away the immense heat almost scorches him ere he plunges in his arm, he swiftly withdraws. Something happens then that he does not expect… a thing remarkable: the mud balm reacts to the heat and hardens, moreover wherever it makes contact with his skin it feels cool. He forms a fist with his right hand and the brown surface cracks into dusty fissures as his arm muscles and tendons contract. The residue is easily brushed aside and the soft flesh underneath gleams new; but most noteworthy, the reddening and soreness about the top part of his wrist is gone. He hurriedly revisits the clothes chest to retrieve thongs to tie up his long hair and proceeds to coat himself from top to toe in the earthy salve.

Before long Legolas gingerly submerges into the searing pool: the ‘Mad Matted Mudman!’ of fable; and so, he enjoys the most invigorating bath he has taken in a long time, if indeed ever. Alas, it was over all too soon: knock—knock—knock! The bather reluctantly removes from the water to find a rubbery second skin has formed about him. He manages to peel away the coating almost in one piece without any pinching or resistance against his blonde mane, nor even fine body hair; moreover, the gashes on his shin and head have inexplicably healed. He is instantly dry and feeling good as new. knock—knock—knock: “I needs be clad” he shouts in reply.

At the sound of laughter beyond the door, Legolas finds that his garments have been confiscated and replaced by a scratchy dun sack with hastily cut-out holes to fit his arms and head. His annoyance is heightened as he wonders how he did not hear the dwarves engaging in the swap; but there is much about dwarf keys that the elves do not know. Thus, he has no choice but to tie the sack around his waist with the tatty rope provided and meet the captors bedecked as a beggar; whence he is led barefoot to reconvene upstairs at the Hall of Hearing. Upon mounting the first tread he hears tumult above, and by which time they reach the top Legolas witnesses the leading out of hapless Dimroc and Gimroc. The dense hall-door slams behind them, causing the elf to detect a feature he had not before noticed: sunken in the wall on either side of the door frame there are mounted two enormous horns with gilded flutes ever poised to announce themselves.

In-going: the disparity versus wood and stone registers immediately beneath his exposed sole, whereat Legolas motions to revisit his former place of standing. The cubic chamber is disproportionately large, being designed no doubt to daunt any unfortunate respondent summoned there. This room offers scant lighting (unlike other regions in the vast subterranean development) save at the fore where the Heads wait; all seated in a preformed and hastily assembled semicircular bench, behind which is an usher’s pulpit with a granite hoarding beyond concealing the high seat of the absent Lord Dain. At the centre of the wooden crescent sits a round dais of bare brick, hooped at its kerb, serving as a dock. The heavy door stands directly opposite the bench, and dim-lit public galleries fill the side walls. Hence the walk from the stairs to the bench seems rather excessive; especially so when countless sets of accusing eyes monitor every footfall from the shadows. At length he ascends the stony disc as his four escorts surround him at ordinal points marked on the floor. Each dwarf faces the front and dares not crane his neck upward; Legolas however stands at a height where his eyes meets those of his prosecutors. And then… nothing: no pronouncement, no whispers nor grunts, nothing but silence! Legolas wonders greatly at this since his former appointment had been met with much derisive clamour and expectant chatter. Moreover, a draft of cold air concentrates all at once about him; and not knowing prior that of old the Dwarven engineers had contrived adjustable ducts leading to the outside world, he finally guesses at the reason for his abrasive burlap garb.

Another minute passes by in chilly silence. Presently, four bell peels mark the time of day and Legolas realises that one hour exactly has passed since he last stood here.  A deep low chant blends seamlessly with the dying reverb of the final bell; the Heads rise from their seats being closely followed by the sounds of shifting and shuffling as the meeting stands to its feet. The intensity and volume of the chant grows into discernable words uttered in ancient Dwarvish. The unseen cantor stops abruptly and those assembled answer him reverentially; this process continues for two more call-reply cycles, concluding with one last solo intonation. Throughout all this the scholarly prince discerns the words ‘Mahal’ and ‘Durin’; this in itself is remarkable since no outsiders are learned in Dwarric-wisdom. Therefore, having no way of knowing what this means he supposes that the ’fourth of noon’ must be a sacred hour among them, or that this date and time holds some significance on their calendar.

The Head on the far left begins, “Are you ready to furnish this hearing with your true name, Elf?”

“I have given it!”

“Very well,” he sighs, “If we are to continue in this pretence, have the Arraigned registered as ‘Prince Murky’ and be done with it!” The gallery erupts with laughter but the speaker remains unimpressed, “Since you come to us with such an implausible account, ‘Your Highness,’ we must view this question most seriously, the Dispensation charges you with spying and trespass: what say you?”

Legolas answers disbelieving: “Spying, on what grounds?”

“Face the front!” demands the dwarf: The so-called ‘Arraigned’ slowly complies, having already noted the radial iron petals set around his feet. The questioner continues, “I note you do not contest the charge of trespass!”

“On what grounds?” repeats the elf.

“I’d worry more about the penalty than the grounds if I were you, Murky!”

“Please enlighten me!”

“For spying, death by hanging!” he gloats “...and for trespass...” but soon falters as one caught out “Der-death by hard labour!”  

The room gasps: “Since you mean to kill me either way; I am as well to take the harder charge and the swiftest course.” reasons the elf.

“We mean to hear you!” another interjects sternly, “Now, lest we gravely lose our patience, reveal yourself and your purpose!”

“Murky of Mirkwood, trespasser and spy, or Legolas Greenleaf, traveller of what used to be called the ‘Free-lands’: what difference does it make here?”

“We could wring the answers from you!” puts in a third.

“I am sure the dutiful Dimroc and Gimroc would oblige you.”

“How do you know their names?” demands the first.

“I asked them: does that equate to spying in these lands?”

