#I am bouncing off the walls I am skittering up them I am foaming at the mouth and have broken containment

[possibly-not-a-ghost]

Wriothesley and Arlecchino

Okay but can we talk about Wriothesley and Arlecchino for a second because I am bouncing off the walls thinking about the two of them in relation to each other.

Spoilers for Wriothesley's story quest and voice lines below!

Recently, I've been thinking about how isolated Wriothesley is in terms of characters and how much or how little would change if he were not to exist or be a designated playable character. I love that man don't get me wrong but I was was just thinking about why he was made into something of such importance. Literally, he's in an underwater prison and they could've had an NPC warden with the same traits. Figuratively, we know he has a very dubious ability to trust as seen is voice line.

I've managed to get myself to a pretty comfortable place in life, but there's still some things I want that are outside my reach, like a peaceful and happy childhood, or the ability to trust other people. - More About Wriothesley: V

Anyways after watching the trailer with Arlecchino, I was struck with how much Wriothesley and Arlecchino both parallel each other or perhaps could even serve as each other's foils depending on how Arle's lore will change upon release!

Both were orphans. Each had siblings they were raised and some of which did not survive. Both killed their parental figures while young. But whereas Wriothesley was convicted and exiled for his crimes, Arlecchino was pardoned and not only that but her crimes were 'rewarded' with the title as Harbinger. (I use reward in a dubious sense as we don't know how she felt about her inherited title yet or if she was more or less thrust into it with no real agency in the matter.)

She was given a new name, Wriothesley chose his and discarded the one his adopted parents gave him.

God, even the start of the short when "Mother" is telling a story to the children we see how the future where they'd be pitted against each other but through their eyes. The colors are soft and bright. It's a child-like rendition of the brutal reality that Arle would later be faced with.

During Wriothesley's story quest, we learn the full extent of his backstory. He was being fostered by a couple who seemed perfectly lovely and loving but the truth of the matter was that they were trafficking the children under their care. That, or 'disposing' of them if they were useless or found out the truth. To use a veneer of love, of kindness and safety and that have that shattered in the most brutal of betrayals. Sounds familiar, huh?

"They did all of that, but never considered how their actions would utterly ruin all the children they took under their wing. Worse, perhaps they never cared about that at all."

—But I did.

Wriothesley, who took extreme actions and murdered his foster parents so the other children could live and be free, shouldering that sin.

Arlecchino who presumably had her siblings blood on her hands. Who had no siblings left but murdered "Mother" anyways. (I'm not entirely sold that her friend didn't throw herself on Arle's sword but nvm) and once alone, was placed back into that cycle that made her as we see her today in the first place.

Do I ship them? Do I want them to be found family? Enemies? Distant acquaintances? YESS I just want to see them interact with each other, hoyo please.

[scribeofmorpheus]

As Fate Would Have It (Part 15)

Paring: 1940s!Bucky x Spy!Reader

Catch Up here | Masterlist

Words: 4.1k | Note: Reader’s alias is Elle/Helen

A/N: Listen I know I said I’d take a pause with updating this series like a day ago -and I also know I said the last chapter was the final 1940′s storyline, BUT! I had another bout of insomnia and had this story stuck in my mind!

Warnings: Graphic violence, blood, torture, themes of POW, PTSD

Note: We’re finally using the Y/N abbreviation here kiddos! I haven’t proofread!

Highly recommend you listen to any of these pieces with the chapter: I will find you | Frozen in Time | If You Care (song)

Feel free to ask to be tagged, leave a like, reblog or comment ♥

~Some Time Later~

"Commencing test number eleven of phase two," Dr Zola spoke into the voice recorder placed on the medical table. His small hands flipped the switch of the device you were strapped into and the hum of electric currents rang in your one good ear- the other eardrum was still healing from weeks prior.

"Ahhhhhh!" Your shrill screams overlapped with the buzzing sound of the electric chair. The air was filled with the smell of burned hair and your mouth tasted like foam. Your vision in one eye was blurred with a red haze from the ruptured blood vessel.

Dr Zola flipped the switch off after your screams dissipated into hoarse shrieks, "The subject’s pain threshold seems to have grown exponentially since her last dose." He signalled for the squirmy man dressed in doctor scrubs to go towards you. In silence, he stalked towards you, hand holding a syringe with a six-inch needle and bent your head down so he could administer the contents of the syringe between the ridges of your spinal cord.

"The twelfth dose has now been administered," Dr Zola spoke out in observation. You swore under your breath at him. He simply turned his head to the side like a dog confused by high pitched sounds.

"And now for the second step," he urged his assisting scientist to begin the second part of the experiment. He walked over after having grabbed a scalpel and pressed it into the muscle between your elbow and wrist on the arm with less scaring and sliced down in a perfectly symmetrical line. The blade separated your flesh in a slow and gruelling manner making you hiss behind your clenched jaw. Blood spilt out and dripped onto the floor letting out wet splashing noises every time blood dripped down. The man placed the scalpel back on the medical table before joining Dr Zola's side with a clipboard and pen while the doctor started his stopwatch.

They watched on edge, their eyes skittering from the stopwatch to your still open wound in anticipation of some change they could catalogue. One minute passed and they jotted down something on their clipboard. Two and their faces grew grimmer. Three and Dr Zola looked almost red with anger. Finally after five minutes passed it was clear nothing profound would happen.

You laughed defiantly before you spit out the blood that had accumulated in your cheek. It splattered close to their shoes making them scowl at you in disgust. "Look at that, I'm still a failed experiment!" Your laughs echoed weakly around the room infuriating the two men.

"Do it," Dr Zola said coldly.

His assistant nodded and flipped the same switch from before, this time with the dial cranked a few volts higher. Electricity burned into your flesh from the metal restraints that only got hotter the longer the current passed through them. Your nails were digging into the tattered leather straps that fastened you to the chair, hundreds of half-moon marks accumulating from all the time spent in this particular torture room.

All of a sudden, Dr Zola's eyes lit up as he stared down at your sliced open arm, "Turn it off!"

The buzzing stopped and the current was held at bay, your body trembling as it tried to reset itself. You had a hard time moving your head, but when you finally got it positioned so you could see your arm, your one good eye went wide and then blinked in quick succession as you tried to make sure you weren't hallucinating. Your wound was healing right before your eyes. Sluggishly and very easy to miss if you didn't stare at it for a long time, but it was indeed healing.

