#His body was forced to stop fighting but he hardly needs a husk to throw a punch

[hrokkall]

Did Sisyphus even know it was Gabriel who killed him? Had it been someone else, would he even notice the difference? A soldier is a sword is a weapon is a tool—who cares about memorizing which dog's muzzle is at your throat when it's his masters you're after

[ragequeen94]

heem heem. “I can never seem to get enough of you.” for sasori please and thank you

"I can never seem to get enough of you"

SasorixReader NSFW

Your relationship with Sasori was... odd. For one he was hardly what one could consider human. more... nightmare mannequin. And yet there was still so much life in his eyes, depth, and warmth for you. especially when they were looking up at you from between your legs.

Sasori was a control freak, he liked to play with things and make them move or fall apart. none of this was any news to anyone who had known him for more than a minute. every aspect of his existence was control and manipulation. his fingers; cold, strong, and powerful, tore you apart from the inside.

You had wanted him from the moment you knew him, and apparently so had he. but there were logistical challenges that you had to face, challenged he never even felt burdened with. you had feared your affection would only ever be emotional, that there was no physical desire he could reciprocate. not when there was anything you could do to please him. you had made the mistake of believing him to be sensationless, a numb husk.

he insisted on correcting that.

the man was nothing if not enginuitive, and numb fingers were more dexterous than anything you had experienced from men of flesh and blood. his tounge was rough and left marks on your skin, his stare always unblinking, and grip relentless. he never tired, never needed anything in return, never even asked. for a long while you believed it was because there was nothing you could give him, but one cold night, as you lay sweating and gasping besides him, his body having grown warmer from its constant contact with your skin, he began to whisper to you. he never stopped pampering, playing with you. his favorite toy, his most elegant and beautiful of possessions.

"I can never seem to get enough of you..." he tucked your hair behind your ear. "...you give and give. and I always want more." he was up on his knees, forcing open your legs again. throwing your thighs to the side like scraps, eyes only on his real prize. he loomed over you, sneering down at you, as fear filled you. your skin shivered, and eyes wept, and no amount of weak grasps at his rough skin stopped him, as his hands gripped your thighs and pulled your ass flush with him. and then your torture started all over again. three slender fingers buried themselves deep, thrusting and stretching your cunt, the tips of his fingers easily battering against your deepest walls.

his free hand was poised over you, your arms no longer your own as then moved under his control. your fingers were brought to your clit, the other to your nipple, and Sasori wasn't kind. he liked to watch you helplessly fight against him, as he played with your insides, and forced you to bring yourself to the brink over and over. you were he's plaything. and his interest in your never wavered. you had wanted him, and this is what came with that, this was what having his love was.

[dalekofchaos]

Harbinger and The Illusive Man

Something I think would’ve fixed Mass Effect 3 while also keeping the plot and the dynamic of The Reapers and Cerberus as the main threat is making Harbinger the big bad and The Illusive Man as his puppet or as The Illusive Man could’ve put it his “partner”

My other ME3 metas

ME3 mistakes

ME3 ending fix

I cannot state how much I hate that Harbinger is almost nonexistent in this game. 

The thing that annoyed me most about ME3 is the fact that Harbinger is not the main threat. The Illusive Man is. Harbinger has been built up as the big bad since ME2. "YOU HAVE FAILED. WE WILL FIND ANOTHER WAY." He says as he discards the Collectors. Then his speech to Shepard as the base blows up. "Human, you've changed nothing. Your species has the attention of those infinitely your greater. That which you know as Reapers are your salvation through destruction. You will surrender your potential against the growing void. We return, and you will rise. We are the harbinger of your perfection. We will bring your species into harmony with our own. Your species will be raised to a new existence. We are the beginning, you will be the end. Prepare for our domination. Prepare for our coming." Then in Arrival, he came pretty damn close to unleashing quick subjugation and harvest upon an unprepared galaxy. Upon Shepard foiling his plans. "Shepard. You have become an annoyance. You fight against inevitability. Dust struggling against cosmic winds. This seems a victory to you. A star system sacrificed. But even now, your greatest civilizations are doomed to fall. Your leaders will beg to serve us. Know this as you die in vain: Your time will come. Your species will fall. Prepare yourselves for the Arrival." The perfect final villain right? Unfortunately, Cerberus was more focused on than The Reapers. My problem with Cerberus and no Harbinger is Too many Cerberus, too few Reaper forces in plot. We fight Cerberus more often than the reapers. Hardly any boss fight and the one with Reaper Destroyer on Rannoch was more an interactive movie than fight. During the Horizon mission in Mass Effect 2, Harbinger was solidified as the Big Bad. It was menacing and ominous, with just the right amount of annoying. It taunted us throughout the game, telling us how insignificant we were, and how our actions were pointless. It was willing to posses drones through the Collector General to fight us personally, and when we killed the host, it tossed them aside. Harbinger even gave the typical “You haven’t seen the last of me!” villain rant. It made any fire fight frustrating, and that made me want to kill it even more; I hated Harbinger. Many games fail to do that. Harbinger was an enemy which I looked forward to defeating. I had the desire to annihilate. In Mass Effect 3, I got a codex entry and a cameo. Harbinger just swoops in at the last second and blows my friends and I to hell(and lets the Normandy save them), then flies off. Personally, I would have loved to hear Harbinger’s menacing monologue, it drove me on. I would have felt a deeper motivation to take the fight back to Earth if it told me how much destruction the Reapers were causing, how many lives were lost. I felt cheated when I got to the final mission, only to suddenly realize it was largely absent from the game. Harbinger has been replaced. Replaced by the Illusive Man and Kai Leng. The former is an old acquaintance, albeit one now controlled by the Reapers. The latter is a space ninja from a terrible book.

I will admit. The Illusive Man is a worthy foe and someone worthy enough to be Harbinger’s Saren. Kai Leng however is a terrible counterpart for Shepard. 

Kai Leng. Sucks. Period. Here is a long in depth version on why he sucks. Even in the novels Leng is a terrible character. He’s a edgelord racist.  He couldn’t even kill Anderson, he almost got taken out by an aging Drell with stage 7 Drell cancer. Oh but he has snarky one liners and he sent that stupid fucking email after Thesia. KAI LENG SUCKS! He is not even interesting. I genuinely fucking sighed when he was introduced. When he killed Thane, all I could think of was “really?”. When he sent that little email I just rolled my eyes. When I saw him at the temple all I could think of was “not you again”. When he “beat” me on Thessia(I would have unloaded my N7 Typhoon and sent his whiny ass into oblivion, but game mechanics said I couldn’t) I just felt angry that such a stupid character ever made it past the writing board. Oh and BULLSHIT. Thane and Kirrahe would have killed Kai Leng. Even near his death bed, Thane could still kill Kai Leng. Kirrahe is a hardened veteran, he is AN STG MAJOR! Kirrahe would have killed Kai Leng in a blink of a fucking eye.  Here is my take on Kai Leng. He should have been killed on Priority:Citadel. If you do not save Kirrahe or don’t talk to Thane. Shepard should kill Kai Leng. If you saved Kirrahe but don’t talk to Thane. Kirrahe comes out of cloak and bombards Leng with Scorpion rounds and Leng blows up. If you talked to Thane, Thane would blow Kai Leng’s head off. The only reason why Leng is presented as a threat is cutscene logic and bad one liners. 

But back to The Illusive Man and Harbinger

To make Harbinger work as the big bad, we need to have Harbinger constantly “ASSUME DIRECT CONTROL” 

Near the end of the first mission, before Shepard contacts the Normandy, we would see Harbinger’s hologram appear like it did in Arrival. Harbinger taunting Shepard. that the harvest begins. 

Instead of suggesting Control, The Illusive Man is basically saying The Reapers can uplift Humanity and ascend them and dominate the other races. With Harbinger’s help, Humanity will be the ultimate force in the galaxy

Everytime we fight Reaper forces, Harbinger is there to “ASSUME DIRECT CONTROL”

Kai Leng dies on The failed coup on the Citadel. The Illusive Man does not care as he is close to finding The Catalyst 

On Rannoch, instead of a Destroyer Reaper talking to Shepard, Harbinger’s hologram will appear. Harbinger will continue to taunt Shepard, but Shepard shows that everyone is coming together to end the Reapers once and for all. Harbinger would not say that the Reapers are needed to keep synthetics from killing organics. He would say The Reapers are there to ascend and are your salvation through destruction. Harbinger’s end quotes from ME2 is basically the premise of The Reapers end goals. That's all it needed to be.

On Thesia, The Illusive Man will explain to Shepard that Harbinger chose him. After The First Contact War, TIM found a Reaper artifact. In that artifact, he was contacted by Harbinger. He lost his human vision, but awakened to the truth and because of Harbinger’s guidance, he founded Cerberus. Strength for Cerberus is strength for humanity. TIM believes he and Harbinger together they could uplift and empower humanity over the lesser races. The Illusive Man is to Harbinger, as what Saren was for Soverign. He will then tell Shepard, he plans on using the Crucible to finish what the Collectors started. Completing the Human Reaper. Then TIM sends a group of Phantoms, Nemesis and Cerberus Dragons to face Shepard in place of Leng. Thesia falls. 

Sanctuary is used to create Husks and harvest humans to help create the Human Reaper

At Cerberus Headquarters, TIM says Harbinger knew more about the Citadel than Soverign. There is more than one Conduit and he found it. Vendetta will reveal that the Citadel was moved by Harbinger and taken it to Earth to complete the harvest

The confrontation between Shepard, Anderson and TIM happens but we know how TIM is on the Citadel and if you read my ending fix, you will know that Anderson would’ve went to the beam with Shepard and they are transported to the same place

Shepard will ask “Why didn’t Harbinger kill me?” “Because, we need you to understand and we need you to believe”

Same confrontation ends with either Shepard shooting TIM dead or TIM killing himself after Shepard uses paragon or renegade to reveal that Harbinger used him all his life

After Anderson passes. Harbinger “Assumes Control” over TIM’s dead body. Harbinger will explain the purpose of the Harvests. The explanation is the original ending of Dark energy. The Reapers as a whole were ‘nations’ of people who had fused together in the most horrific way possible to help find a way to stop the spread of the Dark Energy. The real reason for the Human Reaper was supposed to be the Reapers saving throw because they had run out of time. Humanity in Mass Effect is supposedly unique because of its genetic diversity and represented the universe’s best chance at stopping Dark Energy’s spread. We have a choice either Sacrifice humanity, allowing them to be horrifically processed in hopes that the end result will justify the means or use The Crucible to destroy The Reapers and find a way to stop the dark energy from spreading and it shows it is hopeful with a united galaxy. However, if we choose destroy, Harbinger will attempt to stop Shepard. A Reaperfied TIM appears and Shepard fights him, while The Normandy fights Harbinger. If we choose sacrifice humanity, Shepard will be the final catalyst to completing the Human Reaper.  But obviously no one will choose that choice as the entire point of the trilogy is to destroy The Reapers. So we get a hopeful ending. The united galaxy will work together to stop the spread of dark energy, as Hackett said “If we can put aside our grievances long enough to stop The Reapers, imagine what we can do together” 

There, I came up with a way to have the best of both worlds. Harbinger and The Illusive Man as the big bads. 

I also made The Reapers motivation to actually work. They are there to control the chaos. The harvests end with a creation of The Reaper and The Reapers are the pinnacle of evolution Harbinger’s speech at the end of ME2 was enough for a motivation. The Reapers are our salvation from the coming void. They want to ascend humanity to perfection. That makes complete sense and makes more sense than destroying everyone to save everyone????? WHo fucking wrote this Starchild garbage???

The point is, The Reapers and The Illusive Man could’ve worked as the big bads collectively together. 

[eat0crow]

So, Sasori is his soulmate?

Huh, Deidara didn't think his karma was that bad. But, he really must have pissed Fate off if it took dying, being resurrected against his will, and forced to fight along side Kohona, to realize, he's been partnered with his soulmate for years.

~~~

My gift for @paigyloli, as part of the @akatsuki-gift-exchange gift exchange.

(I didn't know your AO3 handle, feel free to shoot me a message so I can gift this to you.)

I hope you like! I took your prompts 'anything with Sasori' and 'something like red string of fate, or soulmate', and welp, here we are. Sorry, it's a bit late!!!

Jump Ship

Deidara really, really hates the Edo Tensei.

Because Deidara had died, he had lived, and died, exactly how he always wanted to. Existing in a single moment, more beautiful than anything this mockery of life could create. Sure, it might be marginally better, now that he’s free of Tobi-Madara-Obito-whatever’s control, but it still sucks.

Tobi stole his death from him, his most beautiful creation. His masterpiece. He stole it, and forced Deidara into a cold, unfeeling, empty bastardization of everything he believes in.

Deidara really hates Tobi. Sure, he hadn’t liked him much before, but now? Now, there aren’t words to describe just how much Deidara wants to murder him. Even if the thought of allying with Konoha shinobi kills him, he’ll do it. He’ll do anything to increase his chances of going toe to toe with the masked bastard. Deidara wants to make him beg for death.

Sasori is his partner again. It’s not a surprising development. Most of the former Akatsuki—the ones who switched sides—had been kept together. Naruto might be convinced there’s good in them, but that doesn’t mean there’s any trust between the Allied Shinobi Forces and Naruto’s group of undead missing nins. Deidara thinks it’s funny, in some weird, twisted way, that even in death, he’s still stuck with Sasori.

They work well together, years of relying on each other, and only each other, pay off. They could be soulmates, well, assuming Deidara had ever seen his mark reflected across Sasori’s chest. The delicate interweaving lattice, intersected with small shapes that could have been scorpions for all Deidara knew, had never been anywhere on Sasori’s vessel. Deidara knows, he’s seen Sasori naked enough times.

At thirteen Deidara had torn the mark open, cutting into his chest without a second thought, creating his most beautiful work of art. It was only fitting for him, after all, to tear apart the one thing on his body that never changed.

It made coming into his new vessel a shock, because, while his jutsu is gone, his soulmark lays flat over his heart. Deidara guesses that makes sense, in some bizarre, twisted way. He’s a soul inhabiting a paper husk, Sasori hadn’t come back as a puppet. Instead, he came back as the shadow of flesh and blood he was, before he started experimenting.