The same dwarf sniffs in retort: “You’re awful sure of yourself… for such a one in your shoes…”

Impassive, Legolas glances down at his bare feet with a slight tilt of the head. The flushed inquisitor barks out unformulated words whilst the others splutter and cough; all of them save one, himself of the two panellists who directly faces Legolas, being sat to the right from the elf‘s viewpoint. He is an immutable and permanent looking fellow, not unlike the plain granite behind him: inscrutable yes, but lucid.

As the muttering subsides, Legolas addresses this one directly: “May I speak?”

“You may!”  

“Sirs, I hold it decorous to compliment your inspired dwelling; especially the bathing facilities, of which I can truly say I have never before benefited from the like. However, it is plain to all that I do not find myself stood before you now clothed as I was one hour prior. Is it reasonable to assume that the joint-board has possession of my garments and belongings; and that they have been duly inspected?”

“It is!”  

“There is much at hand in those effects to substantiate my words and to confirm to you all that you have indeed (to be blunt) bagged a prince.  Would it be adequate then to say that in terms of my answering thus far, in relation to who I am, I have not attempted any deceit?”

“It would:” the dwarf then addresses the reporter, “Revise the name on the register to that formerly specified by the Bidden!”

“Not the Arraigned?” considers Legolas to himself.

“How very clever of you,” sneers the first Head, “You have talked yourself into becoming a hostage of war: Haha, and apt for hard labour after all!”

Legolas answers steadily, “I am not aware that our peoples are at war!”

“Oh really,” he snarls, “Our Warrior Lord and his finest soldiery departed these lands not much more than thrice-a-day’s hence: now, Wood Prince, why was that?”

“Ultimately to succeed Thorin Oakenshield as King under the Mountain, it would seem.”

“Ah yes, our beloved Thorin and the elves…”

The centrally sat dwarf stays him, “Ffodor: enough for now, my friend!” who then fixes his gaze on Legolas: “Why are you so eager to prove who you are; when (war or no) my co-auditor rightly points out your value as a hostage?”

“I am not a liar!” replies Legolas.

“And that is your only reason?”

“Is that not enough?”

“Do not misapprehend the licence of this Dispensation, Prince, nor its willingness to act!” calls out the other Head facing Legolas; who then acknowledges his neighbour already addressing the newly renamed Bidden: “Wãelyn, you know elves are dishonest, never tolerate them the slipper‘s twist!”

“Thank you, Karnaech, I need not remind you that the ‘Branch of Juris’ falls to my family this season; however, I will reassure the Mete again that every measure stands upon the sounding and hearing of all occupants at this form!”

Silence falls momentarily until Wãelyn speaks again to Legolas: “So, you are not a liar, I am sure your mother would be most plea…”

“My mother is dead!”  

“Do not over-speak me!” blasts Wãelyn, “If it pleases the Branch, whom I am, we could set a holder’s-bit about you and proceed in your hearing only…”

Legolas stalls…

“As amusing as we find your florid obsequiousness, the Dispensation is not satisfied with your scrubby responses to direct questions, hence I reiterate: Why the fervour to prove your credentials against the merit of your being our hostage?”

“And speak plainly!!!” demands a heckler from the gallery.

Wãelyn makes to stand up, whereupon no other onlooker dares to coo or jeer in agreement with the last comment. At considered length he resettles: “Indeed, be plain!”  

“I am not accustomed to Dwarric Law and do not understand the intricacies of standing before you as the Bidden or the Arraigned: I could cite myself as the Ambushed, the Assaulted, the Abducted or the Tortured…”

Seven faces snarl at him: but Wãelyn, although calloused to these opening words, remains attentive.  He considers the state of mind of the one stood before him, pondering how given the situation he could remain so at ease.  He thinks to himself, “Does he not realise that I could have him hanged right now without issue or repercussion?” The elf continues…

“However, I stand before you as Legolas, called Greenleaf by his mother after her people, Son of King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm in Greenwood! And in the absence of King Dáin, I concede to the authority of his Dispensation.”

“How very kind of you, Highness!” gloats Karnaech; some others harrumph at this but neither Legolas nor Wãelyn react to the interruption.

“You found me recently departed from Erebor where, after the slaying of Smaug by one of the Lake-towners, a battle had ensued…”

“Aye, no doubt prompted by your king!” adds Ffodor.

“Enough!” demands Wãelyn: Legolas resumes…

“For my part I embarked upon a scouting mission to Gundabad and there witnessed the marshalling of the second host set against Erebor; it being led by one Bolg, son of Azog, whom I later slew in single combat. It was here that the fatal contest took place between Thorin and the Defiler, Azog himself; the king fought val…”

“Wait now,” interjects Wãelyn, “you witnessed this but did not intervene?”  

“I was engaged with Bolg at lower quarters and did not witness their fight; however I aided him with a sword!”

“Can you produce witness to this effect?”

“I am not sure: my comrade and a Halfling traveller were close by but I do not know what they saw.”  

Ffodor laughs, “Haha, you provide a little truth to bear out a big lie! You don’t know what your comrade saw: What then: did you and he have a falling out, are you not talking anymore?”

“She... was immobile at Bolg’s hand and about to be slain ere I befell him.”

“Oh it just gets better,” he sneers, “elf-maids trading their silks for armour.”

“Believe what you will,” answers Legolas.

Wãelyn asks, “What of this Halfling?”

“I know that he was a companion of Gandalf and known to Thorin’s company; I heard him referred to as Mr. Baggins but did not catch his first name!”

“Our people trade with the Shire-folk,” says another, “they’re not fighters nor wizard‘s apprentices,” he sniffs: “Huh, shopkeepers more like!”

“Wait now… Baggins, Baggins… I have heard that name before: Haha, Old ‘Third time pays for all’ Bungo the Broker!” Wãelyn smiles for the first time: “He worked for the Took family as I recall, many years ago, he must be ancient by now; a decent fellow, but I’m inclined to agree: not warrior class!”  