"Ha! Ha! We have had our first breakthrough!" Dr Zola cheered with pride as his assistant walked closer to monitor your arm thoroughly.

"It seems you were right Dr Zola. With a controlled amount of your serum present within a subject's bloodstream, rapid cellular regeneration is possible. Perhaps this could finally unlock the secrets to immortality." The assistant said with a naive smile on his face.

Dr Zola paused for a moment, no longer stewing in his glory, "Yes well, hypothesizing is one thing. We still need to find a way to trigger the healing process without requiring an external electric current to excite the molecules within a body."

"One small step Herr Zola!" The assistant said triumphantly.

Dr Zola ignored the younger scientist as he looked down at his watch with a troubled expression, "Log your findings with the rest of the data. Try and replicate the results with a new subject. I am needed elsewhere, Schmidt has asked me to accompany him as he tours the Austrian weapons factory. You will be in charge of the experiments on this level. Return her to her cell."

The young assistant saluted and hailed. Dr Zola mirrored his actions before fixing his collar and walking out of the room.

***

It had felt like months since Dr Zola left for Austria. Despite his absence, the experiments didn't stop.

Your days all blended together to form one long unending day that repeated over and over like clockwork. For a long time, you had held onto the hope that you'd manage to escape this hellish place, but after four failed attempts you had given up on that dream. Your body wasn't in any physical condition to fight as well anymore, the constant tests and drugs flushed in your system at any given time rendered you useless. All you could do was hold onto your last wits to keep your sanity from snapping. Most nights you'd think about your small Brooklyn apartment or the hideous diner outfit you'd wear to work.

You made it a rule to only think about the harmless things. The little things that wouldn't bring you pain or make you feel even more alone in the dark. That was a privilege reserved for the memories of the people you loved and the sweet torment they brought to your dreams. No matter how each dream began it would always, always, transition into an unstoppable nightmare.

You'd occasionally wake up in a cold sweat after dreaming of better circumstances; going dancing with Sally; lounging on vacation with Bucky; playing board games with Steve. Each time they'd all end the same: with them ripped away from you.

A little scatter of sunlight shone down on your face, alerting you to the fact it was day time. You turned to your side to face the wall marked by number tallies. You had stopped trying to keep track of the days after you spent an unknown number of days in a medically induced coma. You'd figured there wasn't any point.

The sound of banging on your door forced you to stand on jelly legs, eyes still foggy as you swayed from your inner ear being off balance.

"Back against the wall!" A guard shouted.

You did as he said, although it took a little effort to keep your knees from caving beneath you.

The door opened and two guards walked in, one bound your hands behind your back while the other kept the door open. When you were marched out of your room, you noticed the entire base was bathed in red light as several other prisoners were ushered out of their rooms -all looking as worse for wear as you did.

"Wha- What's going on?" You croaked out.

The guard behind you grumbled, refusing to answer your question.

"Prisoner transfer," a strange man said from the adjacent line beside you. He was hobbling on one leg while another prisoner helped him stay upright. His bony back was hunched over to the point you could just make out the needle tracks along the base of his spine. It seemed you had something in common.

Your head bobbed from side to side, making sure none of the guards noticed you before you asked: "How do you know?"

He leaned closer so he could whisper a little louder, "I heard the scientists talking next to my cell. Something happened. They're scared. We're being transported to another facility."

You ducked closer with interest, "Where?"

"Russia."

***

The convoy's journey was long and uncomfortable, the flaps from the tarp covering the trucks did little to keep the biting cold at bay. You and several strangers dressed in the same monochromatic garbs huddled together like a bundle of shivering sticks in a futile attempt to stay warm. The guards didn't bother to post people in the back with you. Most of you posed no threat and there would be no chance of surviving this cold without sight of shelter or civilisation for miles.

The truck took the bumpy road with no finesse at all. Every pothole caused the truck to bounce and jostle you all about. The creaking noise of the chassis bumping against the frozen shock suspension had become as synonymous to your good ear as the incessant ringing that persisted in the other. On multiple occasions, you would accidentally slam your body against the cold metal of the truck. You'd groan in protest since your organs were already sore from all the poking and prodding that had become your routine. The entire ride was grievous, it was like being strapped to a piece of debris amidst a tsunami, so when a loud noise cracked through the silence, filling your vision with a hot white flash and overturning the truck, your only reaction was to brace your body for the coming impact.

Akin to dominoes toppling one after the other, each truck in the convoy behind you suffered similar fates. One was heaved off the ground and turned on its side by a controlled explosion below the front wheels while another swerved out of control from a series of sharp whistling noises that left circular holes atop the hood of the car.

Chaos ensued as your vision was bombarded by flashes of bright lights and explosive flames roaring to life. The sound of gunfire and screams and cries of agony mixed together to form a deafening cacophony of anxiety and fear. Your heart caught in your dry throat as adrenaline shot up in pin prickling spikes across your tender muscled back.

The younger you would have seized this opportunity to hunt for a weapon and make a break for it, but instead of doing exactly what you had been trained to do, you simply cowered in the overturned truck -your hands covering your ears as your molars ground against each other.

Another explosion went off close to the truck. Shrapnel tore through the tarp and planted itself into your thigh and shoulder and back. The multiple screams of pain coming from everyone else in the truck proved you weren't the only one whose body was now acquainted with foreign metal shards.

It wasn't until you felt warm liquid dampen the edge of your trousers that you were forced out of your stupor. Blinking erratically, you tried to sit up and make sure none of your arteries were punctured. To your relief, you realised the blood wasn't yours. But as soon as that revelation sunk in, your blood turned cold all over again as you looked over to the one-legged man before going into shock.

"Fuck! No..." You scurried with shaky hands to his side, your breathing escalating to pants. "Hey, hey…I need you to focus. Hey-" You slapped his cheeks in quick successions. "What's your name?"

"What?" He asked, discombobulated from everything that was happening.

"Your name?" You asked again while tearing cloth from your shirt to act as a tourniquet around his leg.

"H- Hans..." he said with a weak smile.

"Okay Hans, I need you to apply pressure here," you moved his ridged hand towards the spot where blood slithering oozing out. "That's good Hans. Now I need you to stay awake."