~~~

“I hate it here, yeah,” Deidara says, throwing himself down onto the cot in Sasori and his shared tent. His body doesn’t need sleep, it just makes everyone feel better to have the former Akatsuki members cordoned off at night. “Honestly, I don’t know how anyone does it. Hell, I don’t know how I did it, but answering to a Kage is bullshit. I’ll take being a missing nin any day.”

“I hardly find that surprising,” Sasori says, not even bothering to turn around or look up from where he’s bent over his desk. “You’re much too wild to serve under any real authority.”

“Harsh, Danna. I served under Pein just fine.”

“Please, even when Nagato was maintaining the illusion of leadership, it hardly qualified. He demanded tasks of us, yes, but he was more than happy to leave us alone between assignments.”

“Ugh, why do you always have to be right,” Deidara whines. “I can’t even say that if I lived my life over again, I would do things differently, because I'm living my life over again, and I’m dying to desert, yeah.”

“Yeah,” Sasori says sarcastically, turning around to face Deidara with one brow lifted. “I commanded a network of spies, I can tell when someone won’t submit to orders. You’re one of the few shinobi who truly has no master.”

Deidara feels his mouth dry up the second Sasori turns to look him fully, it’s the first time he’s seen him shirtless since they’ve come back. It hasn’t come up, and Deidara can’t be more thankful that this moment happened in private. He wouldn’t have been able to handle an audience. He’s not sure he’ll even be able to handle it now when it’s just the two of them. Because, standing out against the stark, white of Sasori’s skin is his mark, mirrored perfectly back to him.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Deidara forces himself to ask, “How long have you had that mark for?” It may seem stupid, but Deidara has been partners with Sasori for years, and he’s never seen it before.

Sasori looks puzzled for a moment, before following Deidara’s line of sight to his chest. “You mean my soulmark?”

“No, I mean your kidney scar. Of course, I mean your soulmark, you fucking idiot!” Deidara says fervently, carefully keeping his voice lowered to avoid drawing an unwanted audience.

“Forever, I suppose.” There’s a pause, before Sasori continues, “I forgot about it.”

“How can you forget about a soulmark?” There’s a lot of thinly, veiled anger in his voice, Deidara might not have poured much faith into the system, but it still burned to hear that he could be discarded without a second thought.

“I didn’t feel the need to include it into my puppet’s body,” Sasori says, carefully neutral. “It was an unnecessary reminder of the humanity I wanted to leave behind. It hasn’t been a part of me in almost twenty years, and even before then, my soulmate hadn’t been born when I transferred vessels.”

“Oh.” Deidara hasn’t thought about their age difference in—ever. Maybe at first, he did, but Sasori’s stuck in a sixteen-year-old’s body, it’s unspeakably easy for Deidara to forget that Sasori had stopped aging the year he was born.

Things make a lot of sense now, Deidara’s always felt a form of stasis from his mark, it’s not the cold, empty feeling of a severed bond, it’s perfectly numb, the one thing in both of Deidara’s lives that’s unchanging.

“It’s hardly of consequence,” Sasori says, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice. “I can’t feel anything from them, the connection is numb, and I don’t understand it. They’re not dead, the bond isn’t empty, and they’re alive now. I can tell, but everything is static. I hate it.”

“I thought true art was enduring, yeah. You know, something that stays perfectly the same forever,” Deidara says cheekily. He’s being a bit of a bastard, but Sasori deserves a taste of what Deidara has had to live with for nineteen years.

“This isn’t art, this is annoying,” Sasori bites back. “If anything, this is proof of the Edo Tensei’s inferiority.”

“You’re missing the obvious, my man,” Deidara says, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He picks at the scratchy fabric of the blanket. It’s not easy to say, despite having years to have crafted the conversation in his head. “Clearly, your soulmate’s jumped ship and gotten himself another vessel. Hey, maybe he decided to follow in your footsteps, and get a nice puppet one, yeah. That would be cool. Karma, you know?”

Sasori scowls, it's cute now that Deidara can see his brow pinch. His puppet was never great at facial expressions. They always fell flat, the wood refusing to move much past it’s carefully neutral, resting face. Deidara gets up, kicking a discarded pile of puppet parts aside, Sasori’s frown deepens at the action, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Listen,” Deidara starts, tugging off his cloak, and throwing it down. It lands somewhere next to a pile of rejected legs. He’ll have Sasori get it for him later, he might not be able to be poisoned anymore, but his touch is nowhere near gentle enough for the puppets. “You can’t make a big deal out of this. It doesn’t change anything, okay?”

“I’ve seen your mark Deidara,” Sasori says, turning his head away in dismissal. He reaches down, grabbing the third Kazekage’s puppet, turning its glassy, unseeing eyes on him.

There’s history there, Deidara doesn’t want to get into it. Especially now, when he can see the small wistful expression that crosses Sasori’s face as he handles the puppet. Everyone has their flaws.

“You really haven’t.” Because, Sasori has seen his mark, yes, but he’s only seen the bastardized version of it. The mark looks completely different, now that it's not being held closed by stitches and lacks a mouth. “Like I said, it changes nothing.”

Slowly, with careful, precise movements, Deidara lifts his shirt over his head, letting it fall to the ground.

There’s a moment of dead silence, the tension in the air painfully thick as Sasori takes him in, as he closes the gap between them. Tentatively, Sasori reaches out, and traces over the mark on Deidara’s chest, skimming the edges with feather-light touches. Deidara lets him. He can't feel anything in this body, this vessel, the sentiment is still there though.

“It’s different,” Sasori says.

“It’s a match,” Deidara says back, reaching up to grab Sasori's hand, placing it more firmly against his heart—against where his heart was. “We’re dead, that’s why it feels numb. Our corpses are decaying, well, yours is. Mine’s disintegrated.”

“You felt this.” Sasori pulls back, just a little, enough to meet Deidara’s eyes without straining to look up. “You felt this static for years. No wonder you’re insane.”

“Ouch. That hurt.” Deidara lets Sasori’s hand fall, instead, he brings his own up to run through his hair, it’s a nervous habit. “But, yeah, it sucked ass. I hadn’t thought about it before, but the numbness was probably because your puppet’s body didn’t exactly feel things. Now, it’s probably because these husks are glorified paper mache.”

“Right,” Sasori says, and this time Deidara swears he sounds sad. “That would make sense. As shades, we lack a physical presence to influence the bond. My previous vessel was very much the same.”

“Hmm,” Deidara hums, it doesn’t do either of them any good to focus on the past, all they’ll do is dwell on regrets. “Well, you live and learn. Though, I guess, we’re not exactly living at the moment. We’re just sort of possessing vessels, yeah.”

“Possessing vessels.” Sasori chews on the words, rolling them back and forth across his tongue. His eyes drift down to the pile of parts Deidara had kicked less than five minutes ago.

Deidara sees the gleam in Sasori’s eyes as he reaches down into the pile, and reflexively, takes a step back. The tricky thing about Sasori is, that at first glance, he doesn’t appear dangerous, but then you see the ruthless look of pure, chaotic energy bubbling in his eyes, and you realize, Sasori is as morally bankrupt as they come.

Deidara gulps as Sasori takes a step closer. “Sasori, my man—”

Sasori is undeterred, pausing only minutely to toss Deidara a spare arm. Deidara catches it, if only thanks to years of practice dodging puppet parts. “Do you think you could transfer your kinjutsu into that?”

He weighs the hand, turning it over with a critical eye. “Maybe, if it wasn’t wooden. You might not know this, but explosives don’t exactly play nice with chakra infused timber.”

“Porcelain, then,” Sasori says, moving toward his workbench. “Maybe a non-conductive metal.”

“I’m missing something here,” Deidara proclaims, throwing the arm at the back of Sasori’s head. He doesn’t bother catching it, instead, Sasori lets it rip through him.

“You very rarely aren’t.” Sasori dismisses.

The Third Kazekage loses an arm to Sasori’s hunt. Deidara gets far more satisfaction than he should watching Sasori disassemble the puppet. He’s on a hunt, it’ll be awhile before Deidara can pull him out of whatever project he’s just thought up. Hell, with these new vessels—ones that don’t require even the pseudo rest Sasori’s last one did—it might be weeks before he’ll be able to steal any attention.

“Why must you insult me?” Deidara asks rhetorically. “Can you, at least, fill me in? Before you jump down whatever rabbit hole your brain’s decided on.”

Sasori seems to debate for a moment, but Deidara’s not the only one who knows his partner well. Sasori knows that if he doesn’t tell Deidara something now, he’ll never get any peace later.

“You said you wanted to be a missing nin again.”

[a-goddess-called-infinity]

Chapter 1: Overcharge

Synopsis: Wanda loses the one she loves in order to protect the universe, only for her efforts to be thwarted. Then something unexpected happens.

Words: 1,529

read on AO3 here

this is the first chapter silly - next

-

“Wanda. It's time,” Vision says. Although his voice is naturally monotone, there is a weight on those words. Thanos was advancing on his and Wanda’s position with five of the six infinity stones. Thanos’s final goal is nestled into Vision’s forehead, rippling softly with untold power. Power they cannot allow the titan to possess.

“No,” Wanda she replies, her voice wavering. She didn’t want to destroy the one she loved. There had to be another way.

“They can't stop him, Wanda, but we can,” he insisted as he took her hand, “Look at me. You have the power to destroy the stone.” As discussed, she would destroy it as a last resort to keep Thanos from the stone.

“Don't—”

“You must do it. Wanda, please,” he pleads. Vision gently lifts her hand and presses it upon his face. She forces herself to look at him.

“We. Are. Out of time,” he adds slowly.

She shakes her head, her voice a whisper, “I can't.”

“Yes, you can. You can,” he quietly insists, now pushing away her palm so that it’s hovering above the stone. Its yellow depths still churn, like a sea full of life and energy.

“If he gets the stone, half the universe dies.”

Wanda steps back, grief already gracing upon her face. Sensing her hesitation, Vision continues.

“It's not fair. It shouldn't be you, but it is,” there a pause as she prepares to do what she has to do, “It's all right. You could never hurt me,” he assured. Wanda opens her mouth as if to reply, but nothing comes out. Years of love and grief flood her mind all at once. There’s a familiar ache in her heart, like when her brother died in Sakovia. Only that was sudden, sharp like a knife. This, this is slow and agonizing. The weight of what she has to do and what it means poisons her.

“I just... feel you.”

The pain it causes her is unbearable, but she has to do it. Red energy beams from her shaking hand to the mind stone.

Just behind her, Thanos is gaining on their position. Every avenger that attempts to intervene is easily swatted away like annoying flies. That’s all they were to the titan; entitled pests pointlessly keeping him from bringing them prosperity. Wanda tears her gaze away from her love and glances over her shoulder towards the chaos with fearful eyes. Seeing him advance so quickly, she adds her free hand so that two beams focus on the mind stone. So far it shows no sign of breaking. She begins to sob.

Steve Rodgers is Thanos’s last opponent before he reaches the duo. Thanos goes to grab him but Steve holds him back, keeping the gauntlet unclenched. It takes all of his strength and he screams in defiance, but it is short-lived. Soon he’s swatted away as well.

Looking in horror as Thanos approaches them unopposed, she points one of her beams at Thanos to keep him at bay. It takes so much effort to deal enough energy to push him back while simultaneously trying to destroy the mind stone. Fear and grief constrict her and almost suffocate her.

Thanos fights for every inch of ground, yet she forces herself to focus on Vison. He feels every thought racing through her mind, every emotion tearing through her heart, every shred of energy coursing through her being. She’s so close. All she needs is a little push.

“It’s alright,” he breathes. She can barely hear him over the rushing energy and her heart pounding in her ears, but she can make out what he’s saying.

“I love you.”

The stone finally begins to crack. For a moment, Vision closes his eyes and looks at peace. Whatever he’s actually experiencing—if it’s the sensation of energy being released from the stone, if it’s his consciousness slipping, or if it’s simply a figment of his artificial imagination— is a mystery. At last, the stone breaks, releasing a shockwave of energy that blows Wanda and Thanos back. When the flash fades, Vision is nowhere to be seen. Wanda is on the ground, catching her breath. She exerted herself so much and feels so drained.

Thanos approaches her. “I understand my child. Better than anyone.”

Wanda’s grief and fear are replaced with blood-boiling anger, “You could never,” she snarls.

“Today I lost more than you could ever know, but now is not the time to mourn,” Of course, he was referring to when he had to sacrifice Gamora, but even if she knew that her argument would not change. Fundamentally the actions were the same, but what they meant was entirely different. Thanos seemed to mistake guilt for compassion and cruelty for sacrifice. He seemed to mistake Vision’s and Wanda’s mutual understanding of what had to be done as being the same as his justification for his daughter’s death.

“Now, there’s no time at all,” he continued reaching forward. The time stone hums to life as he reworks the threads of time itself. The very explosion that was the mind stone shattering starts to reverse itself as he twists his hand. At last, Vision is returned, and he gazes at Thanos with a horrified expression.

“No!” Wanda screams as she jumps to stop him, but he swats her away. She helplessly watches as he picks up Vision by the neck and plucks the mind stone out of his forehead. Vision’s body becomes lifeless and grey. Thanos throws the husk away and Wanda stares horrifically into Vision’s hallow, lifeless eyes.

Thanos’s lips curl in satisfaction as he adds the mind stone to the middle of the gauntlet. Colors of electricity-like power flow through him and he gasps. The power was exhilarating. His breathing becomes increasingly labored as the searing energy prevails. What was happening? He was supposed to have gained control of the gauntlet by now. He was no mere mortal, he was strong enough to handle the power. Wanda can only watch as the chaos plays out

The energy radiating from the gauntlet is strong and writhing, Wanda can feel it, it’s like a beast craving escape, clawing away at freedom. Waves hit her with monumental force, a shrieking wail rips through the air. Where it’s coming from is unknown.

“This. Isn’t. Right!” Thanos manages to bellow between gasps of agony. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. He manages to look towards Wanda, who’s sitting on the ground dumbfounded.

“What. Did. You. Do?” He snarls. She shakily scrambles away from the mad titan. As she watches, he’s seemingly staring at her, but his gaze isn’t actually upon her.