“Even so, Mr. Baggins was there; but not so old I would guess,” says Legolas.

“And yet, there is something more,” adds Wãelyn.

“I cannot add much more about him, save that he attended to Thorin as he died of his wounds: this I saw at Ravenhill some way off!”  

“I notice that throughout you are skirting the issue of your father, the King!”

“What would you know?”

Wãelyn summons the usher to bring him a thin stack of documents: “Perhaps it is time that you should hear what we know!”  He straightens the bottom edges of the papers against the board and clears his throat: “I have here a number of drafts of the ‘Ravens’ sent to our Lord Dáin by the hand of Thorin himself…”  He hands the notes back to the usher, “Wylenhin, read these aloud for the benefit of the Mete!”

Wylenhin takes up his position on a high rostrum directly behind Wãelyn and Karnaech, proceeding to read in a loud and clear deep-brown voice:

Lord Dáin,

Allow me to be the first to inform the Seven Families through you, Esteemed Cousin, that despite your shared reticence I am finally to come into my own. The key to the hidden door of Erebor has come down to me from my father; and now on this our day, Durin’s Day, the King’s Stone shall return to its rightful owner.

 Thorin Oakenshield.

Lord Dáin,

At long last our people are avenged: the worm is evicted and Erebor is ours. Come and see it, Dáin; see the blanket of gold in which we smothered Smaug the Terrible ere he met his end. Bring with you your bards and minstrels and let us compose a new song: ‘The Ballad of the Toy-makers and the Merchants!’

Thorin ii, son of Thráin.

Lord Dáin,

So it begins, the birds descend: the Lake-town lackwits insist on remuneration, I might have aided them had they not so soon enlisted an army of wood-elves to press their claim. The starlight grubbers are upon my doorstep but these I will not entertain; lest of course it is in like manner to which King Prig and his heir forcibly and unjustly entertained my company and I not long since prior: behind bars!

The King under the Mountain.

“Hang him! Axe him! Make him suffer!” demand several onlookers.

“What say you to this!” says Wãelyn to Legolas.

“To which: the hanging, the axing or the suffering?” he answers amid much uproar and general incredulity.

“The Frequentery will hold its peace…” insists Wãelyn; “The Bidden will curb all glibness and I will have his answer!”

“You refer to the letters just read aloud?” clarifies the elf.

“I do!”

“I have naught in those sheets save for a thinly veiled insult…”

“Read between the lines: tell us of your encounters with Thorin!”

“Very well…” begins Legolas. “Thorin and his company had become ensnared in a giant-spider nest and were fighting their way out, when my division first came upon them. They must have strayed from all known pathways to become thus straightened. However, our greater forces purged that colony of monstrous pests which had been…”

Wãelyn interjects, “You say ‘my division’ meaning that you were in command?”

“Correct!”

“Hmm… so this was not a rescue of dwarves but rather a vermin-control exercise where by some strange chance your company and Thorin’s momentarily fought a common foe?”

“Correct!” repeats the elf.

“So the bugs were squashed: Continue!”

Legolas takes pause to consider his response…

Ffodor speaks gravely, “We come to the truth at last, the Bidden is lost for words; no quick witted retort in light of facts that now lead to the inevitable end. We know Thorin and his company were detained with prejudice by the Woodlanders, we have the evidence of the letters; there is also the testimony of he whom it was that gave the very command to…”

“I believe it was upon me to continue…” puts in the elf.

He is overridden, “HE whom it was that gave the very command to seize our beloved king…”

Legolas defies him again, “So this is what is meant by the inevitable end!?”

“OUR BELOVED KING:” insists the dwarf, “Whom it was His Father that had turned his back upon our kin in the gravest hour of need!”

“I am standing trial for my father too?”

Rising suddenly, Wãelyn slaps down on the board with a mighty thud: “You are the one stood before us, and the only other apt to represent his house. You may continue if you wish…”  

“It is true, I apprehended this party of dwarves! In my military capacity I did everything necessary to ensure that  my father’s orders were carried out.”

“And his orders were?”

“To imprison them!”

“And release them when?”

“No such command was given: they escaped!”

“How was that?”  

“They secreted themselves in barrels and floated downriver to Lake-town,” explains Legolas; “With hindsight I surmise that Mr. Baggins assisted in this endeavour since we knew not then of his part in this…”

“The resourceful Mr. Baggins!”

“Quite so…”

Wãelyn sinks back into his chair, blank faced with his hands loosely cradling their opposing elbows: “Hmm… The Mete has not heard any reasons for your prolonged encampment on the borders of these lands: indeed upon this rests the validity of the charges against you! How do you respond?”  

Presently, a brassy note reverbs mightily through the hall by way of the horns beside the entrance. The door creaks slowly open revealing two figures, notable in their differences; the taller clad in grey advances with the aid of a staff, allowing his tiny companion to keep pace as they take the long walk of the accusing eyes.

At length Wãelyn speaks, “Not casually do the Horns of Juris sound during session, Gandalf the Grey; the Branch and this form will hear the cause of it!”

“Indeed, no casual matter at all!” says the wizard who mounts the platform to stand beside Legolas, the hobbit refrains and waits behind: “Much has occurred these last days since the battle; I carry a document of importance, a North-east Accord, if you like...”

“What is that to this hearing?” inquires Wãelyn, gesturing to have it: Wylenhin accommodates him as Gandalf waits.   

“It matters much, Sirs!” says the wizard at length, “Erebor and the Woodland Realm have pacted together with the Lake Town Men to rebuild Dale and renovate the waterways of Esgaroth. This means employment of all kinds for all kindreds; surely wine and ale will flow freely once more…”

The gallery combusts with applause; not even Wãelyn’s glower can stop it, but he remains patient holding up a forefinger to stay his colleagues until the clapping abates: “I tire of speeches in place of answers and I say again, what is that to this hearing?”