You turned to the other scared prisoners, looking for a face that seemed less afraid than the other.

"I need you to keep him talking," you ordered a young woman. She was shaking, but her eyes were more astute than the rest. Despite her quivering lips and blue-tipped fingers, you knew she would oblige.

"O- Okay," she quivered as she knelt beside Hans and tried to hold a conversation.

Hesitantly, you left the confines of the truck and headed to the driver’s seat where you hoped to find a first aid kit. Prying the door open was difficult on account of your weak arms. The door had jammed from a dent caused by the flip. You lifted your leg and leaned against the car door as you pulled the handle until it came loose. You cursed, threw the handle and kicked in the glass window.  One of the shards was large enough for you to catch a glimpse of your reflection by your feet. You had grown accustomed to the reality that being someone's lab rat would leave you with scars that wouldn't heal, but somehow it always shook you to your core when you were reminded of how unfamiliar your hair colour had become. When the shocks first started, you had noticed a few slivers of hair turning silver. Now… now your whole head was the same colour as the snow you were currently standing in. You look almost ghostly. In a way, you felt that was truer than much else.

You kicked the glass away, not wanting to waste any more time lamenting what had become of you, and slinked your arm through the window. Patting down against the corpse of the driver and underside of his seat.

Bang!

Another explosion went off, birthing black smoke around it. You jumped and cut your arm on some jagged glass before taking three short breaths.

"Come on Y/N, you can do this."

You reached back into the car and kept feeling around for something. Your muscles instinctively flinching when a gunshot went off. Finally, after spending far too long in the open, you found something you could use: a lighter and a knife. You grabbed the concealed handgun from the driver's boot for safety.

Walking back you noticed a trail of red spots that undoubtedly belonged to you. You had to compartmentalise. One step at a time. All you could think of was getting Hans to stop bleeding.

"Hans, hey… Look at that, you're still talking," you said.

He half chocked on a faltering laugh, "Once I start talking, you can't- Tsssss! Can't… Ahhh! Get me to stop..."

You began burning the tip of the knife with the lighter, "I'm going to dig the shrapnel out before I cauterise the wound. I need you to talk through the pain."

"Heh, you know… you kind of remind me of my wife. I drove her to grow grey hairs too early too," he said reminiscently.

"Where's your wife now?" You asked as you removed the knife from the flame. He didn't answer.

After some struggling breaths, Hans asked: "You ever married?"

Your eye twitched at his question forcing you to close your eyes for a second. Then you looked up at his searching gaze with a smile that felt too heavy to carry, "Only in my nightmares." You tried to amuse him.

He let out what should have sounded like a laugh but came off as a series of groans and hisses.

Without warning him, you dug the knife into his wound and fished out the piece of shrapnel in one nerve-wracking move. He bit down on a belt the girl beside you had given him as you finished up burning his intrusive cut closed.

Once he stabilised you noticed the gunfire had stopped. The sound of boots crunching in the snow grew louder. You cocked the gun and pointed it with unsteady aim out towards the open snow. The gun seemed to grow heavier as your eyesight kept going in and out of focus. Vertigo set in as the thrumming of your heart resonated in your ears. When the boots stopped in front of you, the gun slipped from our hands. You looked down and noticed you hadn't stopped bleeding, your skin was beginning to pale.

"Shit..." you said groggily.

Your head hit the ground hard, your body half out of the cover of the truck. Above you stood a woman wearing an eyepatch with short blonde hair and a cigarette held between her yellowing teeth.

She knelt beside you, machine gun slung against her chest, and ducked her head to see into the truck better. She gave a sarcastic salute to the group of scared prisoners before saying in fluent Russian: "Welcome to Mother Russia."

She looked down at you again and smiled, "You look like shit, tovarishch..."

A gasp of air left your blueing lips as your eyelids closed shut.

***

The echoes of the events that transpired played like muffled noises coming through weak walls. Eventually, the noises grew more savage- deafening to the point your body jerked at each reverberation of a gunshot or explosion that your mind brought to life in your semi-conscious state. Soon, discombobulated memories began to overlap with each loud bang.

Bang!

"Report."

Bang!

"You make a habit of flirting with waitresses you just met, Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome?"

Bang!

"Only the beautiful ones. Call me Bucky, it's shorter -and that smug mess is Steve,"

Bang!

"You ready, doll?"

Bang…

"You're my safe harbour. I want you to know that."

Bang!

"Sweet dreams."

BANG!

"Gahhh!" You gasped awake, the nape of your neck sticky with sweat. You woke up in a tent, the door flap folded half-open to reveal a dying fire. The horizon breaking with the first glints of a sunrise. Several other tents were pitched up. The smell of coffee, cigarettes and grease was mixed with the cold mountain air. By your bedside was a change of clothes and the same gun you had fished off the dead driver.

***

Yelena had just finished briefing the skeleton mercenary crew about their travel trajectory. They began to pack down their tents after she gave them the last of her money. Her things were already packed so she decided to sit by the dying fire and wait.

Yelena scrunched her nose in disgust. The coffee tasted like piss, but little could be done to correct that. Her yellowing fingertips absentmindedly brushed at her eyepatch. The phantom pain had returned with a vengeance ever since she rescued Y/N from the Hydra convoy. Her stomach grew uneasy as bile crept up to her throat. Regret and anger weighing her down like a stone, drowning her in her own petty sorrows.

Click-

The sound of a guns hammer being pushed back brought a smile to her face.

"I was wondering when you'd wake up, tovarishch..." she took a sip of her piss water and immediately regretted it, but she swallowed it down. “I like the hair."

"Give me. One! Reason..." Y/N struggled to say in a raspy voice.

Yelena flinched at how coarse her former subordinate’s voice had become. Without looking up, Yelena said solemnly, "I can't."

"The fuck kind of excuse is that?" She was seething.

"It isn't."

"Where are the other survivors?"

"We salvaged a vehicle," Yelena looked at her men and shook her head to tell them to stand down. "I sent them off."

"Are you here to take me back?"

"No..."

"I don't believe you!"

"There's nothing to go back to."

The gun in Y/N's hand shook, "Then why come for me?"

"It was always the plan. Once Hydra was through with you, we'd swoop in and bring you home." Yelena lit a cigarette between her bare lips. "And either way, you'd have succeeded in your mission. In place of research, we'd have you."