“Wanda, what’s going on?” Banner’s crackling voice transmits over the commlink but she does not answer. Her eyes widen as she’s starting to understand the wail; as she’s hearing what Thanos is hearing.

Release us!

Release Us!

RELEASE US!

It’s too much for her. She covers her ears with her hands to drown it out, but it won’t stop. She screams.

Thanos turns at a new source of commotion. Thor rips through the clouds, Stormbreaker in hand. He throws it and Thanos, being mildly incapacitated, can’t defend himself. The magnificent ax lodges itself into the titan’s chest. The pain hardly compares to the overpowered gauntlet. Thor could care less about what the hell is happening, he’s got one thing on his mind.

Before he can reach Thanos, before Wanda can warn him, a shockwave of energy erupts from the gauntlet. Thor, Thanos, and Wanda are blown back. Streaks of color mark the sky as various stones are launched away from Earth.

Thanos groans as he sits up. Stormbreaker is no longer lodged into his chest, and the gauntlet is no longer radiating unbearable amounts of energy. Wait. He turns his hand over. There was one stone left, shining a brilliant blue.

"No," he hissed. He had the stones, he won! How could this have happened?

Thor is quick to his feet. He reaches his hand out and Stormbreaker flies back into his grasp. Thanos turns his gaze to the Asgardian.

“This,” he huffed between labored breaths, “Isn’t over.”

Thor leaps up and swings the ax at him again, but Thanos is quick to summon another portal with the space stone he managed to hold onto. Stormbreaker strikes empty ground. Unsatisfied, Thor rips his ax from the Earth. “Should’ve gone for the head,” he muttered to himself.

Steve has woken up by now and makes his way over to Thor while slightly limping. Before he could ask anything T’Challa reported to him over the commlink

“They’re… retreating,” Steve says. The alien army was probably trying to regroup with Thanos. He looks to Thor, “What happened? Is it over?”

“I… Don’t know,” he admits. His gaze falls over to Wanda, still unconscious on the ground but something yellow is glowing in her hand. The mind stone.

“If anyone knows, it’s her,” he says, gesturing to her.

Steve nods. He noticed the stone, but looking around he didn’t see Vision. Unfortunately for them, his body had been destroyed in the blast.

“Alright, let’s regroup, count our losses, and figure out what happened.”

The war was far from over.

[kentuckywrites]

Warmth

@heroicmeep ‘s Meep and @jaxstronomy ‘s Martin find their way to @deltheor Sydney’s hideout, where @lightbrand ‘s Pandora and another unexpected ally are waiting...

“And that, Pandora, is why we were patient.”

The room was deathly silent. Sydney’s voice had a way of carrying, a dark echo in the wind, the mind, the soul. Meep could feel the pressure building in her brain, a constant throbbing pain, courtesy of the man on the throne. Martin had stopped walking, now drilling holes into Sydney’s skull with his darkened eyes. The moment had come for retribution. Meep only hoped that she’d have the strength to bring this nightmare to an end.

“You see,” Sydney continued without further acknowledgement, “Now we get to watch them struggle. Not that we didn’t before, which was deliciously entertaining - I wish I had popcorn to enjoy the times you had to carry him around.” He waved a finger at Meep, then Martin. Martin looked down. “Anyways, welcome, welcome! We’ve been waiting oh so patiently to give you this Red Carpet Welcome, we’d ask if it lives up to your standards, but we don’t particularly care about them.”

Meep couldn’t help but ask a quiet question. “Who do you mean...we?...”

Sydney started to laugh, and she shrank back, biting her lip. “Well, Sailor Mercury, my pet Patches is still here.”

“I’m not your pet.” Pandora tried to snap, but her voice seemed oddly hoarse.

He ignored the comment. “But secondly, I’ve been...blessed, if you please...by another prized pick of the litter.”

In that moment, the pain subsided. She watched with morbid curiosity as Sydney’s shoulders relaxed and his eyes closed. A faint smile appeared on his pierced lips, not smug, not flirtatious. He looked at peace.

Then Meep felt it, the presence of another mind in the room, another potent force. All the bruises, the scrapes, the scars, physical, mental - something brushed over them. They were small kisses, small wishes, they brought comfort and warmth to her body. She could practically feel the arms around her, pulling her in for a loving embrace. For once during the mission, Meep felt like everything would be okay.

One quick glance to her right indicated that Martin was feeling the same serenity. Pandora, the empty husk Sydney had called his companion, stepped away from the throne, her footsteps silent against the floor. “You...that’s not you. It can’t be.”

She turned towards Meep and Martin, her eye wide. “What the fuck are you doing to him?”

“It’s...it’s not me,” Meep stammered. Martin was only able to shake his head for an answer.

There was a faint noise, carried only by the nonexistent breeze. A chuckle. It didn’t belong to anyone there. Seconds later, Sydney opened his eyes, his smile growing wider, wider. From behind the throne a fifth figure joined them, preferring the safety of the shadows. The light was able to capture the faint glint of a knife in the figure’s hand. A pupiless indigo gaze, unblinking, answered the unanswered.

“...Pon...go?...” Meep whispered.

The lovable Interceptor smiled.

“Good to see you again, Meep!”

It would’ve been endearing in any other situation, hearing that innocent tone of his. But now there was a dark edge to it; he’d sliced that knife through the air without having to move an inch. Meep felt a chill race down her spine as Sydney stood up to greet him, throwing his cape to the side for an added dramatic swish. It was Pongo who slipped his arm around Sydney’s waist, pulling him closer, all while staring down at Meep and Martin.

She couldn’t help it. The corners of her eyes started to sting as tears ran down her cheeks. “N-No...you’re lying, you wouldn’t do something like this…”

“The mind’s a fragile thing - though you knew that already, didn’t you?” Sydney smirked. “And while I’d love to monologue about the specifics to our little ‘partners in crime’ layout, that’d be too damn easy.”

It wasn’t the air that was warming up, but Meep was sweating now. She hadn’t fought a mind like this before, and while it was easier to push aside than Sydney’s, it left more of a strain on her heart. This wasn’t supposed to feel good, but it did, and that made her want to scream. Why did she want to throw aside her defenses? Why did she want to give in?!

Meep couldn’t move. Pongo’s Will was growing, enshrouding her not in darkness, but in love. Maybe that was why it was so powerful - she hadn’t felt anything like this since before the start of this damned mission. She had no control over the gentle smile finding its way onto her lips, no control over herself as she watched Sydney pull Pongo closer again for - could it be called a kiss?! No, he was attacking Pongo’s mouth, and what frightened her the most was when Pongo reciprocated it. Pandora made a small noise of discomfort, though Meep couldn’t tell if it was because of the kiss, or because she was losing herself.

Martin growled something she couldn’t hear, but he got louder with his next statement. “You’re disgusting.”

He drew his knife and charged forward, and the sudden burst of energy stopped the two lovers - NO, they couldn’t be lovers, Pongo wouldn’t - it stopped them; they pulled apart and watched the silver haired Harrier sprint towards them. Pongo grinned, and the heat grew stronger. Meep found it in herself to fight, to move forward, to help Martin put an end to this stupid fucking mission. Their knives were drawn and pointed and ready to kill.

Pandora simply watched.

Martin’s target was Sydney. Both Interceptors darted away from each other as Sydney drew Martin towards the left side of the throne. The clash of knives rang through the air before Meep reached Pongo. His stance was different than Sydney’s, shoulders relaxed and a dark smile still plastered on his face. Meep stopped, her grip on her knife tightening.

“This can’t be you.”

“How would you know?” Pongo’s head tilted curiously. “Humans have a curious way of hiding their true selves. How long was I able to hide my connection to Mira?”

“You didn’t!” Meep cried, “You told me as soon as I asked! You’re honest and good and you’re not - you can’t be on his side!!”

The smile disappeared.

And when it left, the warmth began to turn into a fire, a fire that consumed her very mind and left her screaming, screaming so loud that she could hardly hear Pongo’s voice inside her head.

“Aw, looks like someone needs a hug.”

[jam-hearts]

Liability

Chapter 1/? | Read on AO3

Summary:  Jeremy is new to the force, and jumps at the chance to go undercover and help bring down the Fake AH Crew. He became an officer to make a difference, to change Los Santos for the better… what he didn’t count on was this investigation changing him. What will happen when Jeremy begins to sympathise with these criminal masterminds, and maybe even fall in love with one of them?

Jeremy’s stomach was in knots as he walked into the police station. The place seemed more claustrophobic than usual, bustling with people who seemed to be doing work for once instead of clustered around the coffee machine. Detective Holden grabbed Jeremy’s arm before he could start towards his desk, pulling him away from the action of the precinct. Detective Holden wasn’t that much taller than Jeremy and was certainly in worse shape, but Jeremy felt like he was prey about to be devoured.

Holden didn’t seem to notice his discomfort, or possibly he just didn’t care. “Ready, Dooley?” He didn’t pause for an answer. “File’s on your desk. Briefing starts in five.”

Gone as quickly as he had arrived, Jeremy was left open to the ravenous gaze of his colleagues. Act normal, Jeremy told himself as he made his way to his desk, overly conscious of the way he was walking, trying not to be too fast or too slow. A manila folder about the thickness of a short novel sat on his desk, CLASSIFIED stamped on the front in red. Jeremy flipped the cover over.

The Los Santos police department had been chasing the Fake AH Crew for years. Between committing crimes and inspiring them, they were the most notorious gang in the city. There should have been more than enough evidence to convict them, give each member multiple life sentences, yet somehow they had evaded arrest. They were always one step ahead. Jeremy skimmed through the document; most of it was just old paper work, including victim and witness statements, arrest reports, interview transcripts. Jeremy was relatively unfamiliar with the Fakes, but he supposed that would benefit him in the long run – the less he knew beforehand, the less chance that he would slip up.

Jeremy was jerked out of his reading by hands grabbing his shoulders. “Big day today, Jeremy,” Jason grinned as he took his seat at the desk next to Jeremy’s. Jeremy closed the file before turning to face him.

“I’m so nervous. I hardly slept last night.”

Jason turned away to face his computer, typing as he spoke. “Relax. This is your first real case, so beginner’s luck, right?” Jeremy hummed, not at all reassured. “You better get to the briefing room before Holden fires you. Oh, and if you die, you can take comfort that I’ll be here to pick up your slack, just like always.”

Jeremy grinned as he walked away. “Fuck off.”

The briefing room was small and only a handful of people sat within; Jeremy recognised one, maybe two of them aside from Holden, who gestured for Jeremy to sit near the front as he began to speak.

“When I was appointed as head of this precinct, the Fake AH Crew was just two kids who occasionally robbed convenience stores. I thought that busting them would be the easiest case of my career.” Holden turned his hands palms up. “Oh, how wrong I was.” A laugh rippled through the room.

“These men think they run Los Santos. They’ve tried their hands at pretty much everything – drugs, arson, arms dealing; you name it, they’ve probably done it.” Jeremy’s gaze drifted down to the thick file in front of him. “So why haven’t we caught them yet?”

Holden let the question hang in the air before continuing. “We need something more. We need secrets. That’s why we’re sending Officer Dooley undercover to join them. He’s young, he’s combat trained, and he’s believable as an aspiring criminal mastermind.”

A few murmurs bubbled up around the room, not loud enough for Jeremy to discern any words. Paranoia crept over his body. He straightened in his chair. “What’s changed? I mean I read the file, this has been going on for years.”

“They’ve been stockpiling weapons. Handguns mostly, but a few bigger items as well.”

“That’s not necessarily illegal,” Jeremy countered. “Anyone can obtain guns with the proper paperwork.”

Holden chuckled. “They’re doing this in plain sight because they know we can’t touch them, but they’re planning something big; I can feel it.” Holden stood back to address the room at large. “We’re taking over one of the interview rooms as our command centre. There will be no cameras, no bugs, and no wire taps – the only way information enters this precinct is through Officer Dooley. Do not breathe a word of this investigation to anyone. Understood? Dismissed.” As the other officers began to trickle out of the room, Holden motioned for Jeremy to follow him.

He led Jeremy to one to one of the interrogation rooms, presumably the new headquarters for the investigation although it was empty save for the usual table and chair, and a duffel bag. Holden motioned for Jeremy to sit. “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how important this is for the precinct.” Holden gripped Jeremy’s shoulder. “But I have faith in you, Jeremy. Keep working as hard as you do and you’ve got a bright future around here, kid.” Jeremy could feel his cheeks heating up as Holden smiled down at him, squeezing his shoulder before releasing. “Everything you need is in the bag; drop off is in ten.” He turned to leave. “Oh, one more thing. Stick close to Ramsey and Pattillo. They’ll have the most information.”

As Holden left the room Jeremy reached into the bag and pulled out its contents. Inside was a change of clothes, a burner phone, and a gun.

***

Jeremy could hear the gunshots before he’d even arrived at the drop off point. His ears were ringing as he and Jason pulled up about half a mile away from the warehouse. The guns had to be big, powerful – they were the types of guns that Jeremy hoped he would never have to encounter, but he couldn’t say that he was surprised given the reputation of these guys. The air in the car was tense as they rolled to a stop, neither man saying a word as Jeremy took a deep breath and stepped out of the vehicle. The rev of the engine replaced the ringing in Jeremy’s ears as Jason drove off, signalling the start of Jeremy’s immersion. He cocked his gun, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it, and began to make his way towards the sound of the fight.

Despite his nerves, Jeremy couldn’t help but the thrill of adrenaline that ran through his body as he drew closer to the fight. This was what he had trained for, this was real police work – he was going to make a difference to this city. He shook his head as the warehouse appeared in his line of sight; he couldn’t let anything distract him. Bloodied bodies sprawled across the parking lot; some moved and some didn’t. Jones stood at the entrance to the warehouse, shotgun in hand. He fired three shots which ripped into their victims with astonishing precision. Jeremy knew from the file that Jones was the marksman of the crew but he was stunning in action; Jeremy’s mouth fell agape in awe.