“I am sure by now you have verified the seal of the King under the Mountain and noted the signatories in front of you…”

“I have!”

“As you can see this declaration is to be sent to all regional authorities of peoples concerned. Perhaps an adjournment is in order whilst you peruse the document...” suggests the wizard.

“Agreed!” says Wãelyn.

“Perhaps too, my friend here might have his effects returned to him as you deliberate!” adds Gandalf.

The Branch of Juris assents to this amid his fellows’ habitual snippy discontent: “We shall have the truth in this!” he tells them; and to the wizard he says, “I should also like to speak with you separately, that goes for your little friend malingering behind your cloak tails too!”

“Of course!” says Gandalf with a courteous nod.

“But tell me, Gandalf,” asks Wãelyn ere they retire to chambers, “How is it that you came thither in person and did not send a herald, or nary a raven?”

“Some birds fly higher than ravens and can see much more clearly!”

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[kpopfanfictrash]

The 7th Prince (XII)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Pairing: You / GOT7

Rating: PG

Word Count: 4,001

Genre: Royalty!AU

Summary: A land under a curse. Seven mysterious princes. A decision that will make or break the Kingdom. (idea from this post here, by@cyjsgirl)

Continuing on, until reaching a curve in the wall. You slip beyond this. Hurrying down a stone-damp hallway, glancing over your shoulder as you leave. You’ve known your way around Quinque’s castle since the time you could walk. You know the in’s and out’s, know this path will lead past the kitchens. It exits into the gardens – which lead you back to Senary.

Rather than deter you, Jinyoung’s words have given you hope.

Tonight, you find your shadows.

Tonight, you find Mark.

And tonight, he tells you. Everything.

You slip from Quinque, edging the path in the garden so as not to disturb the gravel and stones beneath your feet. The sky is clear, aside from a sprinkling of clouds on the horizon. The light above you is gentle, made softer by the fact that tonight there’s no moon. Your body thrums with the energy of the night, savoring the fervor of magic and darkness around you. 

As you round the corner, you can’t help but recall Jaebum’s revelation – his magic. The Prince of Unum has the same, for lack of a better term, symptoms as Jinyoung. It’s odd, Jaebum, with his magic and Jinyoung with his. What could it mean? Jinyoung with foresight, Jaebum with will, Youngjae with healing. Unable to see a connection, you wonder what else you’re missing.

Tiptoing across the lawn, you move quickly so the guards don’t catch you - breath catching, as you dart along the wall. You clutch the worn and weathered stones with your hands, small frown appearing on your lips. Perhaps you’ve been looking at this all wrong. Perhaps it’s not how Jinyoung, Jaebum and Youngjae are different – but how they’re similar.

All of them are princes, all of them are from the seven Kingdoms. All of them are gifted in magic, two in the same kind. All born after the curse took place, next in line for their thrones. Brow furrowing, you reach a break in the wall; the same one which leads to Senary and hesitating, you glance up the lawn to Quinque. It gleams before you, a hazy jewel in the night. Frown deepening, you consider Bambam and Yugyeom.

Wasn’t it just the other day, Yugyeom spoke of Bambam’s talent? His discernment of truth, understanding of people, the way he gathers information close to him. What if – here, you hesitate, mind leaping. What if it’s not just natural disposition, but something else? Slipping quietly through the hedge, your thoughts being to spin. You’ve heard of a power called Clarity. Only whispers of it, since it’s rare, but it’s said that the user cannot hear lies. More so, they can see to the very truth of the world, the absolute reality of things. They’re said to be incredibly powerful, especially in positions of leadership.

If Bambam had such a gift – but then you stop, shaking your head. It’s impossible. Bambam would know, if he were so inclined. Although – Jaebum didn’t know he held magic. Only Jinyoung knew, and only because his power is most the obvious of them all, the most strong. Even with this though, he denied the occurrences for months. Bambam is younger than Jinyoung, perhaps his power hasn’t begun to manifest yet.

Grasping hold of the idea, you nearly turn around. You almost return to the hill, head back to the party – but then you stop, shaking your head. That can wait. That can wait, because right now Bambam and Yugyeom are concentrated on the Knot. There will be time enough tomorrow to discuss but the one thing you’re certain of tonight, is Mark.

Senary is close to Quinque, near enough to walk and so, moving quickly, you mentally rehearse what your story for if you get caught. You were feeling unwell, left the party because you didn’t want to bother the others. You’re heading to Senary now, with the intention of sleep.

At the stables of Senary you stop though, glancing around the smaller courtyard to duck hastily inside. Here, you stashed a small bundle of cloth, the dress of a serving girl, a cloak and twin, plain slippers. That much you’ve learned from your first encounter with Mark.

Removing the silken gown and gloves from your body, you place these and your tiara in a burlap bag to stick behind a barrel of hay. You’ll come back for those later. Adjusting your hood so it shadows your face, you exit the stable and look up at the sky.

All you have to guide your search is Jinyoung’s words. That night of the ball he had a vision, one of darkness swallowing you whole – and later that night, you met Mark. Mark’s presence hid you from Jinyoung, his shadows cloaked you from Jinyoung’s power and tonight, Jinyoung saw you covered by shadow once more.

Steeling your thoughts, you set down the path towards the village. You have no Jinyoung to guide you, so you move at a much slower pace than before. In this regard, you’ve also learned: keep to the shadows, don’t talk to any merchants. People tend to ignore you for the most part, their gazes slide past, melt into the shadows as you feel a small glimmer of pride.

You’re getting better. Straightening slightly, you consider asking Jaebum for help with future expeditions. He’s grown up in the army, would probably have a pointer or two in terms of deception but then there’d be the awkward question of why. How could you explain the real reason – that you wish to sneak away? You wish to abandon your post, shirk your duty, ignore your responsibility.