"You sold me out so I could be a glorified lab rat?"

"You would never have gotten away with it. Faking your death never sticks. Not for long. Your mind has always been limited with thinking of the now. I had to make a tough call that would ensure you lived to see tomorrow." Yelena dusted the snow from her trousers, tossed the remaining coffee on the fire and turned to face Y/N and her loaded gun. "This wasn't a rescue mission. There is no cavalry coming. No one to call."

Y/N hit Yelena square in the jaw with the butt of her gun. Yelena saw the blow coming but chose to let it stick. She chuckled lifelessly after spitting out droplets of blood.

"What of the Red Room?"

"As far as they're concerned, once we lost the war you were declared KIA. It's just me now. I got Intel of the convoy, I took a chance."

"Am I supposed to thank you?" Y/N squinted her eye, the other suffered too much trauma to do more than twitch. "You sold me out! You let them take me… You let them experiment on me for months!" Her voice cracked as a tear ran down her cheek.

"Months?" Yelena asked with confusion. "Tovarishch, what year do you think it is?"

Y/N stumbled backwards, "Wh- What? It's… It's 1942… Maybe '43."

Yelena's eye grew wide, "Tovarishch… it's 1947."

"N- No. No, no, no! No. It can't be..." Y/N's breathing became frantic, the gun rattling in her hand. "I kept count. I- I couldn't have been in that coma longer than a week! I- I- I--!"

Yelena saw the trademarks of a panic attack about to ensue and took a chance and slapped Y/N across the face. The lack of warning caused her to fire off a shot from her gun. Yelena was lucky she had already moved out of her sights, but then another gunshot sounded out and one of her men fell into the snow, red staining the white.

Everyone ducked. One of her men examined the bullet hole.

"Soviet slug, no rifling!" He shouted.

Fear soaked Yelena's bloodstream, "He found us..."

"Who found you?" Y/N asked.

Yelena turned to look Y/N in the eye, "Listen to me tovarishch. We don't have time. Here-" She handed her a folded map stuffed with several papers. "Co-ordinates to a safe house half a day’s walk from here. Papers to get you on a boat. There's a village close by, a man rents sled dogs. He knows you're coming." Yelena signalled for her men to assume defensive positions.

"Why are you doing all this?" Y/N asked.

A sad smile crossed Yelena's face, "You were right to want more. To have that moronic idea of freedom. I- I lost everything. You are all that's left. My one good act."

"This doesn't make up for what you did."

Yelena's smile grew wider, "Nothing can ever make up for the things I've done."

Another sniper shot thundered through the mountains taking another one of her men.

Y/N froze at the sound. When she regained her composure she looked at Yelena with a baffled expression, "What happened?"

Yelena's hand returned to her eyepatch for a brief second, "I flew too close to the sun. Now go!"

Y/N shared a prolonged moment with Yelena in silence. In that sacred space, they had said everything they needed to in order to gain closure without uttering a word. Somehow they both knew once it was over, they would be right back to where they were, scrambling to give each other the catharsis they sought after.

Y/N was the first to break eye contact, lifting her weary body up so she could make a break for the cover of the woods. This was Yelena's last chance to say something.

"Y/N!" Yelena forced her to look behind. "Promise me one thing. Leave it all behind. Everything. The past… it will only bring you pain."

"I can't do that…"Y/N looked at the sun breaking through the dusk. “Pain is all I have left."

And then she was gone.

***

Yelena lay on the cold ground, blood pooling around her as the sound of her last man’s dying breaths was snuffed out by someone’s boot.

Paralysed from the waist down, her eyes were glued to the white clouds dancing about. One, in particular, looked like a rabbit. It reminded her of Y/N's white hair. Another reminder of her failures.

"Ahhh, there it is," she swallowed her own blood with a humorous chuckle as she felt that feeling from before return a thousandfold. "I was almost worried I'd gotten rid of that particular taste of self-loathing."

Out of her peripheral, a masked individual clad in black knelt by her side. His metal arm refracting harsh rays of sunlight in her eye. "Where is the girl?"

Yelena was borderline delusional from all the blood loss and frostbite, "The little rabbit?" She cackled. "Why, down the rabbit hole, of course!"

The man brought his metal arm to her throat, pressure squeezing at her oesophagus making her gasp for air. "No matter. You were the target."

Then he snapped her neck like a twig.

Next Chapter we’re in the 80′s!

Tags: @fangirl-colo @dormousse @smallmarvel @ren-ni @sargentbucket @nikolett3 @wnygirl2012 @jentismyname @evilgeniuslabz-blog @myrabbitholetoneverland @500daysofbecky @reidreader  @gruffle1 @thechickvic @notawarriorjustyet

[mkpthedas]

Excerpt from Elissa!Age Chapter 2: Attack on Castle Cousland (aka Howe Dare You)

Elissa wakes up without knowing why. There’s a low growling in the room, slowly growing. Blearily, she sits up to look at Malachai.

Her mabari is facing the door to her chamber in guard position - hackles raised, body low, ready to attack.

“What is it?” Elissa asks, more loudly than she means to. There’s adrenaline humming through her now, an animal vibration in her bones that matches Malachai’s continuing growl.

Something is very wrong.

The door slams open. Malachai snarls. There’s a sudden thwap, a sound Elissa has heard a hundred, a thousand, a million times and would recognize in her sleep, the sound of a taut string’s sudden release, and reflex takes over, her body moving before her brain can even process the threat, diving off the bed and rolling up into a defensive crouch, reaching for daggers that aren’t there.

An arrow slices through the air where she had been moments before, burying itself several inches deep in the wood of the headboard. It is quickly followed by a second, although this one wobbles and goes wide to skitter off of stone.

Malachai has taken one of the would-be assassins to the ground, which might account for the truly terrible nature of that last shot, but the man was not alone and Elissa is unarmed.

Cursing silently to save her breath, Elissa casts around desperately for a weapon. Her bow and quiver hang uselessly on the far wall, and she’s nowhere near the chest that stores her daggers. If she lives through this, she’ll happily sleep with a dagger under her pillow for the rest of her days and never mind the lumps.

The lamp is on the other side of her bed, out of reach, as is the water basin. She doesn’t think a pillow would do much harm, but perhaps it would distract them for a moment or two. Perhaps.