That was until Jones turned his body towards Jeremy and lifted his gun. Jeremy snapped back into action, diving into the surrounding trees as the bullet tore through the air. Catching his breath, he used the trees as cover as he skirted around the perimeter. The blood of the rival gang members created a glossy red sheen that covered most of the ground yet they still appeared in droves, pushing the crew to the limits of their capabilities. The Fakes were outnumbered; running into the fray, Jeremy seized his opportunity.

He was able to disarm a few of the men as he made his away over to the two men, sliding their guns are far away from the fray as he could. These men were reliant on their weapons – they were strong but they had no training when it came to fighting, using brute strength over skill. This is where Jeremy had the upper hand.

A quick scan of the area told Jeremy that Ramsey and Pattillo were sat behind a bullet-riddled husk of a car. They’d fired a few bullets weren’t as central to the action as Jeremy had expected. From what Holden had said to him he’d expected them to take the lead, to orchestrate this weapons drop off down to the second with contingency plans in place for every possible outcome. Regardless of what their play was by sitting out of the action, Jeremy needed them to see that he was on their side.

Whatever ideas were forming in his head were disrupted when Jeremy felt a hand grab his shirt and pull. He stumbled backwards past the man who had grabbed him, barely stopping himself from falling to the ground. His assailant left him no time to recover, throwing his fist forward. Jeremy dodged the punch and twisted himself around to put himself between the man and the founders of the Fakes.

The man threw punch after punch; he missed more than he landed but the hits that connected with Jeremy knocked the air out of his lungs each time. The fight moved quickly, so much so that Jeremy wouldn’t have noticed the man reach into his pocket if it weren’t for the silver glint that caught his eye as the man swung at Jeremy again. Spurred on by the heightened danger Jeremy grabbed the man by the wrist and yanked his arm around behind his back. The knife clattered to the ground as Jeremy pushed upwards, feeling the limb strain against the socket. He leaned forward with all of his weight and pushed the man towards the ground, pressing a knee into his back to keep him there.

“Ramsey!” Jeremy yelled, turning his head back towards the car behind him. His next words were knocked out of his mouth as he felt something connect with the side of his head and he was plunged into blackness.

Jeremy was greeted with the sight of five confused faces staring down at him as he came to. His head was throbbing, and a wave of nausea washed over him as he tried to move. A hand planted itself on his chest and pushed him back down. Jeremy’s head lolled backwards. “Gotta….get to hospital.”

“Hospital?” Geoff repeated  incredulously. “Is this kid an idiot? How hard did he get hit?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s concussed,” spoke Ryan. “We probably won’t be able to get anything thing out of him until tomorrow at the earliest.”

Jeremy scrunched his eyes against the words, fuzzy and too loud. He was sure his brain had turned to scrambled eggs inside his skull. “Head…hospital…” he tried again.

Geoff sighed. “Get him back to the house. Dumb kid.”

[bikaelsons]

die easy

CHAPTER SEVEN ∙ to the promised land

note: there is no author's note bc i regret nothing (except the canonical slander of marcel's character i had to participate in)

warnings: canon-typical violence, course language, alcohol (btw if anyone needs anything else tagged lmk)

<< previous chapter - next chapter>>

ao3 link - tumblr masterlist

The gazebo was a lovely structure, big enough to host a banquet. The shrubs brushing up against it provided an illusion of privacy Elijah did not allow himself to believe. Katerina had picked an open space for their reunion, ensuring nothing could block her minions’ view of her. She was nothing if not cunning, even to those she claimed as friends.

She was there when Elijah arrived, something he hadn’t been expecting. He knew how much she enjoyed keeping him waiting, like a wine bottle on ice. Perhaps this now was to throw him off his game—he’d wanted time to scope out the situation, figure out how to dodge her questions as much as possible. The last thing he wanted was for her fascination with him to extend to Tam and her sons.

“Katerina,” he greeted, watching her response to him carefully. Her hair was different, and she wore a new perfume he couldn’t place.

Katerina’s eyes widened as she took him in. “You’re a little late, aren’t you?”

He knew for a fact that he wasn’t. Reaching out, he touched the new thread of colour in her hair. Pinkish red. “You coloured your hair. I like it.”

She blinked heavily, a standard response. Before she could get her questions out, Elijah stepped forward to kiss her. She remained frozen for a moment before sinking into it. She tasted like coffee.

Katerina hated coffee.

Elena.

Elijah reigned himself in, fighting back the urge to shove her away from him and instead drew her closer, taking the chance to slip into her mind. She’d been taking vervain, he could tell, but there were a few thoughts he could skim from the surface. Interesting.

Elijah disengaged carefully, giving nothing away. “I missed you,” he tested.

“And I’ve missed you.” Another mistake. Katerina would never admit such a thing so openly.

“This is an interesting little town you’ve chosen to settle down in. So, do you have it with you?”

“Do I have what?” Elena asked innocently.

“The cure.”

Her heartbeat picked up. “It’s safe. How about I go find it?”

She turned away quickly but Elijah was faster, grabbing her arm forcefully. “Where’s Katherine, Elena?” he growled.

“I—I don’t—”

“Don’t imagine you can continue lying to me. What have you done with her? Are the Salvatores with you?”

Elena swallowed whatever trepidation his tone instilled in her and face him boldly, head-on. “I don’t have to tell you anything. Why are you here, anyway? You really expect me to believe you want the cure?”

No, he wanted Katerina. But he could hardly have the others knowing that. Not if they had Katerina themselves. God, he hoped she’d been careful … “I don’t have to tell you anything,” Elijah parroted back at her.

Elena rolled her eyes. Something was … off in the movement. He’d enjoyed a fair few conversations with her in the past, but this was different.

Elijah’s phone buzzed in his hand. Katerina’s name and picture popped up.

Answering, he barked, “Katerina?”

“Hello, Elijah,” Stefan’s voice taunted on the other end.

“Where is she?”

“Where’s Elena?”

Jaw working, Elijah stared at Elena as he said, “Safe. How long she remains so depends upon you.”

“Well, I guess the same goes for Katherine.”

Elijah tried to force a laugh. “I’m sure she can take care of herself against the two of you.”

“Oh, you mean the three of us. ‘Cause your little sister decided to join Team Good Guys for the time being.”

Elijah’s fury ignited at the same time as Elena’s delight lit up her face. Blood pounding, he hissed, “Put her on the phone.”

The conversation did little to progress from there. Rebekah was with Katherine and Damon, Stefan wouldn’t help until Elena was returned, etcetera, etcetera. It would have been nought but a plebeian nuisance had Elijah not known for a fact that Rebekah would end Katherine at a whim.

“You listen to me very carefully, Stefan,” he said, enunciating exactly. “If anything whatsoever happens to Katherine, I will descend upon Elena.” Precisely what that entailed, he did not know. He hung up before Stefan could enquire further.

“You’re both idiots,” said Elena, dropping to sit down on one of the benches. “And what happened to you? I thought you were supposed to be a man of honour, and yet you’ve been hooking up with Katherine this entire time?”

He hadn’t, but that was moot. He had to maintain the lie, the lie that the cure had drawn him in and not the promise of Katerina. “She contacted me about the cure. We thought we could be of mutual use to one another.”

“Admit it, Elijah. You fell into her trap.”

“You underestimate me, Elena. I know who she is. I know what she’s done.” Better than anyone, I know.

“And you think she’s changed? She’s playing you. She lied to you, Elijah.”

“And what of you, Elena? Now a vampire, but … there’s something else changed. You’re not yourself.” She shrugged at him, uncaring, and the realisation dawned upon him. “You’ve abandoned your emotions. Why?”

“Didn’t she tell you?” asked Elena, tone lilting. “Jeremy’s dead. Katherine killed him.”

Elijah’s stomach dropped into his shoes. Jeremy Gilbert was just a boy, and one of Matthew’s closest friends at that. For Katherine to have killed him …

Perhaps it was worst that Elijah was unsurprised.

“She lied,” he said. Not about the cure, but about herself. About being better than she had been. But had she really told him that, or had he simply put the words to her lips as he always did, making her something she never was?

Elena, however, found this hysterical. “I hate to say I told you so, but duh!”

Elijah’s fists clenched and unclenched as he tried to remain in control. “And your friends, you’ve all been mourning him?”

“Well, I haven’t,” Elena chirped. “But everyone else is pretty torn up about it. I think poor Matt went to the funeral all alone.”

Losing whatever shred of control remained, Elijah slammed his fist into one of the gazebo’s supporting columns.

 #

 Katerina had never shied away from a snapped neck or a dramatic entrance, so it was no surprise that both were involved in her next meeting with Elijah.

She stood over Elena’s body triumphantly, a grin blooming on her lips.

Elijah barely contained the tremble in his voice. “You killed Jeremy Gilbert.”

Katerina stopped short, watching him carefully. “Of course I did. I do what I must to survive, just as I always have.”

“And is that what I am to you? A means of survival?”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Katerina crooned, stepping toward him.

“I asked you a question!” Elijah barked, stopping her short.

“Of course you’re not just survival to me,” she said. “We’ve always seen one another, you and me. We need each other.” She rested a hand on his cheek. “I love you.”

Elijah pulled away, ignoring the impulse and leaving his cheek exposed to the bitter wind. “I don’t know you. I don’t think I ever will.”

So he left her.

 #

 Elijah drove back to Mystic Falls as though Katherine herself was pursuing him. He had the cure in his pocket and a chip on his shoulder, and there wasn’t anything anyone could do to stop him.

His first stop was at Folger’s Inn to re-book his old room. They recognised him; he compelled them not to do so again. It wasn’t really a touching reunion.

His next stop was Matthew’s. The house was empty, cold. From what Elijah could scent, Matthew hadn’t been there for some days at least. His truck was missing, too.

Elijah drove past the Gilbert residence, wondering if Matt had taken to staying there instead.

It was a burnt-out husk.

Frustration mounting, Elijah turned back into town and parked outside the Mystic Grill. He released a sigh of relief at the sight of Matthew’s truck in the Employees Only section.

Checking to ensure the cure was safe in his inner-jacket pocket, Elijah locked the car behind him and headed inside. Not much had changed about the Grill—it was as crowded and greasy as usual. The ambient lighting was better suited to a sultry dinner date than a midday mealtime. No one else seemed to care.

Elijah found Matthew taking orders from an older couple at a table in the corner. He perched on a stool at the bar, waiting patiently as Matthew listed the specials three times only for the man to order “our regular” with little explanation.

“Got it,” Matthew confirmed, scribbling something down. “Will that be all today?”

“Yes, Matty,” said the woman.

Matthew left and headed for the kitchen, not seeing Elijah on his way past. He didn’t interrupt him. It was nearing 1pm—maybe he’d be on break soon.

Behind Elijah, the couple spoke in hushed tones that required vampire senses to decipher.

“Poor boy,” the woman was saying. “He grew up with little Jeremy Gilbert. The whole thing is such a tragedy.”

“We’ll tip him well,” the man said, tone detached. “With a mother like his, I bet he needs it.”

“Elijah?” Matthew’s voice snapped Elijah out of his eavesdropping.

“Matthew,” Elijah greeted. “It’s … you look … well.” He looked like he hadn’t slept in three days, but that wasn’t the kind of thing one just said outright. “I stopped by your home to see you.”

“I don’t live there anymore. I’ve moved into Ty’s place.”

Elijah nodded. “Living with your friend must be … that sounds like a good idea.” That sounds like a good idea? Had he lost the ability to speak in Pennsylvania?

“Ty’s not there,” said Matt. “Your brother kinda chased him out of town.”

Ah, that sounded like Niklaus. “You’ve been there alone?”

“Don’t really have anyone else around anymore.”

“I … heard about Jeremy. Matthew, I—”

“You know what? I have some work to do. Some of us have jobs.”

“Of course. Would you have time to catch up later?”

“No, Elijah. I don’t think I will.” Matt pulled the pad of paper from his apron pocket and left to greet a crowd of newcomers.

 #

 Of all the places Matt wanted to be, prom wasn’t one of them. Yet here he was, wearing one of Ty’s tuxes and standing by the punchbowl with his hands in his pockets, determined to have something that resembled a good time.

Speaking of which, Rebekah sauntered up wearing a dress the colour of lemons and looking … remarkably out of place.

“So are you and Bonnie, like, a thing?” she asked, feigning nonchalance. She’d really adopted the modern speech patterns quickly.

“We’re not a thing; we’re friends. Who are you here with?”

Rebekah hesitated. “No one,” she admitted. “Go on, I know what you’re thinking—why didn’t I just compel myself a date?”

That had been what he was thinking, but he didn’t want her to know. “Actually, I was thinking, ‘I wonder if Bonnie wants ice?’.”

“Oh. Can I … ask you a question?”

“Why?” Matt asked shortly. “You seem to already know everything I’m thinking, so—”

“Do you think I would make a good human?”

Matt could admit to being a little taken aback at that. Were any vampires he knew ‘good’? Maybe Stefan, when he had his humanity and pleasant weather and the right lighting. But was Rebekah? “I think that ‘good’ is a hard word to live up to, and I’ve never seen you do anything remotely good, so … Honestly? No, I don’t. Sorry.”

He left before Rebekah could respond.

 #

 Elijah wondered how many times over the years this exact scene had played out. By now, he should be better at predicting its ending.

He sat across from Niklaus, a white oak stake on the table between them. Somewhere, a grandfather clock ticked to punctuate the silence.

Niklaus’ jaw tensed at the sight of it. “Why would you give me this?”

Because you’re paranoid enough to kill us all if I don’t. “We are immortal but for the stake. Now that it’s yours, you have nothing to fear.”

“Silas will continue to torment me.”

“You’ve survived endless torments throughout the centuries, each more wicked than the last: the hunter’s curse, our father’s wrath, Marcellus’ death. You’ll shake this. And if you can’t, you can outrun him.”

Niklaus chuckled. “Yes, it’s that simple. Without the cure, what makes you think I’ll spare your beloved Katerina? Or have you figured out you’re simply another fly in her web?”

Elijah’s tone darkened. “You may do with Katerina what you will. I ask something else in return for this.”

“And what might that be?”

“I wish you to relinquish your hold on the Lockwood boy. Allow him to return here to his friends.”

Niklaus laughed outright at that. “You’re serious? Why would you care for the fate of one boy?”

“Why would you?”

“He betrayed me.”