All because you wish to see Mark. 

Footsteps slowing, you reach the place the two of you first met. The center of town is surrounded by shingles and drainpipe – tonight, there is no Midnight Market though. There are aren’t many vendors either, no townspeople dancing. You stare out at the brown expanse of stone, and wonder what the hell you’re doing.

You have no future here, with Mark. At the end of this charade – however long that might be – you need to choose a husband. One from a very select group of people and Mark is not one of them. Thinking this causes your stomach to drop, because seeing him is pointless. Even as you know this, you continue to wander. Ducking down a side alley, you wander aimlessly, not sure what you’re even looking for.

The night is dark, streets humid, feeling like summer but also not. The air itself is alive, a lurid warmness as something, someone pulls you on. You tell yourself you need answers, tell yourself that’s why you’ve come. It’s so much more than that, though. You want to see him, feel him, want everything Jaebum spoke of, earlier when he talked about the woman he loved.

Because when he was describing her, when he was describing his Katherine – you kept on picturing Mark. The realization makes you stop, lifting your head to the night. The sky is cool, detached above you. It’s not htat you love Mark. No. But you could – stomach sinking, you know that you could.

“What use is a hood, if you’re going to expose your face entirely.”

Whirling around, you nearly hit the wall when you stumble. “Mark,” you gasp, squinting into the dark.

He’s leaning against the side of the alley, watching you warily; but unable to keep from smiling, when you take a step closer. Your hands reach out for his forearms, fingertips sliding over his own. Mark’s gloves are back, hood shading his head – but his expression seems lighter, looking at you.

“Mark,” you smile – faltering, the moment you remember. You recall the feel of his skin beneath your hands, the second he removed his gloves.

Seeing you gaze, noting your change in expression, Mark stiffens. “I,” he starts, then stops. “How did you find me?”

Frowning, you look up at him dazedly, “How did I find you?”

Mark nods. “I’ve been searching for you since that night,” he confesses, tepid. “I’ve been coming here, roaming the streets to find you. Did you,” he breaks off, suddenly hesitant. “Did you… try and find me?”

His question hangs before you in the air, heavy with uncertainty. It’s darker now. The night sky above is heady, the clouds closer than when you first walked into town. It’s chillier, too, and you find yourself stepping closer. Subconsciously you seek the heat of his body – breath fogging in the air between you.

“What happened that night,” you ask. Letting go of his arms, you stare down at his palms. “What did you do to me?”

“I,” Mark seems frozen, pressed to the wall – as though he’s trying very hard to be part of it. “I wasn’t, it wasn’t –"

“Don’t say it wasn’t you, since I know that it was.”

Mark stops, jaw tensing. “I shouldn’t have come,” he responds, eyes hard. “This was a mistake.”

When he treis to leave, your hand flies out. It surprises even yourself, when you shove him back to the wall. It takes all of your strength to keep him there, moving until you’re within inches of his face. Mark doesn’t seem to notice, hardly expending his effort. 

“No,” you counter, tilting your head. “You shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t have come into my life at all, Mark. Shouldn’t have found me at Bambam’s party, shouldn’t have come to the ball, shouldn’t have danced with me.” Stepping even closer, you shove a finger against his clothed chest. “You did, though,” you declare. “You did, you made me feel this – and now you don’t get to walk away. You don’t get to leave me, don’t get to disappear. Now, you explain what the hell is going on.”

Mark stares at you for a second, then nods. “You’re right,” he admits – which is surprising.

“I know I am,” you nod, taken aback.

Mark looks away, air between you somehow gentler. “What do you want from me?” he asks, uncertain.

“The truth.”

A smile twists his mouth. “What an awful thing to wish for.”

“It’s not a wish,” you explain. “Just an ask.”

Mark thinks for a moment, then nods. “I don’t know where to begin,” he admits, eyes darkening. “There’s so much to say, things I’ve never told anyone. Things I’m not supposed to tell.”

“Well,” you hesitate. “I don’t want to make you break your promises.”

Mark laughs, the sound harsh. “I’ve been broken enough times to warrant such things, I wager. It’s about time I did the breaking.”

When he says this, a shiver trails your spine. Mark’s eyes are hard, expression too close and when you realize you’re still touching his chest, you lower your finger. “The truth,” you remind, softer than before.

Mark swallows. “Well. Why don’t I start with my name?”

“It’s not Mark?” you ask, lifting a brow.

He shrugs, letting this shoulder fall. “Yes and no. The name given to me at birth is Marcus.”

“Marcus,” you consider, turning it over in your mouth. “I like Mark better.”

Mark’s lips twitch. “Me, too.”

As you stare at him, your smile slowly disappears. “Why did your name change?”

Mark swallows. “I didn’t like what it meant,” he responds slowly. “Didn’t like hearing it, didn’t like being reminded who I was.”

“Who is?” you ask. “We’ve been standing here for nearly ten minutes, and I still feel no closer to the truth.”

“I – Y/N, gods. Will you just,” Mark huffs, pushing a hand through his hair. His gloves slide between the blonde strands, falling wild about his face. “I don’t know how to tell you this,” he blurts.

“Well, tell me something,” you demand, whrling around. Stomping in the same direction you came, you seem to forget you were the one who sought him out in the first palce. “Or I’m leaving.”

“My name is Marcus,” Mark calls out from behind.

Legs coming to a halt, you remain facing the street. Thunder rumbles in the distance and between its strikes, you can hear the pad of Mark’s boots walking closer. Leather on cobblestone, a swish of his cape though you don’t turn around to see him.

“My name is Mark,” he explains, still not visible. “I am the Seventh Prince of Morsus, heir to the throne of Septum.”

Though you continue to stand, the world becomes a sudden blank. All around there’s just the clear, cold pulse of night and Mark – who steps around you and meets your gaze.