There has to be something, she thinks, fiercely. There’s always something.

Her eyes catch on the chamberpot stowed neatly beneath her bed— a heavy solid thing, made of brass. Not a great weapon, to be sure, but certainly better than none at all.

Elissa drags it out from under the bed one-handed, keeping her eyes on the attackers crowded at her door, tracking their movements through the smoke that has begun to drift into the room, thick and choking and making her eyes water.

She does not let them shut.

She has the feel for the men’s location now, knows just how hard to throw and where to hit. Fluidly, she rises to her feet and takes aim, just as the second attacker lands an armored kick to Malachai’s ribs that sends the huge wardog flying. The man lumbers in after, sword drawn like a snarl, and Elissa lets the chamberpot fly with a cry of fury, viciously wishing the thing had been full.

How dare he hurt her dog.

The brass vessel hits the man square in his helmeted face, forcefully enough to cause him to stumble backward, knocking into the archer behind him and causing their shot to go wide.

The men recover quickly, but Elissa is quicker.

Across the room in a flash, she kicks the weapon chest open even as she pulls her quiver from the wall and slings it across her back. No time to string her bow, but that was alright. This close in, it wouldn’t be of much help anyway, would just hamper her movements without any real compensation in terms of lethality.

The reach for the arrow is automatic, the pull and release of the shaft sharp and clean despite the unconventionality of its use.

Her thrown arrow sprouts from the closest attacker’s throat, as precise a hit as any tavern bullseye.

The man staggers, and Elissa hears a wet gurgling sound. Reddish foam bubbles at the corners of his mouth, dribbles over his lips like drool.

Elissa doesn’t wait for him to fall, doesn’t give in to the small hysterical part of her that thinks that somehow as long as she is still watching the man die she hasn’t killed him.

There is still a third attacker to contend with.

This man is the archer whose arrows Elissa had so narrowly escaped. He already has another arrow nocked. She cannot possibly beat him to the draw, and so she doesn’t even try. Instead, she throws herself forward in a low dive over the bodies of the other two, knifing her petite frame between the man’s legs and into a roll, grabbing madly for the hilt of the man’s boot knife as she goes.

Somehow, she manages it. She finishes the roll, momentum bouncing her back up to her feet even as she makes her newly purloined blade swap hands. It fits well in her left hand, although not as well as her own dagger would. It has a shorter reach, less versatility. A knife, not a dagger, meaning only one of the edges was even sharp. Slashes would be of little use even without all of the man’s armor. Elissa will have to get creative.

Elissa remembers a story her brother told once, of an Antivan bar and a brawl.

Elissa smiles, a sharply crooked baring of her teeth. Her brother had been gleefully graphic in his retelling.

The archer is quick on his feet.

Elissa is quicker.

She ducks under the bludgeoning arm that comes at her as the archer turns to follow, uses the force of her momentum as leverage as she grabs the top part of the bow and twists, turning the man’s wrist in a swift and painful direction.

He lets go with a high-pitched keening sound and the sharp crack of bone breaking, stumbles back against the doorframe with his arm cradled close, a wounded animal shocked by this new and unfamiliar experience of pain.

Is he still a threat? Elissa doesn’t know, and her body doesn’t care, following after the man without pause. She slams into him at chest level, pinning him against the wall. She jabs upward with the hardest part of her right hand, the heel of her palm, forcing his chin up and out of the way as she drives the knife home with her left.

It is nauseatingly difficult, like piercing an ear.

It is sickeningly easy, like sheathing a sword.

Hilt hits bone. Elissa lets go.

The man’s dead weight slumps against her, nearly taking her to the ground. She twists out from underneath him just in time to watch him collapse next to the other two things that were once people.

She stands there, mindlessly staring at the gory pile, gulping in breath after breath. There’s more blood than she would have expected. Or maybe there’s less.

Elissa doesn’t think she’d ever really given much thought to the matter before, how much blood there is in a human body. How much less blood there might be in a corpse.

There is quite a lot of blood. Her hands are sticky with it, her nightgown a ruined mess. The blood itches as it dries.

The air is sickly sweet with the scent of death, so thick with it that Elissa can taste it, metallic tang bright and sharp as the clash of sword on sword.

There is something heavy and sticky in her mouth, like regret. She spits the substance out, wine-dark and glistening, and swallows hard to keep back the acidic sweetness creeping up her throat.

There was blood in her mouth.

It wasn’t hers.

“Elissa!”

Her mother’s voice is sharp with fear, cutting through Elissa’s daze. She turns to see her mother running toward her, faster than she would have thought possible.

Then her mother is there, cupping Elissa’s face with hands that shake. Like Elissa, she wears a nightgown. Unlike Elissa, her skirts have been violently ripped to end just above the knee. She’s wearing boots and a tough leather jerkin, a sword belted at her waist and a dagger high on her hip.

Her hands move from face to shoulders to arms and back again, a nervous fluttering, as though her mother is trying to reassure herself that Elissa is real.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Elissa shakes her head, though it feels like a lie. “I’m fine,” she promises. “Malachai warned— Malachai!”

Elissa jerks away from her mother, turning wildly to look for the hound. He’d been hurt, hadn’t he?

There is a soft whoof from the corner, which morphs to a soft whine of pain.

Elissa drops to her knees next to the dog, hands hovering helplessly about his frighteningly limp body, not sure where was safe to touch. He is alive, she can tell that much— his chest heaves in fast shallow pants that whistle on the way out.

Elissa’s mother kneels down beside her. Gently, she reaches out and palpitates the mabari’s side. Malachai makes a sharp keening sound and struggles to escape the touch. Elissa cries out in protest, grabbing at her mother’s hands.

“You’re hurting him!” Her voice is high-pitched and childish in accusation.

“He was already hurt,” her mother says calmly. “Cracked rib. More than one, I suspect.” Her mother rises swiftly, the movement startlingly brisk in its efficiency and strides quickly across to Elissa’s dresser, yanking open the top drawer.  “Not a surprise, if one of these swine managed to land a kick. Mabari are hardy animals, but there’s no one, man or beast, that walks away from the kick of an armored boot without something to show for it. He’s lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“Lucky!”