“He was never yours to possess. Really, Niklaus—I’d have thought that Marcellus taught you not to bleed devotion from those in your thrall.”

Niklaus closed the distance between them, shoving Elijah against a wall. “How dare you use Marcellus against me? I only ever loved him.”

“You used the guise of philanthropy to own him and dared to call it freedom. If fever hadn’t taken his mother you’d have drowned her like Carol Lockwood. What is this obsession you have, Niklaus? Power is not and never has been possessing those that despise you, yet you would punish Tyler for seeking freedom from one he loathed.”

Niklaus pressed the stake against Elijah’s suit, right over his emerald satin pocket square. Also, incidentally, his heart. “I see I am to court betrayal at every turn.”

“I have only betrayed you once in our existence, Niklaus, and we are a thousand years and a broken curse beyond it now. Free Tyler Lockwood and let him return to his friends.”

Niklaus pressed in closer until they were nose-to-nose. “I’ll consider it.” He snapped himself away, tucking the stake into his leather jacket.

Elijah straightened his suit. “It is such a hollow little life you lead, Niklaus.” He pressed a hand to his brother’s cheek, then left.

 #

 “You’re sure you’re okay?” Matt checked again, looking at April worriedly. She was still pale and more than a little woozy.

“I’m fine,” she promised. “You should get going before my aunt gets back from her dinner.”

Matt didn’t like the idea of leaving April, but she had enough vampire blood in her system to keep her safe. And not just any vampire’s—Rebekah’s.

“Well, I’ll get going. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“I will. Thanks for driving me home.” April’s smile was just as bright as it had been when they were kids.

“Night.”

Matt headed back out to his truck, getting it going so he could start the AC on warm. He held his hands in front of the vents, huddling over them for warmth.

It had been … a hell of a night. Emphasis on ‘hell’. April had gotten hurt over vampire shit again. She’d almost died again. Rebekah had had to save her … okay, that hadn’t happened before, but still didn’t feel particularly unusual. She really was desperate to get the cure from Elijah, but he’d made her good, human behaviour a condition of her obtaining it. You know, like an asshole.

Filled with a night’s worth of bitter anger, Matt dialled before he even knew what he was doing.

“Matthew.”

“You need to give Rebekah the cure.”

“I see she’s informed you of our little wager.” Elijah sounded almost … amused? “She will receive the cure, provided she lives up to her end of it.”

“Give it to her now,” Matt ground out. “You’re not her father. You don’t get to teach her lessons. Who do you think you are?”

The line crackled.

“I see you’ve made some assumptions about the situation—”

“Am I wrong?” Matt pressed. “Did you not tell Rebekah you’d only give her her one true desire if she proved herself worthy to you?”

“It was never about worth. What do you take me for? This is about certainty. She sees only what is ahead of her and nothing of what she will leave behind. A thousand years as a vampire, with all the darkness that comes with that, but all the gifts as well. She cannot leave it so easily, and I will not allow my sister to end her immortal life on a whim.”

“She’s a thousand years old,” said Matt. “How long has she wanted this? How long has she been broken by it? How many times has she longed for the chance you’re keeping from her now?”

“She doesn’t understand—”

“No, don’t. Don’t you dare decide what she understands. You don’t know her, Elijah! You hadn’t seen her in a century before a few months ago. Give her the cure and let her decide. We both know she deserves it more than Klaus ever will, and with the way Elena’s been I’m not sure even the cure will save her.”

“If the Salvatores discover that you have ruined Elena’s chance at humanity, they might kill you.”

“Wow, I wonder what it’s like to be in danger.”

“I’m serious, Matthew.”

“Let them,” Matt bit back.

“You don’t mean that.”

Matt tightened his hand over the steering wheel. “Look, just give her the cure, Elijah. Whether or not she takes it is up to her.”

“You don’t command me.”

“You don’t command her.”

Only Elijah’s breathing drifted down the line, holding the silence until he spoke again. “I’ll see.”

And he hung up.

 #

 Matt drove home in silence, operating on autopilot and arriving home without even thinking about it until he came to a halt half a street away. Either side of the road was lined with cars.

Right—the party.

Matt pulled off into a back road to get a park closer to the house and walked the rest of the way. The party was just kicking off under Caroline’s supervision. Matt dodged a gaggle of drunk football players making a beeline for him while exclaiming, “Matty!” and got inside undisturbed.

He found Caroline in the den, nursing some of Ty’s dad’s good scotch. She greeted him with a muted, “Hey,” tipping the glass towards him.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Tyler’s gone.” She hiccupped a little. “He left about an hour ago.”

Without saying goodbye to anyone but Caroline. Shitty but unsurprising. “I’m sure he wished he could stay,” Matt said.

Caroline shrugged, downing the rest of her glass. Matt eyed the half-empty bottle. “You sure you don’t want to slow down?”

“I have vamp-level tolerance,” Caroline told him, refilling her glass. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. But you might want to check upstairs. I’m pretty sure Bradley Dixon and Lexie McGuire are about to start banging in your room.” She tapped her ear, then took another sip.

“God, can we not end this already?” Matt rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m exhausted, April almost died, Elena’s well and truly off the reservation—just, do we have to do this now?”

Caroline took a moment to catch up with what he was saying, and then she stood. “I’ll go start compelling people.”

“Are you sure you’re good to do that?”

She turned back to Matt, setting the glass down and putting one finger to her nose, then drawing it away in a straight line. “Not drunk. There?”

“That’s not exactly scientific. Just … don’t compel anyone. I’ll take care of it.”

“What are you gonna do?”

“Shut off the electricity for half an hour. You start telling people that the Grill is mostly empty and they should move there.”

“Is it?”

“It’s a Friday night, so no. I’m sure they’ll find somewhere.” He grabbed a torch from one of the chests of drawers in the den and tucked it into his sleeve.

 #

 There were a few screams when the power first went out, but Caroline managed to convince everyone to move on quickly enough. Matt stayed out at the back of the house at the power supply. He waited until Caroline called out to him, then switched it all back on.

He rejoined Caroline at the house, watching her sway on bare feet, the skirt of her dress bunched up in one hand.

“You need me to call a cab?”

“I can drive.” Caroline stared him down for a moment, still swaying. “All right, maybe not.”

“You can stay here if you want. I’ll make up one of the spare rooms for you.”

“I’ll stay in Ty’s. Good night.” Caroline gave him a half-hug and headed upstairs. Something told him staying in Ty’s room wouldn’t be cathartic for her, but whatever.

Though the party had lasted only an hour, the house was already a mess. The keg had been taken (the team was never one to waste perfectly good beer), but red cups littered every horizontal surface and there were snacks covering the dining table—and the dining room floor, which now crunched underfoot.

Matt had just started cleaning up the mess when there was a knock at the door. He brought the broom with him to answer it, part of him thinking he could always use it to chase whoever it was off.

Except that it was Elijah, so perhaps not.

“What are you doing here?” Matt asked.

Elijah eyed the broom. “Are you going to beat me with that?”

“Why are you here?”

“Are you going to invite me into your new residence?”

Matt refused to look away from the gaze Elijah levelled at him. “Did you give Rebekah the cure?”

“Yes and no. I … intended to. She stood before me and I put it into her hands. As it turns out, I was fooled by Silas’ shapeshifting capabilities.”

“Which means he has the cure in his possession, and we’re all screwed.” None more so than Rebekah. “Fuck, I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have gotten involved.”

“This isn’t your fault. You were right about Rebekah, about everything.”

“If I hadn’t told you to give it to her, Silas wouldn’t have it.”

“If I had given it to Rebekah the moment she told me she wanted it, Silas wouldn’t have it either.”

It was true, however much Matt didn’t want to admit it. “We fucked up.”

“I contest your inclusion in that ‘we’, but yes.”

“You could’ve just called me to tell me all this.”

“I wanted to ensure that you are well. I hear there’s been some … drama.”

“That’s one word for it.”

“Are you all right?”

“Peachy.”

“Testy, more like. How about we have a conversation?”

“I don’t have time, sorry. I have an entire house to clean.”

“I could help you,” Elijah offered.

“How many years has it been since the last time you held a broom?” Matt asked incredulously.

“I hear there are vacuums now.”

Matt raised the hand with the broom in it a little. “Call me old-fashioned.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Elijah hesitated, a hand on either side of the doorframe. Matt could tell he wanted to ask for an invitation, but something stopped him. “Well, I should be heading off. Rebekah will require some consoling. I’m glad to see you’ve landed on your feet.”

“Likewise.”

“Have a good evening.” Elijah pushed himself back off the doorframe and disappeared into the night.

 #

 It wasn’t that Elijah wanted to leave.

He didn’t feel particularly motivated to stay, but for Matthew’s issues. He’d been concerned by the earlier phone conversation, the terse attitude and disinterest in conversation. He wasn’t himself.

But the moment Rebekah told Elijah where Klaus had gone, he knew he had no choice.

New Orleans had been kind to their family, once upon a time. That kindness had evaporated into smoke the moment Mikael arrived and killed Marcellus. And if Klaus was returning …

There was going to be blood. And where there was blood on Klaus’ hands, thereafter ran Elijah, eager to clean it up.

Perhaps self-awareness made it less pathetic.

But for the first time, Elijah didn’t follow immediately. He had unfinished business—not with Katerina or the Knights, and certainly not with Rebekah, who’d do as she pleased for as long as she could until Niklaus inevitably came after her for it.

No, it was the matter of Matthew and his most recent loss. In that vein, Elijah had arrangements to make.

 #

 Caroline was gone when Matt woke up.

The few cleaning tasks he’d left to do later were completed, and the house was pristine. The note on the fridge read: Hope you slept well. I cleaned everything else up and grabbed some more groceries for you. See you later xoxo

Matt smoothed a hand over his face, pulling the fridge open to investigate. It was stocked full of milk and three kinds of juice, some various fruits and vegetables and yoghurt, too.

And she’d managed it all before 9am.

Matt skipped over all of it to get at the leftover Chinese food instead.

He’d made it halfway through what remained of the chicken lo mein when his phone rang. It was Elijah, something that no longer surprised him.

Picking it up, Matt said, “Yes,” a bit more curtly than he intended.

“Matthew. I hope I’ve found you well.”

“Uh, yeah.”

“I’m afraid I have to leave town. My brother has taken off and I’m tasked with fetching him.”

Klaus was gone? That could only be good news. “Tasked by who?”

“None but fate, I suppose. I’m going off to ensure he doesn’t get himself into trouble.”

“I wouldn’t be worried about him.”

“I’m afraid I seem unable to shake that particular concern.” He paused. “Matthew, I’m sending you the details of someone my assistant has located. I’d like you to go and see him.”

“Who?”

“He’s a psychologist I’ve had compelled to assist you. He will keep his Wednesday night appointments free for you, unless you ask to change the time. I’ve paid in advance, so it’s all taken care of.”

A psychologist? Really? “What do you expect me to talk to him about?”

“Anything you desire. You’re under no obligation to attend, but I’ve ensured that he will remain available for you. I’ve compelled him to forget all about you unless he’s speaking with you, so your secrets really are safe with him.”

“I don’t have any secrets.”

“On the contrary, Matthew—you’ve been burdened with everyone’s secrets. I do hope you’re well. Please call me if you need anything, even just to talk.”

“I will.” Matt didn’t know whether to feel touched or violated. He decided to go with neither and changed the subject. “Uh, good luck with your brother.”

“Thank you, Matthew. Take care.”

The line clicked.

 #

 Elijah really should have known better than to imagine fetching his brother from New Orleans would be a simple matter. Few things with Klaus were, but his relationship with the city was likely the most complicated relationship in his life, besides Marcellus.

Of course, Marcellus and New Orleans always had come together, and since the boy was alive after all …

Snapping out of his pondering, Elijah pulled up at the cemetery parking lot. He tried and failed to not check his phone for messages. There were several texts from Rebekah but none from Matthew. His offer of a psychologist was intrusive, he knew, and trying to find out what Matthew’s response was would be unhelpful. That didn’t stop Elijah from checking constantly for any message, be it one of gratitude or anger at overstepping.

Putting his phone away, Elijah stepped out of the car. His Mercedes was at odds with the rust-buckets that flanked it on either side; Elijah took care not to bump into either of them as he exited the car, desperate not to ruin his best suit.

He didn’t know why he’d dressed up so well just to return to New Orleans. Or perhaps he did know and was avoiding the truth, even in his own mind.

Good impressions were priceless, he reminded himself as he crunched his loafers over the gravel. The sound reminded him of clenched teeth and grinding bones.

Upon approach, Elijah could hear five heartbeats in the crypt: Sophie Deveraux; the other witch named Agnes; yet another witch Elijah hadn’t yet identified; and, finally, the young wolf girl with two heartbeats inside her, both her own and another smaller, more rapid one.

The witches knew Elijah was coming before he was in sight of them. He entered the crypt to find them arranged around Hayley in casual stances, though he could smell the magic ready to burst in the room.

“Elijah,” Sophie greeted, her dark eyes hard. “Is it done?”

“My brother has once more gotten himself into Marcel’s good graces,” Elijah confirmed. He forced his gaze to remain on Sophie, though his attention was with the girl in the center of the room. “He will continue to work as your agent there.” Well, Klaus hadn’t (and wouldn’t) put it that way, but until they could free themselves of the witches’ threats against the child they were relatively at the mercy of the Nine Covens.

“That’s good.” Despite her words, Sophie’s tone was not congratulatory. “I’m sure Hayley is relieved.”

“I’d like her to be a good deal more than that.”

Sophie’s eyebrow raised. “Oh?”

“I want her freed.”

“We’re not doing that,” said Agnes.

Sophie shot Agnes a look that may have been discreet by mortal standards, but for Elijah it stretched an eternity and spoke volumes of their relationship.

“Free how?”

“I don’t expect you to free her from the spell,” said Elijah, tone obvious, “and I wouldn’t bother to ask. But I do want her at my side.”

“You’ll try to break the link.”

“If we do, there will be dire consequences. You assured us of that. Or were you bluffing?” Elijah trailed off with the shadow of a smirk.

Predictably, Sophie’s hackles rose. “No, we weren’t. Try to break the spell and we both die. No loopholes.”