“Say something,” he begs, shaking words loose from your lips.

“You – what?” 

The idea is... impossible. Wholly unbelievable, he must be lying. Either that, or crazy; or some combination of the two. 

Mark’s eyes, though – his eyes stop you. He seems sad, almost desperate and this, more than anything else, which makes you believe him. Clutching your cloak tighter, you stare Mark in the eyes – and you don’t leave.

“I,” he clears his throat. “I’m the sole Prince of Septum.”

“Septum,” you repeat, barely audible. “That’s impossible. The last Prince of Septum died the night of the curse.”

Mark’s gaze remains haunted. “I didn’t die.”

It’s this – a small, simple sentence – which hardens your resolve. There’s so much anguish behind the words, such contradictory meaning. Yes, Mark is alive. But no, he isn’t because his parents – his parents. With sudden understandng, you realize what this means. Mark’s parents pretended he was dead, have lied to the Kingdoms for all these years.

Pieces shifting, you stare at the risen man before you. “Why,” you whisper, eyes large, “would your parents pretend you’d died?”

Mark doesn’t move, hands twisting over each other. “Because I’m cursed,” he explains, gaze wild. “The witch gave me a curse, along with the Kingdom. She was in love with my father, and he chose another. She became crazy, mad with the pain and grief of it all and when I was born – my birth was the final straw.”

You don’t respond to this, just watch as Mark hastily tears off his glove.

“My mother explained it to me,” Mark mutters, staring down at his hand. “Just once, but I never forgot. She told me I was young, barely more than an infant when the witch came to our castle and threatened my mother. When my father stood between them, siding with his family, the witch sought revenge in response.”

Staring at him now, you don’t interrupt. You sense this  story is hard for him. Pieces of what Mark has said come floating back, and you recall this is the first time he’s confessed this aloud. This is the first time he’s admitted who he is – which means that the way you respond will be very important.

It’s hard. It’s hard to place this man, your mysterious stranger with the dead Prince of Morsus. Because that’s who the seventh Prince of Morsus is to you. A dead man, a future gone by, the one who disappeared and left your Kingdom to chaos.

But to find out he’s alive and not just alive, but he’s Mark. The King and Queen of Septum lied, all this time. Not just to you, not just Senary – they lied to their people. To the other city-states, other royals. They lied to everyone – and for what? A curse? Swallowing your anger, you return Mark’s gaze.

Mark exhales. “She cursed this Kingdom. She wanted to break the rule which forced royalty to marry other royalty.”

“Ah,” you respond, a small noise. “Which is why the curse produces only male heirs.”

“Exactly,” Mark nods. “That is why. That was not the only curse she bestowed, though.”

Thunder claps, a timid stirring in the corridor between you.

“No? What else?” 

Mark stares at his hands, splayed in mid-air. “She cursed me,” he explains flatly. “She gave me power, handed me this weight. ‘A curse,’” he quotes, looking back up. “’A curse, where you’re as hated and despised as I am.’”

You blink back at him, not understanding. “What is that?”

“What she said to me,” Mark admits quietly. “My mother repeated the words to me often enough. I was given magic like the witch’s. Darkness, like hers. The witch gave me this curse, knowing it would hurt my mother – knowing I’d be a blight, each time she looked at me.”

“I,” the words die in your throat, shaking your head. “I don’t believe that for a second.”

“No?” Mark arches a brow. “Which part, exactly?”

“That you’re a blight,” you scoff, suddenly angry. “I don’t believe anyone could feel that way about you.”

Mark’s expression softens. “Thank you. I appreciate the sentiment”

“It’s not just sentiment,” you snap. “What happened is terrible, that witch cursing you is terrible but what’s worse, is that your parents let you think you’re a burden.”

“I.” Mark pauses. “They don’t say that, not exactly. It’s just that the witch’s powers are darkness, are awful – and since I’ve inherited them, so am I. It’s why you’re right, I shouldn’t have come here tonight.”

Rather than be appeased by this, he sets fire to your veins. Anger burns bright in your veins, hot enough to cast aside doubt because here, you know Mark is wrong. He’s so wrong, so blind – the dark is not inherently bad. “What powers did she give you?” you return, fierce in meeting his gaze.

Mark looks up at you, startled – as though amazed you’re still here. “Many,” he shrugs. “Even I’m unsure of them all. I can command the shadows,” Mark tells, crooking a finger. All around, the night seems to waver, shimmering closer as your eyes widen – the dark flows to Mark, as though sensing an equal. “I can destroy it, as well,” he adds softly, closing his fist.

The shadows wrap around a brick for it to disintegrate, turning the stone to nothing but a fine, dark powder. This falls listlessly downwards, drifted away on the breeze. Mark stares as it goes, his expression half-broken.

“I have pain, too,” he finishes, the words barely audible. Pressing two fingertips together, he stares down at his skin. “I can cause pain.”

You remember. You recall that bleak, awful agony the touch of his skin brought. It speared you entirely, left you gasping and helpless. It tried to keep you, tried to drag you under. You remember this struggle, remember only Youngjae’s warmth able to pull you back from the edge.

“Have you tried controlling that?” you respond, also staring at his hands.

Mark tugs back on his glove. “I have.”

“And?” You arch a brow. “Has anything worked?”

Mark stops, fabric half-on while he gives you a look. “If it had,” he waves said hand, “would I be standing here pulling on my gloves, for fear that I’ll hurt you?”

These words make you smile.

Mark notices this and frowns. “Why are you smiling?” he demands, incredulous. “You shouldn’t smile. I just said I’m a liar, that I’m cursed and quite literally cannot touch you. Not without severe pain to you or dying – and here you stand, smiling at me. Stop that!” he demands, when you continue.

Lifting a shoulder, you let this fall to your side. “Yes, well. You also don’t want to hurt me.”