Her mother doesn’t look up from her rummaging. “Yes, lucky. Don’t just sit there, girl, get dressed.  A hair more direct of a hit and the rib might have fractured entirely and punctured a lung, and we’d have had to leave him behind.”

“Leave him behind—”

“Where do you keep the herbs for those poisons I’m not supposed to know you talked Oriana into teaching you?”

Elissa blinks, caught off guard. “I—”

“Elissa, I am not a particularly patient woman at the best of times, which this most certainly is not. Herbs. Where. Now.”

“The dresser,” Elissa confesses. “Next-to-last drawer, under the embroidery.”

Her mother gives an unladylike snort at Elissa’s choice of hiding place, but yanks open the indicated drawer without delay, carelessly tossing the embroidery materials off to the side and out of her way.

“What’s happening?”

Elissa is ashamed of how her voice wobbles on the edge of hysteria. She should be stronger than this.

“The castle’s under attack,” her mother says, voice flat. “There’s soldiers everywhere.” She’s mixing ingredients now with a grim sort of determination and tight, economical movements. “They tried to break into your father’s and mine’s chambers too, but I was still awake, thank the Maker, and I heard them coming. They at least won’t be at our backs, although that’s a small mercy, with nearly all our troops already a full day gone. Our people are fighting back, bless them, even the servants, but we’re just too outnumbered.”

“But who are they? What do they want?” Nothing is making sense. Her mother is saying perfectly intelligible sentences, each of which Elissa can understand, but try as she might she can’t seem to make them all fit together. “Wait, how do you know the men attacking your chambers won’t be coming after us too?”

“Because I made sure of it.”

Her mother’s words are bit-off in a tightly controlled manner that Elissa instinctively shies away from. Her other questions are more important, anyway.

“What about—”

“I don’t know where your father is,” Elissa’s mother interrupts her. “Or what state he’s in.  He was still in his study with Howe when I retired and never came to bed.” She laughs once, a sharp derisive sound. “They were drinking Antivan brandy together and laughing, Maker blast it all. A thousand curses on that  two-faced miserable cur, may his spittle curdle in his lying throat, his blood boil in his treacherous veins, his poisonous seed sour to pestilent pus, traitorous bitch-born whoreson—”

“Mother!”

Elissa is shocked and horrified. She didn’t know her mother even knew such words. Was this really the woman who’d threatened to wash her brother’s mouth out with soap only hours ago, and he a grown man with a child of his own?

“Don’t you mother me,” her mother snaps back. “This is all that wretched Howe’s fault. Base-born jackal, carrion-eater, cowardly dog; may his wells all run dry, his horses go lame, his ships be lost to storms. Greedy swine, conniving snake, thrice-cursed whorespawn; let him but come within my reach and I will carve from his flesh recompense for every soldier killed, every servant slain, every innocent murdered where they stood. I will drag his scheming corpse to Amaranthine fair, drop his rotting faithless flesh at his children’s feet, and piss on his traitorous bones. I will eat his treacherous heart in the market square and spit upon his festering remains. ”

Her mother’s eyes are flashing with fury, lightning crackling with dark promise.

It’s frightening.

Elissa’s mother had fought in the war with Orlais. This Elissa knew. She’d been born the daughter of a pirate and had assumed command of his ship and men at only sixteen, when her father was cut down in front of her by an Orlesian soldier.

She’d won that battle, in the end. And the next one. And the one after that. Again and again until she and her ship were the terror of the Orlesian fleet, harrying them up and down the coast with such ferocity that she became known as the Sea Wolf.

Elissa knew this. Had known this, from a very early age. Her father had believed his children should have a strong understanding of their own history.

Elissa just hadn’t really believed it until now. It had seemed too ridiculous, too fantastical - her mother, a pirate? The woman who fussed about Elissa’s table manners and scolded Fergus for swearing; the woman who was always after Elissa to practice her dancing and embroidery, who said that combat was no place for a lady?

It had always seemed like some elaborate jest her father hadn’t yet let them in on.

“I don’t understand,” Elissa says, although the cold feeling spreading all through her veins makes her think she might. “What do you mean this is all Howe’s fault?”

“These are Howe’s men; they wear his colors, his coat of arms. I’d recognize those shields anywhere. They knew exactly what they were doing, too. They didn’t launch the full attack until they already had men in position right outside our rooms. Howe wasn’t taking any chances on either of us escaping his treachery. Thank the Maker that your brother already left for Ostagar. If he’d been here, they’d have gone after him as well, and like as not killed Oriana and Oren too, base swine that they are.”

“But what does he want?”

“The better question might be what the greedy snake doesn’t want,” her mother says bitterly. “He’s always slithered his way from one side to the other, changing his tune with each ebb of the tide, faithless as the sea. I told your father a man like Howe couldn’t be trusted, but no, your father always has to see the good in people. The person they could be. He forgets that in the end what really matters is the person they actually are, and Rendon Howe is a small, slimy, vile, conniving snake of a man who poisons everything he touches and will smiling stab you in the back for the sake of a two-copper piece, and mark my words, he will pay for what he’s done this night.”

“I don’t understand,” Elissa says again, helplessly. “Why would Howe do this? He’s been friends with father for years! He - when we were little, he always brought us sweets. Just yesterday he was trying to marry me off to his youngest son!”

“There’s no understanding the baseness of some men’s hearts, my darling.” Her mother’s movements have stilled and her voice is soft and sad, filled with bitter resignation. “I wish you had not had to learn that so young.” She returns to her work, sharp staccato movements as bitten off and controlled as her words, when she speaks again.

“Get dressed,” she says again. “Now.”

[gaypasta]

do you want fries with that?

Chapter 2 / ? Read on Ao3 

Previous Chapter

One Month Later.

The cold Autumn afternoon was quiet - much to be expected in this weather. It was an almost supernatural bitter wind which cut through the team members on their way to work, and judging by the frost build-up on the front door - it was due to stay the rest of the weekend.

Mike - who now works alongside Bill after Stan realised the only thing Bill didn’t burn was pancakes - had been late, the foreign country roads froze up worse overnight and Mike had to walk his bike for a mile until he had got onto the populated roads where the dozens of cars had slowly lifted the ice. It was understandable - Stan would rather Mike be late than drop his eggs (which Mike continued to donate to the Diner every weekend) or even worse, hurt himself.