We’ll see about that. “I simply wish to have her at my side. It benefits both of us—you do not have to see to her upkeep, nor take on the trouble of confining her. Something tells me she’s displeased at her accommodation so far, and wolves can be so difficult when the full moon nears. Have you seen her through one yet?”

“Pregnant wolves don’t turn on the full moon.”

“No, but all wolves become … agitated. Are you prepared to deal with the bloodshed that comes with confining a wolf under her moon? Or have the wolves been absent from this city so long that you’ve forgotten their capabilities?”

Sophie remained stoic, but the third, nameless witch shifted uncomfortably. “He’s right, Sophie,” she said, and as she spoke Elijah spied the silver edge that poked up over her shirt collar. A bite, and not one from vampire fangs either.

“Besides,” Elijah continued, “my brother is fickle and barely convinced of this course of action. If you intend to bind his assistance to his love for this child, he’d best be near it as it grows. Hearing that heartbeat’s strength could do wonders for his cooperation.”

Sophie sighed.

“You’re not seriously considering this?” Agnes demanded.

Ignoring the interjection, Sophie said, “You know the consequences for breaking the spell fine enough. Remember that you can’t take her out of the city, either. If she’s too far from me, we’ll both feel the effects of the spell straining. It won’t be pleasant, especially for the baby.”

“Understood.”

Sophie held his gaze for a moment, expression still inscrutable. “Fine,” she said, stepping aside slightly. “She’s all yours.”

Elijah offered Hayley his hand. She took it cautiously, peering around as though waiting for a trap to reveal itself. He felt the tension begin leaving her the moment she touched him. He put himself between her and the witches; she went willingly where he guided her, something he suspected she didn’t do very often.

“I’d say it was a pleasure doing business with you,” he began, giving Agnes a tepid smile, “but it certainly was not.”

“We’ll be seeing you soon,” Sophie promised, her eyes looking past Elijah at Hayley, who he felt shudder behind him.

“Of course.” Wasting no more time, Elijah dropped his hands on Hayley’s waist and lifted her slightly to speed her away, back to the car.

He set her back on her feet seconds later. She blinked, a little disoriented.

“Sorry,” he said. “Agnes was eyeing you and I thought it might be best to get you out as fast as possible.”

Hayley nodded shortly. She was doing her best to conceal the small shakes wracking her frame. Her jaw was tense and her eyes were distant.

“Are you all right?” Elijah asked as gently as he could.

“Fine,” she said. “Just … had a bit of a wild time. Not the good kind.”

“I am sorry. But you’re free of them now, I swear.”

“Am I?” Hayley asked, looking at him finally. Her eyes were glassy.

“The spell is an issue,” Elijah agreed, “but my family and I have dealt with greater.”

“And if the spell breaks, you really think I’ll be free? Your brother won’t allow that.”

Elijah paused, unsure of what to say to that. Hayley spoke again before he could figure it out.

“Let’s just get out of here,” she said. “I need to wash this awful day off myself and sleep for a thousand years. Please tell me you have somewhere for us to go.”

“Of course. Niklaus is readying it as we speak.”

She snorted. “Oh, goodie.”

 #

 The house was all set up with water and electricity by the time they arrived. There was hot water for Hayley’s shower, which she disappeared off to complete the moment she was shown her new room. Elijah’s assistant had brought her some basic clothes and toiletries, but she didn’t say thank you for them.

Since they’d done this to her to start with, Elijah was hardly offended.

Most of the furniture was covered in sheets, but Elijah located Niklaus in the one room that had been cleared out and dusted off—the former sitting room, where Klaus now sipped bourbon and gazed into the empty, cold fireplace.

“Already drinking, brother?”

Klaus smirked at him over the rim of his glass. “Of all the interventions you’ve staged for me over the years, this is by far the most pedestrian.”

“On the contrary.” Elijah sat down across from him, pouring out his own glass. “The drinking is by far the most tolerable of your vices. Do please continue.”

“Mm.” Klaus balanced his glass on the edge of his chair. “The house is remarkably well-kept, given its age.”

“The plantation house, you mean,” Elijah corrected. “Of course it has been. It was heritage listed before you compelled it into your possession, and this country so loves its monuments to horror. Was it really necessary that we inhabit one?”

Klaus shrugged. “It’s a perfectly fine place to live. We’re familiar with it, and we know there’s no way Marcel frequents it.”

“I have no doubt that the reason we’re here is Marcellus, but I do doubt it’s convenience. When he does discover you no longer stay at the hotel in town, I’m certain he’ll be devastated upon realising your actual residence. It follows that you intend to capitalise on his misery—or perhaps you only wish to enjoy it from afar?”

Klaus prickled. “Whatever harms my enemy is a tool for my own keeping, I suppose.”

“You forget the century for which he was most certainly not your enemy.”

“He is now,” Klaus snarled.

“Just him? Not these witches? Not anyone else who would harm your child? Do not make the mistake of focusing on the enemy before you, Niklaus. Remember who put him in your path, and what means they used to get there.”

“Marcel holds the witches in subjugation,” Klaus said, as though Elijah was unaware. “Why shouldn’t they find freedom in whatever way they can? I of all people know what it’s like to be denied who you truly are.”

Elijah couldn’t stop his scoff. “All these centuries I’ve spent seeking the exact location of your capacity for empathy. I should’ve known it lay with the kind of vermin that would curse your own family. You do so appreciate the majesty in an act of subjugation. Our current locale is further proof of that.”

“Watch yourself, Elijah,” Klaus warned.

“Or you will do what, Niklaus?” Elijah volleyed back, an edge to his tone. “I wish to see this through the same as you do, but make no mistake—what Marcellus has done, taking this city as his and making it his own, growing his community, even attacking the wolves and the witches … that is nothing compared to the crime of threatening this family. If you accept this child as yours, if you open yourself to fatherhood, that is your only objective. Any violence you bring to this house that isn’t in pursuit of that is a perversion I will not tolerate. Do you understand me?”

Klaus froze, taken aback for perhaps the first time in a century.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Elijah said smoothly. He downed his entire drink in one swig and dropped the glass on the table. “I’m going to go check on your child’s mother for you.”

 #

 Elijah woke early the next morning. The heat had already settled over the house like a blanket, so he made a note to ask his assistant about installing air conditioning. He and Niklaus would cope with the poor weather just fine, but Hayley would need the comfort.

He could provide her with that, at least.

He had a full breakfast ready for Hayley when she woke. Perhaps it was too much hovering, he wondered as she choked down a single pancake and avoided meeting his eyes.

“The house needs some work before it’s suitable,” Elijah said, gauging her reaction. “I’d like to open it up and clear out the dust today, if you find that amenable.”

Hayley nodded. “I can help.”

“You don’t have to. Being here is enough—you should relax.”

“No, I need to keep busy or I might actually go crazy.” She shoved her plate away, looking a little peaky. “If I haven’t already.”

“Are you ill?”

She rested her hand over her mouth for a moment, tense. After a moment, she relaxed. “I’m fine. The morning sickness isn’t that bad yet.”

“Have you received any medical advice yet?”

“I only had my pregnancy confirmed by a spell, so no. Didn’t even get to pee on a stick.” Despite the building heat, Hayley wrapped her arms around herself. “Doesn’t quite feel real yet.”

“Would you like me to procure you a stick?” Elijah offered, smiling.

Hayley laughed. It was an incredible sound, loud and bawdy and inelegant. “Thanks, but I think I’m good.”

“Understandable,” Elijah allowed. “But on a more serious note, I’d be happy to find a competent physician, someone we can compel to see to your needs. External threats aren’t the only thing you need to be kept safe from.”

“I’d appreciate that.” She smiled at him across the table.

Elijah stood, his chair creaking as it was slid back by his legs. “I’ll clean up.”

“I can help—”

“No, please, it’s fine.” He still hadn’t heard from Matthew or Rebekah, and he was finding that focusing his energy on the new situation was a good distraction from his concerns. And that meant keeping as busy as possible, as much as possible.

“Okay.” Hayley stood, looking a little awkward as Elijah gathered her plate together. “Thanks for cooking breakfast. I’m enjoying it while it lasts.”

“Thank you for eating with me.” Elijah turned his most charming smile on her. “I’ll meet you upstairs in fifteen minutes? I’d love to get the library cleared out for use again.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Brilliant,” said Elijah, stacking the glasses on the plates and carrying them into the kitchen. He heard her linger, both hers and the baby’s heartbeats suspended in the dining room. There was a rasp as her fingers trailed over the wood of the table, tapping lightly before she turned to leave.

Upstairs, she fussed around in her room for a while before heading to the bathroom and switching the shower on. Elijah stopped listening abruptly, switching on the tap in front of him and starting in on the washing up.

He had a big day ahead, and even bigger days ahead of that. He could only hope he’d succeed in all he had to do.

Little did he know of the silver dagger that awaited him in his brother’s grasp not three rooms away.

 #

 Matt groaned as he woke, rubbing at his neck and surveying the textbooks scattered over the coffee table.

Rebekah appeared the moment he made a sound. “Are you hungry? Sore?”

“I’m fine.” He shielded his eyes from the sun filtering in through the window. Great—morning in the Salvatore house. He’d slept all night there after staying up to study with Rebekah.

No, wait—they had been studying, but then he’d volunteered to help get Elena back and … yeah.

“You let Damon Salvatore kill you as a part of his latest plan and then a magic ring brought you back to life,” Rebekah said exasperatedly. “You’re not fine.”

“Except that it’s not even the worst thing to happen to me this week, so I’m getting good at adjusting to the new, fucked-up status quo.”

“You’re exhausted.”

“That’s a default setting. You can go home, by the way.”

“To the house Nik built? Too pretentious for me. I prefer somewhere homely.”

Matt scuffed a socked foot against the burgundy carpet, 99% sure it had been stained that colour by blood. “This isn’t much better.”

“But you’re here, and you can’t be trusted to study alone. You’d probably rather go toss yourself off a cliff or something.”

“I don’t have a death-wish.”

“Just a ‘maybe-it-doesn’t-matter-that-I-keep-living’ wish. Either way, I’m not going anywhere. Get used to it.” She folded her arms over her chest, literally not budging. Matt was a bit disoriented by her determination—his experience with Elijah had taught him that some vampires have manners. Rebekah was indicating that her brother was an outlier after all.

“So you’re just gonna stand there and watch me?”

She dropped her arms, gesturing to the chair beside him questioningly. He nodded, giving her permission to drop into the spot. She perched there elegantly, her hands folded in her lap. She’d been there all day and night and still hadn’t removed her heels.

“Coming back to life,” she started, voice gentler than he’d heard it before, “it feels … wrong. It can be difficult to come to terms with.”

Matt supposed it made sense that Rebekah would have a complicated relationship with resurrection. “I think there’s a difference between this and … when you were turned. I mean, I don’t know everything that went down, but I heard that you didn’t really want it. I chose to do this.”

“Is that supposed to be a comfort?”

“No. Just a fact.”

Rebekah’s jaw tensed. “I’ve been daggered by my brother countless times over the centuries. Each time I woke, the world was a new place—new inventions, new societies, new wars, new misery. It was jarring, but it was nothing compared to coming back to life after my father ran me through. The first time you die … there’s nothing like it.”

Matt waited to see if she was going to continue. She didn’t.

“This, uh …” He cleared his throat. “This wasn’t the first time I’ve died.”

Her head whipped around to look at him. “What?”

“It’s happened before. Jeremy started seeing ghosts and my sister was one of them, so I thought maybe if I died and came back like he did I’d see her, too.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

Silence fell, stretching out between them like a high wire. Neither of them dared to cross it.

Changing the subject, Matt said, “On second thought, maybe I am a little hungry.”

Rebekah had her phone out of her pocket and in her hand before Matt could even process the blur of her movement. “I’m going to order some pizza.”

“There’s two whole leftover ones in the fridge.”

Rebekah laughed incredulously as she put the phone to her ear. “If you think I’m putting anything that comes out a microwave into my mouth, you’re sorely mistaken.” She flounced away to make the order. Matt didn’t know what pizza place was open at 10am, but he had a feeling compulsion was involved. Rebekah had developed a taste for modern takeout, after all.

Being left with nothing but his thoughts was its own torture. Matt tried reading through the nearest textbook but none of the information penetrated the fog that had settled over his mind. He picked up a pen only to put it down moments later.

His phone rested face-down on the table. He picked it up to check, seeing one message there. From Caroline, not Elijah. The disappointment was stronger than usual.

Whatever he said to Rebekah, dying was never something he would just get over. And having Damon be the one to do it…

Pulling up the conversation with Elijah, Matt let his thumbs hover over the keyboard for a moment. How are you? he asked, then erased it in favour of Haven’t heard from you in a while. Hope everything’s okay. He sent that instead.

“I hope you’re good with pepperoni,” Rebekah announced, marching back in. “I figure we eat some brain food then get back to the study?”

“Sounds good,” Matt agreed. “I might just grab a shower, get cleaned up.”

Rebekah’s nose wrinkled. “Yeah, I wasn’t going to mention the smell.”

“Thanks,” he said acerbically, avoiding the temptation to toss a pen at her. She laughed at his annoyance, and he couldn’t help but chuckle back.

He was sore when he stood; he had to smother it when Rebekah started toward him, looking ready to sweep him up and carry him at the slightest sign of trouble.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he told her.

She rolled her eyes. “Try not to brain yourself in the shower, you fool.”

 #

 Klaus stood over his brother’s body, the pallid grey of desiccated skin dark against the white of his collar, dull in contrast to the shining silver dagger buried in his chest. In another time, it would’ve made a fine painting.

In the next room, Hayley continued clearing the dust, coughing slightly.

The phone in Elijah’s pocket buzzed. Klaus knelt beside his brother’s body and pulled it free.

Haven’t heard from you in a while, it read. Hope everything’s okay. From a contact only listed as “Matthew”. No surname given.

It took only a few scrolls of Klaus’ thumb to uncover the rest of the conversation. Matthew Donovan.

A surge of anger ran through Klaus. Elijah discussing sensitive matters with their enemy—and to say nothing of what he may have mentioned beyond the text messages … What was it about the busboy that had Rebekah and Elijah so thoroughly devoted?