Mark’s jaw drops. “That’s it? That’s all it takes to gain your favor? May I request,” he huffs, taking a step closer, “that you gain some higher standards.”

“In the entire time we’ve known each other,” you muse, as though he hasn’t spoken, “you’ve been nothing but good. Maybe a bit of an ass, but that’s not the same thing as evil, Mark. It’s my opinion,” you start, hesitating. “I think your parents are wrong.”

Mark goes still. “What?”

“Listen,” you exhale. “This is all… very new, to me. I’m trying to understand, but,” you shake your head. “It seems to me that in hiding you, the King and Queen made you think you have something to hide.”

Mark’s gaze flickers, and you know you’ve hit the nail on the head.

When you reach for his hand, he doesn’t move – though his gaze darts lower, widening at the sight. “Why hide who you are?” you ask. “Why hide your powers? Since when does a name make a person?”

“Y/N,” Mark manages to respond. “I hurt you. It was selfish, because I wanted to see you. I wanted that more than I’ve ever wanted anything before in my life– and that was selfish. I shouldn’t have come at all,” he whispers, shaking his head. “I should have saved you from myself, but I didn’t. I saw you and wanted you, and look what happened. I hurt you,” he responds, gaze fierce. “My hands, my power. It was me, all me!”

Looking back, your gaze hardens. “You wanted me?”

“Is that,” Mark breaks off, eyes wide. “Is that all you heard? I tell you I’m cursed – you don’t care. I tell you I hurt you – you don’t care. I tell you my parents literally lock me in the tallest room of the tallest tower – and you don’t care. All you care, is that I want you?”

“Yes,” you return, looking fiercely up. “Because I want you, too, Mark.”

Mark stares back at you, dumbfounded. “You… want me?”

You nod. Only nod, since you’re just now realizing he has yet to respond. Seconds pass – maybe years, honestly – while Mark just looks at you, dark eyes wide and fearful.

“But,” he swallows. “Aren’t you afraid of me, of what I could do?”

“No,” you respond, steadily. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Yes,” he nods, rather timid. His hands reach, shaking where they touch you. “I’m terrified of this.”

“Good,” you whisper, tilting your head upwards. “Perhaps that’s why I’m not, then,” you explain, as his expression softens.

“You want me,” Mark repeats, somewhat incredulous.

“I want you.”

Mark just stares, warm gaze tracing over your skin. His shadows disentangle from the alley, pooling around the skin of his ankles.

“How,” your gaze moves down, distracted. “How did I not notice that before?”

“Oh,” Mark starts, somewhat guiltily and the shadows retract, though not very far. “I can bend the shadows easily. It’s how I move between places, how I sneak into unattainable spaces. I blend into the darkness, become the shadow itself.”

“So,” you frown. “Why is it so hard with your other powers, then? With the pain, with destruction?”

Mark’s expression falters. “I don’t know. With my skin,” he inhales. “It’s kind of hard to experiment with. It’s not something I care to subject others to.”    

A lightbulb dawns. “Youngjae,” you blurt out. Wincing, you remember your promise not to tell but now it’s too late, so you continue. “Youngjae has magic.”

“He what?” Mark seems taken aback. “Of what kind?”

“Healing,” you hasten. “I think. He acted like it was more, though I don’t know the extent.”

Mark pauses. “I see. He’s my opposite.”

“In power,” you respond, “perhaps. In person, I think you’re remarkably similar. He’s a tad louder. Less sarcastic, more kind.”

Mark arches a brow. “Me? Sarcastic?”

“Never,” you tease. “But Youngjae also has a mentor. A tutor, helping him control his magic. Youngjae said it was difficult to harness. That it can’t be harnessed, without practice and training. Mark,” you implore. “What if that’s it? What if this destruction, this pain – it’s just because you can’t control it?”

Mark hesitates, wavering. “It sounds too good to be true.”

“What’s worse,” you challenge, lifting your chin. “Accepting things the way they are out of fear? Or trying to change the way things are and potentially failing?”

Mark doesn’t move, before his hands slide down your arms. Shifting his weight, you feel the warmth of his body. He doesn’t touch you further, though – never more than this.

“Why,” he exhales. “Do you say one thing, and I suddenly feel as though change might be possible.”

“Because I’m incredibly intelligent,” you respond, raising both brows.

Mark smile – a gesture which changes his face. It lightens his features, smooths over his brow. “You,” he whispers, bending until he hovers a half-centimeter from your lips. “I wish I could kiss you.”

You stare up at him, feeling the grasp of his hands on your waist – when did that happen? – and struggling to control your racing heartbeat. You struggle to control your hands, which tremble like butterflies. “I want you to do something for me,” you murmur.

He nods. “Anything.”

“I want you to learn.”

“Anything in particular?” he asks, eyes gleaming. “Or...?”

You blush at the implied tone. “Learn to control your power. Learn to control your magic. After all,” you arch your brow. “I’m supposed to marry a Prince.”

“Interesting, that.”

“I hear,” you stand taller, almost on tip-toes, “there’s a Prince I’ve yet to consider.”

Mark stares back, a hint of a smile to his lips. “Very interesting. I have heard,” he leans, hand finding the wall behind you –

As light, clean and bright, sweeps across the alley.

“Who goes there?” a voice yells. Male – deep.

You whirl, eyes widening – and freeze, when you turn back to the wall. It’s empty. Nothing before you, nothing behind, nothing around. No one else is in the alley. Only the shadows, as the slide away into darkness.

Slowly, you turn to face the palace guards. “It is I,” you sigh, removing your hood. “Y/N, of Morsus.”

The guard’s face whitens, dropping his sword. “Princess?” he gasps.

[Master List]

Author’s Note: Ahh, it’s so good to be back. Thank you loves, for your patience! I hope you enjoyed the update <3 7 FOR 7!