Slowly, but surely, the entire Saturday gang had begun to arrive at work. Bill following Stan by half an hour. Mike and Beverly (after her first Saturday shift Stan had put her on every weekend after that. She was a fantastic worker and the customers loved her) arrived at eight. Ben and Eddie arrived at nine. Eddie continued to do dishes, even though he almost had a breakdown a few days prior because he had touched someone’s chewing gum. Ben helped Beverly out front, and even refused breaks if she needed someone to help wait tables.

Then there was Richie. Who was also meant to start at nine, but Stan doesn’t think he can recall a day yet where Richie was any less than fifteen minutes late. And sure enough, today wasn’t any different. Richie had bounced through the doors at eleven, after 2 hours he had barely done any work. He didn’t seem to be overly bothered about anything besides showing off his new sneakers. (They were ugly.)

Stan was trying to fill in wastage reports (Bill tried to cook hash browns and almost set the smoke alarm off), which was proving to be a more difficult task than usual because beside him, Richie was squeezing washing up liquid into Eddie’s sink, making a 2 - foot wall of foam. Stan had a headache, and his name was Richie Tozier.

“Ha-ha! Eddie, look, there’s almost enough suds for your mom to use to shave her legs.” Richie’s voice was like sandpaper.

“Dude, stop! This is gonna take ages to rinse. And my mom waxes, you know that.” Eddie complained, desperately trying to grab the washing up liquid out of Richie’s hands. Eddie, however, had barely grown an inch (or so it seemed) from they were thirteen. Richie had grown considerably, he was now taller than everyone except Stan.

“Oh, I know she waxes, I’ve seen it up close. Tell your future little brother that I’m sorry I can’t pay child support, too busy pimping.”

“Dude, that’s disgusting. Plus, child support comes out of a direct deposit, asshole.”

Richie dropped the bottle into the sink, causing a splash of hot soapy water to wave over the sink and wash Eddie’s apron and goloshes. Maybe they weren’t such a bad call after all. Stan stared at the puddle of water which had soaked the floor under Eddie. Richie turned around and caught Stan’s eye. He gave a cheesy grin.

Stan continued to stare directly into Richie’s coke-bottled eyes. It was almost like a battle of dominance, which was ridiculous. Stan was clearly in the dominant role, I mean - he was the supervisor. Not that Richie cared, he didn’t treat Stan any differently in work than he did at school, he carried no concept of a work/home barrier. Anything someone said in work, he would carry with him home. Stan recalled when he didn’t speak to Bill for three days because Bill had told him to stop being lazy and do some work during a rush hour. Stan didn’t really get it, they work to support a business and provide good customer service, having disputes with each other in work was inevitable,  all of the Loser’s Club (as they had dubbed themselves) had different personalities and different approaches to work. Stan didn’t see a reason not to leave it at the door. Regardless, Richie was in work - work which Stan took great pride in - and he will do his job as he is being paid $3/hour to do.

“Richie, please clean that up. The last thing we need is someone falling and cracking their head open.”

Richie looked down at the puddle, then back to Stan. “I’m the only one who comes near Eddie because he has AIDs.”

“Good, maybe if you slip it will knock some sense into you.” Stan quipped as took his pen back from the counter and continued to try to calculate how much money was lost by letting Bill cook. Stan heard a short slapping sound, followed by a yelp from Richie along with a string of explicites. Stan ignored it, choosing to do his work.

If twenty hash browns were thrown out, at sixty cents each - that’s $12. Plus the bottle of milk Richie crashed into on his bike this morning - $12.80, then the pancakes Bill had sneezed on, $13.80. Stan put the biro in between his lips to free his hands as he rustled through the binder looking for the wastage from the last week. His brow furrowed as he read the wastage from Thursday. $45?! How the hell did they manage to waste $45 worth of food? He began to recalculate all which was written down, in a desperate assumption that someone had made a mathematical muck-up. Stan had a habit of sticking his tongue out or sucking his cheek when he was concentrating, in lieu of his cheek he absent-mindedly began to suck the pen.  He faintly recognized movement out of the corner of his eyes. It was Mike bringing Eddie more dishes, stopping to wipe up the mess Richie had made.

Stan let out a smile of triumph. Someone had made a mistake and the wastage wasn’t nearly as high. He made a mental note to go back and double check the wastage as far back as he could, lord knows how their accounts didn’t notice it. He quickly, but neatly, corrected the maths and changed the subtotal - still letting the pen rest between his lips. It wasn’t until he moved the paper up from the counter to put it back into its folder did he notice Richie staring at him. Not the staring that Ben usually follows Beverly with, more alike to how your eyes fixate on something as your mind wanders, and it isn’t until minutes later that you realize you’ve been staring at someone.

He waited several moments to see if Richie would notice, but he didn’t. He just continued staring with eyes fixated on Stan’s chin. “Is there something on my face?” The underlying tone was ultimately ‘can I help you, Tozier?’

Stan could almost see the point where Richie had stopped dissociating as he had moved back about half an inch in surprise. Richie sloppily fixed his glasses - which weren’t that overly askew to begin with, Stan noted. “Yeah, jizz from that pen if you keep giving it all that attention.”

Stan went to snipe back, but Richie had skittered off towards Bill to pull at his apron - untying the bow and letting his apron fall loose, before spinning out the front to help Ben and Bev serve. Bill was carrying a tray of freshly baked peach pie from the oven, and he gingerly tried to step over the trails of his apron. Stan set his pen atop of the folder he was working with and made a beeline for Bill after Bill almost tripped on his apron with a shout. “Hold still.” Stan made delicate work of re-tying the apron. It felt strange tying a bow from the front now, after doing his own so many cold mornings. Stan used his own apron as oven mitts and took the pie off Bill when he was done tying it. “T-thanks Stan.” Bill traced the bow on the back of his apron. It was firm and unmoving. “W-when did we start doing p-peach pie?” Bill asked curiously, his head leaning to one side the way that it does.

“Oh, Mom had some leftover Peaches from Rosh Hashanah. They were just going to be binned, so…” Stan had trailed off. Feeling somewhat uncomfortable that Bill had asked. Stan could cook, and bake, and sew. His Mother firmly believed in order to be a well-rounded person it was important for him to develop both ‘feminine’ and ‘masculine’ hobbies and skills. He enjoyed baking with his mother, in fact, it was some of his most cherished memories growing up. But he’s not nine anymore, he should be doing more exciting things on a Friday night than making a peach pie for work the next morning.