Glancing down at his brother, Klaus scrolled back to the bottom and began to formulate a reply.

 #

 There was a response from Elijah when Matt got out of the shower.

I am otherwise occupied. Please do not contact me this way again.

Matt told himself it was nothing. Elijah was occupied with whatever was going on in New Orleans, with his brother, with his family. It was useless to bitch about it.

Denying the disappointment did nothing to lessen it.

 #

 The explosion rocked through Matt, leaving him breathless. He wasn’t close enough to feel it, but the sound had his blood pounding in his ears as he stumbled down the street.

She’s fine, he told himself. Rebekah is fine. She just … stepped on an explosive device for you. You know, after she promised to show you the world.

But she was an Original. She’d be fine.

Matt’s hands shook as he pulled his phone out, his sweat-slick fingers struggling to punch in the passcode to unlock it. He pulled up his text conversations, scrolling past all his friends until he found the last conversation between him and Elijah.

Your sister can survive explosions, right? he tapped out. He sent it before he could think, then followed it up with a panicked: I think she’s okay. She should be.

Not exactly super comforting, he had to admit. And Elijah had also asked him not to contact again, but maybe if he knew something was happening with Rebekah …

It was gross of him to use Rebekah’s situation to connect with Elijah again. A little disgusted at himself, Matt put his phone away and broke out into a jog.

He had a graduation to make.

 #

 That night, Matt stayed firmly in the boundaries of his home, resting a hand on either side of the frame. Rebekah stood outside, her hair a slash of gold under the porchlight.

“I know that we were under duress today,” she began awkwardly, “so … whatever, you know, plans that we were making … I understand if you don’t want to.”

Plans to travel around the world. With her. Starting in Italy, apparently. It was never going to end well. But if he was still with her, maybe Elijah would contact her …

Matt sighed. “You and I … this isn’t gonna work. I need to keep my love life a low-vampire zone, too, okay?”

Her smile faltered. “Of course. I get it.”

“So whatever happens on the road, stays on the road, all right?”

She brightened back up again. “I’m sorry, are you saying …”

Matt shrugged. “I’ve never set one foot outside this town. I have no college plans, no idea what the future holds for me … But I do know that it’s time that I start truly living. And, since you almost killed me this year, I figured it’s your obligation to show me how.”

Rebekah didn’t jump up and down, per se, but she did rock on her heels excitedly. “Okay. Um—do you want to pack? We can leave in like an hour. I’ll just go get my things.”

“Sounds good. See you then.” Matt stepped back and shut the door in her face, if only to stop her from seeing his own smile.

Maybe he was waiting for news of Elijah. In any event, he could afford to have fun while he did.

He deserved it.

[dimensionhoppinghybrids]

The Lazarus Effect. (A One Shot story. Warning, a rather long one!)

Darkness.

An all empty darkness was surrounding him. The noise muffled as he sat there in the silent darkness. Contemplating.

The sounds of battle above was there, but he could hardly hear it over the sounds of his own regretful failure.

He had failed. He had failed to stop this. And now, again. War had broke up, just because he couldn’t have stopped him.

Dave rose his head gently. Looking up at the cellar door he knew was there. He had taken cover after a hail of missiles had come at his direction. And he had to hide, because those missiles were more then his shield could take at the moment.

He winced softly as he looked down at his side, he knew, a severe bruise was there, he might have a cracked rib perhaps. Or it may simply be a sprain. He wasn’t sure.

He knew one thing though, he had to go back up there. Back to fight him.

Giving a soft sigh, and a wince as he rose back to his hooves, he lit his horn, revealing the dingy and small little cellar he was in, and of the box he had been sitting on. Next to it, a light armor set lay, discarded and thrown away while he had nursed his wound.

It would be a bitch to get it back on, but he did it. Ignoring the pain at his side, and gritting his teeth in frustration. Dave did what he had to do.

Back in his armor, and with everything he needed present. Gun, knives, and other gear he had with him, he took a deep breath, the war above still present. He looked up, and gave himself a firm set of his gaze, and he bent his legs, ready to take flight.

And with a flash of his horn, wood, dirt and stone flew from the place he had hidden and gathered his strength, he shot up into the air, flying to meet the advancing army of figures below.

A reptilian army he had no name for, nor cared to name. For they were only lackies. His lackies.

And he had to fight them. Or fly trough them. And he did. He did what he could.

Redirecting missiles, or simply deactivating them. All the while, advancing. Dodging enemy fire as it came in the forms of plasma and lasers. His weak protection wouldn’t stand up against that. So he had to dodge, or use shields, which he did rarely.

He fought his way to a plinth, far away from the front lines of fire, where a silver gray stallion stood, a mockery towards him by this man that stood before him.

His amber eyes stared with bemusement as he tsked softly at Dave.

“Oh dear.” He said in a soft, smooth voice. It was oily and charismatic, calm and bemused.

“I see you’ve returned Mechanic.” He tsked again, shaking his head softly. “I would think failing to stop me once made it quite clear. This isn’t going to end just yet.” He said, giving him a leering smile and chuckling at Dave’s glare.

“Come now, I told you before, and I will have to say it again. You are here to die Mechanic. It’s a very simple thing.” He said, giving him a grin as he stood up a bit taller. The two stallions were at almost even height. Though Lazarus was a bit shorter, and lankier then he.

Dave was still wary of him. As he had shown trough many attempts before. He was a worthy foe, even if he was young.

The two started to circle each other. Like two lions ready to do mortal battle. Sizing one another up as they got ready to fight.

All the while Dave stayed silent. He hadn’t dared speak, in case he lost control of his emotions. It was taking everything for him to stay calm, under control of his emotions.

But he wanted to rage at him. His blood was pumping in his ears, he had hardly listened to Lazarus, his mind going “The same old bullshit.” with the words he could barely hear.

Stopping finally, the two stared at one another. Lazarus seemed quite calm, the Unicorn only smiling at him as he waited.

A hair’s breath, then two.

And then it started. The two both formed magical swords, and they danced at each other.

Clashing, and swishing into the air as the two danced around each other. Trying to fight for purpose in their clash of swords. Dave kicked and rounded, while Lazarus dodged and stepped aside.

Both seemed to dance as they fought.

Trading blows and cuts. Making grunting and snarling noises.

Throwing curses and expletives at each other.

There seemed to be no giving ground.

The two had clashed swords. Now intently staring at one another, teeth gritted and bared, Dave snarled at him. It was bestial and feral. A sign that he was giving into his emotions.

This was what Lazarus wanted.

“You fool.” He sneered with victory as he gave a kick to a rushing Dave, the blow landing on his muzzle, making him yowl with pain, and start again, his eyes burning with hatred as he lost control of himself.

He wanted to kill him, to rip into him and tear his throat out with his teeth!

“You are nothing but a barbarian, that needs to be put down.” Lazarus said as he got ready to kick again, but, he was surprised to see Dave on top of him, ignoring the pain and going for his throat.

Snarling, Lazarus braced his legs around his throat, trying to push him away.

“See?” He said, unable to contain himself as he laughed at Dave’s ferality.

“Just a barbarian. Unable to see, what’s so obviously there.” He said as he snarled and stabbed something into Dave’s underbelly.

It was a small dagger, he twisted it, and a whine could be heard from Dave as he felt the steel dig deep into his side.

Blood gurgled from his throat as he looked down at Lazarus with hatred. “I’ll kill you.” He snarled at him. Blood spattering as he spit the words out, coating the silver gray stallion’s face with his blood, which made him only frown.

“Oh shut up and die already!” He snarled at him, and he manged to get leverage to kick him off, the dagger still embedded in his underbelly. Making Dave writhe in pain as he tried to get up.

“Fuck you!” He gurgled out as blood spat out of his mouth, and he charged again, ignoring his injuries, and they clashed again, but Dave found himself sliding on the ground, a gash again at his side now, and he was gasping with effort and pain.

“You are a stubborn fool Mechanic. You refuse to die, even when I stab you.” He said, and he lunged the sword at him, only to have it parried, if weakly by Dave.

“Force of habit, it’s in the family.” Dave said, laughter clear in his gurgling voice and breathing. He had clearly punctured his lung.

But still on he tried to fight. A malicious, and hateful smile on Dave’s muzzle.

“Come on, you fucking piece of shit!” Dave roared at him, and he gave his failing, weak body a final heave. Intending to use the last vestiges of his magic and strength, to create a beam that would pierce trough Lazarus, but he underestimated him and his abilities.

Lazarus had wanted him like this. To loose control over himself. To be angry, and to be blind sighted by what he had planned.

While the two had fought, and had so maliciously attacked one another. Lazarus had made a precaution.

A team of those lizard men were standing by, waiting for this exact moment. And when Dave had gone to strike, they pounced with their weapons.

Weapons that would kill Dave, and prevent him from regenerating.

And they did exactly that. The weapons, in their power. Did not only puncture. It burned, poisoned and irradiated his body. They fired and kept on, until their ammo clips had run dry. His body had jerked, his magic fizzled, and eyes widened in shock, pain and horror. Until those were blasted off as well.

Nothing existed of Dave but a large, meaty husk of what was barely discernible of a corpse. Giving a kick at his body, Lazarus smiled with triumph at last.

“Finally.” He said, his grown evident. “The half breed his dead. I am finally rid of him.” He said as he kicked at the barely knowable corpse of a stallion. Everything that made him recognizable was gone. The firing squad had been merciless and ruthless in their work of killing the stallion.

“Now come, let’s finish the degenerates here, and find his TARDIS. I want to destroy his ilk before they can breed more.” Lazarus snarled. And turned to leave, but before he did, he looked at the corpse, and then kicked it away, down into the ground, where it would be crushed, or eaten, or both. Whichever it was.

And finally left, to rid the world, as he saw it. Of any trace of Dave.

-------------------------------

Hello! Mod notes here! I want to point out, that yes, this is incredibly long. No, this is not canon! Dave is not dead! This is a one shot that is simply a view on how I want Lazarus to work, or at least how i see him currently to be in mannerism and progression, that can change.

It is a sample of how I can see him being in the ways of being cruel, devious, or smarter in some aspects.

Lazarus relies on “Lackies” as it were, to do his dirty work. And you can see how I portray that in this one shot.

If you have comments, or observations, please let me know!

[badsithnocookie]

my own contribution i guess to quinn hell 2k17

cw: involuntary psychiatric care, implied self harm/suicidal behaviour

slightly canon divergent but watcha gonna do

the Red Lady i believe is an @inquisitorhotpants creation.

Never believe anything until you've seen the body.

Eirn had said that about herself, years before - rolling her eyes as another shocked ally/enemy learned the hard/best way that she wasn't nearly as dead as everyone kept trying to pretend. She'd died on Quesh, she'd died on the orbital station on Hoth, she'd died on Corellia, she'd died on Ilum, she'd died a hundred times if you believed the rumours. She collected the best of them, like stamps, and always tried to argue it was a flattery, of a kind.

(She'd used it to berate herself, as well, when Draagh had pulled himself from death and hounded her steps, an augmented revenant who lashed out at her as though doing so might bring him anything but ruin)

Quinn had never stopped hating the blasé way she treated rumours of her death; primarily, if he was honest, because he hated the thought that one day, they might accurate. The only ones she hadn't scorned had been her own parents, and Quinn suspected that was more because they were her parents than anything else.

(She'd applied the same maxim to her sister, or tried to, but when weeks turned into months and then years with no evidence of Anya having cheated death, she'd spent a week in mourning dress and made an apologetic offering to the Red Lady - one of the vanishingly few times in her life that Quinn had ever glimpsed Sith superstition in action)

These newcomers, though, were no ordinary enemy, and Quinn knew enough of space warfare to know that it was vanishingly rare that all those lost in battle were accounted for. His own father's body had never been recovered - had been half the reason his mother had clung to that same ridiculous hope he now harboured, in the face of all likelihood and probability.

'She's not,' Jaesa said, her tone - for once - authoritative and certain in a way that Quinn envied and feared.

He'd never trusted Jaesa Willsaam - she was simultaneously too Sith to never be a danger to Eirn, and too un-Sith to be a trusted ally of the Empire. Eirn, for all her heresies and unorthodoxies, was Sith through-and-through; Jaesa, by contrast, was still far too Jedi for Quinn's comfort. Still, the words that passed her lips here and now were ones that Quinn desired to cling to - a hypocrisy, perhaps.

'You don't know that,' Vette argued - Vette, who hadn't stopped blubbing since they'd first heard the news of the fleet's fate. The Republic had been the ones to pull the survivors out of the maw, of course - a relative handful of escape pods, their occupants used to barter for prisoners of war who'd all told the same stories of the Empire's Wrath - of her heroism, of her sacrifice.

'I can,' Jaesa retorted. 'I- It's hard to explain,' the Sith continued, sighing irritably, 'But she- something in the Force changed. And Darth Marr- I felt him pass.'

The Force, according to all the Sith who'd spoken of it in Quinn's earshot, had mourned him - the Empire, Quinn knew, had just suffered a blow worse than any the Republic had dealt it in all their years of war. The Dark Council, which had ruled for years in Vitiate's stead and which finally stepped into his place in the chaos after Ziost, was leaderless and but a hair's breadth from tearing itself apart. Quinn knew Sith well enough to know that the battle lines were being drawn, and while there were some who served the Empire first - there were others who served only themselves, and who would sooner wage war on rival Sith than the Republic - never mind this new enemy.

'But- Eir,' Jaesa added - using, as so many did, the shortest form of Eirn's name (the one she hated, but had long given up trying to dissuade anyone from using; the one Quinn could actually pronounce, and the one he refrained from using all the same).'I've tried reaching out,' she added, sighing irritably again. 'I can't- find her. Maybe I'm just not- powerful enough. But- the Force hasn't- mourned her. Not like it should, if she- had,' she finished, apparently just as able to use those words as Quinn himself was.

'What was that she always said,' Pierce rumbled, not looking up from where he was taking apart his blaster. 'Never believe anything-'

-

-until you've seen the body.

There she was, though, in far-too-sharp resolution, bent and bowed before the Zakuulan Emperor, her execution made into a spectacle for all the galaxy to see. Eirnhaya Illte-Quinn, who'd hated the spotlight - who'd done everything she could to avoid publicity, who'd only ever wanted to serve quietly, dragged out in front of every sentient with a holo, and murdered in front of a cheering crowd.