[magspremiums]

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[apocellipse]

   The ship was small, but powerful—the kind that you could kick into high gear out in unregulated quadranture and get close to tenth-lightspeed. Her paint was chipped, her chassis was dented, and her faded title was missing two letters. Now it read P nd Skip er. 

   She was barely more impressive on the inside. The entrance opened into a semicircular recreational space, largely empty and equipped with two wide viewing windows. To their left, at the front—the bow?—of the ship, Chakarvarti could see the cockpit, and to the right, the hallway split into two. 

   “I’ve got the far bed on this side.” Solaris plunked down the suitcase and gestured to the open room just inches down the portside hallway. “Rustov’s got the other. There’s eight other bunks. Take whichever you want.” 

   They shared the silent gaze of two people about to part ways in the deepest part of an uncharted forest. Then, with a small but genuine smile, Solaris turned to the left. Chakarvarti, barely returning the expression, slowly headed to the right. 

   Through the door Solaris had pointed to, Chakarvarti could see a modest bunk, unmade, beneath which sat a smattering of empty hydropacks and a lumpy burlap bag. It did not look like an engineer’s bed. But, then again, it didn’t look much like a pilot’s either. Which of his new shipmates did he know less about? Or were they tied at zero? 

   The room just beyond them, then. It was empty, with a bunk on each side. There were two inset closets with standard-fare locking drawers and just enough room to hang a few suits, coats, and pairs of pants. To his surprise, each bed was equipped with a mattress and two pillows. He had not thought to bring sheets, blankets, or a comforter. 

   Chakarvarti unpacked studiously. The room came with its own shirt hangers, which were welded into the closet for particularly rough flying. He had stayed in ships like this for conferences, usually twice yearly. Now one was his home. 

   The ship rumbled as its engines turned over. Even Chakarvarti, the kind of person that could be politely referred to as a groundie, knew this was not a newer model of vessel. The metal was audibly straining under the heat and pressure of launch preparation. 

   The PA system crackled into life from the ceiling, revealing just the circumstances under which Solaris’ chauffeur’s voice had been honed. 

   “Ready for launch poll. Passengers, please secure loose cargo and be seated. Estimated liftoff in T-minus two-forty seconds.” 

   All action and unruly limbs—he’d always been a little too upwardly disproportionate for grace—Chakarvarti scrambled to place his half-empty suitcases underneath the bedframe, where they wouldn’t slide into unsuspecting residents, and took a seat on the mattress. 

   At this point she’d be doing the launch poll, muttering things about cabin pressure and oxidizer tanks and backup power. Keen curiosity propelled him back to his feet. 

   “T-minus one-eighty seconds,” the PA said, just as he peered into the flight deck. Solaris’ eyes flicked towards him. She was bent over a sheet of paper, along whose side she had scrawled her initials several times. 

   “Technically speaking, you should be seated for launch.” 

   “Oh, please. Please. I’ve always wanted to see a master pilot at work.” 

   “You sound like my wife.” She gestured to the chair next to her own, where a copilot might sit. Giddy, Chakarvarti took the seat. 

   “Rustov is at his shop?” 

   “He usually is.” Rustov was of a contractor than a resident, albeit a thoroughly invested one. “T-minus one-twenty seconds. With all due respect, Doctor, put on your seatbelt.” 

   Ever the dutiful passenger, Chakarvarti pulled the heavy-duty LD harness across his chest. It had three buckles and was exhaustingly complicated, with straps that looped over the shoulders and under the thighs and around the chest to secure its victim snugly enough to restrain all movement, even that which might not disrupt the launch of a large space vessel. 

   “T-minus thirty seconds,” Solaris said into the PA, opening a file cabinet and slipping in the initialed paper. 

   Chakarvarti eyed the microphone. “Is there someone else on board?” 

   “No. It’s standard procedure. T-minus twenty seconds.” 

   Out the window, Chakarvarti could see patrol lights sweep the streetlit parking lot. 

   “Damn,” he said, conversationally. 

   “Don’t worry. She’s silent as a supernova.” Solaris gave the dash a fond pat, leaning into the PA one last time. Her hands were dancing across the controls. “T-minus ten seconds. Ignition sequence starts. Five… four… three… two… one… all engines running. We are clear for launch. Doctor, please lean back in your seat.” 

   There was no need for her to tell him, because the sudden motion upwards jolted Chakarvarti backwards and stuck him there. The ship was silent, if violent in its launch, and Chakarvarti’s eyebrows disappeared into his hair.

   “We have liftoff. The clock has started. VLT is oh-one-five-seven.”

   How was she so matter-of-fact about it? He watched the sky envelop them, no longer sleepy and aching for bed. Behind him languished an uncaring board of trustees and the droll day-to-day grind of academia. In front of him stretched the infinite expanse of outer space. In front of him, though not literally, spun the Andromeda Galaxy. Strapped into his chair in the cramped cockpit of a stolen junkyard ship, Chakarvarti gave his new partner-in-crime the broadest smile he’d managed in years.

   “You need to hurry,” the voice came down the hall.

   “I’m hurrying. I’m hurrying.” Years of teaching had conditioned Dr. Elliot Chakarvarti, even when he was in a rush, to always repeat things at least once. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

   He was currently cramming a months’ worth of ties, scarves, and coats into a suitcase. Two more suitcases loitered against the wall, packed modestly with the bare necessities of clothing and personal items—the latter of which Chakarvarti had very few. 

   The owner of the voice down the hall, Bertha Solaris, studied the apartment in which she was waiting. Books and trinkets everywhere, there were, on shelves and tables, even perched atop the chessboard in the center of the room, and each had their own careful place. She suspected from the pristinely kept house that Chakarvarti was neither accustomed to nor contented with disorganization. Her career, until just ten hours ago, had revolved around coaxing disorganized people onto a ship and launching them unceremoniously into space. It was nice to have a change of pace. 

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