Bill’s eyes lit up in amazement. “You made t-this? It smells am-amazing. It looks so much b-better than that cheap frozen s-sh-shit.”  Stan moved his eyes off Bill, looking out to the front of house instead. “C-can we taste it, I mean, we sh-should know what it t-tastes like before serving it, r-r-ight Mike?”

Mike looked up from frying fries and nodded. “If Stan doesn’t mind, of course.” He sent a reassuring smile to Stan, who straightened his back and nodded.

“Fine, but only one slice. Between everyone, not each.” He sent a warning look to Bill, who was probably thinking about bringing a slice home to Georgie. Stan would allow him, of course, but Georgie would more than likely stop by to meet Bill and cycle home with him. Stan would give him a slice then. Stan lowered the plate onto a clear counter out of the line of sight from the customers. He walked over to beside Bill’s prep area and pulled a sharp butcher’s knife from the wooden knife block. Mike lifted the fries and left them in the basket, allowing the grease to drip out back into the fryers, and made his way over to Bill and Stan. Stan used his apron to hold the hot plate in place as he made eight almost exactly equal slices into the pastry. “I’ll go get a p-plate.” Bill jogged over to grab an immaculate white plate, peaking Eddie’s interest from a stained coffee pot. “Here, I got forks t-too.” Bill gently lowered the plate and the forks onto the counter. Stan lifted the slice and fluidly transferred it onto the plate. Like he had done dozens of times before. Using a fork, he cut the slice into seven equal pieces, which appeared to be about a mouthful each. Stan pierced one with his fork, they reminded him of the hors-d'oeuvres his mother had made for his Bar Mitzvah.

He looked around to realise that not only had Eddie joined the gathering, but everyone had their eyes glued on the pie. “Um -” he really didn’t know what to say.

“You have to try it first, I m-mean. It’s yours!” Bill smiled using his hands to usher the fork closer to Stan. “I get that, but do you all have to watch? I never considered eating a spectator event.” And with that said, they shrugged and all joined Stan in having a taste of his own baked creation. It was a strange feeling, knowing people were eating what you made. It felt almost personal, Stan had a temptation to slap the forks out of their mouths before they took a bite. That would be ridiculous though, of course.

Eddie wasn’t a massive fan of peach in the first place, so Stan didn’t think much of it when he screwed his nose up and shook his head. Bill and Mike, however, loved it. Bill made a weird groaning noise that Richie would probably make a crude comment about. Mike just took a heavy breath, as if preparing himself to recount the taste. “St-st-stan! This is s-so good. It’s like, fifty thousand t-times better than the ones at the b-bakery on R-Richmond Street.” Stan could feel his heart begin to swell the way it does when you’re happy. Bill’s family had exclusively bought their Sunday dessert from that bakery since as long as Bill could remember. Stan could remember joining Bill several times, but he never really was one for sweets. Usually, he just picked up a fresh loaf of bread. Mike nodded in heavy agreement. “I used to deliver eggs there, Mrs.Dotts always gave me a slice of something for the road.” He patted Bill on the shoulder. “I gotta agree, this is good stuff. Like, money-making good.”

Bill called in the rest of the group to taste. Their reactions were much the same, except Beverly had never had fresh pie before, only one from the supermarket - she was blown away.  

Richie took the biggest piece between the three and chewed it obnoxiously close to Stan’s ear. Stan was waiting patiently for what he could only anticipate as being irritating feedback. Richie’s head nodded as he ate it, making an obscene parody of the noises Bill was making earlier. Stan rolled his eyes. Richie swallowed loudly and threw his hands up into the air.

“Hallelujah, boys and girl! The messiah has returned in the form of Stanley Uris. Who knew Jesus would reincarnate as a Jew after his Jewwy demise?” Richie praised into the ceiling, wrapping an arm tight around Stan’s neck.

Stan shoved the boy away, “Don’t call Jesus - or anything for that matter - ‘Jewwy’. It sounds a toddler trying to say ‘Jerry’, also it’s offensive to my culture.”

“Go cry into your Yakuza.” “Yamaka - and you were there when Bowers and their gang of underachievers threw it into the sewer. Also, shut up.”

Richie looked up in thought for a moment before clapping loudly. “Don’t you all have work to do? Ten-hut soldiers!”

The group shuffled away, probably wanting to get as far away from Richie’s loud army-colonel impersonation as possible. Stan began to collect the dirty forks, before Richie grabbed his forearm. “Dude what the hell-”

“I need your help.”

Stan stared quizzically at Richie’s change of tone. It threw him off and left him feeling uneasy. “With what?”

“It’s my Mom’s birthday, I blew this week’s paycheck on cigarettes and the arcade, also I owed Eddie money.”

Stan snorted, “You owe all of us money.” He pointed out.

Richie waved his hand in the air in a dismissive manner. “Yeah, I’ll get to it, Mom. I need you to show me how to bake a cake, or a pie or a fucking doughnut or something.”

Stan looked down at the pie and back up to Richie. “That good, huh?”

“Dude shut the fuck up, it was a solid ten out of ten, and I can’t even lie about it to annoy you, that’s how good it was. Please?” Richie raised his eyebrows and held his hands together, like a child begging. “I’ll jerk you off, Mr.Uris? For extra credit?”

Stan inwardly grimaced at that. Moreseo the use of ‘Mr.Uris’ than the offer to jerk him off. “I already have your sister for that.”

Richie laughed loudly, clapping Stan on the shoulder, making him stumble slightly. “Boom! Stan the Man hits us with another good one! I’ll see you after work, bring what we need!” And with that, Richie was off, heading towards the back door, a cigarette already in his mouth to take an unauthorized smoke break. Beverly followed him, it was almost as if they were on a nicotine timer.

Stan stood there, the realisation dawning on him that Richie had just invited him over to his house, without really giving him an option. Stan tries to remember the last time anyone apart from Bill was at Richie’s house. He can’t, so he starts making a mental list of what to bring to Richie’s that night.

Richie better actually fucking help make his own mother’s cake or else Stan might just cook him along with it.

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