Quinn couldn't watch, couldn't not watch. Couldn't stop throwing up. Sobbed until he passed out, and woke some hours later wishing that he hadn't.

-

It was a Sith proverb, he knew that much, though for the life of him he could never remember the original wording. He half remembered Eirn half joking that they should found a new Sith line, with that as their motto, and he hadn't been able to stop grinning for a week at the thought of a legacy worth remembering.

-

Jaesa, for all that Quinn had never trusted her, was the only one who would believe him, and he simultaneously loved and hated her for it. The hope that Zakuul had lied was both what kept him going and what threatened to destroy him - hanging over him, threatening to shatter and to take the last of his sanity along with it.

The Empire, though, took Zakuul at their word - Eirn was declared legally dead, her estate divided up according to her last will and testament and her crew scattered to the wind. Broonmark had long gone by then, disappearing into the Kaas jungles and never returning; Pierce was reassigned, and Vette - who he'd never gotten along with, who he tolerated mostly for Eirn's sake - disappeared, taking her few things from the apartment and vanishing entirely.

Her allies and contacts, such as they were, were utterly unhelpful and unresponsive. Darth Vowrawn responded only to his calls with a polite form letter sent by an attendant, Darth Marr's apprentices were too busy fighting amongst themselves, Rathari had gone to ground more thoroughly than ever. Even Acina, who'd once made a point of seeking him out, ignored most of his pleas and responded to the few she did with brusque annoyance, and Quinn re-realised that for all that he'd achieved, for all that Eirn had always insisted otherwise - he was, compared to her, utterly worthless.

-

'-I cannot allow this to continue, Captain. You are continuing to waste Imperial resources-'

'I hardly consider it to be a waste, Minister. The Empire's Wrath-'

'Captain. I know that you and she were close,' Lorman began - talking to him as though he were a child who still believed in monsters under his bed, 'And you have my condolences, truly. But your insistence on this- mockery is utterly unhelpful-'

Close. That word didn't even begin to do it justice. He'd never understood the phrase other half until Eirn, not really. She'd told him once that he made everything possible - that without him, she could never have done so much of what she had. Be here, she'd said, be you. That's all I need. In the weeks - months - following her disappearance, he'd come to realise he was much the same; that without her, it felt like part of himself was missing - that the parts of the world that she'd made make sense were just as alien, again, as they'd been without her, and all the more so for the way he knew that she'd have transformed them from an insurmountable challenge to conquerable trial merely by the act of standing at his side.

'Minister,' Quinn replied, attempting to steady himself, 'I have the word of a powerful Sith-'

'Yes,' Lorman snapped, 'I've heard Lord Willsaam's prattling too, but she's one Sith. One ex-Jedi Sith,' he added, sneering pointedly, 'which does not exactly engender trust. Tell me, Captain,' he added, 'Have you considered that she is just telling you what you want to hear?'

Of course he had, but the possibility hurt too much to give it much time and contemplation. He couldn't answer Lorman's accusation, though, which just made the Minister smile.

'As I thought,' he smirked, and Quinn saw red.

-

Of course, every time he felt like he'd hit a new low, life insisted on reminding him that there was further still that he could fall.

-

Offerings to the Red Lady were rarely made by non-Sith, but they happened; Quinn's last act as a free man was one in Eirn's honour. Incense of a perfume she'd favoured, a bouquet of ziiberry blossoms - small, delicate, purple flowers, of the same sort she'd worn on their wedding day - tied with a white ribbon, chosen for the heresies they'd argued over as much as not.

He refused to believe that she was dead, but offerings for the safe return of the lost living were as frequent - if not more - than those in memory of the dead. Quinn was not a superstitious man in the slightest, and he knew that Eirn largely distanced herself from Red Sith culture - but when mourning her family, she'd found a sort of comfort in the ritual of it, and he found a tie to her that he clung to as if for dear life.

That fate had allowed him this before Lorman's men had placed him under arrest was- hideously theatrical, he caught himself realising. He could almost hear Eirn humming the funerary march from Ashaara just to annoy him - her and Vette badly singing the duet as off-key as they could manage, and he wished, in that moment, that he'd never once complained about it.

-

He had a recurring dream, in the times between; of Ziost, of the place he'd known as her hometown and of the lifeless husk it had become. Sometimes she was there, amongst the ashes; sometimes, she was amongst the fallen. Sometimes she wasn't there at all, and he'd realise just before waking that was because she'd left him there, alone.

-

That Acina, of all people, ended up as Empress of the Sith was not a twist Quinn would have predicted. Acina had ambition, certainly, but was reclusive with it - seemed as likely to outlast her fellow Councillors than outsmart them. When the dust settled, though, the makeup of the Dark Council was little changed, and Acina was Marr's - and Vitiate's - unlikely heir.

He was at least allowed - required - to shave himself, to dress appropriately, despite the depths to which he'd fallen. He wondered - had to wonder - if Acina wanted to gloat; assuming, of course, she'd ever considered him a rival at all.

'Captain Quinn. A pleasure, as always,' she oozed - just as shallowly charming as she'd attempted to be when she'd sat on the Dark Council.

He smiled, his former rank as much a painful memory as everything else that had been ripped from him. 'I am afraid my rank is a distant memory, Empress.'

'A pity,' Acina mused, drumming her fingers on her desk. 'You and I never saw eye to eye,' she added, 'But even so, I recognise an asset when I see one. Your tactical acumen, your tenacious nature... you should never have ended up where you are. It's criminal that you did,' she mused, smirking a little to herself at her pun.

Quinn said nothing; Acina was presumably going somewhere with this, and he was not inclined to stop her. The sooner whatever charade she wanted was over, the sooner he could get back to losing his mind.

'Tell me something,' Acina added, shifting her position, 'Do you still believe your wife to be alive?'

A trap if he'd ever seen one. Nobody who wasn't a psychiatrist had asked him that in years; Acina was more powerful than all the psychiatrists in the Empire, though, and didn't have nearly as spartan an office as any shrink he'd ever been forced to justify himself to.

He licked his lips, nervously - his mouth suddenly dry, his throat suddenly trying to close up on itself.

Lie, his self-preservation whispered.

'I- do,' he replied, though - his voice cracking, through disuse as much as the emotions currently trying to throttle him. 'Empress.'

Acina smiled; the smile of Sith, pleased and cruel and merciless. 'I was hoping you'd say that.'

-

A pardon. A promotion - a job, authority, respect. War, and rumours of war - six years of news that he'd been hiding from, terrified that the one thought that kept him waking up in the mornings might be shattered by a single careless word.

Better/Worse:

Security briefing [and he always skimread through this section, because it was always the same, to the extent that if it was the same shape as the day before's he knew he could ignore it] Guests due today [and he usually ignored this one entirely too, because he hated only one thing more than that possibility and that was having to interact with strangers] Eirnhaya Illte-Quinn [and he reread that one until his caf had gone cold and still couldn't bring himself to believe that he wasn't the punchline of someone's idea of a funny prank]

-

Except, no, there she was. Smiling faintly when Acina greeted her, shadowed by her own entourage - dressed in armour he didn't recognise, and with an expression, when she thought nobody was looking, that he did. Distant enough, across the palace grounds, that he could duck out of sight - could watch her move, and try to convince himself that that what he was seeing was real. When she glanced around at Kaas City - at what it had become, in her absence - she was searching, and for a moment, he could have sworn she looked right at him.

If she saw him, she ignored him; if she didn't, then she moved on regardless.

-

He spent a good twenty minutes retching in the fresher, nervous terror consuming him in a way it hadn't in what felt like lifetimes.

-

By the time he returned - by the time he gathered enough courage to seek out the Imperial guard, to attempt to engage with what should have been his duties - it was to news he did not want to hear.

'The Empress and the Alliance representatives have already left the palace, Major. They are not due back for another three hours.'

Quinn swallowed, nervous terror refusing to let go of his throat - the conviction that he'd made a mistake, that he was worrying for nothing, that if he was this cowardly she wouldn't have cared to reunite with him anyway.

'Alright,' he just managed - babbled, 'Thank you.'

There would, he told himself, be later.

-

Except, of course, there wasn't.

-

The Imperial Palace was gripped by chaos, of course - an emergency session of the Dark Council was to be called, but until that happened, Minister Lorman had stepped in and taken charge. Quinn knew that there were a million and ten things that he should have been doing, but all he could think about was the haunted expression on her face that she'd tried so hard to keep from all her other observers, and the polite smile when she'd greeted Acina, and taste of his own bile, clawing at the back of his throat.

-

'Never believe anything,' she'd once said, curled around him, half asleep, 'until- well, you know.'

He'd thought, obscenely, of his father - and of the grief and denial that had gripped his mother for far too long. 'That's not always possible, Eihn,' he'd replied, eventually - stroking her hair, absent-mindedly, and smiling faintly as she purred against him.

'It is,' she’d retorted, still half asleep, 'You just gotta be determined. No such thing as a perfect crime.'

'I think,' Quinn had replied, eventually, 'We're talking about very different things.'

Her response, to that, had just been a gentle snore.

-

He woke up in a hospital ward, first unsure of how he'd gotten there, and then unsure he'd truly wanted to remember. The kolto-stained bandages told their own story - one he wished he didn't know the prelude for, and which insisted on replaying itself on infinite loop, regardless.

'Captain.' The attending physician was one he knew - one Eirn had known, one who'd never asked too many questions about how she'd ended up needing the attention she did. 'Sorry,' she corrected, 'Major. I'm glad to see you're awake.'

There were flowers on the nightstand: purple lilies, with blood red stamens, and a handwritten, hand-signed card.

-

Acina's expression, once he was well enough to receive visitors (once he was well enough to be received; the Sith Empress could hardly be drifting into a public hospital, especially so soon after an attempt on her life) was more worried than it was anything else - a cause for his own concern all by itself.

'My apologies, Empress-'

'No,' Acina replied, shaking her head. 'I should be the one apologising, Major. I should have included you more, as soon as I knew she'd be coming. Instead...' she trailed off, sighing. 'The Alliance are yet to make their decision on- well, on an alliance, Acina confessed, 'But if they do- I'm certain she'd be more than happy to hear from you.'

'Empress,' he started, finally finding the words to voice this thought, 'Not that I'm ungrateful, but- why do you care?'

'You are precious to her,' Acina replied, 'And that makes you precious to me, and to the Empire. Never forget that, Major.'

-

At least, he tried to reflect, he could admit to the psychiatrists that kept being inflicted on him that she was alive, without them using this as proof he needed to be medicated - or worse. Losing control of himself, handing it off to drugs and doctors - it sat unpleasantly with him at the best of times, and this was not the best of times.

-

The Alliance, it turned out, did not consider standing with the Sith Empire to be in their interest. The decision visibly annoyed Acina, and puzzled Quinn; he wondered, for a long moment, if Eirn had decided that herself - if it was a decision blamed on Lorman, if it was a decision made in order to avoid him. He knew she'd been deeply disillusioned, in the wake of Ziost - grieving her homeworld, her parents, almost her entire extended family, blamed by the Dark Council for her service to Vitiate and dragged before them in a sham of a show trial. They'd been satisfied with her loyalty and oaths of fealty, in the end, but she'd come away from it with a distance and a hatred in her that she'd never had before, and he'd ended up wondering just how long it would be until that hatred festered into something worse.

(It hadn't had a chance, though; Darth Marr had offered her a place at his side, out in wild space, and she'd answered that call eagerly - determined to make the monster that had destroyed so much of what she'd held dear pay)

-

Still, he could find himself a purpose; tried to comfort himself with the notion that she was yet alive, and that perhaps- perhaps, he simply left that thought, before clinging to it as he attempted not to drown.

-

The world turned. The galaxy turned. He watched the news from Zakuul half-heartedly and half desperately, but Eirn had long perfected staying out of the spotlight. She'd been denied it on her own terms, and rejected it entirely on the terms of others, and other than Zakuul's sham execution, had succeeded quite admirably. It was a skill Quinn had always admired, and currently hated; there were rumours, to be sure, of the (arrogant, apparently - why did people always reach for that insult?) Outlander Sith who'd struck down Zakuul's God-Emperor, but never anything concrete. Never any proof.

Never a body.

It was morbid, but it gave him a reason to wake up.

-

Some time after the dust should have settled, his morning briefing contained a summons; nothing more, just a summons to Acina's offices - a time, an instruction to be prompt and well-turned out. Not that he was ever not these things, but the additional instruction gave him worried pause.

-

He was waved through her security, which continued to worry him; Acina's secretary offered him a smile, which definitely worried him.

-

Empress, she was saying, I'm only here because-

The bolt of fear was all but overwhelming; for a moment, he was convinced that she wasn't there at all - that she was there for Acina, that he shouldn't have even bothered-

- but there she was, in the flesh. Wearing the same, soft, lazy style of clothing she'd always favoured, on her lazy days; a lightsaber he didn't recognise on her hip, and shadows he knew far too well in her eyes.

'eihn?' he managed - his voice crumbling along with his resolve - with his conviction that he should even be there, with the terror that had been lurking ever since he’d read his summons.

'vai?' she just replied - just as overwhelmed, he realised, the knowledge imposing itself on him unpleasantly.

For a long moment, neither of them moved - not consciously, anyway, not other than to shake (her, barely visibly trembling but doing so all the same; him, swallowing back fear and nerves and hope and shuddering with the effort) - and then, of all things, she was around him, her arms clutching him in a tight, inescapable hug, her face buried into his shoulder, her body pressed as closely into his as their clothing allowed, and- she was solid and real and she smelled of- of her, of travel and poor sleep and the attempt to disguise this with scented deodorant, of Imperial-standard-issue dry shampoo and caf from one of the better stands in the city market.

('I'll let you two get reacquainted,' Acina purred, choosing to step out of the room, despite her ownership of it - but she was far outside of his awareness, of both of their awarenesses)

'you're real,' he just managed, stupidly - clutching her just as tightly, aware acutely of the tears that were soaking into her shoulder as he clung to her, turn.

'really real,' she replied, and he realised she was weeping, too, and that just made him cling to her all the more.